If you like our radio shows, you will love Freddy's World. It's an irreverent look at all things Houston, sports, movies and life. That's what you get on The Blitz Monday through Friday at 4 p.m. on ESPN 97.5. That's what you will get here. Humor, insight, anger, and hopefully a good time.
A lot of people have asked: "who is this Abu character?"
Abu is my nemesis. He (or she) is the host, and I am the virus. And Abu constantly takes medicine to try and kill me. But I am a vicious virus. I will not go away.
OK, some background first...
One casualty of the storm is the wireless at the station. It has been down ever since Ike and there is no indication when or if we will get it back.
This is a bit of a problem for those of us who need our laptops to do our job. The company has a policy against allowing us access to the hardline Internet from non-company computers. (I assume they think we will download animal porn). But almost everything I need to do my job is on the desktop of my laptop.
So we have been trying to find unsecured signals to "borrow" in the building.
We have most of the 7th floor, so when we find a signal it is pretty weak and usually from another floor.
Enter Abu.
Abu is the name of an unsecured wireless signal.
Abu became a part of my life the day after Ike. Abu is a very weak signal, but it is unsecured. (Please, no Internet etiquette lectures. Yes, I know I could buy my own wireless. I don't roll that way. Besides, the station has a GREAT signal. When it works. And if dude doesn't want me poaching, make it a secure wireless).
In many ways, Abu is like a family member now. He joins my friends at the apartment, "Carrie," "Miss snake" and "Robertd." (Really interested in meeting "Miss Snake." I mean, a miss with a snake? Hmmmm...maybe that's something I can download).
But Abu is fickle. He kicks me off, usually when I need him the most. He will let me in long enough to write an email, but not long enough to send it. He cuts off my chats at inopportune moments.
I can almost picture Abu, sitting somewhere in an office in the eighth floor, getting increasingly agitated as I steal his signal.
I half expect him to storm in one day and go all Seinfeld on me. "You are very bad man, Mr. Fred. Very bad." (OK, my apologies, Babu)
I have a love/hate relationship with Abu. Some mornings Abu is helpful and friendly. Others? We are in an all out war. That's where we are now. Abu must die.
(Wow, Abu sounds a lot like a wife, huh?)
But I would like to thank him (or her) for letting me stay on long enough to post this.
I know you are watching, Abu. Be afraid. Be very afraid. I AM a very bad man.
We officially returned to the airwaves yesterday with four hours of insulting the Picachu. It was awesome. Tune in Monday night for the Main Event at 7:30 p.m. Central. If you are in Houston, drop by the Hooters on Kirby and 59. We will be broadcasting live.
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I've had a lot of people ask me about the short story below...It is NOT based on any real events, especially in my life. It's FICTION. I craft stories. If you are disturbed, I did my job.
When you are locked in a room by a hurricane, you tend to either get creative or stupid. I have not written any fresh fiction in a while, so this popped in my head.
Warning: It's graphic. It's violent. It's disturbed. If that's not your bag, stop reading now. If it is, I would love some input.
No title yet, but something will come to mind...
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” the Killer hissed. “It’s been 30 years since my last confession.”
Monsignor Benetti grimaced in pain from the knife jabbed deep into his right leg, squeezing tears out of both dull brown eyes.
“Have mercy,” he cried softly. “Please… have mercy. I am a man of God.”
The Killer sighed deeply, exhaling the cigarette smoke in a swirling cloud of gray. It hung there briefly, seeming to form the shape of a snake, then an angel, then wisping away on the wind, floating toward heaven.
He took another deep drag, then pulled the knife from the priest’s leg, casually wiping the blood on the Monsignor’s now-stained collar.
The killer smiled, Marlboro hanging loosely on his lips.
“Mercy is for the weak, Father,” he hissed. “You told me that once.”
The pain in Benetti’s leg was now shooting into his hip, his right side. The Monsignor thought he might black out, but he stayed focused. His arms and legs were bound in the chair, duct tape tight against him. He tried feebly to move, but knew there was no hope.
He was trapped. For better or worse, his fate was in the hands of a man he didn’t recall. He seemed so familiar, but Benetticouldn’t place him. He had been given something, and it was affecting his mind.
