The Monday Illusion



For the record I don’t hate Mondays, I hate hangovers. The only problem with Monday is that it’s so far away from the next Friday, the previous Friday being a fleeting memory of the expectations of the weekend. When you retire you find yourself still locked into the weekend paragon. The weekend somehow holds out the promise of something better, more fulfilling. The weekend is somehow more exciting, more exhilarating, more . . . everything! Each weekend presenting itself as something different than all the other previous weekends. The weekend is a cheating girlfriend!     Friday is an illusion. The only good thing about Friday is Saturday, and the vain hope of sleeping in. Look at it this way. You work all day, fight traffic, and still stop by the liquor store because you believe you can sit up, have drinks, and somehow feel good about yourself in the morning. So cross Friday off. Friday is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If you plan it right, Saturday can be cool, but you gotta address is properly. You have to take the good with the bad. All week the kids, or grand kids are in school. Well, on Saturday they’re baaaaack! And they’re NOT hung over! They’re BORED! Now, if you are a responsible parent you try to fulfill their little lives. Back in the day my dad just turned on the cartoons, and then he went back to bed. You can’t do that anymore. They have to be STIMULATED! First off there aren’t cartoons anymore. Bugs Bunny is gone, and has been replaced by these herky-jerky concoctions full of Japanese looking characters and hidden innuendo contrived by some homosexual out in Burbank, and the kids catch ALL of it! That’s because all week they’ve had to put up with the homosexual bus driver, the homosexual teacher, and the homosexual textbooks. They come home and think YOU’RE weird!     So, before you can embark on a successful weekend you must dispose of the kids. Don’t KILL ’em, just hand them an iPad, and lock the front door so they can’t walk around the block. That’s illegal now. You can lose your kids. Let me think about that. Nah, you gotta keep them. You need pall bearers. Now, where was I, oh yes, planning the weekend. Now if you’re like me you probably have a grill. Mine is one of those oil drum thingies that has one big grill in it. The terms grill, and smoker are interchangeable. It depends on the fire. Big fire, you’re grilling, fire almost out, you’re smoking.  Grilling is obnoxious people. That’s why God gave us beer. After enough beer you will begin to think grilling is fun. Texans don’t grill hamburgers, we grill COWS, hooves, horns and all. A brisket is about the sorriest piece of meat you can legally feed a human being. All Texans, all REAL Texans have a brisket recipe. I have one. And you don’t grill it, you SMOKE it. You learn early on that if you try to complete the brisket using only smoke you may as well eat your shoes, they’re tenderer. You need to start that puppy in the oven. Then, about four in the afternoon you transfer it to the smoker. While the brisket was in the oven you and your buddies fired up the grill, and I DO mean fire. ROME burned with less intensity. So, the brisket is now on the “smoker.” This is where the beer comes in. You, and two or three accomplices arrange to have enough beer so as to sit up all night and watch the brisket smoke. You sit up and talk about what? WORK! There are no women around because of two factors. One, the air conditioning is INSIDE the house, and two, drunk Texans smoking a brisket all night are OBNOXIOUS! This melting of the minds usually ends between two or three in the morning when someone sober enough shoves all the remaining wood into the grill, and goes to sleep on the couch. When the morning comes the fire has died, and the brisket is smoked. Don’t eat that! Feed it to the kids. YOU have a cup of coffee and realize that now it’s SUNDAY!     Sunday is the bastard child of Saturday. If you’re religiously inclined you will go to church. Suffice to say that if you were religiously inclined you would not have been up until the wee hours of the morning getting drunk with a brisket. By about three in the afternoon you feel reasonably well, and throw a little charcoal on the grill to cook hot dogs. THAT’S what grilling is all about. You may eat the hot dogs. If you live in Texas you have to wait until noon to replenish the beer supply. No Texan ever plans for this eventuality, and consequently there is NO beer left in the box on Sunday morning. You have to wait until noon so all the Baptists can get out of church. If you have any sense at all you will apply moderation to Sunday afternoon. If you are lucky you will turn in early. If you are stupid you’ll try to redo Saturday night, and think you can do it right this time. Monday will come, my friend, and it will come with a vengeance, but it casts a spell over you. It creates something I call the “Monday Illusion.” The false memory of a great party on the porch that will happen NEXT Saturday, only this time you’ll somehow do it better. Come to think of it, I DO hate Mondays! Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

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The Butcher Shop is an alternative news source based in the Tea Party Tribune with an eye on God, family, and preservation of America. It is a collection of minds started by Bill the Butcher, a conservative op/ed journalist who began publishing forty years ago. We strive to make the articles informative, entertaining, and diverse. All you see will cause you to stop and consider. We try not to drone on with the same old day after day clap trap that may have driven you away from mainstream media. You will read things here that you will see nowhere else. We are from London to Austin to the Escalanté. So, what’s your cut of meat? Shop around. The Butcher Shop is happy to fill your order.