Heather Mills Nets 50 Million for Four Year Marriage

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Musical genius you are I say -but that’s
6.5 Ashley Alexandra Dupres a day!

[chorus]

It's a Diabolical Thing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

AS we can all see, the bravado of DONCO has been its own undoing: WITNESS the proof that Don possesses weapons of mass destruction!

Currently he is constructing a giant Death Dog so devastating, once complete it will launch state-of-the-art unimaginable human-melting horrors and patio furniture from its sides.

And not just any pooch: it's a Boston Terrier.

... I wouldn't want to be Boston right now.

Read this Post or DIE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After 57 episodes of "ASK A NINJA", I bought the book, T-shirt, the Neu Tickles album, the DVD, the cap, and some kickass black jammies. (Actually mine are dark green jammies; black jammies are described as difficult to get in Episode 1 ... but these are way cooler than black jammies: these got little froggies all over 'em.)

... As soon as that scary looking squirrel gets out of the front yard, I'm gonna open a can of whoop-ass.

Maybe I'm late for the dance (again) and you've already seen these -there are like 75 million episodes. Still, I thought they were a lot of fun. Check 'em out if you haven't!

Fore Science

Predator Press


[LOBO]

Following in the tradition of other great sages and intellects suffering from a deep crisis of Faith, I went golfing with Speedcat Hollydale.

As a natural born athlete, I derive much pleasure from sports: distraction might be just what I need.

"Fore!" I call. Throwing the golf ball up in the air, I smack it hard with the bat and it arced gracefully. The distance was good, but it landed far to the right of my target.

"Dammit!"

"That's a mean slice you have there," says Speedcat addressing his own ball. He had a curious habit of hitting the ball from the ground with a bent metal stick.

"You should let me take a mulligan," I protest.

"Not a chance," says Speedcat, concentrating. "I've already let you take six."

"But a daiquiri umbrella was stuck in my facemask!"

"Look," he says exasperated. "At some point you're just going to have to face the fact that you're gonna owe me that 100 bucks."

Whock

... Crash!

"Hah!" I says. "You didn't call your shot!"

"First, this isn't Pool. And second, that's the only damned window the police car had left!" Speedcat argued. "Speaking of which, we should get moving. That cop is bound to come out of that Dunkin' Donuts any second now."

"So you forfeit?"

"Like hell."

"All right, screw it," I says. Struggling under my protective sternum plate, I dig for my wallet.

'Your game was really off today," observes Speedcat. "What's bothering you?"

"I hadda get a blood test for the wedding," I concede. "The whole thing was very traumatizing."

"Did they find something wrong?"

"No. My blood got an A+, once again demonstrating it's intellectual superiority over all the other stupid and inferior bloods." I hand him a $100 bill. "I just feel like I was treated rudely from the start."

"Really?"

"Yeah. When I got to the medical center, I was very clear that nobody was gonna impale me except for Doctor Toboggans ... Especially not that quack Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep."

Speedcat paused from packing his clubs. "Well that sounds pretty straightforward actually."

"Yeah. But Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep was argumentative," I says, throwing my football shoulderpads in the trunk. "He was all, 'But Toboggans isn't that kind of Doctor,' and Toboggans is busy saving America from certain economic disaster,' blah blah blah."

"You're kidding," says Speedcat, tightening the knot on the kayak caddy. "Hey, watch out. Here comes the Zamboni."

"Thanks."

"So what did you tell him?"

"I asked him flatly what kind of 'medical center' the ignoramus was supposedly running devoid of such luminaries as Doctor Toboggans."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know. The tranquilizer dart started taking effect."

The Prince of Dorkness

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"What, brings you here today my son?" asks Father Fritz.

"Well, Patrick Swayze's death really shook me up, and I'm getting married Friday."

"I'm so happy for you my child!" says Fritz.

"She's not Catholic," I says. "I've been trying to convert her, but she's really stuck on this whole 'Christian' thing. I just want to be sure I can tell her with absolute certainty she's going to suffer Eternity burning in Hell for her heathen beliefs."

"What?"

"Hey, I'm not doing those 'stand-sit-kneel-sit-stand-sit-kneel-stand-kneel calisthenics every Sunday so's I can go to Heaven with a bunch of lazy hippie pagans."

"But you haven't been to church since 1999!"

"That was by your request."

"You kept handing out Gatorade and towels and high-fiving people. It was very disruptive."

"I was moved by The Spirit."

