What It's Gonna Take To Make It Back To Bed Day!

It's gonna take balls. And obedience. And kowtowing and ass-kissing and some compliments paid to people you loathe for choosing to wear an outfit only the severely retarded would choose to wear. When you notice the sign on the neighboring cubicle that reads "I believe in Jesus Christ," it's gonna take an iron-clad will and 20-20 tunnel vision on the end-goal to refrain from posting your own sign that reads, "She Believes In Jesus Christ" with an arrow pointed at her cubicle. You've gotta keep the image of a happy night's sleep floating just before your eyes so you don't punch anybody in the throat as they pass you in the hallway. That will send you to jail or will at least send you out of a job and the jobless don't sleep well. And don't go jumping into noone else's bed neither. Intimacy With Others = Trouble Down The Road, ya'll. Assuming you're going to eat dinner tonight, you've got around 7 hours before you're safe and sound under blankey-blankey so please please please try to not to say anything like "I quit" or "I'm going to follow my life-long dream and risk failure in order to die knowing that I at least gave it my all so I quit" or "I'm going to do the life-long dream thing in the previous sentence but not for the fear of dying unfulfilled but because one day I wanna have a son and I don't want my son to look up at me and think Dear God don't let me give up like that so I quit" or "Fuck you. Wait look me in the eye. Are you looking me in the eye? Fuuuuuuuck...you." Don't say that.

Just let it all go the way someone else planned it. You've been generously allotted at least one third of your life to spend in bed. That's not a bad deal. Now put a congenial smile on your face that tells your supervisor, "Thank you for letting me work here. I hope to do a good job today. I hope to make you happy with my performance." If things get hard, just start calculating how many hours of sleep you can get if you manage to be in bed by 7:30 tonight (probably twelve or twelve and a half if you wake up late tomorrow, right?).

Happy What It's Gonna Take To Make It Back To Bed Day!

Don't Cruise For Dudes If You Have A Case Of The Sneezies Day!

In order to be able to tell whether a guy wants you to follow him downstairs to a bathroom stall, you need to be able to hold his eye contact long enough for there to be something obvious. You can't just catch an eye and smile and then all of a sudden convulse in a sneeze attack. It's not attractive and it makes boys wonder whether you're going to be stopping every few seconds to shoot phlegm out your mouth once you're down stairs stooped atop a toilet seat. Someone can get poked in the eye if you can't control your spasms. And lets not forget about how frightened a dude will be of catching a cold just as Spring is coming over the hill.

And forget about the Parks. When you get the sniffles you are the exact opposite of discretion. Just stay home until your sinuses clear up and send out some Instant Gratifiers to the personal ads on your hot list. You'll have anonymous sex with somebody tomorrow or the next day. Promise.

Happy Don't Cruise For Dudes If You Have A Case Of The Sneezies Day!

Justice Of The Peace Day!

It's about time you got the go-ahead from the state to start marrying folks to each other. A good, disease-free Justice of the Peace can make around 300 bucks for every fifteen minute service, and you get to keep tabs on who's getting married to who. And since most of those people you'll be marrying will probably intend to have some kids, you'll basically be getting advance word on the future of the human race. Sure, the people you marry are a pretty small fraction of all the people who are going to be having kids as time unfolds. But it is relatively random and therefore representational since the only way you get your marrieds is through people finding you in the phone book or from referrals. So, by being a Justice of the Peace you will be able to see into the future. Also, since you will be joining people together forever you can be said to have the power of love at your fingertips. Plus the buffets and open bar at some weddings can so make up for gas money to and fro. And you'll also be meeting a lot of people at the weddings and you might one day be standing on the other side of that altar.

Need another reason? How about the fact that you can carry a loaded gun and park wherever the hell you want? You can't beat this gig, so just drop out of pharmacy school already and become a Justice of the Peace. You can even write your own slogan for your ad in the phone book. Like this one, "Performing secular marriages and administering his own brand of justice throughout the tri-state area."

Happy Justice Of The Peace Day!

Steamroll Babies Day!

Remember when you and your little brother were kids how much fun it would be to play steamroller with him? Where you'd catch him on the floor playing with blocks or in his bed or somewhere else and you'd wail on him and roll all your weight overtop him screaming "STEAMROLLER!!!" and then he'd cry and you'd jump up in the air and go "Steamrolled!"

Do that to the baby next door. He's still sleeping in his parents' bed because they're first time parents and they're nervous about letting him alone in his crib yet. So tonight, after you've tucked in all of your kids, get the ladder out of the garage and climb up into the neighbors' bedroom window. Make sure you wait until after 1 am because that baby keeps em up pretty late. When you're through the window, tiptoe as close as you can to where you can get a good leaping distance, then just hurl yourself into the middle of the bed screaming "STEAMROLLER!!!" then roll yourself back and forth overtop the baby in between his pajama clad mommy and daddy. Then when you've gotten three or four good rolls in, jump back off the bed. When his parents start screaming about how you tried to kill their kid, just stick your finger in the baby's face and scream "Eat it!"

