The Power of Cripes Compels You

Predator Press

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"Sir," says Natalie, scowling into her computer screen. "This is the sixteenth time you've called."

"I'm hoping for an update."

"Nothing has changed in the last eight minutes."

"A lot can happen in eight minutes. I can make eight completely different batches of rice in eight minutes."

"I understand that sir-"

"Miss, I don't think you do understand. I have no electricity, and millions and millions of readers are waiting anxiously for me to post today. Do you want to be responsible for what could happen if I don't?"

Natalie leans back in her chair exasperated. "Sir, there were three confirmed tornado touchdowns in your area."

[audible sigh] "Of the thousands of electric company customer service representatives, how do I happen to get the one that isn't a Predator Press reader? I debunked tornados weeks ago!"

"Sir-"

"Maybe next you can tell me the story of how Bigfoot and the Tooth Fairy are to blame!"

"We've got 200,000 other people out of power as well," she says twirling the phone cord in her fingers absently. "And you are accounting for half our phone traffic."

"Well this is important. In my absence, who will protect my readers from internet marketers, Forex associates, alien invaders, SEO optimization, shark attacks, Olestra, scams from Nauru, mad cow disease, zombie uprisings and tofu? Who?"

"Brent Diggs maybe?"

"Hiatus."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Is it because his power got shut off? I can switch the grid and have him back up in five minutes."

"I knew it! How come you can't do that for me?"

"Sir, your problems are far more serious."

"It's sweltering hot in here, and my refrigerator doesn't work," I add. "And what the hell am I supposed to do with all this rice?"

She plucks at the keyboard. "Our technicians are working around the clock to restore your power. The current esimated time of repair is ..."

"Yes?"

"Huh," says Natalie, leaning into her screen. "That's strange. I'm showing your power was only out for twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes? It's been nine hours."

"Did you flip your breaker switch?"

"Yes. I tried that right when it went out."

"Did you flip it back?"

"Of course I did."

Over the phone there's an audible click, followed by the sounds of a blaring stereo, three televisions on different stations, an air conditioner, two blenders and a microwave.

"Is there anything else I can do for you today sir?"

"Do you know how iPods work?"

Rental Hygiene

Predator Press

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There’s been a lot of controversy surrounding the use of cellphones while driving recently.

Now I get that, but I’m also very laid-back about it personally. If you can multi-task while driving, that’s great. I suppose I trust you. Ethan, for instance, uses an electric shaver on his way to work.

I, for one, “self-police” in this regard: I can barely drive when that’s all I’m doing; if the phone rings while I’m driving, I’ll let it go to voicemail and return the call later.

But this morning in traffic, I saw a woman flossing.

To me, handling any two-handed activity while simultaneously driving with your elbows is impressive.

But flossing?

How can you see with big chunks of food obscuring your windshield?

Predator Press Reviews The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor

Predator Press

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From the moment lights dim, suddenly the action begins.

First Jet Li does some stuff, and then Brendan Fraser does some stuff.

But the stuff that Brendan Fraser does really pisses off Jet Li, and then they start karate-chopping each other.

Predator Press gives The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor sixty-nine thumbs up: between the explosions, swords clanging, audience gasping and the thunderous soundtrack, I don't think I got eight consecutive minutes of sleep during that whole two hours.

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,

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Talk This Way

Predator Press

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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

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Thanks Terri, Ethan, Don and Sue!

See you next week!

:)

Tomorrow I Will Briefly Stop Killing People

Predator Press

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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.