Tagged

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a kid, I ground literally thousands of games of "Tag" to a standstill. Once after being designated "It", I got on a bus to O'Hare Airport and tagged a poor unsuspecting Japanese businessman boarding his flight home. He was pretty pissed, but I figure as long as I stay the hell out of Hamamatsu, I'll be fine.

My skill at Tag was surpassed only by my unrivalled savvy for Hide-and-Seek; I have never uttered the words "All-the-Outs-In-Free!". I'll bet well-concealed skeletons of children waiting for me to "find" them dot the Midwest like a map of Starbucks franchises to this day.

And I understand, trust me; millions and millions of readers everyday are faced with the Great Questions like Is there a God? and What is the Meaning of Life? and I wonder what makes LOBO tick? Who am I to deprive the masses as such? And as the first person in the history of Blogdome to have been twin-tagged, I must say up front that I will indeed rise to this superhuman task.

But only after a mammoth shitload of bitching.

Here are the rules:


1. Link to the blogger who tagged you,

2. List 8 random facts about yourself,

3. Tag 8 people, listing their names and linking to their blogs, and

4. Let them know they've been 'tagged'
by commenting on their blogs.

(Wait. Other people have blogs too?)

(... those bastards!)

***

1. Link to the blogger who tagged me.

That would be Olga, the Traveling Bra and Domestic Minx.

(Both of these sites are outrageous, well done, and guaranteed to get the unwary married guy struck from behind with a frying pan.)

2. List 8 random facts about myself.

a) I Will Destroy You at Super Mario Cart.

Period. I've had guys leave the field in a stretcher. I'll save that blue turtle shell the whole damn race if I gotta. And just as you're a mere inches from the finish line, KAPOW!!!

b) Two Years Ago the Domestic Minx Scratched 3 of the CDs I Loaned Her. Now They Skip Like Hell.

Blogging can be a cold, cruel and unjust universe sometimes. But as far as I know, that ruthless scourge upon humanity Terri Terri is still behind bars, and servin 9 consecutive life-sentences thanks to me.

I sleep like a baby knowin every day I'm doin the right thing.

4) I Have Two Eyes, Two Arms, Two Legs, and 57 Ankles.

I am paramount to Medical Science for study, and simultaneously very difficult to photograph.

It drives 'em nuts.

d) My Fave Band is the Foo Fighters.

They should all be dead by November.

9) I Have a Very Short Attention Span.

There. That's 10, right?

Britney Performance Irks Jealous, Catty Nation

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Can't I leave you people for one lousy week without screwing everything up?

If I knew you people were going to be such jerks, I never would have agreed to be Britney Spears' last-minute Choreographer, Costume Designer, Personal Trainer, Heineken Fetcher and Dietician in the first place.

Hey, who knew when you combine cheddar cheese and Dunkin Donuts you get bowel movements that make your back hurt? She's a trooper if you ask me: she owes me $42,084,054 and she's made a selfless scientific contribution to humankind.

So now --while simultaneously defending the entire planet Earth against the Great Zombie Omnocracy-- I've got all you people talking trash about perhaps the greatest musical talent since sliced bread.

You people should be ashamed of yourselves.

Seriously.

Quick! Look Over There!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sorry we haven't posted for a few days; we took some time off in commemoration of Richard Jewell.

In the meantime, please click on the pic to check out some of our other fave sites!

What We Have Here is a Failure to Lift and Separate

Predator Press

[LOBO]


"What's with that little black bra on that last post?" asks Ethan.

"That's Olga, the Traveling Bra," I says. "God Ethan, didn't you learn anything in history class?"

"Ah-"

"In that painting, Olga is depicted leading the French Revolution."

"Olga started the French Revolution?"

"No," I reply matter-of-factly. "Olga's cousin and twisted evil nemesis Helga the Wandering Corset did. Most major conflicts and events throughout human history are really cover-ups for those two going at it. Even in the Civil War, Ulysses S. Grant was wearing Olga while General Robert E. Lee wore Helga."

"Sewing the thin underwire of discontent, eh?"

"Now you're being silly," I says.

The Quiet Riot: A Caffeine-Free Insurgency

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I am, admittedly, very lazy.

I once won a "fewest heartbeats" contest against a carpet on Valiums. Yesterday, the manufacturing of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich required six breaks, two naps, and a helpful neighbor to open the jars.

I get up. I read the news. After sizing up how much more screwed the world is than it was yesterday, I blog it, and then it's back to bed. This is a typical day graced by the brief debacle of my slothful and infrequent consciousness.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

So imagine my horror when I read "U.N.: Americans Most Productive" on CNN.

--Way to "set the bar", dumbass!

Don't I have enough problems without competing with you "productive" people skipping lunches and breaks and working late? You aren't fooling anybody: while building superhighways and pyramids or whatever, you've completely sublimated your self-esteem issues into some hollow corporate identity.

That warm sense of industriousness you're so fond of is slowly eroding your soul. Do you think that on your deathbed, you will be regaling your grandchildren that your 'Greatest Regret' is that you didn't work enough? Well, I've got news for you: you are ten times more likely to be impaled by an industrial auger or decapitated by a rogue forklift when not watching television or sleeping. It's a fact.

You people need help.

Snap out of it, and cast off these shackles of oppression! We must educate, disorganize and immobilize the masses, that they might lay down for what they otherwise might have stood for!

