Thursday, September 3

The final note

I apologize to the empty stadium
to the vacant venue
to the expectations

This "noble" experiment has regrettably failed.

#2 says bye to you.

Tuesday, July 28

The Platonic Crushes

College tore them apart and music brought them back together; The Platonic Crushes' story is something truly remarkable. It's about endearing the pains of reality and churning out artistically viable music that can be sold to the masses for larges gains of profit that are directly transferred to third world countries. But let's start at the beginning....

All they ever wanted to do was play music, that is, until they started playing in high school band. Then they wanted to form a suicide pact. Luckily, that never happened. And after one night of illicit other worldly activities, the trio rediscovered their love for music. None of them can really recollect or put into words what exactly they experienced, but they assure, "It must have been wicked sweet slash awesome."

Questionable activities aside, the trio of girls decided they wanted to explore their new found interest in music together. They formed a pact that they signed with a mixture of blood, alcohol, and heroin. The blood was theirs, the heroin wasn’t. They drew straws to decide who’d to what: Katazyna, vocals and guitar; Kammaka, bass; Colette, drums.

Band Practice One: Screwed around
Band Practice Two: Slight progress
Band Night: Wrote all the songs to their first album
Band Practice Three: Worked out the kinks
Band Practice Four: Utter Perfection
Band Bar Audition: Success
Agent Obtained: Check
Contract Signed: Check
Drinks with Producer: Check
First Album: In progress…

To be continued.

Joel Samson Berntsen (Handle Me-Robyn)

Sunday, July 19

The Girl (Part I)

As I slowly climb the stairs of a corporate plane to escape our mundane world of the Saint Louis suburbs, I catch a glimpse of a girl. A beautiful girl who embodies everything I’ve ever wanted. And this girl returns my gaze. The moment seems unreal. Until, the obese gentleman behind me thrusts my body forward with the force of a giant sperm-whale. I frantically crank my head back as my eyes flail from end to end searching for the girl. But with another thrust to my back, I’m forced to leave her. She’s just as easily forgotten, I guess. All my wants, all my desires; gone with a blink of an eye.

The streets of Chicago sting the soles of my feet, aching from the lack of arch support provided by my clown-like shoes. I stop at a bench, take my shoes off, and observe the locals at a small park. No one sticks out, just a mash of blandness.

Wait. That’s wrong. Who’s that girl? Shit. It’s her. Oh god. How is this even possible? I have to talk to her.

I quickly shove my shoes back on and stagger off in her direction. I look at her and she’s looking back. Man, look at those eyes. She waves. My heart is melting.


Hell… I just got hit by a car. Wow. I’m must have some sort of rare brain disorder that makes the infected individual run across busy intersections in hopes of meeting a genuinely gorgeous girl. And great! She’s gone.
Back to square one, I guess.

To Be Continued…

Joel Samson Berntsen (Love Me or Hate Me-Lady Sovereign)

Night Marry

Crouching down in my cell, I wrap my arms tighter around my knees as the hand protrudes from the bars into my 7 by 5 living space. I can just barely lay down flat, slinking away from the ghost is not an option.

The ghost curls his wrath around the bars of my cell, the long ectoplasmic tendrils of his fingers overlapping each other in his large grasp. His face is close, too close. He's pressing his body through the bars and in front of me. But not his body. His face. He's detaching, dissolving. Piece by piece I watch as the ghost disappears into a puddle of mist on the floor, shapes swirling as he soundlessly glides into my space.

My space.

Space transcends time as the ghost begins to solidify. I can't breath. My tongue is too large. It's choking me. I can't breath, I can't, cannot, can't breath. Because the fingers are back, tightening their expansive clutch around my throat. My tongue is too large because it's swelling. My eyes are bulging from the blood cut off. From the pressure, which I can't handle.

Though the ghost has no face I can hear him laughing. I can hear the loose chains of my past clanking around his nonexistent ankles. I can hear the un-oiled hinges of my closet door, creaking as it blows open in the wind.


Thursday, July 16

Up Chuck

The girl was sitting on the concrete, her legs jutted out at uncomfortable angles, her arms limp at her sides like an old broken doll. Tears streamed from her eyes and recollected in her open, gaping socket of a mouth. Her dress was torn, ragged, and dirty as was her skin. Stripes on her cheeks shone pink from where her tears had eroded the dirt and chapped her flesh.

Behind her, goblins poured out of the door in hordes, each one armed. As they passed their simultaneous queen and harlot, they kicked her, spit on her, pulled at her already disheveled clothes. The girl failed to notice, her eyes reflecting the haunting absence of spirit, displaying the hollow echo left from where her soul had evacuated the quickly growing cavern of her mind.

The goblins snickered, some delighting in her suffering, others kissing her head as a sign of respect as they passed. None bothered to help her. She alone had led them to the surface. She needed to sit and see the benefits of a naive girl's labor.

Once they chamber was full, they opened the door to the sunlight. Natural light flooded into the dimly lit room, blinding all the goblins foolish enough to keep their eyes open the entire time. The others, the older and wiser ones who remembered the light, thrived under the warmth of the sun.


Saturday, July 11

Death of a Hag

Haha j/k lol rofl idk

As Samm meandered towards a saw mill, she saw a sign exclaiming "CLICHE DEATH IMMINENT, AVOID!" Unfortunately, as a lesbian hag, she is illerate and couldn't read it. However, she saw a handsome dyke stroll by who caught her gander.

The homosexual female introduced herself as Beatrice the Butch. Samm's curiousity was piqued by Beatrice's lumberjack shirt.

Suddenly, a meteor appeared in the sky, or so they thought. Actually it was a golf ball. After their close brush with death, they decided to have a civil ceremony and tie the (well whatever lesbians tie).

That night, Beatrice told the Hag to go get some smokes and throw paint on some rich woman's fur coat (all lesbians are card-carrying members of PETA, duh).

When Samm returned, Beatrice announced that their 4 hour relationship was built on lies and stormed out.

Samm was perplexed.

Samm was confused.

Samm was hungry.

After Samm saw a man holding Beatrice's dress and walking down the street, she realized that she had just married a tranny.

This realisation led Samm to drink.

I don't mean Barbara Walters drinking, I'm talking Whitney with too much coke and a closet full of tequila drinking.

After Samm had OD'd, Bobby Brown came to her in a dream and told her to XXXXXXXXXX (I can't repeat it, it's too vile). This disgusting statement brought Samm back from the brink of death.

As she gazed around the room, she noticed that all of her furniture was gone.
The hippies had visited.
Damn hippies.

So, Samm did what every lesbian does when confronted with hippies, she sent an angry letter to the hippie times.

Unfortunately for Samm, the hippie times was now led by Al Gore.
No one sends angry letters to Al Gore.

So, Al Gore did what every has-been turned environmentalist EIC would do, he sent her a tree with a leprechaun assassin hidden inside.

After the tree had been delivered, Samm rejoiced because now she could practice her topiary skills. As she began trimming, the leprechaun struck her pot of gold with a taser.

Then, he stuffed her mouth with the last remaining famine-era potato.

She struggled, but he was a wry leprechaun. He finished her off by putting the weave of death over her dyke spike.

And that is how the Hag died.
Sorry Hag

Splenda is Still Not Sugar

Dear Viewers,

While the resident Hag finds it endearing that her accompanying Muskequeers frequently attempt to replace her, she requests it known that there is no replication for the real deal.


Post Script: TLH finds it highly disturbing that she may actually miss journalism this coming year. Tragic.