6.30a.m. on Saturday morning, a young man lies in bed. Having been awake for the past hour, our hero becomes ever more frustrated with the demon that is insomnia, plaguing him since the arrival of his 30th year on earth. In desperation, he turns to Twitter, seeking solace in the randomness of the online social media community.
Sadly, no celebrity or public figure has wiped their ass in a manner inconsistent with Piers Morgan’s lofty standards, and alas, the attention starved young women of the world are still asleep, leaving the screen of his phone devoid of the banal spectator sport that is a twitter fight. Not content to simply lie there, his mind wanders to other options. Facebook? Never! That would be slipping into the depths of depravity. He considers calling up his beautiful girlfriend to profess his undying affection for her. A romantic notion yes, but he must be practical about things. Waking up a goddess at such an ungodly hour can only lead to dire consequences with well thought out revenge tactics, such as the next meal deliberately cooked with an overly-generous and unhealthy helping of salt, or worse still, ‘unintentional’ loitering in front of the TV when he is about to round the keeper and score a goal which will have the online Fifa 15 community questioning their faith.
Defeated in his quest to find entertainment at the crack of dawn, our hero decides to look within the infinite abyss that is his mind, and as such, begins to ponder on issues affecting both himself and society on a daily basis. Who will succeed, GEJ or GMB? How will the international community respond to the ever growing radicalism of religion? Is the fact that BRT being the brain-child of BRF, simply a happy, aesthetically pleasing coincidence, or were the Illuminati involved? These questions weigh heavy on his mind and thus, he turns to a God he’s not so sure exists anymore for comfort. He starts out his daily prayer in the same manner… “Our Father, who art in heaven, please don’t let her be pregnant…”
Prayers come to an end 30 seconds later, due to a lack of actually having anything to say and our hero feels the pangs of the first bladder evacuation of the day. With a decisive movement, he springs out of bed, only to recoil right back into bed, his body reminding him that he simply cannot move that quickly anymore. Exercising a great deal more care, he slowly gets up and majestically saunters to the restroom, pausing to hold the door open in a gentlemanly manner for his morning wood to proceed first. As he approaches the porcelain throne, he hears a scuttling behind him and turns around to face one of the many minions the devil sends to do his bidding. The cockroach is just as startled by the appearance of the man, and reacts by taking off in flight, in search of safe shelter. Our hero views this as an act of war, and responds in kind, uttering a shrill war cry (reminiscent of Mariah Carey in her hey-day). Convinced that his impressive imitation of a woman just receiving her Valentine’s Day gift has scared away the fiend, the man returns to his original mission of voiding his bladder.
With the usual herculean effort, our hero reaches into his favourite flannel patterned pyjama-pants and unsheathes the Excalibur. He goes about his business with dignity and grace, whistling that classic little ditty ‘My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns hun’. Returning the weapon into its holster, he feels a slight tinge of unhappiness, wishing he had the funds to hire an assistant to help with such affairs.
As he gets back into bed, still heavily under the influence of the insomnia demon, he begins to hear the shouts and angry exclamations of his neighbors, people to whom the adage ‘Silence is Golden’ holds no relevant value. But as he continues to eavesdrop (read as ‘listen’) he finds out that the early morning has brought with it valid justification for a verbal tirade of offensive language. To his (and quite frankly anyone else’s surprise) the domestic help in the employ of the said neighbors decided that her time had come to be in the family way. Even more surprising was the manner with which she decided to go about this business, seeking the ‘help’ of several men, ranging from the husband of the house, to the driver to that one security guard who no one was ever quite sure was male or female. Of course, thanks to the valiant efforts of the maid, that particular debate was officially put to rest. From the little information he gathers, in her quest to be of child the maid adopted a strategy which can only be described as Russian Roulette copulation.
Captivated by the ongoing drama, our hero decides that the best and most helpful course of action would be to care even less about the fucking neighbors and occupy himself in ways which would directly stimulate the pleasure regions of his brain. After a bout of deep self reflection, eenie meenie mainy moe favors not watching lesbian pornography so early in the day and our hero settles in to watch his favorite motion picture on his personal computer.
“What do I know about diamonds? Aren’t they from Antwerp?” Turkish’s voice comes over the speakers, and our hero seems to find the bliss he has been searching for. He shifts around, looking for the most comfortable position , when suddenly, there’s a knock on the door….