Just one...

Wake up, eyes barely able to open, glaring sun seeping through the window shades, sneaking by each slat, roasting and rousting beet red eyeballs cowering behind eyelids. Fully clothed, shoes on, face-up, present location, a couch, somewhere. Confusion, head pounding, a neanderthal beating on a drum situated two inches off-center from each side of your temple at a marching band tempo. An orchestra of pain wrought throughout your senses. Body checklist: headache, check; the smell of gin, stale beer and traces of Mexican food, check; death-breath, check; thin layer of film encasing every dental anomaly, check; blood shot eyes, absolutely; tortuous stomach knots and mid-region unhappiness, check. Exactly twelve minutes to materialize yourself at your place of employment; general well being, un-check. A Wednesday morning hangover, how did this happen?

Just one beer you told yourself and just one beer you were promised, the beginning of any monumental evening, the infantile stages of a rock-star night and the writing on the wall for a hazy morning, a story only too familiar for some of us. An innocuous evening out, it started with a burger and fries, or maybe down at the pizza joint for a slice of pie, taco Tuesday lying in wait always got me. I can't stay out late, I gotta work in the morning. Wow! They have that on draught, I could have just one with dinner and so it begins. Juxtaposition jumping jacks of choices playing hopscotch with my mind; which one should I have, they all sound great I guess one of each will have to do. Three hours later; politics, the internet, social science experiments, climate change, sex, drugs, rolling and rocking and unadulterated people watching. The seed has been planted, fuel, soil, and the sky above to grow, let the night sow.

Does the gray matter: Synapse

Hinges, what we need is hinges; then the pallid skull bone wont need to balance precariously by the sensitive skin if we had hinges. Poke... prod....sure looks like it'll work, I can't tell, bring out the diagnostic equipment. Gray matter hemi, V6, dual carbeurated frontal lobe, flowmaster hippocampus, medulla headers under the hood but no spark to speak of. You could say it was a "sleeper" in more ways than one. What do you I owe ya? Squeeze the last remnants of sleep from the cylindrical tube, top it up with fluids, slam the hood.

Coffee! Someone bring me coffee!

An Ode to Old Man Davies

Bad customer service is easy to come by. We are fed lackadaisical lolly-gagging where mediocrity is the mantra of serving the masses. They must be doing this to piss us off...

Seize your problem by the 1-800 push button punching bag hotline, dial in an error to rectify despair. Wade through the hip deep menu pit, so many options but nothing applies to me, all I want is a human can't you see. They must be doing that to piss me off...

Tempt the temper tantrum seas, "Your called will be answered in the order it’s taken, stay on hold, if you please” The queue for you seems ten miles long while listening to the soulful saxophone of a Kenny G song. An eternity of bad elevator music sets the scene, pull out your hair but don’t despair, account numbers, security questions, a clear answer must be near. They must be doing that to piss me off...

You overbilled me, my conscious kills me to deal with such battle and strife “Sure you can transfer me, what else was I going to do with my life?" and then, click, bang, what a hang, the dial tone just shot poor me. That's it, they did it, they pissed me off...

I've changed my service, I've switched my plan, I'll never buy that thing again. Too late, I am pissed, and now I'm off...