Let me try that again.

It’s the morning people who are the 1% of the population, and the night people – the swingers and the groovers – who are the 99%.

You see where I’m goin’, don’t you?

“Yeh-yeh-yeh-yeh-yeh, that’s it exactly. So, when, you’re bein’ all apologetic – because you think you’re living your life in error – that because of your decision to sleep in ’til 7am – to not rise early and seize the worm of commerce and competition with one’s fellow man – in fact, Jack, you are living in harmony with your fellow man – men – 99% who are still asleep, and many, many of whom will continue sleeping far past the time when you wake up,” ejaculated sleepologist Ray Goolens, Sunday.

So, most people aren’t morning people.

“You catch on quick, Rick.”

And so it’s the least people – the minority – which is, are morning people.

“I think we’ve already said as much.”

And so the majority – the 99% – are good and are doing things that are right and good and just, simply because they are part of the group that is doing the thing the most.

“Would you mind if I go and get a sandwich?”

Hold on, Ron – so, it’s the 1% that are bad, and – correct me if I’m wrong here – should be corrected by the majority – for their own good, so to speak.

“You’re thinking of writing something on a placard, now – I can see that.”

What?

“You’re – nothing – look, how about that sandwich?”

I don’t like morning people.

“Oh, Jesus.”

I’ve never said that to anyone before.

“Oh, God.”

I feel…wickedly liberated.

“Mmm. Goody.”

The table’s are turned now, aren’t they?

“Look, ah, I want…cripes – I’m sure it’s here that some of your readers are going to want me to step up and correct you, mate, but since I haven’t got a good sandwich in me yet, I just really can’t be asked.”

Wot?

“I can’t be – I’m not going to do it.”

Here, I’d been thinking I was wrong – for so long, Jong. But now I see that I was right. And it’s good to know that I’m not alone, either. I can’t thank you enough.

“Fantastic. Glad to be of help. Great intellectual exchange we’ve had here.”

What time did you get up this morning?

“What?”

What time did you wake up?

“Well…er…there’s a difference, ah, you know…”

Yes/no question – what time?

“It is not – I don’t really see how that’s of any…”

Very sneaky. Very sneaky, indeed.

“Look, if you had allowed me to finish-”

If I had allowed you to finish, we never would have arrived at this truth, here. Yes, precisely. I think anyone could see why you’d want that to have happened. Thankfully – it hasn’t.

“What?”

You – are a morning person.

“I am not.”

It’s written all over your face.

“Ridiculous.”

Your freshly-ironed shirt…your blowdried hair…everything about you says, “I’ve been up since 6am.”

“Preposterous – I was out dancing ’til 6am, yes, all right, there you have it – but I assure you, I am not one of them. I’m not here to judge you or to look down on you. After this interview I’m going home to open a beer and crash on the couch.”

I’d like to believe you. I’d like to believe you very much.

“Look at this hair, here – see? This isn’t my hair. This is the hair of some Sheila who was leaning all over me last night at the club.”

What?

“It’s the hair of some – woman – from, from dancing…staying up all night – not waking up early – there’s a difference.”

I’m not sure I follow you, but there certainly is a difference – we can definitely agree on that.

“Look…what is it that you want?”

I..

“Oh!”

What?

“Oh! You don’t know what you want! Of course – how could I have forgotten?”

What?

“Now you’ve – my God, I’m hungry – now you’ve come to the point, surprise, surprise, where you think you’ve found a new idea, in that you’ve found some kind of scapegoat for all you worries – that you can’t find a job, that your girlfriend won’t fuck you, that you’re having trouble even saving up for that miso ramen you want to eat for dinner – when all of a sudden, when someone actually looks at you and says, alright, fine, let’s look at it your way, now what are we gonna do, you have no plan or thoughts on the matter whatsoever.”

I just…

“Oh, `I just…I just..`- `I just` what?”

I just want to…sleep a little longer.

“Right. Classic. The old “I just want to sleep a little longer – I don’t want to hurt anybody” defense.
You think all your talk of the 99% and 1% hasn’t hurt anybody? Do you think anyone gets what they want? Rhetorical question – obviously, you do.”

Just to sleep…’til 7am.

“Not going to cut it, mate. Up at 5, 6 – all right, I’m with you. I want to see you up there, on the train, on the bus, your face pressed to the steamy glass just like all of your fellow man. I don’t care if you’ve had time for a breakfast or not. I tell you, when I hear a tummy rumble, that’s the first sign of a hard worker, if you ask me.”

I -

“Make Sense?”

“I just dunno whut to believe,” echoed Jess Namet, 22, a great lover of social networking and so on. “I don’t know who the President is. I don’t know who I is. I don’t know where I is. And I’m only, like 23,” she went on.

Ms. Namet is not alone.

