What if our Alien Visitors are Delicious?

Predator Press

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Oh, come on ... you're all thinking it. I'm the only one that has the cajones to come right out and say it.

And I can already hear you bleeding heart liberals complaining, 'But LOBO, aliens capable of interstellar travel would be super-intelligent!' blah blah.

Oh please ... ridden a bus lately? What if these are celestial losers tryin to get a picture of themselves next to the intergalactic equivalent of the 'World's Biggest Ball of Yarn?"

Pthbttt!

The capability of travel doesn't impress me. In fact non-intelligent beings travel every day (see photo, right).

And frankly, these rude and unannounced tourists being 'intelligent' only makes the idea more attractive: what could be better than a meal that preheats the oven, sets the timer, lathers itself in a fine mornay sauce and is fully cooked to a succulent golden-brown before you even get home?

As far as I'm concerned, the only question is whether to serve them with a white wine or a red.

Raiders of the Lost Crusader meme Trailer

Predator Press

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To place blame, please see Don Lewis.

Let Me Never Be Complete

Predator Press

The Barbary Coast

Predator Press

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I’m not sure who Barbarossa’s “real” parole officer is, but once we get that sorted out I’ll bet he and Barbarossa will both be eternally grateful to me.

But until then -with no guarantee of financial compensation- I oversee his attempt at reformation almost exclusively when Barbarossa and I can both benefit from it.  And that is most often when I am in an evil, spiteful mood, and need to kick someone around for a few hours.

-The first fifteen minutes of which he has been sitting across the desk from me as I stare, arms folded, wordless and stern.

“So no job yet, hm?” I says, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Didn’t you just get a job a few days ago?” he replies.

“I’m not the one on parole, am I?”

Barbarossa fidgets anxiously.

“No sir.”

“Ah,” I says. Deliberately, I let my eyes fall to the giant Red Button on the desk between us. It’s not hooked up to anything and we never discuss it, but Barbarossa is terrified of it. Shaking my head, I shrug and sigh, and slowly lean forward to reach for it …

“Please!” pleads Barbarossa. “I have been applying for jobs like crazy!”

“How do I know you have been applying for jobs at all?”

“I have an application in my pocket.” Standing, he procures and frantically unfolds it. “Look.” Setting it before me (at a wide berth of the Red Button), he pats the document twice, flattening it. His nervous smile reveals all of maybe six teeth total.

“Red Lobster,” he beams.

Reading, I scowl into it. “You filled it out in gibberish.”

“That’s Spanish,” he explains.

I roll my eyes. "Oh Christ that’s even worse. Nobody is going to hire a Spaniard. You people are all pirates!"

A single bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.

“They wanted someone bilingual.”

Eyebrows furrowed, I bite my lower lip in thought. “Why would they want someone with an, eh, ‘alternative lifestyle’? What the hell are they doing to the lobsters? Jesus I don’t think I’m going to eat there anymore.”

“That would be a shame.”

“You didn’t circle ‘M,’” I point out.

“Excuse me?”

“Under sex. You didn’t circle ‘M’ for ‘Male.’ You wrote something in.”

“I wrote ‘raras veces.’ That is Spanish for ‘seldom,’” he explains. “I am married.”

Could Jesus Take Mike Tyson?

Predator Press

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Once again, at no small expense to you, we here at Predator Press have set out to settle an age-old question burning in everyone’s mind: Could Jesus take Mike Tyson?





Records:

“Iron” Mike Tyson: First heavyweight boxer to simultaneously hold (and only Heavyweight to individually unify) the WBA, WBC and IBF titles.





Jesus Christ: Messiah, King of Kings, Lamb of God.




Advantage: Jesus

Weight:

We’re going to make the assumption that both competitors are in their prime. This means that Tyson, a heavyweight at 220 pounds, might have an edge on our rock-ribbed Messiah who is oft depicted as being on the lighter end of the weight class spectrum and could walk on water. Minus definitive height information, we’re going to call JC a welterweight.

But larger size comes at the expense of energy and speed. JC’s leaner build makes him more efficient. If JC could avoid any serious blows in the first few rounds, Tyson would likely have expended himself physically fairly early on. Couple this strategy with JC consistently working the body, and over a long enough timeline Tyson’s condition would diminish, making him vulnerable in later rounds.

Advantage: Jesus


Speed:

There’s no real need to mince about on this one. Tyson won his first 19 fights by knockout, and 14 of those were knockouts in the first round. However according to the Bible, Jesus moonlights from his Messiah gig as a prophet; thus, no matter how fast Tyson is, JC is going to be way ahead, anticipating where and when to block, dodge, and counterpunch.

