Predator Press

Ask LOBO: How To Blog Part IV

2009-07-11T19:54:00.039-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

MILLIONS and millions of readers are always asking me everyday, ”LOBO, if I make a YouTube of me sticking my head in a deep fryer, will I get as many people to visit my blog as yours?”

Well I'm glad you asked me that.

The short answer is “Well, uh, yeah” -but the long answer is more of a philosophical and humanitarian discussion that doesn't smell very good at the conclusion.

In a continued offensive olfactory irony, according to Google Analytics the most popular Predator Press post ever shockingly has nothing to do with farts either: Lee Majors Endorses $14.95 Bionic Ear -as a specific Google Search- has placed Number One since it's inception, and to this day has three times as many direct visitors than the distant second.

-On occasion people still comment on it.

But if you think I’ll let cold hard statistical fact I don't understand get in my way, you’re sadly mistaken: I think we should all be doing something entirely different ... as "Bloggers," I think we should start ending random sentences with “and then I started killing people.”

(I’m sensing some resistance here, but don’t puss out on me yet.)

I’m not sayin end every sentence with “and then I started killing people” –just a light dusting will do. 'Less is More' in this case.

I submit this modified excerpt from an e e cummings poem for your consideration:

a pretty a day
(and every fades)
is here and away
(but born are maids
to flower an hour
in all,all)
and then I
started killing people
Long Live the Robots!

See that?

-And I totally improvised the 'Long Live the Robots' thing.

Rebel Yell

2009-07-09T18:40:00.020-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Between Terri and I, we have two boys and five girls -four of which girls are over eighteen.

Plus two 'Mother-In-Laws," four grand-daughters, and, like, nine sisters between us.

Not to mention Phil, the female household feline.

-For the two boys and I, it’s like dangling precariously over intermittently-whirling serrated sawblades sharpened in acid and salted gasoline.

And what exactly are we going to do about it?

I dunno.

A bake sale maybe.

Update: Michael Jackson Still Dead

2009-07-08T13:28:00.022-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to various news sources, Predator Press has confirmed that Michael Jackson is still dead.

“We were thrown off by four minutes of non-Jackson related stories yesterday,” cites a Predator Press insider. “About ninety seconds in, we totally forgot.”

CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News did not immediately return our numerous phone calls.

“I am outraged,” our source continues. “What kind of so-called ‘journalism’ is that?”

“There’s still plenty of much-needed affirmation available,” says the source’s wife. “Why the four minute gap in coverage? My hairdresser had a dream about Jackson in 2008, and has yet to be interviewed.”

Sven Roberts, 31, concurs. “I remember it as if it was yesterday. I had done two perms and seven highlights in about four hours, and got a little woozy from the fumes. While napping in the back room, I dreamed that Michael and I were running through Grand Central Station in our underpants while the commuters tried to pelt us with sour cream and guacamole. We almost made it, but alas, Michael stumbled at the exit and was overtaken. I ran back, but it was too late.” A tearful Roberts continues with difficulty. “Once down, they got him with the whole seven layer dip. It was horrible.”

Even the facts corroborating this seven layer dip story are eerie: the words Roberts, Central, Station, Michael and Jackson all have seven letters each.

Creepy, eh?

Detonator

2009-07-07T00:59:00.075-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After four days of unchecked growth, it was admittedly less like shaving and more like carving. Still, all cleaned up, I felt strangely giddy and lucid for the day ahead; within an hour I was at the employment facility -completely transformed from a person into shaven and spiff Subject 26 of Unit R.

The truth is I don’t mind the interviews and tests so much, but I hate filling out applications. It’s sooo repetitive. And pointless too if you think about it: I’m very pleased with my résumé ... why scrawl all that same information over and over and over by hand? What am I, Jobe here? I'm very, very busy busy being unemployed, and have better things to do than happity horsecrap.

Anywho, due to a scheduling snafu today was “Surprise Prospective Employee Aptitude Testing Day,” and four grueling one-hour tests and five hours later I staggered through our front door fini. Terri, already aware of the testing by virtue of a text message I managed to squeeze off, was already home and waiting.

