Little Kids Who Love Their Moms Too Much Day!

Today is your first day in the personal development workshop, “Little Kids Who Love Their Moms Too Much.” It’s for children in your age group (5-8) who seem overly needy for their mothers’ attention. You were recommended for the workshop by your teacher after your fourth day arriving at Kindergarten, crying for your mom to not let you go and then spending the first few hours saying, “I want my Mommy.” It was decided that you had dependence issues.

At the workshop, you are introduced to various women of your mom’s age and you’re given time to get to know these women and learn that the world is full of women just as intelligent and interesting as your mother. The first you’ll meet is Carrie, who loves jazz.

“Listen to those horns,” Carrie will say as she snaps her fingers to a compact disc she’s playing for you. “Man those cats can howl.” You’ll kick Carrie’s shins.

Next you’ll meet Laraine. Laraine is an urban planner. “I decide where stuff should go and when someone says they wanna build something I tell ‘em how high.” Laraine will spend a lot of time on her cell phone. She’ll get angry when you pick up her purse and dump its contents on the floor.

You’ll also spend time with Sue (a lawyer), Barbara (a Hertz car rental agent) and Mandy (a nutritionist). They will all tell you about their jobs and their hobbies and they’ll all seem very nice, but none of them will have that smell or that softness or that unnameable warmth that your mom has. By the time you reach Kathy, you’ll be crying.

“You miss your Mom?” Kathy will ask.

You’ll nod.

“I miss my son,” she’ll say. “He just started kindergarten. I thought I’d come here to play with other kids and it would take some of the sting away. But man I can’t be without that kid for a second. He’s so awesome.”

“My mom is great,” you’ll tell her.

Kathy will whisper, “Wanna get out of here?”

You’ll nod, and Kathy will throw a chair through the window and lift you through it. Then she’ll follow and the two of you will take off running, hand-in-hand, never stopping until you get what’s yours (a hug).

Happy Little Kids Who Love Their Moms Too Much Day!

You Left Your Fish Tacos Under The Couch Day!

Last night you went out and ordered yourself a big Mexican meal. Unfortunately, you filled up on banana daiquiris before your entrée came and you had lots of leftover fish tacos so you brought them home in a doggy bag. Today you’re gonna go looking for the doggy bag in the fridge but it won’t be there. After a furtive search, you’ll remember that when you walked into your apartment you instantly fell down on the floor and you didn’t want to get back up, so you stuffed the doggy bag underneath the couch for safekeeping, just in case any burglars came in, and you went to sleep there for a dozen hours.

Now you’re fucking starving and you really want to eat those fucking fish tacos. But are they still good if they weren’t kept refrigerated and are now covered in dust bunnies and credit card receipts and long lost universal remote controls?

“No,” your friend Barbara will say. “Don’t eat them.”

Explain to Barbara that you want to eat them.

“Don’t,” Barbara will say. “And don’t call me at the hospital again. They pulled me out of a surgery for this.”

Assume that Barbara didn’t get what you mean when you said you want to eat the tacos and call Gerald for a second opinion.

“Don’t eat the tacos,” Gerald will say. Tell Gerald you think it’s really rude of him to just rush to judgment like that after you made it clear to him that you want to eat the tacos. Gerald will hang up on you. Unbeknownst to either of you, you will both sit down at your respective desks and simultaneously write each other letters severing your friendship.

After a few more calls to friends who won’t pay attention to what you want, you’ll take a bite of one of the tacos. It will not taste as good as at the restaurant, but at least you’ll be doing what you want and that’s what’s important because this is America. Call all your friends back and tell them they can love it or they can leave it on their answering machines (no one will answer your calls for a few days). After you bite into a dust bunny that is crunchy with a dead cricket, you’ll decide you’ve eaten enough of your leftovers and you’ll go and cruise True.com and check out who’s lonely this week.

Happy You Left Your Fish Tacos Under The Couch Day!

Try To Get Through To These Kids Day!

You’re a schoolteacher and your students are having a pregnancy contest to see who can have a baby the fastest. The girl who has her baby last will be shunned socially and her life will pretty much stink, at least while she’s in middle school. You need to get these kids to wake up!

“Come on!” tell them. “It’s not cool to be mean to girls because they aren’t as fertile as you or because they can’t deliver their babies as fast as you. You girls need to stick together as you go through this, the most magical experience a teen can have.”

The girls will gather into a group hug, and you’ll be proud of yourself for finally reaching them. Until one of the girls sucker-punches another in her big stomach. All of the other girls will laugh while the girl who got punched miscarries. Then the bell will ring.

The girl who miscarried will stay behind after class.

“I’m out of the contest,” she’ll say, near tears.

“Bet you’d like a milkshake,” say to her.

The miscarrying girl will smile at you, then she’ll clean up her mess and let you take her down to the ice cream shop for a milkshake. She may not be one of the cool pregnant girls anymore, but at least she knows that people can still be kind.

Happy Try To Get Through To These Kids Day!

Your Girlfriend’s Band Just Hit It Big Day!

Your girlfriend’s band HOT SEXY MUSIC PLAYING is becoming huge with their new single NAUGHTY DANCEY SONG ABOUT TITS sweeping the nation like a bunch of fast eagles trying to get from one end of the nation to the other and then back again. You’d better find out whether she still wants you in her life or not.

“Honey,” you’ll say through her dressing room door. There’s a star on it. “Everything okay between us?”

Her manager will tell you through the door that you and your girlfriend are broken up, and that they had you barred from the building where she gets dressed, so you’re officially trespassing.

“The police are on their way and they’ll shoot you on sight,” he’ll say.

“But I don’t have any weapons. I haven’t done anything,” you’ll argue.

“The police love NAUGHTY DANCEY SONG ABOUT TITS,” he’ll say. “And they’ll do anything to insure that HOT SEXY MUSIC PLAYING releases more awesome music. Sorry but that’s rock and roll.”

You’ll feel two gunshots to your back. The police must have snuck up from behind and started shooting.

“You’d better not get any blood on that dressing room door,” your girlfriend’s manager will say through the door. As you die, you’ll do your best to wipe the door clean of your blood with your sleeve, but the blood will just smear. You’ll die hoping that if you can get that blood off the door, maybe your girlfriend will get back together with you for the last few seconds of your life, but watching that blood smear you’ll know that it’s not going to work out and you are going to die single.

Happy Your Girlfriend’s Band Just Hit It Big Day!

The Saga Of Worthless Wilma Day!

When Worthless Wilma was eleven years old, she walked past a well and heard a little girl screaming for help from the bottom. Instead of going to find an adult who might help, Worthless Wilma went to the creek to look at crayfish. That little girl died at the bottom of the well. Ever since then, she’s been known to everyone as Worthless Wilma.

Today Worthless Wilma turns thirty-four. She’s spent her whole life trying to shed her nickname “Worthless,” but it seems that anytime anyone might count on her she ends up wandering off to go and waste time doing something of no value whatsoever (walking through a public garden, entering a Sun Chips eating competition, attending the test screening of “Who’s Your Caddy” and marking the questionnaire with 3’s all the way down). But today she’s going to change all that.

Today, on her way to her birthday party, she’s going to see a car by the side of the road with a flat tire. A man and a woman will be standing by the car. Worthless Wilma will pull over, and they’ll ask her for a lift. “I can’t risk being delayed,” she’ll say. “But when I get to where I’m going, I’ll phone for help for you.” They’ll thank Worthless Wilma very much.

On the drive to her party, Worthless Wilma will practically chant to herself to strengthen her resolve to follow through on what she promised those stranded motorists. “Must. Call. Tow Truck. Must. Finally. Help Someone!” Once she gets to the restaurant, she’ll rush her hellos to everyone, telling each person, “I can’t greet you for very long as I have to call a tow truck for some stranded motorists.” She’ll fill only a very small plate from the order of nachos in the center of the table. She’ll drink only one margarita, making sure to order her second so that it’s on the way, and then she’ll say to the waiter, “Sir I need to use your phone if I may!”

The waiter will shake his head no and he’ll suggest that Worthless Wilma use her cell phone, or the cell phone of one of her sixteen dinner companions. Worthless Wilma will be shaken by the wrench thrown into her plans and she’ll wait for her second margarita to arrive so that she’ll have something to drink while she considers what to do. To help her mind relax, she’ll complete the child’s maze on her place-mat, and then she’ll ask her neighbor at the table what he does for a living (he’s a parking attendant). Finally, after much deliberation, just before the waiter returns with dessert menus, Worthless Wilma will announce to the table, “I need to call for help!”

She’ll dial information on her cell phone and ask for AAA. When they answer, she’ll hang up and begin playing Tetris on her phone. Realizing that she has not yet done enough, she’ll call back and tell AAA that there is a car with a flat tire someplace. When they ask where, she’ll name the city in which she lives. AAA will ask on which road she saw the car, and Worthless Wilma will shout, “Good God I am just one woman! Flesh and blood, and yet you seem to demand of me divinity!” Just then a cake will arrive and everyone will sing Happy Birthday to Worthless Wilma.

On her ride home, she’ll keep an eye out for the car with the flat tire, but will see no stranded motorists. “Success,” she’ll think. “I helped somebody tonight,” she’ll think. “At age thirty-four, I have finally managed to be of use.” Proud of her accomplishment, Worthless Wilma will drive on home, and she’ll get out of her car and toss her cigarette onto the neighbor’s lawn, setting their rosebushes on fire.

Happy The Saga Of Worthless Wilma Day!

Shoot The Messenger Day!

Today you’re going to shoot a singing telegram in the stomach. He’ll be dressed like Shrek and he’ll be singing about how it’s okay being green because at least he’s not thirty-six (today’s your 36th birthday). You’ll claim that you were cleaning your gun and it went off, but you’ll be charged with second-degree murder anyway. Once you’re in jail, you’ll finally find out who sent the singing telegram. It was your ex-wife.

“I wanted to win you back,” she’ll tell you when she visits you. “I wanted to make you laugh again. And I know you love Shrek. He’s really funny.”

“Shrek sucks,” you’ll tell her. You’ll later regret being so candid when a transcript of this conversation is used against you in court. “The only good thing that will come out of this is that I got to watch that ogre die. You always gave me terrible presents, with no clue what I actually wanted. This is just like when you bought me that James Bond box set even though I hate James Bond movies. Now you’ve topped them all. You gave me a present that got me thrown in jail, maybe for decades.”

