Predator Press
[LOBO]
“So you’re a Republican now?” says Ethan.
“Yes I am,” says me. “Someone has to look out for the AARP.”
“So you’re going to help the elderly get decent medical and drug coverage?”
“No,” I says. “I’m going to 'level the playing field', and make everyone under 30 drive blindfolded and on Valiums.”
Sunday
Predator Press Interviews: Barney
Predator Press
LOBO: “So you’re Barney? Can I call you Barney?”
[‘Barney’ pulls off his massive head, and extends his 'paw']
BARNEY: “I’m Doug. Doug Anderson. A guy that wears the ‘Barney’ suit”
LOBO: “So, ‘Doug Anderson’ –if indeed that is your real name-- you are, in fact, Barney?"
BARNEY: “Uh, no.”
LOBO: "--Or a paid representative of the omnipresent Barney Empire?”
BARNEY: “I guess. I do kid shows for $18 an hour or so. Hadda take a class, and make sure I could sing the songs—“
LOBO: ”Yes yes, I’m familiar with your musical contributions. But tell me, are you aware of how much drugging it takes for an average adult to exploit your momentary distraction of the kids? Ever try to 'torpedo Das Booty' while Wheels on the Bus is seeping through the walls?”
BARNEY: “Excuse me?”
LOBO: “Oh come on. I mean, I don't doubt you're an invaluable resource to juvenile delinquency and neglect and worth every penny. But the tunes need work. Think about it: have you ever ONCE been blown by a rabid, crying groupie off of ‘Sharing is Caring’?”
BARNEY: ”I think you would be amazed.”
LOBO: “Really?”
BARNEY: “Lonely single moms, a big puple tail. You do the math.”
LOBO: “Wow. Well, I still think you should consider updating your image a little. Have you ever considered doing, maybe, Tool? And then a finale getting slain by a large-breasted chick in a Viking helmet?”
BARNEY: "I’m sure that would have to come down from Corporate.”
LOBO: “So you’re Barney? Can I call you Barney?”
[‘Barney’ pulls off his massive head, and extends his 'paw']
BARNEY: “I’m Doug. Doug Anderson. A guy that wears the ‘Barney’ suit”
LOBO: “So, ‘Doug Anderson’ –if indeed that is your real name-- you are, in fact, Barney?"
BARNEY: “Uh, no.”
LOBO: "--Or a paid representative of the omnipresent Barney Empire?”
BARNEY: “I guess. I do kid shows for $18 an hour or so. Hadda take a class, and make sure I could sing the songs—“
LOBO: ”Yes yes, I’m familiar with your musical contributions. But tell me, are you aware of how much drugging it takes for an average adult to exploit your momentary distraction of the kids? Ever try to 'torpedo Das Booty' while Wheels on the Bus is seeping through the walls?”
BARNEY: “Excuse me?”
LOBO: “Oh come on. I mean, I don't doubt you're an invaluable resource to juvenile delinquency and neglect and worth every penny. But the tunes need work. Think about it: have you ever ONCE been blown by a rabid, crying groupie off of ‘Sharing is Caring’?”
BARNEY: ”I think you would be amazed.”
LOBO: “Really?”
BARNEY: “Lonely single moms, a big puple tail. You do the math.”
LOBO: “Wow. Well, I still think you should consider updating your image a little. Have you ever considered doing, maybe, Tool? And then a finale getting slain by a large-breasted chick in a Viking helmet?”
BARNEY: "I’m sure that would have to come down from Corporate.”
Saturday
Blame it on San Andreas
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, I have harshly criticized Blogger “The Butcher” Beta, so’s I guess I should mention a rather cool feature I’ve found. No one was more surprised than I; usually when I activate one of these mysterious unknown features, vipers pour out of my cd-rom drive, or huge spinning drills fly out of my monitor and drive themselves past my retinas and deeply into my brain.
You may have noticed lately that I have been “labeling”; these are those little eyesore tags under every post that I can’t seem to hide. But these little tags have enabled me to begin an alphabetize a navigation tool in the Site Guide of past historic and brilliant Predator Press posts related to the subject in question.
It's going slow, and I'm working backwards; with hundreds of posts, it will likely take months. But this will be an amazing aid to people new to the blog --as well as an academic researching organizer in the future, when scientists and archeologists are studying my heroic efforts to keep you people from freaking out and becoming mindslaves to such evils as Rush Limbaugh, Fran Tarkenton, and Ashley Olsen.
