Predator Press
[LOBO]
11 LA cops led on a high speed chase. While apprehended unharmed, the perp was subsequently taken to an LA hospital Emergency Room where she is expected to be dead in about 45 minutes.
The Tour de France opened today. My best guess is that French officials, rattled by Independence Day fireworks, gave a bunch of people distracting bicycles to avoid a miscued surrender.
The White House acknowledged 'Global Warming', as a result of melting ice caps and freon deficit.
Al Gore’s shockingly tubbier offspring sent to rehab. Annoyed Gore Senior --relocated carefully by scientists as not to send Earth into wobbly Vernal orbit-- grounds son 1 week of deserts.
--Wall Street concerned as Krispy Kreme faces Chapter 11.
Dick Cheney's 'Dead Earth' concert proposal met lukewarm support. The ACLU forms committee to investigate "prejudice against non-living", suggests more quail hunting.
After months of bitter court battles regarding an alleged sexual assualt, Kobe Bryant apologizes to Lakers General Manager for some reason.
College student accidentally gets Paris Hilton's old cell phone number: boils self when Hilton's "Fave Five" found to be Motel 6 locations.
President George Bush Junior is grounded from television after not cleaning up 1" = 1" scale model political quagmire toys before going to bed.
Goldman Sachs gets death threats: security guard for investment banking and securities firm woken up and forced to 'patrol menacingly'.
Thursday
Nicole Richie Got LAID?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The Global Scientific Community was rocked today by recent confirmation that Nicole Richie is indeed 'knocked up'.
Doctor Winifred Shaw, Head Researcher for the Darwin Institute, took a moment from looting the laboratory of microscopes and Petri dishes to clarify.
"For a long time now, we have lived in a shadow of doubt regarding Darwin's Theory of Evolution. This, finally, is a clear refutation. And think about it for a second. If Darwin's theory is correct, why are there still ugly people all over the place? What kind of creature looks at a screechy broomstick with a bad attitude and thinks "I simply must thrust my genitalia in that"?
Hurling a fire extinguisher through a rack of cathode tubes, doctor Shaw continues. "Barring the statistically improbable confluence of a blind recent parolee wearing earplugs and consuming heroic amounts of alcohol, we have no explanation for this whatsoever. Now if you will excuse me, I've had my eye on a supercollider on the fourth floor for years."
Monday
Clarkson Album Debut Marred by Terror Attacks
Predator Press
LOBO
In an effort to derail sales of American Idol pop star Kelly Clarkson's album "My December", Al Qaeda spent virtually the entire weekend trying to bomb the crap out of anything it could find in the United Kingdom --the birthplace of Simon Cowell.
Al Qaeda spokesman Osama Bin Laden expressed his fury in messages intercepted and decrypted by Predator Press. “I don’t care if that tawdry Jezebel won on Infidel Pig-Dog Idol or whatever. If I had known "Because of You" would be done in redneck, I would’ve bought Green Day’s “Dookie” instead!"
When asked to elaborate, Osama continued. "Well, I feel ripped off, and a Jihad on Simon Cowell is completely warranted; Sanjaya had more talent in is little pinky than this harlot has in her whole entire immodestly clothed curvaceous body! Ah ... oh jeez. Now I gotta blow something up again. That whore!”
*In Other News*
Predator Press would officially
like to thank Ann Coulter
for temporarily letting us move
our offices into her home.
The location, of course,
will be kept a strict secret.
Click here for MapQuest
LOBO
In an effort to derail sales of American Idol pop star Kelly Clarkson's album "My December", Al Qaeda spent virtually the entire weekend trying to bomb the crap out of anything it could find in the United Kingdom --the birthplace of Simon Cowell.
Al Qaeda spokesman Osama Bin Laden expressed his fury in messages intercepted and decrypted by Predator Press. “I don’t care if that tawdry Jezebel won on Infidel Pig-Dog Idol or whatever. If I had known "Because of You" would be done in redneck, I would’ve bought Green Day’s “Dookie” instead!"
When asked to elaborate, Osama continued. "Well, I feel ripped off, and a Jihad on Simon Cowell is completely warranted; Sanjaya had more talent in is little pinky than this harlot has in her whole entire immodestly clothed curvaceous body! Ah ... oh jeez. Now I gotta blow something up again. That whore!”
like to thank Ann Coulter
for temporarily letting us move
our offices into her home.
The location, of course,
will be kept a strict secret.
Click here for MapQuest
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.
[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.
Sunday
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]
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:
"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.
Thursday
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.
[Ethan]
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.
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