Good Friday is a holiday. Jesus died for a day off work. Jesus died because maybe his dad God was taking a personal day and wasn’t around to get him uncrucified. That’s why we take this day off: because, even though it’s not a Sunday, God did.
Anyway, I won’t be at work and neither will most people. Stores will be closed. That leaves me with no excuse to put off tomorrow’s grocery shopping and little to justify further delays in chores. So much for a day of rest. Did God do his laundry that first Good Friday? Does God even need to do his own laundry?
With laundry taken care of on Friday I have Saturday to run errands that condescending amateur economists use as examples of the superiority of laissez-faire capitalism. See? The system works! God chilled that Friday so he could get some rest and not stress out about all the shopping he had to do on Saturday. He couldn’t spread those tasks out to Sunday. Sunday is his off day. It’s his “me-time”.
Because Jesus just happened to…not be in a cave that Sunday (I may have my story wrong as I haven’t been to church since the 80s), I’m also forced to use Sunday as “me-time”. Stores are again closed. My laundry, and possibly other cleaning, was taken care of on Friday. What is there to do?! I need to make up false purposes to get through the day. My spring cleaning is an all-seasons process so there’s nothing major to clean. Maybe I should almost literally sit around and do nothing, in honour of Zombie Jesus. I can’t imagine he was up to much. “Saving” and “forgiving” probably don’t burn many calories. Neither, by the way, does just lying there nailed to a cross. Remember, kids: live an active lifestyle, lest you die at 33.
I guess the net-positive of a double-holiday weekend is the opportunity to be more offensively blasphemous than the rest of the year. It’s a hobby that I can only annually engage in, like people setting off recreational explosives for [insert nation’s “founding” holiday here]. Come to think of it, why don’t we set off recreational explosives for Easter Weekend? And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that Jesus was still suffering a slow, brutal death on a crucifix.
It only seems fair, given that I spread my religious sacrilege to America’s July 4th.