Thursday, April 30, 2009

Celebrity Farts

Angelina Jolie: Thhhhhhhit thit. thit-thit-thit-thit-thit

Hugh Jackman: Frut. Froof! Froughhhh…

Madonna: Myiph. Myiiiiiiiiiiiiph. Myip myip rriphirriphliphiphloop.

Mick Jagger: PHlubbblebleblebleugh! PHHHLough.

Bill Gates: Thhhhhhhhhyeeeeeee…eeeeee…

Phillip Seymour Hoffman: Hrough. Phlough. Phloophlough. PHLOPH!

Mike Tyson: Hubbleghough! Phrrrroooghlegouph! Phhhhhhyough!

Bob Dylan: THIZiizzzith… …thzzzziithisss…ssss…

Sean Connery: MPHRROOOT! MPHROP opop op op OP! MPHROOOOMPH!

Brittany Spears: Puph uph uph. Pwwimph!

Barak Obama: Phooooo… …ooph.

Michell Obama: PuphROOPH! PHruphruphrup.

Malia Obama: Phwiph. Phwiph. Phwiphwiphwpiph.

Sasha Obama: PHWAPH! Ha ha ha! PHOMPH! HA HA HA! PHOOPH! HAHA HA HAHA HA HAHA HA HAHAHA HAHA HA HAHA HA HAHA HA!

--Dan Kilian


Author’s note I: This was a lot funnier spoken. Try reading it aloud.

Author’s note II: I put a lot of thought into this. Hope you appreciate it.

Author’s note III: While I doubt they or anyone near them would read this, I would like to apologize to the First Lady and Malia, who I imagine would be shy about her natural gasses, but felt they should be included so we could get to Sasha, so we could get some closure on this exercise. I would like to think Sasha can still laugh at her farts.


Lincoln

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Birthday Cake Balloon

I bought you a birthday cake balloon. 

The fire lifted us high above the hillside, its many candles roaring into the mouth of the swollen canvas. We looked down on our domain. Disneyland castles and parades of parades. Banners streamed into sailboats on oceans the size of puddles, sunlight splashing in them all. Angels and Valkyries battled in the clouds, spinning in the sugar.

Then our feet cracked through the stale shell of the icing, and we sank into the soft chocolate. So comforting, the cushy softness and the release of the rich chocolate smell, before the realization. The ropes (really just rubber bands from party hats) pulled free and snapped, making music in the air as it all fell apart.

A gentle “fruff” signaled the tearing apart of our little airboat, as the beautiful confection’s disc became ragged chunks, brown spongy meteors. I reached for a handful of the stuff as we fell, at first in a desperate attempt to secure purchase, and then just for the sake of the handful.

We tore through the air, cake and sugar caught in the airstreams above us. The heavenly warriors dissipated into mist; no one would catch us but the ground. I made my final efforts in the fall an attempt to steer my body towards you. Closer, closer, sweet handfuls of cake stretched out to offer you.

--Dan Kilian
Charlotte Rampling
Sandwiches

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Ways to Avoid Swine Flu

With the swine flu outbreak reaching pandemicamonium, it's time to start freaking out. How are you going to stay uninfected? Who is a secret carrier, just waiting to infect you? Is it Endtimes, again? The answer to all these questions is yes. Now here are some tips to get you through this global pandemicalypse.
*
Wash your hands.
*
Washing your hands is the best weapon in the war against swine flu. You might say, isn’t a handgun or a knife more of a “weapon” than an act of hygiene? Well, there are tales from ancient China of martial artists who used a ritualistic hand washing technique which could kill ten men in a single washing. Of course, we’re trying to save lives, not end them. So just focus on washing your hands, repeatedly, several times an hour, until they are chaffed and bleeding. And yeah, you’d better get a gun or knife too.

Beware of strangers.

The best way to avoid getting a disease from another person is to avoid other people. Hole up in your apartment or home. Order in food, but don’t open the door; shove the money through the mail slot. Develop strange conspiracy theories. Start talking to yourself. Assemble explosive devices.

Don’t have sex with actual swine.

We don’t want to blame the poor pigs for everything (birds and people are involved in the creation of this pathogen, so it had to be a pretty freaky genesis.) but this is just common sense advice. Why risk it? Interestingly enough, health officials (There are two of them at the federal level, two highly stressed low level clerks.) say it’s fine to eat cooked pork. As a precaution, however, don’t have sex with a pork chop.

Befriend some corny psychics.

You will need to have these people on your side, as you prepare for The Battle. You’ll all start to feel each others's exposition and you’ll hear each other’s thoughts in italics. If you all have visions of a sweet old woman rocking on her porch, you’re the forces of good. If it’s a dark scary man with horns on his head, well, you figure it out. It’ll go on far too long building to an anticlimax and the epilogue will be long and tedious too.

No one shall be spared.


Remember, even if you elude the flu or shake off its symptoms, something else is coming. You might die with lungs full of phlegm, or in a violent crash. Puncture, disease or nuclear fire, something will disrupt your body’s systems, and it’s functions shall cease. Then either judgment or oblivion awaits you. Are you prepared? If not, look out for an upcoming post: Shufflin’ Off! Six Ways To Prepare Your Mortal Coil For The Big D!

Did I mention washing your hands?


Yep, I did. Looks like we’re done!
--Dan Kilian
---------------------------------------------- Modern Day Pirates
---------------------------------------------- Reasons to Hope

Monday, April 27, 2009

Environmental Anniversary Proposal: Day-After-Earthday

As “Fat Tuesday” provides a feast before Lent, “Day-After-Earthday” will provide a much-needed binge of environmentally hazardous behavior after Earthday. The environmentally minded will make a pilgrimage in SUVs (one to a car, please) tossing a stream of litter on the highways as they make their way to the beach, where they shall hunt dolphins, bludgeoning them to death with empty plastic water bottles that they do not refill.

After that it’s time to shop at the mall (Don’t forget to get a plastic bag for that purchase!) and have dinner at the drive through parking lot with the motor running. Then a typical Day-After-Earthday Celebrant might wind down the night reading a good book by a non-florescent light bulb. Just before bed, the new tradition will be to kill a panda.

Indulging in this way will be crucial to the Green Movement. For how will people ever become environmentally conscious if they aren’t plagued by monstrous guilt? Of course, there is the chance that people will acquire a taste for this destructive behavior, and therefore doom our planet. That’s okay too. Because if our appetites destroy our world, EVERY day will be Day-After-Earth Day!

