Hansel and Gretel

Predator Press

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“And that’s why," I complain, “I absolutely hate the name Hansel.”

“So,” replies Gretel, cutting back a thicket with her machete. Despite the disproportionate size of the knife in her small hands she was really becoming quite adept; within moments they were now moving through the forest at a respectable pace. “You’re saying that you can't join the Ultimate Fighting Championship is because our parents named you Hansel?"

“It might as well have been Petunia," I says. Wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I wince into my fingers. “When the ring announcer says ‘In this corner, Brock Lesnar!’ you immediately think of some huge hulking guy that eats battleship hulls and craps cannonballs. But when he says ‘In this corner Hansel,” you think of somebody prancin‘ around barefoot on flower petals.”

"So what are we supposed to call you then?" asks Gretel, slightly ahead.

"I don't know," I says. "How about The Hulking Super Iron Man Wolverine?"

"Seems kinda long," says Gretel. "And how 'hulking' are you really? I'm four foot six and I'm taller than you."

"Nuh-uh!"

"And then you fight Brock Lesnar?"

"Brock Lesnar cannot be defeated," I explain. "That's why he will be my tag-team partner."

Suddenly Gretel motions for Hansel to stop. Crawling forward on her belly, she spies something of interest in the distance.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Shh!” she whispers sharply.

"You ain't the boss of me."

“There’s a weird looking house up here," says Gretel. "And I thought I heard something. Something like chewing.”

“Oh that’s just me,” I says. “I got hungry, so’s I’ve been nibbling on this here sack of croutons you gave me.”

“You idiot,” snaps Gretel, knocking them from his hand. “You were supposed to be dropping them behind us so we could find our way back to the campsite!”

“Well remember that chick in the red dress skipping with the basket?”

“Yes,” says Gretel distractedly, looking through her binoculars. “You said you wanted to ‘open her basket and check out her goodies.’”

“-And the bitch slapped me! I thought she might have bacon bits or ranch or cheddar or something. I've already eaten the croutons. If I don't find my way up to a full-on salad I'm going to feel like a total fatass."

Gretel sighs.

“She said you don’t want to leave croutons," I continue. "The damn animals will eat ‘em. You want to carry a GPS, or at the very least a map and a compass. And that we probably wouldn't want to go back there anyways because of all the recent wolf attacks,” I explain. "Three little pigs and a jackhammer are reported missing."

"Hansel, our parents are back there!"

Yes, I'm thinking. 'Hansel' eh?

"It's the Circle of Life," I shrug. "What're they, like, fifty or something? They had a good run."

“Well if you're hungry, you may be in luck,” says Gretel zooming in with the binoculars. “It's some kind of restaurant."

“Cool,” I says.

"Weird. Why would somebody build a restaurant way out here?" Gretel scans the surrounding area. "Huh. I don't see a payphone, but there’s a sign that says 'FREE PORKCHOPS' ... and there's some kid running up to the place. He almost looks ....like ...

!!!

"Hansel, you get back here!" she screamed.

***

I’ll bet I was only six or seven pork chops in when ol’ spoilsport Gretel showed up in an obviously too-large waitress outfit.

“Psst,” she says, looking in another direction.

“You ain’t foolin anybody Gretel,” I says, dipping my chicken wing in the chocolate ice cream. "And can you please move? I can't see the Laker‘s game with you standing there."

“Don’t you understand?” growls Gretel. “She’s trying to fatten you up so she can eat you! If we don't find a telephone-!”

"That sweet old woman wouldn't hurt a fly," I scoff. "Besides she's blind as a bat. And have you even tried these pork chops?”

“Those might not even be pork.”

“Well that would explain why I keep finding these Matchbox cars in them,” I figure. "I thought they were prizes."

“Has she been checking how much you weigh?”

“Well she keeps asking me to stick out a digit so she can feel it,” I offer. “And then she complains how scrawny I am.”

"I think she meant a finger."

"Well let just say I won't be pressing any charges either," I reply. "Now come on. I know you're hungry too. You've gotta try these potato skins. She put whipped cream on them!"

Gretel slides into the booth. “You really think this is just a kindly old woman?”

