Predator Press

Thursday

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.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Wednesday

Define the Value of XXX

Predator Press

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?

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.

Monday

Net Effect

Predator Press

A bunch of single guys finding out LOBO will soon be "Off-the-Market"

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 ... "

Okay, YOUR Turn

Predator Press

Insert "Purple Lightsaber" joke (in crayon) here:______________

Stephen Grant Shocking Photo-Shoot Transcript!

[LOBO]

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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 ......

Sunday

pi

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Ethan,” I says. “I quit.”

“You quit what?”

“I quit Hawley Enterprises.”

“You quit doing what exactly?”

“Well, I was hoping you could help me out with that. I’m having a lot of trouble with my ‘Letter of Resignation’.

“What brought this on?” says Ethan.

“I’ve decided I want to be a sheepherder.”

“A sheepherder.”

“Think about it. The sheep is not a very fast animal.”

“Do tell.”

“Yeah. I figure I could virtually watch the little bastards disappear over the horizon, and still catch 'em in a jeep like an hour later.”

“Possibly,” says Ethan, scratching his chin. “But you would have to protect the sheep from predators too.”

“Oh please,” I says. “The only other animals I ever see around sheep are cows, and cows are pussies. My sheep will be combat-trained, hardened bad-asses.”

I drift off for a second.

My sheep will have leather jackets.

“What do you think ‘Sheepherder’ pays?”, asks Ethan.

“$40-$60 thousand a year according to this Devry University brochure. Next semester –Satellite Tracking, GPS and Radio starts in three weeks.”

“Really?”

“It ends in four.”

I Understand Completely

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ethan came into the office quietly and shut the door behind him; I can tell by the look on his face that something is wrong.

He flips a thick folder onto my desk, sits down, and just stares at me expectantly.

"What?" I says, perplexed. I look at the file. "I read one of those once. I thought it was wordy and pedantic. I'm into Louis L'Amour now.”

“Who,” says Ethan finally, “is Frank Gilmore?”

“He’s the VP-ATL of Hawly Enterprises.”

“And what exactly is a ‘VP-ATL’?”

“Vice President of All Things LOBO.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly make him President,” I says, leaning back in my chair. “That’s way too much responsibility. But he’s an invaluable asset to your organization, I assure you. Would you like to speak to him?”

“Yes,” says Ethan. “I would.”

I grab my phone, hit ‘speed dial’, then the number one.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Come in, Mr Gilmore.” I says.

Mr Gilmore enters, and just then his cell phone rang. With a deft maneuver into his jacket, the ringing stops. “Yes sir?” he says, all dignified.

I look at Ethan. “I just love how he does that.”

“It’s good to see you again sir,” says Gilmore. “Have you lost weight? I never thought a ladykiller such as yourself could get actually more devastating in only two hours.”

“He’s a fuckin’ genius,” I whisper to Ethan. “He can translate too.”

“Really?” says Ethan.

“Yeah! Watch.” I turn to Gilmore. “Gilmore, say, um, ‘roadkill’.”

“Roadkill.”

“Okay, now say it in ‘South of I-80’.”

“Road pizza.”

I look to Ethan, nodding my amazement. “Now say it in Arkansazian.”

“Not fast enough food,” says Gilmore.

“Is that true?” I says, scowling incredulously. “People from other countries are actually eating roadkill?”

“Yes sir,” replies Gilmore. “But I’m sure your vast intellect is superior to being preoccupied with historic and factual minutia like that,” he says flatly. “That’s what I’m here for sir. That, and to forcibly remove the women that get too sexually aggressive after being exposed to you for more than a few moments at a time.”

“Remember Gilmore, I don’t want them hurt,” I says.

“I know sir. It’s not their fault.”

Ethan flips open the file on my desk, and leafs down a couple of pages.

“$6 an hour, eh?” he asks.

“Actually, $6.10,” I reply. “I gave him a raise last year.”

Ethan scratches his neck. “Does he have any friends who need a job?”

Tuesday

depthcharge

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“You’re mine now,” says Babs. “Simple as that. I posted bail, and you’ve posted 'The Sh*rt' 85,211 times at $35,000 a pop."

“Yeah,” I says. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have showed me how to ‘cut and paste’ it.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter. You own the controlling interest in Hawly Enterprises, and since you’re mine, Hawly Enterprises is mine.”

