Amy Polumbo Out, New Jersey Runner-Up Crowned

Predator Press

Shocked at Amy Polumbo's scandalous admission that she is 'not a robot', the committee in charge of New Jersey's beauty pageant reacted with her swift and immediate disqualification.

"Look," points out a judge. "Everyone knows the first sign that someone is indeed a robot is when they deny being a robot."

"That techno-floozy has a proven history of circulating her tawdry schematics," cites another official. "We have numerous photos of her publicly rubbing hydraulic fluid into her chassis, and completely removing her service panels at large drunken MIT frat parties."

"It really came down to her behavior," he explains. "When you think of New Jersey, we want you to think 'Garden State', not 'common filthy Popular Mechanics whore'."

The new Miss New Jersey, Rosie Reuboux, was unavailable for comment.

Boeing: Dreamliner Technology 'Crash-Resistant'

Predator Press

Press Release: I Am Definitely NOT 'The Emperor'

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As an official diplomat of the vast country of LOBOnia, I would quickly like to point out that I have never uttered the words, "I am The Emperor and I'm here to take over state government".

Just to be clear, that would have been crazy.

LOBOnia is a peace-loving nation of people that often go to great efforts in pursuit of not getting beaten up or shot; "Chancellor" is maybe more along the lines of what we were getting at.

You know, something fun.

Al Gore Jogging Route Mysteriously Destroyed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"I'm baffled," says Chief Civil Engineer Frank Stewart as he puts stickpins in his map. "Never seen anything like it. The path of destruction starts at a Krispy Kreme, wipes out nine Starbucks, and ends curiously one half mile away at a Dairy Queen."

Nobody Likes Me In Here

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having figured out how to post with the simple use of a dead rat, I would have been fine finishing my entire sentence right there in my cell. But my other new hobby -counting my time served by drawing hash marks on the wall-was already getting me into trouble.

"Jeez," says the guard. "How many of them hash marks are there?"

"40,045," I reply.

"But you've only been here two hours."

"Time can be very subjective," I offer.

"Listen," says the guard. "Your best bet of getting out of here isn't feeding this psycho image. Prison is about rehabilitation. You should take a class or something, and develop a skill that you can use on the outside. It would also demonstrate a social capacity for getting along with others."

"What kind of classes do you offer?"

"What don't we have?" says the guard, eying his clipboard. "At two o'clock, we've got 'Doing Drugs Out of a Light Bulb'."

"Nah," I says.

"How about 'Toilet Micro Breweries'?"

"No."

He flips a page. "Crochet?"

"No," I sigh.

"Painting."

"Uh-uh."

"How to Balance Your Wall Street Portfolio?"

"Oh God no. What was that last one?"

"Painting," he repeats.

"Yeah, okay."


***

"Painting," says the teacher, "has proven itself to be very healthy and therapeutic for men in captivity for centuries."

"Eneries?" I ask.

"LOBO please don't talk with your mouth full," says the teacher.

I spit my paintbrush out over my muzzle. "Centuries?" I repeat. "What the hell did those guys do?"

"It's a figure of speech," says the teacher. Still, the imagination can be a vastly powerful thing. That's why I had you paint 'Something That Made You Happy on the Outside.' Now who wants to be the first to bring theirs to the front of the class for discussion?"

Uh-oh

"How about you Posey?" asked the teacher, keeping thing moving.

Whew, I thought. How hard can it be to follow up after a guy named Posey?

An angry-looking, well-muscled man dragged his canvas to the front. "This picture," he says, setting it on the easel, "represents me stabbin the key trial witness in the eye with a parking meter."

The room was alight with excited murmurs.

"Very well done Posey!" says the teacher. "And I take it that's the Judge hanging from the chandelier, spilling his entrails? Nice attention to detail."

Blushing, Posey grabbed his painting and took his seat as the room politely applauded.

"How about you LOBO? What did you paint?"

"Eh, nothing," I says.

"Nonsense. I've watched you working on that for hours. Let's see it."

Dolefully, I am wheeled to the front of the class, and a guard sets my painting roughly on the easel.

"There," I try to shrug. "Happy?"

Judging from the gasps, it was as if all the oxygen had been removed from the room.

"What the hell is that?" asks Razor Face.

"It's a basket of puppies," I says.

Posey vomited into the isle.

"You sick bastard!" screams the teacher. "Get out of my class!"

... Nobody likes me in here.

No One Likes Me In Here

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having figured out how to post with the simple use of a dead rat, I would have been fine finishing my entire sentence right there in my cell. But my other new hobby -counting my time served by drawing hash marks on the wall-was already getting me into trouble.

"Jeez," says the guard. "How many of them hash marks are there?"

"40,045," I reply.

"But you've only been here two hours."

"Time can be very subjective," I reply.

"Listen," says the guard. "Your best bet of getting out of here isn't feeding this psycho image. Prison is about rehabilitation. You should take a class or something that you can use on the outside. It would also help as you would have demonstrate a social capacity for getting along with others."

"What kind of classes do you offer?"

"What don't we have?" says the guard, eying his clipboard. "At two o'clock, we've got 'Doing Drugs Out of a Light Bulb'."

"Nah," I says.

"How about 'Toilet Micro Breweries'?"

"No."

He flips a page. "Crochet?"

"No," I sigh.

"Painting."

"Uh uh."

"How to Balance Your Wall Street Portfolio?"

"Oh God no. Wait. What was that last one?"

"Painting," he repeats.

"Yeah, okay."


***

"Painting," says the teacher, "has proven itself to be very healthy and therapeutic for men in captivity for centuries."

"Eneries?" I ask.