“How did it go?” asked Terri. Noticing the shave, “You look nice.”

“Good I think,” I replied, buzzing with the dancing numbers, formulas and symbols seared painfully in my mind. Still, I felt unconsciously impelled to make excuses in case that wasn’t true. “I kinda struggled with the Math and Analytics parts though. It was tough to finish on time.”

“I’m sure you did fine baby.”

“The results should be available online already,” I reluctantly offered. In truth I was a bit burned out; the last thing I wanted to deal with at this moment was more test-related material. But -as was inevitable- curiosity prevailed.

As Terri logged in I lobbed more excuses.

“Threes are passable,” I volunteer. “Most serious jobs require a score of four. Engineering-type jobs require fives.”

Oh please God gimmee some fours.

“But threes are passable,” I repeated nervously. “I was pretty distracted toward the end. You know these tests are crap. And with the shabby way they are administered, I seriously doubt they produce an accurate assessment of-“

“It says you got a seven, two fives, and … and another seven.”

There’s a seven?

“And according to this,” Terri continues, “seven is the highest-“

She stops in mid-sentence, despite knowing fully the damage has already been done.

“Genius,” I says from over her shoulder. “I knew it.”

Without looking at me, Terri slumps into a slightly defeated posture.

I recognize her 'slightly defeated' posture. I know it because I’m a

-“Genius,” I repeat, nodding.

Terri, collapsing into the keyboard, sighs. “Oh Christ.”

“Please do not blaspheme in My Presence.”

“You put two CDs in the toaster yesterday.”

“And they sounded amazing,” I insisted. "C'mon. You're looking at irrefutable proof. These tests are very scientific."

“You’re going to be unbearable for weeks now, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” I says coolly. Then, leaning in, I whisper in her ear. “Hey baby. Wanna get ‘wild an freaky’ with a bona-fide genius?”

Terri smirks, sitting up. “I don’t think so. But let me know if you see one. I might change my mind.”

I shrugged with disappointed resolve, sighing. "Okay."

-And then farted.

***

Despite my genius, I have no idea what I would have done if she said 'yes' anyway. I suppose I could have risked serious injury and held that fart in for a while longer, but the only thing worse than serious injury to myself would be me causing serious injury to myself. Let's just say we were probably better off letting things play out like this ... just exactly the way God -in His Infinite Wisdom- obviously intended in the first place. And who am I to stand in the way of His Almighty Will? Hm? I don't know about you, but I'll not be causing myself serious injury messing around with God's Plan, thanks. What are you people? Atheists?

And I don’t know how long Terri chased me -or even if she did at all. Apparently it wasn't just some garden-variety mortal gas I passed: this gas -stewing on itself for five hours of earnest and excruciating job-hunting prudence and corked by a sphincter you could sharpen a pencil in- was some kind of unnatural lethal and unholy freak force of nature: the second I saw that wallpaper curl and peel I became alarmed and, eyes burning, threw a melting end table through the living room window, thus selflessly providing clean oxygen and a single tenuous shred of hope for the remaining household occupants: my wife and kids.

I'm a hero if you think about it.

Still, I dove out and continued to run a full mile in two minutes and eight seconds. Serpentine too, just in case Terri was still pursuing; there was a good chance her vision hadn't completely cleared up yet.

But there was no sign of her. So now I'm with no wallet, car, keys or cellphone, and -exhausted and a mile away- staring down the grisly task of going home to see if there are any survivors.

And I need a new living room window. And an end table. Cripes, I probably gotta wallpaper too.

This ‘genius’ stuff is harder than it looks.

It’s the Thoughtlessness that Counts

2009-07-03T14:20:00.006-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

AS millions and millions of Predator Press fans already know, July is commemorated worldwide as the birthday of Predator Press.

And any moment now –as is tradition- people in possession of copious amounts of high explosives and potent alcohol will light up the skies in spontaneous and adoring splendor.

I am always deeply moved and exhilarated by the spur-of-the-moment festivities, and simultaneously disconcerted by the massive firepower our dangerous readers can apparently attain.

