Archive for March, 2010

Bad Day at McDonald’s

Posted in All things political, Comedy on March 31, 2010 by klogtheblog

Here are your fries, and thanks for coming to McDonalds!

Well done Dennis! You’re getting the hang of the front station! I’m glad I made you station manager!

Gee thanks, Mr. Pensington.

So how is the rest of the staff doing?

Oh, their mostly doing pretty okay…except for maybe Stanley…

What’s wrong with Stanley?

Well, he gets the orders right and stuff, and he’s always on time…

But?

Well he…he touches the children.

What?

Yeah, when he’s on his break he goes into the McPlayground and molests the children.

Oh, that’s no good. Let’s move him to the drive-through section.

But won’t he still be able to molest children on his breaks?

You just worry about the front station, Dennis.

A few days later…

Hey Arthur, how are things at the drive-through?

Oh, pretty good, except Stanley keeps molesting children on his break.

That does it! Let’s move him back into the kitchen!

Hey Mister! What the hell is going on here! My kid just said one of you guys “touched him funny!” I want some answers!

Agh! Everybody’s out to get me!

Out to get you? You’ve got a guy molesting children!

Just ONE guy. Most of these McEmployees aren’t molesting anybody!

Well, you’re going to lose your job over this!

Yeah right! This isn’t going to touch me! I’m the General Manager! Good luck trying to take me down!

–Dan Kilian

Gullible

Back From The Past


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The Rain

Posted in Fiction on March 30, 2010 by klogtheblog

The rain came through the ceiling, thick with particulates from the paint, the plaster, the wood, the shingle, and the dissolving tar above. The framework of the trellis underwent chemical and biological transformation, as it turned from wood and insulation into a wet slurry of hidden ecology. Insect larva and worms swam blindly in the woodwork. Eventually tadpoles crawled into the biome out of bird droppings, having survived the crude dinosaurian digestive systems. They evolved quickly into blind albino creatures, secreting strong poisons to protect them from the web-footed otter-like squirrels that had developed a carnivorous taste for underwater nutrients. Kingfishers circled overhead, battling the raindrops in search of prey.

Inside, the man had placed buckets, pots, Tupperware, bowls, glasses and cups to catch the indoor rain. He mapped it out. The original great stain had long ago become a ragged wound in his ceiling, it’s cracks bleeding into new great stains, which begat smaller stains with their somewhat predictable drips. The containers, filled with different levels of water, took on tones with each drip. He started carefully moving them about to create a soft dripping composition of sorts. The woman left him with his buckets and pans, as he spent increasing time in the back guestroom, his head to the floor like a Muslim, listening to his raindrop orchestra.

He slept there, waking frequently as each new drip found him. He licked the water off his face and drifted off again, listening. He came to desire no other food or drink, believing that the rainwater sustained him.

“Ah this bell has gone sharp!” he declared of one pot, and took a tiny sip. He called them his “rain-bells.”

He was of course quite mad, partly from exhaustion and starvation, but mostly from the frog toxins that had leaked through the ceiling. He started having visions, believed himself to be an Indian squatting in the rain forest, and saw his wife’s ever more brief and intermittent visits to the back room as an imperial threat from the white man.

“This is not your land! You will drown in the river!” He shrieked wretchedly. She left him.

Finally the rain stopped. It grew sunny and bright. The frogs hibernated, one with the spongy tissue of the building, while the adaptive squirrel-otters took again to the trees.

The man stirred from his stupor, realizing that the song had ended. He figured out how to stand, and staggered into the greater apartment. The refrigerator was rank with rotting things. He stomped down the stairs, treading on the pile of mail, and managed to open the door.

He looked less like a man than an animal, in his rags and blanket. He stared dimly out at the world, at the blue sky, at the sun. He would have gone blind if a kingfisher hadn’t swooped down and attacked him, pecking out his eyes.

