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I Hate Mondays

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Tell me why … I agree with Bob Geldof.

Mondays are a bastard. It gives me a cold shiver just thinking how much I hate Mondays. If you could measure hatred in mass, I would have a trans-continental container-wagon load of utter disgust over Mondays.

The little things that irritate you on a daily basis seem so much bigger and more irksome on a Monday. Small things like someone complaining that nothing works on their PC and they can’t do anything. It’s a small, bitsy, miniscule, tiny task to check your infra-red mouse first and see if the GODDAMN BATTERIES HAVE RUN OUT!!! Please dear time-wasters, by all means call me when I’m up to my armpits in confusing technicalities because your batteries have run out.

Then there’s all those lovely moments when you end up trapped between two fairly headstrong people in an argument. I would generally, in this situation, tell the parties involved to take the subject, roll it up and insert it into their rectum. Unfortunately, both people in this case are good friends and you just don’t want to do that to friends. So you sit taking a phone call with side A of the argument and tell the appropriate person, who then rattles off side B at you and tells you to pass it on. So you pick up the phone again and explain side B before being battered into submission again with side A. Starting to see how irritating it is? My part in this drama could have been played by a telephone, or even a length of string with a plastic cup on each end.

Today is a particularly evil Monday as I have been afflicted with one of my more regular syndromes. Today I am the anti-Midas, in that everything I touch turns to shit. You know how a cell divides and multiplies? Well problems do the same and, when you’re the anti-Midas, they do it in spades! I get a problem. I look into it and suddenly it becomes two problems. More investigation turns it into four problems. The harder I try and investigate or solve the problems, the faster they multiply. I’m frightened now to put any more effort into solving anything in case I cause a stock market crash or a nuclear war by accident.

On Friday night, after work, Chicken Boy, Hotspur and I would go out for a drink. The Grey One tagged along! Oh my God. Sweet Jesus. Have I been shooting babies with crack in my sleep? What have I done to deserve this? Chicken Boy tried to convince me that it’s because McBoring is gay and fancies the pants off me. I’m relieved to report that no advances were made during the evening and therefore no-one’s jaw got broken. It’s Friday night, in a pub, after work. What do we talk about? Drink? Football? Cars? Music? Women? No. Because we have the world’s dullest man with us. He’s worked in the insurance industry since Alfred the Great was on the throne and the only thing he can goddamn talk about is insurance. I would rather listen to the Women’s Institute listing their varicose vein operations in gory detail that talk to the world’s most boring f***wit drivel about insurance on a Friday night. IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT YOU POINTLESS WASTE OF SPACE. I could go on here, but the point is made and anything else will just be continual insult.

I work with two carnivores. Chicken Boy and Hotspur. I’m not talking about people who eat meat… oh dear me no. Chicken Boy is vegephobic. Food that is green is Kryptonite to him. He visibly weakens in the presence of lettuce. And yet his diet is still considerably more varied than that of Hotspur. Hotspur’s dietary requirements are very simple. If you invite him for dinner, only serve him something brown. He will eat meat, potato, bread, brown sauce, chocolate (anything that belongs to that rarely-recognised “Brown” food group.) I learned the extent to which the necessity of ‘brown’ food applies with Hotspur in that we catered for him by producing beef sandwiches with no trace of evil vegetation and I’m pretty sure that he only ate the beef out of the middle because there was spread on the bread and margarine or butter is not BROWN.

Anyway. That’s it for now. See y’all when Monday is just a distant, unhappy memory…

Moosehunter.

Monday addendum:

Our computer system crashed at 5 minutes to 5. I panicked just long enough to watch it come back up and know that it was going to be working for those staying late before I left.

On the way to to the public house for a drink with Hotspur partially due to the imminent threat of heavy rain and party due to Monday-itis, called in at the newsagents for a packet of mints. Had to stand in  the queu waiting for my meagre purchase due to some drivelly old woman who wanted a specific garden magazine they didn’t have because it had a freebie gift on the front. Four thousand other magazines were suggested but she wouldn’t have it, despite the promise of free seeds! Just as I was reaching for my garotte and asking for alibis, she gave up and left. Got to the pub and we had a drink before I left. I started walking and then rang Mrs Moosehunter who’d said “ring me when you’re on your way home.” She asked if it was raining and I held out my hand. Dry. I said “no” and it started to spit on me. I said “a light drizzle” and it became a heavy drizzle. I said “Fuck. It’s pouring and tried to find shelter only to realise that I’m on a open stretch to rival the steppes of Russia. She told me to wait in the garage (gas station to Americans) and she’d pick me up. I ran a quarter of a mile in rain and hid under the eave. The wind shifted direction and the rain hit me full in the face. My mobile phone rang (in England it’s illegal to use them in garages). My mother. As I was waiting for the good lady, a car went past in the garage. A small hatchback. It had a tiny compartment for luggage and in it were crammed two very uncomfortable looking Golden Labradors. Honestly, they looked like a rucked up rug with eyes, ears and noses. People, if you’re going to have dogs and your car’s the size of McBoring’s personality or Tony Blair’s compassion, get Chihuahuas!!!

The night’s looking up. Mrs Moosehunter’s gone out to buy me a present: Serenity (the movie, not the feeling.) I’m chuffed. Almost makes Monday worthwhile. Ciao all.

Moosehunter.

Written by SJAT

December 20, 2009 at 12:23 pm

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