Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, I have harshly criticized Blogger “The Butcher” Beta, so’s I guess I should mention a rather cool feature I’ve found. No one was more surprised than I; usually when I activate one of these mysterious unknown features, vipers pour out of my cd-rom drive, or huge spinning drills fly out of my monitor and drive themselves past my retinas and deeply into my brain.
You may have noticed lately that I have been “labeling”; these are those little eyesore tags under every post that I can’t seem to hide. But these little tags have enabled me to begin an alphabetize a navigation tool in the Site Guide of past historic and brilliant Predator Press posts related to the subject in question.
It's going slow, and I'm working backwards; with hundreds of posts, it will likely take months. But this will be an amazing aid to people new to the blog --as well as an academic researching organizer in the future, when scientists and archeologists are studying my heroic efforts to keep you people from freaking out and becoming mindslaves to such evils as Rush Limbaugh, Fran Tarkenton, and Ashley Olsen.
Mary-Kate is cool, but Ashley?
Pure Evil.
Saturday
Thursday
A Patriot Act
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I really appreciate you coming out Mister President," I says, climbing into the limousine.
"What?" calls Bush in the distance. "I can't hear you."
"Where are you sir?" I call into the palatial interior.
"By the pinball machines!"
Homing in on his voice, I find him excitedly contorting over a game of Super Faulken Ball.
"One more Island, and I'll control Argentina and Czechoslovakia -the gateway country to Australia!"
"Wow," I says. "That's really cool. And educational."
Just then, the game let out a low falling tone and all the lights went out --except for a bright flashing 'PAPAL SANCTIONS' marquee.
"Damn!" Bush growls. "I 'tilted' it."
"When did you put in the pool?"
Bush brightens. "There's a pool?"
"Yeah. Right next to the pizza oven."
"Wow. That's really cool."
"This thing must be hell on gas."
Bush winks, and puts a finger to his lips. "Hydrogen. Had it since 1989. Want a gelato?"
"No thanks."
Bush sighs and steps back to size me up. "You look terrible."
"So when you wrap up this whole 'Presidential' thing, I take it you'll be giving self-esteem seminars?"
"Sorry buddy," he guffaws. "When I was told you were feeling a little down, I flew directly in. Those meetings with Krin Kan Chung or whoever are all redunderances anyway." He presses a button on the wall. "Kristanna?"
"Yes sir?" says a sultry voice.
"Could you bring me a gelato?"
I nudge him sheepishly, holding up two fingers.
He grins. "Make that two gelati."
"Thank God for you selfless and caring Republicans," I sigh. "This whole world would go straight to hell without the deeply-seeded compassionate nature of your party as a whole."
"Anytime. So what's bothering you?"
"Did you know that other people are blogging now?"
"I have seen some Intel that suggests that. You want 'em killed or something?"
I think for a moment. "Nah." Eyebrows furrowed, I scratch my chin for a second. "Well--," I start ... but then I shake my head. "Nah," I repeat emphatically. "It's mostly people that drive SUVs bitching about gas prices, American Idol prattle, and stuff about Iraq."
"God. People are still talking about that?" Bush rolls his eyes. "Let it go already."
"I found like five or six web sites that made virtually no mention of me whatsoever."
"Really?" says Bush. "I wish I had your problems."
"No you don't," I says. "The entire concept of the blog has been tainted with the idea that people are to foist their own self-indulgent crap upon the world ... the very essence of blogging is at stake here!"
"I'm sure you are exaggerating. Five or six already? How many web pages are there altogether?"
"Lots," I says. "Three, four hundred. Maybe more. In fact, it turns out that new web pages not about me could be getting made every day."
"It's a goddamn bastardization," says Bush.
"Tell me about it," I cry. "Now, good media is getting drowned out by MSN, CNN, or any other weirdo nut job with a PC!"
"You could become a Republican and fix that problem," says Bush flatly.
"Really?" I says, brushing away a tear. "I'm really sick of being treated like a crackpot by mainstream media while I'm trying to warn them of the activities of the Zombie Aliens. I want to stand back while the Zombie Aliens eat the brains of people reading the Wall Street Journal so I can point and laugh at them for a change," I says. "Just like Moses did. Then those jerks would be sorry."
