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Articles: 1-30, 31-60
Predator Press [LOBO] Ethan and I, smoking cigars, watch 'the dailies' with great interest. "Rumsfeld is killing Osama?" he asks. "I thought Cheney killed Osama about twenty minutes ago." "No, that was Saddam. Remember the mustache?" "No, that was Chemical Ali." "No, Chemical Ali was killed by Ann Coulter." "I'm confused." "Remember, when Cheney and Limbaugh had to hook south at the Anthrax factory? Rush, the team medic, told her he had something she could take that would let her take six or seven more direct mortar hits. Then Chemical Ali attacks them, and Anne rips out all eight of his arms and pushes him over the cliff?" I sigh. "I agree. This edit seems a little disjointed. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Cobe play all the bad guys after all." "Cobe just doesn't seem to have any acting range whatsoever," Ethan observes. "Vince!" I yell up at the projection booth. "Play the opening sequence." I settle back in. "Still Ethan, you're gonna love...
Predator Press [LOBO] George Bush Junior, clutching a fire hydrant, was begging. "Please don't do this anymore. I'll do anything!" "George," says the guy in the Nixon mask. "Join me, and together we shall rule the galaxy." "Shit, I'd join you if you just took me to Dennys!" "You have no idea the power of the Dark Side." "Look, asshole. I already said I would join you." Bush gets up, walks to the mysterious stranger's car, climbs in the passenger side and slams the door. Rolling down the electric window, he yells, "This is the maximum level of joining you." "George," says the masked stranger. "I am your father." Suddenly, the Nixon mask comes off, and it's George Bush Senior! "Oh yeah Dad," says George Junior tiredly from the car. "Like that bit didn't get old the first time you did it. What was I, eight then? Huh Dad? I'm thirty-five now. I'm in college fer Chrissake. Plus I think I'm a goddamn member of Congress or something like that." Sulkily,...
Let Freedom Scream
Predator Press [LOBO] "Alright Newt," I says. "Lets go over this scene once more." "I'm standing right here," says Newt. "I don't think you need the megaphone." "Look Newt," I says frustrated. "This ain't Capitol Hill. I handle all the censorship around here. Now in this scene, you jump off of the fourth story, somersault gracefully to the ground by virtue of this crane and harness, and kick the crap out of six insurgents." Newt pulls on the harness nervously. "Are you sure this thing is safe?" "It's all physics, baby," I says walking back to my chair. "As long as you're exactly 180 pounds like it says on your driver's license, you're as safe as if in your mother's arms. Now the second you here the 'All Clear' safety bell, jump." A bell rang, and Newt jumped. The crane buckled, and what followed was a scene of catastrophic mechanical failure. The bell rang again. Exasperated, I answered my cell phone. "Hello? Oh hi Mom. Listen I can't talk right...
The Best Laid Mice of Plans and Men
Predator Press [LOBO] "The idea," says Ethan touring me through the studio, "is simply that if the media is responsible for the state of current affairs-" We enter a room where Donald Rumsfeld, shirtless with an M-60 and bandoliers, is shooting six Al Qaeda guys while rifle-butting another and rescuing a puppy. "-that we can end the end the war the same way," Ethan finishes. Donald 'tucks and rolls' into an adjacent set, where he delivers an Iraqi baby waving a tiny American flag, all the while ducking gunfire and lobbing potent hand grenades. "Okay," I says. "But I don't see where I come in." "LOBO," sighs Ethan. "I want you to film Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld getting pissed off and flying to Iraq, and ending the war once and for all. Personally." "I like the name 'Gen. David H. Petraeus' too. It sounds kinda Latin. Biblical. Greek even. 'Petraeus' almost sounds Roman, and even after all these centuries the Romans are still kicking ass. Shit, you can't m...
Predator Press [LOBO] "I left you guys," says Ethan tersely, "on a teambuilding exercise. For two weeks. And you have burned my entire empire to the ground." "There's always the rubble," I says. "You burned the rubble down!" "Well, you can't say I'm not thorough." "Well, I really appreciate it," says Ethan. "Now Babs doesn't get shit." "So you're okay with having lost $470,005,058.05 as long as Babs didn't get anything?" "Oh yeah." "So we're cool?" "Shit, as soon as I get some money, I'm giving you a raise!" "Well," I says. "It had better be substantial. You have no idea how traumatizing this has all been." "We got a military contract," says Ethan. "$150,000,000,000. The first year." "Ethan, I don't think I'm up for pissing off other countries anymore. Do you know it's a Class X felony for a woman to have sex with me in Australia now?" "I told you Australia existed." "I know. And now I want to have sex there in the worst way!" "The last thin...