Mary-Kate is cool, but Ashley?
Pure Evil.
[LOBO]
Well, I have harshly criticized Blogger “The Butcher” Beta, so’s I guess I should mention a rather cool feature I’ve found. No one was more surprised than I; usually when I activate one of these mysterious unknown features, vipers pour out of my cd-rom drive, or huge spinning drills fly out of my monitor and drive themselves past my retinas and deeply into my brain.
You may have noticed lately that I have been “labeling”; these are those little eyesore tags under every post that I can’t seem to hide. But these little tags have enabled me to begin an alphabetize a navigation tool in the Site Guide of past historic and brilliant Predator Press posts related to the subject in question.
It's going slow, and I'm working backwards; with hundreds of posts, it will likely take months. But this will be an amazing aid to people new to the blog --as well as an academic researching organizer in the future, when scientists and archeologists are studying my heroic efforts to keep you people from freaking out and becoming mindslaves to such evils as Rush Limbaugh, Fran Tarkenton, and Ashley Olsen.
Mary-Kate is cool, but Ashley?
Pure Evil.
Thursday
A Patriot Act
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I really appreciate you coming out Mister President," I says, climbing into the limousine.
"What?" calls Bush in the distance. "I can't hear you."
"Where are you sir?" I call into the palatial interior.
"By the pinball machines!"
Homing in on his voice, I find him excitedly contorting over a game of Super Faulken Ball.
"One more Island, and I'll control Argentina and Czechoslovakia -the gateway country to Australia!"
"Wow," I says. "That's really cool. And educational."
Just then, the game let out a low falling tone and all the lights went out --except for a bright flashing 'PAPAL SANCTIONS' marquee.
"Damn!" Bush growls. "I 'tilted' it."
"When did you put in the pool?"
Bush brightens. "There's a pool?"
"Yeah. Right next to the pizza oven."
"Wow. That's really cool."
"This thing must be hell on gas."
Bush winks, and puts a finger to his lips. "Hydrogen. Had it since 1989. Want a gelato?"
"No thanks."
Bush sighs and steps back to size me up. "You look terrible."
"So when you wrap up this whole 'Presidential' thing, I take it you'll be giving self-esteem seminars?"
"Sorry buddy," he guffaws. "When I was told you were feeling a little down, I flew directly in. Those meetings with Krin Kan Chung or whoever are all redunderances anyway." He presses a button on the wall. "Kristanna?"
"Yes sir?" says a sultry voice.
"Could you bring me a gelato?"
I nudge him sheepishly, holding up two fingers.
He grins. "Make that two gelati."
"Thank God for you selfless and caring Republicans," I sigh. "This whole world would go straight to hell without the deeply-seeded compassionate nature of your party as a whole."
"Anytime. So what's bothering you?"
"Did you know that other people are blogging now?"
"I have seen some Intel that suggests that. You want 'em killed or something?"
I think for a moment. "Nah." Eyebrows furrowed, I scratch my chin for a second. "Well--," I start ... but then I shake my head. "Nah," I repeat emphatically. "It's mostly people that drive SUVs bitching about gas prices, American Idol prattle, and stuff about Iraq."
"God. People are still talking about that?" Bush rolls his eyes. "Let it go already."
"I found like five or six web sites that made virtually no mention of me whatsoever."
"Really?" says Bush. "I wish I had your problems."
"No you don't," I says. "The entire concept of the blog has been tainted with the idea that people are to foist their own self-indulgent crap upon the world ... the very essence of blogging is at stake here!"
"I'm sure you are exaggerating. Five or six already? How many web pages are there altogether?"
"Lots," I says. "Three, four hundred. Maybe more. In fact, it turns out that new web pages not about me could be getting made every day."
"It's a goddamn bastardization," says Bush.
"Tell me about it," I cry. "Now, good media is getting drowned out by MSN, CNN, or any other weirdo nut job with a PC!"
"You could become a Republican and fix that problem," says Bush flatly.
"Really?" I says, brushing away a tear. "I'm really sick of being treated like a crackpot by mainstream media while I'm trying to warn them of the activities of the Zombie Aliens. I want to stand back while the Zombie Aliens eat the brains of people reading the Wall Street Journal so I can point and laugh at them for a change," I says. "Just like Moses did. Then those jerks would be sorry."
