A wise suitemate once told me, a birthday weekend (in particular this birthday weekend) is like “an 800 individual medley” (the swimming event with eight laps of each of the four strokes)— each night is its own leg. The key? You gotta pace yourself. Unfortunately, I took out the Wednesday butterfly leg like a bat out of hell. I then proceeded to limp through the Thursday backstroke. Only to hit the Friday night breaststroke leg with the grace of a flying saucer crash landing in the ocean. Now any mathematician will tell you that by the end of breaststroke leg, you have technically completed a full 75% of the total race. What this mathematician fails to take into account, however, is with just what velocity shit hits the fan subsequent to this segment of the weekend.
I am ashamed to say: I was that kid gasping and spluttering on the side of the pool, clinging to the wall for dear life, screaming for mercy. Yes, that kid who doesn’t even make it to the end, because they are that bad at life.
Ashamed though I was, I did my very best to make the transition into Saturday night formal. But when my dress wouldn’t zipper because it was jammed. It seemed God was sending me my own personal signals. These karma-tic signals were simply saying “Proud Pantaloons… Valient effort, but fuck you.” Who am I to deny fate?
There’s only one thing to do in the face of defeat. And that one thing happens to be something that makes me even happier than drinking (who knew that something even existed). If you know me at all, it no stretch to say that sole thing is sleeping. I am the true definition of a creature of leisure. That is leh-sure… not lee-sure. Get it right. And given my inexplicable fascination with animals (i.e. tigers licking their toes, surprise kittens, and squirrels eating burritos), it should be no surprise I ventured forth with the intentions of finding my animal soul mate. I spent a really long time trying to verify which animal slept the longest. Yahoo answers told me it was the koala clocked in at 22 hours a day. But no other site had that figure… and seeing as this isn’t national geographic, I’m not going to verify any sources or facts beyond what’s blatantly convenient. Instead we’re going to go with the more frequently repeated figure: the brown bat and the armadillo as the sleepiest creatures!
Both cuddly little nuggets sleep between 18 and 20 hours a day. Now, when faced with the choice of considering myself a brown bat or an armadillo, the choice wasn’t a difficult one… an armadillo, duh. They’ve even got me topped.
Now here’s the crazy thing: my friends are very disparaging about my sleep habits. They think I sleep too much. They even go far as to deem me lazy in the negative sense (as if there were such a thing— I prefer ‘conservative with energy’). But really, there’s been plenty of research suggesting we animals who sleep the most, are the healthiest! In some study I pulled off some illegitimate site, ‘scientists’ found that the animals who got the most ZzZzzzz have 6x the amount of immune cells and 24x fewer parasites than all the other animals in the land. Now those are some statistics I can live with. Which is funny because 1/3 Americans have some form of parasite in their stomach. And you can bet I will not be one of them, suckers!
I got really excited because I found an “ugly armadillo shop” so that I could dress like my compadres… except the link literally just forwarded me to an amazon shopping cart filled with the Twilight books. WTF?
However, if you really do want merch (and let’s be honest, who doesn’t), boy is there merch for you. There are sleeping armadillo mugs, thongs, maternity shirts, etc. You want it. They’ve got it. They’re white with a sleeping armadillo sketched on them in black. CLASS-Y. AND just if you were wondering… they’re made in the USA: