You Don’t Want to Know the Things I Do While You Slumber at Night

Night scene 2

by Joe Buonfiglio

I am an incurable insomniac; of this, there is no escape. Don’t try to offer me your “day walker’s” solution to my problem, for I’ve heard it all before. No amount of booze or warm milk or exercise or meds seem to be able to deliver on the promise of a decent eight hours for me. So while you get your beauty sleep to prepare for a productive tomorrow, here’s some of the stuff I’ll be doing tonight:

I will see how many doughnuts I can shove onto the dog’s tail before he wakes up all pissed off and chases the sugary goodness until he looks as if one of those spin-art machines along the carnival midway.

And yes, before you think to ask, I will still eat the doughnuts after the dog collapses to the floor in frustration.


Okay, the top half of that one; BUT JUST THE TOP HALF! I’m not an animal.

Then, I’ll search the TV’s guide trying to find the Penguin Porn channel. While I’ve written NatGeo for years, they still have not come through for me on this one.

Oh well.

One’s quest must continue undaunted by provisional disappointment.

I will follow this up by embracing my nocturnal opportunity and, unnoticed by family or polite society, attempt to obtain an accurate measure of the length of my butt-hair.

After you get over your immediate repulsion at the mere suggestion of this arduous task and allow your more inquisitive nature to override the fact that you just vomited ever so slightly into your mouth, the answer is yes; it can actually be done.

Should it be done?

That’s between you and your God.

Next up is “breakfast cereal buffet” time. All the boxes of innumerable varieties of cereal — of varying degrees of staleness and diverse heights of product — are unceremoniously yanked out of my pantry to all come together on the coffee table between the living room couch and the TV in a late-night smorgasbord of carbohydrate-n-high-fructose delight.

Diabetes, start your engines.

And finally, just as the dawn of a new day imposes itself on me and shines a spotlight upon my apparent pursuit of ill-health and utter exhaustion, I will down a mop bucket’s worth of leftover ten-alarm chili, step out onto the driveway with my battery-operated high-powered professional bullhorn-megaphone, drop trou and with an electronically enhanced flutter-blast of unsavory flatulence, herald the rising sun whilst also mocking the whole neighborhood with my auditory display of disdain.

Another night of torment survived. Another day of walking the Earth as if a zombie from a George Romero movie begins….


© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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