Stop that!

    Sundays are really the ass end of the weekend.

    The appeal of Fridays is that you’re starting the wonderful attempt to erase all that you can remember about the last four days in a little less than three.

    Saturday is the peak, the apex. It’s probably the best part of the whole experience, unless you worked too hard on the erasing procedure Friday night.

    But Sundays are almost shot from the start. What is there to look forward to? Now everything is about planning, about trying to enjoy the remaining sliver of the weekend while trying to get back into the “”work”” state of mind. At least that is what my friends tell me.

    I, on the other hand, haven’t been in the “”work”” state of mind all quarter. I don’t go to class and I don’t go to discussion section. Wednesdays seem like Saturdays, Sundays are identical to Thursdays. My schedule of sleeping and eating is occasionally interrupted by me stumbling on a class Web page, mumbling, “”What’s this midterm bullshit? Where the hell is Mandeville Auditorium?””

    Last Sunday, however, my girlfriend was bugging me to actually do something.

    The only appeal to me about Sundays is the sleeping-in part. Otherwise, it’s got nothing going for it; doubly so for religious people. Repenting with a hangover — now that’s a bitch.

    And now my girlfriend wanted to take the sleeping-in part away from me. After about an hour of debate, we decided to go to the beach. But it’s cold — it’s fake summertime — so we decided to go to Black’s Beach. The logic: Because the sand is black, it’s warmer.

    Next thing you know, I’m carefully walking down the rocks balancing a Jamba Juice.

    The first thing you have to decide when you’re at a beach is where to set up shop. This is usually a no-brainer: Find attractive girls; place towel.

    I was about to pose this idea to my girlfriend, when I noticed the plan was in trouble. There were no attractive girls. Instead, there were old, naked men walking around. Suddenly, the plan changed to: Find area with smallest amount of old, naked men; place towel.

    We chose a spot about halfway between the ocean and old, naked men playing horseshoes. To my left: Old, naked man sitting in a chair. To my right: Old, naked man with his legs spread on a towel. Behind me: Old, naked horseshoe game.

    I followed the basics of urinal etiquette — don’t move your eyes; always look straight ahead. This would have worked, and I would have had a nice, picturesque postcard scene, had old, naked men not felt the need to walk as close to me as possible.

    It was around this time we decided that a walk was in order. About halfway to the end of the beach, my girlfriend said she had to pee.

    “”I’ll just go pee in the ocean,”” she said. I started to give a lecture on the evolution of man, how eventually toilets and toilet paper were invented, and how we no longer need to pee in the ocean, based partially on a high school biology course I failed.

    “”Everybody pees in the ocean,”” she replied.

    “”I don’t know a single person that does, present company excluded,”” I said. “”Actually, just you.””

    Then she started to list the names of people, who I could have sworn were not ocean pee-ers, and whom I believe she made up on the spot as “”fake statistics.”” This is the oldest trick in the book for arguments — I do it myself on a regular basis.

    At my request to call one of these people, she replied, “”I can’t believe you’re making such a big deal out of this.”” And then she went into the ocean until she was about waist-deep, presumably peed, and then walked back to me.

    At this point, I swore profusely and refused to hold her hand, much less touch any part of her urine-tainted body. She brought up several unconvincing arguments, such as “”Pee is such a minuscule amount compared to the ocean that it spreads out immediately after you pee,”” and “”The water carries it away.””

    We started to walk back. The more I thought about it, the more indignant I became.

    What about the innocent boy who goes for a swim immediately after some sick oceangoer’s peeing frenzy?

    What did Miss Wizard have to say to these valid and disturbing points? “”Pee is sterile.””

    How the hell is “”pee is sterile”” a response to “”There are times when I accidentally swallowed ocean water?”” That’s like replying, “”I like monkeys”” when asked “”What time is it?””

    The conversation more or less ended with her saying, “”You don’t think birds pee? Birds pee in the ocean all the time.”” I replied, “”Birds aren’t civilized!””

    I hate Sundays.

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