So peaceful here at 6:55 AM. Redheaded Retard is sitting on the back steps; hacking, spitting, vomiting and belching as he talks to himself and music blares in the not-so-background. Must be one hell of a hangover. Oh, wait…now he’s screaming, “IT’S SATURDAY!” over and over at the top of his lungs. I don’t even need a calendar to know what day it is–how wonderfully handy! The Backyardigans aren’t up yet, but at this rate, I’d expect they will be soon. Now he’s singing, though not the song that’s actually playing. Yeah! Turn the music up…love that jungle beat at 7:02 AM!

Jesus H. Christ. I don’t care if your fat fucking cow-mother dropped dead after costing the taxpayers 40 thousand-plus dollars in an attempt to save her worthless life; you’d be doing this shit anyway because you always have, so I’m afraid I’m fresh out of fucking sympathy. We can’t get out of here fast enough. About 30 days…if I last that long.