Friday, April 9, 2010

Of Zombies and Sarah Palin

Run run, run to Alaska!
The zombie apocalypse is here! Jump in your warthog before sarg uses you as a human shield! Hurry, before it’s too late! The zombies want Brians! Bri----ans.

Run, Run, Run to Alaska!
Will the freeways be a tasty bottleneck? Will you make it through Canada before they close the borders? And will the cold keep the zombies away? Will their zero body heat trump their desire for your testy flesh? And brains?

Run Run, Run to Alaska!
You’re almost there! Don’t stop, don’t stop! Double tap but don’t stop. Don’t stop.

Run Run, Run to Alaska!
There’s Sarah Palin sitting on her front porch. She invites you in. Something feels wrong, but how can you resist the chance to see Russia from her kitchen window?

Moooooaning. Moooooooaning.
Palin’s a zombie! Palin’s a zombie!
Palin’s a gun toting, right winged, carnivorous zombie!
Well, I guess its not all bad. Her IQ just shot up 20 points.

Moaoooning, Mooooooaning
Palin aims her rifle,
“You betcha!” She shrieks, “You betcha!”
Pit bull with lipstick grin and a shot gun at your head.

Oh, what providence
Oh, what Deus Ex Machina!
Cheney’s been hunting quail again!
Palin’s zombified head dangles
The would be VP slain by the former VP.
And I live to survive the undead.
But the zombies, they’re in Alaska!

Run Run, Run to Siberia
Run Run, Run to Mt Everest
Run Run, Run to Antartica!

Every OS Sucks!

Spinning wheels, rotating hour glasses
Are you both the work of demons?
Are you both Satan's pride?
You sit there and mock me
My deadline draws closer and closer,
And yet, there you are,
Still spinning, still rotating,

Still it makes me wonder if you,
if your OS,
is sentient,
and why you feel the need
to make me wait.
Do I not spend enough time with you?
I spend most of my waking hours with you,
or at least one of your kind.
But maybe that's it,
maybe you're jealous.
You sync with my blackberry,
you know its thoughts
you know how much time
I spend with her.

Or maybe when you spin or rotate,
whatever the case may be,
maybe you're in a contest
The ultimate Mac vs PC
Who can stay busy longer?
Who can kill more time?
Who can be the least productive?
Jobs and Gates probably put you up to the task
As they sip wine together, secretly
laughing at us all,
You little peons, we control your lives!
We control your livelihood, your entertainment
We control your IV drip of information!

But whatever reason you spin or rotate,
it always ends in a crash. In an hour's work lost,
It always ends with nothing.
Just a black screen.

Thursday, April 8, 2010


When I was a kid you were nothing more than a yummy meat. You and I met for breakfast a couple times a week.

In my teens, in the early 90s, you gained more meaning: you were not just a meat, you were a slang term, but not as we know you now. No, you were a rental cop – a mall security guard, a library bouncer. You did not carry a gun, like real cops. You were fake ham, not quite a pig.

Lovely spam, wonderful spam. Even now, I still wonder if half a bee must ipso facto half not be. And if one's mother really does smell of elder berries. But back in the mid 90s, I found you in music. A British choral arrangement sang your praises.

The late 90s came, and you became my bane. You became a flood of useless information, advertisements. Oh the inches you promise, oh the wonders. How many Nigerian princes can there possibly be? How much of their fortune can they really afford to part with? How many Granny Transsexuals "riding" horses can one actually view before one goes blind?

I still eat you as meat, if one can consider yourself meat. I still fry you with eggs and even eat you raw. I don't like pork, but I do like you. But I tell you this, dear spam, if you don't get away from my in box, I may storm the gates of Hormel and burn your factories down.
Testing. Tap tap tap.