Sit Around And Think About Kim Day!

You feel like a heel for never having visited her in jail. But you've spoken to others who have and you just couldn't bring yourself to see her like that.

"Like a monster," they said. "She's someone else now. She couldn't even speak in words anymore. Just in groans and punches to her own chest and belly."

Once upon a time you and Kim were gonna change the world. "Our love is our activism," she'd whisper just before a kiss. "Our activism is our love."

But the war against Choice escalated and Kim was called to the front lines to put a bullet through the windshield of an abortion doctor. You were behind the wheel of the getaway car. The bullet seared through the flesh of the doctor's shoulder and, as it happened, he lost the use of his left arm and bowed out of the practice.

But you and Kim got caught. The doctor brought suit against Mission For The Child because Kim proudly told authorities that she had been acting as a soldier for the Mission when she pulled the trigger. The Doctor was awarded millions and the Mission went under. And the criminal trial focused on Kim as the shooter. You were handed probation, but Kim was given twenty years in maximum security.

It's been twelve years now since the shooting. You are older and more tired. Your wife died delivering your second daughter Denise. You're not a militant anymore, you're just a father and a widower.

You wish Kim might have been killed in jail, or at least she might have served her full sentence. She might never come find you, but if she does you will have no choice but to give her food and a bed until she's willing to free you of your responsibility and move on. And now you're going to go into the bedroom and reread the last letter she sent you five years prior after you told her you were about to marry.

Happy Sit Around And Think About Kim Day!

The Minivan Company Isn't Going To Like Your Idea For Their Next Ad Campaign Day!

The guy buys his minivan and on the way home he is absolutely in love with the comfort and all of the handy compartments. So in love that he doesn't make it home to his wife and kids, but instead hits the road to the heart of America, filling up the handy compartments with cocaine that he will sell to continue to bring in a steady income. There's a montage at the end of the commercial, featuring clips of the guy's wife and kids being forced to move into a small apartment, interspersed with clips of the guy out on the road partying with biker dudes and naked moms in the back of the minivan. The slogan at the end of the commercial: "No attachments!"

You're going to be fired, but you're right. It is really funny.

Happy The Minivan Company Isn't Going To Like Your Idea For Their Next Ad Campaign Day!

Jeckyl, The Cutest Cat In The World Day!

Jeckyl, the cutest cat in the world, is being offered up for adoption on Craig's list because Jeckyl scratched a baby on the back of the hand.

Jeckyl's owners are devastated that they have to give Jeckyl away, but they just can't take the chance that Jeckyl might do something worse to their baby. Jeckyl, according to them, is the cutest cat in the world. Any cat lover should be more than thrilled to have Jeckyl in their home (cat lovers with babies that have hands excluded, of course).

Some of the other pet caregivers on Craig's List find Jeckyl's owners to be a tad cruel in the way they are willing to just toss Jeckyl to the winds the minute there's a little problem. One particular pet caregiver has already threatened the lives of Jeckyl's caregivers and their baby.

Jeckyl is nine years old and has no diseases. Jeckyl is the cutest cat in the world. If you have room in your home and in your heart.

Happy Jeckyl, The Cutest Cat In The World Day!

Mud Wrestle Day!

People who don't follow the sport think that mud wrestling is just a vehicle for slippery women to rip each other's bikini tops off. This is accurate.

Today, tell Marjory Kleinfeld that the next time she loads the printer full of three-hole punch and forgets to replace it with a standard ream after her job has printed, you're going to settle shit up inside the ring. Marjory will break your threatening stare and load up the printer full of three-hole punch, then she'll print one page, hand it to you, and walk away smiling, having left the printer full to the brim with three-hole punch. The page she handed you will read, "Bring it, cocksuck."

Summertime is about lightness and funfun. Marjory knows that and so do you. That's why you're both popping with anticipation to scrabble around in that pit of muck until the clothing has been ripped from your bosoms. After which point, one of you will climb atop the other's shoulders to welcome anyone who thinks they can take the two of you on in a topless mud-chicken fight. Immediately following the fights, shower up and hit the bar until you're all drunk enough to cheat on your spouses. The Office Before The Home, Know What's Right.

Happy Mud Wrestle Day!

It's The Girls Are Pretty Flowering The Gravestones Long Weekend!

As many of you may know, Prettygirl is not known to bring the best of luck to those who care for her. In fact, those who grow close to Prettygirl can expect to die a very funny death within a year's time (ie: stopping in the path of a speeding bus to check if one's zipper is down. HA!). This string of sadness is the result of a curse cast upon Prettygirl by a spurned lover (PRETTYGIRL CHEATED CHEATED CHEATED!). It can be reversed. The blood of that former lover must be fed to a black cat. A Craig's Listing has been posted, but the only responses that have come in are people screeching about satanic cults and berating Prettygirl for wanting a cat of a particular color when there are so many beautiful animals in the world that need a home.

But all that's not important right now. This weekend is about those who are no longer with us. Prettygirl's mail carrier Janice for instance. Her Portugal friend, Marcus. These people died simply because they came to care for Prettygirl, and this weekend she will be paying her respects. Their graves are spread far and wide, but make no mistake, a flower will be lain upon each.

It's gonna take a little bit of time though. So most of this weekend's are going up now. YOU CANNOT READ TOMORROW'S TODAY OR THERE WILL BE NO TOMORROW, GOT IT (DICKS)?!!

Sunday, August 1, 2004

Buying The Special Toy Day!

Your kid wants the Mattel Piss Cannon, a toy that has turned into a National Phenomenon. It goes on sale this morning at Wal-Mart and will be sold out by 8 AM. Camp out in the parking lot, but do not sleep or you might get your throat slit. When the doors open in the morning, find the biggest toughest Mom in the crowd and rip her goddamn throat out her neck to show all the other Moms you're not to be fucked with. If you don't acquire a Mattel Piss Cannon this morning, you do not love your son.

Happy Buying The Special Toy Day!

Saturday, July 31, 2004

Get A Boyfriend Day!

You've been single for what seems like an ugly person's lifetime. You don't mind it much, you value your time and you have a lot of work to do. But your friends and family assume you are going to kill yourself the first moment you get alone. Ease their worry and take up with the first employed man you meet. This is not about love, it's about not looking like a loser. If he hits, get out of there.

Happy Get A Boyfriend Day!

Friday, July 30, 2004

Giant Awesome Explosion Day!

It’s only awesome because no one is going to be hurt. If anyone gets hurt, there’s nothing awesome about it, are we understood?

Very well. Today the Mayor’s office is going to blow up a 50 foot pyramid of spraypaint cans. The initial blast will have a very tinny sound, and then everyone and everything will be covered in a rainbow of toxic paint, illustrating the undeniable fact that the world is beautiful and dying.

Happy Giant Awesome Explosion Day!

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Insane Gas Meter Reader Day!

The gas meter reader is not dangerous. But she is delusional and has many bouts of paranoia. Don’t talk on the phone while she reads your meter. If she overhears you say anything, she’ll think it’s about her and before she leaves she’ll confront you.

Were you speaking to Dina? It sounded like my friend Dina was on the other end of that line.

Happy Insane Gas Meter Reader Day!

Someone Put Some Fireflies In Your Room Day!

Someone, and I'm not saying who, but someone opened up her jar of lightning bugs in your room and shook them all out onto your floor. There should be maybe two or three hundred up there waiting to brighten up your day one little fleck of gold at a time.

The person who did this is slow and because she thinks that lightning bugs in the yard in the evening are beautiful, she fails to see why anyone might find lightning bugs perched along every surface of one's bedroom absolutely abominable, to the point of being terrifying. She thought she was giving you a present is the thing, so don't be too upset with her. It's okay though if you want to force her to sweep them all up after they die. Retarded or not, life keeps going. She's going to have to learn what the slowly fading glow of a shitload of squished fireflies looks like sooner or later. It'll keep her out of your room anyway.

Happy Someone Put Some Fireflies In Your Room Day!

For Charity Day!

Today, volunteer at a soup kitchen. Many of the homeless are mentally insane and one at the soup kitchen will confuse you with a woman to whom he has been married for decades. Try to calmly explain that you are not his wife.

"Are too," he'll say.

Don't reply "Are not" or you'll never get out of there. Instead give one of the kitchen administrators the high sign and then fall to the ground in an effort to fake your own death. The administrator will run over and press his fingers to your throat and then he'll announce, "She's dead," and after the confused homeless man sobs his tears all over your face and neck, the security guards will drag you back into the kitchen.

You might smoke a cigarette or take a leak before you come back out and resume serving soup. The now-bereaved homeless man will see you and he'll shout "Ethel!" or whatever he thinks your name is.

Say to him, "You just saw me die so I must be a ghost I guess. I can't hear what you say to me, and if you try to touch me I'll vanish."

The confused homeless man will not take his eyes off of you, and he'll probably follow you home for the next few years, but he won't bug you while you're trying to do some good at least.

Happy For Charity Day!

Your Roommate's Breast Reduction Day!

Ever since Sandy moved in she's spoken of nothing but her impending breast reduction. How much her back muscles stand to benefit, how vehemently her mother expressed her opposition, and how she can't wait to finally put on a tank top in August. You've had so little going on in your own life that you got pretty caught up in it, which is why you'll be picking her up from the clinic this afternoon.

She'll be coming out of the anesthesia and, therefore, vomiting. A nurse will wheel her to your car, but you're going to have to help her into the house. She'll need to be steadied in your arms, and her bosom will be wrapped tight in bandages (change daily) so you're in no danger of ripping the stitches. But it would be best if you could keep your hands near her hips and her waist. Best not to lift her shoulders any more than necessary.

