Where Do Babies Come From?

Predator Press

-By LOBO

(My first children’s book. Illustrator needed)

So you have been wondering where babies come from, and you’re not buying the whole “stork” thing anymore?

Fret not.

-I'm gonna give you the straightforward birdless, beeless science.

See when mommies and daddies are in love, they take their pants off and share a ‘Special Hug.’ And if the hug is done right, they shoot Deoxyribonucleic Acid [DNA] all over each other.  This sometimes makes babies.

But one day mommy found daddy with his pants off, shooting Deoxyribonucleic Acid all over the realtor lady.

Mommy should have almost certainly gotten therapy -she still has that weird tic in her face. But instead she got an AR15 from the gun rack downstairs, and unloaded the clip on daddy and the realtor lady while they were in the shower.

The lawyers tied up the entire estate in probate, and the whole thing was gone even before the blood, bone and hair had swirled down the shower drain. And they were unable to get mommy a manslaughter plea deal: she was sentenced to six years, and subsequently jumped the $250,000 bail. That’s why you and mommy live out of a car in rural Montana, drink boiled rainwater and eat slightly al dente squirrels six times a week, and poop into a coffee cans for squirrel cooking fuel.

Probably.

But now that you’re older and have read the newspaper articles, have you ever wondered why you, daddy, and the realtor lady all had the same last name and mommy doesn't? Or noticed that you look more like the realtor lady than you do your so-called "mommy?"

Babies come from a horrible, horrible place.

Now go to sleep, ya lil bastard.

People Say "Book Burning" like it's a BAD Thing

It was a one night stand
... stop calling me!

 Predator Press

[LOBO]

Now working for a book distributor, I'm developing an increased awareness of how many of you nerds weren't left smashed on the schoolyard good 'n proper.

Books were things teachers made us endure because they hated and liked to punish us.  And yeah I sell them.  I sell them for the same reason everyone else does.

Miss Addington, have you met Elmo?

-Spite!

But every day I see perfectly good, normal-seeming adults flipping them open and watching these 'books' for hours on end, just like it's a football game or something.  I'll sneek a peek over a shoulder every now and then just to make sure I'm not being tricked -you know, like maybe they're watching American Idol on a concealed iPad or cellphone?

But no, it's usually just another one of those bookwatchin' cult weirdos starin at squiggly lines.  Sometimes there will be a picture, but they don't move or anything.

No Kim Kardashian, no "Situation," no cartoons ... yet these bookwatching freaks just sit there, hour after hour.  I'm squeamish, too: Christ, watching people do this to themselves is the equivalent of cutting the top of my skull off, and pouring in salt and broken glass.

What has America come to?

This is just plain depressing.

*** BONUS CUT ***

Just in case you guys doubted these books exist, I decided to link the pics to places they are being sold.

But Amazon.com made me shoot coffee through my nose when I saw this:

Quotes from Amazon page:


"Share your own images"

"Gift wrap available"

"23 used from $0.41"

"Want it delivered Monday, November 28 ... ?"

I Live Today

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of you longtime readers may have noticed a few rerun postings on Predator Press, and the inevitable subsequent glaring absence of sanity, intelligence, wisdom and reason across the globe.

Stop immolating yourselves. Stop jumping from tall buildings. Stop immolating yourselves and then jumping from tall buildings: I’m going to level with you. It has been a tough year for your irascible-yet-lovable Chancellor of the vast LOBOnian nation.

And you have only yourselves to blame.

(Resume immolating and jumping now.)

I’m sure we can all agree a chiseled physical phenomena such as myself would and should be utterly devoid of mortal woe. But my body apparently wasn’t notified of these details, and after the epic clash of titans I endured in June –where Big Cereal's crimes against our mighty nation and Humanity required swift, lethal and benevolent payback (and a short jail term)- half of 2011 has been dedicated to recovery and rehabilitation.

I have no doubt that you all are working frantically on technologies that will make me even more immortal and indestructible. But as of yet I got diddly, and your utter failure in this regard is simply impossible to ignore: the LOBOnian Nation has no place for this level of incompetence. Don’t make me revoke your visas!



LOBOnian slackers will be de-meated, and their bones will be exiled!

Couple this ineptitude with my ongoing treatments for Tri Polar Disorder and Cryohydrotachophobia (the fear of rogue icebergs), a lot of travel, football season, various temporary restraining orders and lawsuits, a hangnail and a new job, and it should be clear why I haven’t been following up on this lack of progress with appropriate, eh, “motivation.”

The new job in particular is a pain in the ass. Every day I have to get up, go to it, clock in and stay there doing stuff for like fifty hours, and then clock out and do it all over again the next day. I don’t know how I got tricked into it frankly.

The perpetrator of all this criminal exploitation is a book distributor. And I know what you’re thinking. “Books? Let’s see. There’s The Bible, Batman, Archie and Veronica, and Penthouse ... Ptthbt! How hard could that be?” Well it turns out there’s books on everything from computers to babies to photography to history, all stacked on pallets as far as the eye can see. Jesus Christ, there’s like a hundred of them!

Steinbeck, Camus, Hemingway ...

... Man you people read a lot of schlock.

Everything Must Go

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"There is no ‘Les’ in Les Miserables,” says Terri. “It's not a person. It means ‘The Miserable Ones.’”

“Ah crap," I says. “You mean to tell me I’m 100 pages into a book written by a guy that can’t even spell?"

Terri sighs. “Apparently.”

“Well I’m going to re-write it,” I boast.

