Friday

Report from THE FUTURE: Everything Still Dumb

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having accidentally snapped the Space-Time continuum, I'm now conducting this blog from two days in the future.

Frankly, it's boring. Some chick named Colbie Caillat evidently discovered the word "Realize", and wrote a song that contained it 715 times. I sent her a thesaurus that contained numerous references to other words like "comprehend" and "understand" only too late: to her chagrin it's now being broadcast over 92 local radio stations 24/7.

But THE FUTURE is not a total wash. In news that will excite Fanton and Chelle B., we indeed have flying cars:




Unfortunately the human ability to drive has not evolved at all, and some autopilot jerk tooling around in the fast lane at barely 900 mph is a real bitch to pass on the freeway.

The really big advancements seem to have come for sports: taking a cue from the raging success of Shark Boxing, Major League Baseball has ramped up the game in an effort to satisfy the thrill-seeking "modern" viewer that stubbornly insists on being entertained.

After adding acid quicksand cleverly disguised as natural turf [pictured right], they did away with that pansy 4 base crap; baseball now has 56 electronically randomized bases from 15 feet to 6 miles apart, each requiring a vine swing over flaming pits of starving alligators swimming in hydrogen peroxide and gasoline. This dramatically culminates into a spectacular slide through broken glass and ignited napalm, and is celebrated by the award of 9 points, fireworks, and more free booze and meth for the player.

Major League Baseball has also adopted a far stricter drug policy too: now steroid abuse is absolutely mandatory. And why not have the greatest athletes modern science can provide? Enraged victim-exploiting monster thugs with throbbing forehead veins wielding bats were already highly-valued family entertainment vis-a-vis the Fox Network show 'COPS' ... we just needed them statistically quantified.

Besides locating Atlantis and finding out the Jews really did control everything, there really isn't anything interesting to speak of. But fear not, 'o loyal reader! I shall not leave you without some useful futuristic wisdom.


LOBOSCOPES


You are the only sane one left. All the other signs of the Zodiac have gone crazy and are out to get you.

It's kill or be killed, you poor bastard.



If you were never born, world hunger, famine and poverty would have abruptly ceased long ago; peace and harmony would've been the hallmark of all humankind.

Other than that, your outlook is great.



Still waters run deep.

Unfortunately, you are about as 'deep' as the Spice Girls.

Geminis should avoid careers that involve operating heavy machinery, explosives, basic math, spelling, and speaking out loud.



It is a tumor.

I don't know how you did it, but you got testicular, prostate, ovarian and breast. On the bright side, those things incubating on your itchy genitalia won't be succesfully diagnosed until after the autopsy.



There's nothing wrong with your sexual appetites a little "Liquid G" can't handle.

Otherwise, just conduct your sermons as normal.



You are shrewd and ruthless: upon reading these horoscopes, you immediately buy life insurance on every Cancerian you know.

To enjoy your bountiful destiny, it is a Cosmic imperative you eye your insurance broker strangely ... He's a Taurus. They like that.

It makes them respect you more.

Your lucky number today is "-1".



You will meet a tall, dark stranger. Carry a can of mace, and you might be able to get away eventually. After prosthetics and several years of rehab, psychiatry, and heavy medication you might even be released to the family on weekends.

... But don't count on it.



You Leo, are the lion of the Zodiac. This means you are as fat, lazy and worthless as the ones in the wild kingdom. While you sleep all day, your concubines run around hunting to feed you during the brief debacle of your slothful consciousness.

Well done!



You are a complete loser, and the only person in the world that doesn't know it. Your own mother has to refrain from signing it on your birthday cards. Even your pets know it; your dog hides on walks when other dogs are around, and your goldfish are trying to spell it in the aquarium gravel.

Don't feel too bad, however; you could have been a Cancer ...



You are intelligent, amiable, charming, and good looking.

... Nobody can stand you.



Your wonderful and generous nature is rewarded rather ironically by Fate when you 'Realize' you were killed by one of Colbie Caillat's tour busses.



You Pisces, are the fish of the Zodiac. Even if you've learned to spell "LOSER" in the aquarium gravel, your only claim to history and fame will be an indirect and unfortunate association with the invention of tartar sauce.

Fish are ultimately animals that swim in their own urine and get hooked, beheaded, flayed, gutted, and deep-fried by the billions everyday. That having been said, do you really want to know your future?

As if your horoscope will say "You will wake up tomorrow a Scorpio" ... ?

Duh!!


Wednesday

It's About Time

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Brace yourselves ... for what I am about to reveal to you might just be such a profound shock to your unprepared noggin, it might twist your frail psyche into a pretzel. And not a warm, soft and chewy pretzel ... I mean a mind-shattered, neurosis-addled, learning impaired, curled-up-in-an-embryonic-position-in-the-corner-of-the-room stale kind of pretzel!

Look at the date on this post. It clearly says "Wednesday, March 26, 2008", doesn't it?

Now look at your calendar.

Hm?

Ha! Bask in the splendor, ye nonbelievers! Albert Einstein and, eh, lots of other noted physicists all said it couldn't be done. But by the simple act of putting a picture of the inside of my pocket in my pocket, I have shattered the Space-Time continuum.

Indeed, it's all very scientific; you have to do long division, and there's lots of fractions an stuff. Nonetheless, I, LOBO, am speaking to you from THE FUTURE.

