Predator Press Interviews: Some Guy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't want to do an interview today.

I want to gloat.

All you people that were sayin' "Oh, that LOBO ... submarine ninjas? He's gone completely crackers now," owe me one Big Fat apology; CNN reported today that submarine ninjas have been captured in New York.

In your face all you skeptics; I told you so!

And I understand the desire to doubt me when you're troubled with nuisance 'facts' and stuff; I will not hold it against you. Predator Press loves it's dumb readers too, and with 89% of the same guaranteed ardor and zeal that our smart readers enjoy.

Has the precious Wall Street Journal ever promised you anything like that?

Hm?

But yeah, here, at the pinnacle of ardent gloatability, Ethan makes me do an interview.

So here it is:

LOBO: So who the fuck are you?

Some Guy: I'm Dan Albern, Editor of The Pianosa Times.

LOBO: Well, Predator Press isn't hiring.

Some Guy: I'm not here for that kind of interview.

LOBO: No, of course you're not. You're here for the kind of 'interview' that screws me outta press time for the capture of the New York submarine ninjas.

Some Guy: Actually, that's not true. I understand you were also involved with the apprehension of the notorious Legless Jim.

LOBO: Who?

Some Guy: He has just been made eligible for the death penalty.

LOBO: Serves him right, probably.

Some Guy: How did you get the name 'LOBO'?

LOBO: Legend has it a gamma Northern Timber Wolf chewed me out of her own cervix, 'cuz she thought I was malignant.

Some Guy: Really?

LOBO: Got the scars to prove it.

Some Guy: Oh my God, those are horrible!

LOBO: From then on, I was raised by the Chippewa Tribe until I got adopted.

Some Guy: Fascinating. An orphan is given the honorary status of Sherrif of Pianosa.

LOBO: What?

Some Guy: That's why I'm here.

LOBO: Sheriff LOBO?

Some Guy: Precisely.

LOBO: I don't like it; it's not very memorable at all. Can I be Sheriff Chainsaw instead?

Some Guy: Probably.

LOBO: Can I kill people?

Some Guy: Only when they are engaged in the commission of a crime.

LOBO: Can I make it a crime to wear a thong if you're a fat, hairy freakish descendant of Bigfoot wearin rollerblades?

Some Guy: Our readers will be very disappointed. We've invited many of them to the inauguration ceremony.

LOBO: Where I'll settle the whole damn mystery once and for all.

Some Guy: But as a crimefighter of local renown, we're doing a story on the man who was nominated 'Honorary Sheriff of Pianosa'. You're supposed to be a forward-thinking noble vanguard in pursuit of justice.

LOBO: Wait. You're interviewing me?

Predator Press Interviews: Kevin Federline

Predator Press

I don’t know how Ethan pulled it off, but Kevin Federline and his entourage arrive almost precisely on time for the exclusive Predator Press interview. I would have had more time for preparation, but people at work say its been difficult to reach me since I trekked through Mordor to chuck my cellphone into Mount Doom a few weeks ago. I’m starting to suspect the two events are linked somehow …

LOBO: I know you. You’re the dude dating that Britney Spears chick, right?

Kevin Federline: Actually, we got married. [Kevin pauses] We’re currently getting a divorce.

LOBO: Any kids?

Kevin Federline: Yes.

LOBO: Wow, that’s terrible.

Kevin Federline: Yes. But Britney and I have parted on good terms, and she’s a wonderful woman. We’re going to do our best to raise them like any other loving family would under these circumstances. Now can we please get on to discussing my new recording project?

LOBO: I saw her at some awards show or something on television. She’s pretty hot.

Kevin Federline: Yes, I know.

LOBO: She’s probably loaded, too.

Kevin Federline: She’s very comfortable.

LOBO: Is she dating yet?

Kevin Federline: I don’t know, it’s none of my business.

LOBO: Say, do you think a chick like Britney and a guy like me--?

Kevin Federline: No.

LOBO: Probably for the best really. I mean she’s got kids already and everything. That’s always awkward.

Kevin Federline: I can imagine.

LOBO: Kevin, level with me. She’s hot, and she’s rich. What’s the problem between you two?

Kevin Federline: Hey buddy, I thought this interview was supposed to be about my upcoming tour.

LOBO: Was she lousy in the sack?

Kevin Federline: No.

LOBO: Did she, like, clip her toenails in bed, shooting them all over the bedroom like crazy random grenade shrapnel?

Kevin Federline: No. But I'm trying to promote my tour despite--

LOBO: Okay, slowly. I'm trying to get all this down. You're going to sit there and look me in the eye and tell me you never once cut your bare foot on one of those jagged, deadly toenails hidden deeply in the shag carpet? My God I'll bet you could hang your Carharts on one of those things imbedded in the wall. Kevin ... I'm skeptical here really. I mean, you're a good lookin pup and all, but she's hot AND she's rich. Fess up. Without making any commentary on your housecleaning habits, I just can't see you making this hot, rich babe vacuum until you hear each of the ten errant toenails violently crack inside your Hoover one by one. In fact, I'll bet you ended up having to do it yourself. And you became so annoyed that it was drowning out your yelling, you lost count at like seven or so--

Kevin Federline: That tears it. This interview is OVER.

LOBO: Okay, fine. I believe you about the toenails NOT destroying the relationship, but I'm not sure our readers will. Did she cook like crap? Was her back too hairy? Wait --are you gay? You could discretely tell me into that microphone if you were gay. That microphone has been broken for weeks. And I certainly wouldn't tell anyone you admitted you were gay into a broken microphone during an Exclusive Predator Press interview--

Kevin Federline: I'm not gay! [furious, exasperated pause] Okay, fine! She was lousy in the sack, alright?

LOBO: Wow. I knew it. What's the name of your band again?

Predator Press Interviews: Bloggers of Note

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It grows increasingly difficult to write when my subconscious is beleaguered by strange disappearances around the 'Blogosphere' ... and as I arrived at my Angry Seafood Interview, it occurred to me that perhaps I was closer to solving the mystery than I initially thought.

Convinced I had stumbled upon what might be the key to unravel this puzzle, I employed the full might of my radiant braniosity:

Clue 1: Consider the name of the blog. "Angry" is the very first word, and followed closely by "Seafood", a food obtained from the sea -hence it's name.

Clue 2: People have disappeared at sea before. In fact, I'm almost certain of it. I read it in a book somewhere.

Could "Angry Seafood" be taunting us with the whereabouts of our wayward blog colleagues? And -infinitely more important- might I be walking right into a trap?

Clue 3: The vanishing of "The Frogster", who allegedly abandoned his brilliant and lucrative rockstar-type lifestyle of blogging in favor of playing piano. I never believed that for a second. Just try to imagine yourself laying on a pile of cash sandwiched between six or seven exhausted coeds and just deciding "You know, I think I want to give this all up to play the saxophone."

Oh no. That's just not rational.