--Dan Kilian

Bed Stuy Meadow
Good Vs. Evil

Sunday, April 26, 2009

The Last Reality Show

Of course, the GenBoom phenomenon started on reality television, (specifically on the Elle Fanning vehicle Money Sex & Bugs) it quickly took on a momentum of it’s own. Reality shows (The time of reality television already a thing of the past, though the term TV was still thrown about loosely about anything seen on a screen.) started featuring Gen Boom moments as a regular staple, but once shows were developed that proved that pure GenBoom material could sustain a greater audience, the days for Reality programming were numbered.

Everyone knows that the former martial artist Wang Kar Wei was the first person to shoot his genitals off on a major program (Though there had been reports of this sort of entertainment as part of the Far-East sex tours.), but it is hard to imagine today how shocking this was at the time. Once his act was echoed in frequent and more explosive imitations, it quickly became commonplace.
As biotech caught up with entertainment, performers were able to replace their genitals with the new supergrafts, allowing for repeat performances. Thus an old form of entertainer was reintroduced: The Eunuch.

The fall of the reality shows, once so popular and violent that the surviving nation states and international consortium had to coordinate their wars with the reality programmers, was sudden and dramatic. Consolidation was the only answer. Consolidation and cannibalism.

Fighting for market share led to physical attack, as fan-soldiers invaded sound-stages and location sites, holding mass executions as the proceedings were filmed by both the conquerors and the conquered. Survivors were drafted into the remaining shows as slaves. Distinctions between formats quickly became meaningless, as the combat related shows took over all else. Aspects of the other types of competition, especially sex and cooking, retained a prominence in the new shows. The Eunuchs were spared due to their popularity and relative rareness (even today, it takes a certain type of person to destroy their genitals.) though they were still fleeing reality programming for the GenBoom shows in droves.

Finally, in a bow to, well, reality, the final show to conquor all others, originally titled Live With This! was changed to Reality. Having taken out all the other shows, the final conflict arose between the armies of Gerry “The Viking” ├ľordst and Chef Hannibal Dankmar. Each program featured a cavalcade of genital explosions, executions and a new recipe from each of the principals.

The Viking ├ľordst’s trademark move was to plunge his fingers into the orifices of an opponent’s face as though they were the holes of a bowling ball, tearing either the face or the entire head from the body. Chef Dankmar could slit a victim’s throat, clean the knife and fine dice an onion in under thirteen seconds. Of course most of the actual fighting took place amongst the fan base, but show executions drove that mass violence. Most independent critic’s felt The Chef’s elaborately brocaded aprons bested The Viking’s costume Nordic gear, but independent criticism didn’t exist in reality programming.

Both players and their advisers spent much documented time seeking nuclear weapons, but after the loss of Madrid on the final episode of El Blammo, the nation states, international consortium and the league of Eunuchs had fashioned a successful containment of the world’s nuclear arsenal. So conventional warfare, sex and cooking had to do.

Eventually it became clear, even through the filter of reality programming news, that The Viking was dominating the fields of war, and that the Chef had been forced into a guerrilla resistance. This stalemate affected market shares detrimentally, and Reality, and the wars it continues to spawn, has been pushed to the back burner.

There The Viking and The Chef (and any lucky usurpers who might assassinate them) wait for the GenBoom mania to fade. They retain the manpower, armaments, porn stars and recipes to have a devastating impact on the world stage. They just lack the ratings.

--Dan Kilian

Star Trek Cooking Show
From Space To Destroy

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Chris Tucker on Jackie Chan

Defending Jackie
By Chris Tucker

It’s time for me to stand up for a friend. Jackie Chan, my good friend and co-star in the Rush Hour series of movies (We have made twelve of these films together, having released five in the West to date.) has drawn criticism for statements that imply or directly say that "the Chinese people need to be controlled."

Now first off, this is a good man with a good heart. He has entertained millions and is a true innovator in martial arts cinema. He is not a politician. To take this beloved figure and tarnish with political cheap shots does not show the appreciation this artist deserves.

Even if Jackie wasn’t taken out of context, or misunderstood (The guy’s gotten better, but he’s not the world’s greatest English language speaker.) let’s consider what he is reported to have said. "I'm gradually beginning to feel that we Chinese need to be controlled. If we're not being controlled, we'll just do what we want." Now this isn’t the American way, but it sure as hell is the Chinese way. He’s just saying what is the popular point of view in his adopted home country. You might not hear it so crudely from any of the popular Chinese leadership, but China’s most likely going to stay pretty highly controlled, and they’re calling the shots these days, freedom or no.

So even if people disagree with what my man Jackie said, you have to defend his right to hold a point of view. THAT’s freedom. If everyone had the same point of view, none our supposed freedom would mean diddley. We have to tolerate a wide range of ideas.

For instance, some might find it odd that I, as a black man, feel that slavery was good for black people. It might have been a tough transition, but it brought us to America, and now we’re the coolest people in the world. We brought the world the Blues, Jazz, Rock and Hip Hop, which we wouldn’t have done than banging on a bongo. Would I be starring in movies today if I’d grown up in Africa? Doesn’t Rush Hour I-XII mean slavery was worth it? I know it was for me.

So don’t deride a man just because he believes something different than you. Celebrate the differences! That’s what America’s about, and if that’s not what China’s about, don’t live there, unless you have to. Leave my man Jackie alone!

--Chris Tucker as posted by Dan Kilian
----------------------------------------------- Bob Dylan's Point of View
----------------------------------------------- Remember Bobby Jindal?

Friday, April 24, 2009

The Billion Dollar Omelet Part II

Secretary Ahmat Burkai Anumi the Minister of Tourism Development of the Government of The Republic of Chad sat in chair next to a desk in a tiny office at the Ministry. There was a shelf filled with paperwork and a large poster reading, in English, "Chad, a world away from the world!" His handler stood at his side and there were two other empty chairs. On the desk was a briefcase of money. That was not an altogether unfamiliar situation for Mr. Anumi; what was odd was that the money was not for him.

Two gentlemen were escorted in. One was tall, pale, with receding hair cut to a stubble. The other was a small stooped, gnomish man with wire-rimmed glasses and a thick white beard. The small man was carrying a briefcase.

"Professor Chimes?"

"Yes. This is my associate, Mr. Vespers. Mr. Vespers, Mr. Anumi."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Vespers."

