Heather Mills Nets 50 Million for Four Year Marriage

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Musical genius you are I say -but that’s
6.5 Ashley Alexandra Dupres a day!

[chorus]

It's a Diabolical Thing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

AS we can all see, the bravado of DONCO has been its own undoing: WITNESS the proof that Don possesses weapons of mass destruction!

Currently he is constructing a giant Death Dog so devastating, once complete it will launch state-of-the-art unimaginable human-melting horrors and patio furniture from its sides.

And not just any pooch: it's a Boston Terrier.

... I wouldn't want to be Boston right now.

Read this Post or DIE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After 57 episodes of "ASK A NINJA", I bought the book, T-shirt, the Neu Tickles album, the DVD, the cap, and some kickass black jammies. (Actually mine are dark green jammies; black jammies are described as difficult to get in Episode 1 ... but these are way cooler than black jammies: these got little froggies all over 'em.)

... As soon as that scary looking squirrel gets out of the front yard, I'm gonna open a can of whoop-ass.

Maybe I'm late for the dance (again) and you've already seen these -there are like 75 million episodes. Still, I thought they were a lot of fun. Check 'em out if you haven't!

Fore Science

Predator Press


[LOBO]

Following in the tradition of other great sages and intellects suffering from a deep crisis of Faith, I went golfing with Speedcat Hollydale.

As a natural born athlete, I derive much pleasure from sports: distraction might be just what I need.

"Fore!" I call. Throwing the golf ball up in the air, I smack it hard with the bat and it arced gracefully. The distance was good, but it landed far to the right of my target.

"Dammit!"

"That's a mean slice you have there," says Speedcat addressing his own ball. He had a curious habit of hitting the ball from the ground with a bent metal stick.

"You should let me take a mulligan," I protest.

"Not a chance," says Speedcat, concentrating. "I've already let you take six."

"But a daiquiri umbrella was stuck in my facemask!"

"Look," he says exasperated. "At some point you're just going to have to face the fact that you're gonna owe me that 100 bucks."

Whock

... Crash!

"Hah!" I says. "You didn't call your shot!"

"First, this isn't Pool. And second, that's the only damned window the police car had left!" Speedcat argued. "Speaking of which, we should get moving. That cop is bound to come out of that Dunkin' Donuts any second now."

"So you forfeit?"

"Like hell."

"All right, screw it," I says. Struggling under my protective sternum plate, I dig for my wallet.

'Your game was really off today," observes Speedcat. "What's bothering you?"

"I hadda get a blood test for the wedding," I concede. "The whole thing was very traumatizing."

"Did they find something wrong?"

"No. My blood got an A+, once again demonstrating it's intellectual superiority over all the other stupid and inferior bloods." I hand him a $100 bill. "I just feel like I was treated rudely from the start."

"Really?"

"Yeah. When I got to the medical center, I was very clear that nobody was gonna impale me except for Doctor Toboggans ... Especially not that quack Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep."

Speedcat paused from packing his clubs. "Well that sounds pretty straightforward actually."

"Yeah. But Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep was argumentative," I says, throwing my football shoulderpads in the trunk. "He was all, 'But Toboggans isn't that kind of Doctor,' and Toboggans is busy saving America from certain economic disaster,' blah blah blah."

"You're kidding," says Speedcat, tightening the knot on the kayak caddy. "Hey, watch out. Here comes the Zamboni."

"Thanks."

"So what did you tell him?"

"I asked him flatly what kind of 'medical center' the ignoramus was supposedly running devoid of such luminaries as Doctor Toboggans."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know. The tranquilizer dart started taking effect."

The Prince of Dorkness

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"What, brings you here today my son?" asks Father Fritz.

"Well, Patrick Swayze's death really shook me up, and I'm getting married Friday."

"I'm so happy for you my child!" says Fritz.

"She's not Catholic," I says. "I've been trying to convert her, but she's really stuck on this whole 'Christian' thing. I just want to be sure I can tell her with absolute certainty she's going to suffer Eternity burning in Hell for her heathen beliefs."

"What?"

"Hey, I'm not doing those 'stand-sit-kneel-sit-stand-sit-kneel-stand-kneel calisthenics every Sunday so's I can go to Heaven with a bunch of lazy hippie pagans."

"But you haven't been to church since 1999!"

"That was by your request."

"You kept handing out Gatorade and towels and high-fiving people. It was very disruptive."

"I was moved by The Spirit."

"LOBO," says the priest, leaning back in his chair. "Have you ever considered any other religions? Perhaps becoming Jewish?"

"I can't make that whole 'beard-without-a-mustache' look work. And those 24' sideburns could get caught in the heavy machinery at work."

"How about a cult?" he offers. "I know for a fact there are dozens of perfectly good cults out there."

"Hm," I says thinking. "I know these Qelqoth guys with a cult that seems pretty cool."

"Well there you go," says Fritz.

