Monday, August 31, 2009

The Baby Elephant Is Banished

elephant

--Dan Kilian

Ominous Orange

The Korean War

Friday, August 28, 2009

The Man From Corporate

A man from corporate came into the theater today.  I asked to see his ticket and he laughed in my face. “I guess I should let everyone with that excuse in” I said, which he didn’t seem to like.

He pointed to the concession stand and gave me a long speech about everything they were doing wrong. “They’re all out of popcorn,” he bawled, “This is a travesty! Do you have a storage tank somewhere?”

“I think so.”

“You THINK so?!”

“Well, the managers never showed me where it was.”

“For god’s sake, who trained you?”

“Dawill.”

Dawill?

“Yeah, he used to work in the ticket booth ‘till they fired him.”

“Well, good riddance.”

“You know, he said the same thing.”

“It doesn’t matter, look at that line! Look at it!”

He was right - the snack counter was mobbed.

“You go help them,” he said, “I’ll cover your post!” “But you’ll miss your movie!”

“THE MOVIE’S NOT IMPORTANT,” he cried.

When they close the theater that should be its epitaph: “AMC THEATERS – THE MOVIE’S NOT IMPORTANT.” The company had spent so much time obsessing over the extras that they’d run themselves a monopoly charge. Every time there was a new advancement they’d have to build a new theater, and each time it took the place of an old one. Soon it was the only game in town and Johnny Law took notice. Our theaters were being trust-busted.

I’d grown up seeing movies at this theater, so it hurt me especially. Every time I’d probe the halls it’d bring up memories. Not all of them were pleasant, but still, it was a part of me nonetheless. Now it was going to become another storage center thanks to the man from corporate and he was telling me to go get popcorn. I did, of course, but only because I didn’t want to lose my job.

After searching for a good 15 minutes I gave up and went to the roof to spark a jay. The man from corporate was still standing at the door, his movie now over an hour in. I didn’t really feel like relieving him.

The man from corporate was still there when I got back. Miraculously, the popcorn machine had been fixed and the line had dissipated. He congratulated me on a job well done, though couldn’t remember seeing me do a thing. I told him I was just that fast. Instead of leaving though, he just took off on another rant about the dangers of “under stocking.” It took me a good minute and a half to figure out he wasn’t talking about some kind of women’s apparel.

“Hey, you cut your hair!” a voice said from behind me. It came from a cute Latino girl barely tall enough to look over my plywood podium.

“What?” I asked, ignoring my lecturing boss.

“Your hair,” she said, “You cut it. I remember last time I was here I said you looked like Jesus Christ.”

“Oh! That’s right! You know, I kept a list of all the things people said I looked like while on the job, would you like to hear it?”

“Sure.”

“Well, one guy said I looked like Elijah Wood.”

“I could see that.”

“You said I looked like the son of god.”

“Don’t let it go to your head!”

“And one guy told me I looked like the reverend Al Sharpton.”

“What?”

“No joke, I think he must’ve been blind or something. Everyone knows I’m only black from the waist down.”

She giggled. All the while the man from corporate kept talking. “You remember that drawing I took from you?” she asked. I was drawing a blank. “It was this one,” she said, lifting up her shirtsleeve. There, inked on her shoulder, was Abe Lincoln downing a beer funnel. I’d drawn it while stoned on Fourth of July weekend. It was the only way to get through a shift like that.

“You got it tattooed?” I gasped.

“I told you it was good!”

“Wow, I don’t know what to say, that’s so . . . just wow . . . What’s your name?”

“Rosa.”

“Nice to meet you Rosa, I’m Vlad.”

“I know, I can tell by your nametag. I didn’t know how to pronounce it though.”

“It rhymes with glad or fad. There aren’t any tricks to it.”

“Nice and up front, I like that.”

“So what’re you doing after the show?”

“Why don’t you see me then and find out?”

“Because I might miss you in the flood of people.”

“Well then sweetheart, I guess you’ll need my number.”

After Rosa left I turned back to the man from corporate. He’d stopped lecturing and had gone quiet. “What can I say, I’m a minimum wage renaissance man” I laughed.

“Yeah, compliments are nice” he replied vacantly as he walked off towards his theater. His shoulders were slumped and he looked defeated. I had something that he’d never have, no matter how powerful he was on the corporate ladder.

His movie let out five minutes later and I saw him walking out with his family. His wife looked as though she’d been steadily letting herself go since the 1980s and his kids wouldn’t shut up. As he walked past I flashed him the piece of paper with Rosa’s number on it just to rub it in. He let out a sigh and went back to tending his screaming children. They were upset because they hadn’t gotten any popcorn. The movie wasn’t important to them.

--Ilan Moskowitz

The Disproportionate Orgy

Deadbeats and Deloreans

New KLOG

Welcome to the new Klog! Wasn't liking blogspot's  headaches, so let's see what Wordpress can do.

I'll try to import all the pieces from the other site, if I can figure out how.

Don't think I'll do the introduction. Hopefully the page  will explain itself.

Old Klog

KLOG has MOVED!

KLOG is now HERE.

Ominouse Orange

Ominouse Orange

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Sweet Boroughs

O sweet boroughs of intoxication!

A kid drops his first blunt, passing out and gently shitting himself in the Bronx

Irishman welcomed ashore with Ketamine in Queens – later he'll be fighting

The weed of Brooklyn, the kegs of light backyard beer across Staten Island, all wanting


That vomiting girl, eighteen? nineteen? drunk on well vodka

Fouling a chaise and her skirt on the Lower East Side, O Manhattan

O New York!


--Steve Kilian
Gilligan's Island Poem
Impaled

The Putt Putt: World's Best Mini Golf, Holes 1-9

Hole 1

“Scotland Green”

Handicap: 2 strokes

A long narrow single green with two small hills as obstacles. On the second hill a young woman sits weeping, a potential distraction to the player.


Hole 2

“The Windmill”

Handicap: 4 strokes

A large model of a windmill block the entryway from the first green to the second, with it’s spinning sails. The windmill pumps water from the greens into the adjacent pools. There is a hole in the dike, which the player must plug with his or her finger while putting and attacking the windmill with his or her club. When the windmill is dismantled, both greens will begin to flood, hampering the player’s accuracy.


Hole 3

The Membrane

Handicap: 6 strokes

The first green is submerged in one foot of corn syrup. Biologically engineered goldfish swim through the corn syrup creating slow currents that move the player’s balls along on their course. There are a number of openings in the aquarium where the corn syrup flows into a solid wall of tree sap at the base of a miniature.


The players either hit the ball into the sap or atop it, where it sinks in. Both ways the ball is submerged. After millions of years the sap hardens into amber, and the amber from the ball is cut from the block, polished, and mailed to an independent evaluator, who prices the amber golf ball, and sends it back The Putt Putt. The ball is delivered via a Rube Goldbergian system of wire tunnels and transportational devices, onto the third green of this hole, a conventional circle of Astroturf with the flag-hole and one small hill as an obstacle.


Note: Place this one close to the refreshment area.


Hole 4

The Temptation

Handicap: 3 strokes

A long single green with traps of sand and water on each side. A rich figure dressed as Satan offers the player one thousand dollars to write down six strokes and move on to the next hole. This offer should be refused and the hole can be easily completed in two or three putts.


Note: Some cynical players might view the one thousand dollar temptation as too enticing, and may be willing to throw the hole for the sake of the money. It is a depressing indicator of a society in decline. Those wicked souls that do should be paid in gift certificates to the Putt Putt, which will take them an onerous number of visits to fully redeem and, of course, subject them to “The Temptation” countless times. .


Hole 5

“The Labyrinth”

Handicap: 3 strokes

A row of holes leads to a system of tubes that deliver the player’s ball to the second green. Inside the tunnels is a tiny robot Minotaur. There are large spoons of yellow thread, which a player can wind around his or her ball in case it gets stuck in the Labyrinth, in which case they can be pulled back out. After the ball comes out onto the second green, it is scooped up in a basket attached to a system of pulleys by fine crafted wax wings. The pulleys lift towards a large incandescent light bulb suspended over the second green. As the wax wings melt, the baskets spill the ball onto the green, where another putt or two should complete the hole.


Hole 6

“Iraq and Afghanistan”

Handicap: 6 strokes

Sounds of recorded applause play when you exit the first green into the second, a series of sand traps and rock obstacles.


Note: Players may loose a number of balls, and they may purchase new ones for a small fee. The Player may have to start over in the first green and in fact his or her ball may never have left, only been forgotten. This hole may drag on and on with no end in sight. Place close to the refreshment area.


Hole 7

“The HealthCare System”

Handicap 1 Stroke

Players who have purchased all day passes may play this hole, others will have to take the detour to the emergency hole, the price of which will be deducted from the all day pass holder’s credit cards. Non-pass holders may play this hole, but will be billed until they have no money left, and must foreclose on their homes. There is a wave shape in the first green, which must be navigated to get to the second green, which has a small hill for an obstacle. There is also a hospital.


Hole 8

“Jack and the Beanstalk”

Handicap: 5 strokes

There is a spinning green beanstalk in the center of the first green, with broad leaves spiraling up the stalk into the cloud layer, which contains the second green. A player climbs a spiral staircase to the cloud layer, while a leaf scoops up the ball. On the second green the player is threatened by giants who sing infantile poems and try to eat the player. There is also a robot cow on the first green, creating obstacles with its metal hoofs. Puffy cloud shapes function as hills.