It will be for decades. Two and a half actually. The judge will be a Shrek fan and he’ll want to set an example in case anyone else out there is thinking of killing that lovable ogre. Your ex-wife will come to visit every week, and you’ll refuse her visit every time. When you finally get paroled in 2025, you and your ex-wife will be in your fifties. She’ll be waiting outside the gate when you’re released. You’ll let her drive you to her place since you have nowhere else to go. As a welcome back present, she’ll give you an action figure of a Moose in a tuxedo. Later you’ll find out his name is Murray Moose, and he’s the star of an animated movie that swept the nation the year prior. When you watch the movie, you’ll think it blows, but you'll stick by your ex-wife anyway since it's either her or the halfway house.

Happy Shoot The Messenger Day!

Cash In Your 401K Again Day!

Call Vanguard and ask the guy, “How much is in my 401K now?”

“602 dollars,” he’ll say.

“Sweet! I’m going to the shore this weekend. How fast can you get that to me?”

He’ll tell you about the penalties incurred by cashing in early, stuff you’ve all heard before. But then he’ll add that there’s a sixty dollar fee for getting a rush wire transfer of funds.

“Sixty bucks? So after the fees and the penalties, how much will I get?”

“206 dollars,” he’ll say.

“Kickass! Lemme have it.”

He’ll ask you how old you are and you’ll say fifty-one. He’ll ask if you have a retirement goal and you’ll say, “Yeah. It’s called ‘Dying Early.’ And if I use that 206 bucks right, I should be a whole lot closer to that goal after this weekend. Hoo baby do I have some fun lined up for me down in Cape May.”

He’ll ask you what you got planned and you’ll tell him and while you give him the details the Vanguard guy will just keep saying, “Wow, no kiddin’?!” By the end of the call, the Vanguard guy will start to think maybe you’re the one who’s got it all figured out, and all those billions of dollars under Vanguard management are the treasure chests of a bunch of Nervous Nellies who are scared to sleep with beach prostitutes because of the possibility of contracting some very minor and treatable diseases.

Happy Cash In Your 401K Again Day!

You Wore Out The Sex Scene On Your VHS Copy Of “An Officer And A Gentleman” Day!

You don’t like to have people over to your home anymore because at some point in the night your friends always start rooting through your expansive collection of VHS movies and it’s inevitable that one of them will come back to the living room shouting, “Hey Guys, he’s got 'An Officer And A Gentleman' here!"

Everyone else will note that they haven’t seen that movie in years, as it hasn’t been aired on cable or elsewhere since 1989. You’ll say that it’s not really as good as they remember, but they’ll ultimately take a vote and agree to pop it into the VCR. That’s when you’ll start to squirm.

They’ll all be enjoying the movie, the push-ups, the small-town gals looking for husbands, Lou Gossett Jr. But you’ll know what’s coming. You’ll know that when the sex scene between Richard Gere and Debra Winger begins, the picture is going to go fuzzy and warped, and then it will disappear completely.

At first they’ll complain: “Hey what gives? I thought VHS tapes were supposed to last forever.” Then they’ll try and fix it: “Maybe if we rewind?” Then they’ll start making accusations: “The picture is bad because [YOUR NAME] wore out the tape because [YOUR NAME] likes to jerk off to it and he has to rewind and replay over and over again because the scene isn’t very long!”

And then they will laugh.

“It’s true,” you’ll say, quieting their laughter. “I do use the sex scene from ‘An Officer And A Gentleman’ as erotica. It’s very graphic, yet very tender. And I have always dreamed of having a love like that between Richard Gere and Debra Winger. I dream of trying to achieve a better character, and of being wanted by a woman who’s having it hard and just wants a little bit of help.”

Now they’re crying. Not at you. The movie’s still on and they just found whatshisname hanged. They forgot what you said already, and all that’s left is for Richard Gere to carry Debra Winger through the factory. Let them watch alone. Go into your bedroom and pop in your VHS copy of “Coming Home” and rub one out while they’re finishing their movie in the living room. Make sure to listen for “Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong” so you can get out there to watch the end with them and say goodbye. You need to hide your VHS movie collection better. It says far too much about yourself and no one really wants to listen.

Happy You Wore Out The Sex Scene On Your VHS Copy Of “An Officer And A Gentleman” Day!

You Open Prisons Day!

Today, you’re the girl who goes out and finds new and interesting neighborhoods where you can open prisons. It’s a good job. You travel the country, scoping out the lay of the land and trying to find that special patch of America where the next big maximum security prison will make a home. Naturally, most of your fellow Americans are always quick with a friendly word.

“My baby’s father goes to prison a lot, on average he spends half the year there,” one woman will tell you when you meet her in a coffee shop. “So if we had a prison right here in town, I wouldn’t have to get fired from my job every time I go and visit him in one of those pens three states over anymore. I could just go over on a Saturday.”

“I could finally achieve my dream of selling fake baby drawings from a roadside table,” another man will tell you as you and he wait to check out at a Stop N’ Shop. “No need for such a thing in any old town. But on the road outside of a prison, when a parent visits his or her spouse but has forgotten to bring any of their baby’s drawings to show off, that’s where I come in. I just love to make fake baby drawings of birds flying out of bird cages that say Daddy on them.”

"The fear of escapees would cut down on folks picking up hitchhikers,” an anti-hitchhiking advocate will tell you. “That’s all I care about. ‘Make ‘em walk’ is our slogan. ‘They should’ve thought ahead and arranged transportation for themselves,’ is another slogan of ours that we don’t use all that much.”

Almost everybody will be for you and your prison coming to town and building over the public parks and recreation centers. Everybody except for the president of the local chapter of the “Our Town’s Just Fine The Way It Is Association.” He’ll be another in a long line of rabble-rousers who think it’s in his town’s best interest to send the convicts and their unlimited tax revenue elsewhere.

You know how to handle these opponents. You go to bed with them and let your opposing forces battle it out underneath the sheets, yielding some of the best sex any American can have outside of a jail cell. Just don’t fall in love again. That’s the tough part about being the girl who goes looking for places to open prisons. Trying not to fall in love with the good guy. He’s always just so dismissive of you and everything you stand for, you can’t help but hand him your heart.

Happy You Open Prisons Day!

Just Trying To Buy Some Stereo Components Day!

Today you need to buy some stereo components, including a tweeter, but there’s that little problem of you blowing the big game against Jefferson back you when you were a field goal kicker in high school.

The man who sells the items (called a “salesman” in the Circuit City industry) will approach you with a wide smile. Get it all out of the way.

“Before you begin your pitch, the answer is yes, my name is [YOUR NAME] and at only eighteen yards I blew the big field goal kick that could have finally buried those smug bastards at Jefferson back in 1990. But I had a lot on my mind. My father had been entered into a psychiatric hospital the night before. He was bipolar.”

The salesman, still smiling, will say, “Hey I knew I recognized you! Don’t you worry about all that crud. Your Daddy okay now?”

Shake your head no. The salesman will try to look sorry for you while still maintaining that big smile on his face. Then he’ll direct you to the components that you’re looking for. He’ll sell you on something slightly more expensive than you wanted, but he’ll make you believe that the price is worth it.

A week later, after many hours of listening, you’ll realize that these stereo components you purchased were not at all worth the higher price. You’ll call the Circuit City and ask for the salesman who helped you.

“I said I was sorry, dammit!” you’ll shout when he comes to the phone. “My father was ill. He’s gone now. Isn’t that enough for you people?”

“Most of those kids in those bleachers didn’t even have Daddies to give a damn about!” the salesman will shout back. “You walk into my store holding a big pile of excuses for ruining my high school spirit, well then you’ll walk out holding a big pile of overpriced, shit-ass components, including that tweeter which has been known to set some of the thicker carpeting on fire. Go Edgemont!”

Then he’ll hang up. And you’ll go back into your living room and listen to your shitty stereo system, accepting your punishment, and wondering why God had to go and make your Dad sick. Why your Dad?

Happy Just Trying To Buy Some Stereo Components Day!

Fall Down An Open Manhole (NOT IN A GAY WAY) Day!

Today while walking down the street you are going to fall down an open manhole and land twenty feet underground in a sewer. Your right leg will snap and twist up like a pretzel underneath you and the pain will be excruciating. You’ll scream up at the street but no one up there will be able to hear you. Someone down below will, though.

Three children will creep up out of the darkness, approaching you cautiously. A little boy and two little girls. They will be filthy, as if they’ve been down there for months.

“Hey,” you’ll say. “Oh thank God, you need to get help. I can’t move. I’m in so much pain.”

“We can’t go for help,” one of the little girls will say. “Our foster parents would find us. We can’t let them find us.”

“Please,” you’ll say. “If I’m down here for very long my leg will turn gangrenous and kill me.”

“We’re sorry that you fell,” the other little girl will say. “But we came down here on purpose to hide from our foster mother. She’s very evil. Show him.”

The little boy will lift his sleeve to show you a string of black scars that look like cigarette burns.

“See?” the second little girl will say. “If you’d ever been in foster care you’d understand why we must stay hidden in the sewers until we’re old enough and strong enough to fight our foster mother with a baseball bat. Now give us any food you have on you.”

“What?”

The little boy will stomp on your broken leg, sending bolts of pain through your body. The two little girls will root through your backpack until they find a cheese sandwich.

“Again, we’re sorry,” the first little girl will say. Then they’ll move a few feet away and split up your cheese sandwich right in front of you. The boy will growl while he eats. He’ll sound like a raccoon. The last thing you think about before you pass out is if you ever get out of that sewer alive, you're going to do everything you can to add more oversight to the area's child services programs.

Happy Fall Down An Open Manhole (NOT IN A GAY WAY) Day!

Lost In The Woods Day!

Today while hiking you’re going to get lost in the woods and you’ll meet the boy of your dreams who will also be completely lost.

“At least I found you,” he’ll say.

“A part of me never wants to be found,” you’ll tell him. Then he’ll look down and see your ring.

“Me too,” he’ll say. Then he’ll take his ring out of his pocket and slip it on his finger. He always takes it off when he goes hiking, in case he meets someone out in the woods. Pretty gross, but are you any better?

“Then let’s walk this way,” you’ll say with a wink as you lead him down a barely intelligible path. You’ll wander through the woods together for hours, pretending that here under cover of the trees the vows you made to your spouses can’t find you. But bears can and you’ll both be mauled to death by one because that’s what happens to cheaters. They get mauled by bears.

