[LOBO]
so I can get organized for Christ’s sake!?
Friday
Madonna Stage Collapse Kills McMahon, Fawcett, Jackson, Mayes, McNair, Cronkite, Billings Couple
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Would you people stop dying for like five minutes
so I can get organized for Christ’s sake!?
[LOBO]
so I can get organized for Christ’s sake!?
Thursday
Sonia Sotomayor, Put Down the Chunky Monkey and Step Away from the Refrigerator
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Oh come on -you're all thinking it.
Picture: the Bailiff calls “All rise,” and here she comes in flip flops -the usual schlop schlop schlop sounds drowned out in the clicketty-clackitty of hippopotamus toenails spilling over to grip the marble floor (in case gravity spontaneously reversed itself).
Approaching “The Bench,” she pushes yesterday’s cellophane wrappers and donut boxes off of her desk -in a single swipe- at the bailiff.
"File those, asshole" she demands, and punches in an eight digit combination on her government-issued briefcase to procure the sole item enclosed: a George Foreman Grill.
Belching contentedly, she then skims a jelly-stained copy of a Row v. Wade deposition while picking her teeth with a still-smoking rib from yesterday's losing prosecuting attorney -a Pfizer rep that smelled vaguely of Old Spice and barbeque sauce.
Look, I’m sure whatever the Supreme Court does is very, very important from time-to-time: I don’t want to turn on C-SPAN only to see out-of-fuel helicopters crashing due to misjudged close-up shot distances.And I’m as “Progressive” and “Enlightened” as anybody regarding chicks wanting do a dude's work: as long as you only make 70% of the pay, hey, knock yourself out.
-But unlike American Idol, this isn't based on weight: the Senate isn't doing her any favors by mincing about the seemingly-taboo issue of her immense, galactic-scale girth. What if, for instance, she’s in Tokyo and innocuously wants to go to the beach?
Those panic-prone Japanese might call Mothra!
Saturday
Ask LOBO: How To Blog Part IV
Predator Press
[LOBO]
MILLIONS and millions of readers are always asking me everyday, ”LOBO, if I make a YouTube of me sticking my head in a deep fryer, will I get as many people to visit my blog as yours?”
Well I'm glad you asked me that.
The short answer is “Well, uh, yeah” -but the long answer is more of a philosophical and humanitarian discussion that doesn't smell very good at the conclusion.
In continued offensive olfactory irony, according to Google Analytics the most popular Predator Press post ever shockingly has nothing to do with farts either: Lee Majors Endorses $14.95 Bionic Ear -as a specific Google Search- has placed Number One since it's inception, and to this day has three times as many direct visitors than the distant second.
-On occasion people still comment on it.
But if you think I’ll let cold hard statistical fact I don't understand get in my way, you’re sadly mistaken: I think we should all be doing something entirely different.
As 'Bloggers,' I think we should start ending random sentences with “and then I started killing people.”
(I’m sensing some resistance here, but don’t puss out on me yet.)
I’m not sayin end every sentence with “and then I started killing people” ... just a light dusting will do. 'Less is More' in this case.
I submit this modified excerpt from an e e cummings poem for your consideration:
a pretty a day
(and every fades)
is here and away
(but born are maids
to flower an hour
in all,all)
-and then I
started killing people
Long Live the Robots!
See that?
-And I totally improvised the 'Long Live the Robots' thing.
For the entire Predator Press
"How to Blog" series, click here.
[LOBO]
MILLIONS and millions of readers are always asking me everyday, ”LOBO, if I make a YouTube of me sticking my head in a deep fryer, will I get as many people to visit my blog as yours?”Well I'm glad you asked me that.
The short answer is “Well, uh, yeah” -but the long answer is more of a philosophical and humanitarian discussion that doesn't smell very good at the conclusion.
In continued offensive olfactory irony, according to Google Analytics the most popular Predator Press post ever shockingly has nothing to do with farts either: Lee Majors Endorses $14.95 Bionic Ear -as a specific Google Search- has placed Number One since it's inception, and to this day has three times as many direct visitors than the distant second.
-On occasion people still comment on it.
But if you think I’ll let cold hard statistical fact I don't understand get in my way, you’re sadly mistaken: I think we should all be doing something entirely different.