She hasn't prepared you for how much she'll need you to care for her because she really has no idea. The vomiting should stop by early morning tomorrow, then you'll have to feed her some. It's good that you have so little going on for yourself right now. But before you get caught up in something like this again how's about you send out some resumes, yes?

Happy Your Roommate's Breast Reduction Day!

Run To Your Death To Win The Race Day!

It's a complicated race and there are no spectators, no sponsors, no organizers, no starting line, and, as will be made obvious, no finish line. To enter, begin running. Your participation in the race is only made official when you drop dead. And the last person to drop dead wins. But anyone can enter the race anywhere, at any time. One only need to begin running. Therefore, when you finally drop to the ground to die there, you will not know if there are others still running somewhere. And even if you are the last to drop dead, if ten years down the line someone somewhere wishes to enter the race, you lose. IT'S REALLY QUITE SILLY.

If you should pass someone else who is also in the race, you may nod to each other, but no chit chat as this is not a singles bar.

Happy Run To Your Death To Win The Race Day!

This One's For You Ted Day!

Ted wrote in with a request. The following is just for him.

A girl we'll call Shannon was nineteen and in between semesters at college, visiting her boyfriend, Jeff, who had gone to school close to home. It was a great comfort to be back with him, spending nights in his arms again, going to the Centennial Gardens on the edge of town almost every free afternoon they could share, and Shannon waiting at the concession tables of the Cineplex where Jeff still worked on his breaks from school. It was just like in high school, but now their days and nights together were colored with a tint of doom, just around the frame, since they both knew this summer would be their last together. Shannon felt like it was expected of her to move on to better than Jeff. And Jeff just sort of understood that if you stay in the same place, you'll be left behind eventually. He wasn't too sad about it. Just a little anxious for things to be done with.

The dread for the coming end suffused their sex with just a little more abandon. Shannon wanted to do a few things that she would remember, such as being penetrated amongst the hedges of the Centennial Gardens just before closing. And Jeff wanted to penentrate Shannon whenever he was permitted to do so. They had their fun and said goodbye forever six days before Shannon left to return to college.

Before the leaves began to change, Shannon discovered she was pregnant. She aborted within days. Shannon is now a star of feature films and is very happy with her life. She knows she made the correct decision, but she wishes she hadn't had to make it.

Hope this helps Ted. Happy Birthday.

And Happy This One's For You Ted Day!

We Found His Beret Day!

It was in the brush by the stream. There was some blood on it. Lotta dirt, it looked like it was definitely on his head for much of the struggle. The good news is we're not far from finding your boyfriend. The bad news is, it doesn't look like we're going to find him alive.

I'm a cop, sure, but I have no idea whether your boyfriend wore a beret often or not. And I have no idea whether that was even a problem for you. It doesn't have to have been. But I just want to make sure we're clear that if we don't find him alive, your boyfriend will have died in a beret. That can be hard to swallow for some, and I don't want it to sneak up on you. He was wearing a beret up until the very end. A beret.

Happy We Found His Beret Day!

And With A Puff Of Smoke Day!

Last night you prayed to Baby Jesus that he do what he can to put a little more magic into your life. That's why you shouldn't be surprised when, this morning, after you stir your milk into your coffee and the color changes from black to light brown, you and your coffee will be enveloped by a short puff of beautiful white smoke. Which will disappear as quickly as it came.

When you are in public, the puff of smoke will be followed by a round of applause and two or three guys going, "Ooh." You'll see soon enough. Like when you drop quarters into the newspaper box and open the door to retrieve a paper. Baby Jesus is still a dick.

Happy And With A Puff Of Smoke Day!

Trapped Under Boxes Day!

Today, you're stuck underneath some boxes. You tried to get to the box in the middle of the pile because you were pretty sure that the picture of your sweet little mother was in that box and you wanted to talk to it. But when you pulled that box out, your entire pile of boxes tumbled atop your head and pinned you to the ground.

You can't breathe deep enough to shout for help. And you can't talk to your mother's picture anymore because every time you look into those eyes you can hear her shouting that you should turn yourself into the police for being gay. There is nothing to eat or drink and you have no friends who might stop by to find out why you won't return any calls because, while you have a handful of friends, you only get a call for the group invites. Outside of those, all responsibility for staying in touch with your friends lands in your lap. You don't talk to your neighbors either. There is a very good chance you're going to die.

But you've still got one chance left. Nineteen feet away from you, way up on the wall, is a small red button that opens the garage door. Within your reach is a toy bow and arrow from when you were a kid. You have only one arm free. If you can pull the bow with your teeth and shoot the arrow at that button, the door will open and some of the boxes will tumble out, lessening the weight above you and opening the door to the rubble so someone might poke his nose in to see what happened. However, when you were a child, after the car accident and before you had your arm reattached, you were the prized archer for your elementary school's team and they needed you to bring them to victory. They were counting on you to adjust to having only one arm. You didn't come near hitting the target of course, and that failure, you're certain, made the rest of your life take a turn for the worse.

Well, now it's not your team record on the line, it's your own preservation. If you miss the target, you'll die there under those boxes. If you hit the target, your whole life will change because you'll have compensated for that humiliating day so long ago when everyone was counting on you to shoot a bow and arrow with one arm and your teeth and you failed. Give it your best shot and you're going to miss and die there. It won't make a difference that you tried because after you miss, you'll know that your fear of failure kept you from concentrating on the task at hand, and it will feel like you were doomed to fail from the first moment that the challenge presented itself.

Happy Trapped Under Boxes Day!

Woke Up In A Girl Day!

When you opened your eyes you were wrapped up in her arms, in her legs, caught up in the gusts of her breath. You were laid flat rendered defenseless under 110 pounds of a girl you've only had sex with seven times. She wouldn't stop sleeping.

You said, "Wake up, let me go."

Her eyes fluttered and her mouth closed and her lips pursed up into that coy little redheaded smile. Then you wriggled out from underneath her like you just found out she had poison ivy.

She said, "What?"

"I couldn't get away," you said.

She stared, making sure it wasn't a dream. Then she pulled her legs up to her chest and said so that you could not in a million years think she might need you even the slightest little bit, "Go then." That's when you felt ice cold, like last November, and you stretched back out in bed.

After ten minutes, she wrapped herself up and around you again. After four hours, you said, "I didn't want to leave. It was just…" After nine hours she left the bed and came back with an orange cut up into slices.

Happy Woke Up In A Girl Day!

Blood All Over Day!

Last night he sliced a giant maw into your lower calf with his over-grown toenail and you're not sure whether the loss of blood itself made you woozy or did you need to stand on your knees only after you saw just how wild and wide the red had spread? You talked to the police and they said if you were to die from the blood loss, your husband would be suspected of murder only if there appeared to be probable cause, given that that method would look so much like an accident. So you took out an insurance policy on yourself, naming your husband the sole benficiary, and you've begin an affair with a coworker. And tonight you're going to present all of this to your husband so he'll understand that he risks being raped in prison for the rest of his life if he doesn't cut his fucking toenails. Jesus.

Happy Blood All Over Day!

Too Cool For Anderson, Lipschitz, Morrisey, Jullan, Heimlich, and Fried LLP Day!

You try to play off your junior partnership in the firm as if you're above it all. They're lucky if you show up to a third of the mixers thrown throughout the year. Whenever your team manages to score a big new client, even if you're primarily responsible for bringing them on, all anyone gets out of you is a shrug and a "Not too bad if that's the sort of thing you care about I guess. I get much more excited by Jazz." And God forbid you're asked to give a speech or else you'll start spewing out about what's really important, or worse, you'll tell a thrice-told anecdote from your post-college year in Prague.

The difference between you and almost everyone else at your firm is that they are not disappointed in themselves.

Happy Too Cool For Anderson, Lipschitz, Morrisey, Jullan, Heimlich, and Fried LLP Day!

The Skirt Of Her Wedding Dress Flares Out Like A Bell Day!

It's the only dress she packed. In the darkness of 3 AM she didn't need to see it to know it was the one she'd marry in.

While packing she was aware of the story she'd one day tell, perhaps to her daughter, perhaps only to her mother. "I packed only one dress," she would say. "Just one dress to marry in. Some jeans, socks and underwear and I tossed the bag out my window to Paco waiting in the garden." It was going to be a very good story.

"I've seen you in that already," Paco says when she meets him at the podium of the wedding chapel.

"Bad luck?" she asks, her face a teardrop with a grin.

Paco lifts the makeshift veil up to rest on her hair. "We'll see," he says. And he turns to hear what the minister has to say.

Happy The Skirt Of Her Wedding Dress Flares Out Like A Bell Day!

Broken Coffee Pot Day!

You'll smack it into the head of the long-neck faucet when your trying to swish the water around to clean the walls of the pot. You'll take a huge shard out of the side, down to the metal band at the bottom. Your heart will stop beating and you'll sit on your couch, trying to remember whether you've ever replaced a coffee pot before. Not the entire coffee maker, just the pot.

"Must have," you'll think. But you won't be able to remember when. You'll only be able to assume that large stores like Wal-Mart have an abundance of replacement coffeepots for every brand of coffee maker.

"At least I hope."

You'll stay on the couch until you're fifteen minutes late for work. Though in a panic, you'll walk to the elevator, take it to the lobby, walk out of your building and make your way to your train to get to work. With every step the anxiety will grow. You don't have a coffee pot anymore. And you're going to have to find out how to get a new one. Somehow.

Oh dead God almighty the whole world prays only for you.

Happy Broken Coffee Pot Day!

Raindrops Made Of Teardrops Day!

Not to be confused with Teardrops Made Of Raindrops Day. Which is essentially a day that means nothing to no one. All it is is some chick crying but the drops that come out of her eyes are of the same composition as the rain. Wheee!

