Tuesday, April 27, 2010


Sunday night melted into oblivion around the fifth tumbler of chilled vodka. But what else are sunday nights good for? Perhaps you attended church services earlier in the day or perhaps you opted for turning your back on God and you spent the day lounging in the park (the park that He gave you by the way as you shit and piss on His name), regardless by the time the evening hour strikes there is little to do other than await the beginning of the work week. But that is you. That is not me. My sunday nights are my friday nights and so mayhem is called for. A mayhem that is allied by two days worth of stupid yuppies with newspapers and kindles tucked under arm smugly inspecting their fucking poached eggs. Alas, sunday night thrill seekers, our numbers are few. Who do you usually find out on Sunday nights in the bars? Alcoholics who can't let go of their weekend bender and other likeminded losers, lonely pedarists, and rogue ne'r do wells.

It used to be that sunday as a whole was a day of rest. Families came together on sundays to bond with their Lord, sing hymns and shout prayers and later gorge on home cooked meals served by black folk in uniform; belt straps were loosened and bonnets were unfastened. But then the blue laws were repealed and sunday family gatherings were guaranteed to dissolve into front yard granddaddy brawls and the inevitable brandishing of a firearm by sun down. We have lost a part of ourselves, people.

My great uncle cicero died on a sunday. He was approached by a rattlesnake but refused to cleave its head in two because it was the Lord"s day and the reptile took advantage of this pious man and struck uncle cicero twelve times til he was fat with the fatal venom. It was a terrible sight to witness. His face turned black and swelled; his tongue too grew to an abnormal size and hung out of his mouth like a slab of fatback. Before he expired he begged for water. They would not give it to him. It was too far to fetch a pail auntie coot said.