Chinese Toy Manufacturer Found Dead

Predator Press

Zhang Shuhong, co-owner and toy magnate of Lee Der Industrial Company, was found dead in a warehouse today.

Shuhong, a pioneer of bargain-basement toy manufacturing, has left an indellible mark on generations of children worldwide with favorites such as Big Birds Flu Clinic, High-Voltage Bath Elmo, and the ever-popular Barbie Ford Pinto.

While the official cause of death is pending the autopsy, Chinese authorities have flatly refuted claims that it had anything to do with the Molotov Pinata, which is scheduled for release this Christmas.

If You Teach a Man to Fish, He'll Want Chicken

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In a world full of diabolical bridges, sinister coal mines, arsonist lesbians, terrorist plots and rabid raccoons, I've decided to stay home today in my footie pajamas and watch way, way, way too much news.

This is how I found this story on the bulletpoof backpack.

Oh come on; today's youth is already so totally spoiled. I mean, what's the point of even going to school anymore?

Think back for a second: I remember only wedgies, stolen lunch money, bitter old totalitarian tyrant regimes, imaginary trains with impossible head-splitting scheduling issues, and, yes, the occasional character-building sucking chest wound. Shit, you needed four landmines and a bazooka just to get into 'Homeroom' --yet another seemingly pointless exercise conducted in an overcrowded lead-painted asbestos cube.

It is exactly these senseless disciplines and routines that are the experiences universal to us all, and essential to the organized sublimation of will, humanity and thought.

But nowadays, kids got cellphones, iPods, seatbelts, body armor, and inoculations. Inoculations, people! I ask you: without a profound fear of being randomly stricken by Polio or Diphtheria, how can you possibly expect to shape and mold the minds of tomorrow's great leaders?

Hm?

Angered Lesbians Burn Down Predator Press HQ

Predator Press

Demonstrators from 'Torch Un-Repentant Tabloids mentioning Lesbian Endeavors' [TURTLE] cheer as the Minneapolis branch of Predator Press burns to rubble.

“I don’t understand,” says a Predator Press Public Relations Specialist and CEO that wishes to remain anonymous named LOBO. “I’m a long-time supporter of lesbians. In fact, I love lesbians. I got stacks and stacks of Penthouse at home ... ”

Becky Chris: We Get It, Chill Out

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Becky Chris,

Many of us are painfully too aware of your lifestyle and thinly-veiled hostility to half of the human race. I strongly suspect this is closely linked to rather abrupt SPAM, outlining unsolicited details about your sexual appetites while oddly complaining about how much SPAM you get.

I'm sure there isn't a male blogger alive that isn't already 100% absolutely convinced that you would delight in freezing us with liquid nitrogen to slowly chip pieces off while dancing to Melissa Etheridge CDs ankle-deep in bloody slush, squishing your toes in the testosterone goo.

We love you too, but we love you less in the "stab-you-in-the-penis" way, and more in the "Just a girl that needs a good eight hours of sleep" way.

Take a deep breath.

... Count to ten ...

A Thigh for an Eye

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Let me get this straight," says Nurse Garrison, looking up from her clipboard. "You opened your eyes in the bathtub?"

"Check," I says.

"Didn't your mother ever warn you about opening your eyes in the bathtub? Now you're permanently blind."

"Don't we still have Mr Insanity's body encased in carbonite?"

Nurse Garrison sighs. "You've already stolen one of his arms. Now you want his eyes?"

"Stolen is such an ugly word," I says. "I prefer 'harvested'."

"That's ghoulish," she says.

"How about if I trade him?" I says.

"But your eyes don't work."

"I know. I'm offering something of infinitely more value."

"Like what?"

"My cellulite. Every last precious drop of it."

"So you want me to transplant his eyes into you, and your body fat into him in exchange."

"Well, that wouldn't really be very fair. Me and this cellulite go way back. I've lived my whole life under a rigid discipline to cultivate and grow this fantastic and impact-resistant body. My fat is a symbol of my success. I'm very attached to it."

"I can see that," says Nurse Garrison.

"How's his liver?"

"He attempted suicide by overdose on Fuzzy Navels last year, remember?"

"He was very lucky we were able to save his life," I reflect.

"Was he?"

Wet Dement

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So I'm taking a bath.

Because I'm a genius.

See, it's 95 degrees here. I know this with abosolute certain precision; I have a device on my wall that tells exactly what the temperature is at any given moment.