"I just wish I could remember what it's called ... "

Predator Press Loses Product Line to DONCO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally breaking the silence, blog mogul Don Lewis -author of "It's a Funny Thing"- has formally announced once and for all the sinister consolidation and centralization of humorous blogging from his notoriously evil fortress located in equally-evil Northern Idaho.

While initially shocked at the subsequent hostile takeover of our highly-profitable line of frighteningly realistic Halloween costumes, the folks at Predator Press Fiendish Fashions are preparing to surrender unconditionally to welcome their new comic overlord and CEO.



Frankenstein

Dracula

Ann Coulter

Creature from the
Black Lagoon

Frankly, these things were giving us the creeps anyway.

Did I Eat This?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After three years, I finally got my RSS feed working.

I'm really impressed with myself.

I called my dad.

"Hey dad!" I says. "I got my RSS feed working!"

"What? Who is this?"

"Dad, it's me. LOBO."

"Who?"

"Very funny dad," I says chuckling. "We missed you at the wedding"

"What wedding?"

"I am married the fair LadyTerri."

"Oh man, she's hot."

"I know!" I says.

"Who is this really?"

"LOBO," I says. "Remember? You are undefeated at finding the most Easter eggs. I was the short one wearing the blindfold."

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe your dad was the one hiding the Easter eggs in the first place?"

"You would get frustrated after a few hours, and from then on made us paint them white so they would be easier to spot," I reflect. "I found one on my Big Wheel yesterday."

"Well I wouldn't eat it. Look. I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong-"

"You used to drill us at 3:30 every morning in case of a zombie uprising."

"Zombie uprising? I'm sorry, but-"

"Unless it was Wednesday or Sunday. That's when we practiced for alien robot overlords."

"I have no idea what you are talking about. Say, are you calling me from a cell phone?"

"You don't remember bursting out from under my bed, banging a trash can and shining a flashlight into my eyes while zapping me with a cattle prod and screaming obscenities until I wet my pants? That's one of my fondest memories."

[audible sigh]

"You realize that alien robot overlords would be able to intercept these transmissions -if they really existed?"

"Um-"

"And that once they secured a foothold on Terra Firma, they would play back all these messages searching for possible insurgents? They would send Ragnarok the Colossus!"

"Or Thrang, the Human Rototiller!"

"-If they existed."

"How is Rex?"

"Zombie."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We hadda put him down in 2005. He unmistakably had The Look."

"So Rex is gone? Who delivers your mail now?"

"I dunno. Some robot."

"How's mom?"

"Possible zombie."

"Mom?"

"You know her. It's hard to tell. She's never been the same after the abduction."

"Yeah. Good luck getting her near a trailer park."

"I keep tellin' her the best way to kill aliens is with a tornado. But then she just gives me The Look."

"How about Aunt Phyllis?"

"Robot Zombie."

"Really?"

"She always was a social butterfly. It worked out really well for her ... she's a Class C."

"A stainless model?"

"Fusion powered. All chrome. She's really come a long way. And you should see how fast she can deal the cards at Euchre. Mom and her are still inseparable ... but if we have another incident at the children's petting zoo, I think they are going to call the cops."

"I can just imagine the bill for dry cleaning."

"Look. I gotta go. You take good care of that LadyTerri, okay?"

"I will dad."

"God she's hot."

"I know dad."

"And congratulations on that RSS feed thing. If you guys ever get down here to Capitol Hill, be sure and drop into my office."

"We will."

"And stay away from Humor Blogs. Those people are weird."

"I will. I love you, dad."

"Fag."

Opinion: Fisting Not Just for Old People Anymore

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You remember the drill: no sooner would you get that kickass skateboard ramp all set up and some blue-haired wrinkle kit runs out yelling "GET OFF OF MY LAWN!" Wobbling precariously on his or her rocker, they shook their liver-spotted and crunkly clenched hand menacingly at about eye-level to punctuate every syllable.

But widely-embraced by America as a whole, 'fisting' is now being done by a whole range of generations: Years ago I fisted Madeline Albright repeatedly over her foreign policy. Now, disillusioned artists on American Idol are fisting Simon Cowell even as you read this. Heck, a guy fisted me earlier in traffic!

'Fisting' has sneakily entered the American lexicon of body language, and is rapidly rising to a level of globally recognized symbolism.

Now that's progress.

Rejection Coverage 2008

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As today marks the last day of my stuff being featured in the Clay Pigeon, I've decided that I need to do something educational. As the sole source of news for millions and millions of readers, I figure Predator Press owed it to the masses to weigh in finally on the up-and-coming elections.

Now when I say "up-and-coming", I mean to say November. That's nine more months of this crap, and I'm already sick to death of it. I can't turn on the television without seeing one or more of those windbag pricks.

This country has completely lost sight of any semblance of importance and priority. What about our own princess in distress Britney Spears? Or the charming romantic misadventures of our own beloved Ben Affleck? I can't even remember the last time I saw a juicy scoop on Paris Hilton!

