Blue Monday

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New Order “Blue Monday”

 

 

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My soundtrack is playing and I just slid on my very best shit-kickers. Let’s play. That’s right, it’s Monday morning and, dependent on your circumstances, that can symbolize a number of different things. It may herald a fresh week of mundane work shifts or, if like Keeper, another potentially frustrating five stretch of waiting for the world’s most inefficient solicitors to finally do what they’re paid to do and stop dragging their heels. Regardless of the weight currently perched on my shoulders; I’m actually feeling hopeful for the week ahead. If I saw Garfield right now then I would firstly check it wasn’t Bill Murray as I couldn’t harm the B-Man and, secondly, plunge him nose first into a dish of curdled milk and yap like a Miniature Schnauzer just to make that tail fluff up some. Mondays are grand you see, a fresh canvas to paint should you wish, they also represent the best day of the week to play truant from work thus stretching the weekend out a dash further.

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A week presents many opportunities to us so long as we keep our eyes peeled. Yes, there will invariably be banana skins littered en route but as long as they aren’t impishly crammed into our tailpipes, we can tiptoe those yellow tulips. I awoke this morning revitalized and full of words like zest and zeal. The Crimson Quill is parched from a weekend of relatively light scribing duties whereby I fell victim to callous circumstance. For starters, my iPhone lead decided it would no longer forge a connection with my laptop then, in the wee hours, my mother reversed her Nissan straight over my AC adapter. Fiddlesticks? Nay, fuck a doodle, long greasy oblong tumors with eyes of blackened coal. However, they it’ll take more than a couple of callous twists of fate to take this old dog down.

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In such circumstances it would be effortless to become an all-year-round Grinch, piss down any festivities, and take a dump on anyone else’s hopes and dreams. But to do that would be to accept defeat. You see, I suffered ill fortune at the weekend but spilt milk is, after all, spilt so pound a carp in the gills and let’s just move on already. We need not twist it all up like Chubby Checker’s colon as bad shit invariably happens in suburbia. It’s how we react to said folly that matters. One stubbed toe and the dialect of heathens is imminent but, should we brew some herbal tea, rub our own shoulders affectionately, and read the morning rag upside down, then we’re already on the road to serenity.

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This Monday I’m riding on the crest of a wave all Hawaii 5-0 as I am desperately close to a change in circumstances which has been seemingly forever coming and the finish line is finally within touching distance. I have been given a date, mere days from now, for the completion of a remortgage which will free up my equity and change my entire outlook in a second. So, you see, my Monday is filled with expectation and I just pray that no spanners are thrown in the works as the days wear on. I couldn’t contemplate starting a fresh week without the requisite enthusiasm as I’ve done that more times than I care to mention of late and it gets so tiresome being mealy-mouthed.

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I know that the Grue family will be here as I embark on my current seven-day itch and that comforts me massively. I may not have recently been as vocal as I would like but, make no mistake, the rivers have been running in my absence and that pleases me infinitely. Very soon we will all be free…free I tell you! Then all the plans that have been percolating in my cranium for what feels like eternity can finally come to fruition. Do I believe that we are about to strike a little pay-dirt? And how much of Wahlberg’s Boogie Nights schlong was actually prosthetic?

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We cannot ever be expected to answer every one of the questions of the universe. Actually fuck it. We can answer all, with no question. Sure our answers may reek like an obese snow leopard’s stool but at least we’ll have a crack at it. Case in point, I shall now attempt some multiple choice posers and I would be overjoyed if you would run your peepers over the options. Form your own individual conclusions and we’ll see who gets to sniff the cheese come the end. I too shall be playing along.

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Poser I:

 

How many wheels of Swiss Edam would it take to convince a domestic mouse to recite the first four chapters of the New Testament in Hebrew? Nah, just kidding…If you could be one animated character then which would you choose?

a) Pink Panther. Tactile and slender, with impish agenda, he’ll switch all your blueprints, with pink ones to render.
b) Wile E. Coyote. Road Runners a berk, a mind-numbing jerk, but a fast little bastard and bloody hard work.
c) Scooby Doo. Where are you Scooby Doo? Got the munchies do you? Fred just date raped Thelma, now he’s boning Daphne too.
d) Captain Caveman. Zowie you reek, that really ain’t chic, change those draws as I saw the same undies last week.

Keeper’s answer:

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Wile E. Coyote furry hands down. I always found Bugs Bunny a little too smug for my liking, whereas Road Runner’s bitter rival is never less than willing to self-efface. As a result, you just wanna give him a big hug. My second choice would be Pink Panther and my reason is simple…he’s the pink panther. Captain Caveman comes in third but only because he’s always surrounded by chicks. Which leaves poor Scoobs and it really is nothing personal, at least not against him. One word…Scrappy. Ten minutes having to listen to his incessant blathering and we’d have ourselves another case to solve. Sheer bloody murder.

