The Dead See

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Another seismic roar, and blood arcs across the window behind them; illuminated by dehumanizing fluorescents, a pale, pink mist fills the air. Dismembered chunks of flesh and bone slide and fall wet into a growing pool of human viscera.

Screams. Pleas. Panic surges through the room. They try to flee. Curled into a tiny, terrified ball, one hiding employee can see the gunman's heavy boots under the seats and through the smoke, calmly and systematically advancing through the room, crunching over broken plastic shards and glass. More shots, and the drywall resonates the obscure marching rhythmic beats of each explosion as life ceases one by one by one…

“Next,” calls the woman with disinterest.

“Hi!” I says cheerily. “I need to renew my driver’s license.”

Kenny Loggins and Huey Lewis Concert “A Bloodbath,” Thousands Dead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When Kenny Loggins and Huey Lewis agreed to unite and promote the nominations of Humor-Blogs’ own i am bossy and Matress Police in the 2008 Weblog Awards, no one considered that their fans might have some hatchet-burying in mind themselves.

42 year old Priscilla Frisk, President of the Huey Lewis Fan Club, encouraged all her constituents to “Do some real clubbing,” and supplied nightsticks, mace and facemasks at the door.

In response, Loggins supporters Bloggins for Loggins launched a more technically-savvy attack and ruined the credit of all HLFC chartered members by quadrupling their mortgages.

As the death toll continues to grow, authorities seem helpless.

“It’s a horrible circumstance,” admits Commissioner Rudolph Banks. “The only thing those two groups want to do is kill each other. I’ve sent in virtually my entire police force to break it up, and they’ve all been tossed out bloodied and bankrupt.”

I Take Issue With Number Two

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Let’s not call it unpatriotic.

That’s extreme.

-Let’s call it an “Unrequested Temporary Deficit of Patriotic Sensibilities.”

I can’t be mad at the country for a bad job market, right?

In regards to financial security, America has taught me two methods:

Number One: Leverage an Asset or Talent Uniquely Yours, and Get Paid To Do It

This is the preferred method. But I can’t even make those fart noises with my armpit. Thus, I default to:

Number Two: Grab Onto the Biggest, Most Boyant Turd Within Reach

-This is the best chance you have for another round once the water starts spinning counterclockwise.

But I take issue with "Number 2."

I don’t know a lot about economics, but weren’t there a handful of CEOs being paid salaries in the millions to make sure our big mysterious invisible stocks and bonds and 401ks and whatever remained viable?

And just look at how many people were clinging to those Big Turds!

Don’t we build skyscrapers as gigantic effigies to Big Turds every day? Or do I have it backwards ... are they like colonies of semi-smart organized barnacle "Number 2s" at the bottom, hoping to spear the counterclockwise-descending Big Turd (actually, I guess it would be clockwise if you're underneath it), and -thusly attached- ascend straight up to the glorious Upper Rim?

That’s where all the Big Turds are after all.

It must be awesome.

VOTE OR DIE!!!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Eyebrows furrowed, I watch the little hourglass in my laptop screen intently.

“So you're a nominated finalist for Best Humor Blog in the 2008 Weblog Awards, and if people vote for you every day starting tomorrow you’ll be, like, king or something?”

“Hey,” says Diesel. “It’s an honor just to be nominated. But why not?”

“How did Predator Press do?"

“Predator Press was, ah, disqualified,” replies Diesel thinking quickly. “Predator Press was too good."

I peer over the edge of the laptop suspiciously. “Stop here,” I says. “The signal is awesome.”

“We’re in the middle of a seventy mile an hour freeway.”

“This is California, D. People do it all the time.”

After a few uncomfortable moments, it’s clear Diesel has no intention of even slowing. “Well,” I says sulkily. “I am honored that you’ve ask me to handle your public relations for the duration of the contest.”

“I didn’t ask you to handle my public relations,” he says. “You were sleeping in my car."

"That's because I understand the urgency of the situation, D."

"What’s the duct tape for?”

“I always carry duct tape around. You know, in case I get writer’s block.”

“What?”

“There are subtle nuances when it comes to motivating people to vote for you, and this should only be handled by the utmost of discrete professionals."

The modem shriek stops, and almost on autopilot I plug in my logon info. "You really should treat this like any other textbook election, and elections are touchy, sensitive events. Barack Obama is a good example ... with all that hard work combined with proper handling, that dude'll probably end up being a bigwig mayor or something.”

I could just jump the median, thinks Diesel. Straight into oncoming traffic.

“I think you should give people prizes if they vote for you,” I decide. “You know, like a swimming pool or something.”

-I’d be a fucking hero.

“That’s dishonest,” he sighs. "Hey. Wanna listen to the radio-?"

“But then what if we didn’t give them the swimming pools afterward? Wouldn't that cancel out all the Karmic hoodoo?”

