WTF Ever Happened to Quicksand?

Predator Press

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Once again, at no small expense to you, we here at Predator Press have set out to settle an age-old question burning in everyone’s mind: What ever happened to quicksand?

You remember ... one could barely get through a half an hour of television without some poor slob stumbling upon his buddy's pith helmet laying mysteriously on the ground. Then he or she goes to pick it up, and the horror ensues.

-It’s quicksand!

I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another.

Clearly even then this enigmatic sedentary evil was barely understood. Of course this was the heart of Chicago, where they taught us to curl up in a hallway in case of aerial bombings and hide under our desks during nuclear blasts.  It's safe to say if graffiti didn't stick to it, we Chicagoans didn't know shit about it.

So after years of jumping over suspicious looking sidewalk squares it occurred that inner city quicksand may well have evolved a cracked appearance -perhaps even a Hopscotch pattern as camouflage! And tedious "research" revealed absolutely no cases of Chicago quicksand attacks, thus proving conclusively the deadly hunting prowess of this formidable and fearsome predator: no one had yet survived an encounter with it to tell the tale.

-I haven't slept in years.

Unfortunately, the Predator Press scienticians really let us all down this time. All they did was gorge Dominoes pizza, play World of Warcraft, and work on their Facebook profiles until SPAM beguiled them into downloading crippling computer viruses via porn.  Obviously the Great Mystery of Quicksand is beyond the feeble understanding of even the greatest minds of our time.

Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with quicksand, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.

But we recommend you all wear big, buoyant hats in the meantime.

Just in case.

The Legend of Testicles

Predator Press

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Sure we’ve all heard the fantastical adventures of Hercules. But Predator Press scienticians have unearthed archeological evidence that Hercules had an evil twin brother, Testicles.

Testicles wasn’t as quite as large as his legendary sibling Hercules –and frankly he wasn’t all that bright either. But in their youth, Testicles often ran the show.

Hercules and Testicles eventually became bitter rivals, and Hercules often beat Testicles severely. One fateful day Hercules beat Testicles so badly, Testicles shrank off into obscurity forever.

Larger than Life

Predator Press

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"What the hell is wrong with you?" demands my new boss, slamming the office door. "The whole damn building is complaining that you keep calling and paging."

"I'm having a little trouble dialing," I says.

"Well, get off your ass and go tell Maintenance to fix your phone!"

"I'm having trouble with the doorknob too," I says.

"Why are you sitting like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're hiding your hands."

Resigned, I sigh and set my hands on my desk. As I open them slowly, he gasps.

"Jesus Christ!" he says. "What happened?"

"Well, you know that new, eh, 'male enhancement' cream we sell?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it turns out it works."

"It made your hands freakishly large?"

"Well I hadda apply it somehow."

Spinning my phone around to face him, he presses the front desk button.

"Natalie?"

"Yes sir" she replies.

"Can you send Nurse Garrison to LOBO's office?"

"Um, she stammers. "Actually sir, that might be a bit of a problem. I'm having a little trouble dialing phones this morning."

"Natalie, why in the world would you use that cream?"

[muffled, soft sobs]

"No girl wants to be an A-cup forever sir."

How to Break Up With Gods

Predator Press

Dear Medusa,

I can't do this anymore.

It's not really about the obsession with sculpture, the bloody dandruff, or the thick scales stuck in the soap bar ... I just think we should start hissing and spitting at other people.

I will always remember the good times -like that time we tickled Sisyphus until he dropped his rock and he hadda start history all over. But we've grown in different directions, and I want my half of the direction our music collection has taken. And all my Dean Koontz paperbacks.

We're just too different. I think we should just be friends. It's not you, it's me. Plus I need time to focus on my new career rehabilitating blind mongooses. (Mongeese? Mongai? Mongaggles?) And I'm not good enough for you ... you need to find someone who will treat you like you deserve being treated by.

Your Pal,

LOBO

In the Beginning

Predator Press

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God made man in His image.

-But man was a slob. First he stopped shaving. Then he blew far past ‘love handles,' and went straight into full-fledged Wisconsin Goiter.

“Adam,” says God. “You look terrible!”

“Well gee thanks God,” replied Adam. “Be sure you sign me up for your self-esteem seminars.”

“Adam, I’m going to make you a woman.”

“But what will all my friends say?”

“No, idiot. I mean I’m going to create you a companion.”

Now Adam, indeed, wasn’t all that bright: he imagined animated conversations about football and endless ‘pull my finger’ jokes.

