[LOBO]
Friday
Monday
The Bloggy Electric
Predator Press
[LOBO]
If you told us ten years ago we would be in the middle of something even bigger than the "Industrial Revolution," we would have laughed.
-But never before has any animal been able to communicate to the other side of the planet instantaneously.
The internet has given us a virtual telepathy unrivalled in the animal kingdom, and it will irrevocably alter the species entirely.
Indeed, our children's children will be downloading historical data on this momentus occasion directly to their cerebral cortexes, and have to create longwinded 87 terabyte 3-dimensional holographic essays on how "Those Dumb People Were So Dumb, They Had No Dumb Idea. ROFLMAO. LOL they were so dumb! WTF?"
And to commemorate this fantastic Age of Achievement, I plan a blog post entitled "Did I Eat This?" as soon as the Polaroids come back.
[LOBO]If you told us ten years ago we would be in the middle of something even bigger than the "Industrial Revolution," we would have laughed.
-But never before has any animal been able to communicate to the other side of the planet instantaneously.
The internet has given us a virtual telepathy unrivalled in the animal kingdom, and it will irrevocably alter the species entirely.
Indeed, our children's children will be downloading historical data on this momentus occasion directly to their cerebral cortexes, and have to create longwinded 87 terabyte 3-dimensional holographic essays on how "Those Dumb People Were So Dumb, They Had No Dumb Idea. ROFLMAO. LOL they were so dumb! WTF?"
And to commemorate this fantastic Age of Achievement, I plan a blog post entitled "Did I Eat This?" as soon as the Polaroids come back.
Sunday
Saturday
How I Single-Handedly Ended the Gas Crisis
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“$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!"
Friday
Old Mother Hubbard
-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]
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.”
This Message Brought to You By:
[LOBO]
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.”
Thursday
Diesel's New “Server Error in '/' Application” Humor-Blogs Upgrade Rolls Out To Mixed Reviews
Predator Press
[LOBO]
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!
:)
[LOBO]
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!
:)
Wednesday
Predator Press Profiles: Margret Rosenthal
Predator Press
[LOBO]
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.
This Message Brought to You By:
[LOBO]
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 RosenthalAKA: "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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