Hollywood Writer Strike = Deep Discounts Offered

Predator Press

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When it comes to scab labor, I'm your guy.

$9 an hour.

Period.

I'll even make Starbucks runs and sort paper clips or whatever. Loan me the Hummer, and for a free latte I'll squish that picket line into a gooey puddle that smells like construction paper, glue, glitter and tanning oil.

Think about that for a second: for less than $30 I can eliminate your enemies and crank out six full-length movies complete with corresponding Oscar acceptance speeches ... all with ample time to surf porn and complain about having to go to Starbucks for cheap Hollywood Bigwigs while making $9 an hour.

For me it's all about the integrity of the art.

Don't believe me?

Here goes:

1) LOBO: The Motion Picture

2) LOBO: The Motion Picture Prequel: An in-depth look at LOBO's parents, and how they screwed everything up with a staggeringly laughable inability to provide Panzer ground support during a historically critical defeat. This ultimately indemnified me from ever eating Brussels sprouts again.

3) The Scalding: A psychotic waffle iron terrorizes a bunch of dumb college students during Spring Break.

4) The Office Stabby Thing: Creepy, huh? If you thought that piece of crap about the kids running around in the woods, playing with sticks and dripping boogers was scary, this will institutionalize you: it's about a giant psychotic stapler that delights in hanging snarky Post-Its on cheapskate Hollywood Bigwigs with an unsanitary steel "U".

5) No Deposit, No Dice: A documentary about a guy who robs a sperm bank and now serves a sentence for 607 billion counts of kidnapping.

6) The Making of LOBO: The Motion Picture: All CGI and Special Effects are explored, including interviews with John Woo, George Lucas, Johnny Depp, Jessica Simpson, Chuck Norris, Geoffrey Rush, and the Coen Brothers.

See that?

13 minutes.

See, I'm like that guy in "Shine" except without the talent or that freak pasty thing going. You know, like after the kids have already beat the teacher's erasers together after class. Yeah. Like all the bullies just beat the chalk out of me, and left a pasty, broken, vindictive glob of flesh that had one finger left with which to blog with. And then years later, letter-by-letter the maimed blogger has them all horribly killed.

The Control-Alt-Delete scene alone will be huge at the Sundance Film Festival.

Do I hear $8?

In Space, No One Can Hear You Bitch

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Once it was discovered that I wouldn't stop throwing my wrenches on China, I was permanently removed from the Space Program.

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Dog the Bounty Hunter Begins Sensitivity Training

Predator Press

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"You must let the healing begin. Close your eyes and
repeat after me: 'At least she wasn't Jewish'."

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Stay the Hell Away From the Light

Predator Press

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I staggered into the Emergency Room.

"I'm dying," I gasp, collapsing to the floor.

"I thought Security just kicked you out of here," says Nurse Garrison.

"Twithe," I says, weakly fogging the glossy linoleum.

"You have a cold."

"I'm a crawling host for billions of parasitic viruses," I paraphrase. "C'mon, woman. Heal me for God's sake. It's not like I have an HMO."

"Where did you get the hospital gown?"

"I keep a few in the car," I reply. "It might save me a few mortal seconds of begging for medical attention on the hospital floor."

"Go home and rest. Drink some chicken soup."

"Chicken soup? What the hell kind of Voodoo crap is that?" I stand. "Shall I circle the chicken over my head while chanting? Hm? Are you even licensed to practice medicine in the United States? I want to see some credentials, you Hypocratic quack."

"Get a vaporizer," she offers. "You would be amazed how much that soothes."

I was slightly encouraged. "You know," I confess, "I've never actually vaporized anyone before."

With new purpose, I shuffle out in my paper booties. "You'll still be here in an hour, right?"

A Predator Press Halloween

Predator Press

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"Thanks for the flowers. You may now
remove yourself from my presence."

My carved pumpkin was less-than-well
received at the 2007 Jedi Convention

In a perfect world, Peter Parker makes J. Johnah Jacobsen
watch the same episode of 'Spongebob Squarepants' 86 times.

Today.

No one believed that giant plastic dinosaurs
once roamed freely in my backyard.

-Until they saw the colossus 350-ton statue of
a pack of cigarettes Andy Warhol made me.

Oh, sure. Like you've never French kissed a snake.

Blasphemy

Predator Press

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Originally posted on October 27, 2006

I know this sounds crazy, but every year around this time my house gets visits from these teeny little ghosts, ghouls, devils, and Power Rangers, all demanding candy. No sooner do I give em candy and shut the door, and more of the little mooching pagan bastards show up.

