Saturday

Predator Press Interviews: Sheriff Lee Baca

Predator Press

LOBO: So you're the heroic cop that vainly tried to free our beloved Princess?

Baca: No, I'm not.

LOBO: You're not Sheriff Lee Baca?

Baca: Uh-uh.

LOBO: Hm. That's weird. You do look familiar though. Hey, aren't you that shaved Wookie that sold me that crappy Timeshare on Kashyyyk?

Baca: Nope. But for your information, throughout history the Timeshare has repeatedly demonstrated startling gains in equity.

LOBO: It was on a volcano.

Baca: I'll bet the view was spectacular.

LOBO: I hadda flush the toilet water every thirty minutes to keep it from boiling.

Baca: Look, I'm a Sheriff in Los Angeles. I can't just drop everything and fly to Kashyyyk every time a tenant has a plumbing issue.

LOBO: I thought you said you weren't Sheriff Lee Baca.

Baca: No I didn't.

LOBO: Ever heard of OxyCaine?

Baca: Nope. And it's absolutely legal to sell it to kids until I do.

LOBO: So what motivated you to free Paris?

Baca: I thought she was hot.

LOBO: So Sheriff, you're admitting on Predator Press that you that tend to pull people over in an effort to get dates?

Baca: Why are you calling me Sheriff?

LOBO: Ah, hm. Well, you got any interests or hobbies?

Baca: Well, I do occasionally umpire for Little League baseball. It's in my contract with Gillette.

Friday

My God

Predator Press

[LOBO]

What are you people, savages?

Just look at this poor woman, America's Princess, weeping and screaming as they illegally haul her to jail once again.

I must say I am shocked and appalled.

After all she's been through, it's right back into 'The Clink'? While scrawling out her own adorable little version of Mein Kampf, she will most certainly waste away like a petite flower denied sunshine and water! When I heard her pleading to her mother 'It's not right!', my heart just broke.

Speaking of Paris' mom, I can only imagine how awful this must be to endure. If it will at all ease her suffering, I'm publicly offering myself up for adoption to her for the duration. Nothing weird -I'm not wearing Paris' clothes or anything-but if Paris' mom needs the companionship provided by your offspring laying siege upon your refrigerator and always trying to borrow money, it seems the least I can do for a couple of weeks.

And think about it for a second: Paris will come out with an older brother to look up to!

We're with you, Paris' mom!

OxyCaine

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

"For the last time," says Ethan. "Were not moving the entire operation to Los Angeles. Have you any idea how expensive this would all be in California?"

"You are suffering from hopelessly antiquated thinking in this regard," says LOBO.

"Excuse me? Just yesterday, you were calling for open revolt!"

"I've changed my mind. If being too pretty, too famous, too rich, or too whiney counts as a legal defense, I'm all for it. Hell, I've got a whine that'll rip through your cerebral cortex like a pickaxe. Want to hear it?"

"Not particularly."

"Ethan, just think of all the money we would save in lawyer fees when we load up our cars with drugs and crash them repeatedly under the influence and without a license. That's the kind of selective enforcement that we need."

"But none of us do drugs!"

"Maybe that's a problem too," LOBO retorts. "Everyone who's anyone is doing drugs now. America has embraced it. It's very 'Chique'. We need to 'get with the times' so to speak."

"So you think we'll all be better off if we start doing cocaine."

"Cocaine," guffaws LOBO. "Cocaine is so passé only criminals use it anymore. I'm talking OxyContin, Ritalin, and Viagra."

"I can't believe you're s-"

"Wait!" LOBO interrupts. "What if we create 'Oxy-Caine'? Now that's a party."

"Lobo," says Ethan. "You've sunken to an all-new low. Get the hell out of my office."

"I'm just saying-"

"Out!"

LOBO, rolling his eyes, closed the office door quietly behind him as he left.

"Idiot," breathed Ethan aloud into his empty office. Then he pressed the button on his intercom.

"Phoebe?"

"Yes, Ethan," she replied.

"Is lobo gone?"

"Yes Ethan."

"Get me someone from Phizer Research and Development on the phone."

