Predator Press Unveils "iByte" Prototype

Predator Press

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Before deluging us with “Congratulations” mail, you should know that Terri and I did not, in fact, adopt a dog.

In fact this isn’t even a real dog at all: this is just a little something Predator Press Scienticians whipped up overnight.

Isn’t it amazing? And we haven't even glued on the carpet remnants yet! If we could get the oil it leaks to be the color of urine, it would be totally indistinguishable from the real thing.

(I sure hope it fits in the basket.)

Shark Chum for the Soul

Predator Press

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Yes, today was to be still yet another post ranting about my Insurance Company.

-But taking a tip from Chris Wood, I’ve decided not to let them ruin my day.

Today’s post will not be about how I want them squishing barefoot through bat feces deep in the bowels of some forgotten drafty dungeon for the rest of eternity. Nor will it be about comparing the gauge of mesh screen I would like them squeezed through.

Today’s post will be about, eh, puppies.

Yes. A bunch of puppies. Cute little fuzzy wuzzy wide-eyed irresistible companion-seeking puppies. All in a cozy little basket with a big red ribbon on it.

I’ll bet if an insurance company found a basket of such puppies, their hearts would melt. They would immediately bring the puppies inside and divide them up for cuddling and adoption purposes.

-But these wouldn’t be normal garden-variety puppies.

These would be robot assassin puppies.

Someone answers the phone “You have reached Affirmative Insurance,” and boom! that’s the audio trigger for the attack: a hidden hypo delivers the paralyzing neurotoxins, and then the puppies start burrowing their way piranha-like right into the very hearts they just melted. Like that movie Alien, ‘cept in reverse.

In puppies no one can hear you scream.

And then the ugly runty robot assassin puppy? The unwanted one they left back in the basket?

Detonates.

-Wipes out the crime scene completely.


***

Man Chris was right. I do feel better!

Please be sure to visit Chris Wood’s blog.

-This guy sure knows his stuff.

Hawk

Predator Press

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I’m no vegetarian, but the product pictured left has become the major preoccupation of my entire morning.

Has American hatred for chickens grown to such a point where we sanction violent chicken-on-chicken crime in our advertising?

Yes, I’m impressed this company has trained chickens to cruelly fry other chickens. In fact it’s clear to me now this must be a super-intelligent breed of very highly-functioning chicken too: typical chickens operate at a very poor level in kitchens -particularly when it comes to the sensitive timing required to deep fry things.

Is this tied to cockfighting, or are these superintelligent chickens, like, doing some kind of horrible and macabre ethnic cleansing? Or what if there is one like mastermind chicken controlling all the others to do his diabolic culinary will?

-Man I wouldn’t want to mess with that chicken.

And yes, for a moment I had a distant, receding impulse to do the right thing and get indignant. My god, I think. Unless it’s by a professional chef, these delicious creatures should not be abused!

-But this thought is almost immediately drowned out by What are you stupid? You could pick up a few grand assisting the marketing campaign!”

So screw the chicken.

Hard.

-Before it messes with your ankles or something.

'An I can already hear you bleedin’ heart Liberals ”But LOBO, you’re rationalizing animal abuse. Surely you wouldn’t compromise your ethics and contribute to a brutal campaign like that.”

-I, for one, am shocked at you bleedin’ heart Liberals. Of course I wouldn’t give these people more sick ideas.

I would, however, present a few to see if they’re interested in purchasing them …

And hey, what about my ankles?

I deserve pre-compensation.

For Screechy

Predator Press

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Once when I was a child, my father –an expert mechanic- took me into the garage.

“Son,” says Dad. “Do you want to grow up to be a great mechanic like myself?”

“Sure I do, Dad!” I says.

He scruffs my hair, grinning. “That’s my boy.”

I reach for a hammer on the shelf –it seemed gigantic compared to my smallish hands- but Dad stopped me.

“No son,” he corrects. “As a mechanic, you gotta understand the nature of things.” He walks me outside to the now harsh-seeming daylight. Scooping up a handful of dirt, he sifts it through his fingers and says “You want to work on an internal combustion engine? Well this is where it all begins. You see we get our blah oil from the ground, and blah blah energy into blah petroleum and blah blah blah blah fires the pistons blah blah blah … ”


*** Despite not knowing shit about being a mechanic, at sixteen I was tenured at Harvard and consequently became the Chief Engineer for Boeing.

A "prodigy," my very first duty as Chief Engineer for Boeing was to determine why so many workers were getting limbs and digits torn off on the factory floor.

I quickly submitted a report stating that the equipment would work more efficiently, faster, and most importantly safer if the workers stopped tearing their limbs and digits off with it.

I was promoted to National Safety Board Chairman, and fired later that same day for driving my forklift to a McDonald's Drive-Thru for fries.

There Is No "U" In "TEAM"

Predator Press

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“The insurance people won’t talk to me at all,” I complain.

“I’m not surprised after all that cursing,” says Terri. “They probably regard you as belligerent.”

“Then let them continue to regard me as big words I don’t understand!” I says triumphant.

“Atta boy,” sighs Terri.

There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe

-as retold by Predator Press

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Humpty Dumpty knocked on the outside of the massive shoe.

No answer.

He knocked again. Louder.