“I don’t remember you, son,” he whispered, almost hopelessly. “And I would have never said such a thing.”
Benetti’s face was old, ruddy with alcoholism, his eyes blank and hopeless. He scrambled his memory, trying to remember this man, but it was a blank, lost in waves of bourbon and the fresh pain in his leg.
“Son…” he whispered.
“Don’t call me that again!” The Killer screamed, grabbing the Monsignor’s throat, holding the knife against his target’s nostril. Benetti could taste the rubber gloves tight against his lips.
“Never call me that again!” the Killer hissed, unable to control his anger. “I am not your fucking son.”
He loosened his grip, pulled the knife away slowly, exhaling fresh smoke in the Monsignor’s face.
“No mercy, Father,” he spat. “Not this time.”
Benetti wracked his brain, trying to remember this man. The Killer’s features were hard to discern. His hair was
dark with hints of gray, but most of it was covered by a Yankees cap. He wore dark sunglasses that reflected the Monsignor’s scared eyes. A black hoodie was pulled slightly over the baseball cap. The killer was a large man, a little overweight in the middle, but not unattractive. There was something very familiar in him, but Benetticouldn’t quite place it. So many little boys…
Oddly, he found himself aroused.
That ended as he felt the knife against his lap, piercing his left testicle. He tried to scream, but his mouth was suddenly filled with cloth.
This time, he did pass out.
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The Monsignor awoke to find himself face down on the floor, his robes pulled up over his back, leaving him exposed. His pale legs and hairy, boil-stained ass were cold in the dawn air.
Benetticouldn’t tell where the pain was coming from – his leg or his testicle. He was gagged now, and struggled to breath through a nose that had clearly been broken.
“You don’t remember me at all,” The Killer said, somewhat bemused.
Benetti tried to respond, but his inaudible grunts were immediately dismissed.
“Quiet, Father,” the killer said. “No one can hear. Just like when I was here before...”
He lit another cigarette and smiled.
“You don’t remember me, but I remember you,” the Killer said, almost beaming. “Right here in this room. On this floor. Right where you are now. Shall I remind you?”
Benetti squirmed and grunted, but the knife against his ass stopped him cold.
“My name was Tommy,” he gasped, drawing closer now, whispering in the Monsignor’s ear, pulling his body against the Priest’s. “Tommy. Little Tommy, you called me. Little Tommy, your SON, you called me.”
He shoved the lit cigarette into Benetti’s ear, and laughed at the muffled scream.
The killer seemed irritated the cigarette had gone out. He relit it and took another drag.
“You brought me back here after mass, and gave me wine. Lots of wine. Remember?”
Benetti already knew the story, even if he didn’t know the man. This Tommy could have been one of a hundred boys.
“The blood of Christ, you said…” The killer’s voice was now sharp, cold, as if he had gone into a trance, going back to a place he didn’t want to be.
Even so, he was enjoying himself.
“You said the wine would make me forget…make me part of God’s special children.”
He took another drag.
“God’s special children,” he whispered.
Now, the Monsignor could hear the anger in his voice.
“I did forget,” he said. “For years I forgot. Put it out of my mind. Lived a normal life. That wine did make me forget. You were right about that.”
Again, the smoke hung there, this time around the killer’s face, mimicking a skull.
“And then I saw you on TV…You and the Bishop, and your lawyer. And how you were falsely accused, and how that poor boy was disturbed...”
Benetti tried to speak, but they were just grunts in the cloth, which was starting to gag him.
“You’ve gotten fat,” the Killer said casually.
He got up, and casually grabbed a bottle of wine.
“This is the blood of Christ,” he said, and began pouring it on the Monsignor.
He then took a sip. And Benetti started the think the Killer might be drunk.
But The Killer was rolling now, comfortable.
“I hadn’t tasted wine in 29 years,” he said. “I was out with a friend one night, and she gave me a sip of her wine, and it all came back to me. All at once.
“I threw up.”
He smiled again, his thin lips pulling across his face. Despite his girth, his face was gaunt, like a ghost long dead come back to life.
“You put me on the floor, right there where you are now. You shoved yourself inside me. It seemed like forever. The wine didn’t dull the pain. As small as you are, it hurt me. And you kept whispering, over and over…”thank you, son. Thank you, son.
