I just wanted to submit a cubicle chronicle entry that while may not be a big deal to the vast majority of people reading the site, rings loud and clear with the tried and true real Monkeys on barstool: The Friday signature….
Just because it is Friday, you do not have to begin and end every email with,
Have a fabulous weekend! or
And if you send me a fucking emoticon then I am going to drink a bucket of kerosene….
You know what happens between Friday at 5 and Monday at 7 AM? While you are jet skiing in the Hamptons, Mr. Hyde here is a rabid alcoholic who tries to fuck things in the ass.
While you are taking your kids to the park, I am trying to blow lines off hookers Adams Apples,
You think this shit is easy? You think every weekend is fucking happy? You think its easy to masturbate 15 times in 48 hours? Have you ever tried spending five days dressed in a monkey suit, going to the gym and eating garden salads and then eating 2 pizzas, three dozen wings, a gallon of blue cheese and 100 beers at Happy Hour on Friday?
It aint fucking easy. So happy weekend to you too you pretentious cunt, see you on Monday
The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde comparison to a Cube Monkey during the 5 day work week/2 day weekend is so spot on its not even funny. Especially during the summer. You get that “Happy Friday!” from Phyllis the office manager but your mind is already focused on the NJ Transit or the LIRR, 4 or 5 tall boys on the train, and a slut-to-be-named-later that you’re gonna try to fuck that night. Meanwhile she’s gonna go home and do some gardening and some knitting. She’s going to go to Home Depot to buy some wallpaper, maybe get some flooring, stuff like that. Maybe Bed, Bath, & Beyond, I don’t know. She doesn’t know if she’ll have enough time.
And worst than looking forward to all the debauchery on Friday is looking back on it Monday morning. “Hey Kevin how was your weekend?”
End of weekend recap. Because I don’t think I can tell you about how I slept in the back of a Volvo in the driveway of a Manasquan shack because the house was already filled with dudes banging out random sluts. I don’t think I can tell you about how I dumped a beer all over some girl at the bar because I was blacked out and she was causing trouble. I don’t really have the time to give you all the details of the past 48-56 hours because right now – I’ve still got sand in my ass crack from trying to have sex on the beach with a fat girl on Saturday night, and I need to run to the bathroom to that I need to get out. I’m afraid if I tell you about how I wear board shorts to the Boardy Barn specifically because I can pee in my pants in the middle of the bar and nobody will know, you might think less of me as a person.
So lets just leave the conversation at “How was your weekend?” “Too short!” and both offer an artificial chuckle. Chances are we’ve both got something to hide and it doesn’t need to be discussed.