Marshmallow

Predator Press
[LOBO]

Admit it ... the first thing that rang through our little minds was, "Was it a Democrat?"

Look, he's the Vice President of the United States for Chrissake ... aren't even the quail screened by the Secret Service in this kind of situation? Isn't there a Secret Service guy out there with a sniper rifle to take out the quail in case the VP misses?

Predator Press has the exclusive story.

Cheney came to the hunt in the Winter Camouflage Ensemble, sporting all the accessories from the M-16 all the way down to the sparkly Nucular [sic] Football.

Whittington showed up wearing the same outfit.

Words were exchanged, pine cones were thrown.

"Boom!" Harry cried. "Pine cones are grenades!"

Cheney balked. "Not until you tag the grill! You are out of bounds until you tag the grill!"

Alarmed into action by the use of grills and pine cone grenades, the quail sprung a retreat which prompted the secret service into action: gunfire inevitably erupted followed by surface-to-air missile launching which accidentally took out the Predator Press News Chopper [That's my story to the insurance company, and I'm sticking to it].

When we arrived on the scene the bus driver refused to continue on and gave us a hard time about giving us transfers. The forest was already ablaze: a smoky molten mass of hot lead, screaming quail and roasted marshmallows. Whittington reportedly "objected" to all bullets fired, but the Supreme court had already ruled that guns were fun and Whittington was basically a jerk anyways.

Then Tom Delay, covered in bush, camouflage and war paint climbed out of a pool of mud. He had several envelopes stuck on the tip of his bayonet. "Dick!" he cried. "Look! I got two gas bills, pizza coupons, and I think I won the Irish Sweepstakes!"

"I said we were hunting quail you moron," growled Cheney.

Tom, Dick and Harry all declined comment. Well, Harry would, but all we could make out was "OWEEEOWEEEOWEEEEE ...!" The President, however, was jubilant. "When Dick finds out Harry is only suffering from woundification, there's gonna be Hell to pay" Bush chuckled. He then whispered, "I told Cheney that Whittington was on the wiretap case."

Unfortunately, none of this sits well in the quail community; their homeland utterly destroyed. Even more unfortunate is the fact that none of us speaks quail, but we'll imagine what the quails would tell us in our effort to bring you the absolute journalistic Truth of the matter.

"America was our friend," the Quail Leader would squawk. "When they came in they said all they wanted was to crush all those evil deer. And maybe take out a lawyer or two. Now they are gone! Look at what they have done!"

The White House, seeking to choose a military leader with some experience in these sensitive political matters, has deployed a "peacekeeping" force: the entire Twelfth Armored Brigade under the leadership of one Colonel Sanders.

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning," declared the wily Colonel. "Smells like ... extra crispy."

Real Estate for the "Ambition Impaired"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My mom just told me about a couple that retired in Maui and sold their business for 3.2 million dollars.

It's not really the amount of money that shocks me; I've lived in Hawaii and vacationed on Maui. Assuming the shop is in Lahaina, I completely believe the figures.

But what really interests me is where do you go to retire from Lahaina, Maui?

At some point this guy looked at his wife and said "Honey, I'm sick and tired of this fast-paced big city lifestyle. Let's take it easy from here on out and move to [dot dot dot]"

So where the hell do you go from there? Basking in my world-reknown slothful and indolent life, this sounds like my kind of place!

I could be mayor.

I could be king!

[*Whew* I'm getting winded from all this typing.]

Blacktop

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I drove a truck for a while. OTR ... that's where you don't come home but for a few days once a month.

I was stranded --snowbound-- less than 500 yards from my destination. Missed my appointment to unload as the whole town shut down.

I outran that storm for 200 miles. It caught me just as I entered the city.

I slept under twenty-seven inches of snow.

When I woke, the sun shown over a dry desert. The salt that stained my windshield was impossibly gone; I had a crystal-clear view of an immaculate blacktop highway, with bright crisp yellow lines freshly painted.

Confused, I got up and stretched. Scratching, yawning, rubbing my eyes, I walked back down the long hall.

There were doors on the left and right, but at the end of the hall was a bubbling hot tub. It appeared to be in a very large room. Without a conscious thought, I continued on.

As I advance, the center of the room is exposed revealing a magnificent round bed, silvery satin sheets, and a staggeringly beautiful woman nestled tightly twain. Familiar. Responds favorably to touch.

But the look on her face --so peaceful, so sound; soft breaths-- doesn't allow me to disturb her. I walk back to the "cab" of the truck and start off.

Every element of the Arizonian desert converges on the highway, which vanishes far off over the horizon. The light gets redder --like Mars-- and I get these little hallucinations of women. Naked women. The further I go, the more erotic ... left and right I see temptresses.

The sky darkens with every mile ... a hideous blood red, and you can see the waves of heat in the air. Especially over the laboring diesel engine. The tires are melting black ooze into the black highway ...

