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.”

Internet Swag

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It's a little slow to download, but ...

Punch-Drunk Drunk

Predator Press

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ADAM Sandler will doubtlessly be suing me after this post.

No, I’m serious. I spent all of Saturday and Sunday poring over dizzyingly-long subpoenas, and it turns out he is among the proud and few not suing me yet. And I can't counter-sue until Adam Sandler sues me first.

What does this all mean? This means Adam Sandler has completely lazy and worthless lawyers: they are overpaid and pasty gelatinous SLOBS swishin’ around in lil skirts.  Soon we will hear grizzly shrapnel as half-full Chinese take-out boxes, chicken bones, and small unfortunate animals tumble through air pockets trapped in mountainous, groaning layers of Adam Sandler lawyer flab in effort to roll over one last cheerleader before the fire department hoists their STD-riddled, flea-infested fat asses out of pricey condominiums via numerous helicopters and cranes as rotting dead hookers flop lifeless out from under ample bedsore-covered acres of greasy cellulite and acne once-rumored to be human Adam Sandler lawyer flesh.

The universe has no place for idle, dawdling Adam Sandler Lawyers, and I'll bet Adam Sandler himself would agree!

See, I am losing huge in all my countersuits on average too … and I figure Adam Sandler is easily worth $1,000,000 in fat countersuit greenbacks: that is exactly what it will cost to burn the memory of Eight Crazy Nights out of my brain.

But what do Sylvester Stallone, Hillary Swank, Mark Wahlburg, and Adam Carolla have on the mighty Adam Sandler?

Hm?

Boxing movies.

I want Mister Sandler -Adam, if I may be so bold- to read my script Punch-Drunk Drunk. It’s a sequel to Punch-Drunk Love -a stoic follow-up that finds Barry Egan succumbing to his seven evil sisters, thus being forced to eek out a meager existence boxing grizzly bears.

But boxing grizzly bears is a terrible way to eek out a meager existence, especially when you just got promoted to astronaut!  In the final match, the Emperor Grizzly Bear cheats and punctures Barry's pressure suit in the third round and is disqualitied.  (I think Rob Schneider is a shoe-in for ‘Best Supporting Actor,’ particularly because he doesn’t appear in this movie.)

So Barry is now Boxing Champion of the World and Emperor of the Grizzly Bears.  But the controversy surrounding the victory yields only mockery and taunting from sports fans of virtually every species. Tormented, Barry gets hooked on 5-Hour Energy Drinks. He doesn't know what he needs energy for -let alone 5 hours worth- but suddenly he’s a quarterback in the NFL too. Eventually Sarah Palin shoots the evil Former Bear Emperor, and -thusly befriended- the grizzly bears team up with Barry, and together they go and defeat the vampires.

(I still have to write Acts II and III.)

Chemically "Enhanced"

Predator Press

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“Look,” says Terri. “I think it’s time we had a talk about your drinking.”

“What about it?”

“You wrote the bartender at the wedding a letter of recommendation.”

“Well he clearly deserved it,” I counter, scratching my chin. “Who got married?”

Internet Swag

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Exclusive: New Obama 2012 Cabinet Nominations Raise Eyebrows, Concerns

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Any of you guys remember when I interviewed that guy “Barrack Obama?”

-Holy shit, it turns out that guy became President! And not only that, but he's running for office again. He wanted to make that announcement here on Predator Press first, but -as you remember- I was locked in Ted Williams' Mercedes at the time.

Because Obama wasn't answering my follow-up calls, I figured it was my duty to you -O' Loyal reader- to hack his email and steal his Cabinet 'Picks to Click' for 2012. And who would have thought the most powerful man in the world's Hotmail account password would be "PASSWORD?"


***

Anton 'Cream-G' Wellingsdale the Second will be the "brains" of the operation as Secretary of State. Cream-G is most well-known for his controversial book I Hate Whitey and the sequel Whitey Kiss My Ass -both of which are currently runaway bestsellers, and the first books ever to go double platinum.

Kimbo Slice will be filling the slot of Attorney General. I don’t know what the Attorney General actually does, but whatever it is this former MMA fighter will be doin a lot of it: simulations testing Kimbo's diplomatic aptitude universally concluded with him wrapping the cord around Khadaffi, Gadaffi, Gandolf -whoever's- neck, and beating him upside the head with the red phone.

