The Number You Have Dialed HAS A LIFE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Teenagers spend a lot of time on the phone.

They are very busy and important people.

Busy, busy, busy.

Important, important, important.

And I'm okay with that.

Seriously.

But they call a lot.

Look. Nobody has called me circa 1996, and I kinda like it that way.

-Now the same person will call five times in a row. And not just leave a message and move on, but just call and call and call.

And call.

First Call: If you call once and choose not to leave a message, I get that. You wanted to talk to the person live. Nothing particularly important.

Second Call: The second call presupposes something like a) you changed your mind about leaving the afore mentioned message, or b) I was in the shower: while toweling suds out of my eyes, perhaps I made a heroic effort for the phone -but the instant I got there the call switched to voicemail. I haven't called back because the dripping water probably shorted out both the voicemail and the Caller ID.

Third Call: The third call always makes me wonder what exactly our teenagers are telling people about the size of our place: Okay. Maybe I'm in the pool. While drying off the phone starts ringing again and -gasping- I realize I've locked myself out of the house and the the phone, half-forgotten, lies on the kitchen table. As a bonus, Freddy Krueger audibly starts to churn through the outer perimeters of my hedge maze.

I don't know about you, but the third unanswered call suggests to me that this isn't the best time.

Fourth Call: A fourth call leaves me totally bewildered.

Okay this scenario suggests that I'm maybe at 7-11. And as I pour my Slurpee, a crashing meteor wipes out all mankind and accidentally creates flesh eating zombies: it's only then I realize I've locked myself out of the church, and off in the distance I can hear Freddy Krueger in my hedgemaze with a pack of cheetahs -directly in the path of my house where the phone lie half-forgotten on the kitchen table. All civilization as we know it has come to an abrupt and bitter end, and one lone human being -one with me on speedial- is crying out for help as the frail atmosphere is being sucked violently from Earth by a black hole.

Frankly, I still wouldn't answer: I would obviously have my own problems to deal with.

And Humanity's last Slurpee.

What’s That? Wednesday

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Every once in a while, if I really like your blog, I’ll pay it the ultimate compliment and rip it off completely.

-Such is the case with this, the very first official Predator Press What’s That? Wednesday, surgically removed from The Junk Drawer.

This was fraught with unseen peril. First of all, I try to do a post a day. My next open spot is Tuesday. Further complicating things, it’s actually a Sunday. Can you actually have the very first official Predator Press What’s That? Wednesday on a Tuesday that is actually a Sunday?

Worse, my wife Terri guessed immediately what "That" was, and now I have to sleep in the car.

She likes the Predator Press coffee cup though.

After Single-Handedly Defeating the GOP, What Should I Do Next?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"But LOBO," I can hear some of you saying. "That was clearly the hardest-fought four day span of your entire career. You must be exhausted!"


It's true. I'm pooped. Those Republicans were pretty tenacious.

-But Predator Press doesn't offer idle time off: I can't leave you millions and millions of readers devoid of my mighty righteousness!

I dunno. I’m thinking about tackling cancer next.

-Or maybe tofu.

Blech.

Conflict Revolution

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“The whole Republican Party?” I ask the guy.

”Yes,” says the disembodied voice on the speakerphone. ”Every last one of us signed it.”

“An apology?”

”For offending your sensibilities.”

“What about just plain bein’ assholes?”

”That too.”

“I don’t know,” I says. “I mean you got me pretty upset, and I don’t think accepting surrender from your entire political party is enough. I think I deserve some cash compensation as well.”

”Eh,” says the guy. ”Wouldn’t that constitute a bribe?”

“A bribe,” I explain, “would presuppose forgiving you guys as a condition of receiving money. I’ve already decided to forgive you guys as long as you use your powers for good instead of evil from here on out."

"So this is ...?"

"Cash as an incentive to make that fact public. This is more like blackmail.”

”I ... see.”

“And I want a statue,” I continue. “Nine feet tall. One of me wrestling a cheetah or something.”

”A cheetah.”

"Yeah. And make me in a loincloth so my Craig Blair isn't floppin' all over the place."

"Uh-"

“In Tiananmen Square.”

Penis is Such an Ugly Word

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I really try to keep bad language on Predator Press to a minimum.

-But sometimes it’s hard to get around, you know?

So from here on out, instead of the word penis (or any other variant on the male genitalia), I’ll refer to that part of human anatomy as a "Craig Blair." Okay?

True, Craig Blair might find this euphemism offensive.

But I’m not afraid.

-Word on the street is that he’s too much a "Gwyneth Paltrow" to do anything about it.

Exclusive: Craig Blair Franchise Serves Deep-Fried Babies

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yep. You read it here first in this Predator Press Exclusive: Craig Blair Franchise Serves Deep-Fried Babies!

Those babies are like 20 million calories apiece. And can you imagine the cholesterol?

-Plus Blair was observed forgetting to wash his hands in the bathroom before cooking, and not wearing a hair net.

I would give it 2 stars.

Tops.

Oh Craig Blair, You Poor GOP Asshat

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Oh Craig Blair, you poor GOP asshat, here I am -a college graduate- already facing washing dishes at Red Lobster to feed my family thanks to eight years of your Bush-addled criminal party "Policies."

-And after the mess you made, oh fearless lawmaker, you brazenly propose a genius plan to further inhibit Average Joe American survival with drug tests for people on unemployment.

-And not at a time when unemployent is low, either: rather than fiddling with it when there are jobs to be had, he picks now -when for some it means life or death.

