Predator Press Exclusive: Athlete Kim Kardashian Denies Sleeping With Identified

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The United States population is 307,006,550.

-I know this because I keep a complete and meticulously cared for list -”The Most Talented Celebrities in America”- where I categorize us all in order. The top of The List (Tom Hanks, Edward Norton, Helena Bonham Carter, …) typically remains pretty stable. Most of the “action,” on the other hand, takes place in the middle and at the bottom.

In 1996, Herbert Khaury -better know as Tiny Tim, and for his rendition of “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”- suddenly died, and a huge talent vacuum ensued.

Enter NFL player Bret Lockett.

See, Brett had a good idea initially. Once you crack The List, with some shrewd maneuvering you might be seducing the middle in no time -the likes of Dane Cook and Whoopie Goldberg. And after such an unprecedented quantum leap, Lockett would be within striking distance of the Ric Flairs, Kathy Lee Giffords, and the guy that does the ’Jack’ voiceovers for the Jack in the Box fast food franchise -arguably in the low eight digits, and the upper two-fifths of The List's hierarchy. By playing his cards right, Bret Lockett could have been banging Tom Hanks, Edward Norton, and Helena Bonham Carter in no time.

So you see, Bret Lockett needed to crack The List.

Bad.

The bottom three people on The List are my fourth grade Physical Education teacher Coach Berkowitz [307,006,548], Paris Hilton [307,006,549], and Kim Kardashian [307,006,550]. (Paris Hilton nudged out Kim K mostly because I am an animal lover: Hilton has one of those little teacup dogs, and I figured with no one under her Paris might become a suicide risk and that little dog would be totally fucked. Kim K would eventually follow suit with her own little teacup dog, but I already cited that advantage to Hilton who had the idea first.)

So Bret Lockett has to decide, right?

Well it turns out that my fourth grade Physical Education teacher Coach Berkowitz would be difficult to reach: he had just retired, and was touring the southwest in a Winnebago. For Lockett, this fact alone might not have been convincing when staring down the Hilton/Kardashian barrel … But one must keep in mind that Coach Berkowitz is a very hairy individual; Bret Lockett’s alcohol consumption may not be where it need be to go through with the dirty deed.

Mathematically, this brings us to Paris Hilton. Who knows? Maybe Lockett is allergic to dogs. Or maybe Lockett had understandable concerns of future entanglements with Nicole Richie. In any case, Lockett selected the absolute dead last person on my List instead. This is confusing to me, as it maximized the “talent chasm”: Lockett at some point would have to bang an additional celeb somewhere during his creepy climb to the top; my best guess is that he would simply add Tim Allen [305,999,886] or Dennis Edwards [288,521,011] who recently rejoined The Temptations after his failed solo effort.

Anyway, Kim K denies the whole thing. And this is as cruel to Lockett as it is dumb for Kardashian, because Lockett must now come forth with sordid, intimate details about Kardashian that only another lover would know … thusly doomed with an impossible task and helpless against his own unbridled ambition, Bret Lockett would inevitably become the only victim here.

-But you know the more I think about it, the more I can’t figure out why he didn’t go with Coach Berkowitz.


Disclaimer: This blog does not represent and/or endorse
the ideas, beliefs, and opinions of the author.

Diary of a Scapegoat Herder

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I had a feeling I shouldn’t have used the orphanage’s food budget for a line of credit in Vegas.

-But we're in the middle of an unexplained recession. And did you ever think maybe this was a better country when addled with snortable cocaine, fun-loving alcoholics, unbridled sexual harassment, and wave after endless wave of citizens suffering from yet-undiagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder? I'm not letting the Rainbow Coalition off the hook either: it seems like as soon as the world got gay people -the 1990s or so- pow, the entire damn nation went into the crapper.

As far as the orphan food, don't give me some 'Holier 'n Thou' crap: I should first point out that the imitation gruel is really popular. Christ it’s not like I’m making them eat ‘Grape Nuts,’ right? And speaking of horrible crap, people are forced to hang out with Sally Struthers starving to death in other countries -meanwhile you people eat a bran yogurt tofu muffin only to purposely burn it off on a treadmill later while watching Jersey Shore.

And again speaking of horrible crap, what is the fascination with Jersey Shore? Those people look like the CPR dummies at a cosmetology school. (No, I am not a cosmetologist. But if something is going to enable me to give Martians mudpacks and facials, it ain't going to be the goddamn Russian space program. Those people don't even make a car.)

