A Case of the Mondays

I think I have a case of the Mondays. While I absolutely hate that expression, it is fitting today. I’m tired, bored, and there is currently a condescending bitch standing in front of me. She is treating my co-worker like a child. I really don’t like this lady. It’s taking all of my strength not to stand up, fill her mouth with formaldehyde, and send her to the Smithsonian with a caption reading ‘World’s Largest Cunt’. 

As I sit here with nothing to do but listen to these ladies go back and forth I thought of a few places/scenarios that I would rather be in than a Monday workday.

A Closet Full of Testy Monkeys

I’ve always admired Jane Goodall’s work on the social structure of monkey life. While I could not commit to living in the jungle with them for years, I would be willing to study what would happen if you locked thirteen unusually angry monkeys in a closet with me, an eager scientist.

My hypothesis: I would connect with the monkeys on a deeper level. The monkeys would gain respect for me as their intellectual superior and bow to my leadership. With the monkeys on my side, I would establish a pickpockting scheme in Las Vegas. The monkeys get bananas and top shelf whiskey, I get gambling money and strippers.  

My associates are never late with the cash.

Totally better than a Monday workday.

 Tom Cruise’s Basement

Unless you’re a scientologist, you are aware that Tom Cruise is one of the most delusional people to ever walk this Earth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw himself as some sort of prophet. He thinks he is right about everything.  

Now mix in the fact that Mr. Cruise is extremely dim-witted. He is a practitioner of Scientology, I remind you. Among many other ridiculous things, this man actually believes that evil alien spirits are the cause of suffering in this world and his special instruments and saunas have the ability to cleanse the soul of the evil aliens. That’s not even smart by religion’s standards. 

If you’ve ever noticed in television interviews he gets really angry when he’s proven wrong. That’s part of his delusion. That’s also partly because most of the people that surround Cruise are scared to disagree with him. Those who have disagreed end up in his basement complex where they are forced to repeatedly listen to audio recordings of Dianetics followed by screenings of Battlefield Earth until their will is broken down. In a last tortuous swoop, prisoners of Tom Cruise’s basement are made to watch Knight and Day. This is the tragic end for the hundreds of people who disagree with Cruise each year. 

Cruise in his confused/angry stage. This precedes an explosion of anger in which you end up chained to the wall in his basement.

Still better than a Monday workday.   

The Elephant House

Elephants are the largest of the land creatures we find here on earth. In the wild they roam miles and miles through territorial and migratory lands. So what gave us the idea that it was alright to put them in a building for a good portion of the year? And when we did, why didn’t zoologists veto this absurd idea? This argument can be made for most wild animals, I know. 

If I were you I'd spray water at pregnant mothers with your trunk. Otherwise their babies will come back in a couple years and throw little hot wax elephants at you.

But have you seen the amount of feces an elephant makes? Yeah, let’s not keep that inside. Generally speaking I refuse to go in Pachyderm houses at the zoo because the smell is overwhelming. I’m not one of those prissy city people by any means. I enjoy nature and all of its odoriferous qualities. But concentrated animal shit is not something I willingly put up with the see a three ton animal stuffed into a ‘habitat’ the size of my apartment junior year of college.

Stay free, animal brother. And maybe deuce in that little car so they know what it's like to be in a small area with a large amount of feces.

But in this case, I’d rather smell fecal matter for eight hours than come to work.  

Church

I was born and raised Roman Catholic. I went to Catholic schools literally my entire life. This entailed Catholic grammar school, high school, and almost seven years and two degrees at the college level. This institution has been trying to indoctrinate me for over twenty years and can’t get me to show up for Sunday mass. It’s not that I don’t believe in God, it’s just that I don’t believe in illogical bedtime stories. 

I wish Jesus had raves at my Church on Sundays. I'd even consider not watching football.

Every time I am in Church I feel like I’m part of a cult. Stand up, sit down, stand up, kneel, talk in unison, stand up, don’t worry eat this, drink the red stuff, talk in unison, shake hands, kneel, sing like you’re part of a zombie chorus, sit down, talk in unison. See you next week. Luckily up until now the wine hasn't been poisoned with arsenic or something of the like.

Taking everything into consideration, I’d rather take that chance and eat a little Jesus wafer instead of going to work Monday morning.

