Mewing Cats, Mondays & Olive Oil

I hide in my Saturdays. I dread my Sundays. Don’t even get me started on Mondays. But I love Fridays. I am cloaked by the deceitful feeling that the last three hours of Friday night are everlasting. Yet they tick away as I laugh and frolic. The level of emptiness I feel on Sunday nights can only be echoed by one’s appetite after fasting for a whole week while sub-leased in a gourmet kitchen. Apparently Mondays are quite infamous. Weekends are like pies, the top is all gooey, sweet and fruity. By the time you get to the bottom of the dish you’re staring at aluminum foil and crust. Curse you, Mondays!

I hate Mondays, like you do too. Ask me why and I shall land a lethal blow on your puckered up Chevy Chase. I might just spare your life if you can use your knowledge, your expertise and your professional capacity to somehow make it a day off. Deliberate it with the powers that be, if you have to. Sin, bribe, threaten or maim; I don’t care. But asking me if I’m having a good day on a Monday is like signing a death wish. And I have never claimed to be Clint Eastwood. But you’ll never be at an advantage. I tend to move with lightning reflexes in the face of adversity and execute perfectly balanced facial expressions coupled with audacious hand gestures. In most cases when challenged, I bolt in the opposite direction, but this may just be the last nail.

I had a colleague who would grin and say that he looks forward to Mondays. I wanted to severe his head and serve it stuffed with celery and draped in Worcestershire sauce. Every Monday morning this incredibly sorry excuse for a haberdasher’s safety pin collection would swagger into the office with his mobile coffee cup and a miserable muffin. He would then proceed to ask me how I was this morning. I would be itching to find a sharp object or maybe flammable materials that are remotely hazardous to the epidermis. Or maybe tie him upside down and skin him alive while a pack of cats mew into his ears.

So if you decide to see me in high spirits, you will find me in my flip flops and bath robe twiddling a cigar and nibbling at Monterey jack cheese on a fine Saturday afternoon. I will probably sing you a song; the gist of which will be the happy tale of a sailor who embarks on a journey to find his beloved one and discovers the hippopotamus. It will be arguably as delicious a picture as a puffer fish swimming in extra virgin olive oil, with the hopes of learning Italian. Unlike the scene on Mondays, when your head could be replaced with a rutabaga sporting aviators. A tad tangy, I hope.