Revolver

Predator Press

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Waaaaay way down at the very bottom of this page is a hit counter poised to roll over 100,000 hits.

And sure maybe half of those hits are me fiddlef--king incessantly with the HTML, fixing grammatical trauma, rectifying spelling, eh, "liberties," and otherwise fine-tuning my savage butchery of the English language.

-Let‘s just call it a solid 50,000.

I’ll take it.

With 1000 posts at this point, mathematically one or two of them almost have to be decent, right? (That's my overall strategy BTW ... over a long enough timeline, I'll get a Shakespeare in here somewhere.)

Still, by dividing 50,000 legitimate hits by 1,000 posts, this gives me about 50 hits per post.

Hmmm.

And since this the name of this blog is “Predator Press," let’s call a good 50% of those hits wayward web searches looking for either endangered species or child molesters.

From there, lop off an additional 30% for the non-reading Entrecard ‘skimmers.'

Finally, subtract about half of the lonely few remaining as never-to-return readers that promptly and accurately diagnosed this blog as a pedantic and retarded festering mess.

This pretty much leaves you.

Thanks!

:)

Bonfire of the Manatees

Predator Press

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California -still stubbornly trying to kill us- finds us hopping from motel to motel in a relentless search of our own little space to throw elbows from. It's like getting strangled slowly and softly by deeply-tanned, diet pill-popping pastel tourniquets.

I’ve done this “urban survivalist” thing before, but I’ve never been so bold as to do it with a family in tow. As one person, you kind of have a “fix“ on things; with multiple people (and a cat) you get blindsided by curve balls like running out of toilet paper at 3am -and not having anyplace to get any.

Suffice to say once graced with more time and stability I’ll write in greater detail about these adventures.

But for now just take my word for it: never ever ever use the washcloths at a motel.

The House -and Heart- Broken

Predator Press

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Succumbing to the virulent torrent of angry mail from ardent (and reputedly very dangerous) Doctor Who fans, I decided to rename my robot assassin puppy ‘Scraps.'

-But even while welding his rabies tags and registration on, I knew I had a problem.

I guess when it all came down I just couldn't send Scraps to burrow his way into the succulent and still-beating hearts of my insurance agents, finally detonating himself in their steaming squirty entrails once their screams were successfully converted to mp3 and transmitted to my iPod.

-Scraps, a loyal companion, deserves better than that.

On the outskirts of town, there's a big sprawling farm that raises the robot sheep we get steel wool from: it's a place where Scraps won’t be painfully discriminated against by inbred hoity-toity big city ‘meatdogs.'

I’ve decided to send him there where he can assassinate wild and free, just like nature intended.

I'll miss him.

-He’s the best friend I ever had.

[*sniff*]

Predator Press Unveils "iByte" Prototype

Predator Press

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Before deluging us with “Congratulations” mail, you should know that Terri and I did not, in fact, adopt a dog.

In fact this isn’t even a real dog at all: this is just a little something Predator Press Scienticians whipped up overnight.

Isn’t it amazing? And we haven't even glued on the carpet remnants yet! If we could get the oil it leaks to be the color of urine, it would be totally indistinguishable from the real thing.

(I sure hope it fits in the basket.)

Shark Chum for the Soul

Predator Press

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Yes, today was to be still yet another post ranting about my Insurance Company.

-But taking a tip from Chris Wood, I’ve decided not to let them ruin my day.

Today’s post will not be about how I want them squishing barefoot through bat feces deep in the bowels of some forgotten drafty dungeon for the rest of eternity. Nor will it be about comparing the gauge of mesh screen I would like them squeezed through.

Today’s post will be about, eh, puppies.

Yes. A bunch of puppies. Cute little fuzzy wuzzy wide-eyed irresistible companion-seeking puppies. All in a cozy little basket with a big red ribbon on it.

I’ll bet if an insurance company found a basket of such puppies, their hearts would melt. They would immediately bring the puppies inside and divide them up for cuddling and adoption purposes.

-But these wouldn’t be normal garden-variety puppies.

These would be robot assassin puppies.

Someone answers the phone “You have reached Affirmative Insurance,” and boom! that’s the audio trigger for the attack: a hidden hypo delivers the paralyzing neurotoxins, and then the puppies start burrowing their way piranha-like right into the very hearts they just melted. Like that movie Alien, ‘cept in reverse.

In puppies no one can hear you scream.

And then the ugly runty robot assassin puppy? The unwanted one they left back in the basket?

Detonates.

-Wipes out the crime scene completely.


***

Man Chris was right. I do feel better!

Please be sure to visit Chris Wood’s blog.

-This guy sure knows his stuff.

Hawk

Predator Press

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I’m no vegetarian, but the product pictured left has become the major preoccupation of my entire morning.

Has American hatred for chickens grown to such a point where we sanction violent chicken-on-chicken crime in our advertising?

Yes, I’m impressed this company has trained chickens to cruelly fry other chickens. In fact it’s clear to me now this must be a super-intelligent breed of very highly-functioning chicken too: typical chickens operate at a very poor level in kitchens -particularly when it comes to the sensitive timing required to deep fry things.

Is this tied to cockfighting, or are these superintelligent chickens, like, doing some kind of horrible and macabre ethnic cleansing? Or what if there is one like mastermind chicken controlling all the others to do his diabolic culinary will?

-Man I wouldn’t want to mess with that chicken.

And yes, for a moment I had a distant, receding impulse to do the right thing and get indignant. My god, I think. Unless it’s by a professional chef, these delicious creatures should not be abused!

-But this thought is almost immediately drowned out by What are you stupid? You could pick up a few grand assisting the marketing campaign!”

So screw the chicken.

Hard.

-Before it messes with your ankles or something.

'An I can already hear you bleedin’ heart Liberals ”But LOBO, you’re rationalizing animal abuse. Surely you wouldn’t compromise your ethics and contribute to a brutal campaign like that.”

-I, for one, am shocked at you bleedin’ heart Liberals. Of course I wouldn’t give these people more sick ideas.

I would, however, present a few to see if they’re interested in purchasing them …

And hey, what about my ankles?

I deserve pre-compensation.

For Screechy

Predator Press

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Once when I was a child, my father –an expert mechanic- took me into the garage.

“Son,” says Dad. “Do you want to grow up to be a great mechanic like myself?”

“Sure I do, Dad!” I says.

He scruffs my hair, grinning. “That’s my boy.”

I reach for a hammer on the shelf –it seemed gigantic compared to my smallish hands- but Dad stopped me.

“No son,” he corrects. “As a mechanic, you gotta understand the nature of things.” He walks me outside to the now harsh-seeming daylight. Scooping up a handful of dirt, he sifts it through his fingers and says “You want to work on an internal combustion engine? Well this is where it all begins. You see we get our blah oil from the ground, and blah blah energy into blah petroleum and blah blah blah blah fires the pistons blah blah blah … ”


*** Despite not knowing shit about being a mechanic, at sixteen I was tenured at Harvard and consequently became the Chief Engineer for Boeing.

A "prodigy," my very first duty as Chief Engineer for Boeing was to determine why so many workers were getting limbs and digits torn off on the factory floor.

I quickly submitted a report stating that the equipment would work more efficiently, faster, and most importantly safer if the workers stopped tearing their limbs and digits off with it.

I was promoted to National Safety Board Chairman, and fired later that same day for driving my forklift to a McDonald's Drive-Thru for fries.