I Don't Want To Be An "I Told You So," But ...

Predator Press

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Hah!

After four long years of me blogging warnings -warnings that have gone almost completely ignored- the day has come:




-Zombie Pirates are on the move!

You can go to CNN to see for yourself -but I wouldn’t blame you for being too stricken with terror to leave this media Beacon of Truth known humbly as Predator Press ... I mean why weren't those CNN guys warning you all this time?

Did you ever think about that?

Hm?

Well, those zombie pirates didn’t catch this so-called journalist unawares: unlike Woody Harrelson I’ve got plenty of canned goods –enough to take me all the way through World Wars IV, X, and years into the subsequent Pirate Zombie Omnocracy!

Screw you people. I figure I can wait this thing out.

And it could have been worse frankly. I mean they could have been zombie pirate robots. Or maybe even zombie pirate astronauts! Trust me, zombie pirate astronauts are the worst: one day you’re an Average Joe stockbroker, ‘an the next, FOOM, you’re enslaved in a labor camp on Alpha Centauri makin’ tiny little fitted spacesuits for evil pirate zombie parrots.

Let me tell you, o loyal reader: makin’ evil pirate zombie parrot space booties ain’t no picnic.

-They got these teeny little buckles and a double inseam.

"Dropping" Out

Predator Press

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Yesterday, after logging into Entrecard for the first time in a few days, I received the following mind-blowing message:


"Please move widget closer to the top of the page, as per the new 1 page rule, within 72 hours to avoid deletion from Entrecard - thanks!"

-Boy did you guys manage to hit the wrong guy on the wrong day and in the wrong mood.

I use an increasingly rarified two-column template, so people can start reading immediately while the page loads below: if you look -minus a placard and my Playlist- Entrecard is the fourth from the top link out already. By virtue of this policy, Entrecard is essentially demanding to be my first link.

Now lemme explain first how Predator Press advertising works: you bring me traffic, copious amounts of amusement, or cash. Period. An frankly, according to Google Analytics, Entrecard currently sits poised to sink below AllTop -and I would be jazzed to move Guy Kawasaki's creation into Entrecard's slot.

Know why?

-Cuz he did this crazy weird thing I call earning Entrecard's slot.

Furthermore, Entrecard demanding to become my Number One link -even before this "Paid Advertiser" debacle- is statistically laughable; Entrecard has never warranted Number One status in any way, shape or form ever. As a matter of fact -now that I look- I'm thinking the Number Four spot Entrecard currently holds is far too generous!

In response to Entrecard's threat, I was tempted to rectify this "ranking error" (aka "Deep Six" this *ahem* service as appropriate) -but alas, unawares of ever-changing, eh, "standards"- I have already approved numerous Entrecard ads! (See for some, changing up the rules midstream when you have an existing agreement might be considered slightly, well, the word "Immoral" comes to mind.)

(See also: "Dishonest")

(-These buzzwords are loosely affiliated with something called "Integrity." Somebody at Entrecard should look that definition up first.)

Hopefully Entrecard will pull it’s head out of it’s keyster before it’s too late ... but just in case I no longer accept ads. I will, however, honor any ads already in cue.

If Entrecard decides to delete my account beforehand, please –by all means- raise hell for the refund you are entitled to.

I'll help.

-It'll be fun.

The Number You Have Dialed HAS A LIFE

Predator Press

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Teenagers spend a lot of time on the phone.

They are very busy and important people.

Busy, busy, busy.

Important, important, important.

And I'm okay with that.

Seriously.

But they call a lot.

Look. Nobody has called me circa 1996, and I kinda like it that way.

-Now the same person will call five times in a row. And not just leave a message and move on, but just call and call and call.

And call.

First Call: If you call once and choose not to leave a message, I get that. You wanted to talk to the person live. Nothing particularly important.

Second Call: The second call presupposes something like a) you changed your mind about leaving the afore mentioned message, or b) I was in the shower: while toweling suds out of my eyes, perhaps I made a heroic effort for the phone -but the instant I got there the call switched to voicemail. I haven't called back because the dripping water probably shorted out both the voicemail and the Caller ID.

