Red and Black and Spider Green

Predator Press

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Adultery is easy

Adultery is common.

Adultery is saucy.

-But Fidelity seems far more rare and exotic in contrast.

Fidelity is difficult, understated, and unsung.

As a consequence, Fidelity is the moral equivalent of that skinny redhead kid in grubby clothes that the other kids throw their Tater Tots at when the adults aren’t looking ‘cuz he got lice camping last year after refusing to play 'Doctor' with that slutty chick that was doin "Whip-Its" with all the pesticides.

-Unlike glamorous Adultery, Fidelity slips quietly through High School with nary a ripple ... largely because he has a leg braces, a big weird retainer, and is socially awkward in general. And after trying out for the football team, poor ‘lil unrecognized Fidelity is not considered to live an equally-dangerous full-contact lifestyle as sexy athletic Adultery does, and Fidelity is issued woefully inadequate protective gear: subsequently, he tears his ACL, his team loses the game ... the the seemingly sure-fire trajectory to lead their division into the Finals is utterly destroyed.

And while a battered and broken Fidelity just chugs blandly along forever, Adultery in contrast is already rushed to the front of the line to Oblivion: fueled by an often rage-inciting behavior, chain-smoking boozer Adultery's lifelong hedonistic sex binge is statistically far likelier to receive either a dignified quick youthful death, a lucrative reality show, or a fantastic political career.

-Fidelity, instead, is left adrift to flounder helplessly on his HMO, hobbling around on makeshift crutches and squeaky, bent wheelchairs for many more years to come.

Many years later, Fidelity once again meets that slutty chick from camp that was hoggin all the pesticides and caused him to get lice. Weirdly both -now adults- fall deeply in love. But a week before the wedding Fidelity contracts Hepatitis and discovers his bride-to-be is secretly a coke whore and Libertarian: a subsequent botched sting operation to catch her stealing Fidelity's paltry life savings backfires, and she narrowly escapes by ironically dousing Fidelity in the eyes with an entire bottle of lice repellent leaving Fidelity permanently blind and with a raging, yet-unprecedented case of accelerated male pattern baldness.

Years later, poor Fidelity finds he can’t hide that urine smell no matter how much Old Spice he uses, and he is banished to the alleys ... but still this former athlete adapts, thrives and survives by stealing food from unmonitored rat traps. Seemingly indestructible -even after his arms are amputated due to the numerous untreated rat bites- he persists by swift and dexterous use of his increasingly-nimble toes.

In Fidelity's final decades, our unfaltering hero will grow ultra-sensitive to natural light, shrinking away and shrieking hideously when exposed to it. But again Fidelity turns apples to applesauce: deep within the catacombs of a Los Angeles sewer, Fidelity will enjoy many a comparatively tranquil year laying under a startlingly high-protein leak directly under a liposuction clinic. Content and happy, Fidelity ultimately succumbs to his piteous and unsanitary lifestyle as a host to a hive of giant stainless steel bees with razorwire stingers and acid drool that slowly devour him -from the inside out- in a horrific and macabre agonizing death.

Hallooo Down There!

Predator Press

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Okay. I know it maybe wasn’t a publicity stunt. But I also know the Heenes were on a reality show called Wife Swap.

-And getting on a reality show alone takes a certain kind of narcissistic media whore: at some point, the Heenes hadda sit in a roomful of other narcissistic media whores trying to get on Wife Swap, and the Heene’s narcissistic media whoring stood out tall and proud above all others.

I would hold them more accountable for that.

Still, it worked.

It ‘raised the bar’ of narcissistic media whoring in fact.

Well so far I haven’t even been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in Narcissistic Media Whoring this year yet: if I don’t stay on my toes, it could go to either Jon Gosselin or Doctor Toboggans -and I owe that 'Toboggans' cat way too much money not to pay him with whatever he might have won if Gosselin and I didn't reach a deal.

So unlike that pansy Heenes kid, I have actually launched myself into the stratosphere: from like, 1,000,000 feet in the air, I, LOBO, am blogging to you from my laptop.

-I hope my electrical cord will hold Larry King when he has ta shimmy his butt all the way up here.

