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Why I Love Tuesdays . . .

If I haven't mentioned it before, I absolutely hate . . .no, scratch that. I absolutely LOATHE Tuesdays. Tuesdays are the milquetoast of all days. Mondays at least have the common courtesy to have a modicum of character; it is the beginning of the work week after all. Wednesdays are hump day. Thursday is the downhill slide and Friday is, well, Friday.

Saturday and Sunday need no defense.

But Tuesdays? Tuesdays are just space fillers. One twenty-four hour period that by the very nature of it's place-holding countenance demanded a name, and as fitting such a ridiculous waste of time, it was named the most boring of all names, "Tuesday." I'm convinced that, assuming I'm wrong about that whole existence of god thing, that when I die I'll be given the opportunity to ask the big bearded avoidance monster himself just one question. And of course, that question will be, "So, um, dude. What was the deal with Tuesdays, anyway?"

I expect the divine one to stare at his feet, scuffle his toes against a cloud and mumble, "Well, Tuesdays weren't exactly my _best_ work."

So let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up:

This morning I'm on the bus to work, right? Simple thing; save the environment, all that shit. So I'm sitting near the back of the bus, minding my own self-same person, when I hear this noise. No, noise isn't descriptive enough. I heard this . . .um, well, tinkle. Yeah, that's right: Tinkle.

You know, don't you? Of course, any sane person would sit facing forward, ignoring whatever the hell caused that noise because, well, if it's what you _think_ it is, you really don't want to know and you certainly don't want to see, but as is my nature, I can't ever leave well enough alone. So I looked.

And sure enough, here's this kid, right? This kid, maybe about twenty, not really dirty or anything--definitely not a bum or obviously homeless or any such some-stuff like that--just kind of a kid, any kid in the way Jimmy Stewart was any man, with his Johnson whipped out and draining the main vein up against another seat.

I really meant to just keep my composure, you know? I mean really, if he's crazy enough to piss on the floor of BUS FUR CRYIN' OUT LOUD, he's crazy enough to start something if I say anything. So I did just sit there. For about ten seconds. That's when I saw the little stream of urine running down the creases of the slip-proof rubber material on the floor of the bus.

To say I lost it is a bit of an understatement. I shot up from my seat, spun on this punk and proceeded to yell louder than I have in years. I'm not going to state verbatim what passed between me, him, the fifteen other people on the bus, the driver, the security camera and most likely twenty or twenty five people walking the street. To tell the truth, I don't remember most of it. It was . . . well, colorful.

Invectives were used. Further, deponent sayeth naught.

When I finished, the transit police (who were apparently just around the corner) entered the bus and took the moron away. With hindsight, I'm glad he was the only one in cuffs this morning. At one point during my diatribe, I realized that the kid was wearing heavy terry-cloth sweats, and thought, _What absolutely wonderful material. Very absorbent. When I wipe the floor with him, his clothes should soak up most of the urine._

And then work sucked. I'll spare you the details. They're boring. I could make interesting shit up, but I really just don't have the patience right now.

When I got off the bus coming home, I found out that the radiator on our car had sprung a leak. I leapfrogged home, a couple blocks at a time, letting the radiator cool down enough to drive a couple more blocks. My mile drive home took us at least an hour.

Yeah, fun.

Sealant applied, leak fixed, car operational again. At least there's that.

And then, THEN, I realized why coming home is such a good thing. Here's the conversation between my wife and daughter at the dinner table tonight:

Cat: We'll be keeping an eye on their dog over the weekend. She used to be really mean, but now she's old and mellow.

Angela: Oh. She's big?

Cat: Yeah. She's kind of ugly too. She can't close one eye anymore because of this bump, but she's really sweet.

Angela: Ew. I can't handle ugly dogs. I really hate ugly dogs. Is she really gross?

Cat: She used to be really pretty. But now she's really old. And ugly. And can't move very well.

Angela: Like Liz Taylor, then.

. . .I really have nothing to say after that.

Except this: No matter how bad my day gets, I have two beautiful women at home who are just as insane as I am, that for some strange reason love me.

I guess I'm getting used to Tuesdays after all.

Joseph Haines, signing off from The Edge of the Abyss.

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