How I Single-Handedly Ended the Gas Crisis

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“$1.79 a gallon?”

“Yes,” says the cashier.

“Are you out of your freakin’ mind?”

“No seriously,” says the cashier.

“Well I’m not paying $1.79 a gallon.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is extortion!” I says.

“Sir I don’t set the price-“

“Oh I think you do Sancho –or whatever your name is. I’ll pay $1.79 a gallon, and then next week, what, $2 a gallon? Well I ain’t gonna stand for it.”

“Sir, I believe gas prices are set by OPEC and-“

“Who is that? Your dad? Well get this ‘Opek’ guy on the phone. Tell him I’ll give him a buck fifty. Tops.”

“Sir,” says the cashier. “It’s $1.79.”

"No it isn't

"Yes it is."

"Sancho,” I says disappointedly, “When you come to a new country you're supposed to rapidly adopt the culture. This 'ooh, I'm Sancho Opek and I'm gonna overcharge all those American jerks' attitude won't get you anywhere."

"Sir, my name is Randy Watkins. I was born in Des Moines."

“Well this is America, ‘Randy.’ And we don’t want your lousy overpriced gas. In fact, I demand you take it out of my vehicle immediately.”

“Excuse me?”

“We don’t want these damn Funyuns either.”

“Sir,” says Randy, suddenly nervous. Eyes darting back and forth nervously, he leans in and whispers, “Please take the gas. $1.50 will be fine.”

I pause, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I have far too much gas, and fifteen minutes from now another tanker truck full of gas will be arriving.”

“I don’t know Randy,” I says shrewdly. “I'm actually a big fan of alternative energy. I thought that gas smelled a little funny too. In any case, I think I would be much happier with some Amoco.”

“I’ll throw in the Funyuns for free.”

“Nah,” I says.

“All the gas. The whole tank,” he pleads. “$10.”

“Plus the Funyons?”

“Plus the Funyons.”

“And this keychain flashlight?”

“Yes.”

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Not a chance.”

"Dammit!"



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Old Mother Hubbard

-as retold by Predator Press

[LOBO]


Miss Hubbard’s mansion was pretty spacious, but I’ll be damned if that old bat didn’t keep every inch of that creepy place spick and span.

“Yeah so you’re three weeks behind on your newspaper deliveries,” I continue. “You a deadbeat or something?”

“How much do I owe you?” she asks flatly.

“Three fifty,” I says. “And it ain’t negotiable. Poppa needs a new Schwinn this year.”

“Such an industrious young man,” she says, tussling my hair. “I’m sure I have a few dollars in my purse.”

“Well I hope so Miss Hubbard,” I says. “Where’s the bathroom? Now you're late on payments and my hair is all screwed up.”

“I wouldn’t go wandering,” says the woman from the next room. “Rommel is friendly, but he doesn’t take kindly to people roaming around.”

Rommel, a Rottweiler roughly the same weight as myself, growled menacingly.

“Now, now Rommel,” she chided. “You mustn’t spook the guests.”

“Man lady,” I says looking around. “You sure got a lot of books on Scientology.”

“My son is a very prolific writer,” she calls from the kitchen.

Mental Note: "prolific" = crappy

I cross my arms. "Yeah I’ll bet.”

“I can’t seen to find my purse," she says exasperated. “Can you check the kitchen? I’ll look upstairs.”

“What about Cujo here?”

“If he growls,” she says fading upwards, “just give him a bone from the cupboard.”

I swing open the door and enter the kitchen.

There’s no purse to be found.

This wrinkle-kit is gonna drag this out into an all-day affair if I let her, I’m thinking. God they should just wax all these lonely old crazy people. Once you get like thirty or so-“

Suddenly Rommel let loose a thunderous bark, and cut my train of thought completely.

He’s sitting on the kitchen linoleum, drooling sloppily, and tail thumping hard against the floor. He's a pretty big dog, too: we are looking eye-to-eye.

And for the first time since I got here, the dog looked friendly.

“Who’s a good boy?” I says, scratching him behind the ears. Remembering what the old crone said about the bones in the cupboard I says “Wanna treat?”

Bam bam bam goes the stumpy tail with increased enthusiasm. Rommel does an exaggerated and clumsy half-trot to the cupboards -impotent claws slipping helpless and loudly across the smooth floor- clearly indicating where the treats are.