But Predator Press Birthday Month isn’t about blowing each others fingers and heads off ... in fact, I don’t really know how that ritual even got started.

Predator Press' Birthday Month is about getting presents.

There are numerous things you could give to Predator Press with far less risk of injury. Pyramids for instance. Or an eighty-foot tall solid gold LOBO effigy, surrounded by bleachers that future generations can worship from in self-deprecating comfort.

Please consider your own personal safety!

Cat Farts: “SBD,” or Just Plain “D?”

2009-07-02T01:10:00.044-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m a little behind in responding to comments, but I have to say I’m a little stunned at what I’m reading.

There happens to be some demand for my “Cat Fart” story mentioned in the post Dr. Conrad Murray is Guilty of SOMETHING.

-This is further compounded by the startling concept of actually having to answer for something on Predator Press: never in a million years -after posting about topics like Planet Earth precariously dancing on the strings of a Robot Dinosaur Overlord- would I have ever guessed I’d be called to the carpet over “cat farts.”

Seriously. Do you guys hate Michael Jackson that much?

Hm.

Well, in any case I’m caught in a total lie. At the time I was joking: I didn’t really have a cat fart post brewing. And if you think about it, you're an asshole to bring it up. Still, while blaming you for this, I forgive you simultaneously.

There. I feel better.

Don't you?

Okay, also I'm sorry - I wanted you all to think this blog was like, cerebral, you know? Do you millions and millions of readers know how much decent cat fart recording equipment costs? And –more importantly- who do I know that will put crap like that on their credit card?

Silently, I handed my buddy Jim Tarkenton (VISA #5426-9425-2775-5555, security code 951) these encrypted instructions while pushing him violently into the Best Buy:

FELINE+(S)B/D = HAPPY READERS

***
To facilitate this groundbreaking research, we subsequently scoured the countryside.

-and what happened next was too horrible to describe in words.

Predator Press Exclusive! Shocking and Totally Legal Michael Jackson Will Found

2009-07-01T23:15:00.001-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Dr. Conrad Murray is Guilty of SOMETHING

2009-06-30T22:30:00.003-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay, let’s face it: the Michael Jackson story isn’t just fuelled by his stardom … there’s a lot of weirdness here too.

Why did the good doc take a leave of absence from his practice, sign up for the London tour, and then just boogie –without even providing information to the paramedics or police first?

Isn’t that the point of having a personal physician on staff?

I smell a rat … and were I a responsible journalist, I would pursue this story with a ruthless zeal.

Unfortunately, I’m currently drafting a story about cat farts.

Billy Mayes Dead

2009-06-29T12:32:00.008-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to Fox News, 'OxiClean' and 'Mighty Putty' pitchman Billy Mays, 50, was found dead Sunday morning.

That’s Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, Michael Jackson and Billy Mays in three days. They’re all in my thoughts and prayers.

-And so are explicit directions to Nicolas Cage’s house.

I Miss the .45 Caliber Headspace

2009-06-28T19:40:00.006-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A few years ago, I stumbled over The .45 Caliber Headspace -a blog that still resides proudly in my “Grand Mal” RSS feed, despite not posting in almost a year.

This was maybe the first blog that told me, “You know what? Blogs can be about writing if you let them.”

-Thank God he was wrong about all those “writers” hogging my spotlight.

Still, let’s wake that fucker up and make him post again.

... If only to be ironic.

Skeleton Jack

2009-06-27T19:11:00.002-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Look, I couldn’t help it,” explains -eh- Shiftless, my oldest son. “Practice went over forty-five minutes. You know I can’t call.”

I scowl as he fastens his seat belt. “Well that’s just great,” I says. “It’s midnight. You know mom will think I was at a strip club or a bar or something if she wakes up.”

“What should we do?” asks Shiftless.

And that’s when I tapped the transparent cylinder into my palm, and blew glitter all over him.

"I'm way ahead of you,” I reply.

Predator Press Exclusive! Did Ahmadinejad Murder Michael Jackson?