"LOBO please don't talk with your mouth full," says the teacher.

I spit my paintbrush out over my muzzle. "Centuries?" I repeat. "What the hell did those guys do?"

"It a figure of speech," says the teacher. Still, the imagination can be a vastly powerful thing. That's why I had you paint 'Something That Made You Happy on the Outside'. Now who wants to be the first to bring theirs to the front of the class for discussion?"

uh-oh

"How about you Posey?" asked the teacher, keeping thing moving.

Whew, I thought. How hard can it be to follow up after a guy named Posey?

An angry-looking, well-muscled man dragged his canvas to the front. "This picture," he says, setting it on the else. "Represents me stabbin the key trial witness in the eye with a parking meter."

The room was alight with excited murmurs.

"Very well done Posey!" says the teacher. "And I take it that is the Judge hanging from the chandelier, spilling his entrails? Nice attention to detail."

Blushing, Posey grabbed his painting and took his seat.

"How about you LOBO? What did you paint?"

"Eh, nothing," I says.

"Nonsense. I've watched you working on that for hours. Let's see it."

Dolefully, I shuffle to the front and set my painting roughly on the easel. "There," I says. "Happy?"

Judging from the gasps, it was as if all the oxygen had been removed from the room.

"What the hell is that?" asks Razor Face.

"It's a basket of puppies," I says.

Posey vomited into the isle.

"You sick bastard!" screams the teacher. "Get out of my class!"

Nobody likes me in here.

Thirty Minutes in 'The Hole'

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

So once again I find myself staring at LOBO through one-way glass. But this time it's in a state penitentiary.

"Wow," I says. "I rather like the muzzle and restraints. Did he try to hurt someone?"

"No," says the Warden. "He just kept complaining it was cold in there."

Two somewhat bookish, attractive women enter the room.

"Why are they here?" I ask.

"That's his psychiatrist and his lawyer. They're the only way we could get him to bathe."

"What?" I says. "How else will he get beaten and raped by the other prisoners?"

"Release him into the general population? No, no, no," says the Warden. "A diabolical genius like LOBO can't be allowed to interact with the other prisoners. He's far too dangerous. There would be pandemonium."

"Diabolical genius?!" I repeat, completely floored. "LOBO?"

"I'll sure sleep a lot better when he's released," says the Warden. "Then the prison will be safe again."

"This guy calls me to his house when he sees a spider in the bathtub. Have you even talked to him?"

"Oh my no. Nobody is allowed to talk to him except his psychiatrist and his therapist. Strictly off-limits. It's the 'diabolical genius' thing."

I watch as the blonde prepares a bucket of soapy water and a sponge while the brunette straddles him to unlock the steel hooks on the mask.

"Look," I says. "At least listen in. Can we do that?"

"Listen in?" says the Warden. "Why would we want to do that? Just the very idea just gives me goose pimples."

Looking under the window, I see an audio speaker. The Warden stares frozen in mute horror as I flip the switch to the 'on' position, just as the blonde is removing LOBO's muzzle.

"Hello Clarice," says LOBO.

The Warden has stopped breathing entirely.

"Relax," I whisper. "That's Doctor Clarice DePalma. Psychiatrist."

"Hello LOBO," says Doctor DePalma.

"Hello Sydney," says LOBO.

I hear a tight whimper from the Warden.

"That's Sydney Warwick et al, from Daly, Warwick, and Chun," I explain in a frustrated, hushed tones. "She got off all twelve jurors off in the O.J. trial. Now stop watching so many fucking movies."

"Hello LOBO," says Sydney.

"Have you checked the children?" LOBO asks.

The Warden fainted.

"Yes, sweetie," replies Clarice. "That case of headlice didn't come from anyone at her school. We were all relieved."

"LOBO," says Sydney. "Have you been being good and telling everyone what I told you to tell them?"

"Yes, Sydney," says LOBO glumly. "But I gotta tell you. I'm not particularly fond of fava beans or chianti."

LOBO Goes to Jail

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"And that's what happened," I says. "I don't really understand what the big deal is."

The old man just stared at me.

I was feeling chatty. "Then, check this out. I figured if I was going to go through with the whole 'telling the cop to go fuck himself' thing, I was basically clearing my schedule for the afternoon. So I speed-dial Phil's vet to cancel his appointment, right? The chick on the phone is concerned that Phil will be left in the car when it gets towed. She says 'Sir, please make sure you call someone to come get your dog'."

The creepy guy just kept staring.

"My dog?" I says. "I mean my vet thinks Phil is a dog. What a dumbass. No wonder they think he's a girl!"

"Sir," asks the Judge. "Will you please sit so we can begin the proceedings?"

"We haven't started?"


***

"And that's what happened," I says. "I don't really understand what the big deal is."

"LOBO," says Babs over the phone. "Please don't tell me you used your one phone call to call me."

"Actually, I used that to order a pizza. I'm fucking starved."

"What do you want?" she twists the Rec Room payphone wire into a loop roughly the size of my neck.

"I want to break us out," I says.

"But we're in different prisons," she says.

"Doesn't matter. What we need is some way to make a bomb. I learned how to do it from watching an episode of MacGyver ."

"I'm listening."

"All I need is a paper clip and a tampon."

"How are you going to get a tampon in prison?"

"Well, that's where you come in," I says. "But first, can you spare one?"

"Let me get this straight," she says. "You need me to break out of my prison, and break into yours to bring you a tampon."

"You'll have to be fast," I says. "You'll have to back in your prison by the time it's discovered that I'm missing."

"You do realize that prison officials monitor these phone calls."

"I hope so," I says. "I bet they got paper clips."

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.