What kind of crazy old broad would keep bones in a cupboard? I’m thinking. But sure enough, there’s a big thick meaty one in there. Maybe four or five pounds, eighteen inches or so long.

“Well it’s a good day to be Rommel!” I smile, tossing him the grizzly trophy. “So does this hag got any pop or anything? I'm thirsty.”

I open the fridge. She has iced tea, a half bottle of Shasta, a human head in a jar of clear liquid, and what is most likely orange juice-

My heavy bag of newspapers slides off of my shoulder, and lands on the ground with a with a solid thud.

As I stare -the hairs rising on the back of my neck- the magnetic refrigerator door eases closed.

And there’s an audible sickening crack of broken bone as Rommel enjoys his “prize” behind me.

“Oh there you are!” says Old Mother Hubbard, proudly brandishing her newly-found purse. “Three fifty you say?”

“You know what lady?” I says, dragging my bag. “We’re good.”


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Diesel's New “Server Error in '/' Application” Humor-Blogs Upgrade Rolls Out To Mixed Reviews

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I am teasing of course ... Diesel has been trying to perfect the Humor-Blogs “Server Error in '/' Application” for years now, and I'm proud to be here enjoying the hilarious culmination of all his efforts; "Object reference not set to an instance of an object" just gets funnier and funnier everytime I read it!

All kidding aside, for the first time in maybe a year I've made the finals in his Caption Contest -and this is one of the funniest competitions I've seen in a while.

Vote early, vote often, and cheat where and when necessary.

(Lyin' to me if you voted for someone else is perfectly acceptable: the other entries are side-splitting!)

Thanks!

:)

Predator Press Profiles: Margret Rosenthal

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In order to demonstrate that I haven't "lost touch" due to my lucrative blogging career, I’ve decided to create a new series of posts celebrating the “Common Man.”

This is where the entourage and I momentarily leave the protective womb of my vast and exceedingly deadly compound, and we go to a 7-11 or a Shell gas station to briefly speak to the inconsequential little people that make this country tick.

Who is this intriguing person running my credit card for Funyuns really?

One never knows.

-It could be a fascinating astronaut or neurosurgeon!


***

Subject Name: Margret Rosenthal

AKA: "Margie"

Occupation: Cashier/International Double Agent

Obvious Deficiencies: Lazy

Not-So-Obvious Deficiencies: Laziness due to sore feet. Margret spent last night ballroom dancing with Dick Cheney in stiletto heels a size too small. This consequently caused her toes squish out like tiny fat little horrifying sausages, and blew the last dwindling hope of Archduke Karl Ludwig getting the plans to America's new superconductor.

Hobbies: Mopping, Ringing Up Funyuns

Turn Ons: Long Walks On The Beach, Superconductors

Turn Offs: Gets pissed off if you repeatedly open the glass door (triggering the customer alert bell) and then hide behind the payphone

Weapon Proficiency: Apron (strangulation)

Secondary Specialty: Tossing apron into motorcycle chain causing attackers to wreck, impaling themselves on their own AK-47s

Special Notes: Don’t attack the bitch with AK-47, motorcycle

Secrets: In her purse I found tampons, pictures of grandkids, Dick Cheney's Blackberry, mircofilm of her doing Dick Cheney on a superconductor, and a cherry-flavored Gingivitis spray.



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Teenage George Lucas: The Lost Files

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Dude,” says Lenny. “Are you feelin it?”

“Oh yeah,” says George.

“We should maybe go someplace else. That dog is givin me the heebie-jeebies.”

“What dog?” asks George.

“Dude,” says Lenny pointing. “Right over there.”

“That’s a palm tree.”

“Well I hope it’s friendly.” Lenny takes a drink out of his Coca-Cola bottle and winces thoughtfully. “Hey, what do palm trees eat, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” says George. “Dirt I think.”

“Whoa,” breathes Lenny. “Shit there’s a lot of dirt man.”

“Lenny I think I wanna make movies,” reflects George.

“Me too dude. And some waffles.”

“No I’m serious.”

“So am I. Some waffles would kick ass right now.”

“I mean about making movies. I wanna make a big epic science fiction saga about the struggle between good and evil.”

"I told you not to take so much your first time."