Mr. Vespers had a very smooth face; it certainly did not look as though it had been lined by too many smiles. He did not attempt one now. "Pleased to see you alive, Secretary Anumi. There have been...counteroffers. I feared for your life, as well as ours. Our price has gone up."

"So you are negotiating for the both of you?"

Professor Chimes winced. "Mr. Vespers and I have become full partners in this venture."

"Very well. I have anticipated the increase. I heard about your exploits."

Mr. Vespers squinted at Anumi. "Word does get around."

"Here is your money."

Chimes gently placed his suitcase on the desk. "Here is your product."

Vespers opened the briefcase of money, scanned the stacks of bills. "We of course have duplicate DNA kept with another associate. If we disappear or have any trouble leaving the country, it goes to some very interested parties who would like to produce the product on the Black Market."

"It cannot be so easy to grow them?"

"Easier than you think."

With that, the transaction was accomplished. Vespers and Chimes were excorted to the lobby, where eleven masked men carrying rifles were shooting a number of Ministry of Tourism Development security guards.

Gunplay ensued...
--Dan Kilian
--------------------------------------------- Part I
--------------------------------------------- Mr. Bingles

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Dialogue: Ford’s Ghost and Obama

You need help?

Are you…ah…John Adams?

No! I’m Gerald Ford!

Oh…ah…yes.

I presided over the darkest period in our nation’s history!

Worse than…

The darkest period!

Yes, ah…much appreciated. I keep trying to get Lincoln or…ah…FDR?

You’ve got issues with these torture memos? Clandestine skullduggery that goes up to the top?

Yes. I’m trying to…ah…move forward but…um…

Pardon ‘em!

Yes?

Regardless of consequences! Our long national nightmare must end! Whatever the political cost!

Actually, I think it might help me politically to just…ah…look the other way. You see, since 9-11…civil liberties haven’t been very…

Even if it costs you an election! The greatest presidents were the ones who lost elections on principal!

Barack! You talking to Ford?

Is that you, Dickie?

Hello, President…um…Nixon. Didn’t expect to…see you…so soon!

Have you instituted Wage and Price Controls yet?

I’m…working on it.

You’ll have to pardon Dick’s pushiness, President Obama. Get it? Pardon?

Yeah Gerry, it’s goddamn hilarious. Wage and Price controls!

Why do you get to come along with …ah…Ford?

We have an agreement!

No we don’t Dickie! On last thing, Mr. President.

Yes?

Look out for Chevy Chase. He can destroy you.

--Dan Kilian

----------------------------------------- Nixon
----------------------------------------- Bono Op-Ed

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Last Trip To the Well

He threw a penny into the well and he got his wish. So he threw a dollar in and he lost a dollar. So he threw another penny in and wished for his dollar back. He ended up with 98 cents because his wish was worthless.

His investors fled and layoff’s seemed inevitable. He set up a stand outside the well and began selling wishes. His customers made much more lucrative wishes than he did, and the currency inflated, and his money didn’t go far enough. He should have stuck with wishing for himself.

Several children fell in the well and had to be rescued, or not. Eventually the bodies piled up so that pennies couldn’t make it all the way down and the wishes stopped working. Overwhelmed with lawsuits and debt, he dynamited the well and filled the hole in with concrete.

He built a Gazebo on the spot, but his workmanship was shoddy. When it rained, the Gazebo would puddle up on it’s east side, and it warped and grew ugly.

Sometimes he threw a penny into the puddle, but nothing.

--Dan Kilian
--------------------------------------------- Squirrels
--------------------------------------------- Cardinals Lose Super Bowl

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

New Stoner Day

My Proposition for a New Stoner Anniversary
By Stuart "Stu" Morrison

So like, everyone knows by now that April 20th is a special day for those of us who like the weed. If you don't know, now you do. It's callled 420. At 4:20 p.m. on April 20th, everyone sneaks out of work or whatever they're doing and has a toke! It's rad.

So now I'm proposing a NEW Stoner day. 421. At 4:21 on April 21st, everyone who didn't quite get it together for 420 has a rain date. I mean, you can be a little late on 420, as long as you adhere to the spirit, but let's face it, if it's after 5 and you still haven't toked, at that point you're just smoking. It's a lot of pressure.

There are a lot of reasons someone might not get it together for 420. Let's say lunch took a little longer to prepare and then you've got to eat it and then there are those dishes, and say you start to pick them up but then you've got to go to the bathroom, so now the dish is in the bathroom and you get back to the table, and you remember that you have to go back for that dish. Or maybe there's something really cool on the TV, and when the commercial break comes you forget to step outside, and switch channels instead. It can be a little overwhelming!

So don't stress, just spread the word about this new day and time. Today's the day, and I've got a little bit of make-up to do. Once I post this blog...

Okay, I've got TWO special days to promote. Let's remember 421 next year, and 422 tomorrow. April's only got 31 days, so let's try to get it together this week!

--Stu Morrison reprinted by Dan Kilian
------------------------------------ Russians in a Capsule
------------------------------------ Music Equipment

Monday, April 20, 2009

New York Times Op-Ed By Bono

I AM in downtown Manhattan, where the homeless still rant incoherently like a Jazz singer scatting, and dog droppings and vomit splatter the sidewalk like some epic Jackson Pollack painting. I am a long way from the warm breeze of voices I heard a week and a day ago on Easter Sunday. That’s right, I’m writing about Easter a week after the fact. I’d have gotten it in earlier but I gave up writing Op-Eds for Lent.

Ah Easter! Island women sang in a cut sandstone church in a riot of color, an emotional swell that carried me to sea. I was like, what am I doing at sea? I was in this church! I guess those island women were casting some sort of Voo Doo spell on me. Christianity, Voo Doo, sometimes soul music comes from chicken blood. So I accepted the fact that I was at sea and I started surfing, because I can do that too. From Servitude to Surfer dude. Surfing — rock stars are good at that. “Serf” is a peasant. “-ing” is a suffix. Which rhymes with crucifix. That’s a point. The cross as crossroads. That’s another.

Canival is over. I’ve been to many cool and hip celebrations, many carnivals. Brazilians do it best. You can’t help but contract the life force. Somehow I’ve left Manhattan for South America. Such is the amazing life of a Rock Star.

Easter is a transcendent moment for me. While having yourself professionally crucified every Good Friday is an indulgence few can afford, I highly recommend you try it at least once in your life. After I die and rise again, I’m able to levitate for a few hours, and I drift over the desserts of Africa, dropping food to hungry African children.

