Fast Lane

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Son," says the officer. "I've got you clocked at 240 miles per hour in a 35. Would you care to explain to me why you are driving over 200 miles per hour?"

"This is a medical emergency," I says. "And we need a police escort."

"Really?" He glances over to the passenger side and sees Phil's cat cage, chained and padlocked to the passenger seat.

"Yes," I says. "He's due for kidney testing today because he was eating IAMS a few months ago. We either go to the Pianosa Veterinarian Hospital or he dies. The hospital will sue me, I will sue IAMS, IAMS will sue China, and then China will wipe out Tibet. Now sir, are you prepared to have your fine performance record with The Force blemished with an international incident?"

"How about you just explain to me how you were going 240 miles per hour in a 1990 Plymouth Horizon?"

"It's actually a 2008 Porsche Panamera with custom-fitted removable vintage Plymouth Horizon panels."

"No shit?" says the cop.

"These weather-beaten fenders alone cost me $6,400. Those finely crafted dents in the door and on the hood were meticulously hammered in by hard-working industrious Brazilians. The interior is Corinthian leather, and oiled by genuine imported crushed bald eagles. The rusty discoloration is manufactured in Venice for $1,800 --the dust is about $8 an ounce. The left headlight has all the Blaupunkt stereo components, and the left has a death ray that On Star won't activate until I get a credit card."

I lovingly pat the primer hood, and the rearview mirror falls off.

"Breakaway mirrors increase aerodynamic efficiency," I explain.

"Did you know you're dragging your muffler?"

"That's a safety feature."

"Slows the car down?"

"No, the grinding squeal alerts other drivers to my presence, and the sparks increase my visibility."

"This all seems like a long way to go to keep your car from getting stolen."

"Well, I've always preferred to leave it unlocked and with the keys in it and my wallet sitting on the dashboard next to the loaded pistol," I reflect.

"Loaded pistol?"

"Knocking out those red lights in town has increased my fuel efficiency 8%."

"And it's never been stolen?"

"Oh, sure it has. All the time, in fact. But they always come back once they encounter the anti-theft technology: the Corinthian leather is flaked with hi-tech razor-sharp edges, and the battery doesn't last two hours."

"May I see your license and registration please?"

"I'm sorry officer. I would love to comply, but Phil and I are granted diplomatic immunity by the LOBOnian Consulate." I says.

"The what?"

"The LOBOnian Consulate," I elaborate. "An elite group of dignitaries that manage all affairs of the entire vast country of LOBOnia."

"Who are they?" asks the cop.

"Me an Phil."

Kitchen Fire Destroys Predator Press Headquarters

Predator Press

“See Ethan? I told you Pop-Tarts would pop
if you cooked them in a microwave.”

Papal Decree: "My God Can Kick Your God's Ass"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Look," said Pope Benedict XXX during the press conference. "I can't throw a rock without hitting a 'Church of Agnostic Baptist Jesuit Diagonal Orthodoxies' or whatever anymore -you mushheads would worship iced tea and spotted rocks if Tom Cruise told you to."

"Tom Cruise hates tea!" called someone in the background.

"Facts are facts people," Benedict continues, rubbing his temple in exasperation. "The bulk of you are going to burn in the Lake of Fire forever. And with electric eel enemas if I have anything to say about it too ... from here on out, I'm goin' Old Testament on yer asses!"

-The news that God hates and has doomed them all to Hell forever came as quite a shock to theologians across the world.

"I was so wrong all this time," says the dejected Dalai Lama. "Have you any idea how long I've been waiting to get one of them cool hats?"

"Hello Dalai," laughs the Pope, pulling the corners of his eyes into a squinty expression. "-So solly! I wear this hat, and only I wears this hat. This hat is deeply-rooted in the tradition of being a symbol of the One True Faith. But you can buy a nice baseball cap at the Vatican gift shop. I'll even Bless it for you."

Suddenly, Gandhi leaps from the shadows. Grabbing Benedict's hat, he scampers off. "Haha," he chimes, hat teetering dangerously as he dances in gleeful victory.

"Gimmee my hat back, you asceticist hippie freak!" shrieks Benedict. "I'll poke your eye out with this here pointy stick!"

"Alright that's it Gandhi," says Jesus, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm kicking your ass all the way up and down the Eightfold Path."

"You do that, and I'll tell your Dad," says Buddha.

