Tiny Town, USA – Days are like people. Which is why, I suppose, people -- and mean grown-up people -- imbue the days of the week personalities. Then they blame the exercise on children for being born in the first place and label these farcical exercises, "Nursery Rhymes."
You know the deal: Monday's child is fair of face (thank you, I was born on a Monday at about 7:15 a.m., with a little lunch pail and overalls, which meant Sunday was Hell for my Mother); Tuesday's child, for absolutely no reason at all, and I haven't seen any demographics proving this as more than a lame-ass rhyming device, is full of grace.
But get this: Wednesday's child is full of woe. WTF did that come from?
It gets worse -- Thursday's child has far to go ... Go where? Where have we been sending all these Thursday children? Do any of them ever come back? Do they have to go more than once like some poor National Guardsman pulling a third tour in East Pajamastan?
Then, like any good drunk with a paycheck, Friday's child is loving and giving. Well, sure. With Wednesday crying in his cups and Thursday under heavy shell fire down in the boondocks, Friday can look forward to a night out and hopefully avoid Saturday's over-achieving child who is up at the crack of dawn to go crush rubbish at the landfill.
And, of course, Sunday's child is bonnie, blythe and gay, and that gives him/her a personality disorder with its own DSM-IV Manual Entry: I believe it is Narcissism. That's a condition where folks born on Sunday think they are are God, often a petty old-Testament-style God with little empathy for others and a lot of interest in their own reflection. The cure for this disorder is a roomful of warped mirrors.
I've never yet observed a Narcissist leave a room full of mirrors entering one again (a Narcissist's assistant would not be allowed to, either). And, just as a control assessment, I've never seen the Swamp Thing and a Narcissist in a roomful of warped mirrors having any kind of meaningful conversation together whatsoever.
All of this naturally leads to "Pop Goes the Weasel" which is not fit subject matter for a serious place like this so if you don't mind I'll just stop right there. If others of you wish to meet and bring your used tea bags into another room for a discussion about the Philadelphia Pops, particularly under its current director Peter Nero, do be my guest. But there is a surcharge for warm water.
In summation: It is now Thursday. Because of some quirk of nonlinear physics, we all have a long way to go. This is proper and should be respected as Wednesday, not to get all tautological on your asses, was full of woe. Why? For no reason I can think of except my stomach decided that Wednesday was a good day to cause me extreme gastro-intestinal agitation. Really! The only way to deal with it was to go for a longish walk from one side town all the way to the other and, by using a little a meditation technique from Trick Not Hannah, I remained composed, and completely dry right down to my skivvies, even though I was in a deluge where faces came of the rain, because I was feeling strange I guess, which, as you know, can be a torment in April.
Even so, we ought to get May flowers. Now, that seems like kind of a gyp to me because I like my rainstorms to bring flowers on the day of the storm, or first thing the next day. As long as it is not a Wednesday. Which it was. So I guess everything turned out okay after all. Except for my stomach. But now it's Thursday and it's to be expected that I have far to go.
Although I was not born on this day, it only seems fair to obey the rules of the nursery rhyme road for anyone who is, was, or might yet be.
– P. Cumulus, maker of clouds