Third Call: The third call always makes me wonder what exactly our teenagers are telling people about the size of our place: Okay. Maybe I'm in the pool. While drying off the phone starts ringing again and -gasping- I realize I've locked myself out of the house and the the phone, half-forgotten, lies on the kitchen table. As a bonus, Freddy Krueger audibly starts to churn through the outer perimeters of my hedge maze.

I don't know about you, but the third unanswered call suggests to me that this isn't the best time.

Fourth Call: A fourth call leaves me totally bewildered.

Okay this scenario suggests that I'm maybe at 7-11. And as I pour my Slurpee, a crashing meteor wipes out all mankind and accidentally creates flesh eating zombies: it's only then I realize I've locked myself out of the church, and off in the distance I can hear Freddy Krueger in my hedgemaze with a pack of cheetahs -directly in the path of my house where the phone lie half-forgotten on the kitchen table. All civilization as we know it has come to an abrupt and bitter end, and one lone human being -one with me on speedial- is crying out for help as the frail atmosphere is being sucked violently from Earth by a black hole.

Frankly, I still wouldn't answer: I would obviously have my own problems to deal with.

And Humanity's last Slurpee.

What’s That? Wednesday

Predator Press

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Every once in a while, if I really like your blog, I’ll pay it the ultimate compliment and rip it off completely.

-Such is the case with this, the very first official Predator Press What’s That? Wednesday, surgically removed from The Junk Drawer.

This was fraught with unseen peril. First of all, I try to do a post a day. My next open spot is Tuesday. Further complicating things, it’s actually a Sunday. Can you actually have the very first official Predator Press What’s That? Wednesday on a Tuesday that is actually a Sunday?

Worse, my wife Terri guessed immediately what "That" was, and now I have to sleep in the car.

She likes the Predator Press coffee cup though.

After Single-Handedly Defeating the GOP, What Should I Do Next?

Predator Press

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"But LOBO," I can hear some of you saying. "That was clearly the hardest-fought four day span of your entire career. You must be exhausted!"


It's true. I'm pooped. Those Republicans were pretty tenacious.

-But Predator Press doesn't offer idle time off: I can't leave you millions and millions of readers devoid of my mighty righteousness!

I dunno. I’m thinking about tackling cancer next.

-Or maybe tofu.

Blech.

Conflict Revolution

Predator Press

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“The whole Republican Party?” I ask the guy.

”Yes,” says the disembodied voice on the speakerphone. ”Every last one of us signed it.”

“An apology?”

”For offending your sensibilities.”

“What about just plain bein’ assholes?”

”That too.”

“I don’t know,” I says. “I mean you got me pretty upset, and I don’t think accepting surrender from your entire political party is enough. I think I deserve some cash compensation as well.”

”Eh,” says the guy. ”Wouldn’t that constitute a bribe?”

“A bribe,” I explain, “would presuppose forgiving you guys as a condition of receiving money. I’ve already decided to forgive you guys as long as you use your powers for good instead of evil from here on out."

"So this is ...?"

"Cash as an incentive to make that fact public. This is more like blackmail.”

”I ... see.”

“And I want a statue,” I continue. “Nine feet tall. One of me wrestling a cheetah or something.”

”A cheetah.”

"Yeah. And make me in a loincloth so my Craig Blair isn't floppin' all over the place."

"Uh-"

“In Tiananmen Square.”

Penis is Such an Ugly Word

Predator Press

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I really try to keep bad language on Predator Press to a minimum.

-But sometimes it’s hard to get around, you know?

So from here on out, instead of the word penis (or any other variant on the male genitalia), I’ll refer to that part of human anatomy as a "Craig Blair." Okay?

True, Craig Blair might find this euphemism offensive.

But I’m not afraid.

-Word on the street is that he’s too much a "Gwyneth Paltrow" to do anything about it.