"How would you like Predator Press to be the only web page on the internets?"
"Imagine the porn!" I says.
"No. See, the Religious Right would take issue with that."
"Screw them," I says.
"The Religious Right are Republicans."
"So get rid of them. If you get rid of them, I'm in."
"Republicans and Democrats are composed of groups of individuals affiliated for greater voting power, dumbass." He pauses for effect. "This is a Democracy."
Suddenly, we're rolling on the ground, laughing.
"Oh man," I says, trying to stop. "I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up."
"It's the very least I can do," says Bush. "The very fate of the nation hangs on the state of your emotional well-being."
"Yeah, I know," I says apologetically.
"Look," says Bush. "Just stay the course. Always tell people the truth, no matter how much you have to endure. And I'll bet for a while they will hate you for it. But they will come back to you in the end."
"Your gelatos gentlemen," says a stunningly hot, naked woman with a serving tray.
"Is that Kristanna Loken?" I says astonished.
"Heh, oh heck no," laughs Bush. "The real Kristanna Loken is a sweet girl, but she can't make a gelato for shit."
[LOBO]
"I really appreciate you coming out Mister President," I says, climbing into the limousine.
"What?" calls Bush in the distance. "I can't hear you."
"Where are you sir?" I call into the palatial interior.
"By the pinball machines!"
Homing in on his voice, I find him excitedly contorting over a game of Super Faulken Ball.
"One more Island, and I'll control Argentina and Czechoslovakia -the gateway country to Australia!"
"Wow," I says. "That's really cool. And educational."
Just then, the game let out a low falling tone and all the lights went out --except for a bright flashing 'PAPAL SANCTIONS' marquee.
"Damn!" Bush growls. "I 'tilted' it."
"When did you put in the pool?"
Bush brightens. "There's a pool?"
"Yeah. Right next to the pizza oven."
"Wow. That's really cool."
"This thing must be hell on gas."
Bush winks, and puts a finger to his lips. "Hydrogen. Had it since 1989. Want a gelato?"
"No thanks."
Bush sighs and steps back to size me up. "You look terrible."
"So when you wrap up this whole 'Presidential' thing, I take it you'll be giving self-esteem seminars?"
"Sorry buddy," he guffaws. "When I was told you were feeling a little down, I flew directly in. Those meetings with Krin Kan Chung or whoever are all redunderances anyway." He presses a button on the wall. "Kristanna?"
"Yes sir?" says a sultry voice.
"Could you bring me a gelato?"
I nudge him sheepishly, holding up two fingers.
He grins. "Make that two gelati."
"Thank God for you selfless and caring Republicans," I sigh. "This whole world would go straight to hell without the deeply-seeded compassionate nature of your party as a whole."
"Anytime. So what's bothering you?"
"Did you know that other people are blogging now?"
"I have seen some Intel that suggests that. You want 'em killed or something?"
I think for a moment. "Nah." Eyebrows furrowed, I scratch my chin for a second. "Well--," I start ... but then I shake my head. "Nah," I repeat emphatically. "It's mostly people that drive SUVs bitching about gas prices, American Idol prattle, and stuff about Iraq."
"God. People are still talking about that?" Bush rolls his eyes. "Let it go already."
"I found like five or six web sites that made virtually no mention of me whatsoever."
"Really?" says Bush. "I wish I had your problems."
"No you don't," I says. "The entire concept of the blog has been tainted with the idea that people are to foist their own self-indulgent crap upon the world ... the very essence of blogging is at stake here!"
"I'm sure you are exaggerating. Five or six already? How many web pages are there altogether?"
"Lots," I says. "Three, four hundred. Maybe more. In fact, it turns out that new web pages not about me could be getting made every day."
"It's a goddamn bastardization," says Bush.
"Tell me about it," I cry. "Now, good media is getting drowned out by MSN, CNN, or any other weirdo nut job with a PC!"
"You could become a Republican and fix that problem," says Bush flatly.
"Really?" I says, brushing away a tear. "I'm really sick of being treated like a crackpot by mainstream media while I'm trying to warn them of the activities of the Zombie Aliens. I want to stand back while the Zombie Aliens eat the brains of people reading the Wall Street Journal so I can point and laugh at them for a change," I says. "Just like Moses did. Then those jerks would be sorry."