As 'Bloggers,' I think we should start ending random sentences with “and then I started killing people.”
(I’m sensing some resistance here, but don’t puss out on me yet.)
I’m not sayin end every sentence with “and then I started killing people” ... just a light dusting will do. 'Less is More' in this case.
I submit this modified excerpt from an e e cummings poem for your consideration:
(and every fades)
is here and away
(but born are maids
to flower an hour
in all,all)
-and then I
started killing people
Long Live the Robots!
See that?
-And I totally improvised the 'Long Live the Robots' thing.
"How to Blog" series, click here.
Thursday
Rebel Yell
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Between Terri and I, we have two boys and five girls -four of which girls are over eighteen.
Plus two 'Mother-In-Laws," four grand-daughters, and, like, nine sisters between us.
Not to mention Phil, the female household feline.
-For the two boys and I, it’s like dangling precariously over intermittently-whirling serrated sawblades sharpened in acid and salted gasoline.
And what exactly are we going to do about it?
I dunno.
A bake sale maybe.
[LOBO]Between Terri and I, we have two boys and five girls -four of which girls are over eighteen.
Plus two 'Mother-In-Laws," four grand-daughters, and, like, nine sisters between us.
Not to mention Phil, the female household feline.
-For the two boys and I, it’s like dangling precariously over intermittently-whirling serrated sawblades sharpened in acid and salted gasoline.
And what exactly are we going to do about it?
I dunno.
A bake sale maybe.
Wednesday
Update: Michael Jackson Still Dead
Predator Press
[LOBO]
According to various news sources, Predator Press has confirmed that Michael Jackson is still dead.
“We were thrown off by four minutes of non-Jackson related stories yesterday,” cites a Predator Press insider. “About ninety seconds in, we totally forgot.”
CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News did not immediately return our numerous phone calls.
“I am outraged,” our source continues. “What kind of so-called ‘journalism’ is that?”
“There’s still plenty of much-needed affirmation available,” says the source’s wife. “Why the four minute gap in coverage? My hairdresser had a dream about Jackson in 2008, and has yet to be interviewed.”
Sven Roberts, 31, concurs. “I remember it as if it was yesterday. I had done two perms and seven highlights in about four hours, and got a little woozy from the fumes. While napping in the back room, I dreamed that Michael Jackson and I were running through Grand Central Station in our underpants while the commuters tried to pelt us with sour cream and guacamole. We almost made it, but alas, Michael stumbled at the exit and was overtaken. I ran back, but it was too late.” A tearful Roberts continues with difficulty. “Once down, they got him with the whole seven layer dip. It was horrible.”
Even the facts corroborating this seven layer dip story are eerie: the words Roberts, Central, Station, Michael and Jackson all have seven letters each.
Creepy, eh?
[LOBO]
According to various news sources, Predator Press has confirmed that Michael Jackson is still dead.
“We were thrown off by four minutes of non-Jackson related stories yesterday,” cites a Predator Press insider. “About ninety seconds in, we totally forgot.”
CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News did not immediately return our numerous phone calls.
“I am outraged,” our source continues. “What kind of so-called ‘journalism’ is that?”“There’s still plenty of much-needed affirmation available,” says the source’s wife. “Why the four minute gap in coverage? My hairdresser had a dream about Jackson in 2008, and has yet to be interviewed.”
Sven Roberts, 31, concurs. “I remember it as if it was yesterday. I had done two perms and seven highlights in about four hours, and got a little woozy from the fumes. While napping in the back room, I dreamed that Michael Jackson and I were running through Grand Central Station in our underpants while the commuters tried to pelt us with sour cream and guacamole. We almost made it, but alas, Michael stumbled at the exit and was overtaken. I ran back, but it was too late.” A tearful Roberts continues with difficulty. “Once down, they got him with the whole seven layer dip. It was horrible.”
Even the facts corroborating this seven layer dip story are eerie: the words Roberts, Central, Station, Michael and Jackson all have seven letters each.
Creepy, eh?
