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

Predator Press

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

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

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

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

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

Chicken and Ducklings

Predator Press

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want cookies.”

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

The South Will Rise Again

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I don’t need my remote control anymore.

I've found my favorite station.

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

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

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

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

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

Still, nobody ever said celebrity was easy.

Californicalizationism

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I’ve got it. Damnit I’ve got it!

Ah crap.

-I lost it again.

Bomb Hawaii? Pthbbt. Big Deal.

Predator Press

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So you want to bomb Hawaii?

Oh that’s soooooo original.

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

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

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

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

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

And what kind of name is “Kim” anyway?

Is that French?

The Republic

Predator Press

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

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

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

Our outrage is warranted.

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

“Banana?”

“Ugh. Just look at that hideous font.”

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

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

“Fucking coward.”

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

“What’s his problem with fruit anyway?”

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

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

“Let’s kill him.”

“Yes! Let’s kill him!”

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“Kill him!” cries another ...

Moussavi Compound Raided, Incriminating Non-Muslim Shrine Discovered

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

Predator Press

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-That thing has it’s own stenographer.

Yikes!

What the Heck is Wrong With My TV?

Predator Press

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

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

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

But today I got nothing anywhere.

Nadda.

Zilch.

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

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

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

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

Aside from the Asides

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

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

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

-And maybe she’s right frankly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

:)