Entrecard Introduces New "Dammit, Can't I Afford ANYONE!?" Widget

Predator Press

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MORE BRIANS!

Predator Press

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Having dedicated myself to becoming the world's foremost authority on the human brain, I decided I had better "Google" it.

One of the little-known secrets of my outrageous success is my speed reading technique: I can read about 600 pages an hour. So -at a blistering pace- within two hours I knew everything there is to know about Brain De Palma, Brain Wilson, and the loyal and erudite Family Guy dog, Brain Griffin.

I must admit I'm not 100% on how all this interconnects; I mean what do all those guys have in common with the control center of the central nervous system?

But see that's how science works. It's sneaky like that. Christopher Columbus didn't set out to find America. Stephen Hawking didn't set out to discover space. And who knew that while running a radioactive brothel, Madame Curie would come up with all those cures?

But now that I have dedicated my weekend to the pursuit of science, I need to take a breather from it lest I fall prey to her seductive powers; as a deeply religious man, I know how this goes: one minute you're studying some elegant geometry, and the next they are raiding your Texas compound and accusing you of polygamy -the pagan worship of polygons.

God hates science.

Inside the Blogger Mind

Predator Press

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In anticipation of widespread backlash for our recent blogjacking endeavors, we here at Predator Press have prepared the following Official Statement:


It was all Don Lewis's fault.

But Don shouldn't be judged too harshly.

In effort to provide you with the continued comedic brilliance you have come to expect from It's a Funny Thing, he has resorted to injecting his frontal lobe directly with nearly-lethal doses of ecdysterone. The last human to endure that much artificially inflated humor was Jack Handey, who would ultimately write one last sketch for "Toonces, the Driving Cat" before his hippocampus finally gurgled out onto the kitchen linoleum.

In this steroid-jazzed addled state, the normally mild-mannered and charming Don Lewis appeared at the Predator Press Fundraiser for Crippled Orphans where Alex L -author of The Discreet Charm of the Middle Class- and I were building 100% formaldehyde-free dumpster habitats (commonly known as 'DumpsterTats') for the less fortunate DumpsterTot youth of America.

"Get in the damn car!" growls Don. "We're gonna hijack the The Ominous Comma!"

"What?" says Alex L, setting down three small orphans.

"Why would we do that?" I asked in disbelief. "We like Brent!"

"Shut up and get in, before I pull your boots though your eye sockets!" he demanded.

So we went along ... to try and keep an eye on him, you know? We here at Predator Press keep a pretty open mind when it comes to our ideas or ones that we agree with, but this was just going too far. He had to be joking, right?

To our horror, Don had elaborate plans and blueprints and so forth all prepared.

Alex and I sat through the militant briefing in utter shock.

Don was completely out of his mind.

... and we had no choice but to comply.


THE REVEAL

I knew the whole time this was going to seem pretty far fetched, so while Don was sleeping off his wild rampage I prepared numerous dizzying, bottomless Excel spreadsheets as evidence.

And Predator Press scienticians have been working 'round the clock in a fascinating brand new field never before explored: the study of the human brain.

We call it Brainology.

First we needed a "Control Group".

Scans of Mattress Police author Diesel are perfectly normal for a healthy blogger's braincase, and suited our needs perfectly.

Note the vibrant pastels, suggesting sweet chewy wholesome juicy goodness with a potential caramel center.

Don'tcha just want to lick it?



***

While enjoying an appreciable lack of subtlety, the dark and mysterious writer for .45 Caliber Headspace is clearly firing on all cylinders.

And wow.

-This image turned out to be the only one we could publish without risking our PG13 rating.

".45" shows absolutely vibrant patterns of creativity, particularly when words such as "stripper pole" and "potting soil" are invoked.

This blogger just might be the most sane of all.

***

When we heard the poetic lyric "choking on the ashes of her enemies," we immediately wanted to get Kurt Cobain. But lacking a wide-angle scanner lens, our new technology was woefully inadequate.

Instead, we naturally segued to Chelle B., The Offended Blogger.

-Please extinguish all potentially incendiary devices and objects when viewing this blog; Predator Press cannot be held accountable for people offended by their own self-immolations.

***

And lastly, we come back to Don.

These disturbing images were captured during his marathon 6-hour viewing of television's long defunct series "Webster".

But I warn you: these shocking images are not for the feint-of-heart; please only view after ensuring all children and overly-intelligent small animals have left the room.

Hijacking the OC

Predator Press

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No, I don't mean the one on television.

I mean the good one.