Tuesday
Detonator
Predator Press
[LOBO]
After four days of unchecked growth, it was admittedly less like shaving and more like carving. Still, all cleaned up, I felt strangely giddy and lucid for the day ahead; within an hour I was at the employment facility -completely transformed from a person into shaven and spiff Subject 26 of Unit R.
The truth is I don’t mind the interviews and tests so much, but I hate filling out applications. It’s sooo repetitive. And pointless too if you think about it: I’m very pleased with my résumé ... why scrawl all that same information over and over and over by hand? I'm very, very busy busy being unemployed, and have better things to do than happity horsecrap. What am I, Jobe here?
Anywho, due to a scheduling snafu today was “Surprise Prospective Employee Aptitude Testing Day,” and four grueling one-hour tests and five hours later I staggered through our front door fini. Terri, already aware of the testing by virtue of a text message I managed to squeeze off, was already home and waiting.
“How did it go?” asked Terri. Noticing the shave, “You look nice.”
“Good I think,” I replied, buzzing with the dancing numbers, formulas and symbols seared painfully in my mind. Still, I felt unconsciously impelled to make excuses in case that wasn’t true. “I kinda struggled with the Math and Analytics parts though. It was tough to finish on time.”
“I’m sure you did fine baby.”
“The results should be available online already,” I reluctantly offered. In truth I was a bit burned out; the last thing I wanted to deal with at this moment was more test-related material. But -as was inevitable- curiosity prevailed.
As Terri logged in I lobbed more excuses.
“Threes are passable,” I volunteer. “Most serious jobs require a score of four. Engineering-type jobs require fives.”
Oh please God gimmee some fours.
“But threes are passable,” I repeated nervously. “I was pretty distracted toward the end. You know these tests are crap. And with the shabby way they are administered, I seriously doubt they produce an accurate assessment of-“
“It says you got a seven, two fives, and … and another seven.”
There’s a seven?
“And according to this,” Terri continues, “seven is the highest-“
She stops in mid-sentence, despite knowing fully the damage has already been done.
“Genius,” I says from over her shoulder. “I knew it.”
Without looking at me, Terri slumps into a slightly defeated posture.
I recognize her 'slightly defeated' posture. I know it because I’m a
-“Genius,” I repeat, nodding.
Terri, collapsing into the keyboard, sighs. “Oh Christ.”
“Please do not blaspheme in My Presence.”
“You put two CDs in the toaster yesterday.”
“And they sounded amazing,” I insisted. "C'mon. You're looking at irrefutable proof. These tests are very scientific."
“You’re going to be unbearable for weeks now, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” I says coolly. Then, leaning in, I whisper in her ear. “Hey baby. Wanna get ‘wild an freaky’ with a bona-fide genius?”
Terri smirks, sitting up. “I don’t think so. But let me know if you see one. I might change my mind.”
I shrugged with disappointed resolve, sighing. "Okay."
-And then farted.
*** Despite my genius, I have no idea what I would have done if she said 'yes' anyway. I suppose I could have risked serious injury and held that fart in for a while longer, but the only thing worse than serious injury to myself would be me causing serious injury to myself. Let's just say we were probably better off letting things play out like this ... just exactly the way God -in His Infinite Wisdom- obviously intended in the first place. And who am I to stand in the way of His Almighty Will? Hm? I don't know about you, but I'll not be causing myself serious injury messing around with God's Plan, thanks. What are you people? Atheists?
And I don’t know how long Terri chased me -or even if she did at all. Apparently it wasn't just some garden-variety mortal gas I passed: this gas -stewing on itself for five hours of earnest and excruciating job-hunting prudence and corked by a sphincter you could sharpen a pencil in- was some kind of unnatural lethal and unholy freak force of nature: the second I saw that wallpaper curl and peel I became alarmed and, eyes burning, threw a melting end table through the living room window, thus selflessly providing clean oxygen and a single tenuous shred of hope for the remaining household occupants: my wife and kids.
I'm a hero if you think about it.
Still, I dove out and continued to run a full mile in two minutes and eight seconds. Serpentine too, just in case Terri was still pursuing; there was a good chance her vision hadn't completely cleared up yet.
But there was no sign of her. So now I'm with no wallet, car, keys or cellphone, and -exhausted and a mile away- staring down the grisly task of going home to see if there are any survivors.