Secretary of War Rendell 'Icepick Icepick Icepick' Warren is a Harvard Graduate and a former Black Panther. You may best remember him from the 'Electric Slide Made Me Do It' Defense put forth by his lawyers, culminating into the slaying of forty drunken white people while armed only with the jawbone of Jon Bon Jovi.

In Icepick Icepick Icepick's downtime, he enjoys working with his Saddam Hussein tribute band, drinking "40s," theoretical astrophysics, classical art from the 1800s and baking.

There’s more information on some of these guys than others: the data on our new Secretary of the Treasury is sketchy at best –all I got was this jpeg and "You Gonna Get Raped" letterhead.

-It's in 'bold,' and underlined twice.

Pastor Terry Jones: WTG, Fucktard

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11 Dead After US Quran Burning

But has Yosemite Sam tried the Kool Aid?

The End is Near

Predator Press

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“Egypt has a Revolution, Japan has Earthquakes, nuclear meltdowns are imminent, we’re bombing Libya -” I throw my hands in the air in crisis fatigue. “And now this?“

“Honey,” Terri soothes. “It’s toilet paper.”

“It’s 1-ply!”

Driving Miss Crazy

Predator Press

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“You need to slow down,” scolds an already irritated Terri. “You know why they put those ‘Children Crossing’ signs up, right?”

“Sure I know” I says. Decelerating, I sigh and roll my eyes. “They have to. Because children are stupid.”

“Children are not stupid.”

“Oh reeealllly,” my eyebrows arch in a mix of fury and snark. Spotting a little girl at the stop sign, I press the button to roll down my window. “You!” I points to the little girl. “Who won the 1994 World series?”

To this, the little girl stared confused -and after a moment decided to smile and wave.

“Ptthbtt,” I says,  rolling my window back up.  Proceeding into the clear intersection, I underline “See that?  Dumb as a fuckin' post.”

Terri scowled. “There was no World Series in 1994. The players went on strike that year.”

“Really?”

Predator Press Reviews: The Ingredients of a Good Thriller

 Predator Press

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All attempts to review one of Chris Wood’s books -The Ingredients of a Good Thriller- have been encumbered by the stubborn necessity of actually having read it first. I am immediately alarmed at the prospect: Chris is both a good friend and -typically- a great read, but this book doesn’t contain any pictures whatsoever … I already have a disinclination to like it.

But -despite my diminished hopes and the inversely growing sense of foreboding- I wanted to make good on reviewing it fairly.

-Predator Press readers would demand nothing less, right?

Finding a homeless guy to read it to me was unnecessarily complicated process, as I immediately tried to seek out “Golden Voice” guy Ted Williams. Williams, it turns out, isn’t homeless at all ... And neither is any of his security entourage, who summarily beat me into unconsciousness with a handy ice sculpture and escorted me off of the Estate.

Nonetheless Good Fortune lent a hand, I turned out to be locked in a car trunk with none other than my dear dear friend Flandsa Ha’asasanba -the hard-working and genuinely homeless immigrant I ruined by hijacking Predator Press from.


“What’s that sound?” I says, flicking on my lighter.

“It sounds like we are leaving,” says Flandsa.

I pull out a cigarette.

“Can I have one of those?” asks Flandsa.

 “Dude, we’re locked in the trunk of a Mercedes. Both of us smoking? That’s like second-hand smoke a go-go. Besides, I‘m only doing it because of how you smell.” I wince in the dark. “Jesus. You people would get a lot more help if you called yourselves ‘The Showerless.’”

“I suppose,” Flandsa sulks. “What do you think Ted Williams is going to do to us?”

“Well Ted Williams is formerly homeless, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m assume he’s going to have you beaten to death with a shovel somewhere out in the dessert. But maybe he’ll have me dropped off on the way.”

“You think he’s going to let you live?”

“Well, he’s not going to kill me like I’m some homeless loser” I says, exhaling deep smoke. “I had a reason to be there. I wanted him to read me The Ingredients of a Good Thriller.”

“By Chris Wood?”

“No shit. You’ve read it?”

“Read it?” says Flandsa. “I memorized it. It was a brilliant and well-written ‘how to,’ essential to not just thriller writers, but to general thriller fans. Would you like me to recite it to you?”

“I dunno,” I say. “I’m going to be pretty busy locked in this trunk and all. If I loan you my laptop, will you just write the review for me? Just tell me if I liked it or not. Oh, and also ding him for not having any pictures.”

