Handy Tips On Waking Up in the Morning

Can't wake up? Try smothering yourself with a pillow.

Waking up in the morning can be difficult. Well, not really, a bit of discipline and some self-responsibility is all you need, but we're a self indulgent lot, so getting out of bed is hard for us.

In order to stop oversleeping and get out of bed right away, there are a number of steps you can follow:

1. Pay a friend to set your bed on fire in the morning.
2. Place your coffee pot right next to your bed. Set the timer for when you want to wake up (if your coffee pot doesn't have a timer, you are poor, and everyone mocks you when your back is turned). Fill it with coffee grounds and water the night before, but instead of putting a carafe under the spout to catch the piping hot nectar of the gods, rig up a funnel and plastic piping to have it pour directly into your face as you sleep.
3. Never go to sleep in the first place.
4. If you have a spouse/significant other who sleeps with you and gets up before you, leave them a note for them to find in the morning. In the note, tell they you are breaking up with them because their genitals smell like a Caesar salad that's been left out in the hot desert sun for 3 days and then shat on by a syphilitic goat. There's no way you'll sleep through that.

Follow these handy Bad Life Tips and I personally guarantee* you will never sleep in again.

---

^{*Guarantee not valid if read, mentioned, or discussed in any way, shape or form.}

Sarah Palin 2012 – Why Sarah Palin Will be the Republican Nominee for President

Disclaimer: I do not support or endorse Sarah Palin in any way. I do however believe that the GOP is going to make her the Republican presidential nominee for the November elections. This is why:

Once upon a time, like a year or so ago, the Super Secret Shadow Council of Rich White Guys Who Run the GOP got together to figure out who would be their next presidential candidate. They took a good, hard look at the potential nominees:

Sarah Palin shows off her assets.

1. Sarah Palin. Pros: She's purty. Cons: Bat shit crazy. Dumb as a bug. If she gets too much exposure over the next year she'll be about as likely to be elected as she is to count past 17.

2. Rick Santorum. Google his fucking name. Next.

3. Ron Paul. Pros: Makes the rest of the nominees look sane. Cons: Uncontrollable. Would turn on his masters, Frankenstein's Monster style. Ok, perhaps a bit more Frankenweenie than Frankenstein, but you get the idea.

4. Newt Gingrich. Pros: Degenerate whore, loyal to whomever lines his pockets the best. (Yes, to the GOP, this is a pro). Cons: He's named after a small lizard. His last name sounds like a vaginal wash. Serial adulterer. Left his first wife while she was in the hospital recovering from surgery. Left his second wife after she refused his demands for an open marriage. About as likely to be voted President of the USA as Ted Nugent's left testicle is to be voted “Miss Congeniality”.

Sarah Demonstrates safe sex.

5. Mitt Romney. Pros: Really, really, really looks like a president. Cons: Believes in the wrong Jesus. Favours moronic, foolish things like universal health care.

6. Tim Pawlenty. Pros: Tim who? Cons: Tim who?

7. Herman Cain. Pros: Negates Obama's “Black Advantage”. Cons: Dumb as a bug. People might find out about his numerous charges of sexual misconduct. Besides, have you seen this dude's smile? Creeeeepy. 

8. Michelle Bachman. Pros: She's purty. Cons: Dumb as a bug, and quite possibly malformed on a deep, genetic level.

9. Rick Perry.  Pros: From Texas. Likes killing bad people. Cons: Dumb as a bug. Hunting Lodge with a name white people aren't allowed to say. Apparently unable to maintain cogent thought processes about 40% of the time.

Sarah and her "Dwarf Gittar"

So the Super Secret Shadow Council of Rich White Guys Who Run the GOP sat back, looked at their list of potential nominees, and shuddered. They realized that their candidates would face intense media investigation over the better part of a year. They also realized that any such scrutiny was bound to reveal that each and every one of the candidates was either immoral, stupid, or borderline insane.

In the end, not a single one of them could possibly beat Obama. So they decided to change the game.

After considering all the pros and cons, the Super Secret Shadow Council of Rich White Guys Who Run the GOP decide that Sarah Palin would make the most tractable, easily-controlled stooge president and should be their nominee. However, they also realized that there was no way she could stand up to a year of in-depth examination and extended media coverage.