Happy Steamroll Babies Day!

Fag Juice Day!

"Just a gallon in the fridge for a lifetime of anger!" God I loved that old commercial. TV was weird when we were kids. But you know what's awesome is there are still some stores and some online outlets that sell pint cans of Fag Juice. The BYOB party you're going to tonight is going to love it when you walk in the door and scream out "I brought the Fag Juice. Did anyone remember to buy the cumin?!" It'll be a real ice breaker because I personally can't remember one birthday party when I was a kid that wasn't just dripping with cups of Fag Juice and cumin punch.

Though Fag Juice was proven to cause cancer in women of any ethnicity over the age of 2, it's still really cool that we used to drink it when we were kids. Remember what we used to wear back then?!

Happy Fag Juice Day!

Now That's What I Call Rape Day!

Rape is a touchy subject. And it really makes people angry when they say something like "So-and-so raped me" and you say "No he didn't." There have been very heated debates over how "rape" should be defined, and these debates have led to people being unhappy because when someone thinks he knows the definition of rape, he gets really upset when people don't agree. So, to make everyone happier, Girls Are Pretty will today define the act of rape and this definition is true and absolute.

And the definition of rape is: Rape is when someone has sex with someone who doesn't want it.

This definition is valid until midnight tonight. To find out what rape is tomorrow, google "rape."

Happy Now That's What I Call Rape Day!

You Like Girls Day!

Nyah nyah nyah, nyah-nyah nyaaaaah! You like girls and it's because girls make you feel swirly all over your insides. Gonna cry?

Well, you'll get no sympathy from anybody around here, girl-lover. Because until midnight tonight, if you come in contact with a person who is female, you like her.

I know what you're gonna say. "But Mrs. Kim at the deli is soooo gross!"

Not today. Today, you wish Mrs. Kim would make your babies.

"But what about my daughter's principal? She's been trying to have my daughter assigned to a special education school even though three doctors claim she has bad verbal skills because her hearing problem wasn't diagnosed until she was seven! I can't possibly like my daughter's principal!"

Yes you do. At least for today. You wish your daughter's principal would kiss you one hundred times on the mouth and squeeze and squeeze you.

"There was a homeless woman begging for change near the freeway toll."

You wish that homeless woman was your girlfriend.

"That schoolbus full of children?"

All the girls on that bus, you want to buy all the girls presents.

"What about that twenty one year old intern at the office? She's got tits that'll make you kick a dog."

You hope you both live to be a hundred together and die in bed in each other's arms and you're going to get buried in the same coffin.

"Oh."

Girl-lover!

"Shut up."

You like girls!

"Fuck you."

What's a matter? Do you see a girl whose hand you want to hold?

"Fuck you. You hear me?"

Girl-lover!

A Shot From Every Handgun Day!

Wondering why the world seems just about to burst apart at the seams in a scream of hellfire? Perhaps it's all the unfired handguns.

If you were sitting crosslegged on the floor in a small windowless room trying to read a magazine about blonde men, and just a few feet away from you there was a bomb loaded to the brim with enough explosive material to flatten a few city blocks and all you had to do was walk over to it and push one little button, would you be able to concentrate on your magazine, or would you feel a little bit like there's something pretty hugely fucking unresolved in the air?

Well that's pretty much how we all go through our day without even realizing it because at any given moment we're, all of us, just a few steps away from a shiny, poorly hidden handgun that has never once been discharged. It's loaded, maybe it's even cocked and about to slide off a dressertop onto the hammer if someone just happens to slam the door a little too aggressively. If it falls and goes off, yeah someone might get shot but at least the fucking bullet will finally shoot out of the goddamn barrel and the whole point of the contraption's existence will finally be fucking ripped out of potentifuckingality!

Sorry. It's just that every Thursday afternoon over twelve suburban women buy handguns "just in case." And that "just in case" might never ever happen and it's starting to hurt. So today if you have a handgun and there's a bullet inside it you have to pull the trigger. Everyone's going to feel a lot more at ease once all that artillery starts to fly and I'd like to point out that throughout this entire post about guns not being fired there has been no mention made of blue balls until now. Handguns full of bullets not being fired is just like erect cocks not being stimulated to the point of ejaculating semen.

Happy A Shot From Every Handgun Day!

Don't Buy A Collapsible Home Because They're Built In Such A Way That They Will Collapse Day!

A smart consumer never assumes. But when Collapsible Homes were introduced to the Community Development market, it was assumed by many that these homes were built so as to one day fall down because such a design was cheaper to build and therefore cheaper to buy.

Not true.

Take a look at this 2002 interview with Cole Robertson, president of Homestead Developments and designer of the Collapsible Home. This interview was originally published in the Mascara Industry journal Lashes and has been reprinted below in its entirety, with permission.

--

Lashes Magazine: Did you design the Collapsible Home because it was cheaper to build and therefore cheaper to buy?

Cole Robertson: No.

LM: Really?

