Predator Press

Sunday

Saturday

Wednesday

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After five years, I finally got my RSS feed working.

I'm really impressed with myself.

-I called my dad.

"Hey Dad!" I says. "I got my RSS feed working!"

"What? Who is this?"

"Dad, it's me. LOBO."

"Who?"

"Very funny Dad," I says chuckling. "We missed you at the wedding."

"What wedding?"

"I married the fair Terri."

"Oh man, she's hot."

"I know!" I says.

"Who is this really?"

"LOBO," I says. "Remember? You were undefeated at finding the most Easter eggs. I was the short one wearing the blindfold."

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe your dad was the one hiding the Easter eggs in the first place?"

"You would get frustrated after a few hours, and from then on only let us paint them white so they would be easier to spot," I muse. "I found one on my Big Wheel yesterday."

"Well I wouldn't eat it. Look. I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong-"

"You used to drill us at 3:30 every morning in case of a zombie uprising."

"Zombie uprising-?"

"Unless it was Wednesday or Sunday. That's when we practiced for alien robot overlords."

"I have no idea what you are talking about. Say, are you calling me from a cell phone?"

"How about when you burst out from under my bed, and banged a trash can while shining a flashlight into my eyes -the whole time zapping me with a cattle prod and screaming obscenities until I wet my pants?" Rhythmically, I gently kick the kitchen cabinet while absently twirling the curly phone cord in my fingers. "That's one of my fondest memories. 'The Power of Christ Compels You!' Haha. I'll bet you still tell that story."

[audible sigh]

"You realize that those same alien robot overlords would be able to intercept cellphone transmissions if they really existed?"

"Um-"

"And that once they secured a foothold on Terra Firma, they would play back all these messages searching for possible insurgents? They would send Ragnarok the Colossus!"

"Or Thrang, the Human Rototiller!"

"-If they existed, which I would never discuss over a cellphone."

"Remember how you disbelieved that new fertilizer gave you 'billions and billions of new grass blades' like it advertised, and I tried to count them for you? Cripes, I was only at 4,155,189 when the cops came."

"Yeah," says the disembodied voice. "But I was still proud of you."

"How is Rex?"

"Zombie."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We hadda put him down in 2005. He unmistakably had The Look."

"So Rex is gone? Who delivers your mail now?"

"I dunno. Some robot."

"How's mom?"

"Possible zombie."

"Mom?"

"You know her. It's hard to tell. She's never been the same after the abduction."

"Yeah. Good luck getting her near a trailer park."

"I keep tellin' her the best way to kill aliens is with a tornado. But then she just gives me The Look."

"How about Aunt Phyllis?"

"Robot zombie."

"No way!"

"She always was a social butterfly. It worked out really well for her ... she's, eh, a Class C."

"Stainless model?"

"Fusion powered. All chrome. She's really come a long way. And you should see how fast she can deal the cards at Euchre. Mom and her are still inseparable ... but if we have another incident at the petting zoo, I think they are going to call the cops."

"Poor Aunt Phyllis," I says. "It can't be easy to adjust to being a zombie and then pow, a Class C robot too -especially with all those eating disorders."

"Look. I gotta go. You take good care of that LadyTerri, okay?"

"I will dad."

"God she's hot."

"I know dad."

"You realize I have no idea who you are, right?"

"Oh, you old dog! I can see where I get my sense of humor."

"Well, congratulations on that RSS feed thingy anyways. And if you guys ever get down here to Capitol Hill, be sure and have Terri drop by my office."

"We will."

"And stay away from Hittites. Those people are nothing but trouble."

"I will. I love you, dad."

"Fag."

Monday

Predator Press Opens Etsy Shop!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of readers are always asking me every day ”LOBO, why doesn’t an entrepreneurial genius such as yourself have an Etsy shop?”

Well truthfully it wasn’t easy to find stuff worthy of selling on Predator Press. But after scouring the house numerous times, I finally decided I could not, in good conscience, stand between our fans and these fine products:

This colossally historic sandwich has the distinction of being shunned by me personally last February, and has been sitting in my fridge ever since.

-I don’t know why someone would put icky onions all over it, but this mystery only enhances it’s intrinsic value.

The fabulous usefulness of Tupperware can never be overstated, even when the lid is slightly warped and doesn’t close anymore.

Because its history is intimately linked to the afore mentioned sandwich, I consider it part of a collection: reluctant to separate them, I’m willing to combine shipping with the purchase of both.

How I came into possession of the skull of the ill-fated Pedro Enchilada Philippe Van Peebles isn’t quite clear -but as the personal barber and dentist to Isaac Newton’s second cousin's neighbor, the estimated worth is beyond calculation.

