ANTNM

Predator Press

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You would be hard-pressed to find a single American who hasn't at least heard of America's Next Top Model: a glamorous leggy reality show hosted by Tyra Banks.

But few remember the vast number of prototypes attempted previous to it's highly successful format.

Before ANTM, we didn't know that America wanted to watch pretentious and callow stressed-out 80-pound chicks clawing each other's eyes out; all we really knew was that as long as we kept putting crap on television, America would watch with tightly-gripped interest.

Forever lost in the vast archives of failed television -somewhere next to the reels of XFL Football and the Gieco Cavemen show- all the episodes of America's Next Top Not Model [ANTNM] gather the dusty neglect of failed hopes and dreams.

Perhaps only I still remember the most exciting and fantastic week of my life.

But that's okay.

I still remember.


***

From the moment the Greyhound bus dropped me off in front of Château le Scone, it was a first-class act all the way. I had never been to Biloxi, the high-powered world center and apex of international beauty before; it actually teemed with energy and life.

Once adequately armed against said teeming energy and life with our complimentary guitar-shaped flyswatters and mosquito nets, we were introduced to the other contestants by the pool. My heart sank as I saw the mammoth caliber of my competition: George "The Animal" Steel was getting his back waxed, and Gilbert Gottfried his eyebrows. Paul Reubens was snoring loudly with cucumbers over his eyes, and Chris Farley snapped his Speedo at anyone who failed to resist his obvious predanatural gifts.

Without severe discipline and hard work, I didn't have a prayer.


***

The only "original" member of the cast that survived to the show's current bastardized permutation America's Next Top Model is Jay Alexander. I remember him fondly; once he essentially stopped eating to control the nausea, he himself gave me the regimented routines that would prove to be my only chance for survival. Tips like not shaving or bathing and consuming nothing but Blue Beaver Beer, pizza, Twinkies and nachos 24/7 proved invaluable as the final weeks progressed.

And then that prick Paul Reubens ruined everything.

He started sneaking vegetables on my pizzas, and switching my beer to Blue Beaver Lite. He doused me constantly with Aqua Velva under the guise that it was fly repellant.

That prick stole and burned all my turtleneck shirts and parachute pants.

When I saw the footage of what he did to my favorite plaid leisure suit, I wept.

And I was voted off that very week.


***

Once my arteries cleared up, I left the hospital and decided to write my story as a warning. And I'm sure you already know that being overly-possessed with how you look is not healthy, and rampant vanity can be a fast track to full renal failure.

But this is a warning to Paul Reubens.

That suit was polyester.

We'll meet again, Paul.

Oh yes.

We shall meet again.

Cabals N Bits

Predator Press

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I have no idea what this image is supposed to be, but the alternative to wasting an hour on it was wasting an hour mowing the lawn. Let’s just call it a homage to Rickey and move on. Okay?

What I wanted to specifically address was the startling number of recent comments. I would like to reply to all of them individually, but between the last two posts I’ve got almost forty.

Forty!

-That’s more than I got all last year.

What the heck are you people doing!? When I go to your sites, Do I lay this kind of guilt on you? No. I’m far too busy scrawling all your funny ideas on a notepad so I can plagiarize them later.

Forty comments on Predator Press is the blogging equivalent of the last episode of M*A*S*H.

(*spoiler alert* In the last episode of M*A*S*H, Henry dies and Winchester doesn't.)

(... Oooooo I hate that snooty Winchester!)

How to be #1 on Humor-Blogs.com

Predator Press

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Now that I have verifiably been #1 on Humor-Blogs, I feel I am qualified to lecture comprehensively on the subject.

And for the low, low price of $679 I totally will!*

With my 64 DVD series of lectures, you will learn top #1 Humor-Blogger secrets like:

Tip #4: "Cook 'Minute Rice' for 2 minutes and 54 seconds: it resets 'Humor-Blogs' to zero. But be sure your fire extinguisher is fully charged, and keep a list of phone numbers including the Fire Department and restaurants that deliver handy," and

Tip #454: “CDs 51-64 are actually blank. Use them to record your favorite music and drown out the family bitching about your blogging,” and

Tip #73: "Switching your feed tube and catheter bucket is a great timesaver, but can eventually cause anemia. Eat a banana every few days to avoid Rickets."

