Mista BLICK

LOBO -Predator Press

I haven't had much time to delve into the VR world. And, until recently, I regarded it merely as "nifty."

But then I got a copy of something that changed my opinion.  There is software on the way that will let you make "handwritten" notes and a really cool 3-D archive system.  Anyone that knows me knows that I have notes EVERYWHERE, and my current organizational skills have me finishing this post February 2027.

Just saving the paper excites me.

"Man you really like that," Barbarossa observes. "Can I try it?"

It was about 6 minutes before he was hurling the writing tools, hoping for explosions.

Cruelinary Skill

LOBO -Predator Press

Hostess "Limited Edition" Wintermint Ding Dongs were so horrifyingly bad, I had to eat a second one just to confirm they tasted like toothpaste.

Weeks -okay months later, still in my freezer, I thought "Oh come on. They couldn't have been that bad."

Yep. Two more.

At this rate, I might hate them enough to buy again next year.

So You've Contracted the Coronavirus

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Predator Press Center For Disease Control has issued the following recommendations so you do not transmit this disease to me:

1) Boil yourself at a minimum temperature of 165 degrees Fahrenheit prior to contact in a one half bleach, one half Lysol, and one half holy water solution.

2) Burn all your germ infested property unless you think I might want it. Use careful discretion here ... I don’t want pictures of your kids and whatever. Please limit this salvage to luxury cars, high-end electronics and precious metals.

3) Be tidy. Without remaining hosts to be transmitted to, most pandemics will burn themselves out in a few months: the only thing worse than me wandering around mid-July roasting in a hazmat suit would be doing so knee-deep in a bunch of stinky skeletons. Please have some consideration. Cremation also 100% eliminates the possibility of you returning as zombies.

In conclusion, you all being dead will be a terrible thing for me to endure: I thank you in advance for easing my painful experience through your efforts.

Predator Press watches Prometheus

LOBO -Predator Press

Like The Phantom Menace, Prometheus got an almost immediate second viewing due to 1) trying to explain the plot so someone, and 2) hearing myself trying to do so.

Now I'm not a horror fan.  Prometheus required some extra discipline, because I spent both viewings fucking terrified.  Between the shrieking and frequent underpants changing, I'm surprised I caught as much of the plot as I did the first time.  In retrospect, watching this movie by myself was a bad idea.

Critics can bang up on it, but Prometheus shares the same rarified air as the original Alien and John Carpenter's The Thing: they are all excellent examples of why you don't want me on a Mars mission, on any job in an area classified as 'uncharted,' or making a fast food run with a really, really complicated order.

At the first sign of even a nosebleed, I would just start blowtorching every last one of you assholes.  Aliens, marines, civilians, cats ...

... especially cats.

Heart of Gold Part II

LOBO -Predator Press

Click here for Heart of Gold Part I

"Listen," says the cop, uncuffing me.  "We are going to throw this ... thing ... into the Hadron Collider."

"Oh really," I says, rubbing my wrists.  "We're going to do exactly what I planned to do before you so rudely arrested me?"

"We don't have time to send this to a committee," he barks.  "But the backup I called will be here any second.  This scourge on humanity must be stopped."

"Well, duh!" I says, choosing my words carefully.  But as he scurries around the room looking for anything useful, I begin to reconsider.  This guy is an all-business professional.  And he's big, barrel chested, and "cuts a good jib." Natural heroic looks.  He will be on the cover of magazines.

-Real or not, America needs heroes like this.

"Open that hatch on the floor," he commands, yanking at some cables.

"This hatch is clearly labelled 'DO NOT OPEN HATCH.'" I point out.

"That is an access point to the 27 kilometer ring they race the particles in."

"Kilometers?" I says, swinging the hatch wide.  "This goes to Europe-?"

But the second my eyes fall on the inside of the ring, I am lost in its violent beauty.  Glowing reds, yellows, greens and blues, flying by at thousands of miles per hour.  Utterly dazzled, I find myself wanting to fall to my knees and weep.

This must be what God sees.

Suddenly, the cop smacks me on the back.

"-and that's the plan," he continues, furiously tying the cable around his waist.  "Now remember.  One tug means 'Throw me the backpack.'  Two tugs mean 'Pull me back, fast.'  And if I don't make it," he hesitates, "tell my wife and kids I love them.  I did this to protect them."

