Harvester of Marrow

Predator Press


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This “blog,” while still somewhat of a pipsqueak, reaps some benefits Entrecard. Aside from an occasional random-seeming traffic burp, it averages 300-500 hits a day -roughly half of which are directly EC-related.

And I am what Entrecard users classify as a “Harvester.” Harvesters are the villainous and much-hated dastardly bastards that skim through sites at the highest velocity possible. The rate I “drop” versus the rate I read is hideous: when an Entrecarder blogs “I get a lot of new traffic, but they only stay for a fraction of a minute -clearly not reading,” they are complaining about me.

But let’s examine that for a second.

You got people to your site. Correct?

-And nobody reads your stuff?

So your conclusion is the failure to recognize your “brilliance” is because nobody recognizes your brilliance, right?

The fact is getting people to your blog is 95% of the battle; I assert that complaining they don’t stick around is essentially howling to potential new readers “My blog sucks, and it's your fault!” I'm concerned over zombie uprisings and the worrying speculation my burnt toast might’ve once had Jesus’ image on it: don't take it personally, but WTF could I possibly care about your coin collecting and Peruvian copper speculations? Gee, I’m sorry I wandered onto your site. Is there a quiz?

You’re an asshole for bitching that -despite the best possible opportunity- you have failed to grab people’s attention.

-You're probably a zombie too. And stay the fuck away from my toast!!!

I have found some great sites via EC. I've gained some great readers, too. Beyond that, I've clicked on a site 100 times before seeing something that interested me, and then started reading it regularly.

Plus, let's face it: we “Harvesters” are the best EC ads to buy. I’m not particularly disciplined, but I have enough regulars to break 100 or so a day daily –and with high-speed internet, I can do it in 20 minutes or so. Thus, if you’re advertised on my site, you’ll get the bulk of those hits reciprocated.

EC whiners shouldn't feel bad. Human history is chocked full of unrecognized "brilliance."

They won’t be lonely.

Shocking Evidence Suggests Someone May Have Slept With Nicole Richie

or "Simple Life"

Predator Press

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The global scientific community was rocked today by suggestions that someone may have indeed slept with Nicole Richie.

Doctor Winifred Shaw, Head Researcher for the Darwin Institute, took a moment from looting the burning laboratory of microscopes and Petri dishes to clarify.

"For a long time now, we have lived in a shadow of doubt regarding Darwin's Theory of Evolution. This, finally, is a clear refutation. And think about it for a second: if Darwin's theory is correct, why are there still ugly people all over the place?"

Hurling a fire extinguisher through a rack of cathode tubes, Doctor Shaw continues. "Barring the statistically improbable confluence of a blind and deaf recent parolee consuming heroic amounts of alcohol, we have no explanation for this whatsoever. Now if you will excuse me, I've had my eye on a supercollider downstairs for years."

The Final Exam

Predator Press

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I can’t find the story, so I have to paraphrase for now.

I heard a news blurb that doctors were suggesting the import of many routine cancer exams are exaggerated -and in fact might deceive people about their overall health, posing a risk.

Now this was heard at about five in the morning, and over my first bleary cup of coffee: if you have a routine cancer exam planned, don’t blow it off due to my potent journalistic ability and vast medical expertise ... please consult with your personal physician.

-This alone wouldn't have even been a blip on my radar, but the story continued on to say “probably the only exam we would exclude from this group would be the breast exam.”

Pow -my entire morning is preoccupied with imagining that AMA meeting. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall for that discussion ... I've gotta at least see the transcript:

“-and we have decided,” says a guy at the podium, “to announce our findings the media in a press conference today. Any questions?”

Hands shoot up.

All of them.

“Yes Doctor Wilson,” indicates the speaker, almost plastic-seeming in the immaculate suit.

“All routine exams?”

“Yes,” confirms the speaker.

All the hands fall, save for one.

-a pony-tailed guy in a leisure suit with patches on the elbows.