Thursday

No, You WON'T "Be Back"

Predator Press



Before ousting every last member of autocrat
swill from the empire we built, blow 'em a kiss:



Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger

State Capitol Building
Sacramento, CA 95814
Phone: 916-445-2841
Fax: 916-445-4633

To send an Email please visit:

http://www.govmail.ca.gov


ALSO


Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department Contact List

Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department
"Compliments, Complaints": (323) 526-5541



Gloves Off: It's ON

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So Paris is finally home after paying her debt to society with a lengthy stay in prison.

50 hours. Less than 5% of her original sentence.

People get stabbed in jail and have to stay. People get terminal cancer in jail and have to stay. Paris gets traumatized by, what, seeing a scary person in the window and is sent home? Is that how jail works? You raise your hand and say 'I don't like this' while crying? If so, get ready for a shitload of appeals!

That tears it. I'm tired of fat, bloated government pigs sending our kids -not theirs- to be murdered and maimed overseas. I'm tired of building their fortunes with my labor. And now that I can plainly see the provided hypocritical, inept and corrupt sack-of-shit Monarchist crap that passes for a 'Legal System' for what it is, I want to burn the whole fucking thing to the ground and start all over.

Minus the "Aristocracy".

Vive L'Anarchie.

Wednesday

Americana

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Living in America, a funny blog just kinda writes itself.

This is the only country in the world that would send troops to die in a field for your Freedom of Speech, and fine you were anyone to see a woman's breast in the process.

We buy great big fantastic off-road post-apocalyptic vehicles during a gas crisis, just wide enough to stop all the lanes of traffic while creeping over a tiny pothole.

And shamefully guilty of having brutally dragged people over here to do all the work hundreds of years ago, we simultaneously draw up legislation to stop millions of other people stubbornly trying to bust in and 'take away our jobs' --all the while 'outsourcing' work to other countries.

All I need now are a bunch of people in Alabama tellin' Arabs and Jews what Christ was like, and I'm all set.

But that could never happen.

Tuesday

Killing Time

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

Lindsay Lohan opened the plain unmarked envelope, and procured a piece of paper.

She unfolded it to find only two words, made up of glued magazine letters:


C oP P e R hEA d

fl O T il La


This was code for some very bad news.

Immediately, she dialed a memorized phone number she hoped she never would have to.

"This is Number Four," answered a digitally disguised voice.

"Where is Number Two?" asked Lindsay.

There's a brief pause. Then the sound of a phone in motion.

Like it's being hung up.

Lindsay smacked her forehead softly; she had forgotten to identify herself.

"There are raccoons in the barn," she added quickly.

"Hm," says the voice. "Are you on a secure line Number One?"

"Yes of course," replied Lindsay. "Now where is Number Two?"

"Number Two was slain a few hours ago."

Shit

"What happened?" asked Lindsay coolly.

"We're not sure yet ma'am."

"Not sure yet?" demanded Lindsay. "Have you any conception how much you time-traveling bodyguard ninjas are costing me?"

"Yes ma'am," replied the voice with detectable nervousness. "Number Two was on assignment to assassinate LOBO as planned. LOBO and an unknown subject were coming out of a restaurant, and Number Two reported he was about to move on the target. That's the last we heard from him."

"How do you know he's not in deep cover still following the target?" asked Lindsay.

"We found his body ma'am. He had a large Dennys serving tray imbedded in his skull. Judging by the angle and velocity, we calculate that the killshot was hurled from the window of a vehicle, most likely a 2007 Cadillac of some sort."

"This is very unfortunate Number Four," says Lindsay. "Unfortunate and very, very sloppy."

"Yes ma'am-"

Lindsay hung up, and sat on the corner of the bed.

Well well, LOBO, she thought. By killing Number Two, you were obviously a much more formidable enemy than I might have suspected.

Opening her closet, she peered at the series of pictures.

Gerald R. Ford, Chuck Yeager, and Charles Nelson Reilly already had large black 'Xs' drawn over them.

This left only LOBO and David Hyde Pierce.

"We will meet again, LOBO," she promised the photo softly. Crumpling the cryptic envelope and note, she threw them in a metal waste paper basket.

And watching the small fire, she repeated, "Indeed LOBO. We shall meet again."

