Hijacking the OC

Predator Press

[LOBO]

No, I don't mean the one on television.

I mean the good one.

I once hijacked The Ominous Comma.

There's no need to thank me.

See Brent and I go way back. We've been trying to wipe one another out since the dawn of time; indeed, our epic battles often make "Star Wars" look like kids scuffling over a sandbox.

In fact, that's how it all started now that I think about it ... I was innocently eating ice cream one day, and Brent came over and knocked it down into the sandbox.

"Why'd you do that?" I sobbed.

Brent said, "Cuz you got cooties, cootie-face!"

Furious, I screamed and cried like a sissy until the adults came and made Brent stick his nose in the corner for the rest of the day. And then I laughed and laughed and laughed.

-Man I miss High School sometimes.

Despite his overt hostility and aggression towards me, I have made numerous efforts to be friends.

I've stuck up for him.

I've looked out for him.

Like the time when Brent was getting those phone calls and contracts from some guy suspiciously named "Aaron Spelling". This dude was supposedly some big shot Hollywood stiff that was looking to cast Brent in some TV series called "Melrose Street" or something. But he wasn't even trying to be convincing: the dollar figure this obvious fraud was offering Brent was so long it had to be a made up number. I doubt you could have even fit it on a check!

Like some jerk that doesn't even know how to spell "Aron" would be put in charge of anything!

Pthbbt!

It was obviously a cruel joke.

Brent is exactly the kind of trusting and sensitive soul that would've flown out to Hollywood and get his heart broken by this "Spelling" hoax: I must have thrown dozens of letters and plane tickets away.

I finally ended up impersonating Brent on the phone and telling that stalker phony, "If I ever hear from you again, I'll freeze your ass with liquid nitrogen. Then you can watch as I chip small pieces off of your bloated carcass, and dance barefoot in your melted slush!"

So yeah. Ever since then, Brent and I been tryin to squish each other through fine mesh screens.

It's all in good fun really.

Like the time I was in Intensive Care, and he switched my chart with Rex Grossman football plays and poured the bedpan into my IV. Or when I kidnapped his dog 'Buttons', and left it at Michael Vick's place all covered in Barbeque sauce.

Ah, good times Brent.

Good times.

Stamps Are for Pansies: I Collect Debt

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep will doubtlessly send me a bill for his unsuccessful attempt to get in my pants.

Corporations are really sneaky in this sense; pants on or pants off, either way you're screwed. That's why you always hear in sexual harassment cases the phrase, "was fired for rebuffing the boss' sexual advances."

"Advances," huh?

Hm.

Well good luck Doc. Get in line. I got so many bills, I don't even check the mail anymore. The postman just lobs my crap out of his jeep onto the huge pile in my front lawn, and once a year we hold a bonfire.

The reality is I collect huge and vacuous fabulous debt, and the more staggeringly titanic the better. Entire economies rise and fall based on my glorious and vast counter-acquisitions, the entire Nation depends on me to perpetuate them. I would go as far as to say that if I won the lottery, the United States would suddenly collapse as bill collectors nationwide were forced to lay off their staffs.

Who am I to send this fine and semi-talented workforce into poverty and squalor? As a deeply religious man, I rather admire that baseless and eternal optimism.

Just face it: my personal dedication to irresponsibility probably accounts for a full percent of employment in the country.

You all should be thanking me.

Especially you Student Loan deadbeats. Instead of even building a single colossal golden effigy of myself -or even sending a lousy Hallmark card for that matter- what thanks do I get for all the commerce I have provided?

Angry phone calls.

I majored in philosophy for Christ sakes ... the sensible thing would have been to write the whole damn thing off immediately. Have I ever embarrassed you at a used car dealership with your tragically flawed logic? No! Frankly I've been pretty classy about it.

And and bless my little black heart, I tried to get a job as a philosopher. I really did. I stopped shaving, and bitched about shit until the cops came. When MicroSoft asked me to submit a resume for the CEO of Future Technological Development position, I sent them a potted philodendron.

-To this day, MicroSoft has yet to develop a decent Philodendron scandens micans with USB inputs, and frankly I doubt they ever will.

These "jobs" as you call them are just flimsy pretexts for work. There. I said it. The first hurdle is actually going there, and it's all an uphill battle after that: even after the whole "showing up" debacle, people then expect you to stay there and do stuff for them all the time.

Then with whatever you’ve earned, you gotta pay the bills for the stuff that generally revolves around working, like clothes and reliable transportation.

Can you believe this circular logic?

Well I have news for you America: you ain't fooling nobody.

... But can I borrow $10?

Emergency Exit

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep finally peers up from his clipboard. "From the symptoms you've described, I'm going to recommend a colonoscopy."

I reflect on this quietly for a moment. "Well that ain't gonna happen. I'm claustrophobic. You'll never get me on a submarine."

"That's a periscope. But the principal is similar. We pass a fiber optic camera through the anus to look for abnormalities."