“I don’t care for this plan,” he says. “And I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say you are doing the medical community a huge disservice, and really bumming us out.”

“A what? I’m sorry. Who are you again?” The speaker winces and covers his eyes. “And could you please put your necklaces behind your kerchief? The reflection is blinding.”

“I’m Doctor Love,” he says smiling, putting one dazzling high-heeled snakeskin boot on his chair with a dramatic flair.

“What is your objection, Doctor Love?”

“You can’t do this. I mean cripes, you gotta leave us breast exams or something. Hell, I don’t even think I would do doctorin anymore. It would be just too depressing.”

“What about the Hippocratic Oath?”

“Meh,” Doctor Love shrugs. “Kinda lost its luster now, hasn’t it?”

Murmurs skip and jump around the room like lighting bolts.

“Don’t quit, Doctor Love,” says a nearby man. “We need you. And what would you do for a living?”

“Becoming a podiatrist was one of the biggest mistakes I ever made really," scoffs Love. "School alone costed me, like, thousands of dollars -I’ve filed for bankruptcy twice. I only do it for the breast exams really. I suppose I would just get on with my cousin selling air conditioners. But that means every week that goes by, thousands of women will go without my breast exams -and are you people prepared to accept the responsibility if thousands of women get cancer every week?”

Sensing he’s on to something, Love whirls and points to the podium. “How dare you mention the Hippocratic Oath to me sir?”

The room explodes as hundreds of doctors in the audience boo and toss objects at the speaker.

“You bastards!” the speaker cries, wounded by a well-aimed stethoscope. “Fine. We’ll explicitly exclude breast exams from today’s announcement.”

-And there was much rejoicing.

Cactus Jack and the Beans Talk

or "Jack and the Beanstalk" aka "Jack the Giant Killer"

-as retold by Predator Press

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“You’ve got to be joking,” says Squatting Bull. “You actually believe the Vatican had the Taco Bell dog assassinated?"

“Jeez, man ... not so loud,” says Cactus Jack, peering from under his hat nervously. “I thought you people didn’t, you know, talk much.”

“There's nothing around us for fifty miles," gestures Squatting Bull to the vacant horizon. "And besides, that 'talking' thing is just another racial stereotype the white man thrust upon us.”

“Well you know what?” Jack replies, idly spinning the bullet chamber of his revolver. “Whitey did this. Whitey did that. Cripes I’m sick of it. At some point you have to assume some culpability here -and anyone that trusts a culture that digs Riverdance deserves exactly what they get.”

“How come you aren’t wearing the mask today?”

Jack stares down his gunsight at a distant tumbleweed, contemplative.

“I figure there’s no point in trying to hide my identity anymore,” he says finally.

“Huh,” says Squatting Bull. “I didn’t know it was to hide your identity. I thought it was, like, a public service or something.”

“Nope,” says Jack, oblivious of the subtle insult. “And for the record, I don't think masks made of cactus are a very good idea. The acne is a nightmare." Standing, he holsters his weapon. "Well, we better get movin. That Giant ain't defeating himself.”

“Hurry, Kimosabe," says Squatting Bull in a mock Indian drawl. "Me want see him tear paleface off, and shove it up own pasty butt." He arcs has hand overhead. "Me laugh many moons."

"Very funny."

Eyebrows furrowed, Squatting Bull folds his arms. "So what's your plan?”

“Were gonna use these magic beans I bought,” says Jack. Picking one from his shirt pocket, he places it in the dirt.

-And within moments, a 1973 Ford Pinto sprung up out of the ground.

“They didn’t have any Porsche beans,” Jack explains. “And it was either this or a bunch of GMs.”

“Eh,” Squatting Bull shrugged, checking the interior. “Then what?”

Jack scratches his neck thoughtfully.

“Then we trick him into driving it and rear-end him.”

Muling Heroin

Predator Press

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What?

Dawn Quixote was a dude?

-Well this post is totally ****ed now.

Thanks.

Ah screw it. Maybe my readers won’t notice.

