Predator Press Semi-Annual Caption Contest Winner Announced

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Congrats to Alex L., author of the relentlessly insightful Discrete Charm of the Middle Class for his winning entry.

Well, the only entry actually.

-But I’ve grossly underestimated how much work goes into having these “Caption Contests,” aka judging them and stuff.

With all my candor I’m sure it’s very easy to forget that I’m a dignitary -an emissary from the great nation of LOBOnia, a 10-foot mobile US breakaway province that surrounds me at all times.

It tends to be very time consuming.

And we often mutually benefit from the intertrading commodities -LOBOnia even uses your American currencies.

“Hello you wonderful Americans!” I always singsong as I enter a gas station.

See, America and LOBOnia have great relations overall. In fact there’s nothing I enjoy more than bursting into large groups of industrious hard-working Americans and greeting them effusively.

Invariably, I am met with those silent smiles, the smiles of people drinking in the goodwill and friendship established between these two mighty empires. Seizing the moment, I will approach the countertop deskspace –the area where the proprietor carefully checks his magazines for unsightly typos.

“Ahmed my good man,” I says. “Have you voted for Diesel yet today?"

"Who?"

"Diesel. He's a famous guy on the computer thingy. Drives a car with a clitoris?"

More polite smiling.

"-ah forget it. Ahmed, I wish to engage in a series of negotiations which will allow me to import a rather large emergency cache of Funyuns.”

“Isle Two,” says Ahmed.

“Your assistance in these matters are as always appreciated,” I says embarking for "Isle Two" ... about three feet away. “When your American President inevitably seeks an audience with me, I will be sure to underline your vigorous efforts to facilitate our frequent commerce.”

“$2.11,” says Ahmed.

“It says $1.99 on the bag.”

Ahmed rolls his eyes. “It’s an import-export tariff.”

“I have authorized no such levee.”

“$2.11,” says Ahmed.

I shake my scepter warningly. “But it says $1.99 on the bag!”

[*sigh*]

-Being a dignitary is very time consuming.

Congrats Alex!

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

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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.”