What is the Point of Thursday?
In any case, based on how we currently perceive the week, Thursday is truly the center point. As the week slumps along—empty day after empty day bleeding into the rest until you realize that the week is a meaningless illusory construct designed to delude us into thinking Saturday and Sunday are any better than Wednesday or Thursday—we stumble upon this day, which feels more like a mild roadblock before Friday, which in turn feels like a roadblock before Saturday.
Why is Thursday Pointless?
As I’ve mentioned in other posts regarding the pointlessness of each day of the week, there are many elements that make this day pointless, including its own name.
According to myself, the name "Thursday" comes from the German word "Turdduch," which means what it sounds like—turd duck. This name perfectly illustrates the central banality of Thursday, a day that's also supposedly named after the Norse god Thor, son of Odin, or Wednesday. So, Wednesday had a kid named Thursday and is married to Friday, or Frigga, who is somehow lined up right behind the Roman god Saturn (Saturday) to further confuse you, before Sunday comes along in the form of both the male Roman Sun god and the female Norse god Sól to confuse you even further. I won't even go into Monday and Tuesday because I already have for absolutely no reason.
Thursday also falls in the middle of the Week Snake, or Ouroboros. This means it's the stomach that processes all of the food it feeds itself through the ass of Monday, processing the feces that circles from the beginning of the week to the end, and then back again, thus making it the saddest day of the week, hence the three levels of tears. There is no more joy to be found here than in any other part of the snake.
It's all very troubling to think about how convoluted and multiculturally incestuous the week really is, so I'm going to go ahead and just drive home how pointless Thursday is above the rest.
What Else Makes Thursday Pointless?
In addition to the above? Everything, of course. I don't even know why you're still asking.
As I have with all of the other days of the week so far, let me take you through a typical Thursday:
You begin the day by waking up in your flooded apartment and sitting up from under the water, removing your scuba mask and tank before making breakfast consisting of water and toenails, since you're out of sawdust and cardboard and can't afford anything else.
You get dressed in your wet business suit and head to the office downtown, and on this day your commute on the train is completely cut off due to a group of Satan worshippers raising the track and twisting a section of it into an unnavigable pentagram.
So, you take Uber to work, but upon arriving it turns out that your driver is a stretched-out paper clip the size of a man, and he can only speak in metal squeaks that sound like knives on a chalkboard. He also drives like a maniac and speeds through every yellow light regardless of how late he is going through the intersection. You can only imagine how many red light tickets the paper clip has accumulated, let alone paid off.
At the office, you discover that your boss is now his desk—he literally became his desk. He says its to help make the office more efficient and save space so it has one fewer human body around, but the fact that he's now about seven feet wide makes it difficult for him to navigate the office space, and it's difficult to maneuver around him. Your only coworker in the office slides across him like the hood of a car a couple times as the boss screams in pain, but after a couple of warnings not to do so, the boss fires him.
And while the corpse of your long-deceased coworker no longer stinks and is now burnt and disintegrated into a smear of ash thanks to the pigeon firebombing incident the day before, you are completely alone in the office at this point, stuck with a boss who thinks being a desk is the next step in human evolution. "If we were all desks, we would finally understand what it means to be humble, seeing as we'd all be bent over in a perpetual bow," he tells you before berating you about not visiting his wife to have sex with her on Wednesday evening, even though this was never an arrangement even vaguely mentioned at any point.
After your boss desk yells for two hours and you're finally left to do your job of sorting through paperwork that isn't digitally stored because your boss still won't buy you a new computer after having broken the old one, you discover that your head has suddenly expanded to the size of a sedan.
So, you call your doctor to schedule an appointment on Saturday. Thankfully, he can fit you in, but then your boss flips onto his side and folds around you to form a closed wooden circle wall. He tells you he will keep you there forever if you waste any more time in the office on personal matters. After you agree to avoid calling anyone who isn't a client or partner company, he unfolds and sits back up, wobbling to his office to sit emptily for the rest of the day.
You begin the day by waking up in your flooded apartment and sitting up from under the water, removing your scuba mask and tank before making breakfast consisting of water and toenails, since you're out of sawdust and cardboard and can't afford anything else.
You get dressed in your wet business suit and head to the office downtown, and on this day your commute on the train is completely cut off due to a group of Satan worshippers raising the track and twisting a section of it into an unnavigable pentagram.
So, you take Uber to work, but upon arriving it turns out that your driver is a stretched-out paper clip the size of a man, and he can only speak in metal squeaks that sound like knives on a chalkboard. He also drives like a maniac and speeds through every yellow light regardless of how late he is going through the intersection. You can only imagine how many red light tickets the paper clip has accumulated, let alone paid off.
At the office, you discover that your boss is now his desk—he literally became his desk. He says its to help make the office more efficient and save space so it has one fewer human body around, but the fact that he's now about seven feet wide makes it difficult for him to navigate the office space, and it's difficult to maneuver around him. Your only coworker in the office slides across him like the hood of a car a couple times as the boss screams in pain, but after a couple of warnings not to do so, the boss fires him.
And while the corpse of your long-deceased coworker no longer stinks and is now burnt and disintegrated into a smear of ash thanks to the pigeon firebombing incident the day before, you are completely alone in the office at this point, stuck with a boss who thinks being a desk is the next step in human evolution. "If we were all desks, we would finally understand what it means to be humble, seeing as we'd all be bent over in a perpetual bow," he tells you before berating you about not visiting his wife to have sex with her on Wednesday evening, even though this was never an arrangement even vaguely mentioned at any point.
After your boss desk yells for two hours and you're finally left to do your job of sorting through paperwork that isn't digitally stored because your boss still won't buy you a new computer after having broken the old one, you discover that your head has suddenly expanded to the size of a sedan.
So, you call your doctor to schedule an appointment on Saturday. Thankfully, he can fit you in, but then your boss flips onto his side and folds around you to form a closed wooden circle wall. He tells you he will keep you there forever if you waste any more time in the office on personal matters. After you agree to avoid calling anyone who isn't a client or partner company, he unfolds and sits back up, wobbling to his office to sit emptily for the rest of the day.
No Enjoyment at Home
Even after the work day ends and you return to your apartment, which you've finally accepted will flood for eternity thanks to your literally cursed kitchen sink, you find no reprieve.
You open the door to the apartment and water spills out into the hallway once again, as the kids from the apartment down the hall cheer and splash in the makeshift indoor pool that you've inadvertently created for them. And while you remember that their mother—who winks at you seductively as she sits with her children despite being married to three men—was so kind as to pay you $20 a month for this unintended swimming pool service, it still doesn't change the fact that your apartment is a swamp gathering dangerous levels of mold that are beginning to develop sentience.
So, you sit once more at your broken TV and wonder why you find a blank screen in the dark more amusing than any banal sitcom and eat your toenail crunch and consider ending it all by drowning in the inescapable thigh-high waters that surround you.
Then, again once again, it's bedtime. You put on your scuba gear—which is now harder to do with your massive watermelon-sized head—and drift back into your aquatic bed and slip into darkness, which feels no different than the dark blanket that obscures any potential light you might otherwise see during the day.
And that, there, is why Turdduch is a pointless day, along with the rest of the week. If you have any questions, I suppose you can ask them in the comments or say whatever you laughably think I won't find inherently useless.
Just see what I have to say about Friday.
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