Why Does Speaker John Boehner Always Look Like He's Sharpening Pencils With His Keyster?

Predator Press

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I don't think I've ever seen someone who might
actually need a drinking problem before.

The Barnside of Abroad

Predator Press

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Apparently I’m not enough of an Obama-hater to be “hip.”

In my defense, I’m pretty ambivalent as far as presidents go. I can’t think of any, for instance, I just fawn over. Presidents are like those lame-assed books from the rack in jail: sure, maybe you’ll find a halfway decent one … but rest assured, some asshole stuck a big green booger in it somewhere.

Still I like that Obama staunchly refused to reschedule today's speech to avoid conflicting with the republican debate, but later promised it wouldn't be so long as to interrupt the NFL season opener.

See? This man’s not unreasonable.

And what are the republicans debating anyway?

Republican 1: I hate Obama more than any of you.

Republican 2: No you don’t. I hate Obama more.

Republican 3: My hate for Obama is so huge, NASA will have to be funded again so we can land on it and explore.

Republican 1: You’re a closet Obama lover, and I’ve got pictures to prove it.

Republican 2: I'll bet you’ve got pictures, you Obasexual.

Mediator: Gentlemen, this is all very confusing. Can we please have a show of hands of all republican candidates who don't like Obama again? Just to be clear ...

Republicans have been around for several years now, and they still haven't figured out who hates Obama more.  So what assurances do we have they will ever figure it out?  Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Mark Levin, and Glenn Beck are some dedicated motherfuckers in pursuit of this title: never a late pizza, never a surprise birthday party, never a stubbed toe, never getting a puppy, never sleeping in, never a great meal, never stood up by a cable guy, never stuck in traffic, never new ideas, never something fresh, never anything but 24/7 Obama, Obama, Obama, Obama.  Frankly, the republican competition for Obama Loathing Champion of the World only seems more intense than ever.  And at some point, shouldn't these guys owe Obama some royalties?

Politically unaffiliated, I occasionally like to hear a conservative opinion -but "I hate Obama" has run it's course, and teeters on the brink of cliché. Now -just as a republican gets rolling- I'll interrupt suddenly and ask, "But do you like Obama?" This forces them to 'shoot their wad,' and reduces an hour of pontification to, "Well, no."

Economic woes are ideal distractions from the research
and development of my fantasy football secret weapon.

Done. You might think Republican's would thank me for accommodating such brevity, but what follows is usually a lot of frustrated stuttering and furious, monosyllabic profanity.

Conversely, what the hell is Obama giving a speech for? Nobody likes giving speeches. You mean to tell me the United States' freakin president can't get out of giving speeches? Then what is the point of getting to be president?

There's always the possibility it'll be important I suppose. I mean maybe Obama will be sitting there drinking beer in boxer shorts and an untied bathrobe, articulating an ardent case of why the Green Bay Packers are probably going to the Finals again, and that the New Orleans Saints are just an overblown 2009 fluke. Or maybe he's a Saints fan, and points out Green Bay averaged only 3.5 yards per carry in four preseason games, tying the team for fifth-lowest in the league.

Presidential decisions are tough.

Predator Press Declares Self “Official Website of Atlantis”

Predator Press

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Well why not? We’re just as qualified as any of those other jerks.

-Predator Press has just as long a history of not proving things as anyone: I’ve been questioning the Legend of Bigfoot, the female orgasm, and the existence of Canada since this blog's virtual inception.

Cryptic, vague references to the lost city of Atlantis go back dozens of years -before many of us were even born. The philosopher Plato waxed on and on and on about it. But like everyone else in history Plato is now dead too, and as a consequence of not getting himself on television we no longer have any records of his teachings, nor any idea what he was talking about.

There's a lot of possibilties if you think about it. It might have been Plato's crafty way to trick Diogenes into taking a bath every once in a while. "Here," Plato might say to Diogenes. "Take this bar of soap as an offering, and they might let you drive a flying car!" Or maybe Plato was just really, really drunk.

Many scientists often concur that Atlantis is now in Las Vegas masquerading as a casino -but many scientists also do not agree with this too: this all remains to be decided by careful application of something called the “Scientific Method.” While not familiar with said “Scientific Method” per se, I’m almost certainly going to Pay-Per-View the event; how often do you see guys in lab coats beating each other with tire irons and gigantic robots in pursuit of The Truth?*

Man, science is cool.

In conclusion, I submit that nobody has provided more proof of the existence of Atlantis than we have in this post -thus Predator Press is most deserving of the coveted “Official Website of Atlantis” title.

Eh, plus whatever royalties and recognition that should come with this mammoth and expensive undertaking.


*It seems only fair to warn you, Predator Press scienticians have had a giant robot -well suited for obliterating other so-called “theories” in a spray of blood and bone- in production since 2008.