"How would you like Predator Press to be the only web page on the internets?"
"Imagine the porn!" I says.
"No. See, the Religious Right would take issue with that."
"Screw them," I says.
"The Religious Right are Republicans."
"So get rid of them. If you get rid of them, I'm in."
"Republicans and Democrats are composed of groups of individuals affiliated for greater voting power, dumbass." He pauses for effect. "This is a Democracy."
Suddenly, we're rolling on the ground, laughing.
"Oh man," I says, trying to stop. "I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up."
"It's the very least I can do," says Bush. "The very fate of the nation hangs on the state of your emotional well-being."
"Yeah, I know," I says apologetically.
"Look," says Bush. "Just stay the course. Always tell people the truth, no matter how much you have to endure. And I'll bet for a while they will hate you for it. But they will come back to you in the end."
"Your gelatos gentlemen," says a stunningly hot, naked woman with a serving tray.
"Is that Kristanna Loken?" I says astonished.
"Heh, oh heck no," laughs Bush. "The real Kristanna Loken is a sweet girl, but she can't make a gelato for shit."
Van Roth
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Honestly?
I think they all suck now except Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar.
You couldn't get together once for your fans?
Or even history?
I'll let my wallet do my talking. ("What's that little Wallety? Van Roth should fuck off you say?")
[LOBO]
Honestly?
I think they all suck now except Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar.
You couldn't get together once for your fans?
Or even history?
I'll let my wallet do my talking. ("What's that little Wallety? Van Roth should fuck off you say?")
Tuesday
Show Me Where it Hurts
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Going to work today was rather surreal; rather than facing biting cold and gunmetal gray skies, I was awash in a light 70-degree breeze and sunshine.
Sunshine.
Now, I’ve gone three months without “Cabin Fever” or “Seasonal Effective Disorder” or whatever –and for a guy riddled with weird phobias and neuroses, that’s pretty damn good—but today I was a little overwhelmed by it all.
I was suddenly made aware of how sick I am of winter.
The fact that I did not put the words ’this year’ anywhere in that sentence is not an accident.
A great deal of the day was spent sort of playfully daydreaming about the logistics of just 'packing it in' and going West. In fact, my helplessness against this strange preoccupation only further distressed me; this isn’t really about the weather at all, is it? I’ve been here for seven of winters in a row, and this one was certainly among the milder.
What is impelling me to consider leaving someplace I’ve been pretty damn happy for so long? What soured this earth? Is it something innate telling me it’s merely time once again for a change in landscape? A ‘sense of adventure’? I love this place, this job, the people; these have been the best years I've ever had.
But everything just seemed so colorless, barren and flat in that sunny, warm luster ...
[LOBO]
Going to work today was rather surreal; rather than facing biting cold and gunmetal gray skies, I was awash in a light 70-degree breeze and sunshine.
Sunshine.
Now, I’ve gone three months without “Cabin Fever” or “Seasonal Effective Disorder” or whatever –and for a guy riddled with weird phobias and neuroses, that’s pretty damn good—but today I was a little overwhelmed by it all.
I was suddenly made aware of how sick I am of winter.
The fact that I did not put the words ’this year’ anywhere in that sentence is not an accident.
A great deal of the day was spent sort of playfully daydreaming about the logistics of just 'packing it in' and going West. In fact, my helplessness against this strange preoccupation only further distressed me; this isn’t really about the weather at all, is it? I’ve been here for seven of winters in a row, and this one was certainly among the milder.
What is impelling me to consider leaving someplace I’ve been pretty damn happy for so long? What soured this earth? Is it something innate telling me it’s merely time once again for a change in landscape? A ‘sense of adventure’? I love this place, this job, the people; these have been the best years I've ever had.
But everything just seemed so colorless, barren and flat in that sunny, warm luster ...
Sunday
POPPER SEIZES ORANGE COUNTY
Predator Press
RAMPANT WILDFIRES PROMPT JOHN POPPER TO MAKE HIS MOVE ON METROPOLITAN LOS ANGELES
Paulie, Mikey and Vinnie reported safe
Friday
When Dreams Come Through
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The title of this post was originally supposed to be “LOBO FOUND DEAD, PELVIS CRUSHED BY ROGUE SQUAD OF HORNY VICTORIA'S SECRET MODELS; WEDDING TO BABS POSTPONED” –but it wouldn’t fit.