Advantage: Jesus

Intangibles:

While there’s technically nothing in official boxing rules regarding torrents of frogs and plagues of locusts, one must factor in potential supernatural activities including interference by JC’s Dad.  God, while often taking a “hands off” approach to parenting, has also historically demonstrated Himself to be ill-tempered [see Sodom, Gomorrah]. In fact if the fight is to occur in Las Vegas, we are simply going to watch it on Pay-Per-View.

Other troublesome considerations are JC’s pacifist nature and tendency to “turn the other cheek,” something Tyson would most certainly exploit. Countering this, however, is JC’s ability to heal: JC was often cited for curing disease, blindness, et cetera.  But it is unclear whether he could use this ability on himself.  Would boxing gloves create an insulation rendering the “Laying on Hands” impossible? Or worse, what if Tyson is being healed by every blow, or sheer or proximity?

Advantage: Jesus

I Live Today

Predator Press

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Millions and millions of you longtime readers may have noticed a few rerun postings on Predator Press, and the inevitable subsequent glaring absence of sanity, intelligence, wisdom and reason across the globe.

Stop immolating yourselves. Stop jumping from tall buildings. Stop immolating yourselves and then jumping from tall buildings: I’m going to level with you. It has been a tough year for your irascible-yet-lovable Chancellor of the vast LOBOnian nation.

And you have only yourselves to blame.

(Resume immolating and jumping now.)

I’m sure we can all agree a chiseled physical phenomena such as myself would and should be utterly devoid of mortal woe. But my body apparently wasn’t notified of these details, and after the epic clash of titans I endured in June –where Big Cereal's crimes against our mighty nation and Humanity required swift, lethal and benevolent payback (and a short jail term)- half of 2011 has been dedicated to recovery and rehabilitation.

I have no doubt that you all are working frantically on technologies that will make me even more immortal and indestructible. But as of yet I got diddly, and your utter failure in this regard is simply impossible to ignore: the LOBOnian Nation has no place for this level of incompetence. Don’t make me revoke your visas!



LOBOnian slackers will be de-meated, and their bones will be exiled!

Couple this ineptitude with my ongoing treatments for Tri Polar Disorder and Cryohydrotachophobia (the fear of rogue icebergs), a lot of travel, football season, various temporary restraining orders and lawsuits, a hangnail and a new job, and it should be clear why I haven’t been following up on this lack of progress with appropriate, eh, “motivation.”

The new job in particular is a pain in the ass. Every day I have to get up, go to it, clock in and stay there doing stuff for like fifty hours, and then clock out and do it all over again the next day. I don’t know how I got tricked into it frankly.

The perpetrator of all this criminal exploitation is a book distributor. And I know what you’re thinking. “Books? Let’s see. There’s The Bible, Batman, Archie and Veronica, and Penthouse ... Ptthbt! How hard could that be?” Well it turns out there’s books on everything from computers to babies to photography to history, all stacked on pallets as far as the eye can see. Jesus Christ, there’s like a hundred of them!

Steinbeck, Camus, Hemingway ...

... Man you people read a lot of schlock.

Nights of the Round Fable

Predator Press

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After the release of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy’s faithful and adorable sidekick “Short Round” just seems to vanish from the face of the Earth.

"Well that's impossible," you say. "This could never happen."

Well it turns out that about 8% of Predator Press readers are right 22% of the time: this tragic and shocking true story has been kept under wraps for over 20 years -and it might never been known if not for the dogged and relentless investigative skill of yours truly.

While Indiana’s life -filled with hot chicks, explosions and danger- has thrilled and exhilarated movie audiences for decades, it was found to be ill-suited for raising children; before long Short Round was seized from Indy by Child Protective Custody and placed into foster care.

Heartbroken and psychologically damaged permanently by Indy’s cavalier and lax parenting, Short Round subsequently ran away and seemingly faded into a mysterious shroud of obscurity.

It was no small effort to track his whereabouts from that day forward. But during a chance examination of the MIT Archives we discovered ancient correspondence with Short Round: it seems that soon thereafter it was discovered that he was woefully poor at math, and due this hideous handicap even MIT rejected him.

His last and lowliest of hopes and dreams were horribly crushed against the jagged rapids of cruel Hollywood fate.

Out of options, he spent a few years with the Harlem Globetrotters to make ends meet ... but nothing seemed to sate his emotional void; during a Vicodin and PCP-fueled rage, he punched a cheerleader and called Curly Joe a “punk-ass bitch” –acts that led to his permanent expulsion from the league.

It might seem true that life hasn't been very kind to Short Round. But shortly after serving his jail time and rehab, he met his true love in a strip bar. Connecting instantly during a conversation about their mutual obsession with snakes, the 'sparks flew' so to speak: now Short and Sassy Round live happily in a Des Moines subdivision with their eight beautiful children.

-The oldest of which begins at MIT this August.