“It'll have cool robots an stuff," insists George. “Yeah. In fact it’ll have robots with personality. And I’ll create a handful of memorable and likeable characters to be the heroes.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” says Lenny. “I would abandon that 'memorable and likeable characters' crap only a few movies in. Nobody wants those in movies with robots.”

“Robots and aliens,” adds George wistfully.

“Aliens too?” says Lenny. “Man that would be cool.”

“-With an evil Dictator, and a whole big Nazi-like army of half-robot lookin’ identical bad guys that can't hit anything they shoot at.”

“Dude,” says Lenny eyeing the palm tree carefully. “One of the heroes could be like a big giant space dog or something. A big giant spacedog that shoots a crossbow.”

“Big giant spacedogs that can shoot crossbows would get along just fine with an evil Dictator and a whole big Nazi-like army of half-robot lookin’ identical bad guys that can't hit anything. They would be in cahoots and lockstep the whole way.”

“You could make ‘em gay or something,” replies Lenny. “And when this ‘empire’ figures out it can’t legislate all the gayness out of ‘em, boom, it’s illegal to be a big giant gay dog that can shoot crossbows."

"Spacedog," George corrects. "How about if they can escape because they can fly the spaceships too?"

"Ooooo, cool," says Lenny. "And because they're illegal, it’s cool to make ‘em slaves or whatever.” He pauses. "I got it. He's a pirate. Or maybe a smuggler even!"

“I don't know," says George. "How could I possibly work in a big giant gay outlaw pirate smuggler slave hero spacedog that can shoot crossbows and fly spaceships? This seems a bit far-fetched. I'll have to scale it back somewhere. Plus I was hoping to keep these movies kid-friendly.”

"Just drop the crossbow then," Lenny concedes. "Maybe let him duel with a cool-looking electric sword or something."

“Huh."

“I’m hungry,” says Lenny.

“Me too.”

Confessions of a Tumbleweed Rustler

Predator Press

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The only thing that mitigates the oppressive heat here in Pianosa II is knowing it’s already forty degrees and threatening to snow in Pianosa I.

Seriously. If you come out to visit, do yourself a favor and charge the air conditioner in your car: I have about four bucks in quarters, nickels and dimes soldered permanently into the drink console by a melted orange crayon.

Orange was my favorite crayon, and ironically a decent box crayons is about four bucks.

Very funny Jesus.

-Hope you all got a great big Holy Chuckle outta that one up there.

I can only imagine this place in like August.

Yeesh.

By this time next August I’ll want to have a job as an air conditioner salesman or something.

... I’ll lock the front doors when the customers arrive, and leave them out there broiling on my vast and unshaded freshly-tarred 700 degree blacktop starin' at the “Back in 5 Minutes” sign for like a half an hour.

Only then do I let the bastards in. And inside, the place is a vortex of fresh cool air created by every damn thing in the place bein on at full blast ‘an blowin my paperwork everywhere.

FwooosHHH!!!

“We take all major credit cards!” I’ll yell over the thundering, tempestuous icy swirl. “But you better go get some friends first. Most of this stuff is real heavy.”

People Are So CUTE With Their Lil "Votes"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I find it hard to believe our Founding Fathers wanted this fantastic idea of “Democracy” to be bogged down with non-violent “debating” and the excruciatingly-long and unperfected process of “voting."

We need to strip away all the years of excess baggage we’ve added to this concept and boil Democracy back down into it’s purest and simplest form:

-The Cage Match.

Now I would “debate” Don Lewis myself, but I’m currently experiencing a nasty yeast infection. Despite my protests, the doctors have flatly benched me from any cage match debates for an indefinite period.

Suggestions of a “stunt debater” to take my place have all had a rather lukewarm reception from Don Lewis’ camp; despite the slightly inferior physical specimen provided, they still appear reluctant to seize upon the concession.

Alternatives appeared to be drying up rather quickly, so I put together a spectacular Pay-Per-View Texas Electric Razorwire Bullwhip Lumberjack Deathcage debate between John Nobody and Don Lewis, whereas I would referee and ensure fair "down the middle" calls and watch for cheating, et cetera.

-Again, Don's camp whined. "No LOBO I don't wanna debate in salted, broken glass," and "Boo-hoo! A lava-filled moat that spews flammable oil, jets of flame, searing acid and pissed-off starving alligators is too dangerous!"