CR: Yeah. That's not why.
--

Pretty startling stuff, huh? Unfortunately, turmoil, both financial and monetary, caused bitter infighting within the Mascara industry and prevented anyone from looking up whether the industry that handles homes being built was called the Home Design industry, or the Housing Industry, or something like Community Development or whatever, so since they didn't know what that industry was called and were too busy worrying about Mascara Industry turmoil to ask around, they never knew how to look up that industry's offices in the phone book to tell somebody.

The end-result: Collapsible Homes sold like vaginas that queef silver dollars.

What people didn't know, and what Girls Are Pretty is about to make up, is that the Collapsible Home is actually far more expensive to build than a home that doesn't fall down on purpose. This is because Cole Robertson designed the Collapsible Home to fall all at once, and to the right.

"Always to the right," Mr Robertson said recently to a person who was listening. "I tried making them fall to the left, but I thought that looked stupid. When the house all of a sudden just slants over to the right and drops like a drunk on a doorstep, that rules."

Robertson, it turns out, never created the Collapsible Home to make a buck. In fact, he priced the homes at far below their construction cost so as to make them so affordable that many Americans would have no choice but to buy them.

"There are a lot of people out there who would like to own their own home but can't afford it," says Robertson. "I realized that if the Collapsible Home was cheap enough, people would buy it. And at first, I thought it was really funny that all these people would choose to live in these houses that will one day just fall down on their heads, guaranteed. And then they just have to climb out of the rubble and find somewhere else to live because their house fell down, just like they were promised it would. I used to just drive around and sit in my car outside the houses I sold and wait for them to fall down. After one would fall, I'd wait to see how many of the people who bought it would climb out of the rubble and stand there wondering where to go and live, then I'd drive to another house and watch that one fall."

But the bloom is off the rose for Robertson. "Eventually, it got boring. I knew the houses were gonna fall just as clearly as the people who bought them. And even though I tried to construct them with varying declines in durability, eventually people could tell when the house was about to collapse and they'd move in with their mothers as much as a week beforehand. So now I just keep making intentionally failed attempts at suicide to try to get my daughter to write me back."

While Collapsible Homes might have seemed like a terrible idea, in the end, there was actually no point to them either. "I was just really rich," said Robertson. "When I realized I was rich enough to get a lot of people to choose to live in homes that fall down, I figured 'What the hey?'" When asked whether he regretted putting the Collapsible Home on the market, Robertson just kind of shrugged and started talking to someone else.

So, if you were planning on buying the Collapsible Home, make sure you're aware that the home will one day collapse. And make sure you know that the only reason it will collapse is because a very rich man used to think that was funny.

Happy Don't Buy A Collapsible Home Because They're Built In Such A Way That They Will Collapse Day!

Action You Day!

There isn't a huge difference between you and Action You. Whether you're Action You or just plain old you, you'll still pretty much get the same things done. Except when Action You does stuff, Action You makes a quiet "Ssssshhhhhk!" sound effect with your mouth. So while you might be pulling down a window screen from the upper half of the window frame to let a little air in the house, Action You would do the very same thing, but as the screen slid down into position, Action You would go "Ssssshhhhhk!"

And Action You doesn't even have to be doing anything for which the sound effect might be appropriate. For example, you might go home after work today and spend the evening sprawled on your couch half-watching war coverage while reading liner notes from the inserts of some new CDs you've just bought. Well, Action You will do the very same thing, but at some point, while you're sprawled there doing barely nothing for hours, Action You will at least once just let out a soft little "Ssssshhhhhk!" Or let's say tonight you're going to tell your wife about an affair you had many years ago that appears to be coming back to haunt you. You plan to say, "When you were packing up your father's house after he died, that August in 1998. I met a woman. It was stupid and it was brief but she's threatening me with a groundless paternity suit. I'm so so sorry." Action You will say those same exact words, with the same heart-wrenching sincerity, and your wife might not even notice when Action You says, "...threatening me with a groundless paternity suit. I'm so so sorry. Ssssshhhhhk!"

So yeah, Action You is pretty much just you going "Ssssshhhhhk!" It's better than living one long horrible sigh, isn't it?

Worst Ever Day!

Today can actually end up being the most wonderful day of your life, but there has to be one isolated aspect that is of the absolute poorest quality you've ever experienced. It can be anything from a cheese sandwich to a dog. It just has to make you say, "That was the worst cheese sandwich ever!" or "That was the worst dog ever!" Or, if it's sex with five attractive people and you've never had sex with five attractive people before, no matter how fantastic it is, you can still say, "That was the worst sex with five attractive people ever!" because hey, have you had better?