Something was up, and I strongly suspected Angry Seafood was behind it.

I think the Frogster was trying to tell us something, and finding that piano might be crucial.

But throughout the course of the interview, I saw no piano.

... I brought my baseball bat for nothing.


***

The complete absence of any piano whatsoever did not surprise me; surely upon hearing of my visit, the entire Angry Seafood compound was cleared of any scrap of evidence.

I saw nothing suspicious at all: a clear indication that every last precaution had been taken, and that Angry Seafood was guilty as all hell.

Still, due to sheer size, the vast Angry Seafood lair had lapses in security. I found numerous opportunities to snoop unobserved.

While hoping to Find Boddie in one of the turrets, I found a leftover interview question by Don Lewis:

AS: Which politician would be the funniest drunk and why?

DL: Practically any of them. I mean, why would I want to watch those guys while I'm sober?

Oh...wait a minute... Did I misunderstand the question?

AS: And what should we do about stupid people?

DL: Continue sending them to Washington. At least that way they're not here trying to play footsy with me from the next stall. I'd prefer sending them abroad, but as we recently saw with Martha Stewart, the Brits are wising up.

The Angry Seafood Psychiatric Ward had only one occupant. He claimed to be the High Priest of the Cult of Qelqoth:

AS: Why can’t you drink the water in Mexico?

CQ: Unfortunately, I live in the United Kingdom and as such, I have limited access to Mexican water supplies. However, my friend Pedro often comes back from his holidays with Peyote cacti. To date, I've had no significant problems with either the water absorbed by this plant or the total mind fucks that occur as a result of eating it.

When I woke, my glow sticks were lifeless green shells -mere memories of what they once were; I could never find the Domestic Minx with them. But the The Offended Blogger graciously answered the next question on my list:

AS: Why can't you drink the water in Mexico?

OB: Because if I did, that would mean that I ran off with Jesus -my taco truck guy- down to Mexico again. And my husband already warned me that if that happened one more time he would cut off my allowance!!

The disappearance of the ditch digger in the Atrium produced a dialogue with Diesel:

AS: Someone makes the discovery that semen can be used as an alternative fuel source. Good or bad for the porn industry?

RK: I dunno, but it gives a whole new meaning to the term "gas guzzler."

AS: And what should we do about stupid people?

RK: Huh?

And while checking the Medical Center for signs of Dr. Toboggans, I found a rather enigmatic quotation from the Brent Diggs that gave me pause:

AS: If you could create your own court procedural drama what would it focus on?

BD: In the not-too-distant future, Earth is taken over by alien invaders. These large lobster-like conquerors bring a golden era of peace to ourworld as they ban war, pollution, and the seafood industry. The defunct American court system is overhauled, with legal decisions no longer being settled by lawyers and judges but by ceremonial alien arm-wrestlers. The show: Claw and Order


I'm not sure what this all adds up to.

-but I'm going to find that damned piano someday.


(All unposted interview "Q & A" are published in "comments")


-:¦:-•:*'""* -:¦:- THANK -:¦:- YOU -:¦:- *'""*:•.-:¦:-

:)

Black Dog

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m not going to give you a lot of scientific equations and reference materials to buttress this, but I think you’ll find at least some of this plausible enough to follow along.

“Black Dog” is a trucker’s term.

You see, at some point when deprived of sleep --no matter how jazzed up you are on caffeine and cocaine, whatever—the human body starts to generate whatever goo it does that makes you dream. I don’t know why … I’ll leave that to the people getting paid to figure out that stuff.

The problem is that, eventually, you don’t necessarily have to be asleep for this stuff to kick in.

The “Black Dog” is a fairly common hallucination, hence it’s name. This “phenomena” is not limited to truckers either; stories about a black dog darting across the road have bent a lot of fucking flesh and steel over the years.

My buddy, a wizened old vet of the trucking game, once told me that “everybody has a black dog all his own”. He was exasperated with me. He pointed out stories of deer, owls, hitchhikers, ad nauseam. I was trying to explain to him that I was following a car at night during a storm at a fairly safe distance when the car driver opened his window and a puppy fell out. In the roughly four last seconds of it's life, it skidded spinning to a halt, big furry paws already sticking to the asphalt. It staggered woundedly into the middle of the road, peering at the car it occupied merely moments before, racing away.

On a wet road, I was driving a vehicle in excess of 70,000 pounds and seven stories long at about forty-five miles an hour behind it.

Fluffy went bye-bye. FOOM! Straight to Fluffy Heaven.

Thomas, incredulous, insisted that that was my Black Dog.


***

Now, I’m old friends with sleep depravation. I daresay my first “Black Dog” was when I was about sixteen. I’m not bragging, not proud, but the was a time when I was dating to girls at the same time and they weren’t aware of each other. Virtually all the time I had out of their sight was when I was at work or sleeping.

So I did what any fine-blooded American male pup does in that circumstance: I gave up the sleep part.

I carried this on for ten days.

And I swear to God Almighty, had you seen these two and been sixteen, you would have too.

Well, suffice to say, on the tenth day I had an overwhelming sensation I can only liken to a hummingbird … and it permeated everything. The distant static buzz that separated me from whatever the hell reality was at the time drowned out everything; it was like living in the constant state of leaving a “Who” concert. Even when I killed those two broads an stuffed 'em in a garbage disposal, all I can remember was this buzzing ....

[Ha! I just wanted to make sure you were still paying attention; the only thing in danger of dyin was the rabbit, and I'm not really even sure what that means.]

What really happened was that, while lounging on my couch and watching the television, I "dreamed" my buddy my Tim was on the couch next to me asking for guitar lessons. “How do you make the guitar whistle?” he would inquire. I could see him, faded Ozzy T-Shirt and too-too new jeans (before they came "pre-washed"), smiling with his confused teeth. I guessed he meant the harmonics, and I would play them.

I slept for about twelve hours in a chair with my guitar in hand.

And when I woke, I got a phone call telling me that Tim was dead. An industrial accident at the Les Paul factory left him fatally impaled by a Floyd-Rose tremolo bar ... Even today in that factory, late at night, you could still hear him --with hooks for hands-- butchering "Stairway to Heaven" through the halls ...


But seriously folks.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Well, it wasn't really stormy at all. It was pretty damn humid.

And come to think of it, it wasn't that dark either; a full moon gave it a kinda Tim Burton-esque effect.

[*ahem*]

I had driven for about seven hours straight to get to a job interview. I hadn't really expected the trip to be done in one shot really, but I was taking these over-the-counter speeders called "Yellow Jackets". To this day, I think they're pretty much like ingesting a tea bag. In fact, when you burp on the stuff you would swear you tasted tea.

One of the side effects of "Yellow Jackets" is appetite suppression, so you don't stop to eat. Thus, you don't need to stop for a piss. Or anything. You just get where you're going, spray the body parts and playground toys off of your radiator, and feverishly grind your teeth until those fucking worm people stop poking you and you can finally sleep.