Happy Lost In The Woods Day!

If You Had A Million Dollars Day!

If you had a million dollars, today you would use some of it to bail your college-age son out of jail. He was arrested last night for vehicular manslaughter after running down a teenage girl while driving drunk. This is the first time he ever got arrested, or even a traffic citation for that matter. But witnesses say he apparently looked like he wanted to keep driving after he hit her. After the crash, a bystander ran and stood in front of your son’s car and put his hands on the hood to keep him from pulling away. One of the tires was flat too.

You’d bail him out, which would cost around $50,000. Then you might use the rest of that million dollars to hire a really good lawyer who could perhaps keep him out of jail. What he did was horrible and stupid and you agree with the laws that might put him behind bars. But you would do anything right now to make as much of it go away as you can. He’s your son, and you wanted him to finish college and then show you what kind of life he can make for himself. If you had a million dollars, maybe his whole life wouldn’t be already decided with one incredibly stupid mistake at age nineteen.

You have no idea what really happens in prison. If you had a million dollars, maybe your son wouldn’t have to find out for you. All you can think about now is whether, when you visit him, will you talk through those glass partitions? Or will you get to sit in one of those big open rooms with all the tables where women bring babies to show to their inmate fathers?

Happy If You Had A Million Dollars Day!

Your Girlfriend Is Asleep Outside Your Favorite Bar Day!

She’s asleep sitting up, her back against the doorframe and her head bent forward on her neck. The door occasionally shoves her aside when it opens wide enough, but she doesn’t stir from her slumber. The bartender kicked her out over and hour ago and sometime between getting off of her stool and stepping out the front door, she apparently got real tired. So she sat down on the sidewalk and fell asleep.

The only reason you’ll find her there is because it’s your favorite bar she’s sleeping outside of. You don’t own it, but when you two have a fight, that’s the bar where you go to drink alone until you’re drunk enough to have angry conversations with yourself. You didn’t know your girlfriend even knew about the place.

When you see her, you don’t try to wake her up right away. You first go inside and get the bartender to come out and take a look.

“She’s a regular, sure,” he’ll say. “She comes here almost as often as you. Can drink as much as you too.”

“She’s my girlfriend,” you’ll say.

“Well then, scoop her up,” the bartender says before going back inside.

You slap your girlfriend until her eyes flutter enough that you think she’s awake. You tell her that you were wrong to fight with her earlier about her wanting to get married, and now that you see she drinks alone at the same bar where you drink alone, and you both chose that bar completely independently of each other, you can’t see any better reason for the two of you to tie the knot.

On your knees, holding her limp head up on her neck, you’ll ask, “Will you marry me?”

Your girlfriend will throw up on your arms and she’ll call out the name of another guy. Then she’ll fall asleep. A dark stain will form on the crotch of her jeans.

“I’ll take that as an absolutely,” you’ll say. Then you’ll wipe your arms on a fire hydrant, fling your fiancé over your shoulder and carry her home.

Happy Your Girlfriend Is Asleep Outside Your Favorite Bar Day!

All The Peeping Toms In The Whole Wide World Day!

At 8:25 PM EST, a warm wind will blow around the globe when all the Peeping Toms in the whole wide world peer out their windows through their telescopes, binoculars, and nightvision camcorder lenses, and they all at once let out a sigh of unparalleled boredom.

You’ll unbutton another button on your top when you feel the gust of hot breath hit your neck. You’ll assume it to be a hint of another sweltering day to come, but it’s just the Peeping Toms lamenting over just how dull other people’s private moments can be sometimes.

“Who do I have to blow to get someone to do something filthy in front of their goddamn bay windows?” a Peeping Tom will shout from his 33rd floor apartment, too high for anyone on the street to hear. That Peeping Tom (full name: Thomas Carter, distant cousin of the former US president) is a very angry Peeping Tom and he is prone to yelling when his peeping activities are for naught.

Most of the other Peeping Toms will let out their hot sighs and return to the inner rooms of their apartments and homes to find some other activity to pass the time. Thomas Kang, an Anaheim, CA Peeping Tom will sit at his desk, crank up the AC, and begin another fan letter to Eva Longoria. Tommy Wojohowicz, a Peeping Tom who has lived for the last twelve years in Warsaw, Poland, will go into his kitchen and fix himself a sandwich with sausage and pickles. And when Tom Brokaw (no relation), a twelve-year-old Peeping Tom who lives in New York City and hopes to one day become a television news anchor (seriously, no relation) finishes his long sad sigh, he’ll lay down on the bottom bunk and ask his nine-year-old brother (top bunk) why it is that nothing ever seems to be going in people’s houses during the summer.

“Everyone’s at camp?” his little brother will offer.

“Except for us,” young Tom Brokaw will respond. “I wish Dad didn’t get fired from his job.”

Then Tom Brokaw will pick up his binoculars again and see whether anyone is doing anything fun in any of the apartments across the way. He’ll note the flutter in the leaves in the trees as the sigh of the world’s Peeping Toms continues to sweep through the air. His blood will race when he spots what he thinks are boobs in the sixteenth floor window straight ahead, then he’ll focus his binoculars and realize it’s just some halogen lamps.

Happy All The Peeping Toms In The Whole Wide World Day!

You And Your Wife Only Communicate Via Spyware Histories Day!

You think your wife installed spyware on your computer (she has) so you are going to have to stop Googling her sister (her sister is one of those girls from the early days of Myspace who got a million friends because she wears glittery thong bikinis in all of her pictures) and start Googling things like “What do I do when I love my wife so much that I doubt I’ll ever be able to express my love adequately?” and “How do I make my wife even happier?” and “The opposite of looking at pictures of my wife’s sister.”

Not to be outdone, you should install spyware on your wife’s computer to keep her on the up and up. She’ll have already suspected that you’ll start monitoring her, so she’s going to stop Googling “Ways To Disappear Fast and Without a Trace” and, since you’re paying attention, she’ll start searching for things like “Ways to get my husband to be more considerate of my feelings” and “Ways to get my husband to agree to remodel the master bathroom” and “How do I tell my husband I know his spyware history is bullshit?”

It won’t be long before you and your wife are talking more than ever via your spyware histories. She’ll check your history one morning and find nothing but “Why do spouses resort to passive aggressive behavior?” and “Undermining wives and how to deal with them” and she’ll realize that she really hurt you the night before when she made that joke in front of the neighbors about you being skipped over for your promotion. So you’ll later check her history and find, “Ways to tell your husband you’re sorry” and “Tips on expressing just how proud you are of your spouse.”

Your sex life will improve too. After a few weeks of communicating your wants and needs to each other through web searches, you’ll both be brave enough to Google the sort of kinks you are both into but were always too embarrassed to actually speak up about. When you each log onto the other’s spyware history and you each find the search terms “Founding + Fathers + Roleplay + Harness” lined up in the exact same order, it’ll be like a magician just lifted a curtain at a magic show to reveal the secret reason why you married each other, hidden away all this time.

Happy You And Your Wife Only Communicate Via Spyware Histories Day!

You Weigh 800 Pounds Day!

You are an 800 pound person and you have a murder to solve. One of your three home health aides was stabbed in the back in his home, just a day after he asked you to hold onto a box for him. He shoved the box under the bed, left at the end of his shift, went home and got killed. Today you’re going to have another of your home health aides open up the box, and you’ll find a pile of birth certificates inside. It’s clear that your dead home health aide knew something about a black market baby trafficking ring, and you have to find out who decided he had to be eliminated.

The trouble is, you can’t get out of bed without the help of a intricate system of ropes. You also have to eat three whole chickens per lunchtime, which takes a good two hours. And most of your skin is red and tender, so you can’t dress in anything heavier than wet linen. But your home health aide trusted you. You can’t let his death be in vain. Take your gargantuan ass to the streets and find out who’s selling babies. Whoever it is, they are about to experience the burden of 800 pounds of justice.

You’re going to be gone for at least the whole morning, so pack a bag of meatballs.

Happy You Weigh 800 Pounds Day!

That Videotape Of You Taking A Shit On A Church Day!

That camcorder videotape of you when you were fourteen taking a shit on the front steps of your local Parish recently surfaced and is making the rounds on the internet. You’re wearing your King Diamond tee and making devil horns with your fingers while you squat, giggling. The kid holding the camera (Chad, presently employed as an unemployment insurance case worker) is cackling and yelping while he tries to hold the camera steady. Another kid with greasy long hair and a Slayer “Reign In Blood” tee occasionally runs into frame to spit loogies on you, but you can’t do anything because you’re still shitting. It’s already been viewed several million times, so everyone has seen you wipe yourself with your hand then carefully pull your pants up and trot out of the frame. So naturally, they want to know how long you went before you finally washed your hand. However, when you make your statement tonight withdrawing yourself from the race for city Comptroller, don’t give them any answers. It’s best to leave the tape with its enigmatic ending. Instead, tell them something true, something that’s in your heart since this is the last time you’ll have their attention.

Look into the camera and say, only: “Metal is not dead.” Then thank the people for their time.

Happy That Videotape Of You Taking A Shit On A Church Day!

Scrunch Up Your Nose Like You’re About To Cry Day!

Today, anytime you scrunch up your nose like you’re about to cry, anyone who witnesses it will take a knife and carve into their own bellies to let their insides fall out onto the sidewalk, they’ll be so distraught that they allowed such a pretty face to do what yours is doing. The world will decide that if they can’t keep a smile on your face, if this world is a world that can actually bring someone as adorable as you to the verge of tears, there’s no point in bothering with anything except the opening up of their bellies so that their innards can cascade down from their body cavities like so many rubbery wet Slinkies™.

Happy Scrunch Up Your Nose Like You’re About To Cry Day!

Hooker With A Heart Of Wet Cardboard Day!

You’re trying to write a screenplay about a mean, vicious hooker who is bitter and resentful and cruel. When a rich, sweet and divorced John falls in love with her, she has trouble accepting his love because she’s only ever been taught how to strike at people where they hurt and how to defend herself when she is retaliated against. You know how the story begins (the John picks her up and after they do it, she holds a knife to his scrotum and demands his watch and his money, which makes him track her down because the watch was his grandfather’s). And you know what happens in the second act (the hooker murders the John’s daughter and frames him for it. He is executed). But you’re just not sure how to get them to fall in love after that. You’re going to have to do some more research by soliciting sex from some more hookers, which you were going to do today anyway because today’s payday.

Happy Hooker With A Heart Of Wet Cardboard Day!

