Smashing Success

Predator Press

[LOBO]

If George can pardon a scooter, I'm issuing a pardon for Stretch Armstrong.

See, George and I have a lot of unanswered, tawdry aggression to get out. The much-sought-after Mortal Kombat "Fatality" and the collective, visceral dream of ripping someone's spleen out and strangling them with it was still years away, and mitigated only by unceremoniously bursting your 50,000th marauding Galaxian; saving six months of paper route money might get us a six-pixel seizure machine to exterminate entire alien species' on an Atari 2600 from the comfort of your own home.

But for the most part, all we had was either scooters, or "Stretch Armstrong".

George has long since exceded the "Spleen Dream" by simple virtue of not issuing Pardons, and many a tearful, guilty Texan jaywalker has ridden the lightning into oblivion over his admirable tenacity; thus, no one was more suprised than I when George finally had a merciful change of heart today.

But while a scooter was only cool if you could find Christian Slater and tell him to 'Gleam this bitch!' while blowing up a bus; Stretch was cool all the way until you let your dates brothers tie him between two car bumpers and peel out in opposite directions. Remember silently feeling a part of your soul cry out and die?

There was, after all, a more "dignified" fate for Stretch: puncturing him with a pen and leaving him to quietly bleed that weird, sticky and toxic blue gel over the rest of your toys until your mom discovered the ruined carpeting and kicked your ass.

But we are not here to judge your mothers' ability to roller-skate and serve people through the window of parked vehicles! It was a simpler time. Adults used to meet in The Diner, and secretly plot whose kids to buy a Stretch Armstrong for Christmas. (A 'Stretch Armstrong for Christmas' --for those of you that didn't know-- was a 6 month plan to make the whole damn family move because of an unidentified mysterious chemical HAZMAT spill in the closet, with tiny melting plastic red briefs stuck in it to explain away.)

Rise Stretch Armstrong! You are no longer the inanimate subject of our insufferable, unmerciful, unholy wrath.

You are forgiven.

Predator Press versus NASCAR

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You know, I really love July.

First of all, Ethan and my birthdays are both in July. Hundreds of people in millions of countries are preparing to celebrate them even as we speak. In a few days, even America will break out in spontaneous fireworks displays, commemorating their joyous adoration.

Ethan and I decided that these drunken people with explosive and incendiary devices blowing their fingers off in our honor deserved some kind of tribute; some way of saying "thanks", and saying it in a way they would appreciate.

So we sponsored a car in NASCAR.

Within six hours, our crack team of Predator Press scienticians came up with a sleek new design:

The Stingray

"So you're driving it, right?" asks Ethan.

"Hell no," I says. "I'm going to be cutting out the labels on these potato chips so we can stick them on the car. We're gonna need to sue somebody."

"Well, we need a driver."

"And one that's not weighed down bein' all muscular like we are. We need somebody light."

"There's always midgets," says Ethan hopefully.

"Hey!" I says in epiphany. "They got midgets at that Elementary School. That place is crawling with the tiny little bastards."


***

Man, midgets drive like shit.



During the qualifying lap, a cow walked across the track. And rather than using the assault rifle we provided, this guy swerved right into a tree. NASCAR would later claim this was due to "bad brakes, and subsequent catastrophic wheel failure" or whatever.

Fucking pansies.




* No childeren were harmed in the photography of this story. We used a "stand-in".

... That guy probably got hurt in the actual crash.

LOBO PHOTOGRAPHED

Predator Press

[Ethan]

Personally, I always thought he was black ...
but couldn't those actually be Brad Pitt's legs?

In any case, this pic is going on eBay tonight.

White House Refuses to Answer Subpoenas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I saw that headline on CNN.com, I thought, 'Wow, you can just refuse to answer them?' Too bad Paris Hilton didn't know that a month ago. And just wait until Babs finds out!

