What REALLY Happened When It Wasn’t 2 a.m.

What REALLY Happened When It Wasn’t 2 a.m.


We all know Daylight Saving Time is really just a vast conspiracy orchestrated by top bureaucrats of the New World Order to systematically test the mind control drugs they pump into the water system every  spring. Well if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being controlled by the man. But I knew there was no way to avoid their drugs, because my efforts to hack into their central computer systems in Amsterdam and discover the schedule by which they infiltrate the world’s aquifers have thus far been thwarted by their secret agents at the Pentagon who claim I’m “crazy,” “a potential terrorist,” and “seriously you’re fucking crazy stop calling the Pentagon.”

So I did what any intrepid detective would do. Before I went to bed the other night, I tied a video camera to the top of my head. I was bound and determined to find out what happened while all humans in the world (except for Arizona, because who fucking cares about Arizona) were comatose in bed and their internal clocks quietly slipped from 1:59 to 3.

But first, I had to wake up. I figured the only way to jolt me out of the deep drug-induced sleep I’d be in at 2 a.m. would to subject myself to some serious pain. So I rigged a contraption in bed with me. I bought an outlet timer and a hot plate, set the hot plate to Really Super Hot, set the outlet timer to turn the hot plate on at 1:57 a.m., and tied my hand to the hot plate with some shoe laces. I figured it’d take a couple of minutes to warm up to the point where it singes all of my fingerprints off, so by 1:59 it would wake me up by searing my hand in white-hot agony. If that didn’t do it, the smell of burning flesh would surely jolt me out of unconsciousness.

So I strapped on my helmet camera (helmera? Cammet?), and went to bed. 1:59 rolled around, and the sweet aroma of my hand boiling and a pain like the hammer of Thor coming down on my left appendage shot up my arm. I realized then that using my dominant hand for this was a bad idea – how would I ever be able to write a bestselling book about my discoveries if my writing hand was all wonky?

But nevermind. I was awake, I was cognizant, I was only sort of close to passing out from the pain, and I was the only person on earth (besides fucking Arizona, but whatevz) that was awake right now. There’s a certain feeling of power that comes with knowing you’re the only person who is going to experience the 2 o’clock hour on the morning of March 13th. What would I see? What kinds of strange global experiments would the NWO be conducting in the skies? I turned on my helmera and grabbed my Lisa Frank notebook, ready to capture the moment.

Outside, the skies were dark. Obvi. It was nighttime. Above my head in the sky, a large orb was hovering about half a mile above the ground. It looked sorta like if Darth Vader had pulled the Death Star most of the way to earth, realized he wouldn’t be able to park close enough, and just left it hanging there, tethered to the ground while he ran to the grocery store. The orb glowed green, the color of those glowy stars I definitely don’t still have on my ceiling because that would be childish and immature. Something on the ground drew my attention down; a gazelle sprinted across my line of sight, followed by a herd of small hedgehogs each riding their own tiny hedgehog unicycle.


(artist’s rendering)

Behind me, the sky was orange. No, the sun wasn’t coming up. And it wasn’t a fluid, gradual color change like somebody got a little excited with the gradient tool in Photoshop. A straight line from north to south separated the pitch black side of the sky from the bright orange side. The NWO knows how to color inside the lines. I walked for a few blocks and met a Satyr on the street. He told me his name was Greg, and he wanted me to follow him. I head-butted him with my cammet, and ran like hell; I’m not gonna follow no fucking Satyr the government hired to keep wayward citizens in check! I saw him struggle to his little hoofed feet behind me as I rounded the corner on 15th and Como, heading toward the U of M.

The giant orb was following me. Were the bureaucrats using it to spy on me? Or was it always going to look like it’s right behind me, like how no matter which side of the room you stand on it always looked like your Jonathan Taylor Thomas poster’s eyes were following you? It didn’t really matter, because at that point an infinite number of seagulls manifested themselves in front of me, frozen in a grid in the air. I walked slowly through the rows and rows of seagulls, poking at their immobile beaks, and after about a block of seagulls they all spontaneously crashed to the ground. I picked one up; it was plastic.

A dog with a sandwich for a head tottered past me, but since it had sesame seeds where it should have had eyes, it got disoriented and ran head-first into the McDonald’s on 4th and 15th, which had turned into The Peach Pit from Beverly Hills, 90210. It started crying and spraying ketchup all over. I went over to comfort it, but as soon as I touched its furry body it disintegrated and fell through my fingers in a shower of little plastic nubbins. I looked at one: it was a Caps Lock key. I looked at another. It was an Esc key. I picked up handfuls of these little disenkeyboarded keyboard keys, and pocketed one. You know, for evidence.

(actual sandwich-headed dog)

I swam across the canal that University Ave had turned into, taking care to keep my helmera above water. On the opposite bank near the beginning of the cul-de-sac by Eddy Hall I was met by twelve identical real-life conceptualizations of Princess Zelda, all holding hands. I asked the leftmost one why she keeps letting Ganondorf kidnap her, and all twelve flipped me off in unison, removed the right breast of the Zelda next to them, and melted into the sidewalk.

By this point it was starting to become clear that the NWO were doing some really fucked up shit during the missing hour of Daylight Saving Time. I wasn’t sure if this was some sort of Matrix-style shit, or Tron, or Legends of the Hidden Temple, but either way I hopped on the John Deere tractor that had appeared next to me and hauled ass back home as quick as I could. Was this an alternate universe into which I woke up when I wasn’t supposed to be awake? Did the NWO open up a portal to a netherworld every March where they stored the ungodly abominations they had created in their terrifying experiments? I didn’t really want to know anymore. I got to my room. The clock read 3:30 a.m. I put the hot plate on the floor, and crawled into a fetal position under my blankets, unsure I’d ever be able to unsee the blatant disregard of the laws of time and physics I’d just witnessed. When I woke up again, I took off my cammet and checked the tape.

Snow. All I had was snow. The powers-that-be had wiped all the footage I’d obtained. Well played, Sirs. You win this round.

So next time you skip off to bed and set your clocks up all willy nilly, nary a care in the world as your head hits your soft pillow and you dream sweet dreams of raindrops and caterpillars and penguins and meadows, remember that somewhere in that mystical lost hour, a Satyr is waiting to take you back to his lair and eat your innards. I’m assuming.

Katie Sisneros