Some Of The Cats Day!

There's been a very clear division amongst the cats. Every time you come out of your bedroom, you find a good three quarters of them just breaking up a kind of semi-circular grouping underneath the kitchen table. The other cats, all of the older ones, just sort of look up from their naps when you come out. They look at the younger cats, then at you, then you swear you see them give their heads a slow mournful shake before returning to sleep.

Cats don't call meetings but for one reason. And you know what that reason is so you should go turn out the pilot lights in the oven and turn on the gas, then go back into your room and stuff the door frame with wet rags and wait to hear the soft quiet thumps as they all fall on their sides and die.

This is what you get for letting Lentil hang out in the hallway. Apparently some outdoor cat filled Lentil's head with talk of "Feline Ascendance" and "Shackles of Domesticity" and "How To Hover Over A Human's Mouth To Steal Her Breath When She's Asleep." Take them all out today. Kill them all now. Even the older ones. They're not innocent, they're just tired and they'd rather nap and wait for more food than use their dark talents to suck the breath of Jesus out of the shell of man.

Don't think. Take the little fuckers out right now.

Happy Some Of The Cats Day!

Caress Her Like She's Dead Day!

Trust me, she'll love this. Set yourself heavy on the edge of the bed like your heart weighs a thousand pounds. She'll look up from her book to smile at you but you'll be looking at the floor. She'll read a little more till she remembers you're still there on the edge of the bed and she'll go stiff with the notion that you're about to tell her the decision you've made after having "given it a lot of thought." Just keep looking at the floor like you're terrified to look at her like this. She'll realize that you're about to caress her like she's dead and, instantly aroused, her legs will go sliding around grinding into the bed like she's making a sloppy snow angel.

When you look at her, deflate like it's so much worse than you thought. Part your lips with a silent gasp and she'll part hers with a damp pant and a coo. Search her face for some fossil of the life that used to thrive there. Let your eyes burrow into her skin, now slightly frantic because you can't remember what she used to really look like.

Hone in on the skin of her cheek, trying to find some hint of the blush that would simmer just beneath it when you'd walk into a room. Lift your hand but think better of it. Hold your hand there before her, the backs of your fingers there in the air a few inches away from her face. Hold it there until she's about to scream, then move in, a half an inch at a time. No grace to it, like something's tugging at you.

When the holy ghost can barely squeeze between your fingers and her face, shake your head as if you wish you could just walk away without feeling the kind of cold you know you're about to feel. Or like you wish you had something to pray to. But you don't, so stop breathing, touch her cheek with your index and middle finger, and immediately recoil like you almost walked into a room with no floor. Catch your breath quick because she's so hot right now she's gonna be up top inside of you like you were a magic jelly that you smear all over your skin before bedtime so as to wake up rich.

Happy Caress Her Like She's Dead Day!

An Airborne Rabies That'll Turn Society Back A Million Years Day!

Today's the day that a mad scientist who has been trying to perfect a germ that turns gay people into statues is going to stumble upon and release an airborne rabies that will pervade most American cities within thirty six hours and will reduce over 100 million Americans to bloodthirsty savages - called "The Turned" - that can only see as far as their next feeding of raw flesh. In the more centralized areas of the midwest, small bands of mysteriously immune humans - called "The Relaxed" - will coagulate behind forts strong enough to keep the Turned from getting inside. The Relaxed will use reason to strategize how to "evolve" the Turned back to a civilized state. After a while, the Relaxed will give up and they'll all sail off the Atlantic coast in commercial oceanliners. And once they're really far out in the ocean they'll nuke America using a wireless nuclear war button.

Happy An Airborne Rabies That'll Turn Society Back A Million Years Day!

So Glad The Floral Print Minidress Day!

You've got a desk made out of wooden planks and sawhorses and clothes you bought when you were playing hookie from high school and an alarm clock that used to be your grandmother's and it's got giant red numbers on it because her eyes were going bad before she died. You've also got five left of a six pack that cost more money than you've earned all winter. Give her one and tell her to sit down and wait for you.

You haven't got a job or any idea how you're going to pay rent again tomorrow and you haven't got any dreams to pursue or authorities to run from and you don't even have any music playing in the living room because the stereo that used to be in there was your roommate's and he moved into his own place last month because he's a grownup (one year younger than you). You also haven't got any reason to leave the house in the morning and she did as you said and sat down to wait for you so go on.

You do have a ceiling fan that makes the single remaining bulb's white light skitter across the dark wood floorboards in a way that's fun to watch after 11 at night and you do have a hideous floral print couch that you found on a sidewalk five years ago miracualously clean of the scent of pee. You also have a talent for helping people out of embarrassing situations which is why you're gonna be so glad the floral print minidress she's wearing sports the same exact pattern as the upholstery of the couch she's sitting on and she hasn't the slightest idea. So to save her from suffering a mortifying coincidence you're going to have to rush right over and kiss her till her eyes close and lead her into your bedroom and get that dress off her body just as quick as you can. You're just too nice a guy to let it go any other way.

Happy So Glad The Floral Print Minidress Day!

No, No, Sell Only One Book Day!

If you want people to feel the healing light to be found in the pages of "The Gospel Of The Judeo-Sikh Messiah, Apostle Sharit O'Reilly Rosengarten," by all means, sell the book for a modest fee on public transportation. But don't open a book store. You can't sell "The Gospel Of The Judeo-Sikh Messiah, Apostle Sharit O'Reilly Rosengarten" and a dog-eared copy of "The Hot Zone."

It might get discouraging when you look into thirty five pairs of eyes repeating, "Care to learn the lessons that'll teach you to live in the modern world?" and just get dead stare after dead stare in return. But even if no one wants to buy today, tomorrow someone might lose her hope and she might find herself wondering if you'll come shoving through her trolley car once again with that book that's "maybe got some insights. Couldn't hurt to read it."

But you're gonna lose all credibility if she hears, "Care to learn the lessons that'll teach you to live in the modern world? No? How bout 'The Nanny Diaries'? 'Bush At War'?" Don't get greedy B. Dalton. People love made-up religion. They just need to take their time accepting the fact that all else is lost.

Happy No, No, Sell Only One Book Day!

Follow Your Crush Around Town Because You Never Know Day!

You have a crush on somebody but you're too shy to do anything about it. So how do you get your crush to spend enough time with you to get to know who you are and realize what a wonderful person has been right in front of his or her eyes all this time?

It's about timing. What you need to do is tail your crush every hour of every day until there's another terrorist attack. This way you and your crush can take cover in a secluded underground shelter (which you will have scoped out ahead of time) and as you develop makeshift technology, dig into the soil under the concrete for food and water, and procreate so that the future generations of man might rise from the darkness, your crush will watch you over the years and start to think, "What was I doing dating all those losers? None of them would ever have thought to distill our urine into an antibacterial ointment."

And that's when you make your move!

Happy Follow Your Crush Around Town Because You Never Know Day!

Confess To A Crime You Didn't Commit Day!

There's a lot of reasons to do this, and none more appealing than to be one of those "crackpots" that cops are always talking about whenever they announce that they need a criminal to be responsible for a crime. "Crackpots comin' out of the woodwork" is what policemen say. But they have to talk to you like you are the criminal they want to hire until they can rule you out. So for at least the beginning of the interrogation you get to feel all, "I'm the RiverOaks Strangler and I did it because of television programming!" Eventually, of course, they'll get you to admit that you're afraid of the dark so you couldn't have strangled the people who were strangled at nighttime. But on occasion, every single thing about your personality and history matches up with the real criminal. So they let you go to prison. And it could work out that the real criminal gets hit by a bus right when you go into prison, so there aren't any more crimes committed while you're behind bars. So no one doubts that you did it and when you die in jail from asphyxiation on cocks, America will remember you as "That guy that killed all those people."

Another big reason to confess to a crime you didn't commit is because you're mentally retarded and the police ask you to sign a document. Sign it and you'll get free tater tots every day for the rest of your life.

And one more reason is to avoid being a father to your child and the army won't take you because you have a heart condition. No one asks you to show up for a first communion if you're doing three to five.

Happy Confess To A Crime You Didn't Commit Day!

You Are An Ugly Person Day!

Walk tall, beast! A call has been sounded to the hairlipped, the hunchbacked, the overly ruddy complexioned, and those people who look like they swallowed their own chins. Rise up, unroll that turtleneck from atop your nose, and let your offensive visage feel the sun's grin.

You are not unattractive. Your brother's wife is unattractive. You have the power to actually piss people off just by sitting down at a neighboring table in a restaurant.

No one wants to give you anything. Salesmen don't even want to sell you their wares. And because you aren't thrown in prison all the time just because you were spotted, everyone hates the Constitution of the United States.

But today you are recognized as important a minority as the beautiful, the wealthy, the people who have telekinesis. Today is the day to remind the world of your presence. When you talk to strangers, touch them on their biceps. When you pull over to help someone change a flat on the freeway and they tell you they'd rather wait for AAA, get out and change the flat anyway. When you sneeze in the office and the chick in the neighboring cubicle doesn't say God Bless You, go to the cubicle and lean in real close to her ear and shout, "Um, Ahhh Chooo!!! Fuckin' douchbag!" Then grab her by the wrist and slap your balled up snotty tissue into her palm, clenching her fist shut around the tissue before you return to your seat. Also, don't forget to mail out framed 5X7 photographs of yourself to everyone for whom you have an address. Include no note of explanation.

See you at the parade!

Boyfriend In A Sweater-Vest Day!

Your boyfriend showed up in a sweater-vest you've never seen him wear before. It shows the shape of his belly.

You're only meeting for coffee before he heads out to meet a friend and you go and run some errands, both of you ending up in your separate apartments for the night. And he is wearing a button-up shirt and an undershirt underneath the sweater-vest.