–Dan Kilian

Dactylophilia

I Passed, But Then I Came Back: Five and a Half Song Review

Return of the K-Riddler

Posted in Poetry, Trivia on March 29, 2010 by klogtheblog

If you spell my color

And switch the first letter

With the next one alphabetically down

This substitution

Makes a transformation

As my color then becomes my sound

What am I?

HINT1 When I say “the next one alphabetically down” by “down” I mean “closer to A as opposed to closer to Z.”

HINT2 The color is not universally accurate, but the classic depiction of this thing almost always show it as being this color.

HINT3 Yes, I am proposing that “color” sort of rhymes with “letter.” Hey, it’s a riddle, not a sonnet!

Comment of e-mail if you need to know the answer.

–Dan Kilian

K-Riddle

July 4th, 1777

Chronicles of the Proceedings of the Hall of Tumescence

Posted in Comedy, Fiction on March 26, 2010 by klogtheblog

Priapus brought his iron-shod staff down on the floor of the Hall.  The insistent thudding rang through the chamber, silencing the attendants that milled around the lords.  There were cape-bearers and courtesans, flower-strewers and floor-sweepers — all scuttled away through darkened side-aisles, leaving the suspended braziers to illuminate only the august presences of the Nine.  Grudgingly these remaining few assembled around the table, taking their thrones.  A wrack-limbed scribe wearing pince-nez set up a rickety folding desk and chair and began to take notes.  The meeting had begun.

Lord Priapus surveyed those with whom he shared his power, recalling weaknesses and indiscretions along with past alliances and points of strength.  Lord Mourningwoode was attentive as usual, brightly reviewing the prospects before him.  He had all the appearance of strength and noble lineage.  A straight frame, unthinning hair, and fine vestments with bright brass buttons lent him a vaguely military air.  But he would soon lose interest, unable to muster the attention span for the bureaucratic tasks that lay ahead.  No doubt he would excuse himself to the privy chamber at the time of the vote, yielding his authority to a proxy.  Priapus intended to be that proxy.

Lord Iago, on the other hand, was scrupulously reliable in his perseverance.  A newcomer would not believe that such an ancient presence could be so forceful in argument.  His mottled scalp was unconcealed by a few strands of long white hair.  He glared at his audience through reddened glistening eyes.  His tattered robe was filthy, worse than a penitent’s after pilgrimage.  His only accommodation to luxury was an ornate silver box of powdered blue snuff into which he dug his yellow-nailed fingers at every opportunity.  His upper lip was permanently stained and crusted with the residue of this habit.  But despite all evidence of decrepitude, Iago’s apparently withered limbs would show great strength as he pounded on the table, cords of sinew standing out on his arms and neck so that he nearly took the form of a gnarled tree as he made his case.  For all that he lacked any guile or subtlety – qualities which he found womanly and beneath someone of his station.  In many cases he had no need of these traits.  Perhaps this decision would be another example of this, Priapus thought.  Or perhaps not.

Less easy to predict was the squirrely Lord Chesterhold.  He fidgeted atop his throne, sweating slightly in robes too thick for the weather.  As always, there was something inappropriate in his garb, something that inevitably left him uncomfortable.  Even as Priapus looked on, Chesterhold suddenly sat upright and set his lapdog on the floor, looking about as if he had made some transgression.  Priapus had seen this before when the Lord had bounced some minor prince’s child on his knee in an effort to curry favor amongst the ruling class of the outlying provinces.  Chesterhold would fold to any who intimated that they knew his hidden proclivities, whatever they truly were.  The trick was to convince him that this was the case.

L’Enfant, on the other hand, beamed in childlike bliss.  A hooded regent stood in shadows behind the miniature lord’s throne, making himself visible only to translate the coos and gurgles of his master, or to wipe spittle from those royal lips.  L’Enfant’s attentions and interests were entirely whimsical and transitory.  There was no predicting what might trigger his delight.  His vote was that of a coined tossed in the air.  A margin of two in Priapus’ favor was needed to be secure in victory.  Otherwise L’Enfant’s imbecilic caprice could undo the most elaborate of plans.