"Did you wash your hands afterward?"

The doctor sighs. "We want to do that to you."

"Jesus Doc, what the hell kind of website do you run?"

"It's to figure out how to treat you."

"Huh," I says, casually bumping my paper booties against the hospital bed. "But I don't think I could eat a whole camera really. And is that even sanitary? I would have to have a brand new one. Can you make 'em taste like pork chops?"

"We go the other way."

"Chicken?"

The doctor stares.

I laugh suddenly. "You couldn't possibly mean-"

Doctor Nyarlathotep nods.

"Well let me think this over," I says. I feel myself going pale. "Okay I thought it over. No."

"People just like you go through this every day."

"Every day? I doubt that. How could they walk?" Gripping the edge of the bed to keep my ass firmly planted, my knucles are turning white. "Is there such a thing as a semicolonoscopy?"

"The acquisition of these images is very routine."

"Routine?" I says, thinking quickly. "For an earache?"

"You said you had stomach cramps and-"

"No I didn't. I distinctly said 'earache'. You must've misunderstood." Looking at my watch, I feign surprise. "Oh my god. Is it 10 o'clock already?" Jumping off of the bed, I seize my clothes hurriedly. "I've got to get to a ... thing."

"Look," says the doctor. "I can understand your apprehensions. But we can sedate you if necessary."

"Well, hoo-wee that makes for an attractive offer," I says.

-Now I'm really in a hurry.

After the pants, I put on my shoes without tying them. "Sorry about that whole 'keyster' mix-up ... honestly, mine could sharpen a pencil right now. And don't worry about me suing you for malpractice or anything. 'Earache' and 'stomach cramps' sound so much alike, I can see where that can happen. Boy, we sure dodged a bullet there."

Still buttoning my shirt with one hand, I open the door and back out waving. "Well Doc, thanks a lot. I can't shake your hand right now because of these crazy shirt buttons. Damn these buttons! They're crazy. But rest assured I would if I had the time."

Doctor Nyarlahotep points to a rumpled pile of clothing with his pen. "You forgot your socks."

"Those, uh, were there when I got here. Bye now!"

The Package Dance

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Where are you?" asks LadyTerri into the phone.

"I'm right outside bringing in the trash cans. It was slow today so I figured I would come home early."

"Well, I wish you would have called. We need paper towels."

"I'll go later. What's up?"

"A package came for you in the mail."

"A package? Really?"

"Yes."

"A ... package, you say?"

"LOBO," she says. "You're not going to do that stupid dance again, are you?"

After a brief pause, the sound of large Rubbermaid products hitting concrete can be heard in the distance.

Our teenager rolls his eyes. "See Mom? I told you."

The front door busts open in thunderous triumph.

"Ohhhhhhh ... !" I sing in a rough facsimile of B minor.

"Shit," says LadiTerri in no key whatsoever.

"I got a package. I got a package!. A P-A-C-K-A-J-E, I got a paaaaaaaackage."

"Stop him Mom!"

Running over to the coffee table, I circle the small, plainly-labeled rectangular box. "-and this is my package!" I pirouette gracefully, and end pointing at her. "And you didn't get nooooo package ..."

LadyTerri glares.

"And you," I point at the teen. "Didn't-get-no-package because you didn't-mow-the-lawn-for-your-allowance so your-eBay-rating-is-in the duuuuuuuuumpster ..."

The five year old loves the Package Dance. "I got a package!" he joins.

"Like hell!" I retort, doing big chorus girl kicks. Scooping up the box, I hold it close to my heart while kneeling. Leaning into him closely I croon, "because you ain't got no credit caaaaaard ... "

"That's mean," complains LadyTerri.

I look at the boy. "Would you like to see this package?" I sing tunelessly, offering the parcel.

Grinning, he reaches for it with both hands.

God he always falls for that ...

"Well you cannot!" I crescendo, standing. "For it is my package. Myyyyyyy package. It's in your face, don't you disgrace-"

Suddenly, in all the spinning motion, a colorful plastic object slides out of the box, and tumbles onto the carpet.

"It's Kung Fu Hustle, Dad," smirks the teen. "We all watched it this afternoon."

"BASTARD!" I scream.

A Predatory Discourse on Entrecard

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a 4-year blogger, I've spent the last several months aggressively seeking new ways to shamelessly whore my stuff.

I don't know about the rest of you, but the bottom line is that I'm a writer, and my goal is to get paid writing somewhere; therefore, I have to balance whoring with the generation of copious amounts of this schlock on a consistent basis.

The end result is a lot of a product of bare minimum quality, which I'm proud to say I excel at.

Occasionally, this has made me a little zealous to get on board with "the next big thing". As you may already know, I'm not much of a "commenter", and generally this is key in any blogger's success. I try. I swear I do ... but I just don't have it in me. Before today, if you saw any one of my various little avatars pop up on your site, you generally could rest assured that I like it.

Well, "Entrecard" has totally ruined all that.