I kick on the lighter again to examine the trunk contents, and calmly evaluate the crisis at hand. “No ashtrays back here. Jesus. Spare tire, jack ... This is a Mercedes, right? The condiment dispenser only has domestic mustard, and where the fuck is the beer? You might think those Brits would take that into consideration when engineering these things."

“But Mercedes isn't-”

“Shh!” I says. “We’ve stopped. What has it been? Four hours maybe?”

“It’s been around eleven minutes.”

“We’ll split the difference. Four hours divided by eleven minutes, times sixty miles and hour …" I rub my temples. "Shit, we must have gone out to the dessert first.”

The barely-audibly engine is turned off, and we hear the four car doors all open and close individually.

“Well it was nice seeing you again Flandsa,” I says, as inches from my head a set of keys work the trunk lock. “Can I have my laptop back now? Did you save your work?”

The suns screams violently in, and I am instantly blinded in the hot and dry. Hands roughly drag me out and stand me up by the lapels.

I suddenly realize I am surrounded by dozens of Flandsa Ha’asasanba’s.

And they are all carrying shovels.

-I think I screamed.

Internet Swag

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Canadian Breakin'

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“How come you never mentioned you had an uncle in the National Hockey League?" Terri asks, pointing at the scrapbook picture.

“Well he wasn’t a very nice guy,” I says. “He was stubborn, over-achieving, and fiercely anti-symmetric.”

“But we aren’t Jewish.”

My Uncle had more hits than Wikipedia.

“No. He was fiercely anti-symmetric," I correct.  "He would come over at Thanksgiving and start stacking all the furniture in a corner.” I flip the page, and we see his laminated newspaper obituary. “It is widely suspected that's how he ended up dying in fact. While rearranging the zambonis at Philips Arena, he fell through the ice and drowned.”

“Huh," says Terri. "But I thought hockey rink ice was only a few inches thick?”

“Hence the ‘stubborn’ and ‘over-achieving’ part,” I shrug.

To Clarify

Predator Press

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US Katrina Death Toll: 2,000

US 9-11 Death Toll: 3,000

Japanese Death Toll: 10,000

(currently)

Japan is roughy the size of California in square miles.

California has 36,961,665 souls

-Japan has 127,176,667

HEAT

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I may have written about my “Bucket List” -a bunch of crap I want to do before I die- already.

-But all you die-hard Predator Press readers immolating yourselves should know this is a brand new post -so no matter how bad those gasoline fumes are, read this, shut the fuck up, and think about what you’ve done.

-Assholes.

But -as was saying before I was rudely interrupted- for the most part my "Bucket List" is sophomoric criminal bullshit:

1) steal a cop car and lead the cops on a high speed chase, or

2) steal an armored car and lead the cops on a medium-speed chase until I can

3) steal the helicopter cops use for high speed chases (eh? Eh?), and

4) screech to a halt just past a sign on a bridge that reads "County Line," and park to wave back happily at the fleet of furious cops that can no longer arrest me because I'm 6 linear feet outside their jurisdiction.

My 5th "Bucket List" item is more a pair of scientific theories I want you people to finally prove. (I would prove them myself in life, but because they are scientific theories, they may -MAY- require some ‘Mathematics.’ And while not willing to dabble in such pagan hoodoo, I do want the credit.)

Theory A) I think if you’re pulled over for a DUI and the cop asks you to take a sobriety test, you’re already fucked. Right?  He’s just making you do tricks so he can laugh watching them on his VHS later that day:

T       F

Theory B) You know how you can live on a rural street -middle of nowhere- and maybe six cars go by all day, but when you get in your car and start the ignition it’s like Chicago I-94 all of the sudden? Or how it seems every light is red?  Well, I think there is a well-organized squad of old people with walkie-talkies fucking with us. War vets -? They radio when we leave the house, where we're going, what and what bank teller lane we're getting into, et cetera.

But why 'old people,' o Brilliant One?” you are probably asking.

See, that logic took me a while. The Opportunity was never in question ... trust me: when I can‘t sleep and my dick doesn‘t work anymore, I‘ll be hassling you.  But what is the Motive? What the fuck do these geezers have against us?  I don’t want to put deer stalker hat factories out of business or anything …. I’m just sayin this blue haired buzzard bait has some crazy reason for doin’ this shit, right?