"Oh really Buddha?" says Jesus holding up both fists. "As far as Gods go, you're pretty lame. I mean you can't even grow hair. And how about putting down the cheese sticks and spending a little time on that Nordic Track we got you for Christmas?"

"Wow," says Buddha, eyeing Jesus' circling fists. "I didn't know you were a southpaw."

"I'm not a southpaw," Jesus replies. "What makes you think I'm a southpaw?"

"Your left hand has the bone structure of a southpaw."

"Really?" says Jesus, inspecting it closely. "I've never noticed a-"

Just then Buddha smacked His elbow, driving Jesus' Holy fist into His own Holy nose.

"Buddha, stop messing with Jesus," says Mohamed, storming into the room. Sizing up Buddha's girth, he whistles. "Dude, we all pitched in on that Nordic Track. Did you even open the box?"

"Hey hey hey," demands Benedict. "Shut the door behind you or you will let out the air conditioning!"

"Yeah Mohamed," says Gandhi. "Were you born in a barn?"

"Oh, very funny," says Jesus. "My Dad can kick the crap out of all you guys."

"Yeah?" says Buddha. "Where exactly did you read that?"

"It's in the Bible."

"I thought God wrote the Bible," says Ganesha.

"He did," says Jesus.

"Okay," says Shiva. "Lessee here. If my Dad wrote a book about kicking other Gods' butts, I wonder how it would turn out ... "

"Excuse me," I says, clearing my throat.

"What the hell is that?" asked Buddha.

"That is one of My Father's creations," says Jesus. "His name is LOBO."

"Ewe," says Pelé. "I'm going to have to rinse my eyes in lava to burn this image out."

"How revolting," says Buddha. "Just look at his skin. Blech. He must play a lot of Final Fantasy XII. Jesus, your Dad is taking credit for that?"

"Maybe," says Jesus reflectively. "I think maybe I better check my facts here."

"Well, look into it," says Pelé. "I'll bet if you ever had to get an eyewash from a volcano, you would be a lot more careful."

"You could 'poki' you eye out," says Benedict. "Eh? Eh?"

[Nobody got it]

"He isn't even wearing any fish skeletons!" remarks Poseidon.

"Be serious P," says Tupoc. "This punk-ass loser ain't got no bling."

"Am I late for the party?" asks Zeus. "I brought everybody gold!"

"You better keep that 'Shower of Gold' in your pants Mister," says Hera, "or Perseus is going to public school!"

[All laugh]

"It's all good baby," says Zeus. "It's all good."

"Okay," says Benedict. "Nobody got my 'poki' joke, but Hera is all the rage by joking lamely about her husband's infidelities?"

"Dude," whispers Shiva. "Don't go there. Zeus gets pissed. Turns you into crap."

"Well Hera is an enabler," Benedict reasons.

"Uh, yeah, okay," guffaws Shiva, rolling her eyes. "If 'enabler' is a euphemism for slut."

"Excuse me," I repeat, clearing my throat.

"Jesus," breathes Ghandi. "Are they just letting anyone in here now?"

"It appears so," says Jesus.

"What is it repulsive little mortal man?" demands Pelé.

"Hey sister," says the Dalai Lama. "I wouldn't talk so tough. You eat poi. Blech. Eating poi is like eating a big bowl of acne."

"This dialogue is getting a little complex," I interrupt. "I'm only a blogger. But since you're here together, can't you just slug it out to the death once and for all? It would be a lot simpler to write about, and I only got about six shots left on my disposable camera anyways. This is the reel from Cancun."

"Fight to the death?" asks Shiva. "Why would we do that? Without many of us to choose between, humans wouldn't have the ability to decide who to worship. And what good is an entire mortal lifetime not squandered over the amusing fear of cryptic laws, weird rituals of worship, moral ambiguity, perpetual doubt, and the ever-present potential consequence of Eternal Damnation?"

"Well that's kinda what I'm getting at," I says. "Can't you all just duke it out right now and settle this big mystery? A single God would really take the pressure off, and that's what we're looking for really: a dynamic God with a refreshing 'can-do' attitude. That way we can just stop with all these headaches and just build Him or Her pyramids or whatever under a crushing, repressive theocratic reign for the rest of Eternity in happiness."

"I can see his point," says Gandhi. "One God and one simple set of rules would really help humankind through a lot of this confusion. Besides, I always wanted a pyramid."