I am not quite certain that you understand the concept of today, so I will give eight more examples. They are below:

If you die in such a way that makes you think you have never died so shitty, you'll say "That was the worst way I ever died" and you will have fulfilled the requirement for today. Or, drive to the supermarket and park in a parking space that, in every way (distance from entrance, ability to open doors due to proximity of neighboring cars, odor) is simply the worst parking space you've ever parked in, and say, "This was the worst parking space ever!" And you can also add, "Bar none!" if you're a cunt. The remaining six examples are snack foods. If you have a cheeto that is the worst cheeto you've ever had you will say "That was the worst cheeto ever!" If you have a frito that is the worst frito you've ever had you will say "That was the worst frito ever!" If you have a tostito that is the worst tostito you've ever had you will say "That was the worst tostito ever!" If you have a piece of angry angry pussy that is the worst piece of angry angry pussy you've ever had you will say "That was the worst piece of angry angry pussy ever!" If you have a barbecue flavored frito that is the worst barbecue flavored frito you've ever had you will say "That was the worst barbecue flavored frito ever!" And finally, If you have a piece of barbecue flavored angry angry pussy that is the worst piece of barbecue flavored angry angry pussy you've ever had you will say "That was the worst piece of barbecue flavored angry angry pussy ever!"

Happy Worst Ever Day!

Somebody Call Ted Koppel Day!

So you got an erection. Congratulations. I'll call the mayor and tell him to close the schools for a three-day weekend.

No seriously, I'll come to bed just as soon as I finish this letter home. I hope the grandparents are sitting down when they read this. Then I can run to the store and buy some balloons and confetti. That's what, the fourth one since 9-11? Careful schoolboy, you might faint with all that blood rushing out of your head.

I bought a trumpet for this very occasion. Let me play you a fanfare, then perhaps I can make a plaster of paris mold of the throbbing beast, that cool with you?

Wait, lemme go get the kids.

Happy Somebody Call Ted Koppel Day!

Cancer Is Not A Gay Disease Day!

I can name at least two people who have died of Cancer but are not gay. That guy in the Straight Story and my almost step-Dad. I say "almost" step-Dad because my mother and he were engaged to be married when he passed. They knew he was going to die (they met before his tumors were found and she'd lived with him and stood by his side as he went in and out of remission for six years) and my mother, though she hated the thought of marrying again, wanted him to marry her so that she could live out the rest of her life as his widow. She was 51 when he passed and she wanted her remaining twenty or thirty years to stand as a tribute to her time with him. She wanted to carry a word with her that defined her existence in reference to her relationship with him. "Widow."

But, and my mother laughs about this now, even though they just wanted the marriage certificate, those familial obligations that start blowing a wedding up way bigger than the couple had intended came into play and the date kept being pushed back because relatives who wanted to enjoy one last celebratory occasion with Len (my almost Step-Dad) had to be considered. Ultimately, Len got so sick that the whole idea was snuffed out after awhile. I love my father and he and my mother get along fine, but Len was the true love of my mother's life. Len wasn't gay.

And neither was the guy in the Straight Story. I know he shot himself, but he shot himself because the pain of his cancer was so bad and he didn't want to just wither and writhe into his grave.

Happy Cancer Is Not A Gay Disease Day!

If You Start Collecting Your Loose Change In Little Jars Day!

If you start collecting your loose change in little jars, you will feel that rush of adrenaline that great artists receive when they discover they've embarked on a journey towards the completion of a great work. With each jangly handful of coins tossed from your pocket to your change jar, neighbors and roommates will think they've heard a sculptor slap another fistful of clay upon his wet amorphous beast. "Perhaps the figure now has a shoulderblade. Perhaps a potbelly." Some people, small-minded people, keep jars of change solely for the doing of laundry. These are the same people who think stone is for skipping across the lake, that paint is for houses, that garbage should not be welded together to make a statement about the state of low-income housing. These people do not have the creator's soul that burns inside of you. These people will never visit a coinstar machine because the coins they've accumulated will not cover the gas money spent to drive to the shopping center.

But you, in months, years, perhaps decades, for there is no time limit for the fruition of greatness, you will one day bring your masterpiece to coinstar. You might even need a couple of friends to help you carry it all in. People will stare at you, in much the same way they stare at people pushing cartloads of aluminum cans (another of the great misunderstood pursuits. MUST WE ALL PUSH PAPERS ACROSS A DESKTOP?!!!). Ignore these undead ghouls, pounding upon the walls of their tomb of middle-class debt. Let your masterpiece cascade into the coinstar, is the sound any different from the scream of a waterfall? That is the sound of your work being appraised.

I once knew a man who'd accumulated over ten years of loose change, and he brought it to coinstar when he decided to move out of town. He walked away with over a thousand dollars. The reason he was leaving town was because his wife had taken his child and run off. Once the divorce went through, he decided it would be best if he moved so as to not be reminded of the past fifteen years of his existence.

Happy If You Start Collecting Your Loose Change In Little Jars Day!

Another Elderly Person In Your Life Day!

You've already got two parents in their late-sixties, early seventies, and there's also that friend of your Dad's who must be able to see the color of 80's eyes from here. Your boss is 61 years NOT-young, and that may be just a kiss below elderly, but it's a kiss with tongue if you ever met the geezer. Then there's that gruff but decrepit son of a bitch who sells you your cigarettes at the ripe old age of shoulda'-died-last-year, but even though he always talks about "the blacks" you still feel like you'll miss him when he kicks it.

