Revenge-Seeking Paris Hilton to Record New Album

Predator Press


Paris Hilton, embittered by three weeks in prison, has re-entered the recording studio in order to exact her merciless vengeance upon Humankind.

On the condition of anonymity, a public relations executive from Apple --the iPod designer and manufacturer-- spoke with Predator Press immediately prior to his suicide. "Last week, we were worried about the liability when that kid almost got his head blown off by a lightning strike. Now this. I don't think even rampant iPhone profits will cover all the inevitable destruction and chaos."

Scientists from around the world are expressing agreement that the devastation will take on many forms besides the obvious economic ones. "We've linked last week's earthquake in Japan to the exact time Paris' sound checks were being done," explains noted physicist Stephen Hawking. "You know how a voice can shatter a glass? Well, picture busting God's glass, and spilling red wine all over His cosmic lapels!"

The EPA, distressed by the sudden flight of virtually all wildlife from the west coast, offered little comfort. "Let's put it this way," says Regional Director Alan Fremont. "We're so fucked, even the trees are leaning east."

Reports of mass immolations are pouring in, and human ears and bloody tufts of hair dot the streets between the broken bodies of jumpers. Bracing for shockwaves 'with the catastrophic potential to crack the planet in two', FEMA, the Peace Corps, and the National Guard have been recalled from all over the globe so they may spend their final days on Earth distributing contaminated ice with their friends and loved ones.

"We survived Yoko Ono, Paul Stanley's solo album, and the last few years of the Rolling Stones," says a homeward-bound missionary. "I was almost starting to think we had a chance."

Amy Polumbo Out, New Jersey Runner-Up Crowned

Predator Press

Shocked at Amy Polumbo's scandalous admission that she is 'not a robot', the committee in charge of New Jersey's beauty pageant reacted with her swift and immediate disqualification.

"Look," points out a judge. "Everyone knows the first sign that someone is indeed a robot is when they deny being a robot."

"That techno-floozy has a proven history of circulating her tawdry schematics," cites another official. "We have numerous photos of her publicly rubbing hydraulic fluid into her chassis, and completely removing her service panels at large drunken MIT frat parties."

"It really came down to her behavior," he explains. "When you think of New Jersey, we want you to think 'Garden State', not 'common filthy Popular Mechanics whore'."

The new Miss New Jersey, Rosie Reuboux, was unavailable for comment.

Boeing: Dreamliner Technology 'Crash-Resistant'

Predator Press

Press Release: I Am Definitely NOT 'The Emperor'

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As an official diplomat of the vast country of LOBOnia, I would quickly like to point out that I have never uttered the words, "I am The Emperor and I'm here to take over state government".

Just to be clear, that would have been crazy.

LOBOnia is a peace-loving nation of people that often go to great efforts in pursuit of not getting beaten up or shot; "Chancellor" is maybe more along the lines of what we were getting at.

You know, something fun.

Al Gore Jogging Route Mysteriously Destroyed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"I'm baffled," says Chief Civil Engineer Frank Stewart as he puts stickpins in his map. "Never seen anything like it. The path of destruction starts at a Krispy Kreme, wipes out nine Starbucks, and ends curiously one half mile away at a Dairy Queen."

Nobody Likes Me In Here

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having figured out how to post with the simple use of a dead rat, I would have been fine finishing my entire sentence right there in my cell. But my other new hobby -counting my time served by drawing hash marks on the wall-was already getting me into trouble.

"Jeez," says the guard. "How many of them hash marks are there?"

"40,045," I reply.

"But you've only been here two hours."

"Time can be very subjective," I offer.

"Listen," says the guard. "Your best bet of getting out of here isn't feeding this psycho image. Prison is about rehabilitation. You should take a class or something, and develop a skill that you can use on the outside. It would also demonstrate a social capacity for getting along with others."

"What kind of classes do you offer?"

"What don't we have?" says the guard, eying his clipboard. "At two o'clock, we've got 'Doing Drugs Out of a Light Bulb'."

"Nah," I says.

"How about 'Toilet Micro Breweries'?"

"No."

He flips a page. "Crochet?"

"No," I sigh.

"Painting."

"Uh-uh."

"How to Balance Your Wall Street Portfolio?"

"Oh God no. What was that last one?"

"Painting," he repeats.

"Yeah, okay."


