Sunday

Alltop Badge Contest

Predator Press

[LOBO]


After tooling around all day in the Predator Press corporate jet, I could tell there was something on Guy Kawasaki's mind ... but it wasn't until we touched down on a remote and dusty road in South Africa when he finally breached the subject.

"See?" I observed. "I told you they would have a Starbucks."

"LOBO," says Guy. "You should totally enter my Alltop Badge Contest. You could win an iPod Touch."

"But Guy," I says. "The last thing in the world I need is another device I couldn't possibly comprehend. Besides, all the other bloggers would just give up if they find out I'm entering. And then we both gotta field those boo-hoo emails, 'LOBO is too good,' and 'Phooey! No fair'. It's just depressing."

"Be careful," says guy. "Don't step on that pile of poisonous asps."

"Thanks!" I says. "Man I woulda walked right into that."

Guy signals the kid in the green apron, and he approaches the counter.

"I would like a Double Grande Mocha-Mocha-"

[I don't really know how to spell it, but Guy goes into a series of words that sound suspiciously like dolphin squeaks and clicks]

"Make that two," I says.

"Emails, shmemails," counters Guy. "Alltop is the 'Best of the Best'. I expect nothing more than the highest caliber of competition."

"Can I rip off one of Don Lewis' images?"

"Knock yourself out."

Hmmmmm ...


Friday

The Ark of the Convenient

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"LOBO," says God.

"What?"

"Have you had enough punishment yet?"

"Excuse me?"

"The flooding."

"You mean the flooding in Iowa? I don't live there."

"Well where do you live?"

"Illinois."

[muffled Holy Whispering]

"Which part?" God asks.

"Pianosa. Why?"

"Where the hell is Pianosa?"

"Chicago could throw rocks at us."

"So if, say, a natural disaster hit Chicago, odds are it would take you out too?"

"Probably."

"About how far east would that be from Grand Rapids?"

"I dunno," I shrug. "200 miles maybe."

"Ever built a boat before?"

"Nope. Why?"

[muffled Holy Giggling]

"Oh, uh, just checking."


***




LadyTerri was surprisingly incredulous.

"So God told you to build an ark?"

"No,” I says, carefully putting up my tools. “God specifically did not tell me to build an ark. But that's God's M.O.; the second he doesn't tell you to build an ark, the next thing you know you're a barnacle on Davy Jones’ butt.”

“Why would God flood the Earth again now?”

“I’m guessing maybe American Idol.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s right here,” I says. “Behold!”

I pull the sheets clear.

“I call her the Royal Magellan.”

“Honey,” says LadyTerri. “I don’t think that’s going to save us from a Biblical flood.”

“What do you mean?” I scowl. “I mean sure it might be off by a cubit or two. But there’s plenty of room for you, me and the cat.”

“What about the kids?”

“Why do you think I spent so much money on those swimming lessons?”


Thursday

Predator Press Interviews: Ethan

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Hey Ethan, do you want to be interviewed on Predator Press?"

"Are you still jealous that Don Lewis got interviewed on Angry Seafood?"

"I am definitely not jealous," I point out. "I'm merely suffering from the perception that attention or appreciation I deserve has been diverted to someone else."

"Like Don Lewis."

"Why would I care if Don Lewis got interviewed? Don Lewis is a great blogger."

"Then why is your eye twitching?"

"It's not twitching. It's exercising. Look, we do lots of interviews. It's a perfectly viable medium for getting to know interesting people and celebrities. And I'll bet all Predator Press readers want to know more about the 'real' Ethan. Do want to be interviewed or not?"

"Well okay. Fire away."

"Cool," I says, sitting across from him with my clipboard. "The first question is 'How long have you known LOBO?'"

"Wait a minute," he says. "Are all these questions about you?"

"Of course not."

He snatches the clipboard from my grasp.

"Don't read those!" I protest. "It will ruin the spontaneity and candid nature of the entire piece!"

"Uh huh," he says reading down the list. "'Is LOBO really as handsome as is reputed?'"

