It's Pretty Simple Really

LOBO -Predator Press

n the Seventh Day, God and Jesus were in the garage working on Jesus' Pinewood Derby car. Both were frustrated, because Jesus' healing powers kept making the blocks of wood turn back into trees. They tried everything: gloves, robots, idiots, dinosaurs ... but nothing worked, and soon the garage was stuffed with pine trees. This, coupled with the annoying habit Jesus had of making slurpy sounds with his straw, frustrated God to the point that He created the horrifically disgusting dump we all know as "Earth."

Inevitably Jesus, bored, snuck into the garage alone. And there was the Earth, sitting in God's vice grips, getting ready for it's last application of water sealant. Jesus, a mischievous lil scamp, paused from making slurpy sounds long enough to take a piece of ice out of his Pepsi, and dropped it on the hapless planet.

"Look out Noah!" he cried. "I'm killing the dinosaurs!"

Noah floated all over the place, and finally discovered America. And because he had all the animals, Noah quickly cornered the market on fast food franchises -crushing the vegetarian competition. This depressed the vegetarian Steve Jobs so much, he started working on computers. Steve Jobs would subsequently invent the iPod and smell bad and get boring. His company, Apple would go on to defeat the Pharaoh by dropping frogs on him via helicopter. While perhaps not the most effective method of warfare, it is certainly by far the funniest: after a few years that Pharaoh was freaking out. "Why are all these frogs falling on me?" he would demand from the Jews. The Jews, tired of cleaning frog guts off of the pyramids, formed a tax-free consortium and bought up 51% of Egypt in a hostile takeover bid.

The Pharaoh was summarily fired from the Board of Directors, and the Jewish community lived happily ever after.

A Good, Dead Hittite

LOBO -Predator Press

My therapist says volunteering time to teach orphans how to shoplift is a poor way to deal with the guilt of being a true, full-time vehement racist.

And based on my carefully-cultivated image, I'll bet you never would have guessed that I am racist. But there it is.

I hate Hittites.

I hate them with a purple, venomous passion.

See, the Hittite kingdom is conventionally divided into three periods: the Old Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1750-1500 BC), the Middle Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1500-1430 BC) and the New Hittite Kingdom (the Hittite Empire proper, ca. 1430-1180 BC).

-And I freakin hate all three of them.

I mean they are dead, right? How the fuck great can you be if you're dead? Hm? I can, say, go make a pot of coffee. Would you Hittites like a cup of coffee? No? Oh, you're dead you say?

Well, HA HA.

More coffee for me.

And no, I don't think organizing a protest is a good idea ... I'll go Dustbuster on your ass.

We all know intuitively that red is bad, right? Well, just look at this here satellite photo: see how bad these people are? I mean that is concentrated fucking evil, and they are crawling with it. I hope the Sumerians kick the crap out of them! Evil has never done anything to me personally, but I suspect in the wrong hands -like those Hittite rubes- evil would probably suck.

And yes, Indo-Hittites are pretty cool, but unfortunately everytime I see cuneiform, I just wanna puke 'cuz it reminds me of those lousy scumbag garden-variety Hittites. I'm nauseated I gotta breathe the same air they did! Blech. I can still taste Hittite crawling in it.

They oughta make anti-Hittite Febreeze.


Author's Note: This blog does not endorse the ill-treatment of the descendants of the noble Hittite, or represent the ideas or beliefs of the author.

No Hittites were harmed during the writing of this post.

The Rabbit Hole

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Since we're doing "flashbacks," I thought I would tell you about my great, great, great, great grandfather: King LOBO the First.

In an effort to conquer both the Crips and the Bloods, King LOBO found himself and his army lost in a desert.  This was due to a clerical error ... they were all seeking a Dairy Queen for dessert, and way back in those days Predator Press mapticians were terrible spellers.

"We shall send scouts!" he proclaimed.  "One to the north, one to the south, one to the east, and one to the west.  And they will tell us which way will provide us with safe passage and much-needed parfaits!"

The next day Bob's horse returned, Bob's severed head in the saddle bag.

"Shit!" proclaimed King LOBO.  "Does anybody remember which direction we sent Bob?"

