The Viscosity of Toothpaste

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Since none of you cowards volunteered to kill my neighbors, I’ve had to take matters into my own hands.

“Look,” I says to the Butterbean kid. “You can’t go toe-to-toe with them. You’re too short. You need to use your weight against ‘em. Work up some inertia first. You know, hit ‘em like a 30 mile an hour walrus.”

“What if I don’t want to kill the neighbors?”

“Then why did you answer my ad on Monster-dot-com?”

“Because it said you wanted an administrative assistant.”

“Good administrative assistants kill people all the time.”

“Really?”

“Well, 'monster' is right in the name. And you gotta let monsters have some fun. If not, you have to pay them.”

“I’m not sure I want the job, actually.”

“You don’t want your secret identity as the deadly -feared and respected by all- Walrus Man? I think that would be a bad career move personally.”

“Why do you want the neighbors killed?”

“Because they’re evil.”

“How so?”

“They do stuff like mow the lawn while I’m trying to sleep.”

“My Dad mows the lawn here, Saturdays at two o'clock in the afternoon” says Butterbean. “I thought you meant the neighbors on the other side.”

“I do mean the neighbors on the other side. Killing your parents is merely a way to test your administrative assistant aptitude.” I pause. “How else am I to find out if you have, you know, the Eye of The Walrus?"

"How about if we ask my Dad to mow the lawn at some other time?"

"See this?" I says, showing my shaky hand. "And look how bloodshot my eyes are! I, author of Predator Press, am under enormous pressure. Millions and millions of readers will always be asking me every day, 'LOBO, why aren't your neighbors dead yet?' And if I don't get fifteen hours of completely random sleep a day, I'm likely to do something crazy -like not kill the neighbors. Do you want to be responsible for that?”

“You only have 150 RSS subscribers," he says skeptically. "And most of those are pre-med students looking for a psychiatric practicum."

“What happened to you?” I demand. “Did they get to you already? Fess up Walrus Man ... Despite a valorous career fighting crime, were you seduced by their massive payroll? Was it money? Was it women? Was it women made of money?"

“No.”

I gasp. “They gave you the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates? Walrus Man, you are shrewd.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“But I already had it embroidered on your cape!”

My Dead Neighbors

Predator Press

[LOBO]

What? No. I’m not dead.

But thanks for asking.

My neighbors unfortunately aren’t dead either. But you cannot fault me for the fact that Humanity has ground to a standstill by people that use a high-gloss hubcap as a candy dish.

I watch a lot of Forensic Files, and it turns out a) people that don’t live here think murder is bad, and 2) murder has become really difficult because of people that don't live here.

But “let not your hearts be troubled”: when my neighbors finally are dead, I’ll be the first to solve the murders, and Predator Press will have every nuance of the tedious, excruciatingly detailed exclusive story documented.

And while we're on this subject, Predator Press is currently hiring: we need a full-time Predator Press Blog Ink Inspector, which involves a lot of heavy lifting, and impromptu nighttime sub-duties.

Desire to be featured in an future exclusives is a plus.

-No criminal background check or drug test is required.

Outshined (Feelin Minnesota)

-Or, “The Grass is Always Greener Where the Dogs are Shitting”

Predator Press

Jokes.com
Paul F. Tompkins - Letters to Magazines
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Mitch Hedberg - Knocking on Walls
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Everything Must Go

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"There is no ‘Les’ in Les Miserables,” says Terri. “It's not a person. It means ‘The Miserable Ones.’”

“Ah crap," I says. “You mean to tell me I’m 100 pages into a book written by a guy that can’t even spell?"

Terri sighs. “Apparently.”

“Well I’m going to re-write it,” I boast.

“Really.”

Yes. Check this out. “Doctor Les Miserables was a rapper -like Doctor Dre- who loved two things: his bling, and performing abortions.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work” says Terri, reading over my shoulder.

I continue typing. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good at abortions, and had to run an orphanage as a consequence … ”

“You’re missing the point-”

“Before you go stompin on my work, would you at least let me get to the alien invasion?

Jackson Tweens Caught With Stun Gun, DCFS Conducting Investigation

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to TMZ -because one of the children had somehow acquired a stun gun- the Department of Children and Family Services is conducting an investigation of the Jackson family.

