One of my bedroom windows faces east. This morning it started getting light in my room at 5:45 a.m. Not light-light, but that blue Top Gun sex-light that makes you say, “Fuck, dawn already?” when you wake up for that been-asleep-for-six-hours piss that you start having to take once the ol’ prostate decides it doesn’t need to be as small as it was before.
Seriously: 5:45 a.m. Fucking light! In my bedroom! Now, my alarm goes off at 8:30. So can somebody — anybody — tell me how this is Daylight Savings Time when I’m trying to sleep through two and a half hours of it? You wanna save me some daylight? Make the sun set at 7:00 p.m. instead of 4:30 so I can go outside after work and get some goddam Vitamin D. My skin gets damn near translucent in the winter. By February I look like a giant fetus.
And you know who gave us this shit? Type A assholes. That’s right, those fucking go-getters who try to start conversations in the elevator on the way up to the office first thing in the morning. I’ve been up since 5:00! It was such a beautiful morning! I had to get outside and go for a run! Don’t you just love–urrrkgh… can’t… breathe.
But Type A assholes run the country, so they get to determine when the sun rises. And you know what? They’re secretly afraid of us: the extremely cool, smart, lazy drunkards who are full of brilliant ideas but just totally spaced on that phone bill, man. These early sunrises are just another way to keep us pacified so we don’t burn down City Hall and start up a sweet new utopia where Type A people are forced to channel their organized energy into giving blowjobs.
I say we do it. Let’s take back the sun from those organized dickheads! We’ll give those pricks the Mussolini treatment and make the sun rise at noon! …but, like, next week, y’know? I’m kinda hung over today, and I’ve got a thing tomorrow. I forget what, but I’ve got it written down somewhere. Hey, is this pizza still good?
Anyway, our Co-Measts of the Week are Tully Banta-Cain (2 sacks) and Mike Vrabel (7 solo tackles, 1 INT). They’re accepting the award on behalf of the entire Patriots defense, which gave the Vikings a nationally televised rumphing even Fred Smoot couldn’t help but admire.
This selection is in no way to cause Big Daddy Drew more pain (although if it’s a side effect, I’m okay with it). Brad Johnson — who receives constant announcer fellation for being “unflappable” and “taking care of the ball” — threw three interceptions and got benched in favor of Brooks “Third String on the Jets” Bollinger, who was promptly sacked three plays in a row, leading to the rare but hilarious down-and-distance of 4th-and-30. As for Chester Taylor, last seen chugging 95 yards into the Qwest Field end zone: 10 carries, 22 yards.
So nice work, New England. You’ve got some measts on that team. But that doesn’t mean your fans aren’t still bloody vagina farts.