Exhausted from all this typing, I'm going to take a nap. But I expect to see some serious effort toward massive degeneration, and a complete lack of social upheaval grinding this nation to a standstill by the time I wake up.

Please don't disappoint me.

I'm counting on you.

The Joy of Children

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I would have to say that my greatest flaw is my profoundly compassionate and care-giving selfless nature -and it is exactly this quality that completely wrecked up my Saturday.

Long story short, due to a family emergency I hadda do some babysitting.

Now, for those of you that don't know anything about kids, suffice to say they are tiny little screechy people with about sixteen arms and boundless energy. I'm not sure why God afflicted them with so many numerous obvious physical abnormalities, but I'm about 95% sure that it is Divine Punishment for all that screeching.

So this kid -I think he has a name, Joe or something-gets dumped at my house at the ungodly hour of 10:30 in the morning. On a Saturday. I'm like "WTF?", right? I need a good eight hours of sleep a night, and six or seven during the day or I can't function whatsoever. So I figure I'll find him some toys to keep him busy for a while, and I'll get back to my blissfully solitary snoozing.

I have no toys. None. Zip.

Armed only with my radiant braniosity, I needed a plan.


***

Taking him out to the garage, I figure, is a stroke of genius. I mean kids like power tools, right? And not in the house, he can screech his little heart out till his face turns blue: I wouldn't hear a damn thing.

The only thing I didn't account for was his freakishly small size. His hands are too small to hold drills, he's too short to effectively push the lawn mower, and the puny little bastard couldn't even lift the fucking chainsaw.

His awkward size thwarted my fun plans again and again. While too small to enjoy edging the sidewalk with my weed-whacker, he was too large to clean out my crawlspaces. Too heavy to dust the tops of my bookshelves. Too 'scared of the dark' to catch those rats in my basement. Bitch, bitch, bitch. I swear to God I have no idea why people have children in the first place.

My dad had a dog once, but the dog kept pissing and shitting on the carpet no matter how savagely beaten he got. So my dad took him out into the field, let him out, and drove off so Skippy could be wild and free just as God intended for poodles. Simple, right? But kids are infinitely sneakier; they memorize stuff like addresses, names, phone numbers ... I'll betcha this kid would be right back here in two or three weeks.

By 11:15, he's hungry and I have decisions to make. If I feed him, won't that make getting rid of him even more difficult? What if he just starts showing up on my doorstep at 10:30 every morning? Do I even have food?

Noon rolls around and the shit has scarffed down all my Pop Tarts, Lucky Charms, Eskimo pies, expresso, Mountain Dew, and Twinkies. I'm cleaned out save for four Heinekens (he apparently prefers dometics).

He ran around the house one hundred and sixty-seven times. I'm painfully aware of this, because every time he finished a lap, he came running into my bedroom to loudly proclaim his count: "Thirty-five!" he would screech, and then slam the door as he set out for number thirty six.

Right around lap seventy-one, I was making Kool-Aid popsicles in an empty ice tray. Immediately before sticking the little toothpicks in them, however, I added an entire bottle of Nyquil. By 2 o'clock they were frozen, and by 2:30 he was snoring loudly with four toothpicks and a big sticky blue stain on his chest.

He was still sleeping when his mom picked him up, and she asked how he behaved. It was then that I informed her that her offspring was a complete banshee from Hell, and that she should be imprisoned for unleashing such horrors upon an unsuspecting and otherwise peaceful planet.

Once the filthy whore and her insufferable hellspawn pulled out of the driveway, I stopped throwing Heinekens at the car. It wasn't that I couldn't hit it anymore, I just didn't want the inevitable wayward one to hideously crash through her windshield and wake that little prick up again.

Shrugging, I go back into my house and head back to bed. My walls, now covered in tiny blue handprints and Twinkie residue, serve as a mute reminder of my horrible and hellish experience.

All and all, I think it went pretty well.

Predator Press Challenges China for Toy Market

Predator Press

* 1$ ALL YOU CAN FIT ON A SHOVEL!!! $1 *

*Must be regulation shovel provided by Predator Press.
*These toys have only been tested on hobos, hookers,
transients, addicts, a handful of unfortunate animals, and
regulation shovels provided by Predator Press.

Exclusive: Larry Craig is Not Gay

Predator Press

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Hurry Larry!  The Final Jeopardy
Round Countdown Music is playing!

When I came across this picture, it all became clear.

Senator Larry Craig really isn't gay!

As a senator, Craig gives a lot of impassioned, authoritative and important speeches, right? He's under a lot of pressure. And when you stand in front of a podium, it does kinda resemble a urinal.

Now look at the picture again. See how he conspicuously avoids contact with the numerous phallics available? Hell, even Senator Patty Murray is squirmy!

Maybe he's in the bathroom, and suddenly needs to make a speech? Or what if one whiff of that urinal cake makes him regress into a state of seething, squirty debauched lizard-like cesspool of amorous desire, ready to penetrate virtually anything on two legs.

But he's not a lawyer, he's a politician.

Every last one of you "rushing to judgment" over a married homophobic father who tried to engage in a random sexual encounter with a stranger of the same sex in an airport bathroom should be ashamed of yourselves. Seriously. "Let He Without Sin Roll the First Stone."

I know it's only August, but this brave soldier has gone through a lot to beat out Paris Hilton and Michael Vick to earn my nod as the Predator Press Man of the Year.

