The Boomtown Rats Ruined My Day

Last night at around 10:45 my wonderful weekend faded into the distance and my mind travelled to the dark place. That’s actually later than usual, because normally the dark place comes to find me at a much earlier hour. When I closed my eyes and drifted off, I saw the path clearly marked. The road is always a tricky one because each fork in the path leads to the same place, like level 8-4 in Super Mario Bros. I think that’s the one where you’ve got to remember the pattern, middle, top, and then bottom whilst dodging the fiery traps to get to Bowser. I wish I could have taken that left at Albuquerque on my way to Pismo Beach, but instead I could only keep moving straight ahead until I was faced with the inevitable. Monday!

I hate Mondays. I always have. I’m pretty sure when I was like 3 my mom taught me that “Hate” was a strong word, one we should never use and I may have said, “But Mommy I fucking Hate Mondays.” Somewhere deep down she hated them also, and so she probably stuck the bar of soap in my mouth for only 5 minutes because of my usage of the F-word. Later on I bet she told my dad and he probably said, “The kid learns fast, lets start him on his multiplication tables tomorrow.”

I can think of a plethora of things I’d rather do instead of dragging my ass out of bed after the alarm goes off the requisite 4 snooze button presses Monday mornings. I’d rather sit in the Oakland DMV waiting room Tuesday thru Thursday than have to get up on a Monday morning to go to work. I’d volunteer to clean up the electrocuted rats in the Bay Area BART stations if I could get a few Mondays off. I’d pick the peanuts out of Shrek’s shit for a month if I could have every Monday off in a calendar year.

Whoever thought of Monday should be shot. I’m sure they are probably already in the grave, but I’d dig up the bones and shoot them anyway.

Nothing goes right for me on Mondays, especially in the morning. I get up late. The shower water is cold, or the asshole upstairs decides to wash his cat and I get second degree burns all over my body. The baby downstairs cries from the moment my alarm goes off until the second I leave the building, and then probably falls back asleep. My quick morning session of Guitar Hero ends in failure. I run late to work all morning long, but then catch a bus that gets me there a full ten minutes before I can even fathom stepping foot in the door. The music on my IPod during shuffle pulls up songs like, “Kill yourself” by S.O.D. or Pearl Jam’s “Indifference”. Sometimes I swear it plays Yanni just to spite me. I don’t even own Yanni! This morning, as if my IPod knew I was in a miserable state, walking from the bus stop trying to think of anything other than going to work, I am treated to the Boomtown Rats “I Don’t Like Mondays”. This song alone is enough to make you want to go Postal on a busy street corner during rush hour.

Sometimes I wish Vizzini would travel to my house and challenge me to a duel of wits on Sunday night. I’d take the iocaine power and down that shit before he could say “INCONCEIVABLE”. I’d glue a sixth finger on my right hand and tell Inigo his father was only marginally good at making swords. There have been Sunday nights where I wish I could bitch slap the albino guard in the Pit of Despair and hook myself up to the life sucking machine. “NOT TO 50!” Of course Miracle Max would find me and I’d probably owe him like 10 bucks, or I’d have to fix his computer and he’d make me eat that chocolate cube. There I would be, up working on his computer on Monday morning while he ate his MLT - mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, “where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe.”

I’m sure by saying all this, the Devil is probably listening, hoping I find my way down to his abyss of hot, evil, sorrow. I’m sure he’s preparing a special Monday chamber for me to dance in during eternal damnation. I’ll bet he’s got his favorite sales people, attorneys, and admin assistants at the ready to call the helpdesk line at the word “Go” once I arrive. “My computer won’t turn on.” “Windows is broken.” “I can’t get this picture of my cat to show up as my desktop wallpaper.” To him I will say this, “Hit me with your best shot you horn faced prick. I’ve survived 32 years of Mondays so far. I can take it.”