Impossible Burgers calls Mission Impossible Cast

Meatless Meat

Trump: “I believe this is fake news. Science is for losers. Who would eat this crap, anyway? We have to think about all the cattlemen in danger of losing their jobs. Hey, these people voted for me. I made very, very good promises! These nutjobs need to be silenced very, very soon.”

Putin: “I love the smell of burning blood in the morning.”

Tom Cruise: “No comment.”

Trumpcare

Tycoon Otto Rolfing once owned three sweatshops in Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Newark (New Jersey). His thousand employees worked around the clock manufacturing and stockpiling micro mini-skirts in anticipation of their sweeping return to fashion. Non-union sweatshop workers were paid ten dollars a day for sixteen hours, plus meals {which consisted of rice with fish heads.} Otto’s general manager was Klaus Brunner, reputed cousin of Adolf Hitler. One day over a bucket of Extra Crispy Chicken with Otto, Klaus claimed that his cousin was still alive, and a fisherman in Argentina, but had totally forgotten his past life in Germany, being quite senile.  “It’s hard enough,” Klaus confessed, “for him to bait a hook.”  Naturally, documentaries didn’t raise an eyebrow.
–Soon afterward Otto ran out of money. First to be cut off were the telephones, which really didn’t matter as the phones never rang much anyway, except in New Jersey, where Immigration officials called, hoping someone answered with a Mexican accent. Next to go was the gas. Again, even in New Jersey this didn’t matter except on three or four days in mid summer when inside temperatures rose far enough to trip the thermostat, which was permanently set at 141 degrees. It was only when the power company delivered a threatening note to Otto’s trailer with the euphemistically worded phrase “an interruption of service” that the end became apparent. It would have been nearly impossible to operate sewing machines in total darkness. After all, the warehouses were windowless to maintain secrecy in the event that Ivanka or Ralph Lauren Jr. found out what they were up to. (Even the sign outside read: Otto’s Buttondown Shirts to throw off the media elites.)
–So Otto suspended operations, offering each of his employees, both male and female, a mini-skirt as severance pay. He could afford to be generous as he had manufactured, by then, enough micro mini-skirts for everyone east of the Mississippi, with a few left over for the west coast as well. What he needed now was a vacation.
–After selling their respective trailers, Otto and Klaus hopped a cruise ship bound for the ominously Virgin Islands. As if on cue the ship then mysteriously sank somewhere between New York and Miami. To make matters worse a terrorist, swearing he was from Iran despite his blond hair, blew holes in all the life boats but one, and with a compact grenade launcher he’d managed to smuggle on board because ship’s security had mistaken it for a lifesize Miley Cyrus doll.
–In the water now Klaus and Otto worked frantically to lash together the few remaining ping pong tables into a kind of raft. These, however, were quickly seized by the ship’s captain, performer Andrew “Dice” Clay, and Jimmy Kimmel. Then, as Klaus began complaining about circling sharks, Otto lapsed inextricably into a numb recitation of the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. Luckily, about then a Ouija board floated nearby, and their spirits improved immeasurably. Unfortunately, it was noon and they couldn’t distinguish east from west, and so paddled their Ouija board in the wrong direction. Soon the two crossed the 200 mile boundary into international waters {not seeing the buoys}, and were instantly picked up by a surfacing Soviet sub. Not just an ordinary day to day Soviet sub either, but a Typhoon-class model carrying 140 warheads capable of obliterating any country within 5000 miles.
–
The sub’s captain, an amiable if slightly nervous chap of 19, understood English well, having been kicked out of several Welsh boarding schools. Ultimately he succumbed to Otto’s tale of misfortune, embellished with opinions on how the overweight citizens of the United States would probably die of heart attacks as soon as the DOW collapsed again anyway. Remembering all the fast food ads he’d seen, the young captain agreed and ordered the sub be taken to Argentina where, according to Klaus, life was simpler and the fishing was still good. He then permitted Klaus to use the deck cannon to scare Dice and Jimmy a bit.
–The trio now lives with Adolf in a little fishing village south of Mar Del Plata, while the sub, piloted by a 20 year old female, glides aimlessly in and out of Cape Cod, looking through the periscope for sights of a Kennedy heir. Adolf himself has undergone an operation, and now resembles Mother Teresa . . . in a micro mini-skirt.
.
Quiz:  1}  Do you believe this story?
 2}  Do you finally perceive real life as boring, yet you’re too afraid to take the red pill or join a book club, and instead prefer ESPN and TMZ?
 3}  Do you watch Entertainment Tonight religiously?
 –If you answered yes to any of these questions, Spy Dish Network will be contacting you with an offer you may soon be unable to refuse.

healthcare

 

The Vegas Vape 500

VapeIt’s a new race across the desert from Mexico. Backroads, on Fury Road. Can you get your cargo of marijuana to legal Nevada before Trump’s militia blow you away, with hired advisors from Philippine president Duterte? In other McNews, Millennials are being targeted for sterilization at techno and rave concerts. Reports Ryback Solomon, “Kids are stoned and so don’t notice the addition of other chemicals to the smoke. These gas attacks against kids constitute domestic terrorism, albeit this delayed reaction, if spread, may save the future from overpopulation if implemented worldwide. Shall we call it Global Misting? I think Stephen King would like that. Soldiers need a little mist in this heat, don’t ya know.”