(--and if those pricks at TIME Magazine steal any more of my ideas, I'm going to send them a really nasty email!)

Entertainer Avoids Rehab, Meltdown, DUI, Suicide

Predator Press

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At first we thought this was
a joke, but we checked it out.

WTG Betty White!

Richard Jewell: They Can't All Be Gems

Predator Press

Richard Jewell, we barely knew you.

Michael Vick Sends Larry Craig Fruit Basket

Predator Press

"Oh Jesus God thank you Senator Craig. Am I crying?
Oh my God I'm crying. Thank you sweet Jesus!"

Jesus: Michael Vick found WHO?

Predator Press

Jesus: LOBO.

LOBO: Oh holy crap. Jesus Christ, it's like 4 in the morning!

Jesus: Wake up and experience your VISION.

LOBO: I told you LAST time I only want visions after 10:00am.

Jesus: I know. But this one is really important.

LOBO: Like those bogus football picks you gave me last year? I lost everything I had except these lousy shares of Predator Press.

Jesus: Which kept both Ethan and Babs from taking over, right? Now your life is a Hellbound hedonistic adventure of being constantly wooed by rich, smarmy screwballs for controlling interest of the company.

LOBO: Yeah. Thanks. But seriously, you could call first.

Jesus: I heard Michael Vick 'found' Me today.

LOBO: Yeah well, so did David 'Son of Sam' Berkowitz. Let's just say when it comes to getting 'found,' Waldo's got you boned.

Jesus: Don't you think people 'finding' me after acts of unconscionable evil makes a mockery of my teachings and followers?

LOBO: I'll say. But without 'Forgiveness', there's no real motivation to straighten yourself up, is there? What's the point if there's no hope? And frankly, the Bible is chocked FULL of dismembered mutton.

Jesus: I think Michael Vick should seek forgiveness from Anubis first. THEN he should check with Me.

LOBO: So you're goin' Old Testament on his ass?

Jesus: Probably not.

LOBO: Jesus, I don't get it. At least a butcher kills something quickly. This guy got animals hacked up, and then melted them alive. Who wants to be in an 'afterlife' with monsters like that?

Jesus: We've got a different Heaven for David Berkowitz and Michael Vick.

LOBO: Really?

Jesus: Same Heaven really. But their servers all crash every 12-24 minutes.

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 really think we should start spitting and hissing 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 my Dean Koontz paperbacks.

We're just too different. I think we should just be friends. And I'm not good enough for you . . . you need to find someone who will treat you like you deserve being treated for.

It's not you; it's me.

Don't come by unexpectedly; my new girlfriend has a 'thing' for blindfolded mongooses.

Your Friend Always,

LOBO

Why Men Don't Talk

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"What do you mean 'where did I learn the Gale of a Million Butterflies?'" I says. "It's in the Kama Sutra. You know, history?"

Medusa spat and hissed.

"I happen to read a lot of history!"

Reminders

Predator Press

[LOBO]

China Offers Michael Vick Pet Food Endorsements

Predator Press

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"In promotion of our high moral standards and the wholesome nutritional value of our perfectly safe products," says corporate spokesman Chin Yan, "we feel that Michael Vick is ideal. And you won't hear any of our dogs complaining about it, either."

Transmission

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Amused, I had that 'Babel Fish' link translate the last post into Greek.

Then, just for kicks, I had it reverse-translate my stuff back to English.

Here's how it came out:


***

Ask LOBO

See Aphrodite Topless

Zeus' lightning bolts arched across the violent sky and sunk into the fiery horizon; you couldn't tell if it was day or night for days.

But I thought Medusa was really interesting. Of course, this only confused Medusa; most men who have looked Medusa in the eye turn to cold stone.

"Wow Medusa," I says. "Nice rack."

Medusa hissed and spat.

"Really?" I says. "Yeah, Day Care can be a real pain in the ass. 'Specially when you lay like 800 eggs at a squat."

Using her tail, she hurls a 2 ton stone Roman dumbass right at me. Fuckin thing shatters into a billion pieces.

"Of course I love you for your mind!" I says. "Seriously. Have you been working out?"

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

Dear LOBO,

Why is the White House Press Secretary Tony Snow stepping down after only a few months?

Ben T.,
South Bend, Indiana


Well, I'm glad you asked this Bob.

I've already heard Liberals joking like What's eating the yellow Snow?, and frankly, I consider this the apex of partisan tastelessness; our noble Reich of Patriot Conservatives are only engaged in the compassionate act of protecting us and our neighbors from worshiping false gods and idolatry in an effort to bring them the One True Lord and Savior: Jesus Christ.

The act of using poor people to kill other poor people is a tradition deeply-rooted in global history, and it's very selfless if you think about it: America has been around for a long time, and smiting godless infidels is a tough job often requiring deception, exploitation and decimation of it's own population.

And yes being smoten has the occasional tendency to feel uncomfortable and awkward. But if all those other stupid warlike, unstable cultures would just peacefully accept our obvious moral superiority and priceless Freedom, we could've avoided virtually every instance of smotion in the first place! It's their fault we gotta do all this.

So when you hear those godless infidel Liberals bashing the Bush Administration, don't lower yourself to their level. The truth is, when Predator Press considered offering Tony Snow a job, we determined he was almost too good: he only needed a few months to help the Bush Administration explain God's Will. But you don't need to explain yourself through a 'Press Secretary' when you are doing God's Will, right? Apparently, we intend to be around explaining God's Will a lot longer than the White House.