“Who is it?” she cried from deep within.

“It’s the Humpster, baby.”

“Come on in. The door isn't locked.”

“You busy?” he calls into the shoe as he opens the door.

“No,” she replies. “I’ll be there in a second.”

“Damn girl,” jokes Humpty. “You ain’t havin another baby, are you?”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Aw, congratulations!” says Humpty. He grabs some towels, and heads over to the kitchen to boil water. Man this crazy ol lady sure does love to get her 'freak' on, he thinks smiling to himself.

He fires the burner and fills the pot with water muttering to himself, "Well, you know what they say about women with big hands and big feet."

“What?”

But Humpty, struggling for his asthma breather, didn’t hear her. The sight of the boiling pot of water had triggered a panic attack; all he could hear was the voice of his other saying ”That’s what happened to your father. One minute he was driving a forklift at a macaroni factory, and the next,” she pauses, ”poached.”

“Hey are you alright?” asks the old woman. Now dressed in a sweatsuit, she alertly helps Humpty fumble his breather to his mouth. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

”Poached,” his mother repeated in his head.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, tears streaming. “Every time I see boiling water, I just want to grab a Bushmaster AR-15 and kill everyone I can find.”

“Well I do loves a man with an eye for safety,” she whispers. “I like Armalites ... don’t get me wrong. But they just don’t have the Viper range safety device that Bushmans do." She throws his arm over her shoulder. "Humpty, have you met my kids?”

Humpty leans away from the kitchen counter, testing his weak and wobbly legs. “Probably not all of them ma’am.”

With her arms still around him, she helped him stand. Perhaps it was the proximity or the moment of utter vulnerability –maybe it was merely the smell of her perfume- but Humpty decided if ever there was a moment to tell her how he feels, this is it.

“Baby,” he says, staggering to look into her eyes. “We’ve known each other for a long time. How come we never, eh, 'hooked up'?”

“Oh, Humpty,” she blushes. “I’m very flattered, but you’re an egg. What would my friends say if I started dating an egg?”

Humpty, pride mortally wounded, looked away to hide the tears.

“I mean maybe if you were at least an embryo or something,” she continues. “But an egg? Ewe!”

Despite his aching heart, Humpty fought to reply. “You know,” he sobbed. “We have our differences. But I have yearned for you for years now. I know your favorite band, favorite color, favorite flower … Damn it I love you.”

The woman, shocked, stared in disbelief.

“And I don’t care that I’m an egg and you’re an old woman that lives in a shoe,” Humpty continued grabbing her shoulders. “Can’t you see that your discrimination is tearing us apart!?”

The woman’s pupils narrow.

“Get your filthy egg-hands off of me!” she screams.

“But baby-“

She dives for her cellphone, “How dare you!?”

“I was only trying to-“

“Hello?” she barks into the phone. “Is this all the King’s men?”

“There’s no need to-!“

“Yes,” she says. “A filthy egg is attacking me. How did you know?”

Humpty lunges for her phone, and wrests it away from her. “God damn it woman, those people will be trying to kill me now!”

Suddenly, Humpty realizes he has a .45 caliber pistol pointed into his temple.

The woman growls. “You make a sound before the cops get here, and I’ll blow your yolk all over the goddamned leather.”

“Jezebel!” cries Humpty, lashing out.

"You damn ... dirty ... egg!" she chokes, and falls limp in his arms.

“Oh my god,” cries Humpty as police sirens wail in the distance. “She’s dead!”

And even as the galloping sound of all the king’s horses become deafening, he screams into the sky:

"Oh sweet Jesus! what have I done!?!”

Playing With Matches

Predator Press

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HINTS
v

One of these two will transport you into hellish wastelands, and subject you to unimaginable atrocities.

The other will only write about it.

One of these would wipe out the entire salad bar, and then make out with Princess Leia.

The other is made of Latex and rubber.

One of these is a visionary of internet comedy.

The other is in a DVD my kid made me buy.


One of these was in a TV series.

The other runs a weapons factory for irate golfers.


One of these two made an outrageously successful DVD.

The other is somehow cashing in despite "Pet Detective", and Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Budget Surpluses".


One of these two is a highly-pressurized windbag with a reflective surface, containing a gas that makes you talk funny when ingested.

... I can't tell the difference either.

Dona Nobis Pacem

Predator Press

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The Bloggy Electric

Predator Press

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If you told us ten years ago we would be in the middle of something even bigger than the "Industrial Revolution," we would have laughed.

-But never before has any animal been able to communicate to the other side of the planet instantaneously.

The internet has given us a virtual telepathy unrivalled in the animal kingdom, and it will irrevocably alter the species entirely.

Indeed, our children's children will be downloading historical data on this momentus occasion directly to their cerebral cortexes, and have to create longwinded 87 terabyte 3-dimensional holographic essays on how "Those Dumb People Were So Dumb, They Had No Dumb Idea. ROFLMAO. LOL they were so dumb! WTF?"

And to commemorate this fantastic Age of Achievement, I plan a blog post entitled "Did I Eat This?" as soon as the Polaroids come back.

Mmmmm ... 3.14

Predator Press

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What? Too soon?

How I Single-Handedly Ended the Gas Crisis

Predator Press

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“$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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