Predator Press
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Way, way back in this blog, I mentioned managing an orphanage.
-As a successful entrepreneur, I feel it's important to give back to the community.
Well I’m proud to announce that according to
StreetWise Magazine, my orphanage was far and away the most profitable in 2009. Nationwide!
The children hosted an awards dinner I was expected to attend, but I declined the invitation. (Remember, I do the budget for that place ... I’m not eating that crap.) I figured a more suitable reward for my accomplishments would be a ceremony held at the Hilton Brazil -an infinitely classier place, so far from the scrubby little bastards they couldn't
dream of attending. They smell funny.
-And they would have been bored anyway. I’ll send them some pictures. They’ll be thrilled.
Unfortunately orphans don’t know shit about music, and any consideration to upgrading their food to real gruel instead of the imitation stuff was immediately forgotten when I heard the samba band they hired: the dense crowd of aristocrats and I were assaulted with the stabbing sound of a maraca player either drunk, a rhythmless incompetent
idiot, or both.
Instantly grabbing a champaign bottle by the neck, I shatter it on a nearby marble statue and rush the stage so I can plunge the glistening, jagged edges deeply into the bastard’s throat. "You
butcher!" I scream. "You talentless hack! You don't
shake maracas, you
blend maracas!"
While security held me back at first, the crowd had already turned on the offender; I was soon rushed up to try and rescue the performance. The lead singer tried to hand me
his beastly maracas, and I almost reflexively spat on them. It was then I opened my briefcase and cried into the microphones, "Behold!"
As the lead singer's eyes adjusted to the glowing light, his jaw dropped.
I unsecured
my maracas from the inside of the case. They are hand carved from genuine elephant tusk ivory, inlaid in gold, and are filled with naturally mummified panda embryos.
... And halfway through 'Copa Cabana,’ members of the audience were
weeping.
Millions and millions of Predator Press Voluntary Insiders (like CNN and Fox News) have, after a scant three months, uncovered incontrovertible, shocking evidence.
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s a few of you might have realized, my computer recently went kablooey … I’m woefully behind on comments, and have even re-issued a handful of posts. I’ve kajiggered a system of using my email to get that done, but it’s time consuming.
And I was initially thinking my book -"This Book Kicks the Crap Out of All Those Other Books"- would be a cookbook, but it turns out a chalk outkine of a lobster at the bottom of the pot ruins virtually any bisque, no matter how much garlic you add.
But this post isn’t about how all Predator Press readers agree Shakespeare is a limelight-mooching talentless hack: this post is about a very kind and unsolicited write-up I got from FamousWhy Terri found.
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FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”
Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' sham! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?
If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?
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Predator Press
As the lead singer's eyes adjusted to the glowing light, his jaw dropped.
Predator Press
