Now available on 3 cds or cassettes!

Kicked like a spazzed-out computer or a car tire. Yeah. Like that. Only an alarm clock to my head. Which is sometimes worse than a boot. I'd outta know, eh? Been kicked by both.

So now the time says, "what? Can't freakin' be." Tag the snooze again but I digress, time to get up now, or, rather, 7 minutes ago when first it kicked.

Coffee is made like so: Grinding that is too reminiscent of the alarm that so recently steel-toed me in the left temple, just above and behind the eyes. I'm out of pre-ground and the freeze-dried crap is just that. So I'm grinding and watching bloodshot as the beans skip a beat as they turn to powder as I brush my teeth with something peppermint based. Spit into the sink as I fumble for a filter and fiddle with the machine. Water leaps like some Chinese dragon from the faucet to the porcelain sink to splash back onto my still naked belly. It's cold. It reminds me of the alarm. Bugger.

Scrape last night clean out of my hair with one ear to news radio from the other room and the other swinging Dixie to the perc-perc-percolations from happy little Mr. Coffee. A bruise has formed on my forehead from the alarm clock kick. What a way to wake up. What a way to live. Slide a cup with a chorus line of cracks across and under the perc as I pour from the half full pot into my cup and catch the drips. Another two minutes and it would have been done but I just can't wait that long. Add some sugar. Add some cream. Now double up on both. The first swallow goes down like acid which reminds me of my delicate stomach. Oh well. Too late for shoulda coulda woulda's. Two day old donuts (strictly chocolate devil's food if you please) find their way to dunkin' in the drink and coat my mouth with coffee-melted chocolate as they down the hatch. A donut's a donut, right? The pot finishes it's filling and the first cup just sorta finishes itself. Back for another before I can count to ten.

And that's how I make coffee.

Or something to that affect.