The chirping of the bird outside your window sounds like a scrap-metal shredder.  Your eyes wrench themselves open into the searing early-morning sun blazing through your window. 

Your body does a silent status check.  Head:  a searing toxic void.  Esophagus: Making room for expansion.  Stomach:  Calling out “Outoing!”.

You shamble to your feet, and lurch for your door as you dimly remember yelling “Yes, we CAN…play quarters with Windsor!”.  You half-stagger down the hall, bouncing off the wall twice, as you race the impending stream of toxic heat racing up from the stomach to the bathroom.

You slap the door aside with your forehead and fall to your hands and knees in front of the throne, barely in time for the high-pressure jet of toxic spew blast forth from your mouth, nostrils and, near as you can tell, ears.   As your stomach spasms and your mouth curdles from the acid and your brain tries to hammer its way out the back of your head, you dimly remember telling a sternly disapproving-looking Macalester Womyn’s Stydies major “I hope you change your mind” and trying to remember what “extended middle finger” meant before everything went all cloudy.  You will your eyes to stay closed even as they roll open to see a roiling toilet bowl full of things you remember the nuns warning you about.

You crawl downstairs and lay on the couch, and lie in the fetal position as the air conditioner roars like a Stuka on its attack run, a stack of bills staring at you accusingly, mocking you for the fun you had the night before.

It’s morning in America.

This entry was posted by by Mitch Berg on Friday, June 18th, 2010 at 11:58 am and is filed under Deep Thoughts, President Obama. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.