Raiders of the Lost Crusader meme Trailer

Predator Press

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To place blame, please see Don Lewis.

Predator Press and the Tomb of the Velvet Ropes

Predator Press

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Saturday I decided I needed to take out all the cash from the “Feed LOBO” fundraising effort.

Despite coming from Don Lewis, a buck is a buck. And after the government does it’s ‘Where’s My Money?’ shell game, that’s about 67 cents.

That’s mac and cheese money, baby.

In fact that’s Kraft mac and cheese money.

According to my calculatrons, I’m only a few weeks away from the salt, butter and milk required to complete the recipe.

Maybe I'll just go crazy and hold out for Velveeta.


***

A bank being open during Predator Press Month should have been my first sign of trouble. But I equate going to the bank with Purgatory: a sea of disinterested, dismantled vacant faces waiting in twisty and random excruciatingly slow roped queues.

They'll be open.

True, you might see one or two upon occasion that are still somehow faintly hopeful this is the line that leads to a thick, turbulent swill of soul-harvesting interest rates and mortgage loans. Not even dignifying them with full annunciation, we call them the 'Unngghhh' and nudge each other quietly when we spot them. And once awareness has been sufficiently raised, we taunt them with subtle mercilessness until they either 'join the ranks' or flip out, screaming in macabre frustration.

It’s this ‘screaming’ phase you don’t want. An un-culled Unnngh sobbing and screaming in line can make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. If the screaming phase takes too long, accelerate the process of permanently breaking their Will by tripping them frequently. Sneak a few kicks in if you can.

Every so often -if an unobserved opportunity presents itself- I’ll rearrange the ropes. I mean you never know, right? And if I can’t solve the maze in this manner, I’ll make them into a loop for the people behind me to wander through for all Eternity.

If, on the other hand, I solve the maze, I'll arrange the ropes so they’ll spill out at The Gap or something. The water bill remains unpaid, but they leave with their souls intact and a nice new cardigan.

Unless there's an Unghh behind me.

I hate those lousy Unngghs.


***

In this case, I solved the maze in an hour and twenty minutes. A record for me. Nervously peering over my shoulder, I discreetly slide the signed check and my driver’s license across to the teller.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “There appears to be a lien against any ‘Feed LOBO’ funds raised.”

I owe the Loyal Reader a sidebar explanation here: due to the money I blew for the 'Feed LOBO' telethon on entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics, the first 4-5 million is supposed to come right off the top as overhead; I, conversely, contend that hideous and catastrophic fiscal debacle is not my fault, and should be blamed on lousy entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics.

Various collection agencies apparently disagree.

“How dare you,” I demand. “Do you have any idea how much money I have in this bank?”

“It says here $6.87,” he says. “And apparently there’s a lien on that too.”

“Well I’m not going to keep my liquid cash here. It’s not safe!”

“Our impregnable vault was secretly designed and constructed from the outside in by two mysterious German engineers. Upon completion, it could only be opened from the inside –and those engineers are long since presumed dead.”

“How do you get the money in and out?”

“We don’t. We keep it in a mason jar on the fridge in the break room.”

"You can't do this," I explain calmly. "It's Predator Press Month for God's sake. What will the kids say?"

"You have kids? What are their names?"

"Shiftless and, eh, Screechy I think. In fact, that $6.87 is Shiftless' college fund."

"I'm sorry sir."

“Can I still play with that cool toy with the beads?”

"Only if you give all the pens back."

Nights of the Round Fable

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With the Raiders of the Lost Crusader Meme coming to a close, I would like to take this moment to bring up something serious.

After the release of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy’s faithful and adorable sidekick “Short Round” just seems to vanish from the face of the Earth.

"Well that's impossible," you say. "This could never happen."

Well it turns out that about 8% of Predator Press readers are right 22% of the time: this tragic and shocking true story has been kept under wraps for over 20 years. And it might never been known if not for the dogged and relentless investigative skill of yours truly.

