Predator Press
[LOBO]
“We don’t
need Full Coverage,” I insist.
“Yes we do,” replies Terri, speaking more to the agent than to me.
“It costs twice as much!”
“Full Coverage,” Terri assures the agent.
“Don’t listen to her,” I says. “She orders avocado and spinach dip at restaurants. The nachos throw themselves off of the table attempting suicide.”
Terri turns to me. “Do you remember when you
wrecked your last car? If you had Full Coverage, they would have cut us a check for the full value. We could have bought a
new one.”
I turn to the agent. “Really?”
“Yes,” nods the agent.
“So you’re saying if I crash the car again, I’m covered.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’m parked on a ferry in the middle of Loch Ness, and a 747 falls out of the sky and smashes into it sending my car spiraling into the murky depths.”
“Covered.”
“Let’s say I’m driving down by Lake Michigan, and a 450 pound shark jumps out and-“
“You’re covered,” she says.
“-I’m not done,” I says. “A 450 fifty pound shark jumps out. Smashes my car.
And smashes a nearby bulletproof Secret Service limousine full of foreign dignitaries.”
The woman goes to speak, and I hold up a finger warningly.
“-But the
dignitaries,” I continue, “aren’t alone in the limo: it turns out to be full of cocaine and underage hookers. And dynamite. Yeah. But when Dan Rather shows up to cover the story, Walter Cronkite calls him a
'punk-ass-bitch' and punches Dan right in the face for trying to steal his story. Tempers flare, pandemonium ensues, and after a raging gun battle Chicago is ultimately burned to rubble, occupied only by a handful of radioactive mutant survivors.”
She examines the forms closely. “Does the dynamite go off?”
“Yes,” I confess. “During the gun battle.”
“You’re covered.”
“Baby,” I says to Terri. “I think we should go with the full coverage.”
“Good idea honey,” says Terri.
The agent puts on her glasses. “Do you want roadside coverage?”
“Have you
seen these roads?”
Terri interjects. “She means the insurance for tow truck service, flat tires, …”
“They fix flat tires
too?” Standing, I reach for my pocketknife.
“Easy baby,” says Terri. “We haven’t signed yet.”
Disappointed, I sit. “Well those tires aren’t getting any less bald.”
Endless signatures later, the agent was sliding a card to each of us.
“What’s this?” I says.
“It’s your Bond Card. If you get a ticket, this prevents the police from confiscating your license.”
“Yeah,” I says smiling at Terri. “Let’s go. I can’t
wait to drive by some cops and flash this baby.
'Fuck you, pigs! Hahahahah! Lookie here ... !'"
Once again -at great expense to you- Predator Press scienticans have stepped up to answer the burning question on everyone's mind: What are the origins of the month of October?
But I have also mentioned conspiring with space aliens for the overthrow of Humankind, indestructible fusion-powered robotic ex-girlfriends, and a dragon that plays spectacular Scrabble.
I figured by nuking Pianosa to smithereens and starting Pianosa II in California, I would be doing everyone a favor.
1) Dantheinventoryman: Oh man, if anyone deserves to be burned to cinders, it’s you.
3) Ethan: Far and away the person I’ve least fantasized about killing with an ice pick. What am I going to do without my oldest, dearest friend and mentor?
[Bill Curtis]
By appearance, Flandsa Ha’asasanba might have seemed like any other immigrant worker. When he arrived on Ellis Island with only eight dollars in his pocket, he was in pursuit of the American Dream: to work honest and hard until he encountered a situation where he could sue someone, thusly retiring in style and with a steady flow of Disability checks.
June 6, 2003
Flandsa Hasasanba grinned. Whatever this American hobo was saying, he certainly seemed very animated about it. Hungry, he pulled out his eight dollars and got in line behind other tourists at the hot dog stand.
It seems that numerous Predator Press posts bear a remarkable resemblance to Flandsa Ha’asasanba's opus The Turnip: Nature's Miracle Vegetable.
The similarities are unmistakable.
Predator Press
And despite this single sentence setting back the Feminist movement fifty years, all the women just continued on about their business. Is their oppression so complete they don’t even notice when explicitly slurred? I don’t know about you, but as a guy if someone called me a gigantic carnivorous banana that roams city streets at night in search of hapless and easy mortal prey picking it’s teeth with car doors and radiator grills between victims, I would totally kick his ass!
[LOBO]
Predator Press
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Okay. I’m parked on a ferry in the middle of Loch Ness, and a 747 falls out of the sky and smashes into it sending my car spiraling into the murky depths.”
The woman goes to speak, and I hold up a finger warningly.
“Yes,” I confess. “During the gun battle.”
“They fix flat tires too?” Standing, I reach for my pocketknife.
“What’s this?” I says.
[LOBO]