"What is your name?" I yell over the maelstrom.

"Officer Clint McMannanaugh!" he salutes.

He dove in.  And immediately, the coiled cable next to me started to swirl away.

The end of the cable disappeared into the hatch with a violent crack against the hatch edge.

"Hey!" I yell into the hatch.  "Shouldn't you have tied this to something?"

Nothing.

I stick my head in to listen closer, and see a small metal object whip by my head from behind.

"Officer McMannanaugh!" I yell.  "You've lost your badge!"

A shoe.  And then a human ear.

"I think you should tug the cable twice!"

The cable flew by.  His revolver clanged behind, firing randomly.

"God bless you Officer Clint McMannanaugh," I mutter.  Opening the backpack, I look at the vile contents, the moist evil pulsing.  "But enough blood has been spilled over Europe."

At that point, I could have just Fed-Exed the whole pulsing squishy mass of weirdness to someone else.  But who?  I thought.  I don't hate anyone else enough!

The sirens approached.

All I can do is put this fruitcake someplace where no other human will ever dare touch it.

Tires squealed in pain against concrete.

-I'll put it under another fruitcake.

Click here for Heart of Gold Part I

Heart of Gold

LOBO -Predator Press

Click here for Heart of Gold Part II

His moves are so well-practiced, the handcuffs are on me before I know it.

Blase yet clear, the cop explains. "You are under arrest for criminal trespassing."

"I object!" I says.

He rolls his eyes with the enthusiasm of a man who can tear his ACL rolling his eyes. "May I ask you why you were trying to break into the CERN Hadron Collider?"

"This time?"

"Yes sir."

"It came back," I says.

"Excuse me?"

"It came back!" I says. "Look in my shirt pocket."

He procures the paper, and unfolds it.

"This is a signed receipt of delivery from Fed-Ex."

"It snuck in.  I was acually expecting por -eh- art movies.  But it can't come in uninvited," I explain. "It's like a vampire."

"What can't come in?" he asks.

I nod my head to my backpack. "I already had it in 2006."

The cop's trepidation is palpable, and he opens it slowly. "Is it a head?"

"Worse."

Sweat drips from his forehead. "Is it a bomb?"

"You wish."

"Oh shit," the cop reals, shutting the backpack. "You got the fruitcake."

"Twice!" I point out.

He staggers a little, but regains composure like a pro. "Look. You signed for it. I get that it isn't fair you got it twice, ..." He gags for a second. "But it's yours now."

"Or is it?" I says. "If you arrest me, you have to take it as evidence. That makes it yours."

"That's a lie!" he sobs, tears welling.

"I was trying to destroy it by throwing it into the CERN Hadron Collider and banishing it to a parallel universe once and for all."

"Or cause a space-time disruption that wipes out all of Existence?"

I shrug.

"Either way."

Click here for Heart of Gold Part II

Eastworld

LOBO -Predator Press

"Are you guys tech support?"

Even through the rubber jumpsuit, the guy in charge visibly squirmed.  "Most customers don't contact us directly, as it ruins their immersion experience in the park."

Gesturing to Sapphire's lifeless body, I says "Well, what about that?"

"What happened?" he asked, fogging his plastic facemask.

"I told her her blue eyes were so stunning, they hit me with the cosmic force of suddenly being released from a sewage plant."  I shrug, frustrated.  "Why can't these things take compliments?"

The tech looked at his display.  "It looks like using 'stunning sewage release' is her reboot command password."

"Is she Microsoft?  I'm not doing this every day."

"Did you add any programs?"

I think for a second.  "I told her to download her 'Saucy' profile.  So she only wears one or two dresses at a time.  She is going to poke someones eye out at the Cotillion."

"Huh," says the tech, still examining his readouts.

"That's when she collapsed.  So, figuring it was a corrupted file, I tried to download it six more times."

The tech groaned.

"Then I got more imaginative," I says.  "Maybe the 'Saucy' profile needed a broader framework.  You know, something darker.  I mean you can't just ask a lady who wears three pairs of pajamas to sleep to just flip out and be a whore, right?  So I included the 'Evil' add-on pack."

"The one that includes Hitler, Josef Mengele, Nero, Caligula, Kelly Ripa and Ann Coulter?"