“I've never been so certain of anything in my life," I says confidently. Pulling up a particularly plump and juicy tender chop with my fork for her viewing I add, "Come on. If you don't learn to lighten up, you're going to end up with an eating disorder or something."

"Ooh," says Gretel, licking her lips while eyeing the menu. "That sun-dried basil bruschetta looks deliiiicious!

"Meh," I grunt. "It's all veggies and crap. Ask her to put some M&Ms and butter in it or something."

Revolver

Predator Press

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Waaaaay way down at the very bottom of this page is a hit counter poised to roll over 100,000 hits.

And sure maybe half of those hits are me fiddlef--king incessantly with the HTML, fixing grammatical trauma, rectifying spelling, eh, "liberties," and otherwise fine-tuning my savage butchery of the English language.

-Let‘s just call it a solid 50,000.

I’ll take it.

With 1000 posts at this point, mathematically one or two of them almost have to be decent, right? (That's my overall strategy BTW ... over a long enough timeline, I'll get a Shakespeare in here somewhere.)

Still, by dividing 50,000 legitimate hits by 1,000 posts, this gives me about 50 hits per post.

Hmmm.

And since this the name of this blog is “Predator Press," let’s call a good 50% of those hits wayward web searches looking for either endangered species or child molesters.

From there, lop off an additional 30% for the non-reading Entrecard ‘skimmers.'

Finally, subtract about half of the lonely few remaining as never-to-return readers that promptly and accurately diagnosed this blog as a pedantic and retarded festering mess.

This pretty much leaves you.

Thanks!

:)

Bonfire of the Manatees

Predator Press

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California -still stubbornly trying to kill us- finds us hopping from motel to motel in a relentless search of our own little space to throw elbows from. It's like getting strangled slowly and softly by deeply-tanned, diet pill-popping pastel tourniquets.

I’ve done this “urban survivalist” thing before, but I’ve never been so bold as to do it with a family in tow. As one person, you kind of have a “fix“ on things; with multiple people (and a cat) you get blindsided by curve balls like running out of toilet paper at 3am -and not having anyplace to get any.

Suffice to say once graced with more time and stability I’ll write in greater detail about these adventures.

But for now just take my word for it: never ever ever use the washcloths at a motel.

The House -and Heart- Broken

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Succumbing to the virulent torrent of angry mail from ardent (and reputedly very dangerous) Doctor Who fans, I decided to rename my robot assassin puppy ‘Scraps.'

-But even while welding his rabies tags and registration on, I already knew I had a problem.

I guess when it all came down I just couldn't send Scraps to burrow his way into the succulent and still-beating hearts of my insurance agents, finally detonating himself in their steaming squirty entrails once their screams were successfully converted to mp3 and transmitted to my iPod.

-Scraps, a loyal companion, deserves better than that.

On the outskirts of town, there's a big sprawling farm that raises the robot sheep we get steel wool from: it's a place where Scraps won’t be painfully discriminated against by inbred hoity-toity big city ‘meatdogs.'

I’ve decided to send him there where he can assassinate wild and free, just like nature intended.

I'll miss him.

-He’s the best friend I ever had.

[*sniff*]

Predator Press Unveils "iByte" Prototype

Predator Press

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Before deluging us with “Congratulations” mail, you should know that Terri and I did not, in fact, adopt a dog.

In fact this isn’t even a real dog at all: this is just a little something Predator Press Scienticians whipped up overnight.

Isn’t it amazing? And we haven't even glued on the carpet remnants yet! If we could get the oil it leaks to be the color of urine, it would be totally indistinguishable from the real thing.

(I sure hope it fits in the basket.)

Shark Chum for the Soul

Predator Press

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Yes, today was to be still yet another post ranting about my Insurance Company.

-But taking a tip from Chris Wood, I’ve decided not to let them ruin my day.

Today’s post will not be about how I want them squishing barefoot through bat feces deep in the bowels of some forgotten drafty dungeon for the rest of eternity. Nor will it be about comparing the gauge of mesh screen I would like them squeezed through.

Today’s post will be about, eh, puppies.

