Oh hello, Monday. Don’t think I didn’t see you there, strutting around with your head held high, your shoulders back, and your chest puffed out like you’re the goddamn cock of the walk. We get it, bro — you work out. Look at you, thinking you’re hot shit just because you’re the first day of the week (unless you ask Sunday).
When’d you’d become such a prick, huh? Were you born into the darkness and molded by it like some sort of D-grade Bane, or did years and years of playing seventh fiddle to the other days of the week finally get to your head and make you snap? Did Saturday steal your lunch money and shove you into a locker one too many times? “Thank God It’s Monday” didn’t catch on like you were hoping? Parents didn’t love you enough? Who hurt you, Monday?
Whatever your origin story is, you’re a real fun-sucking cocksucker now. And, on top of that, a seriously sneaky shit, swinging in right after the good-natured weekend to ambush us with your arsenal of workload and responsibility. Shitting on our hopes and dreams with your irritable bowel syndrome-having ass. You should be ashamed of yourself.
Despite your bush league guerilla tactics, every week Sunday tries to throw us a bone by warning us of your assholishness, instilling a necessary fear into us so that we’re best prepared to deal with your malice-filled chicanery. But like a big ol’ jerkface, you prey on the weak. Those who foolishly fail to heed the prophetic Sunday scaries walk right into your trap, hungover and contemplating their very existence.
I bet that makes you feel real cool, Monday; crushing people under the heels of your weather-worn Crocs. Sorry to break it to you though, chief, but you’re not all that. You might think you’re a regular Wyatt Earp around these here parts, dishing out justice like a vigilante lawman. Truth is, you’re nothing more than some mark-ass hall monitor trying to get us to stop running in the halls. A tryhard soccer referee handing out yellow cards for every little bump and flop. An asthma-stricken mall cop chugging along on a scooter while we all laugh at that dumbass helmet you’re wearing.
You think you’re packing some serious heat, don’t you? Well, you’re up against an army of weekend warriors with enough firepower to blow you straight into oblivion. That case of the Mondays you’re so intent on your victims catching? They make ointment for that now. It’s called Monday Night Football, and it just so happens that a fresh double batch is on the way. You shook yet? You better be.
In short: fuck you, Monday. You’re a loser. You suck bushels of dicks. Nobody likes you. Go slither on back to that rusty-ass sewer drain from whence you came. Tuesday’s locked, loaded, and rolling up on your spot with a vengeance, and you best get the hell out of Dodge before it shows up..
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