Dear Entrecard,

Predator Press


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My first email was just a simple suggestion, and the Entrecard site says, quote: "We're very keen for any feedback you can give. Complaints about broken things, stuff you like, things you think are pretty or ugly, or even questions you'd like answered."

I can't bring my original query up because it wasn't in conventional email. But my suggestion was "Instead of subverting the ads we spent our credits on, why don't you just phase in "Paid Ads" after 120 seconds or so?"

Brilliant, right?

The response was this:

"Hi,

Thank you for your email. Please restate your question because I'm unsure what you're asking. We have the sponsor ads which Entrecard reserves 15% of the ad network inventory for sponsors.

Please let us know if you have any other questions.

Entrecard Support

This prompted my response:

"Seriously.

-You have NO IDEA what I'm talking about? How about forwarding this email to one of your supervisors?

Lemme simplify:

When you do a "PAID AD" (aka an ad where you subvert our credits for cash), how about making the "PAID AD" (the ad where you subvert our credits for cash) phase in after a minute or so? That way our "CREDITS" -the mystical crap you made up so we get something for spreading the word about your site- is still actually worth something?

-And PS: does EC even have 300 people a day I can "drop" on anymore????"

:)

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful

Predator Press

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Marrying a hot chick should have inherent perks.

See on a scale of 1-10, if you factor in the charm, raw genius, and Adonis-like physique, I’m only about a 12.

But unfortunately, this makes my wife roughly a 19-22.

-Mathematically this equates being married to a big pain in the ass according to science.

See, a 19-22 such as my wife should regard a lowly 12 as pretty mediocre, right? I should be the jealous one. Sure I suppose it’s remotely possible a bunch of rogue, drunken supermodels might somehow not notice I’m married, taser me, inject me with drugs causing a thick amnesiatic fog, and toss me -kicking and screaming- into a van with tin foil covered windows in order to tie me up and live out sick and debauched fantasies.

But would that be my fault?

I think my slacker wife and drunken perverted supermodels with tasers, drugs, tin foiled vans, and a preternatural gift for skillful knot tying should share some culpability here. I mean maybe you could overlook the wedding ring, but shouldn’t this big, throbbing vein in my forehead be a dead giveaway to my marital status too?

Well apparently not.

Whenever Terri and I go shopping, I always have to stare at the ceiling joyces and lighting fixtures lest my eyes randomly fall in the direction of anyone even vaguely female. And how do you shop like that? I once went into a WalMart for catfood, and came out with six stitches and a mulching lawn mower.

-Despite the tongue lashing I gave the manager, that light fixture is still flickering and my cat hates me.

I’ll bet the lawn looks good though.

White House to Bail Out Tampa Bay Buccaneers

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In news that came as a shock to a sports world still buzzing over Rush Limbaugh’s failed bid to purchase the Saint Louis Rams, Hilary Clinton has announced her intent to acquire the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

“Guess what, you ****ing ****s,” she told press conference attendants. “It really was a Vast Liberal Conspiracy! Now unless it's Election Day, get the **** out of my face you ****-knocking piece of ****-eating ****stick -or I'll have your **** removed, and your entire family tree ****ed, ****ed, and ****ed.”

Details of the conference are garbled.

-My “*” key kept getting stuck.

Chicago Cubs File for Bankruptcy

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As a Chicagoan, I’ve been following the Cubs for years.

-Drafting them in my Fantasy Football League was the last thing they needed.

Jealous?

Predator Press

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I’m both puzzled and alarmed at the media distress over Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

First, it seems to me that a sitting American president getting one could only be a good thing in regard to global politics and the "world stage."

Second, who cares? Unless you were another nominee and screwed out of yours, I don't see this as much more than pointless whining and pining about something that has nothing to do with you anyway.

And didn't two American win Peace Prizes in economics this year? Haha -anyone upset over something 'Noble' isn't even spelled correctly on needs a nap.

But fret not! When you wake up, there's this cool place you can go to called a "trophy store" and buy a correctly-spelled Peace Prize. Or anything really! For less that a hundred bucks you can get a spiff one waaaaay bigger'n Obama's, and get it engraved with something cool like "2009 Superbowl MVP" too.

Besides, having the "But I've got a Peace Prize" phrase in your chamber is fantastic against counter arguments: case closed, end of debate, nothing torpedoes logic more effectively. So relax. I'm sure this White House -as would any other- will be putting that baby to good use almost immediately. I myself have three or four Peace Prizes for precisely this reason.