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Before there was LOBOnia, there was America -a vast and untamed frontier.

When we arrived on the Nina, the Pinto, and the Santa Fe, we all had major issues: the Ellis Island locals -"Indians"- had lost our luggage, and gave us a lot of shit about our passports.  But I rented horses and a wagon from AVIS, and a few of us struck out west.

For our Destiny.

***

"Sapphire has been fighting that grizzly bear for hours," Flandsa Ha’asasanba yelled over the windy blizzard two months later.  "We should help her!  I am cold and hungry, and she is trying to get us bear meat and a pelt."

"I got ten bucks on the bear," I yells back.  "Fuck that.  Besides, the dashboard on this wagon is giving me low tire pressure warnings.  That's totally unfixable.  We should use the wagon for a fire and eat the horses!"

And that is why, to this day, I live in Chicago.

The Definitive Unbiased History of Future LOBOnian Earth

 Predator Press  

[LOBO]

Occasionally, I am reminded that a lot of things had to happen for me to happen. And as the final culmination of all that galactic effort, I feel we should take a moment to reflect and appreciate the things that made me possible.


ne day, God and Jesus were in the garage working on Jesus' Pinewood Derby car. Both were frustrated, because Jesus' healing powers kept making the blocks of wood turn back into trees. They tried everything: gloves, robots, dinosaurs ... but nothing worked, and soon the garage was stuffed with pine trees. This, coupled with the annoying habit Jesus had of making slurpy sounds with his straw, frustrated God to the point that He created the horrifically disgusting dump we all know as "Earth."

Inevitably Jesus, bored, snuck into the garage alone. And there was the Earth, sitting in God's vice grips, getting ready for it's last application of water sealant. Jesus, a mischievous lil scamp, paused from making slurpy sounds long enough to take a piece of ice out of his Pepsi, and dropped it on the hapless planet.

"Look out Noah!" he cried. "I'm killing the dinosaurs!"

Noah floated all over the place, and finally discovered America. And because he had all the animals, Noah quickly cornered the market on fast food franchises -crushing the vegetarian competition. This depressed the vegetarian Steve Jobs so much, he started working on computers. Steve Jobs would subsequently invent the iPod, and thusly made space exploration possible. And a lot less boring. His company, Apple, would go on to defeat the Pharaoh by dropping frogs on him via helicopter. While perhaps not the most effective method of warfare, it is certainly by far the funniest: after a few years that Pharaoh was freaking out. "Why are all these frogs falling on me?" he would demand from the Jews. The Jews, tired of cleaning frog guts off of the pyramids, formed a tax-free consortium and bought up 51% of Egypt in a hostile takeover bid.

The Pharaoh was summarily fired from the Board of Directors, and the Jews lived happily ever after.

If You're Mad At Paula Deen, Meet My Dad

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The only time I can recall dropping an "N-Bomb" was in the heat of a fistfight -one that I lost- when I was about fourteen years old.  For reasons never explained a guy sucker-punched me on a bus, and I pounced him.  Shocked, adrenaline-feuled, and furious beyond rationale, pow, out it came.  All the oxygen seemed to be suddenly sucked out of the vehicle.  Time stopped, and that word just hung there, palpable and malignant in the ether.  I was so mortified at hearing myself say it I kinda threw the fight, feeling like I deserved to get my ass kicked.  And boy did I ever.  (Note to self: pick more prudent times to be stricken with guilt.)

Even at the time, it wasn't in my lexicon.  My dad and stepmom were (are? more on this later) vehement racists -my dad in particular- so I most certainly was exposed to it.  But dad lost custody to my "birth" mother when I was six or so.  Mom, in weird contrast, was the first of her migrant family to be actually born in the United States, and as a consequence she was definitely not down with the whole racism thing.  In retrospect I don't know how those two crazy kids got together in the first place.  A quasi "foreigner" herself, not only did she suffer her own racial discrimination issues, but she was among the first women trying to break into the workforce vis-à-vis "Mad Men."  Working for a sexual harassment factory posing as a law firm, she returned us to the cultural squish of Chicago where I was born and raised. There, I made friends with every race and nationality imaginable -hence underlining the horror and deep regret of my action.