Hole 9

“The Masked Ball”

Handicap: 6 strokes

Everyone is disguised. The playe must guess who the player’s allies are, and who are the player’s enemies, but the ball attendees keep changing faces. The player can trust no one completely. And what is the answer to “The Second Riddle of The Second Sphinx?” The Ball is transported by envoys through back channels finessed by black-market bribes. As the player climbs the unspoken chain of command, the net tightens around the player in a suffocating game of layered deceits. There are two hills, one large, one small, and a water trap.


--Dan Kilian

The Ghost of Ford Talks to Obama

The Billion Dollar Omelet

Thursday, August 20, 2009

The Atomic Adventures of Jack Keruac



--Jack Feldstein

The Adventures of J.D. and The Rye Guy

James Bond's Bad Day

BLAAAHH!!!! Blaah blaaah blaaaaHHH!!!

The Public Option doesn't go far enough. There should be 100% coverage for all citizens and residents under a tax-funded socialized medical system. Health care is like water treatment, childhood education, police protection, and fire departments: one of the responsibilities of a civilized society. More: it is a human right.

But what about all the inefficiencies and paperwork of a government-run bureaucracy? Another good point -- I've got to fill out three forms every time I turn on the tap. Oh, wait a second -- I don't have to do that at all, because it's a government service paid for by taxes. I also don't have to present my fire insurance card before the firemen get to work on the building burning down around me. Health-care related paperwork is largely an artifact of the insurance companies, who would be out of the picture in a socialized system.

In fairness I'll give the republican town-hall-crashers a chance to rebut: "BLAAAHH!!!! Blaah blaaah blaaaaHHH!!!" This is such a depressing commentary on the state of political discourse in this country, and reflects how far the party of Lincoln has fallen. It is now quite clear that the GOP is a cadre of corporate stooges, cynical to the core and disdainful of their constituents. The rural poor get screwed repeatedly and then wave a flag and vote for the guy who did the deed*. Baffling.

Here's how health care in America should work: I cut off my hand by accident. I put the hand in the fridge, call 911, and pass out. I wake up as paramedics scan my implant and check the on-board medical history with the file they download from the secure government server. It's a match, and now they know that I'm allergic to aspirin and Fentanyl, have borderline high blood pressure, have a standing DNR and organ-donation request in the event of persistent vegetative state, and that my next of kin is reachable by mobile phone. Not present is my insurance ID number, because I don't need one.

The dispatcher calls Nancy while the field tech gets the hand from the fridge. Unfortunately he doesn't realize that the concord grape sorbet was only in the fridge to soften up a bit, so it's completely melted when I get back from the hospital.

They load me up with a type-matched transfusion (they know my blood type from the chip) on the way to the hospital. The monitors in the ambulance are synched real-time with a case file that has been opened at the hospital, and an operating room is waiting when we pull in to the emergency bay.

The anesthesiologist has been monitoring my vitals remotely during the ride, and she's ready with appropriate dosages of all the fun stuff. I chuckle the whole way down and wake up after what seems like only a few seconds. It's tomorrow, and my hand is reattached.

After a few days in the hospital we have a consultation to see how much longer I should stay. There have been regular MRIs to check the healing process. The doctor thinks I should stay for another week and do PT in the hospital. Nancy and I want to get out of there as soon as possible to avoid the possibility of infection. Our appointed Patient Advocate understands both points of view, and we collectively agree on three more days, with daily visits from the physical therapist at home for the next three weeks, and weekly for six months thereafter. I'll have checkups at an outpatient clinic near my apartment every three days, scheduled around my workday. Any numbness, redness, sudden swelling, or anything that seems off -- call 911 and the reattachment specialists will be automatically contacted once I give my name or my chip is scanned.

Three days later I go through the discharge process: I go to central processing, put my implant against the plate, and my updated history is downloaded to the chip. A sheet is printed out with a description of the meds I need to take and the contact info for the various follow-up doctors, nurses, and adjunct care professionals. Then three plastic bottles of pills drop into the slot, sort of like a soda machine. My first month of prescriptions have been filled, and the next month's order will be automatically processed and sent in the mail three weeks later.

After 18 long months of recovery I have regained about 75% of the function of the hand -- better than nothing, and they think it will continue to improve over the next few years. Then I get a bill from the hospital. I open it with dread, thinking about that long stay immediately after reattachment. Sure enough, there it is: the charges for the pay-per-view movies.

Thirty bucks. Damn.

--Steve Kilian

*I know this is a crass generalization, and that there are plenty of principled people who vote for republicans for a variety of reasons, but I'm all worked up and furious. Probably weakens my argument, but I know I'm not going to change anyone's mind anyway.

Let's Get Sick

Myths of Health Care Turned Into Lies

The Pink FLame vs. The Green Whore-Net

--Dan Kilian

End of Conflict

Firemen II

Maureen Dowd Guest Column

Klog is proud to have brought on Maureen Dowd as a regular columnist. She’ll still be writing her columns for the New York Times, but she’ll be posting them here first. It’s a big feather in our caps. Thanks Maureen!

