My Alternate Personality is Ed Harris?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Imagine my surprise when I found out.

My first tip off -well, my only tip off- was seeing this article in the Clay Pigeon.

Damn that looks familiar I thought.

And sure enough after scouring the Predator Press archives, I found it.

At first I was mad. And for a lot of reasons ... I mean Ed Harris is a great actor, sure ... but he's no LOBO. Does he really share my loathe for Hittites? Or was Ed merely trying to ride the coattails of my fame, wealth and notoriety?

-Maybe he was trying to topple the entire Predator Press Empire!

That couldn't be it. He would have to be totally crackers to attempt something so foolhardy.

Wouldn't he?


HOUR 1

As the principles of Ockham's Razor cast doubt upon my initial state of denial, a wide spectrum of emotion finally settles at acceptance. The evidence is pretty clear: Ed Harris [Parcher] plagues Russell Crowe's [John Nash] sanity for a full two hours in 'A Beautiful Mind'. He's certainly got the 'chops' to be my alternate personality.

"Surely not LOBO," you say. "John Nash was crazy. You are the sanest -and possibly the most handsome and brilliantest- individual on Earth!"

But who am I to argue? Hey, there's nothing funny about comedy pal: maybe Predator Press did get nominated for four Oscars, Two Saturns, and win the Critic's Choice award in 1996. I certainly don't remember forgetting doing it.

Do you?


HOUR 1.5

The evidence that finally clinched it for me was the caption on the Clay Pigeon story: it says very clearly, "Ed Harris has played a lot of astronauts."

Heck, I spent weeks getting kicked off of the Space Program!


HOUR 2

Maybe it's not so bad being Ed Harris (as long as he doesn't touch any of my stuff). I mean it could have been Nicole Richie.


HOUR 4

But it could just have easily have been Brad Pitt. I mean why not Brad Pitt? You know, the pre-Angelina Jolie Brad Pitt, before they adopted like 57 kids? Ah god, can you imagine what that place must be like now? Trust me: as a proud parent, you can feed 'em two or three times a week and it's still all bitch, bitch, bitch -I don't care how much you beat them. And hello: Angelina Jolie? What's with all the adopting? Does Brad have E.D.?

Wait ... "ED"?

Oh my God I think I just snapped the Space-Time Continuum.

Roller Coaster

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't even wear glasses.

And why I would spend $300 on a pair is totally beyond me.

But dammit, If I'm gonna spend 300 bones on glasses, I am going to wear them.

Normally when you get your eyes dilated for a vision test, they will make you wait around for a little while until your vision returns. But the gnarly-toed hippopotamus woman who gave me the exam seemed strangely anxious to see me go.

There's only so long I can sit around and comment on her lack of shaving prowess anyway.

I'm a busy guy.

With the case and receipts in a little plastic bag, I step out of the LensCrafters and navigate through the crowded mall sort of leering at people. What good are $300 glasses if you can't leer at people?

See these glasses buddy?

$300.

I didn't even take the tags off.

But no one really seemed to care. Everyone was in this big line to get on the escalator. The announcement board to the left at first revealed only stick figures fornicating. But with a little squinting -and $300 glasses- I see it says:


Now Appearing
One Night Only

GEORGE LUCAS

George Lucas? I'm thinking. I love that guy!

I shoulda bought a pair of these years ago.


***

Numerous thrown elbows saves me a lot of time, and soon I'm in the restaurant. It's a classy place: the aroma of French food and soft plinketty-plink music fills the air. The roof is angled panes of immaculately clear glass, and offers a view of the full moon and thousands of stars.

Were I able to see it, it would have been breathtaking.

And all around are other celebrities. In fact -as I was by myself- I couldn't have my own table: the waiter made me sit with Chevy Chase and Beverly D'Angelo. Even the guy bussing the tables was famous. I couldn't think of his name, but he had been in countless martial arts movies. You know, the guy with the Fu Manchu mustache?

I wasn't very hungry, but the waiter wouldn't let me stay if I didn't order. So I ordered baked Alaska, country fried steak, four pork chops, lobster tails, chicken fingers, waffles with extra powdered sugar and a diet Coke. And when the food came, I eyed Beverly warily as I set my $300 glasses precariously on the far edge of the table.

I had barely started my second pork chop before I realized that George Lucas was sitting right next to us.

"George!" I exclaim, running over. "I loved 'The Empire Strikes Back'!"

"¿Qué?" he smiles politely.

"Oh, it was great," I says. "That movie had everything. Giant metal dogs 'an spaceships." I point my fingers like guns at him, "Pew! Pew-Pew! How did you get away with filming a brother 'an sister making out without the Catholics comin down on you?"

"Perdón; Con permiso -"

"I never knew you were Hispanic."

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see Fu Manchu bussing my table. "Hey!" I says. "I'm not done!"

Fu glares. "Sir, there are other customers waiting. We need this seat."

"I'm not done!" I repeat.

Fu bows slightly, and I return my attention to George. "You know, you should lay off with the whole 'Star Wars' thing for a while. The new stuff is crap. You're totally wrecking it for the rest of us."

"Señor-"

"Yes. In fact, I've got just the project for you." Flipping a script out of my jacket pocket, I flop it right on his Crepes Suzette. And making inverted twin "L"s with my fingers, I stare upwardly through them. "It's called 'LOBO: The Motion Picture'. Hey, why are you sitting by yourself? Can I join you?"

"¿Comprende usted?," he says.

I hear the sound of glass and silverwear, and realize Fu is scooping my food into a grey plastic tub!