My job interview isn't scheduled until 10:00 in the morning, and it's about 2:30 --over seven hours early-- when I find the place. [Can't really relax until all the bases are covered. The worm people are real pricks about this stuff.]

I'm admittedly very tired, looking for a motel. But most of all I'm starving.

There's nothing in this town. It's not small, either. But it's 2:45 in the morning: gang-raped, crack-dealing tumbleweeds are blowin by lookin for trouble. I took the main road on the map completely east, and then eventually doubled back over to the west. Hell, at that point a goddamned Shell station stocked with microwaveable burritos would've been fine.

It's foggy. I've been in a few bands and we've used smoke machines, but this is the first time in nature I've seen a fog rolling at about eighteen inches off of the road.

So I'm now about six miles out from the town, resigned to no meal and sleeping in my car. Disappointing already. The job I'm interviewing for is for a warehouse supervisor, and I need to be sharp --well rested, and devoid of any distractions. These jobs involve a lot. If you're lucky you get to hire your own team. Pull gems out of loam. Shape them. Inspire them. Go to bars with them. Hold their heads while they puke, and get them home safely. With a good interview, offers of $30,000 a year are pretty standard issue for this sort of thing.

But for $30,000 you're also expected to be able to take that same poor jerkoff --tryin to feed his family-- and eviscerate and fire him when he or she gets to the point when the company numbers don't jive.

I don't eviscerate and fire for anything less than $32,750 a year.

For $35,000, I'll tape a "Kick Me" sign on 'em.

Can't really see the road very well anymore, and it's time to surrender. Head back. I'll set my battery-powered alarm for five hours and sleep in the car in the parking lot of the place. And maybe I'll wake up early enough in the morning to ruthlessly decimate the burrito population --like, well, whatever the burrito's natural enemy is. On Yellow Jackets-- before the interview.

Keep in mind that at this point I can't really see the road more than a few feet in front of the car, and I'm going about fifteen miles per hour on a main street that has disintegrated into rural, flat country. For all I know, I could have ditches on either side of the road.

Strangely, it's almost bright; lit indirectly by a full moon, everything seems to pulse with it's own opaque, innate luminescence. The landscape is a giant, flat span of cotton with an occasional stubborn tree stabbing defiantly through the near-flawless white blanket. And in the distance, the equally pale grey sky bleeds together with the ground to an obscure, bone-colored backdrop.

Enveloped completely in this white universe, it feels somehow simultaneously claustrophobic and lonely.

An intersection sign appears on a surreal, desolate landscape. A road. It takes a half a mile to find it, but I do.

Now, I pass the right hand turn slightly and back into it, making ready to hook the left back to town. My headlights sweep over the other side of the road and I absently notice it's a graveyard.

Now I swear to you that nothing here --the night time, no people, fog, full moon, graveyard-- is clicking on any conscious level. I look to my left to check for traffic.

Nothing.

I look to my right.

Of course, nothing.

The little boy in the passenger seat clutched his heavy backpack in his lap. He was in jeans, a light blue T-Shirt and a denim-style baseball cap. Smelled like Bounce fabric softener. He looked up towards me --strangely not at me. "Mister, you got any candy?"

I looked to the left again --I'm a pretty cautious driver, really. No better circumstances for an accident than fog 'an ...

I froze.

There's something in your brain that switches on in these circumstances. And I mean on ... you've heard the old adage about the hair on the back of your neck sticking up. When your brain screams "Nope! Not happening!", every faintest peach-fuzz little wanna-be hair follicle --starting from your tailbone and shooting electrically to the top of your head-- does too.

There was nobody in my car but me.

I think.

Predator Press Interviews: Clay Aiken

Predator Press

LOBO: It's an honor to meet you sir!

Clay: Well thanks! It's nice to be here.

LOBO: You're a lot smaller than I expected.

Clay: What?

LOBO: I guess it's true the camera puts on like 100 pounds. What're you, a buck-twenty soaking wet?

Clay: What the are you talking about?

LOBO: You must have been fast as hell. If them other football players woulda caught you, they'da squished you.

Clay: What football players?

LOBO: That's the spirit. A scrawny guy like you out there on the field's probably gotta have a scrappy attitude. 'Specially having been inducted into the Pro-Football Hall of Fame.

Clay: Don't call me scrawny.

LOBO: I wanted to draft you for my Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football team. Did you retire from the Dallas Cowboys and stop working out completely? Oh wow. Was it 'roids? Is this, like, the husk of an athlete after you burned out on anabolics and Gatorade 'an stuff?

Clay: No, it wasn't 'roids'. I think you have me confused with Troy Aikman.

LOBO: Who?

Clay: Troy Aikman. The football player. The Cowboys' first-round draft pick in 1989. Led the team to three Super Bowl wins. Winningest starting quarterback of any decade with 90 of 94 career wins occurring in 1990s. Held or tied 47 Dallas passing records, and posted 13 regular season and four playoff 300-yard passing games. Named to six Pro Bowls, All-Pro 1993, All-NFC Second Team 1994, 1995. Born November 21, 1966, in West Covina, California.

LOBO: That makes sense. I was wondering why when Troy got into that fight with that chick on the airplane a few years ago, he didn't just kick her ass right through the fuselage.

Clay: That was me that got into the fight.

LOBO: So who won?

Clay: It wasn't that kind of fight.

LOBO: What kind of fight was it?

Clay: It was an argument.

LOBO: Oh, c'mon. It was on the news and everything!

Clay: I don't really want to discuss it.

LOBO: Why? Did you get you're your ass kicked or something?

Clay: I said I don't want to talk about it.

LOBO: Well what do you want to talk about?

Clay: You're conducting the interview.

LOBO: Well, uh, have you ever done anything interesting?

Clay: I was on American Idol. I did very well. It was in all the papers.

LOBO: Did you ever meet Sanjaya?

Clay: Well, yeah.

LOBO: That Sanjaya kicks ass. I'll bet after winning that year, they hadda bring him back next season just to try and do the impossible and have him defeated. Impossible!

Clay: Actually I think Sanjaya got voted off that year.

LOBO: Really?

Clay: Yeah.

LOBO: Do you know him? I would really like to interview him.

Clay: I really don't think I would put him through this.

LOBO: Say are you hungry?

Clay: Well maybe a little.

LOBO: We're ordering sandwiches from the deli. Want one?

Clay: Do you have a menu?

LOBO: Menu? You don't want a menu. Most of their food is terrible. But they've got fantastic Reuben. Man, I highly recommend eating a big, fat Reuben sandwich from this place.

Clay: Are you screwing with me? We can do this thing in the parking lot if you want.

LOBO: The parking lot? We can't do an interview from the parking lot. And we're ordering from the deli. They won't deliver our food there.

Clay: I know women that could kick your ass.

LOBO: I'll bet! Man, you must've scored a sh**-ton of chicks after that American Idol thing.