"How would you like Predator Press to be the only web page on the internets?"
"Imagine the porn!" I says.
"No. See, the Religious Right would take issue with that."
"Screw them," I says.
"The Religious Right are Republicans."
"So get rid of them. If you get rid of them, I'm in."
"Republicans and Democrats are composed of groups of individuals affiliated for greater voting power, dumbass." He pauses for effect. "This is a Democracy."
Suddenly, we're rolling on the ground, laughing.
"Oh man," I says, trying to stop. "I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up."
"It's the very least I can do," says Bush. "The very fate of the nation hangs on the state of your emotional well-being."
"Yeah, I know," I says apologetically.
"Look," says Bush. "Just stay the course. Always tell people the truth, no matter how much you have to endure. And I'll bet for a while they will hate you for it. But they will come back to you in the end."
"Your gelatos gentlemen," says a stunningly hot, naked woman with a serving tray.
"Is that Kristanna Loken?" I says astonished.
"Heh, oh heck no," laughs Bush. "The real Kristanna Loken is a sweet girl, but she can't make a gelato for shit."
[LOBO]
"I really appreciate you coming out Mister President," I says, climbing into the limousine.
"What?" calls Bush in the distance. "I can't hear you."
"Where are you sir?" I call into the palatial interior.
"By the pinball machines!"
Homing in on his voice, I find him excitedly contorting over a game of Super Faulken Ball.
"One more Island, and I'll control Argentina and Czechoslovakia -the gateway country to Australia!"
"Wow," I says. "That's really cool. And educational."
Just then, the game let out a low falling tone and all the lights went out --except for a bright flashing 'PAPAL SANCTIONS' marquee.
"Damn!" Bush growls. "I 'tilted' it."
"When did you put in the pool?"
Bush brightens. "There's a pool?"
"Yeah. Right next to the pizza oven."
"Wow. That's really cool."
"This thing must be hell on gas."
Bush winks, and puts a finger to his lips. "Hydrogen. Had it since 1989. Want a gelato?"
"No thanks."
Bush sighs and steps back to size me up. "You look terrible."
"So when you wrap up this whole 'Presidential' thing, I take it you'll be giving self-esteem seminars?"
"Sorry buddy," he guffaws. "When I was told you were feeling a little down, I flew directly in. Those meetings with Krin Kan Chung or whoever are all redunderances anyway." He presses a button on the wall. "Kristanna?"
"Yes sir?" says a sultry voice.
"Could you bring me a gelato?"
I nudge him sheepishly, holding up two fingers.
He grins. "Make that two gelati."
"Thank God for you selfless and caring Republicans," I sigh. "This whole world would go straight to hell without the deeply-seeded compassionate nature of your party as a whole."
"Anytime. So what's bothering you?"
"Did you know that other people are blogging now?"
"I have seen some Intel that suggests that. You want 'em killed or something?"
I think for a moment. "Nah." Eyebrows furrowed, I scratch my chin for a second. "Well--," I start ... but then I shake my head. "Nah," I repeat emphatically. "It's mostly people that drive SUVs bitching about gas prices, American Idol prattle, and stuff about Iraq."
"God. People are still talking about that?" Bush rolls his eyes. "Let it go already."
"I found like five or six web sites that made virtually no mention of me whatsoever."
"Really?" says Bush. "I wish I had your problems."
"No you don't," I says. "The entire concept of the blog has been tainted with the idea that people are to foist their own self-indulgent crap upon the world ... the very essence of blogging is at stake here!"
"I'm sure you are exaggerating. Five or six already? How many web pages are there altogether?"
"Lots," I says. "Three, four hundred. Maybe more. In fact, it turns out that new web pages not about me could be getting made every day."
"It's a goddamn bastardization," says Bush.
"Tell me about it," I cry. "Now, good media is getting drowned out by MSN, CNN, or any other weirdo nut job with a PC!"
"You could become a Republican and fix that problem," says Bush flatly.
"Really?" I says, brushing away a tear. "I'm really sick of being treated like a crackpot by mainstream media while I'm trying to warn them of the activities of the Zombie Aliens. I want to stand back while the Zombie Aliens eat the brains of people reading the Wall Street Journal so I can point and laugh at them for a change," I says. "Just like Moses did. Then those jerks would be sorry."