On the periphery, there's the witchy-looking shut-in with whom you sit for an hour every Thanksgiving, but she could have passed already. There's Mickey, the owner of Mickey's, but you rarely see him since he's got his daughter tending bar ever since her divorce. Um, landlord, crossing guard, notary public (you actually see her way too often lately), and a car service driver you seem to always end up with.

That's a lot of elderly people for one person to be acquainted with. And now, to top it all off, you've fallen head-over-heels into the most-erotically charged relationship of your life with a 37-year-old ad executive who's got two doting (ie. visiting!) parents, both deep into 77. I just hope it's worth it. By my count, that makes thirteen elderly people that you know, some of whom you care for. Thirteen. You thought this through?

Happy Another Elderly Person In Your Life Day!

Be A Coward Day!

It can get you some sugar. Por ejemplo, if you recently put an end to an extra-marital affair so as not to blow your marriage apart but now that spring's coming you think you'd like to have intercourse outside the house again, your first step will be to give that little homewrecker a call.

She'll say, "You're a coward. Too afraid to be an honorable man and break it off with your wife."

You'll say, "Yes, I am a coward. I'm a coward for endangering the well-being of my wife and child simply because I'm too afraid to risk letting you fall out of my life. I'm a coward for shuddering in terror anytime I imagine your touch falling upon the skin of another man. I'm a coward for throwing my arm up over my eyes when I look upon a future without your love."

Then you should ask her to have sex with you, because she will.

If you've never had an extra-marital affair and you have no desire to, you must be depressed. However, you can still be a coward. Just go find a convenience store that's being held up and walk in. When the gunman grabs the elderly shopowner in a headlock and holds the gun to his head, don't disarm him with a swift succession of super-karate kicks. Just run or lay down on the ground like you're told. The gunman might execute you if he's afraid to leave a living witness, in which case you will die and there's no afterlife btw.

Happy Be A Coward Day!

Surgery Day!

Isn't today the day that guy you're seeing is going in for surgery?

It was to correct a floppy heart valve, right? That sounds like it's both a routine procedure and extremely risky at the same time. The kind of surgery where doctors qualify their reassurances with, "Of course, going into the heart is always pretty chancey." Which can be translated as, "You could live or you could die and I guess we're going to find out which, aren't we?"

But you kind of dig this guy don't you? It's only been two dates, so you have no clue what kind of a douchebag he might turn out to be. But based on the time you've spent together so far (18 hours, 7 of which were spent asleep) you'd be into finding out whether you two might have a shot at a long-termish kind of thing. Should he live to see tomorrow, of course.

I really wish I was you right now. I've known a handful of people who died, but my reaction was always pretty clear-cut. They were either relatives or friends whose deaths devastated me, or they were acquaintances distant enough that I learned of their deaths third hand, and while it weirded me out a bit, it didn't do much more than give me an excuse to think about my own death and make a list of who might give a shit.

But you, with this guy. If he dies, it might give you pause for a moment. You might call people up and tell them about it, just because it makes for a hell of a story. But it won't feel any worse than if you went on a date with someone who was leaving the country for a couple years. "Oh well, those are the breaks."

But you don't know whether or not he's going to "Leave the country." And you'd be into him sticking around. I've just never thought, "Boy, I hope So and So lives long enough for me to find out whether I'd give a shit if he or she dies." Does it make you want to inflate your feelings with some manufactured concern? And what if he pulls through? I wouldn't be surprised if he felt like he had a new lease on life and decided he didn't want to spend any more time with someone who wouldn't have missed a day of work if he died. And I wonder if you two aren't already jinxed. I mean, if you were to continue seeing each other and marry, you could both look back on a point in your relationship when one of you could have died without the other missing a beat. Is love supposed to start out that way? I don't know.

Reeses Is Dead Day!

You remember Reeses? He's the black lab that dug up a little boy's disembodied hand from underneath a little league field in Orange, New Jersey last summer. That hand was found to belong to little Joshua Feingold, and its discovery turned his missing person case into an unsolved child murder. A clump of hand soap in between the boy's fingers led police to the home of Carmen Roderick, a widow who ran a Sunday School out of her home. Police found Joshua's shirt and underpants in her basement, and arrested Roderick. Joshua had been enrolled in her Sunday School and Roderick had been questioned by police but she was never considered a suspect. Now in prison serving two twenty-five year terms, she still claims to be innocent. She had a thirty one year old stepson living with her for some time that police have yet to locate for questioning. Many believe it was her stepson that killed the boy, and that Ms. Roderick only helped to hide the crime.

And it all started with Reeses' fine-tuned hunter's snout. Today he passed away. He was shot twice in the neck and once in the rump with an assault rifle. The shooter turned himself in just before sundown today. His name is Martin Taggart. Taggart was a neighbor of Reeses' and after the dog dug up that boy's hand, Taggart would watch Reeses pass his home every day on his walk. Taggart became a bit obsessed with the celebrity canine. One afternoon, he decided he would kill Reeses. He went to a sporting goods store and bought an assault rifle. He just wanted to be the guy that killed that dog that solved that child murder.