Especially if you are Pedro Enchilada Philippe Van Peebles.

Upon request, Pedro Enchilada Philippe Van Peebles can have it at half price.

Imagine my surprise when I bumped into this timeless treasure while trying to find my mailbox.

If you're a gearhead like me, this is a bargain impossible to pass up: this tasteful classic comes complete with a door, two free windshields* and four things wheels presumably attach to.

And finally, there is the crown jewel of the sale.

-No decent fireplace mantle would be complete without my massive 8.5” by 11” hand crafted self-portrait entitled, “I Love Etsy.”**

Each of the 10,000 prints I had made at Kinko's are signed and numbered -but unlike all those other dumb artists, mine are all numbered "1."

* Some assembly required.

** Frame sold separately.

Sunday

I Will Kill You All

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Of course I don’t mean Predator Press readers: I consider you the most intelligent and beneficial people on Earth.

-Besides, at the point of you having read this it would be considered “pre-meditated.”

Saturday

The Truth Is Out There. Probably.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The rollout of God's new "I'm Tired of Taking Your Crap" tour -and the subsequent phasing in of His vastly expanded 507 Commandments- shocked theologians around the world.

"Look," says Pope Benedict II.0 during the press conference. "I can't throw a rock without hitting a 'Church of Agnostic Baptist Jesuit Diagonal Orthodoxies' or whatever anymore -you mushheads would worship iced tea and potted plants if Tom Cruise told you to."

"You cannot fool me," says Odysseus from the back row. "Tom Cruise hates tea."

"Facts are facts people," Benedict sighs, tapping the podium in exasperation. "From here on out, we're goin' Old Testament on yer asses. And frankly I don't know why I'm bothering ... under the new rules, the bulk of you are going to burn in the Lake of Fire forever anyway. But a decent, honest effort might help you obviate the simultaneous electric eel enemas."

"Yuck!" says Odysseus. "Isn't that cruelty to animals -and therefore a sin itself?"

"Once again," Benedict drones. "All animals used in the service of the Lord except ocelots will be whisked straight up to Heaven."

"Why 'except ocelots'?"

"God hates ocelots. They're mean, make hideous noises when they're in heat, and are virtually impossible to housebreak. Ever try and get the smell of ocelot spray out of clouds? You gotta get, like, tanker trucks of Febreze up there, and this requires an assload of permits and Union negotiations and -Cripes Odysseus, are you writing any of this down? I'm getting really tired of repeating myself."

"Sorry," says Odysseus. "How do you spell 'ocelot'?"

For what seems like an awkward eternity, Odysseus squirms under the crushing weight of Benedict's incredulous, blinking stare.

"C-A-T."

Weary, Benedict rolls on with the announcements despite the nervous muttering. "Okay. Commandment number 367: Thou Shalt Not Leave Legos Where People Might Walk Barefoot."

"Legos?" says the dejected Dalai Lama, furiously scrawling notes from the front row. "I can't believe how way off I've been. At this rate, I'll never get me one of them cool hats."

"Hello Dalai," laughs Benedict. "-So solly! I wear this hat, and only I wears this hat. This here hat is deeply-rooted in the tradition of being a symbol of the One True Faith. But you can buy a nice baseball cap at the Vatican gift shop. I'll even Bless it for you. Now shut up and let me finish before Kanye West gets here."

"Wait," says Lao Tsu, waving his pencil over his head. "Can you repeat the part about the potted plants?"

Suddenly Gandhi leaps from behind a marble statue, and after deftly grabbing Benedict's hat, scampers off.

"Ha ha!" Gandhi chimes, hat teetering dangerously as he dances in gleeful victory.

"Gimmee my hat back, you asceticist hippie freak!" shrieks Benedict. "I'll poke your eye out with this here pointy stick!"

"Alright that's it," says Jesus from the second row, standing and rolling up his sleeves. "I'm sick of these interruptions. Gandhi, if you don't cut it out, I'm gonna kick your ass all the way up and down the Eightfold Path."

Buddha's chair creaks in relief as he stands. "So you're gonna beat up an old man, tough guy?"

"Watch it there fatbody," says Jesus holding up both fists. "I came back from the dead -you can't even grow hair. And how about putting down the cheese sticks and spending a little time on that Nordic Track we got you?"

"Gentlemen!" snaps Benedict.

"Wow," says Buddha, eyeing Jesus' circling fists. "I didn't know you were a southpaw."

"I'm not a southpaw," Jesus replies. "What makes you think I'm a southpaw?"

"Your left hand has the bone structure of a southpaw."

"Really?" says Jesus, inspecting it closely. "I've never noticed a-"

Just then Buddha smacked Jesus' elbow, driving His hand into His own forehead.