So they took Sarah Palin out of the game. 

The myriad of Republican Presidential Debates were nothing more than a side show, bread and circuses to entertain the masses. Wow, Herman Cain sure did sexually interfere with a lot of ladies! Haha, listen to Ron Paul talk with his silly ideas! Wow, Newt Gingrich really did cheat on his cancer-ridden wife!

The plan was to shake things up and let the scum sink to the bottom. One by one, candidates dropped out as it became more and more obvious that they were, by and large, useless puddles of ambulatory protoplasm. Eventually, the Super Secret Shadow Council of Rich White Guys Who Run the GOP knew, they would be left with only one remaining candidate.

They also realized that whomever this candidate was, he/she/it would most likely be roundly loathed by Republicans and Democrats alike. The Republicans would be left with someone they had been forced to accept by default, not someone that they actually wanted to choose. Kind of like being taken to an all-you-can-eat buffet consisting of raw sewage (collected from the homes of poor people), pubic hair (hastily scraped off the groins of people without medical insurance) and camel testicles and being told that you had to eat one of them, or your next president will be a Democrat.

So the Super Secret Shadow Council of Rich White Guys Who Run the GOP knew that whoever they put forward as the Republican nominee for President would most likely be largely hated, reviled and ridiculed. So what could they do? Well, that's where the “Brokered Convention” comes into play.

When the time comes for the official Presidential Primary, Romney will fail to garner enough votes for a majority. Meanwhile, Sarah Palin will step in to “save the party”. She has spent the majority of the previous year out of the media circus, stepping into the limelight only long enough to remind us all that she still exists.

Palin will be touted by FOX “News” and the entire GOP machine as the “last hope of the Republican Party” and “the only one who can beat Obama”. Horses will be traded, backs scratched, and quicker than you can say “Mitt Romney's numerous legal-but-highly-unethical-tax-loopholes”, Sarah Palin will be the 2012 Republican Party Nominee for President of the USA.

TL;DR – Kittens be cute. Especially in baskets. All Hail Sarah Palin, Queen of 'Murica.

The Seven

[I wrote this while I sat contemplating a picture representing the Seven Deadly Sins. For those interested, The picture is the hanging on the wall in the graphic art piece I did below.]

The Seven

Elsie was younger than the rest, and prettier. She had hair that caught the sunlight and stored it to be released after dark. Her smile was your first love’s smile, and her lips could hold a man’s attention and her eyes his soul. She was an angry drunk, and had played host to many a venereal parasite.

Theodore enjoyed tarts, pastries and pies, and the occasional trollop. He was known to his friends as King Beer Bong, and his mother would mutter about large bones and fat camp. Theodore did not enjoy the stereotype of the jolly fat man, and instead went to great pains to puncture that belief with a cutting wit and less than ideal personal hygiene.

Simon wore his father’s coat and hat, which he inherited upon the Old Man’s death. Some, new to the neighbourhood, whispered of the son’s devotion. Simon was simply loathe to waste good clothing. He had inherited quite a bit, and saw no reason to waste any on extravagances like new clothes or employee health benefits.

Eve entered a room like the eye of a hurricane. Eyes followed her like e’s after c’s. Her silent acceptance of worship and adoration soaked through her pores like the sweetest perfume. Her every step a movement of grace, her every whisper a command. So perfect that none dare criticize, thus never learns from mistakes she cannot acknowledge.

Echo despised the wealthy, that self-serving plague upon humanity. What do they give back, for all they are given? What sets them apart, makes them special? Why should they have so much while so many work so hard? Why’s the bitch next door get to drive a brand new Porsche while she has to be seen in a 4-year old BMW? Guess we know who had to suck what to get her car.

Randy’s back had hurt for as long as he could remember to. Sometimes after football he’d feel so bad he’d have to go to the Day Spa for a massage and rumoured hand release. He made sure to always take his back medication, as well as to frequently inhale an herbal remedy that he grew himself in the room another man would have put his children in.