Even as I point to my nose, Sapphire groggily moans awake.  "Where am I?" she asks.

"Solved that problem," says the tech, gesturing hastily to the others.  "Our work here is done.  Let's go.  Now!"  Sapphire looked around curiously as they gathered their gear and fled.  As he left, the head technician looked back at me and saluted, "Enjoy your vacation, sir!"

I wave enthusiastically.

"Thank you!"

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.

WTF Ever Happened to Quicksand?

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: What ever happened to quicksand?

You remember ... one could barely get through a half an hour of television without some poor slob stumbling upon his buddy's pith helmet laying mysteriously on the ground. Then he or she goes to pick it up, and the horror ensues.

-It’s quicksand!

I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another.

Clearly even then this enigmatic sedentary evil was barely understood. Of course this was the heart of Chicago, where they taught us to curl up in a hallway in case of aerial bombings and hide under our desks during nuclear blasts.  It's safe to say if graffiti didn't stick to it, we Chicagoans didn't know shit about it.

So after years of jumping over suspicious looking sidewalk squares, it occurred that inner city quicksand may well have evolved a cracked appearance -perhaps even a Hopscotch pattern as camouflage! And tedious "research" revealed absolutely no cases of Chicago quicksand attacks, thus proving conclusively the deadly hunting prowess of this formidable and fearsome predator: no one had yet survived an encounter with it to tell the tale.

-I haven't slept in years.

Unfortunately, the Predator Press scienticians really let us all down this time. All they did was gorge Dominoes pizza, play World of Warcraft, and work on their Facebook profiles until SPAM beguiled them into downloading crippling computer viruses via porn.  Obviously the Great Mystery of Quicksand is beyond the feeble understanding of even the greatest minds of our time.

Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with quicksand, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.

But we recommend you all wear big, buoyant hats in the meantime.

Just in case.

Black Knight Satellite

LOBO -Predator Press

J.J. Abrams' concept art of "R2D2" blows chunks.

 

Behind the Scenes: Nyota Uhura

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Life began unspectacularly for Nyota Uhura. And after years of hard work, she was set to graduate top of her cosmetology class. But due to a typographical error, she was recruited to the starship Enterprise as Captain Kirk’s Communications Officer and Chief Exfoliator.

“Communications Officer,” however, would be a sad irony for Nyota as she was wildly dyslexic: during Romulan and Klingon attacks she would run up and down the ship screaming, “Trela Der! Trela Der!” This directly led to the destruction of Enterprises I, II, V, Va, theVIIb, and the much ballyhooed IX.2 -as well as numerous models of the Reliant, a school bus, and at least four poorly-documented bicycles.

Soon thereafter, her arrest at a Star Trek convention for the assault of George Lucas made the papers worldwide. She would subsequently tell police, “I kept punching [Lucas] until my knuckles could feel the inside of the back of his head.” Uhura nonetheless denied any motivation involving the hot Star Trek v Star Wars rivalry. “I just wanted [Lucas] to stop making shitty movies. Somebody should have done that in 1983.”

Now experimenting with drugs, Uhura's behavior only became increasingly erratic. According to Wikipedia, “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock sees Uhura take an assignment in the transporter room as part of a plot to steal the Enterprise. After locking a colleague in a closet, Uhura uses the transporter station to beam Kirk, Leonard McCoy and Hikaru Sulu to the Enterprise so they can use it to rescue Spock from the Genesis Planet.”

Uhura’s prosecutors found this defense preposterous. “She locked a guy in a closet?“ said District Attorney Jorge Sackwood. “Okay. Forget that the future doesn’t even have bathrooms … but there is a closet in the Transporter Room? Why? Is it full of red shirts? Or is it simply there for Sulu to come out of?”

Disillusioned with her military career -and now hopelessly addicted to Fuzzy Navels and a myriad of over-the-counter cold medications- Uhura’s downward spiral would lead to feelance work with Vivid Entertainment. 2011 would see the release of a poorly-produced sex tape with NFL star Bret Lockett, something Uhura’s agent disavows as her having been “heavily intoxicated and exploited.” The agent would continue on to say, “Were she fully in command of her faculties at the time it never would have happened. She thought she was making a tape with Hines Ward.”