I once hijacked The Ominous Comma.

There's no need to thank me.

See Brent and I go way back. We've been trying to wipe one another out since the dawn of time; indeed, our epic battles often make "Star Wars" look like kids scuffling over a sandbox.

In fact, that's how it all started now that I think about it ... I was innocently eating ice cream one day, and Brent came over and knocked it down into the sandbox.

"Why'd you do that?" I sobbed.

Brent said, "Cuz you got cooties, cootie-face!"

Furious, I screamed and cried like a sissy until the adults came and made Brent stick his nose in the corner for the rest of the day. And then I laughed and laughed and laughed.

-Man I miss High School sometimes.

Despite his overt hostility and aggression towards me, I have made numerous efforts to be friends.

I've stuck up for him.

I've looked out for him.

Like the time when Brent was getting those phone calls and contracts from some guy suspiciously named "Aaron Spelling". This dude was supposedly some big shot Hollywood stiff that was looking to cast Brent in some TV series called "Melrose Street" or something. But he wasn't even trying to be convincing: the dollar figure this obvious fraud was offering Brent was so long it had to be a made up number. I doubt you could have even fit it on a check!

Like some jerk that doesn't even know how to spell "Aron" would be put in charge of anything!

Pthbbt!

It was obviously a cruel joke.

Brent is exactly the kind of trusting and sensitive soul that would've flown out to Hollywood and get his heart broken by this "Spelling" hoax: I must have thrown dozens of letters and plane tickets away.

I finally ended up impersonating Brent on the phone and telling that stalker phony, "If I ever hear from you again, I'll freeze your ass with liquid nitrogen. Then you can watch as I chip small pieces off of your bloated carcass, and dance barefoot in your melted slush!"

So yeah. Ever since then, Brent and I been tryin to squish each other through fine mesh screens.

It's all in good fun really.

Like the time I was in Intensive Care, and he switched my chart with Rex Grossman football plays and poured the bedpan into my IV. Or when I kidnapped his dog 'Buttons', and left it at Michael Vick's place all covered in Barbeque sauce.

Ah, good times Brent.

Good times.

Stamps Are for Pansies: I Collect Debt

Predator Press

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Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep will doubtlessly send me a bill for his unsuccessful attempt to get in my pants.

Corporations are really sneaky in this sense; pants on or pants off, either way you're screwed. That's why you always hear in sexual harassment cases the phrase, "was fired for rebuffing the boss' sexual advances."

"Advances," huh?

Hm.

Well good luck Doc. Get in line. I got so many bills, I don't even check the mail anymore. The postman just lobs my crap out of his jeep onto the huge pile in my front lawn, and once a year we hold a bonfire.

The reality is I collect huge and vacuous fabulous debt, and the more staggeringly titanic the better. Entire economies rise and fall based on my glorious and vast counter-acquisitions, the entire Nation depends on me to perpetuate them. I would go as far as to say that if I won the lottery, the United States would suddenly collapse as bill collectors nationwide were forced to lay off their staffs.

Who am I to send this fine and semi-talented workforce into poverty and squalor? As a deeply religious man, I rather admire that baseless and eternal optimism.

Just face it: my personal dedication to irresponsibility probably accounts for a full percent of employment in the country.

You all should be thanking me.

Especially you Student Loan deadbeats. Instead of even building a single colossal golden effigy of myself -or even sending a lousy Hallmark card for that matter- what thanks do I get for all the commerce I have provided?

Angry phone calls.

I majored in philosophy for Christ sakes ... the sensible thing would have been to write the whole damn thing off immediately. Have I ever embarrassed you at a used car dealership with your tragically flawed logic? No! Frankly I've been pretty classy about it.

And and bless my little black heart, I tried to get a job as a philosopher. I really did. I stopped shaving, and bitched about shit until the cops came. When MicroSoft asked me to submit a resume for the CEO of Future Technological Development position, I sent them a potted philodendron.

-To this day, MicroSoft has yet to develop a decent Philodendron scandens micans with USB inputs, and frankly I doubt they ever will.

These "jobs" as you call them are just flimsy pretexts for work. There. I said it. The first hurdle is actually going there, and it's all an uphill battle after that: even after the whole "showing up" debacle, people then expect you to stay there and do stuff for them all the time.

Then with whatever you’ve earned, you gotta pay the bills for the stuff that generally revolves around working, like clothes and reliable transportation.

Can you believe this circular logic?

Well I have news for you America: you ain't fooling nobody.

... But can I borrow $10?