The Creature

For those of you who may be unaware, the Southside of Chicago is a peculiar place. There is a vibrant Irish stronghold that livens up the neighborhoods. Overall, the area consists of blue-collared, hardworking, Catholic Americans. If you drove around you would come across numerous Catholic grammar schools, about one every two square miles. St. Germaine, Saint Louis, Saint Bede, Most Holy Redeemer, Saint Linus, Saint Al’s, Christ the King, Saint Barnabas, Saint Christina are all within an eight minute drive of each other. I could name more but I don’t want to put any non-religious types off by brandishing my knowledge of Saints. And while you would think that this was too many, it’s not. The schools are all filled with students eager to learn how Jesus is shaking his head in disapproval and contemplating sending you to hell when you think about sex or God forbid touch yourself. 

The Southside Irish Parade marks the beginning of the New Year. Southsiders do not use the Gregorian Calendar.

One thing about Catholics is that they are aficionados of the drink. On the Southside, we’re not talking Merlot, wine coolers, Smirnoff Ice, Mike’s Hard Lemonade or other drinks that would cause someone to question your sexuality. We’re talking whiskey, beer, and vodka. Around these parts, the drink is less of a beverage option and more of a hobby. For some, it’s a way of life.     

So naturally one night last week I found myself and some friends contemplating the bar. It was a night like no other. Some would call it the perfect storm. As I would find out, it was more appropriately called sensory overload. On this particular night the Blackhawks were on television, the Bulls had their first game of the season, and the World Series was starting. Wanting to go somewhere where we could watch all of these wonderful contests of testosterone in relative peace, we chose a small bar near our homes that wouldn’t be playing Taylor Swift over the games. We’ll get back to this night later, but first we need to Tarantino this story. 

The Perfect Storm was also a Blockbuster thriller about eating Taco Bell & McDonald's in the same day. In this scene, two fishermen empty their bowels.

Murphy’s Law is the bar’s name and on a weekday I can only describe it as sadness mixed with regret and failed dreams. Now I can make such a daring statement because a friend of mine worked there for about a year. To keep her company some friends and I would visit her. During this time I came to know Murphy’s Law quite well, as well as its cast of characters.

The Patriot

A casual discussion about how amazing the Blackhawks logo is during a game last season turned into a McCarthy era witch-hunt one night when I was introduced to this wonderful patriot. A short, fat old man was he, who every time I saw him was wearing the same Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. Either there was a box of them that fell off a truck onto his lawn or he only owns one sweatshirt.  Someone had brought up the issue of teams being forced to change Indian logos for political correctness and this man was horrified. Truly horrified and confused. I was horrified because he had never heard of this. Apparently he hasn’t watched the news in the last decade or so. In hindsight this is not surprising, he is a patriot. What is the news good for when you already know the answers? Jesus, America, kill terrorists/communists/Nazis. Prosper while living the American dream. Simple.

Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Jesus versus Osama Bin Laden in the CAGE OF DEATH!

During the course of the conversation I tried to be empathetic for the sake of carrying on talk. I had explained that although I don’t agree with the logos being changed, I can understand their point of view. We did kill all of their people, their marvelous buffalos, and then took all of their land. Even though we have forgotten, they might not have. This is when the patriot stared me down. A long and deep stare that burned my pupils and nearly caused me to fall off the stool. This was a stare I imagined coming from a drunken grandfather waiting for just the right moment to whack you across the head. After what seemed like ages he spoke.

Son, what are you? 

I was taken aback by this question. I thought well not a vampire if that is what you’re getting at. Why was he staring at me so much? What is he looking for? Fangs, bite marks, other visible marks that I am not human? What? So I responded with the best answer I could come up with for that random and odd question.

I’m Nick? A teacher?

I actually questioned my own identity as I said it. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. The patriot responded

The only right answer to that question is American. 

He went on and on about kids these days and some more clichés abut hoodlums being on his lawn, the American flag and what it represents. In his head surely he was skeptical that I might be working in conjunction with the Sioux to take back the land the whites had rightly taken from the Indians. It was during this rant I barely listened to that it hit me. Alright, you’re one of those people. Let’s close up this conversation quickly because I would much rather not talk to you anymore. There are darts over there, so I’m going to go over there.  