The Banker And The Conservationist Day!

You’re a rich fat banker with hundred dollar bills constantly fluttering out of your pockets and lots of girlfriends who only will only eat stuff if you sprinkle cocaine on it first. You love to buy and immediately destroy everything you see. Wildlife refuges, low income housing developments, and schools for the one-armed children of tomorrow are just a few of the things you get a kick out of buying and then hastily turning into parking lots. Today you’re going to show up at the demolition of the landmark building you bought a little while ago. After much wrangling with City Hall, they’re finally going to let you level it.

When you get there, you aren’t surprised to find some conservationists chained to the front of the building to prevent its demolition. You are surprised to look into the eyes of one of the activists and see everlasting comfort and beauty like you never thought imaginable. Go and hit on her.

“Can I borrow a quarter?” ask her. “I need to call my doctor and tell him that my heart just skipped a beat when I caught a glimpse of your pretty face.”

She’ll spit in your face and tell you you’re the reason why children have to shiver at night. Then she’ll demand that you not level the building where Eleanor Roosevelt once spent an historic lost weekend in the company of several off-duty midwives.

“If I let the building stand, will you let me buy you dinner?”

She’ll agree. You’ll convince her to move in with you that night, with the threat that if she says no you’ll tell the wrecking ball to swing at dawn. You’ll spend the rest of your lives together, and anytime she says she wants to leave you’ll just pick up the phone and pretend to be calling the demolition company to tell them when to swing the wrecking ball. Your kids will see it as a cute little game between Mommy and Daddy. When you start to bicker, your kids will scream, “Call the wrecking ball Daddy!” Then you’ll wave the phone in their mother’s face and everyone will burst into giggles until you pull your principled little conservationist into a big fat capitalist kiss.

Happy The Banker And The Conservationist Day!

Bumper To Bumper Day!

You’re stuck in vacation traffic and your kids are going crazy in the backseat. Now is about the time when you start peering into the other cars, wondering what it would be like to just step out of the driver’s seat and climb into someone else’s life and drive away. The car to your left is a beat-up old station wagon with an elderly couple inside and nobody in the backseat. The car to your right is a newish mini-SUV and behind the wheel is the woman you almost left your wife for ten years ago.

It’s her. It’s Michelle and she’s got a husband and kids. You had just proposed to your wife when Michelle started working freelance at your firm. You thought nothing could come between you and the woman you loved, which is ironically the way you justified your suddenly falling into bed with Michelle. ‘It must be right,’ you thought. ‘I wasn’t looking for it, I was perfectly happy, so it must be right and natural.’

You and Michelle snuck around together until she was about to head back to Atlanta and you started to panic. You began to talk about chucking everything and moving with her. Michelle was smart enough to know you were just scared over settling into your impending marriage, so she held you off long enough to get out of town without you. Your marriage has been happy, but Michelle is still the one you think about when you think about how it could have been.

Your wife is asleep in the passenger seat, so when Michelle looks over and recognizes you, you wave hello. Her husband is awake in the passenger seat, so she only smiles your way and wiggles one finger off the steering wheel. Your son saw you wave and he’s asking who that is in the car next to you. You tell him it’s nobody, hoping he won’t wake your mom. You’re busy studying Michelle’s husband and kids and trying to calculate which car is carrying the better life, and you don’t want to be interrupted. Her husband is about as attractive as you, or as attractive as anyone can be with two kids in the back seat. Michelle looks older but great as ever. Her kids might be fatter than yours, you can’t tell. When your son asks you why you keep looking into that car, you change lanes just as your wife is waking up. She leans over and hugs your arm, and you keep in the left lane for the rest of the drive to your summer rental.

Happy Bumper To Bumper Day!

Your Blacklight Poster Of The “Dark Side Of The Moon” Album Cover Has A Score To Settle Day!

You bought your blacklight poster of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side Of The Moon” at a yard sale. You were told a roommate who had moved out some time prior had left it behind in the house. He left a lot of stuff, including a Molly Hatchet blacklight poster, and a lot of loose beads that he must have been planning to string together one day.

Though you aren’t aware of it, today is the anniversary of the day your Blacklight poster’s owner walked out on it. When you smoke up first thing this morning, your blacklight poster is going to tell you to put on some pants because you and your blacklight poster have some work to do.

“Is this going to get violent, Blacklight Poster?” you’ll ask.

The prism will appear to crunch in on itself when it says, “We’re just going to teach somebody a lesson.”

The blacklight poster of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side Of The Moon” will tell you to unhook it from the wall and take it into the car with you. Then it will give you directions.

“Steve eats lunch at the Del Taco on Cahuenga,” the blacklight poster of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side Of The Moon” will say. “Pull up slow. And turn off the engine about 20 feet before we get to the restaurant.”

You’ll do as the blacklight poster says. You’ll pull up to a space by the window to the restaurant, and then you’ll wait. Through the glass, you’ll see a guy eating tacos with three friends. He’ll be wearing a Lynyrd Skynyrd tee shirt that you own yourself. You love that shirt.

The prism in the blacklight poster of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side Of The Moon” will send its refracted beam out of the poster frame and through the glass of the restaurant, directly into Steve’s eyes. Steve will look out at your car, his mouth hanging open in terror when he sees the poster he abandoned in his former house. Then the beams of refracted light will all turn bright orange and Steve’s eyeballs will turn into black coals. He’ll be screaming and tearing at his face when the blacklight poster of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side Of The Moon” tells you to drive away.

“Never leave me,” the blacklight poster of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side Of The Moon” will say.

You’ll shake your head vigorously. “I’ll never leave you. I’ll stay with you forever.”

“Forever and ever,” the prism will say.

“Forever and ever,” you’ll respond.

When you get home, you’ll take out the hook from the wall and hang your blacklight poster closer to the stairs, where the air is better, according to the blacklight poster of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side Of The Moon.”

Happy Your Blacklight Poster Of The “Dark Side Of The Moon” Album Cover Has A Score To Settle Day!

Anonymous Donor Day!

Today you are the extremely wealthy individual who makes all those anonymous donations to people whose tragedies and acts of heroism capture the nation’s attention. It’s a busy job. Today alone you have to send a year’s supply of diapers to the woman who had quintuplets, you have to buy a first class ticket so that a man traveling for work in Peru can make it home for the funeral of his wife and four sons (they all fell down a well), and you have to send another $25,000 check to subway hero Wesley Autrey (he’s basically living off of an anonymously donated allowance now). Sometimes you get a little selfish and you wonder why you shouldn’t just hoard all your money and pass it along to your kids. But people need to believe that there are rich people out there who can’t help but just send out cash to people who get interviewed on Good Morning America. Even if you’re the only one doing it, as long as it gets reported on TV, people will still have something to hope for. When they’ve suffered the most tragic of tragedies, your generosity will send them to the mailbox every day hoping against hope to find a big fat check in there, signed “Anonymous” (you legally changed your name to Anonymous a couple of years back because your work is your life).

Happy Anonymous Donor Day!

Holy Underwear Model Day!

You’re a very successful male underwear model whose real dream is to enter the priesthood. For the past three years, you’ve been saving every penny you’ve made from modeling to pay for Priesthood tuition. Today you’re going to find out that your Dad lied to you about the Priesthood charging tuition.

“Yeah,” he’ll say. “It’s free. They can’t expect dudes to never have sex and pay for it. I just told you that because I didn’t want you to become a priest.”

“It was my dream,” you’ll tell him. “How could you?”

“Let’s take a drive.”

Your Dad will drive you around town, past all of the billboards featuring your underwear-clad image towering over the populace. You’ll see you in some underwear holding a baby on a bare mattress, you in some underwear cooking bacon, and you in some underwear drinking a glass of Cutty Sark.

“Look at that up there,” your Dad will say. “That’s you, fifty feet high, with everyone in town looking up to you, waiting for you to tell them what to buy and what to drink or eat. It’s like this entire town is your church, this entire nation. Except you get to hold mass in your underwear. Would you really prefer to address your flock while wearing a big black dress?”

“I never thought about it that way,” you’ll say, because you’re very dim. Remember, you were convinced that priests paid tuition.

“You’re an underwear model, son,” your Dad will say. “If God didn’t want it that way, he would have made your groin area more ruddy. As it is now, you don’t even get bumps after a wax. You were born for it.”

You’ll stare up at a billboard which has you in some underwear feeding Fancy Feast to a kitten. You really do look great up there. Anytime you imagine yourself as a priest, you just see a world without ice cream and flowers, since your Dad also convinced you that priests are not allowed to eat ice cream or smell flowers. He also convinced you that priests can’t sit down when they have a bowel movement, but you stopped trying to figure out how that would work a long time ago.

“Be who you were born to be,” your Dad will say. “God gave you those abs for a reason.”

“I’m an underwear model,” you’ll say to the billboard which features you in some underwear reading the instructions that tell you how to build a child’s bicycle. “In service to the Lord.”

Your Dad will suppress his triumphant glee. He saw this whole thing as a battle for your future between him and Jesus, and he just kicked Jesus’ butt so he’s feeling pretty good about himself.

Happy Holy Underwear Model Day!

You’re A Terribly Sexy, Terribly Sucky Divorce Lawyer Day!

You are as sexy as you are terrible at divorce law. You’re also real lonely. So when your female clients, half-crazed by the emotional whirlwind of divorce, inevitably come onto you, you can’t help but respond in kind. You don’t have time to go out and meet someone because you’re too busy trying not to suck at your profession (an uphill battle). Therefore, when an offer of intimacy comes your way, it’s hard not to accept.

It never works out though. Your clients are all out of their minds with mourning over the marriage that was supposed to last forever, and they don’t really want much more out of you than a few weeks of self-destructive nudity, and an awe-inspiring settlement.

The bloom comes off the rose when you lose their cases and leave them penniless without even managing to finagle them some child-support. You try to guilt them into staying, telling them that they should be ashamed for not valuing you for who you are over what you can do for them. But they just shout some crap about not being able to pay for their kid’s tuition to the school for the hearing impaired and having to put him back into special ed at the public school. Like that makes you feel any better. It’s lonely being a sucky divorce lawyer who’s really attractive. Poor thing.

Happy You’re A Terribly Sexy, Terribly Sucky Divorce Lawyer Day!

Water Park Turd Wranglers In Love Day!