2009-06-26T13:03:00.022-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Following up on ABC News and CNN stories asserting online queries regarding the death of Michael Jackson nearly brought down the internet, Predator Press has uncovered what will doubtlessly be the largest international murder plot in the history of humankind.

"Michael Jackson's death caused an 'internet overload,' crashing popular sites such as Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, YouTube and Google," said a very scientific-looking guy. "When you consider that these are the primary methods of communication for Hossein Mousavi's revolutionary supporters, it's clear this was no accident."

Jackson's nose is anticipated to bring in upwards of $600,000 on eBay, and videos of Ahmadinejad militants training for the macabre mission on Mister Potato Heads probably exist.

Probably.

What the Heck Happened to Diesel?

2009-06-25T14:33:00.017-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Whenever the Mighty Mighty Diesel goes on hiatus, I like to seize upon his absence as an opportunity to lecture about him extensively.

And who better to speculate wildly about his mysterious disappearance than myself?

Hm?

The truth is I don’t know precisely; Diesel is a very complex and multi-facetted individual. And after sleeping in his car at the airport for the last ten days, I’m finally forced to conclude he could be literally anywhere.

Sure maybe he’s training to come out of retirement and defend his Ultimate Fighting Championship title -or perhaps continuing on in his noble quest to save starving babies in some horrifyingly unpronounceable country.

-But what if he’s been kidnapped, and some diabolical mastermind is forcing him to write more books?

Whoever you are, please don’t hurt Diesel: he is a great and well-respected blogger and author, and I have appointed myself chief negotiator for a ransom ensuring his safe return.

And speaking of ransom, this is frankly the most inept kidnapping I've ever seen. What are you, stupid? Where are your demands? I'm impressed you’ve gotten this far; you’re obviously completely worthless even as a criminal, and probably don't have the huevos to chop off one of his fingers and mail it to anyone thusly proving you've got him alive.

I'll bet you wear a creepy black leather mask because you are hideously deformed too ... and that mask is stinky with the putrid stinky smell of your stinking cowardly stinkiness.

Whew –I could just imagine the smell in that thing.

Blech.

Predator Press New “Man of the Year” a Woman?

2009-06-24T13:28:00.034-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yes folks, it’s true. Larry Craig -the undefeated Predator Press Man of the Year for two years in a row- just might have finally been unseated.

And I’m proud to announce that the new nominee has an extra “X” chromosome! (Or a "Y" ... I dunno. I lose track. What do I look like? A chromosomologist?)

Sure Miss Hilton has let herself go a bit [woof!] since she and Nicole Richie’s "The Simple Life" garnered four consecutive nominations for the Teen Choice Award. But wouldn’t you be bummed if you were nominated four times for something you didn’t win? Teenagers, if you think about it, are far too preoccupied growing their hair weird 'an listening Def Leppard and Bruce Springsteen records to know what’s really “cool” anyway.

Who besides Miss Hilton has the courage to trash-talk a posse of rap artists, get bitch slapped, and then Tweet in tearful desperation while waiting for the ambulance and police [as seen here]?

-And before you say it, does Glenn Beck even have a video blog?

Chicken and Ducklings

2009-06-22T14:50:00.020-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“But I don’t like chicken and ducklings,” insists my youngest son.

Now any responsible parent would gently remind him "It’s not 'chicken and ducklings.' It's chicken and dumplings."

-But I can already see where this is going: he has somehow spotted the chocolate chip cookies, and getting him to eat a 'regular' dinner is going to be a three hour ordeal.

Besides it’s Father’s Day. Think about it: what better gift is there than the gift of laughter -particularly at the psychological expense of your own progeny?

“There aren’t a lot of ducklings in it anyway,” I explain briefly. “Ducklings are very expensive.”

Clearly unimpressed, he digs in for the inevitable contest of wills before us.

“I want cookies.”

“You want cookies?” I guffaw. “How come you won’t eat chickens or ducklings, but will eat ground-up puppies?”

The South Will Rise Again

2009-06-21T01:54:00.033-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t need my remote control anymore.

I've found my favorite station.