“Look,” I says. “Take Ethan--“

“No,” says Babs. “Ethan is too smart to fall for me just trying to have sex with him until he dies of cardiac arrest.”

“Really?”

“—And that just leaves you.”

“Look Babs,” I says, rubbing the ink from my fingertips. “If this is just an elaborate plan to get into my pants--“

“No baby,” Babs smirks, rolling her eyes. “I’m into you for your mind.”

“You’re having wet, hot screamy sex with my mind!?”

Babs pauses, perplexed. “Well, I--,” she chokes.

“Whore!"

SHART ATTACK

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Evidently, running around in a sexy tight suit and a mask is frowned upon by society in general.

In fact, some states make you register; according to my lawyer, I would’ve gone to the “Big House” for sure were it not for Babs.

Now, I’m not stupid. I know that “Big Houses” are drafty, haunted, and have really big fucking lawns ... and it’s no secret how much I would despise landscaping for the Undead … hell, the pays lousy, and they bitch no matter where you dig.

On a less professional note, Ethan just informed me that every time I post the words "The Shart" from here on out, the FCC is making me donate $35,000 to charity.

He would’ve told me sooner, but he needed only 70-Large more to cure leukemia.

Super Setbacks

Predator Press

[The Shart]

Typically as the city sleeps, The Shart's youthful grad-student sidekick Matt McCord dutifully scours The Shart's email in search of leads.

But tonight, Matt played World of Warcaft for nine hours, and "Enlarge Your Penis" SPAM beguiled him into downloading crippling viruses via porn while sleeping with a slice of Dominoes Pizza on his lap.

This effectively shut down The Shart's Central Network of Intelligence Agencies for almost six months.

... and I bet the Dominoes guy never shows again.

Monday

With Great Power Comes Hot Chicks

Predator Press

[The Shart]

Like any other Superhero, The Shart is ever-tormented by tragic internal struggle.

But The Shart is new at this "Superhero" gig. As soon as The Shart thinks of a cool one, The Shart will let you know.

For now, The Shart is busy seeking out the Pianosian Syndicate: a worldwide wretched and lethal bunch of organized cutthroat thugs that’ll poke your eye out sooner’n look at you.

The Shart didn't find them under The Shart's bed.

… In a few hours, The Shart will probably check the rest of the bedroom ...

Sunday

"THE SHART" BITES

Predator Press

Unaware that he is about to be apprehended and beaten severely, notorious "Shovelman" attempts to steal snow from the State Capitol of beloved Pianosa
--all to fuel Mister Cold Miser's sinister groundhog-killing "Doomsday Device"

Beware Miscreants!

Predator Press

[The Shart]

As metropolitan Pianosa slumbers peacefully, I prowl the shadows in a sexy, tight-fitting rubber suit, seeking out evil and injustice that must be smoten.

Wherever there’s a hot chick in danger of some creepy guy stalking her in the night, I’ll be there.

Swift, lethal and tenacious --like the shark-- I'm always one step ahead of the authorities because I’m smart.

I am The Shart.

Saturday

Secret War

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In the subseqent Lobonian trial, it was found that Frank was completely innocent, and that he killed Doctor Dentin Whatsit in self-defense.

The victim was British, after all.

But as they hauled him away to Guantanamo Bay, Frank somehow let it slip that I possess weapons of mass destruction.

I swear to God after I built them, my mom said "You'll poke your eye out!", and I haven't thought about them since.

It's really my mom's fault if you think about it ...

DOT Matrix

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Ethan,” I says into the phone. “We’ve got a Code Four in progress!”

“What?” Ethan says, alarmed. “Frank killed a DOT Officer in the break room with your Dukes of Hazzard lunch box because you were about to get busted for Felony Tax Fraud, and you’re trying to find someplace to hide the body again?”

“But this time it’s different!" I protest. "He was British.”

Ink

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Writing off 50,000 gallons of blog ink on my taxes as a business expense seemed like a good idea at the time, but the decision has haunted me ever since.

Like today, for instance. It’s hard enough to write this crap … but there’s a whole logistical side to it as well; this week I spent about sixty hours –and part of my Saturday no less—at the warehouse, making sure things “tick”.

