First of all, let me say happy Monday!
A new week! New possibilities! New challenges! New clothes, maybe, if you went out and bought some recently. I dunno. I haven’t bought any new clothes since last time I had a normal job, which was … um … gosh, when I worked in law offices about twenty thousand years ago.
Seriously. That’s how long ago it was.
Not many people realize that Neanderthals had lawyers. And, same as today, those lawyers needed assistants. I worked for the firm Oog, Og, Urg, and Spiegelman. We specialized in cave evictions, fire rights, and libel. It was a pretty good job. I made three meat bones a week. But back then everyone worked seven days a week. We had to. After all, the average life expectancy in those days was about six weeks. No time to waste. Our firm had a good retirement plan, too. They put you on a nice big piece of ice before pushing you out onto the lake. So many companies used ice barely big enough to stand on. We always made sure our retirees had enough room to sit as they waved and disappeared into the midst. Because we cared.
Anyway, back to you and your Monday.
Did you make sure to have a healthy breakfast today? Was it awful? Don’t you hate health food? Wouldn’t you rather have an unhealthy breakfast of waffles, bacon, sausage, eggs, Frosted Flakes, beer, and a big bowl of warm lard? Me, too!
But, alas, my doctor has let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I should leave him alone.
“You don’t have insurance!” he said, swatting me away as he climbed into his car. “Go away! Stop it! I’ll call the police!”
Don’t you just always assume that when people say they’re going to call the police, they’re bluffing? Me, too! In this case, however, Dr. “Leggo my briefcase!” wasn’t.
“Could you just look at this squishy bump behind my ear?” I said to the policeman. “C’mon. It won’t take you a minute.”
Sure, when you don’t want a cop to touch you, they prod you like you’re the Pillsbury Dough Boy at a proctologists’ convention. But you have one stupid lump behind your ear you’d like them to at least rub a little, and they barely hold the top of your head while pushing you into the back of their police car.
Speaking of which, did you know the seat in the back of a cop car is solid plastic? At first I couldn’t figure out why that would be: it’s so uncomfortable to sit on! Then suddenly I understood: there’s nothing like a hard, flat surface to make your farts resonate like a machine gun.
“Jesus Christ,” said the cop as he climbed back into his car. “Did somebody die in here?”
“No,” I said as we pulled out of the parking lot. “But listen to this!”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I discovered an extremely efficacious way to get a police officer to pull over and insist you get out of his car.
Anyway, I hope your Monday is fun, healthy, productive, and doesn’t in any way involve police officers.
And maybe even has a little humor in it.