We have a saying in the orphanage business: “One never runs out of orphan food, just orphans.” Over time, I think my new taco franchise will offset the Vegas losses entirely.

-And I defy you to find any orphan taste whatsoever.

One Man Flash Mob

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The guard completed a complex-seeming series of transactions with a set of keys, and the heavy doors slid back open; the armored elevator seemed to have moved at all, but the dungeon-like quality of the new floor was immediate and palpable.

Flandsa Ha’asasanba -familiar somewhat with the cellblock for his own reasons- proceeded to cellblock 'I' -ironically the location of LOBO's 'POD'- without an expected direction request.

In the center of a checkerboarded lancing of light, LOBO, in an orange jumpsuit, sat on a cot facing the opposite wall. He was not the pensive animal Flandsa was expecting. He seemed, well, serene.

“Flandsa Ha’asasanba,” said LOBO in a cool voice that unnerved Flandsa. Rubbing his wooly, unkempt facial growth in thought, LOBO didn’t turn to address him, but as Flandsa grew closer, he could see LOBO’s face -it was covered in a macabre splash of dripping red.

Flandsa stopped at the sliding cell door and steeled himself for anything. “I don’t know why I would be surprised to see you in here,” he joked.

“Yes,” LOBO replied coolly. He rose, slightly wobbly from the crutch, and made his way to his visitor. “I’m a con now. A hardened, dangerous man. Did you know I converted to Islam? I‘m also a Crip and a Blood.”

“You’ve only been in here two hours.”

“Two hours is plenty of time to get yourself killed when you’re on this side of the law,” whispered LOBO with authority. "Respect is everything in here. And do you know the best way to get the respect you need to survive when doing Hard Time?"

Flandsa shrugged patiently. LOBO was moving poorly, and only now arriving to lean on the cellbars.

“You have to make a name for yourself," said LOBO, squinting painfully. Fully in the sharp wedge of light, his eyes dialated wildly. "You have to pick out the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in your POD and rape him.”

“You mean fight him,” Flandsa corrected helpfully.

“Fight him? Shit. Have you seen the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in my POD? He’d kill me.”

“Well then how would you-?”

“I was thinking roofies or something. I don’t know. It’s complicated,” LOBO admitted. “Not to mention I don’t think I’ve ever even been drunk enough to rape a guy. I mean I guess I just close my eyes and pretend it’s Sarah Palin.”

Brief shuffles of movement. From various directions just out of the stale, flickering overhead lights over Flandsa. The loneliness of this conversation is wholly illusion.

“What happened to your face?” Flandsa asked, changing the subject.

“It’s these fucking ketchup packets. They’re complicated enough as it is, but the lighting in here is terrible.”

“Why didn't you bail out?” Flandsa inquired. “It’s only six dollars.”

-Nervous, illusive titters spring like lightning bolts. LOBO, noticing, starts seeking them out. Speaking unnecessarily loudly, he asks, “So my boy, did you bring me the Viagra and rolls of duct tape I asked for?”

Silence.

“Yeah well, it’s been long enough. Post Cereal has agreed to drop all charges if you promise to-”

"Only now, too late, does Big Cereal realize it has wakened a sleeping giant," LOBO snarled. “I don’t negotiate with Big Cereal. Especially now that the juggernaut has rumbled to life. Their oppresive rule is coming to an end.”

The pause that ensued was punctuated dramatically by a fart from someone sleeping to Flandsa's left.

“But you have a broken ankle and boken wrist," Flandsa implored. "Don’t you want some medical attention? Some painkillers?”

“The pain merely helps burn in the memory,” LOBO scoffed proudly. “The memory of the beginning of the overthrow of Big Cereal. And we won‘t need painkillers in a post-Post world. With real food, our bones will be nigh indestructible.”

“You think Post Cereal is poisoning you?”

“Ever had Grape Nuts?”

“Well-” Flandsa stammered. “Yeah."

“I have no idea what that crap is either,” LOBO explained. “But I can tell you you would be hard pressed to find a grape or a nut in it. And it tastes like the spackle for holes in Noah’s Ark.”

“I think you’re supposed to add sugar and stuff-”

“Add stuff? Isn’t it pretty much a box of added stuff already?” LOBO is incredulous. “What is this, the Middle Ages? Well the Middle Ages are over buddy. I‘m ending this Middle Age just like Paul Revere ended the last one.”

“LOBO, the Sheriff has asked me to ask you to leave. They can’t keep you without some kind of reason.”

