Whenever it's early morning and I have my jheri curl afro and lamb-chop sideburns on, I like to walk around the house with my gun and recite the following passage to various houseplants and such:
"The path to Dunkin Donuts is beset on all sides by the inequities of gurgling stomachs and the tyranny of sleepless men. Blessed is he who makes the coffee and donuts, in the name of charity, which is to say for minimum wage, and shepherds the half-asleep through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's waker and the finder of lost early morning commuters. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to withhold coffee and donuts from my brothers. And you will know my name is Michael Danielson when I lay my vengeance upon all the good donuts in the unimaginatively selected box of donuts somebody brought into work for some unknown occasion!"
That's when the houseplants start shrieking and hold up their little leavy hands to shield themselves as me and my cat, Vincent Vega, start blasting. Then, on the way to Dunkin's, one of us, usually Vincent Vega, accidentally shoots Marvin in the face. This after me and Vincent Vega have a long discussion about what different European countries call Meow Mix. "What do they call Meow Mix in Paris?" I ask him. "The same thing. Except they say La Meow Mix." That's when one of us accidentally shoots Marvin in the face.
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