Exclusive: Craig Blair Franchise Serves Deep-Fried Babies

Predator Press

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Yep. You read it here first in this Predator Press Exclusive: Craig Blair Franchise Serves Deep-Fried Babies!

Those babies are like 20 million calories apiece. And can you imagine the cholesterol?

-Plus Blair was observed forgetting to wash his hands in the bathroom before cooking, and not wearing a hair net.

I would give it 2 stars.

Tops.

Oh Craig Blair, You Poor GOP Asshat

Predator Press

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Oh Craig Blair, you poor GOP asshat, here I am -a college graduate- already facing washing dishes at Red Lobster to feed my family thanks to eight years of your Bush-addled criminal party "Policies."

-And after the mess you made, oh fearless lawmaker, you brazenly propose a genius plan to further inhibit Average Joe American survival with drug tests for people on unemployment.

-And not at a time when unemployent is low, either: rather than fiddling with it when there are jobs to be had, he picks now -when for some it means life or death.

We sent Michael Vick to jail for what again?

Craig, you're a flat-out evil scumbag. Seriously. You Republican swine screwed us via negligence, and now you -the supposed pro-gun human liberty 'an individual privacy party- are tryin to weasel out on protections people were universally taxed for all those years? Maybe people should be piss-tested before you can take any of their money! H&R Block would be fine with just buying some cups and rubber gloves, right?

And on that note, is there an invasive piss test for intelligence we can make you take? Or maybe one for integrity? For that matter, did you even pay any taxes over your thus far less-than-illustrious and flaccid career?

Welcome to Predator Press you ingrate hypocrite pig: using mere humor, I will tear this country asunder if necessary to rip your tiny little icy black heart from your chest, and shove it from your pasty bloated fat greedy ass all the way up to your Limbaugh-sperm infested gullet.

See you at the country club, you Dame Melba c*nt^[1].

-It’s on.


^[1]For those of you that don't know, during the Industrial Revolution -while ten people lived in a single room and underage children lost digits and limbs working round-the-clock in factories- Dame Melba was an aristocratic entertainer/celebrity that -along with her well-surfeited guests- made a game of hurling her peach pits at the hungry poor from her balcony.

There's your Republican "Party" at it's apex.

Get angry, or get naked.

-and pray for some lube.

268 Days

Predator Press

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With only two hundred and sixty eight or so shopping days left, those showing even the slightest hint of radiant braniosity are already gearing up for the Holiday Season. Indeed, I’m so far “ahead of the game” so to speak my Christmas decorations are already up! (The tree is looking a little spindly, but look around you: trees are everywhere. They’re a tougher breed than you might suspect.)

The reason this is now crucial is two hundred and sixty eight or so days is roughly nine months –almost exactly the gestation (incubation?) period of an average human baby. Without planning ahead, instead of buying dozens of copies of Danger Couch! and the Tinsel of Doom [reviewed here] to distribute amongst your loved ones, you could be embroiled in a screamy, messy childbirth.

Nobody wants that. And have you seen some of the baby pictures out here on the blogosphere? -Yeesh!

I have it on good authority that typical babies are loud, destructive, often smell funny, and are [*shiver*] virulent disease carriers. Seriously. Mumps, measles, cholera -okay I’m freakin’ myself out here, but you get the point, right? No babies could ever provide love, laughter and joy comparable to a single copy of DC!ATTOD. Puppies –eh- maybe, but not babies.

-And babies cost, like, hundreds of dollars whereas DC!ATTOD is a mere fifteen! Heck at that price, you could by a copy of DC!ATTOD, a Danger Couch! t-shirt and probably two or three puppies.

-So act now, keep your pants up in the meantime, and have a Happy Holiday Season.

Predator Plus

Predator Press

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A little bored maybe? I dunno.

-But a rather lengthy phase of unemployment has me thinking about expanding my horizons into other fields I’m lousy at. Maybe YouTubes or podcasting audio Skype interviews of other bloggers.