Today however, the raindrops that fall from the sky are of the same organic makeup as the drops that fall from the eye of your average person who has just had a hair plucked from his nose or lost a dad.

So what's today mean? Well, if you believe in God and you believe that God is up in the sky, you can believe that he's crying and you can try to figure out what you did wrong. If you don't believe in God, today it's raining weird.

Additionally, it doesn't have to rain today. But if it does, you get it.

Happy Raindrops Made Of Teardrops Day!

Goosepimples Herbert Day!

Goosepimples Herbert was sitting on the couch with his wife Eileen watching television. When Eileen looked down at the cushions for the remote, she noticed that Goosepimple Herbert's left arm had broken out in Goosepimples.

"Oh, God. Herbert look," Eileen said.

Herbert looked down at his arms, then up at Eileen. "Don't panic," he said. "Get out to the car and wait. I'm going to put on pants."

They raced to the airport where their son, Roy, was about to board a plane to a Marching Band Competition in Chicago. Goosepimples Herbert and Eileen were not allowed to go to the gates without a ticket, but they had Roy paged to meet them at the security gates.

"What's up?" Roy asked from behind the metal detectors.

Goosepimples Herbert held out his bare forearms, which had by now turned beet red.

"Oh crap," said Roy.

"Go back and get your stuff," Eileen told Roy. "And tell the rest of the band that the plane might go down."

Roy marched sulkily away from the gate. Goosepimples Herbert and Eileen waited for twenty minutes with no sign of Roy's return. They started paging him again, with no response. With just minutes before the flight's departure, Goosepimples Herbert and Eileen began to beg and shout at the security desk, warning them that the flight to Chicago was in danger. They were both detained, and somehow the flight was allowed to take off.

The plane is in the air right now and Roy is on it. He is sick of being pulled out of trips and events every time his father's goosepimples erupt. Half the time, the goosepimples predict tragedy. The other half, they predict nearly nothing at all. Roy refused to back out of the trip and he certainly wasn't going to warn everyone else on the trip based on his father's half-baked psychic ability.

Goosepimples Herbert and Eileen are no longer being held but they've yet to leave the airport. They're watching the clock, waiting for their son's flight to land without incident, at which point they're going to rent a car and drive to Chicago to pick him up.

Happy Goosepimples Herbert Day!

The Boy Who Can Sing Day!

He was six when he first let his beautiful voice chirp out into the middle of My Country Tis Of Thee and midway through the song everyone else in the class stopped singing and just let Malcolm take it away. He didn't realize he was doing a solo until the very end of the song he opened his eyes and saw the whole homeroom staring at him, their mouths hanging open. His teacher's hands hung heavy at her sides, her eyes were wet. Malcolm was about to apologize when she went running out the door.

From that day on, the whole school district was priming Malcolm to ride his voice outta that town. "You have a gift, Malcolm," the world-wise custodians would say to him. "Build upon that gift and make greatness. It's your responsibility." Malcolm wished he didn't have quite so beautiful a voice, so that just a little less might be expected of him.

By junior year, Malcolm had fallen in love with Maria Bobst. What Malcolm didn't know was that his best friend Chipper also loved Maria, had loved her since elementary school. Chipper was doomed to take over his father's drywall business following graduation. "After graduation" was a phrase Malcolm and Maria chose to avoid because they knew it was just a long way of saying goodbye. Chipper was pissed that even though Maria knew she had no future with Malcolm, that he'd never take her with him when he gets out, she still chose to stay with him. So today, Chipper's going to swing a length of pipe at Malcolm's voicebox. Chipper's going to say, "You two deserve each other" right before he does it. In the coming weeks before Malcolm speaks his first word, he's going to hope that his voice has been destroyed forever so that he can stay with Maria and shrug off all that was expected of him and just live a quiet little life listening to someone else's songs.

Happy The Boy Who Can Sing Day!

Conga Line Classes Day!

Retard, who told you you'd meet the girl of your dreams in a conga line? The only one your gonna find on the tale end of a conga line is Buddy Lou. Remember Buddy Lou? Got buried alive for six days by his senile uncle. The uncle caught Buddy in the middle of one of his seizures and thought he was dying. Buddy's uncle flashed back to his childhood as a stable boy and decided he had to finish Buddy off and bury him so he knocked his nephew in the head with a shovel. He thought Buddy was dead, but he was only knocked unconscious. Asleep deep enough to get dropped in the ground underneath his uncle's basement and curl up under six feet of soil. That's who's got his arms on your hips, kicking to the left and the right like a cartoon chimpanzee. Buddy Lou, a man dead for six days and lived to dance about it. That's the kind of fun you'll find creeping up at the back of a conga line. Now get a bicycle and talk up the babies down by the bike path.

Happy Conga Line Classes Day!

Describe Love For Money Day!

It seems hard to believe, but a great many Americans (surveyed) have never fallen in love. Either because they are extremely busy, extremely shallow, or were hurt by the loss of a pet at a very young age and have yet to risk opening their hearts to another living creature, these people neither crave this "love" about which so many songs are written, not do they fear it. They are simply curious.

That's where you come in. These people want to know the difference between "loving" and "grabbing." They want to know why, following sexing, some people choose to spend the night together instead of dressing and walking out the door in silence, with averted eyes. They want a workbook full of exercises.

Call it "This Is What Love Is" and charge seven hundred dollars. Only allow pro-rated refunds up to the 8th class session. And give out diagrams that show puppies sharing ice cream cones.

Break love down into seven stages: Confusion, Surrender, Ripping Metal From Metal With Seeming Superhuman Strength To Pull The Object Of Your Love From A Car Wreck As A Seeping Puddle Of Gasoline Approaches, Suspicion, Disillusionment, Experimentation, Murder-Suicide.

Here are some notes for your lectures:

1. Confusion: "So you're just going about your business and all of a sudden you see this face or this flip of the hair and it's like you got conked on the head!"

2. Surrender: "You try to fight the feeling, but trust me baby, you are powerless. I don't care how rich you are. Love's gonna getcha!"

3. Ripping Metal From Metal With Seeming Superhuman Strength To Pull The Object Of Your Love From A Car Wreck As A Seeping Puddle Of Gasoline Approaches: "Being in love doesn't make you a superhero. But if the object of your love is in danger of dying, you will find that you can do things you never thought you could do. Such as flight."

4. Suspicion: "You love her so much that when she comes home late from work you decide she's handing it out to anyone with a late-model Chrysler!"

5. Disillusionment: "He's still the only one who understands the real you. But you feel utterly deceased inside, and you think that all you have left to do is wait for your body to die too."

6. Experimentation: "You'll be thinking, Hey! I never did it with a Black!"

7. Murder-Suicide: "Till death do us part baby. I mean, you can say that right before, you know. Or you can come up with your own little bon mot that you can say right before the end. Let's hear some ideas."

Just remember, a lot of the people in your classroom are gonna be angry types who wanna challenge you. They'll have signed up after they got dumped because they didn't know how to love, and they'll be looking at you and thinking, "This is the kind of guy she's looking for. Fucking fruitcake, is what." Look out for yourself, and expect your car to get keyed.

Happy Describe Love For Money Day!

Talk To The Girl On The Raft Day!

You're twenty six years old and you're still going on vacation with your parents because that's the only way you can afford to go on a vacation. The red-haired girl on the raft has been out on the lake every day for the past three days. She's apparently also on vacation with her family and she appears to be close to your age. Unless she's engaged to someone stationed in Iraq or something, you two will have sex not long after introducing yourselves. Or at least before one of you goes back home. You just have to swim out and ask her how old she is.

"Hey!"

She lifts her head from the pillow of the raft and looks to shore.

"Yeah, you!"

She shields the sun from her eyes with her hand to see if she knows you. She doesn't.

"How old are you?!"

"What?" she asks.

"I said, how old are you?! I like your bikini. Are you over twenty? Twenty's kind of a cutoff for me!"


"I can't hear you," she says. "You're going to have to swim out to me."

Told you you'd have to swim out. By the way, she's twenty-three and her boyfriend just broke up with her. If you make plans to meet up tonight, you can have sex in the shed where they keep the life-jackets, which will be kind of uncomfortable because all the walls are really splintery and you won't be able to lean up against any of them. But if you get the first bout over with tonight, you can invite her over on Saturday when your parents go to the gorges and the two of you can have the cabin to yourselves for like six hours.

Happy Talk To The Girl On The Raft Day!

You Matter To No One Day!

Most of the time you feel like furniture. Like you could be dragged about the living room according to what is convenient for guests your husband has invited over. Occasionally, you feel like trees. Just a few trees scattered about some relatively uninteresting public property, such as a median strip.

The last time you felt needed was when you saved a girl from drowning. You were a lifeguard on the Jersey shore for a summer and a sixteen year old girl went out too far and couldn't fight the tide to swim back in. You swam out and pulled her into shore. She thanked you with as much enthusiasm as if you'd held a door open for her. Even her parents gave off a "waddayou want a medal?" vibe.

Today is nothing special. Don't do anything to try to make yourself heard or anything. Just rest easy and keep quiet. Life will be over soon.

Happy You Matter To No One Day!

Live The Life Of A Shipwreck Day!

Just rest absolutely motionless at the bottom and wait for people with access to extremely advanced technology to come poking around you, joking about how spooky you are, while they take what they want to bring up to the surface (where everyone else in the world is) and leave the rest to rot very slowly. Additionally, you should be full of human skeletons and jewelry that once sat upon the wrists of wealthy little girls. Plus, every twenty five years you should list over to your side with the guttural sound of hell opening up to yawn.

