The fucking drilling. It brought me back early. As soon as my consciousness booted up I whiffed the stench of a vile day. You can just tell, can't you? I could. The drills vibrated what was left of my tympanums, and with the gust of some well placed farts and the powerful desire to unleash what remained of last nights four fifths of tequila now relocated in my bladder I shuffled into the shitter.

Goddamn it was early. Too early for drilling. The 1984 digital clock blinked 2:34 pm, but that fucking thing trails real time by seven goddamn minutes.

It took all of four brain-dead moments to realize my prediction. Tube, apply, tube, brush. Fuck the caps, I never leave them on.

You know when your prolapsed veined colon fires electrical messages of minty fresh pain through your synapses as you try to place the peculiar Preparation H smelling taste in your mouth, that a day embraced by yoga-fucking tree-lickers as a gift from Buddha has decided to under-microwave you a diarrhea pie.

And this was one of those days: a day better served by a border-line Ambien overdose and seventeen more hours of sleep. Instead you, or I in this case, rail against it like a mosquito in the summer into the grill of a Mack truck rolling down the Glenn Highway.

So, I railed. My cum-stained hand reached out in vain for the last toilet paper roll I had never bothered to hang. I invariably missed, knocking it from the counter and, with a resounding splash, into the urine-filled toilet I had neglected to flush.

I looked at the sink. If only that goddamn bitch had paid the water bill for the month. I hate my mother.

Maybe today she'll unlock the door to the basement, I thought.

The anal sting turned into a dull throb. I spat out what I could of the medicated ass ointment and decided to cut my losses. I didnt even bother to check the lock on the door.

Fuck mom, I thought.

I dropped my 275 pound rippling ass of fat into the seat and fumbled on the monitor. The 60 Hz CRT burned my retinas a moment before sending a cluster of roaches scurrying into many of the dark pits of despair afforded by my dirty clothes, used food containers, white power magazines and porn newspapers.

I tore the mold off a slice of dank pizza and breakfasted on the rest.

Finally the page loaded. I was set for the rest of the day. Something wet dripped onto the keyboard. I was drooling as I looked: the EBAUMSWORLD BLOGS.

After a few clicks I stated typing. "The fucking drilling..."