She Likes To Play Tricks On People Day!
Thirteen year old Jezebel Gooding is being escorted away by some police officers. She made your eleven year old, Maria, believe that she had killed Jezebel when they were playing. Maria was about ready to go on the lam. Jezebel and Maria had been playing "Kiss Me Deadly" in your garage. Jezebel told Maria that if you kiss someone long enough and hard enough, you'll kill them.
"No," Maria said. "That can't be right."
Jezebel kissed Maria on the mouth, sucking the air from their mouths in between her barely parted lips. She held the kiss for as long as a minute before Maria jerked away and panted some breath into her lungs.
"See, if we kissed for any longer we'd be dead."
"Can anyone do that?" Maria asked.
Jezebel nodded and puckered her lips. Maria put her mouth to Jezebel's and sucked the air as Jezebel had. After perhaps fifty seconds, Jezebel fell to the ground of the garage.
Maria laughed. Then Maria announced that it wasn't funny. Then Maria shook Jezebel by her shoulders. Then Maria cried. Then Maria got a shovel.
She dragged Jezebel to the dirt path behind her garage and began to dig. Jezebel remained motionless. Maria dug a grave no more than a foot deep, then pulled Jezebel into it and just barely covered her in the dirt. Jezebel was smart not to throw herself up out of the grave at Maria because she knew Maria might have reacted by opening up her head with the shovel. So she just lay there, trying not to laugh at Maria's eulogy.
" I just wanted you to think I was as cool as I thought you were.
I didn't listen to you when you told me how dangerous it would be.
I'll never kiss again.
Goodbye pretty princess."
Then she kissed her palm and laid it on the mound of dirt.
Maria went up to her room and cried, and Jezebel crawled from her very shallow grave to the base of Maria's trellis. She climbed up to the window and tapped at the glass.
When Maria saw Jezebel's filthy face in the glass, she screamed at the top of her lungs. Jezebel lifted her arms like a monster, but she lost her grip and slid down the slanted roof and fell in the bushes below.
You rushed to your daughter's room and your husband went outside to help Jezebel into the house, making sure to keep her filthy body away from the couch.
Maria explained what happened and what she thought had happened. Jezebel explained that it was for fun. You just wanted to call Jezebel's mother, but your husband knew that the kind of people who would raise someone like Jezebel might be the kind of people who would sue him for whatever they could get. So he involved the police.
Now the police are taking Jezebel home to her mother. And you have to convince Maria that Jezebel's not a good friend to have. She's not gonna buy it. Plus, she's tired from all the crying. Let her go to bed. You stay up and worry.
Happy She Likes To Play Tricks On People Day!
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Sell Yourself To A Businessman Day
Sell Yourself To A Businessman Day!
Today you are going to turn over control of yourself to a wealthy businessman, the sort of man who is overweight and wears suits.
Start the negotiations with some aggression. Say, "Check this. How much do you think it would take for you to bring this home and call it "my baby."
The businessman will lowball you. Call him on it.
Say, "You cocksmoking Godhole. I'll kill you with this razor." Then pull out your straight razor.
The businessman will say, "You know your way around the table. I like that. I'll throw in 7 million more and the promise to adopt a Southeast Asian baby by 2009."
Remember, this is a "Negotiation."
Say, "2008 and a half."
The businessman will curl his mouth up at the corner, then he'll break out in a smile.
"Deal," he'll say. "Now get in the trunk."
Get in the trunk.
Happy Sell Yourself To A Businessman Day!
Today you are going to turn over control of yourself to a wealthy businessman, the sort of man who is overweight and wears suits.
Start the negotiations with some aggression. Say, "Check this. How much do you think it would take for you to bring this home and call it "my baby."
The businessman will lowball you. Call him on it.
Say, "You cocksmoking Godhole. I'll kill you with this razor." Then pull out your straight razor.
The businessman will say, "You know your way around the table. I like that. I'll throw in 7 million more and the promise to adopt a Southeast Asian baby by 2009."
Remember, this is a "Negotiation."
Say, "2008 and a half."
The businessman will curl his mouth up at the corner, then he'll break out in a smile.
"Deal," he'll say. "Now get in the trunk."
Get in the trunk.
Happy Sell Yourself To A Businessman Day!
Friday, May 27, 2005
Mount Fun Day
Mount Fun Day!
Mount Fun got its name because at its peak is the world's highest altitude Chuck E Cheese. Many of the world's wealthiest and most adventurous children have contracted the Chuck E Cheese at the top of Mount Fun for their birthday parties, but only a rare few have ever made it to the top to blow out the candles. Mount Fun's slopes and crags are littered with the bones of outdoorsy children and their Sherpas.
The staff of the Mount Fun Chuck E Cheese live on premises, and they are all certified in either medicine or nursing. You're the newest hire, filling the vacancy of Bunny Rabbit/Orthopaedic Surgeon. You are required to show up to work only when the bell is rung in the Chuck E Cheese watchtower, alerting all in the camp that a birthday celebration nears, and the warm blankets and various roots should be readied for however many of the children have survived. This is also the signal for the generator to be charged in the medical barracks.
On average, the staff of the Mount Fun Chuck E Cheese works a total of six weeks out of the year, rarely hosting more than one or two parties. Which is pretty sweet. But each birthday party is preceded by a three to four week convalescence. The most challenging part of the job is that all staff-members must wear their animal costumes at all times, even during the amputations.
Tonight, the bell will ring for the first time this year. The first time in your tenure. You're going to have to prove to them that they made the right decision in hiring you. Get ready to sing some funny covers of fifties rock songs and teach some children how to maneuver their prosthetics.
Happy Mount Fun Day!
Mount Fun got its name because at its peak is the world's highest altitude Chuck E Cheese. Many of the world's wealthiest and most adventurous children have contracted the Chuck E Cheese at the top of Mount Fun for their birthday parties, but only a rare few have ever made it to the top to blow out the candles. Mount Fun's slopes and crags are littered with the bones of outdoorsy children and their Sherpas.
The staff of the Mount Fun Chuck E Cheese live on premises, and they are all certified in either medicine or nursing. You're the newest hire, filling the vacancy of Bunny Rabbit/Orthopaedic Surgeon. You are required to show up to work only when the bell is rung in the Chuck E Cheese watchtower, alerting all in the camp that a birthday celebration nears, and the warm blankets and various roots should be readied for however many of the children have survived. This is also the signal for the generator to be charged in the medical barracks.
On average, the staff of the Mount Fun Chuck E Cheese works a total of six weeks out of the year, rarely hosting more than one or two parties. Which is pretty sweet. But each birthday party is preceded by a three to four week convalescence. The most challenging part of the job is that all staff-members must wear their animal costumes at all times, even during the amputations.
Tonight, the bell will ring for the first time this year. The first time in your tenure. You're going to have to prove to them that they made the right decision in hiring you. Get ready to sing some funny covers of fifties rock songs and teach some children how to maneuver their prosthetics.
Happy Mount Fun Day!
Thursday, May 26, 2005
.W.A.T. At First Sight Day
S.W.A.T. At First Sight Day!
Today, while rappelling 38 stories down the side of a high-rise in anticipation of crashing through the windows of a known drug-running operation, you'll spy a pair of eyes possessed of such magic, such depth of tenderness that you fear you might fill your night vision goggles with a torrent of tears.
You'll stop still and stare through the glass. She'll be on her couch, a remote control in her hand, her elegant stare holding you hostage.
Lift your night vision goggles to your forehead and place your hand flat on the pane of glass. She'll rise and walk to the window. Her legs will be bare, but she'll be wearing a long men's dress shirt over her underwear.
A men's dress shirt. She has a lover. Perhaps, she's a visitor to this apartment.
Or perhaps she has a husband.
When she places her bare palm against the silhouette of your black-gloved hand on the glass, you'll feel as if you've both tumbled naked onto a honeymoon suite mattress. You know that whatever her situation might be in regards to that men's dress shirt, it's just been changed irrevocably.
The swirling wind around you carries the shouts of "Go! Go! Go!" belted out from your fellow team members below. There's a crash of glass. You smile at her and she smiles back. You let yourself free-fall the remaining nine floors. And when you crash through the glass and release the contents of your AK-47 into as many chests as you can hold in your rifle site, you won't hear a thing except for what's singing through your head.
17th floor. She's on the 17th floor. Just up there. On the 17th floor.
Happy S.W.A.T. At First Sight Day!
Today, while rappelling 38 stories down the side of a high-rise in anticipation of crashing through the windows of a known drug-running operation, you'll spy a pair of eyes possessed of such magic, such depth of tenderness that you fear you might fill your night vision goggles with a torrent of tears.
You'll stop still and stare through the glass. She'll be on her couch, a remote control in her hand, her elegant stare holding you hostage.
Lift your night vision goggles to your forehead and place your hand flat on the pane of glass. She'll rise and walk to the window. Her legs will be bare, but she'll be wearing a long men's dress shirt over her underwear.
A men's dress shirt. She has a lover. Perhaps, she's a visitor to this apartment.
Or perhaps she has a husband.
When she places her bare palm against the silhouette of your black-gloved hand on the glass, you'll feel as if you've both tumbled naked onto a honeymoon suite mattress. You know that whatever her situation might be in regards to that men's dress shirt, it's just been changed irrevocably.
The swirling wind around you carries the shouts of "Go! Go! Go!" belted out from your fellow team members below. There's a crash of glass. You smile at her and she smiles back. You let yourself free-fall the remaining nine floors. And when you crash through the glass and release the contents of your AK-47 into as many chests as you can hold in your rifle site, you won't hear a thing except for what's singing through your head.
17th floor. She's on the 17th floor. Just up there. On the 17th floor.
Happy S.W.A.T. At First Sight Day!
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Roar Of The Crowd Day!
In the new world, you and your wife are forced to make love in front of a stadium full of bloodthirsty fans who like to watch people have sex while they wait for their blood.
At first, you and your wife didn't like the idea of having to fornicate for the entertainment of tens of thousands, but once you got over the initial terror, you discovered what a deep connection you can establish with a crowd when you have intercourse in front of them. In short, you're good at what you do.
You two have a following now. Though you're slaves, people in the highest posts of industry have been seen in your audience. In the old world, you were just an anthropology professor, and your wife practiced law. Neither of you felt that you'd answered your true calling. Not until you bent your wife over the rear bumper of a burning overturned VW Bug and entered her to the cheers of a populace.
You have three performances tonight. Afterward, you've been invited to a party at a Consulate. You and your wife will be attending in the company of your owners. At the party, you'll meet a Swiss couple who have been wowing them with public sex in one of the new colonies to the East. The Minister of Energy will propose a wager.
"Ours against yours," he'll say.
Winning the fuckbattle against the Swiss will send a rush of pride through your city. But it will also, ultimately, mean war. Losing, however, means your heads.
Happy Roar Of The Crowd Day!
In the new world, you and your wife are forced to make love in front of a stadium full of bloodthirsty fans who like to watch people have sex while they wait for their blood.
At first, you and your wife didn't like the idea of having to fornicate for the entertainment of tens of thousands, but once you got over the initial terror, you discovered what a deep connection you can establish with a crowd when you have intercourse in front of them. In short, you're good at what you do.
You two have a following now. Though you're slaves, people in the highest posts of industry have been seen in your audience. In the old world, you were just an anthropology professor, and your wife practiced law. Neither of you felt that you'd answered your true calling. Not until you bent your wife over the rear bumper of a burning overturned VW Bug and entered her to the cheers of a populace.
You have three performances tonight. Afterward, you've been invited to a party at a Consulate. You and your wife will be attending in the company of your owners. At the party, you'll meet a Swiss couple who have been wowing them with public sex in one of the new colonies to the East. The Minister of Energy will propose a wager.
"Ours against yours," he'll say.
Winning the fuckbattle against the Swiss will send a rush of pride through your city. But it will also, ultimately, mean war. Losing, however, means your heads.
Happy Roar Of The Crowd Day!
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
The Only Thing Keeping Me From Showing Those Kids My Asshole Is You And Our Beautiful Daughter Day
The Only Thing Keeping Me From Showing Those Kids My Asshole Is You And Our Beautiful Daughter Day!
He loves you as much as he hates being a high school math teacher. Every day it's getting worse at that school. The overgrown punks just so determined to send their lives down the toilet. They ignore your husband. They laugh at your husband. Every day your husband comes closer to doing something that will kick him out of that school and never let him come near it again.
And every night he comes home and he sees your beautiful eyes echoed in the face of that adorable little girl under a blanket in her crib. One smile from you, one nuzzle of his daughter's cheek, and he remembers what he's doing it for. To keep his family happy. To be the man they're counting on him to be.
"You listen to me," he'll say to you after dinner tonight when the baby's asleep. "You listen to me go on and on and I'm sorry. But I swear to God when they start mouthing off in that classroom sometimes I just wanna yank down my pants and spread my cheeks so the craggly brown crust of my asshole is staring them in the eyes and I'll tell him what they can mouth off into if they want. I'll tell em to lick it clean till it's as white the chalk on that chalkboard up there."
Take his head to your bosom and say, "Shhh."
"I hate teaching," he'll say.
Caress his hair and say, "Shhh."
"I swear to God," he'll say. "The only thing keeping me from showing those kids my asshole is you and that little girl upstairs."
Just hold him tight. He'll feel better in a little while. Then both of you should go upstairs and watch your daughter sleep.
Happy The Only Thing Keeping Me From Showing Those Kids My Asshole Is You And Our Beautiful Daughter Day!
He loves you as much as he hates being a high school math teacher. Every day it's getting worse at that school. The overgrown punks just so determined to send their lives down the toilet. They ignore your husband. They laugh at your husband. Every day your husband comes closer to doing something that will kick him out of that school and never let him come near it again.
And every night he comes home and he sees your beautiful eyes echoed in the face of that adorable little girl under a blanket in her crib. One smile from you, one nuzzle of his daughter's cheek, and he remembers what he's doing it for. To keep his family happy. To be the man they're counting on him to be.
"You listen to me," he'll say to you after dinner tonight when the baby's asleep. "You listen to me go on and on and I'm sorry. But I swear to God when they start mouthing off in that classroom sometimes I just wanna yank down my pants and spread my cheeks so the craggly brown crust of my asshole is staring them in the eyes and I'll tell him what they can mouth off into if they want. I'll tell em to lick it clean till it's as white the chalk on that chalkboard up there."
Take his head to your bosom and say, "Shhh."
"I hate teaching," he'll say.
Caress his hair and say, "Shhh."
"I swear to God," he'll say. "The only thing keeping me from showing those kids my asshole is you and that little girl upstairs."
Just hold him tight. He'll feel better in a little while. Then both of you should go upstairs and watch your daughter sleep.
Happy The Only Thing Keeping Me From Showing Those Kids My Asshole Is You And Our Beautiful Daughter Day!
Monday, May 23, 2005
Shoehorn Day
Shoehorn Day!
You pay strange women to come to your home and make you gag by pressing down on your tongue with your own shoehorn. Today, after about seven minutes of being gagged nearly to vomiting down the woman's wrist, her boyfriend will burst through the front door and shout, "Jessica!"
She'll have told you her name was Amber.
"I swear I don't have sex with him," Jessica will shout.
"What the hell are you talking about? He's in his underwear!"
Not exactly. You'll be wearing black rubber trunks.
"But it never goes further than this," Jessica will shout. "He just pays me to hold this shoehorn on his tongue until he throws up a bunch of times. Then he falls panting to the floor and tells me to root through his trousers for my cash."
The boyfriend will look like he's trying to find the downside.
"If you needed the money…"
Jessica will smile. "I was saving up to buy you an iPod for my birthday."
"Oh baby," the boyfriend will say. "I can't listen to an iPod. I've been letting this old guy fuck my ear for fifty dollars a shot. My doctor says all that semen has permanently damaged my ear drums."
"Oh my God," Jessica says. "If holding a shoehorn down on this guy's tongue had left me unable to play a PSP, this would totally be like 'Gift of the Magi!'"
Jessica and her boyfriend run off to be happy together, but not before her boyfriend beats you into a coma and steals everything in your home that looks like it might be worth something.
Happy Shoehorn Day!
You pay strange women to come to your home and make you gag by pressing down on your tongue with your own shoehorn. Today, after about seven minutes of being gagged nearly to vomiting down the woman's wrist, her boyfriend will burst through the front door and shout, "Jessica!"
She'll have told you her name was Amber.
"I swear I don't have sex with him," Jessica will shout.
"What the hell are you talking about? He's in his underwear!"
Not exactly. You'll be wearing black rubber trunks.
"But it never goes further than this," Jessica will shout. "He just pays me to hold this shoehorn on his tongue until he throws up a bunch of times. Then he falls panting to the floor and tells me to root through his trousers for my cash."
The boyfriend will look like he's trying to find the downside.
"If you needed the money…"
Jessica will smile. "I was saving up to buy you an iPod for my birthday."
"Oh baby," the boyfriend will say. "I can't listen to an iPod. I've been letting this old guy fuck my ear for fifty dollars a shot. My doctor says all that semen has permanently damaged my ear drums."
"Oh my God," Jessica says. "If holding a shoehorn down on this guy's tongue had left me unable to play a PSP, this would totally be like 'Gift of the Magi!'"
Jessica and her boyfriend run off to be happy together, but not before her boyfriend beats you into a coma and steals everything in your home that looks like it might be worth something.
Happy Shoehorn Day!
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Corncob Pipe Day
Corncob Pipe Day!
Today, when you're emptying out your Dad's house because he's dead and someone bought the house where he raised you and your brothers, you're going to find a corncob pipe. It's the pipe your dad would shove into the heads of all those snowmen that you and him used to make together. Before you got kidnapped.
You were held captive in the basement from fall into the winter of 1989, and you watched those first few snowfalls through the basement window and you thought, "No corncob pipes on the snowmen this winter. Sorry I can't be there Dad."
When you got rescued and the policemen drove you to your house, you saw through the window that the snowman in the front yard had the corncob pipe sticking out of his head. You were so furious that as soon as they let you out of the car, you ran away from home. Before your parents got to hug you even. It would be another three days before you were located and brought home. And you didn't speak to your Dad until the end of the winter.
He tried to apologize once. He said, "It was to show that the kidnappers hadn't stolen your spirit from us. But you knew the truth. He just always hated that you got to shove the pipe into the snowman's head just because you were the kid and he was the dad.
Happy Corncob Pipe Day!
Today, when you're emptying out your Dad's house because he's dead and someone bought the house where he raised you and your brothers, you're going to find a corncob pipe. It's the pipe your dad would shove into the heads of all those snowmen that you and him used to make together. Before you got kidnapped.
You were held captive in the basement from fall into the winter of 1989, and you watched those first few snowfalls through the basement window and you thought, "No corncob pipes on the snowmen this winter. Sorry I can't be there Dad."
When you got rescued and the policemen drove you to your house, you saw through the window that the snowman in the front yard had the corncob pipe sticking out of his head. You were so furious that as soon as they let you out of the car, you ran away from home. Before your parents got to hug you even. It would be another three days before you were located and brought home. And you didn't speak to your Dad until the end of the winter.