Plus, I don't think she would fall for it.
Look, Babs is hot and all, and I’ll bet she’s probably got a redeeming personality too. But the fact of the matter is that Babs has slept with everyone I know, and probably a few people I don’t know as well … maybe even French Canadians!
If you stand close to her, you can virtually hear the virulent space herpes crawling around that thong.
While getting violently “consummated” on over and over might sound like fun, I would inevitably contract The Virus which would cause my Hippocampus to ignite, thusly making me a mindless sex slave to the Space Herpe Queen.
--Which probably implies I gotta do stuff, right? I mean right in the middle of smashing a galaxy into a fiery hell-storm of molten slag, the bitch wants to “talk about our relationship”, or redecorate the kitchen. And I’ll bet the Space Herpe Queen has some fucked up relatives ...
… God I’m getting tired just thinking about this!
[LOBO]
The title of this post was originally supposed to be “LOBO FOUND DEAD, PELVIS CRUSHED BY ROGUE SQUAD OF HORNY VICTORIA'S SECRET MODELS; WEDDING TO BABS POSTPONED” –but it wouldn’t fit.
Plus, I don't think she would fall for it.
Look, Babs is hot and all, and I’ll bet she’s probably got a redeeming personality too. But the fact of the matter is that Babs has slept with everyone I know, and probably a few people I don’t know as well … maybe even French Canadians!
If you stand close to her, you can virtually hear the virulent space herpes crawling around that thong.
While getting violently “consummated” on over and over might sound like fun, I would inevitably contract The Virus which would cause my Hippocampus to ignite, thusly making me a mindless sex slave to the Space Herpe Queen.
--Which probably implies I gotta do stuff, right? I mean right in the middle of smashing a galaxy into a fiery hell-storm of molten slag, the bitch wants to “talk about our relationship”, or redecorate the kitchen. And I’ll bet the Space Herpe Queen has some fucked up relatives ...
… God I’m getting tired just thinking about this!
No One Ever Thanked Porn :(
Predator Press
[LOBO]
When I got stranded here 8 years ago, I dropped almost all the cash I had --about $2,500- within the first few days of being aware there was “a crisis”.
--Not on food or rent or a car, but on a CPU tower with a modem, and a dedicated telephone line.
The people here thought I was out of my mind, and that this whole "internet" thing was at best a fad. Why in the world would we want to have a high-priced calculator that can eerily commune instantly with people from faraway places like Indiana?
Now here it is, 8 years later, and both of my neighbors have wireless connections that screw mine up.
It’s amazing. What other creature on Earth can communicate, virtually instantaneously across the world, sophisticated information? In a strictly biological sense, I would argue that this rivals telepathy as an “Evolutionary Step” for a species.
I, eight years ago, needed the Internet; I had come from Honolulu where they had “Internet Cafés” on every corner, and moved to a place where the nearest store sold tools to neuter a horse (and I swear to God that’s the truth). I had friends all over the world, and we didn’t have "digital phone" back then; were it not for Al Gore, my long distance bills would still be $500 or more a month.
Plus I needed porn.
This all begs some questions. Like, "How did we all get the Internet virtually overnight, when it took decades to get other technological innovations such as railroads and electricity?", and "What explains this rapid and expensive saturation?"
Is this whole town now suddenly riddled with people using 'Quicken', and needing immediate downloads and uploads in fear of a mass IRS audit? Are they all physicists tweaking an equation that provides cold fusion? Is 'The Government' desperately trying to cure cancer before 5 more people die untaxed?
No. The answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the simms.
If there were naked chicks on Mars, we would’ve been there in 1984.
[LOBO]
When I got stranded here 8 years ago, I dropped almost all the cash I had --about $2,500- within the first few days of being aware there was “a crisis”.
--Not on food or rent or a car, but on a CPU tower with a modem, and a dedicated telephone line.
The people here thought I was out of my mind, and that this whole "internet" thing was at best a fad. Why in the world would we want to have a high-priced calculator that can eerily commune instantly with people from faraway places like Indiana?
Now here it is, 8 years later, and both of my neighbors have wireless connections that screw mine up.
It’s amazing. What other creature on Earth can communicate, virtually instantaneously across the world, sophisticated information? In a strictly biological sense, I would argue that this rivals telepathy as an “Evolutionary Step” for a species.