When you first laid eyes on Amy reaching her net into the wading pool at the bottom of a waterslide to pull a turd from the water, you were standing by the rapids and a raft came splashing up against the wall, sending a wave of water raining all over you. It was like a baptism.

“I feel like God made me a turd wrangler solely so I could meet you,” you told her on your third date.

“I feel like God made you a turd wrangler just to test me,” Amy responded.

Amy loves her work. She relishes the challenge of catching a turd and netting it out of the water before too many mothers pull their sons out of line for the ride. It takes a special attentiveness to purpose to distinguish a little kid turd from just another stray pair of goggles. And the dexterity required to make that net, she feels like she could just as well be roping bulls at the rodeo.

“Then you came along,” she said. She’d been working her way up to this waterpark for years now. It only hires the most talented of summer job seekers to be their turd wranglers, and Amy wasn’t about to blow her shot at excellence just for love.

“I’m sorry,” she’ll tell you today. “But I can’t see you anymore. I can’t date another turd wrangler. This is too important to me.”

“I’ll quit,” you’ll tell her. “I’ll get a job at the go-cart track.”

“Oh,” Amy will say. “Sweet.” Then she’ll kiss you and that night you’ll get boob.

Happy Water Park Turd Wranglers In Love Day!

You’re Not Going To Pick Up Hitchhikers Anymore Day!

Today you’ll be on the second day of a four day trip back to Minnesota after a job down south and you’ll be about ready to drive into a ditch just to relieve the boredom when you spot a pretty girl in her twenties holding up her thumb for a ride (it happens!). You’ll pick her up and you and her will get along really well, talking about music and movies and roads that seem like they’re going to be perpetually under construction (she grew up not far from where you grew up). That night, you’ll pull into a motel and they’ll only have one room left and she’ll say that’s cool with her, she needs to save money anyway. So you’ll share a room and you’ll do it with her then she’ll start talking about her Uncle Mick and you’ll say, “I guess everybody’s got an Uncle Mick.” Then she’ll start talking about Uncle Mick’s wife, Aunt Evy, and you’ll say, “I guess everyone’s Uncle Mick’s got a wife named Evy.” Then she’ll talk about how Uncle Mick lost his right leg to cancer and how Aunt Evy supplements his disability payments with her job selling appliances. That’s when you’ll realize you just fucked your cousin and you’ll make a vow that you’re not going to pick up hitchhikers anymore, no matter how bored you get. It’s just too dangerous.

Happy You’re Not Going To Pick Up Hitchhikers Anymore Day!

Girls Who Wear Fake Toes Aren’t Liars Day!

Back in high school you got heartbroken pretty bad and you vowed to never trust another woman again. You pulled it off for a couple of decades, until last week when you met Lucy at a waterfront bar near your work. She knew a colleague of yours and joined your table. You and she got to talking and before you knew it, you were making plans to have dinner the following Wednesday.

You and Lucy had about four dates before you found out about her fake toes. She’d invited you back to her place, and things looked promising. You were enjoying drinks on her couch, kissing a bit, when you looked down and saw she’d taken her sandals off. The sandals were sitting on the floor five feet away, poking out from under the glass coffee table. Her pretty toes were still in them.

You stopped kissing and grabbed one of the sandals. The hollow toes with the perfect bright red polish were made of a kind of thick rubber. Off the foot, you were shocked that you ever thought they were real.

You then saw her naked feet, and the toes on them. Oddly shaped, fat in all the wrong places, chipped and neglected nail polish barely coating her nails. Just a bunch of ordinary, everyday, ugly-ass toes.

“Toe cleavage,” she said. “It’s a big trend right now.”

You got up from the couch, went to the kitchen to grab the doggy bag you brought from the restaurant, and you got the hell out of there.

She left voicemails and sent you emails for several weeks and you stayed silent. Then she stopped trying to reach you. That’s when you realized how much you missed her. That’s when you panicked and told her you’d like to meet and explain. You’re having coffee tonight at six, and you’re going to tell her you were lied to around 23 years ago and therefore trust is a very big issue for you.

“Girls who wear fake toes aren’t liars,” she’ll say. “I just wanted to look pretty for you.”

You tell her about the prom. How you were surprised when the cheerleader asked you to go with her because you weren’t exactly quarterback material. Then when it was announced you had been elected prom king, it was like a dream. Then it turned into a nightmare when they dropped a pig on you.

“It was alive, but with its legs hog-tied. It pinned me there on the stage. They laughed, all of them, students and teachers, and they left me there stuck underneath that enormous pig while it squealed and shat all over me, and they went about their dance for another couple of hours, occasionally coming on stage to take a picture with me or to fart on my eyes. It wasn’t until they’d all gone that the custodial staff came onstage and rolled the pig off of me.”

Lucy’s crying when you finish your story. “That was the only reason that girl asked me to the prom. So her and her friends could trap me underneath a live pig while everyone pointed and laughed. I made a promise to never trust another woman again, until you came along. I didn’t want to hold anything back from you. Then I saw those toes.”

“Those toes were no more an effort to deceive than the lipstick on these lips,” she says. “Nothing more than an effort to make you want me just as much as I want you.”

You lean in to kiss those lips. She pulls back.

“You have to trust me,” she says. “This won’t work if you’re going to doubt my heart.”

You nod.

“You have to trust me,” she says. “I’m not a liar, and I want you in my life.”

You swallow. You say, “I trust you.” She reaches across the table and pulls you into her kiss.

Happy Girls Who Wear Fake Toes Aren’t Liars Day!

You’re A Filthy Goth Day!

You’re a filthy Goth, so late last night, while painting something black (your throw pillow or your bathroom mirror, those aren’t black yet) you responded to a TV commercial and you bought one of those lightbulbs that you can carry around the house from room to room, setting the bulbs into little sockets that you mount in places around your home where, for whatever reason, there is no wiring for electric light. It’s great for filthy Goths like you because you get to use the magic of electric light to pretend that you live in a time before there was electric light, when people had to carry oil lamps with them everywhere they went. Except you don’t have to worry about setting your eyelashes on fire.

Tonight when you use the lamp, you’ll discover that all those places in your house that are not wired for electricity were neglected on purpose. When the light comes on in the stairway leading down the basement, you’ll see the ghost of a teenage girl. She is blonde and beaming with joy, jumping up and down in a cheerleader’s outfit. Her perkiness offends your love of darkness and ruffled shirts.

When the light comes on in the stairway leading up to your guest bedroom, you’ll see the ghost of a well-built man with a sweater tied around his neck. He’ll appear to be calling his kids to take them all out to a waterpark. The wholesomeness of it all will disgust you.

When the light comes on in your pantry, you’ll see the ghost of a happy mother reaching for the top shelf, where you’ll see the ghost of a can of cake frosting. True and real and horrible.

You’ll hastily throw away the lightbulbs that you can carry around the house with you and rip the mounted sockets from their walls. These spirits can carry on their horrific reverie, just as long as you don’t have to watch the hideous obscenity occur. You’ll be under the silver mosquito netting over your princess bed, drawing on the sheets in the blood from your under-thigh thank you very much.

Happy You’re A Filthy Goth Day!

You Are The Ice Cream Woman Day!

Anytime the children see your Ice Cream Truck coming down the street, they come running at you to buy some of your delicious treats and to ask you questions like when is your husband coming home from Iraq and why is there war?

“I’d like one 4th of July Pop,” little Kimmy says. “And I’d like to know if you’re angry at George Bush for taking your husband away and making you drive his Ice Cream Truck.”

You explain that getting angry doesn’t help anybody, and you’d drive your husband’s ice cream truck to the end of the Earth if it meant his Ice Cream route would still be secure and profitable when he returns. “He loves this route and he misses you kids so much. I have to make sure it’s all still here for him when he gets back.”

“Fudgsicle,” Hank the fat kid says. “Is your husband winning the war?”

You give Hank his fudgsicle and you tell him your husband is doing his part.

“Banana Split Pop,” Lizzie the child of divorce says. “I’m uncomfortable buying Ice Cream from an Ice Cream Woman. Ice Cream should be bought from Ice Cream Men.”

You give Lizzie her pop and you tell her about the sacrifices that are made in times of war. Then you tell her about Rosie the Riveter and the Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell movie “Swing Shift.” Lizzie points out that Goldie cheated on Ed Harris in “Swing Shift.” You quickly jump behind the wheel and peel out.

Happy You Are The Ice Cream Woman Day!

You’re Not There For Him Day!

Your son is a competitive eater and today he’s competing in the most important hot dog eating contest of his life. He’s made it this far thanks to your encouragement and your lessons of how important it is to discipline yourself to finish whatever you start, whether it be a plate of coleslaw or a plate of 75 hotdogs and some water.

You can’t be there to cheer him on because you’re in jail for embezzling from your own company, the company you built from scratch. Your son hasn’t visited you yet. The last you talked, it was the night before the sentencing.

“Is there discipline in stealing from what you’ve created? Do you take pride in hobbling your life’s work?”

“It was for your training,” you offered. You sent him to a Competitive Eating, Plate Spinning, and Sword Swallowing camp and it was very expensive.

“So it was for me that you threw away everything,” he said.

“It was for you that I did whatever it took.”

He put his hand on your cheek, it was the last time he touched you, and he said, “Would you have been proud of me if you knew I was stealing hot dog buns? Or, Jesus strike me down, hot dogs?!”

You hung your head in shame, and you didn’t see him when he left.

The C.O. set it up so you could watch the competition in the TV hall. By the look in your son’s eyes you’ll know immediately that he’s going to blow this. By midway through he’s trailing by twelve hot dogs. With ten seconds left he throws them all up into the bucket they provided for him by his chair. Then he just sits there and stares into the camera.

He’s staring at you. He knows you’re watching. And he’s letting you know it was in honor of you that he threw away his dream. Now more than ever you wish you could go back in time and not steal that money. Not to set a better example for your son, but just so that you could be there today to teach him one last lesson: If you strive for anything at all, you should strive to be a better man than your Dad. Anything less, and you’ve failed.

Happy You’re Not There For Him Day!

Chase A Lady Through Some Ruins That Smell Like Pee Day!

Jennifer married the wrong man, and she knows it, which is why when she comes by your place for the reception after your Dad’s funeral it won’t be long before she takes off running out the door and across the street into the ruins of the waterfront buildings that burned down in 1977.

You had your arm around her shoulder while you watched the buildings burn. The two of you were only ten years old. Your big brother and his friends were grabbing pieces of wood and garbage and tossing them over the fence into the flames. But you and Jennifer stood and watched like you were getting a look at a second 4th of July.