He tried to apologize once. He said, "It was to show that the kidnappers hadn't stolen your spirit from us. But you knew the truth. He just always hated that you got to shove the pipe into the snowman's head just because you were the kid and he was the dad.
Happy Corncob Pipe Day!
Saturday, May 21, 2005
One Of Your Neighbors Discovered Your System Of Underground Tunnels Day
One Of Your Neighbors Discovered Your System Of Underground Tunnels Day!
Luckily, he slipped on an unstable slope and hit his head, leaving him unconscious there to be found by you later tonight. It's Dave Jorgensen, the guy who walks his poodle in his bathrobe in the morning. You never thought he'd be the kind of guy who might fiddle with the basement wall behind his water heater, but apparently old Dave got curious and started his way down your dark maze. He made it as far as just underneath the Blumenfelds when he slipped on a muddy patch and cracked his head on the sharp poke of brick down there.
He's not dead, but he's got a concussion. And he'll still be unconscious when you find him. And that's when you'll find out what you're made of. A true Lord of the Beneath would do the honorable thing and pummel Mr. Jorgensen's head until it has the consistency of the mud that was his demise, then bury him in the 3X7' intersection of tunnels between the Holts' and the Baughans' lots. This would be the act of a man who built a sub-suburban land with the intent of creating a kingdom.
And then there's the coward. The man who has never seen the whites of another man's eyes. The frightened rodent who dug into the dirt of his own home so as to find a place to hide from his sunlit fears. He would simply bury Mr. Jorgensen in his unconscious state, with the faith that a lack of air would take his life as surely as three certain hits to bone. But if you choose this cowardly path, poetry would dictate that in days' or weeks' time you'll be on the street trying to conduct yourself as if you were one of the men who wave to you from their passing cars when Mr. Jorgensen claws his way through the loose soil of the rosebushes lain across the Holts' and the Baughans' dividing line. Whether he is truly undead or simply crazed from his time spent in a wet grave, you won't have the chance to determine before he sinks his teeth into the meat of your spine.
Take no chances. Demonstrate your rule.
Happy One Of Your Neighbors Discovered Your System Of Underground Tunnels Day!
Luckily, he slipped on an unstable slope and hit his head, leaving him unconscious there to be found by you later tonight. It's Dave Jorgensen, the guy who walks his poodle in his bathrobe in the morning. You never thought he'd be the kind of guy who might fiddle with the basement wall behind his water heater, but apparently old Dave got curious and started his way down your dark maze. He made it as far as just underneath the Blumenfelds when he slipped on a muddy patch and cracked his head on the sharp poke of brick down there.
He's not dead, but he's got a concussion. And he'll still be unconscious when you find him. And that's when you'll find out what you're made of. A true Lord of the Beneath would do the honorable thing and pummel Mr. Jorgensen's head until it has the consistency of the mud that was his demise, then bury him in the 3X7' intersection of tunnels between the Holts' and the Baughans' lots. This would be the act of a man who built a sub-suburban land with the intent of creating a kingdom.
And then there's the coward. The man who has never seen the whites of another man's eyes. The frightened rodent who dug into the dirt of his own home so as to find a place to hide from his sunlit fears. He would simply bury Mr. Jorgensen in his unconscious state, with the faith that a lack of air would take his life as surely as three certain hits to bone. But if you choose this cowardly path, poetry would dictate that in days' or weeks' time you'll be on the street trying to conduct yourself as if you were one of the men who wave to you from their passing cars when Mr. Jorgensen claws his way through the loose soil of the rosebushes lain across the Holts' and the Baughans' dividing line. Whether he is truly undead or simply crazed from his time spent in a wet grave, you won't have the chance to determine before he sinks his teeth into the meat of your spine.
Take no chances. Demonstrate your rule.
Happy One Of Your Neighbors Discovered Your System Of Underground Tunnels Day!
Friday, May 20, 2005
Watch A Little Boob Tube Day
Watch A Little Boob Tube Day!
Your ex-boyfriend is being led across his office plaza with his hands cuffed behind his back and his suit jacket over his head. It's a live feed and when the suit jacket falls off, you can see that it's Scott.
"Scott," you mutter out loud. You sound a little stupid when you say it because your mouth is full of ice cream.
The newscaster says that Scott looted the company of two million dollars. A good hunk of the money paid rent on the apartment where he housed his stripper girlfriend.
"God that was a fun night," you say out loud, again sounding like a retard because there's even more ice cream weighing down your tongue this time. The night you're referring to is the night Scott brought you to the Spearmint Rhino in London, seemingly on "a whim," and he bought a half hour in a private lounge for a dancer to writhe all over you while he watched. At the hotel later, you and Scott had sex until dawn. You don't remember whether the sex was especially good or bad, you just remember that it went on for a while.
You do remember that dancer though. "God she was so fucking hot," you say, barely intelligible as you try to keep from freezing your nasal passages with the ice cream too mountainous to swallow.
You stopped seeing Scott a month after London when he showed up to your apartment on coke and was a dick to your roommate. You've never dated anyone rich since (not by choice).
His image there on the TV screen is your first sight of him in two and a half years. The newscaster mentions his wife and six year old daughter, which means he must have been married while he was seeing you. You didn't know that.
You put some more ice cream in your mouth and you say out loud, again in that stupid sounding mouth-full-of-ice-cream voice, "God I love ice cream."
Happy Watch A Little Boob Tube Day!
Your ex-boyfriend is being led across his office plaza with his hands cuffed behind his back and his suit jacket over his head. It's a live feed and when the suit jacket falls off, you can see that it's Scott.
"Scott," you mutter out loud. You sound a little stupid when you say it because your mouth is full of ice cream.
The newscaster says that Scott looted the company of two million dollars. A good hunk of the money paid rent on the apartment where he housed his stripper girlfriend.
"God that was a fun night," you say out loud, again sounding like a retard because there's even more ice cream weighing down your tongue this time. The night you're referring to is the night Scott brought you to the Spearmint Rhino in London, seemingly on "a whim," and he bought a half hour in a private lounge for a dancer to writhe all over you while he watched. At the hotel later, you and Scott had sex until dawn. You don't remember whether the sex was especially good or bad, you just remember that it went on for a while.
You do remember that dancer though. "God she was so fucking hot," you say, barely intelligible as you try to keep from freezing your nasal passages with the ice cream too mountainous to swallow.
You stopped seeing Scott a month after London when he showed up to your apartment on coke and was a dick to your roommate. You've never dated anyone rich since (not by choice).
His image there on the TV screen is your first sight of him in two and a half years. The newscaster mentions his wife and six year old daughter, which means he must have been married while he was seeing you. You didn't know that.
You put some more ice cream in your mouth and you say out loud, again in that stupid sounding mouth-full-of-ice-cream voice, "God I love ice cream."
Happy Watch A Little Boob Tube Day!
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Buy A Rowboat Day
Buy A Rowboat Day!
Show it to your wife and tell her that it's the first step towards buying that lake house she's always dreamed of. Tell her today you're going to start saving.
She'll say, "Just let me go back inside and pack and I'll be out of your hair."
Point to the rowboat and say, "But the rowboat."
"Mmm," she'll say. Then she'll go back into the house to pack her two suitcases full of everything she can fit. Follow her into the bedroom.
"It's taking longer than I thought," she'll say. "I'm just trying to think of everything I might need so I won't have to come back here for as long as possible. Maybe never."
Try once more. "The rowboat?"
"I'm not into it," she'll say. "Too many mistakes. Sorry. Nice boat though."
About an hour and a half later she'll be gone. You'll have a new rowboat though. Bring it into the living room and sit in it while you watch TV.
Happy Buy A Rowboat Day!
Show it to your wife and tell her that it's the first step towards buying that lake house she's always dreamed of. Tell her today you're going to start saving.
She'll say, "Just let me go back inside and pack and I'll be out of your hair."
Point to the rowboat and say, "But the rowboat."
"Mmm," she'll say. Then she'll go back into the house to pack her two suitcases full of everything she can fit. Follow her into the bedroom.
"It's taking longer than I thought," she'll say. "I'm just trying to think of everything I might need so I won't have to come back here for as long as possible. Maybe never."
Try once more. "The rowboat?"
"I'm not into it," she'll say. "Too many mistakes. Sorry. Nice boat though."
About an hour and a half later she'll be gone. You'll have a new rowboat though. Bring it into the living room and sit in it while you watch TV.
Happy Buy A Rowboat Day!
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
American Storefront Day
American Storefront Day!
It's decorated with a neon Miller Hi Life sign and a live girl undulating on a pedestal in a small green bikini.
"That's the wrong color green," you'll tell the reporter. "But I think we're on the right track."
The reporter will ask you what you intended to communicate to passersby when you set about decorating your storefront.
"Delicious sandwiches," you'll say.
The reporter will begin to write that, then he'll pause and look back up at you, expectant.
You'll take a second. "And freedom?"
The reporter will nod, satisfied. Behind the glass, the live girl will lose her footing and tumble off of her pedestal. You and the reporter will hear startled yelps from inside the store.
At the hospital later this evening, the doctor will declare it an ankle fracture.
You'll ask, "When will she be able to undulate in my storefront again?"
"Seven months and three weeks," he'll say.
"Seven months and three weeks?" you'll shout.
The doctor will tell you that your live girl is not only lame, she's pregnant.
"YES!" the live girl will shout.
You're either going to have to audition new live girls or you're going to have to redesign your storefront. The 4th of July is coming up.
"I think I'll audition new live girls," you'll say to the contents of your refrigerator when you're staring into it tonight at 3 AM.
Happy American Storefront Day!
It's decorated with a neon Miller Hi Life sign and a live girl undulating on a pedestal in a small green bikini.
"That's the wrong color green," you'll tell the reporter. "But I think we're on the right track."
The reporter will ask you what you intended to communicate to passersby when you set about decorating your storefront.
"Delicious sandwiches," you'll say.
The reporter will begin to write that, then he'll pause and look back up at you, expectant.
You'll take a second. "And freedom?"
The reporter will nod, satisfied. Behind the glass, the live girl will lose her footing and tumble off of her pedestal. You and the reporter will hear startled yelps from inside the store.
At the hospital later this evening, the doctor will declare it an ankle fracture.
You'll ask, "When will she be able to undulate in my storefront again?"
"Seven months and three weeks," he'll say.
"Seven months and three weeks?" you'll shout.
The doctor will tell you that your live girl is not only lame, she's pregnant.
"YES!" the live girl will shout.
You're either going to have to audition new live girls or you're going to have to redesign your storefront. The 4th of July is coming up.
"I think I'll audition new live girls," you'll say to the contents of your refrigerator when you're staring into it tonight at 3 AM.
Happy American Storefront Day!
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Find George And Take Him Out Now Day
Find George And Take Him Out Now Day!
Nothing can continue until George is removed from the equation. Quit your job, abandon your children, forget to give your pets their medicine, nothing else matters. George must be stopped. Make it happen.
Happy Find George And Take Him Out Now Day!
Nothing can continue until George is removed from the equation. Quit your job, abandon your children, forget to give your pets their medicine, nothing else matters. George must be stopped. Make it happen.
Happy Find George And Take Him Out Now Day!
Monday, May 16, 2005
The Cooler Containing Your New Liver Is Missing Day
The Cooler Containing Your New Liver Is Missing Day!
The guerillas attacked the motorcade and got their hands on the cooler. They know that if the Feds don't come through on your promised liver transplant, you won't provide the coordinates for General Garcia's bunker. They weren't able to down the chopper during your transport to the Chicago hospital (the missile took out one of the city's three most trafficked radio transmitters), and they know they won't be able to get close enough to kill you in your bed. So they had to take away the only leverage the US had for getting you to talk. The promise of a liver transplant and, in effect, twenty years added to your life.
They know you still love mother Nicaragua. But you've always been selfish. They won't put it past you to sacrifice your country in order to get that diseased mass of tissue out of your belly. They're not going to let you have that chance.
The Feds are coming in right now to lie to you. They're going to tell you the liver is on its way, that there was a traffic accident and the motorcade was diverted. They're buying more time. Who knows, they might still come through.
Happy The Cooler Containing Your New Liver Is Missing Day!
The guerillas attacked the motorcade and got their hands on the cooler. They know that if the Feds don't come through on your promised liver transplant, you won't provide the coordinates for General Garcia's bunker. They weren't able to down the chopper during your transport to the Chicago hospital (the missile took out one of the city's three most trafficked radio transmitters), and they know they won't be able to get close enough to kill you in your bed. So they had to take away the only leverage the US had for getting you to talk. The promise of a liver transplant and, in effect, twenty years added to your life.
They know you still love mother Nicaragua. But you've always been selfish. They won't put it past you to sacrifice your country in order to get that diseased mass of tissue out of your belly. They're not going to let you have that chance.
The Feds are coming in right now to lie to you. They're going to tell you the liver is on its way, that there was a traffic accident and the motorcade was diverted. They're buying more time. Who knows, they might still come through.
Happy The Cooler Containing Your New Liver Is Missing Day!
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Your Foreign Exchange Student Girlfriend Day
Your Foreign Exchange Student Girlfriend Day!
She goes back to Denmark in a week so you're going to have to propose to her. You never thought you'd go into your senior year of high school a married man, but a girl like Katrine will make boys like you do what you never thought you'd do.
Katrine will protest. "I still have a boyfriend in Denmark," she'll say.
Be firm. "Break it off with him."
She'll say she's not sure whether she's ready to let him go. "His hair is blonde like mine. We look appropriate together."
"Katrine," say. "You're not like the other girls in my high school. You allowed me to touch you."
Katrine will smile. "And you're not like the boys back in Denmark."
You'll wait for her to explain how, but she'll only smile.
Ask her, "What's the difference between me and the boys back in Denmark? Besides the hair color I mean."
She'll say, "No, that's it. They have blonde hair. You don't."
You'll be starting to worry now. You didn't think this could end any other way but for the two of you to kiss and run to the internet to find out which states allow seventeen year old boys to marry seventeen year old girls with student visas, then you'd hop in a car and drive until you were both wearing wedding rings.
Say, "Is there anything I can say to keep you here with me?"
Katrine will take your hand in both of hers. "Let me go. Let me live on forever after as your foreign exchange student girlfriend. And you'll live on forever as my American boyfriend. If we marry, you'll just be a husband and I'll just be a wife."
You won't be able to argue with her, it will sound so beautiful in her accented English. Her words will glow with the promise of a wonderful future for each of you. A future full of many different lovers and marriage and children and wonderful, wonderful memories. Unfortunately though, Katrine will prove to be the last girlfriend you'll ever have, the last woman you'll ever be intimate with, in fact. You'll just never hit it off with anyone else again. It was right with her and there will not be another. Sometimes it works out that way. This is one of those times.
Happy Your Foreign Exchange Student Girlfriend Day!
She goes back to Denmark in a week so you're going to have to propose to her. You never thought you'd go into your senior year of high school a married man, but a girl like Katrine will make boys like you do what you never thought you'd do.
Katrine will protest. "I still have a boyfriend in Denmark," she'll say.
Be firm. "Break it off with him."
She'll say she's not sure whether she's ready to let him go. "His hair is blonde like mine. We look appropriate together."
"Katrine," say. "You're not like the other girls in my high school. You allowed me to touch you."
Katrine will smile. "And you're not like the boys back in Denmark."
You'll wait for her to explain how, but she'll only smile.
Ask her, "What's the difference between me and the boys back in Denmark? Besides the hair color I mean."
She'll say, "No, that's it. They have blonde hair. You don't."
You'll be starting to worry now. You didn't think this could end any other way but for the two of you to kiss and run to the internet to find out which states allow seventeen year old boys to marry seventeen year old girls with student visas, then you'd hop in a car and drive until you were both wearing wedding rings.
Say, "Is there anything I can say to keep you here with me?"
Katrine will take your hand in both of hers. "Let me go. Let me live on forever after as your foreign exchange student girlfriend. And you'll live on forever as my American boyfriend. If we marry, you'll just be a husband and I'll just be a wife."
You won't be able to argue with her, it will sound so beautiful in her accented English. Her words will glow with the promise of a wonderful future for each of you. A future full of many different lovers and marriage and children and wonderful, wonderful memories. Unfortunately though, Katrine will prove to be the last girlfriend you'll ever have, the last woman you'll ever be intimate with, in fact. You'll just never hit it off with anyone else again. It was right with her and there will not be another. Sometimes it works out that way. This is one of those times.
Happy Your Foreign Exchange Student Girlfriend Day!
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Your Parents Are An Interracial Couple Day
Your Parents Are An Interracial Couple Day!
It's been a long while since you congratulated them for their bravery.
Tonight, when you've all finished dinner, and your Dad says to your mom, "Black lady, nice food."
And your mom says, "Only the best, white motherfucker."
Say to the both of them, "I hope you've saved some room for dessert."
Then give them the cake you spent all day cooking from scratch.
They'll read the writing on the cake in unison. "Courage?"
Say, "I made it in honor of you guys not being the same race but falling in love anyway. It's a strawberry shortcake."
Your Mom will burst into tears. "I didn't think you'd noticed."
"That you guys aren't the same race? Sure I did. That's what everyone's always spray-painting our house about, right?"
Now you'll see that your Dad is crying. "No," he'll say. "How hard it was to pull this off. We thought you didn't care. I mean it was really, really hard."
"I know," you'll say. You're going to start getting a little annoyed now. "That's why I made you the cake? Hello?"
Your mom will get a hold of herself. "It's just kind of like that movie about that guy. The one who struggled."
Your dad will smash his fist into the table and say that that movie sucked. They'll start fighting again and you'll run from the table and hide in your room. The fighting will turn them both on and they'll go upstairs and make forbidden love. When you come downstairs in the morning, they won't have touched the cake. But they will have conceived your future baby sister.
Happy Your Parents Are An Interracial Couple Day!
It's been a long while since you congratulated them for their bravery.
Tonight, when you've all finished dinner, and your Dad says to your mom, "Black lady, nice food."
And your mom says, "Only the best, white motherfucker."
Say to the both of them, "I hope you've saved some room for dessert."
Then give them the cake you spent all day cooking from scratch.
They'll read the writing on the cake in unison. "Courage?"
Say, "I made it in honor of you guys not being the same race but falling in love anyway. It's a strawberry shortcake."
Your Mom will burst into tears. "I didn't think you'd noticed."
"That you guys aren't the same race? Sure I did. That's what everyone's always spray-painting our house about, right?"
Now you'll see that your Dad is crying. "No," he'll say. "How hard it was to pull this off. We thought you didn't care. I mean it was really, really hard."
"I know," you'll say. You're going to start getting a little annoyed now. "That's why I made you the cake? Hello?"
Your mom will get a hold of herself. "It's just kind of like that movie about that guy. The one who struggled."
Your dad will smash his fist into the table and say that that movie sucked. They'll start fighting again and you'll run from the table and hide in your room. The fighting will turn them both on and they'll go upstairs and make forbidden love. When you come downstairs in the morning, they won't have touched the cake. But they will have conceived your future baby sister.
Happy Your Parents Are An Interracial Couple Day!
Friday, May 13, 2005
Murder Mystery Day
Murder Mystery Day!
The lights went off in the Burger King. When they came back on, a woman was lying dead right there in the middle of the dining area. You and the other five customers crowded around her, along with some of the kitchen staff. Then you heard a click.
