Thursday

Wesley, Cripes!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again, the United States Government has jealously dealt a sneaky beneath-the-belt blow to the mighty Predator Press Empire -this time having sentenced Wesley Snipes to 3 years in prison.

The premier of LOBO: The Motion Picture has been once again postponed indefinitely.

This is no small setback. It’s not as simple as just getting another actor; after seeing Blade, I was instantly convinced that only Wesley had the vast acting range, martial arts repertoire and rigorous superhuman physical endurance necessary to play yours truly.

So it’s back to the drawing board.

Despite the rejection letters in the mail, I would like the following gentlemen to return to the set for another screen test:



Thag has stolen my spellchecker, and gaven it to The Skwib


Sunday

Pulp Non-Fiction

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Tagging" me seems redundant; more than half of the material I've done in the past few weeks is pimp other sites.

So while flattered, I never know what to make of memes 'an stuff.

I'll do the first and most important part -the part about me- but as for spawning it on, you'll just have to trust that anything linked on my site is worth checking out.


1) I'm Anesthetically Inclined: In my brief career as a truck driver, I once covered 4,500 miles in 90 hours. That's the equivalent of New Jersey to Los Angeles, and halfway back.

Exhausted, I accidentally brushed my teeth with a handy tube of Neosporin. Despite the horrifying taste, I was so tired and in a hurry I said screw it. I mean, it's kind of a paste ... and it's also some kinda sterile germicide, right?

-I drooled and couldn't talk for about 300 miles.

2) I Stopped the "Music": While now merely a terrible writer, I was once a terrible musician too. After the 80s-ish Cheap Thrills and the 90s-ish Destructive Criticism, I started mixing equally terrible stuff on a label called The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex.

The proposed CD jacket -a giant chromed fly in a hangar bay- was the inspiration for the character 'Templeton' in my older stories.

I still own the rights to the label.

Want them?

3) I Unsuccessfully Tried Charity Work: I own the url "www.ilikevagina.com".

-The original idea was to sell "Yes! I like Vagina!" T-Shirts to fundraise for ovarian cancer prevention.

4) Lands End: There are nuggets of truth that inspired Walk This Plank, Talk This Plank; on the way to the vet, I wrecked a vehicle into a large body of water and had to rescue my cat from it.

5) Numb and Number: I am wholly and utterly unaffiliated uninspired and disloyal politically, and shamelessly so: all I want is an alternative energy source so we can starve other countries of the money they use to kill us with.

Otherwise, I couldn't give a crap.

-S.S.D.D.

6) The Speedo Torpedo: I can't remember which book, but Kurt Vonnegut once gave some measurements and wrote that "as far as he knew, his 'endowment' was a World Record".

-I considered writing a letter to correct him.

7) My Academic Accolades: In my first semester of college, my English teacher singled me out in front of the class. After reading one of my badly-butchered paragraphs aloud, she continued on to say how much she "resented having to deal with remedial students here at the college level".

One year later, I became the Editor-In-Chief of the school newspaper.

I posed nude in the first issue.

8) Rubbing Elbows the Wrong Way: As a teenager, I met Dave Mustaine at a Holiday Inn.

At the time, I had no idea who he was.

I didn't own the album he as touring on.

In fact, I didn't own any of them: I disliked Megadeth music in general.

He thought that was refreshing.

We had a great time.

9) *BONUS* Love Synchs, Yeah Yeah The character "LOBO" evolved out of an online dating profile I filled out as a gag. All the other profiles were blasé clones citing a love for 'long walks on the beach' and 'sunsets'.

You know. Horsecrap.

I wondered What would one of these things look like if you were too stupid to lie?"

The questionnaire, filled out honestly, was hilarious. There's a reasonable facsimile of the Q & A -republished in story form- here.

But this single vicious act of wanton and savage sarcasm gave me more than my nom de plume; it's also how I met my wife LadyTerri.

On top of dealing with my battle-scarred psyche and general goobery, Predator Press probably wouldn't be here without her; while I spend countless hours trying to pound out things that make people laugh, she spends all that same time keeping me "freed up".

Heart and soul I love her, and my whole world revolves around her.


Swift and lethal tagging/meme payback is owed to Dead Rooster

Saturday

Buff

Predator Press

[LOBO]

During a recent meme, I was asked to list "8 truthful things about myself".

LadyTerri stopped me at "freakishly muscular".