It even has cup holders now.

Deadline

Predator Press

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If you sit in the emergency room long enough, gravity sort of takes over. Your shoulders roll forward and your chest caves in, and you just stare at the creepy patterns in the linoleum.

But this is both tedious and expensive, so I busy myself inspecting the room. There's is an ominous drop of dried blood on the floor near the corner. This must be the room where they do the squirty Freddy Krueger stuff ...

“Have you notified the respiratory specialist?” I ask, pointing to the checklist on the wall.

The orderly sighs. “That list is for gunshot wounds. Now would you please lay down?”

“Huh,” I says. “So a lot of people have died in this bed?”

“Not recently,” he replies without conviction. “Are you here by yourself?”

This is hospital-speak for, ’Are you driving? We can’t give you painkillers if you are driving ...’

“My wife is in the waiting room,” I says in a well-practiced lie ... Terri is a very busy person.

An exasperated nurse pulls the curtain back, and I’m immediately embarrassed by my backless hospital gown.

“Sir your wife is on the phone,” she explains.

I don’t do chagrin.

“Why would she call me from the waiting room?” I bluff. “There must be some mistake.”

“No, it's her,” says the nurse. “I recognize you from the orientation videos.”

Shit.

Deep Six

Predator Press

Vocation, Vocation, Vocation

Predator Press

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“What can I do for you?” asks Mrs. Wahlberg.

“Well,” I says to the primly dressed woman. “My wife told me that if I have time to make Sporn, I have time to look for a job. So I saw your add in the paper saying these things would make me very wealthy. I’m totally in.”

Mrs. Walberg beams an unnaturally white smile as we enter the barn. “Do you have any experience with alpacas?”

“Alpacas are in my blood. My great grandfather ran an alpaca store, and my father lost the whole business in hand of poker. Despite the tragedy of it all, I’m third generation." I stick my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans and add, "I'm a legacy if you think about it.”

Just inside the barn now, she stops and reaches for my hand and pats it softly in a gesture of comfort. “It must have broken your heart to lose all those dear animals at such a tender age.”

Alpacas are animals?

“Oh yeah,” I says looking sadly at the ground, thinking quickly. “We had it all. Alpaca merchandising, alpaca cages, alpaca um, food … you name it. And every Christmas dad would pick out the fattest alpaca of all, and serve him up open-pit with a balsamic glaze and-”

I feel her hand stop.

“You ate alpacas?” she asks coolly.

Oops.

“There was never any money for food at Christmas,” I begin slowly. “This was due to –ah- dad’s gambling problem. Yeah. It was either eat an alpaca or one of the kids, and the alpacas couldn’t vote.” I pretend to rub a tear from my eye. “Dad was a very sick man,” I sniff.

“How many alpacas do you want?”

“I need to make a lot of money quick. How many do you have?”

“Several hundred.”

“That’s probably a pretty good start,” I says. “Will they all fit in my car or will I have to make a few trips?”

Mrs. Wahlberg laughs. “Oh look,” she says, pointing behind me. “One of them is curious about you. Her name is Molly.”

When I turned to look, I saw a freakish creature so hideously deformed it could only be explained by God being really, really mad at it: it looked like the product of a deeply inbred dog raped by a meth-addled ostrich.

I'm pretty sure I screamed before I passed out.

Meh.

-I've had worse job interviews.

Predator Press Economic Proposal Rejected: Old, Poor Allowed to Remain in US (For Now)

Predator Press

Despite a bleak economic forecast, the United States Senate and Congress roundly rejected a proposal set forth by the world’s greatest website, Predator Press.

“We thought the United States was serious about rectifying its financial woes,” said a Predator Press staff member on condition of anonymity. “Welfare and Social Security are a major factor in America’s out-of-control deficit spending. Old and poor people are the primary recipients of Welfare and Social Security. The solution seems pretty obvious.”

The plan -to efficiently use trucks bringing illegal aliens into Arizona to deport old and poor people to Mexico on the way back- was defeated by a narrow margin.

When asked for reasons for the bill failing, our source cited wanton bipartisanship and an unwillingness to discuss the issue like mature, rational adults. “We asked really nicely -in fact we removed the language about stupid and ugly people entirely. Regardless of these huge compromises, those dumb fucks in Washington wouldn’t know good economic policy from a zit on their dorks.”

Christian Numbers Wane, Many Americans Now Skipping Islamic Mass Instead

Predator Press

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While seldom hesitant to give a blistering, blustery rant on the Republican Party, I’m a little leery of going into the torture issue with too much venom.

See, what all the talking heads retrospectively criticizing the Bush Administration on this issue aren’t saying is really important: hindsight-addled commentary like “torture is wrong,” and “torture doesn’t always work” –while true- are disingenuous distortions of what really happened here.

