Woke up yesterday like a Turkish sultan, surrounded on a pillow top mattress by three sleeping cats in a luxuriously appointed, climate-controlled room.
I cherish those few seconds before remembering the prison cell of rotted bologna that symbolizes my cosmic death sentence. I don't remember whatever the judge is talking about, but whatever.
I opened Twitter.
Old timers like to talk about reading the newspaper. I see why. I wish the parade of the world's horrors were limited to a few dead tree slices typed by a gang of serious men with pensions who drank brandy and smoked cigarettes in their office while fantasizing about cheating on their wives with the secretary between periodic 20-minute bouts of "work.