Does anyone ever really click on those things? I gotta be honest: with the exception of a few blogs I rarely do personally unless I’m looking for something specific.

And I don’t want to throw a whole lot of time at something there’s no interest in. Please drop a comment and weigh in here. Would you listen to podcasts? Given the opportunity, would you like to be interviewed? Or is being phone interviewed kinda redundant for any self-respecting and already self-promoting blogger? Any useful (aka FREE) technologies and service providers I should know about?

Blitzkrieg

Predator Press

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Many beers.

Many, many beers.

-My memories kinda stab in in bright painful flashes. I vaguely remember making a game of yelling obscenities at the neighbors while peeing behind the shed –a concession we made to minimize tracking dirt in the house.

“Where’s Joe?” someone would ask.

-From behind the shed: “Kiss my ass you filthy butt-ugly rat-faced …!”

“Oh there he is.”

-And so it goes.

In spite of my initial dread the barbeque was mostly fun, marred only briefly by something enormous rudely crashing into me. It turned out to be the ground.

-I was in no condition to fight the entire Earth, but I intuitively knew the Earth was a pansy that would back down if properly challenged: we trash-talked each other for a few minutes, but things smoothed over fairly quickly.

This was the biggest social event I’ve attended since the welcoming party when Terri and I moved out here. Again there was a nice big bonfire. The weather was perfect, and air was thick with the delicious smells of one fabulous food after another.

I like these people too. On a whim, two of them blew in from Spokane.

-Picture a well-armed redneck ski patrol.

"You’re mama is so fat, ... !"

Maintaining a good stream of obscenities while, eh, “marking your territory” isn’t as easy as it sounds. Still I highly recommend it. It’s cathartic.

“You should try it,” I explained to Terri.

She glowered.

Priss.

Too Many Secrets

Predator Press

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When unfairly cursed by fame such as I have, one must take precautions when going into public.

-Luckily, Predator Press scienticians have devised a series of subtle prosthetics that I may use to walk amongst you undetected –that I may slide “under the radar” so to speak, and drink in the real Americana that most fabulously rich and successful celebrities such as myself often never see.

And it’s true: mine is, as far as I know, the first case in human medical history of actually having sprained his pupils contracting due to sunlight exposure ... but I have been assured this condition is quite temporary, and curable by physical therapy consisting of gradually-increasing increments of the ultraviolet spectrum.

Once this adaptive process is complete, I will be prowling around unobserved and writing stories about “Regular Joes.”

But it might take me a few weeks.

-The television gave me a sunburn.

Daisy the Curly Shark

Predator Press

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Last night, while Terri and I were going through our scrapbook, it occurred to me I’ve never blogged about how we came to adopt Daisy -our 47 foot Great White Shark.

I remember that stormy evening like it was yesterday. Answering a soft knock at the door, at first I didn’t think anyone was there ... but glancing down, there she was in a tiny little pink basket. Attached was a note that said “I can no longer care for my baby. Please help.”

Immediately our hearts melted.

We have treated her as our own ever since, and -despite Terri’s stubborn refusal to breastfeed- we built as normal a life for Daisy as we could provide: I was there for her first steps. We played catch and Hide-N-Seek in the backyard. I built a huge elaborate treehouse where we would leisurely fritter away our summers eating marshmallows and reading comic books.

High school was tough for her. She always seemed to have trouble “fitting in” and we had to encourage her to participate in school-related activities. Eventually her natural athletic abilities began to shine through, and she became the first female fullback on her football team and earned a full scholarship to NYU.

We never told Daisy she was adopted, and trust you to help us keep this dark secret.

-One only has to look into those beady little eyes to understand why we have spared her this painful revelation.

Eye Candy

Predator Press

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A recent post I did plugging Steam Powered Rings has resulted in a genuine interest in an art, eh, "motif" called Steampunk.

I really dig this stuff. Indeed, I’ve considered working the theme into Predator Press.

Exploring this possibility, I Googled some images -and some of them just leapt off of the screen.

