Tuesday Haters Club

Dear Miss Worden, esteemed but perhaps reluctant representative of the Chicago Metro T.H.C.,

Following extensive internal review as standard operating procedure of the central operations committee of the office of CEO for public relations and internal affairs and financial audits, it has come to our attention through various focus groups and sensitivity seminars and trust falls that as the token female of our group of misfits constituting the burgeoning anti-Tuesday underclass conspiracy movement, your unique perspective and contributions to our cause (in which you so passionately share) are highly valued by this office and the organization at large.

For that, you get a postcard. Enjoy.

Kevin Davis
CEO

The above note documents the awkward transition from fellow Tuesday Hater to (quite later) husband and wife.

In time, as this kind of struggling movement toward love became less obfuscated:

“Dani Worden” is no more, but I’m so happy we met – I can’t imagine a world hating Tuesdays without you by my side for as long as God gives us life. And Tuesdays. For better or for worse. <3

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God bless alternative energy…

Energy in America: Dead Birds Unintended Consequence of Wind Power Development

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Months of Tuesdays have gone by, and our Chicago chapter of the THC has undergone many changes. Some have lost the sparkle for Tuesday hating, honestly believing that hating a weekday (or anything, except perhaps their own darkly reviled soul) is an unchristian thing to do. Others have polarized around the controversial Texas-vs.-Colorado debate that nobody else on earth ever heard of or cared about. Some even privately admit to loving Tuesday, thinking it’s the best thing since canned beets and leg wax. Even our illustrious president might be seen cavorting with members clearly and officially on administrative leave without pay for serious offenses such as pitying birds that are so stupid they bash themselves repeatedly into high-rise windows. In short, the local passion for Tuesday hating has indeed waned, among all but the truest believers believer.

To those other scoffers, I can only offer two fig leaves sewn together as a metaphor for your shame and separation from the truth. One, an ever-so-subtle reminder to get over yourselves – this is just a satire after all, so your token participation doesn’t really count as an abomination to the God who created Tuesdays good (even though they clearly didn’t remain that way) – and two, an uncontroversial truth I hope can truly reunite us as we seek to heal other wounds from a troublesome year: gravy. Sweet, sweet gravy.

Gravy is an age-old wonderment that modern man has finally brought to full fruition, like particle accelerators and government spending. It has often been said that “gravy covers a multitude of sins” and if this is true, then the Bible college diet includes a disgusting amount of sin. Which makes me so grateful for God’s free gift of gravy. You don’t need to do anything to merit this special favor, you need only accept it into your heart and your gullet, and its righteousness is applied to you.

Roast chicken quarter? Cornbread stuffing? Open-faced turkey? You name it; we as Christians should put gravy on it. Some foods, falling under special kosher exception status, even have the gravy cooked right into the center of them, creating an unexpected font of every blessing. This sloppy, sliding treasure is like gold in the hand, spreading joy and goodwill withersoever it dribbles, providing the necessary mortar that holds us together as diners, as digesters, as believers, as people. Gravy gives us hope.

As official spokesperson for the Tuesday Haters Club (and also a client) I give thanks today for this precious salve, much like Jesus did when the alabaster jar was broken to anoint His feet. I trust that it will be used to bind our group together as we set aside our differences – from virulent pointless disputes to overall lackadaisicalness – for dose after dose of golden, delicious gravy. I publicly applaud our Food Service staff for making this offer so very, very bountiful indeed. May the gravy bring healing wherever it may flow.

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In your travels of Chicago, you will undoubtedly be drawn to such famous sites as Navy Pier, Michigan Avenue, Buckingham Fountain, and the Earwax Cafe. But no visit is complete without stopping at the Oriental Institute Museum, located conveniently in the middle of nowhere on a street not unlike the Bermuda Triangle on the campus of the University of Chicago on the city’s near south side.

We don’t know why it’s called the Oriental Institute, housing many artifacts large and small in random time periods in a big jumble from both ancient Palestine and North Africa, among others. We didn’t even think the term “oriental” was couth anymore, except when referring to rugs and lamps. Nevertheless, you’ll find many treasures to delight you as you explore ancient artifacts like a prehistoric stogy, a hair clip of no obvious utility, and the world’s first whoopie cushion (be careful, it’s sharp). But while you fight your inner urges not to touch the huge stone artifacts and the smaller plaster casts of real artifacts stored somewhere where you must actually pay to see them, a larger problem may exist for the typical Tuesday hater. Of course, the artifacts are littered with birds.