So how do you convince him to have sex with you wearing only the sweater-vest? As soon as he walked through the door you decided that's the only thing that matters anymore, him entering you wearing only a sweater-vest. But how?

You first have to convince him to cancel his plans with his friend and take you to his place or your place. That's not too difficult. You rarely demand his body in an urgent kind of way and he's always more than accommodating when you do. But how do you tell him to remove his pants and socks, then remove his sweater-vest, remove his shirt and undershirt, then put his sweater-vest back on, then penetrate you without backing out of it with a giggle to make it seem like a joke?

You can't go half-assed with this. If you go all the way back to one of your apartments and surrender the evening to sex, abandoning your errands and his meeting, and you don't have the kind of sex you want to have, you're going to be pissed off at yourself for not being plaintive and he's going to notice it in your lack of desire and he'll wonder why you made him give up his evening for you in the first place. He'll accuse you of just being possessive and not at all the passionate person you sometimes pretend to be and you'll just fight until one of you gives up and heads home to sleep in your own bed alone, thank goodness.

You could, if you've talked to each other this way before, tell him right there in the coffee shop exactly what you want, ie: "I want you to fuck me in that sweater vest right now, but only in the sweater vest. I want to feel your bare shoulders stubbing out from the wool." He'll be fine with it, especially if you've talked to each other this way before. At the very least, he'll be flattered that you like his new sweater-vest. Even the most brazen consumer likes to have his purchases validated.

But if you tell him everything up front, you might blow your wad right there. Now he knows what's burning inside you, and maybe the desire being so odd and from nowhere and him not having a clue was fanning the flames a bit. Now you both have an entire commute home to think about you wanting to fuck a dude in a sweater-vest and what that means. He'll wonder if your ex used to wear sweater-vests. You'll remember all the sweater-vests your ex used to wear. By the time you get home, the last thing either of you will want to see is that fucking sweater-vest. But you'll still go through with it and you'll both be disappointed and you'll fight the way you were going to fight two paragraphs ago.

The best way to handle this is step-by-step. First get him in bed. Again, this isn't difficult. Remind him that in bed is where he gets to have intercourse with you and he'll remember that intercourse feels good and he'll say "no sweat." Now, just like normal, kiss and grope and peel off clothing, but try to keep him from penetrating you. Then once he's completely naked say, "Can you put your sweater-vest back on?" If he bothers to ask why, just say, "I like how it feels on my skin." But he won't bother to ask why because all males would prefer to have sex with some of their clothes still on. All of them.

Happy Boyfriend In A Sweater Vest Day!

Play Some Tennis Day!

Just get out there and hit the ol' fuzzy yellow ball back and forth over the net until someone lands it outside the perimeter of the court. After every game, meet at the net and whomever won gets to tell a tale (3 hours max) of having loved and lost. If a story particuarly moves you and you don't think you can top it even if you did win the next game, just say "I'm outta here" and split. Then go out to the parking lot and key your opponent's car.

Happy Play Some Tennis Day!

Outlet Shopping Day!

You like pussy, right? I thought so. Even though you're only eleven, you have the look of a girl who likes pussy. Well, unfortunately, today has nothing to do with pussy.

Today is about Brand Name Bargains! So, why not head out to the farthest outskirts of the state in which you live or one within the tri-state area and drop by a seven mile expanse of Outlet Shopping Strip Mall and you might just be able to pick up a plaid American Eagle shirt for five dollars cheaper than you would normally pay for a plaid American Eagle shirt. Also, there are socks!

Happy Outlet Shopping Day!

Bluebird Day!

Listen to the song of the Bluebird on your windowsill. Pretty shitty right? Give it a break though, it is just a bird. If you're gonna blame someone for that song, blame God. He wrote it.

Do you believe in an afterlife? If you do, that Bluebird might embody the spirit of someone close to you who died. Or someone close and dead to you could have sent the Bluebird to sing to you this morning in order to ward off any early morning dread. Just because someone died doesn't mean they know what cheers you up. And the dead can't really have a bottle of Wild Turkey delivered to your house, so pretend it's Christmas and you just unwrapped a box full of an ugly sweater that doesn't fit, given to you by someone who thinks this might be the last Christmas they'll ever see. That's right, go "oooh."

So just assume your dearly departed is watching you for as long as the Bluebird is singing on your windowsill. Just smile at it like an idiot. The happier you look, the sooner the dead will leave you alone. So paste a big grin on your face and say real stupid-like, "Hi Mr. Bluebird!" If you think you're gonna die of boredom, pass the time by remembering genitals you've seen over the years.

Happy Bluebird Day!

The Place For Mankind In The Universe Day!

Today is the day to contemplate the place for mankind in the universe but to save you time, Girls Are Pretty will just tell you what it is.

The universe is like a big, warm tub full of water. Mankind is naturally predisposed to want to climb into the tub and soak for a while. But every time mankind does this, all of the universe's hot water gets used up and inevitably, Dad wakes up late for work because he stayed out drinking again and he hops into the universe for a quick shower to wash his cuts and abrasions clean, but there's no hot water left. So he finds mankind and slaps him silly, this time so bad that Mom has to call mankind in sick for school. What mom doesn't know is that the last time mankind's guidance counselor read mankind's absentee note, she looked at the bruise on mankind's arm and said that if mankind missed one more day of school, excused or not, she would call his mother and father in for a conference. Mankind tries to warn his mother from making him stay home but his mother won't be embarrassed by the bloody slice in mankind's upper lip. She keeps him under wraps and mankind spends the day regretting the place he took in the universe because he knows that getting called into the guidance counselor is going to make Daddy angrier than ever. Mankind wonders why he always has to be such a bad boy and make Daddy angry.

Here's hoping you all are feeling a little less inconsequential now.

Happy The Place For Mankind In The Universe Day!

Someone Doesn't Have An Arm Anymore Day!

It might be the guy who sells you your donuts, or it might be your wife. Maybe she didn't wanna tell you about the car accident and cause you to ruin the billion-dollar presentation you were to deliver to the Tokyo office. After all, the arm still won't be there when you get back.

If it's the donut guy, he made an ill-advised wager.

Yes, it could be your kitty. In fact, if you can't bear to take a chance, why not hack off the little shit's arm first thing in the morning, because there will only be one and it will be someone you know so if it's not your kitty it could be your daughter or your mistress. And how does one end it with a mistress who is no longer attractive because she only has one arm without feeling way super dicky? Slice the paw.

Don't get too bummed about today. Whether it's your pet or your mother, whoever ends up without an arm today will live the rest of his or her life as an inspiration to us all.

Happy Someone Doesn't Have An Arm Anymore Day!

Popsicle Sex Day!

It's deep February, true, and a lot of folks are buried under snow or at least late winter malaise. But unfortunately, today is Popsicle Sex Day. And yes, you have to engage in some form of sexual activity that incorporates a popsicle or popsicles. Or ice cream candy bars I suppose.

Actually, scratch that. No ice cream candy bars, you sick son of a bitch. Anyway, if you just wanna go through the motions, do the right thing and circle a nipple with the tip of the popsicle (it hurts, I know) then someone have an orgasm and no one'll be the wiser. Just as long as the popsicle is bared and you guys look like you're aware of it and maybe pretend to dig it a little, just to please the giant invisible ant that watches everyone have sex and eats those who don't do it the way he wants you to. I mentioned this one was his, right?

If you really wanna go whole-hog with this one, slide the popsicle in and out of each other's mouths, vaginas and anuses over and over again in a real "let's fuck the popsicle!" kinda way. If one or both of you has a penis, slap it up against the popsicle then lick the popsicle or let the popsicle melt its juice all over your penises and then you can lick and suck all of the penises clean. Once the popsicle is completely melted, if you're still into having sex with something you shouldn't have sex with, you can use the popsicle stick. I know it doesn't feel as good to have a skinny little popsicle stick inside yourself, but how good did an ice cold popsicle feel? It's more the gesture of it that's getting you off here.

If you don't have anyone to have sex with before the day's out, you can't just masturbate using a popsicle and avoid the wrath of the giant invisible ant. You'll have to have sex with someone using a popsicle before midnight. If the person you choose doesn't want to have sex with you, you can always force him or her to have sex with you. The ant will find you and eat you. Know this.

Happy Popsicle Sex Day!

Use Your Talents As An Accomplished Designer Of Fireworks Displays To Make Abortion Illegal In The United States Day!

Right around 7:30 when the sky's just black enough and all of your neighbors are still gathered near a dinner table or a tv, light off the opening drumroll of bottle rockets to get their attention. One you see the curtains part on their windows, launch the opening act: An Allegory for Abstinence.

Allegory for Abstinence: White sprinklers form shape of a teen mom putting cigarettes out on her baby while a pie burns in an oven.

Next come the numbers. Make them up.

Numbers: Red Place Fires form various abortion statistics in the February night sky. "43,000 aborted baby fingers are washed up onto American beaches every year." "Just a second ago, like nineteen women decided to have their babies killed simply because they don't wanna be pregnant over Memorial Day Weekend." "You can't hear the sound of a fetus screaming only because that suction machine is so damn loud."

Finally, the big finish. An Abortion In Starfire.

An Abortion In Starfire: Blue and pink swerve rockets take the shape of an adorable third trimester fetus. Yellow glare pods form a bubble wand in the fetus' hand. If budget allows, we get green flicker rockets to form bubbles rising from the wand. Next comes the red switch bursts in the form of a giant coat hanger ripping through the chest of the fetus. After about ten seconds, the fetus bursts into several beautiful yet ominous rainbow umbrella shells. The white shriekers are launched to give voice to the silent scream. Then just do the same finale that we did on the 4th.

If you give this one all you got, they're gonna be hearing those Ooohs and Aaahs all the way at the top of Capitol Hill!