There's something about the sheer inventive elegance and the retro-campy feel that appeals to me.

-And like this blog, it's irresponsibly impractical and utterly useless.

I’m using these pictures without permission, but you can click on them to go to the respective sites. I highly recommend checking them out if you have a few minutes: all three of them are fantastic.^[1]

This concludes our "art" lesson today.

-Tomorrow I'll be over it, and back to my pornographic Skittles mosaics.

^[1]See also: Skwib, The

Origami as Self Defense

Predator Press

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I know it’s hard to believe with a physique such as mine that I was once picked on by bullies.

-But believe me, no one knows the anguish of going to the beach and having a zombie kick sand in your face and steal your girl better!

I don't know about you, but I hate getting sand kicked in my face. And since I've selflessly dedicated my entire career to helping people, I can't just ignore you pipsqueaks and puny wimps: that's why I came up with Origami: the Art of Self Defense.

Why let all those useless and boring Geometry classes go to waste? With this 56 DVD set I’ll teach you step-by-step how after MONTHS of being brutally terrorized, I folded my high school bully into a teeny swan and then torched the evil hostile with hair spray and some matches.

-Her wheelchair melted instanly.

It was awesome.

Democracy

Predator Press

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“Mom,” says Screechy, our six-year old. “If you make one big plate of pork chops a week, it’s .08% less cholesterol. Plus dad will be awake 42% less, thereby mitigating our entire deductible.”

Terri whirls.

“Did he trick you into doing our insurance paperwork again?”

"He's taking out the garbage next month."

And Another Thing

Predator Press

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Oh yeah. And I also wrote a book in my spare time. It’s called “The Ingredients of a Good Thriller Part II: The Revenge.”

It’s essentially The Ingredients of a Good Thriller with all the “Chris Woods"-es exed out and replaced with “LOBOs,” sprinkled lightly with additional hand-written profanity in the margins.

-Mine is half the price, but it costs $600 in shipping.

(And there's nudity.)

Defenders of The Faith

Predator Press

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For deep, restorative healing of the soul I can’t say enough about church: if Terri ‘an the kids didn’t go every Sunday, I wouldn’t be able to sleep in or bask in the gloriously quiet solitude leisurely drinking coffee in my bathrobe and slippers.

-But being the sole guardian of an important and historic document such as Predator Press can be fraught with unseen peril.

And this Sunday started off like any other. I sat down at the computer, booted up, and navigated to my Blogger login screen.

“You don’t want to do that,” my computer warned.

“Why?” I ask.

Silence.

I continue punching in my URL.

“Seriously,” the machine drones. “I would reconsider this action.”

“What’s wrong?” I inquire. “Is MyBlogLog down?”

“No.”

“Entrecard took a crap?”

“No.”

I drum my fingers anxiously. What could possibly be so wrong, my computer doesn’t want to go to my blog?

After considerable hesitation, I reluctantly inquire “Did Diesel do another upgrade to Humor-Blogs?”

“Bingo.”

Uh-oh.

"Widgets too?"

"Couldn't tell you."

Ah, Christ.

“Well how bad could it be?” I defend. “As the creator of Humor-Blogs and Blog-Storm, Diesel has demonstrated radiant braniosity -comparable perhaps even to myself! And he’s done numerous upgrades before. Surely he has things well in hand at this point.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Hmmmm.

Taking a deep breath, I complete the URL.

-R-E-S-S-.-C-O-M

Then, backing as far from the monitor as I can reach, I stretch forward and tap the ‘Enter’ key.

Predator Press leapt from the screen, and within a fraction of a second swallowed my entire head.

I screamed.

-I'm almost sure of it.

Overbalanced, I reeled backwards while helplessly grasping for purchase -but sensing me struggle, Predator Press coiled powerfully around my neck as to weaken me and cloud my cat-like faculties.

Thinking quickly, I grabbed my hot cup of coffee and splashed it right in Predator Press’ face. But this only infuriated the beast: it threw me to the ground and started punching me in the kidneys.