"How would you like Predator Press to be the only web page on the internets?"
"Imagine the porn!" I says.
"No. See, the Religious Right would take issue with that."
"Screw them," I says.
"The Religious Right are Republicans."
"So get rid of them. If you get rid of them, I'm in."
"Republicans and Democrats are composed of groups of individuals affiliated for greater voting power, dumbass." He pauses for effect. "This is a Democracy."
Suddenly, we're rolling on the ground, laughing.
"Oh man," I says, trying to stop. "I'm so glad you came along to cheer me up."
"It's the very least I can do," says Bush. "The very fate of the nation hangs on the state of your emotional well-being."
"Yeah, I know," I says apologetically.
"Look," says Bush. "Just stay the course. Always tell people the truth, no matter how much you have to endure. And I'll bet for a while they will hate you for it. But they will come back to you in the end."
"Your gelatos gentlemen," says a stunningly hot, naked woman with a serving tray.
"Is that Kristanna Loken?" I says astonished.
"Heh, oh heck no," laughs Bush. "The real Kristanna Loken is a sweet girl, but she can't make a gelato for shit."
Van Roth
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Honestly?
I think they all suck now except Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar.
You couldn't get together once for your fans?
Or even history?
I'll let my wallet do my talking. ("What's that little Wallety? Van Roth should fuck off you say?")
[LOBO]
Honestly?
I think they all suck now except Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar.
You couldn't get together once for your fans?
Or even history?
I'll let my wallet do my talking. ("What's that little Wallety? Van Roth should fuck off you say?")
Tuesday
Show Me Where it Hurts
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Going to work today was rather surreal; rather than facing biting cold and gunmetal gray skies, I was awash in a light 70-degree breeze and sunshine.
Sunshine.
Now, I’ve gone three months without “Cabin Fever” or “Seasonal Effective Disorder” or whatever –and for a guy riddled with weird phobias and neuroses, that’s pretty damn good—but today I was a little overwhelmed by it all.
I was suddenly made aware of how sick I am of winter.
The fact that I did not put the words ’this year’ anywhere in that sentence is not an accident.
A great deal of the day was spent sort of playfully daydreaming about the logistics of just 'packing it in' and going West. In fact, my helplessness against this strange preoccupation only further distressed me; this isn’t really about the weather at all, is it? I’ve been here for seven of winters in a row, and this one was certainly among the milder.
What is impelling me to consider leaving someplace I’ve been pretty damn happy for so long? What soured this earth? Is it something innate telling me it’s merely time once again for a change in landscape? A ‘sense of adventure’? I love this place, this job, the people; these have been the best years I've ever had.
But everything just seemed so colorless, barren and flat in that sunny, warm luster ...
[LOBO]
Going to work today was rather surreal; rather than facing biting cold and gunmetal gray skies, I was awash in a light 70-degree breeze and sunshine.
Sunshine.
Now, I’ve gone three months without “Cabin Fever” or “Seasonal Effective Disorder” or whatever –and for a guy riddled with weird phobias and neuroses, that’s pretty damn good—but today I was a little overwhelmed by it all.
I was suddenly made aware of how sick I am of winter.
The fact that I did not put the words ’this year’ anywhere in that sentence is not an accident.
A great deal of the day was spent sort of playfully daydreaming about the logistics of just 'packing it in' and going West. In fact, my helplessness against this strange preoccupation only further distressed me; this isn’t really about the weather at all, is it? I’ve been here for seven of winters in a row, and this one was certainly among the milder.
What is impelling me to consider leaving someplace I’ve been pretty damn happy for so long? What soured this earth? Is it something innate telling me it’s merely time once again for a change in landscape? A ‘sense of adventure’? I love this place, this job, the people; these have been the best years I've ever had.
But everything just seemed so colorless, barren and flat in that sunny, warm luster ...
Sunday
POPPER SEIZES ORANGE COUNTY
Predator Press
RAMPANT WILDFIRES PROMPT JOHN POPPER TO MAKE HIS MOVE ON METROPOLITAN LOS ANGELES
Paulie, Mikey and Vinnie reported safe
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