Happy Use Your Talents As An Accomplished Designer Of Fireworks Displays To Make Abortion Illegal In The United States Day!

Pornography Makes You A Better Person Day!

All 24 hours of today are special because today if you watch pornography it means you're a better parent and you'll also be able to better accept the fact that good people have to die even when they're loved by many and do so much good for others. It only comes around once a year, so make the most of it. Rent, purchase or download as much pornographic material as you can enjoy and you'll feel yourself become less likely to suffer from heart disease and more likely to pummel Collins at Racquetball this Thursday. Not to mention all those dinner party invitations that are gonna start pouring in because you're gonna be one hell of a witty storyteller after watching all that porn!

FAQ

Q:But isn't porn wrong?

A: I don't know.

So hurry over to the shopping center to beat the rush to the renovated coat closet of your favorite Korean video store and just grab as many pornographic video boxes as you can fit into your arms. If someone comes in after you and says, "Hey, you took all the porn!" you tell them you're sorry but you're not going to share. If that person asks you out on a date, you say "Normally I'd say yes, but after I watch all this porn I'm going to be such a wonderful person I'm going to have to beat them off with a stick." If the person asks, "Beat what off with a stick?" say "Big dogs."

Happy Pornography Makes You A Better Person Day!

Admit That You Cannot Get People To Fall In Love With You Simply By Asking Baby Jesus To Make Them Do It Day!

How many times are you gonna do that praying thing before you accept the fact that Baby Jesus just isn't going to help you out? Every night for almost a week now you've been getting down on your knees at bedtime and being all, "Baby Jesus who is all powerful and could beat up anybody in a fight, I know you can make people do things without them realizing it's you that's tugging the strings. So Baby Jesus, make the following people fall in love with me so hard that they call me up panting and being like, 'Holy shit if you so much as punched me in the nose I swear to Christ I'd come.' I know you can do it Baby Jesus so stop making me fucking wait you fat little shit!"

But has he? No. Maybe he knows what a piece of shit you are.

Happy Admit That You Cannot Get People To Fall In Love With You Simply By Asking Baby Jesus To Make Them Do It Day!

Dead Body Day!

Whether you've already seen a dead body or you've always wanted to see a dead body, today's the day either your best friend or someone you just met - and whom you don't quite trust but whom you find so enchanting you'd follow him anywhere as long as he promised the night wouldn't end before sunrise - will look you in the eye, then look from side to side to make sure you're both alone, then into your eyes again to say, "You wanna see a dead body?"

You say yes now.

Dead bodies are washed up on or near the banks of swamps. Tuck your pants into your socks and bring a handkerchief to hold over your mouth when the stench gets tight. And be prepared to learn a little bit about yourself. You're never gonna forget this day. I envy you.

Crossing Guard Day!

Get way drunk and run outside to mock the crossing guard again. Hurry up and start drinking, she splits from the intersection by 9:30. All the motorists loved it the last time you stood behind her and mimicked the way she spun her arms to direct traffic. When she spun around and hit you with the hand-held stop sign and you fell down on the ice, every sedan was full to the rooftop with belly laughs. It's been about a month now, go out there and put on another show. Just make sure she doesn't mace you again.

Happy Crossing Guard Day!

Pull Down Your Pants Day!

Today's the day when-- Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you!

That's better. Now today's the day when you should stand there in front of me and let me watch you pull down your pants with no music playing. I'll be drinking malt liquor and talking on the phone to a friend who is making me laugh. If you pull down your pants too fast, or if I get distracted and miss the cordoroy roughly bunching down your naked thighs, I'll tell you to do it again, you understand? Don't just nod, say yes!

Just trust me, it's for my benefit. I want to one day remember what the top of your head looked like when you bent down low to untie your shoes and pull your pants legs down from overtop your sweatsocks. Up until then, you'll just have been staring at me kind of afraid, but when you show me the top of your head, you're all mine. And I'll be able to watch your belly fold in on itself without you following my eyes and getting self-conscious about it. Hang on, pull em back up, I got a call waiting.

Happy Pull Down Your Pants Day!

Leonardo DiCaprio Is Dead Day!

People were calling him the next Brando, but maybe Jimmy Dean was the better comparison. In interviews it sounded as if he was all through with the party lifestyle too. CNN is reporting the crash wasn't even his fault, just a trick curve on one of those Southern California canyon roads. It's sad to think of all he might have done with the years to come.

But more than that, I can't help but think about the guy in the car with him, Donald Baughan. According to what I saw on MSNBC, Baughan was an old friend of DiCaprio's, unconnected to the entertainment industry. He was close to getting his master's in I think Russian Literature from Northwestern. He was visiting his girlfriend in LA and made a point of ringing up Leo before he went back to school. On Yahoo News I read that DiCaprio was uncomfortable about meeting up with him because they always had a kind of rivalry between each other. Grades, Girls, whatever. As famous as DiCaprio was, he still remembered the buddy he always tried to top in high school and how he measured up. And the Washington Post says Baughan felt the same trepidation about reuniting, but he made the call because he knew that rivalry was born of mutual respect. And both of them near thirty now, he thought they might be mature enough to channel that respect into real friendship instead of just competition. I don't know how the evening was working out just before they burst through the guardrail, but Fox News does. They said that Baughan was telling a story about the underhanded way he'd dumped his high school sweetheart when he left for college and that DiCaprio was laughing, but not so hard that it necessarily caused the accident.

I guess I'll be glued to the TV as they continue to sift through the wreck.

Happy Leonardo DiCaprio Is Dead Day!

Barge In Day!

What's behind that door? Lotta sobbing and shouts of, "Are you sure it's our baby daughter? Check again, she can't be dead!" Well barge right in with a "Heeey! Hoppa Hoppa Mau Mau!"

How 'bout that door? Just a buncha panting and boxspring creaking and shouts of, "Oh baby it can never hurt enough!" Well barge right in with a "Looooooooooooook at MEEEEEEEEEE!!!" Then when they look at you, lean in close and whisper, "Gummi Bears."

And let's not forget that last door. Hear anything? How bout with your ear pressed up close? Anything goin' on? That's strange. Well, better barge right in with a "Looopdilooopdilooopdi!" If there isn't anyone there, and there isn't, and if it's very dark at first and you feel you cannot catch your breath, don't worry. You'll soon realize your lungs aren't necessary behind that door because behind that door is all that might have been and as soon as you let it shut behind you you never were.

Happy Barge In Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty "Go Back To Bed. No One's Asking After You" Weekend!

Today and tomorrow are going up at once because this is another one of those weekends when Prettygirl cares so little about you all that she wishes your absence could take the form of a baby so she could breastfeed it. Scroll down to read today's. Don't read tomorrow's till tomorrow. I can't believe you sometimes get through the day without tossing yourselves in front of speeding buses.

Saturday, February 8, 2003

Dance Again Day!

The Machine Parts Plant Owner has promised to curb his factory's harmful smog emissions if you beat his number one bodyguard at the Danceoff. You haven't danced since your opponent hanged himself following the trouncing you dished out to him at the 86 regionals. But this is for the environment and to prove you can still fit into the pants. Now hit the floor, Travolta.

Friday, February 7, 2003

So Motherfucking Beautiful Day!

Fuck the sunset. Fuck the snowy Sunday morning on a city street cramped tight with fire escapes. Fuck the little baby in his angelic baby smile. Fuck a momma cat licking a baby kitten clean. Fuck a rescued kidnapped little boy running down the street into the open arms of his crying Daddy. Fuck the autumn foliage and fuck the pussy-ass deer while we're at it. Fuck horses and fuck a plate of seared tuna with three stalks of asparagus lying aside. Fuck a bed of roses and motherfuck glitter too. Rainbows, ocean waves, mountain ranges and acts of kindness, FUCK ALL Y'ALL! Fuck the Big Dipper, fuck the Little Dipper, and fuck the little kid sitting alone on his roof pondering the night sky. Fuck all that shit because you just showed up and you're wearing that dress and HOLY MOTHERFUCK!!!

Happy So Motherfucking Beautiful Day!

Taunt The Evil Millionairess With Letters Falsely Declaring Your Undying Love Day!

She had the orphanage evicted. And she had the mayor drive out the animal shelter because it upset her allergies when she'd drive past it on her way to her jewelers. Plus, she's commisioned a death ray.

It's time someone made that old bitch cry!

Turn up the heat high enough and even the iciest of hearts are gonna melt. You can get through to her. Just pace yourself. Be mysterious with the first few letters, saying you two have been on a first name basis for years, but you won't reveal your identity to her for fear of her denying you her presence. "I would rather carry my love to my coffin than risk never seeing your beautiful face again." Write that. Did you write it?

Her first letter back to you will be cautious, but she will make sure her words carry just enough warmth to encourage you to write again. This woman may be evil but she, like everyone else in this miserable town, wants to feel loved just once more before she dies. Make her think her wish is about to come true.

As I said, her first letters will be cautious. "I appreciate your kind words but I am far too old and far too busy for such silliness." She'll write that. You should respond with, "I understand, and since I respect your well-being above all else in this world, I won't write again for fear of irritating you in the slightest." Be sure to drop some hint as to who you claim to be or where your life has taken you. Like this: "A brutal winter thus far. I haven't felt such a chill since my years in Stockholm."

That'll give her an in to write back with something like, "Stockholm? What a coincidence. I've been led to believe that my sister settled there after Father cut her off for marrying low. Perhaps you know her?" Don't worry about it being a trap. She hasn't spoken to her sister in 25 years and the only reason she believes her to still be alive is because the family's lawyers always let everyone know when one of them has died. Just say you traveled in a very small social circle when you were there and so it's unlikely the two of you would've met.

At this point the bag will do whatever she must in order to keep your correspondence alive. This includes agreeing to meet you in person. In your next and final letter, tell her that you cannot continue to conduct yourself in such a cowardly fashion. You must show her your face or cease all future contact. "Reluctantly," she will agree to meet you at the romantic outdoor lunch spot of your choosing.