And I need a new living room window. And an end table. Cripes, I probably gotta wallpaper too.
This ‘genius’ stuff is harder than it looks.
[LOBO]After four days of unchecked growth, it was admittedly less like shaving and more like carving. Still, all cleaned up, I felt strangely giddy and lucid for the day ahead; within an hour I was at the employment facility -completely transformed from a person into shaven and spiff Subject 26 of Unit R.
The truth is I don’t mind the interviews and tests so much, but I hate filling out applications. It’s sooo repetitive. And pointless too if you think about it: I’m very pleased with my résumé ... why scrawl all that same information over and over and over by hand? I'm very, very busy busy being unemployed, and have better things to do than happity horsecrap. What am I, Jobe here?
Anywho, due to a scheduling snafu today was “Surprise Prospective Employee Aptitude Testing Day,” and four grueling one-hour tests and five hours later I staggered through our front door fini. Terri, already aware of the testing by virtue of a text message I managed to squeeze off, was already home and waiting.
“How did it go?” asked Terri. Noticing the shave, “You look nice.”
“Good I think,” I replied, buzzing with the dancing numbers, formulas and symbols seared painfully in my mind. Still, I felt unconsciously impelled to make excuses in case that wasn’t true. “I kinda struggled with the Math and Analytics parts though. It was tough to finish on time.”
“I’m sure you did fine baby.”
“The results should be available online already,” I reluctantly offered. In truth I was a bit burned out; the last thing I wanted to deal with at this moment was more test-related material. But -as was inevitable- curiosity prevailed.
As Terri logged in I lobbed more excuses.
“Threes are passable,” I volunteer. “Most serious jobs require a score of four. Engineering-type jobs require fives.”
Oh please God gimmee some fours.
“But threes are passable,” I repeated nervously. “I was pretty distracted toward the end. You know these tests are crap. And with the shabby way they are administered, I seriously doubt they produce an accurate assessment of-“
“It says you got a seven, two fives, and … and another seven.”
There’s a seven?
“And according to this,” Terri continues, “seven is the highest-“
She stops in mid-sentence, despite knowing fully the damage has already been done.
“Genius,” I says from over her shoulder. “I knew it.”Without looking at me, Terri slumps into a slightly defeated posture.
I recognize her 'slightly defeated' posture. I know it because I’m a
-“Genius,” I repeat, nodding.
Terri, collapsing into the keyboard, sighs. “Oh Christ.”
“Please do not blaspheme in My Presence.”
“You put two CDs in the toaster yesterday.”
“And they sounded amazing,” I insisted. "C'mon. You're looking at irrefutable proof. These tests are very scientific."
“You’re going to be unbearable for weeks now, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” I says coolly. Then, leaning in, I whisper in her ear. “Hey baby. Wanna get ‘wild an freaky’ with a bona-fide genius?”
Terri smirks, sitting up. “I don’t think so. But let me know if you see one. I might change my mind.”
I shrugged with disappointed resolve, sighing. "Okay."
-And then farted.
And I don’t know how long Terri chased me -or even if she did at all. Apparently it wasn't just some garden-variety mortal gas I passed: this gas -stewing on itself for five hours of earnest and excruciating job-hunting prudence and corked by a sphincter you could sharpen a pencil in- was some kind of unnatural lethal and unholy freak force of nature: the second I saw that wallpaper curl and peel I became alarmed and, eyes burning, threw a melting end table through the living room window, thus selflessly providing clean oxygen and a single tenuous shred of hope for the remaining household occupants: my wife and kids.I'm a hero if you think about it.
Still, I dove out and continued to run a full mile in two minutes and eight seconds. Serpentine too, just in case Terri was still pursuing; there was a good chance her vision hadn't completely cleared up yet.
But there was no sign of her. So now I'm with no wallet, car, keys or cellphone, and -exhausted and a mile away- staring down the grisly task of going home to see if there are any survivors.
And I need a new living room window. And an end table. Cripes, I probably gotta wallpaper too.
This ‘genius’ stuff is harder than it looks.
Friday
It’s the Thoughtlessness that Counts
Predator Press
[LOBO]
AS millions and millions of Predator Press fans already know, July is commemorated worldwide as the birthday of Predator Press.
