Some mornings, you wake up and feel fantastic. The sun in shining, the birds are chirping, your slippers are warm, and it feels great to be alive. Maybe you’ll have some orange juice. Maybe you’ll go for a walk. The possibilities are endless, you feel. You’re going to have a great day and you know it.
Other mornings, you wake up and you just want Henry Rollins to yell at you.
Today was such a morning for me. All the Folgers and blueberry muffins in the world weren’t going to get me going. I needed the big guns. I needed the unnecessarily intense, testosterone-charged bellow of the only man who owns less shirts than Iggy Pop. I’m talkin’ ’bout Rollins.
Nowadays, you got all these fancy wake-up juices and elixers. Pshaw. I remember a time when all a man needed was a splash of water, a piece of toast, and the tortured screams of Mr. Henry Garfield Rollins. Why, even the youngin’s enjoyed rising to the twisted emotions and angry venting what spewed outta ol’ Hank’s mouth.
Yessir, with the weather acting up and stocks the way they are, it was a three alarm Rollins morning today. After all that hollerin’, I feel reborn. I’m more than ready to go plow those fields, milk those cows, and verbally berate the next child or old person I see. Saints alive! Let’s do this thing called life!