With the dog days of August upon us, it seems that Barack Obama’s in the dog house with the voters. His numbers are sinking, and he’s got to jettison the public option to keep his Health Care plan afloat. I wonder if he wishes sometimes that Hillary had won. I know Hillary’s got to think she could do this better. Hillary’s got to be pissed off all the time. God I hate her.


So, what else is going on? Mad Men had its season debut the other day. I’d try to tie that in to politics, but Frank Rich already devoted a huge column to it.


What else have I TIVOed? Hey, it’s the 30 Rock with the guy from Mad Men. Liz Lemon tries to show him what life is like if you’re not beautiful. I bet Hillary would love to show Obama what it’s like to not be beautiful. There’s something she could understand. Stupid Hillary.


Let’s see, what else is on? What’s on TV now? News, news, naw.


Ooh! It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia has a new season! Oh, that was just a commercial.


Sometimes I just like to watch the What’s On Channel and watch the channels scroll by. It’s very relaxing. Maybe someone should show Hillary the What’s On channel so she could relax. She’s so uptight!


Hmm….let me check my word count. Nope, it’s not a column yet.


Yankees are winning. Looks like they’ve got it together. Derek Jeter is like Obama, A-Rod is like Hillary. Steroid using cheater!


Oh look, the Shamwow guy is selling something else!


Flip. Flip. Let me check my word count again…


Did it! Another prize-worthy political humor column!


--sent to Dan Kilian by Maureen Dowd


Maureen Dowd: Lust American Style


Bono Op-Ed

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Let’s Get Sick

Yesterday I proposed that young healthy people boycott health care if there is no public plan to keep costs from spiraling out of control. The reasoning is sound: Seniors and Insurance companies can’t expect the young to pay into an unfeasible system if they’re not willing to make some sacrifices as well. The method is the problem. The government will no doubt take your money from your wages before you even see it, just as is done today through most business health care plans. Or they’ll take it out of our metro-card or something. They’re sneaky.

So a boycott won’t work. Here is what I propose, should a health care package pass without a public plan, essentially kicking the can down the road until some co-op plan proves to be unequal competition for Insurance companies: Young healthy people should get sick.

For this health-care plan to pay off for those mandated to join, you’ve got to develop some pre-existing conditions. Start smoking. Eat lots of greasy food. Booze had a two-fold benefit: it’s unhealthy and it makes it easier to get into injurious fights.

Unprotected sex is another great way to get sick. I envision orgy conventions where people wear name badges that advertise their disease. Want herpes? Pile on over here. Crabs? Room 214. And of course there’s AIDS for the hardcore.

Get sick America. It’s the only way to make this Health Care system pay off!

--Dan Kilian

The New Town Hall

Rationing The Death Panels


Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Youth Revolt

A message to the young and healthy:

They’re going to make us all get health insurance, but there’s not going to be a public option. That died because senior citizens want a system that pays for everything for free. Of course, that’s the problem with our rising costs to begin with, but fixing rising costs is too scary for seniors. Well maybe paying for the eternal life and well being of the old is a little scary for the young, and maybe there’s something you can do about it.

Why should they have to pony into a system that’s not serious about containing costs? I get the moral argument that people’s lives shouldn’t be ruined by sickness, and they shouldn’t be getting sick because they’re poor. But why start paying into an unsustainable system just because our politicians are corrupt? Especially when you’ll have to pay all the taxes on these deficits? That’s making you pay twice.

Insurance companies will have a windfall, without having to face the public option.
I don’t really get what co-op is, other than a term that appeals to old people who own apartments. I suspect most in government don’t know what it is either, but I have a healthy guess that it will be struggling to compete with insurance companies as opposed to insurance companies struggling to compete with the government. If it doesn’t work, it will take years and more political battles for a new entrenched institution to finally admit it.

I say if there’s no public plan, then young people should boycott the plan. At least make a lot of noise like you will. Something needs to scare the Democrats besides crazy old ladies. Get scary, kids.

--Dan Kilian

Death To Everyone

Cosmonauts Go Crazy

Monday, August 17, 2009

District 9 District 9 District 9 District 9 District 9

District 9 is the latest in a series from the burgeoning Science Fiction movie industry of South Africa. This is the most sophisticated installment of the series, and the first to be screened in the United States. It’s a shame we haven’t been privy to the first eight District movies, because this one is quite excellent, and surely some of the back story wouldn’t hurt. Actual smart science fiction with tons of action, sterling special effects, and decent looking aliens. Not only does it leave you crackling with energy, it imparts a message: People would care about displaced Africans if they were aliens.

That is why I’m starting a new charity: Antennae for Africa. We shall affix antennae and other alien prostheses to hungry Sudanese children. Donate money or the rabbit ears from your old digitally incompatible television sets. We’re also accepting lobster remains, but please do clean them first. This will give them an exotic aura that will pay off when it comes time to give to charity, or to write your congressmen about the ongoing annual atrocities in Sudan.


