Conquer or concur

Roar on or gently purr

Embrace or deter

The choices that were

Flight or fight

In the day before the night

The dark will blur my sight

The light will slight the fright

I stand at both alone

With warmed heart or chilly bones

Whether still lost or tucked at home

The event devolves in foam

Run or stay

Live—or not—another day

There's never time to pray

For the quintessential way

So, this is it.

I'm away and can't take any calls right now. But if you whisper whatever sentiments you wish, I'll be sure to engage with them in the order in which they were received.

Cara: I love you, Dad. I hope you know you gave me a wonderful life. What my life would have been like without you! Stay in my head and you'll hear that every day. Forever.

Phoebe: I love you so much. You'll always be with me. I hope you're right about what you said—what happens when we die. I'm sure you are, so I will always be living with you.

Blaise: Dad, they say of all your children, I'm the most like you. I can feel that. Your love, your empathy, your sense of humor, and your sense of purpose. I hope I stay like you as long as I can: it's my lifetime goal.

Luke: Daddy, I know I was special, and I know how special I was to you as you cared for me, kept me healthy, even cleaned up after me—all the joules and ergs of extra work. I hope what I gave you was worth having a special child. When I die, I will finally be able to see you, walk with you, and even run. I'll finally be able to understand the world that I can't grasp or navigate like everyone else.

Evan: Dad, you've been my template, despite the different directions the rest of us have gone. I've gotten my mores, work ethic, and perspective of our world in the universe from you. How could I navigate it otherwise? I hope you're right when you said we're trapped in 3-dimensional cross-sections, but we've always existed and will always be. That's a great life comfort—how this life is both important and unimportant at the same time.

Linda: How do I offer my love to my husband without using clichés? You are everything to me and I'll have a hard time without you. But if you're right, then spending the rest of my life with you will be the only forever that matters to me. I love you. And what I say next will say it all: I'd do it all over again.

Your wishes, dreams, and sentiments are now part of me. I carry them with me as I drift off. Different functions are going away; I can feel it.The distractions of my motor and sensory cerebral hemispheres are fading. The coordinating instruction sets of my cerebellum are no longer needed. My self-embrace is now cradling my limbic system.

Was I right? Is the rest of my afterlife next? Or is it just oblivion? If it's just oblivion, it won't matter, because I'll no longer be. Oblivion really hurts—just on the front end: now, while just fearing its possibility.

I pray I was right. Having you all would be such a loving way to engage eternity. And with the universe, no longer constrained by mere skull.

Hello. Welcome to QNN Evening News. I’m Hirrient Tril. Breaking as we come on the air, on this very busy news night:

--Horrific 2-car crash kills 14 and injures dozens of others.

--The NAACP balks at the administration’s recommendation to change its name.

--TikTok goes to half-speed operations while the new deadline approaches for shutdown or sale.

--The recent executive order dismissing all of those working in the Unemployment Office sets a new bar for irony.

--Explosive scandal rocks the National Bridge-on-the-River Choir.

--More worms found in RFK, Jr.’s head.

--Marvel superhero movies blamed for autism spectrum disorder.

Those are the latest understandings, mis-, or not. And now, for the revisions:

A horrible car crash involving only 2 cars has killed 14 people and injured dozens of others. At first, it was suspected that the colliding cars had landed on a group of pedestrians to account for that number of casualties. On the scene is QNN correspondent, Suzy Sucklipz. Suzy?

“Thanks, Hirrient. Yes, it was assumed the two cars had struck an entire crowd of Democrats, but after the facts emerged, the incident was found to have involved at least one clown car, which could easily explain the number of those killed and injured.”

What about the other car? Any details?

“The other car initially was felt to have had no survivors, as it was eerily silent for some time, until first responders identified its occupants as three mimes, still buckled in and gesticulating wildly. Keeping them in the car were imaginary glass barriers they pointed out using the flattened palms of their hands.”

And the clowns who survived?