While Indiana’s life -filled with hot chicks, explosions and danger- has thrilled and exhilarated movie audiences for decades, it was found to be ill-suited for raising children; before long Short Round was seized from Indy by Child Protective Custody and placed into foster care.

Heartbroken and psychologically damaged permanently by Indy’s cavalier and lax parenting, Short Round subsequently ran away and seemingly faded into a mysterious shroud of obscurity.

It was no small effort to track his whereabouts from that day forward. But during a chance examination of the MIT Archives, we discovered ancient correspondence with Short Round: it seems that soon thereafter it was discovered that he was woefully poor at math, and due this hideous handicap even MIT rejected him.

His last and lowliest of hopes and dreams were horribly crushed against the Rapids of Cruel Hollywood Fate.

Out of options, he spent a few years with the Harlem Globetrotters to make ends meet ... but nothing seemed to sate his emotional void; during a Vicodin and PCP-fueled rage, he punched a cheerleader and called Curly Joe a “punk-ass bitch” –acts that led to his permanent expulsion from the league.

It might seem true that life hasn't been very kind to Short Round. But shortly after rehab and serving his jail time, he met his true love in a strip bar. Connecting instantly during a conversation about their mutual obsession with snakes, the 'sparks flew' so to speak: now Short and Sassy Round live happily in a Des Moines subdivision with their eight beautiful children.

-The oldest of which begins at MIT this August.

Predator Press and the Quest for the Empty Skull

Predator Press

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Having seen all four “Raiders” movies now, I feel more than qualified to follow in the footsteps of the great Doctor Jones and enter the fast-paced and lucrative sexy field of Archeology.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to circumvent the lack of academic accolades with prospective employers. I think they had their doubts I could kick the crap out of six guys while hopping back and forth between vehicles speeding through a dense jungle -even after seeing the Honorary White Belt Grand Master Futon gave me.

Despite the lofty credentials, much-lauded Harvard University immediately balked at the opportunity to even tenure me: being tenured at Harvard University, it turns out, is a potential subsequent function of me actually teaching at Harvard University.

Blah, blah.

“I’ll have no part of dealing with screaming brats,” I inform the interviewer. “Dammit, I’m a scientist."

“How about an online class?” says the guy looking down his nose into a thick book. “We're starting a course in Private Investigation this August.”

“Great,” I says. “I’ll take it. How long until my tenure starts?”

“Sir, I have serious doubts you have any knowledge of this field whatsoever.”

“Sure I do,” I insist.

“You are prepared to instruct people to conduct criminal investigations via intercooperation between various law enforcement agencies?”

“The world should be wiped clean of criminal scourge.”

“-while occasionally working underground with criminals to collect information?”

“I totally hate cops.”

He leans back in his chair. “So what exactly do you know about private investigation?”

“Licensed private investigators get to carry guns. And that’s always cool. You can use guns to shoot people.”

“And you want to shoot people?”

“Oh God no,” I says. “I just want to fit in when I go to Denny’s.”

“I seriously doubt you possess the guile to work in undercover operations.”

“Well, I fooled you with that resume,” I point out. “Hell that thing is chocked full of lies.”

“Like what?”

“Like what isn’t?”

“So your name isn’t Indiana Einstein?”

“Not even close,” I says smuggly.

“Well what is it then? We would need to put something on the checks.”

Now I had a plan for if the interview was going poorly: I was going to say my name was Don Lewis. But my intuition told me I had this hoity-toity Harvard University geek wrapped around my finger.

Attempting to avoid the obvious trap, I start looking around the spacious office for ideas. I see a framed Michelangelo Fresco, a Thomas Wolfe book … absolutely nothing useful.

Finally my eyes fell on his coffee cup.

“Joe,” I blurt. “Joe, eh, Joseph.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows furrow. “Huh,” he says. “We have an opening in Mayan Hieroglyphic Writing. That would be a little closer to your desired field than private investigation. You can read Mayan hieroglyphics, correct?”