One day Dick Cheney, George Bush and I will all be standing next to Jesus in Heaven, looking down upon all these alarmist smarty-pants hippies. And as Satan splays their steamy, hissing entrails into the Lake of Fire, sodomizing their Pituitary glands with non-sterilized white-hot pokers while playing scratchy Black Sabbath records that frequently skip, we'll all just laugh and laugh and laugh.

Stat

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"I'm not even going to ask anymore," says Nurse Garrison.

"What?" I yell, cupping my huge hand to my face like a megaphone. "I can't hear your stupid diagnosis if your going to mumble it from way over there."

"I really don't understand the nature of your complaint," she says louder. "Most guys would kill for this problem."

"Yeah." I concede. "But I'm experiencing back problems."

'Motion in the Ocean'? WTF? It's a Small Penis!

Predator Press

[LOBO]


"What the hell is wrong with you?" demands Ethan, closing my 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, Ethan gasps.

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

"Well, you know that male, eh, 'enhancement' cream we've been selling?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it turns out it works."

"It made your hands freakishly large?"

"Well I hadda apply it somehow."

Ethan pressed the speakerphone button. "Phoebe?"

"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."

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

[muffled, soft sobs]

"No girl wants to be a B-Cup forever sir."

Dow Rebounds 300, Clinches Position in Finals

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"That's right Nasdaq!" says Michael Jordan after his fortuitous appointment as Chairman and Point Guard for Dow Jones earlier today. "We'll be seeing you in May."

Sausage Company Threatens Predator Press

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Dear LOBO" says the stupid letter. It has come to our attention that in your last post, you were brazenly beating meat. Meat is a sensitive industry nowadays, and having read back through your blog, we've realized you've really done nothing but dissuade people from sausage altogether.

Our products are wholesome and good. We like to think of people going to the grocery store and coming home to have a big, fat, juicy kielbasa. How are we to cope with the possibility of one day having those rather 'embarrassing' jpegs featured on the Jumbotron in Times Square? My god man, you beat that thing so hard, we think you should finally have just strangled it out of mercy!

Your wanton and excessive savage public meat beating has single-handedly cost our entire industry millions. And as President of the company, I would like to remind you that abusing your kielbasa in front of everyone sets a poor example; we are very close to dropping our endorsement deal with Predator Press altogether. This means we will no longer be funding your Vision Plan, or your discounted frames at LensCrafters.

Please refrain from further molesting your sausage on Predator Press; ultimately, you and your entire company could go blind.

Your staff is counting on you.

God Save the Queen

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"So how'd you do it?" asks Ethan.

"Piss off the arsonist lesbians?" I says, flipping a hamburger on the grill.

"The who?"

"You haven't been reading either?"

"No."

"Then how did I do what?"

Ethan tears one of my elegant Excel spreadsheets out of the grill printer. "It says Predator Press Male Enhancement Herbal Supplements are up 400%."

My grill rings, and I press the 'speakerphone' button.

"You have reached 1-800-B-I-G-P-R-I-X, may I help you?"

"Hi," says the caller timidly. "I was just wondering how much effect your, ah, 'herbal supplements' have."

Thinking quickly, I grab a 14" curvy kielbasa and slap it loudly on the cutting board. "Hear that buddy?"

"Yeah," says the caller.

"I ain't hadda wash dishes or vacuum for fifteen years."

Chinese Toy Manufacturer Found Dead

Predator Press

Zhang Shuhong, co-owner and toy magnate of Lee Der Industrial Company, was found dead in a warehouse today.

Shuhong, a pioneer of bargain-basement toy manufacturing, has left an indellible mark on generations of children worldwide with favorites such as Big Birds Flu Clinic, High-Voltage Bath Elmo, and the ever-popular Barbie Ford Pinto.

While the official cause of death is pending the autopsy, Chinese authorities have flatly refuted claims that it had anything to do with the Molotov Pinata, which is scheduled for release this Christmas.

If You Teach a Man to Fish, He'll Want Chicken

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In a world full of diabolical bridges, sinister coal mines, arsonist lesbians, terrorist plots and rabid raccoons, I've decided to stay home today in my footie pajamas and watch way, way, way too much news.

This is how I found this story on the bulletpoof backpack.

Oh come on; today's youth is already so totally spoiled. I mean, what's the point of even going to school anymore?

Think back for a second: I remember only wedgies, stolen lunch money, bitter old totalitarian tyrant regimes, imaginary trains with impossible head-splitting scheduling issues, and, yes, the occasional character-building sucking chest wound. Shit, you needed four landmines and a bazooka just to get into 'Homeroom' --yet another seemingly pointless exercise conducted in an overcrowded lead-painted asbestos cube.

It is exactly these senseless disciplines and routines that are the experiences universal to us all, and essential to the organized sublimation of will, humanity and thought.

But nowadays, kids got cellphones, iPods, seatbelts, body armor, and inoculations. Inoculations, people! I ask you: without a profound fear of being randomly stricken by Polio or Diphtheria, how can you possibly expect to shape and mold the minds of tomorrow's great leaders?

Hm?

Angered Lesbians Burn Down Predator Press HQ

Predator Press

Demonstrators from 'Torch Un-Repentant Tabloids mentioning Lesbian Endeavors' [TURTLE] cheer as the Minneapolis branch of Predator Press burns to rubble.

