Pandemic

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well everyone is sick with Strep, and my hot proofreader LadyTerri is out cold. Please forgive me for the numerous grammatical errors that are doubtlessly unfolding before you: I'll fix them as I find them.

But there appears to be a strange confluence of new people reading this blog.

What they are up to, I'm not sure.

But I'm watching them too.

Oh yes.

I can almost feel those hungry lustful eyes: It's almost like my junior high school P.E. teacher in the shower all over again, but without that chlorine, latex and Old Spice smell.

At least in part, I blame one of my fave writer-slash-bloggers Don Lewis who hath recently bestowed upon us the universally-coveted Quality Original Humor Award.

Where and why Don got the idea this blog is humorous when I strive for nothing more than cold, clinical historical accuracy and fact completely escapes me. But step off: it's MINE ... Keep yer grabby mouse mitts where I can see 'em, pal.

Especially if you're my junior high school P.E. teacher.

... that old 'snowcone' bit won't work this time.


***

Don's site has been one of my faves for quite some time. I think it's disarmingly charming, concealing edgy barbed hooks that sneak deeply into your skin until it's too late to withdraw. He has a kind of subtlety and cool I could only dream of mastering with my crude abilities, and this is augmented nicely by hilarious and meticulously-crafted images that I am far too lazy to tackle myself.

'It's a Funny Thing' is a multi-faceted class act all the way, and well deserving of the Predator Press Lifetime Achievement Award. But unfortunately I would have to design the Predator Press Lifetime Achievement Award, and I am almost certain I've previously mentioned the whole 'lazy' thing. Besides ... Lord Likely has been awarding giant golden "PP"s for quite some time already.

To Don Lewis -the only man who has made me cry since I was 14- I award the Predator Press Temporary Lifetime Achievement Award aka the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

-Because my ego is now so huge, all the sick people hadda move out.

The Ominous Comma Code CRACKED!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It was on the tenth day of starin' up at the Serta -just as I was about to tear off the tag and incur the wrath of the mighty Diesel- when I had an epiphany: This isn't the first instance of the sinister Ominous Comma weaving his depraved will into the fabric of history.

I started to see a pattern.

Oh yes Brent.

I'm onto you.


***

I'll begin with the Bermuda Triangle. Oh, sure ... at first glance, it seems like a harmless geometric span of ocean that gobbles up ships and planes without a trace. But "Comma" starts with a "C", the third letter of the alphabet.

And how many sides does a triangle have?

Coincidence?

Hardly.

Where were you Brent? And what have you done with Flight 19?

Then there is the Loch Ness Monster. I'm not 100% on the connection here, but it's hard to ignore the inescapable resemblance to the curved comma shape: it is my contention that it is actually a disguised submarine that Brent pilots to devour unsuspecting loch swimmers in order to feed his insatiable lust for harvesting souls. Or maybe just peek at skinnydippers. I don't know for sure. But I am not here to draw conclusions ... I am only here to present hard evidence and facts.

You readers must decide for yourself.

Brent's attempts to subvert our fine American Liberty are not limited to this continent, either.

I've found numerous flights to Nepal that synch up nicely to reports of Yeti sightings, and he could have been on any one of them.

I’ve narrowed it down to 687 potential flights, all of which may have lost his luggage, thereby leaving him without pants and/or his attaché of shaving gear.

Where were you then Brent?

Hm?

The Ominous Comment

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Woe to thee, Brent.

For trapped here under the bed for 9 days now, I have not been idle ... I've been plotting and planning my revenge!

It was sheer good fortune that I found this single crayola, with which I've designed a mighty robot specifically to counter attack -and utterly decimate- your puny Ominous Comma Tambourine Army!

See how it squishes your tanks? Hm? Even your helicopters fall helplessly to the righteous fire of its mighty .1,000,000 caliber machine guns that shoot from its eyes!

While other bloggers might graciously accept your unconditional surrender, I am a very petty individual devoid of any class whatsoever: your long reign will be punctuated (clever, eh?) by the screams of you and your followers, and Predator Press shall rise to it's rightful place in the annals of destiny!

I really did like the Danger Couch! DVD though.

... Is there any chance I can get it autographed?

Predator Press and the Dust Bunnies of Doom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sorry it's been so long since I've posted.

