Slow post-holiday week for us...

Sorry about the reduced number of posts this week.. We are pulling together the Best of DOUI from the past year, which admittedly is only slightly more complex than Hillary Duff's recent greatest hits album, but it does take time to go through 650 posts.

In the meantime, please spend the time waiting for our next substantial post by analysing the latest poem from our dear friend and psychotic Max Speebek.

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A New Year
by M. Speebek, Ph.D., Ll.D, M.D., L.S.D.

A turn of the hands of the clock on my nose
How did it get there that clock
Damn that clock with its incessant ticking and the itch it
Gives me when I speak in a nasal tone. How will I ever
Do my Paul Lynde impression now?

Where was I? Ah yes...
The act of love, the passion of the tender caress of bare skin against bare skin.
The soft warmth of a woman's...

No, no, that wasn't it. I believe I was discussing irrigation
techniques of the Sahara
Or was it the latest features on Fandango?
Are my pants zipped up properly?...Yes, yes they are.

Whew!!

I was speaking of the proper use of mayonaisse on a liverwurst sandwich
And analyzing the way in which plastic sandwich bags can be used to
Alter the migration patterns of dingos. Or not. Maybe. Because.
Dingos. Funny little bastards. Vicious but funny in a vicious, untrustworthy sort of way
Like revolving doors or Mao.

The new year approaches. No, it's here already.
What the hell was I drinking that night on the 27th?
That's the last time I let Cavett mix my drink.
I could have been killed if I hadn't passed out already.

Where was I?

Who are you? What are you doing in my poem? You finish it. I need to sleep.

This is the way the poem ends
This is the way the poem ends
This is the way the poem ends

It's over.

Really. I'm not kidding.

I'm serious. I'm not going to write another word.

Turnip.