Why am I so tired this week? What did you do to me?
I’m telling you, if I had a pillow with me right now, I could set it atop my desk and I’d be asleep in less than two minutes. I’d snore right through my morning classes, and my students would take careful notes as I muttered in my sleep about ancient India’s Mauryan Empire. It’s an absolutely foolproof plan, and I could count on the NEA to back me up with millions of dollars of litigation.
Seriously though, why have you made me this tired? What have I done to you (besides slashing your tires on Thanksgiving morning)? Why would you be so hateful to me by making me drowsy? I don’t even understand how you made me this drowsy? Did you put cold medicine in my morning porridge? What a hateful act! A man’s morning porridge is sacred (unless it’s apple cinnamon flavor, in which case it is blasphemous and shall be damned to porridge-perdition).
I’m like Droopy McSlumber over here today. I’m so tired I could sleep right through the majesty that was Wrestlemania III, when Hogan fought Andre the Giant. In my weariness would miss out on Hulk Hogan, glowing in his balding majesty, whipping the crowd into a rabid frenzy as he body slammed the 415 pound behemoth. But instead of screaming in rapturous ecstacy, I would be sound asleep, dreaming of forbidden gnome ceremonies.
It’s enough to drive a man to meth.
Thanks a lot, buddy. Thanks for making me so tired, and for my eventual meth-mouth. This is all somehow your fault.