Act now, and I'll not only provide free shipping, but I'll throw in a free tube of antibiotic ointment guaranteed to cure butt bedsores 1.6 times faster than exercise!*

But wait*! There's More*! The first 100 buyers will receive a copy of Diesel's Antisocial Commentary: The Secret Files of the Mattress Police at a discounted price of $156! *

* This is a limited-time offer.

* "How to be #1 on Humor-Blogs" may cause nausea, temporary blindness, and explosive discharge of the left kidney.

* No assembly is required.

* 16 animals were beaten into a chalky paste during the making of this post. But it was in order to perfect my #1 on Humor-Blogs.com Barbeque Sauce so I'm cool with it.

Glitch, Smitch! The People Have Spoken!

Predator Press

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Yes, it’s true ‘o Loyal Reader. All my hard work and dedication has finally paid off.

For I am #1 at Humor-Blogs.

Due to the inalienable rights bestowed upon Me by Virtue of Democracy (and Diesel’s glitchy software), the triumph of an Enlightened reign under my Iron Fists of Galvanized Wisdom shall bring happiness to the Blogosphere for generations upon generations to come.



And like any intrepid and courageous hero endowed by the Virtue of Democracy (and Diesel’s glitchy software) leading the huddled masses into a bold new future, I’ve got a list of 82,952 blogs that piss me off because they are funnier than mine.

-Sites that have no place in the annals of a future history that I shall intend to forge with my own two mighty hands!

I want guys like Don, Kevin, Brent and Mark handled with "utmost discretion."

And extreme violence.

Leperball

Predator Press

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People are always asking me, "LOBO, with basketball season over and football not yet in full swing, how does a legendary athlete such as yourself spend your leisure time?”

Well I’m glad you asked me that.

I’ve always believed that people as gifted and successful as myself should spend a lot of time giving back to the community; encouraging the "less fortunate" that they too might become a chiseled physical phenomena such as myself is exactly the false hope today’s kids need to keep them from dealing drugs, stealing my car, or other things 'the community' generally frowns upon.

With Shark Boxing still tied up in pre-production due to a quagmire of insurance hassles, I generally spend my weekends coaching a pee-wee football team called the Starfishes: a spirited and rugged little squad of ‘can do’ type kids –all afflicted with advanced stages of leprosy.

This is my third year -the first of which I am Federally mandated to because of the “Anti-Discrimination Act” that Little Timmy's dad used to sue me when I puked at the post-game pizza party and tried to resign.

Little Timmy is now quarterback.

His dad must be so proud.

Weasel Fuel

Predator Press

[LOBO]

AS Diesel often should when working on a new and brilliant project, he sought out my advice.

And I would have had a hard time turning him down for my radiant brainosity: he loaned me a nickel to scratch off my lottery tickets.

"LOBO," he says. "I want to upgrade Humor-Blogs to Humor-Blogs 3.0. It'll have a system you can vote on funny posts with."

"Cool," I says, blowing the silver dust off of a 'Pays to Play' loser.

"I wish you wouldn't do that in my car."

"Relax, D," I says, drawing out another from my shirt pocket. "I'll buy you a new car when I score with these babies. One with two clitorises."

Diesel glances in the rearview mirror to see the dry Nevada dust being whipped up like a comet's tail behind us. "How many voting categories should there be?"

"Scientifically?"

"Yes."

"In North America?

"Yes."

"And with enough simplicity and flexibility to carry the whole thing on with creative bloggers checking in for centuries to come?"

"Yes," he grins.

I scratch my chin with the nickel, thinking. "Fifty seven."

"Fifty seven," Diesel says.

"Don't be so incredulous," I says, scratching my Cardboard Wafer of Destiny. "Science doesn't lie."

"I was thinking three. You know, a 'thumbs up', a 'meh', and maybe a 'thumbs down'. But fifty seven?"

"And the most important thing will be what the buttons look like. They should match the vote."

I then presented the following example:




#57: Fantastic.

I soiled myself.






#26: Standard issue LOL cat







#21: Too much YouTube.





#6: This post stunk like if Kenny Rogers loaded up on peanut butter and sardine sandwiches, washed it down with buttermilk, and then puked deeply into a large bonfire after riding the Tilt-a-Whirl.


"Blech," says Diesel. "How about plain smiley faces?"

"Well sure, if you want to be boring."

"And maybe I'll just go only with 'thumbs up' and 'thumbs down-'"

"Without a 'meh' nobody will vote for my site."