"No, no, no," the Dalai Lama scowls incredulously. "If we lose, we'll prob'ly hafta eat poi!"

"How would we settle this?" asks Hera.

"Well," I says. "I got two-to-one that says Vishnu will clean house if it's boxing."

"Look, we're not boxing over the fate of the Universe," says Apollo. "I say we go 'Rock, Paper, Scissors'."

"Then it's three-to-one on Vishnu."

"Oh sure," says the Dalai Lama. "We'll play 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' with the fastest entity in the universe. Why don't we just save a lot of time and energy and give it to the guy wearing the gayest boots?"

"Kiss my ass," says Apollo.

"I'll bet it tastes like poi," warns the Dalai Lama.

"You know maybe Humankind is ready," says Zeus, stroking his beard. "Perhaps we should finally reveal to them that the True way to Heaven and Eternal Happiness is ... "

"Look, all this endless jibber-jabber is getting us nowhere," I sigh. "I think I speak for all Humankind when I say that we humans don't give a crap about all that blissed-out hippie Eternal Salvation or whatever, and sitting around and debating this crap is how we got into this problem in the first place. I'm sticking to my guns with the boxing thing. Elimination matches, one survivor, winner-take-all. Aren't you curious yourselves who the first punk would be to get whacked?"

"Not particularly," says L. Ron Hubbard.

Final Fantasy XII has Ruined My Life

Predator Press

[LOBO]

At the paltry price of a few days of my life, I have achieved an average level of 67 before leaving the city of Archades. Zodiac Spear in hand, I defeated the Hell Worm before even possessing the 'Arise' spell in a pitched, white knuckle 5-hour battle.

But I summon the mighty wrath of Gods upon my deserved enemies at a great price: the defense against the inevitable encroach of the lawn outside. I can almost feel the throb of continuously renewed, teeming life through the hot walls. Though it sickens me, I must endure.

I rationalize it.

My yard has become a real-life Salikawood tribute.

Even my woeful neighbors have stopped complaining as the City Zoning Commission has long since forgotten my dwelling even exists; only the pizza guy knows for sure, and he is well-paid for his tight-lipped secrecy.

Elaborate algebraic flow charts litter the floor in a visual effort to discern what effects Ether will have when under a "Reverse" spell while wearing the treasured and hard-won Pheasant Netsuke.

I think I need an 'Intervention' spell ... or rehab or something. I'm like that monkey from those cocaine commercials back in the 1980s. Remember? "He gave up food, sex, et cetera?" 'Cept rather than giving up the food, I've developed a rather kickass ensemble of sweatpants. And is it really fair to say that I "gave up sex" when my complexion has gone a pasty translucent hue from a lack of exposure to natural light? On the bright side, never again shall I require an X-Ray; if I drink cherry Kool-Aid, I can readily see any organ I choose under the mere flickering of the pale blue television light. And to ward off bedsores, I have an alarm clock that goes off every six hours signaling the time to switch sides on the couch.

Oh curse ye, Square Enix; thy hooks are deep.

THE LIST

Predator Press

[LOBO]

1) Former Hawaiian Govenor Ben Cayetano for lies, lies, lies.

2) UHPA (The University of Hawaii Professional Assembly) for endorsing the mammoth tuition hike in 1997 -thusly sentencing entire generations of poor and middle class academic hopefuls trapped on a tiny, overpriced island to bussing tables for rich tourists-in hopes of leveraging an inconsequential raise from the then current Governor Ben Cayetano (See Above).

In their defense, that "Aloha Spirit" ain't cheap, and they've made the transition from an economy based on tourism directly to one based on harvesting souls very smooth.

It's easier when you control the information, after all.

3) Telemarketers Lightly salted, jagged and rusty catheters. 'Nuff said.

4) Books Banned by Churches that are are Actually Pretty Lame Overall "Catcher in the Rye" was such a pile of horsecrap, I started this blog.

5) Caffeine-Free Diet Whatever Yes. I want all the chemicals and side effects, just none of the flavor.

6) Movies With an Unwarranted Adult Rating Or worse, movies that have Adult Ratings with naked dudes and/or gay cowboys. If I wanted to see gay cowboys, I would just go ahead and hammer a railroad spike through my penis on an anvil.

--Please don't make me pay $10 on top of all that.

7) Cold Fries I always enter that first set of double doors at Burger King, and wait until I hear the skull-piercing beeping. Then I run in yelling "Fries Are Done!" in an electrified manner.

