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Predator Press

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Predator Press Interviews: Barack Obama

Predator Press

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Uncharacteristically prepared for this 07/02/08 interview, I am a little stunned at Obama’s well-groomed and relaxed demeanor. However, a seasoned journalist, I’ve learned to face these surprises with an icy cool that only comes with experience.

We professionally shake hands, and the interview begins.

-But armed with tedious 'facts' and stuff, I come out swinging.

LOBO: So why’d you do it?

Obama: Excuse me?

LOBO: You know what you did.

[Obama shrugs, bewildered]

LOBO: You know, that whole "September 11th" thing.

Obama: I think you are thinking of Osama.

LOBO: Who?

Obama: Osama Bin Laden.

LOBO: Who are you?

Obama: I’m Barack Obama.

LOBO: No relation?

Obama: No.

LOBO: Ever think about attacking America with airplanes?

Obama: No.

LOBO: Ever been on an airplane?

Obama: Yes.

LOBO: But never thought of attacking America with it?

Obama: No. I did, however, remove my seat belt before the light instructed me to.

LOBO: Now you’re being a smart ass.

Obama: No. I’m completely serious. I lost myself in a moment of reckless abandon.

LOBO: See? You’re mocking me.

Obama: I also stole four bags of peanuts when the flight attendant wasn’t looking.

LOBO: Really?

Obama: No. Then I was mocking you.

LOBO: So why are you here?

Obama: For the interview.

LOBO: Are you supposed to be interesting for some reason?

Obama: Well, I’m running for President.

LOBO: Well, so am I. Lah-dee-dah!

Obama: Good luck to you.

LOBO: What’s your platform?

Obama: Making America a better place.

LOBO: Oh god that is SO boring. We could’ve got Hillary to say that.

Obama: Boring? What’s your platform?

LOBO: I dunno. I haven’t really thought about it yet. Maybe making a gigantic space robot that’ll squish Al Queda with big-assed feet.

Obama: Sounds expensive.

LOBO: I’ll slash the budget, then.

Obama: Where?

LOBO: Anyplace that doesn’t contribute directly to the space robot, or the Brazilian Bikini-Wax Act.

Obama: What about Welfare?

LOBO: We’ll get plenty of welfare once we’ve got a bad-assed space robot in our corner. C’mon Obama, use your imagination here. It’ll build, like, entire schools in a matter of minutes. And it will fight crime.

Obama: It will fight crime too?

LOBO: I’m sensing some skepticism here.

Obama: Will it deliver the mail?

LOBO: Now you’re being silly.

Cube of Woe

Predator Press

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Man I was unbelievably pissed.

"Sir," squawks the technician over my cellphone. "It would be a lot easier to help you if you calmed down."

"Calm down?" I demand. "I'm going to die in this thing!"

"I highly doubt that sir. You said you already called the fire department, right?"

"Yes I did. I also called the police, the CIA, the FBI, FEMA and Interpol. How dare you unleash this poorly designed and untested -potentially lethal device- upon the unsuspecting public?"

"It's called an elevator, sir."

"It's a goddamned box of death, you quack! You people are the geometric equivalent of Comcast. Where'd you learn engineering, cosmetology school?"

"Sir, I assure you our engineers and technicians are highly qualified. But I'm only a customer service rep for Otis Elevators."

Inspecting the warning panel, I verify this: Otis Elevators is clearly marked right next to 'In Case of Emergency' and the 800 number I dialed.

"Well, let me talk to Otis."

"Excuse me?"

"Otis," I demand coolly. "Put that fucker on."

[muffled laughter]

"Uh, sir, -"

"I'm sorry. Did you say something? I can't hear you unless you're Otis!"

"Um," says the guy. "I'm Otis sir."

"Really?" I says.

"Yes sir. Now you said you already called the fire department. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well it's pretty boring in here. And the fire department won't be here for another half an hour."

"You don't have a paperback or something?"

"No," I says glumly. "I even called Mandy."

"Mandy?"

