It's the Thought that Pounced

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Why don’t you try making some money with Predator Press this year?” suggests Terri. “You know, like maybe a book deal or something?”

“I think people have come to regard Predator Press as sort of a public service,” I shrug. “You don’t get people hooked on heroin or cocaine and then start charging them for it. It’s just not done.”

“How about taking on a charity?”

“Like when you encouraged me to push little old ladies across the street?”

“I said help little old ladies across the street.”

“You really don’t read the police reports very closely, do you?” I observe.

Ask LOBO: Women and How to Understand Them

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me, ”LOBO, you are so smooth and cool when it comes to women. What is the secret?”

Well I’m glad you asked me that.

-It just so happens I live with two women as well: my lovely wife Terri and teenage daughter, eh, Complainy.

So who better to lecture comprehensively on this subject?

Hm?

If you think about it, I’m what you might call an expert.

Yeah.

As a species I wouldn’t trade with women in a million years. For starters there’s that whole “Childbirth” thing. For those of you not familiar with the concept of “Childbirth,” “Childbirth” is where you essentially try and crap a chair. And not just any chair either: it’s like crapping one of those folding steel chairs you see on the WWE.

The weird thing is women keep doing it: even as you read this, somewhere a woman is going through “Childbirth” –and all in the full knowledge of what she’s in for.

It’s pretty crazy if you think about it. If I had fifteen minutes of advance knowledge I was going to stub my toe, I would have the evil building and everything within four square blocks demolished by professionals, burn down the rubble, and after a proper Catholic ceremony have the ashes launched into the sun.

-These people have like six months of advanced knowledge.

Weird!

In an effort to explore this inexplicable trait, I have gone through Terri and Complainy’s bathroom cosmetics. I found mostly unpleasant-seeming things such as “Apricot Scrub.” Yuck. There’s a tube labeled “Morning Burst” that makes me wince just thinking about it: can you imagine stumbling groggily into your shower, and BANG!, getting a burst of any kind? Unless it’s the shrapnel of coffee in paste form, I don't want it.

“Cranberry Tart Body Butter” got my attention. Firstly, on the label “Cranberry Tart” is written in an elaborate flowing calligraphy and looks like “Cranberry Fart” until you look at it closely (I'll take a picture of it when I get my camera back).

But what the heck is “body butter?"

-And wouldn’t something that made your farts smell like cranberries been infinitely more practical?

Well, that’s all the time I have today to lecture on women and how to understand them. I thought it would only take about 20 minutes, but women are a little more complex than I initially thought: I’ll obviously have to do the other half some other time.

In the meantime, the kids are away tonight and Terri is going to be home in a half an hour. I’m going to answer the door absolutely slathered in body butter, and in nothing else but a loincloth made from toast.

I hope she’s hungry.

:)~

The Dead See

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Another seismic roar, and blood arcs across the window behind them; illuminated by dehumanizing fluorescents, a pale, pink mist fills the air. Dismembered chunks of flesh and bone slide and fall wet into a growing pool of human viscera.

Screams. Pleas. Panic surges through the room. They try to flee. Curled into a tiny, terrified ball, one hiding employee can see the gunman's heavy boots under the seats and through the thick smoke, calmly and systematically advancing through the room, crunching over broken plastic shards and glass. More shots, and the drywall resonates the obscure marching rhythmic beats of each explosion as life ceases one by one by one…

“Next,” calls the woman with disinterest.

“Hi!” I says cheerily. “I need to renew my driver’s license.”

Kenny Loggins and Huey Lewis Concert “A Bloodbath,” Thousands Dead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When Kenny Loggins and Huey Lewis agreed to unite and promote the nominations of Humor-Blogs’ own i am bossy and Matress Police in the 2008 Weblog Awards, no one considered that their fans might have some hatchet-burying in mind themselves.

42 year old Priscilla Frisk, President of the Huey Lewis Fan Club, encouraged all her constituents to “Do some real clubbing,” and supplied nightsticks, mace and facemasks at the door.

In response, Loggins supporters Bloggins for Loggins launched a more technically-savvy attack and ruined the credit of all HLFC chartered members by quadrupling their mortgages.

As the death toll continues to grow, authorities seem helpless.

“It’s a horrible circumstance,” admits Commissioner Rudolph Banks. “The only thing those two groups want to do is kill each other. I’ve sent in virtually my entire police force to break it up, and they’ve all been tossed out bloodied and bankrupt.”

I Take Issue With Number Two

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Let’s not call it unpatriotic.

That’s extreme.

-Let’s call it an “Unrequested Temporary Deficit of Patriotic Sensibilities.”

I can’t be mad at the country for a bad job market, right?

In regards to financial security, America has taught me two methods:

Number One: Leverage an Asset or Talent Uniquely Yours, and Get Paid To Do It

This is the preferred method. But I can’t even make those fart noises with my armpit. Thus, I default to:

Number Two: Grab Onto the Biggest, Most Boyant Turd Within Reach

-This is the best chance you have for another round once the water starts spinning counterclockwise.