Jennifer’s husband wasn’t there when the waterfront burned down. He wasn’t even born yet. Just a thought in his mother’s head all the way across the country in Northern California.

“I can’t run through here,” you shout at her back. “Too much piss.”

Jennifer doesn’t stop. She races out of one cinderblock doorway and finds her way in another. You started drinking early today to get through the funeral, and you’re now praying for a rain that’ll at least stamp down the pee smell a bit.

“Jennifer please,” you shout. Then it comes. You bend over and you start throwing up on the floor of what was once a shoe factory. You retch loudly to make sure she hears you. It isn’t long before she’s by your side and rubbing your back.

In between your vomiting, when you pant for air and enjoy Jennifer’s hands on you, she explains why she’s married to a man over a decade younger than her, and not you.

“You stayed in the neighborhood,” she says. “You got a place right here looking at all these burned out buildings. You never wanted anything more.”

You start throwing up again. Then you stop.

“I pictured marrying you and I saw nothing more than the life my mother and father had,” she says. “I wanted control. I met this young boy, you know he’s not even thirty. He does what I want.”

You throw up. Then you stop again.

“I’m fooling myself, yeah,” she says. “I’m gonna get bored with my boy husband, I know. But I'll never be trapped.”

You’re done throwing up. You get on your feet and Jennifer looks in your eyes for the first time today. They’re bright red from the vomiting. Jennifer doesn’t move a muscle to stop you from grabbing her close and lifting up her dress. You keep your head on her shoulder, facing away from her so she can’t smell you, and you kiss her neck while she undoes your pants. Then her boy husband calls her name.

“Jenny?”

His voice and his footsteps turn you both into shadows. You’re up against a wall turned gray with piss and shaded by the trees hovering over the open roof. Your pants are down and her dress is up. Her boy husband comes closer.

“Baby?”

You consider calling him in so you can crack his head open with a block of wood. But that would mean letting go of Jennifer. You stay quiet. You and Jennifer look into each other’s eyes while you listen to his footsteps.

“Jenny?”

He’s just outside your building now. He’s stopped. He can see through the door that the roof has fallen in and it looks more dangerous in there than the other buildings. You wonder if the fresh scent of your puke is reaching him through all that pee.

“Jen?” He’s calling like he knows you’re just inside that room. Then his footsteps start up again. He’s walking away. When the sound of his steps disappears, Jennifer grabs your head from her shoulder and plants her lips on your disgusting mouth. You both move deeper into the shadows of the burned out building, not trying to be quiet anymore.

Happy Chase A Lady Through Some Ruins That Smell Like Pee Day!

You And Your Dad Find A Box Full Of Hashish And Some Money Day!

“I’m really glad we’re doing this, Dad,” you say. “It’s been hard for me since Stacey left. She told me I’m one of the ones that just gets thrown away, and I’d better get used to it. Honestly, I haven’t felt so helpless since I was a little kid waiting for you or mom to tuck me in.”

“Hey look, a box of hashish!” your Dad says, pointing out the window.

It’s an open box, like a high-walled lunch tray, sitting in the leaves on the ground. The five bags it holds must contain fifteen or twenty thousand dollars worth of hashish. There’s also a handful of hundred dollar bills.

“Here,” your Dad says, handing you the money. “I want you to have this.”

You mumble, “Thanks.” Your Dad is sorting through the drugs. You’ve seen that look in his eyes before. He’s adding up numbers, probably comparing the value of those drugs to whatever expenses he’s been trying not to face.

“You need to get yourself back on your feet,” your Dad says. “So your wife’s gone. Come on! Get back in action!”

He’s saying goodbye. This is the way he does it. He starts throwing out some quick advice, trying to cram in some fatherly-ness before vanishing. Then he finds the back door and you hear from him again when the decade turns.

“I’m gonna go take a leak,” he says. Then he gets out of the truck and just starts walking through the woods. You watch him stumble over rocks and underneath branches for about ten minutes. Then he’s too far away. He’s gone.

You sit there in the truck for a while, enjoying the woods. You got to see your Dad for part of an afternoon. No matter how it ended, you got that much. When the drug dealers come by looking for their stash and they ask you if you know who took it, you point them in the opposite direction of where your Dad headed. They thank you kindly. “You’re one of the good ones,” the drug dealers say.

Happy You And Your Dad Find A Box Full Of Hashish And Some Money Day!

Go Bust Your Crazy-Ass Girlfriend Out Of The Mental Hospital Day!

The girl you love was admitted into a mental hospital the other day and they won’t let you see her because you aren’t family. Since you’re an idiot, you’ve concluded that her family is just trying to keep the two of you apart. While her parents would certainly love for their daughter to lose all interest in you, being as they are aware that you are a complete freaking idiot, the reason they admitted her into a mental hospital is because she’s been increasingly paranoid and delusional. She was under psychiatric care long before you showed up and decided you could make her all better by dragging her outside in her pajamas in the middle of the night so she could watch the first snowfall of winter and charming bullshit like that. Her medication has been futzed with more times than you’ve filled in the “do not withhold taxes” box on your unemployment forms, and this week it was recommend that she try inpatient for a few weeks so they can monitor her reaction to the medication more closely.

Unfortunately, due to your being a fucking moron and a dickhead who sucks anus, you’ve decided that’s all just a bunch of bullcrap and you’re going to go right over to that hospital and “rescue” her from her very expensive care. You’re going to put on an orderly’s uniform that you bought from a uniform shop, sneak past the front desk and creep about the hospital until you find your girl. Then you’re gonna kneel by her bed and propose, using a plastic ring naturally. Because she’s only been there for two days she’s presently tranq’ed out of her mind and she’ll say yes with the same enthusiasm she uses to affirm that she would like a piece of cornbread with her chicken at dinnertime. Then you’ll pull her from her bed and drag her down the hallways to the main exit, with dozens of orderlies chasing after the two of you. You’ll elude them and you and your new fiance will escape from the hospital and you’ll finally be free to explore your great and endless love for each other.

After three days without medication she’ll be completely unmanageable and you’ll abandon her in a Roy Rogers. The manager on duty at Roy’s will alert the police and her family will arrive in a few hours to return their little girl into the hands of her physicians, and you’ll run off and ruin everything for everyone someplace else, hopefully someplace where everyone owns rifles.

Happy Go Bust Your Crazy-Ass Girlfriend Out Of The Mental Hospital Day!

Maybe He’ll Just Reach Out Of The Bathroom And Yank You In There With Him Day!

You and your boyfriend are out at a bar for his brother Matt’s birthday tonight and Levi is there. Levi is the only boy you’ve considered cheating on your boyfriend with in the six years you’ve been together. By “considered,” I mean “masturbated incessantly to the idea of.” You have no intention of making a pass at Levi. But you do like to put yourself into situations where he could make a pass at you. Like tonight, when Levi goes to use the unisex bathroom downstairs, you’ll follow close behind and get there just after him.

“Oh,” he’ll say, halfway through the door. “You want to go first?”

“That’s okay,” you’ll say. “Finder’s Keepers.”

If he wants, he could just reach out and yank you in there with him. The unisex bathroom is in the basement, down a hallway of creaky floors. There’s a set of men’s and women’s bathrooms upstairs so not too many people come down there. If he feels like it, or if you look at him the right way, he could just grab your hand and yank you in there with him and then…things will happen. Things that are beyond your control. You won’t have done anything but gone down to the bathroom and you’ll have just gotten yanked into someplace and then before you knew what was happening…

Levi shuts and locks the door in your face and you wait. Maybe when he comes out he’ll tell you the toilet has a weird flush and he’ll take you in there to show you and when you’re both hovering over the toilet like that, playing with the flush and lifting your pants cuffs so they don’t absorb the puddle on the ground, it’ll just be so perfect that…not your fault.

“I didn’t do that to the seat,” he’ll say when he comes out. You’ll laugh in a way that tries to get him to make eye contact with you and pull you into his arms and kiss you before you have a chance to do the right thing and say no, but he’ll just keep walking down the hall and back up to the party. You’ll go inside and while you’re wiping strange urine off the toilet seat you’ll wonder why it’s just gotta be so fucking hard to accidentally cheat on your boyfriend.

Happy Maybe He’ll Just Reach Out Of The Bathroom And Yank You In There With Him Day!

Magic Samantha Day!

Today you are 76 and you’re going to tell your husband the truth.

“I’m actually not magic at all.”

“But all these years I’ve lived in fear of your powers. I gave up so much.”

You’ll explain that you just told him you were magic when you and he were back in high school because you wanted to go out with him and you didn’t want him to be friends with his stupid asswad rich kid clique anymore. So you told him your powers were great and he had to be your boyfriend and love you. If he refused, you warned him that you would turn him into a squirrel and you would set Marnie, the girl he really loved, on fire.

“My life. I’ve lived my whole life in fear. Of a fraud.”

“We had some good times.”

“Marnie. Marnie.”

He’ll just go on like that for a month. Moaning Maarnie. Maaaarnie! After a while you’ll wish you were magic so you could rip his tongue out without worrying about him biting your hand. Later, he’ll go.

Happy Magic Samantha Day!

Dear Mountaineer Day!

You’ve been having trouble with your Mom lately, so you decided to write to your favorite nationally syndicated column, “Dear Mountaineer.” Your letter was published today! Check it out…

Dear Mountaineer,

My Mom says I’m too old to live in her house anymore. I’m forty-four. My Dad’s dead so it’s not like she doesn’t need a man around. Why is she being such an asshole?

-Mama’s Boy

Dear Mama’s Boy,

Your Mom is experiencing what we mountaineers call “Altitude Sickness.” Hope this helped.

-The Mountaineer.

The great thing about the Mountaineer is, you can tell by his prose that he really does hope he helped. If he didn’t, it’s a shame because the mountaineer has a strict policy of cutting people off after a single correspondence. You can’t be weighed down with a lot of letters when you’ve got the summit in sight.

Happy Dear Mountaineer Day!

Blood In The Barbecue Sauce Day!

At the State Fair last night, you lost the Boldest Baddest Best BBQ Sauce Contest to Louie Watkins. Today you’re going to take his life.

“I knew you’d come,” he’ll say from behind his grill.

“It’s not fair,” you’ll say. “Your sauce tastes like assholes.”

Louie will turn off a pork shank. It will sizzle.

“The people have spoken,” he’ll say.