Finally, live in stark irony as the dilapidated remains of what was once so full of promise.

Happy Live The Life Of A Shipwreck Day!

Waterguns Day!

Your home is the battlefield. Your wife is the enemy.

Strapped from head to toe with pistols, balloon launchers, and a water-pump with backpack ammo-tank attachment, soak that little girl you married with extreme prejudice.

Whether she’s eating the breakfast she made for the two of you, whether she’s showing a house to a buyer ready to close, whether she’s in the shower, she’s going down.

Yes she’s your wife and yes she’s the reason you are what you’ve made of yourself up to today. But guess what, she’ll do it to you. If you don’t drench that lady first, she’ll turn around and she’ll look you in the eye and she’ll fucking irrigate your ass.

She might even tell you she loves you when she pulls the trigger.

Splash her in the head. Spray the crotch of her pants so it looks like she peed. Soak her white tank top and then tell her you can see her bra. Get that lady so damn wet friends and neighbors will fear that she’s lost her mind and taken a shower with her clothes on.

Shoot your wife with water.

Happy Waterguns Day!

His Name Is Hopeless Harv Day!

He explained the nickname when he met you that day in the cafeteria of the library.

"People call me Hopeless Harv because most people who know me think things are pretty hopeless for me," he said from behind the lip of his milk carton. You found his honesty to be sexy so you asked him out on a date.

He's going to stand you up. He was just about to leave his house when he looked in the mirror and asked himself what ever became of that kid who used to talk so big about what he was destined to become. "Did you kill that idealistic little boy?!" he started shouting into the mirror. Then he shattered the mirror with his fast and sent a shard of glass deep into his wrist. His sister came home while he was trying to edge the shard out from the gash and she committed him again because she assumed he had made another attempt on his life.

Hopeless Harv didn't really put up a fight. He could use a rest. And though he thought you were very pretty and very nice, he's glad he doesn't have to try to get you to like him. If you'd like to visit Hopeless Harv in the psych ward, drop Prettygirl a line and she'll ask Hopeless Harv if it's okay.

Happy His Name Is Hopeless Harv Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty "So Much Beauty There In That Circle" Sunday And Monday!

Check it out. Prettygirl sat down yesterday to deliver your personal regression assignment, but she was interrupted by a knock on her door. It was a Policeman.

"Yes?" Prettygirl asked. "And how can I help you officer?"

"Were you close with your next door neighbor? Ms. Polnechek?" asked the Policeman.

"Oh no one was close with Ms. Polnechek," said Prettygirl. "She was far too beautiful. The most beautiful girl in the whole building. Perhaps on the entire block."

The Policeman went on to explain that Ms. Polnechek had jumped from her window just an hour prior. A note was found in her apartment asking what the point was.

Prettygirl voiced her terror. "But if such a beautiful young woman cannot find reason to continue…"

"What hope is there for the rest of us?" said the Policeman with a rueful nod.

After a brief embrace, Prettygirl asked the Policeman whether there was anything she could do to help. The Policeman explained that they had run out of chalk.

"I was halfway through the outline when I started tearing open the skin of my fingertips," he said.

So the long and short of it is Prettygirl spent most of yesterday on the horn trying to track down a fresh piece of chalk, and most of today trying to figure shit out with her new Policeman friend. So, here's yesterday's and today's. Scroll way down and read yesterday's, then scroll a little ways up and read today's, or else that pretty little nose of yours is coming off. Tomorrow'll hitcha tomorrow, like it's sposed'ta.

Monday, July 5th, 2004

Does She Weigh One Hundred And Twenty Pounds Day!

The girl of your dreams, they claim. She'll be meeting you at seven.

"Does she weigh one hundred and twenty pounds?" you ask.

Yes, they lie.

"I'll be weighing her the minute we meet, so you needn't waste her time if you're not telling me the truth."

One hundred and eighteen, they say.

"And how exactly am I supposed to replace a one hundred and twenty pound ancient totem with a one hundred and eighteen pound girl without tripping the booby traps?" you ask, and rightly so. Rightly so.

They say that love requires compromise and you demand your money back.

Happy Does She Weigh One Hundred And Twenty Pounds Day!


Sunday, July 4th, 2004

She Fell Asleep In Her Black Panties On Top Of Your Comforter Day!

You're not gonna be able to sleep for a little while, so load your handgun and position your desk chair so as it's facing the door to your apartment. Wait.

For a burglar. For a serial murderer. For the brother of a boy she killed twelve states away, the brother who has finally found the vengeance he's been hunting. Perhaps.

Wait, occasionally cocking the hammer of the handgun in case anyone's listening on the other side of the door.

In fact, compose a sign and run downstairs to post it on the bulletin board by the mailboxes. Fasten it over top the babysitter available and man with van flyers that have the little phone numbers dangling from the end. Your sign could say:

My girlfriend is here. Congratulations. You've found her. She's asleep and at peace in Apt 4D and asleep and at peace she'll stay.

I am unemployed and I am armed. And I am prepared to do what is necessary to prevent her from being disturbed.

Until I find work again, you can take it as truth that if you try to kill my girlfriend I will try to kill you. And even when I find work again, you can expect that I will set traps.

If you've come here to kill my girlfriend, good luck. Let the games begin baby baby baby.

Then go back upstairs and cock your handgun a few more times. Then check moviefone for Spiderman 2 showtimes. She'll be up by nine I bet.

Happy She Fell Asleep In Her Black Panties On Top Of Your Comforter Day!

Fat Girl Day!

The reason your new apartment is so cheap is because it was once occupied by a really fat girl who died in a fire there because no one went up to save her because she was a fat girl.

"There's a fat girl on the fourth floor. And an old man on the seventh," said the nosey old lady in the basement apartment to the firefighters.

"How fat?" asked the firefighters.

She haunts at dusk, when the light dances with shadow, when everyone and every thing settles into a cocktail and an easy chair. What she does when she haunts is she runs at full speed down the hallway and slams herself into the front door. It makes a hell of a racket. Even when the front door is open, she still launches herself at the doorway as if she has to knock the door down. And almost like there's an invisible door there, the ghost of the fat girl still ends up tumbling backwards and yelling. Every time she falls she yells, "Oh my holy God! Shit!"

But you get a lot of sun. Sign the lease.

Happy Fat Girl Day!

The Boys In This Town Day!

The boys in this town are all the same. They love their cars first and foremost. Then they love their mamas. And not a one of them is willing to stay out past dark with a girl for fear of being chewed through by the nine-foot tall hobgoblin that lives in the woods.

You've dated nineteen of them and you've got six more you're going to cross off your list before you move three towns over to Houston, TX. Of those nineteen so far, must have been twelve of them who claim to have been bit on the ankle and dragged through the grass nearly into the thick of the woods by the toothy mouth of the hobgoblin.

"How'd you get away?" you asked every damn one of them.

And every damn one said, "Ma rang the dinner bell."

"Sounds like one faggoty ass hobgoblin if he can be scared off by the sound of a dinner bell," you started telling them after about the sixth one. That'd usually break the two of you up. No one fucks with the dinner bell where you're living.

Marcus Landry was the only one you ever convinced to stay out with you as late as ten PM. The two of you were going down on each other in the backseat of Marcus' Pontiac when the hobgoblin punched through the fogged up rear windshield and dragged Marcus out of the car and off into the woods. Marcus' body was never found since no one will go into those woods.

Since then, you've been known by the mothers in the town as "Trouble." The mothers have been counseling their sons to stay away from you, which has actually sent a few more phone calls your way. When a Mom describes a girl as "trouble," the son only hears "whore."

So you've dated three since Marcus. Tonight, or maybe just "Today," you've got number four, Jamie Kraus. You're meeting Jamie at the Dairy Queen at four, then you're going to walk along the creek together. At 6:30, let him feel your boobs, which are still pretty bitchin' for a 31 year old. Hopefully, the promise of more, or at least the promise of more boobs, will keep you and Jamie out deep into moonlight tonight.

But if Jamie ends up getting eaten by the hobgoblin, you should leave town. After Marcus got killed, there was a quickly squelched effort by some of the mothers to string you up in the middle of town and slit your throat in front of a crowd. Kill another of their sons and reason might not prevail this time.

Happy The Boys In This Town Day!

Wanna Say Goodbye To Something Sweet Day!

They should put it on a bumper sticker. "I'd rather be looking down into a pair of sad little eyes and saying that I'm just not the guy that you wanna be making any long-term plans with." You'd buy it. And if you owned a car, you'd put it on your car. But since you don't own a car, you'd totally tack it to your bulletin board.

You just want to be a dangerous person. A man who owns one pair of jeans and has seven thousand dollars in a shoebox buried at the base of a tree somewhere in Omaha. You want to breeze into a town solely to get killed, but end up being mothered by the town's widowed librarian until she demands that you hurt her any way you like as long as you leave town in one piece.

You want that librarian to stop you before you step into the thick of the sunset and show you the bag full of everything she owns that she's got in her left hand. You'd caress her cheek with the knuckles of an open fist. And you'd tell her that you wanna do right by her, and the only way to do that is to say goodbye.

"The more people I leave behind," you'd explain, "The fewer who'll know when I'm dead. That comes kinda close to livin' forever."

She wouldn't understand what you're trying to say, and a little part of her would be relieved that she's staying put because that little part of her would suspect that the reason you're unable to settle into anything secure is because you're not that bright.

Trouble is, you are pretty bright. Just bright enough to know what to be scared of, and how to behave in khakis. So tonight, instead of telling a sweet little thing that you're trouble and not to get mixed up with guys like you, you're going to take a bath and then watch season one of Alias.

