Het is weekend. Hier is een gedicht van Sharon Mesmer. The Swiss just do whatever like masturbating their doink-doinks deep in rural France in the shadow of Mont Blanc. Heavy, dependable and prepared for whatever the Swiss vago-simulacrum recognizes as larder King Hussein and President Fabio, always just about to touch each other on their devolved sparkle-offs and Neil Patrick Harris appreciation pages. Everyone knows when these bizzarre Swiss cometh they cometh with fluffy Beatles-like six packs of shit-covered reindeer knock-knocking like a bummer. Glitter is the Swiss Army knife of the most bedazzlingly ridiculous emotions: the part just before the paranoid cheese-maker says, “Whatever you do in Palm Springs, don’t yodel”—a most unusual Swiss Miss mixture of very early skunk and the robotic sadness of women’s mold heavy, greasy, dense and low, like lethargic sea-green gardens with a buzz overpowering, like modern outdoor inbreeding. You know you’re Swiss when, when foreign visitors ask to see your chocolate factory, you answer, “Why don’t you and Hannibal Lecter just kick out the jams?” ’Cause you know you got the chamber, the chair, and Fear Factor. Het is weekend. Prettig weekend.

Het is weekend. Hier is P.A. de Génestet. Levenslust is ’t ware leven, Is het liefelijkste goed, Dat de lachende aard kan geven Van haar weelde en overvloed. ’t Is geen trek der dwaze zinnen ’t Jonge leven te beminnen: Levenslust is levenskracht; Levenslust is vroolijk strijden, Hopend en geduldig lijden – Is een kinderlijk verblijden, Dat den Hemel tegenlacht. Maar om ’t leven wel te smaken, Dient daar nog een hooger gloed In de vrome borst te blaken: Vaste, kalme stervensmoed! Wie geen moed heeft om te sterven: Zal den moed tot leven derven: Steeds gaapt de afgrond aan zijn voet. Om langs rozen mij te leiden, Om mijn leger zacht te spreiden, Als dit minnend hart moet scheiden, Geef o God! geef mij die beiden: Levenslust en stervensmoed. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Three old hermits took the air By a cold and desolate sea, First was muttering a prayer, Second rummaged for a flea; On a windy stone, the third, Giddy with his hundredth year, Sang unnoticed like a bird: 'Though the Door of Death is near And what waits behind the door, Three times in a single day I, though upright on the shore, Fall asleep when I should pray.' So the first, but now the second: 'We're but given what we have eamed When all thoughts and deeds are reckoned, So it's plain to be discerned That the shades of holy men Who have failed, being weak of will, Pass the Door of Birth again, And are plagued by crowds, until They've the passion to escape.' Moaned the other, 'They are thrown Into some most fearful shape.' But the second mocked his moan: 'They are not changed to anything, Having loved God once, but maybe To a poet or a king Or a witty lovely lady.' While he'd rummaged rags and hair, Caught and cracked his flea, the third, Giddy with his hundredth year, Sang unnoticed like a bird. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Waarde leden en het geachte ouderejaar, deze week is Ons Soort Mensen negatief in het nieuws gekomen. Na een week ophef over enkele incidenten is het nu zaak om onszelf opnieuw uit te vinden, ons te herbronnen op onze rijke corporale tradities en een moment van bezinning te nemen, zodat wij, als erfgenamen van twee eeuwen traditie, sterker uit deze publicitaire crisis komen. Daarom stel ik voor om hedenavond het glas te heffen en gezamenlijk het io vivat in te zetten, opdat wij niet vergeten wat het is om lid te zijn. Laten we tijdens dit aangenaam verpozen stilstaan bij de tradities die ons groot hebben gemaakt. Lelijke wijven naaien. Klassenjustie voor corporale klasgenootjes. Dutrouxen. Als een bezopen sloophamer door de publieke ruimte trekken. Publiekelijk buitenseksen. Slavenarbeid. Pedoschandalen doofpotten. Straalbezopen door de peop rollen. Phoeten mishandelen. Pers haten. Geen gordel om hoeven. Elkaar kapot maken. Mensen aanspreken met muneerj en dan zeiken over filmpen op de openbare weg. Maar bovendien: heel, heel, heel, heel, heel, heel, heel veel zuipen. Tot slot, waarde leden, wil ik afsluiten met een opdracht aan u allen: MAKE THE CORPS GREAT AGAIN! And be nice.

Het is weekend. When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Kijk, politiek waar je wat aan hebt. Premier Valls van Frankrijk heeft ook zijn steentje bijgedragen aan de boerkinidiscussie met een uitstekend doortimmmerd historisch argument. Tetten, zo stelt de premier, zijn het symbool van Frankrijk, niet de boerkini. De nationale maagd Marianne heeft immers ook met zonder bovenstukje aan op de plaatjes. Geen speld tussen te leggen. Vive la Franskoeltoer!

Het is weekend. As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: “If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden...” I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see’st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the deathbed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. 1. John Stockton 15806 2. Jason Kidd 12091 3. Steve Nash 10335 4. Mark Jackson 10334 5. Magic Johnson* 10141 6. Oscar Robertson* 9887 7. Isiah Thomas* 9061 8. Gary Payton* 8966 9. Andre Miller 8524 10. Rod Strickland 7987 11. Chris Paul 7688 12. Maurice Cheeks 7392 13. Lenny Wilkens* 7211 14. Terry Porter 7160 15. Tim Hardaway 7095 16. Bob Cousy* 6955 17. Guy Rodgers* 6917 18. LeBron James 6815 19. Muggsy Bogues 6726 20. Kevin Johnson 6711 21. Derek Harper 6577 22. Tiny Archibald* 6476 23. Stephon Marbury 6471 24. Deron Williams 6459 25. John Lucas 6454. Dat was het. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. For all my Southside niggas that know me best. I feel like me and Taylor might still have sex. Why? I made that bitch famous (God damn). I made that bitch famous. For all the girls that got dick from Kanye West. If you see 'em in the streets give 'em Kanye's best. Why? They mad they ain't famous (God damn). They mad they're still nameless (Talk that talk, man). Her man in the store tryna try his best. But he just can't seem to get Kanye fresh. But we still hood famous (God damn). Yeah we still hood famous. I just wanted you to know. I loved you better than your own kin did. From the very start. I don't blame you much for wanting to be free. Wake up, Mr West! Oh, he's up! I just wanted you to know. Prettig weekend. En be nice.