The last time I saw my dad's side of the family was maybe ten years ago, and I regret to inform you some of them were just as racist as ever.  Dad was a perplexing and textured cat: a former Chicago cop that passionately hates cops, and a white supremacist that had black friends who were aware he was a white supremacist.  As a decorated Chicago cop, he fought the Mob until a crime lord threatened his family, i.e. my mom (his first wife) and the toddling bundle of joy aka yours truly.  Legend has it he set his badge on the Mob guy's desk and walked away from the force, never looking back.  He would also go on to sell his house and go into bankruptcy in the bitter custody battle over me which he would subsequently lose.

I speak of him in a past tense now as I'm not sure he's even alive; he got so fed up with the country he bought a large piece of property on an Arkansas mountain, and a whole chunk of that family side sort of just receded into it.  To imagine him in a rocking chair, shotgun cradled in his arm, waiting for a hapless "revenuer" to wander up to his doorstep is not far-fetched; that single visit was anachronistic to the point that it was cartoony.  And that I don't share his views shamed him I think.  I have on numerous occasions amused myself with the idea of getting a black woman in a police uniform to go there with me and introduce her as my wife.  Hellooo, life insurance!

So let's not kid ourselves.  That culture, as back-assward as it seems today, is still out there. And Paula Deen's situation, on the face, might not seem that different than mine other than she didn't make the conscious effort to take herself out of it that I did.  She is also much (much!) older, so one could argue I had an easier time than she might have.

But the idea of hosting cotillion-like events replicating that whole ugly era is utterly bizarre.  I suppose it may have some historic value and tradition, but it borderlines being insensitive if not outright distasteful, thusly magnifying anything she can claim would have been a simple "youthful indiscretion."  Why people don't just emulate something more neutral puzzles me.  If you're not racist, why look, act, and dress like one for fun?  Even if bigotry is sincerely the furthest thing from her mind, wouldn't anyone with a double-digit I.Q. recognize she is asking for trouble?  Go get really jazzed up about something else like the Monroe Doctrine instead.  "Hooray for the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act!" has a nice ring to it.

Unfortunately, that won't work either.  America was arguably founded in 1776 and the Civil Rights movement wasn't until 200 years later.  That only leaves 20% of American history to draw from -and if you count a certain compound on a remote Arkansas mountainside, you have 0.

So Paula, please enjoy your "Smurfs 2"-themed wedding.  Don't tell any midget Avatar jokes.  And sprinkle in frequent  "I'm sorrys" to all who participate and attend.

Like I do for my do for my dad.

Could Jesus Take Mike Tyson?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again, at no small expense to you, we here at Predator Press have set out to settle an age-old question burning in everyone’s mind: Could Jesus take Mike Tyson?





Records:

“Iron” Mike Tyson: First heavyweight boxer to simultaneously hold (and only Heavyweight to individually unify) the WBA, WBC and IBF titles.





Jesus Christ: Messiah, King of Kings, Lamb of God.




Advantage: Jesus

Weight:

We’re going to make the assumption that both competitors are in their prime. This means that Tyson, a heavyweight at 220 pounds, might have an edge on our rock-ribbed Messiah who is oft depicted as being on the lighter end of the weight class spectrum and could walk on water. Minus definitive height information, we’re going to call JC a welterweight.

But larger size comes at the expense of energy and speed. JC’s leaner build makes him more efficient. If JC could avoid any serious blows in the first few rounds, Tyson would likely have expended himself physically fairly early on. Couple this strategy with JC consistently working the body, and over a long enough timeline Tyson’s condition would diminish, making him vulnerable in later rounds.

Advantage: Jesus


Speed:

There’s no real need to mince about on this one. Tyson won his first 19 fights by knockout, and 14 of those were knockouts in the first round. However according to the Bible, Jesus moonlights from his Messiah gig as a prophet; thus, no matter how fast Tyson is, JC is going to be way ahead, anticipating where and when to block, dodge, and counterpunch.

