Predator Press
Daytona 500 Exclusive
"Jesus Christ you guys drive fast!
... So where are we?"
Sunday
Oh Yes I Did
Predator Press
[LOBO]
You know how I was wearing fake weights so I could hit on sensitive and vulnerable chicks with low self-esteem at Weight Watchers meetings?
Well, then I did something kinda reprehensible: I claimed to have invented the Fat-Burning Twinkie, and started to sell them at $4 a pop there.
Now, a $2 box of Twinkies has, well, a lot of goddamn Twinkies in it. I figure I can make maybe 5-6% on this deal, right?
At first, Weight Watchers Corporate didn’t notice anything. I --having dropped the weights-- had lost about 55 pounds while everyone else gained two or three. The net result was pretty much zero.
Ultimately, it was an IRS guy that busted me out. He had a shoebox full of checks from Weight Watchers “known associates” --currently embroiled in a lawsuit against Weight Watchers-- totaling $26,420, all made out to “cash”, and all signed by me.
Weight Watchers Corporate is just plain jealous.
[LOBO]
You know how I was wearing fake weights so I could hit on sensitive and vulnerable chicks with low self-esteem at Weight Watchers meetings?
Well, then I did something kinda reprehensible: I claimed to have invented the Fat-Burning Twinkie, and started to sell them at $4 a pop there.
Now, a $2 box of Twinkies has, well, a lot of goddamn Twinkies in it. I figure I can make maybe 5-6% on this deal, right?
At first, Weight Watchers Corporate didn’t notice anything. I --having dropped the weights-- had lost about 55 pounds while everyone else gained two or three. The net result was pretty much zero.
Ultimately, it was an IRS guy that busted me out. He had a shoebox full of checks from Weight Watchers “known associates” --currently embroiled in a lawsuit against Weight Watchers-- totaling $26,420, all made out to “cash”, and all signed by me.
Weight Watchers Corporate is just plain jealous.
Saturday
Tom Sawyer
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve been going to Weight Watchers meetings for six weeks now, wearing 20 pounds of leg and wrist weights and a 35 pound plate tucked under my jacket.
Tonight, for the “Weigh In”, I’m leaving it all at home.
I am soooooo getting laid ……
[LOBO]
I’ve been going to Weight Watchers meetings for six weeks now, wearing 20 pounds of leg and wrist weights and a 35 pound plate tucked under my jacket.
Tonight, for the “Weigh In”, I’m leaving it all at home.
I am soooooo getting laid ……
Predator Press Reviews: Ghost Rider
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I don’t know why he does it, but once or twice a year Ethan makes me go and do a movie review.
And like clockwork, I come back yawning from the new Hollywood catalog of eye-popping special effects and budget surpluses, loosely wrapped around a $2 script.
But this year I was pleasantly surprised; this movie was a lot of fun.
The first thing that stands out about Ghost Rider is the all-star cast: it features a flaming skull, a tall skinny guy and a chick with fantastic cleavage, and a stellar myriad of various other supporting actors. For a documentary about a tall skinny guy selling his soul to the devil for a chick with fantastic cleavage and then becoming “Flaming Skull Guy”, I think there’s going to be huge buzz about the performances when the Oscars come around this year.
Still, while exhilarating, it was a rather disturbing piece for me --a former “Ghost Rider” myself—to watch.
***
I’m phobic of cotton.
Hey, some people are snakes, some people are spiders.
I’m cotton.
Fuck off.
So one Saturday afternoon, I wake up in dire need of an aspirin. After getting an adult to help me with the cap, I’m mortified to see a massive glob of dry, white horror in between me and my hangover medicine trapped helplessly in the bottom of the bottle.
Now the cotton, all bunched up in the bottle, will not shake out –or release a singe pill—no matter how many hours you spend shaking the bottle upside down or banging it on the table; the cotton just sits there tenaciously, hoarding all my tiny little liberators, daring me to do the unthinkable: to stick my finger in there and actually touch it --an act I know will cause certain and instantaneous death.