"Pre or Postclassic?"

"Late Preclassic."

“I love Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics. Some nights I can’t put ‘em down at all ... see these dark circles under my eyes? I just finished a version of War and Peace written in Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I thought it was a bit wordy and pedantic. But the part where the giant turtle bites the heads off of those snowmen makes me cry every time.”

You Are the Wind Beneath My Shorts

Predator Press

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I don’t know why I made that "movie". I just woke up Sunday and decided I hadda skrag what was left of my weekend on my first uTube effort.

Like everything else here, it was hastily slapped together and recklessly posted without fear. That's how I roll, baby: I pride myself in high-volume, low quality, and -as always- passing the savings on to the reader.

And speaking of ‘passing’, I equate the virgin video-making experience to passing gas: no matter how many orifices you clench, it’s coming out someplace ... it's just a matter of where and when. And the longer you make it wait, the more virulent and horrible it will be.

See, most blogs will treat you like it’s the first date: they wait until you leave. But even as they are smiling and waving “bye bye” to you though the window, the room is filling with the most horrendous and eye-watering green fog you can possibly imagine.

Don't believe me? If you stand there and wave back long enough, their lungs will just cave in involuntarily and the stimuli will slam into the frontal lobe with the equivalent force of six Rosie O'Donnells on the Ponderosa salad bar; ultimately, the limbic system then collapses entirely and they pass out.

This blog, conversely, treats you with the dignity and respect of someone we've been dating so long even the dog doesn’t bark at you anymore. You've got keys. And while I won’t do it right in front of you, I get it out of the way as you’re pulling into the driveway.

And then I'll blame that worthless dog.

To Mock a Killing Bird

Predator Press

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It appears I’ve just been shanghaied recruited for meme over at It’s a Funny Thing.

I would have resisted except for two things:

First, it’s got a reversed meme-hunter twist to it that I find appealing: we will trace the memes backwards across the Blogosphere to the very first memer, and have a brief and constructive talk with this person immediately before killing him or her with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.

The second reason is that if Don goes without me, I won’t be able to easily steal his ideas ... and I regard coming up with my own ideas as a hideous expenditure of time and energy. As for myself, I’m morally opposed to waste in any shape or form: the afore mentioned time and energy would be much better spent in pursuit of my own athletic endeavors such as extreme napping and porn surfing.

Predator Press and the Piano of the Frog

Predator Press

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Navigation through the indigenous wildlife was slow at best.

Especially when my guide Statico keeps stopping for every little piece of trash.

“Doritos. Still fresh ... three days. They're following us I tell you.”

“If they knew we were here, they would have killed us already,” I says continuing on. “And put those down. Those are stale. You’ll get sick.”

I cock my head slightly, and hear the sound of mushy chewing. Spinning around with the speed of a cat, I knock the Doritos from his hand with a deadly accurate crack!

“Ouch, you bastard!” cries Statico. “Why are you carrying that extension cord anyway?”

“It’s probably dark in there,” I shrug.

“It’s Starbucks.”

“I don’t take chances.”

We advance to the counter, and I scowl at the overhead menu. “I would like a Double Mocha Mocha Cappa Grande el Pueblo Colorado.”

“Coming right up,” says the lady.

“Say, aren’t you Karen Allen?”

“Yes.”

“Karen, have you seen this piano?” I inquire, flipping a picture from my lapel on the counter.

Karen gasps. “It is the Piano of the Frog!”

“Ah-ha!” chuckles Statico while seizing the picture.

“Statico, no!” I warn.

But Statico does not listen; instead he bolts for the exit.

Thinking quickly, I leap behind the counter. “Excuse me miss,” I says tipping my foil fedora. Running into the back kitchen, I press the button to the elevator and descend into the basement where I trip the fuse box.

“Arggh!” cries Statico as the electric doors slide closed on him.

