Shaking the Cage: Part III

Predator Press

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I love it! Equate Actor Relief Lotion is just as good as any other lotion I’ve tried on my baby sensitive skin (and lotions tend to break me out). I've fooled myself into thinking that the more expensive the brand the better, but let me tell you Equate Actor Relief Lotion works like a charm! It’s sterile and hypoallergenic like most franchises, and it helps already normally hard-hitting scripts go totally soft on contact.

Rating: A+!!

(Also available in Matthew McConaughey and Gwyneth Paltrow)

Shaking the Cage: Part II

Predator Press

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Okay. I’ve spent half of the morning trying to figure out what triggered the recent infiltration of Nicolas Cage on Predator Press, and I think I’ve traced it back to seeing a commercial for Bangkok Dangerous.

It turns out Nicolas Cage is in it.

So then I spent the other half of the morning compiling a list of movies Nicolas Cage is not in: I got Steel Magnolias (1989), Stroker Ace (1983), The Blue Lagoon (1980) and The Ten Commandments (1956).

But I can’t vouch for the veracity of this list. There’s a scene in Steel Magnolias where Clariee Belcher –played supposedly by Olympia Dukakis- is swaggerin around in cowboy boots and a receding hairline so I’m not 100% convinced.

So what is the reason for his glaring absence in these movies? I don’t know. I suspect before 1985 either a) he was too young, or 2) Hollywood was still seething with people that couldn’t act twice as good as Nicolas Cage.

Well that's all changed now.

And following this logic to it’s linear extreme, I’m forced to face the fact that there is an extremely high likelihood that when LOBO: the Motion Picture gets made, Nicolas Cage will be in it. In fact, now that I’ve gone on an unprecedented two-post rant about him he will have to be.

This means I have to scrub all the current posters and trailers which feature the tagline “Nicolas Cage is not in this movie” prominently.

–and/or numerous times.


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Shaking the Cage

Predator Press

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First of all, I’m not really clear on why I’m so mad at Nicolas Cage.

I mean he did some great movies, right?

Right?

I mean there was Red Rock West and Con Air, and …

…um …

Wasn’t he in Armageddon?

No?

Alright. Then screw Nicolas Cage.

There isn’t enough room on this blog to complain at satisfactory levels about Nicholas Cage.

But this blog isn't about the proliferation of Nicolas Cage, nor the involuntary experience of seeing him everywhere.

Is it?

OMG Predator Press has just been infected by Nicolas Cage!

How the heck does he do that!?

-It's itchy!!!

Dynasty

Predator Press

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Having caved to the pressure to move west, Terri and I took the kids to O’Hare yesterday so’s they could stay with relatives while we put our affairs in order.

The house is quiet without Screechy pointlessly runnin back and forth bangin’ and breakin stuff. And now instead of uselessly arguing for weeks with Shiftless, the lawn is getting mowed promptly. The phone is quiet and fully-charged in it’s cradle, cold to the touch in the absence of the medium-sized one one -eh, Complainy.

[*sigh*]

Who would’ve thought I would miss them?

I don’t have anyone to blame stuff on anymore!

[*sniff*]

Running and Mating

Predator Press

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Alright.

I don't usually weigh in on political matters -well, on any sides anyways- but I must say the announcement of McCain's Vice Presidential running mate Sarah Palin surprised me.

-And not entirely in an unpleasant way, like how sick I got when Ethan bet I couldn't drink all the old windshield squeegee fluid at that Amoco in Buffalo, Wyoming. I was more surprised like when MIT announced they had discovered a way to quanitify fashion sense between the hyphae mycelium of various fungi in lab Petri dishes. You know, the kind of surprise you experience when Paul Reiser lands another sitcom? You go "Huh. I really liked that guy in One Night at McCool's," followed by something like, "Hey honey, did anyone feed the cat yesterday?"

And I don't care that Sarah Palin has only been Governor of Alaska for 18 months. Nor do I care she doesn't have much experience in foreign policy. All I need to know is that she has five kids.

Five!

Sarah, that's awesome. You really like to get your 'freak' on. A lot. But just what does it take to get you to try contraception!? How many dirty diapers? How many boogers? How much screeching?

Republicans and religious people in general are against birth control ... hey I get that. But if Jesus, on a carpenter's budget, was trying to pluck melted Gummi Bears from his station wagon's upholstery while his four screaming kids bitched about how they wanted Dairy Queen instead of nachos during the Laker's game, whatever he was turning that water into would have far more devious applications than you could imagine.


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Pipeline

Predator Press

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Ah, September.

And we all know what that means, don't we?

It's finally that special time of the year when all hearts and minds prepare for the biggest event of the year: The Santa Claus Blanket Party.

