Who listens to a crappy morning radio show? Who doesn’t feel they have a choice? Me. Next to my bed I have a clock radio alarm clock radio alarm (I have trouble ending that word). I can either wake up to a blaring, high-pitched buzz or to Hawk and the Morning Douchebag. Basically, Hawk and the Morning Douchebag are the same two deplorable, obnoxious personalities shared by every morning disc jockey duo in America: Gary and the Morning Goofball, Dick and the Morning Dick, etc. They’re all schmucks.
Unfortunately NPR doesn’t come in clearly in my bedroom. I’ve tried touching the antenna to everything within its two-foot radius: the bedpost, the lampshade, my nuts. Still static. I just can’t listen to static, even if sophisticated talk radio lies beneath it. And I’ve tried classical music stations, but they just lull me back to sleep. I need to get out of bed in the morning. Morty and the Morning Retard seem to be my only salvation.

To get a job as a morning disc jockey, you must answer yes to the following questions:

1. Do you annoy everyone you talk to?
2. Do you believe that a story about the war in Iraq is told better with fart noises?
3. Are you homophobic?

I need to invent one of those contraptions where my clock strikes 7am prompting a chicken to lay an egg that rolls down a ramp landing on a balance that flicks a switch on a fan that blows a toy sailboat across some water hitting a button triggering a pair of scissors to snip a string releasing a mallot smashing me in the head.

That would be way more satisfying than listening to morning radio.