“Give up, Statico!” I demand.

“Give me the extension cord!” he howls painfully.

“No dice, Statico.”

“No time to argue, señor. You throw me the extension cord, I give you the picture.”

Reluctantly, I throw him the cord.

“Haha!” says Statico. “Fooled you! Now I have the picture and the extension cord!”

“Dammit!” I complain. “Why do I always fall for that?”

Grinning wildly, he fumbles to plug in the doors.

“Don’t do it, Statico!”

Suddenly the doors powered up and slammed shut, severing Statico clean in twain.

That’s the third guide I’ve lost this week like that.

“I know something that can help you,” says Karen Allen.

“If it’s Lithium-“

“No. It’s an ancient relic that will aide your quest.”

“Cool. Where is it?”

“It’s in the walk-in refrigerator.”


***

I pull open the large steel door, and sure enough, there it was.

I whistle. “Wow. That’s the Fugue of the Frogster.”

“Yes.”

“Well what am I supposed to do with that?”

“If you play the notes, it will open the gates on your quest.”

“You mean like in that movie The Goonies?”

“I was 34 when that movie came out.”

“You’re never too old for The Goonies. Now go get my damn Double Mocha Mocha Cappa Grande el Camino while I steal this here Foogie thing.”

“But you said you wanted a Double Mocha Mocha Cappa Grande el Pueblo Colorado.”

“Don’t argue with me. I’m a scientist or something.”

Wiggling my fingers, I crouch in front of the sheet music and ever so slowly prepare to snatch it.

Careful, I’m thinking. Easy does it ...

“Here’s your coffee,” says Karen.

“Jesus!” I shriek. “You scared the daylights out of me!”

“Sorry,” she says blandly. “But you don’t really want to take the music like that.”

“Why not?” I reply eyeing my coffee suspiciously.

“It is hooked up to a counterweight, and will trigger a deadly trap.”

“You know,” I says. “I’m not going to tip you when you skimp on the Mocha like this-“

“You need to replace the item with something that weighs about the same thing.”

“Like my gun?

"That'll work.

"Okay.”

“Why do you keep your gun in a little brown sack?”

“Look sister. If you want to spend eight hours in Photoshop doctoring pictures for this post, knock yourself out.”

“Be sure you replace the Fugue with the gun smoothly. If you jostle the podium even the slightest bit you will trigger the trap.”

“Yeah. Okay. Lemme finish my coffee first.”

Karen rolls her eyes. “You know, screw this. You’re going to get us killed. How about if I do it?”

“Look, I already put my gun in the sack. There’s no turning back now.”

“Maybe you could tie your extension cord to it, and pull the sheet music off from a distance.”

“Huh,” I says impressed. “That would be cool. We could get the music, and watch this place crumble to burning rubble. But Statico got my cord all knotted. Here. Hold this end while I untangle it.”

Moments later, we were helplessly bound back-to-back to a support beam.

“You dumbass! Karen shrieked.

“Hey, I warned you not to step into the clove hitch.”

“Now what do we do?”

“I say we just try and whistle the music. If LadyTerri catches me tied to Karen Allen in a Starbucks uniform, we’re both dead anyways. But in the meantime, I want you to have my sunglasses and fedora. She may be really far away and using a high-powered rifle.”

Sure enough, five notes into the song, there was a low rumbling sound. And suddenly the back wall of the walk-in refrigerator slid away, revealing the stage of a vast concert auditorium.

On that stage was a Grand piano.

And somehow, intuitively, knew it was the piano.

“Oh my god!” cried Karen. “The lid is open. Don’t look inside!”

“Too late!” I scream.


***

Thud!

“Ouch!”

Fully awake, I sit up rubbing my sore bicep confusedly.

LadyTerri is glowering.

“What was that for?” I pout.

“Maybe you should explain,” she asks in an acidic tone, “exactly what you were doing at a Starbucks without me.”