I return to my table, furious. "Goddamnit Beverly! Why didn't you say something?"

"Hey buddy," demands Chevy. "I think it's time for you to go." Standing abruptly, he bumps the table and my $300 glasses fall to the floor.

Without missing a beat, Fu's heel lands squarely on them with a sickening crunch.

"You BASTARD!" I wail. "Those were $300!"

"Please come again," says Fu, disinterestedly heading for the bar.

"I want to talk to the manager!" I command. Glancing at the next table, I see Jim Carrey.

"Jim!" I says. "Did you see that?"

"What?" says Jim, confused.

"That dude just trashed my glasses!" I scoop the pieces off of the floor. "These damn things were $300!"

"I'm sorry," says Jim, squirming slightly.

"Do you know who runs this place?"

Jim points cautiously at a blond guy at the bar.

"Thanks," I says, grabbing my plastic bag. "By the way, you were freakin' awesome in The Shawshank Redemption."

Jim just kind of gives me a weird smile.

Man, what the hell is wrong with these people?

I go over to the bar, and the blonde guy is Nick Nolte.

I love Nick Nolte!

"Nick!" I says excited. "'48 Hours' was the best movie I've ever seen!"

Nick shakes my hand nervously. "Well, I liked 48 Hours too. But I'm-"

"Man, your hands are soft," I observe. "What was it like working with Eddie Murphy?" But there's something else odd about Nick. Examining his sunburned forehead, I see the top half is a pasty fish white. "Is that a toupee?"

"No. I fell asleep in the beach with a cap on."

"Oh c'mon. What are you now, like, 60? Nobody's got long blonde hair when they're 60."

"Can I help you?"

Fu, washing glasses in the sink, nods at me indifferently. "This man say I broke his glasses."

"You totally did break my glasses, you jerk!"

Nick just kind of blinks at me.

Reaching into my Lenscrafters bag, I pull out the receipt. "I just got them today. They were $300!"

Nick blinks again.

"One or both of you should pay for them," I implore. "Plus maybe something extra for psychological trauma ... like maybe I eat here for free for life or something."

Nick stares at me for a long moment. "Well," he says finally. "If you didn't have your glasses on, how do you know he broke them?"

"Damn you and your infallible logic!" I scream. Then, seizing Nick's toupee, I dive through the crowd for the fire escape.


***

I sat up, sweaty and out of breath.

"What's the matter baby?" says Terri sleepily.

"I just had the craziest nightmare!"

"That's strange," she says, hugging me. "So did I. I dreamed we were riding on a roller coaster, and a tornado was tearing up the place."

"Wow," I concede. "That is weird."

The Artichoke Debacle

Predator Press

[LOBO]

On February 20, 2007 LadyTerri and I screened Danger Couch and the Tinsel of Doom.

A review seemed appropriate.

Unfortunately, the household was wracked with Strep and flu, and this brought Predator Press screaming to a temporary halt.

Very unfortunate.

There was much to write about.

This was the day that Don Lewis had bestowed upon us the Quality Original Humor Award. The 'regular' news was fantastic blog fodder as well ... it was the day before the US Navy would miss the spy satellite they were trying to shoot down and accidentally 'liberated' the head off of the Statue of Liberty.

Did the following Navy cover-up get mentioned in your much-lauded "Wall Street Journal"? No. And CNN and MSNBC ran with our glaring absence, writing puff-pieces on John McCain and wars and stuff.

Those other so-called "news" sources are so completely devoid of any credibility, at first I was suspicious that the Navy wasn't trying to shoot down my spy satellite! Luckily, my spy satellite is busy in another hemisphere spying on Brent's satellite, which is busy spying on-

-Hey, wait a minute. Do I really look that fat on camera?

Why all this redundant criss-crossing double super secret agent stuff? Because Brent is just that evil. He steals my ideas before I even have them!

While a lot of you think Danger Couch and the Tinsel of Doom was his idea, you're utterly mistaken: this is a common misconception as he wrote, directed, appeared in, filmed and promoted it.

Therefore I forgive many of you: it's easy to not associate me with work I didn't write, direct, appear in, film or promote. You would think that I would've learned my lesson with that whole 'Citizen Kane' debacle ... but I don't not do it for the glory or the money; I don't do it because I love art.

And how do we really know I didn't write, direct, appear in, film or promote Danger Couch and the Tinsel of Doom? With my attention span, for all I know I did. Couldn't he have CGI-ed over all my appearances? Copied my music? Replicated my Oscar-worthy performances? Despite LadyTerri's assurances to the contrary, I'm not convinced: I find it difficult to believe that I wasn't involved in such a fun, raucous ride of comedy and music. I loved it, LadyTerri loved it, the kids loved it. It's brilliant. Clearly this has all the earmarks of my own work!

Perhaps the most dastardly move of all is that Brent is undercutting my suggested retail price of $8,406 per copy. I calculated this out on excruciatingly long Excel spreadsheets, and this had me barely breaking even after materials, postage, copyright infringement lawsuits, and the mandatory Spy Satellite Tax. But he is selling the same DVD for $15!!!. Can you believe that jerk? The madman is obviously operating at a staggering loss, hoping to strike a blow to the vast Predator Press empire.

The choice is clear: every copy you by from me means a triumph for Humankind ... every copy you buy from him only further drains his coffers.

Come to think of it, screw humankind. Stick it to Brent. Buy numerous copies, and give them away for belated Inappropriate Card Day gifts in defiance.

Meanwhile, I'm working on a sequel to Tinsel. It's called Rise of the Futon.

And it better be good, or I'll totally kill Brent.

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.