Archive for June, 2010

M. O. TH.

Posted in All things music, Comedy, Poetry on June 29, 2010 by klogtheblog

Yield unto me

Foolish Christian priest

Your chalices of gold

I’ll drain them at our feast

Your lungs are splayed and purple

The surf collects its prize

From your cloven ribcage

While gulls consume your eyes

We sail onto your shores

Rape your village girls

Plunder, bloodlust, havoc

Our drunken captain hurls

Both epithets and vomit

At monks in robes of brown

They gaze up to their heaven

We bring our hammers down


Minions of Thor

Destroying foreign souls

Minions of Thor

Strong as mountain trolls

Minions of Thor

Sailing seas of steel

Minions of Thor

Hear the thundrous peal


<fourteen minute guitar solo>

<repeat chorus 3x>

–Steve Kilian

State of The National

Confession to Rassilon


Obama’s Katrina?

Posted in All things political on June 24, 2010 by klogtheblog

Do you think there’s merit in the criticism of Obama on the oil spill and the whole comparing it to the Katrina response?

My feeling is this: Katrina, all the major networks were showing mass human misery on a grand scale, and the Brownie and Chertoff hadn’t seen it and were saying everything was fine. Bush himself was warned about levees and told that moron Brownie he was doing a fine job. This thing started as an explosion, and the White House was on it from the first, though no one (except BP) knew how bad this was. Sounds like the execution of the spill cleanup hasn’t been great, but that hardly rises to the levels of incompetence and outright denial  witnessed after Katrina.

What it does show is that our government is totally corrupted by big oil money, that even the Democrats are okaying iffy offshore drilling and letting the oil companies run the show, complete with no realistic contingency plans in case of accidents such as this.

It also shows how screwed we are, consuming as we do, that we’re looking for oil in dangerous places with dangerous results. We should be taxing this stuff so that the price of the damage is factored into its consumption, so that alternative fuels start to make appealing business sense. Everything has to change, but nothing is (see my point about corruption of government.).

So no, it’s not Katrina. It’s also not 9-11. I’d say it’s more Three Mile Island. We’ve come to realize that the fuel is dangerous. People are starting to forget Three Mile Island, so next time the pelicans will be glowing green.

–Dan Kilian

Constuputid K Words


Old Time Magic

Posted in All things political, Comedy on June 23, 2010 by klogtheblog

President Obama sits behind his desk in the Oval Office.  The cameras and lights are on, broadcasting to the world.  In front of him is an oil-covered pelican, gawping weakly.  He wipes its head with a white cloth, singing softly, “Hey there, lonely girl. . . .” all the while staring into its eyes, as if the cameras aren’t even there.  In less than a minute the bird is clean – stark white in comparison to how it looked before — and President Obama finally looks up to address the nation.

“Don’t ever forget that I’m the Magic Man, America,” he says, “We’ll be talking again in the upcoming months.  See you around.”  At which point the bird tests its wings and hops onto his shoulder.  The camera zooms out and the office is full of white pelicans, wings outstretched.

Obama smiles.


–Steve Kilian

Ice Cream

A Good Put-Down

McChrystal on the Carpet

Posted in All things political, Comedy on June 22, 2010 by klogtheblog

Stanley! Good to see you.

Hello, Mr. President.

At ease, soldier! We don’t want you straining your saluting arm, do we?

Mr. President, regarding that Rolling Stone Article…

What? There was an article in Rolling Stone? What was it about? Are you in a really lame rock band?


Oh wait! I DO seem to recall something about a Rolling Stone article. Now that I think about it, it was about…You…FUCKING this administration in the ASS!

I’m very sorry, Mr. President. It was a mistake and it reflects poor judgement…

Well it’s not like I’m looking for good judgment from the General I put in place to get us the hell out of fucking Afghanistan! You, know, I seem to recall, this isn’t the first time you’ve fucked me in public. Remember when you were trying to get more troops, and you got all hardball on me in the press? Remember?

I remember our discussions…

I guess ol’ General Stanley needed more attention! Did you need more face time with the president? Well, here’s my fucking face! Do you like it? Or is this just too much of a “photo op?”

Mr. President, again…

Forgive me if I’m being unpleasant. I guess I’m just too “uncomfortable and intimidated!” Shit. I should fire you, but we both know that won’t play. Those fucking traitors on the right will say I’m willing to lose the war out of pique. Never mind that YOU are ALREADY LOSING THIS FUCKING WAR! You just can’t fire a general anymore. There’s too much of a brass fetish in this town. So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Joe?

Yes, Barack?

Stanley, you remember Joe “Bite Me” Biden?

Hello Mr. Vice President.

Hello, Stanley!

Joe. Bite him.

I’m sorry?


Bite him! If I can’t fire the son-of-a-bitch, then I can at least extract some pain.

Yes sir.

Mr. President, you can’t be seri…AAAGH!


That’s it, Joe! Bite him! BITE HIM!! HA HA HA HA HA HA!!



Okay that’s enough. All right, Mr. “Runaway General,” go run away. Run away back to Afghanistan, so you can keep losing that war you’re running. Oh and Stanley?

Yes, Mr. President?

Keep your fucking mouth shut around the press. Or Joe will bite your goddamn balls off.

Yes sir!

Fuck off. Ahh! That felt good. Thanks for doing that, Joe.

No problem, Barack! I kind of like the “Bite Me,” thing. I might use it in the 2016 campaign.

Me too, Joe. Just don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Hillary’s got sharper teeth than you do.

Yes sir, Mr. President!