I can sense some of you starin' at this blog in utter disbelief. Oh, get over it. You're all thinking it ... at least I've got the stones to put it in print: that fat bastard has violated the sanctity of our homes for the last time. When he sneaks down the chimney 'an goes to greedily wolf down my milk 'an cookies this year, WHANG!, he's getting a snow shovel full of holiday cheer right upside the head.

Too chicken to help me with this? Fine, cowards! I'll keep all those Xbox 360s for myself then!

Look, it's not like I'm going to make Santa 'toss my salad' or anything weird; I just wanna rough the guy up a little. Maybe take the reindeer for a spin down to the Burger King drive-thru, that sort of thing. And can you imagine how much those little elves will pay in ransom for the safe return of their poorly dressed, fried food-scarfing king?

God, just the thought of that food-stained, grease-dripping beard gives me chills.

"But LOBO," I hear the mincing liberal pansies cry, "Why do you want a rusty, jagged, salted catheter put in Santa and the other end hooked up to a team of startled Clydesdales? Santa brings joy all over the world to often less-fortunate children!"

Yeah? Well screw them. I know all about being less-fortunate, thank you: one July when I was a kid I helped out the mailman by relieving him of the entire neighborhood's food stamps. But when the eighty-six pallets of Velveeta Pepper Jack arrived at my house, there wasn't anyplace to keep them except in the neighbor's empty swimming pool.

I would've pulled the whole thing off, but the dumb kid that lived there dove in and tried opening his eyes in the thick, spicy, bubbling murk. Screaming, he then attempted to wipe away the blistering sauce with fistfuls of my tortilla chips and somehow punctured one of his water wings in the process; this caused a potentially fatal clockwise downward spiral smack into the sour cream.

If that sour cream wasn't there, he most certainly would have drowned. But did the prosecuting attorney ever bother to point out my valorous consideration of the Coriolis Effect in this unfortunate incident? No. In fact, that jerk tried to my the whole thing look like it was my fault!

You just don't get any "less fortunate" than that: I'm a hero if you think about it.

This year, the fat man pays up.

I Don't Do Things So J. D. Has To

Predator Press

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Someday, when the ‘secrecy’ of what I do for a living is no longer important, my boss will probably tell you I’m terrible at relaxing. I spend my breaks and lunch hours poring over comparative spreadsheets, checking this, verifying that … it’s pretty much a textbook case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder on an epic scale.

Blogging, it seems, is no different for me. Since Blogger has no download feature, I’ve been trying to get myself to take a few days off so I can backup these 900 and some-odd posts that the ever-important Predator Press files survive a catastrophic nuclear strike or whatever.

Can't.

I lie awake at night worried. Will my millions and millions of readers be okay without me? What if there’s a massive panic in my absence? In my mind, only thing worse than you guys immolating yourselves or jumping off of buildings would be you guys immolating yourselves, then jumping off of buildings.

First I thought Terri, but she can't do it while I'm hoggin the PC. Then I considered Don Lewis, but he’s embroiled in his presidential campaign; I’m not sure he wouldn’t abuse the position for political gain. I mulled over Sinister Dan for a while too, but I’m pretty sure at some point he would have you guys immolating yourselves and jumping off of buildings just for his own personal amusement.

There’s really only one other person I can think of that can lead the massive throngs of fans serene and safe through the rest of the week.

And if I’m not doing it, she has to, right?

So J.D., here’s a couple of things I would definitely not do in case your looking for ideas:

I Don’t Compete in the Olympics Anymore. Sure it was fun setting all those records for a while, but I got tired of breaking the hearts of all those spirited young athletes. Finally one day, while looking into the eyes of yet another defeated would-be champion, I just handed him my gold medal.

“Here kid," I says. "Just go up there and tell them you’re me.”

“Wow!” he says, overjoyed. “Thanks LOBO!”

I hear Carl Lewis is still doing pretty well for himself to this day.

I Don’t Use Frank Lloyd Wright Architecture and Interior Design on Ant Farms. It’s not that I don’t like ‘Organic Design’, or that I don’t like ants. It’s just that I don’t like the name ‘Lloyd’. I mean what arrogant historical prick decided that one ‘L’ wasn’t enough? Larry –while not shy about the ‘R’s- decided one ‘L’ was enough. Lance decided that one ‘L’ would do. But Loyd? Oh hell no. Loyd hadda hog all the ‘L’s. Why’d you stop there, “Lloyd”? Why not Lllllllllloyd?

-This kind of self-indulgent redundancy makes me want to puke.

Anyways J.D., you get the picture. Have a good week, remain calm, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t … wait. Do do the things that … uh …

(Great. Now I have a headache.)