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when the music's over

Sleep deprivation comes in the form of a child with a high fever and aching cough. When I did sleep the world was ending and I couldn't find my way home. Each time I woke it was with a start; as if some long, bony finger had just poked me in the side.

Of course, that bony finger is attached to a presence and that presence has a name: War.

So, do we go to war on the basis of 1441, telling everyone else to take a flying leap, or do we ply a few other nations with goodies and go for the new resolution?

I'm reminded of my high school election in sophomore year, where most of the would-be student body presidents handed out candy, balloons and smiley face stickers.

The person who won was the one who handed out pot and brought the beer to the parties. He made a damn fine president too, even though that swimming pool deal never panned out.

So what do we give to Mexico or Chile or Pakistan to convince them to play along? Free beer? Women? Passes to Disneyworld?

Maybe we could promise Mexico that we will stop calling Taco Bell mexican food.

We are doing the dance of death, waiting for the clock to strike midnight when everyone takes off their masks to reveal their true colors. It's a creepy little dance, with the tempo constantly changing so it's hard to keep pace. Forward two steps, to the right, to the left, back five steps, sway and dip. The music gets faster, the dance gets more complicated. Partners switch and turn in some macabre dosi-do as we all stare at the clock, waiting for the strike.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Who will be your partner when it's midnight and the dance is over? What lies behind the mask that Mexico or Chile wears - the face of the chicken or the face of a lion?


I'll put a good word in for you with France if you send me Optimus Prime.

I say give them nothing fuck them if they can't take a joke.
by the way your writing reminds me of hunter thompson well done.