“GOOD MORNING, GOOD MORNING, GOOD MORNING YEAH!”

Andrew reached over and hit the snooze on his alarm for the fifth time that morning. Well, it might have been the fifth time. It could have been a lot more, but that would require counting, and counting is an extremely difficult task when your brain is a mashed potato. Counting is for people who wake up with a big smile and birds chirping on their shoulders, singing about how grand it is to be alive. They’re the ones that bring in donuts for everyone in the office, the ones who say stupid things like “Only five more days till Friday!” in a sing-song voice that they think sounds cheery and hopeful but really sounded like a fork repeatedly scratching a plate. Andrew hated those people.

“GOOD MORNING, GOOD MORNING, GOOD MORNING YEAH!”

He threw his phone against the wall with no result; he had paid extra for the heavy duty Otterbox and now he was regretting it. The only thing damaged by his weak toss was his pride. Defeated, he stumbled out of bed to begin his morning ritual of looking in the mirror, splashing water on his face, brushing his teeth, and deciding not to shave. Shaving was for people who’s motor functions were at their peak, or at the very least able to grip a cell phone and actually do some damage when it’s hurled across a room. He was sure if he tried to shave today he’d end up looking like that guy who plays Chibs on “Sons of Anarchy.” Wait, wasn’t he also in “Braveheart”? Andrew made a mental post-it note to check that later, stuck it on the wall of his mind, and it immediately fell and into the vast emptiness that was his brain at 6:30 AM.

After taking way too long to tie his tie and forgetting to put on pants at least a dozen times, he made his way to the kitchen. There he found a beautifully prepared breakfast; eggs over easy, wheat toast with jam, a big steaming mug of coffee, and 3 pieces of crisp bacon. Next to the plate was a note from Amanda, who had to leave early for class;

“Enjoy your breakfast my love. I’ll miss you every second we are apart.”

No, that’s not what it said. Andrew rubbed his eyes and removed the last few crusts surrounding his retinas and tried that whole reading thing again;

“We’re out of Keurig cups. You’re going to have to use the Folgers grounds and the mini-filter basket. Also, we’re out of milk because you forgot to stop at the store. Eat your cereal dry, like I had to.” The light of his life. She was his muse.

He looked back at the well prepared breakfast that didn’t exist and saw a candy dish in the shape of a ghost filled with Tootsie Rolls. “That’ll have to do,” he thought as he jammed a handful of them into his pocket. He looked back down and saw his car keys sitting next to the dish, and made another mental post-it note to pick those up and put them in his pocket before he left the house, something he had done on more than 10 separate occasions.

After starting the arduous task of putting a single serving of coffee into a mini-filter Andrew headed over to his lap-top to begin the second half of his morning ritual; checking the pro-wrestling dirt sheets to find something to write about. Since all dirt-sheets were basically cut-and-paste factories, he knew he only needed to go to a few of them to get all the information he needed. He used to hate these sites for being so lazy in their craft, but in time grew to understand why they put in the minimal amount of effort; nobody at 6:30 in the AM gives a shit about prose. Just tell us what the f**k is happening. Suddenly, he understood why Kelly Rippa was so popular.

He skimmed the headlines, not really finding anything that was an attention grabber; Lillian Garcia was hit by a car on Friday, but she had already been treated and released from the hospital. A lot of posts with Hell in a Cell results, but he already knew what happened and didn’t really need a play-by-play analysis of what occurred. One site put up a post giving stats on CM Punk’s title reign, but he wasn’t about to be one of those assholes. Just as he was about to close up shop and text John “There’s a spider on my keyboard, can you cover Headlines?” he saw it.

He saw the perfect headline.

From NoDq:

Former World Heavyweight Champion Diamond Dallas Page tells Josh Stewart of Newsday.com that WWE Legend Jake "The Snake" Roberts is moving into one of his Atlanta-area homes to train for one more pro wrestling run. 

Beginning today, Roberts will move in with Page and the two will begin training while cameras film for a planned documentary. The idea is to get the 57 year old Roberts back in good enough shape for one more run. Page told Newsday.com that Roberts' weight had ballooned up to 302 lbs. 

Page had one stipulation before beginning the project - Roberts must do his DDPYOGA program for 6 or 8 weeks. Roberts began the program in Texas, and was filmed, and lost 20 lbs. in the first 3 1/2 weeks of training. Roberts has lost about 35 lbs. so far. 

Besides the physical training, DDP and filmmaker Steve Yu will help Roberts get up to date on using things like Facebook and Twitter. Roberts will also be drug tested while he is in the house and Page says if Roberts fails, he's gone. 

"Bottom line is, everybody wants the comeback story,” DDP said. “Everybody wants to see Jake look good, and feel good, and not be a mess anymore. That would be great. I think there are a lot of really positive things that can come out of this if Jake really does it." 

Andrew checked his hand speed by typing in “rhubarb” several times on the once blank word document. He didn’t need his brain to be fully functional to write professional wrestling news, but he did need his hands to work. Luckly, he only misspelled it 8 times. That was kind of a personal best. He unwrapped a Tootsie Roll, jammed it into his mouth, and  then typed the following words:

Yes, everyone wants to see a comeback story. I especially like seeing troubled drug-addicts try to better themselves as a form of entertainment. I don’t want to be one of those people that complain about how reality TV is chipping away at the very core of the human spirit, but Jesus Christ, DDP. It’s great that you want to help Jake, but do you need to do it in front of a camera? Can’t you just, I dunno, do it? Is it that hard to just say “Hey, this guy is troubled, I’m going to help him without any financial gain or ulterior motives, I’m just going to be a decent human being”?

Look, if this whole documentary thing actually helps Jake and puts him on the right path (it won’t) then I’ll eat crow and admit it was a good thing. I just wish Jake Roberts’s train-wreck of a life would no longer be taken advantage of by the entertainment industry. I’ve already seen Beyond the Mat, I don’t really need to see it again.

“There,” Andrew thought, “Good enough.” He checked his watch, or at least he checked his wrist since he didn’t own a watch, and realized he was late. He grabbed his thermos filled with the coffee-afterbirth that is Folgers and headed into the cold dark morning air, locking the door behind him. He thought to himself that he should have used that automatic starter before he wrote the article. It never got warm enough to his satisfaction, but it would have at least made him feel more productive. As he walked to the car he reached into his pocket to pull out his keys, but found only a handful of Tootsie Roll wrappers. He stopped mid-stride and closed his eyes.

“Of course,” he said, “How utterly f**king typical.”

Just then he felt his cell phone begin to vibrate and sing a familiar song;

“GOOD MORNING, GOOD MORNING, GOOD MORNING YEAH!"

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