“Cool,” he says.

“Give me one of your ribs,” says God.

“Here you go,” says Adam.

“Ugh,” says God. “You’ve got barbeque sauce in your beard.”

Adam wiped his beard with a napkin. “Do you want some of this coleslaw? This coleslaw rocks.”

“No. Just the rib, thanks.”

And from Adam’s rib sprung Eve.

“What a dump!” Eve complained.

“Okay,” says God. “My work here is done. You kids have fun now.”

“Thanks God,” says Adam.

“It’s filthy,” says Eve.

“Oh yeah,” says God as He recedes into the clouds. “One more thing. Stay the hell away from My apples, or I’ll invent the tire iron and beat you to death with it.”

“Okay God!” says Adam, waving.

“Ugh,” says Eve. “Is that barbeque sauce?”


***

Within a month, Adam had lost 50 pounds.

-Because Eve had eaten everything in sight.

Eve had gained so much weight that he couldn’t fit on the bed anymore, and often slept on the floor.

He got up and stretched carefully.

-His back was now completely wrecked.

As he surveyed the devastated remains of The Garden, his stomach growled; the crops were gone, and a huge pile of animal bones by the fire pit were all that remained of the wildlife.

Scratching his head and wondering how Eve even got the leaves off of the top of the trees, he heard a subtle, rustling sound.

A squirrel.

“Oh thank heavens,” said Adam.

But the scrawny animal had no intention of becoming Adam and Eve’s breakfast so easily. It scampered, ran and bounded out of Adam’s reach, and finally up the Tree of Knowledge. And there were those glorious apples: round and firm, a deep crimson -so sweet and heavy, the branches arched painfully under their burgeoning weight.

“Come down from there squirrel,” Adam cajoled, “and I’ll make it quick and painless!”

But the squirrel wasn’t listening. It was sniffing an apple excitedly.

“I wouldn’t do that if-“

Crunch

Suddenly there was thunder and lightning, and God’s voice boomed from the sky. “What the hell,” He says, “did I tell you people about eating My damn apples!?”

Frightened, the squirrel dropped the apple, and Adam caught it.

Adam looked at the apple, and then at the squirrel. If God catches me with this, he thought, I’m screwed. And if I explain that the squirrel did it, I’ll have no breakfast.

Looking around and thinking quickly, he spotted Eve, still slumbering and snoring loudly.

“Who dared?” demanded God.

Thinking quickly, Adam lobbed the apple, and it fell to rest right next her.

“Eve!” yelled God.

“Wha-?“ she said, starting to wake.

“Eve, what happened?” demanded God.

“She really let herself go once you left,” said Adam.

“No, I mean why hast thou disobeyed my Word and eaten of the Forbidden Fruit?’

“But I didn’t!” insisted Eve.

Adam threw his hands up in a frustrated shrug. “I tried to stop her.”

“Begone from my garden!” said God.

And poof, Eve was gone.

Adam sighed, shaking his head. “You know, you give some people an inch ...”

“Yes,” said God disappointedly. “I guess so. Say Adam, when are you barbequing again?”

“You like squirrel?”

Riptide

Predator Press

"I like where I'm at: on my back, goin' down in my own riptide.

-The water is fine."

Put Down the Chunky Monkey, and Step Away from the Refrigerator

Predator Press

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Oh come on -you're all thinking it.

Picture: the Bailiff calls “All rise,” and here she comes in flip flops -the usual schlop schlop schlop sounds drowned out in the clicketty-clackitty of hippopotamus toenails spilling over to grip the marble floor (in case gravity spontaneously reversed itself).

Approaching “The Bench,” she pushes yesterday’s cellophane wrappers and donut boxes off of her desk -in a single swipe- at the bailiff.

"File those, asshole" she demands, and punches in an eight digit combination on her government-issued briefcase to procure the sole item enclosed: a George Foreman Grill.

Belching contentedly, she then skims a jelly-stained copy of a Row v. Wade deposition while picking her teeth with a still-smoking rib from yesterday's losing prosecuting attorney -a Pfizer rep that smelled vaguely of Old Spice and barbeque sauce.

Look, I’m sure whatever the Supreme Court does is very, very important from time-to-time: I don’t want to turn on C-SPAN only to see out-of-fuel helicopters crashing due to misjudged close-up shot distances.