--It helps if you are wearing The Crown.

8) Movies With Roman Numerals in Them Didn't the Romans get their asses kicked in, like, the early 1900s? Why does anybody care about a demographic that got their ass kicked in the 1900s? I'm walkin' around watchin Rocky movies in complete confusion. Fuck Romans!

9) Mission Impossible Movies OMG where is my Motrin?

10) Jerry Agar I can't remember how, but he somehow bumped "airline food" off THE LIST.

--Whatever it was, it must have been serious.

Love Canal

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I just spent about ten minutes on my walkman listening to Jerry Agar pontificating about the woes of Minnesota outlawing the purchase of American flags made in China.

I'm not proud; I was mowing the lawn in 95-degree heat. Dragging around the widescreen television was simply out of the question.

Jerry's entire case was "What right does America have to decide for me whether or not I want an American flag made in China? Or any products made in any other country?"

Normally I would agree with this prick: how, where, and why people want to display the nifty new whatsis they bought really isn't of my interest or concern.

But China --with at least a few Human Rights political allegations unanswered—is responsible for a disproportionate number of dangerous products introduced to the unsuspecting American consumer this year. IAMS pet food killed many of our pets (Phil, as you recall, had resulting kidney issues arrested at no small expense to me) and 'Thomas and Friends' lead-lined toy trains were readily available to decay the minds and futures of our children.

This isn't "any other country" asshole; through sheer greed and negligence, China has waged a more subtle war, targeting things nearest and dearest to our hearts. And why didn't Jerry Agar’s Pro-Capitalistic Laissez-Faire Feng Shui philosophy catch this murder befor it could might have happened?

Because we had no cause to be suspect?

Congratulations, Jerry Agar.

You just made it on a very short list.

If lead poisoning children wasn’t enough for you to get concerned about the source of a product, I’m kinda glad you’re not in fucking charge.

Zen

Predator Press

[LOBO]

AS you millions and millions of fans already know, July is commemorated worldwide as the birthday of Predator Press.

This is because Ethan, I, President Bush, and anyone else important was born in July --although I'm sure there are others upon occasion.

Even as we speak, insurgents from August and June are petitioning access to July birthdays. Come on; those people aren't fooling anybody, and only anger the Gods of July further: they should be stopped by any means at your disposal. (On August 1st we usually throw out all the leftover cake, but lace it with rat poison. This kinda thins out those ranks 'on the cusp'.)


***

Here in America, I was initially shocked to see all the local businesses open and operating, completely contrary to the treasured national holiday of Predator Press Month. But then President Bush told me, "If those people aren't able to shop for cool birthday presents for us today, those people wouldn't be able to buy cool birthday presents for us today. And then we would stop contracting the company that provides the machines that shred all them unopened birthday presents and turns them into fat-free low cholesterol Turbo-Gruel for our 3rd world orphanage in Newark."

This would be a terrible time for the entire world to grind into complete economic standstill on those orphans from Newark. And maybe paying everyone time-and-a-half for working during this most sacred of months is good for the economy too.

I have decided to rejoice the festivities in the time-honored tradition of doing absolutely nothing. Well, nothing unless nothing need be done; then I will spend a little while wondering what equipment I would need to rent to do nothing efficiently. Eventually concluding nothing, I would then congratulate myself for my shrewdness.

Now what were we talking about?

Today’s News In My Briefs

Predator Press

[LOBO]

11 LA cops led on a high speed chase. While apprehended unharmed, the perp was subsequently taken to an LA hospital Emergency Room where she is expected to be dead in about 45 minutes.

The Tour de France opened today. My best guess is that French officials, rattled by Independence Day fireworks, gave a bunch of people distracting bicycles to avoid a miscued surrender.

The White House acknowledged 'Global Warming', as a result of melting ice caps and freon deficit.

Al Gore’s shockingly tubbier offspring sent to rehab. Annoyed Gore Senior --relocated carefully by scientists as not to send Earth into wobbly Vernal orbit-- grounds son 1 week of deserts.

--Wall Street concerned as Krispy Kreme faces Chapter 11.

Dick Cheney's 'Dead Earth' concert proposal met lukewarm support. The ACLU forms committee to investigate "prejudice against non-living", suggests more quail hunting.

After months of bitter court battles regarding an alleged sexual assualt, Kobe Bryant apologizes to Lakers General Manager for some reason.