Someone needs to get America back on track.

The truth is none of the presidential candidates are touching on real issues the America cares about at all. It's all, 'economy this,' and 'energy crisis that', and 'blah blah blah war'. Which country are these people running for? Nobody gives two craps about any of these things.

Not a single candidate has addressed the single most burning issue on everyone's mind: How will America will conduct International Policy with the Republic of LOBOnia?

Not one.

As many of you longtime readers already know, LOBOnia is the mobile 12' circle that surrounds myself at all times. (It used to be only 10', but we have been on an aggressive and successful expansion campaign since 2006 in anticipation of the wedding to the fair LadyTerri. Did your much-lauded Wall Street Journal cover that?)

The truth is America abuses our non-aggression pact all the time. One only has to be with me when I go to O'Hare Airport to witness unbridled violations of our no-fly zone. I've filed countless unanswered claims with your government about the numerous breaches of my diplomatic immunity and tax-free status ... and don't even get me started on what I pay for international calls: Cingular is raping me every month.

How do you think that effects our respective national relations?

Hm?

The Predator Press Institute of Political Analysis has found concusively that not one of these candidates are worthy to lead your great nation into the Age of LOBOnian Enlightenment inevitably to come.

Hillary Clinton: Are you seriously going to vote for someone devoid of the common decent courtesy to put the toilet seat back up when she's done using it?

Blech!

Barack Obama: I'm sorry. But after all these years of oppression, don't you think it's time for a white guy to catch a break?

Argyle socks are huge again, and 'Riverdance' is all the rage with young people.

Our time has come.

John McCain: Just look at that tie.

OMG.

I'm not ready for whatever psychedelic hippie crap this guy must be espousing.

This entire campaign would be derailed with the use of a simple drug test.


???: I don't know who exactly this guy is, but those eyebrows are pissing me off. And the last time I saw a haircut like that, it had bits and pieces of omlet in it from scubbing the skillet.

Time to 'phone home' buddy.

... NEXT!

Brian "The Ultimate Warrior" Hellwig: Let's see Chinese President Hu Jintao skimp on the safety of children's toys and pet food after a devastating 'Warrior Splash'.

Not only is Brian a fantastic candidate, but he's a great example of what a strict diet of turducken and Jolt Cola can do.


William "Captain Kirk" Shatner: Now here's a guy who is on my personal "A" list. Not only does he have all the necessary qualifications to be an effective commander of my sprawling intergalactic empire, but unlike McCain he's got the "tie" thing together. See that? Understated. Elegant. Classy. And not afraid of two-headed green space chicks ... what a perfect heir to the Clinton legacy.

Plus we could move the whole space armada using deep Priceline discounts.

Han Solo: Lastly, I present to you perhaps the coolest candidate of all. I mean sure the actor that plays him is about as interesting as a box of rocks off-camera. But that Ford guy is an actor: Han Solo was a total BMF before the 'Special Edition' where Greedo shoots lamely in his direction first and gets his own head blasted off. But as you may well remember, in the Star Wars Unrated Release, Han and Luke tune Greedo up with baseball bats for about four minutes first.

Alas, it will be hard to separate him from his ties to crime families.

There you have it folks ... the long-awaited Predator Press list of 2008 presidential nominees.

Our apologies for not offering these sooner, but our glaring absence from commentary on the political spectrum has ended: we now recognize that you people apparently thing is pretty important.

We'll do it again next year.

I promise.

As a reminder, here's a picture of a tattoo far too painful for me to actually get.

Te Amo

Predator Press

[LOBO #64]

LOBO alternate personality #32 arrived at the Pearly Gates bewildered.

The last thing he remembered was joining Ed Harris for pizza and bread sticks.

... and now he was dead.

By now, there was a small line of LOBO personalities waiting to speak to Saint Peter.

"Hi LOBO personality #32!", says LOBO personality #71 and #16 waving enthusiastically. "Jesus Christ what a handsome personality."

"I was just about to say the same thing," grins LOBO personality #32. "You guys are downright gorgeous!"

"What happened to you?" asks #71.

#32 shrugs. "High cholesterol maybe?"

"Wow," says #16.

"Yeah," says #32. "What about you handsome devils?"

#16 blushes. "You know I'm not sure. I was filling the car with gas, lit a cigarette, and everything went kablooey."

"Could have been the mob," offers #71.

"That's a really brilliant insight," ponders #16. "I never thought of that. It could have been a really ugly, jealous mob. #71, you must be a genius."

"A really good looking, sexy genius," ads #32.

"What about you, #71?" asks #32.

#71 held up his right hand, inspecting his fingernails with arched eyebrows coolly. "I knocked up Phoebe."

"No way!" says #32.

"You're kidding!" says #16.

"Nope," says #71. "A few years ago, before I met LadyTerri, me an Phoebe had a, uh, 'thing'."