Editor’s note: It seems the very premise of this piece is wrong. Sucks to be wrong! I bet he still had Biden bite him though.

–Dan Kilian

Bad Day at McDonald’s

Who is JASON D? K-Riddle


Posted in Poetry on June 21, 2010 by klogtheblog

Sorry that I am a skeleton monster and ate all your food.

Sorry that I melted the foundation of your apartment building.

Sorry that I used the brain-eraser ray on your planet.

Sorry about imploding your sun.




–Steve Kilian

Return of the K-Riddler

The Rain

Jacob Bartelby, Temporary Fileclerk To The Stars

Posted in All things music, Comedy, Fiction on June 18, 2010 by klogtheblog

I’ve been working for Roger Waters for over a year now. Guy should really just hire me. I can’t complain; this high end temping pays pretty well. Mostly I man the phones in the office and watch the fax machine (yes, a fax!) and open the mail. Around noon on  random days Mr. Waters will come in, take his desk and make a few phone calls.

“No Jason, I don’t care what David thinks. We shall NOT be selling ‘Comfortably Numb’ to the good people at Ambesol. No!”

He’ll send me out to get lunch, and we’ll sit in silence, interrupted by the occasional phone call. He’ll have me make a copy of some letter and fax and I’ll file it, using a haphazard non-system that lurched from alphabetical to chronological to categorical. It’s a mess, but it keeps me employed. He generates a lot of paperwork for a rock star. I’ll clear out the file drawer every other week, pop together a banker’s box (I have to admit to a small ecstasy whenever those flat cardboard boxes snapped into place, a feat of industrial origami.), then shove it in the filing closet.

“The closet’s getting pretty full, Mr. Waters.”

“Hmm…okay. Set all the boxes from 1996 and 1997–no in fact let’s take the rest of that wretched decade–out here by my desk We’ll have Nick take it out to storage on Monday.

Poor Nick Mason. Since his estrangement from David Gilmour he’s run himself financially into the ground, so now he’s come crawling back to Mr. Waters, and reduced to running odd jobs to keep him in Mr. Water’s largesse. Of course, Mr. Waters still scorns him for the whole David Gilmour Floyd period, but having the old drummer in his employ counts as points against Gilmour.

So I start hauling these cubes of paperwork out to the desk and start stacking them. Mr. Waters stares out into space as he is want to do, but then he notices the stack that’s piling up.

“No. Don’t stack them like that.” I’m stacking them in a row, one box atop another. What else am I supposed to do? “Do a stretcher bond,” he says.


“Span them!”


“Lay them across the gap.”

I slide my box on the second row over, until it’s halfway across the next box. Mr. Waters smiles, slightly. “There. Now do the rest that way.”

I get back to it. Four across, three across them, two atop that. I start a new row. Mr. Waters pounds the top of his desk.

“No! Make it go higher.”

“But it’ll…”

“Build it higher!”

So I keep stacking them, spanning the boxes, until it’s four boxes high, then five. Now, with the boxes wobbling, I start a sixth row. Mr. Waters is hidden behind the boxes as he sits at his desk. It’s very clear what I’m building now. I poke my head over and see his eyes are gleaming.

“Yes, Mr. Bartelby. Build it! Build it!”

And so I spend my days with Mr. Waters.

–Dan Kilian

My Obama Encounter By Jacob Bartelby, Intern to the Department of Health Bureaucracy Department Building 15

Adventures in Filing

Astral Dumplings and Purple Prose

Posted in Comedy, Critique on June 17, 2010 by klogtheblog

Dining and Wine:  5 under $10

In response to widespread acclaim for Sam Sifton’s recent review of Takashi, the editors of the Dining and Wine section have asked our reporters to fire up their four-foot bongs and hit the streets for more brain-scrambling grub:

Moonstruck Diner, 23rd St. and 9th Ave.:  Gyro meat drips with savagery, in inchoate bark of anticolonial rage.  Stuffed grape leaves are by no means nuanced;  they are a polemic writ in olive oil, lemon, and too-soft rice, a predigested screed to be preached only to the converted.  Fries are limp, ketchup salty.

Dil-e Punjab, 9th Avenue at 21st St.:  Black-eyed peas, spinach, chickpeas – no matter, all are as acceptable as the rest.  Cardamom tea is a transporting opiate, a shaded chaise on a raft floating down the Ganges, the afternoon rain held in swollen abeyance for a few more minutes of languid torpor until the cleansing monsoon gushes forth from the heavens.  Carrot dessert is a bit sweet.  Avoid the soya cutlet.

Roy Rogers, I-95 rest stop:  Roast beef sandwiches with horsey sauce taste of fallen empire, photon storms lashing satellites that have long since depleted their transuranic reactor cores.  Lettuce is no better, an untranslatable inscription on the side of an interstellar probe, the precious metals melted down for ammunition to fuel some planet-bound tribal war that has gone on for millennia.

Gray’s Papaya, 23rd St. and 6th Ave.:  Fuchsia planes tessellate and surround the point of consciousness.  Crystalline automata bow and proceed on their appointed rounds.  Somewhere, distant, the sounds that are one sound, a city alive but somehow rendered abstract.  What is this “love” they speak about?

Rickshaw, 23rd St. between 6th and 7th Avenues:  Dumplings, mumblings, three from the left and slide your tray to the right.  Ever listen to Astral Weeks?  For a moment, when you realize that Van is playing all the instruments, you realize that Van is playing the listener as well.  Who’s playing Van?  That’s what these dumplings are like, man.  Just like that.

–Steve Kilian


Chronicles of the Proceedings of the Hall of Tumescence