Did I mention my Dad died a few years ago? Still working it out. I guess I’ve got a lot of things on my mind. Thought I’d share them all in the form of an Op-Ed.

Christians believe a lot of crazy stuff. Whatever your religious or nonreligious views, you should really check out U2’s new album. I check my emotional life with music, my intellectual life with writing brilliant impressionistic essays, but religion is where I soul-search. Kind of appropriate, really. I go out to restaurants when I’m hungry. Again, totally appropriate.

Carnival is over. Commerce has been overheating markets and climates... the sooty skies of the industrial revolution now melt ice caps and make the seas boil. I’m pretty sure something’s going on with frogs and locusts too, and I got a boil the other day. That’s what my people call pimples. A pimple! Me, at my age! I still feel the pain and vitality of a teenager!

Lent is upon us whether we asked for it or not. Oh wait, Easter was last week; Lent is totally over. Really should have written this thing in advance. But redemption is not just a spiritual term, it’s an economic concept. While redemption doesn’t really mean this, I think we need debt cancellation for our poorer nations. It’s a concept inspired by the Jewish concept of Jubilee. Mm-hmm, I’m Jewish too. How else would I get my stream of consciousness ramblings published in the New York Times?

I read recently that Americans are taking up public service in greater numbers because they are short on money to give. In the roughest of times, people show who they are. Your soul. Dig it. It’s not grammatically or even philosophically correct, but that’s part of the paradox of the crucifox. I’m writing a children’s book called Colin the Crucifox, a cross-shaped animal that brings food to starving African children. Should be coming out in September.

Strangely and randomly, as we file out of the small stone church into the cruel sun, I think of Warren Buffett, Nelson Mandela and Bill Gates, rich guys like me who fight poverty. Agnostics all, I believe. Not all soul music comes from the church.

That's right, I’m an atheist too! Rock Stars contain multitudes! Happy Easter!

Bono, the lead singer of the band U2 and a co-founder of the advocacy group ONE, is a contributing columnist for The Times and a totally great person and a Rock Star.

--cut and pasted from The New York Times by Dan Kilian
---------------------------------------- The Original Op-Ed
---------------------------------------- Advice For Obama

Sunday, April 19, 2009

The Billion Dollar Omelet

On the run from gunpowder snorting child soldiers in Chad, Mr. Vespers and Dr.Chimes caught a moment of reprieve. Some nomads camped out at an oasis offered protection. Dr. Chimes was finally able to do an inventory of their parcel. Mr. Vespers was able to clean his guns.

Dr. Chimes looked up from the makeshift lab he'd assembled on a blanket. "The DNA appears to be uncorrupted."

"Only thing in this country that is."

"But our situation is precarious."

The word had gotten out and antagonists within the Chad Ministry of Tourism were vying for the eventual payoff. If Westerners paid good money to see elephants...

"We don't know if the Nomads will keep these Kotokos from killing us."

"We're alive now."

"Now. Tonight? We don't know. I propose we don't keep our eggs in one basket."

"You want to split up?"

"Hell no! I need your protection, Vespers. You're the only reason I'm still alive. But I noticed that some dwarf crocodiles have laid a cache of eggs down by the water. I could extract some of the DNA..."

"You're not seriously..."

"It's quite possible our valuable commodity could be destroyed in the days ahead, or we may have to bargain with it for our lives. If we can temporarily store some in a natural storage device, we could recoup our possible losses."

"Or make a billion dollar omelet."

"Joke if you want, but it's sitting in a very fragile beaker right now, and if we could grow some more..."

"You want to let the genie out of the bottle."

"I don't want to kill the last Genie."

"Okay, you've got a point."

Dr. Chimes went down to the pond with a microscope and a collection of syringes.

The next morning at dawn, the Kotoko Boys attacked and killed all the Nomads. Dr. Chimes and Mr. Vespers had already fled, on some horses they'd bought for a gun. Now they had fifty days to unload their parcel, and return to the oasis, before the first T-rex in 65 million years was born...

--Dan Kilian
----------------------------------------------------- Dawn of Language
----------------------------------------------------- Godzilla's Ghost

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Just The Same Way She Loves You

“The kid’s got pipes!”

Herbert was ebullient. Rolie wasn’t so sure. “There’s something not blending.” he muttered. Perry didn’t blend with anything. He was blasting away like a trumpet. He was supposed be singing back up vocals, but he was taking over.

“Just the same way you love me!” Trumpet. We need saxaphones.

“What are you talking about? The kid’s gold!” Yeah, and he’s got a good manager.

Perry came out of the session all sweaty and fake shy. “Should I pull it back? Is it too much?”

“No no. No. It’s just, as a response, people are gonna know it’s you.”

Herbert laughed. “They’ll know it’s you before Fleischman does.” Fleischman was the other singer they’d brought in to pop things up. He’d kept his own manager. Rolie liked Fleischman, but here they were cutting tracks behind his back. So was he the singer, or what was the deal with Perry? Herbert put his arm around Perry. “It’s like when Michael McDonald sings with Steely Dan. Only in a higher register. And better.”

“I just want it to blend.”

“So I should pull it back? I can.”

“No. No. Like I said. No, what if, instead of saying ‘just the same way you love me’ you say ‘just the same way she loves you.’ Kind of a call and response.”

“So I’m singing about you, not…not myself.”

“Right! There’s definitely two different voices. It’s like you’re a character, commenting.”

“Right. You’re the lover, and I’m like…his friend.”

“Yeah, I think that’ll give it a bit more of the dynamic. You get to be your own voice. I think it raises your profile in the song a little.”

“Yeah let’s try it.”

Perry went in and sung his part in the third person. Nailed it in three takes. There were drinks and celebration.

During mixdown, Baker, the engineer, noticed the flubbed line. “He says ‘That’s the same way you love me’ that time. Should we set up a session for him to punch it in?”

Rolie sprawled out on the couch. Schon was half passed out in another chair. They’d been mixing for hours.

“Or I could probably splice one in from one of the other takes.”

“Naw. Leave it. It’s…I don’t know. Organic.”

“But he’s not the friend. He’s the lover. He’s screwing your girl, man!”

“Well, let him be the singer. Kid’s got pipes. Let him screw the chick for a line.”

“Okay.”