"Buddha, stop messing with Jesus," says Mohamed, storming into the large antechamber. "Sorry I'm late." Sizing up Buddha's ever-burgeoning girth, he whistles. "Dude, we all pitched in on that Nordic Track. Did you even open the box?"

"Hey hey hey," demands Benedict. "Shut those doors behind you. You'll let out the air conditioning."

"Yeah Mohamed," says Buddha. "Were you born in a barn?"

"Oh, like I've never heard that one before," says Jesus. "Real original. You guys better remember my Dad can kick the crap out of all you guys with the entire universe tied behind His back."

"Oh yeah?" says Buddha. "Where exactly did you read that?"

"It's in the Bible."

"I thought God wrote the Bible," says Ganesha.

"He did," says Jesus.

"Okay," says Shiva. "Lessee here. If my Dad wrote a book about kicking other Gods' butts, I wonder how it would've turned out."

"Um," I clear my throat. "Excuse me."

"What the hell is that?" asked Buddha.

"That is, eh, one of My Father's creations," says Jesus. "His name is LOBO."

"Ewe," says Pelé. "I'm going to have to rinse my eyes in lava to burn this image out."

"How revolting," says Buddha. "Just look at his skin. Blech. He must play a lot of Final Fantasy XII."

"Jesus, what gives?" says Zeus, gesturing at me. "Was your Dad in a hurry or something?"

"Dammit I'm standing right here," I remind them.

"Maybe," says Jesus cautiously to Zeus, scratching his beard. "There’s a long-standing ‘In His Image’ clause in the Charter, but in this particular case I better check my facts."

"Yeah thanks Jesus," I says. "While I'm here, can I enroll for the rest of your Self Esteem Seminars?"

"Well, please look into it soon," says Pelé to Jesus. "I'll bet if you ever had to get an eyewash from a volcano, you would have much higher standards."

"Careful Pelé. You could 'poki' you eye out," says Benedict. "Eh? Eh?"

[Nobody got it]

"He isn't even wearing any fish skeletons!" remarks Poseidon.

"Be serious P," says Tupac. "This punk-ass bitch ain't got no bling."

Don't say it out loud. Don't say it out loud. Please God don't say it out loud-

"Nah," I shake my head. "I blow all my cash on Biggie Smalls records."

-You dumb @!#$% asshole. I told you not to say it out loud-!

"Say Benedict," asks Tupac. "Does that Vatican gift shop sell sporting goods?"

"No."

"Little white man," says Tupac, leaning close to my ear. "You're lucky I already used all my bullets on that lousy choir."

"So am I late for the party?" asks Zeus. "I brought everybody gold!"

"You better keep that 'Shower of Gold' in your pants Mister," says Hera, "or Perseus is going to public school!"

[All laugh]

"It's all good baby," says Zeus. "It's all good."

"Okay," says Benedict. "Nobody got my 'poki' joke, but Hera is a hit by making lame jokes about her husband's infidelities?"

"Dude," whispers Shiva. "Don't go there. Zeus gets pissed. Turns you into crap."

"Well Hera is an enabler," Benedict reasons.

"Uh, yeah, okay," guffaws Shiva, rolling her eyes. "If 'enabler' is a euphemism for slut."

"Excuse me," I repeat, clearing my throat.

"Jesus," breathes Gandhi. "Is he still here?"

"It appears so," says Jesus. "I seriously would have thought Tupac would've waxed him by now."

"What is it, you repulsive little mortal man?" groans Pelé.

"Hey sister, lay off," says the Dalai Lama. "The fact that this poor guy is so hideously deformed that Angler fish probably wouldn't sleep with him isn't his fault-"

"Hey!" I protest.

"-and I've had enough of your smartmouthed mortal-bashing. You know all that poi you Hawaiians eat, Pelé? You want to know where that poi comes from?"

Odysseus' eyebrows furrow. "Where?"

"Every full moon," says Apollo, "A squad of pixies descend upon Poseidon and pop the zits on his back."

"What!?" screams Pelé.

"I consider it payback really," Poseidon shrugs. "Those Hawaiians pee in the ocean so much, the water is like three degrees warmer there."

The Dali Lama sneers. "How do you like me now, immortal volcano bitch? Hm?"

It was at the exact second -while everyone was distracted by Odysseus puking in the wastepaper basket- I finally interrupt. "Ladies and gentlemen -and, uh, whatever- my name is LOBO, and I'm here to cover this history-making story for Predator Press. And indeed so far this is a good story. But you know what would make this a great story?"

"Hey Zeus," Samson snickers. "Five bucks says I could kill a thousand people with this guy's jawbone."