[LOBO] Well, being in jail is by no means fun; nonetheless, when I found out I was in jail with Richard Gere, I was thrilled. Richard Gere, star of such brutal fight scenes such as the ones in 'An Officer and a Gentleman' and 'Pretty Woman', was right the fuck here sharing a holding cell with me! I immediately start talking trash. Dice, Tic Tock, and Shiv weren’t too impressed at first, but when I told ‘em all they was 'so ugly they hadda fake orgasms while masturbating', they had a huddle. Dice: “Yo man, these are either the dumbest white men on Earth, or maybe they’re just crazy.” Tic Tock: “Yeah, dude just said Tom Wopat was the Antichrist. Who the fuck is Tom Wopat?” Shiv: “Wasn’t that one cracker that dude in Pretty Woman?” “That’s right!” I exclaim. “And if I give the word, Richard will pull your tongues through your keysters!” I stare at them crazily. “What you dogs doin time for?” says Tic Tock. “Tell ‘im Richard...
Predator Press [Mr Insanity] “You know,” I says, pushing my plate away. “I was a little disappointed with the fettuccini.” “Really,” says Sapphire. “Am I supposed to think you are classy because you are pointing out flaws at something you invited me to?” she giggles. “I suppose you cook?” “I’ll cut you a deal,” I says. “I’ll handle the macaroni and cheese. No matter what you decide to make, I’m doing the mac and cheese.” “Oh thank God,” Sapphire laughs. “Until we get married,” I add. “When we get married, you’ll be pretty fucked as far as pasta is concerned.” "So then we'll eat, what, leaves and berries?" "If you're lucky," I says frowning. "Look, I know your 'affiliation' with LOBO--" "Well, it's funny that you mention that," she says. "Because LOBO needs to post Bail."
Predator Press [LOBO] "I'm serious," I says. "I've got his contract right here!" 1) Don't be a Dick = 50% Gilmore's Score: -50% 2) Never Say 'LOBO is Too Busy' for Free Meals = 21% Gilmore's Score: 21%, + 6% bonus for timeliness 3) No Fat Chicks = 20% Gilmore's Score: 20% 4) Never Kill Ethan = 9% Gilmore's Score: -9%, + 6% bonus for timeliness Net Total = Fuck Gilmore. "It's all perfectly legal," I insist.
Predator Press [Mr Insanity] “Look,” says Gilmore, stuffing the bloody tissue against his nose. “I did the right thing. If, in fact, Babs has anything to do with this, somebody should have been ‘engaged’ in what is going on.” “How do we know your loyalty isn’t with her?” says Sapphire. Maybe it was the adrenaline of the fight --I don't know-- but the next thing out of my mouth was, “What the fuck do you know about loyalty?” Sapphire's eyes flashed dangerously. “Excuse me?” she blinked. “What was that disappearing act over Winter Break all about? I thought we were getting pretty tight. Then boom. You didn’t even send me a Christmas Card.” “You took a hooker to Christmas Mass from what I heard.” “Don't blame me if there's no 'Saving' her."
More About: Scar
Predator Press [LOBO] Ethan disappearing isn’t really always that unusual; he’ll just up and go on a vacation or a business trip often without even packing. But this is the first time he’s gone ten days without contacting anyone. Making things worse is the glaring absence of Cobe; while that lazy fuck is off vacationing or whatever in the arctic, everything was beginning to fall apart without Ethan at the helm. The sense of deterioration in the office was obvious and virtually palpable. Supplies were being ordered incorrectly –if in fact ordered at all. Bills were going unpaid. Deadlines were being missed. Things were so bad, when Babs asked me if I run the warehouse for a few days, I jumped at the chance. The truth is I’m somewhat of a shipping and receiving prodigy. With a crew of 46 hard-scrabble industrial types, on a typical day we would receive about 26 semi trailers with materials and generally ship out about the same amount. Now, under my radiant g...
Predator Press [Mr Insanity] Needless to say, tempers are wearing thin. The strictly-distributed rations are low, and lack of hygiene is becoming painfully obvious to Phoebe and I. I have several days of 'scruff', and Phoebe's refusal to wear shorts during the hottest parts of the day suggests that she probably does too. We smell bad. Phoebe, without makeup and her usual vast assortment of beauty creams and oils seems to have aged ten years while simultaneously developing acne. Her cheeks are growing taut and sunken --as are mine probably. Sapphire, an android, looks just as fresh and beautiful as she did a week ago; this I can understand. But as for LOBO, there is no explanation whatsoever; he's clean-shaven and smells faintly of Old Spice. And he almost seems to have gained weight. Is that what he was wearing when we got here? "Good morning," says a distantly-familiar voice. Surprised, we all turn to see Gilmore, dapper and smooth in a custom-fitted immaculate ...