"LOBO," says the priest, leaning back in his chair. "Have you ever considered any other religions? Perhaps becoming Jewish?"

"I can't make that whole 'beard-without-a-mustache' look work. And those 24' sideburns could get caught in the heavy machinery at work."

"How about a cult?" he offers. "I know for a fact there are dozens of perfectly good cults out there."

"Hm," I says thinking. "I know these Qelqoth guys with a cult that seems pretty cool."

"Well there you go," says Fritz.

"I just wish I could remember what it's called ... "

Predator Press Loses Product Line to DONCO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally breaking the silence, blog mogul Don Lewis -author of "It's a Funny Thing"- has formally announced once and for all the sinister consolidation and centralization of humorous blogging from his notoriously evil fortress located in equally-evil Northern Idaho.

While initially shocked at the subsequent hostile takeover of our highly-profitable line of frighteningly realistic Halloween costumes, the folks at Predator Press Fiendish Fashions are preparing to surrender unconditionally to welcome their new comic overlord and CEO.



Frankenstein

Dracula

Ann Coulter

Creature from the
Black Lagoon

Frankly, these things were giving us the creeps anyway.

Did I Eat This?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After three years, I finally got my RSS feed working.

I'm really impressed with myself.

I called my dad.

"Hey dad!" I says. "I got my RSS feed working!"

"What? Who is this?"

"Dad, it's me. LOBO."

"Who?"

"Very funny dad," I says chuckling. "We missed you at the wedding"

"What wedding?"

"I am married the fair LadyTerri."

"Oh man, she's hot."

"I know!" I says.

"Who is this really?"

"LOBO," I says. "Remember? You are undefeated at finding the most Easter eggs. I was the short one wearing the blindfold."

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe your dad was the one hiding the Easter eggs in the first place?"

"You would get frustrated after a few hours, and from then on made us paint them white so they would be easier to spot," I reflect. "I found one on my Big Wheel yesterday."

"Well I wouldn't eat it. Look. I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong-"

"You used to drill us at 3:30 every morning in case of a zombie uprising."

"Zombie uprising? I'm sorry, but-"

"Unless it was Wednesday or Sunday. That's when we practiced for alien robot overlords."

"I have no idea what you are talking about. Say, are you calling me from a cell phone?"

"You don't remember bursting out from under my bed, banging a trash can and shining a flashlight into my eyes while zapping me with a cattle prod and screaming obscenities until I wet my pants? That's one of my fondest memories."

[audible sigh]

"You realize that alien robot overlords would be able to intercept these transmissions -if they really existed?"

"Um-"

"And that once they secured a foothold on Terra Firma, they would play back all these messages searching for possible insurgents? They would send Ragnarok the Colossus!"

"Or Thrang, the Human Rototiller!"

"-If they existed."

"How is Rex?"

"Zombie."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We hadda put him down in 2005. He unmistakably had The Look."

"So Rex is gone? Who delivers your mail now?"

"I dunno. Some robot."

"How's mom?"

"Possible zombie."

"Mom?"

"You know her. It's hard to tell. She's never been the same after the abduction."

"Yeah. Good luck getting her near a trailer park."

"I keep tellin' her the best way to kill aliens is with a tornado. But then she just gives me The Look."

"How about Aunt Phyllis?"

"Robot Zombie."

"Really?"

"She always was a social butterfly. It worked out really well for her ... she's a Class C."

"A stainless model?"

"Fusion powered. All chrome. She's really come a long way. And you should see how fast she can deal the cards at Euchre. Mom and her are still inseparable ... but if we have another incident at the children's petting zoo, I think they are going to call the cops."

"I can just imagine the bill for dry cleaning."

"Look. I gotta go. You take good care of that LadyTerri, okay?"

"I will dad."

"God she's hot."

"I know dad."

"And congratulations on that RSS feed thing. If you guys ever get down here to Capitol Hill, be sure and drop into my office."

"We will."

"And stay away from Humor Blogs. Those people are weird."

"I will. I love you, dad."

"Fag."

Opinion: Fisting Not Just for Old People Anymore

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You remember the drill: no sooner would you get that kickass skateboard ramp all set up and some blue-haired wrinkle kit runs out yelling "GET OFF OF MY LAWN!" Wobbling precariously on his or her rocker, they shook their liver-spotted and crunkly clenched hand menacingly at about eye-level to punctuate every syllable.

