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Predator Press

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Predator Press Interviews: Barack Obama

Predator Press

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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.

Cube of Woe

Predator Press

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Man I was unbelievably pissed.

"Sir," squawks the technician over my cellphone. "It would be a lot easier to help you if you calmed down."

"Calm down?" I demand. "I'm going to die in this thing!"

"I highly doubt that sir. You said you already called the fire department, right?"

"Yes I did. I also called the police, the CIA, the FBI, FEMA and Interpol. How dare you unleash this poorly designed and untested -potentially lethal device- upon the unsuspecting public?"

"It's called an elevator, sir."

"It's a goddamned box of death, you quack! You people are the geometric equivalent of Comcast. Where'd you learn engineering, cosmetology school?"

"Sir, I assure you our engineers and technicians are highly qualified. But I'm only a customer service rep for Otis Elevators."

Inspecting the warning panel, I verify this: Otis Elevators is clearly marked right next to 'In Case of Emergency' and the 800 number I dialed.

"Well, let me talk to Otis."

"Excuse me?"

"Otis," I demand coolly. "Put that fucker on."

[muffled laughter]

"Uh, sir, -"

"I'm sorry. Did you say something? I can't hear you unless you're Otis!"

"Um," says the guy. "I'm Otis sir."

"Really?" I says.

"Yes sir. Now you said you already called the fire department. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well it's pretty boring in here. And the fire department won't be here for another half an hour."

"You don't have a paperback or something?"

"No," I says glumly. "I even called Mandy."

"Mandy?"

"Yeah. It's scratched in the glass here. 'For a good time call Mandy'. She's actually a pretty decent cello player, but it was eating up my minutes."

"Sir, I've been running a satellite diagnostic on the elevator you're in and it's responding just fine. Which floor did you press?"

"Floor?"

"Yes sir. There are buttons you have to press with numbers that correspond with the floor you want to go to."

"No shit?"

"Yes sir. They should be right over the warning plaque."

"I'll be damned. Otis, you're a genius!"

"Thank you sir."

"Wow. They even light up!"

What Ever Happened to Quicksand?

Predator Press

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Once again, Predator Press scienticians have stepped up, and -at no small expense to you- decided to settle the burning age-old question on everyone’s mind: What Ever Happened to Quicksand?

You remember ... One could barely get through a half an hour of television without some poor slob stumbling upon his buddy's safari hat laying mysteriously on the ground. Then he or she goes to pick it up, and the horror ensues -it’s quicksand!

I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my adolescent education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another. -Clearly even back then this enigmatic sedentary evil was barely understood. Of course, this was in the same day and age they taught us to curl up in a hallway in case of aerial bombings, and hide under our desks during nuclear blasts.

I hate to say it, but the Predator Press scienticians really let me down this time. All they did was gorge Dominoes pizza, play World of Warcraft, and work on their MySpace pages until "Enlarge Your Penis" SPAM beguiled them into downloading crippling viruses via porn.

Obviously the Great Mystery of Quicksand is beyond the feeble understanding of even the greatest minds of our time. Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with this, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.

But until then, we’re hoping you all will start wearing big, buoyant hats.

The Number You Haven't Dialed ...

Predator Press

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"He's not calling," says Terri.

"Of course he's calling," I insist. "You remember the now-historic interview I had with Barack. We had a real moment there.”

“You don’t think he would have called you by now?”

“I'm sure he's very busy. Who else would Barack pick as VP? Do you think he wants Don Lewis to win?"

“What about John McCain?”

“Oh come on. Nobody is seriously voting a fast food clown in for president.”

“That’s Ronald McDonald. John McCain is a decorated war vet, and-“

“Which war?”

“Vietnam.”

“Did he win?”

“Well-"

“He must have won,” I reflect. “He also survived the subsequent World Wars One and Two. That’s impressive.”

“What?”

“They name wars alphabetically so history students don’t have a hard time.”

“Really.”

“Yes. That’s why we’re never moving to Yugoslavia.”

“Because we’re going to have a war there?”

“They will probably retool all those Yugo factories to build tanks, but we can wipe them out with cleverly placed potholes and speed bumps. In fact, my first act as VP will be to surround that country entirely with potholes and speed bumps. It'll be like trying to invade Chicago!"

"And that's your strategy against Yugoslavia?"

"If you want to pick a winner in that war, I would go with whatever country produces the most potholes and speed bumps per capita.”

“Preemptively wiping out another country’s military seems more like a conservative plan. Don’t you think you would be a better VP for a republican like McCain?”

“Who?”

Spooky

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A dark and addled thing of doom
whispers lies and gloats in gloom;
poised to strike so very soon
it haunts this place and chills my room!

"Leave me to my own devices:
I give no heed to such entices!
I will not fear what haunts my bed
-for you are only in my head!"


I feel it sniff under the door
-a gleeful, mocking predator-
"You do not fear what you don’t see?
Well, what about X-Rays? Hm? Or E-Coli? And how about radioactive isotopes? When is the last time you saw a radioactive isotope? Even a small exposure to radioactive isoptopes could really mess up your thyroid.”

Monsters hate poetry.

Shanghaied

Predator Press

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“So let me get this straight,” says Nurse Garrison, looking down her glasses. “Due to mortgaging the house and a streak of tawdry material, your wife assaulted you?”

“If you replace the word ‘assaulted’ with the words 'collided a cast-iron skillet with,' you would be 100% correct.”

“She must’ve been pretty mad.”

“I’ll say,” I says through the gauze. “She made bacon and eggs in it first.”