In the break room, I was peeling through a day-old newspaper and absently making small talk with one of our maintenance employees, Frank Kowalski. Frank -complete with his tattoos, shaven head, and Insane Clown Posse attire- was 'rendered' a good listener, due mostly to having broken most of his teeth over a gigantic metal stud tongue piecing.

Deceptively intelligent, he is widely regarded by me as the eyes and ears of the whole complex.

Suddenly, this handlebar-mustached old guy I’ve never seen before struts confidently in and flashes his badge.

“Are you David Curr?” he asks in a thick, foreign accent.

“I’m LOBO,” I says, trying to be cagey.

“My name is Destry Dentin,” he asks, squeezing the shit out of my hand. “I’m here from the Department of Transportation.”

“I’m sorry,” I say rather politely. “The Department of Transportation you say? I can barely understand you. Your butchery of our fine American language is terrible. What kind of accent is that?”

“It’s British.”

“Jesus, no wonder. I understand that the educational systems in those third world countries can be pretty sketchy. I’ll try to be patient, but speak slowly, and try to enunciate a little better; you're feeble grasp on the English languish is totally crap-o-rama, and my first impression of you might've been that you were a complete idiot were I not a worldly and educated dude." I slap him at the top of his arm to 'drive home' these helpful nuggets of wisdom. "This isn't China or France, pal ... in this country, we don't do gibberish.”

“Mr. Curr,” he says. “I’m here to inspect your hazardous material storage facilities.”

“Why would I keep my laundry at work?”

“I’m talking about the 50,000 gallons of flammable UN1210.”

“My what?”

“Your ink.”

“Oh!” I says. “Um, we’re out. Used it all.”

“You used 50,000 gallons?”

“Yep. We’re very industrious bloggers.”

“How did you dispose of the empty drums?”

“We, ah, gave them to our Waste Management Department, where the were disposed of in the most expensive, environmentally sound and legal recycling program we could find.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s amazing if you think about it. They take all that steel and grind it up and turn it into baby food for poor people or something.”

“Is that so?”

I hold up two fingers. “Scouts Honor.”

“You’re a Boy Scout?”

“Technically. If you’re still a Cub Scout when you turn seventeen, they kinda grandfather you in.”

“Well, I would certainly like to speak to this ‘Waste Management Team'.”

Frank, until then pretending not to listen, set down his issue of High Times. “What would you like to know?”

Fuck.

Friday

The Best Policy

To: Ethan Hawly

From: The Docter

Date: 02/22/07

Re: LOBO

We regret to inform you that your employee, LOBO –aka “Lance Steelpipe” as written on his verile insurance forms—will not be able to come to work today, as he has been stricken by a fatal, incurable disease and will probably die from it within hours.

We will probably release him back to duty in March.

Maybe.

Well, Duh!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Why is there spaghetti sauce in this ice tray?” says Ethan.

“That’s not spaghetti sauce," says me. "That’s marinara.”

“Why is there marinara sauce in this ice tray?”

“Because it came with the Cheese Sticks.”

“Okay,” says Ethan, exasperated. “Why is there Cheese Stick marinara sauce in this ice tray?”

“Because I fucked up the toaster with the Cheese Sticks, okay?”

Black Day

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Alright, while I was away negotiating this amazing deal on bulk peanut butter, some asshole broke into my house and stoled my Pet Rock Incubator.

Do you know how long I've been waiting for those things to hatch?

Look, I wasn't neglecting them; I just thought maybe diamonds took an extra-long time! Keep the Incubator, but please, whoever you are, return the diamonds; I'm sure they are worthless to you. But they could 'bust loose' any second!

[*sigh*]

Who am I kidding?

… the fucking thing is probably on eBay already.

Thursday

Unpopular Occupation Rattles US Morale

Predator Press

Soldiers from all branches of US military shave heads in symbolic
gesture of solidarity to raise awareness of Lobonian cable plight

Wednesday

Sneakery

Predator Press

Distressed by civil unrest and cable atrocities in Lobonia Illinois, Tony Blair withdraws troops from someplace

All-night 'rave' renders Parliament blissfully unaware

Tuesday

Thaw

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Despite the unjust, immoral, lopsided, asymmetrical offensives the US wreaked permanently upon our local economy, tourism and industrial might by shutting off our cable, we bravely carry on under our new oppressors.