Happy Wanna Say Goodbye To Something Sweet Day!

Hippies Day!

More and more dead hippies are pouring out of the sewers into the bay. They all of them have dollar signs carved into the back of their heads. As Chief of the Coast Guard, it's your responsibility to make sure an investigation gets underway. But no one will listen.

You told the Chief of Police about it when you, he, and the Chief of the Fire Department met for your Thursday dinner. All he said was, "Hippies. Whoopdie do!" Then he pulled you in real close and told you it's an election year.

The only other two people you told are your wife and the President of the United States. But your wife thinks you're a failure and hasn't listened to a word you've said since 1980. All the president said was, "My hands are tied!" Then he pointed to a chalkboard that had the word "Deficit" written on it in big letters.

The going is rough, but you can't give up. Even if you have to spraypaint it onto the face of every child, you must make it known that the hippies are dying. They're almost people too.

Happy Hippies Day!

Flash Of Lightning, Say Goodbye Day!

You saw it when you were waiting by the printer. A brief flash of lightning from atop those clouds to the south. The storm is beginning.

"The storm is beginning," you should say to the account rep with whom you're in love and from whose cubicle you must keep to a minimum distance of five feet at all times, even when she calls you over for a meeting.

"Mm," she'll say. "That your storm Henry?"

You'll say, "The Final Rain, yes. It has begun."

Run inside her cubicle, race behind her desk and stifle her cries with the palm of your hand.

Whisper into her ear, "I know you are frightened, but you've left us no other choice but to share our last moments thusly. You've chosen not to understand me, but I have some things to say before our time on this Earth ends. Now that we are all about to die, I am not afraid of what repercussions may come."

With the hand that is not clamped over her mouth, pet the top of her head. Whisper, "I have loved you. I have loved you with a love that has consumed all of my being. My love for you has been my life, ever since just before I went perm. This life, and with it this love, is about to be washed away into the swirl of the greatest of floods. I had to voice this love, so that we might both acknowledge its existence and kiss it goodbye."

Kiss the part of her hair. Once.

"Thank you," say. Then let go of her head, walk out of her cubicle, and as she screams accusations of assault and insanity, walk calmly to the stairs, where you will begin your descent into the inevitable.

Happy Flash Of Lightning, Say Goodbye Day!

Two Dogs Per Lady Day!

She's got two dogs and a pocketbook full of attitude.

It's 1:40 AM and Janice has brought the mongrels out with her for her trip to the store for some eggs. The fella she brought home is waiting for his omelet. He's a coworker and she promised him an omelet if he'd take her home.

"Mushroom and swiss or nothing," Michael said. They made out for the duration of the cabride.

It was a sendoff for a temp who'd been with the firm for two and a half years, refusing to go perm and waiting for the assignment to be discontinued. Ultimately, she got married and quit. Janice liked the temp and envied her, not for marrying, but simply for knowing that Monday will be a little different. Janice is very aware that this is most likely why she propped herself by Michael's left arm for most of the evening, why he's upstairs in her apartment naked on her couch watching HBO Signature.

The dogs are named Leopold and Marcus Welby MD (Welby for scolding brevity). They're both terriers, both boys. Michael likes them. He likes dogs.

At the store Janice buys the eggs and the mushrooms. She was relieved to find she already had the Swiss, as it's hard to get a counter guy to operate the slicer after midnight. When she's waiting for her change, the counter guy needs to break a roll of quarters. This allows her that extra moment of reflection she needs to conclude that Michael is going to rip her to shreds.

Not tonight. He's going to come back for more, and she's going to fall for him. Whether it's two weeks or two years down the line, Michael is going to break her heart.

She'll quit her job. And maybe she'll even leave the city.

Janice carries the omelet makings back to her apartment at a jauntier pace. She's excited. She's got something big waiting somewhere over the horizon.

Happy Two Dogs Per Lady Day!

Washington DC Day!

Today, Washington DC is where the United States Government happens. At around 9 PM tonight, the United States Government is gonna pack up and haul ass over to St. Louis for a three night engagement. Look out St Louis. The United States Government comin' atcha.

Happy Washington DC Day!

Singles Canoes Day!

It's happened to you time and time again. Just after you fuck a dude he gets up and does some kind of crazy shit you never saw coming. One guy told you he could see himself marrying you, if he wasn't already married. You had to call an ambulance for the guy who ate everything that was left in your vial of Vicodin. And then there was Mister "Aren’t my very realistic prosthetic limbs awesome?" It was enough to turn a girl off anonymous sex for as much as two to three weeknights at a time!

So when you saw the ad for Singles Canoes, you jumped for the phone. "Find out how you two get along inside of a canoe," it read. "And you'll know how freaky shit'll be after all the orgasms occur!" You made a reservation for today.

His name was Jason, the guy you got assigned (Singles Canoes matches up their singles based on a complicated algorithm using only height, eye color, and a single turn of the board game "Scruples"). When you met this morning, you shook hands. Jason didn't seem happy.

"Let's get this shit over with," he said.

A half-mile down the river, Jason revealed that he had been signed up for Singles Canoes by his parents. "They want me to find someone special and get married," Jason said. "But I only wanna be with them."

You said, "That's sweet." The back of Jason's head was round and sexy. You took the back of the boat because you don't like to be snuck up on over water. You didn't know at the time that his white tee shirt would paste up against his sweaty torso and reveal some of the most delectable upper body muscles you've seen in quite some time.

"God I miss my Dad," he said, letting his oar rest on across his legs.

"How old are you Jason?" you asked. He said he was 39.

For a good length of the canoe trip, you and Jason kept quiet. The only time the two of you spoke was when he told you, unprovoked, that you couldn't have any of his sandwiches.

"Almost time for the barbecue," you said when you saw it was five o'clock.

Jason said, "I hope to try to leave before the barbecue. I wonder if that'll be okay."

You stopped rowing to open up the Singles Canoes brochure. Each single will share a riverside cabin with the single to whom they are assigned and none will be allowed to leave before the awarding of special prizes on the morning following the canoe trip.

You were relieved. "You could try, I suppose."

Jason turned around to see if the amusement he heard in your voice also showed on your face. There was in fact a smirk there.

Jason, of course won't be allowed to leave. And tonight in your cabin, he will be very talky for several hours, promising you that there will be no sex to be had. He'll go on and on about how relations through blood are all that are necessary and that romance is just theft of the heart. Then around midnight, he's gonna stop talking and wait. You'll go to him and pull his head to your breasts, which are awesome.

Jason won't say a word during sex, and he won't let you have any say. When you try to remove his pants, he'll remove your hands from his belt buckle. He'll tug your clothes from your body, guide you to the couch and then remove his clothing himself while you lay across the couch waiting for his next decision. You will be moved from your position on your back across the cushions of the couch, to a standing spot on the rug bent over the arm of the couch and peering into a large mirror fastened above the back of the couch, to the bed, to the headboard of the bed, to the floor by the bed. Each move will occur of a sudden. You will not be consulted beforehand.

Tomorrow morning, you will win tickets to see the Billy Joel musical "Movin' Out." At the barbecue after every canoe trip, Singles Canoes Administrators hand out pens, pieces of paper and envelopes so that each single can write what behavior he or she predicts her assigned single will exhibit following sexual relations that evening. Singles who predict accurately will win one of several prizes provided through sponsoring bodies. Your winning prediction will be, "Jason will stare out the window at the moon and the trees and when I ask him if everything is okay he'll tell me to shut up."

Jason's losing prediction will be, "She'll probably take a bath or some shit like that." When Jason's prediction is revealed to be inaccurate, all of the assembled singles will laugh at him. He'll demand his keys and rush off in his car.

Singles Canoes awards singles that make accurate predictions of their assigned single's behavior because it proves that their canoe trips really help people get to know what makes each other tick.

Happy Singles Canoes Day!

Climb Up And Tell Her So Day!

Scale the trellis with some stealth. Her father has a shotgun. The window isn't going anywhere, so go step by step and keep your weight towards the house. That thing isn't very secure.

Her window will be open, but don't use your voice to wake her. Scratch your fingernail against the screen in swift swipes.

There she is. She's cloudy behind that screen, but she's there.

She'll ask, "What are you doing out there?"

Say "I'm in love with you. I have been since sophomore year."

She'll nod and say mm hmm, scrunching up her nose and rubbing at her eyes when she does it.

"Your boyfriend is wrong for you. My love is true. Please accept it."

When she says, "It's a barbecue," you'll realize she's still half-asleep, in a dream.

Say, "Hey! I need you to get this!"

She'll snap awake and look at you like she just caught sight of you out there.

"That's better," say. "As I was saying, do you wanna go out with me? I love you. Have for a while now."

She'll shake her head.

Ask if it's because she has a boyfriend and explain that she should leave him for you because you're caring and your love is true.

"No," she'll say. "I'm just not attracted to you. I'm too young to settle for the guy who'll take the right care of me."

Blink your eyes, not sure whether you can believe what you're hearing. Remember, you're the only one she should be with, ever.

"For now," she'll say, "I want to raise a little hell. Get hurt a few times. Then I'll make the cautious choice and go for someone like you."

Ask, "How long?"

She'll say "12 years minimum."

Tell her you're gonna go home then.

Happy Climb Up And Tell Her So Day!

13th Birthday Day!

All across the globe, little boys and girls are taking the big step into adolescence today. They are frightened about what is going to happen to them.

"I'm 13 now," they'll say. "I'm going to be pregnant soon."

"Only if you're bad," tell them.

"And what's to become of my genitals?" they'll say.

Show them photographs of your and your wife's genitals.

"Oh," they'll say. "And what about smoking?"