Yes. A bunch of puppies. Cute little fuzzy wuzzy wide-eyed irresistible companion-seeking puppies. All in a cozy little basket with a big red ribbon on it.

I’ll bet if an insurance company found a basket of such puppies, their hearts would melt. They would immediately bring the puppies inside and divide them up for cuddling and adoption purposes.

-But these wouldn’t be normal garden-variety puppies.

These would be robot assassin puppies.

Someone answers the phone “You have reached Affirmative Insurance,” and boom! that’s the audio trigger for the attack: a hidden hypo delivers the paralyzing neurotoxins, and then the puppies start burrowing their way piranha-like right into the very hearts they just melted. Like that movie Alien, ‘cept in reverse.

In puppies no one can hear you scream.

And then the ugly runty robot assassin puppy? The unwanted one they left back in the basket?

Detonates.

-Wipes out the crime scene completely.

***

Man Chris was right. I do feel better!

Please be sure to visit Chris Wood’s blog.

-This guy sure knows his stuff.

Hawk

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m no vegetarian, but the product pictured left has become the major preoccupation of my entire morning.

Has American hatred for chickens grown to such a point where we sanction violent chicken-on-chicken crime in our advertising?

Yes, I’m impressed this company has trained chickens to cruelly fry other chickens. In fact it’s clear to me now this must be a super-intelligent breed of very highly-functioning chicken too: typical chickens operate at a very poor level in kitchens -particularly when it comes to the sensitive timing required to deep fry things.

Is this tied to cockfighting, or are these superintelligent chickens, like, doing some kind of horrible and macabre ethnic cleansing? Or what if there is one like mastermind chicken controlling all the others to do his diabolic culinary will?

-Man I wouldn’t want to mess with that chicken.

And yes, for a moment I had a distant, receding impulse to do the right thing and get indignant. My god, I think. Unless it’s by a professional chef, these delicious creatures should not be abused!

-But this thought is almost immediately drowned out by What are you stupid? You could pick up a few grand assisting the marketing campaign!”

So screw the chicken.

Hard.

-Before it messes with your ankles or something.

'An I can already hear you bleedin’ heart Liberals ”But LOBO, you’re rationalizing animal abuse. Surely you wouldn’t compromise your ethics and contribute to a brutal campaign like that.”

-I, for one, am shocked at you bleedin’ heart Liberals. Of course I wouldn’t give these people more sick ideas.

I would, however, present a few to see if they’re interested in purchasing them …

And hey, what about my ankles?

I deserve pre-compensation.

For Screechy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once when I was a child, my father –an expert mechanic- took me into the garage.

“Son,” says Dad. “Do you want to grow up to be a great mechanic like myself?”

“Sure I do, Dad!” I says.

He scruffs my hair, grinning. “That’s my boy.”

I reach for a hammer on the shelf –it seemed gigantic compared to my smallish hands- but Dad stopped me.

“No son,” he corrects. “As a mechanic, you gotta understand the nature of things.” He walks me outside to the now harsh-seeming daylight. Scooping up a handful of dirt, he sifts it through his fingers and says “You want to work on an internal combustion engine? Well this is where it all begins. You see we get our blah oil from the ground, and blah blah energy into blah petroleum and blah blah blah blah fires the pistons blah blah blah … ”

***

Despite not knowing shit about being a mechanic, at sixteen I was tenured at Harvard and consequently became the Chief Engineer for Boeing.

A "prodigy," my very first duty as Chief Engineer for Boeing was to determine why so many workers were getting limbs and digits torn off on the factory floor.

I quickly submitted a report stating that the equipment would work more efficiently, faster, and most importantly safer if the workers stopped tearing their limbs and digits off with it.

I was promoted to National Safety Board Chairman, and fired later that same day for driving a forklift into a McDonald's Drive-Thru for fries.

There Is No "U" In "TEAM"

Predator Press

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“The insurance people won’t talk to me at all,” I complain.

“I’m not surprised after all that cursing,” says Terri. “They probably regard you as belligerent.”

“Then let them continue to regard me as big words I don’t understand!” I says triumphant.

“Atta boy,” sighs Terri.