“I have a rebuttal,” you’ll say to Louie. Then you’ll shoot him twice in the chest. A cloud of red will form on his apron, blotting out the “If You Don’t Like My Ribs, SUCK THE BONE!” decal. Louie’s young daughter will go to her daddy and hold his hand while he dies. She’ll look up at you.

“I have to raise you now,” you’ll say.

“I don’t want you to raise me,” Louie’s daughter will say.

“It’s the way things are done,” you’ll say. “It’s in the sauce.”

You’ll snatch Louie’s daughter and the two of you will take off for Kansas City where you’ll build a BBQ empire with a brand new sauce recipe. Your sauce will put Louie’s daughter through Harvard. It will buy her and her husband a house. It will fill the space under her Christmas tree with presents for her grandkids. After many years she’ll visit your sauce factory and find several small glass tanks of blood labeled, “Louie’s Blood. Add One Small Drop per Fifty Vats.”

Suddenly she’ll realize her entire life of luxury has been built from her father’s murder. She’ll want to throw everything away in honor of her father, but can she? And did she know all along? Couldn’t she have guessed when you chose the slogan, “Sauce So Good You’ll Think I Murdered My Daughter’s Biological Pappi!” Yes, she probably could have guessed. That slogan is very obvious and she probably could have guessed.

Happy Blood In The Barbecue Sauce Day!

Guess Who’s Back Day!

Your Mom’s back and she’s sitting on your couch. She ran off on you and your Dad when you were seven. You’re seventeen now, and you’re not doing so well.

“Your Dad still suck?” she asks.

“He’s making do,” you say. “He wasted a lot of time wondering where you’d gone and what he could have done to make you stay.”

“He used to tell the worst jokes and he snored,” your mom says.

You don’t say anything.

"His breath stunk too. I’m just saying. I had my reasons.”

You don’t say anything.

“If you’re just gonna sit there and not say anything, maybe I shouldn’t have come back at all.”

You ask your Mom, “Why did you come back?”

“I wanted to see how tall you got,” she says.

You stand up against the door-frame where they used to mark your height. The last mark is only three feet from the ground. Your mom marks the wood at over six feet.

“Those are my genes you know,” she says. “Your Dad and his whole family are real short. Fat too.”

“Is it your genes that are making me fail out of school and break into houses so that I can buy drugs?” you ask. “Or am I just doing that because my Mom ran off when I was seven?”

“Sorry kid,” you Mom will say. “But I’m betting it’s because you’ve been living with your Dad all these years. I mean, man does he suck.”

Just then your Dad walks into the house. He farts while chewing with his mouth open then he says something racist and makes a phone call to his real estate company to tell them to make a business deal that leaves thousands of low income families without a place to live. He’s bleeding from someplace on his body and he’s tracking blood on the carpet.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he says when he sees your Mom.

Your Mom takes off. After she’s gone, your Dad tries to clean up the blood with a rag that he wet with grape juice. It upsets you, but admitting that he’s doing something sucky would be siding with the mother who ran off on you all those years ago. So you get down on your hands and knees and help him rub grape juice into the carpet. While you’re down there, your Dad gets angry and hits you.

Happy Guess Who’s Back Day!

Satellites Falling All Over The Beach Day!

Today all of the satellites are going to fall out of the sky and land on the beach. You’ll run to and fro trying to dodge the giant metal beasts, but there will be just so many.

“Over here!” someone will shout. You’ll discover a man hiding in the doorway to the men’s room structure near the entrance to the beach. You normally don’t go near the men’s room because ever since you were a kid it was well known that the men’s room at the beach was where gay guys had sex with each other and you wanted nothing to do with that.

“This is pretty weird right?” you’ll ask the guy who called you over. “Think this means we’ve finally screwed up our atmosphere beyond repair? Think this is the end?”

“That stall’s free,” he’ll reply, nodding towards a stall where two men are walking out towards the sinks, aglow.

“Sorry, I just came here for safety,” you’ll say. “You guys don’t ever quit do you? I mean, the world looks like it’s coming to an end right now.”

He’ll shrug. “Hey, when you finally decide to go to a public restroom and have sex with a stranger while hovering over a dirty toilet seat, it’s hard to shift your focus to current events. You sure you’re not up for it? I mean, like you just said, it’s the end of the world.”

He’s got a point.

“If not now…”

“When?” you’ll say. Then you’ll take his hand.

Happy Satellites Falling All Over The Beach Day!

The Cute New Gas Station Attendant Day!

Today after the cute new gas station attendant fills up your car with gas, he’ll come around to your window and ask, “Why are you crying, lady?”

Tell him, “Because I came here to seduce you. But then I heard you just now on your cell phone talking about how you saw the movie TMNT. My high school age son saw that too. I’m ashamed of myself. I never thought that at this point in my life I would find myself in special undergarments at the gas station with the intent of making love to a gas station attendant who is the same age as my son.”

The gas station attendant will say, “TMNT was awesome. If you saw it, it might make you cry a little less.”

Tell him, “It’s not that I need to see an exciting children’s movie. It’s that I’ve hit such a bottom that even though I’m here and I’m admitting how terrible I feel about all this, I still hope that I’ll get to make love to you in the back of my car today.”

Later, after having brief terrible sex with the gas station attendant in your car, you’ll return him to the gas station and he’ll say, “I can fill you back up with the gas you burned driving to the park and back. On the house?”

You’ll nod and the gas station attendant will go to the tank and squeeze once on the nozzle, sending one sixteenth of a gallon into your car. It’s a nice gesture. He’s a nice boy. Tonight you’ll want to ask your son whether he makes a point of doing nice things for the desperate older ladies who pull up beside him on his way home from school and seduce him, but you’ll keep your trap shut.

Happy The Cute New Gas Station Attendant Day!

They’re All Either Married Gay or Crazy Day!

Today you’re going to meet four men and they’re all either married, gay, or crazy. The first man is Carl the 92-year old. Have you guessed what Carl is yet? That’s right, he’s both gay and crazy. He’s been slowly losing his mind for a decade now. Thinks he’s in the war. The next man is Louis, the osteopath. You guessed right. Louis is married. The next man is Kevin, the Wendy’s manager. You guessed wrong, Kevin is married, not crazy. The last man is Julian, the racecar driver. You guessed wrong, Julian is both gay and married, just like you.

You guessed two right, so you can keep two of your fingers on each hand. The thumb and the index finger are recommended. With those two, you can still be “OK.”

Happy They’re All Either Married Gay or Crazy Day!

Laptop Switchup Day!

Coming through security at the airport, you accidentally picked up the wrong laptop. It looked like yours, but once you got on the plane and opened it, the wallpaper was of a little girl, somebody’s daughter probably, and not a secretly captured “upskirt shot” of a strange woman in a park. You cursed your luck and hoped that you would be able to get your own laptop returned to you. Then you started poking around the directories until you found a document called “My Top Secret Recipe For Mustard.”

When you got home you mixed up a batch according to the recipe and darn if it wasn’t the best damn mustard you ever had. So you patented it, got funding and today your brand new revolutionary brand of delicious golden mustard hits grocery store shelves.

You never did get your laptop back. The mustard chef never bothered to come looking for you, not even when news got out about the new mustard on the market. Apparently, he so enjoyed the thousands of secretly captured “upskirt shots” of strange women in parks that you had on your computer (it’s your hobby) that he was willing to give up the recipe in order to hang onto them. Everybody wins.

Happy Laptop Switchup Day!

A Visit To The Optometrist Day!

Over the weekend you got mixed up in a pretty bad misunderstanding and you ended up putting your own eyes out.

“Lemme guess,” your optometrist will say.

“Please don’t,” you’ll say. “Is there anything you can do?”

“Since you were smart enough to heat up the knives beforehand, the wound is already pretty solid so I don’t have to sew anything up. That was good thinking.”

You’ll feel good about yourself. You’ve always been known for planning ahead. It’s what your Dad used to praise you for before you murdered him Saturday.

“I can give you some color contacts so you won’t look so gross.”

“Can you make my eyes blue? My Dad had blue eyes so…”

“So you figure your mom is into blue-eyed men?”

You’ll feel bad about yourself.

“Hey,” your optometrist will say. “I’m an optometrist. We don’t ask questions. And we don’t judge!”

He’ll plug some blue contacts over your dead eyes. They’ll look sort of like a burnt charcoal gray because of the deep black of the wounds on your eyeballs.

“You look handsome,” your optometrist will say. “Go get her.”

You’ll pay your co-pay and feel your way out the door.

Happy A Visit To The Optometrist Day!

Sportsmanship Day!

Today when you lose the big game because you throw like a girl, tell the other team’s star player that you only lost because you don’t really care about sports. Tell him you think books and being with family is far more important.

“I think you’re full of it,” he’ll say. “You would give up everything, even your ability to read, if you could be me for a day.”

Tell him he’s wrong. But that you are relatively certain the opposite is correct. Tell him you believe that he wishes there was more to his character than just being able to throw a ball. Tell him you believe he would like to be respected for something other than a physical talent. In short, tell him that you think he wishes that he could be you. During the pummeling that will ensue, tell him that his every punch confirms your suspicion, then quiet down and just admire his athletic prowess as the fists fly.

Tomorrow when the two of you wake up you’ll have switched bodies. You’ll be really good at sports (you’ll find out when a jock shoots a spitball at you and you duck out of the way really fast) and he’ll be really good at academics. You’ll both agree that this is exactly what you’ve both always wanted and you’ll do nothing to try and switch back. In the end, he’ll go off to Harvard and you’ll win the Homecoming game, then you’ll stay stuck in this dead-end town for the rest of your life with nothing more than a beer gut and a couple of kids to show for yourself.

Happy Sportsmanship Day!

In Loving Memory Of Ray Ray Day!

You used to be in a street gang in the fifties. You were called “The Rough Stuffs.” You wore that on the back of your leather jackets and it let everyone in town know that if they messed with you guys, they were in for some rough stuff.

You got into lots of rumbles in your day. You’d rumble over which gang gets to hang out at the soda fountain in the afternoon, which gang gets to park their Thunderbirds in the senior parking lot at school, and which gang gets to occupy the dance floor during the sock hop. With every successive rumble the fighting seemed to get a little more violent with the stakes raised a little higher.