The Lich stood in stark contrast to L’Enfant.  Whatever weird necromancy gave him life had exacted a horrific toll:  his skin was mummified, hollow cheeks shriveled and with a pallor fading to green, as if rot had started and then been unnaturally arrested.  Beneath his sepulchral cloak a gallowsman’s noose adorned the Lich’s neck, either part of a dreadful bargain or an ironic ornament.  Priapus thought the former more likely, as he had never seen the Lich so much as smirk.  But the Lich was stalwart, constant, a reliable ally.  His dedication was eternal.

Not so that of Lord Percival.  Certainly that scion believed his convictions would last forever, for all that they were hot and demanding of immediate action.  The boy-Lord was a bit ridiculous, perhaps, in his maroon corduroy and feathered cap, although Priapus felt a distant fondness for him, as if he recognized an echo of himself in the child’s foolishness.  Percival kept journals of his thoughts – so easily available to any crude spy that one wondered if they were intended to be read – which catalogued his ambitions and naïve schemes.  Poetry shamelessly cavorted with his clumsy politics on those pages, along with his earnest declarations of support for one thing or another.  But this ardor would fade with each milestone accomplished.  Percival would move on to another task with equal fervor to the one just abandoned.  But if his eye were caught at the right time his vote would be certain, at least for a short while.

And then there was Cerulean.  His bloated presence was an affront to all, including himself.  Heavy perfume and layered vests and topcoats did not conceal a pervasive stench which followed him.  He alone had brought no retinue to the meeting, glancing about longingly at the serving girls and washerwomen before they were sent from the room.  They in turn had studiously avoided having any more to do with Cerulean than was absolutely required.  His weak smiles and breathy remarks went unreturned.  And so he challenged the structure of his throne in a morose funk, self-pity poisoning any prospect of alliance.  He crossed his tiny hands on the uppermost buckle of his girdle, waiting for the debate to begin.

Finally, amidst swirling vapors that distorted the firelight of the room, loomed Xorkaal, ruler of the swampland wastes, alien and aloof.  Knotted scars ran up and down his body, which was covered by only a thin network of chains running between bizarre piercings.  In places the chains – which were of a motley collection of alloys, some links bright and some dull and rusted – disappeared into seeping voids in the swamplord’s flesh.  Xorkaal’s vote was as unknowable as L’Enfant’s, but certainly not capricious.  There was definitely a form of logic and intent behind his decisions.  But Priapus could not fathom it, nor did he think any human ever could.

So then it was a stroke of some fortune that the voting turned out as it did.  The arguments flowed over the course of hours, Cerulean weeping at times, Percival making undying pronouncements, Chesterhold taking great and sudden interest in his shoes, all under the subtle influence of Priapus.  He cajoled and scolded, prodded and relented.  Xorkaal uttered a polyphonic drone for several minutes which interrupted all communication save that of L’Enfant, who giggled while urinating on the table.  Eventually the claims and counterclaims subsided and the group settled into that rarest of states:  unanimity.  Priapus quickly called for a roll call, and the scribe smoothed a fresh sheet of parchment to record the final tally.

Each of the Nine Lords intoned their decision:

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

–Steve Kilian

The Great Defeat in Georgia

Adventures in Filing

So What’s Next?

Posted in All things political, Comedy on March 25, 2010 by klogtheblog

♫O-oh happy days are here again♪…Hello Rahm! Axel! Neither of you is getting fired today!

Congratulations once again Mr. President.

#*@%-ing A, Mr. President.

I’m afraid swearing is no longer your trade-mark, Rahm. Biden’s cornered the market. …♫The skies above are clear again♪…

#*@%!