“I don’t understand,” says a Predator Press Public Relations Specialist and CEO that wishes to remain anonymous named LOBO. “I’m a long-time supporter of lesbians. In fact, I love lesbians. I got stacks and stacks of Penthouse at home ... ”

Becky Chris: We Get It, Chill Out

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Becky Chris,

Many of us are painfully too aware of your lifestyle and thinly-veiled hostility to half of the human race. I strongly suspect this is closely linked to rather abrupt SPAM, outlining unsolicited details about your sexual appetites while oddly complaining about how much SPAM you get.

I'm sure there isn't a male blogger alive that isn't already 100% absolutely convinced that you would delight in freezing us with liquid nitrogen to slowly chip pieces off while dancing to Melissa Etheridge CDs ankle-deep in bloody slush, squishing your toes in the testosterone goo.

We love you too, but we love you less in the "stab-you-in-the-penis" way, and more in the "Just a girl that needs a good eight hours of sleep" way.

Take a deep breath.

... Count to ten ...

A Thigh for an Eye

Predator Press

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"Let me get this straight," says Nurse Garrison, looking up from her clipboard. "You opened your eyes in the bathtub?"

"Check," I says.

"Didn't your mother ever warn you about opening your eyes in the bathtub? Now you're permanently blind."

"Don't we still have Mr Insanity's body encased in carbonite?"

Nurse Garrison sighs. "You've already stolen one of his arms. Now you want his eyes?"

"Stolen is such an ugly word," I says. "I prefer 'harvested'."

"That's ghoulish," she says.

"How about if I trade him?" I says.

"But your eyes don't work."

"I know. I'm offering something of infinitely more value."

"Like what?"

"My cellulite. Every last precious drop of it."

"So you want me to transplant his eyes into you, and your body fat into him in exchange."

"Well, that wouldn't really be very fair. Me and this cellulite go way back. I've lived my whole life under a rigid discipline to cultivate and grow this fantastic and impact-resistant body. My fat is a symbol of my success. I'm very attached to it."

"I can see that," says Nurse Garrison.

"How's his liver?"

"He attempted suicide by overdose on Fuzzy Navels last year, remember?"

"He was very lucky we were able to save his life," I reflect.

"Was he?"

Wet Dement

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So I'm taking a bath.

Because I'm a genius.

See, it's 95 degrees here. I know this with abosolute certain precision; I have a device on my wall that tells exactly what the temperature is at any given moment.

I don't know where or how I got it. I don't even think the thing is hooked up to the internet.

It's downright spooky in a Voodoo kinda way.

So my vertical analog suspension temporatometer is telling me 'Hey man, it's fucking 95 degrees!' and I'm like, 'No way. Why is that?' But with only thin red line movin up and down to converse, I get impatient and throw my vertical-analog suspension temporatometer into the bathtub.

My vertical analog suspension temporatometer suddenly starts singing like a canary. It turns out my vertical-analog suspension temporatometer also functions perfectly as a fully-submersible horizontal thermocalculator! And it screams, 'Hey man, it's fucking 106 degrees in here!'

"Don't patronize me with your trite, red-lined scientific hippie semantics!" I says. "It's hot. My clothes are stuck to my skin from dripping sweat. Right now, an 11 degree difference might be just the cooling off I so badly need."

I strip, and prepare to indulge myself in soothing cool comfort. But then I think Wait. I haven't had a bath since I was twelve. Man, that was like ten years ago at least. How would an adult go about taking a relaxing bath?

It wasn't easy finding Ducky and my battleships, but my mom finally 'Fed-Ex'ed them. And once they were all lovingly set along the ceramic ledge, I proceeded to look for luxurious bath additives to further enhance the rather exotic experience: bubble bath, candles, music, Tide, bleach, 409, Comet, diesel, Drano ... maybe a little vanilla extract for the ladies. Ah, you get the picture.

And as the cooling, fragrant and peaceful fluids sloshed and hissed about, I instinctively held my nose and submerged completely. Playfully, I tried to see if I could still hold my breath as long as I used to. As childhood memories flooded in, I could hear my mom scolding, 'Just don't open your eyes while under there.'

Man I was a stupid kid.

What could possibly happen if you opened your eyes under here?

Minnesotan Confesses to Bridge Conspiracy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yes, you heard it here first!

No one was more shocked than we to find Terri Terri brashly claiming Minnesotan responsibility for the bridge collapse that has gripped the entire nation in morbid terror of it's own diabolical highway system.

In a chilling, cryptic dispatch to Predator Press composed of glued-on magazine letters, she left the following comment on our Saturday, August 4 post: "Yeah, us Minnesotans just had nothing better to do than irritate the President so we decided to collapse one of our bridges just to get him off his lazy ass. Wheeee! That was fun!"

In effort to scientifically measure the average Minnesotan capacity for evil, we have compiled some startling statistics that our friends to the West may be trying to surpass:

* Cancer: 556,902 (2006)
* Iraq: 30,000
* Domestic firearm fatalities: 29,573 (2006)
* Katrina (2005): 800
* Automotive fatalities, New York (2006): 750
* Domestic peanut allergy-related fatalities (2006): 150
* Evil Minnesotan bridges (2007): 5-8
* Domestic shark attack fatalities 1948-2005: 9

As you can clearly see, the sinister Minnesotans are clearly at pace to overtake the much-ballyhooed and overrated shark. But unless they have 30 more bridges, they cannot possibly expect to wreak more wanton death and carnage than your garden-variety Chinese toy factory on mandatory overtime.