After an embarrassing appearance on History Channel’s Pawn Stars in an attempt to sell her tricorder and phaser, Ohura finally caught a romantic break and started dating Corey "Big Hoss" Harrison. And because she never did a film with Nicolas Cage or Rob Schneider, this was the same year she was awarded two Predator Press Oscars, six Predator Press Emmys, and three Predator Press Nobel Peace Prizes.

Ohura and Harrison intend to wed this year.

-As soon as they resolve the ongoing Tribble situation.

The Truth About Tornados

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Unlike the Discovery Channel, Predator Press doesn’t make you sit through an hour of excruciatingly boring “facts” and “proof”. We’re just going to come right out and say it in the opening paragraph: Tornados Do Not Exist.

There.

We said it.

End of story.

This myth –obviously perpetuated to maintain the billions of dollars America shovels into tornado "warnings," safety equipment and protective gear every year- spins finally to rest right here, right now. Just like Bigfoot and the female orgasm, it's all hype and hippity happity-horsecrap ... and no longer shall America be terrorized by legends designed to scare children to sleep!

“But LOBO,” you say. “While I respect your staggering intellect, I’ve seen pictures of towns destroyed by tornados!”

You call that proof?

What if those people were just really messy?

FEMA: ”My god … This place is a sty. What happened?

Townsfolk: ”Um … tornado!”

FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”

Townsfolk: ”Thanks!”

I spent about two hours yesterday on my roof with a pair of binoculars. Know how many tornados I saw? None. And I for one am tired of subsidizing slovenly townfolk with my hard-earned tax dollars.

One has merely to examine the weird recommendations the government provides to unravel the fabled ‘tornado’:

True or False: The safest place to be during a tornado is underground, preferably in a storm cellar.

Correct Answer: False. This is where they want you to be, so those lazy slugs don’t have to go through much trouble burying you!

True or False: If you see a tornado, leave your car and get into a ditch.

Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' scam! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?

A big tornado -say an F9- will rip your shoes through your eye sockets and then beat you to death with them, ditch or no ditch. To avoid injury, a) Get out into a wide-open flat field, b) Quickly ascertain the direction the tornado is spinning, and then c) Run in circles in the same direction as fast as possible to cancel out the cyclonic effect.

True or False: Do not try to outrun a tornado.

Correct Answer: False, false, false. If you see a tornado, get the f—k away as quickly and recklessly as possible. Sabotaging fleeing others by tripping them and running them off the road is useful too, as the tornado will often pause to enjoy devouring their succulent juices -thereby gaining you what might be precious seconds.

If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?

Why don't you just try to get your arteries to process cinderblocks and pointy sticks?

Blech!

Predator Press Declares War on Australia!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

EVERYBODY knows how America got started: in 1776 a bunch of us hated soccer so much we loaded up the Nina, the Pinto, and the Santa Fe, and left the oppressive British monarchy forever. We’ve been freely oppressing ourselves ever since.

But what about Australia? Hm? Heck, we left Britain voluntarily … those people were kicked out!

The reason this comes up now is because it’s a matter of National Security: I recently caught Australia skulking up and down the West Coast. It wasn’t doing anything particularly suspicious -in fact at first I thought it was Kirstie Alley; it just rented a boogieboard and tooled about in the surf. But in retrospect I’m almost sure it knew I was "on" to it, and it was trying to look nonchalant.

Exactly why Australia has been sneaking around isn’t quite yet clear, but it has a long history of subtly messing with us with acts such as the “Coriolis Effect”; the Coriolis Effect -first proposed by famous mobster Don Coriolis- suggests that Australians often amuse themselves by flushing their toilets the same moment we do, thusly causing ours to back up.

But now the Aussies have become so brazen they are patrolling well inside our oceanic borders in broad daylight; if you listen closely and the wind is right, you can hear the war didgeridoos blowing in the distance. How long until Australia comes straight up the Mississippi and parks itself near St Louis? Inside agents such as Russell Crowe and Mel Gibson could just wave their arms wildly an yell “Hey! Over here! Lookit my new movie!” and pow, we got Yahoo Serious in the White House.

One only has to see a few photos of the well-decimated and uninhabitable Australian landscape to realize that St Louis, nay, America doesn't deserve a similar fate: an Australian invasion deeply offends my national sensibilities, and I won’t take the inevitable sneak attack lying down.