Clay: What? Was that some kind of sarcastic crack? I just became a dad. I'm not gay.

LOBO: I'll say. You should try and get more sleep. You're about the crankiest person I've ever interviewed.


Contact Angry Seafood to join the
Humor-Blogs Fantasy Football League!

Predator Press Interviews: Barack Obama

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Uncharacteristically prepared for this 07/02/08 interview, I am a little stunned at Obama’s well-groomed and relaxed demeanor. However, a seasoned journalist, I’ve learned to face these surprises with an icy cool that only comes with experience.

We professionally shake hands, and the interview begins.

-But armed with tedious 'facts' and stuff, I come out swinging.

LOBO: So why’d you do it?

Obama: Excuse me?

LOBO: You know what you did.

[Obama shrugs, bewildered]

LOBO: You know, that whole "September 11th" thing.

Obama: I think you are thinking of Osama.

LOBO: Who?

Obama: Osama Bin Laden.

LOBO: Who are you?

Obama: I’m Barack Obama.

LOBO: No relation?

Obama: No.

LOBO: Ever think about attacking America with airplanes?

Obama: No.

LOBO: Ever been on an airplane?

Obama: Yes.

LOBO: But never thought of attacking America with it?

Obama: No. I did, however, remove my seat belt before the light instructed me to.

LOBO: Now you’re being a smart ass.

Obama: No. I’m completely serious. I lost myself in a moment of reckless abandon.

LOBO: See? You’re mocking me.

Obama: I also stole four bags of peanuts when the flight attendant wasn’t looking.

LOBO: Really?

Obama: No. Then I was mocking you.

LOBO: So why are you here?

Obama: For the interview.

LOBO: Are you supposed to be interesting for some reason?

Obama: Well, I’m running for President.

LOBO: Well, so am I. Lah-dee-dah!

Obama: Good luck to you.

LOBO: What’s your platform?

Obama: Making America a better place.

LOBO: Oh god that is SO boring. We could’ve got Hillary to say that.

Obama: Boring? What’s your platform?

LOBO: I dunno. I haven’t really thought about it yet. Maybe making a gigantic space robot that’ll squish Al Queda with big-assed feet.

Obama: Sounds expensive.

LOBO: I’ll slash the budget, then.

Obama: Where?

LOBO: Anyplace that doesn’t contribute directly to the space robot, or the Brazilian Bikini-Wax Act.

Obama: What about Welfare?

LOBO: We’ll get plenty of welfare once we’ve got a bad-assed space robot in our corner. C’mon Obama, use your imagination here. It’ll build, like, entire schools in a matter of minutes. And it will fight crime.

Obama: It will fight crime too?

LOBO: I’m sensing some skepticism here.

Obama: Will it deliver the mail?

LOBO: Now you’re being silly.

Predator Press Interviews: Captain Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger

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!

Retox

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The kid –who looks a little like a pint-sized Butterbean- just kind of slips into the kitchen as I’m pouring milk into my bowl. The food, inspected under a black light only moments before, is presumed safe for my consumption.

But I’m still pretty groggy and not 100% I’m not dreaming the kid up: I decide to say nothing and try and ignore him in case.

-The possible illusion is shattered moments later as he loudly slides into a chair at the table.

“Hi,” he says shyly, averting my gaze.

“Hi,” I reply, chewing.

A few uncomfortable moments of silence follow.

“Is that cereal?”

“No,” says me, eyeing him warily. “It’s Peanut M&Ms.”

“Huh,” he says. "Do you always wear welding goggles at breakfast?"

"Son, you ever get hard candy shell in your eye?"

"No."

"Well then don't knock good protective gear. This isn’t some bullshit caramel nugat: this stuff is engineered to melt in your mouth. Not in your eye."

More silence. He starts uncomfortably looking around the kitchen. “Miss Terri said I could come in and talk to you.”

“Are you done?”

“No. See I have this school project where I have to interview people of different occupations.” He flips open a notepad. “I have you here as an ‘Author.’ Is that correct?”

I examine his beady little eyes for signs of sarcasm.

“You want to interview me?” I ask.

“Well my dad thought it was a good idea. Since you don’t actually have a job, he figured he wouldn’t have to drive me anyplace.”

I drop my spoon into the bowl -now empty except for discolored milk- and lean back in my chair. “Who is your dad again?”

“We live next door.”

I scowl without recognition.

“You killed my gramma with a Lawn Jart last summer,” he adds helpfully.

My eyebrows furrow. I gesture for him to stand and turn around. And sure enough, there’s that distinctive blocky skull shape.

“Oh yeah,” I says. “Man, your mom was pissed."

Brahe's Bathtub

Predator Press

[LOBO]

There are a lot of drawbacks to warring with the Fat Man; the rescue took several days of blurry high adventure, furious car chases, international espionage, naked chicks, fallen political figures, mustard stains, explosions, intrigue ...

... all infinitely boring, bland, and completely unblogable.

Plus I hadda explain it all to my boss.

Now, this new boss has heard of me an Dash’s little “circumstance”, so he tends to humor me. But when I explained that I missed work ‘cuz I was fighting Santa, Alien Zombies, Elven Ninjas, and the Superintelligent Giant Squid with only a hot android after commandeering an intergalactic starship, his incredulousness was palpable despite his valiant efforts.

Give that guy an Emmy.

An then I find out that in my absence, my band Mythic Priapism has split up. Seems I missed the signing party with RKO Records, the guys who were going to put out our album ‘Jaws of Death’ --a collection of William Shatner cover tunes done to an orchestra of bagpipes (and maybe some occasional flatulence)— so the whole studio was a crime scene. Having taken offense, the first-string achapello singers boldly sang in A minor instead of C, inciting the entire violin section to revolt in a fiery bloodbath of purfling-laden death.

Plus this chick I’m seeing totally freaked out while I was gone for no reason. (By “seeing” I mean watchin her through these binoculars and following her to and from work and malls and doctor appointments and basically anywhere her preacher husband wasn’t. Or anyplace excluded in the TRO I got administrated yesterday while I was in the tree looking down in her window.) What a fuckin bitch.

Spooked by all these crazy people acting weird, I decide to drive to this job interview. It’s an hour and a half away, and in a major city. The “interview” is at 8:00 am.

To avoid the traffic, I get there at six.

Two hours of driving and the “Banquet Hall” isn’t open yet.

So for like three-and-a-half hours, I can’t piss.


***

Cap'n Crew-Cut shows up early and hits the ground runnin … he’s obviously an ex cop; there with 48 other “applicants”, he an his buddy were running the show with great authority.

The “Banquet Hall” had no coffee, not even water.

The faded itinerary handout says we’re scheduled for a break at 10:15. Over two hours away.

He doesn’t introduce himself, he just goes right into his “pitch”. Without even a microphone, Cap'n Crew-Cut goes into the "anyone there not taking the process seriously need never apply again" speech.

It annoys him to waste the time of other applicants.