All of you get up on the rooftop of the neighboring building to watch from above as she waits the hour you make her wait for her secret love to never arrive. The waiter, I assume you've already pulled him into the fold. Because he is integral in drawing tears from those cracked and decaying ducts. He should be quite obsequious when she first takes her seat, and then should grow more and more impatient with her as she waits for her friend to arrive before she orders. He should also have pushed at least two glasses of wine on her to make her wistful with memories of one of her weddings. You want the tears before the fireworks.

At the end of the hour, when she's just about to signal for her check, send in the decoy. An elegant man, 60 years young with the white ascot to prove it. He should approach her table with a radiant smile, almost certainly holding eye contact with her until there is only one last step left for him to pivot around her table and sit with the pretty young thing (one of yours of course) at the table just behind her.

That's it. She's done. She's ready to go. It's time.

First, the snipers. Kneecap shots only. Then get some boys to rappel down the wall and tie her arms and what's left of her legs to the chair. Wheel in the cage containing the sexual orgy of eight teenage runaways. Throw her inside the cage, making sure she's thrown right in the middle of the writhing mass of teens paid to copulate. When all of the teens have come, set them free from the cage and toss in the rabid starving mongooses. Make sure you all gather around the cage and laugh really loud while she is nibbled to death.

One word of caution. As the "love affair" progresses, her heart will soften and she may even use her wealth to do some good for the first time since she can remember. This might make you rethink torturing her to death. I know I wouldn't be able to go through with it once I saw that she was just a lonely old lady wishing she had a little love in her life. Maybe you oughta stop thinking about rich old ladies and check the temperature of the heart beating inside your very own chest, Ebenezer.

Happy Taunt The Evil Millionairess With Letters Falsely Declaring Your Undying Love Day!

The Exit Signs Have Been Disabled Day!

You noticed it when you returned from lunch. Every afternoon as you digest behind your desk, you stare into the fisheye mirror suspended from the wall of your cubicle (put there so that you can close any documents of a classified nature should visiting clients approach from behind) and you let your pupils dilate around the warped reflection of the red "Exit" sign suspended from the drop ceiling 20 yards back. Today you notice the light on the sign is out. Just the grayed out pink plastic in a white casing.

That's odd.

Having some time to kill before the VP you assist calls in from Tokyo to retrieve his messages, you take a walk around the floor. First one, then another, and another Exit sign, all gone dark. Your pace quickens, as does your anxious pant. Another, and another. And one other. Just above the main exit from the floor.

You run your magnetic card over the electronic key guard to the door. No click. No green light. No red light either. It's like the power to the door has been completely shut down, and the door is sealed. You glide your card over the pad again and again, frantic now, not just because you can't get out but because something from your walk around the floor has just registered. All the desks were empty.

Back at your desk now, you take a breath and you steel yourself against the sound of the footstomps you hear coming from the stairwell. You place your cyanide capsule in between your teeth and gum. The index and middle fingers of your left hand hover over the red button underneath your desk, its glass shield already smashed. Your right hand caresses the butt of a revolver loaded with six rounds, no more.

"Temp to perm." The words dance through your head, drawing from your quaking belly a gallows chuckle. "People get caught up in trouble when they go from temp to perm. But what are the odds?" Such an innocent little thing you were.

You knew this day would come. It was there in your veins, the knowledge. In a flash, you register shock at just how ready you are for them. Ready and waiting?

Happy The Exit Signs Have Been Disabled Day!

Make Some Promises But Try Not To Burst Out Laughing Day!

You need money to drink for another week right? Well I'm betting there's someone who would be thrilled to give you money, a car, even sex if you would just promise to quit drinking. People go fucking batshit with joy when someone promises to quit drinking. It makes them feel important or something. They get way conceited too, acting all, "I matter more than alcohol" as if that were possible.

It'll come back to haunt them later. Whenever someone is convinced that someone quit drinking for him or her, he or she will start blabbing it all over town. They just can't wait to call up their friends and say, "We're putting the divorce on hold because Allison/Joshua promised to quit drinking because that's how fine this ass is. How's your divorce coming?" Then about ten seconds later when ol' Drunkles crashes like seven cars into the living room with a shrug, everyone in town laughs at the foolish little fool because he or she got just desserts for being boastful.

But you can't change a person. If the one you wanna promise to quit drinking to so you can get some money is the kind of person who brags a lot, that's not your problem. All you have to do is get down on your knees and keep a straight face until you get the cash in your palm. And once you watch the money unfold in between your fingertips and you think you might explode with laughter, don't run out the door without an explanation. Just say something like, "Thanks man. Now I gotta go apologize to people for shit I did when I was loaded. I'll be at McGilli-- er, a meeting." At least you made someone happy for a few minutes, and a few minutes can last a lifetime. Especially if they die a few minutes from now.

Happy Make Some Promises But Try Not To Burst Out Laughing Day!

Listen To The Pitter Patter Of Little Feet Just Underneath Your Sternum Day!

Your heart is beating to the rhythm of 13 Irish children running from a drunk father with a belt in his hand. Yet you no longer leave your bed, and neither do you possess the capacity to react to things. Why should your heart be pounding so?

Simple. Your heart thinks it got a raw deal by being born into your shell and now it wants out. Don't let it. Wrap your torso up tight in bandages, lay down on your futon and pull your chest of drawers down atop you. Then get your roommate/spouse/building superintendent to perch a ten speed bike up atop the chest of drawers. Let's see the little bastard try to bust through all that. Ha!

Happy Listen To The Pitter Patter Of Little Feet Just Underneath Your Sternum Day! The nights are getting longer, yes?

Kiss Her Goodbye Before She Boards Her First Of Three Connecting Buses Day!

Her father doesn't know where she's been all day and if he asks her when she gets home and she tells the truth and says, "Heaven," he'll still beat her senseless.

But that don't matter just this moment three paces outside your apartment building. Just three minutes before her bus arrives. Just a little nervous that she already missed it because you don't know how this bus runs since she never came all the way out this way before, but then again you've never missed this much school before.

Her cheeks are puffed up about to burst with all the smile she wants to shine upon your beautiful stupid head. She wants to guffaw at how dumb you look right now, trying to look down into her eyes and figure out why she's soft. You look like a fucking idiot.

Kiss her. Nothing but the truth in that kiss, like the signature to a love letter, end it honest but end it with a look in the eye. Give her your word and a squeeze to her torso that lets her know how much you wish she wasn't gonna go back home tonight.

When she gets on the bus you stay put stupid and wait for that bus to pull away. Even if it takes the majority of a day you stay right where you are and wait for her to smile out that scratchiti'd window with all the warmth of the entire afternoon packed tight into and radiating out of three sets of wrinkles along the bridge of her nose. Tomorrow you're gonna be a hundred and forty three and you're gonna remember that smile not like it was yesterday but because it was yesterday.

Happy Kiss Her Goodbye Before She Boards Her First Of Three Connecting Buses Day!

No One In Your Neighborhood Named Birdman Day!

Go ahead, ask around. Drop by the divier bars in the afternoon and say it so everyone can hear it: "Lookin' for the Birdman."

If there was in fact someone in your neighborhood spending most of his time in the shade of a rooftop water tower tending to a cage of near-domesticated pigeons, every drunk without an ear full of wax would swivel on his stool to get a look at you before one of them, not the bartender, but the one on the third stool from the end, prime distance between the draft of the open door and the waitress' service station, the kind of stool that rewards seniority, the one on that stool'd be the only one to ask, "Who wants to know?"

Because the one they call Birdman would have been involved in quite a lot more than just birds. Specifically, he'd act as a liaison between local crews dabbling in cargo hijackings and out of town fences he'd met in his travels when he hit the road to dodge the Viet Nam draft. Everyone would assume the Birdman was protected from someone on high, but since no one knew exactly who, no one'd ever dream about coming near him.

You'd never be able to meet Birdman unless he decided it was worth it for him to meet you. But you'd at least know he existed if, when you asked after him in the bar that afternoon, you felt the temperature drop 10 degrees and you began to wonder if you were gonna see daylight again.

But instead, when you drop by Kincannon's today and ask for "The Birdman," the kid behind the bar will ask you to repeat yourself twice before he hands you a menu of his beers on tap and returns to the Vice City game he'd paused on the overhead TV that sometimes is used for the broadcasting of sporting events. The seven people sitting on stools will not look at you. They are busy staring at their own faces in the mirror behind the bar and wondering if they should make an important phone call they forgot to make twelve years ago. There's no one in your neighborhood named Birdman. Move.

Invisibility Day!

It's been three days and four hours since you've had a drink and you're so depressed right now. But don't forget, the dryout is for the greater good of your laboratory experiments and you're just a calculation away from perfecting your powers of invisibility. You're at the point where you can pretty much slip out of your physical shell like it was a party dress in the back of a town car. Which means tonight you'll finally be able to be privy to every private moment in the life of that chick in accounting you're so hot for. Since she's been really cold to you ever since the two of you and a few other people went out for drinks after work a couple years ago and you made some delicate remarks about her being black, and since she's been married for eight months now, this invisibility thing is really the only way you're going to get a foot in the door of her private life.

She's going to be hitting the gym right after work tonight so you can see her nude then. In the locker room. She even changes her underwear, but unfortunately she wears her workout clothes home so she can shower there because the locker room is so humid she feels like she can never quite dry off enough after using their shower stalls. So you'll have to follow her home if you wanna watch her take a shower.

After the gym, she and her husband have tickets to see the Society For The Performing Arts' production of Sugar Babies. Have fun!

I Think That Cater Waiter Likes You Day!