Happy Reeses Is Dead Day!

Wait Until 6:30ish Day!

He's in town. At least two bartenders are certain of that. And one slut who couldn't resist braying about how he came to see her before you even heard he was back. He's in town, and if he comes to see you, he'll come today.

The light's all wrong, though. You can't leave your room because everywhere you look you see him there. Sitting in the empty desk chair, Indian style with his back against the wall on the empty bed, standing in the middle of the floor struggling to give you an apologetic look in the eye. Always in the space where you aren't, just far enough away for him to answer some questions before you put him in your arms.

Trouble is, you can't imagine him there before nightfall. The sun is furious today and the light in your room looks like it would suffocate a conversation worse than the noisiest restaurant ever could. No one can weigh the phrasing of answers with a clear head when there are frisbees to be thrown.

You see him at twilight, 6:30ish, after the sun is tight under a blanket and anyone asked would agree, "Yes, nighttime is going to take place again. We weren't certain until just a moment ago." In the hour when you can still feel bad about being inside a bar already, when many people have yet to even make dinner plans. When the light is quiet, when no one's getting anything done, when all at once a head can reminisce about four hours ago and anticipate the 8 hours to come. When a girl can ask a question like "Why'd you go away" without being disturbed by the shouts of all the happy babies on the sidewalk.

6:30ish can last a while, but it's tricky. 6:30ish would be the hour he'd worry whether to ring you up or not. But 6:30ish doesn't have any kind of stopwatch to it. It ends, again, when everyone can agree, "Nighttime has begun. We told you so." And he can worry himself too late without realizing it. Who'd show up out of nowhere at 8:45 PM? Who'd run the risk of interrupting an application of lipstick?

If you don't hear from him tonight, all it means is the next time he's back in town, you get to ask him, "Why didn't you come see me the last time you were in town?" But don't worry about the next time until after around 6:30ish, dig?

Happy Wait Until 6:30ish Day!

What If You Accidentally Get Put In Prison Day!

It could happen. You could be in one of those distracted moments where you're not really thinking about what you're doing and you just go ahead and break a shop window or run over a kid while driving drunk. First offense or not, there are hardass judges out there who like to set an example. Just imagine it. At the end of the day, you're on your way to prison. Isn't that scary?

Don't answer that. You have a voice that makes erections flaccid.

It is scary. Because even if on appeal you manage to get freed from prison, that could take a while. And while you're in prison, a fight could break out and you could get really beat up or killed. Or you could be forced to have sex with someone. Okay, so those are the only two things that can happen to you in prison, assuming you remain strong with the love of Christ and stay away from drugs. But still, getting beat up and being raped are really terrible things, regardless of what people say, and there's way more of a chance of that happening if you go to prison than if you don't. In fact, the chance is almost quadrupled.

And don't forget what happens "outside." Your wife divorces you and moves in with the person she was cheating on you with. Your father kills himself. You lose your job. And who's going to take care of your cat and bird?

If I were you, I'd kneel down and pray to the sorcerers "Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease don't let me go to jail today pleeeeeeeeeease!" Policemen could be on their way to arrest you right now.

Happy What If You Accidentally Get Put In Prison Day!

Cloud 9 Day!

That's where you go with the intention of drinking away the rest of your lives together, the Cloud 9 hotel. You agree to meet when the one of you who went on the wagon falls off again. One of you always leaves the other behind at the Cloud 9. That way, while you're struggling to pull your life together so you can die with something more tangible than shame in your pocket, in the back of your mind you can believe that there's someone back at the Cloud 9 sprawled in a comfy chair trying not to put the bottle down because when it's set on the end table it blocks the HBO.

So you left the Cloud 9 and you found a new man, a successful man yes but an unimposing man, who believes in you and wants you to go back to school. (He quit drinking a while back. He believes it can be done.) He filled up your bank account with the seven thousand dollars you need to cover your tuition check and enroll in classes this afternoon. He's a good man, but unfortunately, seven thousand dollars is enough money for a head like yours to pretend seven thousand dollars is enough money for two people to live off of till the end of their lives if they just don't step outside the Cloud 9 hotel.

So leave the messages for the man you left behind. You never try to get a hold of him at his home or office or anywhere else that might imply he tried to go on without you. The message you leave says you'll be at Cloud 9 in two days. You leave a message at the Auto Detailing garage run by his friend. You leave a message with his attorney. You leave a message with Jen the cashier at Arthur's where he eats his breakfast. And most importantly, you leave a message at Cloud 9. "Tell him I'm on my way," and you hang up before the desk attendant can say no one in the registry by that name.