So what’s the big deal? If I was 13 and lived in the Jackson home, I would want a stun gun too. They got giraffes 'an crap!

Look. I’m a staunch NRA supporter. And when I last checked, our Nation’s children were protected by a little thing called The Constitution. I for one love my stun gun. How else is one expected to deal with unwanted visits from Jehovah’s Witnesses and Census Takers? Kids getting a firearm should be a prerequisite for graduating kindergarten, thus beginning early the long road of preparation for the firefight formerly known as college.

Sure there’ll be a handful of you sanctimonious, whiny liberals, "But LOBO, a gun can be dangerous -especially when used by children!”

Pthbbbt! Where do you people come up with these ideas? And I didn't say give 'em, like, grenades or something: one measly stun gun is great fun for the whole family!

Don‘t believe me? This morning the Butterbean kid got sent over to borrow a cup of sugar, and I‘ve been stunning him ever since. I even recharged it twice. He’s fine. In the process, I even uncovered some false advertising: the box my stun gun came in says explicitly, “Will incapacitate virtually any assailant instantly.” But this little prick keeps twitching!

And this further illustrates my point, doesn‘t it?

If this little bastard had a gun, none of this would have ever happened.

Exclusive: Brittany Murphy is Dead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of Predator Press Voluntary Insiders (like CNN and Fox News) have, after a scant three months, uncovered incontrovertible, shocking evidence.

-Brittany Murphy is dead.

I know! WTF!?

I would imagine refunds will be issued for the rest of the “Circus” tour, which has been unwittingly performed posthumously.

-Millions and millions of the Predator Press Voluntary Zombie Patrol are on Full Alert.

Please Stop Sending Me SeaWorld Tickets

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Look, it’s very generous. But I’m very, very busy being unemployed -a trip to Orlando is just out of the question at this time.

Plus it seems a little mean-spirited, as it is widely known that I suffer from Cryohydrotachophobia -the morbid fear of rogue icebergs.

This prohibits me from getting near large bodies of water, and any beverage larger than 32 ounces.

Caligula

Predator Press

[LOBO]

s a few of you might have realized, my computer recently went kablooey … I’m woefully behind on comments, and have even re-issued a handful of posts. I’ve kajiggered a system of using my email to get that done, but it’s time consuming.

The upside is there is stuff I‘ve been working on that‘ll be pretty interesting. For instance, I have an interview with one of my favorite blogger-slash-authors Chris Wood on the table; sure he‘s from the UK and insists on butchering our fine American language and is probably indirectly responsible for soccer ... Nonetheless he’s brilliant, hilarious and talented [Chris, stop reading here] and deeply psychotic -to the point where my finder's fee commission from Doctor Toboggans should be astronomical [Chris, okay to continue reading from here].

And I was initially thinking my book -"This Book Kicks the Crap Out of All Those Other Books"- would be a cookbook, but it turns out a chalk outkine of a lobster at the bottom of the pot ruins virtually any bisque, no matter how much garlic you add.

Instead, I rewrote it by replacing the word 'deep fry' with 'death ray' and 'lobster' with 'alien,' thusly creating an adventure-fiction saga: it's sort of an experiment to see if can hold interest over longer stories ... in effect, sampling myself for the possibility of writing my own book.

It'll be crap, I assure you. But it'll be my crap, so buy it! People pay lots of money for crap nowadays, so it's kinda fashionable if you think about it: there's this media whore named 'Shakespeare' who is totally unreadable -and he‘s got, like, four books published!

But this post isn’t about how all Predator Press readers agree Shakespeare is a limelight-mooching talentless hack: this post is about a very kind and unsolicited write-up I got from FamousWhy Terri found.

Take that, Shakespeare.

-Asshole.

The Truth About Tornados

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Unlike the Discovery Channel, Predator Press doesn’t make you sit through an hour of excruciatingly boring “facts” and “proof”. We’re just going to come right out and say it in the opening paragraph: Tornados Do Not Exist.

There.

We said it.

End of story.

This myth –obviously perpetuated to maintain the billions of dollars America shovels into tornado “warnings”, safety equipment and protective gear every year- spins finally to rest right here, right now. Just like Bigfoot and the female orgasm, it's all hype and happity-horsecrap: no longer shall America be terrorized by legends designed to scare children to sleep!