"You lucky bastard," says #32. "You handsome, brilliant, lucky bastard."

"Tell us how it happened," says #16.

"Yes, please do," says #32, bouncing and clapping his hands. "Give us details!"


***

LOBO hated going to Chicago. It was always a big pain in the ass.

As usual, he would ride straight up Interstate 94 until he hit the inevitable gridlock. Deciding that this was more parking than it was actually driving, he would then abandon his car wherever he was -right there in the sea of beeping and cursing- and walk the rest of the way.

It wasn't a perfect or particularly convenient system admittedly. But on occasion when he came back hours later, the car was still there surrounded by the same beeping and cursing people that were there when he left. And sometimes -when he was really lucky- it would have maybe fifteen or twenty feet of open road in front of it.

At least he didn't have to tote around change for a parking meter.

On this particular day, he got within eight miles of his destination before the "parking" started.

It was shaping up to be a fine day.

Shuffling northward, he was reading the used car classifieds as he walked. In no particular hurry, he arrived at Phoebe's posh apartment building three hours later.

Outside was a disheveled, smelly guy, holding out a tin cup.

LOBO took the cup and looked inside. It was full of nickels and quarters.

"No thanks," he says, handing it back to the bewildered guy. Tapping his temple with his index finger he replies, "I did the free parking thing."

But as he starts to walk away, he notices someone else walk by and drop some change in it.

"Wow," says LOBO. "That guy just gave you money? Just like that?"

The guy with the cup stared.

"Oh I gotta get in on this action," he says to no one in particular. "This city rocks!"


***

So LOBO returns from the nearby convenience store like twenty minutes later with a small bag.

Unwilling to soil himself, he also had a Diet Pepsi which he promptly poured in his lap.

Figuring an environment less hostile to the olfactory senses might be more lucrative, in the bag he had two dozen pine tree air fresheners which he proceeded to sneakily hang on all the other people on the block holding out cups.

With a black marker and cardboard, he countered the abundant "WILL WORK FOR FOOD" signs with "WE ACCEPT VISA AND MASTERCARD". Where one guy's pants hung too low, LOBO's hung lower. Where one's clothes were inside out, LOBO's were inside out and upside-down. When one drooled, LOBO gushed. When one sang tunelessly or cursed at people that weren't there, he would affix a Bluetooth earpiece upon them: this would transform the shabby-looking transient instantly into a trendy Gen-X high powered executive.

"Oh come on!" he complained when the guy in Army fatigues missing his legs scooted by on a skateboard. Frustrated, he beaned "Skateboard Guy" with his empty plastic cup.

Frothing unrepeatable obscenities, he skulked on up to Phoebe's apartment in defeat.


***

Three hours later, the phone seemed to ring forever.

Finally, the semi-familiar voice answers. "Yeah?"

"Is this Fat Louie?" asks LOBO.

"Who wants to know?" says the disembodied voice.

"This is LOBO."

"Who?"

"You know, LOBO. We met downstairs. You asked me if I needed anything. Like 'H' or dope or crack or women."

"Oh yeah. You're the guy that said you were bored and looking for a 'good time'."

"Yep," says LOBO. "That's me."

"Well what do you want?"

"When you sold me this, uh, Liquid G stuff, you said 'one drop in a girls drink, and I was guaranteed to have a good time'."

"What happened?"

"She fell asleep!"

"Ummm ... what did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know. I figured maybe she would call up some friends and we could play Trivial Pursuit or maybe Monopoly."

Pause

"Uh huh," says Fat Louie.

"Should I give her some more?"

"God no," says Louie. "Too much of that stuff could be dangerous. I would put it away. In something you know nobody will accidentally drink out of."

"Like a can of Tab? I'm way ahead of you." LOBO pauses. "How long is Phoebe going to be out? I think I need a ride home."

"About eight hours. She won't remember a thing, either."

"So I'll need to write out some directions?"

Another pause

"So what can I do for you?" asks Louie.

"Well, I'm bored. And I already watched all her Dawson Creek dvds." LOBO sighs. "So how's the wife and kids?"

"Look, 'LOBO'," says Fat Louie. "You got any condoms?"

"Yeah. I found some in her purse."

"Well use them, dumbass."

A click, and a dial tone.


***

Use the condoms? LOBO thought. What am I going to do? Make ribbed, glow-in-the-dark, 'lubricated for her pleasure' sausage?

He didn't get any ideas until he went in her bathroom. There, he found rows and rows and rows of Phoebe's bottled perfume.

It was all cheap crap, too. No Safari.

Remembering the hobos in the street, he started making pleasant-smelling water balloons. It took about five or six burst ones to determine the maximum density of a water-slash-perfume filled condom, and he disposed of the unusable ones in the toilet.

"Bombs away!" he cried over Phoebe's 35th story balcony, scoring a direct hit on Skateboard Guy.

Finally out of ammunition, he returned to the kitchen, thirsty. Finding an unfinished can of Tab, he chugged the whole thing as he wandered in to see if Phoebe had woken yet.