But Phil is sick.

I knew something was wrong; he cranks out kittens like four times a year! But the vet just called with his test results, and he has “elevated kidney levels” and requires more tests.

I think it’s a little ironic that of everyone in this house --and their respective diets and lifestyles-- the cat is cracking up.

Monday

LOBONIA SURRENDERS; SUES FOR PEACE

Predator Press

Shortest Insurrection in US History

”The sooner we get our Reparations, the sooner we can rebuild,” says Lobonain Chancellor. "Now will you please turn my cable back on?"

Predator Press Reviews: Canadian Bacon

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, the author of such books as Bowling For Columbine and Fahrenheit 911 has gone and scared the shit out of me again with his latest documentary Canadian Bacon, starring critically acclaimed Rip Torn and a lot of other really talented actors.

In this movie, Roger Moore unveils footage of Americans concocting a phony threat from another country in order to secure political stability and fulfill the agenda of a greedy profiteer that personally benefits from America’s participation in a war.

--God, if I would’ve written it as a science fiction story you wouldn’t have believed it.

Well, needless to say, I panicked and seceded from the United States.

No, I’m serious. I have proudly hoisted the new flag of glorious Sovereign LOBONIA.

It's a little too 'friendly' as far as I'm concerned, but I want to encourage the local "surf and sand" lifestyle, as well as robust trade, supermodel tourism, and hearty taxation.

Rather 'geographically inconvenient' for the Capitalist pig-dogs, LOBONIA is smack in the middle of Illinois, and surrounded on all borders by entire suburbs of lousy hostiles and bewildered, asshole neighbors that have absolutely zero tolerance for the seemingly-alien culture and strange mores of my proud people.

Because of this, I've “liberated” some traffic barricades, and have placed them right where you would turn onto my street: none of you crazy foreigners and illegal aliens and immigrants are allowed beyond my new International Passport Checkpoint of Doom without being pelted by a massive arsenal of state-of-the-art, “fire and forget” UN approved non-allergenic water balloons.

... Except the mailman. I didn’t get the water bill last month, and I’m worried that it's going to get shut off.

The mailman is crucial to my Defense Program.

Sunday

CHICK MAGNET (NOT SHOWN) TAKES 3RD

Predator Press
Daytona 500 Exclusive

"Jesus Christ you guys drive fast!

... So where are we?"

Oh Yes I Did

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You know how I was wearing fake weights so I could hit on sensitive and vulnerable chicks with low self-esteem at Weight Watchers meetings?

Well, then I did something kinda reprehensible: I claimed to have invented the Fat-Burning Twinkie, and started to sell them at $4 a pop there.

Now, a $2 box of Twinkies has, well, a lot of goddamn Twinkies in it. I figure I can make maybe 5-6% on this deal, right?

At first, Weight Watchers Corporate didn’t notice anything. I --having dropped the weights-- had lost about 55 pounds while everyone else gained two or three. The net result was pretty much zero.

Ultimately, it was an IRS guy that busted me out. He had a shoebox full of checks from Weight Watchers “known associates” --currently embroiled in a lawsuit against Weight Watchers-- totaling $26,420, all made out to “cash”, and all signed by me.

Weight Watchers Corporate is just plain jealous.

Saturday

Tom Sawyer

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’ve been going to Weight Watchers meetings for six weeks now, wearing 20 pounds of leg and wrist weights and a 35 pound plate tucked under my jacket.

Tonight, for the “Weigh In”, I’m leaving it all at home.

I am soooooo getting laid ……

Predator Press Reviews: Ghost Rider

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t know why he does it, but once or twice a year Ethan makes me go and do a movie review.

And like clockwork, I come back yawning from the new Hollywood catalog of eye-popping special effects and budget surpluses, loosely wrapped around a $2 script.

But this year I was pleasantly surprised; this movie was a lot of fun.

The first thing that stands out about Ghost Rider is the all-star cast: it features a flaming skull, a tall skinny guy and a chick with fantastic cleavage, and a stellar myriad of various other supporting actors. For a documentary about a tall skinny guy selling his soul to the devil for a chick with fantastic cleavage and then becoming “Flaming Skull Guy”, I think there’s going to be huge buzz about the performances when the Oscars come around this year.