There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe

Predator Press

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Humpty Dumpty knocked on the outside of the massive shoe.

No answer.

He knocked again. Louder.

“Who is it?” she cried from deep within.

“It’s the Humpster, baby.”

“Come on in. The door isn't locked.”

“You busy?” he calls into the shoe as he opens the door.

“No,” she replies. “I’ll be there in a second.”

“Damn girl,” jokes Humpty. “You ain’t havin another baby, are you?”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Aw, congratulations!” says Humpty. He grabs some towels, and heads over to the kitchen to boil water. Man this crazy ol lady sure does love to get her 'Freak' on, he thinks smiling to himself.

He fires the burner and fills the pot with water muttering to himself, "Well, you know what they say about chicks with big feet."

“What?”

But Humpty, struggling for his asthma breather, didn’t hear her. The sight of the boiling pot of water had triggered a panic attack; all he could hear was the voice of his other saying ”That’s what happened to your father. One minute he was driving a forklift at a macaroni factory, and the next,” she pauses, ”poached.”

“Hey are you alright?” asks the old woman. Now dressed in a sweatsuit, she alertly helps Humpty fumble his breather to his mouth. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

”Poached,” his mother repeated in his head.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, tears streaming. “Every time I see boiling water, I just want to grab a Bushmaster AR-15 and kill everyone I can find.”

“Well I do loves a man with an eye for safety,” she whispers. “I like Armalites ... don’t get me wrong. But they just don’t have the Viper range safety device that Bushmans do." She throws his arm over her shoulder. "Humpty, have you met my kids?”

Humpty leans away from the kitchen counter, testing his weak and wobbly legs. “Probably not all of them ma’am.”

With her arms still around him, she helped him stand. Perhaps it was the proximity or the moment of utter vulnerability –maybe it was merely the smell of her perfume- but Humpty decided if ever there was a moment to tell her how he feels, this is it.

“Baby,” he says, staggering to look into her eyes. “We’ve known each other for a long time. How come we never, eh, 'hooked up'?”

“Oh, Humpty,” she blushes. “I’m very flattered, but you’re an egg. What would my friends say if I started dating an egg?”

Humpty, pride mortally wounded, looked away to hide the tears.

“I mean maybe if you were at least an embryo or something,” she continues. “But an egg? Ewe!”

Despite his aching heart, Humpty fought to reply. “You know,” he sobbed. “We have our differences. But I have yearned for you for years now. I know your favorite band, favorite color, favorite flower … Damn it I love you.”

The woman, shocked, stared in disbelief.

“And I don’t care that I’m an egg and you’re an old woman that lives in a shoe,” Humpty continued grabbing her shoulders. “Can’t you see that your discrimination is tearing us apart!?”

The woman’s pupils narrow.

“Get your filthy egg-hands off of me!” she screams.

“But baby-“

She dives for her cellphone, “How dare you!?”

“I was only trying to-“

“Hello?” she barks into the phone. “Is this all the King’s men?”

“There’s no need to-!“

“Yes,” she says. “A filthy egg is attacking me. How did you know?”

Humpty lunges for her phone, and wrests it away from her. “God damn it woman, those people will be trying to kill me now!”

Suddenly, Humpty realizes he has a .45 caliber pistol pointed into his temple.

The woman growls. “You make a sound before the cops get here, and I’ll blow your yolk all over the goddamned leather.”

“Jezebel!” cries Humpty, lashing out.

"You damn ... dirty ... egg!" she chokes, and falls limp in his arms.

“Oh my god,” cries Humpty as police sirens wail in the distance. “She’s dead!”

And even as the galloping sound of all the king’s horses become deafening, he screams into the sky:

"Oh sweet Jesus! what have I done!?!”

Dona Nobis Pacem

Predator Press

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I Wish Everyone Was Dead (Except You)

Predator Press

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Some of us get beat up all year long for not taking down the Christmas tree and decorations.

-Particularly after Brent Diggs' documentary DVD Tinsel of Doom, warning us in detail of this potential breeding ground of latent inherent evil.

November, however, marks the traditional point where we -the courageous and few determined ones left with our decorations still up- switch labels from “lazy” to “forerunners of the holiday season and cheer.”