-It's hard to blog from under the bed.

"What are you doing?" says LadyTerri.

"Shhh!" I says. "Or HE will hear."

"Who will hear?"

"The Sinister Semicolon! The Executioner of Exclamations! The Apoplectic Apostrophe!"

"Who?"

"The Ominous Comma has declared me his nemesis!"

LadyTerri sighs. "You haven't been to work in days."

"Of course not. Sudden and horrible death stalks me at every turn!" Peering out at her ankles, I explain. "That's how it works. First you learn to trust Spellcheck. And then it's all lies upon lies."

"Don't you think you're exaggerating?"

"The evidence is overwhelming," I says.

"Really?"

"Yes," I exclaim, struggling to turn over under the box spring. "Remember how the toast burned Friday morning?"

"Yeah," she says.

"Brent," I reply. "And you know how the DVR cutoff the last 15 minutes of American Chopper?"

"Yes-"

"That was Brent too. And what about the neighbor's garden gnomes?"

"That was you. It's in the police report."

"Oh sure. Take his side!" I accuse. "Is that any way to treat the man who found the remote control and your missing tennis shoe?"

"Look," she says. "If you come out, I'll make you some new toast-"

"How dare you use a comma in this house!? Just listen to you. Your dialogues are absolutely littered with punctuation!"

"How did you get the monitor under there?"

"I slid it behind the headboard."

Beware, Creants!

Predator Press

[The Shart]

As metropolitan Pianosa slumbers peacefully, I prowl the shadows in a sexy tight-fitting rubber suit, doling out evil and injustice that cannot be smoten!

Wherever there is truth or justice I'll be there -shuffling up paperwork and casting serious doubt upon its credit rating.

Tremble ye before my awesome powers of cunning and skill! Witness the full culmination of my long-sought revenge!

(Well actually you have all been pretty nice. Lets call this 'prevenge'.)

Swift, lethal and tenacious -like the shark- I'm always one step ahead of the authorities because I'm smart.

-for I am The Shart.

The Heart of the Artichoke

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally having lost faith in the "Rule of Law", I have chosen to follow the path of the Supervillain.

LadyTerri found this rather laughable.

"Supervillain?" she scoffs. "You passed out when I told you there were artichoke hearts in your salad."

"I'm a vegetarian!"

"Artichokes are vegetables."

"Well, that explains the rather lackluster effect of me gaining the vitality and courage of the artichoke by eating it's heart," I concede.

"If you're a vegetarian, why do you always want me to make pork chops?"

"'That which does not bend breaks,'" I recite wisefully.

"Stop quoting fortune cookies," she demands.

"Look," I insist. "I need a certain number of pork chops a day. I'm hypoglycemic."

"So you're going to be the world's first hypoglycemic quasi-vegetarian Supervillain? You blubbered like a sissy when Bambi's mom got shot."

"Hypoglycemics are prone to counter-regulatory hormones triggered by the falling glucose, and the neuroglycopenic effects produced by the reduced brain sugar!" I protest.

"Stop quoting Wikipedia!"

"I already bought a cape!"



***

I take exception to LaryTerri's doubts. Since childhood I have wanted nothing more than to be a Supervillain.

Dammit, I thought. What does she know? I'm absolutely oozing with, um, Supervillainiousness.

In fact I question the credentials of virtually all other acknowledged Supervillains!

Take Lex Luthor, for instance. How long can you go on as a qualified 'Supervillain' when you've known your arch-rival Superman's greatest weakness for decades and have yet been unable to exploit it? Lex shoulda just used a surface-to-air heat seeking missile to affix Kryptonite to Superman's keyster in flight. Suddenly, Superman can't fly any better'n a garden-variety cinderblock. Plus he ain't the "Man of Steel" anymore. Splatto! End of story.

Getting your ass kicked once a month hardly qualifies.

They shoulda called that guy Lex Loser

Still, I can't expect to go from zero to Supervillain overnight.

I need a reputation.

So I decides to do some midnight skulking.

Unfortunately, midnight is pretty late. I need a good 16 or 17 hours of sleep a night or I can't function at all. Plus, if I came home after midnight LadyTerri would totally kick my ass. But it occurred to me that midnight skulking at around 8:30 would be really sneaky ... no one would expect that.

