AND YOU THOUGHT JESUS HAD IT BAD.
At 7:29am on Thursday 19th April 2009, Agent Jack Bauer of the Los Angeles Counter-Terrorist Unit drowsily stubbed his toe on the way to the bathroom. “Mmmph! Bastard!”, he growled, hobbling into the shower only to find that he’d forgotten to stick gas on the meter, and the water was running cold. Resigned to the dissatisfying ritual of a strip-wash, he lathered up his face with Gillette Ultra-Sensitive and proceeded to nick his chin several times while shaving.
At 8:03am, a seriously toilet-papered Jack ventured downstairs for breakfast, only to find that someone had eaten the last of the Shredded Wheat, leaving him with only a wispy piece of cellophane and a few crumbly dregs at the bottom of the packet.
Hungry and irritable, he wandered outside to discover that some ASBO-wielding youth had slashed his tyres during the night. “Oh, give it rest!”, he cried to the heavens, before reluctantly setting out on foot - only to step in a steaming pile of freshly-laid shit left by the neighbour’s dog. “Awwww!”, he winced upon catching a whiff of the noxious fumes; “You can smell it like a motherfucker!”
Arriving into work at 9:21am, Jack soon found himself doubly irritable after a post-it note entreating him to “Call Chappelle over at Division” ended up embroiling him in an elaborate plot to detonate a nuclear bomb on U.S. soil. Inevitably he managed to foil it, but not before committing multiple violations of state protocol which meant that he’d never be able to show his face again in public. It was at this precise moment that he realised he’d forgotten to call the really fit bird he’d been out on a date with the previous night - the one who’d promised she’d let him get to second base the next time they got together. “Bugger”, he grumbled.
Reconciled with having to fake his own death for the second time that month, Jack decided to enjoy his last night of freedom by popping in for a quick pint down the local boozer. Unfortunately, a group of emo-fringed 17 year-olds had taken it upon themselves to set up an acoustic open-mic night that evening. After paying £3 to get in and being subjected to four separate cover versions of Hit Me Baby One More Time, Jack left in a huff.
Having been forced to endure the ignoble sound of a lagered-up slapper pumping Akon MP3s out of her mobile during the bus journey home, Jack finally arrived back at his apartment to discover that a power-cut had reset the timer on his VCR, thus cancelling the recording of that day’s instalment of Soapstar Superchef. “For fuck’s sake”, he grouched. “I was really looking forward to that.”
Wandering into the kitchen, Jack was dismayed to discover that the power-cut had also knocked out the refrigerator, thus turning his lone frozen pizza into a soggy pile of inedible mush. Sensing the inevitability of another stodgy Chicken Balti Pie from Sanjid’s Chippy, he was about to walk out the door when he remembered that he’d shot the proprietor in the thigh the previous week during a routine interrogation, and probably wouldn’t be that welcome back.
Resigned to turning in for the night on an empty stomach, Jack trudged his way upstairs, only to find that the cat had been sleeping on his pillow all day and had left it covered in more hair than a menopausal spinster. “God”, he sighed, finally resting his head on a crusty old copy of Razzle. “That was the worst day ever.”
Arriving into work at 9:21am, Jack soon found himself doubly irritable after a post-it note entreating him to “Call Chappelle over at Division” ended up embroiling him in an elaborate plot to detonate a nuclear bomb on U.S. soil. Inevitably he managed to foil it, but not before committing multiple violations of state protocol which meant that he’d never be able to show his face again in public. It was at this precise moment that he realised he’d forgotten to call the really fit bird he’d been out on a date with the previous night - the one who’d promised she’d let him get to second base the next time they got together. “Bugger”, he grumbled.
Reconciled with having to fake his own death for the second time that month, Jack decided to enjoy his last night of freedom by popping in for a quick pint down the local boozer. Unfortunately, a group of emo-fringed 17 year-olds had taken it upon themselves to set up an acoustic open-mic night that evening. After paying £3 to get in and being subjected to four separate cover versions of Hit Me Baby One More Time, Jack left in a huff.
Having been forced to endure the ignoble sound of a lagered-up slapper pumping Akon MP3s out of her mobile during the bus journey home, Jack finally arrived back at his apartment to discover that a power-cut had reset the timer on his VCR, thus cancelling the recording of that day’s instalment of Soapstar Superchef. “For fuck’s sake”, he grouched. “I was really looking forward to that.”
Wandering into the kitchen, Jack was dismayed to discover that the power-cut had also knocked out the refrigerator, thus turning his lone frozen pizza into a soggy pile of inedible mush. Sensing the inevitability of another stodgy Chicken Balti Pie from Sanjid’s Chippy, he was about to walk out the door when he remembered that he’d shot the proprietor in the thigh the previous week during a routine interrogation, and probably wouldn’t be that welcome back.
Resigned to turning in for the night on an empty stomach, Jack trudged his way upstairs, only to find that the cat had been sleeping on his pillow all day and had left it covered in more hair than a menopausal spinster. “God”, he sighed, finally resting his head on a crusty old copy of Razzle. “That was the worst day ever.”
C.C. 24/04/07
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