Good Morning Sunshine

So I woke up this morning just like every other morning. Shower, cup of coffee, 10 minutes of flipping between the weather channel and Bay Area news coverage because our sucks so bad, and then heading out the door to go to work. For the first 3 steps of my morning, nothing seemed out of place...until I got outside. I walk up to my truck and open the door and lying on the front seat is what appears to be a homeless person. Not kidding. Old sweatshirt pulled over his/her/its head, missing one shoe, his/her/its ass is straight hanging out of their pants and making direct ass-to-seat contact with my seat covers, and it smells like a Jack Daniel's distillery in the cab. I stand their for a moment wondering the course of action to take without provoking this possibly crazy transient while slowly getting pissed that someone would have the audacity to climb into my vehicle (which I leave unlocked because it has a device that only allows me to drive it) and use it as a Motel 6.
So I set down my bag and take a boxing stance, making sure to take my glasses off just in case he/she/it comes up swinging, and softly poke the pile of hangover sprawled across the bench seat. The body lays still and I poke again, this time adding a bit more force and the words "Hey, wake up" to the motion. Nothing. This timid advancement continues for roughly 3-4 minutes and nothing is getting accomplished. I begin to get frustrated and am emotionally and physically ready to kick some ass so I whack the blob on the head and yell "Wake the fuck up!". The body shoots to life as legs flail and arms contort after the wickedly hard blow he/she/it just took to the front of the face. Like one of those sitcom characters who can't seem to find a specific opening in a shirt, he/she/it tugs furiously at the sweatshirt which still maintains sweat marks from the night(day) before. As I back up, still in the "Float like a butterfly" stance, the head burst through the top of the sweatshirt and a terrified man scurries to the passenger side of the bench seat screaming "Don't fucking hit me man!!". It's was my boy Greg. Apparently he had gone on a bender and tried to get into my house last night to sleep it off but couldn't because "HomeLander Security"(we live on Lander St.) was in effect.
Being that I was ready to fight a crazy homeless he/she/it this morning at 6am I figure I'll skip the coffee.