icanhasflamethrower

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Every once in a while, I’ll make some flimsy attempt at cleansing my Karmic palette by putting forth something other than my usual schlock.

For example, if you text ‘HAITI’ to 90999 on your cellphone, you will make a $10 donation to the Red Cross. ‘UNICEF’ to 20222 will make a similar donation to Unicef. And if I find a number you can text to get ‘Pants on the Ground’ guy Larry 'The General' Platt back on American Idol for the rest of the season, I’ll publish that too: it seems the least I can do to punish Simon Cowell for crimes against humanity.

But with horrific disasters, national humiliation, and crimes against humanity already on the table, can you possibly segue into a discussion about Pat Robertson any smoother?

I smell Pulitzer.

”I’m not really sure what I should do, LOBO,” says Pat over the speakerphone.

“Well hiring me was your first step in the right direction,” I says reassuringly. “Out of curiosity, how did you hear of the Predator Press Public Relations Agency?”

”It’s the last one in the phone book,” says Pat. ”Zimmer and Zellwig recommended I bury myself up to my neck and let red ants eat my head off.”

“Zimmer and Zellwig are amateurs,” I scoff, surreptitiously crossing ‘RED ANTS’ off of my brainstorming list. “Still, blaming the Haitian disaster on a pact with the devil presented us with quite a challenge.”

”One can only assume that’s why your retainer is so high.”

“Yeah. Well, um,” I begin carefully. “In truth that money is already gone.”

”What?”

“Pat, you understand what you’re up against here, right?” I says, reclining in the chair, talking to the ceiling. “I mean I don’t know much about religion, but I thought you people were supposed to be compassionate and forgiving. If you want to keep fooling people into believing that, you’re going to have to accept some of the, eh, 'initiatives' we’ve taken on your behalf.”

”Initiatives?”

“Yes,” I says. “See, we figure you’re going to have to do something in Haiti that demonstrates that you sympathize with their plight –regardless of whatever Faith and culture divides you.”

”But they practice Voodoo!”

“That’s what made it so easy,” I says, looking at my watch. “We hired some cargo planes. Even as we speak, they are dumping one million live sacrificial chickens over the devastated nation on your behalf. I called it the 'Pat’s Preachin' Poultry Project' on the press release." Hands behind my head, I puff my cigar confidently. "America loves alliteration.”

“My congregation will never agree to fund sacrificial chickens.”

“I already thought of that,” I says. “That’s why tomorrow, we’re hitting them with mayonnaise and celery.”