Not only does truTV have some of my favorite Forensic Files-esque shows, but I’m now a monster fan of virtually anything by The Smoking Gun Presents (such as Worlds Dumbest [add plural noun here]” and “Most Shocking [add plural noun here]"). Still not enough high-speed car chases for you? TruTV also tops you off with a slew -nay, a bevy of police documentaries like "Cops": it’s a veritable symphony of automotive destruction and reckless blue steel boobery.

The fact is if you live in Mobile, Alabama, I’ve seen you blown up in a dragster, "tuned up" by cops, or being set on fire during a drinking game a half a dozen times already. (If not, please be patient ... I just discovered this channel a few weeks ago.)

But I’m simultaneously getting "numb" to it all as well, and often find myself preoccupied with the Mobilite [Mobillian?] future. Sure already-existing footage will doubtlessly leave them reigning supreme in the ratings for at least a few more months ... with luck, perhaps even into 2010. But the wonderful citizens of Mobile have really raised the bar when it comes to entertainment: how are they going to top all this?

This is no time for complacency. Mark my words: Mobile, at some point, is really going to have to ratchet it up if it wants to continue on as America’s media darling. Fame of this magnitude cannot be maintained without a great deal of hard work and carelessness, and I know for a fact Tuscaloosa and Birmingham are watching for any and every opportunity to snatch it all away.

The obvious solution –filming a cop on fire beating a drunken Mobilite in a dragster that explodes- is probably far too dangerous.

Still, nobody ever said celebrity was easy.

Californicalizationism

2009-06-20T13:25:00.024-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’ve got it. Damnit I’ve got it!

Ah crap.

-I lost it again.

Bomb Hawaii? Pthbbt. Big Deal.

2009-06-19T11:32:00.032-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So you want to bomb Hawaii?

Oh that’s soooooo original.

-Maybe we should step back and give North Korea some breathing room so they can invent something equally diabolical like, I dunno, trees or something.

Yes I’m talking to you Kim Jong-il. I hate to trash talk an avid Predator Press reader and fan, but Kim this is for your own good: a plot to bomb Hawaii is about as novel as seeing Pamela Anderson's boobs.

What the hell are you thinking? What kind of hackneyed world domination plan is bombing Hawaii again? Are you trying to shape global policy based on I Love Lucy reruns? Here’s a better plan: crank up the pie machine really fast so Obama runs around frantically for ten minutes in an effort to keep up, culminating in hilarity as Obama is forced to stuff his face with them to keep more of them from ending up on the floor.

Kim, the fact of the matter is none of us even like the Hawaiians: they make clothes out of grass and stuff, and leeringly threaten to set it on fire with spinning torches if we don’t pay $16 for a watered-down Mai Tai. And have you heard that music? You could drink those overpriced Mai Tais all freakin’ day long, shoot heroin, blow weed, whatever, but nothing will get UB40’s ‘Red Red Wine’ out of your skull aside from a bullet. Ah -did I mention Dog the Bounty Hunter? Cripes, you might as well bomb the set of Jon and Kate Plus 8.

The Hawaiians could probably kick your ass too ... I've played Risk like a jillion times and North Korea isn't even on the board. Oh yeah Kim, I said it: the Hawaiians, sufficiently motivated, would crush you. I dare you to bomb them you weirdo. In fact I heard the Hawaiians called you a little piano-legged sissypants that couldn’t drop bombs in your own adult diapers.

And what kind of name is “Kim” anyway?

Is that French?

The Republic

2009-06-18T09:08:00.014-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m guessing we all know people like this: for every calorie we expend in creative or industrious endeavors, they will burn two or three to undo it –and by “undo” I mean subvert, undermine, damage, twist or otherwise contradict your work, irregardless of what it is.

To set the table I’ll use Rush Limbaugh as an example. I’m not a regular listener, but I’ll bet I disagree with a solid and safe 80% of what he says. The net result is I, in full possession of my own personality already, don’t waste my breath. But just look at all the talking heads that have made careers going after him. Shouldn’t they owe him a royalty?