***

"Painting," says the teacher, "has proven itself to be very healthy and therapeutic for men in captivity for centuries."

"Eneries?" I ask.

"LOBO please don't talk with your mouth full," says the teacher.

I spit my paintbrush out over my muzzle. "Centuries?" I repeat. "What the hell did those guys do?"

"It's a figure of speech," says the teacher. Still, the imagination can be a vastly powerful thing. That's why I had you paint 'Something That Made You Happy on the Outside.' Now who wants to be the first to bring theirs to the front of the class for discussion?"

Uh-oh

"How about you Posey?" asked the teacher, keeping thing moving.

Whew, I thought. How hard can it be to follow up after a guy named Posey?

An angry-looking, well-muscled man dragged his canvas to the front. "This picture," he says, setting it on the easel, "represents me stabbin the key trial witness in the eye with a parking meter."

The room was alight with excited murmurs.

"Very well done Posey!" says the teacher. "And I take it that's the Judge hanging from the chandelier, spilling his entrails? Nice attention to detail."

Blushing, Posey grabbed his painting and took his seat as the room politely applauded.

"How about you LOBO? What did you paint?"

"Eh, nothing," I says.

"Nonsense. I've watched you working on that for hours. Let's see it."

Dolefully, I am wheeled to the front of the class, and a guard sets my painting roughly on the easel.

"There," I try to shrug. "Happy?"

Judging from the gasps, it was as if all the oxygen had been removed from the room.

"What the hell is that?" asks Razor Face.

"It's a basket of puppies," I says.

Posey vomited into the isle.

"You sick bastard!" screams the teacher. "Get out of my class!"

... Nobody likes me in here.

No One Likes Me In Here

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having figured out how to post with the simple use of a dead rat, I would have been fine finishing my entire sentence right there in my cell. But my other new hobby -counting my time served by drawing hash marks on the wall-was already getting me into trouble.

"Jeez," says the guard. "How many of them hash marks are there?"

"40,045," I reply.

"But you've only been here two hours."

"Time can be very subjective," I reply.

"Listen," says the guard. "Your best bet of getting out of here isn't feeding this psycho image. Prison is about rehabilitation. You should take a class or something that you can use on the outside. It would also help as you would have demonstrate a social capacity for getting along with others."

"What kind of classes do you offer?"

"What don't we have?" says the guard, eying his clipboard. "At two o'clock, we've got 'Doing Drugs Out of a Light Bulb'."

"Nah," I says.

"How about 'Toilet Micro Breweries'?"

"No."

He flips a page. "Crochet?"

"No," I sigh.

"Painting."

"Uh uh."

"How to Balance Your Wall Street Portfolio?"

"Oh God no. Wait. What was that last one?"

"Painting," he repeats.

"Yeah, okay."


***

"Painting," says the teacher, "has proven itself to be very healthy and therapeutic for men in captivity for centuries."

"Eneries?" I ask.

"LOBO please don't talk with your mouth full," says the teacher.

I spit my paintbrush out over my muzzle. "Centuries?" I repeat. "What the hell did those guys do?"

"It a figure of speech," says the teacher. Still, the imagination can be a vastly powerful thing. That's why I had you paint 'Something That Made You Happy on the Outside'. Now who wants to be the first to bring theirs to the front of the class for discussion?"

uh-oh

"How about you Posey?" asked the teacher, keeping thing moving.

Whew, I thought. How hard can it be to follow up after a guy named Posey?

An angry-looking, well-muscled man dragged his canvas to the front. "This picture," he says, setting it on the else. "Represents me stabbin the key trial witness in the eye with a parking meter."

The room was alight with excited murmurs.

"Very well done Posey!" says the teacher. "And I take it that is the Judge hanging from the chandelier, spilling his entrails? Nice attention to detail."

Blushing, Posey grabbed his painting and took his seat.

"How about you LOBO? What did you paint?"

"Eh, nothing," I says.

"Nonsense. I've watched you working on that for hours. Let's see it."

Dolefully, I shuffle to the front and set my painting roughly on the easel. "There," I says. "Happy?"

Judging from the gasps, it was as if all the oxygen had been removed from the room.

"What the hell is that?" asks Razor Face.

"It's a basket of puppies," I says.

Posey vomited into the isle.

"You sick bastard!" screams the teacher. "Get out of my class!"

Nobody likes me in here.