The Drunk/Alcoholic

Now lots of people are alcoholics. There are different definitions of alcoholism giving different amounts of drinks per week but it’s all the same. If you drink so much you’re an alcoholic, you are most likely alienating yourself from people and most likely your job. It becomes the top of your priority list. For those of you who may not drink or not have many experiences with these people, it isn’t as easy to pick out an alcoholic as you think. The guy who is peeing down the side of his leg in the bathroom is not an alcoholic. He’s a drunk. The lady who threw up outside, fell down and unknowingly exposed herself to passersby is not an alcoholic. She’s a drunk. During all the commotion the man you sit next to at the bar and are having a decent conversation with is the alcoholic. You just didn’t notice the bartender take the previous 18 bottles away.

A drunk drinks copious amounts of drink and wakes up in the morning with shades of regret and possibly syphilis. An alcoholic can’t understand why his wife would get mad at him after coming home from the bar and staying up to drink another thirty beers. That’s not normal sir, you are an alcoholic.

Moreover, alcoholics make you feel bad. Not on purpose but just because he or she is in that situation. However a drunk makes you laugh. A drunk makes you feel better about yourself because you’re not the one passed out hovering a foot above your own shit in a bathroom at the bar. Oh yeah, and the stall door is open. You should clean up that jungle you got going on down there.  

   

The Couple

There were two or three couples consistently in the bar. I wonder if they really imagined on their honeymoon night that they would spend their later days getting blitzed in a bar next to a Boston Market.  

The Prostitute

Now I don’t have proof of this claim. I never procured any favors personally. But whenever I saw that gross greasy blond hair and that heroin-thin body walking towards me I made some room. Believe me, I made room.

The Mutes  

Now for the most part at a bar like this there is not a lot of lively conversation. That’s not to say it is quiet but a lot of the patrons have the same routine. Come in. Order the beer. Drink the beer. Watch TV. Order more beer. I often what the point of coming out to the bar is if you don’t plan on socializing with anyone. Couldn’t you just stay at home, ignore your wife, and drink beer in front of your own television? Not that it matters that much to me but it might save you some money. 

Hoods are not Acceptable

The perfect storm is raging at full throttle. Hawks are winning, of course. Bulls are losing, of course. And Texas is taking it up the Chocolate Highway from San Francisco as the games move towards their final stretches. I’ve seen a lot of crazy drunks in this bar but this guy was by far the craziest. He had that look on his face that you see only when you know a person has absolutely no idea what is going on. This look makes you question that he can even see you standing in front of him. My friend was wearing a knit hat and a hood over it. 

Crazy Old Man: Hey son, are you wearing a hat and a hood?

Friend: Uhh, yeah.

Crazy Old Man: You look like a… You look like a…

Friend: I look like a what?

Crazy Old Man: You look like a…

Friend: You’re talking like a crazy person. 

Stop. Now obviously you don’t call a drunken crazy person crazy. You might be able to get away with it when he’s sober but surely not when he’s drunk. Might as well poke a bear. 

After a tirade by the old crazy man about how he was only half crazy, how my friend should watch himself and how the government is stealing his white blood cells, the man returned to his stool. He grumbled to a couple of the regulars about how kids have no respect. It is absolutely unacceptable to wear a hat and a hood in an establishment like this one. This, coming from the man elegantly adorned in a t-shirt covered in paint sitting next to the guy that always wears that same Packers sweatshirt. But this old crazy man couldn’t let this outrage go and kept discussing it with the guys at the bar until the Patriot told him to settle down. I know these kids; they’re good kids he explained. Shortly after this the drunken idiot left the bar.

Now that’s when I realized that I was a part of this group. The Patriot knew me. He knew my friends. We were good people. I am one of the young ones. That’s the worst one to be. I wonder which of these old guys used to be the young one. They probably think the same way about me as I do about them. He’s the one who only comes in when the young girl is bartending. He’s always playing darts and smoking and I’m pretty sure he’s a freedom hating hippie because he always has those tie-dye shirts on. Did you hear what he said about Indians once? He might be a Lakota. No one thinks like that. 

Now they can think whatever they want it makes no difference to me. It had been a long time since we had been in that bar, but once I realized that we were members of this elite group of people, I decided I will never go back there again.