The Truth About Tornados

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Unlike the Discovery Channel, Predator Press doesn’t make you sit through an hour of excruciatingly boring “facts” and “proof”. We’re just going to come right out and say it in the opening paragraph: Tornados Do Not Exist.

There.

We said it.

End of story.

This myth –obviously perpetuated to maintain the billions of dollars America shovels into tornado “warnings”, safety equipment and protective gear every year- spins finally to rest right here, right now. Just like Bigfoot and the female orgasm, it's all hype and happity-horsecrap: no longer shall America be terrorized by legends designed to scare children to sleep!

“But LOBO,” you say. “While I respect your staggering intellect, I’ve seen pictures of towns destroyed by tornados!”

You call that proof?

What if those people were just really messy?

FEMA: ”My god … This place is a sty. What happened?

Townsfolk: ”Um … tornado!”

FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”

Townsfolk: ”Thanks!”

I spent about two hours yesterday on my roof with a pair of binoculars. Know how many tornados I saw? None. And I for one am tired of subsidizing slovenly townfolk with my hard-earned tax dollars.

One has merely to examine the weird recommendations the government provides to unravel the fabled ‘tornado’:

True or False: The safest place to be during a tornado is underground, preferably in a storm cellar.

Correct Answer: False. This is where they want you to be, so those lazy slugs don’t have to go through much trouble burying you!

True or False: If you see a tornado, leave your car and get into a ditch.

Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' sham! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?

A big tornado -say an F9- will rip your shoes through your eye sockets and then beat you to death with them, ditch or no ditch. To avoid injury, a) Get out into a wide-open flat field, b) Quickly ascertain the direction the tornado is spinning, and then c) Run in circles in the same direction as fast as possible to cancel out the cyclonic effect.

True or False: Do not try to outrun a tornado.

Correct Answer: False, false, false. If you see a tornado, get the f—k away as quickly and recklessly as possible. Sabotaging fleeing others by tripping them and running them off the road is useful too, as the tornado will often pause to enjoy devouring their succulent juices -thereby gaining you what might be precious seconds.

If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?

Why don't you just try to get your arteries to process cinderblocks and pointy sticks?

Blech!

Butterfly

Predator Press

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Once again poor ol' Predator Press is getting robbed of what is rightfully ours.

And by 'ours', I mean mine.

Don't let Humor Blogs do to me what Sonny Liston did in 1964 when he had to run for a pack of cigarettes and "needed a sparring partner for Muhammad Ali".

Now that I think about it, Sonny Liston doesn’t even smoke.

I can't believe I fell for that again in 2006.

Click this image and vote for me!

I think I get morphine if I win.

Buyer Seaware

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As I'm sure you all remember, Predator Press has fallen on hard times.

We've been through worse.  Still, I'm bein' forced to come up with some quick cash.

I've decided to sell the Official Predator Press Nuclear Submarine at a fraction of it's original value on eBay:



It's hell on gas, but you can pretty much park it anyplace you want.

The Day the Music Cried

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It’s a little-known fact that Brent Diggs and I weren’t always the bitter enemies we are today.

For instance, I didn’t recognize Brent immediately at Juilliard Music School. In fact I thought he was just another flashy and callow wanna-be rock band frontman.

But one night after my tuba solo, he insisted on meeting me. He was so moved by my performance, as we shook hands a single tear rolled slowly down his cheek.

Now everyone knows the tuba is the backbone of any good band; once I graduated, I probably could have ‘written my own ticket’ so to speak. I was featured in Musician Magazine as the “57th best Tuba Player EVER”. Band members of both Metallica and Van Halen threatened to fracture off in order to work with me on solo projects.

And I was good too: in the recording studio, all women had to be escorted out so the soggy panties hitting the floor wouldn’t mess up the audio.

But there was something about Brent’s youthful exuberance and vitality that appealed to me, and soon we were playing together with other promising underground musical acts.

Then one day Brent comes to me and says, “LOBO, we gotta start our own band.”

To which I replied, “What the hell are you pointing at?”

"Just point at anything and watch what happens."

"Cool!"

“But I am serious,” he continues. “With my golden pipes and your saxophone thingy, there would be no stopping us!”

“I’ll only do it if we call it Danger Couch,” I says.

“Okay,” he says. “But only if we promise the band will never ever ever break up.”

“Deal,” I says.


***

In Brent’s defense, I was already well on my way to a substance abuse problem. I had been “experimenting” –recreationally- with Pop Rocks. Honestly, to this day I think it was the advertising aimed at my generation and colorful packaging.

I ate one packet of orange Pop Rocks during rehearsals. I ate two packets of grape while blistering live solos on my 'Tube'.

Soon by the end of any given day, I would have had consumed thirty-four packets.

When out of my 'supply', I shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands … and paying an extraordinary fee to have them Fed-Exed the next day because I couldn't pick them up at the warehouse that night.