Predator Press [Mr Insanity] You know, it's been about 30 years since I've done anything similar to camping. And while not particularly exited about the idea at first, it soon became apparent that LOBO wasn't going to be hanging around; this leaves the rather attractive prospect of me alone with Sapphire and Phoebe for however long this "teambuilding" exercise will last. LOBO -despite his claims to have been on a few of these activities before-seemed to rattle rather quickly. After a few hours of staring despondently into the woods where Ethan drove off sort of sulkily resigned himself to "roughing it". This lasted around eight minutes. Frustrated by his inability to find a way to plug in his canteen and mess kit, he was soon bored, hungry, and growing increasingly agitated by the sounds of the wildlife surrounding us in the darkening wood. "What was that!?" he would demand abruptly. "I think it was a sparrow," volunteers Sapphire. "How dare Ethan leave me out her...
Ten Years Gone
Predator Press [LOBO] Believe it or not, there was a time when the world didn't have Predator Press yet. And without Predator Press around to document an accurate and quantified objective world history, little is know about these dark times: they are shrouded in legends and mystery. Oh, sure. There are "history" books chocked full of fanciful and unverifiable claims such as the Lunar Landing, Women's Suffrage, and the existence of Australia. But remember what history books cost? Compare that to the price of your Predator Press subscription. Hell, at $50 or more a pop, I would be tempted to tell you stuff like 'the world is round' and Steve Gutenberg invented the movable type as well. I mean who the hell would need that? We have integrity. The reason this comes up now is because Lady Pyrate has recently uncovered some pre-Predator Press documents written by me. Doing my duty as a citizen, I first emailed the Smithsonian notifying them of the staggering significan...
Fisting: It’s Not Just for Old People Anymore
Predator Press [LOBO] You remember the drill: no sooner would you get that kickass skateboard ramp all set up, and some blue-haired wrinkle kit comes running out yelling “GET OFF OF MY LAWN!”, shaking his liver-spotted and crunkly clenched hand at about eye-level to punctuate every syllable. But now widely-embraced by America as a whole, ‘Fisting ’ is now being done by a vast myriad of generations: people are fisting Sanjaya even as we speak. I fisted Madeline Albright repeatedly for her foreign policy. Hell, I saw a guy earlier today fisting my girlfriend in traffic! ‘Fisting’ has sneakily entered the American lexicon, and is rapidly rising to a level of Global and Universal Symbolism.
FAMILY TIES ACTOR BONSALL ARRESTED
Predator Press COLORADO POLICE RELUCTANT TO RULE HIM OUT AS JONBENET RAMSEY SLAYER SUSPECT
Predator Press [LOBO] I didn’t have my door locked, and Babs ‘an six big guys in matching jumpsuits just come right in. The jumpsuited glandular freaks are carrying furniture. What the fuck? “Good,” she says. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve decided I’m moving in.” “Here?” “Yes.” “Why?” “What do you mean why? You might’ve squirmed out of that marriage business for now, but you’re still my bitch.” “But we were getting along so well not seeing or talking to each other,” I reason. “Yes, well all that’s changing.” “Ma’am?” says a mover. “There isn’t going to be room for the china hutch.” “The hell there isn’t,” she scowls, circling the house. Decidedly, she stops and points. “Get rid of that.” “My big screen television!?” I says. “Look here, sister. What in the hell makes you think you can just walk right in here and start throwing out my stuff?” “I can bend parking meters with my ...
Kyle Sampson is a Big Fat Lying Poo-Poo Head
Predator Press [LOBO] It’s jerks like that that completely ruin our ability to enjoy this Zenith of Republican Enlightenment. Look around you! There are no wars, taxes, or poverty. Everyone is free to worship Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as much as they choose, and the streets are safe because anyone able to hold a gun, does. And the spinach will definitely not kill you. All you alarmist liberal hippies and pinko-commies should put down your hookahs and catch a boat back to whatever other country kicked you out for treason. Move along. There's nothing to see here America; go about your business.Everything’s just fine.