Do we create these people or are they just born like this, flitting around like flies randomly seeking out a pile of cow dung to sit on? If it’s the latter we have every right to be annoyed: these people take all the fun out of our hard-earned right to be a hassle-free pile of cow dung.

Our outrage is warranted.

Were this a more practical skill, I, a master at drawing these people out, would be a very wealthy man. I could walk into a group and slap a single typed word on the table –let’s say “banana.” And then, leaving without a word, my hidden microphones would tell the tale.

“Banana?”

“Ugh. Just look at that hideous font.”

“He only wrote ‘banana’ because it’s so phallic.”

“Yeah. But it’s not as phallic as a cucumber. If that guy had any balls, he would have wrote cucumber.”

“Fucking coward.”

“That’s why he picked a yellow fruit. It represents his spinelessness.”

“What’s his problem with fruit anyway?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not taking this sitting down. This guy has been trashing bananas long enough, and I’m not taking his crap anymore.”

“Those bananas don’t deserve this kind of treatment.”

“Let’s kill him.”

“Yes! Let’s kill him!”

And so it goes.

Worse -if I really want to get depressed- I'll consider the fact that these people have vast, boundless reservoirs to draw their energies from, mine, and are more apt to forget me than quit; the best hope I have is once my fusion engines cool and gravity begins to take it’s toll they will have moved on to some other issue.

Then one day a hundred years in the future I'll receive and invitation to receive an award for some long forgotten effort. As I approach the podium, people politely applaud me despite not having any idea who I am; most have only seen bananas in history books, and the younger of which are already doubting the veracity of those reports.

And pulling the microphone down to accommodate the shrunken vestiges of my time-worn, arthritis-gnarled body, I’ll hold that heavy trophy high and croak weakly, “Thanks!”

And suddenly a guy in the back row will point and cry, “Hey! It’s the Banana Guy!”

“Kill him!” cries another ...

Moussavi Compound Raided, Incriminating Non-Muslim Shrine Discovered

2009-06-17T14:38:00.002-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Predator Press to Unveil K-Y-Not? Jelly in 2010

2009-06-16T14:16:00.000-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yeah sure … we’ve all heard of K-Y Jelly. But Predator Press is currently in negotiations with the fine folks at McNiel-PPC and anticipating the release of K-Y-Not? Jelly in early 2010.

The principle is simple: it's a lubricant for people that aren’t having “traditional” sex, vis-à-vis participating in sex with a partner.

As you apply K-Y-Not? Jelly, highly concentrated doses of Sodium Pentathol aka 'Truth Serum' are absorbed through the pores; idle and unanswered tearful questions like “Why doesn’t [insert name] love me? and “Why aren’t I really ‘Getting Laid'?” are now a thing of the past:

“I might never have known I was a fatassed cow in serious need of a pedicure and acne medications,” says longtime-user Rachel Meeks of 1545 Winslow Lane, Miami Florida 904-555-1598. “But there I was telling myself between Krispy Kremes.”

“Dude,” says longtime-user Travis 'Dale' Earnhardt Junior of 559 Apartment C2, Grovesner, Alabama, payphone. “I liked her Mercedes. But who knew calling her a ‘nappy ho’ might have an effect on whether or not the snooty bitch would sleep with me? What a slut!”

Don’t ever ever ever go another night not knowing exactly why the opposite sex can’t stand the sight of you: call 559-555-9278 right now and get a two week supply of K-Y-Not? Jelly and a bucket of antidepressants totally FREE.

Would Someone Please Give Amanda Knox Some Goddamn Blistex Before I Puke?

2009-06-15T16:49:00.022-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Oh come on, you're all thinking it ... but apparently Predator Press is the only publication in the whole damn world with the massive huevos required to pick on a little girl jailed in Italy.

-That thing has it’s own stenographer.

Yikes!

What the Heck is Wrong With My TV?

2009-06-12T11:03:00.018-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Still unemployed (oh yeah … moving here was a fantastic idea), I’ve settled into a morning routine of chugging coffee and watching Lassie Come Home reruns.