As Supreme Chancellor of the tiny country of LOBOnia -the border being a 10-foot mobile radius around myself- this has little effect on me; we seceded from the nation months ago. But this is fantastic news for you, 'o Loyal Reader!

Cast away those piles of nuisance parking and speeding tickets, as the reign of oppression is no more. I would still recommend a non-confrontational attitude if you're ever pulled over by the police, as they might not yet be aware that they have no authority whatsoever.

The fact that they were living a lie all this time might be somewhat traumatic. Be supportive. Offer him or her one the refreshing beers icing in the passenger seat, and maybe a soothing hit off of your bong; revelations like this are seldom pleasant, and a kind, humanitarian gesture like that might make all the difference in the world.

Above all, be gracious in your moment of moral victory. Remember, this poor slob is now dejected, unemployed, on drugs and alcohol, and still has a shit-ton of weapons for which to "tune you up".

--just like in the Good 'Ole Days.

Was Paris Hilton Really Released?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Here is a photo of Paris before prison:




But here is a photo of Paris being released from prison today:




Now while the resemblance is incredible, you might notice that "post-prison Paris" has more delicate, effeminate and attractive features than the original --a mistake commonly made during makeshift prison plastic surgeries.

Scienticians from the Predator Press Research Laboratory have taken tiny microscopic measurements over areas such as the forehead slope, bust size, chin length, et cetera, and have come back with a startling conclusion:


Clearly, what we have here is an imposter.

Was this a mystery person that spent three weeks doing "hard time" for our beloved princess? Or part of an elaborate prison escape?

Hm?

Exclusive: Tank Johnson Linked to Jessie Davis Murder

Predator Press

Bobbie Cutts Jr., suspect in the double murder of Jessie Davis and her unborn child, may not have acted alone.

A preliminary investigation has revealed that Cutts had a personal relationship with the troubled Bears player Tank Johnson.


"The association is as chilling as it is clear," states world-renown documentarian Oliver Stone. "Cutts had a dry cleaner who cleaned the suit of a college roommate of a guy that once had lunch with an Aflac saleswoman who bought a used car from a guy whose brother once fueled it in a gas station less than thirty feet from a mailbox --a mailbox conveniently used to send written correspondence all over the United States, including but not limited to Bobbie Cutts Jr himself. The implications are staggering."

Stone continues on to allege that Cutts had watched numerous Bears games on television --many that included “Tank” personally—most likely looking for visual cues and instructions. In his interview with “Son of Sam” slayer David Berkowitz, Berkowitz surmised that “[Cutts] probably felt the neighbor’s barking dog was annoying and often unreliable, and turned to professional football like any other guy that wants to kill his wife”.

The neighbor’s barking dog and Adam "Pacman" Jones, while wanted for questioning, have not yet been formerly charged with any involvement.

NBC, Predator Press Vie for Post-Prison Paris

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Our initial offer was some 2-for-1 Whopper coupons, and one for $4 off for an oil change at Meineke.

But then NBC edged us out by offering an additional $999,992.00 in cash.

So I call Brian Williams, right? I says "Brian, Buddy. What are you doing?"

And Brian says, "We're going to scoop you on this one LOBO. I've secretly always wanted to have a larger, more popular news organization than Predator Press."

"As Paris' oldest and staunchest supporters and fans," I reply, "we're still counting on her coming through for us instead. And NBC has a lot of potential; don't jeopardize your credibility over some petty jealousy."

"Screw you LOBO," says Brian. "We're getting this story."

"Screw me!?" I says. "I'll wedgie you up to your ears, you jerk!"

"Yeah," says David. "You and what army, you stinky-faced poo-poo head?"

"I know you are but what am I?" I retort cleverly.

"I'm rubber and you're glue-"

"I know you are but what am I?" I maintain relentlessly. Then, sticking fingers in both ears, I sing "Lalalalala" for like five minutes.

At some point, he hung up on me.

Real mature, Brian.

Real mature.