Pansies.

-And I may never get the fine folks at Hasbro back as a sponsor with this wishy-washy campaigning.

Why is the Lewis camp making this so difficult for me? You can’t even see John Nobody. Don Lewis –100% perfectly visible in the human spectrum- has a clear and significant advantage for paramedics to find his remains!

To mitigate this, I submit that John Nobody should be allowed to bring a lightweight fully-fueled well-oiled STIHL chainsaw with no less than an 18-inch bar -ideally suited for general electoral dismemberment- to any function that requires the two appear together.

-Don in turn will get an equally-deadly icky plastic mellon baller I found in the backyard with the serrated edges worn down by dogs chewing on it for the last six months or so.

Democracy has become such an unsanitary pain in the ass nowadays, I don’t know why we bother.

Blech!



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No, THIS is Like a Metaphor-Thingy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You know on one hand I want to thank Dr. Tundra for the great title, and on the other I'm furious with him for almost making me look up what "metaphor" means.

I shouldn't be too angry. I mean it's not like I actually bothered looking up what “metaphor” means, right?

No harm, no foul.

Plus I think I can fake my way through this. Sure maybe I couldn't tell a metaphor from a migraine headache waiting to happen -but I am the World’s Leading Authority on ”Thingys." Heck I probably have more “Thingys” in my garage than most people have altogether.

Anywho, we cannot wax on and on about my expertise on “Thingys,” for that is merely a byproduct of my radiant braniosity.

My radiant braniosity is what we should be waxing on and on about.


***

It has yet to be explained to me what these "problems" are America is so worried about. I mean if you can get past the fact that you can't get plain white toothpaste anymore, the rest of the place is pretty cool, right? Just today in the news is an Associated Press story about how Half of US Doctors Use Placebo Treatments. Heck ten years ago I'll bet one tenth of doctors didn't have decent placebo technology!

So when I went to the debate where John Nobody presumably smeared Don Lewis into a thick paste over on Radioactive Liberty, there was a full two hours or so where I had to pretend I was paying attention to "issues" -and oh man if I heard any more "Legislate This" or "Subsidize That" blah blah, I woulda been snorin right there in the front row.

I thought a "debate" was like a cage match or something. You know, like a "Two Men In, One President Out!" kinda thing? ... But all these guys did was talk at each other!

No wonder John Nobody seemed puzzled when I recommended he wear an athletic cup.

Just as I was about to look up the definition for "Debate," The Question hit me: Has my radiant brainiosity ever been quantified?

I immediately closed some of my porn windows and Googled "Radiant + Brainiosity + Calculator + LOBO."

Nothing.

“Hey Buddy,” whispers Trent Lott as he taps my shoulder. “What was the name of that site?”

“What? Google?"

“No,” he says, tugging on his collar. "The one with the, eh,-"

Eyebrows furrowed, he cups his hands in front of his chest.

“This is no time for shenanigans," I exclaim with reproach. "This is a presidential debate, and the worst kind possible: the kind without a cage match or monster trucks! I would've expected some decorum from you, President Lott.”

“Actually I was a Senator.”

“You were never a president?”

“No.”

Puzzled, I look to the guy next to me. “But you are a president, right?”

“No,” says Dick Durbin.

“So what, they just let any kind of losers into these things now?”

“Apparently,” says Durbin.

"Well, at least that explains the glaring absence of monster trucks."

“Say," says Durbin. "Can you email me a copy of your bookmarks?”

“Not right now,” I says. “I’m doin’ something for Science.”

“So was I,” says Lott.







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Ballot Boxing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“LOBO,” says Don Lewis over the speakerphone. “I’m too chicken to keep running this campaign against you and John Nobody. You guys are far more dynamic, have better ideas, and are flat-out better equipped to run this Great Nation.”

“We’re better looking too,” I point out.

”Yes that is absolutely true.”

“Why don’t you just write a conciliatory speech and put it on your blog?”

"I’m afraid rabid Angry Seafood and Predator Press fans will smell blood and-"

“Don, we never published those pictures.”

”What pictures?”

“You know what I would do Don? I would just forget that MC Hammer roadie thing ever occurred and not bring it up on your blog at all. In fact, don’t even post for a week or two. Take a nice long interlude maybe. In the meantime, John Nobody and I will simply accept your surrender real classy and quiet-like.”