-Well, I did until today anyways. Man I couldn’t get my television to work no matter how hard I beat on it.

I’m an old pro with the rabbit ears, and have little arrows drawn that articulate the complex angles required for viewing: Lassie Come Home is due north, Leave it to Beaver is south by southwest (unless I want audio too … then it’s a hair more westward and upwards.)

But today I got nothing anywhere.

Nadda.

Zilch.

-It turns out that some genius has decided to stop analog broadcasting altogether!

Obviously I’m furious. I didn’t spend $30,000 of Terri’s hard-earned money on this 360-by-144 inch Pioneer Elite Kuro PRO-111FD to not be able to watch no TV! Yesterday at this time I could count Hugh Beaumont’s nose hairs, and hear Barbara Billingsley’s crisp, upright wisdom in full mono surround sound ... now I can’t even get Bonanza.

How am I supposed to get my fix of The 700 Club now?

You would think they would’ve warned us or something.

Aside from the Asides

2009-06-11T16:16:00.013-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I was just made aware that my Mother-in-Law skims this blog.

I think this is really cool; she’s one of my fave people on Earth. I’m not going to gush, but she’s top notch as far as I’m concerned: in the past few months alone she has rescued us on flatly numerous occasions. I couldn't possibly put my gratitude into words, and her bond with my son is largely what drew me here in the first place.

But Terri recently informed me that she gets mad when I pick on the family.

-And maybe she’s right frankly.

I’m a little torn here. 99.999999% of Predator Press readers don’t know a thing about who, what, and where we are. 99.999998 readers don’t care. And whatever that infinitesimal percent that remains (I’m not breaking out a calculator pal. You want the answer? You start doin’ some mathematics around here) are people we already know anyway … mostly out-of-state old friends.

But what if suddenly there’s a demand for juicy, juicy personal info -like a huge media exposé, and tabloids like National Enquirer start hiding behind the bushes to capture an image of me and my Mother-in-Law?

I gotta tell you, I’m not seeing a downside here. More importantly, I’m not seeing a plausible circumstance for it (although I am open to suggestions). Okay sure. Ummm, Matthew Broderick gets a flat tire, and while I’m helping him change it I discover Heath Ledger’s corpse in the trunk.

But see how crazy that sounds? I would never help anyone change a flat tire … that’s a lot of work! Mathew Broderick will probably drive around for years before somebody discovers that corpse.

The second theorem on self-stardom would be getting on some kind of reality show, like a blogger version of Survivor or something -“I’m a Blogger Get Me Out of Here” has a nice ring to it, but I’m just spitballing. The last episode is of me revealing to the judges that I had a catheter implanted, and there’s a lot of global controversy.

-Man I hope that doesn’t happen; it’s hard to run like a sissy when you’ve got a catheter.

Unlike the others, my third and last theory of how I would rocket to Brad Pitt-level media scrutiny is probably a little far-fetched.

Picture: Somehow terrorists successfully destroy 95% of our satellites. This utterly cripples cellphones and the internet worldwide, save for the patchy access as the remaining satellites –still broadcasting- continue to orbit.

(Actually, all those people are going to die because the debris from these satellites causes Nuclear Winter. I really don’t know why I developed a backstory for them.)

Okay. So one million years in the future, microbes evolve aaaaaaall the way back to humans and accidentally pick up a signal from that one last still operational satellite. And this still-operating last satellite, for reasons explainable only by good, hard science, transmits two things alone: Predator Press and YouTubes of Welcome Back Kotter reruns.

Sure Welcome Back Kotter would have a new renaissance. But after a few hundred more years people inevitably will start to wonder not only what that Predator Press guy was talking about, but who his Mother-in-Law was.

-I’m the first to admit this could happen.

And that’s why I’m going to end this post, “I love you Mom!”

:)

Predator Press Interviews: Captain Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger

2009-06-10T08:17:00.011-05:00

Predator Press

[LOBO]

LOBO: Who are you again?

Captain Sullenberger: I’m the guy that safely landed the plane in the Hudson River, saving 155 passengers.

LOBO: ‘Safely landed?’