No Mammograms Were Conducted During the Making of this Post

Predator Press

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Not to be outdone by the rash of recent mammogram popularity across the Humor-Blogs spectrum, I was faced with either of two options: get implants myself, or simply get as close to the action as possible in order to speak knowingly on the subject.

Since the former would have required me to buy all new t-shirts, I opted for the latter; hence, I mortgaged the house and bought the Mamm-O-Van.

I can't wait to surprise Terri with this –perhaps my most noble and holistic contribution in Public Service ever. ‘Gal on the Go’ between meetings? Don't sweat it. Can’t drive all the way to the doctor’s office? I've got you covered. HMO? No problem!

-These poor women deserve fair and equitable medical services too.

Sleeping Dogs

Predator Press

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Well, Steven Spielberg has officially rejected my screenplay "Schindler's Full Black Down Metal Hawk Jacket": it came back in the mail today with a rejection letter smelling suspiciously like urine.

It would appear I have only one hope left for getting a movie made, and I’m banking all Terri's money on my secret weapon: The Scalding.

It’s an epic two page script about a buxom hot chick relentlessly tormented and attacked by a radioactive space toaster.

You should see the poster!


***

On the first day of shooting, the cast and crew effusively greeted me as I arrived on the set.

“Pleased to meet you sir,” says a homeless-looking guy. “I am the Producer of The Scalding, and I’m sparing no effort or expense to make this the greatest epic thriller since The Exorcist V." A thick bourbon smell complimented his whispers. "We are now filming the scene when Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One’s boyfriend arrives after his CIA mission."

"Oooh, goodie!" I says. "The part where the waffle iron spawns a second head?"

"Yes."

“Alright, everybody,” demands the apparent director. “Quiet on the set. Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, this is your Big Scene. I want to see some fear. And ... Action!”

Large-Breasted Scantily-Clad Chick Number One cringes against the large picture window in the kitchen as special effects guys pull a rather un-menacing looking waffle iron crablike across the countertop with fishing line.

LBSCC#1 screams, mascara-stained tears raining down over her magnificent bosoms. She kicks at the waffle iron vainly with her stiletto heels. “You’re lucky my boyfriend isn’t here,” she cries.

“Alright, mark!” says the director. “Cue airplane now!”

A tiny plastic model airplane –also on fishing line— starts randomly spinning in a downward trajectory by the picture window.

"Hey!" I whisper to the producer. "That's supposed to be a stealth bomber!"

"Well to be fair sir," the producer says quietly. "How many kitchens have picture windows overlooking military airport runways?"

“There he is!”, exclaims LBSCC#1, pointing at the hero on a motorcycle. “He’ll stop you, you evil radioactive space waffle iron!” As she crosses off-screen, the click click click of her heels diminish audibly from the plastic microphone.

"Well," I concede. "She does have large breasts and is scantily clad."

Suddenly the airplane’s fishing line got tangled with the toaster's electrical cord. And after a few frenetic moments, the toaster flew up in the air and the two unlikely objects collide solidly. Both burst into flames, and -fishing line burned away- they fall to the ground with a hideous clang off camera.

“Cut!” yells the director. He stands. “That was brilliant! I'm already envisioning the 'Revenge of the Toaster' sequel!”

“What exactly is the budget for this production?” I ask.

“About eight bucks.” Says the producer. “You got a quarter? We need more fishing line.”

“Can’t any of you guys work with a budget?” I complain. “With six bucks, I’m funding the Predator Press Space Program, the Topless Holistic Online Medicine and Cancer Research Institute, and the LOBO Foundation for Sickly, Dying, Hungry-Yet-Hard-Working Orphans with Gambling Problems!”

"I'll pay you that $50 Friday, sir," he says. "But please don't put me back in the Space Program!"

"It's not my fault you bet on the Lakers with only a six point spread."

Dear Mom

Predator Press

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Having officially decided to move West, I think maybe I overshot.

We ended up in China just in time for the “Jump to Your Feet, Get on your Vespa and Drive to a Dennys and Order Something Not Weird From the Bitchy Waitress” Event.


After much ado we were soon chowing down on Sh** on a Shingle loaded with fried pig parts, a side of chicken embryos and a brown-colored juice made from beans.

The much-lauded decathlon was cool to watch, but seeing all the losers shot in the head was a bit distressing. Still, a bike and a gun are always handy in these circumstances; I was happy to have them.

Anyways, I did well in the Olympic Kites Event as you always predicted, and will be bringing home some gold we can melt down for rent.

Love Always,

LOBO

The International Star Registry

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Let me get this straight.

For a few measly bucks, you can name your own star?

Does this mean that in 2090 we are going to be fiercely embroiled in a galactic war against creatures from 'Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX'?

Look you waffling space pansies, pick a team for god's sake: I won't even play Tic Tac Toe unless we are both "X"s or "O"s simultaneously and I get to go first.

And how would you write catchy graffiti on the bombs like, "Take that, creatures from Steve Loves Amanda XXXOOOXXX"? You know how military spending goes: every single one of those "X"s and "O"s will be like ten billion dollars!

By 2090, an aging, balding-yet-mulletized Steve will have a flying El Camino on spaceblocks with the fusion engine hanging from a space tree in his spacetrailer's back yard. And while slaving over his spacemeth spacelab in a spacewife-beater -skillfully intercepting space disability checks and artfully avoiding spacechild support payments- he will be basking in the glorious privacy of Amanda's Temporary Restraining SpaceOrder.

Let's leave the naming space stuff to guys like Stephen Hawking. One look at the guy, and you know he's a big Dungeon and Dragons head: we'll have cool places to have wars with like The Great Ogre Vortex and The Giant Leech galaxies.


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