Still, while exhilarating, it was a rather disturbing piece for me --a former “Ghost Rider” myself—to watch.

***

I’m phobic of cotton.

Hey, some people are snakes, some people are spiders.

I’m cotton.

Fuck off.

So one Saturday afternoon, I wake up in dire need of an aspirin. After getting an adult to help me with the cap, I’m mortified to see a massive glob of dry, white horror in between me and my hangover medicine trapped helplessly in the bottom of the bottle.

Now the cotton, all bunched up in the bottle, will not shake out –or release a singe pill—no matter how many hours you spend shaking the bottle upside down or banging it on the table; the cotton just sits there tenaciously, hoarding all my tiny little liberators, daring me to do the unthinkable: to stick my finger in there and actually touch it --an act I know will cause certain and instantaneous death.

So, armed with my fantastic braniosity, I devised a plan.

I would use tweezers.

Now, this is obviously not the most sanitary of solutions. Immediately, I jump online and google ”sterilizing”.

Way, way down, under the Rosie O’Donnell links, there’s a medical page that says that the two best ways to rid your utensils of unwanted bacteria is to either:

1) Rub the utensil down with isopropyl alcohol, or
b) boil the utensil in water.

—So I figure “Hey, if I boil the utensil in isopropyl alcohol, it’ll be really sterile," right?

Well, it turns out that isopropyl alcohol is slightly flammable, and five seconds later, I was trying to get in the Chick Magnet, screaming.

In the dead of winter, starting a 1990 Plymouth Horizon can be rather sketchy. But after fifteen minutes or so, I was well on my way to the hospital. “Hey buddy,” teased some kids passing me on scooters. “What happened to your eyebrows?” By now, the roof liner and much of the interior had caught fire as well. I shook my fist at them, “Just wait until I get into fifth gear you little bastards!”

But atlas, even in fifth gear I could not catch them, because I had forgotten to turn off the AM radio when I turned on the headlights; the Chick Magnet sputtered and stalled. And those little bastards came back and pushed me off the road and into a snow bank!

Engulfed in flames and badly in need of a “jump”, I got out of the car swinging jumper cables over my head in effort to flag down another motorist …

Malaise

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Look,” says RDO. “If you wanted to be an astronaut so bad, why did you give NASA this obviously phony letter of recommendation from Stephen Hawking?”

“Stephen Hawking and I grew up together,” says me. “We met in 4-H. It was good times. We used to road-load on the tractor and throw empty Boonesfarm bottles at the Chess Club while they were playing Dungeons and Dragons.”

“This letter is handwritten. In crayon.”

“That whole wheelchair thing is an act. It’s like his gimmick. In reality, we play racquetball every Tuesday and Thursday. And you should see the tail that guy pulls down … it’s fucking amazing. Whenever the guy mentions the ‘Planck’s Law’ or ‘quantum flux’, you can almost hear soggy panties hit the floor.”

Friday

The Final Frontier

Predator Press

[LOBO]

”I just don’t believe practice makes perfect. I think practice makes you just like everyone else. And that’s why I’m underlining this as one of my unique qualifications for the job.”

--Something in that sentence costed me my astranot gig with NASA.

Thursday

Tinker

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Admittedly, I’ve been “cheesing out” on the writing lately, and causing somewhat of a dial-up pile-up with all the pictures.

But while millions and millions of Luddite readers merely bitched and moaned, I was spending countless hours trying to build the Predator Press site map.

A “site map”, Lady Pyrate explained to me, is a series of HTML code that makes your site search-friendly to Google and Yahoo robots and spiders.

Now, call me crazy, but robots and spiders will buy less of this crappy Predator Press merchandise than even you ... and my house is already piled to the sky with crates of baseball caps and T-shirts.

It's very simple if you think about it:

a) Robots look lousy in the sweaters, and are not even approved to have Paypal accounts yet, and
2) spiders are just plain icky.

Tuesday

PREDATOR PRESS EXCLUSIVE

Predator Press

Infuriated, Michael Jackson insists
he is Anna Nicole's 'baby-daddy'

Public Service Announcement

Predator Press

In 'Mime', no one can hear you scream.

49th Annual Grammy Coverage

Predator Press

If I had this outfit, I would walk around in blizzards just to freak people out.

... I'll bet I could take out major intersections with a single verse of "The Macarena".