Monday

American Monarchy X

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“When Paris Hilton was handed a jail sentence,” I says, “my first impulse was pity. And really not for any other reason than I wouldn't want to go to jail, and I'm probably ten times as equipped to survive a jail sentence than she.” I flick my cigarette out of the Cadillac. “Pull over here,” I says.

“Really?” says Gilmore.

“Yeah.”

Gilmore’s eyebrows furrow. “That isn’t even a parking place.”

“There’s plenty of room for the car. That's a parking place if I ever saw one.”

Gilmore stopped the car in a rude diagonal, right in front of the Dennys entrance.

“For me," I says removing my seat belt, "the pity eroded quickly as I listened to her various and vapid post-trial defenses. ‘But I told the truth’ was the really odd one: there was no acknowledgment of personal responsibility anywhere at all; the fact that she was caught red-handed and decided to cooperate should've made everything fine.”

We simultaneously exit the car and walk in.

“Ten bucks,” I challenge behind the crowded Please Wait To Be Seated sign. “Ten bucks says I can get food before Paris Converts to Islam.”

“This isn't really about Paris,” argues Gilmore. “Trust me, ‘Paris Hilton’ is the last thing to worry about. In fact, she's inconsequential to the real issues here. As I've pointed out with Mike Tyson, blaming Paris Hilton is like blaming The Monster instead of Doctor Frankenstein. Paris, with few discernable talents, commands $250,000 for an appearance. Who writes those checks? We do. We made these people. We love them with our wallets and our cameras. We feed and house them.”

Watching a waitress come out of the kitchen balancing a large serving tray of food, I nudge him.

“That one?” I says.

“Nah,” replies Gilmore. “It’s all rabbit food.”

“As a repeat offender,” I offer, “she got a shorter sentence than I would have. And her parents mocked the judge, something that would have not only increased my sentence, but would have got my parents locked up too.”

One of the many families of four in front of us get a table, and we advance a little.

“Look,” says Gilmore. “We encourage this. Because at some innate level they are fun to watch. The brief spectacle of one ‘self destructing’ in an environment we provided them is just fantastic television. Fuck Paris. She doesn't deserve anymore credit than a pet goldfish; she’s merely a symptom of sadistic masses as a whole."

"See, why go and down goldfish?" I says.

"LOBO," Gilmore says emphatically. "We were watching Paris and just salivating for something like this to happen. That's a pretty barbaric form of entertainment."

Another waitress comes out of the kitchen.

“How ‘bout that?” I ask.

“Not bad,” says Gilmore.

We step out of line and into the restaurant, intercepting the waitress with the large tray of food. Gilmore slips her a $100 bill as I grab the entire tray, and we walk by the crowd still 'waiting to be seated' nodding politely, and climb into the car.

Excruciatingly, Gilmore continues as we fasten our seat belts. “I can't believe after all that, her sentence gets reduced."

"Heck, they gave her a private suite." I reply. "And she complained about that. It was making the time go slower 'cuz she was bored."

"Yeah. Can you imagine explaining to a Parole Board that you deserve to get out based on the simple virtue that incarceration isn't amusing enough? Or that 'the cells are filthy'? I would have slapped a few months on just for that! Why should we respect ‘The Law’," he drones, "when it doesn't even try for an appearance of integrity? It's bad enough that hard-working decent people have to work under the oppressive nature of a 'Free Nation' that employs a different set of laws upon the rich and the poor. But must their noses be shoved in it too? Paris complained that the cop initially pulled her over to hit on her. You know, that might even be true and I don't care. Celebrity, fame, popularity ... oh it's such a drag. This carefully and cultivated image was planned and thrust upon poor Paris, wasn't it?"

“Gilmore, I don’t think you understand,” I says, winging the empty serving tray out the window of the car like a discus before putting on my seat belt. “Paris Hilton is exactly that. She's America's own manifestation of Princess Di. She was born into this. Do you want to see our Princess sticking a shiv in some crazy tattooed naked chick’s kidney while showering? My god man, her own parents would probably kill you for that.”