... And passed out right next to her.


***

Phoebe woke to find LOBO snoring loudly.

That's strange, she thought.

Having been unconscious for quite some time, she headed immediately for the bathroom, where she found an empty vial labeled "Liquid G", and a half-dozen burst condoms floating in the toilet.

She screamed.


***

"What happened then?" asks LOBO personality #16.

"She was trying to wake me up, but I couldn't understand a word she was saying; for some reason she was really upset and had one of those Early Pregnancy Test slides in her mouth. Evidently, I might have gotten her pregnant somehow-"

"Maybe you're so virile that just being near her was enough. Did you go near any cabbage patches?" asked #32.

"No."

"Or leave a half dollar under her pillow?" asked #16.

"Nope," replies #71, shaking his head.

"I'll bet that sneaky Skateboard Guy had a half dollar to sneak under her pillow," reflected #32.

#71 points to his nose, and continues. "I calmly explained that she shouldn't be ashamed of succumbing to her natural sexual desires for me, what with me screaming out all these incredibly manly testosterates everywhere. She's only human for God's sake: it's biology. And even though it was more likely Skateboard Guy's baby, I would raise it with her like it was my own, and we should get hitched so's the kid ain't no bastard."

"So ..."

"I don't know what happened next. Something crashed into my head. I turned to look, and it was the sidewalk."

"Hah!" says Saint Peter. "See Gabriel? You owe me fifty bucks!"

Crackers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Why'd you do it LOBO?" asks Ed, sharpening his bonesaw.

"Why did I do what?" I says through the bathroom door.

"Tell people you wrote the Hittites story!"

"Well I wanted to be in the Clay Pigeon!" I says. "Pound for pound, I would put it up against anything out there. The King James Bible comes in at a measly 6.2 lbs, while my monitor comes in at a hefty 15.1. It's got, like, 10 pounds more funny! It's a comedy juggernaut."

"I would've had it all," says Ed, trying the doornob. "Money. Power. Chicks ... But you hadda go ruin everything!"

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, whenever I want to blog or read the King James Bible I have to do it from in here now."

"From in the bathroom?"

"Well this is where the scale is, dumbass."

"Oh you'll have to come out someday," Ed growls.

"Why?"

"Well, I -I ordered pizza."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Did you get bread sticks?"

My Alternate Personality is Ed Harris?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Imagine my surprise when I found out.

My first tip off -well, my only tip off- was seeing this article in the Clay Pigeon.

Damn that looks familiar I thought.

And sure enough after scouring the Predator Press archives, I found it.

At first I was mad. And for a lot of reasons ... I mean Ed Harris is a great actor, sure ... but he's no LOBO. Does he really share my loathe for Hittites? Or was Ed merely trying to ride the coattails of my fame, wealth and notoriety?

-Maybe he was trying to topple the entire Predator Press Empire!

That couldn't be it. He would have to be totally crackers to attempt something so foolhardy.

Wouldn't he?


HOUR 1

As the principles of Ockham's Razor cast doubt upon my initial state of denial, a wide spectrum of emotion finally settles at acceptance. The evidence is pretty clear: Ed Harris [Parcher] plagues Russell Crowe's [John Nash] sanity for a full two hours in 'A Beautiful Mind'. He's certainly got the 'chops' to be my alternate personality.

"Surely not LOBO," you say. "John Nash was crazy. You are the sanest -and possibly the most handsome and brilliantest- individual on Earth!"

But who am I to argue? Hey, there's nothing funny about comedy pal: maybe Predator Press did get nominated for four Oscars, Two Saturns, and win the Critic's Choice award in 1996. I certainly don't remember forgetting doing it.

Do you?


HOUR 1.5

The evidence that finally clinched it for me was the caption on the Clay Pigeon story: it says very clearly, "Ed Harris has played a lot of astronauts."

Heck, I spent weeks getting kicked off of the Space Program!


HOUR 2

Maybe it's not so bad being Ed Harris (as long as he doesn't touch any of my stuff). I mean it could have been Nicole Richie.


HOUR 4

But it could just have easily have been Brad Pitt. I mean why not Brad Pitt? You know, the pre-Angelina Jolie Brad Pitt, before they adopted like 57 kids? Ah god, can you imagine what that place must be like now? Trust me: as a proud parent, you can feed 'em two or three times a week and it's still all bitch, bitch, bitch -I don't care how much you beat them. And hello: Angelina Jolie? What's with all the adopting? Does Brad have E.D.?

Wait ... "ED"?

Oh my God I think I just snapped the Space-Time Continuum.

Roller Coaster

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't even wear glasses.

And why I would spend $300 on a pair is totally beyond me.

But dammit, If I'm gonna spend 300 bones on glasses, I am going to wear them.

Normally when you get your eyes dilated for a vision test, they will make you wait around for a little while until your vision returns. But the gnarly-toed hippopotamus woman who gave me the exam seemed strangely anxious to see me go.

