I seem to recognize your face
Haunting, familiar, yet I can't seem to place it
Cannot find a candle of though to light your name
Lifetimes are catching up with me.
By the time you read this, it is Friday.
You're sitting in your shitty cubicle, or office, thinking,
"Fuck. It's Friday.
Fucking Friday.
If I can make it through the next 7 hours...
It is the MOTHERFUCKING WEEKEND!!!"
Friday is kind of magical that way, unlike the other days of the week
It holds the promise of 55 hours of Freedom, even if you will spend 24 of those hours sleeping.
55 hours of Freedom.
Fuck it, you may sleep 35 of those 55 hours... because you can.
Or, you may only sleep 5 of those hours, depending on your predilections.
You may spend up to 18 hours watching football, and another 4 watching highlights, because, well, nobody is the Boss of You.
You may.
You may.
Friday.
You might be hungover on Friday, or you might not.
Regardless, you're definitely hating it, wherever you are.
Because you have 8 miserable hours before you are Free like William Wallace.
What I do know, however, is that you are reading this on Friday.
There is a bounce in your step.
A twinkle in your eye.
Fucking Friday.
You might get laid.
According to a study that exists only in my head, 85% of all the sex that is had, occurs on the weekend.
I can give you a little tip, though, from a guy who pretty much lives his life like it is a weekend...
Make sure you Do Something.
Plan it out.
And tell somebody.
Make it mildly scary, like, say, mountain biking down Big Sky.
Beacuse once you voice it, it becomes real.
And you're gonna be held accountable on Monday, at the coffee pot.
Monday, the antithesis of Friday.
And the fact that you did what you said you were going to do, and have a story to tell, makes Unbearble Monday that much more bearable.
And if you can provide five minutes of escapist fantasy on a Monday, well, you're a fucking hero.
Because it helps everyone get through Monday.
Which leaves you only TuesdayWednesdayThursday from Friday, when the sky is the goddamn limit, nobody is the boss of you, and you can go ahead and drink milkshakes, masturbate and watch cartoons.
(Just sayin'... if that's what you wanna do... have fun.)
So, keep that all in mind as you read this, while you are getting paid to drink coffee and wipe the yesterday out of your eyes.
I can guarantee you, though, that despite Friday's charms, you would rather be somewhere else right now.
Why else would you be reading this?
Gotcha.
You would rather be anywhere else.
And that is why you are checking in on The Duder.
Seeing what up.
Well, this is what up.
A tribute to the Grandeur of Friday.
Enjoy it, motherfucker.
Have a great goddamn weekend.
You know I will.
P.S. Happy Birthday, Lindsay!
Sorry I can't make it to the original B-Town, but, like I said, I am getting my teardrop tattoo retouched.
Not even sure if you read this, but Happy Birthday. Blain is a keeper. Hang on to him.
Desperately.
Like a cliff, or maybe the girder in an unfinished building, and the bad guy is stepping on your fingers, while you have the other bad guy dangling from your other hand, and somehow, you heave the bad guy up, grab your gun and bust a cap right between the duder's eyes, he falls off the girder dead in the water and the other bad guy, who even could be a chick, looks at you like you are a Hero, and right there on the spot, renounces Satan and commits his/her life to rebuilding the devastsated 9th Ward in New Orleans.
And then maybe you get a teardrop tattoo.
Beacuse they are just cool as shit.
And fierce.
But Happy Birthday, Lindsay.
This P.S. was for you.
And Blain.
Becasue I am pretty fucking sure he is sitting at his desk, miserable on a Friday, laughin his ass off.
But, sincerely, think about the teardrop tattoo.
Because that would look badass on you.
Respect.
Lifetimes are catching up with me.
By the time you read this, it is Friday.
You're sitting in your shitty cubicle, or office, thinking,
"Fuck. It's Friday.
Fucking Friday.
If I can make it through the next 7 hours...
It is the MOTHERFUCKING WEEKEND!!!"
Friday is kind of magical that way, unlike the other days of the week
It holds the promise of 55 hours of Freedom, even if you will spend 24 of those hours sleeping.
55 hours of Freedom.
Fuck it, you may sleep 35 of those 55 hours... because you can.