But I take issue with "Number 2."

I don’t know a lot about economics, but weren’t there a handful of CEOs being paid salaries in the millions to make sure our big mysterious invisible stocks and bonds and 401ks and whatever remained viable?

And just look at how many people were clinging to those Big Turds!

Don’t we build skyscrapers as gigantic effigies to Big Turds every day? Or do I have it backwards ... are they like colonies of semi-smart organized barnacle "Number 2s" at the bottom, hoping to spear the counterclockwise-descending Big Turd (actually, I guess it would be clockwise if you're underneath it), and -thusly attached- ascend straight up to the glorious Upper Rim?

That’s where all the Big Turds are after all.

It must be awesome.

VOTE OR DIE!!!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Eyebrows furrowed, I watch the little hourglass in my laptop screen intently.

“So you're a nominated finalist for Best Humor Blog in the 2008 Weblog Awards, and if people vote for you every day starting tomorrow you’ll be, like, king or something?”

“Hey,” says Diesel. “It’s an honor just to be nominated. But why not?”

“How did Predator Press do?"

“Predator Press was, ah, disqualified,” replies Diesel thinking quickly. “Predator Press was too good."

I peer over the edge of the laptop suspiciously. “Stop here,” I says. “The signal is awesome.”

“We’re in the middle of a seventy mile an hour freeway.”

“This is California, D. People do it all the time.”

After a few uncomfortable moments, it’s clear Diesel has no intention of even slowing. “Well,” I says sulkily. “I am honored that you’ve ask me to handle your public relations for the duration of the contest.”

“I didn’t ask you to handle my public relations,” he says. “You were sleeping in my car."

"That's because I understand the urgency of the situation, D."

"What’s the duct tape for?”

“I always carry duct tape around. You know, in case I get writer’s block.”

“What?”

“There are subtle nuances when it comes to motivating people to vote for you, and this should only be handled by the utmost of discrete professionals."

The modem shriek stops, and almost on autopilot I plug in my logon info. "You really should treat this like any other textbook election, and elections are touchy, sensitive events. Barack Obama is a good example ... with all that hard work combined with proper handling, that dude'll probably end up being a bigwig mayor or something.”

I could just jump the median, thinks Diesel. Straight into oncoming traffic.

“I think you should give people prizes if they vote for you,” I decide. “You know, like a swimming pool or something.”

-I’d be a fucking hero.

“That’s dishonest,” he sighs. "Hey. Wanna listen to the radio-?"

“But then what if we didn’t give them the swimming pools afterward? Wouldn't that cancel out all the Karmic hoodoo?”

“I want to win on the merits of my blog.”

“Hey man, don't get me wrong. Mattress Police is one of the best blogs on the planet. I'm just sayin' I can get a great deal on electric melonballers.” I raise my fingers in the air to make quote marks. “They’re Martha Stuart.”

My laptop chimes, and a cheery voice says “You’ve got mail!”

“Oooo goodie!” I says.

“Look,” says Diesel. “I really appreciate your enthusiasm. Just vote for me here and there, okay?”

“Dude listen to this. ’POZ you are so funny. LOL, Terri.’,” I scowl. “She’s calling the Prince of Zanzibar ‘POZ’ now.”

“So?”

“It’s a pet name!” I says. “It’s one step away from ‘snuggly-buggly’ or ‘honey-bunny!’

“Look. Just promise me you’ll vote. Don’t do anything else. And for God’s sake please don’t post about it.”

“Okay,” I says glumly.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

"I think I missed my exit,” he says exasperated. “Break out that map in the glove compartment."

I lean past the laptop screen and pop open the glove box. Inside there’s a California map, a car registration, and eight side-by-side rolls of duct tape -each varying in thickness, and meticulously arranged in ascending size.

Uh-oh

Guy Lombardo and the Vile Prince of Zanzibar

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My wife is having an affair with the Prince of Zanzibar.

I know this, because I am the Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com.

I don’t blame her. She thinks I am a wealthy guy with long flowin’ Fabio hair ridin in his 3,000 foot yacht.

And how can I blame her? I never would have thought AOL would let me have the official logon “Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com" unless I presented proper credentials verifying my royal lineage: through what was doubtlessly an oversight, perhaps a 'comedy of cascading errors' on AOL’s part, the name slipped through their corporate security –and that’s how I seduced my wife.

-Well, that’s how I got her to add me to her ‘Buddy’ list. But that’s where it all starts, right?

If you doubt any this tragic story, Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com can verify it.

I know this, because I am also Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com. And “Guy” will be the first person to tell you that the vile Prince of Zanzibar is up to no good. The vile Prince of Zanzibar will woo her with all his money and good looks, and then just toss her aside like a prom dress made of wicker!

Still, it would be cool to ride in a 3,000 foot yacht.