There's only so long I can sit around and comment on her lack of shaving prowess anyway.

I'm a busy guy.

With the case and receipts in a little plastic bag, I step out of the LensCrafters and navigate through the crowded mall sort of leering at people. What good are $300 glasses if you can't leer at people?

See these glasses buddy?

$300.

I didn't even take the tags off.

But no one really seemed to care. Everyone was in this big line to get on the escalator. The announcement board to the left at first revealed only stick figures fornicating. But with a little squinting -and $300 glasses- I see it says:


Now Appearing
One Night Only

GEORGE LUCAS

George Lucas? I'm thinking. I love that guy!

I shoulda bought a pair of these years ago.


***

Numerous thrown elbows saves me a lot of time, and soon I'm in the restaurant. It's a classy place: the aroma of French food and soft plinketty-plink music fills the air. The roof is angled panes of immaculately clear glass, and offers a view of the full moon and thousands of stars.

Were I able to see it, it would have been breathtaking.

And all around are other celebrities. In fact -as I was by myself- I couldn't have my own table: the waiter made me sit with Chevy Chase and Beverly D'Angelo. Even the guy bussing the tables was famous. I couldn't think of his name, but he had been in countless martial arts movies. You know, the guy with the Fu Manchu mustache?

I wasn't very hungry, but the waiter wouldn't let me stay if I didn't order. So I ordered baked Alaska, country fried steak, four pork chops, lobster tails, chicken fingers, waffles with extra powdered sugar and a diet Coke. And when the food came, I eyed Beverly warily as I set my $300 glasses precariously on the far edge of the table.

I had barely started my second pork chop before I realized that George Lucas was sitting right next to us.

"George!" I exclaim, running over. "I loved 'The Empire Strikes Back'!"

"¿Qué?" he smiles politely.

"Oh, it was great," I says. "That movie had everything. Giant metal dogs 'an spaceships." I point my fingers like guns at him, "Pew! Pew-Pew! How did you get away with filming a brother 'an sister making out without the Catholics comin down on you?"

"Perdón; Con permiso -"

"I never knew you were Hispanic."

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see Fu Manchu bussing my table. "Hey!" I says. "I'm not done!"

Fu glares. "Sir, there are other customers waiting. We need this seat."

"I'm not done!" I repeat.

Fu bows slightly, and I return my attention to George. "You know, you should lay off with the whole 'Star Wars' thing for a while. The new stuff is crap. You're totally wrecking it for the rest of us."

"Señor-"

"Yes. In fact, I've got just the project for you." Flipping a script out of my jacket pocket, I flop it right on his Crepes Suzette. And making inverted twin "L"s with my fingers, I stare upwardly through them. "It's called 'LOBO: The Motion Picture'. Hey, why are you sitting by yourself? Can I join you?"

"¿Comprende usted?," he says.

I hear the sound of glass and silverwear, and realize Fu is scooping my food into a grey plastic tub!

I return to my table, furious. "Goddamnit Beverly! Why didn't you say something?"

"Hey buddy," demands Chevy. "I think it's time for you to go." Standing abruptly, he bumps the table and my $300 glasses fall to the floor.

Without missing a beat, Fu's heel lands squarely on them with a sickening crunch.

"You BASTARD!" I wail. "Those were $300!"

"Please come again," says Fu, disinterestedly heading for the bar.

"I want to talk to the manager!" I command. Glancing at the next table, I see Jim Carrey.

"Jim!" I says. "Did you see that?"

"What?" says Jim, confused.

"That dude just trashed my glasses!" I scoop the pieces off of the floor. "These damn things were $300!"

"I'm sorry," says Jim, squirming slightly.

"Do you know who runs this place?"

Jim points cautiously at a blond guy at the bar.

"Thanks," I says, grabbing my plastic bag. "By the way, you were freakin' awesome in The Shawshank Redemption."

Jim just kind of gives me a weird smile.

Man, what the hell is wrong with these people?

I go over to the bar, and the blonde guy is Nick Nolte.

I love Nick Nolte!

"Nick!" I says excited. "'48 Hours' was the best movie I've ever seen!"

Nick shakes my hand nervously. "Well, I liked 48 Hours too. But I'm-"

"Man, your hands are soft," I observe. "What was it like working with Eddie Murphy?" But there's something else odd about Nick. Examining his sunburned forehead, I see the top half is a pasty fish white. "Is that a toupee?"

"No. I fell asleep in the beach with a cap on."

"Oh c'mon. What are you now, like, 60? Nobody's got long blonde hair when they're 60."

"Can I help you?"

Fu, washing glasses in the sink, nods at me indifferently. "This man say I broke his glasses."

"You totally did break my glasses, you jerk!"

Nick just kind of blinks at me.

Reaching into my Lenscrafters bag, I pull out the receipt. "I just got them today. They were $300!"