... In your face, you mathematical quacks!

Further, I hold in my hand a lottery ticket. But this isn't just any lottery ticket; it's a lottery ticket from THE FUTURE. And as soon as all you jerks catch up with me and we all get to Thursday, I'm gonna be a very wealthy man.

And what will I do with my kajillion dollars? Well, I certainly ain't going to take any blog crap; I'm going to hire pricey ruthless mercenary thugs like Mike Tyson, Bill Gates 'an Martha Stewart to go stomp the daylights out of all those other blogs. Then, as Predator Press stands alone over the wasteland of ashes and smoldering rubble, I'll hire some more guys to burn down the wasteland of ashes and rubble. Streaming tears of joy, I'll dance and squish my toes in what remains of this impudent "Blogosphere"... Then I alone shall reign supreme as technocratic god-king, merciless tyrannical ruler of all I survey!

I won't stop there either. I'll throw a barbeque, and conduct a mass execution of people who leave big chunks of onion in their potato salad ... we'll line 'em up right next to guys who wear eye-watering quantities of Axe Body Spray -dammit, it's high time we took a stand in the name of having a personality. And don't even get me started on the writers of ABC's TV show "LOST" ... can't they please just finally fix the 'collate' feature on the copy machine they issue scripts from? No? Well I'll fix those goddamn pothole plotlines good.

I must admit I don't completely understand how buying a lottery ticket when you time travel to THE FUTURE increases your odds of winning. I mean, don't all those other people buying lottery tickets on Wednesday have exactly the same odds too?

This is perplexing.

Let's just forget I said anything at all.


Sunday

Illinois-Shaped Corn Flake Goes for $1,350 on eBay

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I can’t believe this.

$1,350!?!

My dandruff flake shaped like Idaho hasn’t scored a single bid, and it's twice that size!

I mean, I could see if it was a Lucky Charm shaped like the Hubble telescope -or maybe even a string of Honeycombs that looked like the Laker Girls!

But a Corn Flake shaped like Illinois?

-It wasn’t even frosted!

I couldn't possibly imagine what Jesus would say.

Well, except maybe ...


Happy Easter!!!


Friday

How Would OJ Fare at Shark Boxing?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Our hometown Pianosa now has an exit off of I-80, and is starting to take shape. It's the only town in Illinois that has both ski resorts and tropical beaches, and located smack between a Denny's and a Shell Station. It has further been statistically proven that on Saturday nights 14% of the people at the Shell station know the directions to Pianosa (the other 86% are only looking for directions to the Denny's).

I intend to change all this: I intend to make Pianosa the host of the first registered global exhibition match of a chum-soaked man in boxing gloves being pitted against a pissed-off 47' hungry Great White shark.

Shark Boxing promises to be the largest Man-Boxes-Shark Pay-Per-View event ever broadcast on network television.

We've named our Champion "Daisy."

And once again, Predator Press scienticians have stepped up: this time to answer that age-old burning question on everyone's mind, How would OJ Simpson fare at Shark Boxing?

At great expense to you, 'o Loyal Reader, we built a supercomputer that ran simulations of what would happen should OJ accept our challenge to take the $100 prize money.

See, because she weighs in at around 3 bone-crushing school busses, you immediately think the reigning champion Daisy has the advantage, right? Well, you forget that aside for being an all-around good guy, OJ Simpson is famous for only one thing: his athleticism. He's a Heisman Trophy winner. Sure that was a few years ago, but I'll bet he can still play basketball just as good.

Shockingly, after 17 kajillion separate identical simulations it turns out OJ wins the bout 98% of the time.

We showed Daisy the statistics, and she seemed unimpressed. In fact, one of our techs captured Daisy muttering something about OJ being a "stinky-faced poo-poo head."

I can't believe OJ is letting her get away with talking trash like that.

Thursday

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, "LOBO, after a mere four years, you've blossomed Predator Press into the colossal juggernaut of a blog it is today. What's your secret?"

I always tell them the same thing I tell both of our readers. It all boils down to two things: Awareness, Determination, and above all Discipline.

"A.D.D." for short.

See, what most people don't realize is that blogging about something is exactly the same as actually doing it. Here you can pretty much say anything and everything in full confidence that a preponderance of lack-of-evidence to the contrary is virtually everywhere. You know how I blogged about having lost both arms when I was shot down in the Battle of Leyte Gulf? Well now the U.S. Navy blogs about sending me disability checks. And remember how LadyTerri and I got married last week? The miracle of blogging transformed our wedding from this:




Into this:




Don't believe me? Ask any successful blogger to show you their "To Do" list. It will look something like:


1) wake up turn on computer, blog

2) take lithium drink coffee, blog

3) go to work call off, blog

4) go to doctor appointment surf WebMD, blog

5) reschedule colonoscopy eat White Castles, blog

6) clean garage buy gasoline, matches and fire insurance, blog

7) give dog bath away, blog

8) make dinner Mac and Cheese, blog

9) spend quality time with family ask lazy freeloading moochers to bring you some Mac and Cheese, blog

10) sleep blog

Again, discipline is the key.

And if all else fails, include some pornography.


Saturday

Thursday

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!




Wednesday

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."


Monday

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 ... "