"The Reasonable Ego is a great blog," says Diesel. "Lots of people will vote for you."

"I don't write for the The Reasonable Ego. That's Sinister Dan."

"Which blog do you write for?"

"Predator Press."

"You mean that blog with all the crayon doodles, crappy grammar and obviously fake images?"

"Yep. Hey, why are we slowing down?"

"Get out!" Diesel demands. "And gimmee back my damn nickel!"




There are, I suppose, worse things than blogging with my laptop from the middle of the desert next to a skeleton.

At least I got my 'meh' button snuck in there at Humor-Blogs.

And I almost feel bad for Diesel.

With my 'Pays to Play' scratch offs, I won $2 and two free ones ... !

The Astronaut Whisperer

Predator Press

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After being struck by a landing space shuttle, Air Traffic Controller Dirk Elway’s life is completely transformed; sunken into a bleak and menthol fog of Nyquil and Altoids addiction, even his goldfish have run away.

Similarly, one of the surviving astronauts on board that very same space shuttle goes crazy, buys a box of Depends, and rides across the country –ultimately killing everyone in Twentynine Palms California with a rake.

On a hunch, Clint Eastwood –a world-renown Astronaut Whisperer- gambles that Dirk and The Astronaut’s spree are somehow linked.

Armed with nothing but a 32 oz jar of Tang and a walkie-talkie, Clint manages to finally make contact, culling the rogue Astronaut and reuniting him with ailing Dirk … but soon thereafter Dirk is mysteriously killed by an overdose of rake to the back of the skull.

Can Clint teach him to laugh and love again? Will The Astronaut once again claim his coveted spot in the London Symphony Orchestra? And can his lowly new job testing 747 engines by tossing live seagulls into them let him rise once again to his once-lofty astronaut status?

-Only time and a ragtag group of Baptist church choir enthusiasts can tell.

We here at Predator Press give The Astronaut Whisperer, like, ten big thumbs up: this is the surprisingly engaging tale of an astronaut beset by tragedy and a love for gardening, and Clint's dogged and relentless efforts to repair his broken and battered spirit.

Scheduled for release this summer, it’s an uplifting, fun and romantic little film that’s a must-see for the whole family.

Nicolas Cage is not in this movie.

The Truth About Tornados

Predator Press

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Unlike the Discovery Channel, Predator Press doesn’t make you sit through an hour of excruciatingly boring “facts” and “proof”. We’re just going to come right out and say it in the opening paragraph: Tornados Do Not Exist.

There.

We said it.

End of story.

This myth –obviously perpetuated to maintain the billions of dollars America shovels into tornado “warnings”, safety equipment and protective gear every year- spins finally to rest right here, right now. Just like Bigfoot and the female orgasm, it's all hype and happity-horsecrap: no longer shall America be terrorized by legends designed to scare children to sleep!

“But LOBO,” you say. “While I respect your staggering intellect, I’ve seen pictures of towns destroyed by tornados!”

You call that proof?

What if those people were just really messy?

FEMA: ”My god … This place is a sty. What happened?

Townsfolk: ”Um … tornado!”

FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”

Townsfolk: ”Thanks!”

I spent about two hours yesterday on my roof with a pair of binoculars. Know how many tornados I saw? None. And I for one am tired of subsidizing slovenly townfolk with my hard-earned tax dollars.

One has merely to examine the weird recommendations the government provides to unravel the fabled ‘tornado’:

True or False: The safest place to be during a tornado is underground, preferably in a storm cellar.

Correct Answer: False. This is where they want you to be, so those lazy slugs don’t have to go through much trouble burying you!

True or False: If you see a tornado, leave your car and get into a ditch.

Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' sham! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?

A big tornado -say an F9- will rip your shoes through your eye sockets and then beat you to death with them, ditch or no ditch. To avoid injury, a) Get out into a wide-open flat field, b) Quickly ascertain the direction the tornado is spinning, and then c) Run in circles in the same direction as fast as possible to cancel out the cyclonic effect.

True or False: Do not try to outrun a tornado.

Correct Answer: False, false, false. If you see a tornado, get the f—k away as quickly and recklessly as possible. Sabotaging fleeing others by tripping them and running them off the road is useful too, as the tornado will often pause to enjoy devouring their succulent juices -thereby gaining you what might be precious seconds.

If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?

Why don't you just try to get your arteries to process cinderblocks and pointy sticks?

Blech!