“Well, with so many casualties, this presented quite the logistics problem in getting them all to hospitals. Currently, we’re still waiting for a clown-ambulance, which has only been used once before, after that Big Top collapse catastrophe 14 years ago.”

I remember that. What a circus!

“You bet, Hirrient. Three rings. Although the clowns crawling out of the carnage were cited with a ‘too-soon’ clown offense when they were seen to have their pants down. As you know, the penalty for such a clown crime calls for mandatory shoe deflation.”

Sad, Suzy. Just sad. Now for politics. The NAACP has rebuked strongly a call to change its name because of many critics who have complained that they considered “colored people” to be derogatory. Its executive committee had especially harsh words for the White House recommendation, the NAAYP, or the “National Association for the Advancement of You People.” Covering our political beat is our own, Notso Fatso. Notso?

“Yes, Hirrient. Were they angry! When the press secretary was asked, as a rhetorical question that went right over her head, “What people,” she only responded, “You know what people. Everyone knows what people, am I right? When asked about the possibility of NAAWP, or the National Association of We People, the dwarves lobby objected.

Notso Fatso, at the White House. Back to you.”

There’s no pleasing some people, Nosto.

“What do you mean, some people, Hirrient? Ha ha.”

Ha Ha. In other news, TikTok is making contingency plans for its postponed demise. As a show of good faith, it has begun operating at half-capacity, offering only the Tik portion of its platform. The German subscribers are particularly upset, bringing their grievances to the EU, saying, “Vee hab vays of makink them Tok.” Some have called for breaking it up, due to it being accused of being a monopoly, into Tik and Tok. But that’s really a little tit for tat. Meanwhile, the clock’s also running on their copyright infringement suit against Tic Tac.

The Department of Irony (DOI) has issued a red-flag sarcasm warning now that all the management positions of the National Unemployment Office have been given notice of their pending dismissals. “Where will we all go now?” asked CEO Tempero Fugit. “I mean, once we’re gone.” We here at QNN answer, “Who cares?”

The Bridge-on-the-River Choir has hit a sour note now that its choir has been rocked by disharmony. While the sheet music is still pending, the choir conductor has been treated for decrescendo. Rising to the position from humble beginnings as a solo castrato, he was quoted as saying, “It’s not really all about the bass,” but only dogs that have been neutered could hear him, which may even top the irony from the Unemployment debacle.

More to come on this very busy news night. Wormipedes were found in RFK, Jr.’s head, this time several feet long and from the 6th dimension. And the American Pediatrics Association has published its findings on how Marvel superhero movies are contributing to the rise in autism spectrum disorder. The Hulk fires back, right after these messages.

All men are created equal

But they all begin as women

Y? you ask. Y, indeed:

There's a new hormone in town

All men are created equal

But the race skews the track positions

The outer runners must run harder

Until the playing field evens

All men are created equal

But their billion women hide, unseen and mute

In religions a thousand years behind:

A billion is a terrible thing to waste

All men are created equal

But slings and arrows rain from high

Equality absconds from the inner runners

The human race allows no rematches

All men are created equal

But society sorts them out

And politics and legacies and birthright

Against the ones who fall behind

All men are created equal

But mistakes and luck and poor decisions matter

And equality grants no second chances

Initial classlessness decays in plain sight

All men are created equal

But what happens to them, after that, is up to us

“Now the only sure basis of an alliance is for each party to be equally afraid of the other.” —Thucydides

The missile tokens rounded the board, each moved by the numbers thrown on the existential dice. It was a stalemate thus far.

Player One: "I'll trade you New York for Moscow."

Player Two: "Moscow has 5 million more people than New Yorki. Will you consider adding Los Angeles to your offer?"

Player One: "No way."

Player Two: "Really? It's a good deal. You’d still be giving me less than a million lives. Not to mention the recent fires. That was a real mess."

Player One: "Lemme think about it. Roll the dice."