So, armed with my fantastic braniosity, I devised a plan.
I would use tweezers.
Now, this is obviously not the most sanitary of solutions. Immediately, I jump online and google ”sterilizing”.
Way, way down, under the Rosie O’Donnell links, there’s a medical page that says that the two best ways to rid your utensils of unwanted bacteria is to either:
1) Rub the utensil down with isopropyl alcohol, or
b) boil the utensil in water.
—So I figure “Hey, if I boil the utensil in isopropyl alcohol, it’ll be really sterile," right?
Well, it turns out that isopropyl alcohol is slightly flammable, and five seconds later, I was trying to get in the Chick Magnet, screaming.
In the dead of winter, starting a 1990 Plymouth Horizon can be rather sketchy. But after fifteen minutes or so, I was well on my way to the hospital. “Hey buddy,” teased some kids passing me on scooters. “What happened to your eyebrows?” By now, the roof liner and much of the interior had caught fire as well. I shook my fist at them, “Just wait until I get into fifth gear you little bastards!”
But atlas, even in fifth gear I could not catch them, because I had forgotten to turn off the AM radio when I turned on the headlights; the Chick Magnet sputtered and stalled. And those little bastards came back and pushed me off the road and into a snow bank!
Engulfed in flames and badly in need of a “jump”, I got out of the car swinging jumper cables over my head in effort to flag down another motorist …
[LOBO]
I don’t know why he does it, but once or twice a year Ethan makes me go and do a movie review.And like clockwork, I come back yawning from the new Hollywood catalog of eye-popping special effects and budget surpluses, loosely wrapped around a $2 script.
But this year I was pleasantly surprised; this movie was a lot of fun.
The first thing that stands out about Ghost Rider is the all-star cast: it features a flaming skull, a tall skinny guy and a chick with fantastic cleavage, and a stellar myriad of various other supporting actors. For a documentary about a tall skinny guy selling his soul to the devil for a chick with fantastic cleavage and then becoming “Flaming Skull Guy”, I think there’s going to be huge buzz about the performances when the Oscars come around this year.
Still, while exhilarating, it was a rather disturbing piece for me --a former “Ghost Rider” myself—to watch.
I’m phobic of cotton.
Hey, some people are snakes, some people are spiders.
I’m cotton.
Fuck off.
So one Saturday afternoon, I wake up in dire need of an aspirin. After getting an adult to help me with the cap, I’m mortified to see a massive glob of dry, white horror in between me and my hangover medicine trapped helplessly in the bottom of the bottle.
Now the cotton, all bunched up in the bottle, will not shake out –or release a singe pill—no matter how many hours you spend shaking the bottle upside down or banging it on the table; the cotton just sits there tenaciously, hoarding all my tiny little liberators, daring me to do the unthinkable: to stick my finger in there and actually touch it --an act I know will cause certain and instantaneous death.
So, armed with my fantastic braniosity, I devised a plan.
I would use tweezers.
Now, this is obviously not the most sanitary of solutions. Immediately, I jump online and google ”sterilizing”.
Way, way down, under the Rosie O’Donnell links, there’s a medical page that says that the two best ways to rid your utensils of unwanted bacteria is to either:
1) Rub the utensil down with isopropyl alcohol, or
b) boil the utensil in water.
—So I figure “Hey, if I boil the utensil in isopropyl alcohol, it’ll be really sterile," right?
Well, it turns out that isopropyl alcohol is slightly flammable, and five seconds later, I was trying to get in the Chick Magnet, screaming.In the dead of winter, starting a 1990 Plymouth Horizon can be rather sketchy. But after fifteen minutes or so, I was well on my way to the hospital. “Hey buddy,” teased some kids passing me on scooters. “What happened to your eyebrows?” By now, the roof liner and much of the interior had caught fire as well. I shook my fist at them, “Just wait until I get into fifth gear you little bastards!”