"Yeah. It's scratched in the glass here. 'For a good time call Mandy'. She's actually a pretty decent cello player, but it was eating up my minutes."

"Sir, I've been running a satellite diagnostic on the elevator you're in and it's responding just fine. Which floor did you press?"

"Floor?"

"Yes sir. There are buttons you have to press with numbers that correspond with the floor you want to go to."

"No shit?"

"Yes sir. They should be right over the warning plaque."

"I'll be damned. Otis, you're a genius!"

"Thank you sir."

"Wow. They even light up!"

What Ever Happened to Quicksand?

Predator Press

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Once again, Predator Press scienticians have stepped up, and -at no small expense to you- decided to settle the burning age-old question on everyone’s mind: What Ever Happened to Quicksand?

You remember ... One could barely get through a half an hour of television without some poor slob stumbling upon his buddy's safari hat laying mysteriously on the ground. Then he or she goes to pick it up, and the horror ensues -it’s quicksand!

I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my adolescent education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another. -Clearly even back then this enigmatic sedentary evil was barely understood. Of course, this was in the same day and age they taught us to curl up in a hallway in case of aerial bombings, and hide under our desks during nuclear blasts.

I hate to say it, but the Predator Press scienticians really let me down this time. All they did was gorge Dominoes pizza, play World of Warcraft, and work on their MySpace pages until "Enlarge Your Penis" SPAM beguiled them into downloading crippling viruses via porn.

Obviously the Great Mystery of Quicksand is beyond the feeble understanding of even the greatest minds of our time. Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with this, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.

But until then, we’re hoping you all will start wearing big, buoyant hats.

The Number You Haven't Dialed ...

Predator Press

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"He's not calling," says Terri.

"Of course he's calling," I insist. "You remember the now-historic interview I had with Barack. We had a real moment there.”

“You don’t think he would have called you by now?”

“I'm sure he's very busy. Who else would Barack pick as VP? Do you think he wants Don Lewis to win?"

“What about John McCain?”

“Oh come on. Nobody is seriously voting a fast food clown in for president.”

“That’s Ronald McDonald. John McCain is a decorated war vet, and-“

“Which war?”

“Vietnam.”

“Did he win?”

“Well-"

“He must have won,” I reflect. “He also survived the subsequent World Wars One and Two. That’s impressive.”

“What?”

“They name wars alphabetically so history students don’t have a hard time.”

“Really.”

“Yes. That’s why we’re never moving to Yugoslavia.”

“Because we’re going to have a war there?”

“They will probably retool all those Yugo factories to build tanks, but we can wipe them out with cleverly placed potholes and speed bumps. In fact, my first act as VP will be to surround that country entirely with potholes and speed bumps. It'll be like trying to invade Chicago!"

"And that's your strategy against Yugoslavia?"

"If you want to pick a winner in that war, I would go with whatever country produces the most potholes and speed bumps per capita.”

“Preemptively wiping out another country’s military seems more like a conservative plan. Don’t you think you would be a better VP for a republican like McCain?”

“Who?”

Spooky

Predator Press

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A dark and addled thing of doom
whispers lies and gloats in gloom;
poised to strike so very soon
it haunts this place and chills my room!

"Leave me to my own devices:
I give no heed to such entices!
I will not fear what haunts my bed
-for you are only in my head!"


I feel it sniff under the door
-a gleeful, mocking predator-
"You do not fear what you don’t see?
Well, what about X-Rays? Hm? Or E-Coli? And how about radioactive isotopes? When is the last time you saw a radioactive isotope? Even a small exposure to radioactive isoptopes could really mess up your thyroid.”

Monsters hate poetry.

Shanghaied

Predator Press

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“So let me get this straight,” says Nurse Garrison, looking down her glasses. “Due to mortgaging the house and a streak of tawdry material, your wife assaulted you?”

“If you replace the word ‘assaulted’ with the words 'collided a cast-iron skillet with,' you would be 100% correct.”

“She must’ve been pretty mad.”

“I’ll say,” I says through the gauze. “She made bacon and eggs in it first.”