"The people have a right to know."

"'Describe how I landed the brilliant employee in the world.'"

"I love that story."

"'How do you keep yourselves 'down-to-Earth' when constantly surrounded by his outrageous successes?'"

"Okay, I admit that on some of these I'm curious myself."

"'What would you consider to be LOBO's most outrageously successful quality? His' -oh my god- 'well-muscled physique or his radiant brainiosity?'"

"We have to hurry up," I insist. "I need to post this and quickly suit up for the Lakers game. And they have to configure all the CGI equipment so Kobe Bryant's head is superimposed over mine."

"What's the picture of the firemen for?"

"That's for casting LOBO: The Motion Picture; it's kind of a cinematic 'visual aid' of me being portrayed by two gifted actors, swimming in gritty heroism. Now can we please get this over with? If I'm late, we'll lose the game. And they won't let me back in the NFL because I throw the football too hard."

"Using your 'radiant braniosity', guess what I'm going to do with this clipboard."

"Should I go ahead and call the ambulance now?"


Tuesday

Plan X

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally persuaded that coaching the Lakers for Game 3 myself was going to be the best course of action, I figured I had better do it disguised as Phil Jackson as not to send the wrong message to the Celtics, Lakers and fans.

The team was already warming up when I arrived. And taking a page from Bobby Knight’s playbook, I took my giant yellow ‘Lakers are #1’ foam hand and hurled it violently against the wall.

The players stopped and stared at me, bewildered.

But even before the unattended ball stopped bouncing off the court, my unrequited rage had impelled me to yet another act of wanton destruction: with a short running start, I kicked an empty Gatorade bottle three or four yards.

Masking my cry from the sudden pain in my toe with that of a furious scream, I bared my teeth at them, hissing and spitting.

“Are you okay coach?” asked one player.

“Weren’t you taller yesterday?” asked another.

“Shut up!” I bellowed, grabbing a gym towel at the ends with my fists.

While unsuccessfully trying to tear it in half for a few seconds, the entire team has assembled in a semicircle. I finally toss the intact towel to a largish guy in a Lakers uniform who promptly tears the towel in half.

Pacing, I glower wild-eyed up at their kneecaps.

“I don’t know what’s more disgusting,” I begin. “That pisspoor excuse for basketball I saw Sunday, or how alarmingly few of you are wearing underwear right now!"

“But coach,” says a Laker. “We came back 30 points in ten minutes, and almost-“

“Almost what?” I demand.

The players head fell forward, silenced.

“That’s what I thought," I says.

Standing on a chair, I arch an accusing finger up at all of them. "And that whole time five or six of of you were out on the court, dozens of you lazy jerks were lounging on the bench with towels around your necks!”

“Were only allowed this many on the floor coach,” says my new towel-tearer, holding up five fingers.

“Say’s who?”

“The referees.”

My eyebrow arches high. “And which side is the referee on?”

The players look at each other.

“Well it ain’t yours!”

Pleased with having driven my point home with such dramatic flair, I relax a little. “How many of these games do we have left?”

“At least four, coach.”

“Four!? Ah crap. And we have to win them all?”

“If we lose two more, that’s the end of the season.”

"Wait. We can lose one?"

"Yes."

“That’s a relief,” I says exhaling. “Alright. We’re going to go with Plan X.”

“Plan X?”

“For this first game, we’re only going to use white guys that aren’t Hungarian or Ukrainian, and names that amount to 66 points or less on an official Scrabble board. You other guys lay low and rest up for the last four games."

“How are we going to win this game?”

“We're not … And it’ll lull them into a false sense of security. Then bam, we win the next four games in a row.”

Towel-tearer raises his hand, and I acknowledge him.

"What if," he asks timidly, "we can get our usual run in the fourth quarter?"

"Fourth quarter? Jesus how long are these games? I'm going to miss L.A Law!"


Monday

Sports with Balls

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It was about 8:30 pm when the phone rang.

“LOBO?”

“What?”

“LOBO, it’s Phil Jackson.”