Player Two rolled a seven and landed on the USA submarine, the USS District of Columbia. He drew a DETENTE card, which read…

YOU HAVE LANDED ON AN OHIO-CLASS US NUCLEAR SUBMARINE CARRYING 154 TOMAHAWK CRUISE MISSILES. TENSIONS ARE HIGH. YOU SHOULD SERIOUSLY CONSIDER SURRENDERING A SECOND-TIER CITY.

Player Two: "Gavno! That sucks. Couldn’t be a six or an eight…had to be a seven, OK, take Krasnoyarsk, podonok."

Player One: "No way, Comrade. I'd rather have Novosibirsk."

Player Two: "No deal, Yank. That’s first-tier.”

Player One: “Not quite, assholed. Don’t be a dick.”

Player Two: “It’ll be first-tier after the five-year plan wraps. I urge you, in all sincerity and fairness, to look at Krasnoyarsk again. Hell, it’s second-tier, which isn’t shabby. The second-largest city in Siberia. Lots of aluminum for you."

Player One: "Hmm. OK, we can always use more aluminum."

Player Two handed him the deed to Krasnoyarsk. Player One added it to his stack of reciprocal collateral damage. Then he threw the dice, which came up four and four. He moved his missile token eight spaces, past S.T.A.R.T., collected 200 megatons, but landed on the THREAT space. He drew a THREAT card, which read…

ADVANCE YOUR MISSILE TOKEN TO THE NEAREST OPPONENT SILO AND PAY THAT PLAYER 100 MEGATONS OR SUFFER 200 RADS’ WORTH OF ACUTE RADIATION SYNDROME.

Player One: “Christ! I was gonna use my megatons to sink another silo in Montana.”

Player Two: “Yes, golova-chlena, don’t you think I knew that?”

Player One: “Sure you did, you Commie rat.”

Player Two: “Go ’head. Keep with the name-calling, zasranets. MIRVS and SAMs may melt my bones, but words’ll never…”

Player One: “OK, OK. Instead of the megatons, how’d you like Avery Island?”

Player Two: “What! A stinking island instead of the megatons you owe? I don’t know where or what Avery Island is, but it ain’t no Greenland.”

Player One: “Which I’m gonna own in a couple more throws. No, comrade, Avery Island is where they make Tabasco.”

Player One’s offer struck a chord.

Player Two: “I do like things spicy, but no dice. Pay up. Now!”

Player One took inventory. If he could just make it around the board one more time, pass S.T.A.R.T., and collect his megatons. Reluctantly, he handed over the hundred megatons. But the eight he had thrown was doubles. He had another throw coming to him.

He threw the dice and the number was eleven. He knew where he was landing even before he moved his missile token the spaces. He smiled at his adversary.

Player Two: “I can’t believe it!”

Player One: “Believe it. Looks like I’ve landed on RE-ENTRY DOME. I’ll just add this card to my deterrence pile. So, fire away, Stalin-kisser. Lauch ‘em all. Watch my dome eat ’em all up. If I said it once, I’ve said it a million times, ‘The only thing better than mutually assured destruction is unilateral other-guy-assured destruction.’”

Player Two: “That’s if your stupid DOME works. And it’s a big if. It’s not even tested. Are you sure you wanna take that chance?”

Player One: “It’s not like Russian technology, my dostoynyy protivnik.”

Player Two: “Hey, now.”

Player One: “No, really, comrade. Spare parts, remember?”

Player Two: "I'm getting tired, my American friend. This game just goes on forever. What say we just call it a draw? I mean, no one ever wins this chertovski game until one of us throws the entire board in the air."

Player One: "Where’s the fun in that? It’s certainly not sportsmanship. Then there's no winner at all. "

Player Two: "What's the difference?"

Player One: "Haha!"

Player Two: "Haha!"

Player One: “Here goes nothin’!”

Today you are to die. Please meet me at the corner of Main and Highland at 4 PM. Come alone.

