How I hate Daylight Savings Time

A conversation K and I had last night:

K: What would NPR be like in the world of Sin City?
Me: Prairie Home Companion would be different, that's for sure.
K: Garrison would certainly endorse something else.

So this is what we came up with. Presented for your approval:

Now it's time for the to hear from the sponsor of our show, Powder Black Bullets! Made of pure lead by Norwegian bachelor gunsmiths, they give shy persons the strength they need to go out and kill who needs to be killed.

Has your family tried them, Powder Black?
Has your family tried them, Powder Black?
If your family's tried them, you know you've satisfied them
They're the real find, Powder Black.

Powder Black Bullets. Good heavens, they're lethal and expeditious.

There's a bit in Stephen King's novella The Body (Used as the basis for Stand By Me--holy shit is Wil Wheaton young. They're all young. Where does the time go?), where the kids are sitting around talking about a pie-eating contest. It's a tale of "revenge, revenge, puking, and revenge." I was reminded of it yesterday, though I'm struggling to come up with a good adaptation.

It could be the whole hour-ahead thing. My brain says that it's not even seven yet. But my watch and the computer clock and everything else says it's almost eight. One wonders if the cumulative cost of increased accidents, reduced productivity, and the like during this adjustment period make up for the savings in power that DST is supposed to provide. Or whatever benefit it theoretically has.