Last year, even after I ran out of Tic-Tacs, this diminutive Godless hoard continued to swarm over my home relentlessly. I started giving them whatever I could find; cans of beets, maple syrup, beer, Tupperware lids, ketchup ... I even gave one a whole 5 lbs bag of sugar, in hopes diabetes might scale the vile dwarven hellspawn onslaught back a few notches.

And they kept coming.

On and on through the night, I am for whom the doorbell tolls: a cheery warning of yet another invasion by the insatiably greedy brood. My radio. My microwave. My television (that staggered the little bastard).

But this year, it'll be different.

I'm dressing as R Kelly.

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Violence Solves Everything

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His parents reasoned with him, cajoled, and gently encouraged, but Little Timmy would not be denied this singular opportunity to make our airborne experience one we would never forget.

Little Timmy ran up and down the isle. Little Timmy launched food into people's hair and clothes.

Little Timmy was evil.

The in-flight movie -an Eddie Murphy vehicle- did nothing to drown out evil Little Timmy and his animated adventures dancing on the edge of everyone's nerves.

As I watched, Little Timmy single-handedly terrorized the entire flight for two solid hours.

I heard people quietly scheduling vasectomies on their cellphones.

Finally having had enough, I stepped up to the happy couple.

"Excuse me. I don't mean to be a bother, but I'm wondering how long until the beatings take place?"

They looked at each other bewildered. Eventually, the presumed father spoke. "Excuse me?"

"The beatings," I repeat. "I need to use the lavatory, and I don't want to miss them."

"Sir," said the offended woman. "We never touch our child in anger."

"Well, can one of the rest of us do it? The precocious little scamp has made quite an impression."

The woman pressed the button calling the flight steward. "Sir, if you continue bothering us, I'll-"

"Do what?" I inquired. "Have me kicked off?"

The father stood. "How we raise our child is none of your business."

This wasn't going as well as I had hoped. "If and until we arrive in Houston, I'm afraid it is."

"Little Timmy," interrupted the woman, "is going to learn to decide to behave himself."

"Not without a severe beating, ma'am," I point out.

"I'll not condone violence on the boy," says the father.

"Violence is such an ugly term," I says. "And I'm not condoning 'violence'. Just a severe beating. It's not the same thing."

The woman gaped. As the flight attendant arrived, she was almost stammering in anger. "Sir," she began. "This man-"

The flight attendant looked at me. "Are they beating him yet?"

"No," I says.

He glowers at the couple menacingly. "And why not?"

"Lady," I continue. "Severe beatings are good for a child. In fact, I daresay mandatory. This child should receive severe beatings on a regular basis."

"What about when he's behaving?" the woman asked incredulously.

"Especially when behaving!" I says. "That child's entire life should be one long series of severe beatings, punctuated by brief and random interludes of wondering where, when and why his next beating is coming."

The pilot squawked over the intercom. "Are they beating him yet?"

"Not yet sir," said the flight attendant into the air.

The father sneered at me, "And how many children do you have, 'Mister Expert'?"

"None!" I says flatly. "I don't have the required propensity for violence."

Eyes Without No Mace

Predator Press

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When I saw that cop standing there in the doorway, I knew precisely what to do. Suddenly dropping to my knees, I sobbed loudly, "Taze me, bro! Tase me please!"

"Son," says the officer calmly. "Why in the world would I want to do that?"

Clutching his shiny boots, I wail "I saw what you guys did to that guy that asked you not to on television!"

"Well, you do have an awful lot of dead mailmen in your front yard," he observes.

"They were like that when they got here."

"You mean they were already on fire, and all of them just sort of collapsed coincidentally at your house?"

"Yes. May I be beaten severely now sir? And have my rights violated repeatedly as I'm hauled of to an excruciatingly long interrogation where I'll crack and confess to a whole bunch of ridiculous crap I couldn't possibly have done and be thrown down into some dark hole where I'm forgotten 'til I die?"

"If you weren't white I would've done that a half hour ago," he says. Perplexed, he scratches his chin. Whispering audibly, he adds "I wonder why all these incendiary mailmen are drawn to this place?"

"It's totally plausible. I belong to a lot of record clubs."

Shrugging, he tips his hat. "Sorry to bother you citizen. Everything appears to be in order here. Have a nice day, and stay out of trouble. I am going to stop at the corner store. Do you need a burrito or something?"

"No thanks," I says waving.

As he heads for his car, he pauses at one of the piles of bones and pokes it with his night stick. Lifting a skull by the eye socket, he inspects it shrewdly. "They do make rather cool Halloween decorations, don't they?"

"Want one?"