IN THE PAPERS

On page eight of the New York Sun,
It says,

You know I saw him once.
NYC NY1 C list star Pat Kiernan.
He’s Canadian.
NO Roger Clark.
(his side kick)
Or Roma Torre.
(his arch enemy)
Or Black guy who looks like a muppet.
I call him the Black Muppet.
No IN THE PAPERS at 8:43 in the AM.
Just his perfect blonde children
And his perfect blonde wife.
They were eating tacos and chips and salsa.
In a striped golf shirt.
Not caring at all.
He’s fucking Pat Kiernan.

I know you’re leaving Pat.
I’ve seen the signs.
World Series of Pop Culture.
Best Week Ever.
VH1 is grooming you out of my morning.
To be Alex Trebek.
Bagel sandwich,
Diet Coke,
Pat Kiernan.
That is New York before 9.

Pat I think we should talk.
And he would put me at ease.
With a joke.
Or a disarming aside.
But I’d try and stay on message,

I wanted to ask you.
Why?
Is it for the money?
Cablevision will pay more.
Is it fame?
Why would you want more then what you have?
A big fish in a small pond.
It’s only the pond that gets bigger buddy.
You’re just the new fish.

New fish.
New fish.
They’re making bets.

But I’m unnerved.
He is much too happy.
Too fucking content with his kids
and his money.
VH1 money.
He’s fucking PAT Kiernan.
Like Shatner.
Canadian at large.
Who misses his bizarro brand of Canadian Wheaties.

There will never be another Dick Albert for me.
Or Bruce Schweggler.
I met him too.
But they was never on the cusp.
So join Sam Champion.
Be Regis.
Do drugs.
Wear sunglasses.
Date Sienna Miller.
Trash Pittsburgh.
Then date a Steeler to prove you’re sorry
I didn’t want to know you anymore
Anyway.

And that’s what’s
In the Papers.