Next Year In Review

Predator Press

TIGER WOODS LOSES COOL
FILMING CEREAL COMMERCIAL,
KILLS "SNAP"

Threatens "Crackle", "Pop"

Next Year In Review

Predator Press

Photo taken on "Casual Friday" in the Predator Press Mailroom.
Currently accepting applications at careerbuilder.com.

Next Year In Review

Predator Press

PFIZER UNVEILS NEW TARTAR
CONTROL MICROSOFT-
FLAVORED VISTA RITALIN
TO 12 DEAD, MIXED REVIEWS

Next Year In Review

Predator Press


I think this chick digs me.

Next Year In Review

During military enactments of LOBO revealing his true identity, many physically inferior stand-ins were slain; even with extensive protective gear, most are tragically asphyxiated by the confetti.

Our hearts go out to the families.

Next Year In Review

Predator Press



“I always knew if I ever got on
Predator Press,I was supposed
to remember to ‘plug’ something.

... Um, do you have a mirror?”

Next Year In Review

Predator Press

"Okay, show of hands.

... Who thinks I should replace the clutch in the Chick Magnet?"

Next Year In Review

Predator Press

Dick and Condoleeza, quietly regretting the failure to implement LOBO’s “Hot Chicks and Beer” initiatives.

--It would bear out historically to be the single biggest blunder of the Bush Administration.

Next Year In Review

Predator Press


"Ah screw the game.
Do you think LOBO
will post today?"

Over-Reactor Core

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The fatal flaw of “Man”, I think, involves our instinct for aggression; when it all boils down, all we want to do is:

1) fuck, and
2) fight.

That’s why getting married seems like a good idea to us sometimes; the reptilian hippocampus is screaming “Well, how efficient!”

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.