Predator Press

Friday

Pastor Terry Jones: WTG, Fucktard

Predator Press

[LOBO]

11 Dead After US Quran Burning

But has Yosemite Sam tried the Kool Aid?

Wednesday

The End is Near

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Egypt has a Revolution, Japan has Earthquakes, nuclear meltdowns are imminent, we’re bombing Libya -” I throw my hands in the air in crisis fatigue. “And now this?“

“Honey,” Terri soothes. “It’s toilet paper.”

“It’s 1-ply!”

Sunday

Driving Miss Crazy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“You need to slow down,” scolds an already irritated Terri. “You know why they put those ‘Children Crossing’ signs up, right?”

“Sure I know” I says. Decelerating, I sigh and roll my eyes. “They have to. Because children are stupid.”

“Children are not stupid.”

“Oh reeealllly,” my eyebrows arch in a mix of fury and snark. Spotting a little girl at the stop sign, I press the button to roll down my window. “You!” I points to the little girl. “Who won the 1994 World series?”

To this, the little girl stared confused -and after a moment decided to smile and wave.

“Ptthbtt,” I says, rolling my window back up. Proceeding into the clear intersection, I underline “See that? Dumb as a fuckin' post.”

Terri scowled. “There was no World Series in 1994. The players went on strike that year.”

“Really?”

Monday

Predator Press Reviews: The Ingredients of a Good Thriller

Predator Press

[LOBO]

All attempts to review one of Chris Wood’s books -The Ingredients of a Good Thriller- have been encumbered by the stubborn necessity of actually having read it first. I am immediately alarmed at the prospect: Chris is both a good friend and -typically- a great read, but this book doesn’t contain any pictures whatsoever … I already have a disinclination to like it.

But -despite my diminished hopes and the inversely growing sense of foreboding- I wanted to make good on reviewing it fairly.

-Predator Press readers would demand nothing less, right?

Finding a homeless guy to read it to me was unnecessarily complicated process, as I immediately tried to seek out “Golden Voice” guy Ted Williams. Williams, it turns out, isn’t homeless at all ... And neither is any of his security entourage, who summarily beat me into unconsciousness with a handy ice sculpture and escorted me off of the Estate.

Nonetheless Good Fortune lent a hand, I turned out to be locked in a car trunk with none other than my dear dear friend Flandsa Ha’asasanba -the hard-working and genuinely homeless immigrant I ruined by hijacking Predator Press from.

“What’s that sound?” I says, flicking on my lighter.

“It sounds like we are leaving,” says Flandsa.

I pull out a cigarette.

“Can I have one of those?” asks Flandsa.

“Dude, we’re locked in the trunk of a Mercedes. Both of us smoking? That’s like second-hand smoke a go-go. Besides, I‘m only doing it because of how you smell.” I wince in the dark. “Jesus. You people would get a lot more help if you called yourselves ‘The Showerless.’”

“I suppose,” Flandsa sulks. “What do you think Ted Williams is going to do to us?”

“Well Ted Williams is formerly homeless, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m assume he’s going to have you beaten to death with a shovel somewhere out in the dessert. But maybe he’ll have me dropped off on the way.”

“You think he’s going to let you live?”

“Well, he’s not going to kill me like I’m some homeless loser” I says, exhaling deep smoke. “I had a reason to be there. I wanted him to read me The Ingredients of a Good Thriller.”

“By Chris Wood?”

“No shit. You’ve read it?”

“Read it?” says Flandsa. “I memorized it. It was a brilliant and well-written ‘how to,’ essential to not just thriller writers, but to general thriller fans. Would you like me to recite it to you?”

“I dunno,” I say. “I’m going to be pretty busy locked in this trunk and all. If I loan you my laptop, will you just write the review for me? Just tell me if I liked it or not. Oh, and also ding him for not having any pictures.”

I kick on the lighter again to examine the trunk contents, and calmly evaluate the crisis at hand. “No ashtrays back here. Jesus. Spare tire, jack ... This is a Mercedes, right? The condiment dispenser only has domestic mustard, and where the fuck is the beer? You might think those Brits would take that into consideration when engineering these things."

“But Mercedes isn't-”

“Shh!” I says. “We’ve stopped. What has it been? Four hours maybe?”

“It’s been around eleven minutes.”

“We’ll split the difference. Four hours divided by eleven minutes, times sixty miles and hour …" I rub my temples. "Shit, we must have gone out to the dessert first.”

The barely-audibly engine is turned off, and we hear the four car doors all open and close individually.

“Well it was nice seeing you again Flandsa,” I says, as inches from my head a set of keys work the trunk lock. “Can I have my laptop back now? Did you save your work?”

The suns screams violently in, and I am instantly blinded in the hot and dry. Hands roughly drag me out and stand me up by the lapels.

I suddenly realize I am surrounded by dozens of Flandsa Ha’asasanba’s.

And they are all carrying shovels.

-I think I screamed.

Sunday

Internet Swag

Predator Press

Thursday

Canadian Breakin'

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“How come you never mentioned you had an uncle in the National Hockey League?" Terri asks, pointing at the scrapbook picture.

“Well he wasn’t a very nice guy,” I says. “He was stubborn, over-achieving, and fiercely anti-symmetric.”

“But we aren’t Jewish.”

My Uncle had more hits than Wikipedia.

“No. He was fiercely anti-symmetric," I correct. "He would come over at Thanksgiving and start stacking all the furniture in a corner.” I flip the page, and we see his laminated newspaper obituary. “It is widely suspected that's how he ended up dying in fact. While rearranging the zambonis at Philips Arena, he fell through the ice and drowned.”

“Huh," says Terri. "But I thought hockey rink ice was only a few inches thick?”

“Hence the ‘stubborn’ and ‘over-achieving’ part,” I shrug.