-And that isn't counting the one I sent back when the delivery guys scratched it on the ceiling fan either: once my “Just for Bein’ Kickass” Peace Prize is replaced, I think I'll have five.

But that one is my favorite.

I'm golfing on that one.

Frozen Ted Williams Head Sparks Controversy

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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.

I’ll Take a Case of Those Baskets, Please

Predator Press

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This post comes with a battery of "hat tips." First, that image was found at CrownDozen.com -an interesting-looking site I'll certainly be exploring in some greater depth.

Second, this post is inspired by a podcast by Adam Carolla and Larry Miller; it was they who made the astute observation I’ll distill simply as “In ‘70s cinema, there wasn’t anything not to susceptible to demonic possession."

This goes for cars, dolls, kids, dogs, severed appendages, televisions, statues, totems, jewelry, clothing … ah cripes, that list just goes on and on and on.

Everything in the ‘70s would at some point would try and kill us. And if it wasn’t due to an outright demon possession, it was some crazy recluse exercising some unexplained mind control, sicking killer bees or hounds or something on some hapless and well-intended yet far-too-nosy tourists. Or a monster or robot that inevitably turns on it’s “master.”

Again, I’ll return to paraphrasing Adam and Larry’s funny dialogue: it starts with the indignant “How dare you! I made you!” But this former minion is undaunted, having gained some insight to it’s own evil misuse: right smack in the now-burning “control center,” it would kill the puppet master -and itself- even as the evil human mastermind unconvincingly screamed ”Noooooooooo …!”

The people who voted on the Oscars –“the Academy” or whatever- in the ‘70s must have been very, very bored and overpaid.

Still, another ten years or so of the ‘70s would have produced some fairly interesting results ... On that trajectory, a movie about robot zombie space piranhas would have been completely inevitable.

[*sigh*]

-Now I can’t get anyone to look at my screenplay.

How The West Was Spared

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Jesus' Friends Were Jerks

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Look, I’m only sayin it because I’m right around His age when everything went south.

-Right about now, Jesus is planning for a World Tour to spread His Message. So He’s packing, going over travel plans, hiring His security detail, checking His itinerary against His reservations, and verifying that His passport is in order.

But then His buddy Bill comes in.

“Word up, JC,” says Bill. "I brought the water."

“Word,” says Jesus. "Look, I'm really busy. Just set them in the corner, and I'll change them into wine as soon as I can."

"Cool," replies Bill. “Whatcha doin?”

“I’m making ready to spread My Sacred and Holy Message, that I might save the world.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“I don’t know,” says Bill, scratching his chin.

“You don't know what?”

“Well, any religious nut can go on tour. I mean you might as well walk around wearing one of those sandwich board signs that says ’THE END IS NEAR’.”

“What do you suggest, Mister Smarty Pants?”

Bill thinks quietly for a moment. “I think you need to think big. What if you get betrayed, captured, beaten, whipped, skinned alive, crucified, and your remains are subsequently squished through the mesh of a screen door, thereby absolving Humankind of all their sins?”

“I rather like My idea better,” says Jesus. “Look at My tour schedule. I’ll be in Cancun right in the middle of Spring Break!”

“It's been done. Look J, this isn’t, like, B.C. anymore. In these modern times, people are a lot more sophisticated. They need something dramatic."

“We could do a bake sale.”

“Meh,” sighs Bill. “You know these wacky Romans … someone is bound to lace some brownies or something, and then there’s a huge chariot pileup. Then there's an investigation, and it finds who responsible? You. The insurance liability alone just makes me shudder. Don’t set yourself up for failure like that.”

“I don’t know, Bill. Maybe I could-”

“No,” Bill interrupts, grabbing Jesus firmly at his shoulder. “Look, you're the Messiah. And as the Messiah, one has certain obligations to go beyond sermons and bake sales.”

“So I’m supposed to let them kill Me!?”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me. I didn’t make you the ‘Son of God’. I’m only telling you all this because I’m your friend.”

“Yeah, I know," sighs Jesus resolutely. "Thanks.”

“No problem,” says Bill. "Now how about them buckets?"