WOW

“And I’ve got a long way to go, to make it from the border of Mexico…so I ride, ride like the wind…”

Interview: The World’s First Trillionaire

Super Rich

As Howard gets closer, now, I stare aghast at the squirrelly little enigma of a man. I wonder how and why in God’s name he’s chosen me. Who am I, anyway? Nobody except just maybe—I’m hoping—heir apparent to Hunter S. Thompson, a man forgotten by the newer generations of label conscious go-getters, who prefer bling-a-ling rappers to John Lennon. Some Millennials or Gen-Xers might not even know who Lennon and Thompson were, much less Y they were important (while his former fans just wanna go Zzzzz.) Me? I may be old school, but I don’t eschew (hate) anything except boredom, and my clutch punchy ’87 VW. So my other interviews (not for Rolling Stone) have been pretty desperate and diverse, from talent show winners to physicists, explorers, and ComicCon geeks. Which just may explain the why for Howard. Or maybe not.
    —His age, if I had to guess, is mid forties to early fifties. Hard to confirm with the Cardinals baseball cap covering his light brown hair. (Another red herring?) His walk is an aloof gait, in no hurry for this first media exposure—which is minus any cameras, (a prerequisite stipulated by contract.) All I have is my trusty mini-recorder, which passed scrutiny by his security team here at his remote ranch house just north of Flagstaff. Of course I’d been blindfolded on the last leg, and took off the mask only to find that the high tech rust-colored metal roofed building was not unlike the one in the movie Ex Machina, at least in style and situation.
    —“Hello,” I say, stretching out my hand at last, when he comes within range of my inquisitive gaze.
    —Howard stares down at my hand as if it’s septic or something. Then he lifts his attention to my face, studying me. “Hello,” he replies with a tone as neutral as any adversarial diplomat. He gestures toward an ermine trimmed L-shaped sectional couch. I recline into the longer section, reminded of Trump’s quote: Think big, and live large. Howard, aka WFT, is forced to inhabit the short end of the L, which he does without apparent annoyance, I note.
    —“This is quite a place,” I blurt, and then add, significantly, “from what little I’ve seen of it.”
    —The statement’s irony is not lost on him, and I get the impression that nothing is ever lost on him. “I’m sorry about the unusual conditions,” he confesses. But I can see he’s not sorry. Neither am I, actually. In fact, I’m about as happy as a dung beetle on…but enough about me.
    —“Yes,” I say, taking up the lead. “And before we get started, I do have a first question for you, Howard, which can be off the record if you like. And excuse my language, but how in hell have you managed to be so secretive? And why come forward now?”
    —Howard smiles thinly. “That’s two questions, is it not?”
    —I spread my hands in acquiescence, and wait. It’s always best to wait and access…to wait and not to show one’s hand or emotions. In my case, that would be what angle and tone I might take on this story, it now being confirmed that I am actually doing this interview. Something it is too late for Howard to deny.
    —Naturally he waits, too. Only his wait feels like I’m down, and a referee is about to count me out. (Not only out of my first Rolling Stone piece, but also of any chance to revive my flagging career, maybe putting me in line at The Voice blind auditions, singing Money for Nothing.   
    —At last I feel obliged to break the impasse, with his unblinking eyes weighing heavily into mine. “Yes, okay, okay,” I admit. “So how about the first question?”
    —Howard leans forward now, looking at the shiny stone floor as if examining his own reflection. “How have I managed this,” he repeats, testing the veracity or validity of my query against whatever bizarre history he’s known to have been hiding from everyone. After a full minute he leans back, and is soon staring at the ceiling, which is festooned with long rows of dim LED lights recessed into waving brass channels that flow deeper into the interior of his ranch/fortress.
    —“I can reword the question, if you prefer,” I add. “Like, say, for example, how much of what the tabloids say about you is true, and how have you kept them and CNN from verifying any of it?”
    —Hoping to move this tension filled moment along, I hand him the list of unverified facts my editor had given me. Howard looks it over, then (with zero tension on his part) reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a list of his own. I take the wrinkled paper, unfold it, and stare down without showing any of the anxiety I feel wrenching at my stomach. It reads: (Order book)

NASA

Howard’s bodyguard. IQ: 193.

