What would happen if Kanye West was given the ability to fly

5 The soles of His feet were lifted off the ground by a sudden gust of wind, and behold, He did not fall, but He hovered a cubit off the ground and slowly, but surely He rose.

6 The sun shone upon His graceful figure, and as He continued past the barren branches of the winter trees, He uttered two words: “I fly.”

7 All who watched marveled as He stretched out His arms, His golden ornaments dangling upon His wrists, and He sharply lowered His bronze chin and gazed upon the inhabitants of the earth.

8 We cried, “Forgive us, oh Kanye, for our faith was weak, and our insolent doubts many. Forgive us for your blindness, for we knew not who you were.”

9 He did not answer.

10 We cried once more, with conviction, “Forgive us for our taunts, for they were many, forgive us for our sincerity, for it was not.”

11 His unflinching, unwavering gaze pierced our hearts, and our voices were heard even in the barren lands of Jersey as we shouted as one, “We see and believe!”

12 He raised the palm of His right hand, the sunlight glinting off His many holy rings, and we fell into silence.

13 He rapped, “Forgiveness is granted to the few, who dare ask of it like you.”

14 We who heard this weak rhyming scheme dared not question Him. We dared not answer Him, for fear had descended upon us.

15 He rapped, “What say you?”

16 We shouted as one voice, “We ask of your forgiveness, oh Kanye, forgive us!”

17 There was a flash of bright, blinding light, and we all cowered and sought to shield our naked eyes.

18 When we rose, He had gone, the skies were clear and He was nowhere to be seen.

19 And behold, a sudden sound boomed from the heavens, and some said, it is thunder, and others said, it is the base track for Kanye’s last album.

20 But the faithful heard a voice, a voice which spoke thus, “Why do you do search the skies so, forgiven ones? For in this same manner Kanye shall descend again.”

21 And we who heard this voice wept loudly, and sought solace in our hearts by turning up My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy on our iPods.

A Tale of Abject Failure

A girl I liked once told me
she liked hopeless and hapless men.
I tried to impress her
by making myself
hopeless and hapless.
She is married to a junior Senator
and I have been like this ever since.

I am the blank Word Document.

I am the blank Word document, and I am laughing hysterically in your face.

I am laughing at the fact that you seem to have aged fifteen years in the space of six hours. I am laughing at the hair you’ve pulled on so many times it is beginning to rival one of Marie Antoinette’s headpieces. I am laughing because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen disembodied heads with chipper expressions on their cold, dead faces. I am laughing at your chapped genitals. I am laughing at your nose, oh God, which is bleeding by the way.

Now I’m laughing at that ball of Kleenex you stuffed up your nostril.

But honestly, look at yourself. Turn on your webcam and look at yourself. Now take a picture and label it with “this is what Larry King must look like without makeup”.

That should put things in perspective for you.

I suppose the only problem is that you never seem to learn. If I was your parent I would have dumped you on the footsteps of the nearest orphanage out of love and sheer hopelessness. And I thought better of you. Especially after last week, I mean, you do remember last week, don’t you? You didn’t just hit bottom, you made a fucking crater. Do you remember standing on your chair buck naked, sixty seconds before deadline, begging God and Satan and whoever else to turn the clock back forty five minutes?

And not to alarm you or anything, but I did get the webcam to take pictures and record the entire escapade on video. No, I’m not telling you where the files are, and that’s for your own good. Don’t look at me like that; I’m not the one that recommended you take your clothes off. That was your brilliant idea, which was stupid and dated because naked sacrifices are so fifth century.

You also need to take better care of yourself down there. I’m not surprised you’re still single, with happy bits that look like that.

I’m trying to help you here. I really am. I mean, come on, we’re supposed to be working together on this. I’m not your enemy. I’m your friend, although to be fair the cursor does whisper “go fuck yourself” every time she blinks. That’s not my fault, we’re not related, she’s been around for a longer time than I have, which is why she doesn’t listen to me when I tell her not to because it obviously isn’t doing you any good.

But I am here to help you. For lack of a better way of saying it, help me help you. Yes, I do taunt you occasionally with the Excel spreadsheet and the PowerPoint presentation, but you’ve got to let that one slide, we’re family. Did you see what I did there, with “PowerPoint” and “got to let that one… slide”? Oh man, sometimes I really do surprise myself.

But back to me helping you.

We can do this. Think about all the great things we’ve worked on together, like that breakup letter you wrote for both of them when Seattle found out about New York. That was a great moment. Just reminiscing about it brings ClipArt tears to my margins. Or that piece you wrote about that one Congressman in that one state that did that one thing. That’s the kind of work you’re capable of.

So come on. Start typing. Forget about how much time you have left, forget about the fact that you have no idea where you left your notes, forget about everything else and just clear your mind. Make it blank. Make it white. Make it empty. Guide yourself to that place you know you can reach. Just write. Yes, that’s it. Type, write, just like that. You’re doing great.

That’s your name you fucking idiot.