I think at some level we all know torture is wrong –we, as a country, even signed treaties against it decades ago. But how would you have responded to that policy on September 12, 2001? I don’t know about you, but I was pretty upset … I’m not sure I would have cared about it’s “effectiveness” on any Al Qaeda we might have been able to get our hands on at the time.

So instead of calling it “torture,” I’m regarding it as a small measure of revenge for being part of the machine that brutally massacred almost 3,000 non-military Americans.

I’m actually more comfortable with that.

The Astronaut Whisperer

Predator Press

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After being struck by a landing space shuttle, air traffic controller Dirk Elway’s life is completely transformed: sunken into the bleak menthol fog of Nyquil and Altoids addiction, even his goldfish have run away.

Similarly one of the surviving astronauts on board that very same space shuttle goes crazy, buys a box of Depends, and rides across the country –ultimately killing everyone in Twentynine Palms California with a rake.

On a hunch, Clint Eastwood –a world-renown Astronaut Whisperer- gambles that Dirk and The Astronaut’s macabre killing spree are somehow linked; armed with nothing but a 32 oz jar of Tang and a walkie-talkie Clint makes contact, culling the rogue Astronaut and reuniting him with ailing Dirk … but soon thereafter Dirk is mysteriously killed by an overdose of rake to the back of the skull.

Can Clint teach The Astronaut to laugh and love again? Will The Astronaut once again claim his coveted spot in the London Symphony Orchestra? And how can The Astonaut's lowly new job of testing 747 engines by tossing live seagulls into them let him rise once again to his once-lofty astronaut status? Only time and a ragtag group of Baptist church choir enthusiasts led by Whoopi Goldberg can tell.

We here at Predator Press give The Astronaut Whisperer, like, ten big thumbs up: this is the surprisingly engaging tale of an astronaut beset by tragedy and a love for gardening, and Clint's dogged and relentless efforts to repair his broken and battered spirit.

Scheduled for release this summer, it’s an uplifting, fun and romantic little film that’s a must-see for the whole family.

Nicolas Cage is not in this movie.

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" Humpty grinned into the peephole.

"Come on in. The door isn't locked."

He opens the door a few inches.

"You busy?" he calls into the seemingly-cavernous shoe.

"No," she grunts. "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. Shoe or no shoe, this girl knows what to do.

He fires the burner, and fills the pot with water smiling 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 mother saying "That’s what happened to your father. One minute he was driving a forklift at a macaroni factory, and the next-" she pauses for effect, "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 echoed 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. 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 you’re an old woman that lives in a shoe," Humpty continued, grabbing her shoulders forcibly. "Can’t you see that 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!?"

"But I was only trying to-"

"Hello?" she barks into the phone. "Is this all the King’s men? A filthy egg is attacking me!”

Humpty lunges for her phone, and wrests it away from her. "God damn it woman, all the king's men 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 insole."

"Jezebel!" cries Humpty, lashing out.

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

"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 calls out into into the sky, "Oh sweet Jesus! what have I done!?!"

Taking Up Space

Predator Press

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I can only describe it as analogous to being shot from a gun.

There is nothing, not even the sense of movement.

First the whites, then the blues. And at that point, as if only now drifting into ranges of the human ear, a high-pitched sound gradually increases in the distance. It lowers steadily. A dissonant roar, now a thousand voices.

Some are conversations.

Greens.

Reds.

I can gradually pick out comments, see glimpses of faces in the violent, spinning storm. I try to speak, but by the time I do they are long gone.

My perceptions fight to right themselves in the gale, but I am slammed hard.

It is the Earth.

From a vertical horizon a snaking aperture reaches me, and I vaguely realize it is my own arm. Using it I leverage myself on my back, thus allowing the Sun to sear mercilessly into my aching skull. Crying out soundlessly, palms now flat to the ground, I can make out the hot, rough concrete.

It burns.

I sit up in confusion, squinting at my lap, my torso. I am bloodied, and unmistakably smell perfume and what I assume to be my own drying vomit.

Comically large heads circle overhead, blotting out the sky.

“Jesus mister,” cries a towering boy. “Are you alright?”

I’m not sure he is real. And when I open my mouth to speak I realize I’m not breathing. Wobbling to and fro, I heave my chest in effort to force my lungs to work.

See what's left of all you've known
through tearful mists of blood and bone;
fearful, hear them beg for death
through broken teeth and borrowed breath-

My lungs explode to life as if I had been undersea for hours, and I agonizingly choke the scorching oxygen in. My own heartbeat -absence previously unnoticed- thundered rhythmic and mighty in my ears.

“I'm fine,” I wheeze almost laughing. "Why do you ask?"