We recommend "mixing it up" a bit to beef up the numbers: by combining second hand smoke and diets high in trans-fatty acids, you'll be caught up with Katrina in no time!

Bush Misses Cartoons, Eggos Over 'Stupid Bridge'

Predator Press

"It's all just stupid," Bush complains to an aide. "This stupid country
has a stupid crisis every goddamn week. Well, I'm getting sick of it."

Predator Press Interviews: Some Guy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't want to do an interview today.

I want to gloat.

All you people that were sayin' "Oh, that LOBO ... submarine ninjas? He's gone completely crackers now," owe me one Big Fat apology; CNN reported today that submarine ninjas have been captured in New York.

In your face all you skeptics; I told you so!

And I understand the desire to doubt me when you're troubled with nuisance 'facts' and stuff; I will not hold it against you. Predator Press loves it's dumb readers too, and with 89% of the same guaranteed ardor and zeal that our smart readers enjoy.

Has the precious Wall Street Journal ever promised you anything like that?

Hm?

But yeah, here, at the pinnacle of ardent gloatability, Ethan makes me do an interview.

So here it is:

LOBO: So who the fuck are you?

Some Guy: I'm Dan Albern, Editor of The Pianosa Times.

LOBO: Well, Predator Press isn't hiring.

Some Guy: I'm not here for that kind of interview.

LOBO: No, of course you're not. You're here for the kind of 'interview' that screws me outta press time for the capture of the New York submarine ninjas.

Some Guy: Actually, that's not true. I understand you were also involved with the apprehension of the notorious Legless Jim.

LOBO: Who?

Some Guy: He has just been made eligible for the death penalty.

LOBO: Serves him right, probably.

Some Guy: How did you get the name 'LOBO'?

LOBO: Legend has it a gamma Northern Timber Wolf chewed me out of her own cervix, 'cuz she thought I was malignant.

Some Guy: Really?

LOBO: Got the scars to prove it.

Some Guy: Oh my God, those are horrible!

LOBO: From then on, I was raised by the Chippewa Tribe until I got adopted.

Some Guy: Fascinating. An orphan is given the honorary status of Sherrif of Pianosa.

LOBO: What?

Some Guy: That's why I'm here.

LOBO: Sheriff LOBO?

Some Guy: Precisely.

LOBO: I don't like it; it's not very memorable at all. Can I be Sheriff Chainsaw instead?

Some Guy: Probably.

LOBO: Can I kill people?

Some Guy: Only when they are engaged in the commission of a crime.

LOBO: Can I make it a crime to wear a thong if you're a fat, hairy freakish descendant of Bigfoot wearin rollerblades?

Some Guy: Our readers will be very disappointed. We've invited many of them to the inauguration ceremony.

LOBO: Where I'll settle the whole damn mystery once and for all.

Some Guy: But as a crimefighter of local renown, we're doing a story on the man who was nominated 'Honorary Sheriff of Pianosa'. You're supposed to be a forward-thinking noble vanguard in pursuit of justice.

LOBO: Wait. You're interviewing me?

My Chi is Kickass Today, Thank You

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After a mere two weeks of intensive training and meditation, I am back.

Down to between 16 and 20 heartbeats a day, my doctor was concerned and tested my blood. And as always, my blood got an A+, clearly showing it's intellectual superiority over all the other stupid and inferior bloods.

I'm ready for action, baby; my Chi is so jazzed, when having lunch at Burger King with friends today the cook mistook me for a relative of Steven Segal. Swear to God. Insulted, my Chi cursed the poor bastard as I was being roughly escorted out of the kitchen; no doubt his grandchildren will be born horribly disfigured and forever unemployable.

And as the treacherous French poisoned me with deep-fried pointy potato sticks, Heartbeat Number 11 was about 40 minutes later than expected. It was then I started checking out LadyTerri. I mean, she's hot and smart and charming, and dating this guy --Mitch or something. And I'm thinking 'What the hell is she doing dating such a loser? This guy is about as interesting as a blackened potato chip!'

Well, it turns out her blood gets A+s too. It just came up somehow. And as I rummaged about her purse while she was in the bathroom, I discovered that her driver's license says she's an 'Organ Donor'. My god; the courage of this magnificent woman with two pristine kidneys and a pancreas to die for! Me? I'll never sign that 'Organ Donor' thing; I'm too afraid they'll suddenly cure disembowelment, and wake me up on cinderblocks missing an eye or something.

Live it up there Mitch.

You're a lucky guy.

To You

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Knowing I can't speak to each and every one of you readers as often as I would like tears me up inside like a rusty, jagged catheter being ripped out by a startled Clydesdale; the glamorous lifestyle of an often-cloned, globetrotting international millionaire playboy-slash-spy at war with Santa is a deceptively heavy burden.

So at least once, I feel I should share my most heartfelt and candid inner-most feelings to my favorite people: the selflessly-loyal, unsung readers.

That message is:

My personal safety is an issue of National Security.

Look. If the submarine ninjas capture me and 57 Comanche helicopters whisk me off to a nearby aircraft carrier for interrogation, you're all pretty fucked; the second Doctor Hans hooks up electrodes to my nipples, I'm gonna sing like a canary on cocaine. I'm telling that asshole everything. Hell, I might even make shit up.

