Your Son Wants To Cover Himself In Gold Body Paint Day!

“Like Tommy Lee Jones in the movie ‘JFK’, during the gay orgy scene” he says.

You ask him why he wants to look Tommy Lee Jones in the movie ‘JFK.’

“I’m in high school and I’ve been trying to come up with a look that helps me to stand out and announces my identity, and when I saw Tommy Lee Jones in gold body paint I thought, ‘That’s what I’ve been missing,’” he says.

You know you’re supposed to support your son so you take him to a costume shop and help him pick out some tubes of gold body paint.

“You’re sure you wanna do this,” you ask him when he comes down for breakfast the next day, covered in paint. “You look like a bowling statue.”

“I guess I do look kind of funny,” he says.

“You have to remember, Tommy Lee Jones is a movie star. He had to get into shape for that role,” you say.

“Did you just call me fat?” your son asks.

Nod your head. Your son is only 5’4” and he weighs 210 pounds already. He’s crying now.

“Hey. Hey,” say to him. “Why don’t we work together to slim you down to the point where you’ll look even better than Tommy Lee Jones did in that gold body paint.”

Your son will nod and you and he will go to subway and start eating those diet sandwiches until all his weight is lost. Subway will contact him and ask him if he’d like to be in a commercial. He’ll ask if he can wear gold body paint in it. Subway won’t contact him again.

Happy Your Son Wants To Cover Himself In Gold Body Paint Day!

Parents Groups Are Turning Against You Again Day!

Your latest invention is not being warmly received by parents. You pitched it as the answer to parents who want to keep their teenage kids from going places they’re not supposed to go when they’re out at night unsupervised. It’s a small, plastic charge that gets inserted via the teen’s nostril and it’s connected to a map of neighborhoods that are divided into green and red zones as designated by the parents. Should the child enter a red zone, the charge detonates.

“So it’s a bomb,” the leader (very pushy) of the latest parents group to get all not-without-my-daughter on you says. “You’re suggesting I put a bomb in my child’s face.”

“It’s a very small charge sir,” you explain with a tired sigh. “It will do no more harm than if your child popped a very bad pimple.”

“My child has good skin,” one of the other parents will say. “You really think I should put a bomb in her face?”

“You really want her crossing those tracks? And you know the ones I mean.”

Everyone quiets down. They know the tracks you mean.

“How do we get the bomb-- I mean, the charge, in our kids’ faces?” a parent asks.

Your assistant starts handing out the barbiturates while you demonstrate how to discreetly dose a glass of iced tea while setting the dinner table.

“Two of these capsules will knock your kid out for four hours. The insertion procedure only takes five minutes. That gives you a bonus three hours and fifty five minutes of not hearing your child ask you why he can’t have a car.”

The parents group laughs as one. Then they all line up to buy bombs to put in their children’s faces. You could sell stripes to a zebra.

Happy Parents Groups Are Turning Against You Again Day!

You’re The New Rob Schneider Movie Day!

Today, you are the new Rob Schneider movie called “Dr. Fux.” You are about a Doctor named Dr. Fux whose last name sounds like the word “fucks” but it’s spelled differently. When the characters who appear in you hear the name “Dr. Fux,” they think the name is spelled “Fucks” and that leads to lots of misunderstandings involving small animals who go out of control. At the end of you, everything is explained to the people who misheard Dr. Fux’s name and it’s all going to work out. Newspapers are going to write about you as if you were what’s wrong with society at large. You won’t make a lot of money, enough to not be a financial disaster, but people will remember you for being horrible. Only a certain group of people will like you, and they are all stupid. In short, today anyone who likes you is stupid.

Happy You’re The New Rob Schneider Movie Day!

Watch “The Day After” With Your Kids Day!

Play your old videotape of nuclear terror TV movie “The Day After” and sit with your arms around both your kids as the low production values scream across the TV screen. At the end of the movie, say to your kids, “That’s what was scary to me when I was a kid. Was it scary to you guys?”

Your kids will shake their heads no.

“Well what scares you then?”

“Mom leaving us,” they’ll say.

All three of you will look out the window and watch your wife pack the trunk of that guy Rick’s car. Occasionally, she’ll cry a little and Rick will pull her into an embrace and kiss her forehead.

“Can we go with her?” your kids will ask.

“She doesn’t want you,” say. “She doesn’t want any of us.”

Leave your kids to watch their own little horror movie through the living room window and go into the kitchen to drink gin at the breakfast table.

Happy Watch “The Day After” With Your Kids Day!

You Just Went And Set The Carpet Underneath Your Desk On Fire Day!

“What did you just do under there?” your cubicle mate will ask.

You’ll place the lighter fluid, matches, and sunflower seeds (you chew them when you’re nervous) on your desk and you'll turn your big wide eyes towards your cubicle mate.

“Ohhhh I done did it,” you'll say. “I really done did it.”

The smoke will be rising now and your cubicle mate will shout that there’s a fire and everyone had better head for the exits.

“Ohhhh I done did it,” you’ll say, still at your desk with your head in your hands. “I really done did it.”

As everyone is filing toward the exits, start shouting, “I warned ‘em! I warned ‘em if they kept on pressurin’ me! Din’t I warn you all?”

Once everyone is gone from the floor, set off the charges by the wall to blow the far offices out from the building. From that point on you have exactly fourteen minutes before the firefighters make it to your floor. Haul out the bones you bought from the black market and lay them out near your desk. Then strip down and run around the floor rubbing your anus on everyone’s phone and computer mouse. THEN steal the 8 million in bearer bonds from the safe and get the hell out of there. You know this would go much quicker if you didn’t have to do the anus thing, but whatever. Just make sure the bones are lain out right so it looks like you got burned up and no one will go hunting you down in Buenos Aires. Seriously though, if you can speed up the anus part…

Happy You Just Went And Set The Carpet Underneath Your Desk On Fire Day!

One Day You’re Going To Make A Spring Break Comedy And Everyone Who Ever Made Fun Of You Will Feel Like A Fool Day!