"Muscular?" she asked. "Where?"

"You can't see them. They're like ant muscles. And ants can lift the equivalent of a bus."

"Uh huh."

"And I can lift like ten ant-sized busses."


I was disqualified after testing positive for neOnbubble.


And That's How I Rescued Diesel (Bring on the Ewoks!)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I must admit, I expected the triumphant and long-awaited return of Predator Press to Humor-Blogs to look as pictured left.

Which may indeed occur -I'm mean it's entirely possible that Diesel has hidden the crowds and fireworks in his office.

But currently, it looks like this:

"Where's Diesel?" I demand firmly.

"Well, he ain't here," says Ed Harris, kicking me in the ribs even more firmly. "What do you want from him?"

[blonde on lobby television: "It's the monster!"]

"Well for starters," I wheeze, "I want you to stop kicking me."

"No dice," says Ed, pulling a note out of his pocket. Holding it in front of my swelling face, he reads it aloud:




[blonde on lobby television: "I had better put on my stiletto heels so I can escape it down the middle of the highway!"]

"But I'm trying to save Humor-Blogs!" I protest. "Hey, you work for Thomas Kinkade now, don't you?

"Mr. Kinkade has asked me not to respond to questions. Now would you roll over please? These ribs are all broken, and this side is too soft and spongy already."

[blonde on lobby television: click click click click POK "Dammit! I broke a heel! ...]

"Think about it Ed," I says, turning onto my stomach. "You don't want to work for -oof!- some artist that looks suspiciously like -ughn!- Eddie Izzard! This revolution could usher in a whole new era of comedy. Just look at this spiff new banner I made by ripping off Don Lewis!"





"Would you mind moving over by the couch?", says Ed. "My foot is getting tired."

[blonde on lobby television: ... click pok click pok POK "Dammit!"]

Next Episode:

D HUNDRED


Speedcat Hollydale is my bodyguard.


Friday

I Knew Humor Blogs Would Crack the Whole Time

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I moderate comments for the sole reason to be sure I've read them all.

So I was at lunch today -checking email and releasing them- and I came across one by Karl Wolfbrooks Ager, author of Faking Smart! In Corporate America.

I was initially puzzled, but within moments I was gripped with a growing, mortified sense of horror:


There was a typo on the Predator Press.


Now I'm explicitly forbidden to fiddle with Predator Press at my day job.

And as a natural consequence, I'm likely prohibited to murder Karl Wolfbrooks Ager as well.

There was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

So I faked a massive heart attack.


***


Now don't go on judging me already: within 25 minutes I had commandeered an ambulance, and -sirens blaring- screeched up into my driveway 16 miles away.

I was editing HTML before the picket fences and tricycles had even fallen off the radiator grill.

But just as I finished correcting the hideous blemish on America's favorite blog and dispatching the lethal ninjas on "Karl" -if in fact that's his real name- I got an email from Diesel himself.

Hah! I thought. I knew Humor-Blogs would totally collapse under the mighty weight of our boycott!

It was time to forcibly negotiate a better, more leveraged position on the website that wholly depends on me alone for traffic.

But when I arrived at the massive Minneapolis Humor-Blogs headquarters, Diesel was nowhere to be found. Instead, negotiations are being held by my old pal Ed Harris.

And I, for one, am glad there was an ambulance close by.


Whenever I'm in an ambulance, I blame Bee's Musings.


Thursday

Black in Back

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to Wikipedia, there are 6.65 billion people on earth.

And Chelle B. -the Offended Blogger- wants to eliminate around 97% of them.

Now I'm no calculatron, but that doesn't leave very many: the number that would survive -give or take a few hundred thousand- is "5".

(Well, the actual answer comes up as "watery soup", which unintentionally proves Don's Malthusian theories on Global Eating -but don't tell him; if he ever found out he was right about anything, he'd be twice as unbearable.)

So the bad news is not many of you will live.

But the good news is I've made the rest of us banners!








***


For my last post, I tried disguising Predator Press as .45 Caliber Headspace in order to hide from the scurrilous cast of bloggers involved in The Comma Caper. But what started as a joke developed into what just might be a permanent "facelift".

So now I figure, Why stop there?.

I wanna redo everything, and the banner is the first thing to go.

This was my first banner effort:







Meh.

If you're ever bored enough, you can read the fantastic epic saga of how I came up with my original banner here.

Please don't ever be that bored.