 

How to Become the Next James Patterson

James Patterson
“Are ya talking ta ME?”

Step 1)  Start by thinking in short sentences. (Turn corners sharply. Make entrances sudden. Exit quickly and quietly. Think scary thoughts. Laugh with sinister glee. Slurp your food.)
 Chapter 2)  Develop a demented philosophy of life—if only to express to your alter ego—while staring into the mirror. Begin by repeating this:  “Nature is cruel. I am cruel. I am fulfilling Nature’s purpose. Does Nature care about individuals, after all? We’re nothing to Nature or Putin, except as drones who trip in the dark and die. Do I want to be a school teacher, or to burp babies, or to have an affair with my boss? Doesn’t matter. Who cares. I know I don’t. Nor does the Universe, far as I can see. So just get off my back, okay? Go collect postage stamps, join a bowling league, drive around at 2 AM with your car stereo blasting. You will anyway.” Chapter 3)  Stop eating oatmeal. Try prunes instead. 
Chapter 4)  Avoid using big words like “mellifluous” or “dysphasic,” which might make critics happy, but won’t keep you on anyone’s recommended beach reading list. (Realize that actually having something to say is somewhat less important than churning out two or eighteen books a year.)
 Chapter 5)  Stop blinking.
 Chapter 6)  When all eyes are on you, wink.
 Chapter 7)  Buy a large, shiny knife.
 Chapter 8)  When you go to the post office, imagine actually going postal.
 Chapter 9)  Develop a taste for organ meats.
 Chapter 10) Hire a successful agent and nine co-authors.
Finally, realize that the brain is just another organ meat. Prior to cooking realize that, as an organ in the head, the brain is said to contain who we are, the mysterious “us” that we believe should oppose and compete with “them.” Also, it’s the least used organ, particularly by hockey or NASCAR fans. Meanwhile, the most used organ is often referred to as having “a mind of its own.” (Now, many say that sex is mostly in the brain, but of course the people saying this don’t really want to play with their brains. Actually, our brains are only three pound clumps of jelly, which you could probably hold in your hand for at least a few seconds before freaking out. A side benefit of grasping this is in also realizing that for much of your life you’ve been worried about what some other clump of jelly thinks about your own clump of jelly. Meanwhile, at various locations across the country there are three pound jellies who recognize the shell holding your clump, and your clump wonders how these jellies are “doing” or “feeling,” too, and if they are coming close to yours next year for what is termed a “holiday,” and if the alignment of electrical impulses inside your jelly mold can ever “forgive” or “love” or “respect” or “whatever” them again. Or even if you should. Feel better now? If so, you are now ready to become either a mystery writer or a serial killer. Flip a coin. (In either case, please seek help soon.)James Patterson Zoo

BRONZE MEDAL– The medal usually won by Olympians who go into bars and no one knows their name. The most bronze medals ever won is credited to Carl Jablonsky who won his 50th consecutive semi-annual Bronze in the Dallas Chili Cookoff, yet all he could do was cry in his beer at being defeating again (and again) for the Gold and Silver by numerous rivals who placed ahead of him previously. “I’m truly ashamed of myself,” he said. “I’ve lost my self worth, my dignity, my savings, my family, and my will to keep on cooking.” Bobby Flay never called him for a Throw Down, although he used humane grass-fed beef instead of the Gold winning Nazi-fed beef from the Texas Longhorn Extermination Camp. Today, bronze medal winners are required to rent from EconoCar, since they don’t merit Avis, whose new slogan is, “We buy silver!”
CELIBACY is the restraint from sex for moral or personal reasons. Unknown in the NBA. Okay?
C.E.O. stands for Chief Executive Officer. That’s someone who ruins a company before bailing out of the boardroom with a golden parachute and backpack full of bonus money. Honey.
CEREBRUM–  The front part of the brain, rarely engaged by WWF fans in favor of the primitive stem area (which also monitors bladder control.)
CLIMATOLOGY–  The study of wind, rain, hail, tornadoes, hurricanes, and other weather related catastrophes (ie. inconveniences) known to delay games.
COKE— An addictive substance known to endorse every politician, sport, emotion, ideology, color, creed, and war. Its market is everyman, its global conquest total, its commercials ubiquitous, and, like North Korea, it rigorously protects its territory and its secrets…albeit not with weapons, just propaganda.
CRAZY BOY– A special deluxe Lazy Boy model featuring heated and refrigerated coasters, a voice activated mini bar, a retractable cheese fountain, and a defibrillator.