You turned around and saw the manager had just locked the door shut tight.
"What's the big idea?" said the burly customer wearing all black.
The manager said, "We were all here when she died. So one of us must have killed her. If no one leaves, the murderer can't get away."
You all looked at each other nervously.
"But we have tickets for the Opera," said the wealthy couple.
"My mom's waiting for me," said the woman who looked to be the exact same age as the woman on the floor.
The burly man in black said, "You best step aside hamburger man."
The manager replied, "You can go. If you want to be the subject of a manhunt. Think the police won't suspect you if you make a run for it?"
The burly man looked to you.
"Quiet one, ain't ya," he said.
You're mute. You told him so by pointing to your mouth and shaking your head.
"Nice one," the manager said to the burly man. "Now let's get to the mystery solving. Did anyone see anything strange?"
It's been six hours now and the body count has gone up to three. The fry cook and the husband of the wealthy woman who complained about her opera tickets, both bludgeoned over the head when out of sight of everyone else. The manager has been blaming himself for those additional deaths, and now he's just sitting on the floor slamming the back of his head against the wall and barking at himself, "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" You don't know who to trust, but you've been feeling some pretty heavy sparks between you and the grill cook. If you get out alive, you'll probably have a date for the weekend. You just have to hope that the grill cook gets out alive too. And that the grill cook isn't the killer.
Whoops. Lights went out again.
Happy Murder Mystery Day!
The lights went off in the Burger King. When they came back on, a woman was lying dead right there in the middle of the dining area. You and the other five customers crowded around her, along with some of the kitchen staff. Then you heard a click.
You turned around and saw the manager had just locked the door shut tight.
"What's the big idea?" said the burly customer wearing all black.
The manager said, "We were all here when she died. So one of us must have killed her. If no one leaves, the murderer can't get away."
You all looked at each other nervously.
"But we have tickets for the Opera," said the wealthy couple.
"My mom's waiting for me," said the woman who looked to be the exact same age as the woman on the floor.
The burly man in black said, "You best step aside hamburger man."
The manager replied, "You can go. If you want to be the subject of a manhunt. Think the police won't suspect you if you make a run for it?"
The burly man looked to you.
"Quiet one, ain't ya," he said.
You're mute. You told him so by pointing to your mouth and shaking your head.
"Nice one," the manager said to the burly man. "Now let's get to the mystery solving. Did anyone see anything strange?"
It's been six hours now and the body count has gone up to three. The fry cook and the husband of the wealthy woman who complained about her opera tickets, both bludgeoned over the head when out of sight of everyone else. The manager has been blaming himself for those additional deaths, and now he's just sitting on the floor slamming the back of his head against the wall and barking at himself, "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" You don't know who to trust, but you've been feeling some pretty heavy sparks between you and the grill cook. If you get out alive, you'll probably have a date for the weekend. You just have to hope that the grill cook gets out alive too. And that the grill cook isn't the killer.
Whoops. Lights went out again.
Happy Murder Mystery Day!
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Cut Yourself Out Of A Picture Day
Cut Yourself Out Of A Picture Day!
Today is a special one for any of you who might hate yourselves or any of you who are so obsessed over an ex or that you feel like you're starting to disappear. So, 94% of this website's audience, this one's for you!
The picture you use should be that iconic photo, the one that a camera would find and zoom in on real close and then fade out on if your house was on fire and there was a cameraman inside it trying to figure out why it's come to this. It's the Christmas photo, you and the best thing that ever happened to you kissing in front of a tree, all smiles, all happiness and "I'll never go away." The photo should be wrinkled and water-stained from sitting in between your sweaty fingertips for four hours a night while you drink yourself to sleep
Take the scissors and cut yourself out of the photo, but not in a healthy, "as far as I'm concerned I never even met you" kind of way (boring!). If you're not sure if you're in the right mindset, instead of using scissors try using a serrated steak knife and slice yourself out of the picture. Feel "right?" Perfect.
The mindset is the one where it's all about, "I was the problem. I sent her away. This photo of her beautiful face is ruined by my presence." You should be pleading with dark forces for relief from your pain, whispering to a voodoo God while you slice and snip, "See, I'm not crowding him. I'll pull away if you bring him back to me. No evidence of us ever having been together, so please just let us start fresh like neither of us ever screamed a warning of violence into the other's face."
Basically, you should feel that you don't deserve to have any proof that he or she ever welcomed your touch. Do it because you still believe that it's meant to be, because you still believe that if you're given a second chance you'll know how to keep from screwing things up. Do it because you haven't slept in six days and because you're on your living room floor and you can't get up and you have a very stale smell about you.
Happy Cut Yourself Out Of A Picture Day!
Today is a special one for any of you who might hate yourselves or any of you who are so obsessed over an ex or that you feel like you're starting to disappear. So, 94% of this website's audience, this one's for you!
The picture you use should be that iconic photo, the one that a camera would find and zoom in on real close and then fade out on if your house was on fire and there was a cameraman inside it trying to figure out why it's come to this. It's the Christmas photo, you and the best thing that ever happened to you kissing in front of a tree, all smiles, all happiness and "I'll never go away." The photo should be wrinkled and water-stained from sitting in between your sweaty fingertips for four hours a night while you drink yourself to sleep
Take the scissors and cut yourself out of the photo, but not in a healthy, "as far as I'm concerned I never even met you" kind of way (boring!). If you're not sure if you're in the right mindset, instead of using scissors try using a serrated steak knife and slice yourself out of the picture. Feel "right?" Perfect.
The mindset is the one where it's all about, "I was the problem. I sent her away. This photo of her beautiful face is ruined by my presence." You should be pleading with dark forces for relief from your pain, whispering to a voodoo God while you slice and snip, "See, I'm not crowding him. I'll pull away if you bring him back to me. No evidence of us ever having been together, so please just let us start fresh like neither of us ever screamed a warning of violence into the other's face."
Basically, you should feel that you don't deserve to have any proof that he or she ever welcomed your touch. Do it because you still believe that it's meant to be, because you still believe that if you're given a second chance you'll know how to keep from screwing things up. Do it because you haven't slept in six days and because you're on your living room floor and you can't get up and you have a very stale smell about you.
Happy Cut Yourself Out Of A Picture Day!
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Lions Day
Lions Day!
Today, before you even got up, lions came. They smelled you and moved on. That wet spot on your bed sheet: lion saliva.
The lions are still in the town and they've eaten two people you like but no one you loved. One enemy is dead too and things are going to be a little easier for you vis a vis securing that research grant. But you'll feel terrible about the way it will have come about.
These lions though, they're not your everyday lions. That will be made clear when zoo officials appear on the news and say, "We got all our lions. Go look for yours!"
"Who else has lions in this town?" the president of the town will ask.
"The cancer lab," the town's drunk will remind him.
The town cancer lab has been in operation for nearly four years now, ever since the president of the town decided to throw his hat in the ring for a shot at all that cancer curing money. So far, the lab has not come up with a cancer antidote. But it has supposedly made progress.
"I just need some lions," said Dr Bennett the skinny scientist to the town president eighteen months ago.
Twelve lions were shipped into town lickety-split. What no one knew was that Dr Bennett really knew nothing about curing cancer. But he has always believed that with corrected serotonin levels the lions could gain the intelligence necessary to rule the world with both force and book-smarts.
"These lions," Dr Bennett is going to shout at the town president. "They're as smart as you or me. Well, as smart as you at least. They must be stopped!"
They didn't kill you because your remaining alive is necessary. They killed your enemy, the only competitor for your funding, because he is in the way. They killed two of your acquaintances because it was necessary that they also be eliminated, but for different reasons. They have a plan. And crazy as it may sound, the success of their plan is partially dependant upon whether or not you finish your thesis on pro-rape rhetoric within commercial Greeting Card copy of the past thirty years. Hit the books or the lions will get angry and eat all of us.
Happy Lions Day!
Today, before you even got up, lions came. They smelled you and moved on. That wet spot on your bed sheet: lion saliva.
The lions are still in the town and they've eaten two people you like but no one you loved. One enemy is dead too and things are going to be a little easier for you vis a vis securing that research grant. But you'll feel terrible about the way it will have come about.
These lions though, they're not your everyday lions. That will be made clear when zoo officials appear on the news and say, "We got all our lions. Go look for yours!"
"Who else has lions in this town?" the president of the town will ask.
"The cancer lab," the town's drunk will remind him.
The town cancer lab has been in operation for nearly four years now, ever since the president of the town decided to throw his hat in the ring for a shot at all that cancer curing money. So far, the lab has not come up with a cancer antidote. But it has supposedly made progress.
"I just need some lions," said Dr Bennett the skinny scientist to the town president eighteen months ago.
Twelve lions were shipped into town lickety-split. What no one knew was that Dr Bennett really knew nothing about curing cancer. But he has always believed that with corrected serotonin levels the lions could gain the intelligence necessary to rule the world with both force and book-smarts.
"These lions," Dr Bennett is going to shout at the town president. "They're as smart as you or me. Well, as smart as you at least. They must be stopped!"
They didn't kill you because your remaining alive is necessary. They killed your enemy, the only competitor for your funding, because he is in the way. They killed two of your acquaintances because it was necessary that they also be eliminated, but for different reasons. They have a plan. And crazy as it may sound, the success of their plan is partially dependant upon whether or not you finish your thesis on pro-rape rhetoric within commercial Greeting Card copy of the past thirty years. Hit the books or the lions will get angry and eat all of us.
Happy Lions Day!
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Boyfriend Races Day
Boyfriend Races Day!
Carol has been trash-talking you all week.
"Your boyfriend will be defeated. He is a homosexual person."
"Your boyfriend," you retorted, "Was a very bad person to have sex with when he used to be my boyfriend."
Carol, without missing a beat, said, "You did not inspire him."
You ran from Carol to find Doug, your love.
"I know this is just a silly competition and it shouldn't matter to anybody, but please beat Carol's boyfriend for me today. She makes me feel so small and tired. She's been so relentless in her miserable talk that she's made me believe that my worth will be determined by what place my boyfriend finishes in the boyfriend races. I'm sorry and I still love you with all I've got. But what I've got is a little less, my baby. I'm weak. I let her take a little bit of me."
Doug will wipe a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "I will win. You will be the proudest girlfriend in the entire Yale Graduate Program For Architectural Studies."
"Oh baby," you'll say.
Just then a blow dart will fly into your boyfriend's ankle. His eyes will go back in his head and he'll fall. You have to keep the poison from reaching his heart.
Happy Boyfriend Races Day!
Carol has been trash-talking you all week.
"Your boyfriend will be defeated. He is a homosexual person."
"Your boyfriend," you retorted, "Was a very bad person to have sex with when he used to be my boyfriend."
Carol, without missing a beat, said, "You did not inspire him."
You ran from Carol to find Doug, your love.
"I know this is just a silly competition and it shouldn't matter to anybody, but please beat Carol's boyfriend for me today. She makes me feel so small and tired. She's been so relentless in her miserable talk that she's made me believe that my worth will be determined by what place my boyfriend finishes in the boyfriend races. I'm sorry and I still love you with all I've got. But what I've got is a little less, my baby. I'm weak. I let her take a little bit of me."
Doug will wipe a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "I will win. You will be the proudest girlfriend in the entire Yale Graduate Program For Architectural Studies."
"Oh baby," you'll say.
Just then a blow dart will fly into your boyfriend's ankle. His eyes will go back in his head and he'll fall. You have to keep the poison from reaching his heart.
Happy Boyfriend Races Day!
Monday, May 09, 2005
Underneath Your Skirt Day
Underneath Your Skirt Day!
Today, if you look underneath your skirt you will find a small, golden envelope. Pull it off of you and open it. If the slip of paper inside the envelope reads, "Special Friend," you have been chosen, along with twelve other women (culled from millions), to ride a new roller coaster with 12 wealthy men who find your company pleasurable but only in a "she rides roller coasters with me but I don't think she's pretty enough to have sex with" kind of way. When the ride is over, the 12 wealthy men will run into the arms of 12 women who were too scared to take the ride. The 12 wealthy men will tell these women all about the thrill of the ride and, if you were nice to them, they will tell these women how nice you were. These women are the wealthy men's fiances.
If the slip of paper inside the envelope reads, "June 4th," you have been chosen to marry a gentle man of average means. He will give you a happy life, but it is unclear whether you will love him or not since the whole shebang is pretty random.
If the slip of paper inside the envelope reads, "Try Again," you should check under your skirt on the second Monday in June to see what's inside the envelope you find stuck to you.
Happy Underneath Your Skirt Day!
Today, if you look underneath your skirt you will find a small, golden envelope. Pull it off of you and open it. If the slip of paper inside the envelope reads, "Special Friend," you have been chosen, along with twelve other women (culled from millions), to ride a new roller coaster with 12 wealthy men who find your company pleasurable but only in a "she rides roller coasters with me but I don't think she's pretty enough to have sex with" kind of way. When the ride is over, the 12 wealthy men will run into the arms of 12 women who were too scared to take the ride. The 12 wealthy men will tell these women all about the thrill of the ride and, if you were nice to them, they will tell these women how nice you were. These women are the wealthy men's fiances.
If the slip of paper inside the envelope reads, "June 4th," you have been chosen to marry a gentle man of average means. He will give you a happy life, but it is unclear whether you will love him or not since the whole shebang is pretty random.
If the slip of paper inside the envelope reads, "Try Again," you should check under your skirt on the second Monday in June to see what's inside the envelope you find stuck to you.
Happy Underneath Your Skirt Day!
Sunday, May 08, 2005
"Don't Worry, This Isn't My Blood" Day
"Don't Worry, This Isn't My Blood" Day!
You hate parties, but your husband is complaining that he never gets to entertain. So you consented to a dinner party tonight. He invited a coworker and his wife, your mutual friends Alex and Jane, and his squash buddy, Felix.
"But what will I talk to them about?" you asked.
He said, "Just come up with an icebreaker. Something that will get them asking you questions."
The guests are supposed to arrive at 8:30. So at 8:25 you're going to slip out the back door and paste your shirt to your torso underneath a thick layer of what will appear to be blood. You're not sure yet whether to use fake blood or not. You're going to try out the fake blood and make sure it looks real enough. If not, you'll have to get your hands on some real blood. Somehow.
After everyone's in the living room and all their glasses are full with booze, your husband will start saying how he knows you're around here someplace and you'll be down in a second. That's when you'll open the front door and close it behind you. You'll step into the vestibule where the light is good and you'll stand before them all, the "blood" red as roses and on you like a blanket. You'll hold your arms out away from your sides and you'll hold your mouth open wide like there are some words that are late coming.
Give them your icebreaker.
"Don't worry, this isn't my blood."
Then fix yourself a drink, take a seat and watch the questions come flying. The first will either be, "Whose blood is it?" or "What happened?" or "How's intellectual property law treating you these days?"
Happy "Don't Worry, This Isn't My Blood" Day!
You hate parties, but your husband is complaining that he never gets to entertain. So you consented to a dinner party tonight. He invited a coworker and his wife, your mutual friends Alex and Jane, and his squash buddy, Felix.
"But what will I talk to them about?" you asked.
He said, "Just come up with an icebreaker. Something that will get them asking you questions."
The guests are supposed to arrive at 8:30. So at 8:25 you're going to slip out the back door and paste your shirt to your torso underneath a thick layer of what will appear to be blood. You're not sure yet whether to use fake blood or not. You're going to try out the fake blood and make sure it looks real enough. If not, you'll have to get your hands on some real blood. Somehow.
After everyone's in the living room and all their glasses are full with booze, your husband will start saying how he knows you're around here someplace and you'll be down in a second. That's when you'll open the front door and close it behind you. You'll step into the vestibule where the light is good and you'll stand before them all, the "blood" red as roses and on you like a blanket. You'll hold your arms out away from your sides and you'll hold your mouth open wide like there are some words that are late coming.
Give them your icebreaker.
"Don't worry, this isn't my blood."
Then fix yourself a drink, take a seat and watch the questions come flying. The first will either be, "Whose blood is it?" or "What happened?" or "How's intellectual property law treating you these days?"
Happy "Don't Worry, This Isn't My Blood" Day!
Saturday, May 07, 2005
You're Off The Case Chicago Day
You're Off The Case Chicago Day!
They call you Chicago because you grew up in Chicago, Illinois. A clever bunch, they.
"Chicago," the sergeant said Friday a week ago. "I want you to quit worrying your pretty little head over whatever habits you think the Deputy Mayor might indulge. And don't you go flapping your soft pink lips about it to anyone. You're off the case Chicago."
The sergeant had always been a little too appreciative of what he called, "The Landscape of Startlingly Beautiful Physical Features You All Paint Whenever You Line Up In Formation For me." You suffered it without a peep because you respected his leadership. Until Friday a week ago.
"He's crooked," you said.
"Detective Chicago," said the sergeant. "Am I going to watch you pout? Don't get me wrong. Your pout rivals my own baby daughter's in the grand sport of heart-melting. But cut it out you naughty little tease. It won't make me change my mind. The Deputy Mayor is the Pope as far as you're concerned."
The Deputy Mayor is running an underground sex trade with illegal Chechen ladies. FACT! You just need to prove it. A few more days. That's why you're sitting in the unmarked, across the street from his private club. Its been a two day stakeout so far, and every time someone enters or exits that club, another piece is fitted into the puzzle.
The sergeant is about to pull up beside your car and ask, "What do you think you're doing here Chicago?" Shoot his face.
Happy You're Off The Case Chicago Day!
They call you Chicago because you grew up in Chicago, Illinois. A clever bunch, they.
"Chicago," the sergeant said Friday a week ago. "I want you to quit worrying your pretty little head over whatever habits you think the Deputy Mayor might indulge. And don't you go flapping your soft pink lips about it to anyone. You're off the case Chicago."
The sergeant had always been a little too appreciative of what he called, "The Landscape of Startlingly Beautiful Physical Features You All Paint Whenever You Line Up In Formation For me." You suffered it without a peep because you respected his leadership. Until Friday a week ago.
"He's crooked," you said.
"Detective Chicago," said the sergeant. "Am I going to watch you pout? Don't get me wrong. Your pout rivals my own baby daughter's in the grand sport of heart-melting. But cut it out you naughty little tease. It won't make me change my mind. The Deputy Mayor is the Pope as far as you're concerned."
The Deputy Mayor is running an underground sex trade with illegal Chechen ladies. FACT! You just need to prove it. A few more days. That's why you're sitting in the unmarked, across the street from his private club. Its been a two day stakeout so far, and every time someone enters or exits that club, another piece is fitted into the puzzle.
The sergeant is about to pull up beside your car and ask, "What do you think you're doing here Chicago?" Shoot his face.
Happy You're Off The Case Chicago Day!
Friday, May 06, 2005
Choir Trip Day
Choir Trip Day!
Your fourth grade choir is the greatest assemblage of pre-pubescent singers in nineteen counties. Which is why you're riding on a bus to Quartermaine Manor in Kensington, where a very wealthy man is about to die.
The blood parasites were found vandalizing the veins and arteries of Sir Remington Quartermaine in late 2004. His condition has deteriorated considerably since then and his staff has been racing to satisfy all of his final wishes while there's still time. One of these wishes was to only be fed what is slaughtered before his eyes, which required the construction in a section of his bedroom of a linoleum-floored Butcher's, surrounding by transparent plexiglass. Another wish was to have every episode of MASH running on a loop on a flat-screen television suspended within his line of sight. And lastly, he would like to be sung to by a fourth grade choir every morning after his wash, in the afternoon around 3 PM when things grow quiet in the air, and in the evening, until he falls to sleep.
Your school's choir competed and rose through the rounds and finally won. Your school was awarded a $35 million grant, and you and your fellow tenors were bused off to live at a rich man's house and sing according to his whimsy. You'll each have a private room, which is a luxury you have yet to enjoy. But the rooms will be large, cold, sparsely furnished spaces with oversized beds in which you can only feel lost and alone. The food will be very rich and ornate when all you'd like is a nice plate of tater tots. And there will be nowhere to play and no toys to play with. You're going to have to change all that.
You'll befriend the staff and show them what kids like to eat, how kids like to play, and you'll use your childish mischief to help two members of the staff fall in love. The stodgiest and most senior on the staff, Mr. Harrington, will appear to not appreciate your presence on the estate in the slightest. Yet in the end it will become apparent that Mr. Harrington understands you all better than any of the softer staffers who enjoy slipping cookies under your doors against regulations.
Things will certainly get better as time goes on. Except for Sir Quartermaine, whose condition deteriorates with every passing hour. Singing him to sleep will be more and more difficult, as the pain in his blood becomes so unbearable that he spends several nights at a time screaming at the sky. You'll be forced to stay there by his bed and sing under the storm of terrifying howls until he finally falls to sleep. If you try to leave, your school will be forced to return the money. At the longest stretch, you'll sing for 91 hours straight.
Happy Choir Trip Day!
Your fourth grade choir is the greatest assemblage of pre-pubescent singers in nineteen counties. Which is why you're riding on a bus to Quartermaine Manor in Kensington, where a very wealthy man is about to die.
The blood parasites were found vandalizing the veins and arteries of Sir Remington Quartermaine in late 2004. His condition has deteriorated considerably since then and his staff has been racing to satisfy all of his final wishes while there's still time. One of these wishes was to only be fed what is slaughtered before his eyes, which required the construction in a section of his bedroom of a linoleum-floored Butcher's, surrounding by transparent plexiglass. Another wish was to have every episode of MASH running on a loop on a flat-screen television suspended within his line of sight. And lastly, he would like to be sung to by a fourth grade choir every morning after his wash, in the afternoon around 3 PM when things grow quiet in the air, and in the evening, until he falls to sleep.
Your school's choir competed and rose through the rounds and finally won. Your school was awarded a $35 million grant, and you and your fellow tenors were bused off to live at a rich man's house and sing according to his whimsy. You'll each have a private room, which is a luxury you have yet to enjoy. But the rooms will be large, cold, sparsely furnished spaces with oversized beds in which you can only feel lost and alone. The food will be very rich and ornate when all you'd like is a nice plate of tater tots. And there will be nowhere to play and no toys to play with. You're going to have to change all that.
You'll befriend the staff and show them what kids like to eat, how kids like to play, and you'll use your childish mischief to help two members of the staff fall in love. The stodgiest and most senior on the staff, Mr. Harrington, will appear to not appreciate your presence on the estate in the slightest. Yet in the end it will become apparent that Mr. Harrington understands you all better than any of the softer staffers who enjoy slipping cookies under your doors against regulations.
Things will certainly get better as time goes on. Except for Sir Quartermaine, whose condition deteriorates with every passing hour. Singing him to sleep will be more and more difficult, as the pain in his blood becomes so unbearable that he spends several nights at a time screaming at the sky. You'll be forced to stay there by his bed and sing under the storm of terrifying howls until he finally falls to sleep. If you try to leave, your school will be forced to return the money. At the longest stretch, you'll sing for 91 hours straight.
Happy Choir Trip Day!
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Tell Your Boss' Wife That Your Boss Knows About The Affair Day!
Tell Your Boss' Wife That Your Boss Knows About The Affair Day!
Tell her about the private detective with the body odor and the cowboy hat.
"He walks with a cane," say.
She'll say, "And yet he's a private detective. Then he mustn't be hired for his detective work. But rather…"
Nod. "Because he'll do what other, more graceful private detectives, refuse to do."
Tell her about the packages.
"Binoculars, road flares, a rope net wide enough to trap two people."
"Staples sells all of this stuff?" she'll ask.
"They launched a Corporate Survival department after 9/11."
Tell her how the private detective came into the office and bit a swath of the rope net, then told your boss, "I said silk polyblend."
His wife will ask what's going to happen.
"Here's the itinerary."
Give her the itinerary you printed out from Orbitz Tripplanner Notepad.
"My God," she'll say. "The private detective is going to burst into Remmington Bay Courtyard By Marriott Room 317, catch us in the net and suspend us from the ceiling from 7:15 to 7:30. Is that Courtyard by Marriot nice?"
"I reserved the Executive Suite. You'll love it. Keep reading."
"My God," she'll say. "From 7:30 to 8:45 my husband is going to come in and tell me how disappointed he is in me while we both watch the private detective slowly dismember my lover with a rancher's blade. What's this plane reservation?"
"Your husband is taking you to Turks and Caicos."
"Ooooh!" she'll say.
"The private detective told him that the two of you have to leave town, departing tonight at 10:45 PM, making one connection in Atlanta, and returning Wednesday, May 11th at 9:10 PM, so that the two of you can make amends while he disposes of the remains and wipes away any evidence of this ever having happened. You'll be staying at the Hyatt. They have a swim-up bar."
His wife will be shaking.
"There's no way to stop all this?" she'll ask.
"Everything's non-refundable and the firm gets hit with a pretty hard penalty if we alter the itinerary within 24 hours of departure. Do you not like the hotel accommodations?"
She'll say, "No. It's the connection."
Shout that that was the best flight you could get.
Say, "I'm an executive assistant, not a magician!" Then storm off.
Happy Tell Your Boss' Wife That Your Boss Knows About The Affair Day!
Tell her about the private detective with the body odor and the cowboy hat.
"He walks with a cane," say.
She'll say, "And yet he's a private detective. Then he mustn't be hired for his detective work. But rather…"
Nod. "Because he'll do what other, more graceful private detectives, refuse to do."
Tell her about the packages.
"Binoculars, road flares, a rope net wide enough to trap two people."
"Staples sells all of this stuff?" she'll ask.
"They launched a Corporate Survival department after 9/11."
Tell her how the private detective came into the office and bit a swath of the rope net, then told your boss, "I said silk polyblend."
His wife will ask what's going to happen.
"Here's the itinerary."
Give her the itinerary you printed out from Orbitz Tripplanner Notepad.
"My God," she'll say. "The private detective is going to burst into Remmington Bay Courtyard By Marriott Room 317, catch us in the net and suspend us from the ceiling from 7:15 to 7:30. Is that Courtyard by Marriot nice?"
"I reserved the Executive Suite. You'll love it. Keep reading."
"My God," she'll say. "From 7:30 to 8:45 my husband is going to come in and tell me how disappointed he is in me while we both watch the private detective slowly dismember my lover with a rancher's blade. What's this plane reservation?"
"Your husband is taking you to Turks and Caicos."
"Ooooh!" she'll say.
"The private detective told him that the two of you have to leave town, departing tonight at 10:45 PM, making one connection in Atlanta, and returning Wednesday, May 11th at 9:10 PM, so that the two of you can make amends while he disposes of the remains and wipes away any evidence of this ever having happened. You'll be staying at the Hyatt. They have a swim-up bar."
His wife will be shaking.
"There's no way to stop all this?" she'll ask.
"Everything's non-refundable and the firm gets hit with a pretty hard penalty if we alter the itinerary within 24 hours of departure. Do you not like the hotel accommodations?"
She'll say, "No. It's the connection."
Shout that that was the best flight you could get.
Say, "I'm an executive assistant, not a magician!" Then storm off.
Happy Tell Your Boss' Wife That Your Boss Knows About The Affair Day!
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Mentholated Man Day
Mentholated Man Day!
Sometime after your 68th birthday you started to smell like a medicated lozenge. In the 19 years hence, the strength of the odor has grown to the point that when you enter a room you seem to involuntary "fog" the air with a harsh decongestant. It's why the paperboy left you that envelope with the note attached.
When your granddaughter comes by next week, she'll read it to you and explain that the paperboy will no longer go door to door collecting his biweekly fees, but instead you will be required to mail him a check in the pre-addressed envelope. Your granddaughter will think nothing of it, though she'll wonder if the paperboy's visits were important to you. However, were you ever to speak with your neighbors you'd learn that they got no such letter. You are the only one on the route now required to mail in your subscription fee. This is because whenever the paperboy entered your home his eyes would be made to sting so badly he'd still be tearing up at school the next day. He complained of difficulty during quizzes. The envelope was his parents' idea.
He's just trying to be a good student.
Happy Mentholated Man Day!
Sometime after your 68th birthday you started to smell like a medicated lozenge. In the 19 years hence, the strength of the odor has grown to the point that when you enter a room you seem to involuntary "fog" the air with a harsh decongestant. It's why the paperboy left you that envelope with the note attached.
When your granddaughter comes by next week, she'll read it to you and explain that the paperboy will no longer go door to door collecting his biweekly fees, but instead you will be required to mail him a check in the pre-addressed envelope. Your granddaughter will think nothing of it, though she'll wonder if the paperboy's visits were important to you. However, were you ever to speak with your neighbors you'd learn that they got no such letter. You are the only one on the route now required to mail in your subscription fee. This is because whenever the paperboy entered your home his eyes would be made to sting so badly he'd still be tearing up at school the next day. He complained of difficulty during quizzes. The envelope was his parents' idea.
He's just trying to be a good student.
Happy Mentholated Man Day!
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Hang On To His ValPaks For Him Day
Hang On To His ValPaks For Him Day!
He could come back any day now and what are you going to say when he asks if he got any mail? "Yup and I threw it all out?" That'd go over well. You're already pretty certain that he ran off because of some signal you must have inadvertently sent to him that let him think you weren't a hundred percent sure that he was the one for you. What's he going to do when he finds out you couldn't hang onto a few (208) pieces of mail for him?
He never got any other mail because all of the bills were in your name and none of the collection agencies ever tracked him down to your place. And he never even opened the ValPaks, but it's the gesture that's important. After over three years of waiting, why leave anything to chance? Best to be able to open up the cupboard where you've been stashing them, show him that slatted pile of blue and say, "I've been hanging onto these for you. I figured you might want them when you came home."
Then you'll hand him one of the envelopes and you'll say, "As sure as there's a car wash coupon for five dollars off of "The Executive" in that envelope, that's how sure I was that you were coming home. You just had to make your way didn't you?"
Happy Hang On To His ValPaks For Him Day!
He could come back any day now and what are you going to say when he asks if he got any mail? "Yup and I threw it all out?" That'd go over well. You're already pretty certain that he ran off because of some signal you must have inadvertently sent to him that let him think you weren't a hundred percent sure that he was the one for you. What's he going to do when he finds out you couldn't hang onto a few (208) pieces of mail for him?
He never got any other mail because all of the bills were in your name and none of the collection agencies ever tracked him down to your place. And he never even opened the ValPaks, but it's the gesture that's important. After over three years of waiting, why leave anything to chance? Best to be able to open up the cupboard where you've been stashing them, show him that slatted pile of blue and say, "I've been hanging onto these for you. I figured you might want them when you came home."
Then you'll hand him one of the envelopes and you'll say, "As sure as there's a car wash coupon for five dollars off of "The Executive" in that envelope, that's how sure I was that you were coming home. You just had to make your way didn't you?"
Happy Hang On To His ValPaks For Him Day!
Monday, May 02, 2005
Your Body Will Be Found Day
Your Body Will Be Found Day!
Today, your body will be found by one of three people: a jogger on a moutain path, a lover coming out of the shower, or a father playing hide-and-seek.
If your body is found by a jogger on a mountain path, it means that America's long drawn-out nightmare has come to a close and we finally have the answer to the question that's kept so many of us awake and in front of the TV.
If your body is found by your lover, you'll have wandered into his or her apartment after a night spent celebrating a once-in-a-lifetime day at the track ($17,000). When your lover goes to the bathroom to shower and get ready for work, you'll stumble in with your pockets full of cash, a few pills, and a handgun and you'll pass out on your lover's bed. You'll be snoring when your lover finds you and swears out loud.
If your body is found by your father playing hide-and-seek, it's okay. Don't worry, you're only four. Keep playing, and one day you'll beat that son of a bitch so bad he'll find out what his own asshole looks like.
Happy Your Body Will Be Found Day!
Today, your body will be found by one of three people: a jogger on a moutain path, a lover coming out of the shower, or a father playing hide-and-seek.
If your body is found by a jogger on a mountain path, it means that America's long drawn-out nightmare has come to a close and we finally have the answer to the question that's kept so many of us awake and in front of the TV.
If your body is found by your lover, you'll have wandered into his or her apartment after a night spent celebrating a once-in-a-lifetime day at the track ($17,000). When your lover goes to the bathroom to shower and get ready for work, you'll stumble in with your pockets full of cash, a few pills, and a handgun and you'll pass out on your lover's bed. You'll be snoring when your lover finds you and swears out loud.
If your body is found by your father playing hide-and-seek, it's okay. Don't worry, you're only four. Keep playing, and one day you'll beat that son of a bitch so bad he'll find out what his own asshole looks like.
Happy Your Body Will Be Found Day!
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Your Son Put The Cat In The Dryer Day
Your Son Put The Cat In The Dryer Day!
Only for a few seconds, he says. And the cat does seem okay, so he's probably telling the truth. All the same, you've never walked in on your son torturing an animal before and you're more than a little ill-at-ease with the whole thing.
Sit him down and say to him, "You know how at school they told you that smoking marijuana is a gateway drug. That if you smoke marijuana you're automatically addicted to crack even if you've never smoked it before?"
He'll say yeah.
"Well," tell him. "Torturing animals is a gateway cruelty. If you torture your pets, you're gonna want to kill people and maybe eat them and you'll probably be queer too. You'd probably want to kill everyone but me because I'm your mom and you're more terrified of me than of God."
He'll cry, "I don't wanna be queer!"
Say, "Then don't put Sir Galahad in the dryer."
He'll promise to never do it again. But just to make sure he's learned his lesson, give him his standard punishment and lock him in the attic for a month. His high school is going to be calling. Just say that he has mono. They all have mono anymore.
Happy Your Son Put The Cat In The Dryer Day!
Only for a few seconds, he says. And the cat does seem okay, so he's probably telling the truth. All the same, you've never walked in on your son torturing an animal before and you're more than a little ill-at-ease with the whole thing.
Sit him down and say to him, "You know how at school they told you that smoking marijuana is a gateway drug. That if you smoke marijuana you're automatically addicted to crack even if you've never smoked it before?"
He'll say yeah.
"Well," tell him. "Torturing animals is a gateway cruelty. If you torture your pets, you're gonna want to kill people and maybe eat them and you'll probably be queer too. You'd probably want to kill everyone but me because I'm your mom and you're more terrified of me than of God."
He'll cry, "I don't wanna be queer!"
Say, "Then don't put Sir Galahad in the dryer."
He'll promise to never do it again. But just to make sure he's learned his lesson, give him his standard punishment and lock him in the attic for a month. His high school is going to be calling. Just say that he has mono. They all have mono anymore.
Happy Your Son Put The Cat In The Dryer Day!
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Hitting Your Kids Won't Get Us Out Of Iraq Day
Hitting Your Kids Won't Get Us Out Of Iraq Day!
You've been beating your kids senseless over this quagmire in Iraq, and they've been missing a lot of school while they wait for the bruises to fade. They're really on edge because you're hitting them without them even offering you anything to provoke you. All their friends at school get hit because they spill paint or screw up the Tivo or horrible stuff like that. But you hit your kids just because you want this horrible chapter in our country's foreign affairs to come to a close and your kids happen to be nearby so you think, "Maybe this'll help."
Though it seems like beating up your kids will bring our boys home, and in a perfect world it certainly would, the Iraq situation is much more complicated than you might think. No matter how hard you hit them, Bush might still end up being proven right, regardless of how he went about things. And no amount of hitting your kids will make Bush go back in time and wait for the UN to come around. I don't think. Maybe keep it up until 2007, but if nothing changes, it's not working and it's just making your kids dream about the day that you'll die.
Happy Hitting Your Kids Won't Get Us Out Of Iraq Day!
You've been beating your kids senseless over this quagmire in Iraq, and they've been missing a lot of school while they wait for the bruises to fade. They're really on edge because you're hitting them without them even offering you anything to provoke you. All their friends at school get hit because they spill paint or screw up the Tivo or horrible stuff like that. But you hit your kids just because you want this horrible chapter in our country's foreign affairs to come to a close and your kids happen to be nearby so you think, "Maybe this'll help."
Though it seems like beating up your kids will bring our boys home, and in a perfect world it certainly would, the Iraq situation is much more complicated than you might think. No matter how hard you hit them, Bush might still end up being proven right, regardless of how he went about things. And no amount of hitting your kids will make Bush go back in time and wait for the UN to come around. I don't think. Maybe keep it up until 2007, but if nothing changes, it's not working and it's just making your kids dream about the day that you'll die.
Happy Hitting Your Kids Won't Get Us Out Of Iraq Day!
Friday, April 29, 2005
Climb A Tall Building Day
Climb A Tall Building Day!
Today, you're that Spiderman guy who climbs tall buildings in Europe. Today's building will be the Meltlife Tower. Your assistant will call the press when you're halfway up and there's no way to stop you without endangering your life. Three quarters of the way up, write a secret you've never told in grease-pencil on the steel frames between the windows so the window-washers won't scrub it off. Break the story up across the frames of three different, non-adjacent windows. The secret you should write about is the one about an elementary school classmate who was teased a lot by you and your friends, but one day, behind the rugby field in the trees, the teasing went too far and everybody stripped the kid down and whipped him bloody. Not long after that, he killed himself. That's what all the lifelong secrets in Europe are about right?
When you get to the top of the building, sigh and wonder, "What now?"
Happy Climb A Tall Building Day!
Today, you're that Spiderman guy who climbs tall buildings in Europe. Today's building will be the Meltlife Tower. Your assistant will call the press when you're halfway up and there's no way to stop you without endangering your life. Three quarters of the way up, write a secret you've never told in grease-pencil on the steel frames between the windows so the window-washers won't scrub it off. Break the story up across the frames of three different, non-adjacent windows. The secret you should write about is the one about an elementary school classmate who was teased a lot by you and your friends, but one day, behind the rugby field in the trees, the teasing went too far and everybody stripped the kid down and whipped him bloody. Not long after that, he killed himself. That's what all the lifelong secrets in Europe are about right?
When you get to the top of the building, sigh and wonder, "What now?"
Happy Climb A Tall Building Day!
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Hang Out On Your Neighbor's Swingset Day
Hang Out On Your Neighbor's Swingset Day!
Right after sunset, go over there and just sit on the swing and look pensive until the Dad of the house comes out to see what up.
"What up Bill?" the Dad of the house will ask.
Just say his name. Say, "Frank."
Frank will sit on the swing next to you.
"Frank's so good to Melanie."
Frank will look down at the ground.
"Frank gives Melanie every minute of his attention and you barely even look at me."
Frank's about to get up from the swing and go back into the house.
"You're not a man. You know who's a man? Frank's a man."
"Fuck you Bill," Frank will say.
"You're the model husband aren't you Frank?"
"She's gone Bill, you fucked that up yourself," Frank will say.
Tell him, "The only reason your marriage isn't fucked up and mine is is because when that kid we ran over suddenly sprung to life in the grave we were digging, I'm the one who buried the shovel in his head."
"Luck of the draw. You were holding the shovel," Frank will say. "Would you rather we took him to the hospital and went to jail for vehicular manslaughter"
"You said, 'Kill him.'"
"And you killed him. Good work."
"I want my wife back," say.
Frank will say, "Luck of the draw," and he'll go back inside.
Go get some liquor then come back to the swingset and get drunk.
Happy Hang Out On Your Neighbor's Swingset Day!
Right after sunset, go over there and just sit on the swing and look pensive until the Dad of the house comes out to see what up.
"What up Bill?" the Dad of the house will ask.
Just say his name. Say, "Frank."
Frank will sit on the swing next to you.
"Frank's so good to Melanie."
Frank will look down at the ground.
"Frank gives Melanie every minute of his attention and you barely even look at me."
Frank's about to get up from the swing and go back into the house.
"You're not a man. You know who's a man? Frank's a man."
"Fuck you Bill," Frank will say.
"You're the model husband aren't you Frank?"
"She's gone Bill, you fucked that up yourself," Frank will say.
Tell him, "The only reason your marriage isn't fucked up and mine is is because when that kid we ran over suddenly sprung to life in the grave we were digging, I'm the one who buried the shovel in his head."
"Luck of the draw. You were holding the shovel," Frank will say. "Would you rather we took him to the hospital and went to jail for vehicular manslaughter"
"You said, 'Kill him.'"
"And you killed him. Good work."
"I want my wife back," say.
Frank will say, "Luck of the draw," and he'll go back inside.
Go get some liquor then come back to the swingset and get drunk.
Happy Hang Out On Your Neighbor's Swingset Day!
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Bump Into Your Former Husband At The Marshmallow Festival Day
Bump Into Your Former Husband At The Marshmallow Festival Day!
Your new husband read about the festival in his guidebook last night at the motel just outside of Indianapolis. The guidebook mentioned that there would be booths selling toasted marshmallows four to a skewer, but it didn't say Keith would be there doing the toasting.
"How'd you find me?" he'll ask.
"Well I certainly didn't look," you'll say.
He'll explain that when he ran off he thought he was doing what was best for both of you, because he felt like he had nothing but failure waiting for him at every turn. In the years that followed he's learned that he was just hypoglycemic and he didn't know it. He'll introduce himself to your new husband.
"He's a beaut!" Keith will tell you.
"Do you live here now?" you'll ask.
He'll say yes, for six months now he's lived in Ligonier. He had planned on it only being for a few weeks, but when he heard that the town was home to an annual Marshmallow Festival, he decided to find himself some work and stick around.
"You remember how much I loved marshmallows," he'll say.
"And festivals," you'll add.
He'll give you a thumbs-up. Then he'll ask your new husband for a word alone with you, to which your new husband will consent.
When Keith's got you alone, he'll tell you that he still loved you when he left and he's never stopped. He'll ask if you'd like to leave your new husband and stay there in town with him.
"Here?" you'll ask.
"Is there a Marshmallow Festival where you live?" Keith will ask, his hands on his hips with one eyebrow raised in superiority.
"No," you'll say.
Keith will say, "Then I rest my case."
Say, "No, I mean, no. I won't stay here with you. Fuck no would I ever stay with you."
Then walk away. Tell your current husband that if he'd like, he is welcome to shout at Keith over his shoulder, "Have fun trying to keep them from melting too much and falling off the sticks, jerkface."
Happy Bump Into Your Former Husband At The Marshmallow Festival Day!
Your new husband read about the festival in his guidebook last night at the motel just outside of Indianapolis. The guidebook mentioned that there would be booths selling toasted marshmallows four to a skewer, but it didn't say Keith would be there doing the toasting.
"How'd you find me?" he'll ask.
"Well I certainly didn't look," you'll say.
He'll explain that when he ran off he thought he was doing what was best for both of you, because he felt like he had nothing but failure waiting for him at every turn. In the years that followed he's learned that he was just hypoglycemic and he didn't know it. He'll introduce himself to your new husband.
"He's a beaut!" Keith will tell you.
"Do you live here now?" you'll ask.
He'll say yes, for six months now he's lived in Ligonier. He had planned on it only being for a few weeks, but when he heard that the town was home to an annual Marshmallow Festival, he decided to find himself some work and stick around.
"You remember how much I loved marshmallows," he'll say.
"And festivals," you'll add.
He'll give you a thumbs-up. Then he'll ask your new husband for a word alone with you, to which your new husband will consent.
When Keith's got you alone, he'll tell you that he still loved you when he left and he's never stopped. He'll ask if you'd like to leave your new husband and stay there in town with him.
"Here?" you'll ask.
"Is there a Marshmallow Festival where you live?" Keith will ask, his hands on his hips with one eyebrow raised in superiority.
"No," you'll say.
Keith will say, "Then I rest my case."
Say, "No, I mean, no. I won't stay here with you. Fuck no would I ever stay with you."
Then walk away. Tell your current husband that if he'd like, he is welcome to shout at Keith over his shoulder, "Have fun trying to keep them from melting too much and falling off the sticks, jerkface."
Happy Bump Into Your Former Husband At The Marshmallow Festival Day!
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Nearly Choke To Death Three Times Day
Nearly Choke To Death Three Times Day!
Best if it's in a Chinese restaurant. Usually, the only wall decoration in a Chinese restaurant is the Heimlich maneuver diagram.
You should order a dish with great hunks of meat, nothing shredded and no noodles. And you should be sure to really choke, especially on the first and second go-rounds. In fact, you should try to get the food stuck further and further down your throat with each choke. If it looks at all like you might not have been entirely in danger the first or second time, then your fellow patrons might not rush to your aid on the third round and you really could die.
That's what makes today fun.
So, of course, you're alone at you're table and you're just gorging on the pile of meat, shoveling in hunk after hunk of flesh along with shards of green pepper and a forest of bamboo shoots. When the food slides down your windpipe, let it rest there gently for a moment to make sure it's really in before you start to gag and retch. Remember, your fellow patrons have to really believe that they're saving you. The best way for that to happen is to choke so bad you come within seconds of death.
Once you start to make your horrible sounds, they'll come running. Two of them will probably nearly scuffle over who gets to give you the Heimlich. It will take four or five lifts from your sternum before the wad of food is released and lands on your table cloth.
Thank your hero very much. He'll laugh and say, "Don't eat so fast." Nod, then sit down and as soon as your blood resumes its flow, start gorging again.
The second time is tricky. You want to make sure the food's really down there, but you don't want to wait too long to start making your terrible noises. Because your hero won't come nearly as fast this time. When everyone turns to see you choking, the one who just saved you will look to the one who also got up and they'll both share a look as if to say, "The hell?"
No one will move for a few seconds, even though you're turning red and pointing at your neck. Once your color starts to move toward purple, the one who just tried to save you will get up unchallenged and he'll dislodge the food with three heaves. He'll be gloat inwardly that he got the food out before the previous hero.
Now as you catch your breath, an older woman at a neighboring table will shout at you, "You really should eat much more slowly!"
Nod at her, then start the shoveling again. Shovel fast and loud with lots of scrapes of your fork against your plate. No one else will be eating. The entire restaurant will be watching you. They won't take their eyes off of you for the entire three minutes of gluttony leading up to you suddenly freezing in your seat, bugging your eyes out a bit, and then releasing one terrible sound.
Everyone will let out a groan and some of them will throw their hands in the air in frustration. You'll make lots more terrible noises and you'll point at your neck and you really will turn purple. Your two heroes will shake their heads at each other in disgust. You'll start to panic.
You'll get up from your seat and you'll bounce your midsection on the back of the chair, but the food won't come out. You'll jump up and down on the wood until your vision starts to go gray and then you'll just stand there, waiting to fall down. Finally, the cook will grab you from behind in his big white arms and he'll send the food flying with one strong hoist of your body against his chest.
You'll have to sit on the floor for a few minutes afterwards, but no one will pay attention to you. When you get back up, your plate will have been taken away and there'll be a check waiting to be paid. Pay it with cash, tipping well, then walk to the door. Just before stepping out to the sidewalk, turn around to the dining room and shout, "You saved my life. I'll never forget that." Then go outside and walk home. It's a nice night.
Happy Nearly Choke To Death Three Times Day!
Best if it's in a Chinese restaurant. Usually, the only wall decoration in a Chinese restaurant is the Heimlich maneuver diagram.
You should order a dish with great hunks of meat, nothing shredded and no noodles. And you should be sure to really choke, especially on the first and second go-rounds. In fact, you should try to get the food stuck further and further down your throat with each choke. If it looks at all like you might not have been entirely in danger the first or second time, then your fellow patrons might not rush to your aid on the third round and you really could die.
That's what makes today fun.
So, of course, you're alone at you're table and you're just gorging on the pile of meat, shoveling in hunk after hunk of flesh along with shards of green pepper and a forest of bamboo shoots. When the food slides down your windpipe, let it rest there gently for a moment to make sure it's really in before you start to gag and retch. Remember, your fellow patrons have to really believe that they're saving you. The best way for that to happen is to choke so bad you come within seconds of death.
Once you start to make your horrible sounds, they'll come running. Two of them will probably nearly scuffle over who gets to give you the Heimlich. It will take four or five lifts from your sternum before the wad of food is released and lands on your table cloth.
Thank your hero very much. He'll laugh and say, "Don't eat so fast." Nod, then sit down and as soon as your blood resumes its flow, start gorging again.
The second time is tricky. You want to make sure the food's really down there, but you don't want to wait too long to start making your terrible noises. Because your hero won't come nearly as fast this time. When everyone turns to see you choking, the one who just saved you will look to the one who also got up and they'll both share a look as if to say, "The hell?"
No one will move for a few seconds, even though you're turning red and pointing at your neck. Once your color starts to move toward purple, the one who just tried to save you will get up unchallenged and he'll dislodge the food with three heaves. He'll be gloat inwardly that he got the food out before the previous hero.
Now as you catch your breath, an older woman at a neighboring table will shout at you, "You really should eat much more slowly!"
Nod at her, then start the shoveling again. Shovel fast and loud with lots of scrapes of your fork against your plate. No one else will be eating. The entire restaurant will be watching you. They won't take their eyes off of you for the entire three minutes of gluttony leading up to you suddenly freezing in your seat, bugging your eyes out a bit, and then releasing one terrible sound.
Everyone will let out a groan and some of them will throw their hands in the air in frustration. You'll make lots more terrible noises and you'll point at your neck and you really will turn purple. Your two heroes will shake their heads at each other in disgust. You'll start to panic.
You'll get up from your seat and you'll bounce your midsection on the back of the chair, but the food won't come out. You'll jump up and down on the wood until your vision starts to go gray and then you'll just stand there, waiting to fall down. Finally, the cook will grab you from behind in his big white arms and he'll send the food flying with one strong hoist of your body against his chest.
You'll have to sit on the floor for a few minutes afterwards, but no one will pay attention to you. When you get back up, your plate will have been taken away and there'll be a check waiting to be paid. Pay it with cash, tipping well, then walk to the door. Just before stepping out to the sidewalk, turn around to the dining room and shout, "You saved my life. I'll never forget that." Then go outside and walk home. It's a nice night.
Happy Nearly Choke To Death Three Times Day!
Monday, April 25, 2005
Liven Up Your Marriage Day
Liven Up Your Marriage Day!
Embark on a low-speed freeway chase. Pretend that your wife killed your mistress and you. So the real you is dead. But on this low-speed freeway chase, you're one of the policemen who is chasing her. So just drive one car length behind her on the freeway for around 170 miles.
She'll pull off in San Diego. Tell her to get out of her car with her hands up.
She'll say, "But officer, isn't there some way we can work this out?"
Tell her you'll forget all about her having killed her husband and his mistress if she has sex with you in the front seat of her car. She'll say deal.
The sex will be some of the best ever. Nothing turns you on more than having sex with your wife while she's pretending to have sex with a policeman in exchange for him letting her get away with having murdered you. You love the thought of being dead while your wife has sex with cops.
You don't like to step out of the role-play, but she said ahead of time that you would be allowed one little slip. So at the height of arousal, just before you both come, you whisper into her ear, "I'm so lucky to have you." Then you go back to being Officer Schwartz and fuck her until she loses her voice.
Happy Liven Up Your Marriage Day!
Embark on a low-speed freeway chase. Pretend that your wife killed your mistress and you. So the real you is dead. But on this low-speed freeway chase, you're one of the policemen who is chasing her. So just drive one car length behind her on the freeway for around 170 miles.
She'll pull off in San Diego. Tell her to get out of her car with her hands up.
She'll say, "But officer, isn't there some way we can work this out?"
Tell her you'll forget all about her having killed her husband and his mistress if she has sex with you in the front seat of her car. She'll say deal.
The sex will be some of the best ever. Nothing turns you on more than having sex with your wife while she's pretending to have sex with a policeman in exchange for him letting her get away with having murdered you. You love the thought of being dead while your wife has sex with cops.
You don't like to step out of the role-play, but she said ahead of time that you would be allowed one little slip. So at the height of arousal, just before you both come, you whisper into her ear, "I'm so lucky to have you." Then you go back to being Officer Schwartz and fuck her until she loses her voice.
Happy Liven Up Your Marriage Day!
Sunday, April 24, 2005
In Memory Of My Dead Daughter Megan Who Was Four When She Died Day
In Memory Of My Dead Daughter Megan Who Was Four When She Died Day!
Naming your racehorse, "In Memory Of My Dead Daughter Megan Who Was Four When She Died" might not make your horse win, and it might not even make people bet on it. But man will a crowd root for horse called In Memory Of My Dead Daughter MeganWho Was Four When She Died. And when the horse loses, you'd think the whole park just said goodbye to their kids' college money.
The commission will make you change the horse's name eventually because it will lose very often and will sink the spirits of even the most compulsive of gamblers. No one wants to see the memorial to a dead four-year old place sixth.
Happy In Memory Of My Dead Daughter Megan Who Was Four When She Died Day!
Naming your racehorse, "In Memory Of My Dead Daughter Megan Who Was Four When She Died" might not make your horse win, and it might not even make people bet on it. But man will a crowd root for horse called In Memory Of My Dead Daughter MeganWho Was Four When She Died. And when the horse loses, you'd think the whole park just said goodbye to their kids' college money.
The commission will make you change the horse's name eventually because it will lose very often and will sink the spirits of even the most compulsive of gamblers. No one wants to see the memorial to a dead four-year old place sixth.
Happy In Memory Of My Dead Daughter Megan Who Was Four When She Died Day!
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Elevator Dress Day
Elevator Dress Day!
Today, when you're riding the elevator in your apartment building with three of your neighbors, your dress will get caught in the elevator door. It will happen when Mrs. Morrissey boards on the seventh floor. You'll step to the side to let her on, and when she gets on, you'll step back to where you were and the poof of your dress with float out through the doors just in time to get caught by the outer pair as the doors close. The elevator will descend, and your dress will be ripped from your body. It will be painful, really. At first you'll be yanked against the closed doors of the car and the dress will tug so tight against your body that your breath will go short. Finally, the seams will tear and the dress will be yanked right off of you. There will long thin bruises on your body where the dress grabbed hold of you. Your neighbors will feel very badly for you. Mr. Collins will give you his rain coat to cover you up in your black bra and lime green underwear. You and Mr. Collins will ride back up to your apartment together. He'll wait in the hall for you to go inside and change and then give him back his raincoat. He'll need his raincoat because he has a lot of running around to do.
Happy Elevator Dress Day!
Today, when you're riding the elevator in your apartment building with three of your neighbors, your dress will get caught in the elevator door. It will happen when Mrs. Morrissey boards on the seventh floor. You'll step to the side to let her on, and when she gets on, you'll step back to where you were and the poof of your dress with float out through the doors just in time to get caught by the outer pair as the doors close. The elevator will descend, and your dress will be ripped from your body. It will be painful, really. At first you'll be yanked against the closed doors of the car and the dress will tug so tight against your body that your breath will go short. Finally, the seams will tear and the dress will be yanked right off of you. There will long thin bruises on your body where the dress grabbed hold of you. Your neighbors will feel very badly for you. Mr. Collins will give you his rain coat to cover you up in your black bra and lime green underwear. You and Mr. Collins will ride back up to your apartment together. He'll wait in the hall for you to go inside and change and then give him back his raincoat. He'll need his raincoat because he has a lot of running around to do.
Happy Elevator Dress Day!
Friday, April 22, 2005
Dance With Someone In A Mask Day
Dance With Someone In A Mask Day!
Your face should not be hidden because it's so pretty and we wanna keep looking at it. But your dance partner should have her face completely concealed by a mask. Preferably, a feathery mask or something with sparkles. Or a rubber Darth Maul mask.
Most importantly is you should not know the identity of your dance partner, but you should ask a string of seemingly innocuous questions like Is Madrid always this hot? and Was that mask expensive? The questions should continue until your dance partner offers an answer that makes you pull away and try to make out her eyes through the eyeholes to see if you know her after all. The answer will be something like My best friend in the world used to dance here until she died on Christmas morning in 2003 (the day your wife died), or The man who taught me to dance was named Leland Huntington (the man who killed your dead wife).
Not long after you realize who your dance partner really is, she'll be shot in the back and will fall dead into your arms. You'll drop her to the dance floor and race out the door to follow the newfound trail to your wife's killer.
Happy Dance With Someone In A Mask Day
Your face should not be hidden because it's so pretty and we wanna keep looking at it. But your dance partner should have her face completely concealed by a mask. Preferably, a feathery mask or something with sparkles. Or a rubber Darth Maul mask.
Most importantly is you should not know the identity of your dance partner, but you should ask a string of seemingly innocuous questions like Is Madrid always this hot? and Was that mask expensive? The questions should continue until your dance partner offers an answer that makes you pull away and try to make out her eyes through the eyeholes to see if you know her after all. The answer will be something like My best friend in the world used to dance here until she died on Christmas morning in 2003 (the day your wife died), or The man who taught me to dance was named Leland Huntington (the man who killed your dead wife).
Not long after you realize who your dance partner really is, she'll be shot in the back and will fall dead into your arms. You'll drop her to the dance floor and race out the door to follow the newfound trail to your wife's killer.
Happy Dance With Someone In A Mask Day
Thursday, April 21, 2005
You're So Hot For Your Boss That It's Gonna Set Off The Sprinkler System Day
You're So Hot For Your Boss That You're Gonna Set Off The Sprinkler System Day!
Your boss is a 50 year old father of two, married and way hot. You're a 24 year old graduate from the English program of a small northeastern college, and you're way hot too. Your boss thinks so.