But atlas, even in fifth gear I could not catch them, because I had forgotten to turn off the AM radio when I turned on the headlights; the Chick Magnet sputtered and stalled. And those little bastards came back and pushed me off the road and into a snow bank!
Engulfed in flames and badly in need of a “jump”, I got out of the car swinging jumper cables over my head in effort to flag down another motorist …
Malaise
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Look,” says RDO. “If you wanted to be an astronaut so bad, why did you give NASA this obviously phony letter of recommendation from Stephen Hawking?”
“Stephen Hawking and I grew up together,” says me. “We met in 4-H. It was good times. We used to road-load on the tractor and throw empty Boonesfarm bottles at the Chess Club while they were playing Dungeons and Dragons.”
“This letter is handwritten. In crayon.”
“That whole wheelchair thing is an act. It’s like his gimmick. In reality, we play racquetball every Tuesday and Thursday. And you should see the tail that guy pulls down … it’s fucking amazing. Whenever the guy mentions the ‘Planck’s Law’ or ‘quantum flux’, you can almost hear soggy panties hit the floor.”
[LOBO]
“Look,” says RDO. “If you wanted to be an astronaut so bad, why did you give NASA this obviously phony letter of recommendation from Stephen Hawking?”
“Stephen Hawking and I grew up together,” says me. “We met in 4-H. It was good times. We used to road-load on the tractor and throw empty Boonesfarm bottles at the Chess Club while they were playing Dungeons and Dragons.”
“This letter is handwritten. In crayon.”
“That whole wheelchair thing is an act. It’s like his gimmick. In reality, we play racquetball every Tuesday and Thursday. And you should see the tail that guy pulls down … it’s fucking amazing. Whenever the guy mentions the ‘Planck’s Law’ or ‘quantum flux’, you can almost hear soggy panties hit the floor.”
Friday
The Final Frontier
Predator Press
[LOBO]
”I just don’t believe practice makes perfect. I think practice makes you just like everyone else. And that’s why I’m underlining this as one of my unique qualifications for the job.”
--Something in that sentence costed me my astranot gig with NASA.
[LOBO]
”I just don’t believe practice makes perfect. I think practice makes you just like everyone else. And that’s why I’m underlining this as one of my unique qualifications for the job.”
--Something in that sentence costed me my astranot gig with NASA.
Thursday
Tinker
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Admittedly, I’ve been “cheesing out” on the writing lately, and causing somewhat of a dial-up pile-up with all the pictures.
But while millions and millions of Luddite readers merely bitched and moaned, I was spending countless hours trying to build the Predator Press site map.
A “site map”, Lady Pyrate explained to me, is a series of HTML code that makes your site search-friendly to Google and Yahoo robots and spiders.
Now, call me crazy, but robots and spiders will buy less of this crappy Predator Press merchandise than even you ... and my house is already piled to the sky with crates of baseball caps and T-shirts.
It's very simple if you think about it:
a) Robots look lousy in the sweaters, and are not even approved to have Paypal accounts yet, and
2) spiders are just plain icky.
[LOBO]
Admittedly, I’ve been “cheesing out” on the writing lately, and causing somewhat of a dial-up pile-up with all the pictures.
But while millions and millions of Luddite readers merely bitched and moaned, I was spending countless hours trying to build the Predator Press site map.
A “site map”, Lady Pyrate explained to me, is a series of HTML code that makes your site search-friendly to Google and Yahoo robots and spiders.
Now, call me crazy, but robots and spiders will buy less of this crappy Predator Press merchandise than even you ... and my house is already piled to the sky with crates of baseball caps and T-shirts.
It's very simple if you think about it:
a) Robots look lousy in the sweaters, and are not even approved to have Paypal accounts yet, and
2) spiders are just plain icky.
Tuesday
49th Annual Grammy Coverage
Predator Press
If I had this outfit, I would walk around in blizzards just to freak people out.
... I'll bet I could take out major intersections with a single verse of "The Macarena".
Monday
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