Today after the senior talent show, when your short film, a tone poem put to celluloid, is greeted with a chorus of boos and building chant of “Ho-MO! Ho-MO! Ho-MO!” you’re going to be dragged out back behind the bleachers and beaten to a bloody mess then left face down in a puddle of mud. Your tormentors will walk away laughing with joy. You’ll stay put.

You’ll spy a worm struggling to get out of the dirt. You’ll commiserate.

“One day we’ll both show them what we’re capable of, won’t we worm?” you’ll whisper to the worm. “I’ve written a script, worm. It’s for a full length feature film, a spring break comedy called Nipples Cove. One day my film will be shot and it will be embraced by everyone who ever harmed me or doubted me or tried to keep me down. I’ll give them my heart on the screen and they’ll embrace it. And I’ll allow them to apologize for what they’ve done, and I’ll forgive them. I will, worm. You have to forgive. It’s what makes you better than them. Nipples Cove. Don't miss it, worm.”

“Dude the homo’s talking to the mud,” one of your tormentors will shout. “Let’s kick his ass again.”

They’ll all come running back and they’ll hold your face in the puddle of mud, until the day turns tragic.

Happy One Day You’re Going To Make A Spring Break Comedy And Everyone Who Ever Made Fun Of You Will Feel Like A Fool Day!

Disaster Recovery Notification Plan Day!

Your office just created an Disaster Recovery Notification Plan, which is basically nothing more than a phone chain so that if there’s a nuclear war, each person in the office will call the next person in the phone chain and tell them they have the day off.

In the first draft, you were supposed to call Kevin, who was supposed to call Rita. You have a big crush on Rita and you hate the thought of Kevin being possibly the last person to ever speak to her before she dies, so you bribed the admin to switch the names in the plan so that you get to call Rita (you gave the admin 30 dollars).

Today you’re not going to be able to resist the temptation of calling Rita. You just can’t decide whether you want to pretend that there’s been a disaster so that you can offer to come over her place and keep her safe from apocalyptic cannibal hordes, or to avoid her turning on the news and learning the truth, do you want to get your hands on a dirty bomb and detonate it someplace crowded? The dirty bomb would make your story believable when you call Rita, but you’d also risk being arrested for being a terrorist, which leads to waterboarding. But Rita is a smart girl. Would she really believe that there was an apocalypse just because you called her and told her so?

Love can sometimes land you into these kinds of difficult situations. The only way to get out is to be a man and attack your country.

Happy Disaster Recovery Notification Plan Day!

Briefs Off The Clothesline Day!

All of your underwear is going missing. Your Hanes White Cotton Pocket-Front Men’s Briefs. They’re being stolen off your clothesline when you hang your laundry to dry. There’s a perv out there somewhere who digs men’s briefs. Today after you hang your laundry you’re going to wait in a bush with a shotgun so that you can kill the bastard who’s running off with your undies.

Not long after the clothes are hung, you’ll hear a rustling in the grass. A disheveled woman will sneak into the yard with a man who is not wearing anything below the waist but is carrying a pair of slacks. The woman will yank the underwear from the line and toss it to the man who will hastily pull on the underwear and then the pants which he probably stole from someone else’s yard. Jump out and corner them with your shotgun.

“Please don’t shoot,” the woman will beg. “We lost our house and all our savings thanks to that son of a bitch George Bush.”

“What do you mean by that?” you’ll ask.

“He’s a prick,” she’ll say. “And we lost everything.”

You assume it has something to do with the mortgage stuff.

“My husband has been working with a social worker to get him a new job. He’s been interviewing, but he can’t do that without underwear can he?”

You concede that interviewing without underwear on would be next to impossible.

“Please don’t hurt us, we’re just trying to feed our daughter and make enough money so she can quit her job.”

She’ll point to the street where her daughter is standing holding a sign for passing cars that reads, “Pull over and I will get in your car and sing songs while you drive to work. $2.”

“Take the underwear,” say. “Keep up the good fight.”

They’ll move to hug you but they’ll smell so you’ll hold them back with the gun again. Send them on their way and then go to Sears to price dryers.

Happy Briefs Off The Clothesline Day!

Just You And The Fuckin’ Angels Day!

Your wife is out of town this week on business, which means you have the house all to yourself. Or at least you would. If it weren’t for all the fuckin’ angels wandering around whining about what it’ll take for them to get their fuckin’ wings. They won’t shut the fuck up and it pisses you off. You’re supposed to be watching porn or sports while your wife's away but you can’t because an angel will inevitably walk in front of the TV and start yammering about how she doesn’t sprinkle enough God dust amongst the living and she really should sprinkle more if she wants to get her wings but she’s just always so tired and busy. You tell the angel to shut the fuck up and get out of the fuckin’ way but she just starts crying and yelling about whatever angel got her wings that day and why can’t she. You tell the angel to stop comparing herself to other angels because who knows what gets one angel her wings as opposed to another. It’s different for everybody. But the angels never buy that. They know it’s a contest of status and that if you haven’t gotten your wings by a certain age, you’re pretty much doomed to be a haunter. And no one likes a haunter. Then she starts crying and you grab your coat and stomp out to a sports bar where you can get some peace and quiet without all the fuckin’ angels and their fuckin’ angel bullshit. Fuckin’ angels.

Happy Just You And The Fuckin’ Angels Day!

Your Ex-Husband Parachutes In Day!

You and your new husband will be walking across a beautiful flat field of short, bright green grass and many flowers when a man in a parachute drops to the ground not thirty feet ahead of you. He’ll gather his parachute for a second and then he’ll catch sight of the two of you and pause.

“Anna?” he’ll ask.

You and your new husband will go to him. He’ll remove his goggles and you’ll see it’s your ex. He was always into that daredevil crap and you wanted no part of it. Your refusal to join him in his skydiving and his windsurfing and crap was a big sticking point with him. You and he haven’t spoken since 2004.

“This is Larry,” you’ll say to your ex.

“You remarried,” he’ll say to you. “That’s wonderful.”