Man, that's positively evil.

Ominoiusly seizing the lunchbag she packed for me off of the counter, I made my way out to seek my evil destiny.

I started small. Once sufficiently dark, I tried kicking over the neighbor's garden gnomes. But the ground is frozen; all I did was painfully jam my toe. I figured I would have more luck with the trash cans, but their dog heard me and woke 'em up.

"Get the hell away from my trash LOBO!" Jeanie Anderson yelled.

"I'm not LOBO," I replied, eyebrow arched.

Hah! Already spinning my webs of deceit, I'm just crawling with evil now!


***

I wasn't really afraid when Stan Anderson loosed their dog Rommel on me.

That's not why I ran.

I ran because it's 6 degrees, and I'm wearing nothing but black rubber and spandex, a mask and cape.

-I'm freaking freezing.

Full-blown Supervillains seem to get way cooler uniforms. I'm not sure why ... maybe they get discounts for dry cleaning. This would be a good thing, because I keep forgetting I'm wearing the cape and dragging it outside the car door.

And that's how Rommel caught me. My cape, skirting the icy road outside the car door, was the perfect medium for Rommel to stop and drag my 1990 Plymouth Horizon off the road and into a nearby ditch.

Rommel then proceeded to dismember my car piece by piece. It was quite frightening; first it was small items like the door handles, mirrors and windshield wipers. Then those powerful paws appeared in my windshield; he clawed my rumpling hood for purchase while his enormous foam-dripping teeth shredded newly-exposed engine in enraged frustration.

Rommel paused to growl hideously at me through the glass, and I could see cuts and blood on his gums; rearing back as if in a sudden moment of inspiration, he began hurling himself against the windshield repeatedly, and web-like cracks began to race across with every impact.

Now this is why Supervillains have henchmen. I could've used a handful here. I could, for instance, make one get out and push. And then as the dog kills him, I make the next guy get out and push. -And continue on in that fashion until the beast's bloodlust was sated, or until I had been sufficiently pushed free.

Plunging finally through the windshield, I was surprised when Rommel passed right over my femoral artery and voraciously attacked the pork chops and salad LadyTerri packed for my dinner.

My God, I thought. This is the meanest Boston Terrier I've ever seen.

... and now he has eaten the heart of the artichoke too.

Making History

Predator Press

[LOBO]

First my apologies: I did not mean to mislead millions of you readers into thinking I was running for President in that last post.

Please get off of my lawn.

As you may remember -and as was well-documented by Mr Insanity in the vast Predator Press archives- I ran for President in 2006.

I spent $4.1 million on my campaign.

Nobody voted for me.

Not one person.

... These "elections" are totally rigged!

I learned something that awful and momentous day: Why make your own mistakes, when throughout history there have been hundreds of perfectly good dumb people, doing thousands of dumb things?

You should never, for instance, call King Henry the Eighth an impotent limp-dick. Or call George Bush Senior the 'wimp president'. Don't go to Mel Gibson's house to show off your new spiffy new dradle. Don't watch the last episode of Mash for a happy ending [*spoiler alert* Henry dies and Winchester doesn't. Oooooo I hate that snooty Winchester!]. And, above all, never ever ever send your navy after Japan during typhoon season, or whenever Godzilla is pissed off.

It's simple really: "He who forgets his past is doomed to repeat it". We must study stupid people, lest we become one!

But don't get me wrong ... we need smart people too. Remember Isaac Newtron? Forty or fifty years ago, this guy did some crazy math and it really improved our ability to do bank shots playing pool and shoot at each other. When asked about his nerdy and weird math stuff, he says "If I've seen further than others, it is because I've stood on the shoulders of giants".

See? Now that's a thinking man's thinking man. Let the fucking giants do all the work. Just chill out. Giants are pretty mellow overall, as long as they're not cyclopses.

Cyclopses are assholes.

Oh, It's ON. No, Wait ... It's Off Again.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As I stare up at the roof of the ambulance, I suppose there were a lot of reasons not to except a challenge from Style Swags 8 year old yellow-belted daughter.