More About: Fat
Predator Press [LOBO] “You’re finished with your Penance already my son?” asks a skeptical Father Fritz. “10,000 ‘Hail Marys’?” I says. “Not a chance.” “Well then what are you doing here?” “It’s a Miracle,” I says excitedly. “I’m no longer a pyromaniac, nymphomaniac, or hypocondriac. And my claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, phasmophobia, and phobophobia? Gone. Gone! And best of all, my sinuses decompressed for the first time in weeks.” “Really?” “Yeah. Who would’ve thought chemically-treated pallets would smell so good.” “Pallets?” says Fritz. “Where exactly were you saying those ‘Hail Marys’?” “At the music studio.” “You have pallets at a music studio?” “No, no. I was at the warehouse.” “I’m not following...
Predator Press [LOBO] I don't tell you this often, so when I say explicitly "this is a true story," this is a True Story. My mom, given the opportunity, will confirm it. And neither one of us recall me as a toddler being a particularly fussy eater. But when introduced to Brussels's sprouts, it was on. I still hate those innocuous-looking vile little hellspawned biological perversions. Oh, sure mom issued the S.O.P. 'Miranda Rights' for a kid: "No desert 'til you clean your plate!" --generally this heralded "GAME OVER"; it was a matter of time before I would capitulate. Except this time; even after a cascading portfolio of ice cream and Popsicles, I would not budge. Dad said "Fine," and put me in the high chair. "No desert at all then. Yell for us when you're done." And then they left for the living room. They turned the lights off, and the television on. ... My god, these people aren't bluffing. *** Around 9:30, I was kaput. And I had no ideas. I mad...
Predator Press [LOBO] Didja ever notice how rare it is when everything seems to be "in tune"?Like maybe your job is great, the bills are paid, and you're surrounded by friends and loved ones ... but then your best friend and your old lady accidentally knock a scented candle over while having sex, and burn the house and all your worldly possessions to the ground? Or you win the lottery, and while jumping around in jubilant celebration you snag a testicle on a protruding rusty nail? Remember the first time when --beguiled by the rather grandiose name-- you found out a urinal cake was not the fluffy confection you were led to believe it was? Well, that's how life works. It's a box of chocolates where you often find nothing but coconut creams. After weeks, I got the blog "spider friendly" again and we're already back up to number 2 --I anticipate overtaking those wildlife jerks in the number 1 spot again anytime now. But I've got a nasty cold again and I'm so stuffy ...
Blame it on San Andreas
Predator Press [LOBO] Well, I have harshly criticized Blogger “The Butcher” Beta, so’s I guess I should mention a rather cool feature I’ve found. No one was more surprised than I; usually when I activate one of these mysterious unknown features, vipers pour out of my cd-rom drive, or huge spinning drills fly out of my monitor and drive themselves past my retinas and deeply into my brain. You may have noticed lately that I have been “labeling”; these are those little eyesore tags under every post that I can’t seem to hide. But these little tags have enabled me to begin an alphabetize a navigation tool in the Site Guide of past historic and brilliant Predator Press posts related to the subject in question. It's going slow, and I'm working backwards; with hundreds of posts, it will likely take months. But this will be an amazing aid to people new to the blog --as well as an academic researching organizer in the future, when scientists and archeologists ...
A Patriot Act
Predator Press [LOBO] "I really appreciate you coming out Mister President," I says, climbing into the limousine. "What?" calls Bush in the distance. "I can't hear you." "Where are you sir?" I call into the palatial interior. "By the pinball machines!" Homing in on his voice, I find him excitedly contorting over a game of Super Faulken Ball."One more Island, and I'll control Argentina and Czechoslovakia -the gateway country to Australia!" "Wow," I says. "That's really cool. And educational." Just then, the game let out a low falling tone and all the lights went out --except for a bright flashing 'PAPAL SANCTIONS' marquee. "Damn!" Bush growls. "I 'tilted' it." "When did you put in the pool?" Bush brightens. "There's a pool?" "Yeah. Right next to the pizza oven." "Wow. That's really cool." "This thing must be hell on gas." Bush winks, and puts a finger to his lips. "Hydrogen. Had it since 1989. Want a gelato?" "No thanks." Bush sighs and steps back to size m...
Predator Press [LOBO] Honestly? I think they all suck now except Michael Anthony and Sammy Hagar. You couldn't get together once for your fans? Or even history? I'll let my wallet do my talking. ("What's that little Wallety? Van Roth should fuck off you say?")