Eventually I crunched the numbers on Excel. I found that elderly people have a slower reaction time -sometimes half that of a person in his twenties. Then you factor in how they drive about two-thirds of the speed limit. And when these behaviors are coupled with frequent, sudden naps and crashing into 7-11s, it doesn‘t leave much actual “driving” -in 2.5 hours, your garden variety Senior Citizen will be closer to home than his or her original desired destination.  And over a long enough timeline, they will actually owe some driving …

T       F

Anyone else need a cigarette?

Wind-X Men

Predator Press

UFC Headline Match Cancelled Due to Japan Earthquake

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While UFC President Dana White did not accept questions, his words peel through clearly: the 2012 AMA Madison Square Garden Match of the Century -contracted at a whopping $7b- will indeed not be taking place as billed.

“We are looking at 2014,” says White cautiously. “But while Godzilla’s alibi for the 2011 Earthquake is airtight, we did come across some information that is troubling in the process. In the interest of the sport, we have declared Godzilla ineligible for competition until further notice.”

While White tactfully avoided the controversy of Godzilla’s recently testing positive for Gamma Ray radiation, he admits, “Gamma Rays can potentially make your skin stony, give you an elastic-like ability to stretch, give you the ability to set yourself aflame and fly, or -via invisibility- let Sue Richards give Reed 24/7 shit until he is driven to a suicide-by-cop killing spree.”

“We are stunned,” says Mothra’s trainers. “After studying hours and hours of Gamera fight footage, we never once suspected any ‘juicing.’ I guess it only makes sense if you’re 45,000 years old.”

But while Mothra’s camp has been considerably restrained on the subject, Chuck Liddell -formerly accused of injecting Charlie Sheen Tiger Blood- has not.

“I will eat Baby Godzilla the morning of the match,” says Liddell. “And I will crap Baby Godzilla all over Godzilla’s defeated carcass!”

All Blogs Go to Heaven

Predator Press

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Getting back into the blogging “groove,” I’ve done some visiting to old friends’ blogs -and found many of them are either dormant of gone entirely.

In possession of an unprecedented and staggering intellect -the equivalent of a hundred men or five or six women- I am forced to conclude that, in addition to Twitter and Facebook watering down our numbers, we are up against a battle for relevance.

The choice is clear: to rise once again to former glory, we bloggers must either focus ourselves on topics of social significance or start doing pornography. And because my beloved wife stubbornly won’t let me do porn, my current options appear fairly narrow.

Undeterred, I have decided that Predator Press will have to be a blog of Social Conscience, thus the pacecar for the generations of blogs to come. And it is in pursuit of these lofty goals that I announce -without equivocation- that Predator Press has solved two of the greatest problems ever to face humankind simultaneously: that of 1) forever being free of Middle East oil, and B) the elimination of abortion.

What am I specifically speaking of? The single most overlooked, most economic, and most renewable energy source the United States has ever had: orphans.

First of all, unless they are in a musical, nobody really likes orphans. They are grubby and smelly, often terrible at shoplifting, and do nothing but complain. As CEO of the most profitable orphanage in New Jersey, I can‘t tell you how sick I am hearing that same ol‘ singsong bullshit all day and night, “O I wish I had a mom and dad,” or “I’m so hungy!” Orphans, left to their own devices, are nothing but inexhaustible whiners.

-But we can change all that. Why have big ugly windmills blocking your skyline when you can lay them down and have orphans spin those now-inconspicuous blades for you? And with some advance planning, we don’t have to give up our kewl cars either: 20 buried orphans will, in a few years, completely replace the much-maligned dinosaur and the fuel it produces. And c’mon … what the fuck have dinosaurs ever done to you? Has a dinosaur ever abandoned mopping the floor to break into some annoying weepy song and/or monologue, thus exposing you to potential slip-and-fall lawsuits from your dinner guests?

Crash test dummies can cost thousands of dollars. Impact-absorbent NASCAR walls can run into the millions. And forget the delight of simply punching one; have you ever tasted orphan meat? It’s like tofu: it takes on whatever flavoring you add. Why eat, say, endangered bald eagles when there are thousands of these little bastards … and they are virtually everywhere?

I say the potential untapped technologies based on an ample and replenishable orphan supply have been ignored for far too long, and it seems to me Humanity owes it to the Mother Earth to give it a shot.

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Charlie Sheen's Winning Recipes from Charlie Sheen