But his conscience is keeping him from having an affair with you. He loves his wife and two daughters too much to have an affair with a 24 year old, and that's only making him so much hotter.
It can't wait any longer. Today, you're going to have to push him over the edge. What you should do is you should hop up on your desk and hold a lighter to the fire detector in the ceiling, setting off the sprinkler system. When your boss comes running out of his office, push him back inside.
"But the fire," he'll say.
Tell him, "I set it off. So that we could be alone. So that you could see me with my blouse all wet."
He'll look down at you with your blouse all wet.
"I've been longing for this," he'll say.
"I know," you should say to him. "I'm happy that I can finally give you what you want. And that I can finally get what I've craved ever since the first day I sat down at that desk and shook your hand."
Then take off all of your clothes, then all of his clothes. Then do every single thing you've been dreaming about for the past four and a half months, all packed into the twelve minutes it takes for the fire warden to start searching the floor for stragglers.
Happy You're So Hot For Your Boss That You're Gonna Set Off The Sprinkler System Day!
Your boss is a 50 year old father of two, married and way hot. You're a 24 year old graduate from the English program of a small northeastern college, and you're way hot too. Your boss thinks so.
But his conscience is keeping him from having an affair with you. He loves his wife and two daughters too much to have an affair with a 24 year old, and that's only making him so much hotter.
It can't wait any longer. Today, you're going to have to push him over the edge. What you should do is you should hop up on your desk and hold a lighter to the fire detector in the ceiling, setting off the sprinkler system. When your boss comes running out of his office, push him back inside.
"But the fire," he'll say.
Tell him, "I set it off. So that we could be alone. So that you could see me with my blouse all wet."
He'll look down at you with your blouse all wet.
"I've been longing for this," he'll say.
"I know," you should say to him. "I'm happy that I can finally give you what you want. And that I can finally get what I've craved ever since the first day I sat down at that desk and shook your hand."
Then take off all of your clothes, then all of his clothes. Then do every single thing you've been dreaming about for the past four and a half months, all packed into the twelve minutes it takes for the fire warden to start searching the floor for stragglers.
Happy You're So Hot For Your Boss That You're Gonna Set Off The Sprinkler System Day!
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Bowling Team Shakeup Day
Bowling Team Shakeup Day!
The captain of your bowling team is on trial for being an arsonist and the rest of you are ready to take a vote of no confidence in his leadership. You're going to have to go to his house and tell him tonight.
"They'll turn on me so quickly?" he'll say. "The way a flame will climb south down a strip of balsawood."
"Yeah," say. "They don't like being seen with you."
He'll dip his finger in a jelly jar of kerosene he keeps in his fridge and then sniff from his fingertip. "And what about you?" he'll ask. "Do you dislike being seen with me?"
Say, "It's not that. I just don't like you."
"Why?" he'll ask.
"You're an arsonist. You set stuff on fire that's not yours. That kind of screams "dick" to me."
He'll come to you and place his hands on both of your shoulders. "Thank you for your honesty," he'll say. "Vote your conscience. I will honor the majority's decree."
Tomorrow you'll be elected captain of the bowling team and tomorrow night he'll burn down your house, your car, and the big tree that gives your house shade.
Happy Bowling Team Shakeup Day!
The captain of your bowling team is on trial for being an arsonist and the rest of you are ready to take a vote of no confidence in his leadership. You're going to have to go to his house and tell him tonight.
"They'll turn on me so quickly?" he'll say. "The way a flame will climb south down a strip of balsawood."
"Yeah," say. "They don't like being seen with you."
He'll dip his finger in a jelly jar of kerosene he keeps in his fridge and then sniff from his fingertip. "And what about you?" he'll ask. "Do you dislike being seen with me?"
Say, "It's not that. I just don't like you."
"Why?" he'll ask.
"You're an arsonist. You set stuff on fire that's not yours. That kind of screams "dick" to me."
He'll come to you and place his hands on both of your shoulders. "Thank you for your honesty," he'll say. "Vote your conscience. I will honor the majority's decree."
Tomorrow you'll be elected captain of the bowling team and tomorrow night he'll burn down your house, your car, and the big tree that gives your house shade.
Happy Bowling Team Shakeup Day!
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
77 Dead At The Lincoln Ridge Mall Day
77 Dead At The Lincoln Ridge Mall Day!
At the end of the day everyone in your band will make a pact to never play adjacent to a sporting goods store ever again. The problem is that every time your band plays a show, everyone in the crowd is aware of a whole new era in music opening up before them. It's like the crowd is moving through Kubler-Ross' five stages of dying as they feel all of their heretofore unchallenged conceptions about music wither away with every chord change. First the crowd just stands there, confusedly stilled by the denial and isolation of the first stage. Then they get angry and start picking fights and throwing things at the stage. Following that would normally be the stages of bargaining (please just let me try and reconcile how great this band is with all the bands I thought were great up until I showed up at this concert tonight), depression (I can't believe I have to go home and destroy all of the music I own because none of it matters anymore after hearing how great this band is), and acceptance (holy shit I just found out about a great new fucking band).
But today no one's going to make it past the anger stage because your show is at the Lincoln Ridge Mall and you'll be playing in the food court within sight of the sporting goods store. So when the kids start milling and shoving, searching for a physicality to express the betrayal they feel at having realized music has been making fools out of them for so very long, a few of them will remember that the sporting goods store sells rifles and ammunition. So in the middle of your set twelve kids are going to smash and grab some weapons and start shooting into the thick of the crowd. The shooters will turn the guns on each other as well, and only three will still be alive at midnight tonight. In all, 77 will have been killed. A lot more wounded.
Today's your Altamont. And you're going to find out whether or not you'll keep playing even though people in the crowd are starting to die. Have a good show, and thanks for giving your music to us. It's helped us through some pretty rough times, like when our Dad was drinking a lot and we felt all alone. Your music kind of made us think someone else out there is feeling the same way.
Happy 77 Dead At The Lincoln Ridge Mall Day!
At the end of the day everyone in your band will make a pact to never play adjacent to a sporting goods store ever again. The problem is that every time your band plays a show, everyone in the crowd is aware of a whole new era in music opening up before them. It's like the crowd is moving through Kubler-Ross' five stages of dying as they feel all of their heretofore unchallenged conceptions about music wither away with every chord change. First the crowd just stands there, confusedly stilled by the denial and isolation of the first stage. Then they get angry and start picking fights and throwing things at the stage. Following that would normally be the stages of bargaining (please just let me try and reconcile how great this band is with all the bands I thought were great up until I showed up at this concert tonight), depression (I can't believe I have to go home and destroy all of the music I own because none of it matters anymore after hearing how great this band is), and acceptance (holy shit I just found out about a great new fucking band).
But today no one's going to make it past the anger stage because your show is at the Lincoln Ridge Mall and you'll be playing in the food court within sight of the sporting goods store. So when the kids start milling and shoving, searching for a physicality to express the betrayal they feel at having realized music has been making fools out of them for so very long, a few of them will remember that the sporting goods store sells rifles and ammunition. So in the middle of your set twelve kids are going to smash and grab some weapons and start shooting into the thick of the crowd. The shooters will turn the guns on each other as well, and only three will still be alive at midnight tonight. In all, 77 will have been killed. A lot more wounded.
Today's your Altamont. And you're going to find out whether or not you'll keep playing even though people in the crowd are starting to die. Have a good show, and thanks for giving your music to us. It's helped us through some pretty rough times, like when our Dad was drinking a lot and we felt all alone. Your music kind of made us think someone else out there is feeling the same way.
Happy 77 Dead At The Lincoln Ridge Mall Day!
Monday, April 18, 2005
Casual Encounters Day
Casual Encounters Day!
The headline of the ad read, "I JUST WANT TO TALK." When you clicked on it, the ad read, "I have a story to tell and I don't trust my friends anymore. I need a stranger's ear." You haven't left your apartment for a long time because you stopped paying rent a couple months ago and your landlord might padlock the place when you step outside, but this sounded too good to pass up so you responded to the ad with an email containing a time and a Starbucks location.
When you get to the Starbucks tonight, you'll find a man with sad eyes peering over the rim of a Chantico. You'll sit across from him without ordering anything and you'll assume a welcoming posture, one that you've practiced under the tutelage of your therapist.
"I'm Jimmy," the man will say. "And I met a girl today."
"You can't tell your friends that?" you'll ask.
Jimmy will chuckle. "I lied about the whole 'I don't trust my friends' thing. I've never had any friends. Just figured no one would respond to an ad from a guy who's all alone."
Your heart will melt for Jimmy. "You're not alone. Tell me about the girl, Jimmy."
Jimmy will tell you his story and you'll discover why he doesn’t have any friends. He'll talk about a neighbor in his building who responded to his saying hello with only a nod. Jimmy's face will turn red when he talks about how she "thinks she's so much better than me" and how he "could teach her a thing or two about what happens to people who don't have good manners." His voice will have the whine of a child, even though Jimmy is 48. He'll in fact mention "Mom" several times. You'll sit with Jimmy long enough to try to learn what building he lives in, gathering information for your call to the police later. But he won't let on, and he'll get so worked up that you'll leave in fear of your own safety.
In the end, you'll make it home okay and you'll contact the police and Craig's List, but you'll go to bed frightened, and you'll think that maybe if your landlord padlocked the apartment while you were in it, that might not be so bad.
Happy Casual Encounters Day!
The headline of the ad read, "I JUST WANT TO TALK." When you clicked on it, the ad read, "I have a story to tell and I don't trust my friends anymore. I need a stranger's ear." You haven't left your apartment for a long time because you stopped paying rent a couple months ago and your landlord might padlock the place when you step outside, but this sounded too good to pass up so you responded to the ad with an email containing a time and a Starbucks location.
When you get to the Starbucks tonight, you'll find a man with sad eyes peering over the rim of a Chantico. You'll sit across from him without ordering anything and you'll assume a welcoming posture, one that you've practiced under the tutelage of your therapist.
"I'm Jimmy," the man will say. "And I met a girl today."
"You can't tell your friends that?" you'll ask.
Jimmy will chuckle. "I lied about the whole 'I don't trust my friends' thing. I've never had any friends. Just figured no one would respond to an ad from a guy who's all alone."
Your heart will melt for Jimmy. "You're not alone. Tell me about the girl, Jimmy."
Jimmy will tell you his story and you'll discover why he doesn’t have any friends. He'll talk about a neighbor in his building who responded to his saying hello with only a nod. Jimmy's face will turn red when he talks about how she "thinks she's so much better than me" and how he "could teach her a thing or two about what happens to people who don't have good manners." His voice will have the whine of a child, even though Jimmy is 48. He'll in fact mention "Mom" several times. You'll sit with Jimmy long enough to try to learn what building he lives in, gathering information for your call to the police later. But he won't let on, and he'll get so worked up that you'll leave in fear of your own safety.
In the end, you'll make it home okay and you'll contact the police and Craig's List, but you'll go to bed frightened, and you'll think that maybe if your landlord padlocked the apartment while you were in it, that might not be so bad.
Happy Casual Encounters Day!
Sunday, April 17, 2005
He Gave You A Calling Card Day
He Gave You A Calling Card Day!
And off you went back to Rutgers. The boy you met at the Theater of the Living Arts nine years ago on a weekend trip into Philadelphia gave you a calling card as a gift to remember him by. He sharpied his phone number over top the image of a globe on the front of it.
"This way you have no excuse to not call me," he said to you on the platform of the 30th Street Station.
"I guess if I don't call," you said. "You'll have to assume that I hate you."
You were joking. After the concert at the TLA he took you home to his apartment in South Philadelphia. On the following Saturday morning you tried to run off without waking him, but he managed to tell you where he'd be hanging out that night.
"There's a party for my friend's movie at the Roxy. Come find me," he muttered before falling back to sleep. And in the end, when your roommate and your friend hooked up with guys that you couldn't stand, you wandered three blocks to the Roxy, and from there the two of you wandered back to his bed.
When you woke up the next morning, you were in his arms and for the first time in six months it felt good to be in some arms (you'd been getting over a retard who cheated). You spent the day walking, knowing you'd be missing the planned-upon train your friends would be taking. And when you finally got to the platform and he gave you that card, you didn't have a doubt that you'd dial the number he sharpied across the globe.
But you never did. You can't remember why right now. You're single right now and you're staring at the card, found in the pile of college notebooks your mom kept stored for you in her attic (you're emptying out the house with your brother. Your Mom's dead). There's that number and you can't remember why you never called it but you know you never did. And you know he was already out of college when he saw you, so he might still be at that same number.
Call it.
When he answers (he will) ask him his name. He didn't write it on the card unfortunately, only the number, and you don't remember offhand. Then ask him if he remembers a girl named (YOUR NAME HERE). He will.
"I thought you'd never call," he'll say.
Say, "Sorry. I got caught up in some bullcrap." Then tell him if he's not married or fucked up in the head, you'd be cool with meeting him for some ice cream someplace.
Happy He Gave You A Calling Card Day!
And off you went back to Rutgers. The boy you met at the Theater of the Living Arts nine years ago on a weekend trip into Philadelphia gave you a calling card as a gift to remember him by. He sharpied his phone number over top the image of a globe on the front of it.
"This way you have no excuse to not call me," he said to you on the platform of the 30th Street Station.
"I guess if I don't call," you said. "You'll have to assume that I hate you."
You were joking. After the concert at the TLA he took you home to his apartment in South Philadelphia. On the following Saturday morning you tried to run off without waking him, but he managed to tell you where he'd be hanging out that night.
"There's a party for my friend's movie at the Roxy. Come find me," he muttered before falling back to sleep. And in the end, when your roommate and your friend hooked up with guys that you couldn't stand, you wandered three blocks to the Roxy, and from there the two of you wandered back to his bed.
When you woke up the next morning, you were in his arms and for the first time in six months it felt good to be in some arms (you'd been getting over a retard who cheated). You spent the day walking, knowing you'd be missing the planned-upon train your friends would be taking. And when you finally got to the platform and he gave you that card, you didn't have a doubt that you'd dial the number he sharpied across the globe.
But you never did. You can't remember why right now. You're single right now and you're staring at the card, found in the pile of college notebooks your mom kept stored for you in her attic (you're emptying out the house with your brother. Your Mom's dead). There's that number and you can't remember why you never called it but you know you never did. And you know he was already out of college when he saw you, so he might still be at that same number.
Call it.
When he answers (he will) ask him his name. He didn't write it on the card unfortunately, only the number, and you don't remember offhand. Then ask him if he remembers a girl named (YOUR NAME HERE). He will.
"I thought you'd never call," he'll say.
Say, "Sorry. I got caught up in some bullcrap." Then tell him if he's not married or fucked up in the head, you'd be cool with meeting him for some ice cream someplace.
Happy He Gave You A Calling Card Day!
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Cheese Eucharist Day
Cheese Eucharist Day!
Tonight at midnight mass bring some slivers of cheddar in a small plastic baggie and put some cheese on your eucharist wafer because that will make it taste better. You don't like the taste of your eucharist wafer, but you do like the taste of cheddar cheese. Jesus would be fine with it. Though more than anything he wanted to know that you ate his body, he'd be bummed if he knew you weren't digging it. So yeah, uh, put some cheese on your eucharist wafer. Also, go away.
Happy Cheese Eucharist Day!
Tonight at midnight mass bring some slivers of cheddar in a small plastic baggie and put some cheese on your eucharist wafer because that will make it taste better. You don't like the taste of your eucharist wafer, but you do like the taste of cheddar cheese. Jesus would be fine with it. Though more than anything he wanted to know that you ate his body, he'd be bummed if he knew you weren't digging it. So yeah, uh, put some cheese on your eucharist wafer. Also, go away.
Happy Cheese Eucharist Day!
Friday, April 15, 2005
Babies On The Beach Day
Babies On The Beach Day!
They're bait for snipers. You and your wife will be walking along trying to enjoy a nice sunset alone together when your wife steps on something.
"A baby," she'll say. She'll stoop to pick it up.
"No!" you'll say. "Wait. I heard that this isn't always on the level."
"It's a baby laying unprotected in the sand," your wife will argue. "I can't just leave it there."
You'll say, "That's just what they want you to think. Except I can't really remember who they are."
You'll rack your brain for what's supposed to go wrong when you pick up a baby on the beach. It's either that you'll be prey for identity theft or you'll be stabbed in the face.
"I think if you pick up that baby, somehow, people in the Cayman Islands will learn your social security number."
Your wife will say, "You're being paranoid. I'm going to pick up this baby and raise it in a loving home."
Your wife lifts the baby to her chest and she is promptly shot in the throat.
"Fuck," you say. "Snipers. I knew I'd heard something about that."
As your wife takes her last breaths, it will all come back to you. An article you read in Rolling Stone about gang initiations involving potential gang members' girlfriends' babies being left in the sand and when a stranger picks up the baby the potential gang member has to shoot the stranger in order to be admitted into the gang.
You'll kneel by your wife's side and say goodbye. The baby is lifted up to the sky by hidden wires descending from a hidden crane and it is carried up to the boardwalk where a new gang member celebrates because he's finally got the kind of friends that a boy needs growing up these days. It's a glorious day indeed.
Happy Babies On The Beach Day!
They're bait for snipers. You and your wife will be walking along trying to enjoy a nice sunset alone together when your wife steps on something.
"A baby," she'll say. She'll stoop to pick it up.
"No!" you'll say. "Wait. I heard that this isn't always on the level."
"It's a baby laying unprotected in the sand," your wife will argue. "I can't just leave it there."
You'll say, "That's just what they want you to think. Except I can't really remember who they are."
You'll rack your brain for what's supposed to go wrong when you pick up a baby on the beach. It's either that you'll be prey for identity theft or you'll be stabbed in the face.
"I think if you pick up that baby, somehow, people in the Cayman Islands will learn your social security number."
Your wife will say, "You're being paranoid. I'm going to pick up this baby and raise it in a loving home."
Your wife lifts the baby to her chest and she is promptly shot in the throat.
"Fuck," you say. "Snipers. I knew I'd heard something about that."
As your wife takes her last breaths, it will all come back to you. An article you read in Rolling Stone about gang initiations involving potential gang members' girlfriends' babies being left in the sand and when a stranger picks up the baby the potential gang member has to shoot the stranger in order to be admitted into the gang.
You'll kneel by your wife's side and say goodbye. The baby is lifted up to the sky by hidden wires descending from a hidden crane and it is carried up to the boardwalk where a new gang member celebrates because he's finally got the kind of friends that a boy needs growing up these days. It's a glorious day indeed.
Happy Babies On The Beach Day!
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Trash Day
Trash Day!
So here's how you're gonna die:
Garbageman Stan is married to the very beautiful Missus Garbageman Stan. Garbageman Stan has been inseperable from his best friend, Trashman Tony, ever since the first week Tony joined the Waste Management Force and Garbageman Stan was assigned as his Probationary Period Supervisor. Garbageman Stan showed Trashman Tony how to make the best of this life on the dirty curbs, and Trashman Tony repaid him with the devotion and loyalty of a sibling.
A great bond can be destroyed only with the most spectacular of explosives.
