Mmmmm ... 3.14

Predator Press

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What? Too soon?

How I Single-Handedly Ended the Gas Crisis

Predator Press

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“$1.79 a gallon?”

“Yes,” says the cashier.

“Are you out of your freakin’ mind?”

“No seriously,” says the cashier.

“Well I’m not paying $1.79 a gallon.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is extortion!” I says.

“Sir I don’t set the price-“

“Oh I think you do Sancho –or whatever your name is. I’ll pay $1.79 a gallon, and then next week, what, $2 a gallon? Well I ain’t gonna stand for it.”

“Sir, I believe gas prices are set by OPEC and-“

“Who is that? Your dad? Well get this ‘Opek’ guy on the phone. Tell him I’ll give him a buck fifty. Tops.”

“Sir,” says the cashier. “It’s $1.79.”

"No it isn't

"Yes it is."

"Sancho,” I says disappointedly, “When you come to a new country you're supposed to rapidly adopt the culture. This 'ooh, I'm Sancho Opek and I'm gonna overcharge all those American jerks' attitude won't get you anywhere."

"Sir, my name is Randy Watkins. I was born in Des Moines."

“Well this is America, ‘Randy.’ And we don’t want your lousy overpriced gas. In fact, I demand you take it out of my vehicle immediately.”

“Excuse me?”

“We don’t want these damn Funyuns either.”

“Sir,” says Randy, suddenly nervous. Eyes darting back and forth nervously, he leans in and whispers, “Please take the gas. $1.50 will be fine.”

I pause, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I have far too much gas, and fifteen minutes from now another tanker truck full of gas will be arriving.”

“I don’t know Randy,” I says shrewdly. “I'm actually a big fan of alternative energy. I thought that gas smelled a little funny too. In any case, I think I would be much happier with some Amoco.”

“I’ll throw in the Funyuns for free.”

“Nah,” I says.

“All the gas. The whole tank,” he pleads. “$10.”

“Plus the Funyons?”

“Plus the Funyons.”

“And this keychain flashlight?”

“Yes.”

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Not a chance.”

"Dammit!"



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Old Mother Hubbard

-as retold by Predator Press

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Miss Hubbard’s mansion was pretty spacious, but I’ll be damned if that old bat didn’t keep every inch of that creepy place spick and span.

“Yeah so you’re three weeks behind on your newspaper deliveries,” I continue. “You a deadbeat or something?”

“How much do I owe you?” she asks flatly.

“Three fifty,” I says. “And it ain’t negotiable. Poppa needs a new Schwinn this year.”

“Such an industrious young man,” she says, tussling my hair. “I’m sure I have a few dollars in my purse.”

“Well I hope so Miss Hubbard,” I says. “Where’s the bathroom? Now you're late on payments and my hair is all screwed up.”

“I wouldn’t go wandering,” says the woman from the next room. “Rommel is friendly, but he doesn’t take kindly to people roaming around.”

Rommel, a Rottweiler roughly the same weight as myself, growled menacingly.

“Now, now Rommel,” she chided. “You mustn’t spook the guests.”

“Man lady,” I says looking around. “You sure got a lot of books on Scientology.”

“My son is a very prolific writer,” she calls from the kitchen.

Mental Note: "prolific" = crappy

I cross my arms. "Yeah I’ll bet.”

“I can’t seen to find my purse," she says exasperated. “Can you check the kitchen? I’ll look upstairs.”

“What about Cujo here?”

“If he growls,” she says fading upwards, “just give him a bone from the cupboard.”

I swing open the door and enter the kitchen.

There’s no purse to be found.

This wrinkle-kit is gonna drag this out into an all-day affair if I let her, I’m thinking. God they should just wax all these lonely old crazy people. Once you get like thirty or so-“

Suddenly Rommel let loose a thunderous bark, and cut my train of thought completely.

He’s sitting on the kitchen linoleum, drooling sloppily, and tail thumping hard against the floor. He's a pretty big dog, too: we are looking eye-to-eye.

