Predator Press

Sunday

The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity!

Predator Press

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Yes it's true: it's here! It's The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity! We know you have been wanting this. We know you have been needing this! We know you have been yearning for this.

And here it is.

Yippie!

-Stop touching yourself! We are only getting started.

I committed to actually following through with this much-anticipated event immediately after thinking of it a few minutes ago. But the first problem was Who should host it?

We needed somebody special. Somebody with the radiant braniosity of, like, a million men. Or seven women. Or like three women and five hundred seventy one thousand four hundred and twenty eight point five men.

Luckily I was standing right there.

-It was Fate.

So without further adieu, I bring you The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity!

Category 1: Best '80s Cheerleader Bait

Yes, while most of us were getting our faces rated for PSI durability by virtue of high-velocity underinflated muddy red rubber, these two guys were leaving a string of broken hearts and condoms all across our great nation.

And we all remember those shorts: they were fantastic for Sharon Stone-ing your way from a "C" to an "A" in a particularly tough chemistry class.

Many government agencies regard the subsequent long and twisting track of unwanted children and unpaid child support as “The Trail of Tears,” and terms of their probation have prevented me from releasing their names.

Category 2: Most Bloggable Hair

To the left we have the indomitable William McCamment of Dead Rooster. He claims to only use Paul Mitchell products, and describes his technique as "Jumping out the window, and hair spraying it real fast."

To the right we have Jeff of View From The Cloud. Clearly being groomed for his long career ahead as the Regional Sales Manager for Pfizer, this is the hair of a guy that can get shit done.

-Jeff is the only blogger in history to be nominated twice in The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity! ... he's also in the previous Best '80s Cheerleader Bait category with the Unfinished Rambler.

Category 3: Best Faked Death

No, we’re not talking about the much-beloved Doctor Toboggans –we here at Predator Press have known all along that Doctor Toboggans is perfectly safe ‘n sound in the trunk of that car I left in Mexico a few months ago.

But the elaborate and meticulous planning it took for Brent Diggs to survive the six best hitmen I could find, having his body burned in the desert, having the ashes tossed into a zinc smelter and then having that zinc smelter launched into the Sun really, really impressed me.

Well done sir!

Bravo.

Category 4: Best Movie Pitch

Hey! How’d that get in here?

:)

Category 5: Best Posts

It was tough picking out my fave three posts of the year. But I’ve narrowed the list to:

Angry Seafood - "Polygamist Cult Not Attractive Enough to Join"

This riveting exposé dives deep into the seedy underbelly of polygamy and splays it’s steaming entrails all over the linoleum.

Included topics are the downside of inbreeding and it’s inherent adverse effects -such as significantly inhibited recruitment.

neOnbubble - "Make Money Online With Blackmail"

Hats off to a deviously brilliant concept: an anonymous blackmail exchange program. I don’t want to ruin it by going into too much detail, so you’ll have to check this one out yourself.

... and then let the paranoia set in.

Speedcat Hollydale - "Old Towne Speedcat Goin Down the River"

When Speedcat Hollydale announced he was going to release his single “Old Towne Speedcat Goin Down the River,” legend has it Scott Stapp got over himself and David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen started making out with each other.

But Speedcat would have none of that: instead of muscling his Les Paul and Marshall stacks into the studio, Speedcat does is solo and acapella from his very own kitchen.

Personally, I think this has way more influence on modern music than Kurt Cobain ever did.

Category 6: Predator Press 2008 MAN OF THE YEAR

Look I know all that happened in 2007. But Predator Press didn’t have these awards in 2007! And trust me, I combed over 2008 -nothing this year nudged him out.

I consider Larry Craig undefeated.

You may remember Larry Craig as being in, oh, say the House of Representatives … but it’s infinitely more likely you remember him from what he called a “highly heterosexual miscommunication brought on by some bathroom discomfort.”