Usually it's worth it in the end.

But my November is a wreck so far nonetheless.

I still blame Brent.

... somehow.

***

November 1st (3:00 am Saturday): A leftover drunk driver from Halloween totaled our parked car.

November 1st (8:00 am Saturday): It's worth bearing mention at this point that I've always regarded automotive insurance as a white collar crime. Some states mandate that you pay X dollars a month into whatever corporate void will suck it in, and the most responsible of driving citizens will never see a dime in return.

In short, they "sell" you, eh, nothing.

-Shit I don't like taxes either. But at least taxes will get you some commercials on why nobody can fix the potholes.

So anyway after tens of thousands of dollars pissed away on insurance over the course of my life, I file my first automotive claim ever with Affirmative Insurance.

Hours later -wandering aimlessly through their automated phone maze for something else entirely- I find out by accident that Affirmative has cancelled our policy due to non-payment.

Huh, I'm thinking. That's funny ... the Claims Agent I spoke to didn't say anything about ...

It would come out later this week Affirmative's would claim the Mail Unit either lost my check or never received it. And aaaaaall that free money they happily and willingly took in the past didn't warrant a cancellation or late notice of any kind either.

Isn't driving without insurance punishable by jail and thousands of dollars in fines alone?

What if I had been pulled over?

Well it’s Saturday. No human beings at Affirmative are available for clarification.

Surely I'm being too cynical here.

Right?

November 3 (8:35 am Monday): I finally make contact with human beings at Affirmative, and am assured we have had no lapse of coverage. This is good because our car is still smashed in the street with broken glass everywhere. So we will only have to go get a rental.

Right?

November 3 (afternoon Monday): The insurance adjuster I waited for all day never shows up. No courtesy call, nothing. The lady on the telephone asks me to provide the check number to support the case that we paid, and I do.

I swear to God on my mother’s eyes the title for the car arrives in the mail this afternoon, and this serves to refuel my growing frustration and rage. People typically like to restrict the money they pay for goods and services actually received. What goods and/or services has Affirmative Insurance provided for all the money I've paid them? Assuming my car is destroyed, in their failing to provide any said goods and/or services -aka Principle #1: Keep me in a working vehicle- shouldn't I get a refund in full fur all the money I have ever given to them?

My suspicion of malfeasance and possible fraud grows.

November 4 (Tuesday): Again, no insurance adjuster, and today despite numerous calls no one at the office will answer the phone. For four days now we’ve had no car, no progress, and the neighbors are getting bitchy about the smashed car and broken glass in the street.

To add insult to injury, I’m suddenly aware that somehow John Nobody and my immanent election was being upstaged and usurped by guys named “McCain” and “Obama.” I can’t believe two guys –who don’t even have blogs as far as I can tell- have bastardized our election idea like this!

November 5 (Wednesday): No contact from the insurance company, and people have evidently bought into this sham “election” entirely. Cripes it's on CNN! And apparently this ‘Obama’ guy ain’t white either, and I seem like someone who cares bout that: no less than three pasty rednecks in various disguises have already introduced me to separate discussions that would –and should- have probably alarmed the Secret Service.

Despite the fact that Obama stole the whole "election" idea from me 'an John Nobody, this offended me. Isn’t this the 20th Centurion already? Seriously, how is it possible that racist ignorant assholes like this can still speak to me legally? Outside of rap music, I haven’t heard the full-fledged word “nigger” in maybe two fucking years.

I should be allowed to carry shock sticks or a near-lethal cattle prod or something.

-Something!

But God has a plan for everyone, right? And “Everyone” probably involves these fucks too. In fact I can imagine the Big Guy can pretty anal-retentive on some of these issues.

“You can blame Affirmative Action!” I says agreeing with them.

And then I hand them an envelope from my impotent auto insurance company Affirmative with the return address highlighted.

“Here’s where they work,” I whisper.

The Bloggy Electric

Predator Press

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If you told us ten years ago we would be in the middle of something even bigger than the "Industrial Revolution," we would have laughed.

-But never before has any animal been able to communicate to the other side of the planet instantaneously.