Four months later, when I crashed the 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.

"Son-" the cop started.

"What dead hooker?" I replied.


***

Brent, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to my rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted me. And that night I swore I would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But at the very next show, through my microphone, everyone in the audience could here the distinct crackling joy.

In the dressing room, Brent found my stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.

Truthfully, my music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum, bum bum" would come out "bum bum-bwah-bum": the surgical precision required to hit that note with just the right force seemed to escape me, and it was often either far too loud and buzzing or completely inaudible altogether. Worse of all, the sound engineers never seemed to figure out why everything recorded sounded like angry Rice Krispies in violent milk.

I started showing up late for performances, play like five notes, and then leave without explanation in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on sheets and sheets of blank sheet music for the notes on page 98, I would sleep through shows missing cues completely. Once I accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music and played the whole venue like it was a Danny Elfman soundtrack. This earned me a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw ... but my downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and I was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.

My hygiene suffered, and my flesh started to seethe and bubble visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing.

-The only thing that seemed to still like me was my dog.

Six months later, Brent tracked me down in a cheap motel room. Unemployed, I was pouring Pop Rocks into a spoon and tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, I had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.

"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Brent.

"Nonsense," I says through purple teeth, twisting the thick rubber band over my elbow. "I can quit anytime I want. I don't need some goddamned intervention!"

Then, blammo.

Distracted, I let the paparazzi too close; the highly-unstable Pop Rocks in the spoon detonated in the camera flash.

Brent and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast.

Thank God, I remember thinking.

-I was getting really sick and tired of hearing that ‘You’ve got a problem’ bullshit.


Happy Anniversary Brent and Camille!

Predator Press and the Tomb of the Velvet Ropes

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Saturday I decided I needed to take out all the cash from the “Feed LOBO” fundraising effort.

Despite coming from Don Lewis, a buck is a buck. And after the government does it’s ‘Where’s My Money?’ shell game, that’s about 67 cents.

That’s mac and cheese money, baby.

In fact that’s Kraft mac and cheese money.

According to my calculatrons, I’m only a few weeks away from the salt, butter and milk required to complete the recipe.

Maybe I'll just go crazy and hold out for Velveeta.


***

A bank being open during Predator Press Month should have been my first sign of trouble. But I equate going to the bank with Purgatory: a sea of disinterested, dismantled vacant faces waiting in twisty and random excruciatingly slow roped queues.

They'll be open.

True, you might see one or two upon occasion that are still somehow faintly hopeful this is the line that leads to a thick, turbulent swill of soul-harvesting interest rates and mortgage loans. Not even dignifying them with full annunciation, we call them the 'Unngghhh' and nudge each other quietly when we spot them. And once awareness has been sufficiently raised, we taunt them with subtle mercilessness until they either 'join the ranks' or flip out, screaming in macabre frustration.

It’s this ‘screaming’ phase you don’t want. An un-culled Unnngh sobbing and screaming in line can make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. If the screaming phase takes too long, accelerate the process of permanently breaking their Will by tripping them frequently. Sneak a few kicks in if you can.

Every so often -if an unobserved opportunity presents itself- I’ll rearrange the ropes. I mean you never know, right? And if I can’t solve the maze in this manner, I’ll make them into a loop for the people behind me to wander through for all Eternity.

If, on the other hand, I solve the maze, I'll arrange the ropes so they’ll spill out at The Gap or something. The water bill remains unpaid, but they leave with their souls intact and a nice new cardigan.

Unless there's an Unghh behind me.

I hate those lousy Unngghs.


***

In this case, I solved the maze in an hour and twenty minutes. A record for me. Nervously peering over my shoulder, I discreetly slide the signed check and my driver’s license across to the teller.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “There appears to be a lien against any ‘Feed LOBO’ funds raised.”

I owe the Loyal Reader a sidebar explanation here: due to the money I blew for the 'Feed LOBO' telethon on entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics, the first 4-5 million is supposed to come right off the top as overhead; I, conversely, contend that hideous and catastrophic fiscal debacle is not my fault, and should be blamed on lousy entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics.

Various collection agencies apparently disagree.

“How dare you,” I demand. “Do you have any idea how much money I have in this bank?”

“It says here $6.87,” he says. “And apparently there’s a lien on that too.”

“Well I’m not going to keep my liquid cash here. It’s not safe!”

“Our impregnable vault was secretly designed and constructed from the outside in by two mysterious German engineers. Upon completion, it could only be opened from the inside –and those engineers are long since presumed dead.”

“How do you get the money in and out?”

“We don’t. We keep it in a mason jar on the fridge in the break room.”

"You can't do this," I explain calmly. "It's Predator Press Month for God's sake. What will the kids say?"

"You have kids? What are their names?"

"Shiftless and, eh, Screechy I think. In fact, that $6.87 is Shiftless' college fund."