“Thank you, son.”
He paused, took another drag. He looked at the cigarette briefly, knowing it was bad for him, and clearly not caring.
“Then you wiped yourself off on my altar boy robes, washed your hands in Holy water and prayed for forgiveness. And you gave me more wine. And took a deep drink from a bottle of Jim Beam.
“And twenty minutes later, you did it again.”
He held the gun lovingly. “Do you remember me now?”
The Monsignor was sobbing, unable to respond. He still didn’t remember this particular man. But that story had played out so many times.
He tried to say “forgive me,” but the words wouldn’t come out. The killer seemed to understand him.
“No father. No forgiveness. No mercy.”
And he shoved the gun deep into the Priest’s ass, as far as it would go, violently, over and over again. Benetti’s muffled screams made the killer laugh.
The killer pulled himself closer to the Priest, whispering in his ear.
“Thank you, son.”
He smiled, satisfied, and wiped himself off on Monsignor Benetti’s robes.
Again, the Monsignor passed out.
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Benetti woke up in the chair again. He was numb all over. The killer had given him something to make him relax. He felt only a dull ache in his backside, in his testicle, in his leg. He was no longer gagged, and he was completely naked.
Benetti thought about screaming for help, but suddenly the gun was in his mouth, and the taste of his own feces made him gag.
“Shhhh, father.” The killer whispered. “We’re almost done.”
Monsignor Benetti noticed the candles. There were 26, all lit. One giant candle in the middle surrounded by 25 others.
“Why?” he whispered. “The word took a long time to get from his brain to his mouth. Clearly they were strong drugs. The wound in his leg didn’t look real. He wanted to laugh at it.
“One for each of us. All the altar boys who were here when I was. And one big one for all the others I know nothing about. Including that little boy you said was disturbed.”
The Monsignor began to sob again.
The Killer was wearing Benetti’s robes. It made him look even more familiar. He casually moved closer.
“I will hear your confession now.”
Benetti started crying. And then, they all came back to him, one by one. He gave names, years, what the boys were like, what he told them to say. And yes, he remembered Tommy Shea.
He stared at the flickering candles and sobbed.
“I’m sorry, Tommy. God made me this way. Please don’t kill me.”
The Killer smiled, and placed the tape recorder on a stand next to the chair, gently switching it off “record.”
“This is where I am supposed to say, ‘three Hail Marys and do a good deed for a stranger and you will be forgiven,” the Killer crooned.
“But do you remember what you told me when you finished with me?”
Benetti sobbed and offered a muffled, “yes.”
The killer glared. “I was weak. No mercy for me. I had to be cleansed.”
He shoved the shit stained gun deep down Benetti’s throat.
“Mercy,” said the Killer, “is for the weak. YOU have to be cleansed.”
He slowly pulled back on the trigger, watching Benetti’s cold, broken eyes tear up as the inevitable blast drew closer.
“Oh yes,” the killer whispered as the Mosignor sobbed.
“Before I forget…”
“Don’t tell anyone about this. God will punish you if you do.”
The .45 exploded, spraying brains and blood all over the room. What was left of the Monsignor slumped in the chair, his grotesque body almost a parody with the bloody mess that used to be a head hanging over it.
The blood was everywhere. The Killer was amused in the way that it covered the stained glass window behind the corpse.
The Killer smiled. The sunlight was just starting to creep through the window; the stained glass Jesus was covered in blood. Only the eyes were visible. The Killer stared at them for a long time, then took off the robes, threw them on the floor and set the on fire. They would not find his DNA at this scene.
The Killer pulled his pants back on, but left his shirt off. On his chest was a large tattoo; an angel. The Angel of Vengeance.
The Killer smiled, pulling a tattoo needle out of his bag. He quietly added a drop of blood to the Angel’s sword. He went slowly, methodically, like he had all the time in the world. It was his fifth drop of blood.
“Say hello to Satan for me,” he whispered to the cold dead corpse.
He put away his needle, pulled on his shirt and put out the fire as the robes flickered to ashes.
Again, he reached into his black bag, pulling out a small book. It was a diary.
