Mornings are for Lunatic Bastards

There is no such thing as a good morning. The only response to “good morning” is a kick to the throat followed by shoving a pair of ivory handled stilettos into the speaker’s guts.

Mornings eat shit. And I hate them. I am a complete night person. I get a second breath around 10 o’clock and start fooling around with stupid shit. Once, I stayed up until 1 am with my camera and a macro lens taking pictures of shit in the refrigerator. Guess who woke up more pissed off than Steve Bannon at a black tie dinner benefitting Jesse Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition.

Back when I was a post college meathead, and the earth was still cooling, here is how my mornings would go. I would wake up in a quiet apartment, with no children screaming. I would take a small box and a cylindrical item and walk onto the cozy balcony. Touching fire to paper, I would inhale and smile as the nicotine hammered through my system. Then I would drink coffee. Then I would start my day

Now I wake up in a complete and total panic, confirming I fucking overslept again. My three spawn might be awake, asleep, watching sketchy videos on their iPads, or outside throwing a ball around. The rest of the morning is a fucking blur, spiced with petty fights with my wife. (Why, in the holy name of Brooks Robinson does our bed have to be made? Are we getting graded later? Possibly grounded by our mothers? WHAT.THE.FUCK!)

Usually the youngest takes a monster dump right before we’re ready to leave. Wait until I get older and am in diapers. My diet will consist of chili, spinach, broccoli, refried beans, and draft beer. Ha! They’ll need HAZMAT suits to clean up that wicked butt brew.

I’ve covered my hatred of traffic in another post, look it up. Every day it gets worse, and every day I keep on thinking, “I really can identify with the main character in that movie ‘Falling Down.’” I did scream “eat my fuck” at an older woman who cut me off in an Oldsmobile 88.

How about when some shitbrain you work with schedules an early morning conference call or meeting? Oh baby. And if you think offering me doughnuts or bagels will soften my attitude, think again. I will spend the whole meeting with Instagram on my phone and searching for #bigcans #allnaturaltits #sexwithfeet and #trannysluts. The other half of my brain will be devising ways to kill you with battery acid and razor blades.

Of course, we all know those who declare, “I’m a morning person!” Let’s clarify that statement. You are not a morning person, you are a branch on the tree of evolution that must be sawed off and thrown into a fire. No one should ever say that, and if they do, report them to your local chapter of the Trump Brownshirts so they can be arrested and sent away for “reeducation.”

Weekend mornings suck just as much. Being hungover in your late forties, and having to watch rec basketball at 8 in the morning is a punishment fit only for a Shitriots fan. There are always dads in workout clothes chirping about the ten miles they ran when they woke up at 4 in the morning. I have evidence these people are skinwalkers and should be thrown into a deep well full of used needles.

Mornings on the weekend bring the threat of church. Trust me, it isn’t my idea, but I have to set an example for my kids – and they aren’t dumb, they see the pain in my face and smell the stale liquor on my breath. Honestly, I think you can go anywhere and commune with the deity of your choice, the rules say you have to do it in a particular building so you they can shake you down for money.

The real irony is sitting in mass, listening to some virgin tell you how to live your live, and checking out hot moms. One day, my brain is going to tear itself apart as I sit to listen to the gospel and mentally say to myself, “That is one giant set of mom tits.”

Here’s a great one, my wife said to my kids, “You have the entire week to yourselves, you can give one hour to God.” This phrase has to be included in the Italian Catholic Mother Manual, because I heard the same fucking thing from my mother every Sunday. Also, once I barfed in the church bathroom because I was 17 and had gotten shitfaced on Schaeffer beer and Mad Dog 20/20 the night before.

Fuck mornings. Give me evenings and nighttime where I can do as I will with bourble, my friends at DFO, sleazy movies, and ice cream. And cigars taste better when the sun goes down.

Salaam!

Thing That Made Me Happy
New England got covered in snow, so there are more than a few Shitriot fans bitching about having to shovel and maybe they’ll slip on ice, get their bells rung, and wake up as normal, tolerable human beings. Probably not, but fuck them anyway.