I’m as “Progressive” and “Enlightened” as anybody regarding chicks doing men's work. And at 70% of the pay? Hey toots, knock yourself out. But unlike American Idol, this isn't based on weight: the Senate isn't doing her any favors by mincing about the seemingly-taboo issue of her immense, galactic-scale girth. What if, for instance, she’s in Tokyo and innocuously wants to go to the beach?

Those panic-prone Japanese might call Mothra!

Snuff Films and Meth

Predator Press

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“Ah,” says the guy. “I certainly don’t see those listed as hobbies very often.”

“Yeah, well I wanted my résumé to stand out.” I reply. “My pornographic Skittle mosaics never seem to get the traction I feel they deserve.”

“And your command of profanity is very impressive,” he observes, scanning my application.

“Thank you.”

Clearing his throat, he bumps the documents on the desk into a neat stack and sets them between us. Then, leaning back in his chair, he eyes me in a cool, calculating manner. “That was certainly a very interesting read,” he comments.

“I’ve done about five hundred of those things so far," I shrug. "The way I see it, at this phase of the interviewing process the only thing you should be worried about is whether or not I’ll fling poo at your clients.”

“Um, there’s no smoking in here.”

I put the cigarette out in his coffee.

“Sorry.”

He drums his fingers on the desk thoughtfully. “How exactly did you hear of this position with Planned Parenthood?”

“I’ve got my sources,” I says evasively. Glancing around to make sure we’re alone, I lean forward. “Hail Satan,” I whisper discretely.

“When can you start?”

“How soon can you stop asking me dumb questions and cut me a check? I could start setting those little sluts straight right away.”

“You have to fill out a W-2.”

“More paperwork?” Exasperated, I shake my head. “You know what? I don’t think I want to work here anymore.” I flip my briefcase closed. “Can I just go back to sleep in your lobby?”

A Fitting End

Predator Press

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“I’m not sure,” says the snooty salesman, “that I understand the problem, sir.”

-The sarcasm behind that ‘sir’ shoots through me like a lightning bolt.

Asshole.

Sensing a confrontation, I take a deep, calming breath. “The label on these bedsheets claim a 1,500 thread count.”

The clerk tilts his head back to eye the merchandise through the rimless glasses on the tip of his nose.

“Indeed,” he agrees.

“Well, there’s at least eight centimeters that barely added up to 1,470. One only had 1,431!”

Puzzled, the skinny man stroked his short beard in thought. “So you want to exchange them?”

“Damn right I do. And don’t bring me any of this shoddy Egyptian cotton crap either. Bring me something of American quality.”

“The same thread count?”

“Do you have anything in 10 to 25? It’s been really hard to get to sleep at a decent hour.”

299

Predator Press

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Alas! For perhaps the first time in history, circumstances have placed severe limitations on my ability to keep up with Predator Press.

But fear not, o loyal reader! It is all geared to improve everything in the long run. In an hour, I have a pitch meeting for my new screenplay “299.”

It’s the untold story of 299 Greeks that quit the army, got “real” jobs, and died of a vast myriad of STDs decades later.

Editorial: There Are Far Too Many Firemen

Predator Press

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People are always asking me, "LOBO, here on the precipice of fiscal disaster, how can America rekindle it's economy and simultaneously get out of staggering international debt?"

Well, I'm glad you asked me this.

See, the biggest problem America faces is money wasted fruitlessly by The Govenment due to sheer inertia.

Take the Fire Department, for instance. I mean Jesus, how many firemen do we really need?

Look around you. Do you see any fires?

We have to reexamine this from an efficiency standpoint: a perfect balance of fires and firemen means you should see one fire and one fireman fighting it at all times. Anything more is poor planning and flat out wasteful.

And to prove my theory, I started a few fires (in the glaring absence of any) and like fifty firemen showed up at every single one of them.

OMG!

I, for one, am sick to death of coddling this Liberal fraternity of do-nothings. These guys are so lazy, they have beds! Beds people! You read that correctly! When's the last time you saw an honest, hard-working truck driver with a bed where he works for instance? Or Emergency Room doctors? Hm? Does the guy making my French fries at Burger King pose for calendars and get naps while on the job?

No.

Why?

Because he's doing something important, god damn it!

Somewhere in this Great Nation, at this very moment, a fireman is snoozing away our future.

Clearly, there are far too many firemen milking on the teat of my hard-earned money, and this is just another Left Wing fiscal debacle. The time has come to face the readily available facts: we should get rid of the beds, cut our entire fire department staff down to a skeleton crew, and jazz up the lucky few left 24/7 with steroids and PCP instead.