Frantic and gasping for air, I spotted a pencil that had rolled under my desk; clutching it desperately, I plunged it deeply into the Predator Press RSS.

Predator Press shrieked in furious agony, and scampered up into the upper southeast corner of the room –well out of reach.

“Bull shit!” I cried. Grabbing a handy broom, I began swinging wildly at Predator Press. But Predator Press was too fast, and the blows whistled by harmlessly.

-Well “harmlessly” if you’re not my trophy shelf.

Or the lamp.

Or the china hutch in the living room.

-For what seemed like an eternity, Predator Press zigged to my zags.

But then it made a fatal mistake: I cornered it in the laundry room, and a wild grab found my fingers around it’s neck. I hurled it hard against the dryer, and this stunned it: soon I was strangling it on the floor as it floundered and twitched.

“But,” it choked, flopping slightly. “I … love … you!”

It was at that moment I realized that I was succumbing to my own personal rage.

Slowly, I released my grip around it’s neck.

-And Predator Press kicked me square in the nuts.

Twice.

Moments later, staggering to my feet, I could hear Predator Press working the deadbolt to the front door.

Oh, this ain’t over Mister Smarty-Blog I thought, throwing open the cover to the breaker box.

-Not by a long shot.

Mom ‘N Dad: New World Disorder

Predator Press

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A little woozy and “loose” from the drugs alcohol, she suppressed a giggle; from this angle she had a rare view of not only his black socks, but the bottom of his shoes. They always appeared gigantic and comically elongated from underneath.

“Is that a new suit darling?”

“Why yes my love,” the man preened. He stood and did a half twirl. Funny, but kinda swank with the big cigar. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think we can afford it.”

“But I closed that purchase we wanted," he puffs. "You're looking at the second largest asbestos manufacturer in the Midwest. I can't go around dressed like a chump you know. Me ‘an you are going places baby. I love you. You are my oxygen.”

Sitting, he swings the metal tray back over her and pours a two shots of Wild Turkey.

“Thank you,” she replies.

“How’s about me ‘an you take a vacation? Huh baby? Maui. Italy. Australia. You name it.”

“Scotland,” she smiles.

“Cigarette?” he asks, fumbling his vest.

“Please.”

While presenting the Camel, he extends the pack to the young Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep.

“No thanks,” says the pup lowering his stethoscope.

-Despite just graduating from medical school, there was no mistaking this diagnosis.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news," he says finally.

“That’s terrible,” says the man. “Would you like a shot?”

“I mean terrible news for you,” he replies.

The man poured himself a shot.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor sighed. “She’s pregnant.”

The man drank his shot.

“I can’t be pregnant,” laughed the woman.

“Yes,” agreed the man after a satisfied gasp. “She’s just getting really fat.”

“Nope,” says the doctor, holding X-rays up to the light. “Preggers.”

The man gasped. “How long do we have, Doc?”

“Not long,” he says studiously, turning to the man. “Those stomach cramps are actually contractions. You may want to go downstairs and pace around in an anxiety-addled state for a few hours.”

“But if I were pregnant," asks the woman, "wouldn’t I know? I mean wouldn’t he have moved or something by now?”

The doc continues to study the illuminated X-Rays. “Look, I’m not telling you the kid isn’t lazy.”

The woman grabs the man’s hand. “Baby this is wonderful!”

“Yes,” says the man, tracing his finger across the hospital Fire Escape map. “The Maternity Ward is two floors down, and there’s a set of stairs-“

“We’re way ahead of you,” says the doc. “It has been bricked up for four years now.”

“Darling,” she insists. “We’ll have the pitter-patter of little feet running across the pool deck of out summer home.” Wistfully she sighs, “And with you being an asbestos magnate, he can go learn with the greatest minds of our time at the finest of Ivy League schools.”

Exasperated, the man looked down at his her, still clasping his hand hopefully.

And after what seemed an eternity gazing into those big beautiful blue eyes, his icy heart finally melted.

“Jesus, I hope he's white,” she adds.