Unless of course it occurs during my nap.

-In which case I would hope they do it quietly.

What the Fuck is a "Rampart," and Why are we Watching O'er Them Again?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"RDO has recalled me," says Sapphire, sadly.

"Oh bullshit," I says. "He wouldn't do that. I love you."

"You fired me out of a spaceship, crashed that spaceship into me, let me nearly burn up in Earth's atmosphere as I fell, destroyed my homeworld, ruined my credit ..."

"Oh come on" I says. "Where I come from, that's called courting. RDO is a short-sighted moron."

"He told me you would say that."

Okay, fine. I'm officially depressed now. And need solid, clinical advice.

"Before you go, do you happen to know Jenny McCarthy's phone number?"

Sapphire smiles.

"I have her on speed dial," she replies.

I Warned You People! Nature HATES Us!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

ONCE AGAIN Illinois has been leveled to the ground, and I alone am left to pick up the lazy, worthless pieces.  Well just once I would like to be one of those lazy, worthless pieces ... but God, in His Infinite Wisdom, is Infinitely and Wisely cruel to His favorite blogger.

It's pretty bad.

This is the worst kind of natural disaster possible -the kind that happens to me.  Now there's only one thing left: swift and lethal payback.

-It's time to show that bitch Mother Nature exactly who's in charge around here.

Take that, Earth.

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.

Buyer Seaware

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As I'm sure you all remember, Predator Press has fallen on hard times.

We've been through worse.  Still, I'm bein' forced to come up with some quick cash.

I've decided to sell the Official Predator Press Nuclear Submarine at a fraction of it's original value on eBay:



It's hell on gas, but you can pretty much park it anyplace you want.

Feminist CDC Scientist Identifies Himpes Venereal Disease

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"The implications are clear," warns Doctor Kimberly Eisner, a Senior Researcher at the Center of Disease Control.  "What we have here is clearly a pandemic in the making."

She is among the first scientists to discover that in blind experiments, when control groups of men walked around with catfish and certain strains of small mouth Bass in their underpants, painful cuts, lesions and rashes often appear on the male penis.

Most scientists attribute this to attacks by hungry and feral neighborhood cats, and question her motives and methods.  Nonetheless, the Obama Administration recently granted her a twelve million dollar research grant to investigate the issue further.

"Men who walk around with catfish and certain strains of small mouth Bass in their underpants deserve a cure just like anybody else," Eisner insists.  "The debilitating effects are horrifying to see, perhaps rivaled only by those who like to wear live hand grenades in their underpants."

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

Exclusive: Wikipedia Search Casts Doubt on Bin Laden Assassination

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Q 1: How could a seal possibly have pulled the trigger?

Fact: Seals don’t have opposable thumbs. And perhaps more importantly, they don’t have shoulders. Am I supposed to believe a “navy” seal swam to Pakistan carrying an AK-47 in its flippers the whole way?

Those guns have straps for a reason.

Q 2: What the hell is a "navy" seal doing in the dessert anyway?

Fact: Osama bin Laden [ObL] wasn’t holed out on some parfait. That’s a dessert. A desert, it turns out, is a place like the beach except there is explicitly no ocean by definition. So where did the “navy” park all their boats an crap without somebody seeing them do it?

Remember this isn’t attacking a dessert -you can’t just throw sprinkles on your aircraft carrier and hope for the best ... Pakistan would have hit you broadside with a strawberry in a second.

Q 3: Why does President Obama’s Birth Certificate make no mention of the effort?

Fact: Obama’s Birth Certificate was created by ancients like fifteen or twenty years ago, and it could not have known about the events that transpired on 9/11.

-Or could it? Obama's Birth Certificate contains a wealth of knowledge about Obama such as where and when he was born, his parents' names, and the fact that he was once black.

The Birth Certificate, therefore, has demonstrated repeated culpability and motive in the entire presidency from infancy -maybe even from inception.

So how can we ever know that the afore-mentioned Birth Certificate itself didn’t hide Mother Obama’s birth control on that fateful, romantic night in Syria or Iran?

-Or that the fate of America‘s 2008 president wasn't SEALED [eh?] that night on a blue EPT stick by Hitler himself?

Hm?