Charlie Who -Wants to WHAT?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I think Charlie Sheen should get his meeting with Obama to discuss the possibility of a 9/11 conspiracy, but only under the condition that it’s a “quid quo pro”: I’ve been trying to figure out what conspiracy allowed the making of Major League II for years.

Perhaps this is an example of “Method Acting”: Charlie -absolutely seething with "Method"- is about to release a movie called Foodfight! where he voices a character named Dex Dogtective. This controversy will doubtlessly cause enough Hollywood “buzz” to finally catapult Charlie's performances into the Oscars.

Charlie Sheen is most certainly an actor. Al Fresco -the guy that unloads his mower from a pickup truck and mows my lawn- is most certainly a gardener. But I am always happy to see Al Fresco ... largely because he does much-needed work, and he does it extremely well.

This isn’t to say I don't want every teeny nuance of 9/11 investigated; I'm just saying from a Public Relations standpoint, Al Fresco should be at this meeting too.

-Al Fresco doesn’t speak good English well, but nonetheless may contribute volumes to the meeting's credibility by simple virtue of his unrelentingly conscientious taste, and extraordinary talent for his craft.

Meanwhile Charlie hawks Hanes® underwear.

But could Charlie's underwear possibly be better than Al Fresco's?

I rest my case.

Predator Press Declares Self “Official Website of Atlantis”

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well why not? We’re just as qualified as any of those other jerks. Predator Press has as long a history of not proving things as anyone: I’ve been questioning the Legend of Bigfoot, the female orgasm, and the existence of Canada since this blog's virtual inception.

Cryptic, vague references to the lost city of Atlantis go back dozens of years -before many of us were even born. For instance the philosopher Plato -most famous for killing Socrates by bashin him upside the head with a hemlock- waxed on and on and on about it. But like everyone else in history Plato is now dead too, and as a consequence of not getting himself on television we no longer have any records of his teachings, nor any idea what he was talking about.

There's a lot of possibilties if you think about it. It might have been Plato's crafty way to trick Diogenes into taking a bath every once in a while. "Here," Plato might say to Diogenes. "Take this bar of soap as an offering, and they might let you drive a flying car!" Or maybe Plato was just really, really drunk.

Many scientists concur that Atlantis is now in Las Vegas masquerading as a casino -but many scientists also do not agree with this too: this all remains to be decided by careful application of something called the “Scientific Method.” While not familiar with said “Scientific Method” per se, I’m almost certainly going to Pay-Per-View the event; how often do you see guys in lab coats beating each other with tire irons and gigantic robots in pursuit of The Truth?*

Man, science is cool.

In conclusion, I submit that nobody has provided more proof of the existence of Atlantis than we have in this post -thus Predator Press is most deserving of the coveted “Official Website of Atlantis” title.

Eh, plus whatever royalties and recognition that should come with this mammoth and expensive undertaking.


*It seems only fair to warn you, Predator Press scienticians have had a giant robot -well suited for obliterating other so-called “theories” in a spray of blood and bone- in production since 2008.

It even has cup holders now.

Science Is A Wonderful Thing

neOnbubble

[Mark]

Science is a wonderful thing. Science, for instance, aided me in waking up this morning. Of course, if you're not great at waking up and find the experience utterly repugnant and liable to leave you in a foul mood for at least the first half-hour of consciousness - a quick wave to my wife here who may be reading - then you may conclude that science in this particular case is decidedly not a wonderful thing. As an amateur scientist you are perfectly within your rights to come to that conclusion; the beauty of science is that it's great to be wrong. For you.

Science is a wonderful thing. Science, as I've mentioned, aided me in waking up this morning. Science made it possible for a production line of six-year-old Thais to put together the components of my digital alarm clock. Science was also involved in the biological processes that gently shifted my body out of its comatose state, through an interlude of dreaming the likes of which would blow your mind were I to divulge its thread of insanity, and thence to a state of near-alertness primed to ensure the alarm clock entered its so-called "Snooze" state as soon as humanly possible after blasting out and flashing into life.

Some people, it seems, are irritated by a pulsing, blue glow accompanied by the local radio station's attempt to promote a local double glazing manufacturer with an obviously-locally-produced advert through the medium of a happy jingle and unoriginal tagline at 200dB at 6:45 in the morning. A quick wave to my wife here who may still be reading.