And for the first time since I got here, the dog looked friendly.

“Who’s a good boy?” I says, scratching him behind the ears. Remembering what the old crone said about the bones in the cupboard I says “Wanna treat?”

Bam bam bam goes the stumpy tail with increased enthusiasm. Rommel does an exaggerated and clumsy half-trot to the cupboards -impotent claws slipping helpless and loudly across the smooth floor- clearly indicating where the treats are.

What kind of crazy old broad would keep bones in a cupboard? I’m thinking. But sure enough, there’s a big thick meaty one in there. Maybe four or five pounds, eighteen inches or so long.

“Well it’s a good day to be Rommel!” I smile, tossing him the grizzly trophy. “So does this hag got any pop or anything? I'm thirsty.”

I open the fridge. She has iced tea, a half bottle of Shasta, a human head in a jar of clear liquid, and what is most likely orange juice-

My heavy bag of newspapers slides off of my shoulder, and lands on the ground with a with a solid thud.

As I stare -the hairs rising on the back of my neck- the magnetic refrigerator door eases closed.

And there’s an audible sickening crack of broken bone as Rommel enjoys his “prize” behind me.

“Oh there you are!” says Old Mother Hubbard, proudly brandishing her newly-found purse. “Three fifty you say?”

“You know what lady?” I says, dragging my bag. “We’re good.”


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Diesel's New “Server Error in '/' Application” Humor-Blogs Upgrade Rolls Out To Mixed Reviews

Predator Press

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I am teasing of course ... Diesel has been trying to perfect the Humor-Blogs “Server Error in '/' Application” for years now, and I'm proud to be here enjoying the hilarious culmination of all his efforts; "Object reference not set to an instance of an object" just gets funnier and funnier everytime I read it!

All kidding aside, for the first time in maybe a year I've made the finals in his Caption Contest -and this is one of the funniest competitions I've seen in a while.

Vote early, vote often, and cheat where and when necessary.

(Lyin' to me if you voted for someone else is perfectly acceptable: the other entries are side-splitting!)

Thanks!

:)

Predator Press Profiles: Margret Rosenthal

Predator Press

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In order to demonstrate that I haven't "lost touch" due to my lucrative blogging career, I’ve decided to create a new series of posts celebrating the “Common Man.”

This is where the entourage and I momentarily leave the protective womb of my vast and exceedingly deadly compound, and we go to a 7-11 or a Shell gas station to briefly speak to the inconsequential little people that make this country tick.

Who is this intriguing person running my credit card for Funyuns really?

One never knows.

-It could be a fascinating astronaut or neurosurgeon!


***

Subject Name: Margret Rosenthal

AKA: "Margie"

Occupation: Cashier/International Double Agent

Obvious Deficiencies: Lazy

Not-So-Obvious Deficiencies: Laziness due to sore feet. Margret spent last night ballroom dancing with Dick Cheney in stiletto heels a size too small. This consequently caused her toes squish out like tiny fat little horrifying sausages, and blew the last dwindling hope of Archduke Karl Ludwig getting the plans to America's new superconductor.

Hobbies: Mopping, Ringing Up Funyuns

Turn Ons: Long Walks On The Beach, Superconductors

Turn Offs: Gets pissed off if you repeatedly open the glass door (triggering the customer alert bell) and then hide behind the payphone

Weapon Proficiency: Apron (strangulation)

Secondary Specialty: Tossing apron into motorcycle chain causing attackers to wreck, impaling themselves on their own AK-47s

Special Notes: Don’t attack the bitch with AK-47, motorcycle

Secrets: In her purse I found tampons, pictures of grandkids, Dick Cheney's Blackberry, mircofilm of her doing Dick Cheney on a superconductor, and a cherry-flavored Gingivitis spray.



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Teenage George Lucas: The Lost Files

Predator Press

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“Dude,” says Lenny. “Are you feelin it?”

