Friday, December 19, 1997
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Sweet Bird of 90 Proof

Wash, DC - (Dec 19) - A psychic mass world mindslam, led by either Reverend Sun Yat Moon or Reverend Sun Yat "Billy" Graham, at 5:55 AM this morning, has apparently drastically altered the nature of earthly reality as we know it, on a pixel by pixel basis. And without even the express written consent of the Los Angeles Dodgers.

According to, either, some drunken loser puking in a gutter, or the New York Times, "10 million participants called each other on the phone at 5:54 AM, this morning, and then met in some AOL chat room where they psychically held hands around the globe and concentrated their collective energy on drastically altering the nature of earthly reality as we know it, on a pixel by pixel basis."

So like, at 5:56 AM this morning, according to either the Wall Street Journal or the Psychedelic Moneyfuck Gazette, regularly scheduled satellite TV programming about, like, trials of animal felons and stuff, was suddenly replaced by real-time coverage of FCC meetings where the microphones were all feeding back so loud, nobody could hear what anybody else was saying, let alone, themselves, which was, however, apparently, no big deal since, apparently, according to CNN or TNN or the Sci-Fi Network, nobody really knew what the fuck they were talking about anyway, let alone, cared.

And, like, at 6:00 AM, business shows about the domino collapse of world economies were suddenly replaced by business shows where the head commentator is saying like, "Shares of Federal Express stock dropped drastically, today, on news that I shipped something via UPS, yesterday."

Or shows about brutal murder suddenly morphed into shows where the "wireless cable" industry is having heated debates about changing its name to the "wire loose" cable industry and adopting a goofy, "what the fuck" attitude at FCC hearings and parties

Or sitcoms about everyday life were suddenly transformed into brooding, angst-ridden documentaries about people hanging around gatherings where there's, like, this faint, faint promise that somebody who sorta once knew somebody sorta famous, would show up.

Ray Manzarek's pool cleaner, for example. Or Mike Tyson's parole officer's CPA.

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