Larry -who inadvertently put the 'key' in 'keyster'- spawned a cottage industry of “I Have A Wide Stance” t-shirts that still make me laugh hysterically every time I see one.

Anywho there you have them: LOBO’s picks for 2008. But I didn't want to leave anyone out: we're all winners here:

The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity!

Friday

Thank You

Predator Press

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The Fourth of July and New Years are ranked very high on my ‘Favorite Holiday’ list: you gotta love the idea of giving people a bunch of booze and high explosives and saying, “Okay. Now don’t do anything stupid.”

This won't be my annual ‘wrap up’ ... these are just a couple of things I wanted to squeeze in before the end of the year.

On the 22nd, POPSENSE listed Predator Press as one of their definitive “Best Blogs of 2008.” I promised myself I would look up what ‘definitive’ means before I posted this news to ensure they weren’t actually being sarcastic -but what am I gonna do now? It’s too late. Besides, I made that promise to myself in the full knowledge that I had an impulse control problem.

I have forgiven myself entirely.

And I feel better now!

Don’t you?

Also a buddy from the new and improved soon-to-be-unleashed Cult of Qelqoth asked me to make a banner for his site so’s he could feature me for a day or two. He had to change his URL recently due to a court settlement: it’s my understanding that he should sail through probation just fine as long as he verifies a chick's age against her driver’s license from here on out.

Now I’ve made a few buttons and banners in the past -most are in the sidebar and the rest are featured here- so I figured I would offer some advice to banner creation “newbies.”

There's only one thing you need to know here and it should be obvious: Do not buy your computer at Menards. When I heard I could get a PC with a walnut finish, track lighting and a barbeque pit for $16.99 I was all over it -but alas these things are woefully inadequate on RAM, and the thing switches off whenever anyone flushes the toilet. Seriously. Get a box of Kleenex and a bottle of Visine because it’s going to be Junior High School all over again.

Another problem you might face is weird dimensions. It was bad enough that it needed to be 350 pixels by 130 pixels … but this particular Cult of Qelqoth [TCOQ] author gives all his instructions in units he describes as “cubits.”

The pixel-to-cubit ratio comes out something like this:

Fortunately the Menards computer is spectacular at the pixel-to-cubit ratio, but this triggers lots of pop-up ads hawking bulk lumber sales, animal cages and water sealing products.

Ultimately -in answering the call from TCOQ- I magicked me up this:

This site doesn’t have porn, but it’s still good.

Were you so inclined to use it please feel free … I do kinda like it, but I can’t even fit it in my sidebar: it’s going to spiral down forever into the murky unread archives.

I really should read those things one day.

-It could only help with the continuity.

Thursday

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

Predator Press

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The judge just kinda looks back and forth between me ‘an the affidavit.

Finally, he sets the doc down, leans back in his chair, and tosses his glasses lightly upon his desk in exasperation.

“You stand before me,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “accused of the destruction of a Christmas tree, an entire living room, and numerous Christmas presents totaling-" he pulls the forms under his nose, “$41,320 in damages.”

By this point, Terri’s sister, eh, 'Weepy,' is wailing openly in the courtroom.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I says. “And further I ask that you take the history of our relationship into consideration.”

“Proceed,” says the judge, tapping the fingertips of each hand together like a church steeple.

I stand and pace before the jury, already glaring at me in anxious disgust.

I can already see a ‘Guilty’ verdict coming.

This better be good.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I says loosening my tie. “Terri and I have been together for four years now. And every Christmas, I’m under siege.” I whirl and point at Weepy dramatically. “Because of her!”

"What?" Weepy demands between sobs. "I-!"

“Ma’am,” I says interrupting. “Do you remember what you got our youngest son two years ago?”

“Yes,” she says thinking. “It was a bicycle.”

“An unassembled bicycle,” I correct. “So you know how I spent that Christmas? I spent six hours putting that damn thing-”

"Order!" the judge snaps.