MyGoodies tweeted all day long and into the night about others, locked in their cubes, doubting and being crushed with the endless loneliness.

“My balls are broken,” wailed business dude Heinz Waring, 29, of KPMG. “My 6 figure salary does not fill the void, Lloyd,” he kept talking.

But how come the Internet and online marketing don’t fill it?

“It’s just…too much…and…endless and spinning.”

But, OK, so, it’s the Internet that’s causing the busting and the loneliness?

“It’s the crushing. And the void.”

What about social networking?

“The movie? Haven’t seen it.”

Dude, you should like totally check it out! What a blast! That’ll put your chops back in order.

“I’ve no interest in another bit of depressing a-historical fluff with another soundtrack by faux retirees Nine Inch Nails.”

No?

“N-no.”

Do you like animals?

“Only when I was a kid. The animals today are different.”

What about shapes?

“Shapes are OK. Colors are nice, if I get to choose which ones. I don’t like sounds as much as I used to.”

Food?

“Basically all tastes the same – like donuts mushed with Subway.”

A nice long bath?

“That…I would not mind at all.”

Make sense?

Wait – no, that’s not it at all.

I’m a kids’ mom, and when I get home from school I’m too tired to cook.

I tried cooking one a those goddam so-called hard boiled eggs and I gave myself a scar I’ll never forget.

In the old days a scar like that would get you bumped from Economy up to First Class. On an aeroplane.

Cooking requires time and concentration I just don’t have, mate.

The big question is how without cooking one is to feed oneself.

Or hisself or herself.

I don’t think about it. If I see food I grab it and stuff it in my mouth. No one owns food.

I guess you’d call me a foodie. But would you call it to my face? Could you tell my face from the rear of my head? From my efforts I’d say 50-50 you can’t.

God, I’m hungry.

Because I’m ballsy, I don’t give in and chop my locks.

Besides, if you really want to know the truth about it, long locks were once a symbol of the ruling class.

So there you have it – most people don’t even realize it and I wouldn’t dare confess it anywhere else except here on a secure LAN connection at McDonalds.

I looked outside and there’s no Google Street View droid down below sucking on my fibre cable.

But like everyone else I gotta work.

So…I compromised.

With a ponytail.

I know, I know, but now there’s an even BIGGER problem: MY PONY TAIL IS KILLING ME!!!

The little black thingy I borrowed from my girlfriend to keep my head in check keeps whipping around to yank the hairs out of my scalp and I’m like screaming in agony.

And now my boss, Henry Fargo, is used to my pony tail.

I’m considering shaving my head.

I guess pony tails aren’t so simple.

But last week when I broke up with Caro, my BF for the last 2 months, I totally forgot that I did’nt have a new BF yet! Lucky for me I could go online and chat with my online friends. And I could listen to Nickleback and Coldplay, my fave bands.

But after like four days I started wondering what like Caro was doing.

I went to check his Facebook but he de-friended me.

Talk about an overreaction!

Lucky for me I could call up some of my ex-boyfriends to talk about my prob. Toby shocked me so bad when he said ”Maybe you still have feelings for Caro.”

That night I couldn’t sleep! I ate a cake and then I went online for a few hours to chat with friends.

Finally I couldn’t stand it – I called Caro on my iPhone. There was no answer! Then a message came on saying his number was out of service!

Then I remembered Caro told me he was gonna kill himself if I broke up with him. Just like Berry and Robin.

And Hans.

Jimmy…Peter! Hadn’t thought about hime for a while. And Ken!

And…Walter…Jonas…that other Peter guy…Sammy!

And Glenn, James, Jimmy from Spain…Yves!

And Frank, Timmy, Kris- or was it Chris? Long hair…never a good idea.

And…but …oh I gotta go, I think Eric is texting me. I hope he’s feeling better. Just because I cancelled last time, he like didn’t call me for…a while I guess.

I wonder if Caro still likes rollerblading.

Maybe he’s rollerblading in heaven…

Understand?

The co-worker (I don’t keep track of names, sorry) had sat next to me. The desk was situated aside mine. Even then it was before lunch hours, but said co-worker opened his satchel to reveal assorted verboten snacks.

“So rude,” I commented, brushing my shoulder-length permed mane briskly to endouble my annoyance.

“‘S your ‘prob?” this animal said to me.

A blob dangled from its’ mouth.

“Goddam you,” I hissed.

At then the supervising machine had entered the cube area so combat had to be suspended. However by end of work day my fury gushed and explode.

“What are you doing…that’s my car!” the co-worker asked to me.

I had scratched my name in bold into the left front door.

“This will teach you,” I hissed, “to eat quietly, next to neighbors.”

Noisy co-workers must be destroyed before they become radicalised. I for one, sign on to destroy noisy-eaters near my desk.

How about you?

Still it won’t make a difference.