“Thanks,” you’ll say, genuinely touched to hear a kind word from him. Your last conversation was rather heated. “And you?”

“Engaged,” he’ll say. “There she is.”

He’ll point over your shoulder. You’ll turn to see a woman dropping from the sky in a parachute of her own. She’ll gather her parachute and join you. The four of you will go out for lunch, where you’ll be happy to learn over the course of the conversation that your new husband is afraid of heights.

Happy Your Ex-Husband Parachutes In Day!

Pube Omelet Day!

Your son was sent home with a painting that he did in art class that you have to sign to prove that you looked at it. It’s a painting of an omelet on a plate with curly little hairs sprouting all over it. It’s title, PUBE OMELET, is written along the bottom of the painting with little flames rising from the letters. The plate holding the pube omelet also holds some potatoes and a little sprig of parsley. To be honest, were it not for the pubes, it would look like a painting of a really delicious breakfast.

“What else is in the omelet,” you ask your son.

"Broccoli,” he says. And he points to the little spots of green. “And mushrooms.”

You point to a speck of gray in the omelet and he nods.

“And is the white stuff Swiss cheese?” you ask. He corrects you. It’s Manchego.

“It looks scrumptious,” you say. “Except for the pubes.”

Your son looks down at the ground. You lift his chin up and you tell him that everyone gets preoccupied when their bodies start to change, or are late in changing.

“But one day you’ll be a man,” you’ll say. “Soon even. And you won’t have to dream about eating pubes or feeding other people pubes because they’ll be all over your genitals.”

Your son beams up at you and asks if you can enroll him in a cooking school. You do.

“Go easy on the pubes,” you say with a smile. He nods obediently. You’re pretty sure he won’t try to put any pubes in his food at cooking school. But to be certain, you and your husband will make a point of rinsing the soap after every shower (your son tends to linger outside the bathroom while you’re showering. Sometimes he's holding a plastic baggie).

Happy Pube Omelet Day!

Spy Vs Spy Day!

You started spying on your wife to see whether she is drinking again and you found out that coincidentally she hired a spy to spy on you to see if you’re a spy with the government and she never knew (she realized she never checked that out). You aren’t a spy for the government, you’re just a dentist, but since you were spying on your wife her spy saw you doing spy stuff so he came back to your wife and said, “Yup, he’s a spy.” Your wife suddenly thought that her husband isn’t the man he said he was and she instantly started drinking again, which is exactly what you were spying to see if she was doing. You trying to check up on her is what made her start drinking again. Which is why no one should bother people who love to drink about their drinking. It’ll just make them drink more. Ignore the problem, and not only will you save spy money, but the problem might just go away or you’ll at least not know about it assuming you’re married to the kind of drunk who’s polite enough to keep the drinking a secret from those who care about him and therefore want to ignore what’s killing him.

Happy Spy Vs Spy Day!

Looks Like Your Mom Is Going To Go And Follow Incubus On Tour Day!

Your Mom is a huge fan of the band Incubus. She’s not just into the music, she digs the fan culture that’s grown up around the band. There’s apparently a society of Incubus fans that travel around the country in their Ford Escorts and their Hondas partying in the parking lots before heading into the stadium for upwards of 70 minutes at a time of emotive hard rock from their favorite band ever.

Your Mom never got to go out on tour because she was raising you. Now that you’re seven, she figures you’re old enough to order pizza.

“If you hurt yourself or don’t know how to turn the oven off or something, call Mr. Keough next door. He’ll come and help out.”

“The crossing guard told me never to talk to Mr. Keough but she wouldn’t say why,” you tell your Mom as she applies gray paint to her cleavage and neck for some reason. This is apparently what female fans of Incubus do. They paint parts of their bodies battleship gray.

“You’re a big boy and Mommy needs you to be on your best behavior while she’s gone,” your Mom says.

“Please don’t go I’m scared,” you say.

“Incubus! Incubuuuus!” Your Mom screams it into the mirror with an upraised fist, like she’s practicing. She didn’t hear your plea. Now she’s in the medicine cabinet sliding all of her Paxil bottles into a big sandwich bag.

“Don’t play my CDs,” she tells you as she pinches your cheek. Then she climbs into her Fiero and zips away to go and find her favorite band.

Not long after she leaves, some burglars start trying to get into your house but are thwarted because you know how to devise the crude delivery of torture and pain from simple household products.

Happy Looks Like Your Mom Is Going To Go And Follow Incubus On Tour Day!

The Cinnamon Mafia Day!

Justin and Charnice started referring to themselves as the Cinnamon Mafia today and they won’t tell you why.

“Is it because…you guys have access to really good baked goods?”

Justin and Charnice laugh and tell you that what you don’t know could fill the Staples Center.

“Is it because…you’re engaged in various prostitution and gambling enterprises and…you like sweets?”

Justin and Charnice laugh and tell you that you might as well have just stepped off the bus from Idaho.

“Does it have to do with butt sex?”

They say no.

“Thanksgiving?”

Nope.

“India?”

Uh uh.

“It doesn’t mean anything, does it.”

Justin and Charnice then show you the scabs where they sliced their thumbs open to take a blood oath.

“Oh my god you guys really are in a mafia,” you’ll say.

“A Cinnamon Mafia,” they’ll correct you.

“Yeah but what the fuck is that?” you’ll ask.

Justin and Charnice tell you you’re a little boy and that you should go home to Mama. That pisses you off, so you drive back to the town where you grew up and ask the boys you used to mess with on the street if they want to start a mafia with you.

“I want to call it The Taffeta Mafia,” you’ll say. Surprisingly, they’ll all shrug and say why not. You’ll tell them that the first order of business is to go and kidnap the captains (and sole members) of the Cinnamon Mafia and torture them until they explain why they called themselves that.

“Second order of business,” you’ll say, “Is gabagool!”

All of your Taffeta Mafia soldiers will jump up and shout, “Gabagool!” Then they’ll go and put knives to your friends’ genitals for a while.

Happy The Cinnamon Mafia Day!