Recently, the "blogosphere" got injected with this little tool and it has shifted my M.O. entirely. Now, instead of surfing news stories in search of story ideas, I'm hopping a startling number of interlinked and cross-promoting sites in order to get Enrecard credits -I call it 'skimming' for lack of a better term. These credits are useable for advertising on other sites, which presumably skim through my site with the exact same level of utter disinterest.

Don't get me wrong: via Entrecard, I did discover some real gems like spacedust and neOnbubble -brilliant sites that I am eager to share with you. But I was accepting whatever the hell ad happened to cross my path, and a lot of that stuff was just plain 'ole commercial.

I was starting to feel kinda dirty.

The fact that I evidently had "standards" shocked no one more than myself.

So a few nights ago, I couldn't live with it anymore; I ended up doing what likely constitutes the Entrecard Cardinal Sin, and gutted my ad schedule. This made me feel even worse, because now I wasn't following through with commitments I've made.

But how dare those other blogs exploit my Entrecard naivety, wreck up my credibility, and leave and make me feeling this way?

... I blame them entirely.

So to avoid the risk of feeling rejected -or more importantly, pissing me off- I've come up with some statistics to aid you should you seek becoming advertised on Predator Press:

Sites containing the words "Marketing" or "Make Money Online": 0%
Has suicide really fallen that far out of fashion?

Sites that promote anonymous link exchanging: 0%
The rest of humanity pays for prostitution. Why shouldn't you?

Blogs written by guys named Travis: 0%
Know why King Travis the Second never conquered Rome? 'Cus there never was no King Travis the First, Second or Third. It's a bullshit name we just made up like twenty years ago. If you're going to bother making up names, try something with balls like 'Chainsaw'.

... Unless it's a boy. Then I like 'Todd'.

Sites that automatically start playing music: 0%
You want me dancin or reading? I think another site already has this covered. It's called iTunes.

But thanks ... every cubicle in earshot really needed a sudden blaring dose of your '80s crap.

Sites with popups: 0%
I will kill you all.

Slowly.

Sites about pets and cutesy pics with captions: 50%
Actually this statistic surprised me too ... while I honestly think icanhascheezburger has pretty much got the market cornered, who can get enough of animals?

They're delicious!

Sites that make me laugh, are clever, insightful, amusing, thought provoking, and/or have potential: 75%
Just "good enough" isn't always good enough. We love you, but Predator Press is a fickle mistress.

In the spirit of this new tradition, I promise that the only ads you'll see here will be hand-picked kickass sites worth clicking on.

And to commemorate this day, I'm proud to have a kickass blog that I read on a consistent basis in the slot. I've been onboard with .45 Caliber Headspace since it's inception: it's darkly funny, well-written and frankly one of the best sites out there. From day one I knew it was going to be a monster success, and I was not wrong.

Thanks for the laughs .45.

We're glad you're here.

E-Bay Raid-Afay. E-Bay Ery-Vay Raid-Afay

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Dear eBay,

I just did a search for "Kung Fu Hustle DVD", and this came up.

This is not a DVD, it's a UMD.

To me, it's this is the pricey equivalent of a drink coaster.

I can see typing in a plain movie name and getting T-shirts 'an crap. But when I specifically search "Kung Fu Hustle DVD" I do not want a Kung Fu Hustle toaster. Nor do I want Kung Fu Hustle hair gel.

I want a DVD.

In no way is this a DVD.

To avoid confusion, I use a very simple principle to determine what is a DVD:


RULE # 1:

My DVD player plays it.

-This is to a DVD like a Boeing 747 is to foot powder.

Your negligence and total lack of precision almost cost me $10 ... Please feel free to continue this logic when you seek my credit card payment, and charge it to Brent Diggs.

Nonetheless, for betraying the prosperous commerce LOBOnia and America have peacefully shared for years -and dammit crimes against Humanity- I see no recourse other than to deal out harsh penalties for your treasonous acts: I hereby bestow upon you the official Predator Press Stone of Shame, and have had it permanently installed just outside of your main entrance.

Every day your employees come and go to work, they will be forced to gaze upon it and reflect on this shameful moment in history.

kewlguy_LOBO77

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

Blogging from two days in THE FUTURE has it's advantages.

For instance, no longer do readers need risk their deeply intimate details and crazy problems in the mail when seeking my advice and wisdom. What if those humiliating and profoundly entertaining letters fell into the wrong hands?

Now I can answer them in advance.

Behold:

"Dear LOBO,

I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency.

Can you give me some advice that
might spice up our romance?"

Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida
33610

Kelly,

It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other. Worse, it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toes that audibly snag and clicketty-clack on the linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.

First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health, and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance', and fully embrace your hate instead.

Spoil yourself! Go buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering lights as the fading youthful beauty and vitality you might have squandered on that hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck: given enough time he would have left you an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion.

Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates; take all that insurance money and start over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge yourself in a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. Go get so much plastic surgery, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack.

Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.