“I want to win on the merits of my blog.”

“Hey man, don't get me wrong. Mattress Police is one of the best blogs on the planet. I'm just sayin' I can get a great deal on electric melonballers.” I raise my fingers in the air to make quote marks. “They’re Martha Stuart.”

My laptop chimes, and a cheery voice says “You’ve got mail!”

“Oooo goodie!” I says.

“Look,” says Diesel. “I really appreciate your enthusiasm. Just vote for me here and there, okay?”

“Dude listen to this. ’POZ you are so funny. LOL, Terri.’,” I scowl. “She’s calling the Prince of Zanzibar ‘POZ’ now.”

“So?”

“It’s a pet name!” I says. “It’s one step away from ‘snuggly-buggly’ or ‘honey-bunny!’

“Look. Just promise me you’ll vote. Don’t do anything else. And for God’s sake please don’t post about it.”

“Okay,” I says glumly.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

"I think I missed my exit,” he says exasperated. “Break out that map in the glove compartment."

I lean past the laptop screen and pop open the glove box. Inside there’s a California map, a car registration, and eight side-by-side rolls of duct tape -each varying in thickness, and meticulously arranged in ascending size.

Uh-oh

Guy Lombardo and the Vile Prince of Zanzibar

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My wife is having an affair with the Prince of Zanzibar.

I know this, because I am the Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com.

I don’t blame her. She thinks I am a wealthy guy with long flowin’ Fabio hair ridin in his 3,000 foot yacht.

And how can I blame her? I never would have thought AOL would let me have the official logon “Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com" unless I presented proper credentials verifying my royal lineage: through what was doubtlessly an oversight, perhaps a 'comedy of cascading errors' on AOL’s part, the name slipped through their corporate security –and that’s how I seduced my wife.

-Well, that’s how I got her to add me to her ‘Buddy’ list. But that’s where it all starts, right?

If you doubt any this tragic story, Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com can verify it.

I know this, because I am also Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com. And “Guy” will be the first person to tell you that the vile Prince of Zanzibar is up to no good. The vile Prince of Zanzibar will woo her with all his money and good looks, and then just toss her aside like a prom dress made of wicker!

Still, it would be cool to ride in a 3,000 foot yacht.

Four Legs. Two Wheels. Pure EVIL.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I must've stood in that WalMart entrance for a full ten minutes until the old bat showed up.

"It's about time!" I says, tapping my foot expectantly.

"Excuse me?" says the elderly woman.

"I've been standing here for an hour waiting to be greeted." I glower menacingly. "You are a 'Greeter,' are you not?"

"Well-"

"I was totally greetless!" I snap. "And as the person who specializes in it here, I hold you solely responsible for my wholly sub-par welcome."

"Sir," says the woman. "I was on break."

"On break?" I laugh. "From saying 'Welcome to Walmart'!? Oh that must be soooo exhausting. Maybe you should Unionize. You know, trim it down to 'Welcome.' Or maybe even just 'Hi.'"

Her jaw curls slightly as she eyes me.

-But I don't care. At this point, I'm pontificating fully.

"Maybe an abbreviation would make all this easier to endure." I spin around and throw my arms wide, framing the gigantic WalMart sign. "Or maybe you could just stand under this and point at it smiling!"

She taps my shoulder.

I turn.

"Welcome to Walmart sir," she says.

And then at that exact moment, she jams the front right wheel of her walker into my foot.

"Please don't," she growls softly, twisting her crushing full weight into my big toe. "break anything, or I'll cut you're fucking arms off."

With superhuman will, I do not whimper aloud.

"Ask me what I'll cut off if you shoplift," she grins toothlessly.

A single tear starts welling in my eye.

I can't let this witch win, I thought. If I don't take a stand here, the Communists will have finally won.

Thinking quickly, I throw an entire display of Snickers into her fat, wrinkly face. The weight suddenly comes off of my foot, and crying out, she staggers backwards covering her eyes.

Kicking the walker aside, I roll up my sleeves. "Don't mess with the bull, bitch. You'll get the horns!"

"Please," she stammers, wobbling clumsily forward. "I'm an old woman."

187 expertly-thrown 'smiley-face' pins suddenly impale my face, shoulders and chest. Reeling and screaming I seize at them desperately, but they are slippery with my own blood.

Her fist caught me square, flattened my nose, and bright bolts of light shot through my head.

I woke moments later, sprawled flat in shattered rack of inexpensively priced -yet completely viable- watches while she danced spryly back and forth with her fists up blocking her face.

"Anything else to say punk?"

Shadowboxing, I could hear her whipping fists snap the air.

"Yes," I says, holding my palm flat to her. Hefting myself up slowly using a nearby pressboard armoire, I spit a tooth. "You punch like a Kmart cashier!"

A look of sudden psychotic rage transformed her face, and she leapt recklessly forward. Prepared for this, I twist slightly left and she crashes full bore into a rack of Kung Fu Hustle toasters.