Your Son Just Got His First Tattoo, And It’s Really Racist Day!

On a sentimental whim, you’ll go into his room tonight to tuck him into his covers long after he’s fallen asleep. He may be fifteen, but he’s not so big that you don’t tear up a little when you see him sprawled on his belly, just like he’s slept since he was a toddler.

When you pull the covers back a bit you’ll see that tattoo. It’s definitely real (you can see that part of it is still scabbed) and it’s definitely racist. Racist enough to get his ass kicked in certain neighborhoods. It’s not often that a father gets to blink his eyes just once and see all the limitations that are suddenly placed in his son’s way, but when you see how high up on his neck the tattoo has been drawn, it’s clear that he can remove “prized civil rights attorney” from his dream resume.

You’ll bail on tucking him in, allowing his covers to slide down his back. Let him catch cold. At least he won’t have to go into school and then come home with a letter from the principal demanding that you come in for another talk. You’ll go back into the living room and sit in your chair and wonder what the hell it was that you did wrong?

“Was it because I spent most of his childhood in prison after being charged with a racially motivated hate crime that involved ‘curbing?’” you’ll wonder to yourself. You’ll think about it a little longer before concluding that any mistakes your son makes are entirely the fault of his mom and what a jerkface she was before she joined the Church of Christ.

Happy Your Son Just Got His First Tattoo, And It’s Really Racist Day!

Lose Your Virginity Day!

You’re pretty shy around women, which is why you’re still a virgin at 34. You’ve pretty much been counting on the fact that one day a woman’s car is going to break down outside your house and she’ll need a place to stay for the night and inevitably, because you’re both alone in your house, the two of you will do it. It hasn’t happened yet but you’re pretty confident that at some point in the next few years at least one woman’s car will have to break down outside. Just in case, you keep the lights on in your living room all night long so it looks like someone’s home, and you also spend a lot of time sitting by the window staring out at the street.

Tonight a car is going to sputter to a stop right outside and a beautiful woman will get out and walk toward your house. But at the last minute, she’ll end up knocking on your neighbor’s door to ask for help. He’ll invite her in and you’ll hear the two of them doing it through the wall. You will be sad.

They’ll live together for several years until he starts doing drugs and inviting dangerous people over to their house and she comes running next door to you for a place to crash for a while. Your neighbor will come by looking for her (he needs money) and you’ll tell him to go away, so he’ll come back with all of his drug addict friends. You’re going to have to fight and kill them all if you want to finally be alone in your apartment with the woman whose car broke down right outside (which can only mean sex, even if her car broke down three years ago, she’ll see it as the funny way that fate works and she’ll want to do it just to have the story to tell about how fate works in funny ways and you never know).

Time to get lucky. Now kill all those drug addicts!

Happy Lose Your Virginity Day!

You’re Covered In Japanese Beetles Day!

That’s what you get for sitting still for too long. Lazy people are always at risk of drawing thousands of Japanese Beetles to gather on their skin and on top of and underneath their clothes because lazy people are too busy concentrating on the sweet little dreams in their heads, dreams of when they loved and when they might love again, dreams of one day finding a reason to make a special afternoon in a park for themselves, dreams of driving fast in a pretty car with one hand on a bare thigh that isn’t theirs (for goddamn once!). They dream and dream and dream and sometimes they even consider making a plan before they go back to dreaming and it takes up so much of their goddamn time that Japanese Beetles can spend an entire afternoon swarming around them before the lazy people finally turn on the news or check a website or get a phone call that tells them, “Holy shit you’re covered in Japanese Beetles! You have to move out!”

Happy You’re Covered In Japanese Beetles Day!

She’s An Explosives Expert Day!

Today you’re going to tell your Dad that you’re getting married and he, being the over-protective son of a bitch that he can’t help being, will ask what your fiancé does for a living.

“She’s an explosives expert,” you’ll say.

Your fiancé will hear you from the other room and she’ll wander into the kitchen with a big grin on her face. “Well, I wouldn’t say expert, but I’m pretty frigging good.”

Your fiancé will grab you by your ass and pull you in for a kiss. Your father will watch.

“Who do you work for?” your father will ask because he’s apparently the fucking Gestapo all of a sudden.

“Whoever pays the most,” your fiancé will say.

Your father will drag you into the other room. “I didn’t raise my son to marry a mercenary,” he’ll say.

“You didn’t raise me, period,” you’ll say.

Your fiancé will stand too close to the stove and the stray gunpowder on her sweater will ignite. She’ll run screaming.

“This what you want?” your father will ask you. “You want a wife who’s constantly on fire?”

“Better than a wife that’s always ice cold,” you’ll say.

Your father will slap you and tell you not to talk about your mother like that. You’ll run out the front door, crying. You’ll forget that your fiancé is still on fire in the kitchen. You won’t remember until you’ve run all the way to the train station the way you used to when you threatened to run away from home as a teenager.

Things were simpler then, back when you could pretend to run away from home without having to worry about the fact that your fiancé just exploded. Why do we have to grow up?

Happy She’s An Explosives Expert Day!

Those Vampires And Zombies On Facebook Aren’t Real Day!

Just keep telling yourself that and maybe you’ll get to sleep tonight. Maybe you can forget all about the fact that you got bitten by some guy who you don’t remember how you know but he was in your email address book so now you’re friends and he had to go and turn out to be a goddamn fucking Facebook zombie and of course he ran straight over and bit you.

“FACEBOOK ZOMBIES AREN’T REAL!” you shout at the ceiling. “It’s just a web thing. That’s all.”

Just in case, you open your bedroom window and put your cat out on the fire escape so she can make a run for it if you get bloodthirsty. Your cat immediately runs up the steps to the roof like an idiot. Like you won’t immediately go up there and eat her should you become bloodthirsty. Fucking stupid cat.

“I’M NOT A ZOMBIE!” you shout into the darkness. Your roommate leans into your room to tell you to keep quiet. Just in case the zombies on Facebook are real and he got bitten, you’d better drive an axe into his neck and take his head off.