Nick blinks again.

"One or both of you should pay for them," I implore. "Plus maybe something extra for psychological trauma ... like maybe I eat here for free for life or something."

Nick stares at me for a long moment. "Well," he says finally. "If you didn't have your glasses on, how do you know he broke them?"

"Damn you and your infallible logic!" I scream. Then, seizing Nick's toupee, I dive through the crowd for the fire escape.


***

I sat up, sweaty and out of breath.

"What's the matter baby?" says Terri sleepily.

"I just had the craziest nightmare!"

"That's strange," she says, hugging me. "So did I. I dreamed we were riding on a roller coaster, and a tornado was tearing up the place."

"Wow," I concede. "That is weird."

The Artichoke Debacle

Predator Press

[LOBO]

On February 20, 2007 LadyTerri and I screened Danger Couch and the Tinsel of Doom.

A review seemed appropriate.

Unfortunately, the household was wracked with Strep and flu, and this brought Predator Press screaming to a temporary halt.

Very unfortunate.

There was much to write about.

This was the day that Don Lewis had bestowed upon us the Quality Original Humor Award. The 'regular' news was fantastic blog fodder as well ... it was the day before the US Navy would miss the spy satellite they were trying to shoot down and accidentally 'liberated' the head off of the Statue of Liberty.

Did the following Navy cover-up get mentioned in your much-lauded "Wall Street Journal"? No. And CNN and MSNBC ran with our glaring absence, writing puff-pieces on John McCain and wars and stuff.

Those other so-called "news" sources are so completely devoid of any credibility, at first I was suspicious that the Navy wasn't trying to shoot down my spy satellite! Luckily, my spy satellite is busy in another hemisphere spying on Brent's satellite, which is busy spying on-

-Hey, wait a minute. Do I really look that fat on camera?

Why all this redundant criss-crossing double super secret agent stuff? Because Brent is just that evil. He steals my ideas before I even have them!

While a lot of you think Danger Couch and the Tinsel of Doom was his idea, you're utterly mistaken: this is a common misconception as he wrote, directed, appeared in, filmed and promoted it.

Therefore I forgive many of you: it's easy to not associate me with work I didn't write, direct, appear in, film or promote. You would think that I would've learned my lesson with that whole 'Citizen Kane' debacle ... but I don't not do it for the glory or the money; I don't do it because I love art.

And how do we really know I didn't write, direct, appear in, film or promote Danger Couch and the Tinsel of Doom? With my attention span, for all I know I did. Couldn't he have CGI-ed over all my appearances? Copied my music? Replicated my Oscar-worthy performances? Despite LadyTerri's assurances to the contrary, I'm not convinced: I find it difficult to believe that I wasn't involved in such a fun, raucous ride of comedy and music. I loved it, LadyTerri loved it, the kids loved it. It's brilliant. Clearly this has all the earmarks of my own work!

Perhaps the most dastardly move of all is that Brent is undercutting my suggested retail price of $8,406 per copy. I calculated this out on excruciatingly long Excel spreadsheets, and this had me barely breaking even after materials, postage, copyright infringement lawsuits, and the mandatory Spy Satellite Tax. But he is selling the same DVD for $15!!!. Can you believe that jerk? The madman is obviously operating at a staggering loss, hoping to strike a blow to the vast Predator Press empire.

The choice is clear: every copy you by from me means a triumph for Humankind ... every copy you buy from him only further drains his coffers.

Come to think of it, screw humankind. Stick it to Brent. Buy numerous copies, and give them away for belated Inappropriate Card Day gifts in defiance.

Meanwhile, I'm working on a sequel to Tinsel. It's called Rise of the Futon.

And it better be good, or I'll totally kill Brent.

Pandemic

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well everyone is sick with Strep, and my hot proofreader LadyTerri is out cold. Please forgive me for the numerous grammatical errors that are doubtlessly unfolding before you: I'll fix them as I find them.

But there appears to be a strange confluence of new people reading this blog.

What they are up to, I'm not sure.

But I'm watching them too.

Oh yes.

I can almost feel those hungry lustful eyes: It's almost like my junior high school P.E. teacher in the shower all over again, but without that chlorine, latex and Old Spice smell.

At least in part, I blame one of my fave writer-slash-bloggers Don Lewis who hath recently bestowed upon us the universally-coveted Quality Original Humor Award.

Where and why Don got the idea this blog is humorous when I strive for nothing more than cold, clinical historical accuracy and fact completely escapes me. But step off: it's MINE ... Keep yer grabby mouse mitts where I can see 'em, pal.

Especially if you're my junior high school P.E. teacher.

... that old 'snowcone' bit won't work this time.


***

Don's site has been one of my faves for quite some time. I think it's disarmingly charming, concealing edgy barbed hooks that sneak deeply into your skin until it's too late to withdraw. He has a kind of subtlety and cool I could only dream of mastering with my crude abilities, and this is augmented nicely by hilarious and meticulously-crafted images that I am far too lazy to tackle myself.