Am I the Only One that thinks Twitter is Crap?

Predator Press

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In the “What are you doing?” box, I put “typing” about 6,005,004 times until I learned that I could cut and paste stuff with hotkeys.

-Now I can put “Cutting and pasting ‘typing’ with hotkeys” 10 times faster than I ever could type “typing.”

But, but despite this markedly increased efficiency, I don’t get it.

Doctor Toboggans, you should stop "following" me now ... I won't be doing anymore updates.

I’m over this.

Red and Black and Spider Green

Predator Press

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Adultery is easy

Adultery is common.

Adultery is saucy.

-But Fidelity seems far more rare and exotic in contrast.

Fidelity is difficult, understated, and unsung.

As a consequence, Fidelity is the moral equivalent of that skinny redhead kid in grubby clothes that the other kids throw their Tater Tots at when the adults aren’t looking ‘cuz he got lice camping last year after refusing to play 'Doctor' with that slutty chick that was doin "Whip-Its" with all the pesticides.

-Unlike glamorous Adultery, Fidelity slips quietly through High School with nary a ripple ... largely because he has a leg braces, a big weird retainer, and is socially awkward in general. And after trying out for the football team, poor ‘lil unrecognized Fidelity is not considered to live an equally-dangerous full-contact lifestyle as sexy athletic Adultery does, and Fidelity is issued woefully inadequate protective gear: subsequently, he tears his ACL, his team loses the game ... the the seemingly sure-fire trajectory to lead their division into the Finals is utterly destroyed.

And while a battered and broken Fidelity just chugs blandly along forever, Adultery in contrast is already rushed to the front of the line to Oblivion: fueled by an often rage-inciting behavior, chain-smoking boozer Adultery's lifelong hedonistic sex binge is statistically far likelier to receive either a dignified quick youthful death, a lucrative reality show, or a fantastic political career.

-Fidelity, instead, is left adrift to flounder helplessly on his HMO, hobbling around on makeshift crutches and squeaky, bent wheelchairs for many more years to come.

Many years later, Fidelity once again meets that slutty chick from camp that was hoggin all the pesticides and caused him to get lice. Weirdly both -now adults- fall deeply in love. But a week before the wedding Fidelity contracts Hepatitis and discovers his bride-to-be is secretly a coke whore and Libertarian: a subsequent botched sting operation to catch her stealing Fidelity's paltry life savings backfires, and she narrowly escapes by ironically dousing Fidelity in the eyes with an entire bottle of lice repellent leaving Fidelity permanently blind and with a raging, yet-unprecedented case of accelerated male pattern baldness.

Years later, poor Fidelity finds he can’t hide that urine smell no matter how much Old Spice he uses, and he is banished to the alleys ... but still this former athlete adapts, thrives and survives by stealing food from unmonitored rat traps. Seemingly indestructible -even after his arms are amputated due to the numerous untreated rat bites- he persists by swift and dexterous use of his increasingly-nimble toes.

In Fidelity's final decades, our unfaltering hero will grow ultra-sensitive to natural light, shrinking away and shrieking hideously when exposed to it. But again Fidelity turns apples to applesauce: deep within the catacombs of a Los Angeles sewer, Fidelity will enjoy many a comparatively tranquil year laying under a startlingly high-protein leak directly under a liposuction clinic. Content and happy, Fidelity ultimately succumbs to his piteous and unsanitary lifestyle as a host to a hive of giant stainless steel bees with razorwire stingers and acid drool that slowly devour him -from the inside out- in a horrific and macabre agonizing death.

Hallooo Down There!

Predator Press

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Okay. I know it maybe wasn’t a publicity stunt. But I also know the Heenes were on a reality show called Wife Swap.

-And getting on a reality show alone takes a certain kind of narcissistic media whore: at some point, the Heenes hadda sit in a roomful of other narcissistic media whores trying to get on Wife Swap, and the Heene’s narcissistic media whoring stood out tall and proud above all others.