Trashman Tony stopped by Garbageman Stan's house a month and a half ago for some comfort. Trashman Tony's Mom, Mrs. Tony, had died in the night in her bed in Tony's home. But Garbageman Stan had run off on a payday bender, but not before marring Missus Garbageman Stan's face with a shiner to her eye. Trashman Tony ignored his own pain and took Missus Garbageman Stan to the couch and laid her down with a meat over her face. Trashman Tony stayed by her side for an hour and listened to her complaints about Garbageman Stan. It would be another hour before he told her about his mom. And that's when she kissed him. They would conduct their affair for three whole weeks, over 8 separate encounters, before Garbageman Stan would catch them together.
Garbageman Stan challenged Trashman Tony to a duel, as is dictated in the Waste Management Force's Code of Honor. They would divert their trucks from their routes and meet at either end of a ten-block stretch of road at dawn. When the streetlights flicker off, both gentlemen would start their engines and accelerate full speed towards each other to collide at the peak of their respective engines' prowess.
They way you're gonna die is you're gonna wake up just before dawn today and start jogging because you'll have decided that it's about time you tried to get into shape and turn your life around. All stretched out in your brand new sneaks and sweatsuit, you'll jog three hopeful steps into the street when those two trash trucks grab hold of you tight at 65 miles per hour and flatten you right smack dab in the middle of their grilles. When they pull the trucks apart, you'll have been reduced to something like a kind of paste, with hardly a bone not ground down and all of your skin and tissue melted in the heat of that burning mountain of iron and waste.
Garbageman Stan will be dead too. Tony won't walk again. And Missus Garbageman Stan is gonna remarry.
Happy Trash Day!
So here's how you're gonna die:
Garbageman Stan is married to the very beautiful Missus Garbageman Stan. Garbageman Stan has been inseperable from his best friend, Trashman Tony, ever since the first week Tony joined the Waste Management Force and Garbageman Stan was assigned as his Probationary Period Supervisor. Garbageman Stan showed Trashman Tony how to make the best of this life on the dirty curbs, and Trashman Tony repaid him with the devotion and loyalty of a sibling.
A great bond can be destroyed only with the most spectacular of explosives.
Trashman Tony stopped by Garbageman Stan's house a month and a half ago for some comfort. Trashman Tony's Mom, Mrs. Tony, had died in the night in her bed in Tony's home. But Garbageman Stan had run off on a payday bender, but not before marring Missus Garbageman Stan's face with a shiner to her eye. Trashman Tony ignored his own pain and took Missus Garbageman Stan to the couch and laid her down with a meat over her face. Trashman Tony stayed by her side for an hour and listened to her complaints about Garbageman Stan. It would be another hour before he told her about his mom. And that's when she kissed him. They would conduct their affair for three whole weeks, over 8 separate encounters, before Garbageman Stan would catch them together.
Garbageman Stan challenged Trashman Tony to a duel, as is dictated in the Waste Management Force's Code of Honor. They would divert their trucks from their routes and meet at either end of a ten-block stretch of road at dawn. When the streetlights flicker off, both gentlemen would start their engines and accelerate full speed towards each other to collide at the peak of their respective engines' prowess.
They way you're gonna die is you're gonna wake up just before dawn today and start jogging because you'll have decided that it's about time you tried to get into shape and turn your life around. All stretched out in your brand new sneaks and sweatsuit, you'll jog three hopeful steps into the street when those two trash trucks grab hold of you tight at 65 miles per hour and flatten you right smack dab in the middle of their grilles. When they pull the trucks apart, you'll have been reduced to something like a kind of paste, with hardly a bone not ground down and all of your skin and tissue melted in the heat of that burning mountain of iron and waste.
Garbageman Stan will be dead too. Tony won't walk again. And Missus Garbageman Stan is gonna remarry.
Happy Trash Day!
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Take Off Your Brassiere While Your Shirt's Still On Just Like That Whore From Flashdance Day
Take Off Your Brassiere While Your Shirt's Still On Just Like That Whore From Flashdance Day!
It sounds forward, but this is the only way you're going to get a man's attention. The next time you're with that special guy that you're really trying to make it work with, take your bra off while your shirt's still on. You could be on a date with him or you could be trying to land a plane with him after all of the pilots have been hypnotized by a child hypnotist who doesn't understand his own power yet. Just take off your bra.
He'll say something like, "I'm really enjoying being on this date with you." Or, "I'm really enjoying hurtling through the sky clueless at the helm of this commercial jet with you."
That's when you should bring up how you want to go back to school. "I want to be a child psychologist," you should say. Then reach your arms behind you and unclasp your brassiere. Make sure you look him in the eye while you do it. Say something like, "I hope you don't mind but I'm going to remove some of my underwear now." Or, "Jesus my breasts are sweaty." Then pull the brassiere down through the sleeve of your shirt and toss it over the back of a chair, making sure that it drapes well so that he can get a good look at just what kind of bra you were just wearing.
Once your bra is off, ask him if he's married. If he says no, he's lying. If he says yes, he's still going to sleep with you. But in four months when you start asking what kind of future you can expect from him, he'll hold it against you that you knew, way back on that day when you took your bra off while your shirt was still on, that he was married. And yet you still began sleeping with him. So the best you can hope for is that he lies and says no, so that when you fight later, you can have a leg to stand on. Regardless, you have a plane to land.
Happy Take Off Your Brassiere While Your Shirt's Still On Just Like That Whore From Flashdance Day!
It sounds forward, but this is the only way you're going to get a man's attention. The next time you're with that special guy that you're really trying to make it work with, take your bra off while your shirt's still on. You could be on a date with him or you could be trying to land a plane with him after all of the pilots have been hypnotized by a child hypnotist who doesn't understand his own power yet. Just take off your bra.
He'll say something like, "I'm really enjoying being on this date with you." Or, "I'm really enjoying hurtling through the sky clueless at the helm of this commercial jet with you."
That's when you should bring up how you want to go back to school. "I want to be a child psychologist," you should say. Then reach your arms behind you and unclasp your brassiere. Make sure you look him in the eye while you do it. Say something like, "I hope you don't mind but I'm going to remove some of my underwear now." Or, "Jesus my breasts are sweaty." Then pull the brassiere down through the sleeve of your shirt and toss it over the back of a chair, making sure that it drapes well so that he can get a good look at just what kind of bra you were just wearing.
Once your bra is off, ask him if he's married. If he says no, he's lying. If he says yes, he's still going to sleep with you. But in four months when you start asking what kind of future you can expect from him, he'll hold it against you that you knew, way back on that day when you took your bra off while your shirt was still on, that he was married. And yet you still began sleeping with him. So the best you can hope for is that he lies and says no, so that when you fight later, you can have a leg to stand on. Regardless, you have a plane to land.
Happy Take Off Your Brassiere While Your Shirt's Still On Just Like That Whore From Flashdance Day!
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Get Caught Watching The Paint Dry Day
Get Caught Watching The Paint Dry Day!
You'll have to do it at rush hour, so you should make sure and stand out. Go to the girder with the "Wet Paint, Do Not Stare" sign on it and stand right in front of it while you wait for the train. When the train comes, just stay right where you are while everyone is piling on. Some of the passengers pressed up against the windows are bound to see you staring at the freshly painted girder, and they'll be sure to rat you out to a Marshall on the train car.
The Marshall will pull the signal for the conductor to open the doors again. The Marshall will step out onto the platform and approach you. The train car will close up and pull away. Everyone's eyes will catch you as they pass, and you'll just know those cars are silent as the grave inside. Once the train has completely left the station, the Marshall will point his gun at the side of your head so that when he shoots he won't splatter any blood on the wet paint. Then he'll phone his dispatcher to report that he caught another one.
Your body will lay uncovered until three train cars pass. Commuters will step around you, averting their eyes away from girders bearing signs.
Happy Get Caught Watching The Paint Dry Day!
You'll have to do it at rush hour, so you should make sure and stand out. Go to the girder with the "Wet Paint, Do Not Stare" sign on it and stand right in front of it while you wait for the train. When the train comes, just stay right where you are while everyone is piling on. Some of the passengers pressed up against the windows are bound to see you staring at the freshly painted girder, and they'll be sure to rat you out to a Marshall on the train car.
The Marshall will pull the signal for the conductor to open the doors again. The Marshall will step out onto the platform and approach you. The train car will close up and pull away. Everyone's eyes will catch you as they pass, and you'll just know those cars are silent as the grave inside. Once the train has completely left the station, the Marshall will point his gun at the side of your head so that when he shoots he won't splatter any blood on the wet paint. Then he'll phone his dispatcher to report that he caught another one.
Your body will lay uncovered until three train cars pass. Commuters will step around you, averting their eyes away from girders bearing signs.
Happy Get Caught Watching The Paint Dry Day!
Monday, April 11, 2005
You'll Build Tennis Courts Day
You'll Build Tennis Courts Day!
Like your Daddy before you and his Daddy before him, it is expected that you'll design and build private tennis courts on the estates of the wealthy. But you have a different dream. You want to design and install swimming pools.
"You're a Crawford," you were told by Grampa Crawford, who is still alive and in charge of the family business. "Crawfords have been designing and building tennis courts for thirty five years."
Your father added, "Crawfords aren’t going to start designing and installing swimming pools."
Today, show them you mean business and leave the family to go and live on your own. You have no money, so you'll have to work as a whore. Your family will send out several private investigators to find you, but they won't be able to locate you until you steal three thousand dollars from your pimp and word gets out on the street that there is a bounty on your head. Your father will have the private investigators pay off the pimp with fifteen thousand dollars, and the promise that he will be killed by policemen if he does not call off the hunt for you. Before the private investigators can drive you home themselves, you'll walk through the front door, a full eight months after you disappeared. Following a few weeks' rest, you'll take your seat at the Vice President's desk that's been waiting for you at the offices of Crawford Courts.
Every once in a while, you'll wonder what might have been if you had been allowed to design and install swimming pools. You'll also wish that you hadn't worked as a prostitute, since that's going to suck.
Happy You'll Build Tennis Courts Day!
Like your Daddy before you and his Daddy before him, it is expected that you'll design and build private tennis courts on the estates of the wealthy. But you have a different dream. You want to design and install swimming pools.
"You're a Crawford," you were told by Grampa Crawford, who is still alive and in charge of the family business. "Crawfords have been designing and building tennis courts for thirty five years."
Your father added, "Crawfords aren’t going to start designing and installing swimming pools."
Today, show them you mean business and leave the family to go and live on your own. You have no money, so you'll have to work as a whore. Your family will send out several private investigators to find you, but they won't be able to locate you until you steal three thousand dollars from your pimp and word gets out on the street that there is a bounty on your head. Your father will have the private investigators pay off the pimp with fifteen thousand dollars, and the promise that he will be killed by policemen if he does not call off the hunt for you. Before the private investigators can drive you home themselves, you'll walk through the front door, a full eight months after you disappeared. Following a few weeks' rest, you'll take your seat at the Vice President's desk that's been waiting for you at the offices of Crawford Courts.
Every once in a while, you'll wonder what might have been if you had been allowed to design and install swimming pools. You'll also wish that you hadn't worked as a prostitute, since that's going to suck.
Happy You'll Build Tennis Courts Day!
Sunday, April 10, 2005
"Monitoring The Chatter" Weekend!
It's the Girls Are Pretty "Monitoring The Chatter" Weekend!
As reports of a rash of successful suicide attempts across the globe can attest, yesterday's personal regression assignment was delayed. Apologies to everyone who is dead, but Prettygirl had a very good reason to delay giving you something to read that would keep the bullets on the outside of your skin.
A month ago, Prettygirl heard the sound of people having sex coming from her neighbor's apartment, so she started recording them using a very expensive trio of parabolic microphones. The system was setup so that it would continue to record the goings on in the neighbors' apartment all day long so that Prettygirl would be free to go to her high-powered job at City Hall without missing anything. Naturally, the tapes picked up what sounded like a cold-blooded murder (combination suffocation and stabbing) that appeared to have taken place on Friday afternoon. So this weekend Prettygirl has spent every moment underneath a pair of earphones listening for the killer's next step. This has required the devotion of every circuit of Prettygirl's in-house network, and she's even had to hack into some outside systems to offlay some of the stress on her servers.
But that's all over and done with. After 38 hours of non-stop surveillance, Prettygirl discovered that the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding. What sounded like a combination suffocation slash stabbing was actually the sound of the neighbor's Golden Retriever giving birth to a litter of puppies. Unfortunately, this was discovered after the police were called. Guess who's being called a Nosey Norman in the laundry room of her apartment building.
So anyway, below you'll find today's and the one that would have gone up yesterday if Prettygirl could have afforded the bandwidth. Read yesterday's first.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Whole Matchbook On Fire Day!
Your brother Willy isn't allowed to light the candles on the cake because Willy has a problem with fire.
"Just this once Mom?" you'll say to her. "Willy's almost 43."
"And the only reason he's lived this long is because I've kept him away from matches," your Mom will bark. "Now light the cake on fire."
Willy used to love fire. Anytime he got his hands on a matchbook he couldn't help but light the whole thing on fire. He hated wasting one match at a time when he knew that the hissing flareup of all those matches would be so much more beautiful. Your mother kept a close eye on him and made it so that he never touched a match after the age of 14. She even wrote letters to administrators at his school. And his employers. She really does deserve the credit for keeping a disaster at bay. But you always felt she had gone too far.
Once you light the cake, you'll go back into the TV room where your brother is getting off the phone with a partner at his law firm. He's got a big case that's about to settle, and he'll have been getting calls ever since he walked through the door.
"Sorry Pal," you'll say. "Mom wouldn't let you light the candles."
"It's just as well," Willy will say to you. "That bitch has controlled me for as long as I can remember."
"Mom?" you'll ask.
"No," Willy will laugh. "Fire. I didn't even ask you to ask mom about lighting the candles for me."
"Yes you did," you'll say.
"No," Willy will say. "Fire did. Fire speaks through me. Always."
Just then, your Mom will carry the cake in and you'll all start singing to your Dad.
Happy Whole Matchbook On Fire Day!
Saturday, April 9, 2005
A Balloon Ride Over New Orleans Day!
Today, you'll soar over New Orleans in a hot air balloon. Your husband will have arranged it.
"I reserved the balloon that says, 'Show Us Your Tits,'" he'll tell you. "So we'll probably get the whole city to take off their shirts from up there."
Once in the basket and floating across the blue sky, you'll find your husband was right. It'll be like a stadium doing the wave. The earth below you will be alive with young women exposing themselves to God.
"It's glorious," you'll say to your husband.
"Happy anniversary," he'll say to you.
Kiss him. "We have a lot of work to do," you'll say. "Let's start tossing the beads."
Happy A Balloon Ride Over New Orleans Day!
As reports of a rash of successful suicide attempts across the globe can attest, yesterday's personal regression assignment was delayed. Apologies to everyone who is dead, but Prettygirl had a very good reason to delay giving you something to read that would keep the bullets on the outside of your skin.
A month ago, Prettygirl heard the sound of people having sex coming from her neighbor's apartment, so she started recording them using a very expensive trio of parabolic microphones. The system was setup so that it would continue to record the goings on in the neighbors' apartment all day long so that Prettygirl would be free to go to her high-powered job at City Hall without missing anything. Naturally, the tapes picked up what sounded like a cold-blooded murder (combination suffocation and stabbing) that appeared to have taken place on Friday afternoon. So this weekend Prettygirl has spent every moment underneath a pair of earphones listening for the killer's next step. This has required the devotion of every circuit of Prettygirl's in-house network, and she's even had to hack into some outside systems to offlay some of the stress on her servers.
But that's all over and done with. After 38 hours of non-stop surveillance, Prettygirl discovered that the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding. What sounded like a combination suffocation slash stabbing was actually the sound of the neighbor's Golden Retriever giving birth to a litter of puppies. Unfortunately, this was discovered after the police were called. Guess who's being called a Nosey Norman in the laundry room of her apartment building.
So anyway, below you'll find today's and the one that would have gone up yesterday if Prettygirl could have afforded the bandwidth. Read yesterday's first.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Whole Matchbook On Fire Day!
Your brother Willy isn't allowed to light the candles on the cake because Willy has a problem with fire.
"Just this once Mom?" you'll say to her. "Willy's almost 43."
"And the only reason he's lived this long is because I've kept him away from matches," your Mom will bark. "Now light the cake on fire."
Willy used to love fire. Anytime he got his hands on a matchbook he couldn't help but light the whole thing on fire. He hated wasting one match at a time when he knew that the hissing flareup of all those matches would be so much more beautiful. Your mother kept a close eye on him and made it so that he never touched a match after the age of 14. She even wrote letters to administrators at his school. And his employers. She really does deserve the credit for keeping a disaster at bay. But you always felt she had gone too far.
Once you light the cake, you'll go back into the TV room where your brother is getting off the phone with a partner at his law firm. He's got a big case that's about to settle, and he'll have been getting calls ever since he walked through the door.
"Sorry Pal," you'll say. "Mom wouldn't let you light the candles."
"It's just as well," Willy will say to you. "That bitch has controlled me for as long as I can remember."
"Mom?" you'll ask.
"No," Willy will laugh. "Fire. I didn't even ask you to ask mom about lighting the candles for me."
"Yes you did," you'll say.
"No," Willy will say. "Fire did. Fire speaks through me. Always."
Just then, your Mom will carry the cake in and you'll all start singing to your Dad.
Happy Whole Matchbook On Fire Day!
Saturday, April 9, 2005
A Balloon Ride Over New Orleans Day!
Today, you'll soar over New Orleans in a hot air balloon. Your husband will have arranged it.
"I reserved the balloon that says, 'Show Us Your Tits,'" he'll tell you. "So we'll probably get the whole city to take off their shirts from up there."
Once in the basket and floating across the blue sky, you'll find your husband was right. It'll be like a stadium doing the wave. The earth below you will be alive with young women exposing themselves to God.
"It's glorious," you'll say to your husband.
"Happy anniversary," he'll say to you.
Kiss him. "We have a lot of work to do," you'll say. "Let's start tossing the beads."
Happy A Balloon Ride Over New Orleans Day!
Friday, April 08, 2005
Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman Day
Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman Day!
Getting laid off has been hard enough on your marriage. But when The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman steps inside your vestibule, the temptation will be so great that you might as well just go ahead and fill out some divorce papers before you even offer her a sandwich.
"I've got so many wonderful bikinis to offer this season, there is no way I'm leaving this house without having sold you two," she'll say with a tickle of her long red fingernail down the bridge of your nose.
"Fine!" you'll shout. "Just hand over whichever two you want me to buy and go."
The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman will start to cry.
"Hey," you'll say. "Come on now. I'm going to buy the bikinis."
She sniffles, hunched there on the ottoman. "Everyone thinks I'm just out to make a buck. But that's not it. I sell these bikinis because it's important to me. Outfitting the community in the perfect sun and swimwear is what I feel like I was meant to do. Ever since I was fifteen I just knew."
"I'm sorry," you'll say. "How old are you now anyway?"
"Seventeen," she'll say.
"Go on my seventeen year old true believer. Sell me some bikinis."
She'll bound from her seat and shout, "Where can I change?! I know, how about behind this four-foot tall recliner! No peeking."
