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Mornings Aren't for Thinking

Posted by NumberSix , 20 November 2011 · 487 views

My wife is a morning person. I'm an evening person. We work together to prevent this time differential from damaging our marital calm. I know not to ask her to forfeit sleep for an all-night DVD marathon. She knows not to ask me questions about our budget while I'm trying to brew coffee with my eyes closed.

My pet theory is that my mind could be awake every morning, but my body has developed an unconscious safety mechanism to keep my thoughts in stasis until the portions that govern self-restraint and aesthetic discernment are booted up and ready to report for monitor duty. This theory is only two weeks old, inspired by a weird incident that may or may not have been related to a low-grade hot dog that served as a late snack the night before.

That one curious morning, my alarm clock woke me up at whatever random time I'd chosen for the day. I shut off the alarm, grabbed underwear and a pair of rolled-up socks from my nightstand drawer. I knew something was not right -- my body was still sluggish but my brain was mysteriously revved up. I propped myself up on one arm, but began to feel the kind of imaginary weight of the world that necessitated the invention of the snooze button. My arm collapsed and I fell back onto the bed.

I clutched the socks and underwear to my chest and thought to myself, "This is my new teddy bear. I shall name it Sockhead Flatpants."

I laid there for all of ten seconds while that thought sank in. As soon as the thought hit bottom, a wave of fright startled me right out of bed, though the mere impulses of duty and routine had failed to motivate me only moments before. The thoughts didn't stop there, but the unusable, unwanted brainstorming session that followed was quickly forgotten except for that one errant, moronic, pointless idea. It was as if the part of my brain in charge of Internet posting had grown itself an auto-pilot switch and decided to go for a test drive while I listened helplessly. I could only assume the quality-control brain parts had been dosed with the neurological equivalent of chloroform by glandular accomplices unknown. I tried drowning my brain in the shower to stop the madness, but the hot water was useless against my skull.

Less than an hour after I arrived at work, the voice within put the finishing touches on a theme song:

o/~ Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,
Who lives in a drawer inside my nightstand?
Sockhead Flatpants!
Fuzzy and cotton and elastic waistband!
Sockhead Flatpants!
If dressin' yourself and need somethin' to wear
Sockhead Flatpants!
Unroll him and don him and stop bein' bare!
Sockhead Flatpants!
Really? Sockhead Flatpants
Sockhead Flatpants
Sockhead Flatpants
Sockhead Flatpaaaaaaaaaants! o/~

Ever since The Event, my body has made a renewed effort to ensure I'm in a solid walking coma every morning to prevent any more unnecessary acts of random creativity. Also, no more uncooked hot dogs after 4 p.m. It's for the best.

(Seriously, brain, what am I expected to do with this now? Why didn't you think of that before spewing it out?)

I will tell you this story is now part of a series of You Stories that I hoard in my mind and pull out when I need a fit of giggles.
As long as you were the head writer, I would watch Sockhead Flatpants

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