Monster Smash: The Predator

Monster Smash #1: The Predator

by Annie Riordan

Welcome to my brand-new column, in which I provide hardcore proof of my own mental illness currently manifesting as a sexual attraction to ugly monsters. You’re welcome in advance.

I will not attempt to justify my morbid taste in “men” – partly because I don’t care what you think, but mostly because I don’t fucking know myself, okay? I’ve just always wanted to have a monster boyfriend, is that so very wrong? Okay, don’t answer that. 

For my first installment, I have chosen the Predator. Because I just wrote a review for The Predator, and it seemed like an opportune time. 

Credit: Corinne Luz

Name: The Predator, Ugly Mutherfucker, Pussyface, Rckth’kkl’knu’glu. I made that last one up.

Species: Yautja or Hish-Qu-somethingorother. 

Height: 7 foot +

Weight: cement-mixer taped to an aircraft carrier

Eye color: Yellow

Hair: early Whoopi Goldberg

Likes: spinal cords, skulls and hot, steamy jungles.

Dislikes: Meaty guys, insults, musical comedies. 

I’m not gonna lie: my attraction to the Predator is purely physical. From the neck down, anyway. That guy is a smoking hot stack of ripped steel in alligator skin. And he’s just asking you to check it all out, dressed in that form fitting, naughty little fishnet singlet and shiny, curve-hugging codpiece/loincloth combo. He totally wants it.

Calves like redwood trees, butt so tight you could bounce a bullet off of it, six-pack slabbed from neck to waist, the latter slim enough to wrap your legs around for the long distance ride. Goddamn, it’d be like rubbing off on a Harley: all rumble and snort with a mighty bellow at journey’s end. It stands to reason, judging by his height and build alone, that Predster baby has hisself a Titanic sized smokestack tucked away Down There. I’m betting he could pistol-whip a mammoth to death with his schlong alone. If the late great Peter Steele were still alive, he’d die again of penis envy. 

So, he’s not a great conversationalist, capable only of parroting back whatever you say in rumbly grunts. But on the other hand, you can teach him to say things like: “You’re the hottest Earth Bitch in the universe,” and/or, “Can I make you a sammich?” He’d probably kill you if he attempted cunnilingus, and unless you can unhinge your jaw like a python swallowing a crocodile whole, I wouldn’t recommend oral. 

But hey, he’s got a super spiffy spaceship and can jet you off to pretty much any tropical paradise that exists in the known universe. And if you ask nicely, he’d probably hang your ex-boyfriends upside down from a tree and skin them alive. Bonus points!