And any moment now –as is tradition- people in possession of copious amounts of high explosives and potent alcohol will light up the skies in spontaneous and adoring splendor.
I am always deeply moved and exhilarated by the spur-of-the-moment festivities, and simultaneously disconcerted by the massive firepower our dangerous readers can apparently attain.
But Predator Press Birthday Month isn’t about blowing each others fingers and heads off ... in fact, I don’t really know how that ritual even got started.
Predator Press' Birthday Month is about getting presents.
There are numerous things you could give to Predator Press with far less risk of injury. Pyramids for instance. Or an eighty-foot tall solid gold LOBO effigy, surrounded by bleachers that future generations can worship from in self-deprecating comfort.
Thursday
Cat Farts: “SBD,” or Just Plain “D?”
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m a little behind in responding to comments, but I have to say I’m a little stunned at what I’m reading.
There happens to be some demand for my “Cat Fart” story mentioned in the post Dr. Conrad Murray is Guilty of SOMETHING.
-This is further compounded by the startling concept of actually having to answer for something on Predator Press: never in a million years -after posting about topics like Planet Earth precariously dancing on the strings of a Robot Dinosaur Overlord- would I have ever guessed I’d be called to the carpet over “cat farts.”
Seriously. Do you guys hate Michael Jackson that much?
Hm.
Well, in any case I’m caught in a total lie. At the time I was joking: I didn’t really have a cat fart post brewing. And if you think about it, you're an asshole to bring it up. Still, while blaming you for this, I forgive you simultaneously.
There. I feel better.
Don't you?
Okay, also I'm sorry - I wanted you all to think this blog was like, cerebral, you know? Do you millions and millions of readers know how much decent cat fart recording equipment costs? And –more importantly- who do I know that will put crap like that on their credit card?
Silently, I handed my buddy Jim Tarkenton (VISA #5426-9425-2775-5555, security code 951) these encrypted instructions while pushing him violently into the Best Buy:To facilitate this groundbreaking research, we subsequently scoured the countryside.
-and what happened next was too horrible to describe in words.
Wednesday
Tuesday
Dr. Conrad Murray is Guilty of SOMETHING
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Okay, let’s face it: the Michael Jackson story isn’t just fuelled by his stardom … there’s a lot of weirdness here too.
Why did the good doc take a leave of absence from his practice, sign up for the London tour, and then just boogie –without even providing information to the paramedics or police first?
Isn’t that the point of having a personal physician on staff?
I smell a rat … and were I a responsible journalist, I would pursue this story with a ruthless zeal.
Unfortunately, I’m currently drafting a story about cat farts.
Monday
Billy Mayes Dead
Predator Press
[LOBO]
According to Fox News, 'OxiClean' and 'Mighty Putty' pitchman Billy Mays, 50, was found dead Sunday morning.
That’s Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, Michael Jackson and Billy Mays in three days. They’re all in my thoughts and prayers.
-And so are explicit directions to Nicolas Cage’s house.
[LOBO]
According to Fox News, 'OxiClean' and 'Mighty Putty' pitchman Billy Mays, 50, was found dead Sunday morning.That’s Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, Michael Jackson and Billy Mays in three days. They’re all in my thoughts and prayers.
-And so are explicit directions to Nicolas Cage’s house.
Sunday
I Miss the .45 Caliber Headspace
Predator Press
[LOBO]
A few years ago, I stumbled over The .45 Caliber Headspace -a blog that still resides proudly in my “Grand Mal” RSS feed, despite not posting in almost a year.
This was maybe the first blog that told me, “You know what? Blogs can be about writing if you let them.”
-Thank God he was wrong about all those “writers” hogging my spotlight.
Still, let’s wake that fucker up and make him post again.
... If only to be ironic.
[LOBO]A few years ago, I stumbled over The .45 Caliber Headspace -a blog that still resides proudly in my “Grand Mal” RSS feed, despite not posting in almost a year.
This was maybe the first blog that told me, “You know what? Blogs can be about writing if you let them.”
-Thank God he was wrong about all those “writers” hogging my spotlight.
Still, let’s wake that fucker up and make him post again.
