posted on Sep, 11 2008 @ 08:30 PM
Originally posted by schrodingers dog
Sunday Bloody Sunday. What a great song. It really encapsulates the frustration of a Sunday, doesn't it? You wake up in the morning, you've got to
read all the Sunday papers, the kids are running round, you've got to mow the lawn, wash the car, and you just think 'Sunday, bloody Sunday!'.
I don't think you understand what it means to be Irish...(granted, my ancestors are Irish; I live in the Colonies).
At any rate, Sunday, you wake up to the realization that there are many things that could use taking care of, look to the kitchen to find a mostly
empty box of cereal (there is, however, enough for a quarter of a bowl...a small bowl), sigh a reflief because there is no milk any way and then head
on outside to pickup the newspaper (in this case, ATS). After reading the headlines, you realize that something is missing...and walk to the pantry
to grab the Bushmills (in this case, Bacardi Gold). You pour a double shot (because it is
Bloody Sunday; IRA be damned) and fight back the
regurgitative reflex while chasing with orange juice (which should have been Coke and then milk, but you are out of both). You then make a mental
note of all the tasks that need accomplishing and realize that they will indeed be there tomorrow and the world won't end in the interim.
Seven double shots later and a bunch of semi coherent newspaper interpretations (in this case, ATS posts) and you get up to visit the privy only to
trip on the chair and hit your noggin slightly on the desk, which results in a slight cut, invoking an out of context statement meant to be clever,
"Sunday, bloody *%&%^ Sunday,"...
This is not a true story...but it some how seems more accurate than your picket fence portrayel..