Predator Press [LOBO] “You’re mine now,” says Babs. “Simple as that. I posted bail, and you’ve posted 'The Sh*rt' 85,211 times at $35,000 a pop." “Yeah,” I says. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have showed me how to ‘cut and paste’ it.” “Maybe,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter. You own the controlling interest in Hawly Enterprises, and since you’re mine, Hawly Enterprises is mine.” “Look,” I says. “Take Ethan--“ “No,” says Babs. “Ethan is too smart to fall for me just trying to have sex with him until he dies of cardiac arrest.” “Really?” “—And that just leaves you.” “Look Babs,” I says, rubbing the ink from my fingertips. “If this is just an elaborate plan to get into my pants--“ “No baby,” Babs smirks, rolling her eyes. “I’m into you for your mind.” “You’re having wet, hot screamy sex with my mind!?” Babs pauses, perplexed. “Well, I--,” she chokes. “Whore!"
Predator Press [LOBO] Evidently, running around in a sexy tight suit and a mask is frowned upon by society in general. In fact, some states make you register; according to my lawyer, I would’ve gone to the “Big House” for sure were it not for Babs. Now, I’m not stupid. I know that “Big Houses” are drafty, haunted, and have really big fucking lawns ... and it’s no secret how much I would despise landscaping for the Undead … hell, the pays lousy, and they bitch no matter where you dig. On a less professional note, Ethan just informed me that every time I post the words "The Shart" from here on out, the FCC is making me donate $35,000 to charity. He would’ve told me sooner, but he needed only 70-Large more to cure leukemia.
The Courtship of Babs and LOBO
Predator Press [Zombie Mr Insanity] LOBO and I were making small talk while kicking the crap out of each other playing Worlds of Warcraft, and the phone rang. Lo and behold, it’s Babs. I put my rotting finger to my decomposing lip, and LOBO nodded he understood. Smirking, he puts her on speakerphone. “Yes,” he gasps breathlessly in a feeble attempt to sound sexy. “Hi handsome,” says the voice over the speaker. LOBO grabs his controller when he realizes I’m molecularizing his WOW character with my +6 Big Hammer. “What the fuck, you ass!?!” says LOBO. “Excuse me?” says Babs. “Not you. Uh. Phil.” LOBO retorts in his usual lack-of-brilliance. He sneaks a peak at his watch. “What’s up Babs? It’s like seven-thirty. Shouldn’t you be sleeping with someone right now?" I hold back a giggle. “Well, it’s funny that you mention that,” she says. Now, I look at LOBO directly, expecting some kind of humorous and silent exchange, but he ...
Predator Press [Zombie Mr Insanity] You didn’t think I would show up at the gun range, did you? You’re forgetting I know LOBO. He was going to require something subtle. Something sneaky … like showing up at Wrigley Field to bash that little fucker’s brains in with this tire iron. I didn’t foresee Babs making a "less-than hostile” bid at a Hawly Enterprises takeover. This is a rather intriguing development.
History Depletes Itself
Predator Press [LOBO] Back in the golden days of the Roman Empire, the woolly mammoth and 8-track tapes, Roman radiators fought to the death for the viewing pleasure of a bloodthirsty audience. “Going to a Bears game” meant that at the coliseum that week, gigantic and hungry bears were going to be set loose to publicly devour criminals, Christians, and other undesirables. This, incidentally, made going to a Jets game really cool. But nowadays, apparently, it’s different. Babs and Mr Insanity carried me to the hospital, and after I got my ankle all bandaged up -- and jacked up high with Children's Morphine to stop my hysterical screaming-- we all headed back to face the throng of people at Wrigley Field. I was just wondering why Children’s Morphine tasted suspiciously like Tic Tacs, and then it dawned on me: There was no game. I don’t care what you think you saw on television. I was right there, loyal and enthusiastic, waving my giant Blackhawks foam finge...
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Predator Press [LOBO] I see Babs climbing the bleachers, and I’m excited to see a familiar face in this lonely place. She hands me a cup of hot chocolate, and I nearly cut myself on her sweater reaching for it; indeed, at eight degrees, her nipples were deadly and fascinating weapons. Cuddling close to me, she nuzzles them heavily in my arm, and I can smell the Safari wafting through the air. We stare in silence and stark solitude at the flat, square place guys play sports on. “Do you know what I’m thinking?” she whispers. “That maybe I should put golf on my blog after all?” “No,” she says, inching closer. Suddenly, she screams “Zombie!” and Mr. Insanity lurches from out of the dugout. Now, I tried to throw her out of the way so I could escape without trampling her, but my foot got caught in the seat; I toppled to the ground, bolts of pain shooting through my ankle. “Don’t you even think about leaving me behind!” I scream at Babs, weeping op...