All is not lost, though, and happily apart from the giant bird with the golden beak and a few obscure references in carvings, the birds do not play a pivotal role in your “oriental” experience. Many super-glued glass and pottery items tell the story of Bible times, mingled confusingly with 2000 B.C. income tax receipts and an ancient schoolboy’s failing math homework. At long last, you will encounter one true bird – but someone has already thoughtfully taken care of things for you.

No doubt part of an ancient pagan ritual, one can truly appreciate the exquisite detail of this mummified waterfowl, preserved for “eternity” (as if birds will be in heaven! sheesh!) by a gratuitous smearing of resin, a linen wrap and a form-fitting little birdie coffin. While we don’t promote such extensive care for the departed of bird-kind, we can appreciate at least that this bird is – as all the best birds are – quite dead.

Overall filled with genuinely interesting exhibits and a lot of broken pots, you’ll find something to enjoy about the Oriental Institute Museum, if you can find it from your nearest public transit. We trust that all references in statues and reliefs to actually living birds was merely an oversight of the curator, soon to be corrected. Also on the plus side, artifacts with daisies (which Tuesday haters ardently support and admire) are at least as prevalent.

We think you will enjoy this visit even more than your perfunctory stops at the Sears Tower Skydeck (as it will continue to be known), the nation’s first multi-level parking garage, and the indian atop the cigar store on 63rd and Pulaski. But really, be careful not to lick things, even though the signs are limited to excluding you from touch. And if you must touch the cavernous nostril of the giant bull statue, be sure that nobody is looking.

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It’s November, a Tuesday, and in the United States (for the benefit of our thousands of international readers), Election Day. Notwithstanding that it is an off-year and nobody knows who’s running for what, why, or where to vote, or care in the slightest, Tuesday Haters the world over are brushing off their civic consciousness in order to defend the most fabulous source of alternative energy known in our day – wind farms.

Wind farms, or multiple hellishly huge pinwheels in the sky as they are also known, provide one hundredth of one-billionth the electricity needed to light up our sullen autumn Tuesday lives. While perhaps something of an eyesore to naturalist beatniks and passing alien ships, their ranks are clearly divided over this technology. On the one hand, wind farms reduce (albeit completely insignificantly) our need for fossil fuels, and burning fossils is a tragedy of scientific proportion. On the other hand, some say, they contribute to the untimely death of lots of pigeons and crows and the like. Al Gore does not know if he should hug himself or squeal in horror like a rabid kitten at this apparent contradiction in eco-friendliness; consequently we can only assume he is able to do both at one time.

In defense of wind farms, we would like you to imagine the bird deaths that result from being hit by (or more frequently, throwing themselves into) cars, trucks, space shuttles, and the like. What about those killed by feral cats or power lines? Where is the demand for ornithological justice for these? No sir, there is none, and properly so. Say nothing of the birds that self-medicate by bashing themselves into countless office windows the world over.

We at the Tuesday Haters Club are penultimately consumed with issues of sustainability, protected ecosystems, gothic bracelets made from recycled bicycle inner tubes, and also ice cream. That’s why we strongly support wind farming as a friendly source of minuscule energy reserves and truly insignificant mass bird death. Our only grievance against them is the number of birds who will be less likely to die from the choking smog of coal plants – a compromise we are all only too happy to make.

As you go to the polls this morning, if you even remembered there were polls somewhere in your city today, remember to vote for those who would support the mass proliferation of wind turbines throughout our beautiful country tis of thee. Our path to energy independence is cut by these monstrous blades of the future. And then clogged by piles of migratory creatures we care nothing about. Perhaps large diesel-engine machines could be invented to suck up these piles and recycle them into useful bottles of household lubricant and fluffy feather boas to complete the circle of life. Vote early and often on this ever important issue to save our dear Earth.

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To northern lily-livered varmints such as myself, Texas has always been a land of mythical wonder. Parched and powdered, except where oil randomly squirts out of the ground, the Lone Star State has long been a netherworld of tumbleweed, toast, and hold-’em, generally uninhabitable by humans and weak, yankee-bred cattle.

The people that do live there, it was rumored, were all either gun-slingers, cow-tippers, or two-term Republican presidents with no grasp of fiscal responsibility. Spurs and Ranch Dressing are more prevalent here than anywhere in the world – except Nashville, where the Texan ruggedness is pansy-ified for the busboy-is-a-musician subculture. With the exception of Houston and Dallas/Fort Worth, it has been less explored and subjugated to human oversight than the surface of the moon.

Where one might find a sparse patch of humanity amidst the ubiquitous cacti and impenetrable mesquite thicket considered “trees,” no codex has been discovered to unlock their dialect. As arguably a degenerate of English vernacular certain words might be understood, yet the overall phraseology renders them incomprehensible to those from more hospitable climes. Hence you might be confronted with such difficult constructions as “Yawl ain’t consarned in this no way” or “Ain’t that jes too suede for wards?” It’s like they are trying to communicate something; you just know it.