Pressing my sudden advantage, I jam her throat against a nearby vertical support beam with my left elbow while delivering vicious blows to her abdomen and kidneys with my right.

"How do you like me now," I says between blows, "ya crunkly old whore!?"

***

"Honey," says LadyTerri as she nudges my shoulder. "Honey, wake up!"

I blink.

I'm in the passenger side of the car.

"We're here," she says smiling. "Did you fall asleep?"

I look around, and slowly recognize the familiar parking lot.

WalMart.

"Let's go get that barbeque grill," she says excitedly. "We've got a big weekend planned."

"And we can't go to Kmart?" I sob.

The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yes it's true: it's here! It's The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity! We know you have been wanting this. We know you have been needing this! We know you have been yearning for this.

And here it is.

Yippie!

-Stop touching yourself! We are only getting started.

I committed to actually following through with this much-anticipated event immediately after thinking of it a few minutes ago. But the first problem was Who should host it?

We needed somebody special. Somebody with the radiant braniosity of, like, a million men. Or seven women. Or like three women and five hundred seventy one thousand four hundred and twenty eight point five men.

Luckily I was standing right there.

-It was Fate.

So without further adieu, I bring you The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity!


Category 1: Best '80s Cheerleader Bait

Yes, while most of us were getting our faces rated for PSI durability by virtue of high-velocity underinflated muddy red rubber, these two guys were leaving a string of broken hearts and condoms all across our great nation.

And we all remember those shorts: they were fantastic for Sharon Stone-ing your way from a "C" to an "A" in a particularly tough chemistry class.

Many government agencies regard the subsequent long and twisting track of unwanted children and unpaid child support as “The Trail of Tears,” and terms of their probation have prevented me from releasing their names.


Category 2: Most Bloggable Hair

To the left we have the indomitable William McCamment of Dead Rooster. He claims to only use Paul Mitchell products, and describes his technique as "Jumping out the window, and hair spraying it real fast."

To the right we have Jeff of View From The Cloud. Clearly being groomed for his long career ahead as the Regional Sales Manager for Pfizer, this is the hair of a guy that can get shit done.

-Jeff is the only blogger in history to be nominated twice in The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity! ... he's also in the previous Best '80s Cheerleader Bait category with the Unfinished Rambler.


Category 3: Best Faked Death

No, we’re not talking about the much-beloved Doctor Toboggans –we here at Predator Press have known all along that Doctor Toboggans is perfectly safe ‘n sound in the trunk of that car I left in Mexico a few months ago.

But the elaborate and meticulous planning it took for Brent Diggs to survive the six best hitmen I could find, having his body burned in the desert, having the ashes tossed into a zinc smelter and then having that zinc smelter launched into the Sun really, really impressed me.

Well done sir!

Bravo.


Category 4: Best Movie Pitch



Hey! How’d that get in here?

:)


Category 5: Best Posts

It was tough picking out my fave three posts of the year. But I’ve narrowed the list to:

Angry Seafood - "Polygamist Cult Not Attractive Enough to Join"

This riveting exposé dives deep into the seedy underbelly of polygamy and splays it’s steaming entrails all over the linoleum.

Included topics are the downside of inbreeding and it’s inherent adverse effects -such as significantly inhibited recruitment.


neOnbubble - "Make Money Online With Blackmail"

Hats off to a deviously brilliant concept: an anonymous blackmail exchange program. I don’t want to ruin it by going into too much detail, so you’ll have to check this one out yourself.

... and then let the paranoia set in.


Speedcat Hollydale - "Old Towne Speedcat Goin Down the River"

When Speedcat Hollydale announced he was going to release his single “Old Towne Speedcat Goin Down the River,” legend has it Scott Stapp got over himself and David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen started making out with each other.

But Speedcat would have none of that: instead of muscling his Les Paul and Marshall stacks into the studio, Speedcat does is solo and acapella from his very own kitchen.

Personally, I think this has way more influence on modern music than Kurt Cobain ever did.


Category 6: Predator Press 2008 MAN OF THE YEAR

Look I know all that happened in 2007. But Predator Press didn’t have these awards in 2007! And trust me, I combed over 2008 -nothing this year nudged him out.

I consider Larry Craig undefeated.

You may remember Larry Craig as being in, oh, say the House of Representatives … but it’s infinitely more likely you remember him from what he called a “highly heterosexual miscommunication brought on by some bathroom discomfort.”

Larry -who inadvertently put the 'key' in 'keyster'- spawned a cottage industry of “I Have A Wide Stance” t-shirts that still make me laugh hysterically every time I see one.