He opened it to the last page, which was bookmarked with a newspaper article.
The broken cursive was hard to read, as if the author had been drunk when he wrote it. “Father, I hope God forgives you,” it read in broken cursive, surrounded by splatters of blood.
“Because I don’t.
“Burn in hell. I’ll be waiting there for you.”
The signature was in blood.
“Tommy Shea.”
The Killer tossed the diary on Benetti’s ruined body.
The corpse looked fake. It seemed cold, empty, almost surreal. Soulless.
The Killer was dressed now. He took one more look at the newspaper article, then left it on top of the book.
It was a news story about Tommy Shea, 42, years old. Survived by two children and an ex wife. Found dead in his apartment, apparent suicide, brains blown out with a .45.
The killer picked up his bag, quietly. He took one last look at his work.
“Vengeance is mine,” he whispered. “Vengeance is mine.”
He lit a cigarette, walked toward the door. He turned back briefly, picked up the bottle of Jim Beam, and put it in his black bag, easing out the door.
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Father John Scales found the body a few hours later. He called the police, quietly waited as the investigators did their work. He said all the right things, helped the officers. No, he hadn’t heard anyone come in. He didn’t hear the gun. He took pills to help him sleep. He didn’t know until he had walked into the room shortly after 9 a.m., and immediately called the police. He was new here, had only been assigned there for a week. Barely knew the Monsignor, really. He was just a young priest, one they moved around a lot. He never knew Tommy Shea.
Then he prayed for the Monsignor. And for the Killer.
When the police left, he went out behind the church and lit a Marlboro. His chest was still sore from a recent addition to his tattoo. He leafed through a new diary. Bobby Rigby. Poor Bobby Rigby.
He looked skyward.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” he said, rubbing the diary lovingly. Father Todd would soon be reunited with Bobby Rigby.
This is my sister Susan at the Borgata... This is me at Coushatta... Well, we know which one is better looking. (Yeah, she wins, even though she is older than me).
See any resemblance?
Might be a while for I get back to a real table again, so she is going to have to carry the flag for a while. I predict Susan or my mom will win a big tournament before me. (Unless I dress up like Batgirl and play a ladies tournament)
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We've resumed normal programming at the station. The Front Page will return Sunday at 8 a.m. The Main Event will be back Monday night at 7:30 p.m. Please tune in. Hopefully we will have some fun stuff. I will use some of the jokes (at least the clean ones. Oh, wait, there weren't any clean ones...)
And the Tom Brady streak continues. No power at the casa for at least another five days. And my first morning back on the air, I break my headphones and my cell phone goes off during an update.
Um, any minute now, that good streak is coming...
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As much as I was disappointed in chron.com in the days before the storm, they have done a nice job since. The main page is still too cluttered and poorly organized, but they are finally starting to beat KTRH and KHOU on some key news and we are able to keep up with the important issues now. And my old friends in the sports department have managed to keep producing at a nice level. KRBE deserves a lot of credit too. They did a terriffic job following up on the KHOU coverage. ----------------------------------------
Correction: The traffic hottie referenced a few posts back was for Ch. 2, not Ch. 11. While Ch. 11 still wins overall, she pushes Ch. 2 into a clear second place.
Well, I am sitting in the Hooters on 59, playing online poker, having a JD, trying to feel normal.
Thanks for all the jokes. You guys are hilarious. Anonymous with the "tell me something that will make me happy and sad at the same time" was my favorite. But you all made me smile.
ESPN 975 The Ticket will resume normal programing on Thursday. Which means I will be back in the cage at 6 a.m. with updates. The Front Page will be back on Sunday.
Matt has power in his place, and Picachu is living large. I lost two guitars and some recording equipment. And my sanity. One of the guitars was a classic that can never be replaced.
But those are just things.
Still no power. Any week now. But I will survive.
The La Marque crew is back online. They have power, Internet, everything.
I have lost pretty much everything. Oh well. Could be worse. I'll start over, make a bunch of cash somewhere and rebuild.
Thanks to everybody who asked, everybody who contributed jokes. It really makes a huge difference to know how many people care what happens to an old, broken down journalist/horseplayer/poker playing dickweed.