Eventually, you all started fighting with knives. Things came to a head when Ray Ray got killed. You were rumbling with a rival gang, The Bad News Paperboys, over which gang gets to sit in the back row at the movie house. The Bad News Paperboys cornered Ray Ray during the rumble and they used their switchblades to pry his eyes out of his skull, then they stabbed him in the belly twelve times. When he fell over, they stuffed a knife in his anus.

But you won the rumble. And today, like you do every year on this date, you’re going to take your 67-year-old self back to that movie house and take your seat in the back row. And if you see any members of the Bad News Paperboys, you’re going to shoot them in the face with the revolver in your front pocket. This rumble isn’t over as long as Ray Ray’s still dead.

Only problem is that old movie house is a Best Buy now, so instead of sitting in the back row, your turf is now the Mobile Devices section. Browse with your head held high Rough Stuffer!

Happy In Loving Memory Of Ray Ray Day!

Dramamine Day!

You and your new bride both got real sick on your honeymoon cruise and you both took lots of Dramamine which fucked you both up and made you see stuff.

“What’d you see?” you’ll ask three years into your marriage.

“You first,” she’ll say.

Tell her, “I saw the world in your face. It was a world of peace and beauty.”

She’ll say, “I saw bugs everywhere.”

Admit to her, “Yeah me too. I was just trying to protect you.”

She’ll ask if you really think those bugs are real and you’ll say, “Don’t you?” Then the two of you will run to the shower and scrub at each other with metal brushes under scalding hot water.

“I wanted to do this to you the day we were married,” you’ll say. She’ll smile and you’ll kiss her bloody teeth. Then she’ll scream for you to keep scrubbing, and you’ll scream just to keep vigilant.

Happy Dramamine Day!

Your Thirteen Year Old Son Got His Dick Caught In One Of The Mousetraps Day!

You placed them throughout the house in various nooks and corners. It’d be absolutely impossible, even by accident, for anyone to get his penis anywhere near one of those traps. Unless he was really curious.

“You’re not in trouble,” you’ll tell your son after you set him free. “But can you just tell me if you have any…questions? About anything?”

Your son will burst into tears and scream, “I’m not dirty! NOT NOT NOT DIRTY!” Then he’ll run away. Nice going.

Happy Your Thirteen Year Old Son Got His Dick Caught In One Of The Mousetraps Day!

The Restaurant Where You Wait Tables Is On Fire Day!

You can only lead one person to safety. You’re in the weeds tonight. There are forty covers waiting to not burn to death, including the older divorcee who has been a regular of yours for years who loves to chat you up for a half hour or more before you even take her order, but there’s also a birthday party crowded with six year olds, but there’s also a two-top of newly-weds, but then again, there’s also a man who says he just found the cure for cancer and before he tells anybody about it he wanted to celebrate with a nice dinner.

“I choose to rescue the new waitress whom I have not tried to sleep with yet,” you say. Then you lead her out to the sidewalk where she tells you that she has a boyfriend just before the roof collapses on the screaming patrons.

Happy The Restaurant Where You Wait Tables Is On Fire Day!

You Make Your Mortgage Payments In Quarters Day!

Your mortgage payment is due today. Just like you’ve done every month for the past twelve years, you’re going to go down to the bank with a giant burlap sack containing $1121.56 in quarters (and six pennies) and thump it onto the desk in front of Jeff Blugard, the bank manager.

“God you're an asshole,” Jeff will say.

“Fuck you Jeff, now mark it paid,” you’ll say.

“Gotta count it first don’t I, you cock,” Jeff will say.

“I’ll wait for my receipt,” you’ll say.

“Fucker.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fucker.”

“Fuck you, Jeff.”

Jeff will shove the bag off his desk so that it drops into the little red wagon he bought especially for your mortgage payments.

“Fucker,” he’ll say once more before wheeling your mortgage payment into the back to start pouring it into the change counter. He’ll come back an hour and a half later with your receipt.

“Here you go fuckdick,” Jeff will say. “See you next month, ass.”

“You wanna get lunch?”

Jeff will shrug and the two of you will go to Quizno’s. You’re still angry that Jeff had an affair with your wife, but the mortgage payments are vengeance enough. And ever since she passed, you feel the need to keep Jeff around. You like having the company of someone who came close to knowing just how wonderful she was.

Happy You Make Your Mortgage Payments In Quarters Day!

At The Bottom Of Every Bottle Of Bourbon, There’s A Prize Day!

Today, as encouragement to get people to drink all of their bourbon, there’s going to be a prize at the bottom of every bottle. Some of the prizes will be too small and if you drink your bourbon too fast you’ll swallow your little plastic toy. Many will experience damage to the esophagus. Scraping. Many others will drink the toy without realizing it and they’ll think they are very unlucky, or they’ll assume they were ripped off and demand refunds.

Some of the prizes will be too large, which is where the slogan “When The Bottle’s Dry, Smash It On the Curb and See What’s Inside!” came from. This will result in a city covered in glass and many gnarled bloody hands clenched around little plastic toys. Hospitals will be overrun.

Some of the toys will be just right, and when you take the last sip of that perfect bottle of bourbon, your toy will come rushing out just as you close your lips and it’ll give you a little kiss and land in your hand. Then you’ll unwrap the plastic and you’ll see that because you drank your whole bottle of bourbon, you just won a whistle. Congratulations, special drinker.

Happy At The Bottom Of Every Bottle Of Bourbon, There’s A Prize Day!

And Then The Plane Crashes Gently Into The Sea Day!

You wish you could die in a plane crash with the sound turned off. There will be no screaming and no unearthly sound of metal being wrenched from metal. And when the flames fill the cabin, they won’t actually incinerate anybody, the fire will simply erase, or rather, displace the passengers and the cabin they were in. As the fire slowly floods the cabin, one second there will be a passenger staring at a thick wall of approaching flames, and the next, the flames will have extended into that passenger’s space and that passenger and his chair and his magazine will be gone, like magic.

And then the plane crashes gently into the sea. It looks like a cardboard cut-out of a plane on fire. You can see the pilot in the cockpit flying like he always does with two eyes and a mouth. The people who haven’t already been replaced by fire can be seen through the windows breathing from their airmasks. There are waves in the ocean and the moon is bright and when the plane hits the ocean in two big pieces, that’s the end. The plane is in the ocean after that. The passengers don’t all die in specific ways and at specific times like drowning at 10:02 or fire displacement at 10:01. It’s as if all of the passengers and the plane itself are one giant living thing that dies when it crashes gently into the sea. After that, when the plane goes under the water, everyone stays in their seats and everyone is plastic. And the people who were displaced by fire are back because the fire is gone. They stay like that forever. Parents can swim down and look at them.

Happy And Then The Plane Crashes Gently Into The Sea Day!

Hang Onto Your Spot At The Mall Day!

Today at the mall, you’ll find that the bench in front of the Superpretzel will be completely empty. Run to it and take a seat, putting your Kohl’s bag on the other half of the bench so that no one else will sit with you.

That bench is the best spot in the entire mall. Always has been, ever since you first started hanging out at that mall in 1981. It’s got perfect sun from the skylight, and it’s right near the overhang so you can lean over the edge and look down shirts. You still remember when you sat your wife there to make out with her in public back when she was just your high school sweetheart. The spot is never available and when you caught it empty that day with your high school sweetheart you knew she was the one for you always.

Here comes your wife now.

“We gotta go,” she’ll say.

“Can’t,” tell her. “I got the spot. Not gonna let it go.”

Your wife will stare at you. You have a great deal of mental illness in your family and you can see her sometimes watching you for any manifestations. Then she’ll look at the bench and remember.

“Oh this is where we used to kiss! How cute. But seriously, we gotta get to my sister’s.”

“I’m staying,” tell her. “Got the spot. Not gonna let it go until I know why.”

Your wife will stare again. She’ll wish she were a violent person.

“Let’s go,” she'll say.

“Anytime this spot comes empty for me, it’s for a reason. It was empty the day I knew you were the one for me. It was empty the day my father died and I didn’t know it yet. It was empty when I came here after I didn’t get my promotion. Remember that?”

She remembers.

“And it was empty the day Robbie got kidnapped,” you’ll say. Robbie is your son and he’s been missing for a year. It hasn’t been easy.

“It’s the best spot in the mall and I need to know why it’s empty today. I need to wait.”

Your wife will reach for the bag at the end of the bench.

“No!” you’ll say. “I need to sit here alone. Leave the bag.”

“But my sister’s present,” she’ll say.

“Buy another one,” tell her. Then throw your credit card at her.

She’ll go, and you’ll sit and wait. You’ll sit all day, not minding waiting because you’re in the spot and everyone in the mall who sees you knows you’re on the cusp of enlightenment and they're jealous of you. They shove their kids along, or tussle with their classmates, wondering when they’ll get their day in the spot.

Today is your day, and at the end of it, when you stand up and lift your bag, you’ll see carved into the wood, “Robbie wuz here, 2/12/07. U Just Sat In Hiz Fartz.”

It’s your son’s work, there’s no doubt. He was alive and walking the mall as recently as a month and a half ago. He must be one of those kidnapped kids who just live with his abductors in the same town as his parents without trying to run away, the way kids like to do these days. You son is alive, and you just sat in his fartz.

Happy Hang Onto Your Spot At The Mall Day!

Animals Can See Your Homosexuality Just Like It Was A Hostile Ghost Day!

You know how animals can see ghosts that humans can’t see? Like when a ghost enters a room, the first thing that happens is a dog will start barking or a cat will raise its fur and hiss, and the owner will ask “What’s wrong boy?” right before books start flying off the shelves or the TV reception gets sucky? The same thing happens anytime you pay a visit to one of your pet-owner friends and their dogs or cats get a look at your denied homosexuality, which is so obvious and blatant it almost takes the form of a glittery glow constantly hovering just off your right shoulder, and yet you still somehow manage to pretend it isn’t there.

“So I asked out Julia at work,” you’ll say. “I think she could be the one.”

“What’s wrong boy?” your friend will ask his dog, who is now barking and snarling at your denied homosexuality.

“She’s got the most divine gazongas,” you’ll say.

Your friend’s dog will snarl even more now. Foam will sputter from his snout.

“I think I might take her to the Clay Aiken concert. She’s that special to me,” you’ll say. Your friend’s dog will then bury his front half under the couch and whimper in fear.

“Boy what got his boxer-briefs in a bunch?” you’ll ask.

“Beats me,” your friend will say. “So I heard you’re learning to make your own sorbet."

Happy Animals Can See Your Homosexuality Just Like It Was A Hostile Ghost Day!