Sunday, 15 June 2008

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"Sleep is for the weak." So said my former roommate as he stumbled home at 5 a.m. three years back. An assistant to the regional manager of the fondue restaurant my friend ran fancied himself an American Gordon Ramsay, so he decided to spring a kitchen inspection fifteen minutes after closing. If you've ever worked in a restaurant—even one where the customers cook for themselves—you know what kitchens look like when service ends. Even the most conscientious chef clips what must be tackled tonight and finishes honest the next morning. But the assistant to the regional manager to whom my roommate reported had seen an episode of The F-Word and demanded the tiles in the employee bathroom be regrouted before the illegal immigrants his boss had hired under the table began chopping the raw vegetables customers would cook for themselves tomorrow night. "Urine is bad enough," he seemed to be saying. "But Mexican urine? For fuck sake, we employ white women here." And so the great cleaning commenced. My friend stumbled home high on Comet and Camels that night, but he didn't complain. The resignation in his eyes brought tears to mine, but he is a proud worker. Work means everything to him. When he tripped forward and folded like a lawn-chair across the arm of the couch, I placed a blanket over him and waited to make sure he could breathe while jack-knifed over furniture like a drunk yogi. The second his foghorns announced unconsciousness, I congratulated myself yet again for being awake so early and did something unmemorable for a few hours. I have no idea what I did that morning because I immediately fell asleep at the desk. However, I distinctly remember pretending to be fully awake as he peeled himself off the arm of the couch to greet me good morning. I muttered something about him getting in awful late last night. "Sleep is for the weak," he replied. Apropos of absolutely nothing whatsoever, I want it on the record that I can't express in words how much I agree with said assessment about sleepers. If you've had more than three hours of sleep in the past four days, your flouncy constitution needs manly emboldening. Because sleep is for the weak. Don't believe me? Maybe these photos (NSFW) will convince you: And one final shot which, despite depicting nothing sleeping, oozes odious weakness: All photos via.
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Today in History At 8 a.m. on the morning of 16 June 1904, two men woke up. One shaved for class and breakfasted with his usurper and an anti-Semite. The other, a Jew, purchased a pork kidney and serves it to his wife in the same bed in which she cuckolded him. He left to pick up a letter from his secret sweetheart and chatted with the people he met on his way to the baths. Once clean, he attended a funeral and saw a mysterious man. After the funeral, he tried to place an advertisement in a local newspaper but decided more research was required, so he scooted off to the library where, unbeknown to him, the first of our two men was disquisiting on Shakespeare. Many people walked around, including our Jew, who decided to follow his morning kidney with an afternoon liver. He ogled the barmaids and thought about his wife who, if his suspicions were correct, would soon be cuckholding him again. So he exited the bar with the pretty reminders of his pain and entered another full of anti-Semites. Fists and cans were thrown. Troubled by thoughts of wife and ancient grievances, he wandered seaside way and publicly co-masturbated with a cripple. He later attended the birth of a child and the English language before following our first man into the red-light district. He caught up with him, himself, himself-in-drag, his dead grandfather, Nobodaddy, a giant green crab, a talking hat-stand and ducked out when the police arrived. Chastened, the two men entered a dive and met a drunken sailor. They absconded to the home of the Jew and bonded while urinating under the stars. As 16 June 1904 came to a close, the Jew returned to his troubled marital bed and asked his wife to serve him breakfast in it tomorrow. She considered his request but never decided one way or the other. (Happy Bloomsday. Sorry about the spoilers.)

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