Butterfly

Predator Press

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Once again poor ol' Predator Press is getting robbed of what is rightfully ours.

And by 'ours', I mean mine.

Don't let Humor Blogs do to me what Sonny Liston did in 1964 when he had to run for a pack of cigarettes and "needed a sparring partner for Muhammad Ali".

Now that I think about it, Sonny Liston doesn’t even smoke.

I can't believe I fell for that again in 2006.

Click this image and vote for me!

I think I get morphine if I win.

Buyer Seaware

Predator Press

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As I'm sure you all remember, Predator Press has fallen on hard times.

We've been through worse.  Still, I'm bein' forced to come up with some quick cash.

I've decided to sell the Official Predator Press Nuclear Submarine at a fraction of it's original value on eBay:



It's hell on gas, but you can pretty much park it anyplace you want.

The Day the Music Cried

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It’s a little-known fact that Brent Diggs and I weren’t always the bitter enemies we are today.

For instance, I didn’t recognize Brent immediately at Juilliard Music School. In fact I thought he was just another flashy and callow wanna-be rock band frontman.

But one night after my tuba solo, he insisted on meeting me. He was so moved by my performance, as we shook hands a single tear rolled slowly down his cheek.

Now everyone knows the tuba is the backbone of any good band; once I graduated, I probably could have ‘written my own ticket’ so to speak. I was featured in Musician Magazine as the “57th best Tuba Player EVER”. Band members of both Metallica and Van Halen threatened to fracture off in order to work with me on solo projects.

And I was good too: in the recording studio, all women had to be escorted out so the soggy panties hitting the floor wouldn’t mess up the audio.

But there was something about Brent’s youthful exuberance and vitality that appealed to me, and soon we were playing together with other promising underground musical acts.

Then one day Brent comes to me and says, “LOBO, we gotta start our own band.”

To which I replied, “What the hell are you pointing at?”

"Just point at anything and watch what happens."

"Cool!"

“But I am serious,” he continues. “With my golden pipes and your saxophone thingy, there would be no stopping us!”

“I’ll only do it if we call it Danger Couch,” I says.

“Okay,” he says. “But only if we promise the band will never ever ever break up.”

“Deal,” I says.


***

In Brent’s defense, I was already well on my way to a substance abuse problem. I had been “experimenting” –recreationally- with Pop Rocks. Honestly, to this day I think it was the advertising aimed at my generation and colorful packaging.

I ate one packet of orange Pop Rocks during rehearsals. I ate two packets of grape while blistering live solos on my 'Tube'.

Soon by the end of any given day, I would have had consumed thirty-four packets.

When out of my 'supply', I shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands … and paying an extraordinary fee to have them Fed-Exed the next day because I couldn't pick them up at the warehouse that night.

Four months later, when I crashed the 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.

"Son-" the cop started.

"What dead hooker?" I replied.


***

Brent, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to my rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted me. And that night I swore I would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But at the very next show, through my microphone, everyone in the audience could here the distinct crackling joy.

In the dressing room, Brent found my stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.

Truthfully, my music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum, bum bum" would come out "bum bum-bwah-bum": the surgical precision required to hit that note with just the right force seemed to escape me, and it was often either far too loud and buzzing or completely inaudible altogether. Worse of all, the sound engineers never seemed to figure out why everything recorded sounded like angry Rice Krispies in violent milk.

I started showing up late for performances, play like five notes, and then leave without explanation in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on sheets and sheets of blank sheet music for the notes on page 98, I would sleep through shows missing cues completely. Once I accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music and played the whole venue like it was a Danny Elfman soundtrack. This earned me a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw ... but my downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and I was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.

My hygiene suffered, and my flesh started to seethe and bubble visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing.

-The only thing that seemed to still like me was my dog.

Six months later, Brent tracked me down in a cheap motel room. Unemployed, I was pouring Pop Rocks into a spoon and tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, I had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.

"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Brent.

"Nonsense," I says through purple teeth, twisting the thick rubber band over my elbow. "I can quit anytime I want. I don't need some goddamned intervention!"

Then, blammo.

Distracted, I let the paparazzi too close; the highly-unstable Pop Rocks in the spoon detonated in the camera flash.

Brent and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast.

Thank God, I remember thinking.

-I was getting really sick and tired of hearing that ‘You’ve got a problem’ bullshit.


Happy Anniversary Brent and Camille!