As the blood spurts into the air and the blade of your axe gets stuck in your roommate’s clavicle, you can’t help but wonder what the fuck was so bad about Friendster anyway.

Happy Those Vampires And Zombies On Facebook Aren’t Real Day!

You’re A Mountain Climber Groupie Day!

You are obsessed with the prowess and dexterity of mountain climbers and you want nothing more than to get access into a famous mountain climber’s tent and let him have his way with you. This means that you have to be pretty good at mountain climbing yourself, seeing as you have to chase a guy up a giant mountain, one that usually only he can climb, and keep pace with him so that you’ll be close by when he finally beds down for the night. You’ve been climbing for years and you’ve really become quite skilled. Learning to climb mountains not only ensures that you’ll stay on your man’s trail, but that maybe after he has sex with you he’ll see that you and he have something to talk about and he’ll let you stay another night.

Today it’s all going to go wrong. You’ll have been chasing after Lazlo Enright up a mountain that no one’s ever climbed before. The way will be treacherous and you’ll find that you’ve gone off his route. In your desperation to find him again you’ll race up the mountain trying to locate his tracks, but there’ll be no sign of him. Before you know it you’ll find yourself at the top of the mountain. No flag, no camp, nothing. You’ll be the first human ever to reach that peak. A few hours later, Enright will come crawling up over the side and he’ll see you there waiting for him. You’ll try to offer yourself to him, but he’ll feel threatened by a woman who can break his mountain climbing records. Way to blow your shot at some ass, genius.

Happy You’re A Mountain Climber Groupie Day!

You Are The Last Showgirl Day!

You live in a time where fascism has swept the globe and, among many horrible side-effects, live theater and dance has been prohibited. This sent lovers of live theater and dance into underground clubs where they could, under penalty of death, continue to enjoy those old shows they used to love. It’s rare that a show reaches its curtain before the death squads come in and murder everyone on stage and in the audience, and the showgirl ranks have been dwindling down until tonight, when you are the very last showgirl.

“That means I’m also the greatest showgirl alive,” you tell your stage manager.

“That’s right kid,” he says. “Now get out there and—“

“Fuck that,” you say. “Think I managed to last all these years just to get shot? I can only hang onto my title if I never dance again. And dance again I never will.”

“But the people need you,” he says.

“The people also need their churches to have not been leveled,” you say. “Everyone should grab what he or she can. I am the greatest showgirl alive, and I always will be.”

You can hear the crowd clapping for you to come out and entertain them but you refuse. They keep clapping until it gets louder and louder and finally they burst into a cheer. Music begins, and they clap to a rhythm. You go out and see what’s going on.

There on the stage is a little girl, one of the audience member’s daughters, still wearing the frock she wore to the theater. She’s dancing like an angel, like the world depends on it, and watching her it is clear that you are neither the last, nor even, the greatest showgirl alive.

“Fuck!” you say. “I was only able to enjoy it for a couple minutes.”

The little girl is suddenly shot dead by soldiers.

“Yes!” you shout. “I’m the greatest showgirl alive again!”

You go home, satisfied that its too late for anyone in the city to put on a show, which means you’re the greatest showgirl alive until at least around 7 PM tomorrow. May there always be roses under your-- Whoops, someone just started dancing again.

Happy You Are The Last Showgirl Day!

Because That’s What Happens To Pieces Of Strawberry Shortcake Day!

Your comic strip about a piece of strawberry shortcake that says hilarious things to other desserts is going nationally syndicated today and will appear in over 300 newspapers. Unfortunately, you’ve been telling the story of that piece of cake for the last four years in the local papers that have carried your strip. And the story is at the point where the piece of strawberry shortcake has to die. It’s going to die in a fire set by a child.

The folks who signed you to your syndication deal will not be pleased. They’ll protest that they contracted you for 900 more strips and you’ve just killed the main character with the very first one. Tell them this is what happens to pieces of strawberry shortcake sometimes, and it’s where the story was headed. Now, they needn’t worry because the coming strips will address the community’s reaction to the loss of their beloved piece of strawberry shortcake, and there will of course be a criminal inquiry, and a surprise visitor in the form of a talking can of chick peas.

“I’m telling a story,” you’ll tell them. “You were nice enough to give me a bigger microphone and I appreciate that. But this is the point in the story that we’re at right now, and I can’t drag out what don’t want to be drug.”

Your syndication company will sue you for breach of contract and they’ll take over ownership of the characters and hire a staff to write it, and that’s how Strawberry Shortcake will go on to be one of the most popular comic strips for the next forty years while you die slowly of alcohol poisoning.

Happy Because That’s What Happens To Pieces Of Strawberry Shortcake Day!

Get Out Of The Air Force Day!

Tired of the Air Force? Today’s the day to get kicked out. You can do this either by jumping off of a roof and breaking your back or dying, or you can plot to steal one of the Air Force’s planes to attack an American city but plot it so poorly that you’ll get caught and hanged. You could also break into the infirmary and swallow a lot of pain pills, enough to kill you. I know most of these suggestions involve dying but seriously the Air Force really doesn’t wanna let go.

Happy Get Out Of The Air Force Day!

Glenn The Glow Worm Day!

Glenn the Glow Worm is a glow worm that is sick of all the lies.

“I’m tired of the bullshit,” Glenn tells you (you’re in a coma in Des Moines and Glenn has been communicating with you telepathically from his home in the soil of Gretna, Nebraska. “It’s time for folks to pay.”

“You’re just a glow worm,” you respond inexplicably. You won’t ever remember talking to Glenn when you wake up, but you’re glad he’s there for you now. “What the fuck are you gonna do? Build a bomb? Please. I have bed sores with more brain power than you.”

“You’ll see,” Glenn responds. “One day soon you’ll all see.”

“Oh fuck you,” you say to the worm with your mind. “I am so fucking sick of you and your angry, 'I’m going to fuck it all up' bullshit. When I get out of this coma I’m going to drive out there and piss in the hole you live in.”

“You can’t mean that,” Glenn says.

