You can check in on the first part of this series, in which I celebrate everyone’s favorite day by looking at Monday morning gym sessions and Munchkin’ bombs, here.
3. Produce Blank Stares When Asked About Your Weekend
“Welcome back. How was your weekend?”
(Enter internal dialogue)
Weekend? What weekend? What are you talking about, dummy? Today’s Wed-…
Nope. It is, in fact, Monday. Five more days to go. Shit.
Weekend… hmm. How WAS my weekend? Not sure to tell you the truth. Let me first try and remember what I actually did.
Hmmmm… OK, baby steps now. Let’s first try to think of what you did yesterday, considering it is the closest day to today…OTHER THAN TOMORROW!… Whoa. Deep. I gotta Wikipedia that shit.
Come on. Focus. It’s tough pre-coffee on a Monday morning, but you can do it.
Ah. Here we go: Yesterday I got on up 11:30, watched 10 straight hours of football, and ordered not one, but TWO separate bacon pizzas from Domino’s Perhaps they would like to know that you can now choose what type of pizza sauce you want when using the “Build-A-Pizza” mobile app? Spicy marinara is pretty incredible.
On second thought, let’s table the whole “what I did on Sunday” conversation.
OK, so now that you established Sunday’s activities, lets go back a little further to see if there is anything worthy of discussion from your Saturday… HA! That was when Sully threw the traffic cone into the Charles! Stupid Sully. Always doing stupid stuff like that. And then his buddy from NYC, I don’t remember his name. Henry? No that’s not it. Hank? Nope. No one outside of movies from the 1930s is named Hank. Harry? When Harry Met Sully? Damn. It doesn’t matter I don’t really like him, but anyway, he found a random painting on the side of the road and left it on top of a taxi…
Come on, dude. You’re at work now. You can’t make your group of friends sound like the cast of Good Will Hunting. Let’s move on.
I remember not seeing the sun on Saturday.
Nope, not a good one.
BUT the reason for that is the impromptu decision to hightail it to Mohegan Sun Friday after work with Sully and Jim. By 8:15 you were smoking a cigar indoors, highly enjoying giving all your money to the blackjack dealer. 8 hours later you were back on the road, your friends suffering and defeated after they both struck out with the girls they met over by the roulette table. Luckily you decided to stick with cigars and blackjack for the evening. Your checkbook and lungs would be hurting, but at least you could be sleeping safely in your own bed soon. At least you weren’t accompanied home by a black eye, like Sully after he hit on the wrong dude’s girlfriend. Man, imagine how his Monday is going? Ha! Glad I’m not Sully. I wonder how he’s explaining that black eye to his co-workers? Probably saying the “dog hit him” like the time he ran into a pole at recess in seventh grade. Hey Sully- how about the fact that you’re at fucking school? Huh? Your dog walked all the way to school just to punch you out? Willy the labradoodle did that? Our teacher almost broke a laugh when Sully told her. Stupid Sully.
Jesus. How long have I been standing here dumbfounded in front of my co-worker? Two minutes? Five minutes?? They must think I’m an idiot. Come on. Focus. You can’t talk about Sunday. Can’t talk about Saturday. Can’t talk about Friday…
Time to bring out old reliable:
“Pretty good. Relaxing. Didn’t do a whole lot. How about yourself?”
Two minutes later…
“Great. Got some stuff done around the house.”
4. Dropping your phone in a urinal
There are only two times in your life when it is appropriate to drop your phone in the area in which you also relieve your bladder: all four years of college, and Mondays. In college that’s basically all society expects of you- you are to analyze the sociopolical and economic factors that led to the democratization of the Eastern bloc, and request a new phone from your parents after peeing on your current one. I would wager that there are no people in this world who are as intellectually enlightened and unimaginably stupid as college students. But, over time, they become a little less smart, a little less dumb, and a whole lot more adjusted to society.
I digress. A few weeks back, after heading on into the men’s bathroom, I pulled up next to a dude who was really having a bad Monday. One of those guys who you can just tell, by first and immediate impression, that there was no place he’d rather not be than at his place of business. I’m talking clearly having not shaved since the previous Friday and bags under his eyes that looked like purple slugs holding up eyes redder than the flush of his cheeks. There was no attempt made on his part to even move a single strand of his clumpy hair into orderly fashion.
By the bend of his knees and slump of his shoulders, it looks like he might have been standing at that urinal for over an hour.
He was on his phone, holding it between his head and the top of his right shoulder, commiserating with a friend who he had apparently went to the Sox game, and then Cask n’ Flagon, and then Game On!, and then down to Southie before ending at some lucky lady’s (his words: “slam piece’s”) apartment the previous night. Now he was at work, openly questioning to his friend, and residually myself as I pretended to ignore his conversation, whether any of it had been worth his current state, a current state which made my own feel a whole lot better.
That’s when I heard it. The rustle of the phone falling down his wrinkled shirt followed immediately by the clink against his open belt buckle and finally the sploosh of it landing in the “dirty water” he had probably been drunkenly singing about a few hours’ previous.
He had done it- the one thing all men fear when engaging in TWP (Talking While Pissing). He had dropped his phone into his own urine.
I was afraid to look over, mostly out of empathy, but at the same time I couldn’t contain the grin creeping across my face. When I gathered the courage to look at him, he was staring straight up at the tiled ceiling, cursing the gods who had placed him upon this Earth only to do such an ungodly stupid thing. He turned to me, revealing the true extent of his bloodshot eyes.
“Mondays man,” he said, shaking his head. “Fuck ‘em.”