#3a. - Tuesday

LOL, I'm writing about Tuesday needing to die on a Tuesday. ROFLMBFGAO,I (Rolling on the floor laughing my big fat gaping asshole off, idiot)!!!!!

I hate Tuesdays. Hate them like a Jewish family that forgot to rub lamb's blood over their door on the night of the tenth plague hates plagues. Hate them like a gay Muslim hates getting stoned to death. Hate them like Oprah hates dieting.

Iranian fugitive

Sure, you probably think Monday is the worst day of the week, but you also probably think Two and a Half Men is funny. I know your type. You wake up Monday morning, you drink some coffee, you complain to your wife that your weekend is over. Then you go to work, quickly glance at your email, and then spend the first two hours talking to your co-workers in the break room about how their weekends were, how their kids are, and whether they caught the Eagles game, which they didn't, because the Eagles had a bye week and you were too busy being whipped by your wife to even know that.

Then, somewhere between 11am an your early lunch at 11:20am, you respond to the emails, groaning all along that you have to do work because you want to be in bed, even though if you weren't at work, you'd be rushing your son Timmy to the hospital because he has a 103 fever and just threw up on the new carpet, which your wife did not have any time to clean. For those of you not in the United States, Liberia, or Burma, I have no idea how many Celsium 103 Fahenheit converts to. But I digress.

*1st world countries
*3rd world countries

At 11:20, you go to lunch with Tony, the only guy at work you can truly tolerate, even though your wife slept with him before you married her. You talk about preparations for some big meeting on Thursday, but mostly you just discuss random nonsense.


At about seven minutes after 1pm, you stroll back into your office and for the first time, actually commence work. You know your boss doesn't expect you to do much; it is Monday after all. Hell, he's actually leaving at 2:00pm to go golfing with an old buddy from his MBA program and discuss the upcoming merger, so as long you look busy until then, you could probably sneak out when his assistant sneaks out at 4:00pm.

But Tuesday is different. Tuesday's the middle of the week. Tuesday is the middle of the week and still four days from the weekend.


You get in at 8:30 and your boss berates you for leaving early. He had returned at 4:15pm because the greens at the local club were unplayable, at which point you remember that Timmy had been in the hospital. Your boss feels bad for berating you and invites you to come with him golfing on Friday, but that's only because his old buddy from the MBA program had left and he has no other friends.

And Neither Do You

You go get a cup of coffee from the break room, but you don't stay. You remember that you hate those people. They're nice to talk to once a week, but that's it. You spoke to them yesterday and that's enough until next Monday. Plus, you have to finish your report by 3:00pm and finish your presentation for the big meeting on Thursday. Worst of all, your wife is now sick too and you have to take a late lunch hour so that you can pick the kids up from school since your other son, Alex, isn't allowed to take the bus because he punched a kid for being Canadian the other day.

Canadian

You work your ass off, finishing the report and picking up your children at school, but you don't have a chance to meet with Tony to prepare for the meeting. So you agree to buy him dinner so you can discuss the presentation, then realize that you left your wallet at the school when you picked up your kids.

You never get your wallet back.

So the next time you think that Tuesday is better than Monday, just pull that twig out of your ass and smell the coffee you don't have time to drink. Monday is the Cayman Islands to Tuesday's Canada. It's a day on the beach with titties flying everywhere.

Not sure why I'm surprised that I was actually able to find a picture of flying titties, but I am

Tuesday on the other hand is like trusting a Kennedy to fly a plane or drive a car or ski down a slope or travel through Dallas in a convertible, just good old fashioned suicide.

#2a. Nickelback

Everyone has bands that he does not like. You might not like Aerosmith and Creed, your brother might hate Pearl Jam and Creed, and your sister might despise J. Geils Band and Creed. But for the most part, those bands either die or fade and you forget about them until you hear them on a Classic Rock radio station 30 years from now and go, “Oh yeah, I remember that kick-ass song.”

But Nickelback is different. Nickelback refuses to go, refuses to fade, refuses to roll over and rot, kind of like Joan Rivers and Dick Clark.

Joan Rivers, 158, after her 9:00am botox injection

No, Nickelback instead continues to spurn out garbage left and right, a new album here, a single there, and somehow, some moron goes out and buys their shit. And like the last time he bought their shit, that moron is going to go, “Oh yeah, they suck.”

Nickelback are the Chicago Cubs of rock bands. Everyone knows they suck; everyone knows they have no talent; everyone knows they're not going to win anything meaningful. But goddamnit, they're going to make a fortune because everyone is going to go watch them when they come to town. And like the Chicago Cubs, I don't get it.


