There's An A$$hole in the Bucket List Dear Liza, Dear Liza

Predator Press

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I've never seen "The Bucket List," but I've seen a jillion posts about it. And I was cool with steering clear of the topic despite it's intriguing nature.

So I'm dead last with my 'Bucket List' post.

-Mine is to have my life made into a major motion picture, and being subsequently driven from the movie's premier by the resulting angry, bloodthirsty rioting mob.

I swear on a stack of Bibles that's mine.

So now that I've ripped off 1,116 other bloggers of a post premise, I might as well go the distance and rip off Diesel too, right?

I am proud to present Predator Press' very first Semi-Annual Caption Contest!

"But LOBO," I can hear you saying. "How can you possibly have time for Caption Contests while trying to defend the Earth from the unrelenting tide of the Great Zombie Omnacracy?"

Easy!

Getting rid of zombies isn't like, say, getting rid of Jews or anything: zombies are dumb. So I've decided that I will make the caption, and you -the loyal reader- will do all the Photoshopping. Seriously. And have you seen my Photoshopping? Ughh.

-You couldn't possibly do any worse.

Besides ... by doing this, I've reminded you to vote for Diesel in a sneaky, subliminal hypnofied way: it's like jamming broken and salted vote for Diesel glass into your Frontal lobe. If you don't vote for Diesel, you will doubtlessly wake up out of breath, heart racing, dripping sweat with a nosebleed and the subject of a new Stephen King -no, a Dean Koontz novel.

-And all the while wondering why you didn't just simply vote for Diesel.

So here it is:




Good luck to all!

The Ingredients of a Good Thriller

Predator Press

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The sales of Chris Wood's new book The Ingredients of a Good Thriller appear to be outpacing the free Predator Press Temporary Advance copies of This Book Kicks the Crap Out of All Those Other Books by an extraordinary margin.

-I mean I don't even think this is a real number.

My advisors tell me this is largely attributable to me never actually having written "This Book Kicks the Crap Out of All Those Other Books."

And as far as my Astrologers? This was the first they had heard of the thing.

I would fire everyone, but I don’t think I’ve paid them for six months or so already anyway.

-And hey, the Astrologers shoulda seen it comin’.

It's the Thought that Pounced

Predator Press

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“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

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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

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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

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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

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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.