He says they’re going to set up a nail test. Not a piss test, or a hair test, a nail test. Reputedly infallible within 90 days. Now, I watch a lot of Forensic Files and Unsolved Mysteries … the last thing I want is my DNA bein foisted all over Creation ta every asshole that requests it; it might prove that I’m linked to those two hot twins I blogged about killin, before. Right?

So it's 9:15 now, and I gotta pee … I'm still over and hour out from the break. Plus I gotta superglue on the $850 fingernails from that Guatemalan Viceroy Ethan sold me. I slip out the back quietly and respectfully, not distracting anyone from the speaker. And well rehearsed, I'm gone for like 90 seconds.

I get back to the “Orientation”, and a guy intercepts me before I can open the door to the "Banquet Hall", extending my driver’s license and application back to me.

“We won’t be considering your application today,” he says. The condescending fuck doesn’t even look at me as he hands me my shit.

This is a company that places within the top ten of Forbe's List.

… And I wouldn’t be allowed to pee?

Exclusive: Tank Johnson Linked to Jessie Davis Murder

Predator Press

Bobbie Cutts Jr., suspect in the double murder of Jessie Davis and her unborn child, may not have acted alone.

A preliminary investigation has revealed that Cutts had a personal relationship with the troubled Bears player Tank Johnson.


"The association is as chilling as it is clear," states world-renown documentarian Oliver Stone. "Cutts had a dry cleaner who cleaned the suit of a college roommate of a guy that once had lunch with an Aflac saleswoman who bought a used car from a guy whose brother once fueled it in a gas station less than thirty feet from a mailbox --a mailbox conveniently used to send written correspondence all over the United States, including but not limited to Bobbie Cutts Jr himself. The implications are staggering."

Stone continues on to allege that Cutts had watched numerous Bears games on television --many that included “Tank” personally—most likely looking for visual cues and instructions. In his interview with “Son of Sam” slayer David Berkowitz, Berkowitz surmised that “[Cutts] probably felt the neighbor’s barking dog was annoying and often unreliable, and turned to professional football like any other guy that wants to kill his wife”.

The neighbor’s barking dog and Adam "Pacman" Jones, while wanted for questioning, have not yet been formerly charged with any involvement.

Predator Press Interviews: Joyce Hopewell

Predator Press

Joyce Hopewell enters the studio, and I am immediately freaked out: she's wearing flowing long white sungod-esque robes and a leafy Caesar headband woven in delicate strands of gold.

Without word, she sits.

Joyce Hopewell: It's nice to see you too, LOBO. I'm fine.

LOBO: Joyce! How nice to see you again. How have you been?

Joyce Hopewell: I require no assistance.

LOBO: Would you like one of our techs to hook you up so we can begin the interview?

[A headset microphone floats toward her, and the switchboard modulators adjust themselves noisily.]

Joyce Hopewell: LOBO, you haven't gotten that mole checked out yet, have you?

LOBO: I don't go for all that medical hocus-pocus stuff. God is real strict about witchcraft. He throws all those heathens in a vat of flaming acid for 10,000 years ... and speaking of Eternal Damnation, how is this whole 'Astrology' thing going for you?

Joyce Hopewell: I have gained knowledge and wisdom of things your tiny, callow mind could never appreciate.

LOBO: Wow. So how do you get those butterflies to keep fluttering around you? All I get is regular flies.

Joyce Hopewell: Seriously. You need to get that mole checked out.

LOBO: I read the post where you did a Chart on Ricky Hatton, the Champion Boxer. I thought it was great. What could you reveal about me?

Joyce Hopewell: You want me to do your chart?

LOBO: No. I mean if I fought Ricky Hatton.

Joyce Hopewell: He would kill you.

LOBO: Seriously? At his age?

Joyce Hopewell: You know your plan to mug Santa Christmas Eve?

LOBO: Yeah.

Joyce Hopewell: Santa will kill you.

LOBO: Dammit!

Joyce Hopewell: Do you want to know what happens next time you forget to feed Phil?

LOBO: What?

Joyce Hopewell: She will kill you. And Phil is a girl by the way.

LOBO: Really? I was just giving Phil his privacy.

Joyce Hopewell: You've had her for three years.

LOBO: You are joking, right?

Joyce Hopewell: LOBO, Phil has nipples.

LOBO: I have nipples.

Joyce Hopewell: Eight of them?
LOBO: Maybe it's a gene defect. I could easily have them removed by the vet.

Joyce Hopewell: Speaking of medical attention, would you please get that mole checked out?

LOBO: What mole?

Joyce Hopewell: Stop thinking about Britney Spears.

LOBO: There's nothing more depressing than your first Christmas after a divorce. And now her sister is pregnant too.

Joyce Hopewell: Her sister isn't pregnant.

LOBO: You mean on top of all that, her uterus is busted?

Destroyer

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Of the past two weeks, I could regale you with tales of how I vanquished Ragnarok the Colossus –or perhaps even discuss how, vastly outnumbered, I crushed and humiliated Thrang the Human Rototiller, leaving two hundred thousand of his highest-ranking minions decimated, smoldering husks on the beachhead of Des Moines^[1]. But I’m sure you’re already inundated by these stories on CNN and Fox; I won’t bore you with more details.

What I will bore you with is the ongoing fiscal crisis. As a decorated war hero of World Wars VI, X and Pi, you would think simply finding a job would be a snap. But I have made powerful enemies, and nothing gives a Human Resources department pause like the possibility –however remote- of Martha Stewart’s armada returning from banishment in the eighth dimension and looking for swift and lethal payback^[2].

Sure I could just remove that element from my résumé and thusly avoid the issue entirely, but I consider it a test of the respective corporation’s courage and patriotic fortitude; while a particularly formidable foe, I don’t want to work for a bunch of pansies afraid of Martha Stewart –not with the empires of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Oprah Winfrey always sniffin’ around for signs of opportunity and weakness. This would only encourage our would-be oppressors.

“In these precarious and tumultuous times, cowardice amounts to treason!” I says, slamming my briefcase and storming out. “This interview is over. Good day sir.”

-Assholes.

Still, the Predator Press Trust Fund -the one established from the lawsuit when Britney Spears was clipping her toenails and the shrapnel slashed deeply into my shoulder and nearly cost me an eye- ever dwindles. Unless I magic me up some solutions pronto, concessions must be made.

Luckily Kung Fu Master David Carradine’s private phone number is listed in the phone book. Surely he -a wise, world renown forward-thinking philosophical intellect- can advise me on these matters.

I left him a few dozen messages yesterday.

He’ll know what to do.


^[1] Remember Thrang, we're not laughing at you -we're laughing in your general direction about the dumbass crap you always try and pull plus the fact that you're an idiot.

^[2] Martha’s Stewart’s culpability should not be ignored here either: she tried to seduce me wearing nothing but a thong, Latex pasties and a gimp mask in an effort to acquire my recipe for Christmas cookies shaped like the ‘Peanuts’ characters in pornographic positions.