This band is bad. It's flat-out awful. The lyrics suck. The music is stolen. The band look like Jersey shore muggers. Put simply, the University of Florida could win the national title, there can be a cure for cancer, Canada can be blown to bits, and it would still be a bad day if I have to listen to a Nickelback song.

Nickelback is that bad.

Stereotypical Nickelback fans

Okay, there are comparable bands. I'd rather listen to Nickelback than Creed, but at least Creed had the decency to break up.

Nickelback? No. They still breath.

Every time “Photograph” comes on the radio, I want to stab myself in both ears until I go deaf, then take a pistol and shoot my brains out. Naturally, I deafen myself first so that at least I don't have to hear that shit as I die.

Every time someone puts on “How You Remind Me,” I want to, well, I don't know. Just take a look at that first stanza. Please, look at those brilliant lyrics.


Chad Kroeger never made it as a wise man. He couldn't cut it as a thief. He thinks he's been acting like he's blind. He's ill, but he can't feel anything.

Those lyrics are so original, so previously unsaid, so perfect, it makes me want to request this song so much that it goes to number one on every fucking chart in every fucking country until every fucking person with eardrums has fucking mutilated himself so he wouldn't have to hear that fucking song.

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH PLEASE KILL ME NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Or better yet, God, please, kill Nickelback. Please, I'm begging you. Please....

Oh fuck it, God is dead. Oops, guess I gave away a future entry.

#1a. Ugly, Old Guys Who Run Without Their Shirts On

Well, this is the first Tuesday post, and thus the first time we'll discuss something that still exists. While plenty of agitating things have died off, like Creed, the half-cent coin, and Australia's “Put another shrimp on the barbie” campaign, many other equally depressing happenings still linger and in some cases, thrive.

None, and by none I mean few, bug me as much as when I see an ugly, old guy running outside without his shirt on. I mean, seriously, come on.

Men have been given a privilege. Since we are not burdened with boobs (and that will be the only time in this blog I call boobs a “burden”), we are entrusted with the responsibility to only show off our chest at the appropriate time. As much as you may want Ana Ivanovic to remove her top, you won't ever get to see that because, A. you're ugly and B. she doesn't work as a sideline analyst for ESPN.



No, men have to make that choice. And generally, most of us chose correct.

For instance, a man is allowed to take off his shirt regardless of age, body mass index, or abnormal facial features if he's in his own house alone or with his spouse/children, or while making love, masturbating, or showering. Otherwise, restrictions apply.

If you live in a house that's painted Florida Gators colors, you are exempt from any restrictions on stripping

First of all, no one over the age of 45 who has never been a professional athlete, olympic athlete, professional body builder, or Sylvester Stallone is ever allowed out in public with no shirt on, unless they're swimming, saunaing, or driving a pick-up truck. That's it. Otherwise, it's shirt on. At a club, at the park, while suntanning more than 30 meters from the water at a beach, while waving a confederate flag while drinking beer, none of these. Once you turn 45, it's over.

Just because a redneck puts down his flag does not give him the right to go topless.

Same rules apply to anyone over 30 who weighs at least 250 pounds, has exhorbinant amounts of chest hair while balding, has less than two nipples, has more than two nipples, or has more than zero visible tattoos on places other than the lower back or upper arm.

For those who find this too complex, here's a simple list:

1. Are you Canadian? If yes, proceed to step 6. If no, proceed to step 2.
   
2. Are you older than 45? If yes, proceed to step 5. If no, proceed to step 3.
3. Are you older than 30? If yes, proceed to step 4. If no, proceed to step 7.
4. Do you weigh more than 250 pounds, are balding, have a lot of chest hair, have more or less than two nipples, or have a tattoo that's visible other than on your lower back or upper arm? If yes, proceed to step 5. If no, proceed to step 7.
5. Have you ever played a professional sport (golf excluded), performed in the olympics, been a professional bodybuilder, or are Sylvester Stallone? If yes, proceed to step 7. If no, proceed to step 6.
6. You are NEVER allowed to be out in public without a shirt on.
7. You have the right to be out in public without a shirt on, but please act responsibly.
   

And the worst offenders are joggers.

Just because you are trying to get into shape does not mean you are in shape, and the last thing anyone wants to see is some 74-year-old geiser running the streets of Coconut Grove in nothing but the speedo he got in 1972 when the company rolled out it's state of the arc nylon/elastane swimsuit. And trust me, it's frequent.

Insert bad joke about not even Jesus being able to save this man's right to wear a spedo

No, if you have been on this planet for 74 years, you should not be out in a speedo jogging. Ever.

For the sake of everyone else, please stop. You've been given the responsibility of knowing when to rip your shirt off, and your time has passed. Maybe next life you'll win a Super Bowl and maintain that privilege. Odds are, you'll be drafted by the Bengals.