“Participate in a cover up? And end the Revolution? Never!” But after a thoughtful surveillance of his cell, LOBO relented.

“Only if they let me redo my mug shot.”

What The Hell Is Wrong With You, MicroSoft?

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I just made my default browser “Google Chrome” after what seems like far too much debate.

Only now does it occur to me that for decades the thought of buying an Apple computer over a PC would have been ardently scoffed at.  I've been ‘on board’ with computers since the TI-99 -one could argue that’s from the inception of the Personal Computer Revolution- and so help me God, through the defective chip releases and temperamental software, I've been a PC guy all the way.

But I look around my desk to see an iPhone, iPod, iTunes, iThis, iThat … now I’ve even ditched even Internet Explorer.  And you know what PC?  I ain’t married to you either: if Apple brings all this CrApple together into one collapsible device the size of a DVD case or so, I can’t imagine Intel ever getting another nickel from me.

Unless it’s some sort of government bailout.

The Spork of Damocles

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I must've stood in that WalMart entrance for a full ten minutes until the old bat showed up.

"It's about time," I says icily, tapping my foot.

"Excuse me?" says the elderly woman.

"I've been standing here for, like, an hour waiting to be greeted." I glower menacingly. "You are a 'Greeter,' are you not?"

"Well-"

"I was totally greetless!" I snap. "And as the person who specializes in it here, I hold you solely responsible for my wholly sub-par welcome."

"Sir," says the woman. "I was on break."

"On break?" I laugh. "From saying 'Welcome to Walmart'!? Oh that must be soooo exhausting. Maybe you should Unionize. You know, trim it down to 'Welcome.' Or maybe even just 'Hi.'"

Her jaw curls slightly as she eyes me.

-But I don't care. At this point, I'm pontificating fully.

"Maybe an abbreviation would make all this easier to endure." I spin around and throw my arms wide, framing the gigantic WalMart sign. "Or maybe you could just stand under this and point at it smiling!"

She taps my shoulder.

I turn.

"Welcome to Walmart sir," she says.

And then at that exact moment, she jams the front right wheel of her walker into my foot.

"Please don't," she growls softly, twisting her crushing full weight into my big toe. "break anything, or I'll cut you're fucking nuts off."

With superhuman will, I do not whimper aloud.

"Ask me what I'll cut off if you shoplift," she grins toothlessly.

A single tear starts welling in my eye.

I can't let this witch win, I thought. If I don't take a stand here, Al Queda will have finally won.

Thinking quickly, I throw an entire display of Snickers into her fat, wrinkly face. The weight suddenly comes off of my foot, and crying out, she staggers backwards covering her eyes.

Kicking the walker aside, I roll up my sleeves. "Don't mess with the bull, bitch. You'll get the ... eh ... the crap kicked out of you!"

"Please," she stammers, wobbling clumsily forward. "I'm an old woman."

Suddenly, 187 expertly-thrown 'smiley-face' pins impale my face, shoulders and chest. Reeling and screaming I seize at them desperately, but they are slippery with my own blood.

Her fist caught me square, flattened my nose, and bright bolts of light shot through my head.

I woke moments later, sprawled flat in shattered rack of inexpensively priced -yet completely viable- watches while she danced spryly back and forth with her fists up blocking her face.

"Anything else to say punk?"

Shadowboxing, I could hear her whipping fists snap the air.

"Yes," I says, holding my palm flat to her. Hefting myself up slowly using a nearby pressboard armoire, I spit a tooth. "You punch like a Dollar Store cashier!"

A look of sudden psychotic rage transformed her face, and she leapt recklessly forward. Prepared for this, I twist slightly left and she crashes full bore into a rack of Kung Fu Hustle toasters.

-Pressing my new advantage, I jam her throat against a nearby vertical support beam with my left elbow while delivering vicious blows to her abdomen and kidneys with my right.

"How do you like me now, you talentless hack?" I says between blows.  "How will the worms play Pinochle on that, bitch!?"

***   "Honey," says Terri as she nudges my shoulder. "Honey, wake up!"

I blink.

I'm in the passenger side of the car.

"We're here," she says smiling. "Did you fall asleep?"

I look around, and slowly recognize the familiar parking lot.

WalMart.

"Let's go get that barbecue grill," she says excitedly. "We've got a big weekend planned."

"And we can't go to Kmart?" I sob.

