The Day You Were Born Was the Day I Learned to Hate

A very special birthday to Brunswick P. Danforth, my erstwhile constituent. Today marks his 26th birthday, which happens to be March 26th. Some call this a "supersonic" birthday, but to them I say, "puh." Sounds pretty gay.

It is, however, another reason to get wistfully pissed at the local pub. Barkeep! Another snifter of brandy, my good man. And make it stout. Today is this fellow's 26th anniversary of birth!

But in all seriousness, I'm glad Brunswick was born today. Otherwise I'd have nothing else to post.

HMNIG to Wednesday: Fuck You

Wednesday sucks. Sometimes you think it's Thursday, but it's not. Thursday's are Friday's gatekeeper; you have to pay your dues to get to Friday, but once you're there, it's freakin' sweet.

Monday is a unavoidable. Accept it.

Tuesday is the day to get things done, because there's nothing you can do about the fact that it's Tuesday. Friday is so far away it's not even worth thinking about.

But Wednesday is like a tickle on the balls without a handjob. All tease, no substance. At least Thursday has Lost.



And who the hell thought Wednesday should be called "hump day?" I want to pull that person's small intestines out through their nipple hole. Not that it's such a bad idea; a day for humping sounds good to me. But the reality of the expression is it's halfway through the week, hence, getting "over the hump." Like I need one more reminder I'm only halfway through the fucking week.

...

Sorry, I had to stop typing for a minute. I was busy gagging on someone's ill-advised attempt to poison me with office coffee. That shit was corrosive. It burns. I'm convulsing. I'm shivering. I just vomited. The aftertaste is still lingering. It probably will all day. I'm going to kill everyone.

But hey, at least it's hump day.