Ask LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, how come you don't have like 97 blogs?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me that.

My favorite neighbor, the Canadian Curmudgeon, has two great and well-written blogs. And from "across the pond" Lord Likely has about 12. No matter what your thoughts are on the butchery of our fine American language with that crazy accent, you have to salute the British for just sheer blogging industriousness; Lord Likely alone makes our discovery of England completely worthwhile. When's the last time you read a brilliant gem out of the Galapagos Islands? Hm?

But I'll be blog surfing in MyBloglog or blogcatalog and stumble onto some profile -invariably a weird, hairy dude with a scantily clad attractive woman icon- that has like 15 or twenty blogs, and the only thing they have in common is the disturbing desire to escape every one of them: the topics will range from something cute and fluffy like "My Intermittent Ponderings" to "How Spiders F--k".

And I'm cool with that. I mean who doesn't want to read an insightful scientific dissertation on how spiders f--k? How many legs can she get behind her head? I mean you have to click on that.

So now you're committed: Join? Not join? And then you start seeing the other stuff like "SEO Academy: Internet Marketing". Bloggers, I'm coming clean on this right now: nothing shuts my brain off faster than the word 'SEO'. It's mind numbing. I don't even know what the hell 'SEO' means, and I'm bored to death with it.

It has been long standing Predator Press policy to have people that visit but don't 'join' our neighborhood swiftly and quietly killed. But, for instance, MyBlogLog only lets you join 15 'neighborhoods' a day ... and it now I got like 18 more blogs to read by this prolific asshole! Man I was trying to relax and enjoy some web-surfing, and now you're making me make decisions.

Jerk.

So why don't I have 97 blogs? Because:

a) I don't have that kind of time,
b) I'm already complaining about stuff as fast as I can, and
c) I'm almost certain I've pointed out how lazy I am on this blog before, so back off.

Frankly, Predator Press is already beyond my control: it's a rampant and insatiable fusion-fueled juggernaut of a blog that chews up entire universes and spits out kittens. For fun. Another "Predator Press" would tear holes in the fabric of Space-Time, destabilize the "Blogosphere", and ultimately collapse the entire internet into a singular dense point that corrupts your computer cookies, downloads brownies and pizza instead, and ultimately skews your ebay feedback until you have to burn down your own home for the insurance money while fighting zombies dressed in a Speedo.

Would you really want more than one Predator Press?

I, for one, happen to like cookies.

And zombies are assholes.

A Pilgram's Progress

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Aside from Halloween, Thanksgiving is simply one of the most darkly disturbing holidays ever ... and I've already dubbed this year "Cranksgiving 2007".

You know, I am thankful. I'm having one of my best years ever: I've got great friends, a fantastic job, and a big-assed television. Game over. I win, right? So why stick me in that viper pit of poultry pounding relatives?

Jesus. I sneak peeks around the room, and find my mind turning the same thought over and over: how the hell did I come out normal around these weirdoes?

Then I force my attention back to the football game on my big-assed television.

God I love that television.


***

Inevitably, my cozy, slothful splendor will be torn asunder: somebody forgot something at the store, and I've gotta face the cold to address an emergency cranberry deficit or something. I mean why do I have to suffer for someone else's pisspoor planning? History is absolutely littered with the arrow-riddled bodies of pilgrims toting last-minute yams and 12 packs of Coke ... even after fifty of sixty years, have we learned nothing?

Mom should be fired immediately. Hey, I'm sorry ... I understand that you were up all night poking and prodding a dead bird in the oven. But this is like the 20th Century already: we have frozen turkey dinners now. Six minutes in the microwave. Plastic sporks. Boom! On to the football.

It's called the Pilgrim's Progress, and Americas neverending quest for big-assed televisions and footbal is well-documented in all the history books. Embrace it. Learn from it. And never forget, lest ye be slain horribly by Indians too.

.. And please note that I'm not saying be mean to mom; I mean she is mom after all. Give her a decent reference. Set her up with one of them "Golden Parachutes" and a nice severance package to make sure she can afford COBRA for the duration while she seeks some other deserving nomadic tribe of needful pilgrims without microwave ovens. It wouldn't be so bad if done properly; I mean all she needs to do is hang out on the beach and wait for a boat, right?

Mom could use a tan.


***

And every family has one. The member -usually a brother- who has a new "significant other" every year. So every year you gotta mince about on eggshells to impress this new person you will never see again.

Last year, we took the new harlot aside and insisted that the entire family had been genetically blessed with a superfluous nipple that, until blessed with new progeny, we primarily use to feed the cats.