Captain Sullenberger: Yes. It was in all the papers.

LOBO: But isn’t ‘landed in a river’ pilotspeak for crash?

Captain Sullenberger: Well-

LOBO: Well I don’t know why you are so famous. I’ll bet there are billions of hilarious pilots that haven’t crashed anything.

Captain Sullenberger: Hilarious?

LOBO: Well, anytime someone brings twelve inches of documents to an interview, I assume it'll be boring. I was being sarcastic.

Captain Sullenberger: Both engines failed due to bird strikes.

LOBO: You had two engines and still crashed? I crashed a van into a lake once. That only had one engine. If I woulda had two, I’ll bet I coulda pulled her out.

Captain Sullenberger: I suppose.

LOBO: And what kind of name is ‘Sullenberger.’ Is that French?

Captain Sullenberger: No.

LOBO: Are you on any reality shows like Survivor?

Captain Sullenberger: No.

LOBO: Dancing With the Stars maybe?

Captain Sullenberger: No.

LOBO: I’m having a really, really hard time making you seem interesting.

Captain Sullenberger: I’m an international speaker on airline safety.

LOBO: Well given the circumstances that’s just ironic, don’t you think?

Captain Sullenberger: I thought you said you were with Time Magazine.

LOBO: I probably did at some point. Hey what’s with the weird mustache? It makes you look suspicious.

Captain Sullenberger: I like it.

LOBO: You should lose it. Plus maybe try a combover. They got stuff you can brush in that would make you look, like, fifty years younger.

Captain Sullenberger: I fail to see-

LOBO: Like you failed to see the Hudson River?

Captain Sullenberger: You’re putting words in my mouth.

LOBO: Words like when you failed the US Airways eye exam, it was covered up? And you thought the Hudson River was a McDonalds drive thru?

Captain Sullenberger: You can’t fit an A320 in a McDonalds drive thru.

LOBO: Not with those peepers baby.

Captain Sullenberger: Stop waving your hand in front of my face. I can see perfectly.

LOBO: Then explain the mustache. It looks like you’re smuggling albino caterpillars.

Captain Sullenberger: It does not.

LOBO: Can you explain your rather lackluster career prior to the Hudson River event?

Captain Sullenberger: Excuse me?

LOBO: It says in your bio you’ve been flying since the seventies. Shouldn’t you be, like, an admiral or something by now?

Captain Sullenberger: I’m a commercial pilot.

LOBO: Do captains outrank skippers? For instance if you were on the SS Minnow, could you have bossed around Alan Hale?

Captain Sullenberger: Who?

LOBO: Ah. Admirals would probably have to study a lot of history.

Captain Sullenberger: I’ve got two masters degrees, and been a member of Mensa since I was twelve.

LOBO: [singsong] Now sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip …

Captain Sullenberger: That’s Gilligan’s Island.

LOBO: Gilligan was the biggest boob on that island. Why did they name it after him?

Captain Sullenberger: I don’t know.

LOBO: Can you make a radio out of coconuts?

Captain Sullenberger: No.

LOBO: A generator out of a stationary bicycle?

Captain Sullenberger: No.

LOBO: A car out of palm fronds?

Captain Sullenberger: No.

LOBO: Sweet Jesus help me out here! If I publish an interview this boring on Predator Press, the readers will have me flayed!

Captain Sullenberger: I’m sorry. I’m trying.

LOBO: Ever bomb the crap out of Charlie?

Captain Sullenberger: I was eight years old during the Vietnam War.

LOBO: Japs?

Captain Sullenberger: That was even earlier. I would have been negative twelve or so.

LOBO: C’mon buddy. This is a Predator Press interview. Can’t you just make something up?

Captain Sullenberger: Like what? I went back in time?

LOBO: Did you kill Hitler?

Captain Sullenberger: No.

LOBO: Well, the whole ‘back in time’ thing would be pretty flaccid then.

Captain Sullenberger: Can I go now?

LOBO: This is your office.

Captain Sullenberger: I don’t care.

LOBO: Are you going to McDonalds? I love McDonalds!