"Sorry sir. That darn thing together. And the whole time I hadda listen to the five year old ask fifteen thousand times, ‘Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you-'"

“I think we get the point,” says the judge.

“No,” I says. “I don’t think you do. I have to say ‘Did you finish my bike yet?’ 14,994 and a half more times for you to get ‘the point’ here."

-Murmurs amongst the jurors suggest I might’ve hit a sympathetic note.

I return my attention to my sister-in-law. Mascara running, she stares at me in disbelief.

“And do you remember what you got him last year?”

She stammers. “A race car set.”

“But not just any race car set, right?” Whirling away, I return to pacing in front of the jury. “It was one of those battery powered race car sets with like a jillion parts. And the kind that you hadda stick the track forks into each other just perfect, or the current would short out the cars. Any slightest nudge made the whole thing not work and I hadda start the whole thing over.”

Juror Number Four -the Foreman- a burly, unshaven luberjack-looking fellow, fainted dead away.

I glare at them. "I was making up cusswords at one point!"

“Objection!” cried Weepy’s lawyer. "I fail to see how this has any bearing-"

“Look,” I says. “A lot of people would like porterhouse steaks for Christmas.”

“Yes,” cries Weepy. “But your not supposed to fully cook them before wrapping them! We thought they were a DVD player or something and put them under the tree with the rest of the presents!”

“Ah ha!” I exclaim. “And that assumption is what caused Rommel and Hess, your two German Shepherds, to destroy your living room.”

“You wrapped Milk Bones for stocking-stuffers!”

I dismiss this with a shrug.

“That was merely a coincidence.”

Tuesday

An That's How I Saved Christmas

Predator Press

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"LOBO," says God.

"What?"

"What’s with all the humbug, bub?"

There’s no point in lying to the Infinite One: a natural consequence of a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past is subsequent visits from the Ghosts of Christmas Present and Future -and presumably in that order. In an effort to "get the drop" on the Ghost of Christmas Present, so far I’ve beat up the guy who reads the gas meter, two Jehovah’s Witnesses, and a surprisingly scrappy pizza delivery guy.

"I thought smiting pagans was what we were supposed to do," I says flatly.

"What pagans?"

"All these Christmas jerks!" I says.

"LOBO, Christmas is a good thing."

"Oh no," I says. "I ain’t falling for that old gag. Commandment number one is ‘Thou Shalt Put No Other Gods Before You’ … it’s right in the Charter. In the end you’re going to chuck all these Jesus people into the Lake of Fire to suffer for all Eternity … and I’m gonna be up there in Heaven laughin at ‘em with you."

"Hasn’t anyone explained the Holy Trinity to you?"

"Hey I’ve seen The Matrix movies like fifty times, and they’re twice as confusing as the Old Testament."

"Well I didn’t use Keanu Reeves for the Old Testament for that exact reason." There’s a Holy pause. ”What do you think of Nicolas Cage?”

"Meh," I says. "We need like a Brock Lesnar. You know, a big scary guy that can bust the heads of evil like superripe watermelons. 'Take that evil!' says Brock. Splat! -Ooo! How about Batman?"

"I thought about it," says God. "But there’s the whole image thing. I mean he dresses in all black, those pointy ears look kinda like horns. I just think it would confuse people."

"Have you read the Bible lately?"

"Good point."

"So we need a kinda normal looking guy, but somebody with that smoldering evil-smiting, Charles Hestony-thing going. Hmmm. How about Kevin Pollak? He was awesome in Deterrence."

"Too short."

"John Cusack?"

"No. He’s been walking a fine line with me since Pushing Tin."

"I got it," I says, snapping my fingers. "Bill Goldberg. I could totally see Bill Goldberg smashing Judas in the face with a steel chair."

"I like it," says God.