Science is a wonderful thing. Science, as I've explained, aided me in waking up this morning. And, after waking, science then assisted in ensuring I was ready for the day by permitting my house's artificial intelligence computer network entity to manufacture a series of deadly pits, logic puzzles, and feats of strength between the bedroom and bathroom while I slept. Cleaning your teeth with a heart rate of 187 beats per minute while tending to an oxyacetylene burn on the thigh and contemplating the best way to dispose of a vicious - but now vanquished and rapidly rotting on the hallway carpet - chimeric nightmare formed in the cloning lab in the attic is how I like to prepare for whatever life can throw at me.

That's all thanks to science. And a lot of money. Obtained with the help of gun science and a look of fury that said "turn that effing thing off and let me go back to sleep and do something with your life before I strangle you" from a certain someone, early one morning, many years ago. A quick wave to my wife here who may be skimming down the page by now.

Science is a wonderful thing. Science, you're aware, aided me in waking up this morning. Thereafter, science came together in a show of force to ensure I was at peak mental and physical efficiency for a day of work. You won't be surprised to learn this: that's science work!

Today I engaged in scientific research. The size of a man's vehicle is inversely proportional to the size of a man's preferred tool of reproduction; we all know this to be fact. I and my team at the We'll Study Anything If There's A Grant Involved Foundation, however, also ascertained that there is a directly proportional relationship between the size of a man's vehicle and just how much of a dick he really is.

Science can now confirm that a man who drives a Fiat Punto is most-likely great all round and well-endowed, bus and truck drivers are total tossers with shrivelled appendages, and captains of oil tankers deserve every piratical act that happens upon them and never visit the toilet without a pair of tweezers for assistance.

Yes, science is a wonderful thing. Oh, and I used to drive a Fiat Punto. A quick wave - and a wink - to my wife here who may have skipped to the end.


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The Brood Network

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A vague dalliance with "Facebook" has given me an often-unrequested glimpse into the past, and friends from way back are beginning to build their own blogs and web page variants.

One remarked recently that Predator Press was weird.

"Weird!" I says indignant. "Just look at her site. It's like 1000 pictures of her kids she slapped together a few months ago."

"Blogging means different things to different people," Terri defended.

"Well that's weird if you ask me," I retort. "Putting up pictures and the names of your kids on the internet seems like an invitation to weirdoes. And if your audience is weirdoes, that's weird by definition."

"What's your point?" she asks sarcastically.

Skimming, I scroll down to the bottom of the page and find the following quote:


NO TO PLAGIARISM
***Please don't RIP nor COPY any CONTENTS here.***
***LEARN TO RESPECT***


"WTF?" I demand. "Like some retired international jewel thief is scouring the internet for pics of children to claim are his? Imagine the overhead on that operation," I surmise. "The child support alone would be staggering."

Terri chuckles over my shoulder. "She's obviously very protective."

I scowl checking the hit counter. "Well we got kids fair and square. I might want to capitalize on this idea while I can -particularly with Screechy on the verge of moving out on his own."

Terri stares. "He's seven."

"We can't coddle him forever!"

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

People are always asking me ”LOBO, if e^2x -5e^x +6 = 0, what is the value of X?"

At this point I'll ask for some scratch paper, and reach into my shirt pocket for my pen.

-But the unscrewed pen contains about a gram of painstakingly separated blue granules from a box of Tide Ultra: when they return with the paper, pow, I puff the tiny payload of pure unadulterated Mountain Breeze Freshness™ into the unsuspecting smartypants' eyes.

Once that fat little unibrow starts screaming, I've got a good two or three minutes to find a fire extinguisher -or anything of adequate weight really- to smash through the window so I can escape into the safety of the parking lot. The office VCR is an excellent projectile for this because it contains the much-desired security tape: with that tape in hand, I get to say something clever and cool like "Wow this store really is convenient!"

Time permitting, I like to douse the side of the building with gasoline and torch the place too. But I'm not real "hard and fast" with this policy: it all depends if I'm on my way to an appointment or something. It's not that I'm not thorough ... I'm just one of those busy-type people, you know? And besides being expensive the gas smell seems to linger. You can't, for instance, go to a wedding smelling like gasoline. You have to go change your clothes.

In any case, I'll never shop for wedding presents at a Pic 'N Save ever again.

Those people are jerks.

Floor 33

The Discreet Charm of the Middle Class

[Alex L.]