In the movie a white man with a bad mustache is spattered with alien rocket fuel which turns him into an alien. Sure that doesn’t make any damn sense, but this is alien stuff! Who knows what it would do. He turns alien hand first. Now this is a crucial failure in realism. There should have been a montage of him, curled up in an alien shanty jerking off with that alien hand for hours on end. No man could resist. If this was my picture, it would be all alien hand masturbation for the rest of the movie, and it would have been a great movie. I would have called it “District Alien Hand-Jerk 9.” While it’s a tragedy that this wasn’t the movie that was made, the movie they did make was pretty good.


Eventually our hero goes through a torturous ordeal, and grows enough beard that we don’t care about his mustache. No sappy speeches are made, and a lot of baddies get blown into splashes of blood. Screw G.I. Joe. This is the movie of the summer.


Until the foundation for Antennae for Africa can be established, you can donate to help regular human hungry Sudanese kids here.


Friday, August 14, 2009

The Disproportionate Orgy


I’d been on the road at pagan festivals for the last few weeks, and like a demon possession from a séance gone bad, I brought a hippie chick back with me to the big rusty apple. She was the kind of spun-out gypsy who, when asked “where do you live” would earnestly respond “in what lifetime?” and proceed to talk chakras till dawn. I’d met her after arriving at Starwood, the all-but-self-proclaimed pagan Mecca of Sherman New York, and was quickly introduced to her other boyfriend. He was a drummer too, only he was getting paid to be there. Something felt real good about snaking his girl, since being a drummer at one of these festivals is a badge of insignificance. Everyone does it; they’re a dime a dozen, but only those with some sort of credentials get to make the big bucks. I met this guy as his girlfriend, who I guess I should introduce as Annabella, brought me to his trailer to steal some blankets.

Here was the conversation as it actually happened:
“Oh, so you play drums.”
“Yeah . . . you too?”
“Uh-huh, this is my big paycheck, I lead the band.”
“Cool, man. Dig it.”
And here’s the conversation that wasn’t happening:
“So you’re here to steal MY blankets to sleep with MY girl?”
“Sounds about right.”
“And this doesn’t bother you?”
“Nah man, a girl like this you can’t control, she’s like the wind.”
Well, I sure got a taste of my own medicine when I tried to let Annabella’s crazy antics fly in the secular world of Washington Heights. My band was playing a show, and just as our singer spit the words “I don’t need another lover to complicate the situation,” Annabella was outside rounding up people for an orgy.

This wasn’t her first attempt, either. Previously she’d tried to swing a three-way between me and her other boyfriend while her pops watched. Needless to say I did my best to bow out of that one, but this time she caught me all sorts of fucked up and ready for anything. Problem was, by the time we got to leaving the bar, there were only 2 girls in the group and about 7 or 8 guys. Annabella wasn’t setting us up for an orgy; she was shooting for a gang bang.

As the second half of the crew drove off to meet us at the apartment, it was Anabella, our friend Stacy, Conrad, Harold and myself who walked down through the Bronx that evening to Washington Heights; the girls stripping down to their panties and screaming the whole way. Crowds were forming around them as they urinated down city steps and fingered each other. It wasn’t long before they were totally naked and walking past the 50th precinct. Harold and I were in a total panic, but the cops just smiled and waved.

When we got to Stacy’s place we were stopped by an off-duty Bx7 line. “HEY YOU GUYS, COME HERE, I WANNA TAKE A PICTURE” the driver shouted. He looked as though he’d had a few to drink himself. He invited us on the bus and quickly explained that he had a camera somewhere and that we’d have to wait for it. In the meantime he offered to drive us around.

This was good enough for the rest of the crew, who hopped into the back, got naked, and began to fuck, but Harold was skeptical – for one thing, we didn’t need to go anywhere, we were already at our apartment, and for another, where was this guy’s camera?

Finally, after the fifth or sixth loop around the block, Harold noticed the driver starting to slip out of his pants. He grabbed us by the hair shouting “THIS IS OUR STOP” and flipped the door switch out of the driver’s hand. As we bolted out into the street, the driver came to a halt and stood at the side of the road glaring at us. For the rest of the evening, each time I’d walk to the bodega to get more beer, he’d be right there in his bus demanding I come over to take care of some “unfinished business.”

Back in the apartment, everyone who’d been admiring Annabella all evening hopped on her like a 25-cent grocery store ride with me in the corner getting drunk. I got into the fray for a little while and even tried shit with Stacy, but it just wasn’t the same. Seven guys to two girls just isn’t right.

Other guys in the room sensed this too and asked if I was really down with them balling my girl. The response every time would be one which, just a week before, I’d been pretty fond of: “a girl like this you can’t control, she’s like the wind.”

