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.