Het is weekend. Hier is Sylvia Plath. The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve. On their blotter of fog the trees Seem a botanical drawing-- Memories growning, ring on ring, A series of weddings. Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery, Truer than women, They seed so effortlessly! Tasting the winds, that are footless, Waisting-deep in history-- Full of wings, otherworldliness. In this, they are Ledas. O mother of leaves and sweetness Who are these peitas? The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

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.

Quid is er niet. Zit ergens op water en brood in het Westland. Daarom vergeten we vandaag het bier voor een keer. Quid altijd maar met zijn zuiptopics en dat malle vrijmibo hedonisme. Doe eens normaal man. Neem eens brood. Dáár zit wat in. Wit brood. Bruin brood. Volkoren brood. Meergranen brood. Tijger brood. Kaiserbolletjes. Afbakbrood. Stokbrood. Lekker met roomboter, maar ook met margarine. En dan een plak kaas. Of ham. Of allebei. En dan met een zilveruitje of een stukje augurk. Lekker fris! Of doe wat zoets op je brood. Chocopasta. Jam. Hagelslag. Jam én hagelslag. En onze broodsuggestie van de dag: probeer eens pindakaas met een beetje sambal. Dat is lekker jongen. Op brood. Maar echt. Probeer het. Doe dan. Of neem gewoon een broodje bapao. Best lekker. Met bier. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Dit is de 300e VrijMiBo op GeenStijl. *Plop*. Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -- because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep. Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart. Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don't leave me for a second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll have gone so far I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying? Prettig weekend. En 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.

Het is weekend. If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too: If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream---and not make dreams your master; If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same:. If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings, And never breathe a word about your loss: If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son! Prettig weekend. En be nice.

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.