As the evening wound down I found myself sitting with a couple of the benchwarmers downing the rest of the 40s. The conversation between them went as follows:
“I think everyone in here thinks you’re gay.”
“Nuh-uh, everyone in here thinks YOU’RE gay.”
My sole contribution:
“You’re both gay, now shut up so I can get some sleep!”
The next morning insecurities were still riding high. The first thing I saw was Annabella in the middle of a mass of naked bodies vaguely resembling the pantheon. I had a Clash sort of “should-I-stay-or-should-I-go” moment and eventually decided that she was happy and that was good enough for me. She was shipping out to another festival that night though and I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to say goodbye. I grabbed every coin in the room and flipped them for an answer. Each concluded that I should go, but I didn’t like that answer. I sat on the corner of the bed with my pants and shoes on for a minute when out of nowhere, Annabella throws everyone to the floor and tackles me. “What are you doing,” she says, “jealousy isn’t a good look for you.”

We spent the rest of the day together in the apartment fucking – she’d apparently only been with really lazy hippie lovers and needed a good old fashioned Jersey railing to spice up her life – when she started spouting stuff about love. Not the hippie sort of “I love everybody” routine either, but things like “I know saying you’re the love of my life is clichéd, but you make me LOVE my life and I love you more than anything.” Shit was starting to smell of monogamy, and since we really didn’t have anything else in common, that was all she’d talk about. Every other sentence was about how she could see us together for ever and she would die for me. Every sentence besides that was about the moon being in Aquarius and the spirits mingling with the goddess for some kind of celestial kegger. Needless to say, I was getting a headache.

I took her to a Harlem pickup game and she couldn’t grasp it. She’d honestly never seen basketball before. She told me that these “natives” with their “ritualistic chakra cleansings” were just what she needed to “ease her spirit” before it was forcibly “removed from her body” by the “evil force.” I looked down at my hand and caught that it was tightly wound in a fist. I’d never been this frustrated with anyone before.

“Do you ever listen to yourself speak, or do you just black whenever your lips start flapping?!” I demanded.

She just looked at me and smiled. “I know, I know, I’d be thinking the same thing if someone started spouting this bullshit at me. I’m surprised you’ve even put up with it for so long.”

So needless to say, I’m through with hippie chicks. Somebody get me a nice businesswoman in pants suits.

--Ilan Moskowitz

Deadbeats and Deloreans

Michael J. Fox's Bad Day

Thursday, August 13, 2009

The New Town Hall

Senator Specter sighed. He’d tried joking around, he’d tried standing up to them, but still they came with their questions about losing the America they knew, breaking down crying, and the shouting.

HEAR OUR VOICE! HEAR OUR VOICE!


“I hear you. Can you hear me?” They couldn’t.


HEAR OUR VOICE! HEAR OUR VOICE!


All right, he thought, here goes. “Well, you've left me no other choice. Ladies and gentlemen, I present COCAINE AND ABEL!”


The curtains parted behind him to reveal a five piece band of straggly, unshaven youths fronted by a bearish looking man with an orange beard dresses in a poor man’s suit. The feedback curved the air like a meniscus of sonic doom. Then the barrage, a slow sludge of sound, guitars, keyboards and drums indistinguishable. Less a wall of sound than the whole building, crashing down, the clouds of smoke rolling over the town hall in a furious rumble. The man in the suit fell to his knees and howled as if genuinely in pain, then began ranting, sounding like a man with a mouth filled with angry sandwiches.


Behind them a large screen displayed text. One of Specter’s aides had rigged up a program that scoured the internet for discussion of health care. Statistics about people losing their jobs and their doctors, death panels, preexisting conditions, all of it faded up and down, and the conversation became big screen virtual with a dark loud throbbing soundtrack.


The nuts tried to keep chanting but the noise drowned them out, so they just looked like angry goldfish. Specter’s staff passed out earplugs, and he put on soundproof earphones, so he didn’t have to hear that horrible rock music. He sat down and watched the show, the vibrations from the band rippling his waddled skin. Yes, he was going to take a political hit for the whole “cocaine” thing, and these guys had a pentagram sticker on the drum set, so yeah, there was a Satanist charge to contend with, and God knows what the grizzly bear lead singer was screaming, but Specter smiled nonetheless. He was in the moment, and he’d stopped the lunatic fringe from hijacking his town hall. This was the band his niece recommended, and he hadn't had time to vet it.


What’s a little drugs and Satanism going to do to his career? I’m a Democrat now, he thought, time to enjoy it.


--Dan Kilian

Rationing the Death Panels


The C Word Warning! Uses the C word!

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Rough Night

Woke up covered in gore, again. I was wearing some kind of organ on my arm like a sleeve. Could have been human, could have been goat. No big deal either way.

So I washed up a bit in the mop sink, hosing myself down in cold water and scraping off the worst chunks with the back edge of a straight razor I found behind the toilet. Took a couple shots of Yukon Jack warm and then a big pull of cold gin to get the taste out of my mouth, and then had a pickle. People, it was a good pickle. Anyhow, I jerked my cock till it spat and then decided to shave my nuts and ass. Didn't get around to it, though, since I must have taken a nap in the kitchen – at least that's where I woke up the second time.