“Try me.”

You and Glenn don’t speak for a few hours. Then Glenn says, “I’m sorry I’m so negative all the time.”

You respond, “I’m sorry I’m so testy. It’s just that the orderly stole my wedding ring yesterday and I can’t do anything about it.”

Glenn starts talking about all he’ll do to the orderly if he ever gets in the same room with him and you laugh good naturedly with your mind.

“Oh Glenn, you’ll never change,” you shine at him. Glenn telepathically tells you he loves you and you tell him you don’t know how to respond to that. You don’t know how you feel.

Happy Glenn The Glow Worm Day!

The Phone Sex Lady Got Killed While You Were On The Phone With Her Day!

It’s just like the beginning of one of those Skinemax movies. You were on the phone with Tiana, the phone sex girl you’ve been calling several hours a week ever since you moved into the big city and started feeling lonely. She interrupted the call to say she’d heard a noise. You heard a crash of glass in the background and then lots of screaming. Then nothing.

If this were one of those Skinemax movies, you’d be pulled into the frightening and tantalizing world of professional sex workers, interviewing Tiana’s friends and maybe having sex with them or at least watching them dance at the strip club before interviewing them. It would open your eyes to the truth behind the fantasy, and eventually you’d come face to face with Tiana’s killer!

Since this isn’t a Skinemax movie, all you’re going to do is argue with the phone sex company about your bill because when Tiana was murdered she dropped the phone but it didn’t hang up. The phone sex company will argue that you get charged until you hang up so you should have hung up when you heard that Tiana was involved in a domestic dispute, and you’ll say fair enough.

Happy The Phone Sex Lady Got Killed While You Were On The Phone With Her Day!

Your Old Drinking Buddy Is A Priest Now Day!

You’re really pissed off at him. You came back to town thinking you wanted to get back to the way things were, and you were pretty excited for you and Jerry to get down to business again the way you used to. And then he shows up to meet you and he’s wearing a frigging collar.

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me!” you say to Jerry.

“I had to do something!” Jerry explains. “I was going down the drain man! And the parties weren’t the same with you gone. They stopped being fun and just started getting weird, man. It was like every night I left the house I was afraid I was gonna end up killing somebody.”

“You couldn’t have gone into AA for a little while?”

Jerry shook his head. “AA’s the biggest party in this town man,” he says. “I needed something that would really knock my head against the wall you know. I needed someplace with muscle. So I hit the catholic church.”

You don’t say anything. You just sip your mug of beer.

“I can still drink you know,” Jerry says. “I can drink all day if I want.”

“Not the same,” you say. A prostitute comes out of the back bathroom and tells you you’re up. You climb off the stool and follow her. Jerry grabs your collar.

“Hey!” he barks gravely. “You better know that when you come back out, I’ll be here waiting. Always.”

“Thank you father,” you say with a sneer. Then you follow the prostitute into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

Happy Your Old Drinking Buddy Is A Priest Now Day!

Explain To Your Hot Roommate How Feng Shui Works Day!

“Everything has its place,” explain to him. “And you arrange things according to a certain connection that allows the energies to flow properly throughout the room.”

“Makes sense,” he’ll say.

“If things are rearranged to break the feng shui, very bad things can happen and the apartment can become a terrible place to live.”

“Don’t want that to happen,” he’ll say.

“So we’re gonna have to move the couch against the big wall. The desk is gonna have to slide over here by the window,” say to him. “And you’re gonna have to go up my butt.”

“This goes back centuries,” he’ll say. “Can’t be wrong.”

Your hot roommate will help you to move the couch and the desk and then you’ll both climb on the couch and he’ll go up your butt. The apartment will instantly feel much more livable.

Happy Explain To Your Hot Roommate How Feng Shui Works Day!

Find Out Something Shocking About Your Wife Of Thirty Years Day!

Today you should snoop through your wife’s things until you find something shocking, such as a bucket of decaying severed children’s fingers, or some weed.

“Have you been smoking marijuana / murdering children?” you should ask her.

“I want a divorce,” she’ll say. “I kept my love of marijuana / child murder from you because I was afraid you would condemn me. I can see I was right.”

Beg her not to go. Tell her you’ll stand by her no matter how many children she kills / wasted she gets. She’ll tell you it’s too late.

“Our life is a lie.”

At that she’ll go outside and spark up / slit the paperboy’s throat and saw him apart in the yard. You’ll go into your den and turn the TV on loud, cursing yourself for being so nosy.

Happy Find Out Something Shocking About Your Wife Of Thirty Years Day!

Mountain Biker Orgy Day!

Today you and your fellow mountain bikers are going to pull over in a clearing for a water break. Your pronouncements of how “bitchin’” the trail is and how “stoked” you all are to bike ride some more and how “radical” riding bikes is will sound a little more hollow than usual. Finally, you’ll say what none of you have been brave enough to admit.

“Mountin biking sucks because it’s really hard to ride bikes up a mountain unless you’re on like a dirtbike or something, and even then it’s bumpy.”

Everyone will look at each other, wondering if it’s okay to admit it.

“Come on, the only reason we all keep doing this is because we love each other but we’re too scared to say so. Let’s ditch these bikes and screw.”

The other mountain bikers will shout “radical!” and they’ll jump off their bikes and strip from their padding to reveal their beautiful bodies which are all toned to near perfection after all the mountain biking they've been doing to bury the sexual tension. The pine needles will blow, but aside from that the mountain biker orgy will be one of your favorite orgies of 2007.

Happy Mountain Biker Orgy Day!

The Best Motorcycle Rider In Montreal Day!

You are the best motorcycle rider in Montreal, but that’s not saying much since French-speaking people have a sucky center of gravity.

“I need to compete where people don’t speak French,” you tell your wife.

“Toronto? You’ll die!” she says.

You throw your chair in a drunken rage (you’re always drunk) and it hits your dog in the head. He dies.

"Mon Dieu!” your wife shouts, cradling the retriever’s head.

“If I don’t compete in Toronto his death will have been for nothing,” you say.