So Mr. President, about your agenda…

Yes, what’s next? Another post signing ceremony? A celebratory ball? Cocaine and hookers? I’m just kidding about that last one. It still kind of sucks to be president. Bubba, you ruined it for all of us! I don’t even care. My mooooood….is gooooooooood! …♫all that…other stuff is…cheer?…again♪…

Well, we were thinking about what’s next on the agenda.

A party? A victory lap around congress?

No, we mean the stuff that still needs to be done. The economy, the financial overhaul, cap and trade, Social Security, immigration…

Ahh, let Pelosi take care of that.

She’s kind of spent her wad getting this health care bill through. No one wants any controversy before November. It might be on us.

First of all, Rahm, never refer to the lovely Madame Speaker as “spending her wad” ever again. And secondly, who do you mean by “us”?

I mean…The White House.

Which is?

Which is you.

Right. Well I just bumped myself up from a blurb during black history month to The Most Significant President in Over Forty Years, so I am not doing jack for a good bit now. I’m going to Indonesia and Guam. In the meantime, why don’t you round me up some commissions for all these problems, get the usual suspects, and every month or so I’ll make a few little speeches about it. We aren’t doing #*@% for the rest of the year.

As you wish, Mr. President.

Oh and Social Security? I want it to cover everyone. And I want that to lower the deficit.

I don’t think we can do that, Mr. President.

Oh yes we can! We can do anything! ♫HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN!!!♪

–Dan Kilian

Khomeini and Khamenei: A Dialogue

Three Variations On the Same Scatological Joke

Shrines!

Posted in Comedy on March 24, 2010 by klogtheblog

Shrines!  Get your shrines here!

We’ve got sports figure shrines, popular musician shrines, religious shrines – you name it, we’ve got it.

We’ve got Monkey-God shrines, bleeding statue shrines, holy springwater shrines – all fully guaranteed and with attractive maintenance contracts available.  No reasonable offer will be dismissed out of hand.

We have gnarled and ancient tree of indeterminate species shrines.  We have slabs of onyx featureless but for a narrow crack from which issues malodorous and vision-inducing vapor shrines.  Portable shrines!  Roadside shrines!  Good Shrines!  Evil Shrines!  Mummified and incorruptible body shrines!  Shrines to elder deities for ensconcing beneath the cathedrals of latter-day gods!

Custom shrines are available – speak to one of our licensed shrinaticians for a quote.

Many features available – blood gutters, incense braziers, manacles, flower-vases, and many more.

Quick turnaround and professional service!

Get your shrines here!

–Steve Kilian

The Cargo

Song: Origin Myth

She Had More To Say, and How She Said It

Posted in Comedy on March 23, 2010 by klogtheblog

“It’s 111 degrees in here! We are not amused!” she said haughtily.

“Fetch me my bow! I shall hit the bullseye!” she said, arrogantly.

“I’d like to hang out at the bottom of a window,” she declared with a silly laugh.

“I don’t have a six-pack,” she said, abnormally.

“I’m afraid to tell you what I did to your car,” she admitted bashfully.

“I never break character!” she said playfully.

“Never mind healthcare. Let’s talk about this giant bass I caught,” she said, superficially.

“Should I put this dress on?” she asked, warily.

“He’s not very interesting, but he’s got nice manners, so I say we let him hang out with us,” she said, indulgently.

“These grapes are all dried up, and they’re frozen cold!” she said brazenly.

“My pictorial representations are as crude as a four-year-old’s!” she said drastically.

“It’s no lie. I want you to have my coat,” she said, altruistically.

“To join our club, you have to flip the light switch on and off and on again,” she said cliquishly.

“I’ve got a smaller number of things!” she said furiously.

“Be quiet!” she said viciously.

“I got A’s or B’s on all my tests,” she said, deceitfully.

“I once played a patriotic German during World War II in a school play,” she said exuberantly.

–Dan Kilian

The Way She Said It

My Secret Life as an Iranian Proxy Server