"Yeah," I says. "Bill Goldberg looks like the kind of guy you need. I can just imagine Delilah sneakin’ in to cut his hair, and him just showin’ her the back of his hand. ‘Now go bake me same damn cookies!’ he’d roar."

"You know LOBO, maybe you’re right. I’ve been too soft on everyone lately."

"Now that’s the no-nonsense Infinite Being we all know and love," I says. "Stop messing around with this ‘freewill’ and ‘forgiveness’ nonsense … it’s only stressing us out. There should be two settings for God: 'Happy' and 'Wood Chipper.' We need some oldschool fiery vengeful wrath. One strike, you’re out. No warnings, just pillars of salt, raining frogs 'an brimstone ... the works!"

"I really don’t think I need to go back to all that."

"Really?" I says. "Two words: Paris Hilton."

The ground trembles.

Wow that was cool.

"Or," I says thinking quickly. "How about Lindsay Lohan?"

A crack opens in the earth. Red fire and agonized screams spew out of it.

"Atta boy!" I says. "Now go get ‘em, Champ! Only you can prevent another Pauly Shore vehicle!"

Sunday

T'was the Night Before Christmas

Predator Press

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Twas the night before Christmas
and I’m wide awake,
arraying the chimney
with beartraps and snakes;
the booby-trapped stockings
set with infinite care,
in hopes that fat bastard’ll
blow his hand off in there.

There arose such a clatter
up on my roof,
-and I’m sick of cleaning up
piles of froze reindeer poop!
I let loose a war cry
-a blood curdling scream-
and empty the contents
of my AR-15.

One two three four five
six seven eight nine
thumps from above tell me
I missed one this time.
“Oh Dasher, Oh Dancer”
cries a loud booming voice,
“LOBO this tears it.
You give me no choice!”

I empty a blast
at the source of the sound
-and another at a spot
I think he might bound
-but the fat man is spry
for all that it’s worth-
he evaded hot lead,
belying his girth.

Not a creature was stirring
as I reloaded my shells,
“I don’t want any trouble!”
I finally yells.
“Just leave all the toys,
and get the hell out
I don't want to send cops
on that long North Pole route!”

The back door exploded
in splinters and slag
and a blood-splattered Santa
in smoldering rags
was removing his coat
and rolling his sleeves
“This time,” says Santa,
“Only one of us leaves.”

We circle each other,
and I’m very alarmed.
I can’t believe
the size of his arms!
“Hey what gives?" I says stunned.
"You’ve been working out!
Where’s the ‘bowl full of jelly’
you trespassing lout?”

With a wink of an eye
and a twist of his head,
I know within moments
I will likely be dead.
Santa flicks his nose,
“You dumb blogging hack!
I’ve lost two hundred pounds
on my Nordic Track.”

"Old Mrs. Clause
must thing you're a riot"
I says, "and that Stetson cologne?
I'll bet she don't buy it."
"I wear nothing but Polo," he says.
"Don't even try it.
Now I'll pound you to pulp,
and then leave here real quiet.”

"If you think that's Polo,
age is taking it's toll,"
-that's when I did
a slick ninja-like roll,
and from under the sugar-plums
grab the control,
“Bring a knife to a gunfight?”
I says laughing. “How droll!”

Missile TOW missiles launched
from tubes placed discretely,
but Santa danced deftly
–they missed him completely.
One of them arched
so high and so true
It blew the poor neighbor’s place
clear out of view.

“LOBO let’s stop this.
You’ve blown up the Burkes!”
“To Hell with you Santa!
Those people were jerks!”
“I don’t understand
why this is unpleasant,”
Santa opens his arms.
“Especially since I brought you a present.”

“Really?” I says,
resisting suspicion.
I lower my bazooka.
“That was your mission?”
“Why sure!” says Santa.
“It’s from your mother.”
And when I looked in that hand,
he punched me with the other.

Electric pain flashes
all through my cap,
My nose must be broken,
completely smashed flat.
I stagger backwards.
“Santa, you’re dead!”
… But Rudolph, behind me,
clean kicked off my head.