And I think, "Let's go!"

LOBO the IMMORTAL

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Chest pains and only 35 years old!

Gadz how depressing.

Luckily, I'm far too lazy for an all-out heart attack.

My heart is barely capable of issuing trade tariffs and -at worst- an oxygen embargo which will kill that tiny prick too. Nonetheless my heart remains very passive-aggressive. A sneaky lil bastard. It's been pissed ever since Ethan got that defibulator and started bringing it to my parties.

Chicks dig it, but when my eyebrows start to get singed I make Ethan stop ... I would classify that as a reckless Fire Code violation.

Sure I could rely on doctors and science an all kids of other voodoo hocus-pocus nonsense ... might as well wave a dead chicken over me.

But I have Faith.

[Plus, all I had was a can of Campbell's chicken soup ... this didn't do the trick.]

So I took it straight to The Man Himself.

I faked sneezing all day today, and racked up 104 "Bless You"s. Then, I ate angel food cake 'til the sparks shooting out of the crack under the bathroom door set the carpet on fire.

Now I'm not glowing and remain completely unable to turn anything into alcoholic beverages ... can't heal the poor, pull quarters out of your ear, et cetera. But the people that can do that kind of thing tend to get screwed: historically speaking, we haven't been very nice to them.

Chest pain is gone; I'm quitting here.

The International Star Registry

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Let me get this straight.

For a few bucks, you can name your own star?

Does this mean that in 2090 we are going to be fiercely embroiled in a galactic war against creatures from 'Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX'?

First of all, how would you write catchy graffiti like, "Take that, creatures from Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX!!!" on the bombs? And you know how military spending goes: every single one of those "X"s and "O"s will be like a billion dollars.

Let's leave the naming space stuff to guys like Steve Hawking. One look at the guy, and you know he's a big Dungeon and Dragons head: we'll have cool places to have wars with like The Great Ogre Vortex and The Giant Leech galaxies.

Well, if everyone else is going to get a star, here's the name of mine:

LAST CHANCE FOR GAS. PERIOD.

I like the idea of some lost space jerk desperately looking through some equally spacey Encylopedia Bricktabula for whatever the Hell "GAS" is.

Matt Drudge

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Matt, our self-proclaimed truth-seeking valiant knight of the "Free-Press", has just spent ten minutes assailing the Space Program for collecting comet dust in pursuit of ... uh ... The Truth?

Just when did these frenetic little faux-intellectual ferrets become listened to by the mainstream?

... Oops ... after checking the shows timeslot and ratings, I withdraw the question.

I'm not going to argue that our Space Program funding shouldn't reflect on whatever current state of affairs our country finds itself in --shit all these wars alone probably cost our government like fifty or sixty bucks a month. But giving up the study of Astronomy would be analogous to giving up on Biology.

Further, giving all these mad scientists something to do besides making bigger and better bombs is a good thing. Tell those geeks to put a remote-controlled solid gold life-sized Barbie Corvette on Alpha Centauri ...

... for Science ....

"... 'Fer Almost Losin' Us the Big One ... "?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

What is this obsession we have with suffering, dysfunctional pre-pubescent British kids as represented in the Amer'Kan box office?

First we had Harry Potter(s). Then Lemony Snickers' "A Series of Unfortunate Hollywood Budget Surpluses". Now C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, the Pale Skinny Pissed Broad and the Rainbow" or whatever. Al Pacino would've saved them Narnia Chronicles people a lot of time, just smacking the bejeezus out of the witch with her Turkish Surprise pan.

"Jou are so POLLUTED!"

Roll credits.

Look, even though I detest hearing them butcher our fine Amer'Kan language in these big epic-battle toting Hollywood special effects catalogs, the Brits have given us a LOT: The Sex Pistols. Sean Connery. An intellectual inferiority complex ...

... Oooh! Struck a nerve there, eh? Those pricks sound smarter'n us! So we'll let Hollywood make us up fantasies about 'em getting smashed to bits as kids. It's therapeutic, after all: we can't wage war on 'em with all these brown people still around to have wars with ... now that would be crazy.

Still, I suggest the next new threat to the US should be the Ahmish. [Wait, hear me out!] Just what exactly are these people doing with all that butter? C'mon ... long beard, no mustache; it's not exactly a look that pulls down the ladies in droves. And what the hell kind of maniac would want more than one wife? Jesus, isn't one woman living in a perpetual state of disappointment in you enough?

So you've got these hundred million sexually confused and frustrated Ahmish teenagers lookin' for trouble. Growing mustaches. Next thing you know, they're skipping school and secretly churning margarine. Cutting the good stuff with "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!", and putting it on unsuspecting people's muffins.

People's English muffins.

Following me here?

Yes folks, for the small price of, say, Utah we can once again be the conquerors we were destined to be. The world will be safe from the Weapons of Mass-Margarine, and we can go on clogging the arteries of the world with complete impunity, just as God intended.