And that’s how Rolie became the keyboardist. Stuck it out til 1980. It was a gig.

--Dan Kilian
--------------------------------------------- Beatles Guitar Band
--------------------------------------------- The Human Fly

Friday, April 17, 2009

The Facts About Modern Day Pirates

Pirates are once again in the news. What, you thought pirates were a phenomenon of the 17th Century? What do you live under a rock? Seriously, don’t you watch the news? Somali pirates, hijacking boats, sharpshooters, that captain with the beard? Nothing? Well then you need to know about MODERN DAY PIRATES!

Even if you know about Somali pirates you might be wondering how wild lawless men can take to the high seas and challenge the right of world powers to overseas commerce. Here is a breakdown of how the pirates do it.

Start with a failed state.


Somalia is what is known a failed state. Every four years, third world nations take what is known as The National Exam, and the pressure can be great. Test scores can determine whether a country can get into the College of Nations or whether they will end up working in the local factory, just like dad. If a nation fails, chaos breaks out, and warlords roam the land, seizing power. It sounds pretty cool but it’s not. In this state of lawlessness and poverty, desperate young men will seize whatever opportunity they can grasp to gain a higher station in life. Since the state is cramming for a make-up test, there are many ports that pirates can slip in and out of to conduct their raids with impunity. Note: If you’re in a landlocked failed nation, such as Zimbabwe, it will still be difficult to become a pirate of the seas. Go for one with a coastline.

Get a boat.

Some young toughs steal a small rowboat or motorboat to start on their journey of seaboard larceny. Some might fashion a small raft together by roping together discarded automobile parts. Once such a creation sinks into the water, these would be pirates probably go back to the idea of stealing a seaworthy craft.

Trade up.

Modern day pirates use their small boats to quickly attack a larger vessel, perhaps a speedboat. Then they move on to successively larger boats, like yachts, cruise ships and cargo ships. With each new boat, the older boat is sold to pay off the original investors. Their profits inspire more investors, and the pyramid continues to grow. Of course, this is an unstable financial model.

Steal stuff, kidnap people.

Also, kidnap stuff and steal people. I think I’m obligated at this time to mention Blackbeard, Captain Hook and of course, Captain Jack Sparrow. Boy did that movie suck in the sequels. It was kind of like the Matrix that way. Which is an interesting segue because the next step of being a modern day pirate is…

Nerf the Matrix

Nerf the Matrix baby! Okay, I’m starting to run out of things to say about modern day pirates. Umm…Al Qaeda. They’re gonna go pirate next. Someone said that. Probably just making stuff up, since it’s not like Al Qaeda’s talking to them about their future plans. Weren’t they going to start shooting people when that Washington sniper was killing people? Remember the Washington sniper? It was really a couple of dudes, older guy and a younger guy. I heard that black people don’t like the word dude, probably because you only seem to say it about black people, and these guys were black. An insidious thing, racism. Which brings us back to…Nerf the Matrix, baby!

Nerf the Matrix

That’s right, I said it again! Nerf the Matrix gets two blurbs! I mean, you can’t really put “dude” in there with other racist terms, but there it is, kind of bringing racism back. Kind of interesting how the Washington sniper was a black guy, and the usual profile for those serial killers is that it’s a white guy. One more barrier broken. One more person Obama didn’t thank. Bo the dog is super cute! Nerf the Matrix and a bottle of rum!

Yo ho!

--Dan Kilian
------------------------------ Doucherad's and Obama
------------------------------ AIG

Quickleaf

The messenger paced around the tavern’s dining hall with the nervous energy of quickleaf. He ignored the steaming bowls of partridge stew and fresh bread even though he’d been on the march for seven days and hadn’t eaten in three. He had been too long on the circular path, and now only hungered for more leaf.

No doubt he had been one of the regiment’s finer officers to have been entrusted with the scroll that he’d carried. Now, though, he would need to be tied to a bedframe and doused with soured wine until the leaf-fever left him. After that he would sleep for days, and on waking would be dulled in body and mind. Some never walked again, and some were left drooling imbeciles. A man – an officer – such as this would have known that this fate could lay in store for him. And still he had measured out and brewed himself the dose, knowing the value of his sacrifice.

The prince fed the scroll into the brazier that stood on the table. He gestured at the messenger and said to his captain, “Have him hanged.”

The finely inked letters faded into the blackening parchment before turning to ash.
--Steve Kilian
------------------------------------- Sun O)))
------------------------------------- Shamecon

Thursday, April 16, 2009

James Bond's Bad Day

He lost at blackjack. Also, he wasn't a spy. He was a telemarketer. What the bleedin' 'ell? What what? 'e's a cockney!

He saw a beautiful woman at the bar. He ordered a drink.

"Three pounds? A bit much eh? A 'igh figure, what what! I much prefer your figure 'oney."

"Piss off!"

"What what?"

What had happened? Why was he losing at cards? Why wasn't he pulling the ladies? And why, for the love of God, wasn't he an international spy? And what had happened to Spectre? It was all Arab terrorists and Pirates.

"Stupid Pakis."

"Racist pig!"

"Fuck off, ya bloody Paki lover!"

"Fuck you."

"I'll have a Vesper. Shaken not stirred." He paid for the drink and took a sip. Nasty. Back to pints after this.

He worked his James Bond magic on a few more of the ladies with the same result. Ended up chatting with some old drunks at the bar. Must be under deep cover.

He got thrown out of the bar for fighting. At least he still knew his martial arts.

He staggered home. Threw up.

--Dan Kilian

Michael J. Fox's Bad Day
The Beatuls

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

The Magic Banjo

He left to play the banjo, but he came back a fiddler. 

There was dust on the magic banjo, which never seemed to leave its hanging post on the wall (“The Wall of Sounds,” he called it), but he was scored with tiny bite marks, so we wondered. He played the fiddle like it was magic too, but Cassandra the slave girl witch said it was plain. He was just damn good, bringing an off-kilter virtuosity to all our playing. 

One night we had a go with “St. Finnegan’s Reel,” a difficult number in any circumstances, and we were all mad drunk. Suddenly, our prodigal put down his fiddle. “I know JUST what this song needs,” he cried, tearing the banjo off the wall. A string of notes rolled out, fast, angry, high and haunting, that did make our version of “St. Finnegan’s” just perfect. And the banjo neck again turned into a snake, and he was bitten repeatedly, and he wailed and fell to the floor, and it was piteous to see.