Dan was proud to boast, “If there’s a fight, you want to be around Dan.” Most others would say, “If Dan’s around, there’s going to be a fight.” His Guidance Counselor had told him to do what he was good at. For the longest time he worried that flushing other kids heads down the toilet in high-school had not adequately prepared him for life in the real world. Then he discovered the police force.

Yoga Farts

Smells like teen spirit.

Ok. People occasionally fart during yoga class. I get that. It happens. We're stretching our bodies out into bizarre shapes and unfamiliar elongations, so a little escaped methane is only natural. No worries, we're all adults. No one giggles, no pointy fingers; we just ignore and move on. Ok, maybe a few plugged noses, but that's about it.

But there are limits.

Today an individual in my yoga class farted six times. Not over the span of the entire class, but in a row, one after the other, over a 10 second span. They just kept coming, fart, after fart, after fart. And not shy, embarrassed little squeak farts either. Loud, brazen, beans in a truck stop kind of farts. Cheek slappers. Vulvuzela farts.

While we all know everyone farts, I like to think that most people, if they feel a fart coming, do their best to suppress it. Or at least let it slip out quietly. Farts can slip out unexpectedly, but if you know one is coming it's polite to try and stifle it. But farting six times in succession? After - oh, I don't know, the fourth fart - I would think the individual would begin to suspect that more farts might be coming. If they can't be controlled, you could at least aim your butt away from your neighbour's face.

Green Things - a Poem

What do you find at the back of the fridge?

What grows on the feet of your cousin Midge?

Green things.

What tickles your nose when you have to sneeze?

What do doctors insert when they work on your knees?

Green things.

What do frogs mate with when they are in heat?

What do you find when you turn down the sheet?

Green things.

What goes into your dog and out of your cat?

What grows under logs and smelly door mats?

Green things.

BANG.

There's very little an armed gunman can do to treat a heart attack victim. I mean, sure, my .38 came in quite useful for its intended purpose - scaring the shit out of the variety store clerk - but when said clerk falls to the ground clutching his chest and turning a rather startling pale blue/gray colour, the gun has really outlived its usefulness.

It was late at night, about 3 am. No sense robbing the place when it's going to be busy. It was just me and him. "Him" being a tall, rather rotund white guy in a Maple Leaf jersey. I pointed the gun at the guy and before I could say, "Don't move", he falls to the floor and starts twitching.

I'm not totally heartless. Sure, I could've just grabbed what I came for and ran, but shit. Someone has a heart attack right in front of you, least you can do is try and help. As I've made it my life's goal to do the least I could, I knelt beside him and lifted his head onto my lap.

"Hey man," I slapped his cheeks, and his eyes focused weakly on my face, "you got any pills, something I can give you?"

He shook his head 'no' ... or maybe it was a spasm. Beats me. I was out of my element the moment his fat ass slapped the floor. I was at a loss, and it wasn't like Tubby McHeartpopper was helping much.

I emptied the cash register, then tossed it through the front window. The alarm bell sounded immediately. I grabbed a couple of cartons of smokes and shrugged down at him apologetically. "The alarm will bring the cops. Sorry about the heart attack."

I turned away from him to pull the DVD out of the security camera recorder. That's when the fucker shot me in the back. I was like, what the fuck? Here I am trying to help - putting my self at risk of being arrested, I might add - and the bastard waits until my back is turned and shoots me.

I dropped down to one knee, turning to see his sweaty, pale face. He was still holding the gun - a .22, thank God - in one hand, but another spasm caused him to drop it to the ground.

“Lucky for me,” I gasped, my bruised ribs aching with each indrawn breath, “I come prepared.” I pulled myself to my feet, lifting my jacket so he could see the Kevlar vest beneath it. "Lucky for you, I'm not a vengeful guy. But still, shooting a guy in the back is kind of prickish, so..."

I pointed my gun at his knee, then paused. "You really need to get some exercise, so I won't cripple you." I raised the gun slightly, and shot him in the left bicep.

I looked up at the sound of distant sirens, then smiled down at the clerk. "I gotta go. Hit the fucking treadmill why don't you?"

He nodded weakly as I left.

Funny how some people live their lives so poorly that when confronted by an angry man with a gun, the most dangerous thing in the room is still their own overworked heart.