It landed on a spike
three blocks away
and I could see where my body
dropped and lifelessly lay.
Up on the rooftop,
the reindeer all raised
to assume the mantle
of pulling The Sleigh.

As I lay dying
I heard Santa fly off
-and I spat blood and teeth
in my last final cough.
“On Dasher on Dancer,
and to Mrs. Clause praise!
-We need bulletproof vests
for the reindeer these days.”

Santa, still climbing,
resumed his long flight
-his sleigh silhouetted
against the cold lunar light-
and as it grew distant
and faded from sight,
I heard "Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good ... "

... I dunno ... I couldn't make out the rest.

Saturday

Ghost of Christmas Past CAUGHT ON FILM!

Predator Press

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Ghost of Christmas Past, sure maybe I’ve been a little scrooge-like this year.

-But you crossed a line with me buddy. And I’ve got film proving you broke in, knocked me out with my 31-pound stainless steel Franklin Mint Limited Edition Collector’s Replica #412 of the Millennium Falcon, chained me up, and made me listen to all of your horrible backwards Satanic songs!

Perplexed at how Diesel was preventing me from voting on Humor-Blogs, I devoted all efforts of my vast security network to catch him in the act.

-That’s right: I got a Nanny Cam. And this is just a sample of the 16 hours of horror I was subjected to:

I assure you Ghost of Christmas Past [GOCP] I've contacted all the proper Authorities and my lawyer is filing numerous torts and depositions even as we speak! And "Charles Dickens" ring a bell? Hm? That's not just the funniest sounding author ever anymore ... 'A Christmas Carol' is a blueprint for your whole operation!

If I were you, I would turn myself in immediately.

-Oh and BTW I've got a little "surprise" planned for the Ghost of Christmas Present:

(I sure hope he doesn't get Diesel instead.)

Friday

G.W.B.

Predator Press

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Less than a week after we watched in horror as journalist Muntazer al-Zaidi tried to wang American President George W. Bush upside the head with a leather pair of size 10s, Predator Press has uncovered evidence that he was not, in fact, working alone.

“The forensic evidence of at least one additional shoe-thrower is overwhelming,” says a smart-looking guy in a lab coat. Taking a pen from his pocket, he points at the toe. “This is a very expensive soft leather. Where are the inevitable scuffs? Are we to believe this was some kind of scuffless ‘magic shoe’? Pfft. As if! The odds of such a shoe being hurled and not scuffed are somewhere in the vicinity of, like, a jillion-to-one.”

He continues on to dispute the now well-known footage: “Now watch the shoe tosses themselves. Both are hurled with high degrees of backspin, thusly creating a significant amount of aerodynamic [he makes quote marks in the air with his fingers] 'torque'. This causes what golfers call [he makes quote marks again] 'hook'."

"As you can see in this AutoCAD recreation of the trajectories, both peel back and to the left. This forces Bush to duck toward the right. It's all very scientific.”

When asked what bearing this had on the ongoing $154M investigation he responded, “Absolutely none whatsoever ... I've just never been on TV before.”

He pauses and waves.

"Hi mom!"

Thursday

Oh, and About This Whole "Christmas" Thing ...

Predator Press

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Fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, I wince into them –but this does nothing practical to ease the pain.

They just keep going.

I can’t take it.

And going.

Please stop.

Finally I crack like an eggshell.

“For God’s sake, please STOP!”

Within seconds, the packed auditorium dwindles to a quieted state: a handful of Mrs. Tanner’s first grade class –still lost in song apparently- were among the last few to drift into silence.

And barring the puzzled murmurs of some 300 other parents that attended the South California Middle School Christmas Celebration Ball, there is a glorious absence of sound entirely.

“Excuse me?” says Mrs. Tanner from the side of the stage.

The kids are starin at me slackjawed.