But widely-embraced by America as a whole, 'fisting' is now being done by a whole range of generations: Years ago I fisted Madeline Albright repeatedly over her foreign policy. Now, disillusioned artists on American Idol are fisting Simon Cowell even as you read this. Heck, a guy fisted me earlier in traffic!

'Fisting' has sneakily entered the American lexicon of body language, and is rapidly rising to a level of globally recognized symbolism.

Now that's progress.

Rejection Coverage 2008

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As today marks the last day of my stuff being featured in the Clay Pigeon, I've decided that I need to do something educational. As the sole source of news for millions and millions of readers, I figure Predator Press owed it to the masses to weigh in finally on the up-and-coming elections.

Now when I say "up-and-coming", I mean to say November. That's nine more months of this crap, and I'm already sick to death of it. I can't turn on the television without seeing one or more of those windbag pricks.

This country has completely lost sight of any semblance of importance and priority. What about our own princess in distress Britney Spears? Or the charming romantic misadventures of our own beloved Ben Affleck? I can't even remember the last time I saw a juicy scoop on Paris Hilton!

Someone needs to get America back on track.

The truth is none of the presidential candidates are touching on real issues the America cares about at all. It's all, 'economy this,' and 'energy crisis that', and 'blah blah blah war'. Which country are these people running for? Nobody gives two craps about any of these things.

Not a single candidate has addressed the single most burning issue on everyone's mind: How will America will conduct International Policy with the Republic of LOBOnia?

Not one.

As many of you longtime readers already know, LOBOnia is the mobile 12' circle that surrounds myself at all times. (It used to be only 10', but we have been on an aggressive and successful expansion campaign since 2006 in anticipation of the wedding to the fair LadyTerri. Did your much-lauded Wall Street Journal cover that?)

The truth is America abuses our non-aggression pact all the time. One only has to be with me when I go to O'Hare Airport to witness unbridled violations of our no-fly zone. I've filed countless unanswered claims with your government about the numerous breaches of my diplomatic immunity and tax-free status ... and don't even get me started on what I pay for international calls: Cingular is raping me every month.

How do you think that effects our respective national relations?

Hm?

The Predator Press Institute of Political Analysis has found concusively that not one of these candidates are worthy to lead your great nation into the Age of LOBOnian Enlightenment inevitably to come.

Hillary Clinton: Are you seriously going to vote for someone devoid of the common decent courtesy to put the toilet seat back up when she's done using it?

Blech!

Barack Obama: I'm sorry. But after all these years of oppression, don't you think it's time for a white guy to catch a break?

Argyle socks are huge again, and 'Riverdance' is all the rage with young people.

Our time has come.

John McCain: Just look at that tie.

OMG.

I'm not ready for whatever psychedelic hippie crap this guy must be espousing.

This entire campaign would be derailed with the use of a simple drug test.


???: I don't know who exactly this guy is, but those eyebrows are pissing me off. And the last time I saw a haircut like that, it had bits and pieces of omlet in it from scubbing the skillet.

Time to 'phone home' buddy.

... NEXT!

Brian "The Ultimate Warrior" Hellwig: Let's see Chinese President Hu Jintao skimp on the safety of children's toys and pet food after a devastating 'Warrior Splash'.

Not only is Brian a fantastic candidate, but he's a great example of what a strict diet of turducken and Jolt Cola can do.


William "Captain Kirk" Shatner: Now here's a guy who is on my personal "A" list. Not only does he have all the necessary qualifications to be an effective commander of my sprawling intergalactic empire, but unlike McCain he's got the "tie" thing together. See that? Understated. Elegant. Classy. And not afraid of two-headed green space chicks ... what a perfect heir to the Clinton legacy.

Plus we could move the whole space armada using deep Priceline discounts.

Han Solo: Lastly, I present to you perhaps the coolest candidate of all. I mean sure the actor that plays him is about as interesting as a box of rocks off-camera. But that Ford guy is an actor: Han Solo was a total BMF before the 'Special Edition' where Greedo shoots lamely in his direction first and gets his own head blasted off. But as you may well remember, in the Star Wars Unrated Release, Han and Luke tune Greedo up with baseball bats for about four minutes first.

Alas, it will be hard to separate him from his ties to crime families.

There you have it folks ... the long-awaited Predator Press list of 2008 presidential nominees.

Our apologies for not offering these sooner, but our glaring absence from commentary on the political spectrum has ended: we now recognize that you people apparently thing is pretty important.