Did four lines of blow that were laying around and tried to wake up the dame that had puked all over herself and my new leather couch. She wasn't moving much and was sort of blue around the gills, but I didn't have time to mess around with that. I had a busy day ahead of me. Sprayed on some perfume – don’t let 'em tell you it's "cologne"; it's just perfume for men – and then I felt respectable. Went out and started up the El Camino and tore out of there. Didn't get too far before I realized I had a U-Haul trailer hitched up to it and it was running on one flat tire and the rim.

I unhitched the trailer and was about to go when I heard something knocking around inside. I snapped the lock off the door and opened it up. There was a skinny white girl in there and I can tell you she would have looked good if she hadn't shit up the place so bad. As it was she was still a looker so I climbed in and shut the door behind me.

She struggled a bit but I knocked her over and got her from the back and after a while she sort of gave in. I was a bit rough on her on account of I'd already spat, but the whole scenario was pretty damn erotic so it didn’t take too long before I'd shot it again. I pushed her off and I could hear she was crying. That upset me or something because the next thing you know I'm snapping her neck. Her chin just went around like a doll's -- it was that easy. "Aw shit," I said, and went to the back of the truck for some gasoline. I splashed the trailer down good and lit it up and took off.

I'd gotten some gas on my hands so I jerked it again, working my middle finger up my ass pretty good. It stung a bit and I almost ran into the back of a postal Jeep but I recovered and things worked out OK. I pulled into a Dairy Queen and drank a few pulls off a gallon of milk and then put it back in the cooler. The guy at the counter started yelling in some language or other and I gave him the finger and grabbed a pack of Newport 100s and a Slim Jim and left.

I lit up two smokes and drove out to the beach so I could clear my head. I ate the meat product and felt like I was gonna puke, but I didn’t. I pulled into the beach lot and bought a round of ice cream cones for the kids. I like kids.

I got naked and waded out into the surf. A ray tried to take a bite out of me so I stomped it and tore it in half. The water was cold so there weren't many people in it, but one kid came up and said, "Hey, mister. Why are you naked?"

"Forgot my suit," I said, and walked out to where it was deeper. The water felt so good I could have swum to England. The kid's mom was yelling for him to get away from me, which was probably a good idea. I dove down and swam for deeper water.

I probably got a hundred feet or so before my lungs gave out. I sucked in that salt water and it burned something awful. What was nice is I didn't have to fight to keep down. I just sank to the bottom. I bit the legs off a crab and my eyes went dark.

I woke up in a clinic with a tube in my throat. I pulled that out and the IVs in the back of my hand and went looking for the pharmacy. I was buck-ass naked but clean, except for an iodine stain around the scar on my side. They must have pulled something out of me. I got to the pharmacy and there was a little woman doctor in there. I just said, "You're something sweet" and she didn't even struggle. She was combing my snot out of her hair and I was grinding the Percocets between my thumb and forefinger when her boss came in.

He made a lot of noise so I grabbed a handful of syringes and put them in his neck. He took off gurgling and I held a handful of Percocet out to my number one girl. She snorted it up like a horse taking an apple and then I took a boost myself. There was still some powder in my hand so I put it up her skirt and she was ready for another go-round.

I had things to do, though, so I grabbed a couple vials of morphine and took off. My car wasn't in the lot so I put my fist through some doctor's window and drove off in a slightly damaged BMW. I got to a park and tilted the seat back and put my feet on the ceiling. I snapped the top off one of the vials and poured the morphine into my ass. I spread my cheeks and let it settle in nice and it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I must have dozed off like that because I woke up to a boy in blue pointing a gun in my face. I got out of the car like he said and he told me to put my hands over my head. I wasn't about to go to jail – I had a busy day ahead of me – so I slugged him and damn near took his jaw off. His partner shot me through the shoulder and missed three times before I got to him. He got the worst of it.

I got into the cruiser, hit the lights, and started barreling into town. There was a 12-gauge propped in the front, which I unlimbered and pointed out the passenger side. I pulled up next to an Abdow's Big Boy and blew the statue off its pedestal. Then I went past the firehouse and blew out their windows for good measure.

Some cops started tailing me so I cracked the top on the second vial of morphine and rammed it up my nose. I tipped my head back to let it run in and slammed into the back of a station wagon.

I got out and went to check that they weren't hurt. It was a damn shame, innocent bystanders and all, but a kid in the front seat had hit the windshield and left a clump of hair on it. His mom must have bounced off the steering wheel and cut her upper lip clean off. I pulled off the rear view mirror and showed her what she looked like and asked if she wanted me to finish her off. She was crying and her kid was starting to stir so I put my thumb two knuckles deep in her eyesocket before the kid woke up. Nobody should see their mother die.