Tell them they're not allowed to smoke until they're 18, but they should try soon. "To find out whether you like it or not," say. "Pot's a gateway drug," add. "If you smoke a joint, you'll get addicted to crack. You won't be able to control yourself. You'll finish smoking pot and you'll immediately go running out the window to buy as much crack as you can."

When the kids start to talk about the long-term psychological effects of knowing that their fathers are cheating on their mothers, pull them all into a group hug and shout at the sun, "Why?!"

Happy 13th Birthday Day!

Three Hot Young Chicks Day!

When three hot, young chicks who work at the same munitions factory decide to rent a house together, they'd better be careful. The intention was to just have a fun time being hot and carpooling to work together. But hot, young chicks bring in outsiders.

Ultimately, one of you (but not you) is going to start dating a middle-aged man and the other two are going to be confused by her choice, considering that there's an army base nearby. The middle-aged man will be married. And he'll be unemployed. And he'll watch a lot of television.

When a house meeting is called to find out what up, it will be revealed that the middle-aged man is actually a middle-aged Man Of God. The one dating him will say he's shown her a path to walk and she's devoted her life to him. "My body and the use of my TV is the least of what I am obliged to give to him." That's when the other two of you will say, "Ahem, whose TV?"

There'll be some violence in July. None of you will be hit directly, but someone will get scared and jam a finger into a dooframe trying to get away from one of his rages. Eventually, the two of you who aren't dating him will go to his wife and tell her that he's straying. The wife will be another one who believes he's holy and she'll understand that he needs more than just one woman to serve him. Back to the drawing board!

It will be quite a shock when you find that he's been running a meth lab in out of your basement. He'll offer you ten percent of profits and just to not get killed, you'll agree to his terms. Late one night, you and the one not dating him will go down to the meth lab and start a meth fire (after drugging his whiskey with a barbiturate of course). You'll run out to the yard and drag the one dating him with you. She'll try to run in and save him, and you'll end up having to punch her out. After a week of deprogramming, you three will take two weeks to go down to Cancun and try to salvage the rest of your summer.

Happy Three Hot Young Chicks Day!

Big Mistake Day!

The note reads as follows:

I have taken her away from you, to my home, where she has always belonged. It was fate that you invited me into your bedroom. The first moment I looked into her eyes it was like we were reunited after a life apart. Vanessa is meant for me. You do not deserve her. Any man who would share her could never deserve her. If you follow us, if you try to take Vanessa from me, you will be killed.

David James

Vanessa was way into bringing home anonymous partners to have sex with while you watched from the chair in the corner. In fact, you can't recall correctly now, but it might have been her idea. Regardless, this David James guy is acting like you dragged her down into something seedy when you know damn well that wasn't the case.

He's the crazy one. That's what you gotta remember. He's a lonely man whom you made the mistake of inviting into your bedroom. He became obsessed with Vanessa and he painted you as the villain blocking him access to his obsession. So he stole her.

Problem is, letting another guy have sex with your wife while you watch is so universally frowned upon that you can't help but internalize his accusations. And as you go about your hunt to get her back, there's gonna be a little seed of doubt growing in your belly. Could you be the monster? You won't know for certain until you break into that basement and untie her (you assume she's tied up in a basement someplace). You won't know for sure until she runs into your arms. Only then will it be clear that she dug having sex with strangers while you watched from your chair in the corner. Only then will it be clear that she is yours.

Happy Big Mistake Day!

After The War Day!

You'll go back to your husband and he'll go back to his wife. Right? That was the plan this whole time. Right? You and he clung to each other only to find some comfort amidst all of this bloodshed and insanity. But your hearts were always back home. Right?

"I mean, can you imagine? Us back home?" you say with a little too ambitious a laugh from the crook of his arm (you're on a chopper to Seoul tomorrow, where you'll meet a boat to the states. He's sticking around to pull the tents out of the ground).

"I can," he says. "I'm a five hour drive from Baltimore."

Your bloodflow came screeching to a halt in your veins when he said that. "So's your wife," you say.

His arm, underneath your head, it's so strong. It's bulletproof. He doesn't move an inch when he says the following: "I'll be with you in America. If you need me to get a divorce, I will. If you need me to stay married, I will. I'll do whatever you ask, as long as you promise that I'll see you in America. This fucking war brought us together. I'm not gonna let it tear us apart."

You've got some thinking to do, pretty young black-haired war nurse you.

Happy After The War Day!

Believe In Him Day!

Some girls think that believing in their boys amounts to being nothing more than a kiss-ass "yes-man." You know better. You know that back-rubs are necessary.

When your boy comes home from a hard day at the laboratory, he'll sit down at the kitchen table and cry. Go to him.

Say, "No progress today baby?"

He'll say, "Science is dead. There's no one left with vision."

Say, "You'll open their eyes."

He'll pull his head out of his hands and look up at you.

Say, "You're going to change this world baby. I know it."

He'll accuse you of knowing nothing about anything and he'll hit you. You'll cower on the floor, wiping the small bauble of blood from your lower lip.

Say, "I don't want you to feel bad about this baby. I don't want it to get in the way of your work."

He'll say, "You believe in me."

You'll say, "I gave up on God the day I met you. I looked into your eyes and I thought this kid can deliver results."

He'll take off his shirt and sit in kitchen chair. You'll get the oil from atop the refrigerator and you'll coat your hands. You'll knead him back on track.

Happy Believe In Him Day!

If You Hurt Her Day!

I'll lift you off the ground by your hair, shove a six foot copper pipe up your ass, then slam you down on the pipe until the pipe rips up through your torso, your throat, your brain, and then cracks through the top of your skull. Then I'll bury the ass end of the pipe in the ground and let abused kids come by my yard and spin you around on the pipe. Then I'll let dogs eat you. She's very special to me and though she comes off as a tough cookie, she's not.

Happy If You Hurt Her Day!

Coonskin Cap Day!

The worst part about your wife cheating on you is that you found out about it because the guy she's having the affair with left his hat underneath your bed. It wasn't your usual hat.

Happy Coonskin Cap Day!

Magic Picnic Day!

Plant the bottle of white into the bed of the creek and let it chill. When you get back to the blanket, your companion (Marie, third date) is sitting there talking to an adorable little six year old boy with a bowl haircut.

"Well who do we have here?" you say as you kneel down to the boy.

"You're not gonna believe this," Marie says. "Tell him."

"I'm Ernest," says the boy.

"Ernest," you smile. "Unusual name."

Marie says, "That was my brother's name. He died when he was sixteen. I was seventeen."

"You never told me…"

Marie shushes you with a wave of her hand. "Tell him who you are. Really."

Ernest smiles like he's trying to hold in a giggle. "I'm going to be your son."

Before you get a chance to think twice you look at Ernest's nose and think, That's Marie's nose.

"Those are your eyes," Marie says to you.

You drop on your ass onto the blanket, staring into the boy's face. You ask how old he is.

"Six."

"And when will you be born?" Marie asks.

Ernest giggles and gives a shrug that makes your heart melt. You put your hand on Marie's shoulder and she grabs it like you're pulling her out of a stormy sea.

"But…I'm your Daddy."

Ernest nods his head real big.

"And I'm you're Mommy?"

Ernest nods again. "You're my Mommy," he says, proud to know the right answer.

You and Marie just look at Ernest and start to laugh with him, occasionally putting your hands to your mouths to stifle a gasp.

"Can I have a grape?" Ernest asks.

You let him pick five grapes from the stalk and he stuffs all five in his mouth at once, making his cheeks bulge out until he sucks in air and squishes it all down and starts to chew.

"Well," Ernest says. "Bye bye."

You hold out your hand to shake. "It was nice meeting you Ernest."

Marie leans over to kiss his forehead. "I can't wait until we meet again."

Ernest giggles. Again he says, "Bye bye." This time with a wave. Then he runs across the grass to disappear into the woods.

You and Marie watch the woods be still for a while, smiling. You're not able to look at each other without filling up with a blush. You kiss a couple times, but you don't say anything. Not even when you get up to get the wine.

When you get to the creek, the bottle of wine is nowhere to be found. You spend maybe five minutes searching up and down the bank, but it's gone. You can't help but think that Ernest had something to do with it. And after he's born into your home with Marie three years from now, every time he giggles and shrugs you'll be dying to shake him by the shoulders and accuse him of running off with your booze that day three years before he was born when he came to you as a spectre.

Happy Magic Picnic Day!

The Driving Test Day!

Your instructor is going to say that you are by far the absolute worst driver he's ever seen. This will happen after you drive up onto a sidewalk and crash through a giant balloon full of banana peels and slice a man clean in two at the waist. Luckily, your driving instructor has a dorky son.

"He goes to your school. You seem real hot. Take my son to the prom and you'll walk away with a driver's license right here this afternoon."

He'll show you his son's picture. You'll recognize the boy. You'll say, "Bobby Boogerbrain? No way!"

The instructor will yank his son's picture away from you. "His name is Bobby McFarlaine. And you just failed your driving test young lady."

You'll feel bad, and a little pissed. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know your son that well. And I already have a date."

"You'll feel even worse ten years from now when my son uses his intelligence to soar to the top of industry," the driving instructor will say.

"Actually, your son isn't all that bright," you'll say. "It's true, he doesn't fit in all that well. But it's not because he's so caught up in school. I'm in way better classes than he is. In fact, I bet a big reason he doesn't really fit in is because he's so dumb."

"Yeah, you're right," the instructor will say. "And I guess he's in no rush to go to prom. He might get held back this year."

Suddenly, you'll agree to take him to the prom. You'll explain why.

"Wait a minute," you'll say. "Maybe a date with me is just the boost of confidence your son needs to get himself on the track to success. I'll do it!"