“Oh yeah,” says George.

“We should maybe go someplace else. That dog is givin me the heebie-jeebies.”

“What dog?” asks George.

“Dude,” says Lenny pointing. “Right over there.”

“That’s a palm tree.”

“Well I hope it’s friendly.” Lenny takes a drink out of his Coca-Cola bottle and winces thoughtfully. “Hey, what do palm trees eat, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” says George. “Dirt I think.”

“Whoa,” breathes Lenny. “Shit there’s a lot of dirt man.”

“Lenny I think I wanna make movies,” reflects George.

“Me too dude. And some waffles.”

“No I’m serious.”

“So am I. Some waffles would kick ass right now.”

“I mean about making movies. I wanna make a big epic science fiction saga about the struggle between good and evil.”

"I told you not to take so much your first time."

“It'll have cool robots an stuff," insists George. “Yeah. In fact it’ll have robots with personality. And I’ll create a handful of memorable and likeable characters to be the heroes.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” says Lenny. “I would abandon that 'memorable and likeable characters' crap only a few movies in. Nobody wants those in movies with robots.”

“Robots and aliens,” adds George wistfully.

“Aliens too?” says Lenny. “Man that would be cool.”

“-With an evil Dictator, and a whole big Nazi-like army of half-robot lookin’ identical bad guys that can't hit anything they shoot at.”

“Dude,” says Lenny eyeing the palm tree carefully. “One of the heroes could be like a big giant space dog or something. A big giant spacedog that shoots a crossbow.”

“Big giant spacedogs that can shoot crossbows would get along just fine with an evil Dictator and a whole big Nazi-like army of half-robot lookin’ identical bad guys that can't hit anything. They would be in cahoots and lockstep the whole way.”

“You could make ‘em gay or something,” replies Lenny. “And when this ‘empire’ figures out it can’t legislate all the gayness out of ‘em, boom, it’s illegal to be a big giant gay dog that can shoot crossbows."

"Spacedog," George corrects. "How about if they can escape because they can fly the spaceships too?"

"Ooooo, cool," says Lenny. "And because they're illegal, it’s cool to make ‘em slaves or whatever.” He pauses. "I got it. He's a pirate. Or maybe a smuggler even!"

“I don't know," says George. "How could I possibly work in a big giant gay outlaw pirate smuggler slave hero spacedog that can shoot crossbows and fly spaceships? This seems a bit far-fetched. I'll have to scale it back somewhere. Plus I was hoping to keep these movies kid-friendly.”

"Just drop the crossbow then," Lenny concedes. "Maybe let him duel with a cool-looking electric sword or something."

“Huh."

“I’m hungry,” says Lenny.

“Me too.”

Confessions of a Tumbleweed Rustler

Predator Press

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The only thing that mitigates the oppressive heat here in Pianosa II is knowing it’s already forty degrees and threatening to snow in Pianosa I.

Seriously. If you come out to visit, do yourself a favor and charge the air conditioner in your car: I have about four bucks in quarters, nickels and dimes soldered permanently into the drink console by a melted orange crayon.

Orange was my favorite crayon, and ironically a decent box crayons is about four bucks.

Very funny Jesus.

-Hope you all got a great big Holy Chuckle outta that one up there.

I can only imagine this place in like August.

Yeesh.

By this time next August I’ll want to have a job as an air conditioner salesman or something.

... I’ll lock the front doors when the customers arrive, and leave them out there broiling on my vast and unshaded freshly-tarred 700 degree blacktop starin' at the “Back in 5 Minutes” sign for like a half an hour.

Only then do I let the bastards in. And inside, the place is a vortex of fresh cool air created by every damn thing in the place bein on at full blast ‘an blowin my paperwork everywhere.

FwooosHHH!!!

“We take all major credit cards!” I’ll yell over the thundering, tempestuous icy swirl. “But you better go get some friends first. Most of this stuff is real heavy.”