”Thanks LOBO,” says Don.

“No problem,” I says. “I’m just glad you finally came to your senses.”

“Do you guys care if maybe I come out in a few days and act like this surprised me? I could go into a rage and totally claim this conversation never took place. You know, call you guys dirty liars, et cetera.”

I shrug. “I guess not. But that seems a little desperate, don’t you think? And dishonest? I mean this conversation did take place.”

“Yeah well those people will believe anything I tell ‘em,” says Don. "I once implied you were, eh, 'somewhat less than a sexy, sexy genius'. They totally bought it."

“Don," I says indignant. "That’s a terrible way to insult the intelligence of your own constituency!"

Don laughs evilly. “That’s nothing compared to what I woulda done to ‘em if I got elected.”



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Go, Fighty!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's a fact: people never give Predator Press any credit for the huge socio-economic and medical advances we have provided Humanity.

And how about the Science and Engineering?

Hm?

When we presented the alternative to 'Doggie Stairs' with our 160 horsepowered Doggie Centrifuge, did this fantastical technological advancement get mentioned in a Scientific American, Popular Mechanics, or maybe even a lousy Readers Digest?

No.

So now where is Sports Illustrated on our groundbreaking 'Mag-Cat' Research and Development? My theory that cats -cunning natural predators equipped with lightning-fast reflexes, guile, and grace- are ideally suited for intense Air Hockey competition is gonna make us millions.

Just kiss my ass, Forbes.


***

First and foremost, the Air Hockey table -pointedly designed for humans- would have to undergo some minor modifications to provide for a suitable and level playing field for serious Feline Competition. So at great expense to you, our own Predator Press Scienticians magnetically reversed an Air Hockey table surface.

Unfortunately, cats are naturally highly-resistant to magnetism, and tiny little magnetically-repellant boots needed to be developed to respond to the magnetic fields. This realistically replicates the 120-decibel gravity-free Air Hockey environment for cats exactly as it would occur in nature.

We should have a good “regulation” set of these boots available commercially by Christmas. And while coming in at a hefty $850, you must remember that there are four ... plus we throw in our patented "This Side Up" polarity collar and a Buell helmet totally for free. Further, we think $850 is a small price to pay for any serious Air Hockey or cat safety enthusiast: once augmented with the $800 fire extinguisher mandated by California State, your cat will be howling past you on the freeway.

Four of our cats can get to Madison Square Garden from here in eight minutes.

-Theoretically. They cannot read maps, and are complete suckers for every Stuckey's they see along the way.

But truthfully I do not consider an insatiable Pecan Roll dependency a side effect of our regimented and complex training: for several months now, one of Phil's kittens (due to her inexplicable and irritable disposition I call her "Fighty") has undergone 1,074 hours of observation actually wearing the boots, and she finally acclimated well to her vastly improved mobility -even with the chainsaw attachments.

And let me tell you buddy, she hates Pecan Rolls.

Fighty -already a Mag-Cat first season veteran- is ready for some healthy competition. And she's virtually undefeated! Her 27-1 record was most unfairly despoiled by Ethan rubbing her fur backwards during the Winter Halftime Show last February; this triggered a static discharge resulting in one hell of bang, four molten transformers, subsequent rolling blackouts, two crashed satellites, an irrepressible odor of burning hair permeating everything in the Lab, and me spilling my coffee.

Now, the fire department gets cats out of trees all the time, right? When's the last time you saw a cat skeleton in a tree? But you call those jerks and tell them about your smoldering and pissed steroid-jazzed chainsaw-wielding cat magnetically attached to the side of a water tower and see what happens.

I swear those fire department guys are totally worthless.

Nonetheless, lil' Fighty today is an Air Hockey Champion nose-to-tail; just show her that plastic puck or a Pecan Roll, and she yowls, spits and hisses ...

The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs

-as retold by Predator Press


[LOBO]

Once upon a time, a man and his wife got a fantastical golden goose, and it laid a golden egg every day.

“This is terrible,” said the man. “We can’t eat gold!”

“Kill it,” said the woman. “It might breed with the other animals. The entire village could starve to death!”

“We will be remembered forever as heroes!” cried the man.



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