Now, I don’t know much, but I do know that my definition of Sunday Funday is not (apparently) Wikipedia’s definition of Sunday Funday. A Christian video game wherein it is one’s objective to successfully skateboard oneself to…Sunday school?? No wonder I’ve never heard of it. How lame! And where’s the incentive in making it to Sunday school on time when your teacher is fully clothed and your girlfriend won’t put out when you arrive victorious? I mean, this is a video game, right? Where are the demons? Where are the sexy ladies? Where is there ANY reason to play this game?!
Sunday Funday is a Christian video game that was released for the Nintendo Entertainment System by Wisdom Tree, formerly a subsidiary label of Color Dreams, in 1995. The game was the last to be released by any company for the American NES. Like all Wisdom Tree games, Sunday Funday was not officially licensed by Nintendo.
Also, how apropos that this game evidently is the last game to be released for the American NES. Leave it to the religious Right to choke all of the enjoyment out of an eight-bit video game system, so much so that it ceases to produce any further games and dies a pitiful, whimpering video game death.
Sad. But, alas.
I prefer to spend my Sunday Fundays as far away from anything churchy as humanly possible, lest I be struck down by a bolt of lightning or be forced to partake in the icky blood of Christ. For anyone unfamiliar with my definition of Sunday Funday, allow me to refer you to the ever-reliably asinine Urban Dictionary website, which states in its first definition that:
By celebrating the “Sunday Funday” you can extend your weekend festivities just a little longer before hanging up your party pants. This day typically starts out with mimosas or bloody marys aka hair of the dog. It then typically continues through out the day until you find yourself wasted by about 6:30ish. Since the “Funday” ends early enough, you can rest assured that you will go to bed aka pass out early enough to be perfectly refreshed for work on monday morning.
While I must applaud whomever is responsible for scribing that brilliant definition for incorporating the clever noun ‘party pants,’ I choose to look at Sunday Funday a bit differently. To me a Sunday Funday is a slow burn that generally begins in a hangover-cleansing brunch, which will then turn into an improvised afternoon haze of lazy alcohol consumption, best enjoyed when the weather is nice. The point of a Sunday Funday is not to get completely destroyed, but at the same time, one must be willing to accept that getting completely destroyed is sometimes the result of a Sunday Funday.
Take Doug and me yesterday, for example. We kind of nailed the Sunday Funday. In my opinion.
Following a brief textual conversation via our cellular devices, we met up at Sardine in Madison. I was hungry, and Doug was already in the beginnings of a solo Sunday Funday by that time. Like the pair of gentlemen that we are, we enjoyed a nice brunch man-date involving Goose Island Matilda, as well as Bloody Marys and Greyhounds made with the finest, cheapest gin the establishment had to offer. And I’ll tell you what, if you’re at Sardine for brunch, make damn sure you order the shrimp, bacon, and crab cakes. Holy balls. Delicious. Might be my favorite brunch item in town. And that’s saying something because I go to a lot of brunch. I’m kind of awesome at brunch.
Not to toot my own horn, or anything.
Our bartender was attentive, pleasant, and looked great in her Levi’s. Like, colossally great in those Levi’s. And as the afternoon began to melt away, it suddenly became clear to us that our bartender was looking to go home, and in turn looking for us to go elsewhere. So we paid up, and went to Alchemy, where there was Bell’s Hopslam involved. If you don’t know this beer already, you really owe it to yourself to get acquainted with its hoppy gloriousness.
It’s a good thing February is a short month because all of the awesome seasonal releases that occur ’round this time of year might fucking kill me.
At this point, Douglas and I hit a friendly crossroads. I needed to go home and cease putting alcohol into my face due to adult-like obligations that required my attention that evening. Doug had no such obligations.
So I went home, cutting the Sunday Funday short, doing my best at feigning enthusiasm for adulthood responsibility, while Doug valiantly carried the Sunday torch forth to a ’70s themed employee holiday party where there was evidently at one point a camping cooler full of Maker’s Mark and ginger beer that was being consumed at an alarming rate by the attendees of said party.
Douglas is a true patriot. I am a sissy. That is the moral of this story. If there is a moral. But in truth, there are no winners or losers in Sunday Funday.
This post was haphazardly composed at The Brass Ring with Metallica blasting in my ears. And it was the new, shitty Metallica. Not the ‘cool’ Metallica before they got all soft and cut their hair and started whining about Napster and stuff.
The smell of weed is prevalent and extreme.