The internet has given us a virtual telepathy unrivalled in the animal kingdom, and it will irrevocably alter the species entirely.

Indeed, our children's children will be downloading historical data on this momentus occasion directly to their cerebral cortexes, and have to create longwinded 87 terabyte 3-dimensional holographic essays on how "Those Dumb People Were So Dumb, They Had No Dumb Idea. ROFLMAO. LOL they were so dumb! WTF?"

And to commemorate this fantastic Age of Achievement, I plan a blog post entitled "Did I Eat This?" as soon as the Polaroids come back.

Mmmmm ... 3.14

Predator Press

[LOBO]

What? Too soon?

How I Single-Handedly Ended the Gas Crisis

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“$1.79 a gallon?”

“Yes,” says the cashier.

“Are you out of your freakin’ mind?”

“No seriously,” says the cashier.

“Well I’m not paying $1.79 a gallon.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is extortion!” I says.

“Sir I don’t set the price-“

“Oh I think you do Sancho –or whatever your name is. I’ll pay $1.79 a gallon, and then next week, what, $2 a gallon? Well I ain’t gonna stand for it.”

“Sir, I believe gas prices are set by OPEC and-“

“Who is that? Your dad? Well get this ‘Opek’ guy on the phone. Tell him I’ll give him a buck fifty. Tops.”

“Sir,” says the cashier. “It’s $1.79.”

"No it isn't

"Yes it is."

"Sancho,” I says disappointedly, “When you come to a new country you're supposed to rapidly adopt the culture. This 'ooh, I'm Sancho Opek and I'm gonna overcharge all those American jerks' attitude won't get you anywhere."

"Sir, my name is Randy Watkins. I was born in Des Moines."

“Well this is America, ‘Randy.’ And we don’t want your lousy overpriced gas. In fact, I demand you take it out of my vehicle immediately.”

“Excuse me?”

“We don’t want these damn Funyuns either.”

“Sir,” says Randy, suddenly nervous. Eyes darting back and forth nervously, he leans in and whispers, “Please take the gas. $1.50 will be fine.”

I pause, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I have far too much gas, and fifteen minutes from now another tanker truck full of gas will be arriving.”

“I don’t know Randy,” I says shrewdly. “I'm actually a big fan of alternative energy. I thought that gas smelled a little funny too. In any case, I think I would be much happier with some Amoco.”

“I’ll throw in the Funyuns for free.”

“Nah,” I says.

“All the gas. The whole tank,” he pleads. “$10.”

“Plus the Funyons?”

“Plus the Funyons.”

“And this keychain flashlight?”

“Yes.”

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Not a chance.”

"Dammit!"

This Message Brought to You By:

Old Mother Hubbard

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Miss Hubbard’s mansion was pretty spacious, but I’ll be damned if that old bat didn’t keep every inch of that creepy place spick and span.

“Yeah so you’re three weeks behind on your newspaper deliveries,” I continue. “You a deadbeat or something?”

“How much do I owe you?” she asks flatly.

“Three fifty,” I says. “And it ain’t negotiable. Poppa needs a new Schwinn this year.”

“Such an industrious young man,” she says patting my head. “I’m sure I have a few dollars in my purse.”

“Well I hope so,” I says. “Now where’s the bathroom? Now you're late on payments and my hair is all screwed up too.”

“I wouldn’t go wandering,” says the woman from the next room. “Rommel is friendly, but he doesn’t take kindly to people roaming around.”

Rommel, a Rottweiler roughly the same weight as myself, growled menacingly.

“Now, now Rommel,” she chided. “You mustn’t spook the guests.”

“Man lady,” I says looking around. “You sure got a lot of books on Scientology.”

“My son is a very prolific writer,” she calls from the kitchen.

Mental Note: "prolific" = crappy

I cross my arms. "Yeah I’ll bet.”

“I can’t seen to find my purse," she says exasperated. “Can you check the kitchen? I’ll look upstairs.”

“What about Cujo here?”

“If he growls,” she says fading upwards, “just give him a bone from the cupboard.”

I swing open the door and enter the kitchen.

There’s no purse to be found.