Exclusive: Wikipedia Search Casts Doubt on Bin Laden Assassination

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Q 1: How could a seal possibly have pulled the trigger?

Fact: Seals don’t have opposable thumbs. And perhaps more importantly, they don’t have shoulders. Am I supposed to believe a “navy” seal swam to Pakistan carrying an AK-47 in its flippers the whole way?

Those guns have straps for a reason.

Q 2: What the hell is a "navy" seal doing in the dessert anyway?

Fact: Osama bin Laden [ObL] wasn’t holed out on some parfait floating in the ocean. That’s a dessert. A desert, it turns out, is a place like the beach except there is explicitly no ocean by definition. So where did the “navy” park all their boats an crap without somebody seeing them do it?

Remember this isn’t attacking a dessert -you can’t just throw sprinkles on your aircraft carrier and hope for the best ... Pakistan would have hit you broadside with a strawberry in a second.

Q 3: Why does President Obama’s Birth Certificate make no mention of the effort?

Fact: Obama’s Birth Certificate was created by ancients like fifteen or twenty years ago, and it could not have known about the events that transpired on 9/11.

-Or could it? Obama's Birth Certificate contains a wealth of knowledge about Obama such as where and when he was born, his parents' names, and the fact that he was once black.

The Birth Certificate, therefore, has demonstrated repeated culpability and motive in the entire presidency from infancy -maybe even from inception.

So how can we ever know that the afore-mentioned Birth Certificate itself didn’t hide Mother Obama’s birth control on that fateful, romantic night in Syria or Iran?

-Or that the fate of America‘s 2008 president wasn't SEALED [eh?] that night on a blue EPT stick by Hitler himself?

Hm?

Seven Years Bad Luck

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Like any other red-blooded American, I cook my sushi. And I put cheese on it. And I make it out of beef.

So just like you, I’ve been waiting with bated breath on Jesse Ventura’s ‘take’ on the assassination of Osama bin Laden.

See, in the past Jesse has been critical of America’s forthrightness regarding a possible 9/11 conspiracy. But Osama has supposedly been assassinated by the Navy Seals.  And Jesse is a bona-fide former Navy Seal himself.

Don’t misunderstand me here: I love Jesse, and he is one of my favorite people: wearing a pink boa he became a world champion wrestler, and was eventually elected state governor.   Ha! -As far as I’m concerned Jesse is King of the Earth: the only way that could be topped is to have done all that simultaneously.

But you’ve seen Jesse on television, right?

I picture Jesse practicing the ‘Disappearing Quarter’ slight-of-hand trick in a mirror, and walking away confused, angry, and short $5.75.

Save Yourselves

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One need only to glance at my bank balance to conclude that I have not given you people enough excuses to give me money.

So in the spiritual vacuum created by the death of Osama bin Laden, I have decided to pursue the time-tested lucrative field of religion. Frankly, most modern religions are about as good at making us decent human beings as Dane Cook is good at comedy anyway.

1) Do unto others as you would have them do unto yourself. Especially if you are hot.

2) This isn’t the easy road like those Catholic pussies got, and these aren’t mere lame-assed “Commandments” -these are Demandments! But virgins? Pthbbbt … my afterlife SuperBonus offers 72 filthy whores.

3) No fat chicks.

4) Don’t be a dick, asshole, slut, bitch or cunt (or respective sub-derivatives such as disshole, clitch or slunt).

5) Clip your toenails outside, a safe distance from others so as not to poke out someone’s eye with airborne shrapnel.

6) Don’t be rude: leave that damn toilet seat up, or stop complaining when I pee on it.

7) Mmmmmm …. pork chops. That’s not really a ‘Commandment’ I suppose, but …

8) When observing Lent, you must give up not deep-frying everything and not drinking beer.

9) We are not descendents of monkeys. We are descendents of rabbits -thus, Easter makes total sense. Besides, rabbits do not fling poo at you.  Only chocolate.

10) I think maybe we should address this whole “Killing” thing. I mean I know killing is “bad,” but on the other hand some people should just flat-out be dead, right?

In LOBOism, one can only kill another in bed. Yes, that’s right: if you hate someone so much they must die, you have to **** them to death.

And if you can’t produce the DNA-matched crushed pelvis to the proper authorities (trophy over fireplace with documentation is acceptable), you will be promptly thrown is a dungeon where you will doubtlessly be ****ed to death by a minotaur or something.

-This list is subject to updates as desired or necessary.

Being President Seems Like a Pretty Cool Job. Is there an Application Process or Something?

