Archive for January, 2010
Gratitude combined with apology. Often delivered by neurotic people with self-esteem problems. “Thanks for coming to my party. Sorry it was so lame,” Sheila thankspologized.
An admission of culpability delivered with backhanded attacks on others. “I’m sorry if you were so stupid as to have your feelings hurt!” Dan said apolfiantly.
Editor’s note: Apolfiance? Not Defology? Keep looking.
Secretly happy conflict. He sent his degrets that he could not attend the Baroque music fest.
Sort of like guilty schadenfreude.
I’d like to thankspologize to you for your reading this post.
I Dan of The Ks am playing a solo acoustic show tonight after the Spectacles at Pianos upstairs. 9 p.m. Lulow and Stanton.
I’m not advertising it because The Ks have a show on Saturday (9 p.m. at the Ace of Clubs). But I’m excited. Some members of The Ks are going to play as well. Going to play some songs no one’s heard in a while.
Enjoy the President’s State of the Union.
I’d especially like to welcome our newest Senator from Massachusetts, Scott Brown. Hope you like that truck, Senator, it was brought to you by a “Fascist Socialist Power-grab.” You really fucked me good Scott. Suddenly I’m in trouble. No one mentions that if Coakley had spelled Massachusetts right I’d be on the way to Mount Rushmore. Just hasn’t been a good political season for blond women who want to coast to victory. I think some of those yobs who voted for you thought they were still voting against Hillary.
So now we’re screwed on Healthcare, because a bunch of people who already HAVE healthcare were pissed at Ben Nelson. Well I can tell you, Ben Nelson’s an opportunistic asshole, that doesn’t mean you have to stick it to the whole country. Just throw eggs at the guy’s house or something.
Hey Congress! Remember when I asked for Healthcare in August? Ha ha, right? Well there was a reason for that deadline. Now if by some miracle you guys get your act together and find someone else to vote for this bill, DO IT. You will not have everyone forever. The next time someone gets caught sleeping around it might not be a Republican. And look at Robert Byrd. He looks like David Bowie at the end of The Hunger.
Now everyone’s saying I was too cool, didn’t show enough passion, enough emotion to get this thing across the finish line. Think about that. Now I’m not going to say this too many times, but I am a black man. How do you think I managed to become President? By never ever ever never doing anything to frighten white people. When was the last time you heard a white person say “Boy, that black fellow sure is stirred up emotionally, let’s do what he says.” When a black man gets emotional, he isn’t respected; he’s usually hauled off to jail. You people really do think racism is all over, don’t you?
Okay, so you want cheap bullshit? I can do that. Let’s pretend the sensible thing is to slow down government spending in the middle of the Great Recession. We can do that. It’s a spending freeze! That ought to create some jobs. We won’t touch social security, I know you don’t want us to touch your Medicare (You all just pissed away the last chance to do anything about that.), and of course we won’t touch the military. In short, we won’t do crap about anything that really matters budget-wise, but we’ll squeeze the balls off some programs that don’t really add up to a hill of beans, just to impress you fiscal hawks. Because Lord, you were always all so hung up on the debt when W was in charge.
Then you’ll probably elect Brown president, he’ll pass another completely unjustifiable tax-cut and we’ll do it all over again, until China dumps us for the Euro.
Meanwhile, pay no attention to the explosions in Iraq. We’re still getting out. At least my generals no how to get something finished.
Dear God you are all so stupid and Dear God America.
–Transcribed by Dan Kilian
What’s the disease?
I’m getting all puffy and huge!
It’s called fat. You eat and drink too much. You need to diet and exercise.
Don’t tell me that! There’s GOT to be a cure. I was George of the Jungle, for Christ’s sake!
The only cure is diet and exercise. Here’s an exercise I do. Walk down this corridor and hold onto the lapels of your jacket. I think the lapel thing is good for upper body development. I call it “Lapel Walking.”
Don’t feed me that hopeless negativity! Can’t you see how physically awkward it is for me to just walk normally? I look like a frigging robot! A fat robot! Now come on, how do I really get thin? I can’t just exercise and diet for a miracle, I’ve got to make one.
Well, I could help you, but it will cost you.
Name your price! Anything!
I need years.
Years? To do what?
Not to do something. To live. I want years of your precious youth.
Give me your youth. I’m growing so horribly old. I need youth!
Youth? I’m forty-seven!
That’s young to me. I’m 112 years old.
If I can somehow give you years of my…life, will you…
I can make you thin again!
Well, I can give you my plastic surgeon’s number. I’ve heard he does a good liposuction.
But first, you must give me your precious youth!
It’s a deal! Oh hurrah! This is truly an inspiring tale based on real events!
The missionaries from the White Temple came and put up their shrines, seemingly at every crossroads. Gorgak’s creed was older and less tolerant than the new lessons being taught: Where a stone rests on another, put it asunder. Where lifeblood pulses in an enemy’s throat, let it know the cold north air.
The missionaries stood impassive in their robes, the gauzy veils hiding their eyes and noses as he cut them down. He made stacks of worshipper’s heads on the altars of the shrines, and then set them ablaze. Soon the Temple missions were guarded by mercenaries, armor and pole-arms kept to a shine.
Gorgak’s laugh echoed through the valley as his blade split helmet and shield. Fallen guards clutched at spurting stumps, not seeing the ending blow that took them between shoulder and chin. Still the missionaries stood impassive, waiting one by one for a tendon-ripping slash across the throat, heads lolling back into wet smiles of appreciation for Gorgak’s handiwork.
“Funny,” thought Gorgak. “They’re not fighting back.”
Hewing through the lizardmen was smooth work, gratifying in its way. Inevitably there were nicks and scrapes to deal with where the occasional claw or fang struck home, but the majority of what coated his thewy arms was the greenish-black blood of the scaly tribesmen. He understood how a farmer could come to love his fields, sweeping the scythe back and forth, learning the contours of the land, feeling it with the muscles of his back, his legs, his arms. So it was for him on this field, reaping a crop of heads, limbs, and the festive bloom of organs.
The grey-blue arc of his steel connected time and again with the yellow-green of throat and abdomen. Gurgling and mangled near-corpses lay all around him, piling up, so that he waded through gore to meet each adversary in turn.
“This is great!” thought Gorgak. “You can also eat these fuckers!”
Editor’s note: It is with great sadness that we present a bunch of puns for Frank Hebert fans. This one’s just for a subset of sci-fi fans who like a subset of comedy. We apologize and accept submissions.
What’s a masochistic Bene Gesserit’s favorite snack?
What coordinates do Guild Navigators use to specify their position relative to the galactic plane?
Why do spice miners always go back to the place they were born?
Because there’s no place like CHOAM.
Who’s the best Bene Geserit basketball player?
Kareem Abdul Gom Jabbar.
What’s the latest Bud campaign on Arrakis?
A bunch of fat guys calling each other up and yelling “Kwiiiiiisaaaatz Haderach!”
What happened to the glory of House Harkonnen?
What happened when the Sardaukar pushed the Fremen too far?
The worm turned.
–The anonymous J