And when he opens the door you'll see his face and you'll know instantly one of you will run off again, and the only reason to stick around is to find out who it's gonna be. But you'll step inside and you'll sit down on the bed and spread out the cash you stole from that nice new man. You'll undress and he'll pour for you both and you'll sit across the room from each other naked, glancing at and away from the money on the bed, taking sips from your glasses.

He'll be there waiting for you. He always is. Just like you've been there waiting for him when he was the one leaving the messages. There was only that one time in 1998 that he didn't show up, but there are a million reasons why that was a totally different situation.

Happy Cloud 9 Day!

You're Dean Kamen Day!

You're the guy who wanted to help people in wheelchairs go upstairs, but in the process you invented a scooter that keeps people from falling down, and as a result you're really rich right now. For today, people think you're not only a genius inventor who digs the handicapped, but they also think you're really rich too.

I am aware that more than one person reads this page, but there can be only one Dean Kamen. Therefore, you should all try to locate each other and fight it out. When you all get together to rumble, I bet there's gonna be more than a few love connections! Do us all a favor and keep it to yourself. No one cares how you met.

Happy You're Dean Kamen Day!

The American Flag Day!

Normally, when a building hangs an American flag outside, it's saying to everyone who walks into the building, "This building takes place in America." But for today only, if a building has the American flag waving out front of it, it means, "Here inside this building, someone just farted." This is all day long, everytime you see a building with an American flag raised, you are to take it to mean, "That building stinks of farts. I bet everyone inside is giggling and going, 'Oh man, who farted?'"

Additionally, if terrorists attack us or something today, everyone will lower their American flags to half-mast because normally that would mean, "This building is sad." But if you see a building with an American flag at half-mast today, the building is saying "The best part about pussy is how warm it is inside it!" Even post offices.

Happy The American Flag Day!

Cooperation Day!

It's not the guy who sneaks around reading other people's mail trying to angle hisself a leg up that's going to grab the brass ring. That guy doesn't cooperate so even if he appears to be the best worker, his boss will be like, "Well, you clearly know how to get the job done and you're willing to cross those lines that other people won't cross in order to excel. But here at this building, we value cooperation. And you can't spell cooperation without two O's right next to each other, just like the two eyes on my face which I can use to clearly see that you read other people's mail! I''m sorry, but the end does not justify the means. If you're opening letters that aren't addressed to you just to get ahead, who's to say tomorrow you won't kill me?"

Happy Cooperation Day! Be a good worker.

If You Have Bags Under Your Eyes, Here's What It Means Day!

Molestation. Your repressed memories of having been molested constantly between the ages of 6 and 16 are starting to resurface via half-sleep dreams. Last night, as you drifted off to sleep, you entered a dream. You felt cold saliva on your cheek. The drool of a middle-aged uncle. You felt the breeze from the window chill the patch of saliva and you jumped into an upright position and vomited. For the rest of the night, you sat under a 100 watt light bulb and sort of talked to yourself about some funny stuff that you can't remember right now. You don't remember, really, being molested yet either. You won't sleep tonight though because a part of you knows that if you sleep, you'll dream and if you dream, you'll remember. You're glad not to sleep. Because you don't want to remember all those times old people had sex with you when you'd preferred that they not.

Happy If You Have Bags Under Your Eyes, Here's What It Means Day!

Drunk In Seventeen Buildings Day!

This could take up about twenty minutes or a hell of a lot of drivetime depending on where you live. But by midnight tonight, you have to be drunk in seventeen distinct buildings. And we'll defer to your local government's zoning laws for the definition of "building."

There will be, however, a far more specific definition of "Drunk." We're not just talking about whether you'd fail a breathilizer or hit a woman. What you have to do is, if you're still sober, write down on a piece of paper the name of the one person that you and everyone who loves you hopes you don't make out with tonight. If you're not sober, bring someone who loves you in to read this and write the name down for you. When you think you're ready to determine whether you're drunk enough, take out that piece of paper and ask yourself if you would make out with that person at that moment. If your answer is "In a heartbeat" or "Too late, and can anyone help me move my stuff back into his/her apartment this Sunday?" then yes, you are drunk enough to begin walking in and out of buildings. Make sure you hit seventeen before going home to raise the curtain on your special little production of "Our Ruined Life Part Two: Now We're Just Lying To Ourselves."

The Ghosts Day!

The ghosts that haunt your apartment are really getting interested in you. For the first four months, they didn't really give a shit about you. They just wanted to walk down the hallway in terrible white dresses every night at 2:24 am. They'd stop at the end of the hall and stare at the wall that used to be a doorway to what used to be a living room (split off to make a neighboring studio apartment), then run back to the other end of the hallway shrieking (to you, the shriek sounds like the brief chime of a dinner bell, because you are alive).

But then they invited another ghost over who who used to haunt you back when you were living with your ex. Apparently, your ex was cheating on you. This ghost knows because your ex would bring his mistress to your bed while you were teaching every day. The ghost, who we'll call Captain Low, watched them screw.