President Obama promised to stave off winter this year but he failed.

After the winter is over holy cow do you look like shit. It’s those six months of fun aged you 17 years.

Your skin falls off and the blood freezes in your veins.

Mother Nature laughs and laughs. She’s like a character in a Black Sabbath song. Or a Jonas Brothers song, if that’s what floats your boat.

Some people like to break up their spiritually-crushing winter experience with Christmas, and the food sure is delicious.

Still, is Christmas all that good?

In Indiana we don’t even get snow, so we can’t engage in the so-called winter sports. And sleeping is forbidden. A lot of schools and institutes enforce strict study during the winter. If you try and slack off people really look down on you and you can wind up celibate.

During winter.

But me I love winter. I love soup too. When was the last time you had a good soup of your own cultural leaning? Christ I think I had one about 16 years ago. Maybe I’ll make one now.

Or will I?

Let me explain.

Oils is a part of necessity and life. Each person is made up of 25% oils.

Some oils, like cod, veggie and extra virgin olive are found on my face.

But the rest, is lacking.

I went to see Connie, a palm-reader and massage therapist at the mall. Connie told me I lost weight. However, she said, during the seance, “Your face is on its last legs.”

She had said this before, of course, but not when I was awake.

What kind of life’m I gonna lead now that I got this prob?

The lacking of basic essential vital life-giving arousing oils.

I called in sick the next day. ‘Fuck it’, I said, ‘Those brats’ll have to make do without me today,’ I said, but of course not out loud.

But they came and dragged me to work.

During tea time I was in the can and I looked at me face.

“JesusohmygodJesus!” was what I said and it attracted a crowd, mostly of brats crowing for more.

Diet is an important part of a life and we gotta eat what’s right. I surfed the Internet in my free time and I was in awe of all the porno that dotted my landscape. I forgot all about my face.

For twenty hours or so.

Then I took a break and the phone rang.

“How’s your face?” asked the voice on the other end of the line.

“Whom shall I say is asking?” I replied with a tart reply.

“It’s Tart Reply, the unironic phishing scam set up to prey on nincompoops and their dependents, and also of course, the elderly, dot com.”

Slamming down the phone and shotgunning a beer, I collected my thoughts. What had I learned? The Internet was bad. No, my phone was bad.

I had to get rid of my phone.

The next day I buried my phone out by the old wax museum. Sweat poured into my eyes as crows circled above and the air was filled with an overpowering scent of McDonalds.

That night I reviewed my life choices. I tacked the results on the fridge and stood back and took a look.

Fuck, almost all the choices were really, really bad.

Maybe I would need to do something. I could call for help.

But the phone was gone.

Or was it?

Heck, he even threw the occasional compliment my way.

“Babe, you’ve got great tits,” he said one day by the pool.

I thought he was such a nice guy.

But it turns out he was a real dick.

Let me explain. I met Brad in the shopping center; he was pushing his cart and it rode over my bad foot totally reopening an already infected wound. But even before my rage-packed shriek could leave my lungs Brad had re-bandaged my bloody leg and was yelling for back-up.

That night we made it at the Hotel Two-Way.

In the morning before Brad went to deliver his newspapers he made me breakfast.

Then when he came home in the wee hours he scrubbed the bathroom including under the rim.

I couldn’t believe the shine; still can’t get it out of my mind.

But after Brad started supporting my openly-racist parents and grandparents and changed jobs three or four times so he could drive me to work and then pick me up after things started to change.

It took about seven and a half years for me to really clue into it, but around that point I noticed he wasn’t using the honorific before my name anymore.

Then one day he didn’t take the garbage out early enough and an animal was attracted into our home through a crack in the foundation.

The animal snuck under the covers and bit my face.

Sure Brad rushed me to the emerge, but I swear I saw the animal and him exchange knowing looks.

The doctors and nurses confirmed as much.

Then when it got time to leave the hospital about twenty minutes later I noticed Brad sitting in the waiting room with his legs crossed; he seemed just so lost in his own little world.

Then when we got into our Prius, Brad told me he had cashed in my savings bonds and bought himself a Japanese sex robot online.

“I just got tired of waiting,” he said by way of lame explanation.

“Tired of waiting for what?!?” I shrieked.

“Waiting to have sex with a Japanese sex robot,” he said.

Even as he tried to convince me he hadn’t broken his covenant with our church I was kicking myself for having judged his book by my cover.

Jesus, sure he has a great bod, full head o hair and so on, I reprimanded myself as we drove to get our groceries, but he’s really dicking me around.

“Where is the robot now?” I asked him.

“Oh, she’s out…doing stuff, I guess,” was his lame reply.

Girls, don’t let this happen to you. DO a background check, and make sure you’re always there when whomsoever it is you’re bedding down with is on the Internet.

Am I right?