Anywho there you have them: LOBO’s picks for 2008. But I didn't want to leave anyone out: we're all winners here:

<a href="http://predatorpress.blogspot.com/2008/12/2008-absolute-bestest-incomprehensive.html"><img border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168923798517701042" style="display:block;border:0px solid #000000;margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" alt="The 2008 Absolute Bestest Incomprehensive Awards Ceremony Ever Held By Predator Press in the History of Humanity!" src=" http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WDsEaKOhn9U/SVf78A7O8wI/AAAAAAAAFwc/YMpERprdA2M/s400/Award+Badge.jpg" img/></a>

Thank You

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Fourth of July and New Years are ranked very high on my ‘Favorite Holiday’ list: you gotta love the idea of giving people a bunch of booze and high explosives and saying, “Okay. Now don’t do anything stupid.”

This won't be my annual ‘wrap up’ ... these are just a couple of things I wanted to squeeze in before the end of the year.

On the 22nd, POPSENSE listed Predator Press as one of their definitive “Best Blogs of 2008.” I promised myself I would look up what ‘definitive’ means before I posted this news to ensure they weren’t actually being sarcastic -but what am I gonna do now? It’s too late. Besides, I made that promise to myself in the full knowledge that I had an impulse control problem.

I have forgiven myself entirely.

And I feel better now!

Don’t you?

Also a buddy from the new and improved soon-to-be-unleashed Cult of Qelqoth asked me to make a banner for his site so’s he could feature me for a day or two. He had to change his URL recently due to a court settlement: it’s my understanding that he should sail through probation just fine as long as he verifies a chick's age against her driver’s license from here on out.

Now I’ve made a few buttons and banners in the past -most are in the sidebar and the rest are featured here- so I figured I would offer some advice to banner creation “newbies.”

There's only one thing you need to know here and it should be obvious: Do not buy your computer at Menards. When I heard I could get a PC with a walnut finish, track lighting and a barbeque pit for $16.99 I was all over it -but alas these things are woefully inadequate on RAM, and the thing switches off whenever anyone flushes the toilet. Seriously. Get a box of Kleenex and a bottle of Visine because it’s going to be Junior High School all over again.

Another problem you might face is weird dimensions. It was bad enough that it needed to be 350 pixels by 130 pixels … but this particular Cult of Qelqoth [TCOQ] author gives all his instructions in units he describes as “cubits.”

The pixel-to-cubit ratio comes out something like this:




Fortunately the Menards computer is spectacular at the pixel-to-cubit ratio, but this triggers lots of pop-up ads hawking bulk lumber sales, animal cages and water sealing products.

Ultimately -in answering the call from TCOQ- I magicked me up this:

<a href="http://www.predatorpress.blogspot.com/"><img border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168923798517701042" style="display:block;border:0px solid #000000;margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" alt="This site doesn’t have porn, but it’s still good." src=" http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WDsEaKOhn9U/SVU5Ec4Pv7I/AAAAAAAAFsE/91KAWNzUqEY/s400/template+exp2.jpg" img/></a>



Were you so inclined to use it please feel free … I do kinda like it, but I can’t even fit it in my sidebar: it’s going to spiral down forever into the murky unread archives.

I really should read those things one day.

-It could only help with the continuity.

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The judge just kinda looks back and forth between me ‘an the affidavit.

Finally, he sets the doc down, leans back in his chair, and tosses his glasses lightly upon his desk in exasperation.

“You stand before me,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “accused of the destruction of a Christmas tree, an entire living room, and numerous Christmas presents totaling-" he pulls the forms under his nose, “$41,320 in damages.”

By this point, Terri’s sister, eh, 'Weepy,' is wailing openly in the courtroom.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I says. “And further I ask that you take the history of our relationship into consideration.”

“Proceed,” says the judge, tapping the fingertips of each hand together like a church steeple.

I stand and pace before the jury, already glaring at me in anxious disgust.

I can already see a ‘Guilty’ verdict coming.

This better be good.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I says loosening my tie. “Terri and I have been together for four years now. And every Christmas, I’m under siege.” I whirl and point at Weepy dramatically. “Because of her!”

"What?" Weepy demands between sobs. "I-!"

“Ma’am,” I says interrupting. “Do you remember what you got our youngest son two years ago?”

“Yes,” she says thinking. “It was a bicycle.”

“An unassembled bicycle,” I correct. “So you know how I spent that Christmas? I spent six hours putting that damn thing-”

"Order!" the judge snaps.

"Sorry sir. That darn thing together. And the whole time I hadda listen to the five year old ask fifteen thousand times, ‘Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you-'"

“I think we get the point,” says the judge.

“No,” I says. “I don’t think you do. I have to say ‘Did you finish my bike yet?’ 14,994 and a half more times for you to get ‘the point’ here."

-Murmurs amongst the jurors suggest I might’ve hit a sympathetic note.

I return my attention to my sister-in-law. Mascara running, she stares at me in disbelief.

“And do you remember what you got him last year?”

She stammers. “A race car set.”

