Here in the States, it’s Memorial Day weekend. If memory serves me, historically, I believe the holiday was founded to be observed by the gainfully employed, who celebrate the occasion by spending a three-day weekend remembering how much happier they are when they aren’t working for The Man. Because that’s the point of the three day weekend, isn’t it? Waking up on Monday morning, liberated of all responsibility; it’s a day in which you can comfortably enjoy all the highlights of unemployment before being dragged back into the mire of monotony.
It doesn’t matter what your occupation is. Whether you spend your hours on the time-card slinging grease patties to diabetics at McDonald’s, making millions on Wall Street, or just breaking kneecaps for Bruno the patriotic loan shark, everybody deserves a little break. So, go on, you’ve earned it. Kick back. Cut loose. Buy a carton of Twinkies and watch reruns of Ren and Stimpy all damn weekend. Refuse to change your underwear. Go on a three-day bender in Las Vegas and legally change your name to Hoosier Daddy.
Whatever you do, have fun, folks. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. But if you do, name it after me.
Beer: Amstel Light
Music: Thea Gilmore