This wrinkle-kit is gonna drag this out into an all-day affair if I let her, I’m thinking. God they should just wax all these lonely old crazy people. Once you get like thirty or so-“

Suddenly Rommel let loose a thunderous bark, and cut my train of thought completely.

He’s sitting on the kitchen linoleum, drooling sloppily, and tail thumping hard against the floor. He's a pretty big dog, too: we are looking eye-to-eye.

And for the first time since I got here, the dog looked friendly.

“Who’s a good boy?” I says, scratching him behind the ears. Remembering what the old crone said about the bones in the cupboard I says “Wanna treat?”

Bam bam bam goes the stumpy tail with increased enthusiasm. Rommel does an exaggerated and clumsy half-trot to the cupboards -impotent claws slipping helpless and loudly across the smooth floor- clearly indicating where the treats are.

What kind of crazy old broad would keep bones in a cupboard? I’m thinking. But sure enough, there’s a big thick meaty one in there. Maybe four or five pounds, eighteen inches or so long.

“Well it’s a good day to be Rommel!” I smile, tossing him the grizzly trophy. “So does this hag got any pop or anything? I'm thirsty.”

I open the fridge. She has iced tea, a half bottle of Shasta, a human head in a jar of clear liquid, and what is most likely orange juice-

My heavy bag of newspapers slides off of my shoulder, and lands on the ground with a with a solid thud.

As I stare -the hairs rising on the back of my neck- the magnetic refrigerator door eases closed.

And there’s an audible sickening crack of broken bone as Rommel enjoys his “prize” behind me.

“Oh there you are!” says Old Mother Hubbard, proudly brandishing her newly-found purse. “Three fifty you say?”

“You know what lady?” I says, dragging my bag. “We’re good.”

This Message Brought to You By:

Diesel's New “Server Error in '/' Application” Humor-Blogs Upgrade Rolls Out To Mixed Reviews

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I am teasing of course ... Diesel has been trying to perfect the Humor-Blogs “Server Error in '/' Application” for years now, and I'm proud to be here enjoying the hilarious culmination of all his efforts; "Object reference not set to an instance of an object" just gets funnier and funnier everytime I read it!

All kidding aside, for the first time in maybe a year I've made the finals in his Caption Contest -and this is one of the funniest competitions I've seen in a while.

Vote early, vote often, and cheat where and when necessary.

(Lyin' to me if you voted for someone else is perfectly acceptable: the other entries are side-splitting!)

Thanks!

:)

Predator Press Profiles: Margret Rosenthal

Predator Press

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In order to demonstrate that I haven't "lost touch" due to my lucrative blogging career, I’ve decided to create a new series of posts celebrating the “Common Man.”

This is where the entourage and I momentarily leave the protective womb of my vast and exceedingly deadly compound, and we go to a 7-11 or a Shell gas station to briefly speak to the inconsequential little people that make this country tick.

Who is this intriguing person running my credit card for Funyuns really?

One never knows.

-It could be a fascinating astronaut or neurosurgeon!

***

Subject Name: Margret Rosenthal

AKA: "Margie"

Occupation: Cashier/International Double Agent

Obvious Deficiencies: Lazy

Not-So-Obvious Deficiencies: Laziness due to sore feet. Margret spent last night ballroom dancing with Dick Cheney in stiletto heels a size too small. This consequently caused her toes squish out like tiny fat little horrifying sausages, and blew the last dwindling hope of Archduke Karl Ludwig getting the plans to America's new superconductor.

Hobbies: Mopping, Ringing Up Funyuns

Turn Ons: Long Walks On The Beach, Superconductors

Turn Offs: Gets pissed off if you repeatedly open the glass door (triggering the customer alert bell) and then hide behind the payphone

Weapon Proficiency: Apron (strangulation)

Secondary Specialty: Tossing apron into motorcycle chain causing attackers to wreck, impaling themselves on their own AK-47s

Special Notes: Don’t attack the bitch with AK-47, motorcycle

Secrets: In her purse I found tampons, pictures of grandkids, Dick Cheney's Blackberry, mircofilm of her doing Dick Cheney on a superconductor, and a cherry-flavored Gingivitis spray.



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