The cops shot me three times in the abdomen and once in the back of the head. I went down – I'm not afraid to admit it. I was bleeding out of my mouth and my ass and all I could think of was that pickle. Damn it was good.

I lurched back up and they tased me three or four times. One of the jolts made me come pretty hard, and I smiled at the lady cop. She hit me with her baton and one of the tough guys pistol whipped me until I passed out.

I must have died or something because I never woke up after that.

--Steve Kilian

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Rationing the Death Panels

As August becomes make or break time for Health Reform, disinformation is flying fast and loose. As a public service, Klog is here to clear up some of the myths flying around about the various plans to reform the nation’s health care plan. Here are some theories being floated, and we'll let you know what's myth and what's true.

Death Panels will be appointed to decide whether the elderly or mentally retarded babies have a high enough “level of productivity in society” to live.


This is ridiculous. Interests representing special needs children and the AARP would never allow their constituents be singled out for execution. The Death Panels would select citizens at random, without preexisting conditions. The lottery winners (or losers, in this case) would be notified by mail and given three days to put their affairs in order and report to the carousel of death for execution. No groups would be singled out.


The current health care system is inexpensive.


This is another myth. The current health care system is free! Other than your co-pay, do you ever pay a bill for health care? No! Whatever obligation you have to your health plan is taken out of your paycheck before you’re ever even paid, so it was never your money to begin with. Also, people who don’t have health care go to the ER when they’re really sick or injured, and ER is free too. Those tax and spend liberals in Washington are trying to get us all to pay for a free ride!


The Government doesn’t know how to run a health care plan.


The Government already runs two plans, Medicare and Medicaid which are very popular and efficient compared to Private insurance, which has higher overhead to pay for advertising and lobbyists. That greater efficiency is why Obama is pushing a hybrid system that includes the insurance companies, rather than a single payer plan that would be much cheaper for American taxpayers.


Health Care would be rationed under the new plan.


In fact this is true. As opposed to the current system, wherein any medical process available will be implemented in your service for free, limits would be imposed under Obamacare. This would supposedly save money but if you need the powder from a rhinoceros horn to fix your sexual dysfunction, and you need x-rays of that rhinoceros to make sure it’s not just a hippo with a prosthetic, then you have the right to that medical care, whatever it might cost.


Government Bureaucrats would get between you and your doctor.


In fact, with the new plans in play, government bureaucrats would get in between you and your insurance agent. When it comes to red tape and rationed care, do you want some corrupt official doing it or someone who does this for a living?


Thor will administer your health care using the magic powers of his hammer Mjöllnir the same way he took care of Loki after the death of Baldar.


That's just a myth.


Don’t just take our word for it. Do your own research. A lot of good information is being disseminated on politician’s Facebook pages and at town hall meetings. Whatever you do, however, don’t examine the health care plans of any other developed nations. A lot of horror stories come from those plans, as opposed to in the U.S. where no one ever dies because they didn’t have access to preventative care, and no one is ever ruined financially because they got sick. Stay healthy! That’s the best plan.


--Dan Kilian


The C Word Warning! Uses the C word!


Freddy vs. Wishmaster

Saturday, August 8, 2009

His Retirement.


On the first day off work he went to visit his wife’s grave and then went shopping. Came home with some Mexican take out food, a few bottles of wine, and an easel and a pre-stretched canvas. He vowed to learn to stretch them himself, but was impatient to begin. He prepped his canvas with Gesso, and, stimulated by the gooey texture, masturbated in the shower. He masturbated again and went to sleep.


His still life became an abstract expression. He smeared black paint on his penis and went to the shower.

On the third day of his retirement it hit upon him to use semen and wine stains as his medium since he had so much of it at the ready.

“I shall build on the work of Ruscha!”

And cigarette holes, now that he was smoking again.

The vomit canvases really began to smell and they had go. The same with the excrement canvases. Most of the blood canvasas had puke or shit on them too, so they went. He kept a couple of the blood canvases that escaped soiling. He was making progress.

He put flowers on his wife’s grave, bought more wine and cigarettes and ordered another crate of canvases delivered.

He woke up on the fifth day, passed out on a canvas, his pants around his ankles a meager drip dangling off the tip of his raw, red and flaccid penis. He was out of semen and out of wine. He went into town.

He came home with a whore, passed out and the whore took his wallet and what money was lying around, his computer and the booze. She left him half a bottle to get him through the next morning.

On the seventh day they found him, without identification, passed out on his wife’s grave, his pants around his ankles, with a bottle in one hand and his penis in the other. He couldn’t remember his name. They let him out on the street. They didn’t connect the grave to his family, who never saw him again.

If he’d ever remembered where he’s lived, he would have found his son’s family living there. He never did. He just ambled on, incoherently hustling booze money from strangers and clutching at his shrunken useless cock.

--Dan Kilian