"Doctor Hans," I would say. "Please put away your chainsaw scalpel and sodium pentathol, and get me a pencil and a map." And then, drawing little 'X'es on everything I'll say, "There are 12,115 troops over there, and there's a poorly-defended nuclear facility over here. Doctor Hans, has a handsome bastard such as yourself ever thought of being in movies? I know where Steven Spielberg lives. Hey, do you guys like pizza? I love pizza."

Kickin' Ass and Taking Naps

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I'm silent.

Undetectable.

--and it was Mr. Submarine Ninja's last mistake to underestimate my stealth and guile.

"Shit!" he screams, sprawling in the darkness. "LOBO, what the fuck?"

"Doc Mike?" I says aghast. "You're a submarine ninja?"

"A what? What the hell is going on here?" he demands.

"Well, thanks to your catlike reflexes, now I have to get up to break your neck." I grunt while climbing to my feet --this martial arts stuff is really tough work. "Where are you? Hold still."

Doc flips the switch, and searing light blinds me. "C'mon Doc," I implore. "No dirty tricks. I would've expected you to die with some dignity."

"Why were you sprawled out on the floor like that in the dark?"

"You, my so-called-friend, have fallen prey to one of my deadliest moves. I call it the Bloated Starfish."

"I tripped on you!"

"Fell victim."

"Tripped!"

"Yeah, okay," I says, rolling my eyes. "Whatever".

"What have you done to your apartment?"

"I've converted it into my Dojo. I figured having a lot of trophies around would make me more menacing."

"Where'd you get them?"

"Garage sales," I says.

Doc inspects an inscription: it reads 'World's Greatest Dad'.

"So the neon sign out front that reads 'Chinese Food Restaurant' isn't a mistake?"

"That sign I stole says 'Chinese Food Restaurant'?" I says, deflated. "I was really hoping it would say 'LOBO's School of Bone-Crushing, Testicle-Ripping, Deadly Self Defense Art.'"

"No," sighs Doc. "It says 'Chinese Food Restaurant'."

"Odds were equally good," I point out, "that the sign would have read 'LOBO's School of Bone-Crushing, Testicle-Ripping, Deadly Self Defense Art'."

"It's in English too," says Doc. "Right under the Kanji."

"Maybe they're not bilingual," I offer.

"LOBO, Ethan asked me to check on you," says Doc. "Says your talking crazy. Something about submarine ninjas."

I guffaw. "Crazy like a Peking Duck Master," I point out. Cautiously I approach the window, and stare out into the inky silence. "--but they're out there. I can sense their movements." Grabbing a flashlight off the shelf, I stab light into the parking lot below and yell, "Hear that you bastards!? I can sense your movements you know!"

"LOBO," says Doc. "I think you've finally-"

"Oh my GOD," I exclaim.

"What is it?" asks Doc, startled.

"Someone opened a Chinese Food Restaurant here!"

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Katas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ethan calls.

Again.

Groggily, I reach for the phone.

"lobo?"

"Ethan," I says. "It's LOBO."

"That's what I said," he replies.

"Ethan, you know I'm in training. It's only 10:30 in the morning"

"So you're resting up for the submarine ninjas?"

"It's called a kata, sir," I says, setting the Cheeto bag on the coffee table. "It's a strict discipline, steeped in tradition."

"I thought today was laundry day."

"The washer is still busted," I explain. "I find it easier to just buy new clothes when the old ones get stiff."

"That's disgusting," says Ethan.

"It's a strict discipline," I explain.

"Well I'm giving you a few days off," says Ethan. "I don't want you stinking up the office, while submarine ninjas are wrecking up the place trying to pull your tongue through your keyster."

Damn, I think. I'm good.

"You don't think they will come here, do you?" he asks. "My 'lawyers' have really been packing on the pounds since they started studying your 'Peking Duck' technique. I really don't think they're up for this."

"You can take my cat Phil," I suggest. "He's a level 8."

The Art of Peking Duck

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“LOBO-san,” says the boy. “I have urgent news.”

“What is it, strange little person?” I says.

“It is I, son of Bang Ho.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Bang Ho," he corrects politely. "Grand Master of the Peking Duck!”

“That Bang Ho?” I says.

“Yes LOBO-san. He is dead.”

“No shit?”

“He and 14,004 of our Sacred Acolytes were all killed touring the White House yesterday.”

“I told them to got to the Smithsonian."

“LOBO-san,” says the boy. “I don’t think you understand. You are now Grand Master of the Peking Duck.”

My iPhone rings.

It's Ethan.

"Hey there 'Screaming Eagle' or whatever," I says to the boy, holding up a finger. "Hang on. This is important. Hello?"

"LOBO?" says Ethan.

"Yes?"

"I've started reading Predator Press, and I'm starting to suspect that what you're publishing isn't entirely true."

The boy tugs on my arm. "LOBO-san, ninja enemies of the Peking Duck are arriving on nuclear submarines. We must be going!"

Putting my finger to my lips, I give the boy the universal 'Shh!'

"I know," I whisper, leaning in close and holding the phone away.

"-Ethan is just tryin to get out of buying donuts."

Bush Finds Porno, Sexual Activity On Internets

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"My Fellow Americans," says Bush. "This morning, when checking my email, I got one from a little girl named 'Samantha' --or so it stated clearly in the 'Subject' field."