'It's a Funny Thing' is a multi-faceted class act all the way, and well deserving of the Predator Press Lifetime Achievement Award. But unfortunately I would have to design the Predator Press Lifetime Achievement Award, and I am almost certain I've previously mentioned the whole 'lazy' thing. Besides ... Lord Likely has been awarding giant golden "PP"s for quite some time already.

To Don Lewis -the only man who has made me cry since I was 14- I award the Predator Press Temporary Lifetime Achievement Award aka the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

-Because my ego is now so huge, all the sick people hadda move out.

The Ominous Comma Code CRACKED!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It was on the tenth day of starin' up at the Serta -just as I was about to tear off the tag and incur the wrath of the mighty Diesel- when I had an epiphany: This isn't the first instance of the sinister Ominous Comma weaving his depraved will into the fabric of history.

I started to see a pattern.

Oh yes Brent.

I'm onto you.


***

I'll begin with the Bermuda Triangle. Oh, sure ... at first glance, it seems like a harmless geometric span of ocean that gobbles up ships and planes without a trace. But "Comma" starts with a "C", the third letter of the alphabet.

And how many sides does a triangle have?

Coincidence?

Hardly.

Where were you Brent? And what have you done with Flight 19?

Then there is the Loch Ness Monster. I'm not 100% on the connection here, but it's hard to ignore the inescapable resemblance to the curved comma shape: it is my contention that it is actually a disguised submarine that Brent pilots to devour unsuspecting loch swimmers in order to feed his insatiable lust for harvesting souls. Or maybe just peek at skinnydippers. I don't know for sure. But I am not here to draw conclusions ... I am only here to present hard evidence and facts.

You readers must decide for yourself.

Brent's attempts to subvert our fine American Liberty are not limited to this continent, either.

I've found numerous flights to Nepal that synch up nicely to reports of Yeti sightings, and he could have been on any one of them.

I’ve narrowed it down to 687 potential flights, all of which may have lost his luggage, thereby leaving him without pants and/or his attaché of shaving gear.

Where were you then Brent?

Hm?

The Ominous Comment

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Woe to thee, Brent.

For trapped here under the bed for 9 days now, I have not been idle ... I've been plotting and planning my revenge!

It was sheer good fortune that I found this single crayola, with which I've designed a mighty robot specifically to counter attack -and utterly decimate- your puny Ominous Comma Tambourine Army!

See how it squishes your tanks? Hm? Even your helicopters fall helplessly to the righteous fire of its mighty .1,000,000 caliber machine guns that shoot from its eyes!

While other bloggers might graciously accept your unconditional surrender, I am a very petty individual devoid of any class whatsoever: your long reign will be punctuated (clever, eh?) by the screams of you and your followers, and Predator Press shall rise to it's rightful place in the annals of destiny!

I really did like the Danger Couch! DVD though.

... Is there any chance I can get it autographed?

Predator Press and the Dust Bunnies of Doom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sorry it's been so long since I've posted.

-It's hard to blog from under the bed.

"What are you doing?" says LadyTerri.

"Shhh!" I says. "Or HE will hear."

"Who will hear?"

"The Sinister Semicolon! The Executioner of Exclamations! The Apoplectic Apostrophe!"

"Who?"

"The Ominous Comma has declared me his nemesis!"

LadyTerri sighs. "You haven't been to work in days."

"Of course not. Sudden and horrible death stalks me at every turn!" Peering out at her ankles, I explain. "That's how it works. First you learn to trust Spellcheck. And then it's all lies upon lies."

"Don't you think you're exaggerating?"

"The evidence is overwhelming," I says.

"Really?"

"Yes," I exclaim, struggling to turn over under the box spring. "Remember how the toast burned Friday morning?"

"Yeah," she says.

"Brent," I reply. "And you know how the DVR cutoff the last 15 minutes of American Chopper?"

"Yes-"

"That was Brent too. And what about the neighbor's garden gnomes?"

"That was you. It's in the police report."

"Oh sure. Take his side!" I accuse. "Is that any way to treat the man who found the remote control and your missing tennis shoe?"

"Look," she says. "If you come out, I'll make you some new toast-"

"How dare you use a comma in this house!? Just listen to you. Your dialogues are absolutely littered with punctuation!"

"How did you get the monitor under there?"

"I slid it behind the headboard."

Beware, Creants!

Predator Press

[The Shart]

As metropolitan Pianosa slumbers peacefully, I prowl the shadows in a sexy tight-fitting rubber suit, doling out evil and injustice that cannot be smoten!

Wherever there is truth or justice I'll be there -shuffling up paperwork and casting serious doubt upon its credit rating.

Tremble ye before my awesome powers of cunning and skill! Witness the full culmination of my long-sought revenge!

(Well actually you have all been pretty nice. Lets call this 'prevenge'.)

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

-for I am The Shart.