Monday

Britney Performance Irks Jealous, Catty Nation

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Can't I leave you people for one lousy week without screwing everything up?

If I knew you people were going to be such jerks, I never would have agreed to be Britney Spears' last-minute Choreographer, Costume Designer, Personal Trainer, Heineken Fetcher and Dietician in the first place.

Hey, who knew when you combine cheddar cheese and Dunkin Donuts you get bowel movements that make your back hurt? She's a trooper if you ask me: she owes me $42,084,054 and she's made a selfless scientific contribution to humankind.

So now --while simultaneously defending the entire planet Earth against the Great Zombie Omnocracy-- I've got all you people talking trash about perhaps the greatest musical talent since sliced bread.

You people should be ashamed of yourselves.

Seriously.

Thursday

Quick! Look Over There!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sorry we haven't posted for a few days; we took some time off in commemoration of Richard Jewell.

In the meantime, please click on the pic to check out some of our other fave sites!









Monday

What We Have Here is a Failure to Lift and Separate

Predator Press

[LOBO]


"What's with that little black bra on that last post?" asks Ethan.

"That's Olga, the Traveling Bra," I says. "God Ethan, didn't you learn anything in history class?"

"Ah-"

"In that painting, Olga is depicted leading the French Revolution."

"Olga started the French Revolution?"

"No," I reply matter-of-factly. "Olga's cousin and twisted evil nemesis Helga the Wandering Corset did. Most major conflicts and events throughout human history are really cover-ups for those two going at it. Even in the Civil War, Ulysses S. Grant was wearing Olga while General Robert E. Lee wore Helga."

"Sewing the thin underwire of discontent, eh?"

"Now you're being silly," I says.

The Quiet Riot: A Caffeine-Free Insurgency

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I am, admittedly, very lazy.

I once won a "fewest heartbeats" contest against a carpet on Valiums. Yesterday, the manufacturing of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich required six breaks, two naps, and a helpful neighbor to open the jars.

I get up. I read the news. After sizing up how much more screwed the world is than it was yesterday, I blog it, and then it's back to bed. This is a typical day graced by the brief debacle of my slothful and infrequent consciousness.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

So imagine my horror when I read "U.N.: Americans Most Productive" on CNN.

--Way to "set the bar", dumbass!

Don't I have enough problems without competing with you "productive" people skipping lunches and breaks and working late? You aren't fooling anybody: while building superhighways and pyramids or whatever, you've completely sublimated your self-esteem issues into some hollow corporate identity.

That warm sense of industriousness you're so fond of is slowly eroding your soul. Do you think that on your deathbed, you will be regaling your grandchildren that your 'Greatest Regret' is that you didn't work enough? Well, I've got news for you: you are ten times more likely to be impaled by an industrial auger or decapitated by a rogue forklift when not watching television or sleeping. It's a fact.

You people need help.

Snap out of it, and cast off these shackles of oppression! We must educate, disorganize and immobilize the masses, that they might lay down for what they otherwise might have stood for!

Exhausted from all this typing, I'm going to take a nap. But I expect to see some serious effort toward massive degeneration, and a complete lack of social upheaval grinding this nation to a standstill by the time I wake up.

Please don't disappoint me.

I'm counting on you.

Saturday

The Joy of Children

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I would have to say that my greatest flaw is my profoundly compassionate and care-giving selfless nature -and it is exactly this quality that completely wrecked up my Saturday.

Long story short, due to a family emergency I hadda do some babysitting.

Now, for those of you that don't know anything about kids, suffice to say they are tiny little screechy people with about sixteen arms and boundless energy. I'm not sure why God afflicted them with so many numerous obvious physical abnormalities, but I'm about 95% sure that it is Divine Punishment for all that screeching.

So this kid -I think he has a name, Joe or something-gets dumped at my house at the ungodly hour of 10:30 in the morning. On a Saturday. I'm like "WTF?", right? I need a good eight hours of sleep a night, and six or seven during the day or I can't function whatsoever. So I figure I'll find him some toys to keep him busy for a while, and I'll get back to my blissfully solitary snoozing.

I have no toys. None. Zip.

Armed only with my radiant braniosity, I needed a plan.


***


Taking him out to the garage, I figure, is a stroke of genius. I mean kids like power tools, right? And not in the house, he can screech his little heart out till his face turns blue: I wouldn't hear a damn thing.

The only thing I didn't account for was his freakishly small size. His hands are too small to hold drills, he's too short to effectively push the lawn mower, and the puny little bastard couldn't even lift the fucking chainsaw.

His awkward size thwarted my fun plans again and again. While too small to enjoy edging the sidewalk with my weed-whacker, he was too large to clean out my crawlspaces. Too heavy to dust the tops of my bookshelves. Too 'scared of the dark' to catch those rats in my basement. Bitch, bitch, bitch. I swear to God I have no idea why people have children in the first place.

My dad had a dog once, but the dog kept pissing and shitting on the carpet no matter how savagely beaten he got. So my dad took him out into the field, let him out, and drove off so Skippy could be wild and free just as God intended for poodles. Simple, right? But kids are infinitely sneakier; they memorize stuff like addresses, names, phone numbers ... I'll betcha this kid would be right back here in two or three weeks.