"I'm sorry sir."

“Can I still play with that cool toy with the beads?”

"Only if you give all the pens back."

Nights of the Round Fable

Predator Press

[LOBO]

With the Raiders of the Lost Crusader Meme coming to a close, I would like to take this moment to bring up something serious.

After the release of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy’s faithful and adorable sidekick “Short Round” just seems to vanish from the face of the Earth.

"Well that's impossible," you say. "This could never happen."

Well it turns out that about 8% of Predator Press readers are right 22% of the time: this tragic and shocking true story has been kept under wraps for over 20 years. And it might never been known if not for the dogged and relentless investigative skill of yours truly.

While Indiana’s life -filled with hot chicks, explosions and danger- has thrilled and exhilarated movie audiences for decades, it was found to be ill-suited for raising children; before long Short Round was seized from Indy by Child Protective Custody and placed into foster care.

Heartbroken and psychologically damaged permanently by Indy’s cavalier and lax parenting, Short Round subsequently ran away and seemingly faded into a mysterious shroud of obscurity.

It was no small effort to track his whereabouts from that day forward. But during a chance examination of the MIT Archives, we discovered ancient correspondence with Short Round: it seems that soon thereafter it was discovered that he was woefully poor at math, and due this hideous handicap even MIT rejected him.

His last and lowliest of hopes and dreams were horribly crushed against the Rapids of Cruel Hollywood Fate.

Out of options, he spent a few years with the Harlem Globetrotters to make ends meet ... but nothing seemed to sate his emotional void; during a Vicodin and PCP-fueled rage, he punched a cheerleader and called Curly Joe a “punk-ass bitch” –acts that led to his permanent expulsion from the league.

It might seem true that life hasn't been very kind to Short Round. But shortly after rehab and serving his jail time, he met his true love in a strip bar. Connecting instantly during a conversation about their mutual obsession with snakes, the 'sparks flew' so to speak: now Short and Sassy Round live happily in a Des Moines subdivision with their eight beautiful children.

-The oldest of which begins at MIT this August.

Predator Press and the Quest for the Empty Skull

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having seen all four “Raiders” movies now, I feel more than qualified to follow in the footsteps of the great Doctor Jones and enter the fast-paced and lucrative sexy field of Archeology.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to circumvent the lack of academic accolades with prospective employers. I think they had their doubts I could kick the crap out of six guys while hopping back and forth between vehicles speeding through a dense jungle -even after seeing the Honorary White Belt Grand Master Futon gave me.

Despite the lofty credentials, much-lauded Harvard University immediately balked at the opportunity to even tenure me: being tenured at Harvard University, it turns out, is a potential subsequent function of me actually teaching at Harvard University.

Blah, blah.

“I’ll have no part of dealing with screaming brats,” I inform the interviewer. “Dammit, I’m a scientist."

“How about an online class?” says the guy looking down his nose into a thick book. “We're starting a course in Private Investigation this August.”

“Great,” I says. “I’ll take it. How long until my tenure starts?”

“Sir, I have serious doubts you have any knowledge of this field whatsoever.”

“Sure I do,” I insist.

“You are prepared to instruct people to conduct criminal investigations via intercooperation between various law enforcement agencies?”

“The world should be wiped clean of criminal scourge.”

“-while occasionally working underground with criminals to collect information?”

“I totally hate cops.”

He leans back in his chair. “So what exactly do you know about private investigation?”

“Licensed private investigators get to carry guns. And that’s always cool. You can use guns to shoot people.”

“And you want to shoot people?”

“Oh God no,” I says. “I just want to fit in when I go to Denny’s.”

“I seriously doubt you possess the guile to work in undercover operations.”

“Well, I fooled you with that resume,” I point out. “Hell that thing is chocked full of lies.”

“Like what?”

“Like what isn’t?”

“So your name isn’t Indiana Einstein?”

“Not even close,” I says smuggly.

“Well what is it then? We would need to put something on the checks.”

Now I had a plan for if the interview was going poorly: I was going to say my name was Don Lewis. But my intuition told me I had this hoity-toity Harvard University geek wrapped around my finger.

Attempting to avoid the obvious trap, I start looking around the spacious office for ideas. I see a framed Michelangelo Fresco, a Thomas Wolfe book … absolutely nothing useful.

Finally my eyes fell on his coffee cup.

“Joe,” I blurt. “Joe, eh, Joseph.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows furrow. “Huh,” he says. “We have an opening in Mayan Hieroglyphic Writing. That would be a little closer to your desired field than private investigation. You can read Mayan hieroglyphics, correct?”

"Pre or Postclassic?"

"Late Preclassic."

“I love Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics. Some nights I can’t put ‘em down at all ... see these dark circles under my eyes? I just finished a version of War and Peace written in Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I thought it was a bit wordy and pedantic. But the part where the giant turtle bites the heads off of those snowmen makes me cry every time.”