College student accidentally gets Paris Hilton's old cell phone number: boils self when Hilton's "Fave Five" found to be Motel 6 locations.

President George Bush Junior is grounded from television after not cleaning up 1" = 1" scale model political quagmire toys before going to bed.

Goldman Sachs gets death threats: security guard for investment banking and securities firm woken up and forced to 'patrol menacingly'.

Nicole Richie Got LAID?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Global Scientific Community was rocked today by recent confirmation that Nicole Richie is indeed 'knocked up'.

Doctor Winifred Shaw, Head Researcher for the Darwin Institute, took a moment from looting the laboratory of microscopes and Petri dishes to clarify.

"For a long time now, we have lived in a shadow of doubt regarding Darwin's Theory of Evolution. This, finally, is a clear refutation. And think about it for a second. If Darwin's theory is correct, why are there still ugly people all over the place? What kind of creature looks at a screechy broomstick with a bad attitude and thinks "I simply must thrust my genitalia in that"?

Hurling a fire extinguisher through a rack of cathode tubes, doctor Shaw continues. "Barring the statistically improbable confluence of a blind recent parolee wearing earplugs and consuming heroic amounts of alcohol, we have no explanation for this whatsoever. Now if you will excuse me, I've had my eye on a supercollider on the fourth floor for years."

Clarkson Album Debut Marred by Terror Attacks

Predator Press

LOBO

In an effort to derail sales of American Idol pop star Kelly Clarkson's album "My December", Al Qaeda spent virtually the entire weekend trying to bomb the crap out of anything it could find in the United Kingdom --the birthplace of Simon Cowell.

Al Qaeda spokesman Osama Bin Laden expressed his fury in messages intercepted and decrypted by Predator Press. “I don’t care if that tawdry Jezebel won on Infidel Pig-Dog Idol or whatever. If I had known "Because of You" would be done in redneck, I would’ve bought Green Day’s “Dookie” instead!"

When asked to elaborate, Osama continued. "Well, I feel ripped off, and a Jihad on Simon Cowell is completely warranted; Sanjaya had more talent in is little pinky than this harlot has in her whole entire immodestly clothed curvaceous body! Ah ... oh jeez. Now I gotta blow something up again. That whore!”


*In Other News*
Predator Press would officially
like to thank Ann Coulter
for temporarily letting us move
our offices into her home.

The location, of course,
will be kept a strict secret.

Click here for MapQuest

Smashing Success

Predator Press

[LOBO]

If George can pardon a scooter, I'm issuing a pardon for Stretch Armstrong.

See, George and I have a lot of unanswered, tawdry aggression to get out. The much-sought-after Mortal Kombat "Fatality" and the collective, visceral dream of ripping someone's spleen out and strangling them with it was still years away, and mitigated only by unceremoniously bursting your 50,000th marauding Galaxian; saving six months of paper route money might get us a six-pixel seizure machine to exterminate entire alien species' on an Atari 2600 from the comfort of your own home.

But for the most part, all we had was either scooters, or "Stretch Armstrong".

George has long since exceded the "Spleen Dream" by simple virtue of not issuing Pardons, and many a tearful, guilty Texan jaywalker has ridden the lightning into oblivion over his admirable tenacity; thus, no one was more suprised than I when George finally had a merciful change of heart today.

But while a scooter was only cool if you could find Christian Slater and tell him to 'Gleam this bitch!' while blowing up a bus; Stretch was cool all the way until you let your dates brothers tie him between two car bumpers and peel out in opposite directions. Remember silently feeling a part of your soul cry out and die?

There was, after all, a more "dignified" fate for Stretch: puncturing him with a pen and leaving him to quietly bleed that weird, sticky and toxic blue gel over the rest of your toys until your mom discovered the ruined carpeting and kicked your ass.

But we are not here to judge your mothers' ability to roller-skate and serve people through the window of parked vehicles! It was a simpler time. Adults used to meet in The Diner, and secretly plot whose kids to buy a Stretch Armstrong for Christmas. (A 'Stretch Armstrong for Christmas' --for those of you that didn't know-- was a 6 month plan to make the whole damn family move because of an unidentified mysterious chemical HAZMAT spill in the closet, with tiny melting plastic red briefs stuck in it to explain away.)

Rise Stretch Armstrong! You are no longer the inanimate subject of our insufferable, unmerciful, unholy wrath.

You are forgiven.