“Phil!” I says. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been better. We’re down by 30 points.” Phil sighs audibly. “We need you to suit up.”

“Phil, I haven’t seen my Bulls uniform since the 3-Peat.”

“I’m with the Lakers now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’re in Game 2 of the Finals against the Celtics.”

“The Celtics? Wow. So Larry Bird is really handing it to you, huh?”

“Larry Bird is retired.”

“Well then Magic Johnson should totally cream them!”

“We need you LOBO.”

“But Phil, I’ve only got 29 free days left on AOL. Then those jerks are going to start chargin me.” I rub my temples thoughtfully. “Did you try good ‘ole number 23?”

“Beckham plays soccer.”

“I mean Michael Jordan.”

“Well, no. That's a good idea though. But we were really hoping you would come through.”

“Phil, you know I hate doing that. All the other players do is complain, ‘wah, LOBO jumps too high’ and ‘boo-hoo coach, I never get the ball now’. I mean it just wears on me, you know?”

“If you give Kobe the ball once or twice during the game, I’m sure he’ll be cool with it.”

“Artificially inflating another player’s stats is the equivalent of lying Phil. Why should I jeopardize my reputation of integrity by participating in something dishonest?”

“Well telling everyone I use the Triangle Offense when I actually use a rectangle was your idea.”

“Geometry doesn’t count Phil. You know that.”

[brief silence]

“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“I don’t think so Phil.”

[*muffled sobbing*]

“Phil. You’re going to be fine. Before you know it people will be throwin octopuses and batteries at you too. But you can’t do it with a negative attitude.”

”[*sniff*] Okay LOBO. I’ll try.”

“Atta boy Phil. Now get out there and sink some touchdowns!”


Saturday

Going Topless

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Nestled just south of Angry Seafood and west of Musings of a Barefoot Foodie, Alltop just got it’s newest resident.

-I didn’t want to do it, but Guy Kawasaki was just relentless.

“LOBO,” he says. “Alltop’s motto is ‘We’ve got humor covered’. If Predator Press isn’t on it, I’ll be sued!”

“I just can’t Guy,” I reply. “And just what kind of name is 'Kawasaki'? Is that Swedish?"

"No."

"First of all," I says, "This isn’t a humorous-type blog. It’s more like the Wall Street Journal -‘cept with pictures and interesting content. If I allow this critical and historical document’s philosophy to be corrupted, the very fabric of our Great Nation will unravel. Do you Swedes want the terrorists to win? Do you? Hm?”

“But you’ll get more traffic,” he persists.

“I can’t handle anymore traffic! I got like four comments on my last post. Four! I defy you to show me any other blog with four comments. My server is completely ground to a standstill, and I simply can’t afford any more fruit baskets.”

“I can get you 30 days free on AOL.”

“Deal.”


Thanks Guy!


Thursday

Rubber Base Black

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Predator Press is suffering some “technical difficulties”.
I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS
I’ve used up all our blog ink copying the dollar bill Don Lewis sent us as souvenirs for all our fans.
I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS
We made hundreds of thousands of these souvenirs. And we were so happy with the idea, we occasionally jumped in the piles and rolled around naked in them.
I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS
But when we were bundling them in stacks of 100 for efficient storage, we discovered that Don’s original dollar bill was counterfeit!
I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS
I for one am shocked that Don would sink so low as to proliferate phony cash, and completely ruin our plan to give these little keepsakes to millions and millions and millions of fans to show our appreciation for reading (or working at Best Buy, Aston Martin, Cunard Cruise Lines, et cetera).
I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS
The ink is very low; if I were you I would highlight all the text in this post with your cursor in case you missed something; some text isn't transferring properly.
I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS
I’ll get this corrected as soon as possible.
I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS
Thank you for your continued patience and support.
I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS I HATE DON LEWIS

Wednesday

Milestone 1/999,999,999% of Goal Achieved

Associated Press

Amidst rumors to the contrary, the Predator Press-sponsored “Feed LOBO” charity resulted in what Editor-in-Chief LOBO referred to as an “encouraging start”.