Or, you may only sleep 5 of those hours, depending on your predilections.
You may spend up to 18 hours watching football, and another 4 watching highlights, because, well, nobody is the Boss of You.
You may.
You may.
Friday.
You might be hungover on Friday, or you might not.
Regardless, you're definitely hating it, wherever you are.
Because you have 8 miserable hours before you are Free like William Wallace.
What I do know, however, is that you are reading this on Friday.
There is a bounce in your step.
A twinkle in your eye.
Fucking Friday.
You might get laid.
According to a study that exists only in my head, 85% of all the sex that is had, occurs on the weekend.
I can give you a little tip, though, from a guy who pretty much lives his life like it is a weekend...
Make sure you Do Something.
Plan it out.
And tell somebody.
Make it mildly scary, like, say, mountain biking down Big Sky.
Beacuse once you voice it, it becomes real.
And you're gonna be held accountable on Monday, at the coffee pot.
Monday, the antithesis of Friday.
And the fact that you did what you said you were going to do, and have a story to tell, makes Unbearble Monday that much more bearable.
And if you can provide five minutes of escapist fantasy on a Monday, well, you're a fucking hero.
Because it helps everyone get through Monday.
Which leaves you only TuesdayWednesdayThursday from Friday, when the sky is the goddamn limit, nobody is the boss of you, and you can go ahead and drink milkshakes, masturbate and watch cartoons.
(Just sayin'... if that's what you wanna do... have fun.)
So, keep that all in mind as you read this, while you are getting paid to drink coffee and wipe the yesterday out of your eyes.
I can guarantee you, though, that despite Friday's charms, you would rather be somewhere else right now.
Why else would you be reading this?
Gotcha.
You would rather be anywhere else.
And that is why you are checking in on The Duder.
Seeing what up.
Well, this is what up.
A tribute to the Grandeur of Friday.
Enjoy it, motherfucker.
Have a great goddamn weekend.
You know I will.
P.S. Happy Birthday, Lindsay!
Sorry I can't make it to the original B-Town, but, like I said, I am getting my teardrop tattoo retouched.
Not even sure if you read this, but Happy Birthday. Blain is a keeper. Hang on to him.
Desperately.
Like a cliff, or maybe the girder in an unfinished building, and the bad guy is stepping on your fingers, while you have the other bad guy dangling from your other hand, and somehow, you heave the bad guy up, grab your gun and bust a cap right between the duder's eyes, he falls off the girder dead in the water and the other bad guy, who even could be a chick, looks at you like you are a Hero, and right there on the spot, renounces Satan and commits his/her life to rebuilding the devastsated 9th Ward in New Orleans.
And then maybe you get a teardrop tattoo.
Beacuse they are just cool as shit.
And fierce.
But Happy Birthday, Lindsay.
This P.S. was for you.
And Blain.
Becasue I am pretty fucking sure he is sitting at his desk, miserable on a Friday, laughin his ass off.
But, sincerely, think about the teardrop tattoo.
Because that would look badass on you.
Respect.
posted by Joe at
11:07 PM
5 Comments:
I wouldn't say I'm miserable. Laughing my ass off yes, but being miserable would be a decision I made, and I fight that off with the jedi force that lead to the destruction of the death star and defeat of the dark side. BTW-If you haven't watched the Colbert Report on comedy central lately, check it out. That dude is funny too.
Ready for a nice dinner at Juliano's with what might be considered the most quality group of 12 friends I've known in a long, long time. It's like I rounded up the disciples. Sorry you couldn't come, but the choice for weekend salvation and escape is yours my friend.
And by the way for any and all of you who might read this, Juliano's is quite possibly the classiest little quaint eatery in the original b-town of the yellowstone river valley. Check it out. I know. Because I eat A LOT. And this belly wasn't easy to obtain, but it's bought and paid for.
I'm off to fight crime. Remember to continue to keep it real and stay midwestern, cracker.
Only 2.5 hours now...
Since I don't go to an office, I can either look at every day as Monday. Or every day as Saturday.
I choose Saturday.
The chef/owner at Juliano's lives across the street from my folks - fer reals.
my last name is juliano
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