HAPPY FRIDAY, YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER!

Time to get nekkid!

Time to smoke some crack!

Time go shoot some shit into our veins!

Time to fuck a whore, fuck a sheep, fuck a watermelon!

FUCK FUCK FUCK!

FCUK FKUC CKFU!

IN AND OUT IN AND OUT IN AND OUT IN AND OUT

GET AWAY FROM MY SPOUT

DON'T YOU POUT

I'M GONNA SPURT

GONNA MAKE IT HURT!

SKEET SKEET SKEET!

Friday is the time where you drive to fast, fuck too fast, talk too fast, drink too fast, fast too fast, slow too fast!

VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The devout Jews pray on Friday night, but they were black suits and hats and big old crazy fucking beards in the dead of July, so who's really going to take them seriously anyway, know what I mean, nudge nudge, wink wink,

SAY

NO

MORE!

(Squire.)

People don't wear overalls on Fridays, unless they're fucking farmers, but I've gotta think that even the fuckingest farmers of them all lose the ov's on this most loosiest goosiest choosiest choicest noicest day of the week.

F-R-I-D-A-Y!

FRY. DAY.

I love fried food. If I had a big bucket of fried chicken right now, it'd be pretty pornographic, I've gotta tell you. I don't eat fried chicken much anymore, but I used to. Roy Rogers. Man, that shit was the shit.

SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!

You wanna hear some shit? Come in close, 'cuz it's a big goddamn secret and I don't want anybody to know but you and I wanna get all close to you so I can smell that little spot behind your ear that smells so good and anyway I wanna tell you a secret:

IT'S FRIDAY, FAGGOTS!!!!!!

And, when I say "faggots" clearly I don't mean anything derogatory by it, I'm just referring to any male who has sex with another male. I'm just not using the word "homosexual" because it's too cumbersome and I'm not using "gay" because it's too, well, gay.

Fry. Gay.

I'm pretty (s)excited about this day. It's almost religious for me, just without the funny hats and the black suits. And the beards. When I grow a beard, I look like a Jew, but I look more like a terrorist. A jeworist. I'm not, though. You should believe me, because I told you. If you want, I'll whisper it into your ear, because, seriously, that spot behind your ear is fucking murder.

FRY. CLAY.

Let's make some shit on a lathe or whatever the fuck they make clay shit on. What is it? That shit from "Ghostbusters" with that guy and the girl and he's doing her while they're making a pot or whatever?

I think working at a psych hospital is rubbing off on me. What do you think.

Ah, rubbing.... off. On me.

That's funny.

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.

Well, It's Friday.

Friday has long been a vaunted, exalted day.

It's holy to Jewish people. Shabbat begins at sundown on Friday and ends at sundown on Saturday. It's the holiest day of the year, and it happens every week. That's the only thing I remember from Hebrew School, other than the way chestnut-haired Margo, the girl who sat in front of me in handrwriting, smelled. You don't forget that sort of holiness.

Friday's the end of the traditional workweek for those lucky enough to be working stiffs and/or schlubs. I've added that word "traditional" in there because I no longer have a "traditional" workweek. I work Monday, have off Tuesday, then work Wednesday through Friday. Every other week, however, I have that same week's schedule, but then I work 3pm-11pm Saturday and Sunday. That's my employer: sucking my dick till my balls turn inside-out and do pirouettes.

When in quotation marks, "Friday" also happens to be a movie about black people, including the older black dude who plays the dad and is frequently seen on the toilet taking huge shits.

Since it's Friday, and since there are so much built up expectations surrounding this day of the week, I think it's only natural that you should come to this particular website, the blog written by a notorious hermit, to get some ideas of what to do with yourself, and/or others, on this day known as Friday.

* Shave your pubes.

Hey, come on-- what better way to divest yourself of the stressors of shuffling papers around in a cubicle and checking Facebook habitually on your work computer than running the old Gillette through the short-n-curlies? You never know-- it's Friday, 'Cuz, and you might be showing off that real estate to a potential buyer (well, more likely renter) so you're gonna want to spruce that lawn up a little bit, n'yah mean? If you're feeling really adventurous, go ahead and dye that shit some cray-cray color. If you're stumped, try mauve.

* Pretend to have a seizure in public.

You absolutely cannot beat faking a seizure for something awesomeballs to do on a Friday night. I don't know how late libraries are open on Friday nights, but that the first place I would suggest faking a seizure. The quieter the place, the better. If you are unfamiliar with the mechanics and specifics of seizures, just start by going rigid. Fix your gaze, and, when people say, "Hey, buddy, are you okay?" don't respond in any way. Just roll your eyes back in your head, fall on the floor and shake like a motherfucker. Don't forget to piss yourself, or it really does not have the desired effect. Thanks to shows like "E. R." and "Grey's Anatomy", even total morons know that people having gran mal seizures usually wet themselves. So, you know, you gotta kick it up a notch.

* Paint Your Car

I would suggest doing this with a Crayola Washable Watercolor paint set (assorted colors). It's incredibly reasonable ($2.89 when purchased online through Office Depot) and you can just let your creativity soar. I might also suggest imbibing several quarts of Clarke's Old Kentucky Straight Sour Mash whiskey prior to beginning this particular artistic endeavor.

* Go to a Nightclub Dressed As Your Favorite Victorian-Era Politician

You haven't lived until you've gone to a cocaine rave dressed as Sir Robert Peel, licking E out of the bellybutton of a twenty-two-year-old goth barista named Salmon. Stick-on mutton chops are available from several theatrical supply retailers.

* Take Pictures of Your Cat Doing Dumb Shit

You know, you can make millions of dollars doing that. For real, motherfucker.

* Hang Out in a Local Metropolitan Emergency Room

Pretend you have diabetic testiculopathy or brain stones or something. If you have insurance, they won't even question it-- they'll just run a shitload of expensive tests on you because they know they'll be able to get reimbursed. While you're there, just watch the circus go by, man-- you're never going to see crazier shit than you will in a big city emergency room. You're going to see homeless people try to kill each other over a drawstring belt or newspaper underwear, prostitutes with their jit-holes hanging out all over the place, overweight people with fat hanging over the sides of stretchers, maniacs screaming about aliens, people fornicating in the bathroom, cops wrastlin' with crazies, nurses smoking the bejesus out of their own lungs outside and just the general mayhem of life. And the smell? Oh, God. You'll never forget it.

* Be Judgmental, Hostile, Paranoid, and Fear-Mongering

It seems to work for Glenn Beck-- why shouldn't it work for you, too?

Happy Friday. Remember-- there's so much more to do than just "get fucked up." Live the dream, bitches.