And so were we at one time, before we came to understand our southern-fried brethren with more sincerity of heart. Above all, upon closer inspection, they do tip thar hat to the haters of Tuesday, and they are fixin’ to see that awlyawl come to that self-same conviction.

As such, it is determined. Ah only done what anybody ails would do. I do declare, that to be anti-Tuesday is to be pro-Texas (and vice-versa). So, all ye peoples between the Red and the Rio Grande, the Sabine and the Sangre de Christos… crawl out from under the sun-bleached skulls of long-dead longhorns, set your pet scorpions free, and join us. We won’t stereotype you here.

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Experts at the CDC, WHO, and a consortium of public-interest calendar printers including the prestigious Franklin Covey and our partners-in-arms despair.com have rallied together to raise awareness about the Tuesday Flu, also known as the T1D1 virus, which is expected to make a resurgence this autumn throughout the United States and naturally, the world (since it spins). Releasing a joint statement, the following precautions have been advised:

• Avoid exposure to Tuesday in the workplace, the classroom, and other areas of community living. For those at particularly high risk of Tuesday contamination, such as people who interact with other people, the key is minimizing contact. If Tuesday symptoms last longer than 24 hours, seek assistance immediately.
• Take steps to guard those who are already Tuesday immuno-compromised. If you have the Tuesday Flu, stay away from obsessively happy people, rainbows, and unicorns. These may exacerbate symptoms and increase the risk of further contagion.
• Hand sanitizer is insufficient against this virulent strain of the wider Tuesday virus. But as with other matters of personal hygiene, if you’re too lazy to actually wash your hands occasionally then coating them with a thick layer of hazmat-scented alcohol-based toxins seems reasonable to us.
• While the link between T1D1 (Tuesday Flu) and H5N1 (Avian Flu) has not been confirmed by any scientific process, it has been theorized and therefore is considered law, alongside gravity, thermodynamics, macroevolution, and dark matter. Therefore it is all the more important for birds to be avoided, and when proximity cannot be controlled, to terminate said birds expeditiously.
• An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, an apple a day keeps the doctor away, good things come to those who wait, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. As a value-added proposition to maximize customer satisfaction, we should push the envelope and put as many clichés in the pot as you can shake a stick at – otherwise, we let the terrorists win. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. (That assumes, of course, that life has also given you water, sugar, a pitcher, and a long wooden spoon. Otherwise, you’re screwed.)
• In case of a local outbreak, epidemiologists expect clustering may occur among sufferers, especially in the form of Tuesday Haters Club board meetings. Unaffected persons are advised to keep their Tuesday loving to themselves.

Overall, the guidelines urge for calm and caution, as the Tuesday Flu is both preventable and treatable. With a healthy dose of child-hugging and the avoidance of college cafeteria food, as well as other standard precautions to prevent horrific and untimely death, the risk to you and your loved ones is minimal.

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As seasoned Tuesday Haters all know, Monday is not a great day. That is, unless you live in New Zealand.

Our fine friends at the New Zealand Herald reported a dramatic finding this week that Monday is in fact the second happiest day of the week. Unfortunately, we are unable to endorse this study due to the fact that the so-called “research” was carried out via analysis of Twitter activity, an online social networking service that we stand violently opposed to due to their flagrant living bird branding (we also use bird branding, but our bird is appropriately dead), and also because they suggest that the lowest day of the week is actually Wednesday. But at least, they take the blame from Monday where it is undeserved. While a Tuesday Hater is not a Monday Lover, we do share some common enemies. Er, goals.

Unfortunately, much like having a ticket for a flight to Wellington, you’re either on the flight or you missed it. But at least the NZH made an effort.

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Yes, we love Mondays – our tweets say so – NZ Herald News

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In another amazing grab at the premature destruction of everything we held dear in the English language, Twitter has filed with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office to make “tweet” – arguably the sound of a perfectly living bird – a registered trademark.

If the initiative fails to successfully stop the hemorrhagic flow of senseless babble from the service, popular only among the offensively old (35-49 year olds), Twitter is expected to attempt trademark appropriation of various other bird sounds, such as “caw,” “hoo hoo hoooo,” “chick-a-dee-dee-dee,” and perhaps even “cockadoodle-doo.”

For more on this alarming story, read more at the L.A. Times.

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We knew it all along.

Finally achieving professional accreditation for our long-held but oft-rebuffed beliefs that Tuesday is the new Monday, the Telegraph has published striking news that vindicates the Tuesday Hater in all of us.

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Tuesday at 11:45 is most stressful time of the week, survey suggests – Telegraph.

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