"Great," the instructor will say. "Looks like you just became a licensed driver."

"Oh no," you'll object. "I'm not doing this to get the license. I just want to help."

"I know," the instructor will say. "And crash or no crash, we need a generous heart like yours out on the road!"

Happy The Driving Test Day!

Arranged Marriages Are Bad Day!

You're bored and thirty one. Your mother is bored and disappointed in you. Your father is trying to stave off death with some affairs and some brazen embezzlement. You're taking suggestions.

Which is why you didn't object when your Mom started talking about arranging a marriage for you. She joined this group of mothers who wanted to change their adult children's lives for the better by making their adult children's lifemate decisions for them. Basically, it was a bunch of Moms who were going to mix and match their kids into marriage. As was previously stated, you were bored. And you saw it as just a slightly more aggressive set-up situation.

Problem is, and a blind dead person could've seen this coming, but at the big arranged marriage mixer party, you were introduced to your mate-for-life and you found her to be loathsome. But you met Marty Cooperman's mate-for-life (JULIE!) and you thought she was aces, tits to toes, and she thought the same about you. You asked your Mom to ask THE COUNCIL if you and Julie could be set-up, but the Moms on THE COUNCIL said hells no. Their reasoning was that when you signed on for an arranged marriage, you agreed to submit to their pairing process.

"Everyone who mates according to our decree will only mate for the better," Mrs. Gamberslee, head of the council, declared just before banging her gavel (she just brought it in with her one day)(drunk with power).

What's going to happen is love is going to try to prevail against reason. You and Julie won't be able to keep away from each other. THE COUNCIL is going to order you to cease contact. Julie's gonna pretend to have killed herself, so you're going to kill yourself for reals, then Julie's gonna kill herself for reals, and your Dad's gonna go to jail for falsifying quarterly earnings statements.

Happy Arranged Marriages Are Bad Day!

Muddy The Dirt Day!

Make it so no one can get to her anymore.

Say, "This dirt is too loose baby." Pour your seltzer bottle onto the mound atop her grave until the color of the dirt goes dark. "I know that didn't do enough, but soon it'll rain baby. And the dirt will soak through and then firm up like cement and none of the sons of bitches in this hideous town will ever be able to get near you again."

From where he's standing just a few graves away, Lane will say, "C'mon Greg before someone sees you."

Drop to your knees and hold some of her wet dirt in your fingertips.

"Damn shame," Lane will say, looking off away from you. It's like Lane is the generous-hearted guard who's taking you off to prison and he's giving you one last kiss goodbye with your sweetheart. He's looking away to give you privacy.

So you put the dirt to your lips and give it a kiss. And you feel a little better for doing it. The mud stays on your lips and you'll taste it there for the rest of the afternoon.

"Let's go Greg," Lane says. "Let's go make some motherfuckers pay."

"Okay," you say. You rise from the grave and walk with Lane to his car, which will drive the two of you back to the center of town, where the funeral reception is still in full swing.

Happy Muddy The Dirt Day!

Put Your Hands To Her Tear-Stained Cheeks And Ask Her What She's Done Day!

She left a lipstick stained coffee cup on the dashboard of the getaway car. You already know the answer. And you know that she's pretty much drawn the police a map to your hideout. You should already be out the back door, since the sirens can be heard a ways off. But she thinks that she can shed a few tears and you'll forgive her and take care of everything. Even though that's true, and even though you have around twelve seconds to get the hell out of there, you two find it so hard to actually discuss anything that you only pick the most inopportune moments to make it clear how you feel. Moments that make it impossible to get anywhere near a resolution.

Take the twelve seconds before your desert police chase for example. You want to tell her that, although remembering to toss a lipstick-stained coffee cup out of the getaway car is a small detail, you feel like she missed that detail because this whole bank job was your idea, your creation, and she didn't pay attention to the small details because she never took your work seriously. You want to tell her that you turned down a 6-figure diamond heist last Autumn because she was pregnant, and that even though the miscarriage wasn't her fault, you've nevertheless resented her ever since. You want to tell her that she's always hated you for stealing her away from her District Attorney ex-husband, and that she's grown bored with throwing your promises to go straight up in your face, so now she's decided to go ahead and get you pinched.

"It's how it's gonna end anyhow, so why not get it over with," you want to tell her.

You'd like to hit her. Which is why you place your hands over her tear-stained cheeks. It's like you're hitting her real soft and slow. You say, "What have you done?"

She sniffles. She tries to say I'm sorry but a sob cracks it in two. You grab her by the arm.

"Come on," you say. And you drag her out the back so you can get into the car with the clean plates and start your way bitchin' police chase. She's gonna die before you, but you're gonna die. In a motel room above a bar.

Happy Put Your Hands To Her Tear-Stained Cheeks And Ask Her What She's Done Day!

Just A Faint Wind Day!

The wine glasses hanging above the wet bar in your summer cottage are shaking in their slots, banging together at the steady rhythm of an oncoming train signal. A storm wind sent in through the deck door sent them rattling. The noise wakes you up and sends you into the maniacal clutches of your vengeful ex-husband. The phone is dead.

You were awarded both the summer cottage and the Brooklyn flat, nothing beyond what you'd requested. Both combined don't equal the value of the Greenwich home your ex will be keeping for himself. But Jess didn't want to relinquish his claim on the memories housed inside each.

"Lets sell them both," he offered. "You'll keep all the proceeds."

When you balked, Jess grew more aggressive. Showing up at your sister's where you were staying to argue his case. In twelve minute orations delivered on the front step of her house, he'd complain of you bringing a new man back to his cottage and tainting everything the two of you shared there. "What we have is dead," he once said, back when he could control his anger. "But please don't try to kill what we had."

You told him to speak to his lawyer, who would in turn speak to hers. In the divorce mediation, he let more outbursts against your character fly across the table. At night, he'd pull up outside your sister's house and park there for hours. Until one morning, your sister's son walked out to meet his schoolbus and found a pair of your panties on the front lawn. He brought it into the house and gave it his mother, who handed the pair to you. The next morning, the mediation judge exacted a restraining order upon Jess, and the divorce agreement was rapidly sewn up not long after, since Jess' objections would no longer be granted any merit.

Tonight, the memories built in the cottage remain untainted. You've brought no man home. You're alone, and the wine glasses are clanging away with a sound that should be a signal for nothing. But you have to go and close the deck door. Jess is sitting at the head of the breakfast table. He sits in violation of his restraining order because he has something unpleasant to tell you.

Happy Just A Faint Wind Day!

Give Your Girlfriend A Box Of Bullets Day!

Tell her, "These are for your handgun."

She'll say, "Baby, you know I don't have a handgun."

Say, "That's where you're wrong." Then give her the handgun you bought for her from that guy. She'll be so happy.

"Oh my God where on earth did you get the money for this?"

Tell her that you got the gun at a discount because it was used for something pretty bad. But that it's clean. No traceable serial numbers.

"The owner just wanted to get rid of it because he knew the police would trace his crimes back to him one day, and he would be made to pay. When that day comes, he doesn't want the weapon in his house. He wants there to be no physical evidence. He wants to be convicted based only on the accusation and his confession."

Your girlfriend will already have started shooting stuff.

Be encouraging. Say to her, "Wow, that was a nice one," when she hits her intended targets.

I think this is going to be what makes her realize you are the greatest person on the face of the planet. I think this is going to be what makes her kiss you all over your face even on your open eyes.

Happy Give Your Girlfriend A Box Of Bullets Day!

Hats Off Day!

To the son of the bossman for killing the bossman. No more will you have to suffer under the incompetent chicanery of that fool. The whole office should send the son of the bossman a big fat thank you card attached to a little piece of sweet pie. Sure, the son of the bossman killed the bossman only because the bossman was trying to divorce Mrs. Bossman so he could go and live with the mother of his other family. But he should still get a little credit for what he didn't intend. Anyway, take a long lunchbreak and go see Troy and think about what a great guy the son of the bossman turned out to be.

Happy Hats Off Day!

Running Down The Middle Of The Street To Stop A Chick From Making A Big Mistake: Still Awesome! Day!

We checked. Looking at it from all angles, there's very little to top the image of a dude in a blazer who probably just rudely left a table full of future in-laws to chase down the girl he's supposed to be with, but whose family doesn't really have that much money. She'll either be about to marry someone her father picked out for her, or she'll be ethnic and about to board a bus to go home and help her father run the ethnic person's small business he's been running on his own ever since her mother died.

The street's wet but it's not raining. For a huge stretch of it, the stretch in which the concreteness of the dude's resolve is made evident, the street is completely empty, allowing him to sprint into his destiny. Then he'll turn onto an avenue and start tumbling over the hoods of cabs.

The best part, and you fucking know I'm right, is when he finally reaches the girl as she's getting into a cab/wedding dress and says what he has to say, she won't necessarily run off to be with him. If she does, all of us out on our stoops are happy because the young kids in love are gonna live happily ever after. If she doesn't, it'll be because she realized that life isn't a fairy tale, and he'll realize it too, and all of us out on our verandas (we're all wearing white) are happy because the young kids in love learned something.

Fuck it, even if he's trying to return American Wedding before Blockbuster closes, as long as the DVD is kept concealed inside his blazer the image of the dude running down the middle of the street is way bitchin. Today, as he runs past you, shout "Go get her. She's the one!" Then go inside your living room and eat out your wife.

Happy Running Down The Middle Of The Street To Stop A Chick From Making A Big Mistake: Still Awesome! Day!

By Candlelight Day!