"Ha ha!" says Zeus, high-fiving him. "Good one!"

C'mon LOBO I tell myself. Be persuasive. "What would make this a great -no- epic story for my blog would be you all just slugging it out to the death, once and for all."

"Fight to the death?" asks Shiva, perplexed.

"Well it would be a heck of a lot simpler to write about, and I only got about six shots left on my disposable camera. This is the reel from when I went to Cancun."

"Ah god," stammers a deathly pale Odysseus, stumbling back into his chair. "I used to like poi."

"But why would we do that?" Zeus asks me, bemused. "Without many of us to choose between, humans wouldn't have the ability to decide who to worship. And what good is an entire mortal lifetime not squandered over the amusing fear of cryptic laws, weird rituals of worship, moral ambiguity, perpetual doubt, unnecessary violence, and the ever-present potential consequence of Eternal Damnation?"

"Well that's kinda my point, isn't it?"

"I used to like Hawaii," Odysseus groans.

"Am I missing something here?" asks Poseidon. "We're having trouble seeing any upside to your proposal."

"What about saving my Cancun pictures?" I scowl. "Weren't you listening? You all should just hash this thing out right now. Think about it. A single God would really take the pressure off humankind too, and that's what we're looking for really: a dynamic God with a refreshing 'can-do' attitude. Plus once we've eliminated all this headachy mystery crap, Humankind can devote itself full time to building Him or Her pyramids or whatever! I think we deserve a crushing, repressive theocratic reign for the rest of Eternity in happiness. Don't you?"

"I can see his point," says Gandhi. "One God and one simple set of rules would really help humankind through a lot of this confusion. Besides, I always wanted a pyramid."

"Hey," says Zeus. "Has anyone seen Hera or Tupac?"

"-Eh," starts Shiva, thinking quickly. "How would we settle this? Hypothetically, of course."

"I recommend duking it out straight up," I says. "And if it's boxing, I've got two-to-one on all takers Vishnu will clean house."

"I've got twenty that says Vishnu doesn't last three rounds," says Zeus. "That's a glass jaw if I ever saw one."

"You're on."

"Look, we're not boxing over the fate of the universe," says Apollo. "I say we go 'Rock, Paper, Scissors.'"

I frantically fish out my wallet. "Then I got three-to-one on Vishnu!"

"We can't box or play 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' for the fate of the universe against a guy with fifty arms," says the Dalai Lama. "Why don't we just save a lot of time and energy and give it to the guy wearing the gayest boots?"

"Kiss my ass," says Apollo.

"Perhaps Humankind is now ready," says Zeus, eyebrow arched, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Maybe we should finally reveal to them that the True secret to Heaven and Eternal Happiness is-"

"Look," I sigh. "All this endless jibber-jabber is getting us nowhere. And I think I speak for all Humankind when I say that we humans don't give a crap about all that blissed-out hippie Eternal Salvation or whatever, and sitting around and debating this stuff is how we got into this problem in the first place. I'm sticking to my guns with the boxing thing. Elimination matches, one survivor, winner-take-all. Aren't you curious yourselves who the first punk would be to get whacked?"

"Not particularly," says L. Ron Hubbard.

Friday

An That's How I Found Out I'm Jewish

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“… and as a consequence,” Terri concludes, shutting her Bible, “The Jews are God’s Chosen People.”

Slowly coming out of a trance of binge writing, I pause on that random thought.

“I didn’t know I was Jewish,” I interject.

It’s the first thing I’ve said in forty minutes or so, and Terri, Screechy and Shiftless turn and stare at me blankly.

“What do you mean?” asks Terri cautiously. "We're not Jewish."

“Well I don’t want to brag, but if God has a 'Chosen People,'” I gesture to myself. “I’m clearly it. Ergo I’m Jewish, right?”

Screechy, six years old, rolls his eyes for the first time.

I’m so proud.

Sensing a religious discussion, Shiftless fidgets uncomfortably.

“Don’t mock religion,” Terri scowls. “It’s not funny.”

“Mock religion?” I defend. “I love religion. Heck, the two hours of church you guys go to on Sunday is the most peaceful this house is all week. Stop oppressing my people.”

“You’re going to start going to church too,” she insists.

“Then how will I know when my NFL teams need prayers?”

Terri shakes her head. “God doesn’t meddle with football games.”

“Yeah well maybe not with the Bears' anyway,” I concede.

“God is busy. He orchestrates the cosmos. He feeds the animals.”

“God feeds the animals the other animals,” I point out wandering to the kitchen. “Today is Friday, right?”

“Yes.”

Disappointedly, I gape into the refrigerator.

“Is KFC kosher?”