[Whatever, 3:33 am is the morning, I'm doing this now.]

2,000 College Students: Sick with swine flu at Washington State University.

Two Soldiers from Fort Lewis: Killed in Iraq.

Hutchison Pulls Ahead of Constantine in King County Race: By three points, according to SurveyUSA.

Cougar Still on the Loose: A man says he saw the cougar on his driveway and it ran off into Discovery Park. Next sentence: "Meanwhile, a raccoon whose carcass was found in the park Friday morning apparently was not killed by the cougar, but was possibly eaten by a homeless person, according to the Seattle Parks Department."

That Black Man on the TV: The ridiculous "debate" over whether schoolchildren should be watching their own president say things.

Yeah, He's a Good Writer, Just Have Him Write It: White House mulls writing its own health-care legislation.

Alleged Kidnapper and Alleged Rapist: Also alleged writer of creepy songs.

Teenage Unemployment Rate: At its "its highest level since the government began keeping track of such statistics in 1948."

ELF: Yep, we did it.

Obsessive Bumbershoot Coverage All Weekend: Right here.

It's hilarious. I'm too drunk to recreate it for you, but basically, Ted Kennedy, the most sad-sack figure in history—because his political successes were utterly overwhelmed by loss and sadness and alcoholism and tragedy and a puffy face and [insert one or two more free-floating pejoratives here]—has died at his house in Cape Cod...

Anyone else who saw it now unable to sleep? Am staring at the ceiling thinking about vaginas giving birth to cans of Rainier, that guy having sex with that rifle, and shopping carts dancing through infinity.

When I was posting Your Daily Muppet for the Morning News this week, someone requested the following video, but it didn't seem like a morning video to me. Instead, it seems like the perfect just-got-home-from-the-bar-and-too-restless-to-sleep evening time video:

Goodnight, drunky.

...or was it kind of an off weekend?

This photo is called "Sunday Night Sky" and it's by shawnmebo, who just now posted it The Stranger's flickr pool.

Stupid, stupid internet. Stupid, stupid Star Trek movie. Stupid, stupid insomnia.

(Due to autoplay with audio, video is after the jump.)

(Via.)

Due to popular demand, this is the last Midnight Bus Poem:

Across The Aisle
By Marquetta M.

You, fucking dick
In your hand
Covered with scabs
On your scalp
Flaking skin
On the seat
Where your feet
Nudge some bitch,
Your dog.

Thanks to all who contributed.

Untitled Haiku
by Nicholas

cold winter bus ride

all the windows are fogged

is it your breath?

No Thanks
by Michael

It was a hot day
You had to air something out
I saw your pussy.

That Bus Ride in August

by Nellie

Easing my behind into a window seat, my thighs
like Jell-O pudding, shaking with the potholes.
I peeled them from plastic, pools of sweat,
and imagined that babies were screaming
in horror at my risen body, their mothers
judging my pink hot thighs, as if
they illumined my brain.

12 Bus Haiku

by Bob

i'm staring at you
we'll be together for hours
what am i thinking?

Sleek speedy transport
full of happy travelers.
so say the bus ads

lumber down the street
slowing, stopping, crawling on
get out of my way

bus riding is fun
for those who have time to waste
I'm too important

I'm so stuck on you
smelly slimy gummy goo
look before sitting

people love transit
they think mass others will ride
then their cars can zoom

oily packed sardines
travel worldwide in a can
your trip is shorter

it swallows me down
to give me a taste of hell
please spew me out soon

fear global warming?
those who care are on the bus
says private-jet Gore

faces smeared against glass
bus riders watch for their stop
will it ever come?

always ride the bus
it's a trip to paradise
crazed bombers agree

troubled youths, locos,
bums, drunks, druggies, feelers, fools,
the unwashed, and you.

WETRO

by Don

oh, puddle 'o pee, in the seat next to me,
on the workday morning Northbound.

I don't mind cause I'm late, switching seats while I wait,
to find treasures like the one I just found.

Bus Phone Haiku in Two Parts

by Brianna

No doubt, Seattle
Passive aggressive at best
Loud phone talker?

Do not confront her!
Pass a note instead, quiet!
Lady, you're a wimp.

This is It

by d rock

oh no
he's kind of cute
but he smells
but that ring is so
neat
he is not

facial hair
its like some kind of bolt
his face
rough blonde and blue
jeans so dirty
i think its chrome
he's so dirty
why can't we just be
its my stop
don't stop

i mean
he is kind of old
but, i am vulnerable
and i just got off work

No Thanks
by Michael

It was a hot day
You had to air something out
I saw your pussy.

Untitled
by Beccah

express bus riders
maintain a code
an etiquette to ignore,
to detach,
"we are not here."

mid-day riders
don't give a shit.

Commuting fun
by Mark Bir

Clear view from a bus
distant but not all that far
me or the mountain?

Untitled
by lime joy

O, #5, why so early?
You are usually so late
Like a dream, I run to catch you
Yet I never run fast enough
But awake I am
Stinging twist of ankle
Eating shit on pavement
O, what a nightmare
I have no insurance
Wow, my knee is really fucked up
O well, at least
The bus stopped for me

Tonight, we have a very special Bus Poem. Our poet is Brian McGuigan, who is a big muckety-muck at the Hugo House and co-founder and curator of Cheap Wine and Poetry, the big fun drunk poetry reading at the House. He also blogs every once in a while over here.

Here is his bus poem:

war
after Bukowski

the bus driver sighs stopped at the light
as rain falls on the windshield;
he doesn’t have a chance—
rides from Queen Anne
through Capitol Hill
and out to the CD, an improbable rain,
and an improbable timetable,
we pass so many without a chance.
and I realize that there isn’t much chance
for any of
us. peace won’t save us and war won’t save us,
a good war or a bad
war.
we take a lot and use it until it is
gone.
bombs drop, tax seasons begin, there are sick days and
days we just call in;
we try to cheat the machine.
war, you kill any man
and then another.
the bus driver has Denny Way
between Seattle Center and the 5.
I sit next to a veteran who puts his feet up
on a seat.
there is a small tear rolling from one of the bus driver’s
eyes. he is ashamed to wipe it
away.
the people click on cell phones or listen to iPods or look out their
windows.
the tear rolls
rolls over the cheekbone
then down the face,
then the
floor.
MLK, yells the bus driver,
turning on MLK
Way.
he speaks, at last. what a dubious thing.
I get off at MLK. I need to smoke and have something
to eat. I don’t care about the bus
anymore. it is a
death toll scrolling across the bottom
of a TV screen. I don’t see it
anymore.
there will be more buses.

I decide to smoke
and eat after.

I walk into the rain and out of the rain
and take off my wet shoes
and dry off.

Losing Season
by Elizabeth Kate Switaj

drunk Seahawks fan
stopping hitting on me
get up
let me out
of this window seat

My act of God for the night?

I allowed that bug on my screen—the only light in my room—to live.