“Now that the seal has been broken,” LOBO explains, “some serious coin will start rollin in. And those fat sacks of cash are gonna get me some kickass bling.”

Acts included Pat Boone performing the Tool classic “Prison Sex” with the Pianosian Symphony Orchestra, Corey Haim’s two hour lecture on “The Cultural significance of Hair Gel and Why it is Soooo Cool”, and rap artist 50 Cent -via satellite- explaining how LOBO's assertion that "I'm With Stupid T-shirts are bling!" is technically not correct.

While spectacular overall, the telethon was marred early on when during the Riverdance segment Michael Flatley snapped his knee backward and kicked his own forehead.

“That was the coolest part!” said LOBO, who did not attend. “When I woke up, I just fast-forwarded through all the bullshit on TiVo. But I've watched that scene like a dozen times.”

Slowing down the footage, he demonstrates. “See? Wait for it … wait for it … clacketty clacketty clacketty-POW!!!"

"Ah god," he adds, wiping back a tear. "That just slays me."

Jerry Lewis, host of the event, concluded the evening with an emphatic, “LOBO is far and away the most handicapped person I've had ever met. Please help!”

This is widely believed to be what triggered the only donor of the day -It’s a Funny Thing author Don Lewis- into action.

“We were going to send the first donor a plaque," commented LOBO. "But then we realized the daily ‘take’ would actually be negative $498.99 ... and that it was Don Lewis. Instead, we sent a slightly-warped Tupperware lid crawling with the ebola virus."

"Plaque, plague -it’s all semantics,” insists LOBO. "And do you have any idea how difficult is is to scratch 'Thanks Don Lewis' in cursive with a key on space-age polymers?"





Tuesday

Predator Press Declares War on Environmentalism

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Bee at Bee's Musings has the noble distinction of being the first blogger to notice my new fundraising effort, "Feed LOBO".

See, if you look in my sidebar you will find a handful of fine bloggers that have gone through a lot of trouble writing brilliant and/or funny books so they can earn an income.

But books have an insidious tendency to wind up in libraries, being studied, and, well, read. Remember school? It just makes me sick. I don't know exactly why those guys are being so mean to the Future Children of America by writing more of these 'books', but I'll have no part of it.

Hence my fundraiser: I, LOBO, solemnly swear that if I reach my modest goal of $999,999,999 by May 16, 2009 I will never write a book.

Probably wouldn't read one either.

And who has time to read and write books when -even as we speak- hemp-addled smelly hippies are treacherously allying themselves with 'environmental causes'?

Don't they realize this 'Environment' is tryin to kill us every day with deadly bacteria, disease, hurricanes, tidal waves, killer sharks, tornados, earthquakes, MicroSoft, catastrophic meteor strikes and X-rays from space?

I think most scientists would agree, "Mother Nature" would like nothing more than to dance barefoot in our slippery entrails ... and as Nietzsche probably said, "That which does not kill me is either lazy, or just waiting for the chance."






Tell those hippies to roll over, 'cuz this
thermometer is goin in the plooptionary.


Monday

Entre's Inferno

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Entrecard went down over the weekend.

So rather than skimming hundreds of sites, many of us were forced to work around the house, landscape, and perform automotive maintenance or whatever.

But I forgive Entrecard.

In fact, I'm flatly impressed by their calm and polite manner:

“We’ve had an electrical fire. Things should be back up in a few hours. We’re terribly sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused.”

Wow.

That's pretty classy if you ask me … ‘cause if Predator Press has an electrical fire, ”FIREFIREHOTHOTHOTEEEEYAAAAHHHHH!!!” would be all you get -and that's if I can find the presence of mind to blog instead of running around in panicky circles while flailing my arms and screaming.

So before your eyes glaze over with welling tears at the thought of losing this historic document, we should go over the Official Predator Press Fire Safety Plan.

It is as follows:

1) Rescue LOBO,
2) rescue LOBO’s expensive stuff,
3) rescue all other tangential LOBO-related personnel such as family, pets, friends and/or coworkers, and then
4) rescue LOBO’s inexpensive stuff.