First of all, from the locker room to the cage in the center of Madison Square Garden was a really long walk. In retrospect, this was part of her strategy I'm sure: by the time she was gluing the broken glass shards and razorwire to her gloves I was already winded.

I don't really remember much after that ... just a lot of fuzzy images of her staring down at me going, "How do you like me now?" [foot to head] "How do you like me now?" [fist to appendix] and "Quit crying, you sissy!" [appendix to face] ... then there was a whole lot of screaming and begging, mercifully followed by confetti and Hannah Montana songs.

I hate sports.

The Eightfold Wrath

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I must admit, becoming an official honorary White Belt in karate has significantly affected my self-image.

When you are a trained killing machine -a living weapon- you walk a little taller.

With more confidence.

Command, if you will.

But karate is also a strict discipline. It is for self defense ... not jacking up some guy that looks at you weird at the gas station.

Violence is always the last resort.

So just so I ain't gotta rip the neck of of some smack-talkin' ne'er do well punk blissfully ignorant of my killing prowess, I wear my karate pajamas everywhere.

As a warning.

... and I gotta tell you, these are way more effective than my Batman pajamas ever were.

American Bad Ass

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, the Cardinal Fitness thing -my New Year's Resolution- hasn't really panned, so LadyTerri and I have been trying to get creative. She made me promise to spend three hours a week at the gym, and frankly I can't take that much tanning: I look like a disoriented lobster, and everyone complains the booth smells like bacon for hours afterwards.

So she says, "Why don't you try Karate?"

Well, I figured that 'Karate' was some kind of exotic takeout.

Maybe a cologne.

But it turns out it's like kickboxing and crap.

As the last Grand Master of the lost Peking Duck martial arts style, I figure fine: I can hide under or behind anything virtually instantly (Muay Thai legend says it can only be learned in a vision during intense meditation, but I posses this innate ability anytime I don't want my ass kicked at Denny's). How bad could this 'Karate' thing be then? It's just another martial art, right? We all put on our pajamas and go to the dojo and powernap for two hours? I'm down with that.

While initially pleased that my Peking Duck expertise had provided me an honorary status of 'White Belt', it soon became apparent that this was not a very high rank: I was being trained with a teeny-tiny squad of precocious little 5-year-olds.

And honestly? It got pretty boring after five or six weeks: I could kick the crap out of every single one those little chumps ... and I got trophys to prove it. I would waste them little bastards too: I once made the challenger watch me savagely amputate his own stuffed toy Barney tail before beating him severely with it while listening to Slayer on my headphones. I was like an evil Jackie Chan: there were little GI Joe parts 'an Pokemon cards flyin' everywhere.

But rather than finally promoting me a rank, Grand Master Futon called the cops.

I think he was afraid of my potential.

The Number You Have Dialed HAS A LIFE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Teenagers spend a lot of time on the phone.

They are very busy and important people.

And I'm okay with that. Seriously. It's not fucking up my bandwidth all that much.

But they call a lot.

Nobody has called me since 2002, and I kinda liked it that way. But now, the same person will call four times in a row. And not just leave a message and move on, but just call and call.

And call.


***

I mean if you call once and you choose not to leave a message, I get that. You wanted to talk to the person live. Nothing particularly important.

The second call presupposes something like you were in the shower. While toweling suds out of your eyes, you make a heroic effort for the phone ... but just as you get there, the call switches to voicemail and the dripping water shorts out your Caller ID.

I can sympathize.

But the third call always makes me wonder what exactly this particular teenager is telling people about the size of our place. Okay: maybe you're in the pool. And while drying off the phone starts ringing again and you realize you've locked yourself out of the house ... and off in the distance you can hear Freddy Krueger start to churn through the outer perimeters of your hedge maze.

But a fourth call?

I'm totally bewildered.

Okay this scenario suggests that you've had your calls forwarded to the 7-11. And as you pour your Slurpee, a crashing meteor wipes out all mankind and accidentally creates flesh eating zombies: it's only then you realize you've locked yourself out of the church, and off in the distance you can hear Freddy Krueger; all civilization as we know it has come to an abrupt and bitter end, and one lone human being is crying out for help as the frail atmosphere is being sucked violently from Earth by a black hole.

Frankly, I still wouldn't answer: I would obviously have my own problems to deal with.

... and humanity's last Slurpee.