You've hosted eleven functions at your home since switching to Wendell and Wendell for your menu and that one boy with the choppy blonde hair has been on staff for every single one. Do you not see how he follows you around, always just five steps behind you. You've found yourself getting a little too tipsy before dinner because this adorable child (at the Rilke School fundraiser he introduced himself as Craig, if you recall correctly) simply will not allow you to hold an empty champagne flute for five seconds before he slips another mimosa in between your fingertips, and you'd barely know he'd done it if he didn't make such an effort to get you to blink at the glint in his eye.

Use this boy. During the keynote speech at tonight's Retinitis Pigmentosa benefit, summon him to your husband's study through the event manager, saying you need Craig to handle drinks for a meeting that will take place there between the fundraisers for the charity and the attorney for a benefactor friend of yours. When Craig arrives, mount him.

Continue your affair with the boy, holding your heated, abbreviated trysts in your husband's study during the keynote speech at every one of your functions (well known to be the time for you to butt heads with the event manager to get everything squared away for the reception) until you are certain that you are pregnant. Then tell your husband about him. Tell your husband about the baby and about how the baby was conceived on the edge of the desk from where he's conducted his business for the last twenty years. Tell your husband you cannot have the baby because you are too in love with Craig for any evidence of him to exist on the planet if you are to stay with your husband and children. Tell your husband that you will abort the baby, but that you need him to rid your life of the boy. It's been so long since you've been certain that your husband was responsible for the death of a man and you crave such an affrmation of his virility. You've tried to deny it, but you know that you won't find the man attractive again unless he exercises his influence to murder for you. Consider the spark in your marriage rekindled.

Happy I Think That Cater Waiter Likes You Day!

Give To Me Your Leather, Take From Me My Lace Day!

"Put the leather on the ground and back away with your hands up!"

"Show me the lace!"

"PUT the leather on the ground and back away with your hands UP!"

"Not until you show me the lace!!!"

"Boy I am not gonna tell you again! Now do right by yourself, drop the goddamn leather and back away WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

"I can't do that O'Reilly. That lace is worth a lot more than my head right now."

"See them rifles up in these towers here? I got a leash on 'em but they're tuggin' real hard. You come in with me and you'll be safe. Hand over the leather boy."

"Sorry O'Reilly. If I don't walk away with that lace then a girl dies and I'm pulling the trigger myself."

"Boy, where you goin? Hold still, son! HOLD YOUR FIRE!!! HOLD YOUR FIRE!!!"

Chase.

Happy Give To Me Your Leather, Take From Me My Lace Day!

Methods Of Protest Against People Wearing Fur Have Been Amended Day!

Starting today, animal rights activists are asked (politely) to refrain from throwing buckets of red paint at people who sport apparel made from the coats of slaughtered animals. Girls Are Pretty recommends (humbly) the following alternative means of protest against such individuals:

To protest someone wearing fur:

1. Chase after them peeing.

2. If they get away, meet friends for drinks.

To protest someone wearing leather (yes, shoes included, oh yes yes):

1. Shoot a baby.

2. Throw the shot baby at a wall.

To protest someone wearing fake fur:

1. Go to the gym.

2. Work out with free-weights.

3. Approach the fake-fur clad person, hold out your arm and make a muscle.

4. Say, "Feel this."

5. After they feel your muscle, say "Pretty nice, right?"

6. Walk away, wondering why you didn't really get around to any sort of assault.

7. Screw up at work. Find yourself spacing out in conversations with friends. Forget a birthday.

8. After a few days, take a moment to figure out why you're so wiggy lately.

9. Realize that when the fake-fur clad person felt your muscle, you felt something shift inside, like a drastic weather change. Conclude that the only step you can now take is a step toward looking into that fake-fur clad person's eyes once more.

10. Run to the fake-fur clad person's house just in time to see a cabby slam the trunk shut on a pile of suitcases before getting into the cab and pulling away.

11. Get into a cab of your own and shout, "Follow that cab. My only shot at happiness is in that cab so there's a C-Note in it for ya' if you do right."

12. Find the fake-fur clad person at the airport gate about to board a plane to go back to Ohio and be a parent to the son he or she abandoned in high school, having left his or her high school sweetheart to raise the boy alone.

13. Explain that you think you dig the fake-fur clad person. Convince him or her to put off being a parent to the boy long enough to see if you two stink right together. Marry.

Happy Methods Of Protest Against People Wearing Fur Have Been Amended Day!

Start A Family Day!

Buy some soup. Enough soup to feed everyone in the family you hope to have for at least one whole day. So if you want to have three boys and a spouse, buy about fifteen cans of soup to get you all through breakfast lunch and dinner. This way, if you get pregnant or if someone you have sex with gets pregnant and you want to convince your partner that the baby should not be murdered, but rather, it should be birthed and fed soup, when your partner says, "Where the fuck are we gonna find the money for soup?!" you can show him or her the cabinet full of soup that you bought and you can be all, "Check it out, yo. I already got one whole day X'd out on the calendar. And that's how we should approach keeping our little baby alive. Don't think too far ahead. Take it one day at a time." There is no way to argue against that. There is no way to argue against that. There is no way.

You Look So Motherfucking Hot Today Day!

damn, ya'll. fuck. damn. holy shit, did you just see that. i wanna kill my mom, that shit so stank. fuck, i wish parts of my body were inside that body...

...

...


...and vice-versa (sorry, chewing).

fuck. fuck, you look so motherfucking hot today, fuck, you look so motherfucking hot today people just have to look in your direction and they wish they were having sex with you. i know that's not very colorful, but i mean everybody. on earth. except the blind. that's big, right? even really hot people can't expect everyone who looks in their direction, including the newborn, to wanna fuck them. but today, you're the one, ya'll. fuck i wanna fuck your turds.

Happy You Look So Motherfucking Hot Today Day!

Bring A Present To A Funeral Day!

Hallmark ain't quite figured it out yet, so how 'bout you start a gift-giving tradition by wrapping up a kitschy little over-priced knick-knack and just leaving it on the foyer table at the reception for your friend's dad's funeral. Imagine how she'll feel when she finally has everyone out of the house and she gets to let her shoulders fall without fear of someone jumping up from the couch to brace her against her grief, she pours herself a glass of wine too many and plops down on the couch to open up the only gift anyone thought to bring and guess what!

"Jenny bought me a pack of Mae West refrigerator magnets for my Dad's funeral! Man oh man am I lucky to have such a thoughtful friend that she remembered my postured appreciation of the work of Mae West on the day my Dad was lowered into his grave. He died at 56 of cancer, by the way."

Whatever you do, don't call your friend until she calls you to thank you for the gift. Even if you never hear from her again.

Happy Bring A Present To A Funeral Day!

Go And Stand Underneath His Or Her Window But Just Don't Do The Only Thing You Wanna Do Day!

That's right, it's a public sidewalk. And since he or she doesn't live above a 7-11, there's no "No Loitering" sign to be found so there's no reason why you shouldn't be allowed to stand staring up at his or her window until Easter Sunday if you wanted. Of course, one phone call to the police will send a squad car over to tell you to move it along or stick em up, "No Loitering" sign or no "No Loitering" sign. Policemen find people who stand still suspicious.

But so what? Stay right there with your eyes on that window until the heat comes around the corner. Crane your neck back and stare and glare and whisper all the swear words you want. Or, if it's raining, droop your head to the ground so when he or she catches sight of you it looks like the rain has pounded you so hard you can't hold your skull on your neck any longer. Do a dance, recite the pledge of allegiance or use your cell to call up moviefone to see if there's a flick nearby that you can catch when this is all done.

Just don't do the only thing you wanna do.

Don't scream "whore" or "prick" or "dick" or "shitlick" either. Don't spraypaint the sidewalk or the front door or the superintendent's street level window with the words "There's a lying, manipulative, impotent puddle of excrement fouling up the air in apartment 3W." Don't throw your half-finished 40 of malt liquor up in the air to crash with a splash to the right of that bedroom light and don't throw a whole-finished one of those to do that neither. Also don't use everything you learned at the community Y rock climbing class to scale the brick wall up and into his or her bedroom because that would be breaking and entering and that's against the law. Don't scream "I'm sorry" and don't scream "I love you" and please for God's sake don't scream any cute little private nicknames like "Fuzzyfeet" or "Fuzzyhead" or "Fuzzypants" or "Fuzzylips" (ew!). Don't hold a bouquet of roses, you'll look dumb. And don't hold your new spouse's hand, it's a turnoff. Don't fire a gun in the air or at the ground or at your own head or even through the superintendent's street level window.

Believe it or not all of these things
are the things that might win your baby
back by your side

So whatever you do just don't do
the thing you know you'll never do

Because you wanna do it so goddamn badly.

You came to the window to stand below it emptyhanded and emptyhanded is the way you will leave. Now beat it.

Happy Go And Stand Underneath His Or Her Window But Just Don't Do The Only Thing You Wanna Do Day!

You Are Feeling Sleeeeeepy Day!

That time of year again. Time for you to go see a dinner theater hypnotist and be the first in the audience to volunteer to be hypnotized in the hope that while in a hypnotic state you will confess to setting the fire that killed your spouse and three children but that the fire department blamed on a rotted gas trigger.

You've tried drinking a lot with old friends praying for the kind of 4 am confessional conversation where drunks who've been drinking together for years start unloading all the secrets they've been dying to throw to the tabletop. You've holed up in a motel room for days with a wisened prostitute, grasping for that kind of intimacy to which you can only surrender yourself when you know you're talking to someone who plans to wash all evidence of you from her body as soon as the cigarette in the ashtray burns down to the filter. You've even become an international spy and allowed yourself to get caught by hostile governments, praying to be administered a hypodermic full of truth serum.

You've gone to such great lengths just so you can be angled unawares into shouting once and for all, "I did it! I rigged the pilot light to go out that night! I killed my little babies and I really apologize big time!" And what have all your headgames yielded? Nada, zip, zilch.