We sent Michael Vick to jail for what again?

Craig, you're a flat-out evil scumbag. Seriously. You Republican swine screwed us via negligence, and now you -the supposed pro-gun human liberty 'an individual privacy party- are tryin to weasel out on protections people were universally taxed for all those years? Maybe people should be piss-tested before you can take any of their money! H&R Block would be fine with just buying some cups and rubber gloves, right?

And on that note, is there an invasive piss test for intelligence we can make you take? Or maybe one for integrity? For that matter, did you even pay any taxes over your thus far less-than-illustrious and flaccid career?

Welcome to Predator Press you ingrate hypocrite pig: using mere humor, I will tear this country asunder if necessary to rip your tiny little icy black heart from your chest, and shove it from your pasty bloated fat greedy ass all the way up to your Limbaugh-sperm infested gullet.

See you at the country club, you Dame Melba c*nt^[1].

-It’s on.


^[1]For those of you that don't know, during the Industrial Revolution -while ten people lived in a single room and underage children lost digits and limbs working round-the-clock in factories- Dame Melba was an aristocratic entertainer/celebrity that -along with her well-surfeited guests- made a game of hurling her peach pits at the hungry poor from her balcony.

There's your Republican "Party" at it's apex.

Get angry, or get naked.

-and pray for some lube.

268 Days

Predator Press

[LOBO]

With only two hundred and sixty eight or so shopping days left, those showing even the slightest hint of radiant braniosity are already gearing up for the Holiday Season. Indeed, I’m so far “ahead of the game” so to speak my Christmas decorations are already up! (The tree is looking a little spindly, but look around you: trees are everywhere. They’re a tougher breed than you might suspect.)

The reason this is now crucial is two hundred and sixty eight or so days is roughly nine months –almost exactly the gestation (incubation?) period of an average human baby. Without planning ahead, instead of buying dozens of copies of Danger Couch! and the Tinsel of Doom [reviewed here] to distribute amongst your loved ones, you could be embroiled in a screamy, messy childbirth.

Nobody wants that. And have you seen some of the baby pictures out here on the blogosphere? -Yeesh!

I have it on good authority that typical babies are loud, destructive, often smell funny, and are [*shiver*] virulent disease carriers. Seriously. Mumps, measles, cholera -okay I’m freakin’ myself out here, but you get the point, right? No babies could ever provide love, laughter and joy comparable to a single copy of DC!ATTOD. Puppies –eh- maybe, but not babies.

-And babies cost, like, hundreds of dollars whereas DC!ATTOD is a mere fifteen! Heck at that price, you could by a copy of DC!ATTOD, a Danger Couch! t-shirt and probably two or three puppies.

-So act now, keep your pants up in the meantime, and have a Happy Holiday Season.

Predator Plus

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A little bored maybe? I dunno.

-But a rather lengthy phase of unemployment has me thinking about expanding my horizons into other fields I’m lousy at. Maybe YouTubes or podcasting audio Skype interviews of other bloggers.

Does anyone ever really click on those things? I gotta be honest: with the exception of a few blogs I rarely do personally unless I’m looking for something specific.

And I don’t want to throw a whole lot of time at something there’s no interest in. Please drop a comment and weigh in here. Would you listen to podcasts? Given the opportunity, would you like to be interviewed? Or is being phone interviewed kinda redundant for any self-respecting and already self-promoting blogger? Any useful (aka FREE) technologies and service providers I should know about?

Blitzkrieg

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Many beers.

Many, many beers.

-My memories kinda stab in in bright painful flashes. I vaguely remember making a game of yelling obscenities at the neighbors while peeing behind the shed –a concession we made to minimize tracking dirt in the house.

“Where’s Joe?” someone would ask.

-From behind the shed: “Kiss my ass you filthy butt-ugly rat-faced …!”

“Oh there he is.”

-And so it goes.

In spite of my initial dread the barbeque was mostly fun, marred only briefly by something enormous rudely crashing into me. It turned out to be the ground.

-I was in no condition to fight the entire Earth, but I intuitively knew the Earth was a pansy that would back down if properly challenged: we trash-talked each other for a few minutes, but things smoothed over fairly quickly.

This was the biggest social event I’ve attended since the welcoming party when Terri and I moved out here. Again there was a nice big bonfire. The weather was perfect, and air was thick with the delicious smells of one fabulous food after another.

I like these people too. On a whim, two of them blew in from Spokane.

-Picture a well-armed redneck ski patrol.

"You’re mama is so fat, ... !"

Maintaining a good stream of obscenities while, eh, “marking your territory” isn’t as easy as it sounds. Still I highly recommend it. It’s cathartic.

“You should try it,” I explained to Terri.

She glowered.

Priss.

Too Many Secrets

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When unfairly cursed by fame such as I have, one must take precautions when going into public.

-Luckily, Predator Press scienticians have devised a series of subtle prosthetics that I may use to walk amongst you undetected –that I may slide “under the radar” so to speak, and drink in the real Americana that most fabulously rich and successful celebrities such as myself often never see.

And it’s true: mine is, as far as I know, the first case in human medical history of actually having sprained his pupils contracting due to sunlight exposure ... but I have been assured this condition is quite temporary, and curable by physical therapy consisting of gradually-increasing increments of the ultraviolet spectrum.

Once this adaptive process is complete, I will be prowling around unobserved and writing stories about “Regular Joes.”

But it might take me a few weeks.

-The television gave me a sunburn.