We'll do it again next year.

I promise.

As a reminder, here's a picture of a tattoo far too painful for me to actually get.

Te Amo

Predator Press

[LOBO #64]

LOBO alternate personality #32 arrived at the Pearly Gates bewildered.

The last thing he remembered was joining Ed Harris for pizza and bread sticks.

... and now he was dead.

By now, there was a small line of LOBO personalities waiting to speak to Saint Peter.

"Hi LOBO personality #32!", says LOBO personality #71 and #16 waving enthusiastically. "Jesus Christ what a handsome personality."

"I was just about to say the same thing," grins LOBO personality #32. "You guys are downright gorgeous!"

"What happened to you?" asks #71.

#32 shrugs. "High cholesterol maybe?"

"Wow," says #16.

"Yeah," says #32. "What about you handsome devils?"

#16 blushes. "You know I'm not sure. I was filling the car with gas, lit a cigarette, and everything went kablooey."

"Could have been the mob," offers #71.

"That's a really brilliant insight," ponders #16. "I never thought of that. It could have been a really ugly, jealous mob. #71, you must be a genius."

"A really good looking, sexy genius," ads #32.

"What about you, #71?" asks #32.

#71 held up his right hand, inspecting his fingernails with arched eyebrows coolly. "I knocked up Phoebe."

"No way!" says #32.

"You're kidding!" says #16.

"Nope," says #71. "A few years ago, before I met LadyTerri, me an Phoebe had a, uh, 'thing'."

"You lucky bastard," says #32. "You handsome, brilliant, lucky bastard."

"Tell us how it happened," says #16.

"Yes, please do," says #32, bouncing and clapping his hands. "Give us details!"


***

LOBO hated going to Chicago. It was always a big pain in the ass.

As usual, he would ride straight up Interstate 94 until he hit the inevitable gridlock. Deciding that this was more parking than it was actually driving, he would then abandon his car wherever he was -right there in the sea of beeping and cursing- and walk the rest of the way.

It wasn't a perfect or particularly convenient system admittedly. But on occasion when he came back hours later, the car was still there surrounded by the same beeping and cursing people that were there when he left. And sometimes -when he was really lucky- it would have maybe fifteen or twenty feet of open road in front of it.

At least he didn't have to tote around change for a parking meter.

On this particular day, he got within eight miles of his destination before the "parking" started.

It was shaping up to be a fine day.

Shuffling northward, he was reading the used car classifieds as he walked. In no particular hurry, he arrived at Phoebe's posh apartment building three hours later.

Outside was a disheveled, smelly guy, holding out a tin cup.

LOBO took the cup and looked inside. It was full of nickels and quarters.

"No thanks," he says, handing it back to the bewildered guy. Tapping his temple with his index finger he replies, "I did the free parking thing."

But as he starts to walk away, he notices someone else walk by and drop some change in it.

"Wow," says LOBO. "That guy just gave you money? Just like that?"

The guy with the cup stared.

"Oh I gotta get in on this action," he says to no one in particular. "This city rocks!"


***

So LOBO returns from the nearby convenience store like twenty minutes later with a small bag.

Unwilling to soil himself, he also had a Diet Pepsi which he promptly poured in his lap.

Figuring an environment less hostile to the olfactory senses might be more lucrative, in the bag he had two dozen pine tree air fresheners which he proceeded to sneakily hang on all the other people on the block holding out cups.

With a black marker and cardboard, he countered the abundant "WILL WORK FOR FOOD" signs with "WE ACCEPT VISA AND MASTERCARD". Where one guy's pants hung too low, LOBO's hung lower. Where one's clothes were inside out, LOBO's were inside out and upside-down. When one drooled, LOBO gushed. When one sang tunelessly or cursed at people that weren't there, he would affix a Bluetooth earpiece upon them: this would transform the shabby-looking transient instantly into a trendy Gen-X high powered executive.

"Oh come on!" he complained when the guy in Army fatigues missing his legs scooted by on a skateboard. Frustrated, he beaned "Skateboard Guy" with his empty plastic cup.

Frothing unrepeatable obscenities, he skulked on up to Phoebe's apartment in defeat.


***

Three hours later, the phone seemed to ring forever.

Finally, the semi-familiar voice answers. "Yeah?"

"Is this Fat Louie?" asks LOBO.

"Who wants to know?" says the disembodied voice.

"This is LOBO."