Advantage: Jesus

Intangibles:

While there’s technically nothing in official boxing rules regarding torrents of frogs and plagues of locusts, one must factor in potential supernatural activities including interference by JC’s Dad.  God, while often taking a “hands off” approach to parenting, has also historically demonstrated Himself to be ill-tempered [see Sodom, Gomorrah]. In fact if the fight is to occur in Las Vegas, I am simply going to watch it on Pay-Per-View.

Other troublesome considerations are JC’s pacifist nature and tendency to “turn the other cheek,” something Tyson would most certainly exploit. Countering this, however, is JC’s ability to heal: JC was often cited for curing disease, blindness, et cetera.  But it is unclear whether he could use this ability on himself.  Would boxing gloves create an insulation rendering the “Laying on Hands” impossible? Or worse, what if Tyson is being healed by every blow, or sheer or proximity?

Advantage: Jesus

300 Ponies

Predator Press

Non-Apocalypse Blues

Predator Press

[LOBO]

One of the drawbacks of not having a nice and timely Mayan Apocalypse is I still gotta do stuff. Like wake up. Go to my job. Pretend I'm working for eight hours. Go to sleep.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

It didn't help I used the rent money to buy scratch off lottery tickets either.

-Lousy stupid fucking Mayans.

So What is a Caucus?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A caucus is a meeting held by Caucasians –hence why most are held in Iowa.

Caucasians are a group of light skinned people who, like the Jews, have faced decades of oppression. For instance in early American history, the North American Indians started firing arrows at them almost upon sight.

The "Anne Coulter" was a
popular Caucasoid model
in the late 19th Century.

The peaceful Caucasians -armed only with firearms, cannons, a naval armada and organized militia- were soundly conquered on the battlefield of Indianapolis, Indiana. Even to this day, Caucasians are subjugated by horrifying casino odds, and Caucasian children are issued agonizing "Indian burns" on the playground.

Later in early American history, plantations and farming became big business.  But while darker-skinned people were allowed to have jobs, Caucasians were forced to stay home and perform vastly less dignified duties such as accounting and planning cotillions.

Widespread violence and cruelty often forces Caucasians to deploy decoy robots of themselves. These are called Caucasoids.

Modern Caucasians, while not attending caucuses, are often found watching NASCAR, playing in the NBA [citation needed], attending square dances, and buying Toby Keith records.

The Legend of Testicles

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sure we’ve all heard the fantastical adventures of Hercules. But Predator Press scienticians have unearthed archeological evidence that Hercules had an evil twin brother, Testicles.

Testicles wasn’t as quite as large as his legendary sibling Hercules –and frankly he wasn’t all that bright either. But in their youth, Testicles often ran the show.

Hercules and Testicles eventually became bitter rivals, and Hercules often beat Testicles severely. One fateful day Hercules beat Testicles so badly, Testicles shrank off into obscurity forever.

Testicles and the Argonauts

Predator Press

[LOBO]

t was almost certainly Aboxades.

“Haw!” exclaimed the overly-audible voice -a voice you can hear easily over the din of the Market- from behind. “There’s his puny brother!”

Some approaching heavy footsteps –three men total, perhaps.

-Aboxades has himself an entourage today.

To the back of Testicles’ head, Aboxades guffawed. “Have you come, perhaps, to compete against him?”

Laughter.

Testicles sighed. He had indeed come to witness The Competition, and had a quiet comfortable spot under a shady tree with a spectacular view of The Games, the Argo –run ashore- as a backdrop.

But now he had hecklers.

“Fuck off, Aboxades,” Testicles replied without looking up, almost on mindless autopilot; living in the shadow of the mighty Hercules, his older brother, had made him hardened to such teasing. “My brother ain’t nothin special,” he breathed coolly.

“Oh and you are?” said Aboxades. With an armored man flanking each side, the Aboxades party was now fully blocking The Competition from view. “Your brother is going on a quest for the Golden Fleece.”

“Yeah, well if he wins.” Testicles chuckled at the irony. It was coincidentally Hercules' turn, and all fell silent as he casually flung a shield.

Several miles.

Striking a distant rock on the horizon.

“He won,” one of the guards observed.

“Meh,” shrugged Testicles. “I’ve seen better.”

Aboxades was aghast. “Better than that?”

Clearly both offended and wounded, Testicles noted Aboxades’ hero-worship. Rising to his feet, Testicles resolved himself to the improbability the men would simply leave.

