User:Rainchild

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edit The Nature of Saturday

Saturday is the seventh day of the week. No one knows why this matters. After all, every weekday has a name. So if we know that something happens on Saturday, we don’t need to know whether Saturday is the seventh, first, fourth, or ninth day of the week, okay? Christ, I can’t believe the complete uselessness of this section!

edit The Name “Saturday”

The word “Saturday” originates from the Greek word “saturos,” which means “satyr,” referring to the mythical half-man, half-goat. It is only natural that this creature should become a symbol of our Seventh Day, since this was a day traditionally set aside for copulating with goats.

Though seldom spoken or written about, Saturday afternoon goat-fucking was common throughout the world before the invention of American football, which is almost as fun.

In the ancient world, Saturday goat-fucking was used to make music. Goats would be lined up according to their size, from large to small. Thrusting one’s throbbing manhood into a larger goat produced a lower bleat, while lustily thrusting into a smaller goat produced a higher bleat. Loudness was controlled by having more than one man penetrate each goat, with some of the men having large members for loud bleats and others having small members for softer bleats. With twenty goats and at least forty men, many interesting melodies could be bleated into existence, as long as the men thrust on cue.

But we digress.

edit The Significance of Saturday

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For most people, Saturday is a time of TV viewing and beer-drinking. But Saturday has far more significance than this. Saturday was the day that Mary left me.

Mary. Once, merely whispering her name filled my sensuous mouth with the taste of honey and roses. When we were young, we would lie together on a windswept hill while she gargled the National Anthem. I would laugh, and she would manage to laugh while continuing to gargle our nation’s song. Oh how my loins swell at the memory of her agile throat!

She was always playful. Once when she asked to pick up a friend’s three year-old, she began to chew on the little child’s hair, much to the amusement of everyone. Though others might be condemned for savaging guinea pigs with carpentry tools, somehow it was alright when Mary did it. Such was her panache and effervescence!

Oh, Mary, why did you have to leave me on Saturday? Why not on a Friday evening, when I would have been be too drunk to notice? On a fateful Saturday morning, with a hangover gnawing at my skull like a giant rat, I found Mary in the bathroom next to an economy-sized can of lima beans. Someone had told her that snorting lima beans had the same effect as LSD, and now she lay, choked and still, on the bathroom floor.

So drink your trivial beer, and watch your trivial TV, but know that Saturday should be forever commemorated as the day my soul died.

And so, this article comes to its bitter, bitter end.

Thank you.

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