I don't know what happens next. But it takes more than a storm, being broke and evil exes to knock Uncle Freddy on his ass.
Just a quick update...had to come over to a friend's house to recharge the phone and computer. Still don't have electricity. More on that on a second.
If you are watching the TV, you are probably seeing a lot of damage. Some places were hit pretty hard.
Galveston took a pretty big hit. The Hooters is gone. And the Balinese room is gone, too. (See prior post). It's sad, so much history washed away.
Most of the damage in Houston is trees down and lack of power. It's really not all that bad otherwise. Reliant Stadium took a nice hit, too.
My Tom Brady stretch continues. My Apartment complex has power -- except for my building. It got hit by a tornado.
Some good news: I stayed with the ex and the kids to ride the storm out. The carport where I usually park Trigger had a huge piece of metal in it when I checked it out. So I would have been without vehicle if I had stayed there. Drove by Reliant Stadium on the way over. It looks bad.
Our tower is under water, so no telling when 97.5 will be back on the air.
In the tale of the tape, I still give Alicia the edge, but Ike is a clear No. 2 in the power rankings.
Once we lost power, it was essentially KTRH on radio or KHOU simulcast on 104.
KHOU wins. They have done the best job of staying on top of the power situation and keeping us constantly updated. KTRH spent too much time interviewing public officials who offer no insight.
About halfway through the day I switched over to KHOU and never turned back. KHOU also did a great job realizing they were no longer a TV station; most people were listening on radio.
As much as I love newspapers, this is another situation where they have become completely irrelevant. No print edition until today, and the information was so far behind, it was useless. Never got to see what they did on the web, but neither did the other 4 million people who lost power. I'm sure a lot of talented people worked their butts off to do work no one will ever see.
Props to KHOU, and props to our stations for simulcasting them.
OK, a moment of silence for the Balinese Room. I won't rehash the history, but it is a sad day. Look it up on Wikipedia. A piece of history is gone. Don't know when I will update again, but we're all safe and ready to get past this and start making fun of things again.
8:30 p.m. -- Sorry, couldn't resist the Borat reference.
Getting pretty windy now, and the lights are flickering. So I don't know if I will get on to update for a while.
Brother JP is in Hitchcock and has already lost power. My mom and grandmother are in La Marque and power is in and out. Kiddos are hunkering down for a long night. We'll have fun.
The weather lizards are enjoying themselves, since this is their time to shine.
I'm a little irritated with the 12-year-old Channel 2 hottie who was showing the Hooters damage. They showed a video of the place next to it, and she said, "here is damage at another bar."
Another bar? How about the Balinese Room? Only one of the most historic places in Galveston?
The Balinese was one of the biggest illegal casinos in the U.S. in the 40s and 50s. It featured performers like Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope and George Burns.
Howard Hughes was a frequent visitor. It sits over the Gulf of Mexico. Pictures from its gambling days are everywhere, and it is part museum.
But to the idiot young reporter, it was "another bar."
4:45: So far the best part of the coverage has been the battle between Ch. 11 weather men Gene Norman and the retired Dr. Neil Frank.
They pretended to work together, but they talked over each other, and Norman kept trying to make it clear he was in charge. Plus, Norman kept insisting on showing off his dewpoint graphic. We're not interested, Gene.
Good thing Dr. Neil retired before HD TV. Ugh.
And more idiots on the beach. The waves crashing against the seawall are impressive. Twenty and thirty foot high water explosions. Come on, Ike. Suck up one of these idiots. Get the bear! Nothing would be funnier than a dude in a bear suit flailing hopelessly in the foam. This idiot almost obliged us. It now looks like Ike will go straight up Highway 45.
On a sad note, the 61st street pier might be dead. The walkway is certainly gone. I caught my first fish there. Sniff.
2 p.m.: The first official raindrop came at 1:23! The weather has gotten noticeably hotter, and the sky is menacing. No real rain yet, but you can now tell a storm is coming.
I have spent most of the day studying how each TV station and Web site has covered the storm. (KTRH has everyone beat on radio. If you are out of town, the stream is at KTRH.com).