When he recovered, he was still holding the banjo, but he could not speak or sing. He plucked a slow waltz, and then he waltzed on out of town. We all listened to that final song, instinctively grabbing hold of our children, who longed to march after him, and some did follow him, never to be seen again, as they paraded into the forest of serpents.

--Dan Kilian
 The Tragic Tale of Ms. Grise
 The Blue Lion

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Steve's Video and Pat's Video

Steve:

In my video it would be me and Danny Trejo cutting up corpses in a clawfoot tub.

First I’d explain how me and my boy had to kill these motherfuckers because in our drunken stoned state we imagined that we’d been insulted and that shit can’t stand. So we stabbed these motherfuckers to bloody-ass death and now we have to dispose of the bodies, hence the chopping and sawing and whatnot.

Of course Danny Trejo wants me to do all the work so I call him a bitch and say to do everything. He takes a swing at me as I croon, “Do all of that work, motherfuckaaaah.” I slash him on the forehead with a straight razor and then punch him a few times and he hits his head on the edge of the tub.

He is stunned, and I rape him in the ass “just to remind you to keep that shit in check, motherfuckaaaaah.” I continue with the chopping and Danny wakes up, puts a finger in his ass and pulls it out covered in shit, blood, and my jizz.

“Ah shit you didn’t have to punk me out like that, Steeeeeve.”

“Yeah I had to Danny, you’d have done the same to meeeeeee. But let’s not be all pissed off, help me saw through this kneeeeeee.”

And so we continue until the bodies are all hacked up nice and small.

Pat:

My video has got me and Kanye, he's singing with that 1995 Cher electronic voice distortion he's been using so much.

We're going over these old files and films of the failed Iranian embassy hostage rescue from the 70's (Blame it on the sa-a-a-andstorm...). We're arguing, upset over something.

Cut to us on the rifle range, taking out targets half a mile away. Our fine-ass, big-titty commanding officer comes over, yelling at us. The targets are moved back another half mile, but it ain't no thang. We're hitting shit a mile away. She smiles, takes off her cap and her long, jet black hair spills out.

Finally, we jump out of a plane and parachute onto a Navy Cruiser. We flip the caps on our scopes and take aim. Only instead of pirates, we take out 3 broke-ass hater MCs. I dive into the rough seas and swim over to the lifeboat then climb aboard. I kick open the door and disappear into the cabin, but wait! One of the punks is still alive. Plut! Kanyes bullet rips through his throat.

As the sun begins to rise I emerge from the boat carrying an old man, maybe he looks a little like Allen Dershowitz, and he's wearing a white t-shirt that says "Truth".

--Steve Kilian
--Pat McNulty
---------------------- Loadhammer
---------------------- Misogynist Backup Singer Murder Story

Monday, April 13, 2009

Capsule


Crew In Moscow To Simulate Part of a Flight to Mars

MOSCOW — On Tuesday, six people will be voluntarily locked into a cloister of cramped, hermetically sealed tubes woven inside a Moscow research facility the size of a high school gymnasium. They will eat dehydrated food, breathe recycled air and be denied conversation with practically everyone else but one another...In a small step in the direction of Mars, the international crew is embarking on a simulated flight to the planet to test the limits of human tolerance for the isolation and monotony of interplanetary travel.

Mars Transit Simulation Mission, Day 437, Commander Hastings log entry:

All tech systems within operational parameters. Comms silence does not appear to be a fault on this end. All comms systems check to pass condition, again. Spill in agricultural experiment pod was contained and cleared, no loss of soil.

Mission Specialist Stephenson is showing further signs of breakdown. Dr. Cavarella has prescribed higher doses of sedatives but it does not appear that Stephenson is taking them. Stephenson insists that we violate mission protocol and leave the capsules. She states that comms silence indicates something wrong Earthside. Captain Andrews confiscated electronics from her sleeping bay; evidently she was making a radio transceiver to circumvent mission guidelines. Will monitor.

***

Mars Transit Simulation Mission, Day 437, Captain Andrews log entry:

So close now: Mars. Around us the vacuum pulls and these thin walls creak and pop as we roll through light and dark, tumbling, blind. Comms are out. Of course they are – there’s nothing out there. No Earth, no Sun, no Simulation – it has all collapsed into the surface of the wood-grain paneling. And Mars, of course. There has always been this ship and Mars, falling together. I can read my thumbprint in the whorls of Siberian pine, greatly enlarged and only slightly distorted.

Today I scratched the finish with my thumbnail. When I got close enough I could hear the air hissing out, and see the light pulse as the ship rotated. Not sunlight, of course. There is no Sun. This light was red. It was Marslight. Later the gouge was gone. The ship had healed. I checked my skin and sure enough there was a scar behind on my left bicep that I hadn’t noticed before. We are getting closer.

Stephenson has gone completely insane. She was building a bomb. Hastings is on to her, but won’t do anything. Cavarella is pushing sugar pills and posting reports to “Earthside.” Ridiculous.

***

Group Isolation Human Factors Experiment 2012-03-B, Day 437, report of in-situ observer Dr. Simone Cavarella, Ph.D., M.D.Pharm.:

Interesting developments today. Cessation of pre-recorded communications from outside of the test environs has sped up subjects’ adoption and incorporation of the “Mars trip simulation” into their personal narratives. Wendy Stephenson is expressing urgent desires to contact the outside and is ready to violate the terms of her contract. This confirms psych profile indicators that she would not be a viable “mission candidate”; that she has forgotten the original parameters of the experiment is further verification of the Slomsky-Jensson model. James Hastings has become fully immersed in the Commander role, and shows no recollection of the initial experiment. Ronald Andrews (“Mission Captain”), on the other hand, remains well adjusted and lucid, apparently fully aware that the Mars trip simulation is a merely a role-playing exercise, part of a larger controlled study. Recommend assigning candidates who match Andrews’ profile to long-term work.

As per experiment guidelines, all psychoactive medication distributed remains placebo.

***

Group Isolation Human Factors Experiment 2012-03-B, Day 437, external monitoring group report, filed by Dr. Faraj Kinsella-Perkins:

Cavarella continues to perpetuate role in log entries as if part of the monitoring group and not herself a test subject. Mild psychoactives contained within the "placebo" pills have pushed Stephenson to an extreme state of panic, fear and paranoia. Suspect that Cavarella has been taking these as well.

