So this bizarre thing seems to have happened to me.
For no particular reason -- and I mean NO reason -- I've started waking up without the aid of an alarm clock at precisely 6:00 AM. Every day. Even weekends.
Now, as anybody who's ever lived with me can attest ... parents, siblings, pets, college roommates, grad school roommates, post-grad school roommates, The Missus ... this is HIGHLY unnatural behavior for me.
Waking up too early is just not a problem I've ever had.
I'm nocturnal. A late sleeper. A night person. A bat. A night owl. A complete and total slugabed. (Yes, that totally is SO a real word. No, I didn't make it up! Shut up! No, YOU shut up! Yeah-huh! Is so!)
In fact, the caffeine blast generally necessary to propel me first into a vertical position, and then to send me shambling forward through a typical work day ... well, it's roughly the equivalent of what a few kegs of black powder and some Mythbusters might generate.
"But Mooooom! My ass IS out of bed!"
So it's something of an understatement when I say that not once in my four decades of life have I ever been a morning person.
Until about a month ago.
It's like a switch was flipped.
The weird part is, I have changed absolutely nothing about my routine. No changes in exercise, diet, caffeine intake ... nada.
My body, it seems, has engineered a bloodless coup d'etat and has seized control from my brain. I have been in charge, it seems, for quite long enough. I can no longer be trusted to operate myself.
So there's a new sheriff in town and now it's lights out at 11.
Gone is the 3 AM channel surfing. Gone is Twittering till dawn. Even if I want to stay awake, it's just not possible. It's like C-3PO when he gets switched off. I'm OUT. Down. Gone. One minute I'm there, the next I'm not. (Amusingly, I'm told this often happens mid-sentence.)
So what's the deal? Why the hell is this happening?
The way I see it, I figure there are three options:
1) It's just possible, I suppose, that this might potentially perhaps just be a sign that I'm getting ... you know ...... old.
"Grrrr ... Letters to the Editor, prostate glands and opinions about new music!"
Or ... and I personally believe this is the FAR more likely scenario ...
2) Maybe, just maybe ... I shouldn't have poked that thing I found next to the bed with that stick.
"Maybe it's filled with candy! Wait ... OH, GOD! That's not candy! That's not candy at all!"
3) Of course, it would be irresponsible of me to rule out the possibility -- remote as it may be -- that I'm actually an avatar being driven around by a wheelchair-bound space marine.
One must cover one's bases, after all.
"Wait. So last time I got to operate a bad-ass, ten-foot, blue, monkey-cat-alien on a mind-blowingly fantastical jungle planet ... and now I'm driving around in a little fat guy in Jersey? You suck, James Cameron. Hard."
Okay, America, it's time to be a little more honest with ourselves.
How much more honest?
I'd say about 45 degrees more honest.
So, we've all seen the commercials.
And, if you're anything like me, you may have even visited this particular establishment on occasion to enjoy some of the sweet, sugary delights they have on offer.
(Okay, if you're really anything like me, you waddle up to their door almost daily to cram your slavering maw full of grease and sugar-soaked awesomeness. So, for your sake and the sake of the children, let's hope you're nothing at all like me.)
But I digress.
Anyhow, the point I wanted to make was ...
What's his deal? Seems a little edgy, right? A little too intense?
And most importantly, not even close to how I feel after a visit this establishment.
So I headed straight over to do some "on-site research."
After messily devouring a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and a bowtie ... I got to thinking.
(Okay, I had a nap first, then I got to thinking.)
And I concluded that, to accurately reflect their brand, Dunkin Donuts really needs to tilt this guy 45 degrees ...
Now that says "donuts" to me. Friendly. Easy going. And most importantly ... sedentary.
Also, he probably ought to be a bit ... eh ... thicker, too. Which, in the realm of Stick Figures, I suppose means he should be drawn in bold.
(NOTE: There's a very slim chance you might be seeing in this image a kind of bizarre "man-tini." If this is, in fact, what you're seeing, I would like to welcome you to my blog, Ms. Cattrall.)
And while I personally happen to be childless (which, trust me, is for the good of humanity, really), that's not the sort of minor detail that's going to keep me from ambling down the aisle at Target where they keep the various and sundry baby-maintenance supplies.
Because every so often I like to have a look to see how folks are maintaining babies these days.
Anyhow, on a recent amble, I happened upon a curious box of baby formula.
I find it curious for two reasons. Both of which have to do with the graphic down there in the corner.
Well, a duckling would know best, I suppose. They are experts, after all.
Okay, firstly, I may not be one of your fancified, elite, east coast "zoologists," but I've been under the impression for some years that not being -- you know ... mammals -- that ducks generally do not come equipped with mammary glands.
In fact, I've been lead to understand that ducks do not suckle. Not even for fun.
(NOTE: If ducks ever do start coming equipped with mammary glands, I will likely find myself furtively deleting the Audubon Society's URL from my browsing history. Am I right, guys! Hello? Guys? Anyone? Hello?)
(Oh. I see.)
(It turns out, I am not right. Apologies.)
Secondly, what's up with the company's passive aggressive, self-loathing tone?
"Experts agree breastfeeding is best."
"But ... if maybe you don't care so much for the baby? Or the baby's kind of an asshole, maybe? Eh ... you could probably do worse than our third-rate slop."