“But not just any race car set, right?” Whirling away, I return to pacing in front of the jury. “It was one of those battery powered race car sets with like a jillion parts. And the kind that you hadda stick the track forks into each other just perfect, or the current would short out the cars. Any slightest nudge made the whole thing not work and I hadda start the whole thing over.”

Juror Number Four -the Foreman- a burly, unshaven luberjack-looking fellow, fainted dead away.

I glare at them. "I was making up cusswords at one point!"

“Objection!” cried Weepy’s lawyer. "I fail to see how this has any bearing-"

“Look,” I says. “A lot of people would like porterhouse steaks for Christmas.”

“Yes,” cries Weepy. “But your not supposed to fully cook them before wrapping them! We thought they were a DVD player or something and put them under the tree with the rest of the presents!”

“Ah ha!” I exclaim. “And that assumption is what caused Rommel and Hess, your two German Shepherds, to destroy your living room.”

“You wrapped Milk Bones for stocking-stuffers!”

I dismiss this with a shrug.

“That was merely a coincidence.”

And That's How I Saved Christmas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"LOBO," says God.

"What?"

"What’s with all the humbug, bub?"

There’s no point in lying to the Infinite One: a natural consequence of a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past is subsequent visits from the Ghosts of Christmas Present and Future -and presumably in that order. In an effort to "get the drop" on the Ghost of Christmas Present, so far I’ve beat up the guy who reads the gas meter, two Jehovah’s Witnesses, and a surprisingly scrappy pizza delivery guy.

"I thought smiting pagans was what we were supposed to do," I says flatly.

"What pagans?"

"All these Christmas jerks!" I says.

"LOBO, Christmas is a good thing."

"Oh no," I says. "I ain’t falling for that old gag. Commandment number one is ‘Thou Shalt Put No Other Gods Before You’ … it’s right in the Charter. In the end you’re going to chuck all these Jesus people into the Lake of Fire to suffer for all Eternity … and I’m gonna be up there in Heaven laughin at ‘em with you."

"Hasn’t anyone explained the Holy Trinity to you?"

"Hey I’ve seen The Matrix movies like fifty times, and they’re twice as confusing as the Old Testament."

"Well I didn’t use Keanu Reeves for the Old Testament for that exact reason." There’s a Holy pause. ”What do you think of Nicolas Cage?”

"Meh," I says. "We need like a Brock Lesnar. You know, a big scary guy that can bust the heads of evil like superripe watermelons. 'Take that evil!' says Brock. Splat! -Ooo! How about Batman?"

"I thought about it," says God. "But there’s the whole image thing. I mean he dresses in all black, those pointy ears look kinda like horns. I just think it would confuse people."

"Have you read the Bible lately?"

"Good point."

"So we need a kinda normal looking guy, but somebody with that smoldering evil-smiting, Charles Hestony-thing going. Hmmm. How about Kevin Pollak? He was awesome in Deterrence."

"Too short."

"John Cusack?"

"No. He’s been walking a fine line with me since Pushing Tin."

"I got it," I says, snapping my fingers. "Bill Goldberg. I could totally see Bill Goldberg smashing Judas in the face with a steel chair."

"I like it," says God.

"Yeah," I says. "Bill Goldberg looks like the kind of guy you need. I can just imagine Delilah sneakin’ in to cut his hair, and him just showin’ her the back of his hand. ‘Now go bake me same damn cookies!’ he’d roar."

"You know LOBO, maybe you’re right. I’ve been too soft on everyone lately."

"Now that’s the no-nonsense Infinite Being we all know and love," I says. "Stop messing around with this ‘freewill’ and ‘forgiveness’ nonsense … it’s only stressing us out. There should be two settings for God: 'Happy' and 'Wood Chipper.' We need some oldschool fiery vengeful wrath. One strike, you’re out. No warnings, just pillars of salt, raining frogs 'an brimstone ... the works!"

"I really don’t think I need to go back to all that."

"Really?" I says. "Two words: Paris Hilton."

The ground trembles.

Wow that was cool.

"Or," I says thinking quickly. "How about Lindsay Lohan?"

A crack opens in the earth. Red fire and agonized screams spew out of it.

"Atta boy!" I says. "Now go get ‘em, Champ! Only you can prevent another Pauly Shore vehicle!"

T'was the Night Before Christmas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Twas the night before Christmas
and I’m wide awake,
arraying the chimney
with beartraps and snakes;
the booby-trapped stockings
set with infinite care,
in hopes that fat bastard’ll
blow his hand off in there.

There arose such a clatter
up on my roof,
-and I’m sick of cleaning up
froze reindeer poop!
I let loose a war cry
-a blood curdling scream-
and empty the contents
of my AR-15.

One two three four five
six seven eight nine
thumps from above tell me
I missed one this time.
“Oh Dasher, Oh Dancer”
cries a loud booming voice,
“LOBO this tears it.
You give me no choice!”