-When my wife Terri found out, intergalactic bloodshed was, well, inevitable.

Predator Press and the Quest for the Empty Skull

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having seen all four “Raiders” movies now, I feel more than qualified to follow in the footsteps of the great Doctor Jones and enter the fast-paced and lucrative sexy field of Archeology.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to circumvent the lack of academic accolades with prospective employers. I think they had their doubts I could kick the crap out of six guys while hopping back and forth between vehicles speeding through a dense jungle -even after seeing the Honorary White Belt Grand Master Futon gave me.

Despite the lofty credentials, much-lauded Harvard University immediately balked at the opportunity to even tenure me: being tenured at Harvard University, it turns out, is a potential subsequent function of me actually teaching at Harvard University.

Blah, blah.

“I’ll have no part of dealing with screaming brats,” I inform the interviewer. “Dammit, I’m a scientist."

“How about an online class?” says the guy looking down his nose into a thick book. “We're starting a course in Private Investigation this August.”

“Great,” I says. “I’ll take it. How long until my tenure starts?”

“Sir, I have serious doubts you have any knowledge of this field whatsoever.”

“Sure I do,” I insist.

“You are prepared to instruct people to conduct criminal investigations via intercooperation between various law enforcement agencies?”

“The world should be wiped clean of criminal scourge.”

“-while occasionally working underground with criminals to collect information?”

“I totally hate cops.”

He leans back in his chair. “So what exactly do you know about private investigation?”

“Licensed private investigators get to carry guns. And that’s always cool. You can use guns to shoot people.”

“And you want to shoot people?”

“Oh God no,” I says. “I just want to fit in when I go to Denny’s.”

“I seriously doubt you possess the guile to work in undercover operations.”

“Well, I fooled you with that resume,” I point out. “Hell that thing is chocked full of lies.”

“Like what?”

“Like what isn’t?”

“So your name isn’t Indiana Einstein?”

“Not even close,” I says smuggly.

“Well what is it then? We would need to put something on the checks.”

Now I had a plan for if the interview was going poorly: I was going to say my name was Don Lewis. But my intuition told me I had this hoity-toity Harvard University geek wrapped around my finger.

Attempting to avoid the obvious trap, I start looking around the spacious office for ideas. I see a framed Michelangelo Fresco, a Thomas Wolfe book … absolutely nothing useful.

Finally my eyes fell on his coffee cup.

“Joe,” I blurt. “Joe, eh, Joseph.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows furrow. “Huh,” he says. “We have an opening in Mayan Hieroglyphic Writing. That would be a little closer to your desired field than private investigation. You can read Mayan hieroglyphics, correct?”

"Pre or Postclassic?"

"Late Preclassic."

“I love Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics. Some nights I can’t put ‘em down at all ... see these dark circles under my eyes? I just finished a version of War and Peace written in Preclassic Mayan hieroglyphics.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I thought it was a bit wordy and pedantic. But the part where the giant turtle bites the heads off of those snowmen makes me cry every time.”

Caligula

Predator Press

[LOBO]

s a few of you might have realized, my computer recently went kablooey … I’m woefully behind on comments, and have even re-issued a handful of posts. I’ve kajiggered a system of using my email to get that done, but it’s time consuming.

The upside is there is stuff I‘ve been working on that‘ll be pretty interesting. For instance, I have an interview with one of my favorite blogger-slash-authors Chris Wood on the table; sure he‘s from the UK and insists on butchering our fine American language and is probably indirectly responsible for soccer ... Nonetheless he’s brilliant, hilarious and talented [Chris, stop reading here] and deeply psychotic -to the point where my finder's fee commission from Doctor Toboggans should be astronomical [Chris, okay to continue reading from here].

And I was initially thinking my book -"This Book Kicks the Crap Out of All Those Other Books"- would be a cookbook, but it turns out a chalk outkine of a lobster at the bottom of the pot ruins virtually any bisque, no matter how much garlic you add.

Instead, I rewrote it by replacing the word 'deep fry' with 'death ray' and 'lobster' with 'alien,' thusly creating an adventure-fiction saga: it's sort of an experiment to see if can hold interest over longer stories ... in effect, sampling myself for the possibility of writing my own book.

It'll be crap, I assure you. But it'll be my crap, so buy it! People pay lots of money for crap nowadays, so it's kinda fashionable if you think about it: there's this media whore named 'Shakespeare' who is totally unreadable -and he‘s got, like, four books published!

But this post isn’t about how all Predator Press readers agree Shakespeare is a limelight-mooching talentless hack: this post is about a very kind and unsolicited write-up I got from FamousWhy Terri found.

Take that, Shakespeare.

-Asshole.

Mister Blister

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, Obama has been in office a full day and I’m still unemployed.

-I’m starting to have my doubts about this administration.

But the employers aren’t really helping themselves in this regard either. There’s nothing I like better than uploading a spiff resumé to Careerbuilders or Monster only to have to spend an hour doing it all over again: you hit “Apply Now,” and then have to engage in the redundant cutting and pasting of essentially the same information.

-And oh God help you if you get called in for an interview: then you get to fill out the same information once more by hand.

By the third permutation of the same info, if I don’t get the job I should be able to murder your Human Resources person with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.

It's at the handwritten application stage where they will sneak in a question like Where do you see yourself in five years? The correct answer for this is generally some variation on “blowing my boss,” but I don’t think they get that one very often frankly: I usually put “chewing on an adrenal gland of an endangered Mojave desert box tortoise, and crashing my nuclear hovercar into the competition’s cafeteria. This often causes survivors third degree burns, and fuses rayon and polyester to flesh.”

If you want to know the truth, the third version of my resumé always generates a high degree of internal doubt your company is really worth a crap in the first place. Seriously. Have I committed a felony since you called me to come in thirty minutes ago? No. To be brutally honest, the only thing that’s changed is now I know you don’t bother actually reading anything.

And as a result, now I don’t think I want to work for you: I picture my tenure with your company as furiously composing unnecessary faxes with irrational demands –demands that are forwarded to another fax machine on the other side of the building occupied by an effective battalion of hot secretaries who promptly stamp it “For Corporate Consideration,” copy it, scan it, email it, print it, copy the email, and file them away for future shredding –all the while complimenting my industriousness and brazen ambition.

“He’s going to go far in this company,” one will remark, shredding my proposal.

This is of course a highly abbreviated remark: over the years I will have fought hard against them gossiping about how attractive and sexy I am.

At some level that’s just not professional -and besides I am happily married.

I would have to write a memo like: “Ladies, this is a workplace. Despite my distracting good looks and overpowering 'machismo,' you must keep your base visceral instincts and urges under control. Put your blouses back on. This is harassment!” where it will be promptly stamped “For Corporate Consideration,” copied, scanned, emailed, printed, and filed away for future shredding.

The future is bleak.

Sexy, but bleak.