“Really.”

Yes. Check this out. “Doctor Les Miserables was a rapper -like Doctor Dre- who loved two things: his bling, and performing abortions.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work” says Terri, reading over my shoulder.

I continue typing. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good at abortions, and had to run an orphanage as a consequence … ”

“You’re missing the point-”

“Before you go stompin on my work, would you at least let me get to the alien invasion?

Caligula

Predator Press

[LOBO]

s a few of you might have realized, my computer recently went kablooey … I’m woefully behind on comments, and have even re-issued a handful of posts. I’ve kajiggered a system of using my email to get that done, but it’s time consuming.

The upside is there is stuff I‘ve been working on that‘ll be pretty interesting. For instance, I have an interview with one of my favorite blogger-slash-authors Chris Wood on the table; sure he‘s from the UK and insists on butchering our fine American language and is probably indirectly responsible for soccer ... Nonetheless he’s brilliant, hilarious and talented [Chris, stop reading here] and deeply psychotic -to the point where my finder's fee commission from Doctor Toboggans should be astronomical [Chris, okay to continue reading from here].

And I was initially thinking my book -"This Book Kicks the Crap Out of All Those Other Books"- would be a cookbook, but it turns out a chalk outkine of a lobster at the bottom of the pot ruins virtually any bisque, no matter how much garlic you add.

Instead, I rewrote it by replacing the word 'deep fry' with 'death ray' and 'lobster' with 'alien,' thusly creating an adventure-fiction saga: it's sort of an experiment to see if can hold interest over longer stories ... in effect, sampling myself for the possibility of writing my own book.

It'll be crap, I assure you. But it'll be my crap, so buy it! People pay lots of money for crap nowadays, so it's kinda fashionable if you think about it: there's this media whore named 'Shakespeare' who is totally unreadable -and he‘s got, like, four books published!

But this post isn’t about how all Predator Press readers agree Shakespeare is a limelight-mooching talentless hack: this post is about a very kind and unsolicited write-up I got from FamousWhy Terri found.

Take that, Shakespeare.

-Asshole.

The Battlefield Known

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In the last post, an anonymous commenter asked if I had thought of writing a book and -ego stoked- I caught myself giving a big, longwinded answer as if I had any idea what I was talking about.

Now I don’t generally let my lack of knowledge about any particular subject get in my way, so that’s nothing special. But I did make myself laugh at my own apparent willingness to wax on and on over the topic of becoming a professional author; in truth I think if it were to be it would have happened already ... now a combination of age, lifestyle, and a total lack of connections and resources pretty much renders the whole thing moot. Worse of all, I lack the single quality most authors rely on to overcome these obstacles: talent.

-But then I started to think about that. Why should these “talented” people get all the breaks? Were the playing field leveled, who knows? I could be the next Hemmingway!

What would be required for my success would be sort of a “neutron bomb” for talent. Picture it: a blinding mushroom cloud, and a shock wave encircles the Earth; instantaneously “talented” authors like Chuck Palahniuk, Steven King and William Gibson –and all their works- are completely vaporized in a hellish, agonizing firestorm, and I am left to misuse semicolons and hyphens and otherwise butcher the English language with utter impunity.

(I said picture it, dammit!)

And Another Thing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Oh yeah. And I also wrote a book in my spare time. It’s called “The Ingredients of a Good Thriller Part II: The Revenge.”

It’s essentially The Ingredients of a Good Thriller with all the “Chris Woods"-es exed out and replaced with “LOBOs,” sprinkled lightly with additional hand-written profanity in the margins.

-Mine is half the price, but it costs $600 in shipping.

(And there's nudity.)

The Ingredients of a Good Thriller

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The sales of Chris Wood's new book The Ingredients of a Good Thriller appear to be outpacing the free Predator Press Temporary Advance copies of This Book Kicks the Crap Out of All Those Other Books by an extraordinary margin.

-I mean I don't even think this is a real number.

My advisors tell me this is largely attributable to me never actually having written "This Book Kicks the Crap Out of All Those Other Books."

And as far as my Astrologers? This was the first they had heard of the thing.

I would fire everyone, but I don’t think I’ve paid them for six months or so already anyway.

-And hey, the Astrologers shoulda seen it comin’.

Slightly Off the Mark

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Jazzed by having received my copy of The Amadeus Net by Mark A. Rayner in the mail today, I started to think, “You know, why should I prevent my own radiant brainiosity from being studied and enjoyed by generations upon generations in the annals of future history?”

I've been trying to root out my own book deal, but that's a difficult thing to accomplish when I haven't actually written the book yet.

Or the draft.

Or the outline.

Or have a clear idea of what it will be about.

... But I do like the title.

401k-9

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Poring over my Predator Press investment options, I use the little cardboard “calculator” as I ponder reconfiguring them this year.

I am shocked to find out that I won’t be able to retire in 2008.

In fact, I don’t get my first lousy million until 2037. And to do so, I’ll have to finish filling out this boring paperwork, and then start doing lots of healthy crap in the depressing effort to live longer waiting for it.

One million bucks? With inflamation, I figure the minimum for a trophy wife in 2037 to be 2.6 million. And that's probably rock bottom: you'll still get something weird like webbed toes or a redhead.

I chuck the papers in the trash, depressed.

This is all a zero-sum game if you think about it.

For now, rest assured that I have no immediate plans to stop sharing my radiant brainiosity with you, o loyal reader.

Unless I’m not a published author by the time I turn twenty-seven.