I don't know where or how I got it. I don't even think the thing is hooked up to the internet.

It's downright spooky in a Voodoo kinda way.

So my vertical analog suspension temporatometer is telling me 'Hey man, it's fucking 95 degrees!' and I'm like, 'No way. Why is that?' But with only thin red line movin up and down to converse, I get impatient and throw my vertical-analog suspension temporatometer into the bathtub.

My vertical analog suspension temporatometer suddenly starts singing like a canary. It turns out my vertical-analog suspension temporatometer also functions perfectly as a fully-submersible horizontal thermocalculator! And it screams, 'Hey man, it's fucking 106 degrees in here!'

"Don't patronize me with your trite, red-lined scientific hippie semantics!" I says. "It's hot. My clothes are stuck to my skin from dripping sweat. Right now, an 11 degree difference might be just the cooling off I so badly need."

I strip, and prepare to indulge myself in soothing cool comfort. But then I think Wait. I haven't had a bath since I was twelve. Man, that was like ten years ago at least. How would an adult go about taking a relaxing bath?

It wasn't easy finding Ducky and my battleships, but my mom finally 'Fed-Ex'ed them. And once they were all lovingly set along the ceramic ledge, I proceeded to look for luxurious bath additives to further enhance the rather exotic experience: bubble bath, candles, music, Tide, bleach, 409, Comet, diesel, Drano ... maybe a little vanilla extract for the ladies. Ah, you get the picture.

And as the cooling, fragrant and peaceful fluids sloshed and hissed about, I instinctively held my nose and submerged completely. Playfully, I tried to see if I could still hold my breath as long as I used to. As childhood memories flooded in, I could hear my mom scolding, 'Just don't open your eyes while under there.'

Man I was a stupid kid.

What could possibly happen if you opened your eyes under here?

Minnesotan Confesses to Bridge Conspiracy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yes, you heard it here first!

No one was more shocked than we to find Terri Terri brashly claiming Minnesotan responsibility for the bridge collapse that has gripped the entire nation in morbid terror of it's own diabolical highway system.

In a chilling, cryptic dispatch to Predator Press composed of glued-on magazine letters, she left the following comment on our Saturday, August 4 post: "Yeah, us Minnesotans just had nothing better to do than irritate the President so we decided to collapse one of our bridges just to get him off his lazy ass. Wheeee! That was fun!"

In effort to scientifically measure the average Minnesotan capacity for evil, we have compiled some startling statistics that our friends to the West may be trying to surpass:

* Cancer: 556,902 (2006)
* Iraq: 30,000
* Domestic firearm fatalities: 29,573 (2006)
* Katrina (2005): 800
* Automotive fatalities, New York (2006): 750
* Domestic peanut allergy-related fatalities (2006): 150
* Evil Minnesotan bridges (2007): 5-8
* Domestic shark attack fatalities 1948-2005: 9

As you can clearly see, the sinister Minnesotans are clearly at pace to overtake the much-ballyhooed and overrated shark. But unless they have 30 more bridges, they cannot possibly expect to wreak more wanton death and carnage than your garden-variety Chinese toy factory on mandatory overtime.

We recommend "mixing it up" a bit to beef up the numbers: by combining second hand smoke and diets high in trans-fatty acids, you'll be caught up with Katrina in no time!

Bush Misses Cartoons, Eggos Over 'Stupid Bridge'

Predator Press

"It's all just stupid," Bush complains to an aide. "This stupid country
has a stupid crisis every goddamn week. Well, I'm getting sick of it."

Predator Press Interviews: Some Guy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't want to do an interview today.

I want to gloat.

All you people that were sayin' "Oh, that LOBO ... submarine ninjas? He's gone completely crackers now," owe me one Big Fat apology; CNN reported today that submarine ninjas have been captured in New York.

In your face all you skeptics; I told you so!

And I understand the desire to doubt me when you're troubled with nuisance 'facts' and stuff; I will not hold it against you. Predator Press loves it's dumb readers too, and with 89% of the same guaranteed ardor and zeal that our smart readers enjoy.

Has the precious Wall Street Journal ever promised you anything like that?

Hm?

But yeah, here, at the pinnacle of ardent gloatability, Ethan makes me do an interview.

So here it is:

LOBO: So who the fuck are you?

Some Guy: I'm Dan Albern, Editor of The Pianosa Times.

LOBO: Well, Predator Press isn't hiring.

