Amazing Football Prediction From Jesus!!!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As usual, Jesus picks one hell of a day to come down and tell me to not take my Lithium and bet everything I own on a sports event ... you would think he would know by now to call first. I was sitting at home kicking ass on Grand Theft Auto, and here comes the Son of God barging in again, wrecking up my lazy Sunday (Fourth Commandment, aka God's Will, I might add) with another stupid "prophecy".

Well, here it is:

THE BEARS ARE UNSTOPPABLE.

COWER, PUNY FLORIDIANS, AS YOUR PUNY FOOTBALL
TEAM IS CRUSHED IN THE WAKE OF THE BEARS
JUGGERNAUT 104-0, AND SENT HOME TO THE PUNY
EVERGLADES IN SHAMEFUL, PUNY DISGRACE.

JESUS HATES FLORIDA
(How is the weather down there?)

The Joy of Travel

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I like to travel.

Well, except for the packing part. And the act of physically going from point to point. And the sleeping in strange places, on things who knows what has happened on. And the forgetting stuff, and having to use available stuff recently used by puss-oozing, sneezy people who --currently nowhere to be found-- left yet another layer of crawling and voracious creepy organisms to intermingle with the already-dominant seething biological cesspool of thousands of other forgetful travelers: a veritable greenhouse of self-perpetuating aggressive microscopic deadly and carnivorous forgetful and stupid DNA, feasting on your flesh and brains and making you itchy until you buy an irresponsible amount of scratch-off lottery tickets. And then missing the stuff that was too big or otherwise impractical to bring. And the timetables and schedules. And the geographic disorientation, and sleep depravation. And being away from your friends, surrounded by shifty-looking, mistrustful strangers with big mutton chop sideburns and a top hat, twirling their handlebar mustaches. And the unpacking.

Aside from all that, I love to travel.

The first time I ever flew, Ethan pinned a note to my sweater that said:

I am traveling alone
for the first time.
Please be nice to me.
He arranged to get me a tour of the cockpit, as long as I promised not to touch anything.

The stewardesses brought me airplane pins and coloring books, and fawned and fussed over me ('cept I'm not supposed to call them "stewardesses" anymore for some reason, so now I call them "those hot bitches that bring me peanuts"). Still, at twenty-six, I was completely jazzed about air travel; they had made quite an impression.

See, airline companies seemed to recognize the value of getting an impressionable youth enthusiastic about flying, in hopes of gaining a lifelong customer.

Now the only company that does that is Phillip Morris.

God bless Big Tobacco.

[*sigh*]

You People Are Being Jerks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You people are really being tough on Babs; she is the light of my life ... my oxygen. One day I hope to bear her children.

So lay off.

Why, just yesterday she made one of my lifelong dreams come true: she bought me a basketball court-sized recording studio, and hired those guys from Metallica to help me record my album.

And when they showed up for the sound check, I made those jerks play dodgeball for six hours.

When Squirrels Attack

Predator Press
[COBE]

LOBO's insured, certified, signature only, earliest-possible delivery Fed-Ex lie unopened under my ashtray, sticky from soaking up Santa's blood.

Santa had certainly seen better days.

The years of steroid abuse alone would have been difficult for to me to correct. But Santa had two compound fractures that would never heal properly, and one was riddled with gangrene. Several digits and one eye had been lost to carrion-scavenging animals. Mad in his agony, Kringle frothed and spat, straining against the table restraints.

I take a shot of Wild Turkey, and then pour some on his dry lips. "The shotgun blast, it turned out, was the least of the problems, my old friend," I explained through the surgical mask as I resumed pulling the dark stitches through his thick, muscular neck. "You were grazed for the most part. You're a very lucky man. Sapphire has rarely been known to miss before."

"Ho ho ho," Santa wheezed weakly through broken, bloodied teeth.

And then he fell asleep.

Happy Yule Whatever

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Dear Santa,

I just heard you are still alive. Wow! They just don't make shotgun blasts and cliffs like they used to, eh?

Well, I just wanted you to know I've been a very, very good boy again despite these many years of neglect.

The following is a list of things that might be a great gift for, um, my nephew:

Aircraft Carrier
Weapons Grade Plutonium
Charlize Theron's non-restaining order protected Phone Number
Zombie Armor

Get Well Soon and hanks!

LOBO

Incoming Wounded

Predator Press

[COBE]

Last month was boring; I spent the whole thing sifting through the blasted concrete of Hawley Enterprises' former parking lot; always, more parts.

Always more parts.

Santa, on the contrary, starving and bloody, askew on the jagged rocks, had been driven insane by two weeks of insufferable agony. He was easy prey.

Always more parts.

Office Lunch Theft

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Due to the graphic nature of this post, I'm going to try and bury it; way under the "current", and well beneath the feeds.

This is solely for the people web-browsing that actually need this advice.

It is regarding office theft. In particular, the theft of people's lunches. I regard this as one of the lowest crimes you can commit against hard-working, honest people.

Now I understand that if you're hungry, you're hungry. Given enough time, you will take food if necessary, irregardless of the moral dilemma.

But I'm not talking about these people. I'm talking about the fuck that just doesn't bother to pack one for themselves. Does it every day as some kind of indirect 'payback' to the company. Does it because they feel 'entitled' to it.

That's the human locust I want.

Once alerted to this scum, Predator Press policy is clear: I'm to buy 99-cent hamburgers, burritos or tacos, and leave them in the refrigerator with well-concealed used condoms buried deeply in the center. Not obvious and on the edges or on top -our Charter is very explicit: "buried deeply in the center".

The nefarious 'activity' tends to stop rather abruptly.