Stephenson refuses to submit log entries out of concern they may be "intercepted". She seems to suspect the other crew members, especially Hastings , of intent to do her harm.

Andrews maintains a calm and rational exterior to his "shipmates", but is losing connections to reality and may prove the most unpredictable test subject.

Recommendation: continue experiment, maintain radio silence, and engage "mission hardware failure" protocols to further test crew's reactions.

***

Gwendolyn Stephenson, personal journal, undated [the following was discovered in one of the three capsule segments to survive the fire that ended the mission]:

This crackerbox is full of lunatics. Cavarella’s a junkie, and who knows what Faraj is up to in the garden pod. She acts like she’s invisible, talking into her “recorder.” The other day [illegible due to fire damage] bury the thing in the dirt.Hastings is a fascist. God knows what he did to end up out here. As soon as we break containment I’m getting far, far away from him. Andrews is worse, somehow, even though he comes off like a half-way sane and decent human being. Not sure if he did something to Faraj to make her the way she is now. At this point I can’t remember what Faraj was like when she was normal.

The light’s been getting redder over the past week. What are they trying to do

[balance of journal destroyed]

--Steve Kilian
--Carl Lorentzen
---------------------------------------------------- Staten Island Chuck
---------------------------------------------------- Top Trek

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Death To Everyone

He felt a chill. Called in sick. Sheila went in. It was nothing, just a chill. He slept until noon.

Then a figure, familiar from too many tales, came into his bedroom without knocking. The black robe, the hooded face, hidden in shadow, the sickle.

He laughed and then he stopped laughing. This wasn't a joke.

"Who are you?"

The figure came into the light. "I am who you think I am," he said, and pulled back an inch of hood. revealing the white toothy face of the skull of Death.

"Why are you here?"

"There's always that denial. There is only one reason I am here, John Mannat. It is your time." John looked at him closely. The robe looked ancient and ragged, made from some thick unkown material. He could see from the stitching and some ornamental studs that this was not some tarp thrown together to resemble a robe, and it wasn't from any costume shop.

"Is there anything I can..."

"No. There is nothing." Death seemed stockier than John had expected. He could see that the skull face was actually a mask. Neither of these things made John think this wasn't Death.

"What...what do I have."

"I do not know the illness. That is not my concern. My only concern is that you are dead."

When he said that word, John believed him. "Is there nothing I can do?"

"Nothing."

"I challenge you to a game!"

"This is not the time for childishness. It is time to go. Please. I have much work tonight." Death held out a gloved hand.

"You visit everyone who dies."

"I am Death. Yes."

"I've read some statistics. A lot of people die in one night. How do you do it physically?"

"I work from a rhealm of existence other than your physical world. In the halls of infinity, an evening can be stretched over a great deal of time. Come. I will show you." He reached out his hand this time. John took it.

And yanked it, hard, pulling with all his weight. Death lurch to the side, and John struck him hard on the side of his head. The skull mask flew into a corner. Death fell to his knees. John grabbed his hood, revealing who was inside. It was a face from too many tales.

"You!"

"Yes."

"Of course! You're the only one who can visit so many people on one night!"

"Yes. It's me."

"If I were to offer you milk and cookies, could I live?"

"This is not Christmas. It is time for you to go."

"Then on Christmas, you give everyone presents and you collect the dead?"

"I don't give everyone presents. But it is a long night."

John was silent.

"It is time to go."

"Where are we going?"

"To the land of the Dead. At the North Pole."

"I don't like the cold."

"You won't feel it."

And then Santa held out his hand a third time, and this time John Mannat took it, and went with him up to the roof, where the sleigh waited.

As they flew away, Santa urged on his reindeer by name, and then he called out, "Death to everyone! And to all a good night!"



--Dan Kilian
Another Ghastly Figure
Feng Shui

Saturday, April 11, 2009

In Between Easter

Jesus floated in the places between life and death, between substance and nonexistance. He touched the quantum universes and even more universes where there was only one. He walked through doors of paradox without the slightest bent of mind. He felt the pain of everyone and everything.

He descended into hell. Satan was there, doing Milton's chores.

"Hello Brother. I see you've faced the pain of man."

"Now I am other. Soon I shall be man again."

"Yes, talking like that always helps with communication."

"I do not talk like this. My words are filtered through the minds of man. Your words are the words of men. It's very catchy, but a little shallow."

"Well, one day I'll understand what you're saying."

"No you won't."

"So how goes the great Mercy? Should I keep up the maintenance on this eternal prison of misery?"

"Others shall maintain it for you."

"God damn I hate your cosmic jumbo."

"That has been made known to me."

"Sibling rivalry, right?"

"We are brothers in this story and on this plane."

"Which story is this? What plane? Hey, where did you go?"

Jesus ascended from fiction into reality.

--Dan Kilian
---------------------------------- Joseph in the North
---------------------------------- Nixon and Obama


Friday, April 10, 2009

Michael J. Fox's Bad Day

He was having a bad day. Cancelled the interview. "Not looking up today. Sorry. " Depression and bad control. The couch called him. He dwelled with it for a while. Maybe when the anti-depressants kicked in, he'd get up. He dwelt.

He didn't notice the other man until he was looming over him. Had to focus. This was a stranger in his living room!

"How did you get in here?"

"They let me in here because of who I am."

"Who the hell are..." Who the hell was he? Come on Fox! Focus! He could be dangerous! He swung his shoulders back and forth wildly, trying to get his head to stay in one place. One good look. An old, old black or latino man. Those cheekbones..."Oh my God, you're Chuck Berry!"

"The one and only."

"Wow! It's an honor! What are you doing here?"

"I need something."

"Sure, whatever it is, I'm sure we can put something together. This isn't a great time, unfortunately..."

"I need to know. I need to learn about the other thing. "

Could Chuck Berry understand him? How bad was his speech? "What thing?"

"The music. The music we weren't ready for. My cousin told me all about it."

"What?"

"The Rock and Roll. It wasn't enough. I need something more. I can still do something better, I know I could take this...whole world to the next place, if I just had the music. I'm ready for it now."

"I don't know what you mean. I don't think I can help you."

"I know you're sick, but I learned Rock and Roll over a phone..."

As his brain screamed at him as he battled to move himself properly, beneath that mental static, beneath his confusion, realization dawned, then anger. "I get it. Back to the Future. This is not the time or place for practical jokes. Whoever's doing this, you've got a lawsuit..."

"Do I look like the kind of damn fool who visits strangers to play jokes? Look in my eyes!"