This correspondence is expressly meant for the addressee. If you have received it in error, please call 1-800-REAPER; otherwise, you forfeit your right to be excused from said intentions. And we don't care.

February 10, National Umbrella Day, is coming up. Hoisting barriers to water and against ultraviolet radiation has proved convenient for about 5,000 years.

But to mix a bad pun with the gravitas of metaphor, there's a darker, shadowy side to these accouterments. After all, they block the light, and blocking light is a powerful metaphor, too.

We seek clarity. We observe with acuity. We need light for both. We even seek "the light," as portrayed in our death mythos.

Consider when Mrs. Rittiner was prepped and draped for her laparoscopic surgery. Anesthetized without incident, the anesthesiolgist confirmed the successful induction of her controlled coma, and Dr. Stolier began.

The trocar was inserted at her navel and her abdomen inflated with gas for visibility. Unfortunately, a vagal response slowed her heart rate, which--tragically--came to a stop.

Both the surgeon and the anesthesiologist, well trained, were no strangers to complications. The anesthesiologist pushed cardiostimulatory drugs through her IV while Dr. Stolier began cardiac compressions. Over the brief time of observation during these maneuvers, the doctors awaited a favorable response.

It was not immediately forthcoming.

Yet, Mrs. Rittiner survived. The surgery was aborted and the resuscitation ultimately succeeded. Weeks later, Dr. Stolier saw Mrs. Rittiner in his office to reschedule her surgery.

"Y'know, Mrs. Rittiner, you were technically dead for about ten minutes there."

"I heard that, Doc. I wanna thank you for saving my life."

"Well, it really wasn't a heart attack or anything like that. Just a vagal response that bottomed out."

"My heart stopped, right?"

"Yes."

"Dead's dead."

"I suppose so," Dr. Stolier agreed. Then he asked, "Tell me, I'm just curious, you understand. Did you see a light. Y'know, like they say."

"I didn't see shit!" she fired back.

"Oh, my."

What arises now is a dichotomy of faith:

Is there truly nothing after this life, a secret Mrs. Rittiner was privileged to learn? Or, alternatively, should Mrs. Rittiner re-examine her doomed, wayward life and strive to re-ingratiate herself in the eyes of God?

Seeking shadows is a seductive umbrella: protection--from the elements and from very dark clouds alike: you can't see them, but they can't see you. Or, alternatively, it's just a way to stay dry.

When God and his angels slept

They dreamed of another life

Saddled by the laws of physics

And flaws of the inept

When God and his angels dreamt

They followed painful routines

Living human journeys

Of external lives unkempt

When God and his angels awoke

They blotted the sweat from their faces

And were thankful for the reality

Of which they rarely spoke

We slither and slide and sink and slam and

Hurt ourselves then don’t understand

We pop and we jug and we dis and we dat

And we can’t understand why we jump like that

You dis me so I kill you

I dis you so you kill me

We all do dis and we all sweat flack

We black on black like yellow on black

chorus:

at each other--it’s a fact

on our brothers--it’s a fact

fail our mothers--it’s a fact

to each other--that’s that

Black on black is the darker track

We gotta be up to cover our back

We brace our back and take up the slack

To back the attack--it’s a fact.

White man freed the slaves, so what?

Put us in the autoclave, so what?

We hold our brothers back, that’s us!

Ridin’ shotgun in the back of the bus.

chorus:

Red on black--venom lack--it’s a fact

Yellow on black--watch your back--it’s a fact

Black on yellow--kill a fellow--it’s a fact

Black on black, blood-curdling howl of racial feedback

--it’s a fact

I refuse to make any resolutions. Just like I felt last Lent. I live for Fat Tuesdays and the status quo. I collect the beads thrown from balconies, with fond memories of breasts nipp(l)y.

I ride the annual protractor along the Earth's orbit, revolving but unresolved. My seasons, unevolved, pass unabsolved. Because absolved, as X solves for Y, is for suckers.

And when I die, I will have outlived many who have labored against their yearly resolutions. That's my solution.