“I understand that rich people have problems too," he rudely continues. "But it's really not the same is it? There's a huge leap between worrying about your family's mere survival and well-being, and worrying about ... well, whatever it is the rich are worrying about. I'm sure it's not easy. I imagine that had Paris injured or killed someone, her grief would have been completely insufferable; it would have tarnished her public 'socialite' image, and probably caused the cancellation of various endorsements. She probably would have had to cough up a few million to the family before she could bear to face her next latte.”

“Dude,” I says. “These potato skins are awesome.”

“Dibs on the mozzarella sticks.” replies Gilmore, peeling out.

"And you owe me 10 bucks," I remind.

Saturday

It's Either This, Or I'll Burn Your Damn French Fries

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My mom once took about 300 pages of printed Predator Press posts to an agent.

Swear to God, true story.

The agent told her that I would have to pay a $300 consultation fee, and that there was no guarantee that they would even “pick me up”.

So it could be $300 for “pointers” from some guy who maybe never even reads the thing.

That story is funny on a lot of levels. The fact that my mother was hawking my stuff was very sweet and flattering. But it was also clear evidence that she –a strict Conservative Catholic-- had never read a single page.


***


Since roughly February, I've been trying to produce something every day ... like simulating I have a job doing it. Make it a discipline if you will. I think initially I was toying with maybe writing for sit-coms or something, and wanted to challenge myself to 'create' more frequently. This often required posting under 'less-than-desirable' circumstances (like days when I didn’t feel like it).

And I've gotta tell you once I abandoned even the slightest hint of quality, it was all smooth sailing. Perfect for television. Further, I’m proud to officially report to you ‘o Loyal Reader, that my rapid-fire posting over the last few months produced the same, exact, equally-bad writing. And a lot more of it!

Let’s face it. There are like 900 bazzillion talented blogs out there competing for attention, and I’m far too lazy for all that. Plus, I’m a hack: guys like Lord Likely will get the book deals; they’re the “Genuine Article”.

And sure I would love to see a paperback compilation of my stuff. But who would buy it when you can get it here free? And write for a magazine? What magazine would publish this crap? Hell, does National Lampoon even exist anymore? Or Mad Magazine?

Yeah, I’m pretty screwed. So when this “agent” specter got raised again, this time I’m taking a closer look. I mean it can’t hurt, right?”


***


So here’s the deal.

I can't do this on talent alone. So I gotta cheat, right? 'Agents', it turns out, are good for that. But rather than flopping down 550 pages, I’m essentially going to ask you to do all the work and decide on the 5 or 6 stories I present. Did anything on this site “grab” you?”

For this rather “objective and informal consultation”, I was thinking about devising a contest of some sort. And the Grand Prize would be The Most Valuable Unframed Object In World History On Earth That’s Not On Ebay:





Hm? Hm?

Thursday

Intensive Carelessness

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Let me get this straight,” says Nurse Garrison, looking out at me over her glasses. “You narrowly escaped being assassinated by the United States Government disguising yourself as a flesh-eating cicada … like the ones that wiped out your entire town?”

“Check,” I says.

“Then,” she says while flipping through pages on her clipboard, “Lindsay Lohan kicked your ass.”

“Lindsay Lohan and four bodyguards kicked my ass,” I corrected.

“That’s funny,” says the nurse. “Because there’s no mention of any bodyguards in the Police Report.”

“Well they were there,” I insist. “They must’ve snuck off. Like ninjas. In fact, yes. Now that I’ve thought about it, all six of those bodyguards were wearing black pajamas.”

“But Lindsay Lohan has issued sworn testimony that she doesn’t employ any bodyguards.”

“Currently.”

“Currently?”

“They could’ve been ninjas from the future. What if Lindsay Lohan, like, meets this creepy weirdo one day? Then she gets the bodyguards.”

“Ninja bodyguards … that can time travel.”

“You know for somebody that took the Hypocritical Oath to ‘Serve and Protect’, I’m starting to think you’re not taking me seriously.”

“Well, I am a little puzzled by some things.”

“Like what?”

“Like, if you escaped millions of carnivorous cicadas by dressing as one, why didn’t you just dress as Lindsay Lohan?”

“Look, just kiss my ass. Okay?”

“Not with that stiletto heel in there. Someone could poke their eye out.”

Internet Swag

Predator Press