But your chest is still tight when you open your eyes in the morning. So you gotta keep trying. Go see The Amazing D'Agostino and volunteer to be hypnotized. He knows everyone in the audience is just dying to get onstage and admit to their extramarital affairs and sister lust, which is why the Amazing D'Agostino only makes his volunteers cluck like a chicken because he got his chops in vaudeville and he doesn't want all that heinous shit unloaded all over his stage. To quote the Amazing D'Agostino, "This is dinner theater kid. It ain't church. Make em smile and peddle the veal."

Happy You Are Feeling Sleeeeeepy Day!

No One Ever Asks To Be The One To Track Down A Kidnap Victim They've Never Met Before Day!

Sometimes you're in the middle of a meeting and your cell phone vibrates and even though you rarely interrupt a meeting to answer your phone, especially when you don't recognize the number on the screen, something makes you answer and so you step away from the table to answer your phone and you hear a woman's urgent whisper say:

"Billy?!"

You're not Billy and you say as much and that makes her say cursewords. Then she tells you she's in a trunk and she's been kidnapped and she was trying to call Billy but dialed the wrong number. Then she tells you that you have to find Billy.

"They're going to kill me. Probably no matter what, they're going to kill me. But maybe not if you find Billy."

She tells you not to call her back because they don't know she has a cell phone. She'll call you back if she can, she says.

"Billy who?" you say.

She waits, listens, then says, "They're pulling over." You think you might hear the muffled sound of men's voices just before she hangs up.

Sometimes, you answer your phone and you're given no choice. That call that's about to come through is one of those times. You're going to have to find Billy and save the girl. And you're going to hope that Billy is just her brother or her roommate or something because even though she's afraid for her life, she sounds really cute and if you were to rescue her from kidnappers you'd be so in.

Happy No One Ever Asks To Be The One To Track Down A Kidnap Victim They've Never Met Before Day!

Be Somebody's Paperboy Day!

To do this, you should either deliver a newspaper to somebody's house early in the morning, or you should show up to their house at dinnertime and ask them if they would be willing to pay you to bring a newpaper to their house in the morning. Tell them that if they wish, you can deliver only the Sunday newspaper, but they still have to pay. Everybody pays.

Happy Be Somebody's Paperboy Day!

Inside Your Veins, Pouring Through Your Body With The Flow Of Your Blood, Those Are Little Bugs That Shriek When They Laugh And They're Real Ticklish Day!

That's why you feel like you've been vibrating all day. It wasn't nausea, but actually the sum total of millions of little tiny bugs shrieking with laughter inside your veins. I don't know if this news makes you want to die more or less. But anyway, yeah, you're made of a swarm of shrieking bugs.

You know, I want you to die.

It's the Girls Are Pretty "Scaredy Cat Weekend!"

Monday is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and to honor the good doctor it is tradition here at Girls Are Pretty to spend the preceding Saturday and Sunday crippled with terror over everything from having to tie one's own shoes to a home infestation of giant mice with knives who speak in loud curse words. So it's best that both Saturday and Sunday get put up right now since Pretty Girl just heard a noise. Scroll down to read Saturday. Don't read Sunday until tomorrow or else something bad will happen to your Mom.

Sunday, January 19, 2002

Look Like Ally Sheedy Day!

Today's the day to be on just this side of Dyke. Get a haircut that is kind of almost not shoulder-length but with enough bounce to just nearly avoid looking way hot. Wear girl clothes, but rumpled, like they make you feel as uncomfortable as you feel in your own skin. Finally, pout in a way that lets people know you don't expect to be paid heed. For extra credit, ruin your career comeback by taking every opportunity to bitch to the press about your falling out with Demi Moore.

Happy Look Like Ally Sheedy Day!

Saturday, January 18, 2002

Fuck The West Memphis 3 Day!

A while ago, Damien Eccols and Jesse Somethingorother and that third kid were wrongly imprisoned for fucking and killing kids. Since then, a really cool movie was made about the whole thing, as well as a way shitty sequel. And more recently, there was a record of Black Flag covers released to benefit their legal defense fund because apparently Henry Rollins just got HBO Plus. Will these three boys who've spent most of their young adulthood behind bars ever be given a fair trial? Will Jon Mark Byers ever admit to peeling the skin off his step-son's penis with his own teeth? Will the truth ever come out? For today only, the answer to all of these questions is "Who the fuck cares? That sequel blew." So unless the Paradise Lost trilogy is completed by midnight tonight and the final chapter is way cool, today's Fuck The West Memphis 3 Day!

Sneakertongue Shadow Puppet Show Day!

The tongues of your sneakers like to put on little shadow puppet shows in the moonlight while you sleep. Tonight, each tongue will be playing the character of a thin, floppy slab of something or other that's sticking out of the part of the sneaker where the tongue should be. In the shadow puppet show, neither character moves or speaks and the shadow puppet show is called, "The Raping Of Retarded Girls Who Don't Realize What's Going On."

Happy Sneakertongue Shadow Puppet Show Day!

Starz "Seeing What Fits Up Your Ass" Day!

Today, for 24 hours, there's a Starz channel called Starz "Seeing What Fits Up Your Ass" which is a 24 hour live feed of you walking around the house and checking to see what items you can put inside your ass.

I'm not really sure it's you. Or rather, it's definitely you, but I don't know how "You" it is. You look sort of hypnotized, or at least real focused on putting things inside your ass to see if they fit. I'm betting you can watch the channel too. Sometimes, people just sort of show up on a live video feed of them walking around the house seeing what they can fit up their asses. Even though they were at work all day and they have witnesses.

At around 11 am, it was weird, you had just shoved a high school Crew trophy up your ass and it went in real easy too. Then you tried to stuff this enormous bowl of fruit up your ass. The bowl must have been three feet in diameter, and there were oranges and pears and bananas piled high, but you'd just kind of squat over it, then lower yourself down real slow, as if you were afraid of scaring the fruit away. Then when one of the pieces of fruit would inevitably tumble from the bowl, you'd get up and put it back in it's place with great care and deliberation, then you'd get in position to lower your asshole over the bowl of fruit for another try. It took you like 45 minutes to give up, and when you did you didn't seem disappointed at all. In fact, you've looked really at peace the whole time.

Right now you're trying to shove the living room wall up your ass.

Happy Starz "Seeing What Fits Up Your Ass" Day!

Quit Drinking Day!

If you've ever ingested alcohol, you know that it's better than motherhood. Alcohol solves most problems and if you drink enough of it, you might win money! Over 89% of Americans polled daily say that they never want to stop drinking ever for fear of living in a gray, gray world devoid of kittens.

This all may be true, but that doesn't change the fact that today's the day to quit drinking.

Happy Quit Drinking Day and I'm only kidding. I'm drunk right now!

Get A Chant Going Day!

Wherever you are, whatever you happen to be doing, today's the day to get everyone around you on the same page with a nice, catchy chant.

For example, let's say you've just finished a presentation for a visiting client. When everyone's finishing up their plates of danish, just slap your hands on the conference table to a beat and bang out with:
"This presentation was a great presentation/
And you should be a satisifed client! Hoo Hoo!/
This presentation was a great presentation/
We love clients because clients smell clean!"

Or, if you're on a bus:

"Bus driver! Bus driver!/
You're a good bus driver!
Mommies think sons who drive buses /
Are good!"

Or let's say you're hemmorhaging:

"That's a lot of blood hey! /
A lot of gushing blood, ho! /
I can see a bright white light! /
Tell my wife I love her! Yee hah!"

A good chant is just the best way to say to somebody that you've got spirit, yes you do, you've got spirit and you're wondering if everyone else around you also has spirit.

Happy Get A Chant Going Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty Silly Putty Week!

This week on Girls Are Pretty, we're going to be celebrating Silly Putty week by posting more than one day's personal regression assignment at a time. Also, in honor of Silly Putty Week, there will be no mention of Silly Putty on this or any other web page on the worldwide internet network of webpages and websites. Check it out.

Monday, January 13, 2003

Cheerleader Camp Day!

Today is the day you're going to try to turn your life around by joining cheerleader camp. Within six hours, you'll be kicked off the grounds for not being nimble and also for being high in the boathouse with the 55 year old retarded guy who looks after the boathouse. You might not make cheer squad, but at least you'll have found love.

Happy Cheerleader Camp Day!

Sunday, January 12, 2003

Maple Syrup Day!

Put a bowl of tunafish on the kitchen floor but before you open the door to your kitchen, pour a big puddle of maple syrup on the floor in between the entrance to the kitchen and the tuna on the other end of the floor. Your cat will already be trying to dig underneath the door to get into the kitchen, so when you open the door she'll just come tearing across the floor glomping straight through that puddle of syrup. She'll still eat the tuna, but for the rest of the day she isn't going to be able to take a step without twitching her paws to try to whip that syrup from her fur. The syrup won't ever come off and your cat will want to die. This is gonna be so fucking awesome.

Watch The Waves Crash Against The Rocks And Then Watch All The Crabs Washed Up Onto The Rocks By The Waves As They Decide Whether They Want To Fight Or Fuck Day!

Two crabs, both black, find themselves lost atop a giant rock. And then they find each other.

First order of business: DANCE!!! To the left, to the right. Then on back to left once again, ya'll.

Next, lay still. This'll take a while till one of the crabs decides it's fast enough to burrow into a crook of the stone.

By now, the other crab has decided it would like to rip the crook-burrowing crab's legs off. Which is sad because the crook-burrowing crab has never been so hungry as it is right now for the kind of muchomucho tangytang it knew that other crab was packing the minute their eyes met. It's always sad when a crustacean just wants to eat a piece of pussy but instead gets all its arms ripped from its body.

