I Hate Mondays

So, I was driving to work, and the on-ramp to the I-74 bridge no longer has the 2-liter bottle of pee over to one side. For probably a month or two, I passed by a weak yellow bottle of “something” and all I could figure was some trucker threw this bottle of pee out his window. (No, it wasn’t me.) Today, the bottle is smashed. Someone else must have noticed it. God knows the sanitation department couldn’t be bothered to stop and pick it up.

I finally got in to work, about 45 minutes late, and as I am taking the elevator down into the bowels of the community college where I am fortunate to have a wooden chair and a crate of pickles for a table, I notice that someone has stuck gum to the side of the elevator. Right up by where the buttons are, there is chewing gum. This is not a “student” elevator, this is exclusive for “staff only” so you know that someone was acting very unprofessional. It really steams my rice that I dress up in my “work” Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts and sandals, and take a sponge bath and apply some Axe cologne at the Texaco, and my co-workers are so unprofessional!

Now that I am awake and sober enough to grade the last two exams I should have handed back over a week ago, I am getting distracted by those same co-workers who like to talk about sports. They are all excited about pre-season baseball and who is wearing the tighter uniforms. They spend about an hour talking about golf and NASCAR racing. Finally, they wind down and talk about fishing and cleaning their hunting rifles. Then it is time for them to take a smoke break, where they will probably talk about any other sport that they can gamble on. Maybe professional gardening or competitive billiards or cock fighting. I can pretty much guarantee that if we had cock fights in the Quad Cities, they would buy season tickets. Which makes me think, if these closet homos want to watch male athletes sweat and scratch, wouldn’t there be a lot of money to be made by bringing back gladiators? Not a bad idea. NASCAR is proof positive that the average Joe wants to see pseudo-sports (i.e. Monster Trucks and Tractor Pulls) in a large arena – and they enjoy seeing people die. If we could only include that asshat who says “Get ‘er done” as the announcer, and offer gambling, cigarettes and Budweiser beer, we would have the perfect new American sporting venue. If we throw in some half-naked women pole-dancing, then my co-workers could pat each other on the asses and still convince themselves they aren’t gay.

Damn! I only have 10 minutes to do all my grading. Hmmmm…. well, they all pretty much look like “B” papers. I’m satisfied with that.