“Well the way I see it,” said one of the guards, “while you fritter away under a shady tree, your brother is trying to save the kingdom.”

“My brother just won himself several months on a boat with no women and like fifty half-naked Greek guys. Fuck that. Call me crazy."  Gathering an apple, and orange and a banana, Testicles began to juggle his ill-fated lunch casually.

Suddenly, he had an idea.  "Are you noble men of the wagering sort?” Still juggling, Testicles nodded at a flock of wild sheep. “I’ll bet you fifty greenbacks I can lay three sheep in that herd before they bolt in alarm.”

“That’s impossible,” said Aboxades. “And I don’t want a bunch of angry letters from PETA.”

“You’re on!” said a guard.

“I’m in for a hundred!” said the other, already fishing through his armor for his coinpurse.

Aboxades scowled. “All right. I’m in too.”

Testicles unzipped his loincloth -still juggling- and the men all looked away in discomfort.

“What are you doing?” cried Aboxades.

“Winning our bet,” Testicles explained.  “Look, I understand that Hercules is a Hero and all. But Jesus … the guy is like nine feet tall. Most people run from my brother. I’m an Achilles man myself … “

Suddenly, in the distance, a sheep brayed.

“That’s amazing,” said Aboxades, forcing himself to look from between the fat, disarmingly-nimble fingers he used to shield his face.

"Well I can usually  juggle up to four pieces of fruit with no problem," Testicles explained. "But five is extremely difficult-"

"No, I mean the sheep thing."

"Oh, that." Testicles shrugged.  “Indeed Zeus has been very good to us.  But I don't think you fully apprciate the complexity of juggling five pieces of fruit simultaneously-”

"Hey!" cried a voice in the distance, from the middle of the herd.

“Whoops!” said, Testicles, flinching slightly. “Sorry Odysseus!”

Suddenly another faraway sheep brayed, and one of Aboxades' guards fainted dead away.

“Haha!” laughed Aboxades. “Do the black one!”

Clash of the Titans

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“The wrath sing, goddess, of Peleus' son, Achilles, that destructive wrath which brought countless woes upon the Achaeans, and sent forth to Hades many valiant souls of heroes, and made them themselves spoil for dogs and every bird.”

-The Iliad

“The 'center' HTML prompt precedes the paragraph," says Terri. "It has priority. That's why it looks weird, dumbass.”

“Oh yeah?" I says. "I can't hear you because my fingers are in my ears. LA-LA-LA ...”

Hercules is fucked.

A Good, Dead Hittite

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My therapist says volunteering time to teach orphans how to shoplift is a poor way to deal with the guilt of being a true, full-time vehement racist.

And based on my carefully-cultivated image, I'll bet you never would have guessed that. But there it is.

I hate Hittites.

I hate them with a purple, venomous passion.

See, the Hittite kingdom is conventionally divided into three periods: the Old Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1750-1500 BC), the Middle Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1500-1430 BC) and the New Hittite Kingdom (the Hittite Empire proper, ca. 1430-1180 BC).

And I freakin hate all three of them. I mean they are dead, right? How the fuck great can you be if you're dead? Hm? I can, say, go make a pot of coffee. Would you Hittites like a cup of coffee? No? Oh, you're dead you say?

Well, HA HA.

More coffee for me.

And no, I don't think organizing a protest is a good idea ... I'll go Dustbuster on your ass.

We all know intuitively that red is bad, right? Well, just look at this here satellite photo: see how bad these people are? I mean that is concentrated fucking evil! I hope the Sumerians kick the crap out of them!

Indo-Hittites are pretty cool, but unfortunately everytime I see cuneiform, I just wanna puke 'cuz it reminds me of those lousy scumbag garden-variety Hittites. I'm nauseated I gotta breathe the same air they did! Blech. I can still taste Hittite crawling in it.

They oughta make anti-Hittite Febreeze.


Author's Note: This blog does not endorse the ill-treatment of the descendants of the noble Hittite, nor represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author.

No Hittites were harmed during the writing of this post.

