So--the title of this journal, “Sunday Night Poop” does not refer to a post televised football game bathroom visit after a feast of beer, chips and chili. It’s not anything crude or rude, I promise (or apologize, depending on who’s reading). West Point graduates would be familiar with the term and everyone else?
So without further ado-doo…here is the Sunday Night Poop:
Six bells and all is well.
Another week shot to hell.
Another week in my little gray cell.
Another week in which to excel. Oh, hell.
This little ditty is generally shouted out by a plebe (upon orders from an upperclassman) during Sunday night’s accountability formation. I don’t even know if they* still have those—I think those formations ended my senior year. Back in my day, they held formation every Sunday (barring block vacation time) with the exception of (wait for it) Superbowl Sunday. Back in my day, you couldn’t find Bugle notes online, you had to wait till your first day (unless you came from the prep school) to get your grubby paws on that book o’ knowledge. Back in my day, cadets didn’t get issued laptops, we didn’t have phones in the room, oh…never mind. Old grads are the masters of the “back in my day” game. Even if you say it, there is a chance someone who graduated before you will top whatever crap you had to endure.
Anyway, I don’t like Sundays. I can’t remember if I ever did like Sundays. Even as a kid, Sundays meant getting ready for school, goodbye freedom, it’s on to Monday in just a few short hours. I know that is a gloom ’n doom fatalistic countdown mentality but there it is. Accountability formations at West Point only compounded my Sunday hate. Even now, over a decade later, I still don’t like them. Whoever wrote the “Sunday Night Poop” didn’t like them either.
* Who is “they?” The establishment—the military brass, the head honchos, AKA “the Man.” In other words, the ones who make the rules.