And so you spend the afternoon with The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman modeling bikini after bikini for you in your living room. Occasionally, they come untied and she has to do what she can to keep herself covered up while giggling. When she complains of the heat, you'll offer her a large soapy sponge to squeeze some cold water down her chest and belly. When she gets thirsty, you'll give her an ice cube to suck on. When she gets hungry, you'll offer her a banana.
After four hours of slipping in and out of bikinis while trying to crouch her five-foot-five-inch frame behind the four-foot tall recliner, the The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman will leave very happy, having met her quota of selling $600 dollars worth of bikinis with just one house visit. But she won't stay happy, because the check you'll write her is gonna bounce like a superball.
Happy Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman Day!
Getting laid off has been hard enough on your marriage. But when The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman steps inside your vestibule, the temptation will be so great that you might as well just go ahead and fill out some divorce papers before you even offer her a sandwich.
"I've got so many wonderful bikinis to offer this season, there is no way I'm leaving this house without having sold you two," she'll say with a tickle of her long red fingernail down the bridge of your nose.
"Fine!" you'll shout. "Just hand over whichever two you want me to buy and go."
The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman will start to cry.
"Hey," you'll say. "Come on now. I'm going to buy the bikinis."
She sniffles, hunched there on the ottoman. "Everyone thinks I'm just out to make a buck. But that's not it. I sell these bikinis because it's important to me. Outfitting the community in the perfect sun and swimwear is what I feel like I was meant to do. Ever since I was fifteen I just knew."
"I'm sorry," you'll say. "How old are you now anyway?"
"Seventeen," she'll say.
"Go on my seventeen year old true believer. Sell me some bikinis."
She'll bound from her seat and shout, "Where can I change?! I know, how about behind this four-foot tall recliner! No peeking."
And so you spend the afternoon with The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman modeling bikini after bikini for you in your living room. Occasionally, they come untied and she has to do what she can to keep herself covered up while giggling. When she complains of the heat, you'll offer her a large soapy sponge to squeeze some cold water down her chest and belly. When she gets thirsty, you'll give her an ice cube to suck on. When she gets hungry, you'll offer her a banana.
After four hours of slipping in and out of bikinis while trying to crouch her five-foot-five-inch frame behind the four-foot tall recliner, the The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman will leave very happy, having met her quota of selling $600 dollars worth of bikinis with just one house visit. But she won't stay happy, because the check you'll write her is gonna bounce like a superball.
Happy Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman Day!
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Your Lover Is Gonna Die Day
Your Lover Is Gonna Die Day!
In that hotel room, if you don't get her outta there, she's gonna die of the pills that are keeping her from running away from you.
You brought her up here to the lake to hunt for Champ, the sea beast sighted in Lake Champlain. When you planned the trip, you treated it like a lark with a little bit of "what if" thrown in. But your lover had a different idea.
"If we find this sea serpent, we'll be pretty famous right?" she asked.
You shrugged and said that you guess so.
"And we'll, like, own the thing too won't we?" she asked. "Like, if the Smithsonian or the MOMA wants to get their hands on it they'll have to pay us a shitload. We'll rent out the fucker."
You suggested that actually gaining physical ownership of the mythical sea serpent might be far more difficult a task than the two of you are prepared for.
"But a picture would be nice," you said. When she looked like she was about to leap from the bed and tear your eyelids off your face, you added that a picture would fetch quite a lot of money from various outlets.
She locked herself in the bathroom for two hours while you knocked.
"My drug addiction is expensive," she said when she finally let you in so that you could pull the hair from her face while she sat on the toilet seat lid.
"I know it is," you said.
"I need some way to come up with the money to buy my drugs without having to work," she said. "This Champ thing is my last hope."
But of course, Champ was nowhere to be found. And her pills soon ran out. You have been making treks into neighboring towns and scoring pills that at least end her pain, if they won't get her high. But she's been ingesting narcotics without any regard for what came before or what's coming next. Keep this up and she'll die within the month.
But if you stop giving her whatever drugs you can find, she'll run off back to the city. She's horrible, but you have to keep her close to you. She may not be what you used to dream of, but you know your heart. She's the one.
Happy Your Lover Is Gonna Die Day!
In that hotel room, if you don't get her outta there, she's gonna die of the pills that are keeping her from running away from you.
You brought her up here to the lake to hunt for Champ, the sea beast sighted in Lake Champlain. When you planned the trip, you treated it like a lark with a little bit of "what if" thrown in. But your lover had a different idea.
"If we find this sea serpent, we'll be pretty famous right?" she asked.
You shrugged and said that you guess so.
"And we'll, like, own the thing too won't we?" she asked. "Like, if the Smithsonian or the MOMA wants to get their hands on it they'll have to pay us a shitload. We'll rent out the fucker."
You suggested that actually gaining physical ownership of the mythical sea serpent might be far more difficult a task than the two of you are prepared for.
"But a picture would be nice," you said. When she looked like she was about to leap from the bed and tear your eyelids off your face, you added that a picture would fetch quite a lot of money from various outlets.
She locked herself in the bathroom for two hours while you knocked.
"My drug addiction is expensive," she said when she finally let you in so that you could pull the hair from her face while she sat on the toilet seat lid.
"I know it is," you said.
"I need some way to come up with the money to buy my drugs without having to work," she said. "This Champ thing is my last hope."
But of course, Champ was nowhere to be found. And her pills soon ran out. You have been making treks into neighboring towns and scoring pills that at least end her pain, if they won't get her high. But she's been ingesting narcotics without any regard for what came before or what's coming next. Keep this up and she'll die within the month.
But if you stop giving her whatever drugs you can find, she'll run off back to the city. She's horrible, but you have to keep her close to you. She may not be what you used to dream of, but you know your heart. She's the one.
Happy Your Lover Is Gonna Die Day!
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Spray The Garden Maze For Goblins Day!
Everyone knows that Spring hasn't officially arrived until you've thrown your first party at the Estate. But folks in your social scene get pretty antsy waiting for Spring to arrive if you put off the invites for too long. As the temperature climbs, opening day fast approaches. Which means you're going to have to spray the garden maze for Goblins soon.
It usually takes three good sprays of highly toxic poisons to get them all scurrying for the Glen. And the sprays have to be spaced apart, so even if you start spraying tomorrow (which you should) you can expect to still have a Goblin problem for another few weeks. And there can be no party until that maze is clear. You don't want couples drunkenly wandering through those hedges for a private grope, only to get impaled through the larynx with razor-sharp twigs, then torn limb from limb just after being robbed of their rings and cash. Do you?
Don't forget to bolt all of the ground level windows and doors of the house before you spray. They'll run for the house first, and if one Goblin gets inside it will be only twenty minutes before every wing of the structure is burnt to the ground. To be sure to ward them off, paste photographs of housecats in every window of the house. Goblins are terrified of housecats because Goblins are the only creatures on Earth besides housecats that can understand what is really being communicated in a meow.
Happy Spray The Garden Maze For Goblins Day!
Everyone knows that Spring hasn't officially arrived until you've thrown your first party at the Estate. But folks in your social scene get pretty antsy waiting for Spring to arrive if you put off the invites for too long. As the temperature climbs, opening day fast approaches. Which means you're going to have to spray the garden maze for Goblins soon.
It usually takes three good sprays of highly toxic poisons to get them all scurrying for the Glen. And the sprays have to be spaced apart, so even if you start spraying tomorrow (which you should) you can expect to still have a Goblin problem for another few weeks. And there can be no party until that maze is clear. You don't want couples drunkenly wandering through those hedges for a private grope, only to get impaled through the larynx with razor-sharp twigs, then torn limb from limb just after being robbed of their rings and cash. Do you?
Don't forget to bolt all of the ground level windows and doors of the house before you spray. They'll run for the house first, and if one Goblin gets inside it will be only twenty minutes before every wing of the structure is burnt to the ground. To be sure to ward them off, paste photographs of housecats in every window of the house. Goblins are terrified of housecats because Goblins are the only creatures on Earth besides housecats that can understand what is really being communicated in a meow.
Happy Spray The Garden Maze For Goblins Day!
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Visit With Your Assassin Friend Day
Visit With Your Assassin Friend Day!
"Thanks for making time for me," Jenny will say.
Tell her she's not the only one who's busy. She's always been this way. Back when she was working those late hours as an editor at MSNBC, she'd berate anyone who dared schedule a birthday party when they knew she'd be at work. And now that she's an assassin and every job means she has to disappear to another continent for four to eight months, everyone is supposed to drop everything for this long series of "Goodbye Jenny" events.
"I guess I know how little you'll be missing me when I'm gone."
Tell her, "You act like you were sentenced to go into this line of work. For God's sake, you're the one who wanted this job. You get paid $75,000 for pulling a trigger on a gun. And we're all supposed to feel sad because you have to spend Autumn and Winter in Morocco?"
"How'd you know I'm going to Morocco?" she'll ask.
Point to the plane ticket she's holding in her hand.
"Fuck!" she'll rip up the ticket and log onto Orbitz.
"So are we getting drinks or what?"
"Just let me change my itinerary okay? Or were you hoping to be the one they would torture until you give up my whereabouts?"
Go and wait outside on the stoop. She'll get weepy after a Cosmo and it'll be nice to say goodbye again. Until she has that Cosmo though, just bite your tongue.
Happy Visit With Your Assassin Friend Day!
"Thanks for making time for me," Jenny will say.
Tell her she's not the only one who's busy. She's always been this way. Back when she was working those late hours as an editor at MSNBC, she'd berate anyone who dared schedule a birthday party when they knew she'd be at work. And now that she's an assassin and every job means she has to disappear to another continent for four to eight months, everyone is supposed to drop everything for this long series of "Goodbye Jenny" events.
"I guess I know how little you'll be missing me when I'm gone."
Tell her, "You act like you were sentenced to go into this line of work. For God's sake, you're the one who wanted this job. You get paid $75,000 for pulling a trigger on a gun. And we're all supposed to feel sad because you have to spend Autumn and Winter in Morocco?"
"How'd you know I'm going to Morocco?" she'll ask.
Point to the plane ticket she's holding in her hand.
"Fuck!" she'll rip up the ticket and log onto Orbitz.
"So are we getting drinks or what?"
"Just let me change my itinerary okay? Or were you hoping to be the one they would torture until you give up my whereabouts?"
Go and wait outside on the stoop. She'll get weepy after a Cosmo and it'll be nice to say goodbye again. Until she has that Cosmo though, just bite your tongue.
Happy Visit With Your Assassin Friend Day!
Monday, April 04, 2005
Your Coffin Tumbled Day
Your Coffin Tumbled Day!
It was supposed to be a small, peaceful service. It's what you would have wanted, everyone was certain of it. But as the coffin got closer to the grave, your Uncle George and your Aunt Ethel roused the rest of the family with bellicose rhetoric, demanding that no one give you dignity in death went you spent so much of your life stealing dignity from others. Sisters were scolded for bowing their heads before the corpse of the man who released frogs into their bedrooms when he was a boy. Brothers were reminded of Friday night bickering over who gets to take the family car out. Even your grandmother ripped off her veil when she was asked to remember how many times you'd called her while you were alive. Before the preacher could shout a placating word, all twenty-eight family members and friends rushed your coffin.
The pallbearers (your Dad, your Uncle Marv, your friends Pete and Randy, your brother Hank, and your high school physics teacher, Mr. Reidel) just handed you over to the mob without a fight. They were disgusted that they had to be so close to your remains. The collective hands of the crowd held you aloft for a few seconds before the coffin turned in the air and your body hung halfway out the part-way opened lid. Your family tore at your suit until you were naked above the waist. They first ripped a gash in your neck, and after that the rest of you fell apart like a rag doll. All that was meant to preserve you in the grave came spurting out of you and drenched everyone's clothes to the bone. In the end, when the police siren sounded and everyone went running back to your Dad's house, you were left on the ground pinned under the weight of the coffin, some bone visible through the gash in your cheek, your left arm resting in the grass seven feet away from its shoulder. The policemen on the scene remembered when they busted you for truancy when you were fourteen. They spit on your coffin and each fired a round from his pistol into the back of your three-days-dead skull. They told the groundskeepers not to clean you up from the grass until you'd spent a full day rotting under the sun.
Happy Your Coffin Tumbled Day!
It was supposed to be a small, peaceful service. It's what you would have wanted, everyone was certain of it. But as the coffin got closer to the grave, your Uncle George and your Aunt Ethel roused the rest of the family with bellicose rhetoric, demanding that no one give you dignity in death went you spent so much of your life stealing dignity from others. Sisters were scolded for bowing their heads before the corpse of the man who released frogs into their bedrooms when he was a boy. Brothers were reminded of Friday night bickering over who gets to take the family car out. Even your grandmother ripped off her veil when she was asked to remember how many times you'd called her while you were alive. Before the preacher could shout a placating word, all twenty-eight family members and friends rushed your coffin.
The pallbearers (your Dad, your Uncle Marv, your friends Pete and Randy, your brother Hank, and your high school physics teacher, Mr. Reidel) just handed you over to the mob without a fight. They were disgusted that they had to be so close to your remains. The collective hands of the crowd held you aloft for a few seconds before the coffin turned in the air and your body hung halfway out the part-way opened lid. Your family tore at your suit until you were naked above the waist. They first ripped a gash in your neck, and after that the rest of you fell apart like a rag doll. All that was meant to preserve you in the grave came spurting out of you and drenched everyone's clothes to the bone. In the end, when the police siren sounded and everyone went running back to your Dad's house, you were left on the ground pinned under the weight of the coffin, some bone visible through the gash in your cheek, your left arm resting in the grass seven feet away from its shoulder. The policemen on the scene remembered when they busted you for truancy when you were fourteen. They spit on your coffin and each fired a round from his pistol into the back of your three-days-dead skull. They told the groundskeepers not to clean you up from the grass until you'd spent a full day rotting under the sun.
Happy Your Coffin Tumbled Day!
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Crash Into The Cloudcover Day
Crash Into The Cloudcover Day!
Today, you're skydiving to impress a boy. His name's Dan and he enjoys "extreme living." You prefer reading books by the fire and taking walks on the beach, but your plan is that if you pretend to dig rollerblading up rocky mountains and throwing yourself down stairwells and whatnot, Dan will think that you're the girl for him. And then you'll show him that you're actually the exact opposite of what you pretended to be and, for reasons unclear, Dan will be fine with this and will even go so far as to hang up his snowboard so as to curl up next to you by the fire on the beach with the books.
But today's step one. You're diving out of a plane with Dan so that he can see just how "extreme" a girl you are. Your parachute pack will have mistakenly been filled with the parachute school teacher's laundry and you will die in a four foot hole in the ground dug instantaneously upon impact. Dan will not wonder what could have been, but he'll come to your funeral and cry.
Happy Crash Into The Cloudcover Day!
Today, you're skydiving to impress a boy. His name's Dan and he enjoys "extreme living." You prefer reading books by the fire and taking walks on the beach, but your plan is that if you pretend to dig rollerblading up rocky mountains and throwing yourself down stairwells and whatnot, Dan will think that you're the girl for him. And then you'll show him that you're actually the exact opposite of what you pretended to be and, for reasons unclear, Dan will be fine with this and will even go so far as to hang up his snowboard so as to curl up next to you by the fire on the beach with the books.
But today's step one. You're diving out of a plane with Dan so that he can see just how "extreme" a girl you are. Your parachute pack will have mistakenly been filled with the parachute school teacher's laundry and you will die in a four foot hole in the ground dug instantaneously upon impact. Dan will not wonder what could have been, but he'll come to your funeral and cry.
Happy Crash Into The Cloudcover Day!
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Sneak Out Of The House And Finger Somebody Day
Sneak Out Of The House And Finger Somebody Day!
Your parents are dictators. It's Saturday and all of your friends are allowed to go to the park and pull down each other's pants on a bed of wet pine needles. You're going to miss out just because of a stupid curfew?
Sneak out. Crawl out onto the roof down the maple tree. Then try to find where your friends are. You might not find them, because they actually already got chased away by police. But you will stumble into a kegger thrown by some older kids. They'll hold your face in the patch of grass where some of them peed earlier.
You'll walk home and come in through the front door. No one will be awake. You'll wash your face and chest in the bathroom but you won't take a shower. You'll go to bed, confused by things.
Happy Sneak Out Of The House And Finger Somebody Day!
Your parents are dictators. It's Saturday and all of your friends are allowed to go to the park and pull down each other's pants on a bed of wet pine needles. You're going to miss out just because of a stupid curfew?
Sneak out. Crawl out onto the roof down the maple tree. Then try to find where your friends are. You might not find them, because they actually already got chased away by police. But you will stumble into a kegger thrown by some older kids. They'll hold your face in the patch of grass where some of them peed earlier.
You'll walk home and come in through the front door. No one will be awake. You'll wash your face and chest in the bathroom but you won't take a shower. You'll go to bed, confused by things.
Happy Sneak Out Of The House And Finger Somebody Day!
Friday, April 01, 2005
Your Pot Dealer Has A Daughter In The Girl Scouts Day
Your Pot Dealer Has A Daughter In The Girl Scouts Day!
She has some cookies that need to be sold.
"Hey man, if I worked in an office it'd be no sweat," he says. "I'd just post the signup sheet on my cubicle, just like the rest of the Dads, and in one day she'd meet her quota for the camping trip. "
He hasn't even sold you your pot yet. You and him are sitting on your bed going over the options in the color brochure spread out across your comforter. He smells terrible. "A lot of people like the Samoas," he says. "But I fucking hate the Samoas."
"Do any girl scouts sell their own cookies anymore?" you ask.
"Are you crazy man? It's too dangerous," he says, while scratching underneath his shirt. He complained to you once that his gun holster itches.
"So I figured," he says. "Who wants cookies more than all the potheads who smoke my shit? You guys are all stoned out of your gourds with the munchies and then in I walk with a chance for you to binge on some snacks and support the futures of a whole lot of little girls."
You say, "But you haven't let me buy my pot yet."
He points to the Thin Mints. "These are fuckin' primo shit. Buy six boxes."
You buy six boxes.
Happy Your Pot Dealer Has A Daughter In The Girl Scouts Day!
She has some cookies that need to be sold.
"Hey man, if I worked in an office it'd be no sweat," he says. "I'd just post the signup sheet on my cubicle, just like the rest of the Dads, and in one day she'd meet her quota for the camping trip. "
He hasn't even sold you your pot yet. You and him are sitting on your bed going over the options in the color brochure spread out across your comforter. He smells terrible. "A lot of people like the Samoas," he says. "But I fucking hate the Samoas."
"Do any girl scouts sell their own cookies anymore?" you ask.
"Are you crazy man? It's too dangerous," he says, while scratching underneath his shirt. He complained to you once that his gun holster itches.
"So I figured," he says. "Who wants cookies more than all the potheads who smoke my shit? You guys are all stoned out of your gourds with the munchies and then in I walk with a chance for you to binge on some snacks and support the futures of a whole lot of little girls."
You say, "But you haven't let me buy my pot yet."
He points to the Thin Mints. "These are fuckin' primo shit. Buy six boxes."
You buy six boxes.
Happy Your Pot Dealer Has A Daughter In The Girl Scouts Day!
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