I empty a blast
at the source of the sound
-and another at a spot
I think he might bound-
but the fat man is spry
for all that it’s worth
he outran my hot lead,
belying his girth.

Not a creature was stirring
as I reloaded my shells,
“I don’t want any trouble!”
I finally yells.
“Just leave all the toys,
and get the hell out
and I won’t send the cops
on that long North Pole route!”

The back door exploded
in splinters and slag
and a blood-splattered Santa
in smoldering rags
was removing his coat
and rolling his sleeves
“This time,” says Santa,
“Only one of us leaves.”

We circle each other,
and I’m very alarmed.
I can’t believe
the size of his arms!
“Hey what gives?" I says.
"You’ve been working out!
Where’s the ‘bowl full of jelly’
you trespassing lout?”

With a wink of an eye
and a twist of his head,
I know within moments
I will likely be dead.
Santa flicks his nose,
“You dumb blogging hack!
I’ve lost two hundred pounds
on my Nordic Track.”

"Old Mrs. Clause
must thing you're a riot"
I says, "and that Stetson cologne?
I'll bet she don't buy it."
"I wear nothing but Polo," he says.
"Don't even try it.
Now I'll pound you to pulp,
and then leave here real quiet.”

"If you think that's Polo,
age is taking it's toll,"
-that's when I did
a slick ninja-like roll,
and from under the sugar-plums
grab the control,
“Bring a knife to a gunfight?”
I says. “How droll!”

Missile TOW missiles launched
from tubes placed discretely,
but Santa danced deftly
–they missed him completely.
One of them arched
so high and so true
It blew up the neighbor’s place
plainly in view.

“LOBO let’s stop this.
You’ve blown up the Burkes!”
“To Hell with you Santa!
Those people were jerks!”
“I don’t understand
why this is unpleasant,”
Santa opens his arms.
“Especially since I brought you a present.”

“Really?” I says,
resisting suspicion.
I lower my bazooka.
“That was your mission?”
“Why sure!” says Santa.
“It’s from your mother.”
And when I looked in that hand,
he punched me with the other.

Electric pain flashes
all through my cap,
My nose must be broken,
completely smashed flat.
I stagger backwards.
“Santa, you’re dead!”
… But Rudolph, behind me,
clean kicked off my head.

It landed on a spike
three blocks away
and I could see where my body
dropped and lifelessly lay.
Up on the rooftop,
the reindeer all raised
to assume the mantle
of pulling The Sleigh.

As I lay dying
I heard Santa fly off
-and I spat blood and teeth
in my last final cough.
“On Dasher on Dancer,
and to Mrs. Clause praise!
-We need bulletproof vests
for the reindeer these days.”

Santa, still climbing,
resumed his long flight
-his sleigh silhouetted
against the cold lunar light-
and as it grew distant
and faded from sight,
I heard "Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good ... "




... I dunno ... I couldn't make out the rest.

Ghost of Christmas Past CAUGHT ON FILM!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ghost of Christmas Past, sure maybe I’ve been a little scrooge-like this year.

-But you crossed a line with me buddy. And I’ve got film proving you broke in, knocked me out with my 31-pound stainless steel Franklin Mint Limited Edition Collector’s Replica #412 of the Millennium Falcon, chained me up, and made me listen to all of your horrible backwards Satanic songs!

Perplexed at how Diesel was preventing me from voting on Humor-Blogs, I devoted all efforts of my vast security network to catch him in the act.

-That’s right: I got a Nanny Cam. And this is just a sample of the 16 hours of horror I was subjected to:

I assure you Ghost of Christmas Past [GOCP] I've contacted all the proper Authorities and my lawyer is filing numerous torts and depositions even as we speak! And "Charles Dickens" ring a bell? Hm? That's not just the funniest sounding author ever anymore ... 'A Christmas Carol' is a blueprint for your whole operation!

If I were you, I would turn myself in immediately.

-Oh and BTW I've got a little "surprise" planned for the Ghost of Christmas Present:




(I sure hope he doesn't get Diesel instead.)

G.W.B.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Less than a week after we watched in horror as journalist Muntazer al-Zaidi tried to wang American President George W. Bush upside the head with a leather pair of size 10s, Predator Press has uncovered evidence that he was not, in fact, working alone.

“The forensic evidence of at least one additional shoe-thrower is overwhelming,” says a smart-looking guy in a lab coat. Taking a pen from his pocket, he points at the toe. “This is a very expensive soft leather. Where are the inevitable scuffs? Are we to believe this was some kind of scuffless ‘magic shoe’? Pfft. As if! The odds of such a shoe being hurled and not scuffed are somewhere in the vicinity of, like, a jillion-to-one.”