I’m not really a hard-ass about rule #4. I don’t expect you to go into an inferno for, say, my stapler: your personal safety is of utmost importance to me. Use your judgment.

But lots of little things like staplers add up, and it just might make the difference as to whether you get an iPod or a fruitcake at Christmas.

I'm just sayin.

This plan was Cultivated by Design.


Saturday

In the Beginning

Predator Press

[LOBO]

God made man in His image.

But man was a slob. First he stopped shaving. Then he blew far past ‘love handles’, and went straight into full-fledged ‘Wisconsin Goiter’.

“Adam,” says God. “You look terrible!”

“Well gee thanks God,” replied Adam. “Be sure you sign me up for your self-esteem seminars.”

“Adam, I’m going to make you a woman.”

“But what will all my friends say?”

“No. I mean I’m going to create you a companion.”

Now Adam wasn’t all that bright. He imagined animated conversations about football and endless ‘pull my finger’ jokes.

“Cool,” he says.

“Give me one of your ribs,” says God.

“Here you go,” says Adam.

“Ugh,” says God. “You’ve got barbeque sauce in your beard.”

Adam wiped his beard with a napkin. “Do you want some of this coleslaw? This coleslaw rocks.”

“No. Just the rib, thanks.”

And from Adam’s rib sprung Eve.

“What a dump!” Eve complained.

“Okay,” says God. “My work here is done. You kids have fun now.”

“Thanks God,” says Adam.

“It’s filthy,” says Eve.

“Oh yeah,” says God as He recedes into the clouds. “One more thing. Stay the hell away from my apples, or I’ll invent the tire iron and beat you to death with it!”

“Okay God!” says Adam waving.

“Ugh,” says Eve. “Is that barbeque sauce?”


***


Within a month, Adam had lost 50 pounds.

-Because Eve had eaten everything in sight.

Eve had gained so much weight that he didn’t fit on the bed anymore and slept on the floor. He got up and stretched carefully; his back was now completely wrecked.

He surveyed the devastated remains of the garden as his stomach growled. The crops were gone, and a huge pile of animal bones by the fire pit were all that remained of the wildlife.

Adam was scratching his head wondering how Eve had even gotten the leaves off of the top of the trees when he heard a rustling sound.

A squirrel.

“Oh thank heavens,” said Adam.

But the scrawny animal had no intention of becoming Adam and Eve’s breakfast so easily. It scampered, ran and bounded out of Adam’s reach, and finally up the Tree of Knowledge. And there were those glorious apples: round and firm, an impossibly deep crimson, and so heavy the branches arched under their burgeoning weight.

“Come down from there squirrel,” Adam cajoled, “and I’ll make it quick and painless!”

But the squirrel wasn’t listening. It was sniffing an apple excitedly.

“I wouldn’t do that if-“

Crunch

Suddenly there was thunder and lightning, and God’s voice boomed from the sky. “What the hell,” He says, “did I tell you people about eating my damn apples!?”

Frightened, the squirrel dropped the apple, and Adam caught it.

Adam looked at the apple, and then at the squirrel. If God catches me with this, he thought, I’m screwed. And if I explain that the squirrel did it, I’ll have no breakfast.

Looking around and thinking quickly, he spotted Eve, still slumbering and snoring loudly.

“Who dared?” demanded God.

Thinking quickly, Adam hurled the apple, and it rolled to rest right by her.

“Eve!” yelled God.

“Wha-?“ she said, starting to wake.

“Eve, what happened?” demanded God.

“She really let herself go once you left,” said Adam.

“No, I mean why hast thou disobeyed my Word and eaten of the Forbidden Fruit?’

“But I didn’t!” insisted Eve.

“I tried to stop her,” said Adam.

“Begone from my garden!” said God.

And poof she was gone.

Adam sighed. “You know, you give some people an inch …”

“Yes,” said God disappointedly. “I guess so. Say Adam, when are you barbequing again?”

“You like squirrel?”