Some Guy: I'm not here for that kind of interview.

LOBO: No, of course you're not. You're here for the kind of 'interview' that screws me outta press time for the capture of the New York submarine ninjas.

Some Guy: Actually, that's not true. I understand you were also involved with the apprehension of the notorious Legless Jim.

LOBO: Who?

Some Guy: He has just been made eligible for the death penalty.

LOBO: Serves him right, probably.

Some Guy: How did you get the name 'LOBO'?

LOBO: Legend has it a gamma Northern Timber Wolf chewed me out of her own cervix, 'cuz she thought I was malignant.

Some Guy: Really?

LOBO: Got the scars to prove it.

Some Guy: Oh my God, those are horrible!

LOBO: From then on, I was raised by the Chippewa Tribe until I got adopted.

Some Guy: Fascinating. An orphan is given the honorary status of Sherrif of Pianosa.

LOBO: What?

Some Guy: That's why I'm here.

LOBO: Sheriff LOBO?

Some Guy: Precisely.

LOBO: I don't like it; it's not very memorable at all. Can I be Sheriff Chainsaw instead?

Some Guy: Probably.

LOBO: Can I kill people?

Some Guy: Only when they are engaged in the commission of a crime.

LOBO: Can I make it a crime to wear a thong if you're a fat, hairy freakish descendant of Bigfoot wearin rollerblades?

Some Guy: Our readers will be very disappointed. We've invited many of them to the inauguration ceremony.

LOBO: Where I'll settle the whole damn mystery once and for all.

Some Guy: But as a crimefighter of local renown, we're doing a story on the man who was nominated 'Honorary Sheriff of Pianosa'. You're supposed to be a forward-thinking noble vanguard in pursuit of justice.

LOBO: Wait. You're interviewing me?

My Chi is Kickass Today, Thank You

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After a mere two weeks of intensive training and meditation, I am back.

Down to between 16 and 20 heartbeats a day, my doctor was concerned and tested my blood. And as always, my blood got an A+, clearly showing it's intellectual superiority over all the other stupid and inferior bloods.

I'm ready for action, baby; my Chi is so jazzed, when having lunch at Burger King with friends today the cook mistook me for a relative of Steven Segal. Swear to God. Insulted, my Chi cursed the poor bastard as I was being roughly escorted out of the kitchen; no doubt his grandchildren will be born horribly disfigured and forever unemployable.

And as the treacherous French poisoned me with deep-fried pointy potato sticks, Heartbeat Number 11 was about 40 minutes later than expected. It was then I started checking out LadyTerri. I mean, she's hot and smart and charming, and dating this guy --Mitch or something. And I'm thinking 'What the hell is she doing dating such a loser? This guy is about as interesting as a blackened potato chip!'

Well, it turns out her blood gets A+s too. It just came up somehow. And as I rummaged about her purse while she was in the bathroom, I discovered that her driver's license says she's an 'Organ Donor'. My god; the courage of this magnificent woman with two pristine kidneys and a pancreas to die for! Me? I'll never sign that 'Organ Donor' thing; I'm too afraid they'll suddenly cure disembowelment, and wake me up on cinderblocks missing an eye or something.

Live it up there Mitch.

You're a lucky guy.

To You

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Knowing I can't speak to each and every one of you readers as often as I would like tears me up inside like a rusty, jagged catheter being ripped out by a startled Clydesdale; the glamorous lifestyle of an often-cloned, globetrotting international millionaire playboy-slash-spy at war with Santa is a deceptively heavy burden.

So at least once, I feel I should share my most heartfelt and candid inner-most feelings to my favorite people: the selflessly-loyal, unsung readers.

That message is:

My personal safety is an issue of National Security.

Look. If the submarine ninjas capture me and 57 Comanche helicopters whisk me off to a nearby aircraft carrier for interrogation, you're all pretty fucked; the second Doctor Hans hooks up electrodes to my nipples, I'm gonna sing like a canary on cocaine. I'm telling that asshole everything. Hell, I might even make shit up.

"Doctor Hans," I would say. "Please put away your chainsaw scalpel and sodium pentathol, and get me a pencil and a map." And then, drawing little 'X'es on everything I'll say, "There are 12,115 troops over there, and there's a poorly-defended nuclear facility over here. Doctor Hans, has a handsome bastard such as yourself ever thought of being in movies? I know where Steven Spielberg lives. Hey, do you guys like pizza? I love pizza."