Captain Low was there the day your ex ran off with 600 dollars from your bank account. What went down isn't exactly what you think. The woman your ex was screwing, according to Captain Low, showed up at your door with a bloody eye. She had taken a home pregnancy test that day and when it came up positive, she fainted and slammed her eye socket into the side of the sink. When she came to, she ran over to your place to tell your ex (who had ended the affair a week previous) about the little one. Your ex said he'd pay for the abortion if she promised to get one. The woman agreed. Your ex of course had no money of his own, so he had to steal it from you. Then, after he'd paid the woman off, he decided her promise to abort wasn't enough for him. He was so afraid of that baby that he split town on the off chance that she'd decide to keep it and come looking for him. And he had already decided he would be leaving you soon, so he just took off and wrote that letter about having fallen in love with someone else. He didn't leave you for anybody. He just ran. According to what Captain Low saw, that is.

But none of that is why your current ghosts are paying so much attention to you. Just thought you should know what went down. The thing with your ghosts is Captain Low told them that one night he was watching you sleep and you started speaking to someone in a dream. You apparently said something that Captain Low once said to his mother. "Mommy, you were Daddy's favorite woman." Captain Low said this to his mother on a Christmas morning when he was nine years old, three years after his father had died. It was repeated by his mother well into Captain Low's adulthood, whenever his mother would talk about what a loving son he was.

You can apparently channel episodes from the corporeal life of ghosts into your dreams. This is a very big deal, because ghosts don't have the ability to dredge up memories of their lives on Earth. You are their memory. So from now on, every time you fall asleep, the ghosts haunting your apartment drop whatever they're doing to hover over you waiting for you to talk in your sleep and provide them with a past.

Happy The Ghosts Day.

Honest Young Men Wear Khaki Pants And Untucked Dress Shirts Day!

Men who tell lies wear eyeliner and ties. Men who cheat on wives have tassles on their shoes. Men who keep mum when they've tendered a ten and received change for a twenty have contact lenses but chose to wear glasses. Men who orchestrate complicated confidence schemes in which nothing is as it seems aren't wearing any underwear. That beggar on the train who claimed to be a veteran of the Viet Nam war is only twenty seven and he was wearing an orange jumpsuit. Argyle socks adorn the ankles of the boy who steals cars to pay his way through law school (Irony just hit snooze on her alarm clock) and is under the mistaken impression that he can walk away from his criminal past any ol' time he feels like it. And any man who looks you in the eye and says he's never thought about what it would feel like to one day look you in the eye is wearing his dead brother's galoshes.

Thank you, gentlemen. And when you go out tonight, please remember to dress accordingly.

Happy Honest Young Men Wear Khaki Pants And Untucked Dress Shirts Day!

Broke Heart Big Sister Day!

Do you have a big sister? Does your big sister have a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a best friend, a husband, or faith in something elusive that keeps her going? She does?

Well, guess what.

Don't try to comfort her, she understands now that there's no comfort to be had in this life. And she's not going to buy it, especially from you because you're younger than her. If you wanna just make sure she's not dead or give her a reason to perk up with a little raging adrenaline to the head, knock on her door and ask, "You okay Sis?" just so she can throw herself up from the bed and throw a boot at the door.

But comfort? The only comfort she'd swallow at this point would be, "Hey, at least you made it to [your big sister's age] stupid enough to believe in [love, Christ, man's innate desire to be good]. A lot of people barely make it to [younger than your big sister's age] before they get mouth-raped by Truth. Now why don't you get out there and compromise?"

Your big sister won't disagree with you. But she will point out a physical flaw of yours to make you feel bad about yourself. Even though she is now capable of looking at the petals of a flower and see nothing but disease, she's still your big sister and she needs you to know that you are fat and that you have pimples.

Happy Broke Heart Big Sister Day!

A Flavor Of Incense That Makes People Imagine What You'd Look Like Giving A Baby A Bath When They Breathe It In Day!

Whether you have a big date tonight or you've invited your boss over for dinner, light up some of those special incense sticks you bought from the back of that white van over the weekend. No, not the flavor that makes people believe their eyeballs have been replaced with live waterbugs. Light the flavor that makes anyone who breathes it in imagine what you'd look like giving a baby a bath.

It'll really lighten the mood. Once the air is good and cloudy with the aroma, you'll find your guests just staring at you with a big grin on their faces, tilting their heads to the side as if they want to say "Awww" but are trying to refrain since you're using your quiet voice to tell the story about the ambulance visit the other night because the neighbor's daughter attempted suicide again. They'll start saying things like, "You keep such a warm, wholesome household" and "It's just impossible not to like you right now" and "Here comes the Tugboat!" but they won't really know why. Or at least they won't know that you know why.

Just make sure a window is open to constantly circulate the air. If the smoke from those incense sticks grows close and stale, it can turn and everyone will start to imagine you giving a baby a bath without any water in the tub, just you rubbing the baby's skin harder and harder, chafing it off layer by layer until the baby is screaming and rough.

Happy A Flavor Of Incense That Makes People Imagine What You'd Look Like Giving A Baby A Bath When They Breathe It In Day!

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.