You do coke only by candlelight. You're trying to preserve the romance of recreational cocaine use. Only problem is, immediately after you take a hit, you wanna take the candle flame and set fire to anything in your house that'll catch. You let the flames crawl up the curtains and across the couch cushions and you sit cross-legged in the middle of the floor in your briefs and you just giggle like a baboon. Then you come down just in time to get out of the house while there's still a path through the fires.

Today you're moving into your new split-level. The adjuster will be over later to give you the check paying off your last claim and to tell you that they're not going to insure you anymore, which is cool. The adjuster is pretty smokin', but you've been laying off out of respect for your professional relationship. But now that her company won't work with you anymore, she's fair game. Offer her some coke and a match. The only thing better than the blood pounding through your veins to the pulse of a fire raging through your living room is to have someone who looks good in her underwear standing by your side while it's happening.

Happy By Candlelight Day!

Your Little Weekend Away Day!

The closest you ever came to love was the three-star hotel birthday weekend you spent with your friend's wife. You bought the room on Priceline and you'd intended to invite everyone over to trash the place in celebration of your thirtieth. But when you joked to Lydia over email about you and her keeping it to yourselves, she asked for the room number.

After the first sex, she said things with her and Mark (your buddy) were over and that you shouldn't feel guilty. Mark was out in LA, getting things ready for Lydia to follow him out there. Lydia told you she wasn't going to go. After the second sex (in the shower) she wanted booze so you went out and got it. When you got back, you were surprised to see her still there. But she was crying. You didn't try to comfort her, you just poured two glasses from the bottle and waited for her to drink her tears down. Then you had sex and fell asleep.

The next day, Saturday, you woke up and had breakfast and some sex. Then you bought The Bourne Identity on the hotel Pay Per View and watched it. After the Bourne Identity, you started drinking again, both of you. You had really, really good sex at 3 o'clock that day. Her back was flat up against the headboard for a good hunk of it. It was aces. By 7 o'clock, you both wanted out, but instead you took a bath together. You held her in your arms, thinking about your Mom and Dad. She lay against you, thinking whatever she was thinking. By ten o'clock you were both good and drunk. For around forty minutes she was hysterical, laughing and crying. You ordered a pizza from room service so you'd have enough food in the two of you to sleep through the night.

The next morning, Sunday, you woke up early and tried to order porn on the pay-per-view, but the porn option was unavailable. You assumed it was because it was Sunday or something. That bummed you out. You'd been trying all weekend to get up the nerve to suggest the two of you watching porn while fucking, then when you woke up that Sunday you figured fuck it, I'll just turn on the porn and see what she does. But there wasn't any porn to be had so you just had quiet, sleepy sex then lay around for an hour or so. You went in and took a shower by yourself and when you came out, she was gone. There were several goodbye parties for Mark and Lydia over the next couple months and you avoided them all. You haven't spoken to Lydia since. Mark's emailed you once or twice and you've been cordial.

Today's the two-year-seven-month-and-thirteen-day anniversary of that last morning in your hotel room together. Write Lydia a postcard wishing her a happy two-year-seven-month-and-thirteen-day anniversary and ask her if she had a nice time with you.

Happy Your Little Weekend Away Day!

You Can See The Past In Her Pants Day!

You don't really like Candy. But the first time you opened the zipper on her pants you saw a snowball fight you had when you were nine, plain as if you were watching a movie. You could have stood there for hours staring at her crotch, just watching a nine-year old you duck behind a fort for protection from a volley of snowballs, but Candy made you have sex with her.

So Candy is getting a little bit harder to tolerate with every date, but in the three times you've gone home together since that first snowball fight vision, you've seen your big brother beat you in the face with a dustpan when you were six, you've seen your childhood cat Fred deliver her kittens when you were eleven, and you've seen a ten year old you put your hand on the chest of ten year old Janice, the girl who lived two houses down. You plan to keep sleeping with Candy until you get to see your Dad come out of his anesthesia after the open heart surgery he had when you were fourteen. You're hoping to make out whether he really muttered the word "failure."

Just nod and smile.

Happy You Can See The Past In Her Pants Day!

Make Your Building's Doorman Jealous Day!

Tell him about the five course dinner you just ate. And the big expensive play you just saw. And the operation you elected to have. And the big expensive things you constantly buy. When you bring hookers home, have them stop in front of the doorman and say to them, "Ladies, tell Jerry how much each of you cost."

Then go down the line as each of your evening's hookers sounds off with her price tag (don't do this if any of your evening's hookers cost less than 500 dollars).

Additionally, sometimes your doorman brings his son in to work with him. Usually on Saturdays. That's when you should have your son play with his most expensive toys in the lobby. And hire a clown to come to the lobby and play with your son.

If your doorman doesn't get jealous at all that, he must be pretty happy with his life. He's probably in love. Or he's a Taoist. You can't piss those dudes off.

Happy Make Your Building's Doorman Jealous Day!

Make Up A Kid Day!

Get a custom-made mug with a picture of a baby all over it and caption the photo with the declaration: "I Wish I Loved Him But I Don't." When a coworker raises his eyebrow at the mug while you're getting a coffee fillup in the break room, say, "Yeah. That's my son Joey."

Your coworker won't know what to say and will try to leave. Block the doorway.

"Everything else in my life feels so right. My job. My marriage to my husband. My parents are my best friends in the world."

Step closer.

"But my son, when I hold him, I feel...unmoved. It feels like we're remaining mother and son out of duty." Sip your coffee. "Sometimes I wonder if I only had him out of a sense of fashion."

Then slip out of the breakroom without a goodbye, go to your department manager and tell him you accept his offer to go perm.

Happy Make Up A Kid Day!

Scene Of The Crime Day!

When the victim's mother arrives at the scene of the crime and demands that she see the body of her daughter, initiate an affair. She'll be comforted by the warm touch of a new man, and you'll feel just a little less impotent in your ability to right the wrongs of this city.

People die around you left and right, and so many of the killers are never found. Or if they are found, they've already been killed by someone else. It's beginning to seem like killing is a reasonable conclusion to a relationship and when you start poking around to find out who did it and why, you're just being nosey.

What's kept you from quitting homicide is meeting the mothers. They're still reacting with horror when their sons and daughters are murdered. When you see their tears and hear their screams, you're reminded of what's right. Act on behalf of the grief of the mothers. If you can't give with justice, offer them the comfort of your embrace over a series of discreet late-evening engagements. Your wife won't understand that by having sex with the bereaved, you're just trying to make your city a better place for your two daughters and her daughter from a previous marriage. So keep it on the hush hush.

Happy Scene Of The Crime Day!

1...2...3...Brush Day!

Getting your wife to brush her teeth is no small feat. She hates the feeling of having something plastic inside her mouth and she thinks her teeth are indestructible little weapons more powerful than solid steel. And when you tell her her breath smells, all she says is "Fuck you royally."

You're going to have to combine brushing her teeth with a race for some chicken. Tonight, come home from the store with a full rotisserie chicken in a see through container. Your wife will see the chicken and throw herself from her chair, swinging her arms out in front of her to grab at the bird and stuff it into her mouth. Just hold the tray up above your head and make her jump for it and kick at your shins. Once she's settled down a bit, tell her you want to play a game.

Put the chicken up atop the kitchen cabinets and take her into the bathroom with you. Tell her that on the count of three, the two of you will start to brush. And the first person who manages to scrub every accessible surface of every tooth three times gets the entire chicken.

"And the loser?" she'll ask.

"The loser doesn't eat until morning."

Your wife will smile that same beautiful smile she wore when she looked up and said I do. "Hope you had a big fuckin' lunch dickhead cause you're going down!" she'll say.

Your wife will snap her fingers in front of your eyeballs, then wheel around and grab for a toothbrush. Before you start the count, she'll strip down to her waist (she has to do that before brushing). When she's ready, apply toothpaste to each of your toothbrushes, and get them held at the ready.

"1…2…3…and BRUSH!"

And simple as that, your wife will brush her teeth with such a fury her naked breasts will ripple like a lake in the rain. Those grunts coming out of her mouth will be the sound of months and months of plaque and grime being ripped away from her teeth. You'll look into the mirror at the steady cascade of foam pouring from her lower lip and you'll want to cry. You'll have done it. Your wife's teeth will finally be clean.

"YEAH!" she'll scream through her mouth full of foamy paste, her toothbrush held in the air. "Go get me my chicken bitch, and I want your skinny ass to watch me eat every bite! Go on!"

You'll rinse your mouth clean and then go and set the chicken down in front of your wife's seat at the table. You'll sit across from her ad watch her as she makes exaggerated groans of ecstasy after every bite. You'll have to eat a quick dinner before you come home every night from now on. But it's worth it. Her teeth are worth it.

Happy 1…2.…3…Brush Day!

Homoerotica Day!

Today, all homoerotica is half off. This includes homoerotic literature, homoerotic pornography, and the homoeroticism of the dirty conversations you have with your roommate. The kind where your roommate, purportedly straight, asks you if you've "banged" a particular woman you've been seeing, and you respond that, yes, you and she are pretty serious now. Which elicits a frothing response from your roommate, something along the lines of "Aww yeah! Yeah! You banged that pussy! Yeah! Make that pussy SCREEEAM! Yeah! I really like pussy. Really. I really do." Your roommate then presses you for details, which you refuse to provide. Your roommate asks questions about the woman's anatomy, such as, "Does she have big tits" and "Does she have a nice ass you know the kind." You just shake your head. At which point, without explanation yet without fail, your roommate launches himself across the living room to tackle you on the couch and bounce his weight upon you, occasionally crawling up to grind his ass into your face*, all the while screaming in a high pitched voice as if he were the woman you were having sex with. That conversation, for today only, is half off.

Happy Homoerotica Day!

*He once bloodied your nose.