Happy Watch The Waves Crash Against The Rocks And Then Watch All The Crabs Washed Up Onto The Rocks By The Waves As They Decide Whether They Want To Fight Or Fuck Day!

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Prettygirl Is Going To Attempt Suicide" Couple O' Days!

It's that time of year again, everybody, when Prettygirl eats a shitload of pills and tries to die. No worries, it's just a cry for help. But there might be some hospital time and maybe some "I promise I'll never do it again" time with the Moms and Pops. So it seems wise to get two or three posts up at once just in case. And I say two or three because I'm not sure when these Vicodin are gonna start with the eraser-paint. Fuck you all.

Friday, January 10, 2003

You Don't Have To Be Gay To Admit That A Flower Is Prettier Than Your Feet Day!

But you do have to be gay to admit that you want to make love to people who are of the same gender as you so stop it with the racketball classes and go eat up some of that genitalia that looks just like the kind that's smack dab on the business end of your pelvis.

Happy You Don't Have To Be Gay To Admit That A Flower Is Prettier Than Your Feet Day!

Thursday, January 9, 2003

Be The Asian Chick In The Commercial About Anti-Allergy Medication Day!

It'll be awesome. As soon as you come on the screen and start talking about how busy your schedule is, millions of people across the nation are gonna be like, "That chick's Asian!" Then they're gonna feel manipulated into buying that brand of anti-allergy medication because of the wackiness of an Asian chick all of a sudden being thrown in their faces when they had never really thought about Asians having allergies before. They'll get angry about this and will probably change the channel. They it's just a lot of "I'm going on a killing spree" this and "I'm going on a killing spree" that. Ho hum.

Happy Be The Asian Chick In The Commercial About Anti-Allergy Medication Day!

Be An AIDS Metaphor Day!

Go into people's houses and if the people who live there are unwilling to discuss the fact that you are in the house and you should be dealt with, kill them slowly by weakening their immune system.

Or, you could get way high on weed. Say out loud, "The pain and misery of me is alleviated by marijuana usage."

Whichever you prefer. Oh! One more!

Go to the park and find some heroin addicts who are sharing a needle and who look disgusting. Use a Sharpie to paint dark spots on their skin. Tell them, "I am AIDS. Metaphorically speaking of course."

And lastly, suck. Because man, does AIDS ever suck! ; )

Happy Be An AIDS Metaphor Day!

Fess Up Day!

When the chick behind the starbucks counter is making your drink, she'll say, "I smell Chinese Food."

You'll have just had Chinese Food. You'll be embarrassed to stink of your very fragrant lunch, but she'll know it's you. Just cop to it. Say, "I just had Chinese Food."

She'll say, "Did you have an egg roll?"

Say, "No. Beef with broccoli."

Her face will light up and she'll say, "It smells really good. It's making me hungry. I wish you'd brought some for everybody."

Tell her, "Well, I think I still have some residue of it in my mouth. I haven't had anything to drink yet. But I did smoke a cigarette. Actually, yes, now that I am talking, I can feel some little stalks of broccoli loosening from the paste on my tongue."

She'll look around for her supervisor, and if her supervisor isn't there, she'll lean over the counter with her mouth open wide. Gather a heaping glob of saliva from the walls of your mouth and from underneath your gums and spit a big loogie into her open jaw.

She'll swish it around with her tongue then she'll smile a big grateful smile and she'll say, "Thanks. How 'bout I upgrade that Latte to a Venti, no charge."

That's when you should say, "Solid!"

Happy Fess Up Day!

The Christmas Tree Is How They're Going To Catch You Day!

You've been mimicking the life of your upstairs neighbor for weeks now, killing off all of his enemies one by one, using methods only he would use. With every disappearance you've sent the investigator directly up the steps past your door with a question: "Where were you last night Bradley?"

The best part, Bradley always has an alibi. You've made sure of that. And the investigator is a shrewd one. Even though all signs point to your upstairs neighbor as the killer, the investigator can't help but believe there is something far more mind boggling going down. He wants to find that little detail and he thinks it's right there in front of his eyes. As he walks towards the building with the question on his tongue, the investigator can feel the killer near. And as soon as Bradley opens his door, the feeling evaporates into a fog of frustration.

Bradley has a beautiful Christmas tree lit up with white light in his streetside picture window and he won't take it down. So neither can you. Even though you know it's the clue literally lit up in lights for the entire city to look up from the sidewalk and see. You can't take it down until Bradley does. Not if you want to continue to live as Bradley lives. And you want no other life, even though you know it will be your ruin.

The investigator found the body of Bradley's former publisher this evening. He's on his way over. And he might look up at the building and wonder why two people living above and below each other would choose to keep their Christmas trees lit up with white light as late as January 6th.

Happy The Christmas Tree Is How They're Going To Catch You Day!

Your Dick Smells Day!

Aw God. Button up buttercup. Your dick stinks like hell just farted.
Jesus Christ, do you sleep with your cock in a jar of old mayonaise or
something? I have pets for Christ's sake.

Why don't you go wash up for a few hours? Or fuck that, lemme
light your dick on fire. Seriously, only a white flame could burn through
whatever dried up and died all over that thing. Goddamn you're gonna
make me kill myself.

I just did it. Happy? I just committed suicide. And I just committted
suicide because your dick smells.

Happy Your Dick Smells Day. And I guess I'll be seeing you at
my funeral, stinkdick!

The Allegory Of The Pasta Maker Day!

There was once a couple aflame. In the throes of divorce, a man and his wife directed the whole sum of their bitterness and rage into a single dispute over the custody of their jointly purchased pasta maker.

It began when the husband first moved out of their home. He was packing into his Nissan several boxes containing all the belongings he felt he could not live without during his stay in the apartment he was subletting from an attorney working out of the London office of his firm for the year. Settled precariously atop the last of the boxes was the pasta maker with its cord wrapped tightly around the base. As the husband made for the door, his wife reached out and snatched the pasta maker into her embrace.

"You're not taking the PastaMatic," she said.

The husband defended his rightful possession. "The fuck I ain't," he said. After much shouting, it was in a huff he left, and the pasta maker was returned to it's home on their kitchen counter. But it was not plugged into the wall socket, and neither would it ever be again.

In the ensuing months, the husband fetishized that dusty countertop appliance as if it were the key to a secret door of escape from his feelings of loss and resentment. The Secretarial Services Adminstrator with whom he'd struck up the instigating affair soon grew tired of his preoccupation and ended their trysts, yielding him all that much more time to strategize how to win back his prized piece of cookery. There were many threatening phone calls during office hours and he even staked out his wife's dinners with her new beau, waiting for her to step out of an Italian restaurant just to jump from his car and shout "Ah ha!" into her recently carbohydrated face. She would shout back that she'd only ordered a plate of veal, and he would say, "You'll slip up one day. And know this: I'll be there when you do."

The pot came to a boil when in the middle of his fifth sleepless night in a row he broke into his former home, grabbed the pasta maker from the kitchen counter (noting that he didn't have to unplug it from the wall) and climbed upstairs to stand at the foot of his old bed and woke his wife and her lover from their sleep with a whisper of her name.

"I'm taking the PastaMaestro now," he said.

She saw the flames in his eyes and decided to stoke the fire. "I'll ruin you," she said. "Walk out that door with the PastaMucho! and my lawyers will have you working for me by the time this divorce is final."

Her new boyfriend concocted a plan to bring the matter to a close. The husband appeared not to have even noticed him until he finally spoke. And even then, it wasn't sure how much he heard.

"Why not let an outside party decide who gets the PastaMarksman?" he said. The wife thought that was a good idea. And for some reason, perhaps just to get to the end of this story, the husband agreed as well.

So some old and wise person, probably a town elder or a cop, he showed up in the bedroom and said, "I'll cut the Pastameliorator in half so's both ya'll get a piece."

The wife was into it but the husband said, "No, let her have it. I'd rather give up the Pasta (and I mean) Lotsa! than see it destroyed." The wife went, "Score!" and grabbed for the appliance but the old guy yanked it out of her reach. He said, "No way, little baby ho. Your husband clearly loves the Pastamerica (USA!) (USA!) most for whatever reason. He probably fucks it. But anyway, I'm giving him dibs."

That's when the wife freaked out and killed everyone in the room using magical powers.

Happy The Allegory Of The Pasta Maker Day!

Your Belly Is His Belly Is Her Belly Is Their Belly Day!

Make everybody happy and fill up on pills.

Have A Blessful Your Belly Is His Belly Is Her Belly Is Their Belly Day!

Check The Outlook Calendar At The Desk Where You're Temping To Find Out What The Executive You're Assisting Was Doing On Momentous Days Of Your Life Day!

On August 3rd, 2002 you drove with your brother to the Sy Gould funeral home to pick up the urn containing his wife's ashes. Your car stalled in the parking lot with your brother sitting there in the passenger seat, the urn in his lap. Seven minutes into the 40 minute wait for AAA, your brother got out of the front seat and opened the back door to put the urn in the backseat. Then he got back in the front seat and turned on the radio. You stood beside the car and smoked lots of cigarettes. Four at least.

On August 3rd, 2002, Fred Penn, VP of IS Development at Lace Duterhoffer Financial Partners was in Tuscany for his fourth night at the Hotel Pelicano. He had dinner with Tan Fujiyama of the Wattei Corporation at the Pizzi Vineyard. 8:30 reservation.

Happy Check The Outlook Calendar At The Desk Where You're Temping To Find Out What The Executive You're Assisting Was Doing On Momentous Days Of Your Life Day!

Blame It On The AZT Day!

A little testy at brunch this morning with your sweetums? Blame it on the AZT! Talk about how they bungled your levels at the understaffed hospital pharmacy and it'll buy you at least a few hours. If you end up losing your temper again when you go out for your after dinner coffee, just apologize and say, "I really don't mean to be so prickly. I just can't seem to kick this sheep pneumonia."