He continues on to dispute the now well-known footage: “Now watch the shoe tosses themselves. Both are hurled with high degrees of backspin, thusly creating a significant amount of aerodynamic [he makes quote marks in the air with his fingers] 'torque'. This causes what golfers call [he makes quote marks again] 'hook'."

"As you can see in this AutoCAD recreation of the trajectories, both peel back and to the left. This forces Bush to duck toward the right. It's all very scientific.”

When asked what bearing this had on the ongoing $154M investigation he responded, “Absolutely none whatsoever ... I've just never been on TV before.”


He pauses and waves.

"Hi mom!"

Oh, and About This Whole "Christmas" Thing ...

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, I wince into them –but this does nothing practical to ease the pain.

They just keep going.

I can’t take it.

And going.

Please stop.

Finally I crack like an eggshell.

“For God’s sake, please STOP!”

Within seconds, the packed auditorium dwindles to a quieted state: a handful of Mrs. Tanner’s first grade class –still lost in song apparently- were among the last few to drift into silence.

And barring the puzzled murmurs of some 300 other parents that attended the South California Middle School Christmas Celebration Ball, there is a glorious absence of sound entirely.

“Excuse me?” says Mrs. Tanner from the side of the stage.

The kids are starin at me slackjawed.

“Ma’am,” I says. “I love Christmas just as much as anyone else. But so help me God if you make those kids do whatever that was again, I will kill you.”

“That was The Twelve Days of Chrismas,” she defends.

“No,” I says. “That was somebody smashing a 40-ounce beer bottle and jamming the pieces into my Frontal lobe.”

A fat blonde kid in front raises his hand. "Mrs Tanner-"

“Shut up!” I says, pointing at him wild-eyed.

I stand and approach the stage. “You!” I indicate the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Joseph,” he says.

“Joseph, do you have any idea what happens when you have twenty-two pipers piping simultaneously?”

Joseph just stares.

“And don’t get me started on-“ I count out some fast and furious math on my fingers, “thirty five golden rings? Oh holy Christ!”

“It’s just a song mister,” says Joseph.

“And you know what you do when you sing that song a full half an octave flat Joseph?” I lean down into his pudgy little still-asymmetrical face. “You make Santa cry.”

A tear streamed down Joseph’s cheek.

“Sir," snaps Mrs. Tanner. “They’re only six!"

I seize the clipboard from her hand. “That’s why I’m holding you entirely accountable.” Skimming her list, I begin “Oh lookit. Jingle Bells. How original.” I pause and glance at her. “You call yourself a professional? You didn’t even bother to put the ugly kids in the back row!”

Joseph wails.

“Shut up!” I repeat, already back to Mrs Tanner’s songlist. “A Hippopotamus for Christmas?” I guffaw. “Well that’s not even plausible ... !”

“Have you no soul?” cries Mrs. Tanner.

I shrug. “I got a jar of mayonnaise for it in 2003.”

Bullets to Spare

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Let’s say a complex unfixable issue in Section 36 will likely cause us all to die,” I says. “I would immediately say ’You know what Section 36? You guys are assholes!’”

I pause for a second, looking out the window for dramatic effect. “-and then Section 36 fixes the issue. Disaster is averted, and we all survive.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

Crap.

-I thought I was doing really well there.

“See,” I continue -hoping to recapture my previous inertia and maybe rescue the effort. “That’s the kind of job I need: a 'sexy, take chargy, top-secrety, lot's of cashy company jetty'-type job. And that’s why I think I am perfect for your company.”

“Sir,” he says blandly. “We make baby bottles here.”

“Seriously?”

If You Can't Beat Them ... Well ... THEN What?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Complainy, already a hard-core 16 year-old ‘texter,’ has probably already lost all ability to see anything further than eighteen inches from her face at this point.

-And glasses ain’t cheap.

“Would you just call those damned people already?” I demand. “You’ve been 'tiny-typing' them for hours!”

“You work on your blog for hours,” she says absently. “Why don’t you just call them?"

“Well I … ,” I begin. “Uhn, … "

“Actually talking to people is so passé,” she says, blue screenlight reflecting in her fixed brown eyes.

“People are not a mixture of minced meat and fat in the form of spreadable paste, generally made from a finely ground or chunky mixture of meats and liver and often generally enjoyed on crackers,” I remind her.

"That's pâté," she corrects.

“Nobody likes a smart ass," I retort. "And you can’t hold me responsible for that whole 'Arkansas' thing forever: I lost my wallet, and I certainly wasn’t going to catch a deer with two cans of 'Old Style.'”

-I pause for a second, rewinding the incident in my head.

“And that jerk was wearing A1 sauce,” I recall pounding my fist into the table. “He was askin’ for it!”

Complainy blinks at her phone. “Were you saying something dad?”

“Man what is wrong with you kids today?” I demand. “Back in my day, AC/DC was cool, Ozzy was evil, and Red Hot Chili Peppers was seasoning!”