Your wife looks up at you from the floor. “Kick their butts,” she says.

Tomorrow you’ll compete in the Toronto motorcycle competition, where you’ll finish seventeenth.

Happy The Best Motorcycle Rider In Montreal Day!

You’ve Got A Bone To Pick With The Electric Company Day!

You wrote to the electric company a couple months back telling them that you’re a drug addict with a baby in the house so you can’t pay your bills anymore but they can’t turn off the electricity because the baby needs to see her dolls. The electric company sent your letter to child services and they came and took your baby away, then the electric company turned off your electricity. Today you’re going to go down to the electric company and tell them to turn the electricity back on or else you’ll have another baby.

“You wouldn’t,” the electric company will say.

“I would,” you’ll reply just before throwing up on your chest.

The people behind the window at the electric company will huddle and try to figure out how to handle this. Finally, one will come back to the window and say, “Who you gonna have the baby with, huh?”

You’ll take out a picture of you and your ex-boyfriend who is deceased but they don’t have any way of knowing that.

“How do we know that guy isn’t deceased?” they’ll ask.

“Guess you’re just gonna have to gamble,” you’ll say.

The electric company will huddle some more, then they’ll come back and offer you two free months of power.

“After that, baby or no, you’re on your own,” they’ll say.

“Pssssh, if I live two months a whole lot people are gonna lose a good bet!”

You and the electric company will laugh then you’ll fall on the ground and go into a coma. Ironically, you won’t come out of the coma until your two months of free electric are up, so you’ll have missed the whole thing. Just goes to show that drugs are no bargain.

Happy You’ve Got A Bone To Pick With The Electric Company Day!

Break Up With Your Girlfriend Who Is In Jail Day!

Two years ago your girlfriend got put in jail because she ran someone down with her car and then got scared and drove off. You and she were gonna get married, and you made a vow to her that you would stand by her until she got out. You’ve been visiting her every weekend. It’s been heartbreaking watching her sob through the plexiglass, telling you about indignity after indignity that she’s suffered. It’s been a real drag, and it’s made you wonder if you aren’t throwing your life away on the worst kind of long-distance relationship. That all came to a head when you met Darlene back in August.

“I didn’t want it to happen,” you’ll tell your girlfriend.

“You said forever,” she’ll argue.

“But we’ve grown apart. I’ve continued to live a life of freedom, doing as I please and showering alone. While you have stayed in prison and have gotten into all the stuff that goes on in there. The fights. The cell block searches for contraband.”

“What’s she got that I haven’t got?” she’ll ask.

“Skin that I’m free to touch,” you’ll say.

Your girlfriend won’t argue any further. She’ll know you’re making good points. She’ll wish you the best and go back to her cell block and she’ll make a deal with a white supremacist to have her people on the outside set fire to your house while you and your girlfriend are asleep inside. You and she have grown apart. It’s just a shame you didn’t know by how much.

Happy Break Up With Your Girlfriend Who Is In Jail Day!

Try And Buy The Honda Civic Hatchback You Lost Your Virginity In Day!

You got hit buy a city vehicle a couple years back and you won a huge settlement on account of it was an election year and you lost an arm. Now that you have a lot of excess money and you don’t have to work no more, you’ve been killing time by going out and buying mementos from your youth. You bought the land behind the high school where you and your friends used to have keggers and you opened a bar (the high school was a little pissed). You bought the company that fired your dad and ran it into the ground. Now you’re looking for the sky blue Honda Civic hatchback you lost your virginity in in 1989.

Your quest will lead you to the boy who took your virginity, Nicky No-Nose. He was called that because his nose was almost flat on his face and because his father was a member of the mafia (since deceased in a clamhouse gun battle). You go and ask Nicky No-Nose whether he knows what happened to the hatchback.

“Do yourself a favor, don’t go asking nobody about that hatchback,” he tells you.

But you’re not used to being told no now that you’re rich so you keep asking people about that hatchback. Eventually, you find out that the hatchback was used to pick up the stabbed to smithereens body of someone who didn’t pay his vig and drive it someplace where no one will look. The car and the body were taken to a junkyard and crushed into a cube. The cube’s still there so you buy it for 80 dollars. You bring it home and pay a metals expert to try and stretch it back out, but the body inside makes the cube start to stink when you stretch it out, so you leave it as a cube and occasionally go out and climb atop it with your one arm and you sit and remember the night when you had two arms and you were just sixteen and getting popped for the very first time. You have a good memory of it because you had to lay your back along the pushed forward front seats, which acted as a kind of raised recliner for you, so you could see everything, your whole body underneath a panting Nicky No-Nose. You remember your beautiful right hand caressing his gorgeous skin.

Happy Try And Buy The Honda Civic Hatchback You Lost Your Virginity In Day!

You Steal Bikes And Give Them To The Poor Day!

You hate seeing all these poor people walking around with no bike to ride. It breaks you heart to think of how many bikes there are in the world, and how they only ever go to people who can afford them. So whenever you see a bike left unlocked, or when you see one locked up with a lock that can be snapped with a bolt cutter, you steal the bike and give it to the poor.

It goes okay for a little while, but then when the poor person who was given one of your bikes leaves it unlocked or locked up with a lock that you can snap with a bolt cutter, you just steal the bike again and give it to some other member of the poor. On more than one occasion, the first poor person who got the bike would see the second poor person riding around on it and they would get into a fight. It’s not the outcome you had hoped for.

Today the unthinkable is going to happen. You’re going to steal a bike back from a member of the poor that you gave it to, then you’re going to give it to another member of the poor and the first member of the poor is going to kill the second member of the poor with an aluminum baseball bat. The killer poor will go to jail for life.

From now on, only steal bikes from bike shops. It’s the only way to hang onto the nickname the papers have given you: THE HUFFY ROBIN HOOD. It’s not a very good nickname, but you’ve never had a nickname before and you want to enjoy this one while it lasts.

Happy You Steal Bikes And Give Them To The Poor Day!

One Day The Crossing Guard Just Hung Up Her Orange Vest Day!

