How to Break Up With Gods

Predator Press

Dear Medusa,

I can't do this anymore.

It's not really about the obsession with sculpture, the bloody dandruff, or the thick scales stuck in the soap bar; I just really think we should start hissing and spitting at other people.

I will always remember the good times -like that time we tickled Sisyphus until he dropped his rock and he hadda start History all over- but we've grown in different directions, and I want my half of the direction our music collection had taken. And all my Dean Koontz paperbacks.

We're just too different. I think we should just be friends. And I'm not good enough for you . . . you need to find someone who will treat you like you deserve being treated for.

It's not you; it's me.

Don't come by unexpectedly; I'm now married, and my wife runs a business breeding blindfolded mongooses.

Your Friend Always,

LOBO

Talk This Way

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Today at noon was the first semi-operational “LIVE LOBO”.

I’m considering it a partial success because at one point we had 19 people here. I’m also considering it a catastrophic failure as only six of us seemed able to participate.

A few complained that all they got was a grayed-out box. I’m still not certain why that was … but I suspect it had to do with what browser you use. If anyone knows for sure, please enlighten me as I would like to do this at noon(ish) every Saturday (it beats the crap out of lawn care).

Operating models of the "Shoutmix" can be viewed at It's a Funny Thing; if you can see it there, you should be able to see it here.

Even though the Shoutmix interface itself is so totally simple even Don Lewis could figure it out, just in case there’s any confusion over the controls I put together this image:


(You can click on it to enlarge)

Also, despite my rampant narcissism, I’m not sure “LIVE LOBO” is the best name for it. I’ll try and come up with something else this week.

Ethan, Terri and I had a ball meeting some of you!

:)~

(Thanks Don and Sue for appearing on LIVE LOBO SATURDAY!!)

LIVE LOBO SATURDAY!!! (Browser Sensitive)

Predator Press

[LOBO]



Thanks Terri, Ethan, Don and Sue!

See you next week!

:)

Tomorrow I Will Briefly Stop Killing People

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The only thing better than lazily basking in Saturdayness -the most hallowed of all holidays- is lazily basking in Saturdayness while wiping out the entire human race.

Pandemic II (the most recent in an increasingly long series of events that are preventing me from mowing the lawn) is a great little Flash game. In it you play The Disease, and continuously evolve and mutate while staying one step ahead of humankind’s efforts to thwart your swelling and deadly ranks. After a 10-minute tutorial, you too will be multiplying your virulent and lethal pestilence worldwide!

But for a few hours this Saturday, I’m going to briefly set aside my desire to have you all killed and try another round of “Live LOBO”.

Maybe noonish.

Brett Favre Offered $20M Not to Play Football

Predator Press

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In an effort to keep Brett Favre from playing for an opposing team, the Green Bay Packers have offered him $20,000,000 to “stay retired”.

Packers President and Chief Executive Officer Mark Murphy has failed to return my calls on how much he will pay me not to play, but I have offered to not do it for half that amount.

Mars Rovers Found at Hawking Summer Home

Predator Press

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A search for drugs and pornography at Stephen Hawking's summer home in Casa de Rio turned up more than was bargained for: both $350M Mars Rovers -supposedly on Mars since 2004- have actually been sending photos from the beach, and fetching drinks for scantily-clad supermodels.

"Oh come on people!" says noted physicist Hawking as he is handcuffed and escorted away. "Microbes? On Mars? Please. I coulda sent you guys pictures of turkeys an you would've bought it."

Space: The Final Dumpster

Predator Press

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As I see it, the biggest problem in the United States -besides Shia LaBeouf's unlawful incarceration- is all the money we are paying those so-called "engineers" at NASA for space exploration.

I mean come on already! This is 2008. We're supposed to have this:




-but instead we have this?




I'll bet those NASA rubes are pulling down like $9 or $10 an hour. And rather than developing cool-looking planet-smashing war machines and evil alien empires to have wars with, we're in a garage hammering the dings out of a two-toned spaceship so dumpy looking the mere site of it would only encourage a deadly hoard of would-be space overlords!

I wouldn't scrounge that thing for parts. I mean it doesn't even have a lousy Death Ray. Not one! Shouldn't we at least get Congress to pass a Bill to pay for gluing some fake ones on? Heck, Pfizer would do it for free if you stuck on some Viagra stickers!

And for that matter, how many hundreds of our tax dollars are being spent every year on this stuff without finding any would-be space overlords? Heck at least wash the damn thing ... the would-be space overlords are probably laughin at us right now!

