the last pint in the world will not be televised.

it won't fizzle, warm and sad.

there will be no Right or wrong

headless draft that is so bad.

Armageddon passed, and with it, drinks,

the cup runneth, but last call,

clear the pub, the snake is marching,

Bearers gravid, with no pall

askew the mug is tilt

placed on coaster, golden

no drahm, no quart not tittle,

no beverage left t'embolden

'tis not a dry spell, and the barley grow,

but grains don't form, but chaff,

the menacing approach of doom,

the Sacrificial calf,

there are no pints, no, they are gone,

their yardstick turned to meter,

and drams and quarts, and jots and tittles,

add not to opressive liters!

Step 1: Carefully take out all the tent pieces. Is this a new tent or an old one? It won't matter, because you'll be sure there's some tiny piece missing.

Step 2: An old tent? Hmm. Spend some time trying to remember if it has any holes in the bottom, and then spend more time trying to sort out all those poles.

Step 3: A new tent? Take out the set-up instructions. They won't clarify much, but they might become a helpful target for frustrations later on.

Step 4: Take one of the poles. Straighten it out, and try not to startle when the pieces all snap together loudly.

Step 5: Experimentally use the tent pole as a rapier sword, give it a nostalgic swish.

Step 6: If not distracted by sword-fight related daydreams, straighten out and connect all those other poles. They look remarkably flimsy.

Step 7: Lay out the entire tent, flat on the ground. Remind everyone not to step on it.

Step 8: Consider the ground the tent is laying on. Is it actually the best spot? Check again, just to be sure. Scuff some dusty soil into any dips and holes you find. Become annoyed at the dust in your sneakers.

Step 9: Thread the first pole in. Try to recall which one goes in first, and where it should be.

Step 10: Check those instructions again, if you have them. They don't help. Direct anger towards clueless manufacturers.

Step 11: Keep threading in poles. You'll have to go slowly, or one might get stuck on the fabric.

Step 12: Get help at this point - all those poles resent being confined and arched up by the tent fabric, and they'll try and flatten the moment you push them up.

Step 13: Realize that trying to keep the tent up while also trying to coordinate others is very difficult, and briefly wonder why you chose to go camping at all.

Step 14: Rally. Get someone to hold the tent's poles as you get the thing attached to the ground. Don't let anyone too enthusiastic near the tent pegs and hammer, if you have those.

Step 15: If it's one of those fancy new tents, realize that trying to get the poles into their fancy little locking mechanisms will take brute force, determination, and possibly muttered profanity.

Step 16: Manage, somehow, to get it upright. If you're lucky, it will stay this way. If not, start again from step 12.

Step 17: Circle the upright tent several times, adjust the fabric and various layers as needed until it looks nice.

Step 18: Unzip the entrance. It makes a very nice sound.

Step 19: If it's a new tent, revel in the new smell and realize slowly that it seems rather small. If it's an old tent, worry about holes until you find the inevitable dead moth in the corner.

Step 20: Check the weather. If you're lucky, you won't have to set up tarps for rain...But you might want to, just in case.

summer

the hills

they swell

with pride

painted green

by their

enthusiasm

for summer.

kids climb

with the

temperature

to the tops

of the hills

and stand there

to revel in

their conquest.

and scorching

sun turns the

tips of their blades

to a brown crust

and the hills

in their violence

send children

tumbling down

the sides,

a misdirected

revenge,

because the earth

cannot punish

the sky,

so instead it

lashes out at

young faces

pink with sun.

they share

the same enemy

and yet

their quest

for vengeance

is always just

a little too high

for them to grasp.

for grass

cannot grow

to the clouds.

it is cut down

by lawnmowers

run by neighbors

who protest that

things have gotten

out of hand.

and children

cannot reach

for the sky

and pull it down

because as they

get older

their parents

inform them

that they should

seek something

more grounded.

like a lawyer

or a doctor

or maybe just

work at that

fast food joint

down the road.

nice and close

to home.

and very far away

from the

great and dangerous

sky.

winter

the hills

they sink

deep into the earth

shrinking away

from the sunlight,

pits of shade

that accompany

every manic high.

and when the

temperature drops,

and winter

casts its breath

across the hills

and snow collects

in piles

freezing over

the lows.

and children

send their sleds

like rockets

over snowbanks

screaming as

they go down

with glee.

and the hills,

in their jealousy,

send children

tumbling down

their sides,

left to clutch

their ankles

and wail

for a parent

that never comes.

for the hills

are too vast,

an echo chamber

of muted sobs.

the children's cries

match their own.

and the children

themselves

must be sent

to learn independence,

as they wobble,

leaned against their sled

towards home.

spring

the hills

they shrink

collapsing under

the weight

of rain,

spring thunderstorms

beckoned by

the changing

of the seasons,

torrential downpours

that send mud

cascading down

the sides of the hills.

maybe

they were once

mountains,

before the rain

eroded

their identity

and replaced it

with something

smaller and

easier to manage.