Suicide is always an option.

I mean it's straightforward enough, but it lacked drama. "Zazz" if you will. It's just not something that leaps out at you, you know?

So then I came up with this:








-but big words like "obtrusive" and "monstrosity" kept surfacing.

So then I made this:








But rather than getting new readers, I just got a bunch of nefarious job offers.

Ultimately, I decided on this:



DON'T CLICK THIS


Wait.

What’s with that look?

-Why does everyone wince like that?


While hunting wayward grammas, I frequently
disguise myself as The Cult of Qelqoth.


Tuesday

Shh!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In anticipation of widespread backlash for our previous Official Statement, we here at Predator Press have prepared the following Official Statement:


It was all Diesel’s fault.


Frankly, Predator Press is sick of hiding here in the dark, fearful of ill-reasoned retaliation. Has it gotten so a regular guy can’t break into another guy’s house, hack his password, and take a bath in his Jello and Cheese Wiz without the threat of criticism anymore?

What in God’s name is this country coming to?

I, for one, am shocked and appalled. And how am I supposed to finish reading Antisocial Commentary if every time I flip on the lights some crazy blogger takes potshots at the wholesome Wisdom, Purity, Hope and Truth which Predator Press strives only to promote? (Yes, I’m talking to you Don: I looked up all those big words you told me were compliments, and you were lying!)

Well Diesel, I’m onto you too buddy: I suppose it was an “accident” you developed your brilliant blog, spent years writing that kickass book, and created Humor Blogs all for the sole purpose of luring me into a close enough orbit to have me assailed. The conspiracy is all so obvious now … how could I have not seen through it?

Well, your elaborate-yet-transparent communist plans are not only ill-fated, they are un-American. And as a national treasure, I consider it my patriotic duty to crawl away on my belly while I still have my dignity.

... But for the duration, I’ve disguised myself as .45 Caliber Headspace.


***

This post is actually a simple commemoration of leaving "Humor-Blogs".

It's been great fun and I'll probably still pimp it to some degree: it absolutely seethes with talent, and I recommend it as a "must-browse".

But as the Predator Press primary author, I’ve got far too much pride to bear watching her sink slowly in rank due to my growing neglect.

Thanks Diesel, and good luck to all.

(And don’t be a stranger!)


:)


Sunday

MORE BRIANS!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having dedicated myself to becoming the world's foremost authority on the human brain, I decided I had better "Google" it.

One of the little-known secrets of my outrageous success is my speed reading technique: I can read about 600 pages an hour. So -at a blistering pace- within two hours I knew everything there is to know about Brain De Palma, Brain Wilson, and the loyal and erudite Family Guy dog, Brain Griffin.

I must admit I'm not 100% on how all this interconnects; I mean what do all those guys have in common with the control center of the central nervous system?

But see that's how science works. It's sneaky like that. Christopher Columbus didn't set out to find America. Stephen Hawking didn't set out to discover space. And who knew that while running a radioactive brothel, Madame Curie would come up with all those cures?

But now that I have dedicated my weekend to the pursuit of science, I need to take a breather from it lest I fall prey to her seductive powers; as a deeply religious man, I know how this goes: one minute you're studying some elegant geometry, and the next they are raiding your Texas compound and accusing you of polygamy -the pagan worship of polygons.

God hates science.

Friday

Inside the Blogger Mind

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In anticipation of widespread backlash for our recent blogjacking endeavors, we here at Predator Press have prepared the following Official Statement:


It was all Don Lewis's fault.


But Don shouldn't be judged too harshly.

In effort to provide you with the continued comedic brilliance you have come to expect from It's a Funny Thing, he has resorted to injecting his frontal lobe directly with nearly-lethal doses of ecdysterone. The last human to endure that much artificially inflated humor was Jack Handey, who would ultimately write one last sketch for "Toonces, the Driving Cat" before his hippocampus finally gurgled out onto the kitchen linoleum.

In this steroid-jazzed addled state, the normally mild-mannered and charming Don Lewis appeared at the Predator Press Fundraiser for Crippled Orphans where Alex L -author of The Discreet Charm of the Middle Class- and I were building 100% formaldehyde-free dumpster habitats (commonly known as 'DumpsterTats') for the less fortunate DumpsterTot youth of America.

"Get in the damn car!" growls Don. "We're gonna hijack the The Ominous Comma!"

"What?" says Alex L, setting down three small orphans.