I, eight years ago, needed the Internet; I had come from Honolulu where they had “Internet Cafés” on every corner, and moved to a place where the nearest store sold tools to neuter a horse (and I swear to God that’s the truth). I had friends all over the world, and we didn’t have "digital phone" back then; were it not for Al Gore, my long distance bills would still be $500 or more a month.
Plus I needed porn.
This all begs some questions. Like, "How did we all get the Internet virtually overnight, when it took decades to get other technological innovations such as railroads and electricity?", and "What explains this rapid and expensive saturation?"
Is this whole town now suddenly riddled with people using 'Quicken', and needing immediate downloads and uploads in fear of a mass IRS audit? Are they all physicists tweaking an equation that provides cold fusion? Is 'The Government' desperately trying to cure cancer before 5 more people die untaxed?
No. The answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the simms.
If there were naked chicks on Mars, we would’ve been there in 1984.
Thursday
PREDATOR PRESS BREAKS NEWS AGAIN
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was stunned too. But I kept thinking How did Popper know we were onto him?
Well, it turns out it had nothing to do with us whatsoever, and that's exactly what we want George Lindsey to think right now.
You see, if you play "Run-Around" backwards, you can here Popper clearly discussing his intentions:
VOICE: “[inaudible] … your bottled water sir. The truck … and the canned goods [inaudible] all gone … “
Popper: “I’ve had it with those D-O-T cocksuckers fucking up my ‘Master Plan’!"
VOICE: “Your instructions, Lord Popper?”
Popper: ”There is nothing we can do, unless there’s a tidal wave or an earthquake. Or maybe an eclipse.”
VOICE: "Y-yes, sir."
Popper: "I'm very disappointed, Number Two."
VOICE: "I know sir."
Popper: "This failure is unacceptable. What if there was a tsunami or a forest fire today? We would be completely unprepared."
VOICE: "Yes my Lord."
Popper: "Number Three, are you there?"
NEW VOICE: "Yes, Lord Popper."
Popper: "You are my new Number Two. Now show that maggot how Lord Popper deals with failures."
[gunshot, then chorus]
[LOBO]
I was stunned too. But I kept thinking How did Popper know we were onto him?
Well, it turns out it had nothing to do with us whatsoever, and that's exactly what we want George Lindsey to think right now.
You see, if you play "Run-Around" backwards, you can here Popper clearly discussing his intentions:
VOICE: “[inaudible] … your bottled water sir. The truck … and the canned goods [inaudible] all gone … “
Popper: “I’ve had it with those D-O-T cocksuckers fucking up my ‘Master Plan’!"
VOICE: “Your instructions, Lord Popper?”
Popper: ”There is nothing we can do, unless there’s a tidal wave or an earthquake. Or maybe an eclipse.”
VOICE: "Y-yes, sir."
Popper: "I'm very disappointed, Number Two."
VOICE: "I know sir."
Popper: "This failure is unacceptable. What if there was a tsunami or a forest fire today? We would be completely unprepared."
VOICE: "Yes my Lord."
Popper: "Number Three, are you there?"
NEW VOICE: "Yes, Lord Popper."
Popper: "You are my new Number Two. Now show that maggot how Lord Popper deals with failures."
[gunshot, then chorus]
Press Release:
Predator Press
The plan to go beat up John Popper and steal all his stuff in the event of a Natural Disaster has been officially scrubbed until further notice due to developing information.
We’re thinking maybe George "Goober" Lindsey from The Andy Griffith Show now.
Wednesday
From Hell's Heart
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Since I’ve finally given up endlessly fiddle-f*cking with “Beta” Blogger’s busted crap and completely abandoned all hope of ever getting my site back on Google and Yahoo, I have concentrated efforts on squeaking out posts ever so often while simultaneously researching out potential new hosts.
With my job going well, my love-life "in tune", and my creative efforts, well, eh, 'adequate', somehow it all just highlights the only thing wrong even more; all those years of work to build traffic to a site --once 100 unique hits a day— were pissed away by a bunch of greedy, short-sighted incompetent hacks in a lab.
And it turns out this stuff doesn’t work right before you do anything to it … I mean come on; what kind of a blog site corrupts photo uploads that provide fatal errors and make your site uncrawlable? Or doesn’t let you put external links in the main fields? Or train wrecks if two different users use have logged in from the same computer?
