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A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Friday, June 10, 2011

It's Friday, Fuckers.

People get so excited about the fact that it's Friday. Not just that it's this specific Friday, but Friday in general. They can't wait for the week to be over. The feeling that I think a lot of people get is like they've been holding in their doodie all week long and then, on Friday, they finally get to take this mongantic dump all over the place and they get to walk listlessly with that rapturous, cathartic feeling all day long as they drift effortlessly into the weekend.

I'll bet more people, statistically, shart themselves on Friday than any other day of the week. I have absolutely no research whatsoever to back up that assumption, just my good ol' gut, but if you're wise, sista, you'll put your paycheck on my gut. You know-- like a shot of... um... alcohol, that people put-- you know, they drink it out of peoples' navels. Not when they're standing, obviously-- I mean, if I understand it correctly. It's, like... They-- nevermind.

I don't get particularly sharted up about Fridays anymore, and I suppose part of the reason that's true is the fact that I work every other weekend: Saturday and Sunday, 7a-3p. So, Friday takes on rather a different flavor to it. The nice thing about my work schedule is that my paycheck gets automatically deposited into my checking account each of the Fridays of the weekends that I work, which definitely serves to soften the blow that I'm spending half of my weekends on-duty at a psychiatric hospital.

But only just so much. Because, let's face it: that's a pretty hard blow. And, yeah-- she said that. While wearing knee-pads and a goalie facemask.

While, as I admitted, I don't have any research about Friday shartings, I do have research that backs up a believe that I've long held, and that's that nobody (or hardly anybody) reads my blog on Fridays. I don't know what it is-- at first I thought, Jesus, I must have a lot of Orthodox Jewish readers, but I sort of kind of doubt it-- but the rate at which my weekly readership/click-throughs/hits declines on Fridays is as alarming as it is regular. Each week, it's always the same-- pretty much ever since I started this ridiculum.

So, I was thinking to myself, as I sit here absolutely stewing in hog's anus 102-degree heat, if nobody's reading this on Friday, I can pretty much say whatever I want, and it won't really matter a Goddamn. Now, I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Apron-- don't you pretty much say whatever you want no matter what day of the week it is?"

And the obvious answer is: No.

No, I don't.

Sure, I say a lot of shit, and some of it is what I want to say, and some of it is offensive, to someone, probably (remember when I royally pissed off that chick with diabetes? And what about when I maligned that asshole singer Sean Hoots? That was awesome.) but do I really let myself go, totally unrestrained by the conventions of grammar, style, and, yes, propriety? Of course I don't. Because I have an audience, however small and skintimate it may be, and I have a lot of respect for you. I mean, not for your taste in literature, obviously, but I have a copious cumbucket-loads of respect for the fact that you choose to read this, instead of or amongst tons of other online detritus that you could be using to rot your synapses.

You're choosing to be here. And that's, frankly, unbelievable-- to me, at least.

I love you. I wouldn't love you more if you were covered in bacon and chocolate sitting on top of the hood of a 1963 VW Beetle playing the oboe solo from the overture to the "Yeomen of the Guard".

You're here.

Why are you here?

Have you ever stopped to ask yourself that question?

Meh-- on second thought: don't.

I had this idea that today's post would consist of every offensive, hateful, disgusting, perverse thought I could dream up and put down, because, really, if no one's reading it, what does it matter. Sure, it'll get picked up and read eleven months from now when some racist masturbator types "cum-nig" into Google while, Anchluss, his German Shepherd is licking precisely-placed peanut butter out of his asshole, and I'm okay with that.

Seriously, this post was just going to be a list of terrible, awful, nasty things. But I thought taking a minute to let you know how thankful I am for you would be a better way to spend my time. And yours.

Besides: it's Friday, Fuckers. Let's all shit ourselves or whatever.

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