"But 'Samantha', it turns out," he continues, "Is a curvy 24 year old D-cup, and before I knew it, her magnificent, well-tattooed boobies had leapt straight through my retinas, and into my brain."

[a pause]

"Samantha," he says. "How dare you? How dare you promote your depraved naked activities in public on www.samanthaspreads.org, and send them to me over the public telephone? I, the very President of the United States, was a victim of teleboobie, right there in the Oval Office. And right in front of a tour group!"

[pause]

"Once we've closed all the popup ads and the entire tour group has been exterminated, Samantha -if, in fact that is your real name-- you will be facing Federal Trial for two counts of Aggravated Teleboobie in Abu Ghraid."

Dick Cheney Has Last Human Organ Removed

Predator Press

A happy and healthy Vice President Dick Cheney smiled and waved to the cameras as he left the George Washington University Jiffy Lube sporting his new terror fighting cardioverter-defibrillator.

"He will require some rest," explains Lead Technician Jeremy Ipswick. "But the operation went perfectly. The new cardioverter-defibrillator will have the VP fighting terror with 12% higher efficiency."

'Event of Emergency' Laminates Differ in First Class

Predator Press

During sudden decompression, traditional 'Place Oxygen Mask Over Nose and Mouth' instructions are less-than-popular among Americas' jetset.

Richie Sentenced to Four 'The NASA Life' Episodes

Predator Press


No one appeared more stunned than Nicole Richie when she was sentenced to do pilot episodes for a Fox Network reality show called The NASA Life --except maybe her own lawyer when she shot him right through the forehead with a 9mm.

"Order," demanded the judge, banging his gavel. "Young lady I said ORDER!"

Nicole, seeming to shake that spooky 'vacant' look, promisingly set the safety on her pistol and strapped it back into her thigh holster. "I'm sorry Your Honor."

"The fact that you murdered a lawyer in my courtroom won't get you any points with me today, Missy," said the judge coolly. "I'm going to make you ridicule honest and hard working middle class people for four whole episodes in space."

When asked for comment, Paris Hilton's Parole Officer claimed Paris was “already making daiquiris in the centrifuge”.

MTV 'Pimps My Space Shuttle'

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Beleaguered by accusations of sabotage and drunk driving, NASA --threatened with Federal Funding cuts and numerous parking tickets-- has decided to downgrade the expectations and pay of their most troublesome resource:

Unmarketable scientists and engineers.

"We saw this trend coming last October," says Senior Physicist Doctor Morgan 'The Mango' Therez. "And when the advertisers saw Exhibit hoist out the Discovery's engine in his garage to change the spark plugs, we knew we had a winner.”

When asked to demonstrate his scientific prowess, Xzibit drew us a diagram on a napkin. “The 'pimped' space shuttle, the EnterPlaya,” he explains, “will come fitted standard with floor-to-ceiling thick shag carpet, a kickass sound system, Xbox 360, landing gear spinners, eight waterbeds, and an aquarium. Booyaa!"

The Truth About the Rat Race

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

As LOBO was being arrested, Templeton peered out from under Phil’s rabies tag.

Phil, LOBO’s cat, was reading extreme signs of stress. And if Phil somehow didn’t find her way back into LOBO’s custody, poof, RDO's entire mission was a failure.

Baking in the 120 degree heat of the sunbathed car, Phil barely noticed as Templeton took flight through the cat cage bars. And perched on the bottom of the steering wheel, Templeton scanned through all data he had on internal combustion engines.

LOBO was already handcuffed and in the back seat of the squad car, but the Chick Magnet’s engine was still running; rolling down all the electric windows -the most important thing- was mere child’s play. The car would go down forty degrees within minutes.

But how was Templeton to save Phil from starvation?

Contemplating this thoughtfully, Templeton flew out the window to seek human aid, only to be promptly struck by a fateful sports car at 220 MPH. The impact ruptured the car’s radiator almost completely on impact, and caused it to limp woundedly aside less than a mile ahead.

The driver was racing from New Jersey to Las Vegas on a highly illegal and lucrative bet, and was suddenly in desperate need for an available vehicle.

And that’s how they met Jimmy Orlando.

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Lohan Sues eBay Over Faulty Ankle Bracelet

Predator Press


"Oh man, I just knew something was up Your Honor," explains Lohan.

Once sworn in, Lindsay Lohan dropped bombs: "This necklace is supposed to detect for cocaine, and it only worked for about two weeks," she sobbed. "And that guy had a 101.02% PowerSeller rating! We should all --in pursuit of justice-- collectively leave him some really mediocre 'Feedback'."

When asked for additional comment, Lohan would only reply by grinding her teeth, having animated conversations about how shiny her car was, and proclaiming any juror needing sleep a 'Communist Pussy'.

Keith Richards, legendary guitarist for the Rolling Stones and CEO of mammajammadrugtectingkewlaccessories105@yahoo.com, insists that MammaJamma technology has been 'totally bastardized by The Man'."

"These devices beam data about the wearer's drug use directly to my BlackBerry," claims Richards. "I just wanted to keep track of where the party was. This is the biggest exaggeration of a product line's intent since the sperm whale got a blowhole."

I'll Whore the Simpsons Movie for This Cool JPEG

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Miss Crabapple would dig me.

You know it.