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After almost ten years of not-so-patiently awaiting news of Osama bin Laden's [ObL's] death, I am puzzled at the lack of joyous fulfillment I imagined this moment to be. Justice? Revenge? I find it hard to be happy for anything other than the end of ObL’s murder spree.

So now what?  Having long forgotten a world without him already, I am perhaps even a little disconcerted with the idea he is gone. Will there be post-Osama support groups?  Against what shall we guage if we are mistreating ourselves at airports enough? 

Should we simply be looking for a new boogieman already?  Finding another one can’t be difficult after all; as Americans we are a culture of subtle nuance.  For instance nudity is considered art or science until somebody desires to see it.  If someone actually wants to see it, we call it pornography.  See?  Subtle nuance.

Admittedly, a sliver of amusement comes in here and there -like having embarrassed Pakistan. I never trusted those fuckers in the first place, and we've been giving $2 billion [with a "b"] a year to Pakistan even after Asif Ali Zadari sold me that crappy timeshare.  Yeah, it was 'technically' on the beach ... but the beach smelled like dead jellyfish and pelican farts the whole season I had it.

But with ObL slain I thought Surely this will resolve some concerns about our president.  Obama got Osama!  O Holy Christ thank GOD I am so freaking sick of hearing about that damn birth certificate-"

And then I found out Obama made the military secretly dump ObL’s body in the ocean.

!!!

I have decided that we are being fucked with. Hard.  Not that I don’t believe ObL is dead, not that we didn’t land on the Moon, not that Lincoln, Kennedy, King, ad nauseam, were assassinated by the implied parties … but I’m thinking there is a wing of the White House just dreaming up stuff to make us doubt everything we know -perhaps in effort to promote an omniscient, omnipotent secret US agenda.

And I get why.  Because if I were sworn in as president, the FIRST thing I would do is recede from the public eye entirely. Having assembled a think tank of the greatest opposing minds in the world as my cabinet, I would periodically be consulted by them vis-à-vis Charlie from Charlie’s Angels -via voice box from a secret location such as Maui, Key West, or New Orleans. (In fact, I think I would be annoyed if I had to talk to them at all; nothing ruins a good buzz like the greatest opposing minds in the world.)

And I said "recede" and not "vanish" for a reason: every once in a while you would see a Photoshop of me in the New York Times getting a ‘All-Seeing Eye’ Masonic tattoo. Or in the Chicago Tribune, me and Marilyn Monroe hauling the Ark of the Covenant out of a forgotten Nazi warehouse.  The LA Times will show me tearing off a Skynet t-shirt, almost revealing the superfluous nipple I glue to random spots on my torso.

And as President, I promise to get absolutely nothing done personally ... but man will those crazies be busy.

-Just imagine what you could accomplish with them preoccupied.

Pakistani Mrs Kravitz Criticized, Ridiculed for Embarrassing Bin Laden Oversight

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Excuses, Excuses

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“Has it ever occurred to you,” she says, clacking her pen open, “that selfless acts -acts of charity and serving Humanity- are among the best ways to overcome many of your phobias and neurosi?”

Clack

“Even my Cryohydrotachophobia?” I am somewhat enthused. "And by the way, it is neuroses."

"What?"

"Neuroses is plural for Neurosis."

"It's not neurosi?"

“No."

"But this illustrates another issue,” she counters.  I hear a notebook gently flap against the floor, and the crackling, new lamination optimistically removed from another. “You have a tendency to hide behind some of your phobias at the expense of treatment.”

Clack

Sulkily, I try and relax into the couch some more. “I fail to see what any of this is worth if you cannot even cure me of Chryohydrotachophobia.”

During an awkward pause, I can hear the psychiatrist taking a deep breath.

“You are the only diagnosed case of Cryohydrotachophobia,” she explains.  “And I can’t imagine the ‘Paralyzing Fear of Rogue Icebergs’ is very inhibiting this close to the Equator.”

“Yeah well says you,” I snort.  “If it was up to you people, there would be icebergs rollin up everywhere. Probably crawlin’ with polar bears too. Hungry polar bears!”

Clack

“So you think an iceberg -infested with polar bears- could come crashing in any moment now? Meaning, right through the office walls? Even as we speak?  In Los Angeles?”

“No,” I reply, absently picking at a fingernail. “Your thermostat is set at what, seventy six?"

“Exactly seventy-six. That was very good. How did you know?”

“I have very sensitive nipples.”