TV wise, Ch. 11 is the clubhouse leader so far (disclaimer: we will be streaming their coverage on www.975theticket at 6 p.m. Central). But that's not why I like theirs the best; they have focused on key areas better than the other stations, and have been on top of some rescues. Ch. 2 has had better storm track projections and updates, but 11 has been the best so far. They have also had a sense of humor; they showed a clip of one of their knuckleheads getting too close to the waves hitting the seawall. He got soaked and almost sucked into the inferno. THAT would have been funny.
Web site-wise, Eric Berger destroyed everybody with his coverage up until about three days ago. Since then, my former colleagues at the Chron have been constantly behind, have not done a good job with projections, and have spent too much time pimping live chats that were difficult to follow and basically cheap attempts to be radio. There is a lot of information, but it is impossible to sort it out. There are very good people involved in that Site; the coverage so far is disappointing.
When I lose electricity, I will follow ktrh's Web site. It has immediate news flashes prominently displayed, and more pertinent information that is easier to find.
Of course, Ike has brought a lot of idiots with him. A freak in a bear suit dancing on the seawall as monster waves crash behind him. (The police closed the seawall hours ago. The only idiots who are supposed to be on it are news people). There is debris everywhere, and some of America's brightest are wondering around with their kids. In flip flops. Taking pictures.
My favorite people are the ones who refuse to leave, then as soon as the water comes up, they get rescued.
The best was a toothless lady and her children they showed on Ch. 11. She was pretty much a bad Texas stereotype. She said she would "like to leave. But I can't. Somethin' might happen to muh house. It's already floodin."
Props to the news hottie in the studio, who said, "If something happens to her house, isn't it better that she isn't in it?"
Toothless wrapped up her interview with some metaphysical musings. "Ah guess that's just the mental-ty of a Galvestonian," she said, with feeling.
OK, so maybe I was wrong about Ike. That makes me 47-1 against the weather men/women in the past 27 years. Darn. I hate losing.
I was 9-7 on my NFL picks last week. But wrong on Ike. He covered the spread. Does that make me 9-8?
I will keep everybody updated for as long as we have power. The current track puts Ike right over my head at about 4 a.m. Central on Saturday.
11 a.m. -- 13 hours from when the eye is supposed to hit land. And it is a gorgeous day. Cool, breezy, light clouds, no rain. I went for a jog along the bayou this morning. Now I am watching the weather hotties predicting Armageddon. (Actually, really starting to like the traffic hottie on Ch. 11)
But the coast is not so good. Not a drop of rain yet, and the storm surge is already flooding Galveston, La Marque and Texas City. (That is pretty much the trifecta of where my family lives). Just 40 miles away, it's getting ugly. Here? Nothing. What a strange world we live in.
There is clearly something wrong with all of us. Even those of us who have kids love videos where kids get smashed with bowling balls or something along those lines. So here are two more funny videos, courtesy of Min the Master (a cool breeze with a sick sense of humor) and Miss Dana.
I've often said poker imitates life. Fantasy football also apparently imitates life as well.
So how is my life going? Two word answer:
Tom Brady.
Superstar. Super model dater. Quarterback extraordinaire. Fantasy football god Tom Brady.
Brady was the quarterback on all of my fantasy teams. I built my entire season around him.
And unless you live in another country or don't speak English, you know by now Brady was injured early in the first game of the season and is done. For all of 2008. My fantasy teams are dead. No hope. Football season is over for me less than a half into the first game.
So if you ask me how I am doing, and I say, "uh, Tom Brady," you will know where I am coming from.
(That seems to be a common answer these days).
Since I have retired from poker and my fantasy teams are doomed, I need a new metaphor for life. Hopefully something that actually has a positive outcome, where you don't get sucked out on the river or your quarterback doesn't die...Any all suggestions are welcome.
So Virtual Val's dog, Domino, is on anti-depressants. Now, Dom is also going to daily doggie daycare because she is down.
With apologies to Val and Dom...depressed dogs? On meds? Really?
I mean, how do you know a dog is depressed? It won't fetch? It stays in its room with its doors locked and never leaves? It doesn't answer its phone when friends call? It won't date? It starts smoking, drinks too much and hides in the closet?
What does a dog have to be depressed about? They get the house to themselves most of the time. Humans cater to their every whim. We rub their bellies. Feed them. Play with them. Do everything they want. Put up with their BS.