"Who?"

"You know, LOBO. We met downstairs. You asked me if I needed anything. Like 'H' or dope or crack or women."

"Oh yeah. You're the guy that said you were bored and looking for a 'good time'."

"Yep," says LOBO. "That's me."

"Well what do you want?"

"When you sold me this, uh, Liquid G stuff, you said 'one drop in a girls drink, and I was guaranteed to have a good time'."

"What happened?"

"She fell asleep!"

"Ummm ... what did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know. I figured maybe she would call up some friends and we could play Trivial Pursuit or maybe Monopoly."

Pause

"Uh huh," says Fat Louie.

"Should I give her some more?"

"God no," says Louie. "Too much of that stuff could be dangerous. I would put it away. In something you know nobody will accidentally drink out of."

"Like a can of Tab? I'm way ahead of you." LOBO pauses. "How long is Phoebe going to be out? I think I need a ride home."

"About eight hours. She won't remember a thing, either."

"So I'll need to write out some directions?"

Another pause

"So what can I do for you?" asks Louie.

"Well, I'm bored. And I already watched all her Dawson Creek dvds." LOBO sighs. "So how's the wife and kids?"

"Look, 'LOBO'," says Fat Louie. "You got any condoms?"

"Yeah. I found some in her purse."

"Well use them, dumbass."

A click, and a dial tone.


***

Use the condoms? LOBO thought. What am I going to do? Make ribbed, glow-in-the-dark, 'lubricated for her pleasure' sausage?

He didn't get any ideas until he went in her bathroom. There, he found rows and rows and rows of Phoebe's bottled perfume.

It was all cheap crap, too. No Safari.

Remembering the hobos in the street, he started making pleasant-smelling water balloons. It took about five or six burst ones to determine the maximum density of a water-slash-perfume filled condom, and he disposed of the unusable ones in the toilet.

"Bombs away!" he cried over Phoebe's 35th story balcony, scoring a direct hit on Skateboard Guy.

Finally out of ammunition, he returned to the kitchen, thirsty. Finding an unfinished can of Tab, he chugged the whole thing as he wandered in to see if Phoebe had woken yet.

... And passed out right next to her.


***

Phoebe woke to find LOBO snoring loudly.

That's strange, she thought.

Having been unconscious for quite some time, she headed immediately for the bathroom, where she found an empty vial labeled "Liquid G", and a half-dozen burst condoms floating in the toilet.

She screamed.


***

"What happened then?" asks LOBO personality #16.

"She was trying to wake me up, but I couldn't understand a word she was saying; for some reason she was really upset and had one of those Early Pregnancy Test slides in her mouth. Evidently, I might have gotten her pregnant somehow-"

"Maybe you're so virile that just being near her was enough. Did you go near any cabbage patches?" asked #32.

"No."

"Or leave a half dollar under her pillow?" asked #16.

"Nope," replies #71, shaking his head.

"I'll bet that sneaky Skateboard Guy had a half dollar to sneak under her pillow," reflected #32.

#71 points to his nose, and continues. "I calmly explained that she shouldn't be ashamed of succumbing to her natural sexual desires for me, what with me screaming out all these incredibly manly testosterates everywhere. She's only human for God's sake: it's biology. And even though it was more likely Skateboard Guy's baby, I would raise it with her like it was my own, and we should get hitched so's the kid ain't no bastard."

"So ..."

"I don't know what happened next. Something crashed into my head. I turned to look, and it was the sidewalk."

"Hah!" says Saint Peter. "See Gabriel? You owe me fifty bucks!"

Crackers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Why'd you do it LOBO?" asks Ed, sharpening his bonesaw.

"Why did I do what?" I says through the bathroom door.

"Tell people you wrote the Hittites story!"

"Well I wanted to be in the Clay Pigeon!" I says. "Pound for pound, I would put it up against anything out there. The King James Bible comes in at a measly 6.2 lbs, while my monitor comes in at a hefty 15.1. It's got, like, 10 pounds more funny! It's a comedy juggernaut."

"I would've had it all," says Ed, trying the doornob. "Money. Power. Chicks ... But you hadda go ruin everything!"

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, whenever I want to blog or read the King James Bible I have to do it from in here now."

"From in the bathroom?"

"Well this is where the scale is, dumbass."

"Oh you'll have to come out someday," Ed growls.

"Why?"

"Well, I -I ordered pizza."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Did you get bread sticks?"