As his body spasmed, he twisted his neck into a semi-still position, looked into Chuck Berry's eyes. The eyes of a madman.

"But that was just a movie!"

"Mr. J. Fox. I need to know the strange music. The music we weren't ready for."

As has brain vibrated out of control and the emotions of conflict, of dealing with insanity threatened to overwhelm him, he searched his memory. Oh yes. "My character...I...I played some hammer-on metal guitar."

"Yes. Tell me about this strange music!"

"It was a joke. It was...Eddie Van Halen. It hasn't been new or strange for over twenty years!"

Berry glowered in suspicious silence, which was broken by a loud squealing and crashing sound from outside the house. He heard shouts, and then an old man came hobbling in, followed by security. The man had strange industrial looking workclothes. He held an octopus in his hands, and while he was quite aged, he was clearly Michael J. Fox.

Everyone stood around, unable to figure what to make of this scene. The old Michael J. Fox cleared his throat. "Hello. I don't have time to explain. As you can probably see, I'm from the future. I've come to bring you a new form of music. We've mastered biotechnology to the point where we can make real the music that is in our heads."

With that, he handed the octopus to Chuck Berry. As the rock pioneer cradled the arthropod in his hands, it's tentacles grasped his temples. It expanded like a great gumbubble, and vibrated. A high, sputtering tone rippled out, soon joined by a low rumble. Then the octopus began singing "A Brown Eyed Handsome Man" the way no one on Earth had ever heard the song before.

They listenned for fourteen minutes as Berry's song streched and changed. Strings with throats sang in a choir, while drums made of saxaphone keys openning and closing rolled below. An angel shrieked, and the song was over.

The aged Michael J. Fox smiled and turned to Chuck Berry. "And now we must go." With that, the old Rock and Roller and man from the future blinked out of view.

Amazing, he thought. Why didn't I bring myself a cure for Parkinsons?

--Dan Kilian

Beatles Rock Band

Neil Diamond Spinoff

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Woozing

He felt woozy, and left work early. It was like he'd taken a bad, overlong nap. He went home and he did take a long nap, and felt the same. He contemplated seeing a doctor. Next week he'd set up an appointment.

What did it? Certainly not his lunch. The "edible vomit:" chili and mac and cheese, with hot dog slices. Surely that would mess up his digestion, not his head. Got to change that name. Paul recommended "McChili." Maybe I'll go with that.

He wondered if this was a sort of rite of passage, if everyone went through this but didn't note the moment. Maybe you hit a certain age when you start to wooze, and you get used to it. You compensate for the wobble in your step, the extra air in your skull, the funny taste in your mouth.

He tried to raise his blood sugar. Peanut M & Ms. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Chinese food. Ginger ale. Root beer. Now I'm bloated and woozy.

He floated between persons. He was watching himself, he was talking to himself, he was me. Tenses twist as well.

This is a very autobiographical piece. You can ask me and I'll deny it. It's a fiction. It's a little story that didn't go anywhere. He thought there was something to the whole conspiracy of woozy people. They were closing in on him, like zombies, only less steady. They were of a certain age and one day they got lightheaded and never stopped and that's why older people are so strange. They can barely function.

Only he's clear beneath the wooze, like a stoned person watching yourself from within.

What if I'm dying? That's how it happens. You're feeling weird, then you drop.

That would suck if this is my last blog. He wrote.

Maybe if I go experimental with it, it can still be worthwhile, even without a plot arc, you think.

No something's got to happen. Wooziness isn't a story.

Suddenly a hoard of flesh eating caterpillars oozed bloblike into his apartment. He was lying on the floor, moaning. They devoured him.

------------------------------------------ More Caterpillars
------------------------------------------ Necrophiliac Jokes

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Good vs Evil: A Dialogue

We've got to do something about the genocide in Sudan.

What?

I don't know.

Well, let me know when you do.

Okay, we'll go to one of those Save Darfur websites and they'll have suggestions. We could at least write our Congressmen.

Who's your Congressman?

There are ways of finding this stuff out!

Okay.

Okay?

Yeah let's do it.

Yeah!

As soon as we get ourselves together.

What do you mean?

We need to realize our dreams.

Wow. We do need to realize our dreams. We could really help people in intangible ways.

And we're so far behind. We're squandering our talents.

Got to get it together!

So let's focus, or we're not going to do anyone a bit of good.

Wait, that's a trick!

What?

You're distracting me with false choices. We can still get it together and do a little something for Darfur!

We've got such a great track record.

We can get organized. Maybe we can even bring our concern about Darfur into our work.

And the environment.

We can do it. We just have to be strong, stop whining about how hard everything is, and organize things a little.

Let me know when you're done.

I'll do it!

Aren't you forgetting something?

What?

This.

Oh god! You're evil! You're a monster with hideous rows and rows of sharp teeth!

Nyump Nyump Nyump.

Oh God no! You're eating me!

Nyump Nyump Nyump.

--Dan Kilian

Save Darfur
Make A Giant K Shaped Island In The Pacific

The Three Day Work Week Part II

Might we suggest a three day work week?

Consumers consume more on their day off.

(This has not been statistically backed.

Will someone please do a study?

Nonetheless I believe it to be true.)

We need to consume in order to keep this economy going,

so let's set the workforce free!

There are enough workers in the world to cover the week.

We'll be producing jobs and consumer hours simultaneously.

Every Friday through Tuesday will be Moneyday!

In the meantime, do support

Moneyday, June 6th through June 7th,

and consume!

Let the boom resume!

Consume!

--Dan Kilian
---------------------------------- Signs We're In a Turnaround
---------------------------------- Signs We're In a New Depression

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

The Three Day Work Week

I've got the Sunday Blahs on a Friday night.
It's "Christmas in August" in July.
It's High Noon at Midnight.
Took Monday off.

Took Tuesday off.
I was a little off on Wednesday.
Each day feels like a third of a week.
Minutes feel like hours, hours like days,
days feel like dreams, years feel like weekends.
Weekends drag on and blink out.

Then the stars, as the universe cools and dims.
A vast yawning naught.

Naught descends.
We are tied up in naughts.

Naught on my watch!
Called in sick on Thursday.
This week is taking forever.
Nothing matters but the weekend,
and the weekend doesn't matter either.

--Dan Kilian
-------------------------------- Definitely, Probably, Possibly
-------------------------------- My Oh My Obama