and the children

they splash,

feet leaving scars,

and the hills,

in their retaliation,

send children

tumbling down

their sides,

slipping on

patches of mud

until their faces

are smeared

with grime and tears

and their shirts

are stained

so deeply brown

that they will have to be

tossed away.

for the hills

are made of waste

and they desire

to create more.

and the children

are wrapped

in excess,

trusting their parents

to provide,

and destroying

the rest

without mercy.

autumn

the hills

they roll

tossed and turned

between hot and cold

a constant adjustment

to their newest

mood.

buried under

the blanket

of leaves

the hills

can finally

sleep,

shut their eyes

and rest

and the children

they scatter

the leaves,

building their

piles and crashing

until the hills

wake up

beneath them.

and the hills,

in their exhaustion,

send children

tumbling down

their sides,

faces bruised by

the first touches of frost

and sticks

loosened from their

branches

by the ceaseless passage

of time.

but the children

do not change

because the children

do not need to change.

they are stagnant,

comfortable in

their youth

until that youth

begins to be

stripped away.

for the hills

cannot change,

even as they regret,

because mother nature

doesn't have a degree

in psychology

and the hills

have no lithium

to treat

their ceaseless

disorder.

and so the children

continue to fall

and the hills

continue to roll,

caught in the

endless shift

of seasons

and intent on

sharing

their misery

with the world

in the only way

they know how:

violence.

War,

as not one,

known.

They butchered we,

we shot they,

river,

small of three deer jumps,

mine now,

to watch, catch, ask, torture, ask, holes where eyes were,

my ward eternity

my hell of paradise.

They,

skeletons on the run,

we,

winners of nothing,

war,

not known,

erased.

Me

banks my bloodstream

stream my bank of blood

there

old

will

cease to be one day

watch

still.

What is

the end of war of watch?

Quip Chaddick stands idly in his merchant's stall in a side street of London. He hasn't made many sales today, but that's not unusual. "You need to upgrade to a keyosk, mate", his friends used to urge him,"Stalls are old stuff now. No good anymore." Quip hardly knew the difference, and he didn't care. Sometimes Quip missed when he used to feel alive. He used to love immersing himself in the most ridiculous explorations he could fathom. One of his favorite pastimes was to completely engross himself in the etymological flimflammery in the early rococo. He just found it to be the most fascinating subject. Another time, his querying mind snagged on something completely new: wavy pinstripes, and what they represent in Bishkek, Florida. Unable to resist any longer he booked a trip to Florida to explore the phenomenon in full. He also took the opportunity to learn about cleaning air conditioners in the age of uncertainty. Quip loved it in Florida so much that he extended his stay for several months. For a while he was happy, but with Thanksgiving, an American tradition he had yet to experience, Quip fell into a void of depression. He found the turkey such a fascinating creature, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out how the turkey got his snood. The subject perplexed him, and he worked day and night to find answers, only to meet dead ends at every turn. Defeated and exhausted, Quip returned to England and settled on spending his days as a lowly street peddler.

Many people are curious about the pocket contents of Anne Cleves' pockets, but not Quip. Quip knows that mermaids do not have such a luxury, because they don't even know what it's like to have pockets. They are quite sorrowful creatures, really. Cast to an eternity in the sea, lamenting their lack of pockets. Now Anne Cleves' pockets don't seem so interesting, do they? Now you want to know about mermaids, and why they've been cast to suck an ill-fortuned, pocketless fate. Well, the answer lies in the fact that Harry Potter is a terrible person. It was a wet and dreary morning when Harry showed up to the sea, dressed in an old oilskin and nicknamed Mr. Tarpaulin Man, by an old fisherman also wearing a tarpaulin. With a graceful wave of his wand, Harry cast a spell and the mermaids came. At first it seemed so beautiful, like lyrics to the song and enchanted harp things. But Harry had revenge on his mind, and it was the mermaids that he blamed for an especially harsh flu season in Chappaquiddick. Harry was drunk at the time, and had gone through all but the last pint of beer on the planet, and his claim had no evidence or reason behind it. Still, he stumbled on, right into the horde of mermaids that he'd summoned. With another wave of his wand, much less graceful this time, the mermaids were damned to an eternity without pockets.

But fear not. The mermaids can be saved. With Harry's dreadful curse, there came a prophecy. Similar to Hercules himself, the chosen one must successfully complete a list of impossible tasks, and then, and only then, will the mermaids live with pockets once more.

First, this unnamed hero must be able to send out a survey of dust bunnies in Vladivostok in the form of a formal sexy letter. When done correctly, someone will respond. That someone is the one who knows the pocket contents of Mary Chase. Such contents must be purchased anew, and then used by the mystery champion in the next task: following a "perching a tent for beginners" guide while combating the violent mood swings of grassy hills. Once the tent is completed, its builder will go inside. If done correctly, the tent will trigger a vision. Most people believe this vision to be a meeting with the five people you meet when you are dead and in Quatar. That is all the information that the prophecy will provide, the rest is up to you, chosen one.