Everyone looks forward to the weekend after a long, grueling week of schmoozing with a bunch of coworkers at the workhouse (usually against one’s own personal will) for five days, forty hours and two and a half hours worth of fifteen minute breaks. But no matter how much everyone psyches themselves up for an abbreviated two-day weekend, the weekend is almost always two days minus thirty hours. Most working class citizens spend more time in a company staff meeting.
Never the less, even though the weekend is over by the time we complete a single blink of an eye, there’s no denying that the time away from the office is dedicated to excessive drinking, inhuman amounts of grease and sugar consumption, and unforgettable sex with strangers that are picked up behind an oversized trash dumpster of any Pizza Hut restaurant chain.
Oh, wait. Is that what weekends are for or any day that ends in the letter “Y”? Same thing.
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Quote of the Week: “There aren’t enough days in a weekend.”
If you were to ask almost anyone if a bird pooping on your head was considered good luck, they’d probably tell you “yes.” Most likely because of some myth or superstition they heard while growing up or while chug-a-lugging at a beer keg party in college or some after-hours church function. But you didn’t ask just anyone; you asked me. …well you didn’t ask, I volunteered – same thing in my book. Anyway my answer would be “no!”
Considering you just told me that you sat on your ass all weekend, telling you to slow down from a busy lifestyle to get a proper amount of rest is out the window. Besides eating properly (inhaling fewer double bacon cheeseburgers), hydrating (excluding root beer floats and malt liquor beers) and exercising (jack rabbit sex does not fall into this category…this time), sleeping should do the trick to boost your energy.
Unfortunately the only way to get him to chill with the complaints is to sew his lips shut with barbed wire – although that might run the risk of you sitting the rest of your life out in an electric chair, which coincidentally is your next option.
A friend of mine (well, she’s not a friend actually; she’s someone I’m forced to work with for eight hours a day, seven days a week. We don’t talk much unless we’re locked in a staff meeting together for almost two hours and are required to give a shit about what the other thinks) hails from Cuba and often asks me (when there’s no one else or better to talk to) the meaning of some American figures of speech. Usually I’m able to muster up some generic response or something clever enough to keep her quiet until the next time she has nothing better to do but converse with me, but today her question had me stumped. She asked: “Why do you guys say, ‘Not my cup of tea?’ I know what the saying means, but where did it come from?’”
Am I the only one that wants to explode from the inside when listening to or watching someone show me their skill of speaking and chewing at the same time? I can’t be. This has to bother someone – and by someone I mean everyone – as much as it bothers me.
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