A Good, Dead Hittite

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Just so there are no surprises -because it turns out I might actually need this Vice Presidential gig- while not attempting to defraud the Federal Government for Unemployment Benefits, I'm also a full-time vehement and unrepentant racist.

I'll bet you never would have guessed, but there it is.

I hate Hittites.

I hate them with a purple, venomous passion.

See, the Hittite kingdom is conventionally divided into three periods: the Old Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1750-1500 BC), the Middle Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1500-1430 BC) and the New Hittite Kingdom (the Hittite Empire proper, ca. 1430-1180 BC).

And I freakin hate all three of them.

I mean they are dead.

-How great can you all be if you're all dead?

Hm?

I can, say, go make a pot of coffee. Would you magnificent Hittites like a cup of coffee? No? Oh, you're all dead you say?

Well, HA HA.

More coffee for me.

We all know intuitively that red is bad, right? Well, just look at this satellite photo: see how bad these people are? I mean that is concentrated fucking evil.

I hope the Sumerians kick the crap out of them!

Indo-Hittites are pretty cool, but unfortunately everytime I see cuneiform, I just wanna puke 'cuz it reminds me of those lousy scumbag garden-variety Hittites. I'm nauseated I gotta breathe the same air they did!

I can still taste Hittite crawling in this lousy air.

Blech.

They oughta make anti-Hittite Febreze.

Author's Note: This blog does not represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author, nor does it endorse the ill-treatment of the noble Hittite or Hittite descendants.

No Hittites were harmed during the writing of this post.

Just So You Know ...

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again -at great expense to you- Predator Press scienticans have stepped up to answer the burning question on everyone's mind: What are the origins of the month of October?

"October" is a smooshed-together Latin word, combining 'octo' which means eight-armed and 'ber' which is short for bear that eats Greyhound busses and pagans.

The Latinos were a notoriously lazy people that abbreviated virtually everything they possibly could.

The History of Predator Press

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People always ask me, "LOBO, Predator Press is one of the most widely-read, respected and influential publications in the world. How did it all start?"

Well, it wasn't easy. Millions and millions of readers a day hanging on our every word and entire nations living or dying by what we publish didn't happen overnight. Indeed, cutting through the dissonance of a world gone utterly mad in search of The Truth has been a tough cross to bear.

And yes, the money helps. But when it all comes down, it isn't the luxury cars and women with loose morals that make us carry on: we do it for you, the Loyal Reader.

The events that inevitably culminated into this towering intellectual juggernaut pepper history like things that you might put a lot of pepper on. Like a good porterhouse. We are the pepper stuck to the Great Steak of Life.

A cursory search through a lot of history books revealed this to be true. Gleams of primitive permutations of Predator Press weaving their way deeply into the soul of human destiny permeate the earliest recorded events of humankind: King Arthur vainly sought his entire life for it. The Danes conquered Wessex in an attempt to possess it. Galileo threw two guys simultaneously off of the top of a building to discover it. Al Gore invented the internet, just so he could witness it wirelessly right at Dairy Queen. You know that whole "Burning Bush" thing in the Bible? Well that wasn't really us. But we covered it. The Freemasons used Predator Press as their secret handshake for centuries ... right up until we revealed that fact to our throbbing, seething hoards of ardent fans. Then the Freemasons hadda change it, and then those jerks all swore an oath of 'Eternal and Insatiable Vengence' against us.

I'm not 100%, but I think the secret handshake is currently 'Hi, how are you?'

... those Freemason assholes are everywhere.

What We Have Here is a Failure to Lift and Separate

Predator Press

[LOBO]


"What's with that little black bra on that last post?" asks Ethan.

"That's Olga, the Traveling Bra," I says. "God Ethan, didn't you learn anything in history class?"

"Ah-"

"In that painting, Olga is depicted leading the French Revolution."

"Olga started the French Revolution?"

"No," I reply matter-of-factly. "Olga's cousin and twisted evil nemesis Helga the Wandering Corset did. Most major conflicts and events throughout human history are really cover-ups for those two going at it. Even in the Civil War, Ulysses S. Grant was wearing Olga while General Robert E. Lee wore Helga."

"Sewing the thin underwire of discontent, eh?"

"Now you're being silly," I says.