“But LOBO,” you say. “While I respect your staggering intellect, I’ve seen pictures of towns destroyed by tornados!”

You call that proof?

What if those people were just really messy?

FEMA: ”My god … This place is a sty. What happened?

Townsfolk: ”Um … tornado!”

FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”

Townsfolk: ”Thanks!”

I spent about two hours yesterday on my roof with a pair of binoculars. Know how many tornados I saw? None. And I for one am tired of subsidizing slovenly townfolk with my hard-earned tax dollars.

One has merely to examine the weird recommendations the government provides to unravel the fabled ‘tornado’:

True or False: The safest place to be during a tornado is underground, preferably in a storm cellar.

Correct Answer: False. This is where they want you to be, so those lazy slugs don’t have to go through much trouble burying you!

True or False: If you see a tornado, leave your car and get into a ditch.

Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' sham! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?

A big tornado -say an F9- will rip your shoes through your eye sockets and then beat you to death with them, ditch or no ditch. To avoid injury, a) Get out into a wide-open flat field, b) Quickly ascertain the direction the tornado is spinning, and then c) Run in circles in the same direction as fast as possible to cancel out the cyclonic effect.

True or False: Do not try to outrun a tornado.

Correct Answer: False, false, false. If you see a tornado, get the f—k away as quickly and recklessly as possible. Sabotaging fleeing others by tripping them and running them off the road is useful too, as the tornado will often pause to enjoy devouring their succulent juices -thereby gaining you what might be precious seconds.

If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?

Why don't you just try to get your arteries to process cinderblocks and pointy sticks?

Blech!

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of people are always asking me every day, “LOBO, with that chiseled physique, isn’t it your patriotic duty to compete for LOBOnia in the Olympics?”

-For those of you new to Predator Press, LOBOnia is a sovereign nation whose citizens occupy a mobile 10-foot US breakaway province that surrounds me at all times.

And while we are generally a very laid back people, those other countries can be total assholes: economic relations tend to be sound and mutually beneficial, but diplomatic relations are often strained nonetheless ... nothing good could come from me demonstrating their physical inferiority and lack of athletic prowess right smack on television. Giving the Russians or the Americans another reason to bomb us in a fit of humiliated jealousy just seems dumb.

Plus, remember when I announced I was going to compete in last year’s Olympics? Those pansies didn‘t even show up.

... I bought all those steroids and a Nordic Track for nothing.

Movers and Shakers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Way, way back in this blog, I mentioned managing an orphanage.

-As a successful entrepreneur, I feel it's important to give back to the community.

Well I’m proud to announce that according to StreetWise Magazine, my orphanage was far and away the most profitable in 2009. Nationwide!

The children hosted an awards dinner I was expected to attend, but I declined the invitation. (Remember, I do the budget for that place ... I’m not eating that crap.) I figured a more suitable reward for my accomplishments would be a ceremony held at the Hilton Brazil -an infinitely classier place, so far from the scrubby little bastards they couldn't dream of attending. They smell funny.

-And they would have been bored anyway. I’ll send them some pictures. They’ll be thrilled.

Unfortunately orphans don’t know shit about music, and any consideration to upgrading their food to real gruel instead of the imitation stuff was immediately forgotten when I heard the samba band they hired: the dense crowd of aristocrats and I were assaulted with the stabbing sound of a maraca player either drunk, a rhythmless incompetent idiot, or both.

Instantly grabbing a champaign bottle by the neck, I shatter it on a nearby marble statue and rush the stage so I can plunge the glistening, jagged edges deeply into the bastard’s throat. "You butcher!" I scream. "You talentless hack! You don't shake maracas, you blend maracas!"

While security held me back at first, the crowd had already turned on the offender; I was soon rushed up to try and rescue the performance. The lead singer tried to hand me his beastly maracas, and I almost reflexively spat on them. It was then I opened my briefcase and cried into the microphones, "Behold!"

As the lead singer's eyes adjusted to the glowing light, his jaw dropped.

I unsecured my maracas from the inside of the case. They are hand carved from genuine elephant tusk ivory, inlaid in gold, and are filled with naturally mummified panda embryos.

... And halfway through 'Copa Cabana,’ members of the audience were weeping.