When All Else Fails

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I told you to stop applying for psychiatrist jobs!” says Terri, scowling into my CareerBuilder account.

“It’s not just any psychiatrist job.” I explain. “It’s Director of Psychiatry. I would run, like, a fleet of psychiatrists. Those cats make like $250,000 a year.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“How hard could it be?” I shrug. “I carry around a clipboard, and make all the patients in my asylum smoke cannabis while listening to old Beatles records. Hell people will be trying to break in.”

“You’re not qualified!”

“I get my second interview tomorrow.”

“Really?”

Predator Press Interviews: Mark A. Rayner

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My devious plot to kill all the good authors so I can get a book deal has suffered a temporary setback: Mark A. Rayner, author of Marvellous Hairy, has been anything but forthright in regards to his actual location.

-Mislead by some rather sophisticated and formidable call-tracing countermeasures, I'm forced to conduct this interview from a payphone in Wyoming.

And let me tell you pal, getting into a phone booth in a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches is no picnic.



LOBO: Mark, you've obviously chosen to try and make monkeys, you know, cool again -like back when "BJ and the Bear" inspired millions and millions of truckers to take them cross-country. But iguanas are cool, and kinda scary too. A book about superintelligent iguanas would be groundbreaking, and a rare victory for cold-blooded animals. Why monkeys? An iguana is an infinitely more practical pet for truckers if you think about it.

MAR: Actually, Marvellous Hairy is about a surrealistic novelist being turned into a monkey-like creature; they regress just some of his DNA back along the evolutionary tree to the point before we split from the chimps; but if you must know the truth, it's because I think we don't keep in touch with our monkey playfulness enough. (Present company excluded. I mean, obviously, with the ghillie suit and all. You know you can get those in Gor-Tex now, with collapsible almond branches?)

LOBO: Don't correct me on my own blog, Mark. What was that fancy thing you just did there?

MAR: What?

LOBO: That thing where you are using the "(" and the ")".

MAR: They are called parentheses. You -of all people- should probably learn how to use them.

LOBO: You think I don't know about parentheses? I once killed a man using parentheses.

MAR: Really?

LOBO: Absolutely. I hated that guy. Watch. "I want the garbage taken out (and everybody dead in five minutes)."

MAR: In five minutes? What did they do?

LOBO: They didn't know about your book!

MAR: Oh, well that's okay then.

LOBO: Is it that you're an atheist Mark? Hm? I mean you could have changed the guy into a praying mantis instead of a monkey. Is it a problem that the mantis thing is always praying? A praying mantis won't rip off your genitalia and throw it at you. I mean you just don't GET more pious than a praying mantis.

MAR: What about Capuchin Monkeys? Eh? They're named after monks. Or the sanctimonious Kneeling Baboons of Rogistan? (Not that I like them very much. Did you know I was once bitten by a radioactive baboon? It's how I got my super-powers.)

LOBO: See, there you go with the parent-things again.

MAR: Parentheses?

LOBO: Forget it. Was the Shute character in Marvellous Hairy based on David Letterman?

MAR: Largely, though I wouldn't want anyone to think that Denny the Lickspittle is based on Paul Shaeffer. No way. I would never disrespect the coolest man on TV. Paul is Canadian, did you know that? Oh, that's right, you don't believe in Canada.

Marvellous Hairy Excerpts
LOBO: Don't get me started on those old hokey legends of Canada. Do you think Canada exists?

MAR: Yes.

LOBO: But you're a teacher! Isn't that, well, kinda irresponsible?

MAR: Let' get back to the books.

LOBO: [exasperated sigh] One of my favorite elements of your writing is the meat of the stories hangs on a skeleton of philosophical poignence. Not to oversimplify, The Amadeus Net had the omnipotent and omniscient computer managing an idyllic utopia, and Marvellous Hairy had the specter of corporate power and greed gone to extreme. A common thread -humans struggling to morally catch up to their own rampant technological achievements- can often be spotted in your shorter works as published on The Skwib as well. Is this formulaic, or a happy byproduct of your writing style?

MAR: I wish I had a formula -- it would be so much easier. But to think that I struggle with each story, agonize over every character, groin myself every day to get the themes to flow with the plot and have it appear as formulaic . . . well, that just makes me want to slit my wrists. So, let's go with 'happy' byproduct.

LOBO: Having read both The Amadeus Net and Marvellous Hairy, they both have a vastly different "feel" from one another: The Amadeus Net seemed darkly serious while Marvellous Hairy seemed more playful. The fun you were having writing Marvellous Hairy was palpable. Would that be an accurate characterization? And if so, were there events between 2005 and 2008 that contributed to this shift?

MAR: Yes. That's quite accurate. Interestingly, you have to push the clock back about nine years for The Amadeus Net and seven years for Marvellous Hairy. I was primarily writing The Amadeus Net when I was an underemployed corporate drone in 1997, living in a small, yet charmingly feculent apartment, and working from notes that I had painted with a child's watercolour set the year I was being a Bohemian Gen-xer in Prague (1993). The first draft of Marvellous Hairy was written in three days in 2001, and was fueled almost entirely by scotch and raw existential anguish, and so, is hilarious.

Marvellous Hairy Podcasts
LOBO: The Amadeus Net juxtaposes a sexually-taut cast of characters in a clinical, computerized world. Cripes ... everybody is sleeping with everybody! Can you just leave out the computers next time? The computers create too much space between the sex scenes.

MAR: In my next book, the computers get in on it too.

LOBO: Have you repented to your clergy for all the sex in The Amadeus Net yet? I tried to get my penance reduced by ratting you out about it, but the church was skeptical: rather than take my word for it, they ordered a case of the books to be distributed among the congregation for review. Now they are all blind, and their palms smell like Gillette. All of this could have been avoided with the simple use of a praying mantis. Are you an atheist Mark?

MAR: If you mean, do I believe in a "Magic Sky Father", then yes. If you mean, do you believe in a "Cosmic Unconscious Fun Monkey," then the answer is: maybe.

LOBO: Yeah, well, I'll try to put in a good word for you with Jesus. But I've got a feelin I know where He stands on the whole "Cosmic Unconscious Fun Monkey" thing.

MAR: Thanks.

LOBO: Why do my favorite characters always get killed in your stories? Are you doing that on purpose? And how do you know who my favorite characters are in the first place? Are you a clairvoyant?

MAR: Yes. And by the way, don't get to attached to Suzie in my next book. Really, just save yourself the heartache. Oh, and you might want to get that mole checked.

LOBO: Thag is among my favorite of your characters. Was Thag based on someone or something in particular? And because I like him, how soon will you be killing him if you haven't already?

MAR: Thag is loosely based on the Gary Larson cartoon. Since then, he has become the proto-typical everyman. But he will not be taking the Big Dirt Nap anytime soon. Or will he? We will see how sales of Marvellous Hairy spike after this interview goes live to decide . . .