“Hello... hello... hello” I can remember saying, or asking, I'm not sure which, an elevator door opens and the entire room in front of you is black you're not really remembering the grammatical inflection you put on things.

“Hello... is any body here?” I asked, I remember that one. Stepping out into the blackened room, my eyes slowly adjusted to the blackness, all the lights were off but I could barely make out the cubicle in the distance. Behind me the door dinged and closed shut the elevator pulling away.

“Oh god” I murmured starting to get a little scared. It wasn't every day you get told to deliver some mail to the 33rd floor.

“I have some mail... I'm just going to leave it on the table over here” I peeped moving to the table and dropping the large orange envelope, I stepped back to the elevator door and pushed the green up arrow. I looked back at the envelope for a second. In the corner of my eye I noticed the light above the cubicle flicker on. The light buzzed and spluttered into life, under it I could make out the top of his head.

I pushed the button again, this time harder.

“Whose that?” The voice said from inside his tiny three and a half walls.

I couldn't push that arrow any harder unless I was attacking it with a bat.

“Umm, its me the mail boy...” I said slowly turning back to the cubicle.

“I have a mail?” He said again from within his composite board fortress. The one light on the roof illuminating just that. I could see the top of his head shining.

“Please, bring hence forth the mail of mine” he said loudly, after that he began murmuring under his breath, his arms flailing about in the air every now and then.

“O....k... “ this was more than slightly unnerving, I walked forward the ground beneath me crunched for some reason but I wasn't looking down, that seemed like a mistake.

“Be careful in sector 6a...” He said from within his domain.

“Why” I almost squealed searching around me for some sort of sign post to tell where I was.

“Radiation” He said casually.

“Radiation?” That time I actually did squeal.

“What from?” I asked not wanting to know the answer.

“From the monkeys” He replied.

“Monkeys!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, the spider ones are the worst... oh that and the Nesmith... You hear that you hat wearing bastard” He said standing up and screaming the last part, shaking his fist furious at the darkness.

“Screw you to jackass” Came a scream from the darkness followed by some quiet monkey cooing. I stared out into the blackness, it could have come from anywhere the darkness seemed to stretch out for miles in all directions. I looked back at him standing up now still shaking his fist at seemingly nothing. He was still doing it when I wandered over to him.

“Um, here is your mail Mr...” I said before being cut off.

“I'm not finished yet” He said still shaking his fist. I looked blankly at him, and he wasn't he still had a good few minutes of that shake left. And there he was, and that was why his head was shining. The horns were a nice touch, but a Viking helmet made from tin foil can't have provided that much protection.



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Predator Press Declares War on Australia!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

EVERYBODY knows how America got started: in 1776 a bunch of us hated soccer so much we loaded up the Nina, the Pinto, and the Santa Fe, and left the oppressive British monarchy forever. We’ve been freely oppressing ourselves ever since.

But what about Australia? Hm? Heck, we left Britain voluntarily … those people were kicked out!

The reason this comes up now is because it’s a matter of National Security: I recently caught Australia skulking up and down the West Coast. It wasn’t doing anything particularly suspicious -in fact at first I thought it was Kirstie Alley; it just rented a boogieboard and tooled about in the surf. But in retrospect I’m almost sure it knew I was "on" to it, and it was trying to look nonchalant.

Exactly why Australia has been sneaking around isn’t quite yet clear, but it has a long history of subtly messing with us with acts such as the “Coriolis Effect”; the Coriolis Effect -first proposed by famous mobster Don Coriolis- suggests that Australians often amuse themselves by flushing their toilets the same moment we do, thusly causing ours to back up.

But now the Aussies have become so brazen they are patrolling well inside our oceanic borders in broad daylight; if you listen closely and the wind is right, you can hear the war didgeridoos blowing in the distance. How long until Australia comes straight up the Mississippi and parks itself near St Louis? Inside agents such as Russell Crowe and Mel Gibson could just wave their arms wildly an yell “Hey! Over here! Lookit my new movie!” and pow, we got Yahoo Serious in the White House.

One only has to see a few photos of the well-decimated and uninhabitable Australian landscape to realize that St Louis, nay, America doesn't deserve a similar fate: an Australian invasion deeply offends my national sensibilities, and I won’t take the inevitable sneak attack lying down.

Unless of course it occurs during my nap.

-In which case I would hope they do it quietly.

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