Every Monday morning I fight daemons on my way to work, and when I finally get there, irascible and half-drunk from the night before, work is the last thing on my mind.
All I want to do is shoot up the place and send as many co-workers as I can to God for the ultimate judgment before the pigs take me out in a hail of bullets à la John Woo.
They’ve always sucked, even in ancient Rome or the Old Kingdom.
When great minds invented the weekend – whenever that was – they couldn’t have imagined that the day after the weekend would cause so much pain and destruction throughout the ages.
Everyone hates it.
Even if you have a great job or you’re self-employed you hate it.
It’s the day when you’re the least productive and more likely to commit a crime – and it should be banned or the work time should be greatly reduced.
I’m writing this as I sit at my desk pretending to work. My stupid fat boss just walked in holding a stack of documents and he’s now talking with the office skank. Those documents are for me; I begin to shiver. I fucking hate his guts. I want to strangle him in front of his children and then strangle them too. This could have been an epic rant if this faggot was someplace else. I hope he dies today. He’s now coming toward me… shit. I can’t stop shivering.