I would hold them more accountable for that.

Still, it worked.

It ‘raised the bar’ of narcissistic media whoring in fact.

Well so far I haven’t even been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in Narcissistic Media Whoring this year yet: if I don’t stay on my toes, it could go to either Jon Gosselin or Doctor Toboggans -and I owe that 'Toboggans' cat way too much money not to pay him with whatever he might have won if Gosselin and I didn't reach a deal.

So unlike that pansy Heenes kid, I have actually launched myself into the stratosphere: from like, 1,000,000 feet in the air, I, LOBO, am blogging to you from my laptop.

-I hope my electrical cord will hold Larry King when he has ta shimmy his butt all the way up here.

Dear Entrecard,

Predator Press


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My first email was just a simple suggestion, and the Entrecard site says, quote: "We're very keen for any feedback you can give. Complaints about broken things, stuff you like, things you think are pretty or ugly, or even questions you'd like answered."

I can't bring my original query up because it wasn't in conventional email. But my suggestion was "Instead of subverting the ads we spent our credits on, why don't you just phase in "Paid Ads" after 120 seconds or so?"

Brilliant, right?

The response was this:

"Hi,

Thank you for your email. Please restate your question because I'm unsure what you're asking. We have the sponsor ads which Entrecard reserves 15% of the ad network inventory for sponsors.

Please let us know if you have any other questions.

Entrecard Support

This prompted my response:

"Seriously.

-You have NO IDEA what I'm talking about? How about forwarding this email to one of your supervisors?

Lemme simplify:

When you do a "PAID AD" (aka an ad where you subvert our credits for cash), how about making the "PAID AD" (the ad where you subvert our credits for cash) phase in after a minute or so? That way our "CREDITS" -the mystical crap you made up so we get something for spreading the word about your site- is still actually worth something?

-And PS: does EC even have 300 people a day I can "drop" on anymore????"

:)

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful

Predator Press

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Marrying a hot chick should have inherent perks.

See on a scale of 1-10, if you factor in the charm, raw genius, and Adonis-like physique, I’m only about a 12.

But unfortunately, this makes my wife roughly a 19-22.

-Mathematically this equates being married to a big pain in the ass according to science.

See, a 19-22 such as my wife should regard a lowly 12 as pretty mediocre, right? I should be the jealous one. Sure I suppose it’s remotely possible a bunch of rogue, drunken supermodels might somehow not notice I’m married, taser me, inject me with drugs causing a thick amnesiatic fog, and toss me -kicking and screaming- into a van with tin foil covered windows in order to tie me up and live out sick and debauched fantasies.

But would that be my fault?

I think my slacker wife and drunken perverted supermodels with tasers, drugs, tin foiled vans, and a preternatural gift for skillful knot tying should share some culpability here. I mean maybe you could overlook the wedding ring, but shouldn’t this big, throbbing vein in my forehead be a dead giveaway to my marital status too?

Well apparently not.

Whenever Terri and I go shopping, I always have to stare at the ceiling joyces and lighting fixtures lest my eyes randomly fall in the direction of anyone even vaguely female. And how do you shop like that? I once went into a WalMart for catfood, and came out with six stitches and a mulching lawn mower.

-Despite the tongue lashing I gave the manager, that light fixture is still flickering and my cat hates me.

I’ll bet the lawn looks good though.

White House to Bail Out Tampa Bay Buccaneers

Predator Press

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In news that came as a shock to a sports world still buzzing over Rush Limbaugh’s failed bid to purchase the Saint Louis Rams, Hilary Clinton has announced her intent to acquire the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

“Guess what, you ****ing ****s,” she told press conference attendants. “It really was a Vast Liberal Conspiracy! Now unless it's Election Day, get the **** out of my face you ****-knocking piece of ****-eating ****stick -or I'll have your **** removed, and your entire family tree ****ed, ****ed, and ****ed.”

Details of the conference are garbled.

-My “*” key kept getting stuck.