“Really,” she says disinterested. “Wow.”

“And we respected our … !"

Uh-oh.

“Ah screw it,” I concede. “Just try to stay out of jail, okay?”

Complaining as Fast as I Can

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Were I not extremely lazy, I could probably go through my own archives and pinpoint the approximate date I started being a fan of the Mighty Mighty Diesel’s brainchild Humor-Blogs.

-Let's just say it's been a few years.

There’s elegance to the Humor-Blogs concept: I imagine in the future more and more people will think “I want to read something funny.” Then they'll pull over their hovercars, flip open their holographic watches, and navigate Minority Report-style straight to HB to find all our schlock.

And we bloggers all have different reasons for doing what we do. For example Rickey of Riding with Rickey (one of my favorite blogs) claims to do it almost explicitly for fun. I, conversely, do it about 90% for fun –but there’s a sneaky little hope of ambition there too. I would love a book deal ... or maybe even fifty years from now National Lampoon stumbling across one of my screwball ideas and walking into whatever Walmart I'm greeting at to cut me a check on the spot.

Unlike Rickey, I am exactly a shill: if Darlette’s Dominatrix Dungeon coughs up enough cash, their ad’ll be bigger ‘n my own banner ... and in the sidebar on the right there'll be a picture of me holding like nine huge honkin' floppy rubber dildos and flashing an I Just Saw My Bank Balance grin.

But what we all have in common, I think, is the desire to be read … and a recent modification to the Humor-Blogs format, I think, threatens the growth of the directory. Worse, it’s making me sometimes avoid the directory altogether.

Now let me back up a little to explain.

Until recently there was a trick you could use to boost your score artificially. It wasn’t really particularly complex or difficult; with an hour you could theoretically give yourself 100 points.

Nor was it unknown: I pointed out this flaw within hours of the new Humor-Blogs 3.0 rollout. Diesel was annoyed, but I didn’t do it for evil … I did it in the spirit of troubleshooting his site. I stopped –of course- and I think Diesel just left us all on our own honor to not abuse the system.

Anyone else see a problem with leaving 2,000 creative, intelligent and competitive people on an honor system?

It was inevitable –in my opinion- that this glitch would resurface … and indeed it recently did.

So hooray for Diesel for addressing the issue –but boo for Diesel for the corrective action taken: now, if you vote too much from the same IP, you get banned for 24 hours.

Now I’m a pretty voracious blog reader. There are literally blogs I’ve read every letter of every post, beginning to end. In fact I follow too many blogs already, and every day there’s some new and refreshing author poppin’ up out of the woodwork (Christ you people are like weeds!) But now I have a finite number of votes, so I’ll go to my faves, sites I know are bound to be funny first. So who will get first crack at getting any votes at all? In a weird way, you’re telling me what I can vote for.

And you know what that leaves for anything new?

Pretty much zip.

So yeah, three times in the past five days I’ve been banned for 24 hours, and each triggered a cranky "hey WTF?" unanswered email to Diesel. And what happens then during the bans? I stop going to Humor-Blogs sites altogether –or I logout in effort to “stealth” around. What if I find a little gem of a funny piece and I have no votes left? Is there a “fixed” number of votes, or should I vote before I even go to the site to make ensure I have one for it? And what quantity exactly constituted "too many?"

And doesn’t this, by nature, give a significant advantage to people with multiple IP addresses? People with multiple IP addresses can still exploit the “glitch” … so you’ve not only not solved the problem, but now you’ve made it more difficult to track.

I think this new HB protocol is a mistake. Swim or drown. Grow or die. It essentially keeps me from surfing HB as much as I like, and has thusly curtailed growing mutual readerships. Further, this "correction" changes the HB psychology completely: now we will be locked in to packs and consortiums of “big dog” blogs loyal to voting on each other. Other work deserved of praise might go missed –or worse, some obscure author somewhere maybe needs some encouragement, but our carefully budgeted votes are all already committed to others.

Stale.

I can't articulate the solution without giving out the "trick," but suffice to say there are better methods of weeding out the cheaters. Let The People vote and vote and vote their little hearts out! Let The People vote 'til their fingers bleed and heads explode, breasts bursting in the pride of participating in rampant and unbridled Democracy in action!

Look. Do you want the Chinese to win? Hm? Hey buddy this is America: it's not "Humor-Brogs," it's "Humor-Blogs." So get on yer godless little Vespa or ten speed or whatever and go pedal someplace else to be oppressed. Okay?

Oh and BTW don't judge Diesel too harshly. He is a real nice and likeable guy -and probably not Chinese or a raging Communist either: I'm sure any affiliations he has with The People's Republic are strictly derivative of their own individual comedic abilities and merits.

I can sense there is still good in him ... it's just buried way, way, way way deep. It's just to the left of that egg salad he ate yesterday, kinda sloshing around in this morning's co