Emergency Exit

Predator Press

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Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep finally peers up from his clipboard. "From the symptoms you've described, I'm going to recommend a colonoscopy."

I reflect on this quietly for a moment. "Well that ain't gonna happen. I'm claustrophobic. You'll never get me on a submarine."

"That's a periscope. But the principal is similar. We pass a fiber optic camera through the anus to look for abnormalities."

"Did you wash your hands afterward?"

The doctor sighs. "We want to do that to you."

"Jesus Doc, what the hell kind of website do you run?"

"It's to figure out how to treat you."

"Huh," I says, casually bumping my paper booties against the hospital bed. "But I don't think I could eat a whole camera really. And is that even sanitary? I would have to have a brand new one. Can you make 'em taste like pork chops?"

"We go the other way."

"Chicken?"

The doctor stares.

I laugh suddenly. "You couldn't possibly mean-"

Doctor Nyarlathotep nods.

"Well let me think this over," I says. I feel myself going pale. "Okay I thought it over. No."

"People just like you go through this every day."

"Every day? I doubt that. How could they walk?" Gripping the edge of the bed to keep my ass firmly planted, my knucles are turning white. "Is there such a thing as a semicolonoscopy?"

"The acquisition of these images is very routine."

"Routine?" I says, thinking quickly. "For an earache?"

"You said you had stomach cramps and-"

"No I didn't. I distinctly said 'earache'. You must've misunderstood." Looking at my watch, I feign surprise. "Oh my god. Is it 10 o'clock already?" Jumping off of the bed, I seize my clothes hurriedly. "I've got to get to a ... thing."

"Look," says the doctor. "I can understand your apprehensions. But we can sedate you if necessary."

"Well, hoo-wee that makes for an attractive offer," I says.

-Now I'm really in a hurry.

After the pants, I put on my shoes without tying them. "Sorry about that whole 'keyster' mix-up ... honestly, mine could sharpen a pencil right now. And don't worry about me suing you for malpractice or anything. 'Earache' and 'stomach cramps' sound so much alike, I can see where that can happen. Boy, we sure dodged a bullet there."

Still buttoning my shirt with one hand, I open the door and back out waving. "Well Doc, thanks a lot. I can't shake your hand right now because of these crazy shirt buttons. Damn these buttons! They're crazy. But rest assured I would if I had the time."

Doctor Nyarlahotep points to a rumpled pile of clothing with his pen. "You forgot your socks."

"Those, uh, were there when I got here. Bye now!"

The Package Dance

Predator Press

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"Where are you?" asks LadyTerri into the phone.

"I'm right outside bringing in the trash cans. It was slow today so I figured I would come home early."

"Well, I wish you would have called. We need paper towels."

"I'll go later. What's up?"

"A package came for you in the mail."

"A package? Really?"

"Yes."

"A ... package, you say?"

"LOBO," she says. "You're not going to do that stupid dance again, are you?"

After a brief pause, the sound of large Rubbermaid products hitting concrete can be heard in the distance.

Our teenager rolls his eyes. "See Mom? I told you."

The front door busts open in thunderous triumph.

"Ohhhhhhh ... !" I sing in a rough facsimile of B minor.

"Shit," says LadiTerri in no key whatsoever.

"I got a package. I got a package!. A P-A-C-K-A-J-E, I got a paaaaaaaackage."

"Stop him Mom!"

Running over to the coffee table, I circle the small, plainly-labeled rectangular box. "-and this is my package!" I pirouette gracefully, and end pointing at her. "And you didn't get nooooo package ..."

LadyTerri glares.

"And you," I point at the teen. "Didn't-get-no-package because you didn't-mow-the-lawn-for-your-allowance so your-eBay-rating-is-in the duuuuuuuuumpster ..."

The five year old loves the Package Dance. "I got a package!" he joins.

"Like hell!" I retort, doing big chorus girl kicks. Scooping up the box, I hold it close to my heart while kneeling. Leaning into him closely I croon, "because you ain't got no credit caaaaaard ... "

"That's mean," complains LadyTerri.

I look at the boy. "Would you like to see this package?" I sing tunelessly, offering the parcel.

Grinning, he reaches for it with both hands.

God he always falls for that ...

"Well you cannot!" I crescendo, standing. "For it is my package. Myyyyyyy package. It's in your face, don't you disgrace-"

Suddenly, in all the spinning motion, a colorful plastic object slides out of the box, and tumbles onto the carpet.

"It's Kung Fu Hustle, Dad," smirks the teen. "We all watched it this afternoon."

"BASTARD!" I scream.