Say It In Broken English

To say that Mondays suck is to understate the case so completely one's point may be missed with a microscope. Mondays are the merde-scented essence of suckitude. Mondays are the whirling black holes of cosmic sucktasm. I can hardly stand the sight of my co-workers, who are actually very nice people forced to share a florescent-tinged basement office recycled-air hell with - you know - Me.

John: You write me so...bland.
Tata: You only talk bland. You become more exotic every time you shut up.
John: That's insulting!
Tata: Only if you intended to keep talking.

He knows that after a third pot of coffee I will help rearrange his office and make each shelf count because he needs help and has no one else to ask, which when you think about it could turn tragic but somehow doesn't. I point to my Sigmund Freud Action Figure above my desk, next to the Magic 8 Ball, a penny Morgan cut into curliques over ten years ago and a small statue of the Andorian ambassador.

Tata: Note my Action Figure. Those who demand I see a psychiatrist should know I do.
John: There he is.
Tata: It's almost like I care what people think.
John: No, no, you don't.
Tata: C'mon, straight man. You can do better than that.

At the very end of my last week, a charming representative of the systems department converted my comfy old browser and mailer into two stiff, new electronic contraptions. This morning, I called Systems, where Mary was already laughing.

Tata: I can't find my bookmarks. This is way pathetic. Wait! There they are!
Mary: Hahahahahahahahahahaha!
Tata: I'm having Little Old Lady problems. This morning, I discovered the up/down toggle switch on the seat of my car.
Mary: Hohohohohohohohohohoho!
Tata: I've had my car for - what? - three months now and today I discovered this switch. Do you know I've been driving around in a car I can't see over the dashboard of?
Mary: I'm sure you've done splendidly! Hehehehehehehehehehe!
Tata: Not at all! I've been driving by the Braille method. Everytime I shipwreck my car and get out I risk a beating by outraged fellow humans in the 360 degree blindspot outside.

The only reason I saw the toggle switch was because I dropped the bag of garbage I was planning to walk over to a dumpster. That added a certain piquancy to my sucktastic Monday morning I could've lived without - and don't get me started on the early morning athletic triumph of being a five-foot woman holding open a dumpster lid while flinging in a bag of trash like a personal chicken-bone-and-discus-throw competition.

It's not all bad news, I suppose. At least from now on if I hit you it's because I aimed.