Seven-thirty saturday morning —""Everybody get up, it's time to slam now / We got a real jam goin' down / Welcome to the Space Jam / Here's your chance, do your—""
It's at this point that I typically mumble, ""Fucking ringtone,"" and violently hit the snooze button on my alarm. But five more minutes rarely makes up for the ridiculously early hour. Until college, I couldn't remember ANYTHING that could manage to pull me out of bed before noon, besides Saturday morning cartoons (back when Saturday morning cartoons were actually worth getting up for).
But now I reluctantly roll out of bed, knowing that breakfast will consist of a healthy serving of jello shots, whiskey and a half pack of cigarettes. Good morning, Badger gameday. I loathe you.
The worst part about it is that everyone else has been raging since 5 a.m. and they're all like, ""Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!"" in my face. And I'm all like, ""First of all, fuck you. Second, where's the keg?""
Why is it that everything worth going to always happens so goddamn early in the morning? If it's not a Badger gameday, it's something else that's got me up at the ass-crack of dawn. As a supporter of locally produced goods, I sometimes like to peruse the Dane County Farmer's Market (though my interests are less concerned with the produce and more concerned with the delicious baked goods). To my dismay, if you're not up early, you only get the wilted flowers, the small, oddly shaped vegetables and the dried-up bread that's been sitting out all morning.
But the most disappointing of all events that happen far too early for my taste are the ones that only happen once. If I'm feeling supremely hungover one gameday morning and decide I can't down half a bottle of whiskey and two gallons of beer in my first few waking hours of the day, it's no big deal because there are six more chances to get silly wasted before a home game. But there's only one chance each year to get ridiculously low prices off of normally priced $120 jeans on State Street at Maxwell Street Days.
And if your 21st birthday just happened to fall on the Friday before Mifflin Street Block Party and you woke up curled around the toilet, then you missed the last chance to see everybody you know one last time before summer.
All of these travesties lead me to the conclusion that Madison is in need of a social revolution. Night owls of the city unite! We aim to change social stigmas like ""The early bird gets the worm."" From now on, ""The night owls get the mouse."" We aim to convert those annoyingly productive ""morning people"" into ever-exciting ""children of the night."" And finally, we aim to create a post-dinner, breakfast-alternative meal for those who don't start the day early enough for breakfast, and it shall be called Fourth Meal.
You may ask, ""But how do you start a revolution?"" Well, in my opinion, we should go straight ‘60s on their asses. You have a 7:45 a.m. discussion Friday? Instead, show up at two in the afternoon with picket signs and start a protest outside your professors' afternoon classes.
People may be confused at first, but have no fear—they'll catch on. And when they do, it will be a revolution. Who cares if over 50 percent of UW-campus buildings are riot-proof! Screw the establishment! Do it anyway!
NO MORE BATHS!
Oh… Wait, what were we talking about? I got carried away. (but seriously, if you understood that reference you're the coolest person ever).
I don't know if it's the fact that it's 3:30 in the morning on Saturday night when I'm writing this and that I have no intention of getting up in time for the Willy Street Fair tomorrow (another one-time event…) or summer's slow and unwanted end that leaves me feeling a little anxious. Or maybe it could be that I'm devastatingly tired all the time. But regardless of the cause, I think that with a Night Owl Revolution—""the new night"" some may call it—we may have one helluva semester.