Kind of like we do with wives.
Hmmmm...wait a minute. Dom, can I borrow some puppy Prozac?
So Ike is the latest Fear Factor hurricane headed for the coast. As you can probably tell, I am quaking in my boots. After a week of everyone putting the storm's track going straight to Houston, it suddenly has changed and will destroy Brownsville.
No loss there.
I wonder, if there is a Tina, Texas. If so, I suspect Ike will hit that pretty hard. But probably not as hard as the real Ike. (that one courtesy of Julie T)
I suspect Ike will be a bigger blowhard than Obama* (as promised, gratuitous rip job on the Democrats in the interest of fairness).
Should Ike suddenly turn back and destroy Houston, I will be the one sitting on the roof as Armageddon happens around me.
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Last blog, we looked at Sarah Palin and how she is really Damien. I am 100 percent convinced I am right about this.
Bad things have been happening to me ever since I wrote that. I lose every hand in poker. My quarterback has been killed. I am afraid, depressed and looking to poach some of Dom's meds.
It's time to fear the Palin. The devil knows I am on to her and is trying to destroy me. Bring it, Damien. I'm not afraid.
But if you back off the bad beats, I will vote for you...
Virtual Val says the posts are not funny enough these days. So we'll rely on cheap tricks. A video, some short takes, and how Damien from the Omen series has finally taken over the world...See below.
We have a new HD TV in the brand spanking new studios. HD is going to ruin the career of a LOT of hosts. You can see WAY too much of these people. Meredith Vierra might consider a career in radio. Her face has more wrinkles than the plot of the Matrix. And Dr. Phil? Brother, time for a facelift.
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The latest hurricane fear tactics made for an interesting week in H town. One of the local stations went out of its way to say, "no scare tactics, just the best coverage in Houston." That particular station INVENTED scare tactics. Each day, they have something called "The Big Story." It can be anything from a drug-related murder to a cat stuck in the tree. "Let's go to our expert on feline affairs, professor Cal Cronenberg. Dr. Cronenberg, if they can't get this cat out of the tree, how will it affect the Houston economy? More on this story as it develops..."
Gustav was a bust, but they are more than happy to warn us that Hanna, Ike and Jessica are waiting in the wings.
As I look out over a beautiful sunrise over downtown Houston from our seventh-floor window, I can't help but be scared to death of the coming storms. Not a cloud in the sky. I am sure today's "Big Story" will be the "Terror in the Atlantic."
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Congrats to brother Joe -- a frequent comment contributor -- for his new gig. Way to go, young man. Glad to see you back in the business.
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I am retired from poker again. This time, it's permanent. Really.
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A facebookamiga has written a romance novel. I am told it has a happy ending (so it will be a nice escape from real life). You can order it at www.xlibris.com/PromisetoLoveMe.html
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I'm not very political. When I saw the Yahoo headline, "McCain surprises with Palin pick for VP," I thought, "Michael Palin? But isn't he English? GREAT choice. That dude is hilarious!"
Sadly, it was not Michael Palin (note to the uninformed -- Michael Palin was part of the Monty Python crew. He is freaking funny).
Does anyone else think Sarah Palin has some deep, dark secret that will come out two days before the election? And I don't mean a pregnant daughter. I mean, some truly wild, weird, bestiality type, devil-worshipping thing.
She has that look of purity masked by hidden evil. And not the good kind of Freddy evil.
Doesn't she look like the female Damien from the Omen series?
Somehow, I suspect if McCain wins, he suffers a fatal heart attack three days later. And Lady Damien will take over, and the devil will run the universe.
Oh, wait, that already happened with the Bush family. Never mind...**
**-Political disclaimer: I promise to make fun of Obama in the next post in the interest of balance.
Fred Faour is a lot of things: Radio host. Fiction writer. Columnist. Media expert. Sports lover. He co-hosts The Blitz on ESPN 97.5 in Houston Monday-Friday from 4-7 p.m. with A.J. Hoffman. Faour is a former sports editor of the Houston Chronicle, TV host, Internet business owner and freelance writer. His views do not necessarily reflect those of any human being.
(OK, my apologies, Babu)
