God Save the Queen

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"So how'd you do it?" asks Ethan.

"Piss off the arsonist lesbians?" I says, flipping a hamburger on the grill.

"The who?"

"You haven't been reading either?"

"No."

"Then how did I do what?"

Ethan tears one of my elegant Excel spreadsheets out of the grill printer. "It says Predator Press Male Enhancement Herbal Supplements are up 400%."

My grill rings, and I press the 'speakerphone' button.

"You have reached 1-800-B-I-G-P-R-I-X, may I help you?"

"Hi," says the caller timidly. "I was just wondering how much effect your, ah, 'herbal supplements' have."

Thinking quickly, I grab a 14" curvy kielbasa and slap it loudly on the cutting board. "Hear that buddy?"

"Yeah," says the caller.

"I ain't hadda wash dishes or vacuum for fifteen years."

Chinese Toy Manufacturer Found Dead

Predator Press

Zhang Shuhong, co-owner and toy magnate of Lee Der Industrial Company, was found dead in a warehouse today.

Shuhong, a pioneer of bargain-basement toy manufacturing, has left an indellible mark on generations of children worldwide with favorites such as Big Birds Flu Clinic, High-Voltage Bath Elmo, and the ever-popular Barbie Ford Pinto.

While the official cause of death is pending the autopsy, Chinese authorities have flatly refuted claims that it had anything to do with the Molotov Pinata, which is scheduled for release this Christmas.

If You Teach a Man to Fish, He'll Want Chicken

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In a world full of diabolical bridges, sinister coal mines, arsonist lesbians, terrorist plots and rabid raccoons, I've decided to stay home today in my footie pajamas and watch way, way, way too much news.

This is how I found this story on the bulletpoof backpack.

Oh come on; today's youth is already so totally spoiled. I mean, what's the point of even going to school anymore?

Think back for a second: I remember only wedgies, stolen lunch money, bitter old totalitarian tyrant regimes, imaginary trains with impossible head-splitting scheduling issues, and, yes, the occasional character-building sucking chest wound. Shit, you needed four landmines and a bazooka just to get into 'Homeroom' --yet another seemingly pointless exercise conducted in an overcrowded lead-painted asbestos cube.

It is exactly these senseless disciplines and routines that are the experiences universal to us all, and essential to the organized sublimation of will, humanity and thought.

But nowadays, kids got cellphones, iPods, seatbelts, body armor, and inoculations. Inoculations, people! I ask you: without a profound fear of being randomly stricken by Polio or Diphtheria, how can you possibly expect to shape and mold the minds of tomorrow's great leaders?

Hm?

Angered Lesbians Burn Down Predator Press HQ

Predator Press

Demonstrators from 'Torch Un-Repentant Tabloids mentioning Lesbian Endeavors' [TURTLE] cheer as the Minneapolis branch of Predator Press burns to rubble.

“I don’t understand,” says a Predator Press Public Relations Specialist and CEO that wishes to remain anonymous named LOBO. “I’m a long-time supporter of lesbians. In fact, I love lesbians. I got stacks and stacks of Penthouse at home ... ”

Becky Chris: We Get It, Chill Out

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Becky Chris,

Many of us are painfully too aware of your lifestyle and thinly-veiled hostility to half of the human race. I strongly suspect this is closely linked to rather abrupt SPAM, outlining unsolicited details about your sexual appetites while oddly complaining about how much SPAM you get.

I'm sure there isn't a male blogger alive that isn't already 100% absolutely convinced that you would delight in freezing us with liquid nitrogen to slowly chip pieces off while dancing to Melissa Etheridge CDs ankle-deep in bloody slush, squishing your toes in the testosterone goo.

We love you too, but we love you less in the "stab-you-in-the-penis" way, and more in the "Just a girl that needs a good eight hours of sleep" way.

Take a deep breath.

... Count to ten ...

A Thigh for an Eye

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Let me get this straight," says Nurse Garrison, looking up from her clipboard. "You opened your eyes in the bathtub?"

"Check," I says.

"Didn't your mother ever warn you about opening your eyes in the bathtub? Now you're permanently blind."

"Don't we still have Mr Insanity's body encased in carbonite?"

Nurse Garrison sighs. "You've already stolen one of his arms. Now you want his eyes?"

"Stolen is such an ugly word," I says. "I prefer 'harvested'."

"That's ghoulish," she says.

"How about if I trade him?" I says.

"But your eyes don't work."

"I know. I'm offering something of infinitely more value."

"Like what?"

"My cellulite. Every last precious drop of it."

"So you want me to transplant his eyes into you, and your body fat into him in exchange."

"Well, that wouldn't really be very fair. Me and this cellulite go way back. I've lived my whole life under a rigid discipline to cultivate and grow this fantastic and impact-resistant body. My fat is a symbol of my success. I'm very attached to it."

"I can see that," says Nurse Garrison.

"How's his liver?"

"He attempted suicide by overdose on Fuzzy Navels last year, remember?"

"He was very lucky we were able to save his life," I reflect.

"Was he?"

Wet Dement

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So I'm taking a bath.

Because I'm a genius.

See, it's 95 degrees here. I know this with abosolute certain precision; I have a device on my wall that tells exactly what the temperature is at any given moment.

I don't know where or how I got it. I don't even think the thing is hooked up to the internet.

It's downright spooky in a Voodoo kinda way.

So my vertical analog suspension temporatometer is telling me 'Hey man, it's fucking 95 degrees!' and I'm like, 'No way. Why is that?' But with only thin red line movin up and down to converse, I get impatient and throw my vertical-analog suspension temporatometer into the bathtub.

My vertical analog suspension temporatometer suddenly starts singing like a canary. It turns out my vertical-analog suspension temporatometer also functions perfectly as a fully-submersible horizontal thermocalculator! And it screams, 'Hey man, it's fucking 106 degrees in here!'

"Don't patronize me with your trite, red-lined scientific hippie semantics!" I says. "It's hot. My clothes are stuck to my skin from dripping sweat. Right now, an 11 degree difference might be just the cooling off I so badly need."

I strip, and prepare to indulge myself in soothing cool comfort. But then I think Wait. I haven't had a bath since I was twelve. Man, that was like ten years ago at least. How would an adult go about taking a relaxing bath?

It wasn't easy finding Ducky and my battleships, but my mom finally 'Fed-Ex'ed them. And once they were all lovingly set along the ceramic ledge, I proceeded to look for luxurious bath additives to further enhance the rather exotic experience: bubble bath, candles, music, Tide, bleach, 409, Comet, diesel, Drano ... maybe a little vanilla extract for the ladies. Ah, you get the picture.

And as the cooling, fragrant and peaceful fluids sloshed and hissed about, I instinctively held my nose and submerged completely. Playfully, I tried to see if I could still hold my breath as long as I used to. As childhood memories flooded in, I could hear my mom scolding, 'Just don't open your eyes while under there.'

Man I was a stupid kid.

What could possibly happen if you opened your eyes under here?