“Ma’am,” I says. “I love Christmas just as much as anyone else. But so help me God if you make those kids do whatever that was again, I will kill you.”

“That was The Twelve Days of Chrismas,” she defends.

“No,” I says. “That was somebody smashing a 40-ounce beer bottle and jamming the pieces into my Frontal lobe.”

A fat blonde kid in front raises his hand. "Mrs Tanner-"

“Shut up!” I says, pointing at him wild-eyed.

I stand and approach the stage. “You!” I indicate the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Joseph,” he says.

“Joseph, do you have any idea what happens when you have twenty-two pipers piping simultaneously?”

Joseph just stares.

“And don’t get me started on-“ I count out some fast and furious math on my fingers, “thirty five golden rings? Oh holy Christ!”

“It’s just a song mister,” says Joseph.

“And you know what you do when you sing that song a full half an octave flat Joseph?” I lean down into his pudgy little still-asymmetrical face. “You make Santa cry.”

A tear streamed down Joseph’s cheek.

“Sir," snaps Mrs. Tanner. “They’re only six!"

I seize the clipboard from her hand. “That’s why I’m holding you entirely accountable.” Skimming her list, I begin “Oh lookit. Jingle Bells. How original.” I pause and glance at her. “You call yourself a professional? You didn’t even bother to put the ugly kids in the back row!”

Joseph wails.

“Shut up!” I repeat, already back to Mrs Tanner’s songlist. “A Hippopotamus for Christmas?” I guffaw. “Well that’s not even plausible ... !”

“Have you no soul?” cries Mrs. Tanner.

I shrug. “I got a jar of mayonnaise for it in 2003.”

Bullets to Spare

Predator Press

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“Let’s say a complex unfixable issue in Section 36 will likely cause us all to die,” I says. “I would immediately say ’You know what Section 36? You guys are assholes!’”

I pause for a second, looking out the window for dramatic effect. “-and then Section 36 fixes the issue. Disaster is averted, and we all survive.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

Crap.

-I thought I was doing really well there.

“See,” I continue -hoping to recapture my previous inertia and maybe rescue the effort. “That’s the kind of job I need: a 'sexy, take chargy, top-secrety, lot's of cashy company jetty'-type job. And that’s why I think I am perfect for your company.”

“Sir,” he says blandly. “We make baby bottles here.”

“Seriously?”

Wednesday

If You Can't Beat Them ... Well ... THEN What?

Predator Press

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Complainy, already a hard-core 16 year-old ‘texter,’ has probably already lost all ability to see anything further than eighteen inches from her face at this point.

-And glasses ain’t cheap.

“Would you just call those damned people already?” I demand. “You’ve been 'tiny-typing' them for hours!”

“You work on your blog for hours,” she says absently. “Why don’t you just call them?"

“Well I … ,” I begin. “Uhn, … "

“Actually talking to people is so passé,” she says, blue screenlight reflecting in her fixed brown eyes.

“People are not a mixture of minced meat and fat in the form of spreadable paste, generally made from a finely ground or chunky mixture of meats and liver and often generally enjoyed on crackers,” I remind her.

"That's pâté," she corrects.

“Nobody likes a smart ass," I retort. "And you can’t hold me responsible for that whole 'Arkansas' thing forever: I lost my wallet, and I certainly wasn’t going to catch a deer with two cans of 'Old Style.'”

-I pause for a second, rewinding the incident in my head.

“And that jerk was wearing A1 sauce,” I recall pounding my fist into the table. “He was askin’ for it!”

Complainy blinks at her phone. “Were you saying something dad?”

“Man what is wrong with you kids today?” I demand. “Back in my day, AC/DC was cool, Ozzy was evil, and Red Hot Chili Peppers was seasoning!”

“Really,” she says disinterested. “Wow.”

“And we respected our … !"

Uh-oh.

“Ah screw it,” I concede. “Just try to stay out of jail, okay?”