Poser II:

 

If you had to lose an appendage just for one night which would you stump for?

a) Left Leg. Just like a flesh covered pogo-stick, it’s all just a matter of balance and a hefty wedge of good fortune.
b) Right Arm. Put down your Geometry Wars and simply take an evening off from anything handsy. Pet your monster still by all means, just not in the shower without your anti-slip mat.
c) Genitals. Whether grizzly or growler, just remember…Josh Hartnett hacked over a month of this shit before he blew his beans so how hard would one night without masturbation be?
d) Left Arm. Pointless anyway (unless lefty), this would surely pose no great loss and, besides, we can reschedule the pool tournament for next week if you like.

Keeper’s answer:

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It would have to be the left leg. I barely take five hundred steps in a day anyhoots so it really wouldn’t leave me at much of a loss. Genitals would be second as I could always double up the next day and sometimes it’s good to rebuild those stockpiles. Arms I would rather keep hold of as typing with my nose doesn’t appeal particularly. Lefty at a push which makes my right officially my most prized possession.

Poser III:

 

Which of the following meal prospects chills you to the marrow more?

a) Breakfast with Wendy Torrance. Imagine, if you will, waking every morning to that pathetic face then tell me you’re not feeling like a tot of red rum like Jack.
b) Lunch with Hannibal Lecter. He says that human flesh tastes strikingly similar to chicken but it’s where those drumsticks originate from that concerns me.
c) Dinner with Liza Minnelli and David Gest. As it is the main meal of the day, it seems only right to throw a little soirée in its honor. They may no longer be married but this is still some mean two-for-one deal.
d) Supper with Justin Bieber. Up way past his bedtime. If there’s one thing more excruciating than an annoying young turd then it is an annoying young sleep deprived turd.

Keeper’s answer:

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Dinner with Liza Minnelli and David Gest would just be too painful an excursion I’m afraid. It’s the whole double trouble aspect, combined with the fact that both make me wish only to peel off my own face, tear it gingerly down the middle, then use it to stuff my ears with. Waking up to Wendy is all well and good as long as you’re first to open your eyes. This buys valuable time for a little pillow talk/asphyxiation. Should she beat you to the punch then she may try to ravage you while you slumber. No amount of Red Rum makes that a less sobering thought. Surprisingly, lunch with Lecter doesn’t sound so distressing. Consider this, the conversation would be never less than riveting. He loves a spot of Chianti so you could plaster him with judgement impairing alcohol, fasten his restraint straps while he’s unaware, then carve off his epidermis and see if he likes it for a change.

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If it seems remarkable that supper with Bieber comes out smelling all rosy then I shall elaborate further. I’m mortified by all three of the other options whereas ending the day with a light spot of Bieber bashing sounds simply delightful. After breaking every last rib in his cage, curb stomping his milk teeth, and tying the end of his pecker to the exhaust pipe of a 4×4 with a full tank of gas using industrial cable ties, I would simply tuck his battered bones into bed and nobody would be any the wiser until the next morning. Come to think of it, that would be a wonderful waking gift for Wendy.

Poser IV – The Final Chin-Stroke:

 

What audio makes you desire to ram a blunt machete into each eardrum and spend the rest of your short existence hearing a faint whistle, just to prove your disdain?

a) Jazz. Come on, even Miles Davis didn’t understand Jazz. Why do you think Baron Samedi is such a deeply concerning fellow? Too much Jazz. One day I’ll bloody get it.
b) Reggae. At least Jazz isn’t Reggae. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t cuff Maxi Priest if I walked past him in the street, but neither would I ask for his autograph.
c) Modern R&B. My kryptonite, this turgid scene leaves me chillier than a polar bear’s ice-pop and I find it all the more disconcerting for the fact that I always liked Rhythm & Blues previously. Motown is a long way off my disillusioned friends.
d) Classical. I’m going to come straight out and admit that this ain’t the answer you should be circling. A soul not able to absorb classical music and emote is blacker than mine.

Keeper’s answer:

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For crimes against rhythm and blues, it just has to be Modern R&B. The swift downward spiral started at the turn of the nineties and I never bought into the preposterous notion that R-Kelly could fly. Reggae falls at the next hurdle, despite a valiant attempt by ragamuffin to revive its flagging fortunes. There are a number of Reggae tracks I appreciate but far more that I don’t. Jazz I actually feel a little bad for as I know it means well and also that Miles Davis is a beyond legendary musician. However, it just hasn’t revved my engine thus far. Classical is only included as I know how many people loathe it. Having said that, do they really? Or is it just not considered cool enough to admit to liking? Country music can count itself fortunate for not making the cut and I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid over its inclusion had I not spent unhealthy amounts of time playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas and becoming hopelessly addicted to K-Rose FM.

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The point of this exercise? I have to come clean that there isn’t one but I bet you aren’t feeling those Monday blues anymore right? Come on now, I see that smile. Turn that frown upside down and show me that grill of pearly whites. Got no teeth? Never fear, gums is just fine but please don’t drool in my Honey Nut Clusters. Monday is a most glorious day to start off a fresh week so I say fuck yourself Garfield. You may think you own this block but I saw Top Cat pounding your ass behind the dumpster last week and, besides, you’re getting neutered later. Oh look, here comes your travel basket. Putz!

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