Arbitrary Rulings 17 (Morning Edition)

Waking Up - Because they're pretentious like this, the French have been known to refer to the orgasm as le petite mort, which translates to "the little death." Puh-leeze. Besides that being the Goth-iest thing ever, so much so that as I typed it, Marilyn Manson walked by my cubicle and did that finger-gun thing at me all "Heyyyyy buddy," it's also entirely inaccurate. You know what's really le petite mort? Having to wake up every morning and stare down the long dark hallway of another Tuesday in a string of Tuesdays that are actually a garrote strangling you into a numb oblivion. Um... okay, THAT might actually be the Goth-iest thing ever. Marylin Manson just walked back by with some coffee and was like, "do you want to hang out." But I don't want to hang out with Marylin Manson. I want to drink nineteen cups of coffee until there's more caffeine in my bloodstream than actual blood. I want to wake up, in other words, but I'm so tired and I kinda sorta wish that I was dead. Which proves my point about the whole le petite mort thing. Yep, totally does. Anyway, how cool is it that Marylin Manson works in my office?!?!

Breakfast - Whatever, breakfast. With your specific foods all regimented like an army that, granted, is delicious (bacon) but still. SO not a fan of being told what I can and cannot eat for my first meal of the day. I mean, I guess you could make an argument that lunch and dinner have the same sort of strictures about what can be eaten during their pre-determined meal times... sandwiches are for lunch, say, and pot roast is for dinner... but then along comes a pot roast sandwich all crashing into your theory of what's eaten when like a fireball of destruction covered in onion gravy all hot and running down your chin, oh my god I love pot roast, so tasty in my mouth... anyway... breakfast. Fuck you breakfast. Maybe I want to eat some pot roast at 9am. Maybe I think some shrimp-fried rice would go nicely with the sunrise. Buffalo wings at dawn, motherfucker. And don't even TRY to use the fact that I'm currently eating a Pop Tart as I write this as evidence for your case. You're going DOWN, breakfast. The tyranny of evil men only last so long. Soon, the revolution will come.

Grooming - Because when you roll out of bed, you look like a plane crash into an acid factory but with bad hair and breath like a busted septic tank under a slaughterhouse called "Nasty." You gotta TAME that shit. So you shampoo and you soap off and shave it down and you take a few swipes with the deodorant stick and a spritz or two of cologne and KABLAM, you're a person other people don't gag around. I know how important this is because, yesterday, there was no hot water in my building and I hadn't showered all weekend so I was totally the smelly kid in class, all grimy with the caked-on sweat and body funk and everyone on my floor walked by my desk pointing and holding their noses in an exaggerated fashion screaming "PEW PEW PEW!!!" I nearly died from embarrassment, as well as stankiness. But it's all cool because the hot water was back this morning and now I feel fresh as bouquet of springtime flowers held by a virgin in a white dress on Easter. I mean, I'm a guy so I'm still gross... but I'm clean-gross. Not gross-gross.

Commuting - There's a million websites on the internet devoted to how much riding the subway sucks donkey wang, but you know what...? They're all a bunch liars. Because when you're on the subway, first thing in the morning, all you have to do is stand there and read a book. Or listen to your iPod if you want to... there's no rules on the subway, except for you're not allowed to walk between the cars or take a poop right in the path to the doors (take it off to one side, please). Personally, my morning commute is a wonderland of free time where I can get lost in a fantastical tale of dragons and princesses and heroic knights (homeless people tell the BEST stories if you give them liquor) or I can people-watch (hello, ladies...) or I can put on some kickin' tunes and have myself a little movable dance party that lasts until I have to go to work. Which is sad, because obviously. But it's okay because The Hustle never dies! (if you see me doing The Hustle on the train, feel free to join in... I hate dancing alone)

The Morning News - Quaint, like a handmade rag doll for little Susie or a butter churn for little Susie when she grows up to be a woman of the prairie all Willa Cather-style. Or little Bobby can churn the butter, whatever, not trying to be sexist up in here. Wouldn't kill Bobby to get off his lazy 19th century butt and help out around the farm, to tell you the truth; we've got the harvest coming soon and he's content to just lay there in the tall grass with his penny candy and... uh... wooden ducks... and whatever else kids played with in the pioneer days. Look, I've gotten pretty far afield of my main point, which is that the morning news broadcast is, essentially, a thing of the past. Nobody actually gets up and watches the new anymore, save for my grandparents of course, and they're dead... SEE WHAT I MEAN! The medium of televised news is dying a long, slow death like a hooker in the trunk of a car called "America" and soon... so soon... it's life will be snuffed out for good. It's hard to breathe in car trunks. But yeah... I'd be willing to bet that more people read ZFS! every morning than actually watch the early news broadcast. Which means that, yes, I'm your news now!!! Today's top story: C-dog is spectacular!