LOBO: While far from a professional author, I'll get something under my skin and scrawl it on the grocery receipt on my way home -more or less helpless against the urge. This annoys the other drivers, and their excessive use of the horn and graphic profanity makes it hard to concentrate. How does a Mark A. Rayner pour stories? Do you have a formal method -for example, a set time and space for writing?

MAR: I have a word count that I aim for every day. I usually miss it. This makes me feel bad. However, even if I am tortured by my under-achieving slacker Gen-X attitude towards work, the words eventually add up to something and then there is a manuscript that can be edited. This is how I have produced two novels in roughly seventeen years.

LOBO: There seem to be two methods of getting published. The first, self-publishing, requires around $30,000 and necessitates doing all your own promotion. The second is the 'traditional' method -the one where you essentially "get discovered" by a publisher. Because I'm short about $29,995 for the self-publication route, I endlessly submit manuscripts to publishers that are returned weeks later scribbled with profanity and smelling suspiciously of urine. Do you know of any particularly stupid publishers I should try? Like maybe one that buys a lot of scratch-off lottery tickets and extended warrantees?

MAR: I think you've described the entire publishing industry quite accurately. Enjoy.

LOBO: You claim to be a teacher in Canada. This has put me in the uncomfortable position of acknowledging that Canada possibly does exist, despite my numerous assertions to the contrary. Why would you jeopardize my credibility -right smack on my own blog- when you could have simply claimed to live in North Montana? Extremely North Dakota would also have been acceptable.

MAR: I always thought that Minnesota was pretty much like Canada. How about if I'm from Minnesota?

Marvellous Hairy Reviews
LOBO: How did you get out of playing hockey? Did they give you an academic waiver? I would have thought knocking out one of Mario Lemieux's teeth to be a Canadian rite of passage. Do other Canadians pick on you as a result?

MAR: I got out of it the old-fashioned way -- I broke my arm the first time I played. Crying like a little girl helped too. BTW, Mario Lemieux has almost all of his teeth. Nowadays the goal in hockey (ice hockey for all your British readers) is not to knock out a player's teeth, but to cause the rapid brain movement of a player's brain inside his (or her) skull. Much more civilized. (Especially now that women's hockey is so big.)

LOBO: There you go with those parentheses again. I'm starting to think I should consider them a form of attack.

MAR: (You would be a fool to think so.)

LOBO: In Marvellous Hairy, there was a thinly-veiled streak of dislike toward the college where the story is set. Was this a reflection of personal frustration with your own institution, or more an articulation of how people justifiably hate school in general?

MAR: It was more a reflection of how people can dislike something in general. And you'll note that all of the friends are quite fond of their undergraduate school (The Good University).

LOBO: Once again I'll remind you not to correct me on my own blog, Mark. So at what point did you realize you hated kids enough to be a teacher? And would you call it a vacuous rage against today's youth, or is it simple sadism?

MAR: Um, I teach at a university, so I only deal with adults.

Marvellous Hairy Freaky Adult Sex Stories
LOBO: C'mon Mark ... don't mince about. Those punks deserve nothing less than every ounce of your venom. And once all six of the people in Canada get their degrees from you, you'll be of no further use to the university either: they will force you to hastily pack your abacus, chalk, and all those Twisted Sister pins you confiscated. Then what? POW ... it's straight back to hockey. And how do you think Mario Lemieux is going to react when you come wandering in to practice after all these decades? Not too favorably I would guess. No sir ... not too favorably at all. Unless you think you've still got a Stanley Cup in you.

MAR: I don't have one in me. But I've been IN it, if you catch my drift.

LOBO: I would imagine there aren't a lot of monkeys in Canada. Wouldn't your life be simpler if you wrote about companies changing people into cocker spaniels?

MAR: Well, I'll tell you now the radioactive baboon that bit me was a resident of Elgin County, Province of Ontario, Dominion of Canada. (I know 'cause the cop showed me the Incident Report afterwards.) In fact, most of Southwestern Ontario is plagued by roaming bands of baboons -- and not just the red-assed, blue-nosed, Perfidia variety you're used to, no. There is the Souwesto Skint Baboon, always asking for spare change at the corner of major intersections, the White-Throated Hypocraboon, commonly found in churches and you really don't want to leave your children unattended with them. And don't get me started on the Ice Baboons.

LOBO: You know I've read the Travels of Marco Polo, and you know how many times Marco mentions Canada in it? Zero. Zilch. You know, I don't think I'm buying this Canada thing anymore. Fess up, Mark.

MAR: I don't think he mentions the United States of America either. Just sayin'.

LOBO: We probably just didn't want Polo takin the spotlight off of the Godless Yellow Hoard. In fact, we might have asked Polo not to talk about us, you know, until we could at least get some cool fast food and electronics. What can we be expecting next? I know it isn't going to the swimming pool -not the way you trash-talk Marco Polo. Are you working on another book? Tease us with some details. I'm warning you however: if it's a story about a busload of nymphomaniac cheerleaders exacting revenge on an evil corporation for turning a praying mantis into a cocker spaniel, we will all know you stole it from me.

MAR: I'm working on two projects: One is the heartwarming story about how a cocker spaniel saves a busload of nymphomaniac cheerleaders from the predations of gigantic evil praying mantis, who happens to be the CEO of a major bio-tech corporation. The other is mostly about a busload of robots having sex with cheerleaders pretending to be cocker spaniels (The Furries, they're called in the book), though there is something in there about bloggers being executed for the capital crime of plagiarism.

Frozen Ted Williams Head Sparks Controversy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Alcor, the company facilitating storage of baseball great Ted Williams' frozen remains, is reeling under media siege due to scandalous allegations of post-mortem abuse to the decedent put forward by former employee Larry Johnson.

Cryonics is a process where remains are frozen and preserved in hopes that one day medical science –once sufficiently advanced- may be able to revive and cure the deceased.

“I wasn’t the slightest bit suspicious until the company picnic,” claims Johnson. “But finding that Red Sox cap in my daiquiri really got me to thinking.”

While Alcor has thus far refused to talk directly with mainstream media, Predator Press got an exclusive interview with Chairman Charles Platt.

“We are flatly denying these shocking and baseless accusations, accusations made by a clearly disgruntled former employee,” says Platt. “We have begun an internal investigation regarding numerous recent record-setting three legged race results. But that is purely a coincidence, and you would be a fool to think otherwise. Crap. I said that out loud, didn’t I? Oh, look behind you! Britney Spears!”

Kanye West has yet to comment on the unfolding drama, but I might have missed it when I was looking for Britney Spears. Still, I feel confident West would have concurred with my gut instinct that a baseball player that wants to make out with space chicks wasn't a very good story, and that Predator Press readers would prefer some good, juicy dirt on Kevin Federline. Heck, what was Britney Spears doing here anyway? Was she going to freeze her head too?

Unfortunately, it appears Britney Spears is very elusive when it comes to interviews and I never found her.

Ah screw it.

Never mind.