"Why would we do that?" I asked in disbelief. "We like Brent!"

"Shut up and get in, before I pull your boots though your eye sockets!" he demanded.

So we went along ... to try and keep an eye on him, you know? We here at Predator Press keep a pretty open mind when it comes to our ideas or ones that we agree with, but this was just going too far. He had to be joking, right?

To our horror, Don had elaborate plans and blueprints and so forth all prepared.

Alex and I sat through the militant briefing in utter shock.

Don was completely out of his mind.

... and we had no choice but to comply.


THE REVEAL


I knew the whole time this was going to seem pretty far fetched, so while Don was sleeping off his wild rampage I prepared numerous dizzying, bottomless Excel spreadsheets as evidence.

And Predator Press scienticians have been working 'round the clock in a fascinating brand new field never before explored: the study of the human brain.

We call it Brainology.

First we needed a "Control Group".

Scans of Mattress Police author Diesel are perfectly normal for a healthy blogger's braincase, and suited our needs perfectly.

Note the vibrant pastels, suggesting sweet chewy wholesome juicy goodness with a potential caramel center.

Don'tcha just want to lick it?



***


While enjoying an appreciable lack of subtlety, the dark and mysterious writer for .45 Caliber Headspace is clearly firing on all cylinders.

And wow.

-This image turned out to be the only one we could publish without risking our PG13 rating.

".45" shows absolutely vibrant patterns of creativity, particularly when words such as "stripper pole" and "potting soil" are invoked.

This blogger just might be the most sane of all.

***


When we heard the poetic lyric "choking on the ashes of her enemies," we immediately wanted to get Kurt Cobain. But lacking a wide-angle scanner lens, our new technology was woefully inadequate.

Instead, we naturally segued to Chelle B., The Offended Blogger.

-Please extinguish all potentially incendiary devices and objects when viewing this blog; Predator Press cannot be held accountable for people offended by their own self-immolations.

***


And lastly, we come back to Don.

These disturbing images were captured during his marathon 6-hour viewing of television's long defunct series "Webster".

But I warn you: these shocking images are not for the feint-of-heart; please only view after ensuring all children and overly-intelligent small animals have left the room.




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Monday

Hijacking the OC

Predator Press

[LOBO]

No, I don't mean the one on television.

I mean the good one.

I once hijacked The Ominous Comma.

There's no need to thank me.

See Brent and I go way back. We've been trying to wipe one another out since the dawn of time; indeed, our epic battles often make "Star Wars" look like kids scuffling over a sandbox.

In fact, that's how it all started now that I think about it ... I was innocently eating ice cream one day, and Brent came over and knocked it down into the sandbox.

"Why'd you do that?" I sobbed.

Brent said, "Cuz you got cooties, cootie-face!"

Furious, I screamed and cried like a sissy until the adults came and made Brent stick his nose in the corner for the rest of the day. And then I laughed and laughed and laughed.

-Man I miss High School sometimes.

Despite his overt hostility and aggression towards me, I have made numerous efforts to be friends.

I've stuck up for him.

I've looked out for him.

Like the time when Brent was getting those phone calls and contracts from some guy suspiciously named "Aaron Spelling". This dude was supposedly some big shot Hollywood stiff that was looking to cast Brent in some TV series called "Melrose Street" or something. But he wasn't even trying to be convincing: the dollar figure this obvious fraud was offering Brent was so long it had to be a made up number. I doubt you could have even fit it on a check!

Like some jerk that doesn't even know how to spell "Aron" would be put in charge of anything!

Pthbbt!

It was obviously a cruel joke.

Brent is exactly the kind of trusting and sensitive soul that would've flown out to Hollywood and get his heart broken by this "Spelling" hoax: I must have thrown dozens of letters and plane tickets away.

I finally ended up impersonating Brent on the phone and telling that stalker phony, "If I ever hear from you again, I'll freeze your ass with liquid nitrogen. Then you can watch as I chip small pieces off of your bloated carcass, and dance barefoot in your melted slush!"

So yeah. Ever since then, Brent and I been tryin to squish each other through fine mesh screens.

It's all in good fun really.

Like the time I was in Intensive Care, and he switched my chart with Rex Grossman football plays and poured the bedpan into my IV. Or when I kidnapped his dog 'Buttons', and left it at Michael Vick's place all covered in Barbeque sauce.

Ah, good times Brent.

Good times.