I hate those guys, all smug and hiding out there behind a phony shroud of tranquility while obviously plotting the demise of the Human Race in secrecy. Those guys should get their asses kicked! We need to find them, exterminate their military with extreme prejudice, and then occupy all of their home worlds while making the survivors do forced labor before the inevitable sneak attack and subsequent invasion.

The way I see it, the only way to bring them Freedom is by ruling the primitive war-like inhabitants of the galaxy under Enlightened, iron-fisted Human Benevolence; not taking the initiative here will most assuredly invite cosmic despotic tyranny.

I, for one, won’t stand for that.

Slightly Off the Mark

Predator Press

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Jazzed by having received my copy of The Amadeus Net by Mark A. Rayner in the mail today, I started to think, “You know, why should I prevent my own radiant brainiosity from being studied and enjoyed by generations upon generations in the annals of future history?”

I've been trying to root out my own book deal, but that's a difficult thing to accomplish when I haven't actually written the book yet.

Or the draft.

Or the outline.

Or have a clear idea of what it will be about.

... But I do like the title.

7

Predator Press

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My Social Security number is “7”.

And I swear upon various gods that’s a fact.

Before you ask, no, I do not know who 1-6 are; they are obviously shrouded in some really kickass secret way-cool lucrative conspiracy that they are not telling me about.

I hate those jerks.

ANTNM

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You would be hard-pressed to find a single American who hasn't at least heard of America's Next Top Model: a glamorous leggy reality show hosted by Tyra Banks.

But few remember the vast number of prototypes attempted previous to it's highly successful format.

Before ANTM, we didn't know that America wanted to watch pretentious and callow stressed-out 80-pound chicks clawing each other's eyes out; all we really knew was that as long as we kept putting crap on television, America would watch with tightly-gripped interest.

Forever lost in the vast archives of failed television -somewhere next to the reels of XFL Football and the Gieco Cavemen show- all the episodes of America's Next Top Not Model [ANTNM] gather the dusty neglect of failed hopes and dreams.

Perhaps only I still remember the most exciting and fantastic week of my life.

But that's okay.

I still remember.


***

From the moment the Greyhound bus dropped me off in front of Château le Scone, it was a first-class act all the way. I had never been to Biloxi, the high-powered world center and apex of international beauty before; it actually teemed with energy and life.

Once adequately armed against said teeming energy and life with our complimentary guitar-shaped flyswatters and mosquito nets, we were introduced to the other contestants by the pool. My heart sank as I saw the mammoth caliber of my competition: George "The Animal" Steel was getting his back waxed, and Gilbert Gottfried his eyebrows. Paul Reubens was snoring loudly with cucumbers over his eyes, and Chris Farley snapped his Speedo at anyone who failed to resist his obvious predanatural gifts.

Without severe discipline and hard work, I didn't have a prayer.


***

The only "original" member of the cast that survived to the show's current bastardized permutation America's Next Top Model is Jay Alexander. I remember him fondly; once he essentially stopped eating to control the nausea, he himself gave me the regimented routines that would prove to be my only chance for survival. Tips like not shaving or bathing and consuming nothing but Blue Beaver Beer, pizza, Twinkies and nachos 24/7 proved invaluable as the final weeks progressed.

And then that prick Paul Reubens ruined everything.

He started sneaking vegetables on my pizzas, and switching my beer to Blue Beaver Lite. He doused me constantly with Aqua Velva under the guise that it was fly repellant.

That prick stole and burned all my turtleneck shirts and parachute pants.

When I saw the footage of what he did to my favorite plaid leisure suit, I wept.

And I was voted off that very week.


***

Once my arteries cleared up, I left the hospital and decided to write my story as a warning. And I'm sure you already know that being overly-possessed with how you look is not healthy, and rampant vanity can be a fast track to full renal failure.

But this is a warning to Paul Reubens.

That suit was polyester.

We'll meet again, Paul.

Oh yes.

We shall meet again.

Cabals N Bits

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I have no idea what this image is supposed to be, but the alternative to wasting an hour on it was wasting an hour mowing the lawn. Let’s just call it a homage to Rickey and move on. Okay?

What I wanted to specifically address was the startling number of recent comments. I would like to reply to all of them individually, but between the last two posts I’ve got almost forty.

Forty!

-That’s more than I got all last year.

What the heck are you people doing!? When I go to your sites, Do I lay this kind of guilt on you? No. I’m far too busy scrawling all your funny ideas on a notepad so I can plagiarize them later.

Forty comments on Predator Press is the blogging equivalent of the last episode of M*A*S*H.

(*spoiler alert* In the last episode of M*A*S*H, Henry dies and Winchester doesn't.)

(... Oooooo I hate that snooty Winchester!)