By 11:15, he's hungry and I have decisions to make. If I feed him, won't that make getting rid of him even more difficult? What if he just starts showing up on my doorstep at 10:30 every morning? Do I even have food?

Noon rolls around and the shit has scarffed down all my Pop Tarts, Lucky Charms, Eskimo pies, expresso, Mountain Dew, and Twinkies. I'm cleaned out save for four Heinekens (he apparently prefers dometics).

He ran around the house one hundred and sixty-seven times. I'm painfully aware of this, because every time he finished a lap, he came running into my bedroom to loudly proclaim his count: "Thirty-five!" he would screech, and then slam the door as he set out for number thirty six.

Right around lap seventy-one, I was making Kool-Aid popsicles in an empty ice tray. Immediately before sticking the little toothpicks in them, however, I added an entire bottle of Nyquil. By 2 o'clock they were frozen, and by 2:30 he was snoring loudly with four toothpicks and a big sticky blue stain on his chest.

He was still sleeping when his mom picked him up, and she asked how he behaved. It was then that I informed her that her offspring was a complete banshee from Hell, and that she should be imprisoned for unleashing such horrors upon an unsuspecting and otherwise peaceful planet.

Once the filthy whore and her insufferable hellspawn pulled out of the driveway, I stopped throwing Heinekens at the car. It wasn't that I couldn't hit it anymore, I just didn't want the inevitable wayward one to hideously crash through her windshield and wake that little prick up again.

Shrugging, I go back into my house and head back to bed. My walls, now covered in tiny blue handprints and Twinkie residue, serve as a mute reminder of my horrible and hellish experience.

All and all, I think it went pretty well.

Friday

Predator Press Challenges China for Toy Market

Predator Press

* 1$ ALL YOU CAN FIT ON A SHOVEL!!! $1 *

*Must be regulation shovel provided by Predator Press.
*These toys have only been tested on hobos, hookers,
transients, addicts, a handful of unfortunate animals, and
regulation shovels provided by Predator Press.



Thursday

Exclusive: Larry Craig is Not Gay

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hurry Larry!  The Final Jeopardy
Round Countdown Music is playing!
When I came across this picture, it all became clear.

Senator Larry Craig really isn't gay!

As a senator, Craig gives a lot of impassioned, authoritative and important speeches, right? He's under a lot of pressure. And when you stand in front of a podium, it does kinda resemble a urinal.

Now look at the picture again. See how he conspicuously avoids contact with the numerous phallics available? Hell, even Senator Patty Murray is squirmy!

Maybe he's in the bathroom, and suddenly needs to make a speech? Or what if one whiff of that urinal cake makes him regress into a state of seething, squirty debauched lizard-like cesspool of amorous desire, ready to penetrate virtually anything on two legs.

But he's not a lawyer, he's a politician.

Every last one of you "rushing to judgment" over a married homophobic father who tried to engage in a random sexual encounter with a stranger of the same sex in an airport bathroom should be ashamed of yourselves. Seriously. "Let He Without Sin Roll the First Stone."

I know it's only August, but this brave soldier has gone through a lot to beat out Paris Hilton and Michael Vick to earn my nod as the Predator Press Man of the Year.

(--and if those pricks at TIME Magazine steal any more of my ideas, I'm going to send them a really nasty email!)

Entertainer Avoids Rehab, Meltdown, DUI, Suicide

Predator Press

[LOBO]

At first we thought this was
a joke, but we checked it out.

WTG Betty White!

Tuesday

Monday

Jesus: Michael Vick found WHO?

Predator Press

Jesus: LOBO.

LOBO: Oh holy crap. Jesus Christ, it's like 4 in the morning!

Jesus: Wake up and experience your VISION.

LOBO: I told you LAST time I only want visions after 10:00am.

Jesus: I know. But this one is really important.

LOBO: Like those bogus football picks you gave me last year? I lost everything I had except these lousy shares of Predator Press.

Jesus: Which kept both Ethan and Babs from taking over, right? Now your life is a Hellbound hedonistic adventure of being constantly wooed by rich, smarmy screwballs for controlling interest of the company.

LOBO: Yeah. Thanks. But seriously, you could call first.

Jesus: I heard Michael Vick 'found' Me today.

LOBO: Yeah well, so did David 'Son of Sam' Berkowitz. Let's just say when it comes to getting 'found,' Waldo's got you boned.

Jesus: Don't you think people 'finding' me after acts of unconscionable evil makes a mockery of my teachings and followers?

LOBO: I'll say. But without 'Forgiveness', there's no real motivation to straighten yourself up, is there? What's the point if there's no hope? And frankly, the Bible is chocked FULL of dismembered mutton.

Jesus: I think Michael Vick should seek forgiveness from Anubis first. THEN he should check with Me.

LOBO: So you're goin' Old Testament on his ass?

Jesus: Probably not.

LOBO: Jesus, I don't get it. At least a butcher kills something quickly. This guy got animals hacked up, and then melted them alive. Who wants to be in an 'afterlife' with monsters like that?

Jesus: We've got a different Heaven for David Berkowitz and Michael Vick.

LOBO: Really?

Jesus: Same Heaven really. But their servers all crash every 12-24 minutes.