... If only to be ironic.
Saturday
Skeleton Jack
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Look, I couldn’t help it,” explains -eh- Shiftless, my oldest son. “Practice went over forty-five minutes. You know I can’t call.”
I scowl as he fastens his seat belt. “Well that’s just great,” I says. “It’s midnight. You know mom will think I was at a strip club or a bar or something if she wakes up.”
“What should we do?” asks Shiftless.
And that’s when I tapped the transparent cylinder into my palm, and blew glitter all over him.
"I'm way ahead of you,” I reply.
[LOBO]
“Look, I couldn’t help it,” explains -eh- Shiftless, my oldest son. “Practice went over forty-five minutes. You know I can’t call.”I scowl as he fastens his seat belt. “Well that’s just great,” I says. “It’s midnight. You know mom will think I was at a strip club or a bar or something if she wakes up.”
“What should we do?” asks Shiftless.
And that’s when I tapped the transparent cylinder into my palm, and blew glitter all over him.
"I'm way ahead of you,” I reply.
Friday
Exclusive: Did Ahmadinejad Murder Michael Jackson?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Following up on ABC News and CNN stories asserting online queries regarding the death of Michael Jackson nearly brought down the internet, Predator Press has uncovered what will doubtlessly be the largest international murder plot in the history of humankind.
"Michael Jackson's death caused an 'internet overload,' crashing popular sites such as Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, YouTube and Google," said a very scientific-looking guy. "When you consider that these are the primary methods of communication for Hossein Mousavi's revolutionary supporters, it's clear this was no accident."
Jackson's nose is anticipated to bring in upwards of $600,000 on eBay, and videos of Ahmadinejad militants training for the macabre mission on Mister Potato Heads probably exist.
Probably.
[LOBO]
Following up on ABC News and CNN stories asserting online queries regarding the death of Michael Jackson nearly brought down the internet, Predator Press has uncovered what will doubtlessly be the largest international murder plot in the history of humankind."Michael Jackson's death caused an 'internet overload,' crashing popular sites such as Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, YouTube and Google," said a very scientific-looking guy. "When you consider that these are the primary methods of communication for Hossein Mousavi's revolutionary supporters, it's clear this was no accident."
Jackson's nose is anticipated to bring in upwards of $600,000 on eBay, and videos of Ahmadinejad militants training for the macabre mission on Mister Potato Heads probably exist.
Probably.
Thursday
What the Heck Happened to Diesel?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Whenever the Mighty Mighty Diesel goes on hiatus, I like to seize upon his absence as an opportunity to lecture about him extensively.
And who better to speculate wildly about his mysterious disappearance than myself?
Hm?
The truth is I don’t know precisely; Diesel is a very complex and multi-facetted individual. And after sleeping in his car at the airport for the last ten days, I’m finally forced to conclude he could be literally anywhere.
Sure maybe he’s training to come out of retirement and defend his Ultimate Fighting Championship title -or perhaps continuing on in his noble quest to save starving babies in some horrifyingly unpronounceable country.-But what if he’s been kidnapped, and some diabolical mastermind is forcing him to write more books?
Whoever you are, please don’t hurt Diesel: he is a great and well-respected blogger and author, and I have appointed myself chief negotiator for a ransom ensuring his safe return.
And speaking of ransom, this is frankly the most inept kidnapping I've ever seen. What are you, stupid? Where are your demands? I'm impressed you’ve gotten this far; you’re obviously completely worthless even as a criminal, and probably don't have the huevos to chop off one of his fingers and mail it to anyone thusly proving you've got him alive.
I'll bet you wear a creepy black leather mask because you are hideously deformed too ... and that mask is stinky with the putrid stinky smell of your stinking cowardly stinkiness.Whew –I could just imagine the smell in that thing.
Blech.
Wednesday
Predator Press New “Man of the Year” a Woman?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
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?
Monday
Chicken and Ducklings
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“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?”
[LOBO]
“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?”
Sunday
The South Will Rise Again
Predator Press
[LOBO]
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.
Saturday
Friday
Bomb Hawaii? Pthbbt. Big Deal.
Predator Press
[LOBO]
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?
[LOBO]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?
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