This site, broken, will stay broken. And from the wreckage, I will rebuild it with and despite these inept tools, if only to create the most well-read and embarrassing eyesore to Blogger’s potential advertisers, clients, and members. I will somehow drive readers here again and again, and insidiously underline the dissatisfaction through the fractured lens of Blogger’s programming “triumph”.
From here on out, Predator Press, on Blogger or not, shall be a veritable showcase of Beta Blogger’s technological boobery.
But why stop at Blogger?
[LOBO]
Since I’ve finally given up endlessly fiddle-f*cking with “Beta” Blogger’s busted crap and completely abandoned all hope of ever getting my site back on Google and Yahoo, I have concentrated efforts on squeaking out posts ever so often while simultaneously researching out potential new hosts.
With my job going well, my love-life "in tune", and my creative efforts, well, eh, 'adequate', somehow it all just highlights the only thing wrong even more; all those years of work to build traffic to a site --once 100 unique hits a day— were pissed away by a bunch of greedy, short-sighted incompetent hacks in a lab.
And it turns out this stuff doesn’t work right before you do anything to it … I mean come on; what kind of a blog site corrupts photo uploads that provide fatal errors and make your site uncrawlable? Or doesn’t let you put external links in the main fields? Or train wrecks if two different users use have logged in from the same computer?
This site, broken, will stay broken. And from the wreckage, I will rebuild it with and despite these inept tools, if only to create the most well-read and embarrassing eyesore to Blogger’s potential advertisers, clients, and members. I will somehow drive readers here again and again, and insidiously underline the dissatisfaction through the fractured lens of Blogger’s programming “triumph”.
From here on out, Predator Press, on Blogger or not, shall be a veritable showcase of Beta Blogger’s technological boobery.
But why stop at Blogger?
Tuesday
Love Letters
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Approaching 30,000 hits already!
To tell the truth, when we hit 10,000 we threw a party.
30,000 is going to be like wild, primal lovemaking … the kind where your lover says, “Omygod where did that come from?”, and responds with even more savage ferocity. And as adrenaline amplifies and intensifies the sound of your wet flesh and muscle smacking powerfully together, you are driven far beyond the ‘point of return’; dragging up your exhausted and sated love up by fistfuls of hair, you hold the back of the neck while releasing …
… Or maybe it'll be more like that "permanent marker smell". You know, when you just take the cap off? And people ask you why your nostril is green for days?
I can't decide.
[LOBO]
Approaching 30,000 hits already!
To tell the truth, when we hit 10,000 we threw a party.
30,000 is going to be like wild, primal lovemaking … the kind where your lover says, “Omygod where did that come from?”, and responds with even more savage ferocity. And as adrenaline amplifies and intensifies the sound of your wet flesh and muscle smacking powerfully together, you are driven far beyond the ‘point of return’; dragging up your exhausted and sated love up by fistfuls of hair, you hold the back of the neck while releasing …
… Or maybe it'll be more like that "permanent marker smell". You know, when you just take the cap off? And people ask you why your nostril is green for days?
I can't decide.
Monday
LOBO, PREGNANT, SOON TO WED BABS
Predator Press
HUNDREDS OF WOMEN ACROSS GLOBE -AND AROUND IT TOO- SPONTANEOUSLY BURST INTO UNCONTROLLED TEARS AT SURPRISE ENGAGEMENT
--or maybe "Pollen Index", explain scientific crackpots
"Hell yeah, I was surprised," says innocent bystander LOBO. "But all the signs were there if you think about it: the inexplicable gaining of weight, the magnetic pull of Desperate Housewives episodes, the strange transformation into a bitchy, insufferable, insatiable fatass ... "
Stephen Grant Shocking Photo-Shoot Transcript!
[LOBO]
Predator Press
C'mon Steph --can I call you Steph? Gimme something wild. Something crazy. You're a wild animal ... a savage, crazy animal!
You know what? This isn't working. Steph, it's like you're not even trying. Your wife told us how you would puss out like this ......
Predator Press
C'mon Steph --can I call you Steph? Gimme something wild. Something crazy. You're a wild animal ... a savage, crazy animal!
You know what? This isn't working. Steph, it's like you're not even trying. Your wife told us how you would puss out like this ......
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