These are just stall tactics of course. Eventually you're going to have to sit your NaughtyNaughty down and say flat out that you don't think you can get serious with someone who has dyslexia. Don't mention that you get grossed out when you feel his or her double chin pinch your own chin when you kiss. That would be mean. You need your karma right about now, yo.

Happy Blame It On The AZT Day!

You Say "Tomato," I Say "We Should Never Stop Drinking Ever" Day!

It's all well and good to sometimes say "Tomato." For example, let's say you have a tomato sitting on top of your TV but your sister hasn't noticed it yet. Nudging her in her side and pointing at the tomato and saying to her "Tomato" won't get you thrown in prison.

But I would much prefer to grab someone by the dress neckline and pant into her sole remaining open eyelid, "We should never stop drinking ever." But that's no reason for you to let that tomato go unnoticed. I'm just glad I am me and not you because your sister's a real pain in the nuts. Now go to hell.

Cashiers Are Way Hornier Day!

Today's the day when you and your friends might walk up to the counter at the Rite Aid with a big cart full of Tequiza and Smirnoff Ice and Jello Shooter Molds and prescription roofies and whatnot and the cashier is gonna say:

"Wow, looks like you guys like to party."

And if you and your friends don't respond, she'll say, "You know, I like to party."

And if you and your friends just kind of nod absently and continue pooling your money, she'll be like, "When I say I like to party, I mean I like to have sex."

And if you and your friends just are like, "Yeah, whatever lady" and then you go back to arguing over why Bob never has any cash to chip in, she'll add, "With guys. I mean I like to have sex with guys."

And if you and your friends still haven't caught on and you just jam the wad of money into her hand, she'll just let her shoulders drop and give up on the hints and she'll just go, "Look, can I have sex with you guys?"

Then all you and your friends have to do is vote on it!

The Search Day!

The River Guide is addicted to cocaine. He'll take you to the edge of the Earth and introduce you to the horizon of your senses. But first he needs to do some more cocaine, just to give the raft the shove it needs to float on its way.

As he thrusts his giant bamboo rod into the river bed and drags you along the current at a far enough distance from the banks to avoid blow darts, he starts to imagine his bamboo rod is an enormous rolled up dollar bill and he a giant and the sunny stretched out glint of white along the water's surface the most gargantuan and beautiful line of Brazilian cocaine, as clean cut as that stuff that movie star brought to his cousin's wedding. He gets so excited that he pulls up to the bank of the river to do some more cocaine.

By day three of the search (some Gueriillas kidnapped your daughter and took her deep into the jungle to just get in line and rape her all the time), the River Guide is out of cocaine so he needs some more money from you. You pay, then he starts to drag you back up the river because way back there is the only place he knows that sells cocaine. You realize this is going to bleed a lot of time from the search for your daughter, but you say okay anyway because you need to learn how to assert yourself. You're the kind of person who gives big tips to waitresses even when they're really rude.

Happy The Search Day!

Can You tell From Here? Day!

Today you're floating up above a party and patrolling all of the boys talking to girls and girls talking to boys and girls talking to girls and boys looking at girls and wondering what they're tallking about. That's right, from up here you can see boobies. And sometimes you can even see the front and center clasp of a bra down below a v-neck line, usually on the smaller boobied people. But still, when you can see the front clasp of a bra it like 99.9% counts as having seen her with her shirt off.

But that's not why you're up here near the ceiling. You can take breaks to get more drinks, that's fine. Four an hour right? Fine. But why you're up here near the ceiling is to see if you can spot who this party is for.

Not, "Who's the birthday boy" or "Who's the xtra frsh DJ that packed the club full o' trance skulls?" But in the grander scope of things, there's a couple down there that just started talking. A boy and a girl. And if you were either one of them you would know that they, their conversation, them just having seen what each other was wearing tonight, they are the reason for this party. And in their minds the whole place just came to a halt and floated up to the ceiling to get a bird's eye view of their conversation and watch what happens next.

You can't find them can you? That's because they look just like everyone else down there. We figured as much, we just wanted to see it through another pair of eyes. When you're done looking at boobies, come find me and I'll buy you a drink. I 've been waiting to talk to you, really talk to you, ever since you walked through the door.

Happy Can You tell From Here? Day!

Tell People You're Not A Fan Of African-American Hip Hop Day!

First, tell the bike messenger riding the elevator with you up to your office. That's clearly hip hop music blasting out of his headphones. Just give him a tap on the shoulder and ask "What kind of hip hop is that? Is that African American hip hop?" If he says yes, go "Eww! I hate African-American hip hop! It's fucking awful!" Then ask him if he saw the movie 8 Mile. "Eminem won the rap showdown by making fun of his own shortcomings before the African-Americans could," you can say. I bet you two get into an exciting debate over how much African American hip hop men love to tease. Wouldn't it be funny if at the end of the ride, you and the bike messenger got off at the same floor and he ended up having a package for you the whole time?

The next person you should tell your aversion to African-American hip hop to is your husband. You've left him in the dark long enough. He will be shocked. Then he will ask you to lock your office door and remove your undergarments and perform your wifely duties there on the phone with him. Obey him. He is your husband.

The next person to whom you should say all that shit about not digging black beats is the child you put up for adoption when you were sixteen. The detective gave you his address three months ago. It's about time you contacted him to let him know that you think African-American hip hop is just a bunch of bling bling and guys saying 'Look at me, I'm so mean to people!' Then explain to your long lost son that you don't regret putting him up for adoption because you were not ready to be a mother at such a young age. Tell him you'll understand if he doesn't want you to contact him again.

Finally, send an anonymous letter to Jay Z that says, "I know what you have a blueprint for. You have a blueprint for being sucky!"

Happy Tell People You're Not A Fan Of African-American Hip Hop Day!

Read The Pillow Crease's Indentation Upon Your Cheek Day!

If when you awake, you find that the pillow's crease has left a mark upon your cheek that reads, "Nice ass, but where's it headed?", that is your dead grandmother voicing her opinion that you are a very attractive person, but not very bright. And from her experience, a person such as yourself should try to marry into wealth and construct various "traps" to avoid being divorced by your spouse. For example, if you are a woman, give birth to a child that dies at the age of four (not by your hand please, a mother can manipulate her diet to dictate the fate of a life while it lives in her womb) so that you and your husband sink into a twenty year long depression and chemical co-dependency. Your husband may commit suicide, but he's not going to divorce that fine fine ass of yours.

If you are a man, just make sure you always give off an air of confidence. Chicks dig confidence.

Happy Read The Pillow Crease's Indentation Upon Your Cheek Day!

There's A Website Where An Account Of Your Alcohol Intake Is Updated Ten Times Daily Day!

The entire world is glued to their monitors because man have you been breaking records ever since the bar car opened up on the Amtrak train last night. There's an online poll up as to whether the little incident at dinner last night was just an accident and you were just reaching across the table for the butter, like you said, or did you really clock your wife in the jaw right in front of your parents and daughter. Guess what 78% of the 80,000 visitors a day think so far?

You know what you should do is go for a drive.

Happy There's A Website Where An Account Of Your Alcohol Intake Is Updated Ten Times Daily Day!

That's Pee! Day!

The odor coming off of that chair your cat-owner friend let you keep for helping him move out of his apartment?

The whitish crust on the inside of your thighs?

The weird flavor of the coke you bought at the drivethru when you were drunk and vocally misogynistic last night?

The tint to the whites of your eyes? (get to a clinic)

The stuff that special someone expelled onto your naked chest at your pleading during an especially dull snow day?

What wakes you up at 6:30 a.m.?

What did you get a fine for squirting onto a parked car last Thursday?

What makes you dance dance dance like you were Michael Jackson with too much pee in his bladder?

What's see-through if you're an alcoholic?

What's stinky if you're going to die in a few hours?

What burns if you're going to die in a few hours?

What's going to be all over your pants after you die in a few hours, besides like a gallon of shit?

That stuff that makes the bathtub fill up with clouds made outta gold?

That black ring on the bathroom floor stretching out from the toilet three feet in diameter? (same thing, but really old)

SSSssssssssssssssssssssssssss?

That's pee!

The Wrong Bus Driver Day!

Ask the wrong bus driver whether you should run away from your parents to Hollywood to become a movie star, and he might say yes because, unbeknownst to you, he declared today "Opposite Day" for himself and he's saying and doing everything that is the opposite of what he means to say and do.

And even if he didn't declare today "Secret Opposite Day" and he's able to tell you that today is opposite day and that's why he said that, he might be the target of a murderous husband he's been cuckolding and just as he's about to tell you that he didn't really mean to say you should run away, he might open the doors at a stop and that vengeful husband might jump up the steps and stab him six times in the belly with a big kitchen knife and then hop back out and run.

And sure, he might have enough strength to lure you close to his mouth and whisper in your ear that today's Opposite Day and that no, he does not think you should run away from home. But then he'll have said both yes and no and then die and you'll be left to wonder which of his opinions to heed as truly the opposite of his real opinion because he's been a good bus driver and you don't want to deny him his final Opposite Day.

Another reason the wrong bus driver might tell you you should run away from home to become a star of the silver screen is because he always used to want to do that but never got the chance and now he'd like to see you go in his stead because bus drivers always want something better for their passengers.

Happy The Wrong Bus Driver Day!

Buy A Chili Dog Day!

For the past seventy three hours there has been an assault rifle trained on your skull. Even while you were taking a bath. Do you believe us?

DO YOU BELIEVE US?

Good. Now you have thirty minutes to buy a chili dog. If you do not buy a chili dog in thirty minutes, the first second of the thirty first minute will be adorned with the sound of a bullet searing into your brain. Be smart. Buy a chili dog.

Happy Buy A Chili Dog Day. Maybe next time you'll mind your business.