It’s the Thoughtlessness that Counts

Predator Press

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AS millions and millions of Predator Press fans already know, July is commemorated worldwide as the birthday of Predator Press.

And any moment now –as is tradition- people in possession of copious amounts of high explosives and potent alcohol will light up the skies in spontaneous and adoring splendor.

I am always deeply moved and exhilarated by the spur-of-the-moment festivities, and simultaneously disconcerted by the massive firepower our dangerous readers can apparently attain.

But Predator Press Birthday Month isn’t about blowing each others fingers and heads off ... in fact, I don’t really know how that ritual even got started.

Predator Press' Birthday Month is about getting presents.

There are numerous things you could give to Predator Press with far less risk of injury. Pyramids for instance. Or an eighty-foot tall solid gold LOBO effigy, surrounded by bleachers that future generations can worship from in self-deprecating comfort.


Please consider your own personal safety!

Cat Farts: “SBD,” or Just Plain “D?”

Predator Press

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I’m a little behind in responding to comments, but I have to say I’m a little stunned at what I’m reading.

There happens to be some demand for my “Cat Fart” story mentioned in the post Dr. Conrad Murray is Guilty of SOMETHING.

-This is further compounded by the startling concept of actually having to answer for something on Predator Press: never in a million years -after posting about topics like Planet Earth precariously dancing on the strings of a Robot Dinosaur Overlord- would I have ever guessed I’d be called to the carpet over “cat farts.”

Seriously. Do you guys hate Michael Jackson that much?

Hm.

Well, in any case I’m caught in a total lie. At the time I was joking: I didn’t really have a cat fart post brewing. And if you think about it, you're an asshole to bring it up. Still, while blaming you for this, I forgive you simultaneously.

There. I feel better.

Don't you?

Okay, also I'm sorry - I wanted you all to think this blog was like, cerebral, you know? Do you millions and millions of readers know how much decent cat fart recording equipment costs? And –more importantly- who do I know that will put crap like that on their credit card?

Silently, I handed my buddy Jim Tarkenton (VISA #5426-9425-2775-5555, security code 951) these encrypted instructions while pushing him violently into the Best Buy:

FELINE+(S)B/D = HAPPY READERS

***
To facilitate this groundbreaking research, we subsequently scoured the countryside.

-and what happened next was too horrible to describe in words.

Predator Press Exclusive! Shocking and Totally Legal Michael Jackson Will Found

Predator Press

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Dr. Conrad Murray is Guilty of SOMETHING

Predator Press

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Okay, let’s face it: the Michael Jackson story isn’t just fuelled by his stardom … there’s a lot of weirdness here too.

Why did the good doc take a leave of absence from his practice, sign up for the London tour, and then just boogie –without even providing information to the paramedics or police first?

Isn’t that the point of having a personal physician on staff?

I smell a rat … and were I a responsible journalist, I would pursue this story with a ruthless zeal.

Unfortunately, I’m currently drafting a story about cat farts.

Billy Mayes Dead

Predator Press

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According to Fox News, 'OxiClean' and 'Mighty Putty' pitchman Billy Mays, 50, was found dead Sunday morning.

That’s Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, Michael Jackson and Billy Mays in three days. They’re all in my thoughts and prayers.

-And so are explicit directions to Nicolas Cage’s house.

I Miss the .45 Caliber Headspace

Predator Press

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A few years ago, I stumbled over The .45 Caliber Headspace -a blog that still resides proudly in my “Grand Mal” RSS feed, despite not posting in almost a year.

This was maybe the first blog that told me, “You know what? Blogs can be about writing if you let them.”

-Thank God he was wrong about all those “writers” hogging my spotlight.

Still, let’s wake that fucker up and make him post again.

... If only to be ironic.

Skeleton Jack

Predator Press

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“Look, I couldn’t help it,” explains -eh- Shiftless, my oldest son. “Practice went over forty-five minutes. You know I can’t call.”

I scowl as he fastens his seat belt. “Well that’s just great,” I says. “It’s midnight. You know mom will think I was at a strip club or a bar or something if she wakes up.”

“What should we do?” asks Shiftless.

And that’s when I tapped the transparent cylinder into my palm, and blew glitter all over him.

"I'm way ahead of you,” I reply.