I Hate Sundays

I know what you're thinking: "What can you possibly have against sundaes?" But look again. Sundays. We think of it as a day of rest; a day when The Big Guy In The Sky, tired of sweating his goblets off creating all of creation, went ahead and said "today is my goddamn day," turned off his cellphone, grabbed a sixer of ice-cold Buds, and just effin' planted his Holy Hindness down to watch like twelve consecutive hours of Battlestar Galactica.

Plus, sometimes you just got to boogie!

So, you ask, what the hell is wrong with that? But there is an ugly side to Sunday you may not have considered:
Firstly, for those of us that actually go to church, we can just go ahead and consider this as part of the work week. Not that worship is a chore. But, inevitably, wasting your entire day with your loved-ones sort of is. Unless you are Jewish, in which case you are always with your people. No If's And's or Tuchases about it. Your day of worship begins Friday night and for the next 24 hours you are praying and swaying like it's your job. You can't even buy a pack of gum on Saturday without breaking a host of ancient laws. Then, the greater part of Sunday is spent strolling dutifully behind the curliest of the men in your father's cabal while they discuss the profound mysteries behind biblical typos.

I am beginning to think Brooklyn isn't the promised-land, maybe?

Secondly, Sunday is the last-minute-everything day. Because, as we Americans all know in our hearts, what is the point of ever doing anything before it becomes an absolute life-or-death necessity? Did you want to go to the store today? Well have a great time spending half your day there, because so did everyone else. This is the day when everyone and their mothers do their weekly shopping. Since, no matter if you are a Hassid or Hipster, the day before was more often than not squandered recovering from that Red Bull & Vodka hangover and then getting around to finally cleaning the house from top to bottom.

The 49ers game better be worth all this shit...Oy, vat a koptvaitic I am having!

So come Sunday morning you can bet the line to the deli is going to be epic. Once you do get there you realize you should have just stayed in bed. Because it is just a zoo in there. All the hysterical, Sunday-cart-drivers with their carts stacked to the ceiling, scrambling like chickens to the express check-out lane. You'd think they were throwing down a day-long Supermarket Sweep up in there. Also, come to think of it, what is the story with guys in business-wear at the supermarket on Sunday? You know the ones I mean. And no, that's not a church-suit, it's a smug-suit.

The real question is: can I afford the calories?

And at the end of it all you aren't even left with the feeling of time well spent. You are not well rested, only nerve-wracked. Because the worst thing about Sunday is that you know you've wasted your precious weekend and somehow, Big Guy In The Sky-willing, you'll have to live through another week of brown-nosing, dirt-dealing and coffee-stained paperwork just to do it all over again the following weekend. You can't really make plans for Sunday night because bright and early Monday morning: the whistle blows again.