She was gone before the football even started.


***

Inescapably my mind will turn to our troops overseas. Each and every one of them is a million miles from home, friends, and family, blowin the crap out of stuff. This is the one day of the year I'm completely overtaken by jealousy of them.

And it's here that the sarcasm screeches to an abrupt and uncharacteristic halt ...

Even as I sit and write and bitch, there are people being shot at to defend me. Kids mostly. Undeniably, a quantifiable statistic of them will never see the land they are fighting for again ... and some will be so brutalized, they might wish they were part of that statistic.

I'm scared for them, and I don't understand our enemy at all; can't we all just get big televisions, and watch the Packers smear the Lions through a sated tryptophan haze?

Even just today?

Happy Thanksgiving to our troops; you are in our thoughts and prayers.

And I wish you come home safe.

... so I can complain about you next Thanksgiving.

:)

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As we can plainly see, my Permukaan is scientifically
quantifiable as bigger than the average puny bebas.

But I do miss the hos.

Weather Proves Difficult to Blame on Grossman

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Rex Grossman has more talent in his little finger than most of you armchair wanna-bees, and you so-called Bears "fans" outta be ashamed of yourselves for sarcastic crap like this.

Seriously.

According to our supercomputer, the Chicago Bears kick the crap out of the Yankees in every single Superbowl simulation.

I'm betting everything.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Do we really want robots to
look and act more human?

Predator Press Gets Book Deal

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Out Go the Lights

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Those silly bastards at Comcast thought that I would be stupid enough to pay them $200 a month to insult their lousy online service to the rest of the world.

So due to a complete failure in negotiations, I've decided to go back to a far more prudent $9.95 56k Earthlink dial-up modem.

... Earthlink has a 5X Accelerator now!

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Karma

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's a little-known fact that for extra cash in college, I hacked porn sites for fellow students at $10 a pop.

I suppose that could be considered stealing.

So according to the theory -to cancel out the 'Bad Karma'- I have to do a selfless good deed. Well, more accurately I would have to go to all those sites and give them $10, and start taking up Feminist causes.

Screw that.

Here goes Plan "B".


***


See that guy on the right?

He was a cop whose third wife was found with her skull broken in a bathtub.

After an investigation, it was officially ruled an "Accidental Drowning".

The only reason this has even came to light is because now his fourth wife, pictured, is missing.

Ladies, please.

Stop marrying this man.

(There. I feel better. Don't you?)

90210 Doesn't Hold Up Against 1856

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Blister Pack of Lies

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Look," says Nurse Garrison, lowering her clipboard and sighing audibly. "I'm going to have to tell the insurance company something."

"Tell them it's Cobe's fault," I reply simply.

She picks up her pen, and pushed her glasses back over her nose. "Who is Cobe?"

"He's a guy that I sent to straighten out all our operations in Antarctica last year."

"So this is his fault how?"

"Well, he's still in charge of the scheduling and catering of the Company Picnic." I tear up as I stare at the wool mittens over my hands. "He did this on purpose. What kind of sicko schedules a company picnic in November?"

"But it's a clear day, and 72 degrees outside," says Garrison. "I think the guy made some pretty good choices all things considered."

"That's exactly what Cobe would want you to think," I illustrate. "But he scheduled the date and the caterer both."

"So?"

"The caterer came with a clear agenda," I says. "He sets up and starts grilling chicken. I simply asked him from time to time if it was done yet."

Nurse Garrison moaned dubiously. "How many times did you ask him?"

"Thirty four," I says. "Finally he says Sure buddy. It's done now. Knock yourself out. He never tells me that the stuff on the grill is like searing hot."

"So he caused 3rd degree burns on your hands, " she scrawls. "Were you around when he made the potato salad?"

"Yes," I confess. "Why?"

"We'll have to check you for tapeworms too." She pauses. "Colonoscopy?"

"Three weeks ago," I reply, sullen.

"Well you're due," she says, checking a box. "At your age, you can't be too careful. Now why are you wearing those cheap wool mittens?"

"They were Ethan's idea," I says, inspecting them wincing. "But I sterilized my hands in boiling hydrochloric acid first like he told me."

"Ethan told you to sterilize your hands before going to the hospital by boiling them in hydrochloric acid while wearing wool mittens?"

"This happened at last year's picnic. He figured with an HMO, getting my leg pulled would cost essentially the same."

Tearing a bloody strip cautiously from the mitten she remarks, "Is that salted Brillo?"

"Yes. But this year I remembered not to try to grab French fries out of the grease," I proclaim. "I hate that smell."