The King of All Weekends

Lays on a table. His normally rock-solid physique limp as a wet noodle. A tall Swede with long platinum hair rubbed her hands over his back.
"Aaaahhhhhh!" He exclaimed as she worked out a knot under his right shoulder blade. Nearby a J-Pop act with a cute as hell front-maiden threw down a tune that was slinky and cute, and horribly catchy. They played at full rock-show volume. On the far side of the room, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday sat around a formal dining table in Rat-Pack attire. A tuxedoed and white-aproned waiter unveiled a fancy dish, under a silver domed platter. A portrait artist complete with beret and pencil-thin mustache, captured the scene in oils.
"Hey Friday!" Tuesday shouted over the J-Pop band, with a mouth full of oily duck. "What are we doing this weekend?"
Friday sighed softly, as the massuse worked his lower back. He turned to her, and in a voice he was sure would be drowned out across the room, asked, "Why do I have such lame co-workers?"
She smiled a little laugh, but professionally, just moved her fingers to smooth the muscles around his spine. She used her nails to give him a little treat.
"Ooooh!" He said to her, then the band crashed to a halt at the end of their song.
"I'm hopping in a cab." Friday said to the table, "And driving very far away from all of you!" Tuesday choked on his duck, and grabbed a glass of reisling and drank a gulp. The portrait artist sat up on his stool, and observed the reactions of the weekdays around the table. This was much better material to work with!
"I'm sick of you guys always riding on my coattails." Friday continued. The Front-damsel of the J-Pop band looked at her bandmates, unsure if they should continue with their set, or wait for more words. "Maybe if you would come up with something to do instead of finding out what I'M DOING ALL THE FUCKING TIME!" (The massuse pulled her hands back in shock at the words yelled at the table of weekdays) The drummer's sticks click together uncomfortably, and the artist's brush made soft furious scrapes on the canvas.

The door burst open, and Thursday entered. He had a hook where his left hand should be, an eye-patch, and a fake parrot on his shoulder. "I got 'em!" He cried out to the deathly quiet room, obviously proud of himself. "Front row tickets to Scourge of the Shipping Lanes!" The three weekdays looked at each other and to Thursday, and then to Friday, who smiles from his table.
"What," Friday asked, "You guys don't want to see fucking great Pirate Rock?"

He got up from the table, and began to get dressed. "All of you are coming! Painter, grab your canvas! Massuse! Get your coat! J-Pop! You know what to do!"

And with that, the band kicked into "What shall we do with the drunken sailor" And the front-girl slaughters the English...you've never heard the song sung so cute.
"Whrat sharr we do wit de drunkern sairor! Purt heem in a boorrt and thrrorw heem overr!" Smiles are everywhere. The band finishes and the room breaks into applause. When it dies down Friday shouts,
"TO THE COSTUME SHOP!"
And the whole party files out of the room, and boards a black cargo-van, bedecked with a massive Jolly-Roger skull-and-crossbones flag flying from a pole attatched to the luggage rack on top.

Happy Friday