“I’m a fraud!” she screams at her ‘long-time roommate.’

“Thirty years without a fatality,” her long-time roommate says back.

“What do I know about getting kids across streets?” she says, packing her bag. “I’m going through the motions out there. There’s a stoplight that’s handling everything. All I do is obey the light like a goddamn lab rat. The light’s red, I hold up my palm. The light’s green, I start waving my arms like a goddamn idiot.”

“You make them feel safe,” her roommate says.

“I fool them into feeling safe. There’s no bigger danger than that. I’m out.”

Her roommate walks behind her and wraps her arms around the crossing guard.

“What will you do?” the roommate asks.

“I’m gonna get myself across the street for once,” the crossing guard says. She then checks the chamber of a handgun and stuffs it in her duffel bag. The roommate lets go.

“A score?” the roommate says. “You can’t even stand up for the cycle of a traffic light without resting in a beach chair again.”

“That’s all the time I need,” the crossing guard says. “The Brink’s truck is required to obey the speed limit and stop on the yellows. I hit it at a light and I have a full 45 second window.”

“You sure about this?” the roommate asks.

“I spent 30 years doing nothing but watching lights change. This is locked down.”

“We would have the money to put Mom in a home,” the roommate says. They both look at the rooommate’s mom, who is asleep in a big chair in the living room, not knowing that her daughter and her daughter's girlfriend are about to go back into a life of violent crime.

“We’d have the money to do whatever we want. But we gotta get to that intersection right now, today.”

The roommate gathers her knives into her socks and she and the former crossing guard go out to do what they do best: steal and kill.

Happy One Day The Crossing Guard Just Hung Up Her Orange Vest Day!

Wake Up Before Your Alarm Day!

You should hook your alarm clock up to one of the archaic yet ingeniously reconstructed bear traps that's attached to someone's head in the upcoming sure-to-be-a-hit horror movie Saw 4. If you don't wake up before your alarm and it goes off, then everyone in the audience for Saw 4 will have to watch the bear trap snap shut and slice an innocent young social studies teachers' head right through the middle (like around the nose-line). Of course, that's what everyone in the audience will have come to see anyway, so if you do wake up before your alarm goes off, an entire theater of people will feel gypped. This service will only cost you $49.95 per wake-up. If you're wondering why the makers of Saw 4 are letting people who need to be more disciplined about when they wake up in the morning determine the action and plotting of their movie for a nominal fee, the answer is simple: piracy!

Happy Wake Up Before Your Alarm Day!

Depressed Roommate Who Isn’t Eating His Ice Cream Day!

Your roommate has been depressed for a couple of months now. He’s spending all his time alone in his room, sleeping all day or sitting in the tub for hours on end. He always looks unkempt, like it was a real effort for him just to get dressed. Anytime he comes home from work he just marches right past you without saying a word and goes into his bedroom, slamming his door behind him. It’s been great for you because you get to watch whatever you want on TV.

The problem is, he bought some ice cream back before he got depressed and he hasn’t opened it yet. You’d like to open it and eat it but you’re afraid that if you eat his ice cream that might be the thing that sends him over the edge and makes him off himself. It’s almond swirl.

Today you should try to pretend that you want to cheer him up so you can say, “Come on, pally. Buck up! Hey I know! Why don’t we eat that ice cream in the freezer? That’ll lift your spirits. Mmm. Ice cream. I’ll go get two spoons and a bowl.”

When you knock on his door to ask him if you can come in to talk, he’ll open the door with a pile of his CDs in his hand. He’ll say, “I don’t feel like talking. But here, I want you to have these. I won’t be needing them soon.”

The CDs are all really good and you’ll go into your room and start listening to them. It’ll be a lot of fun, but you’ll keep having this nagging thought that something’s not right. You’re sitting in there listening to all of your roommate’s CDs, and you just know it would feel so much better if you could listen to your roommate’s CDs while eating your roommate’s ice cream.

Tonight, you’re not going to be able to handle it anymore. You’re going to go to the freezer and open up his tub of ice cream and stick a spoon in it. As you walk back to your room with the tub, he’ll open his bedroom door and see you spooning a hunk of the delicious dessert to your mouth. You’ll stop where you’re standing, and he’ll stare at you, not quite angry, not quite hurt. He won’t appear to be feeling anything really. Neither of you will move before he shuts his bedroom door again. You’ll decide that since he didn’t say anything, he must be fine with you eating his ice cream, maybe even glad that it's not going to waste, that someone who can still enjoy things is digging into that delicious tub of joy he bought back when he could still enjoy things, so you did the right thing.

Happy Depressed Roommate Who Isn’t Eating His Ice Cream Day!

That Pile Of Clothes Looks Like A Person When The Lights Are Out Day!

When you turn the lights out, that pile of clothes on your chair looks like a person. Tonight you’re going to start talking to it.

“I’m going to call you Jesse because I’ve always wanted a friend named Jesse. Jesse, I once saw a little boy drowning in a cold river and I did nothing. I just kept walking because I didn’t want to risk my own life to save him. The next day I saw that the boy was in a car with his parents and they’d driven off the road and into the river. The parents managed to swim to shore, but the boy got caught in the current and was dragged away from them. His parents felt like they killed their own son with their reckless driving. I know because I used to sneak up to their house at dinnertime and listen to them through the open window while they fought and cried over their meal. I did that every night for a couple of months, then I decided that what’s done is done and there’s no more point in worrying over what I didn’t do. I still think about that kid a couple of times a day, and I don’t sleep, but I say that he wasn’t my soul to save. Not my responsibility. You don’t think I’m a horrible person do you Jesse? Say nothing if you don’t.”

The pile of clothes then takes corporeal form and manages to wheeze out the words: “Coward. I have strained to become a man for just an instant in order to say that to you. Coward.”

Then the pile of clothes goes back to being a pile of clothes. Tomorrow, you’re doing laundry.

Happy That Pile Of Clothes Looks Like A Person When The Lights Are Out Day!

Start Throwing Up And Never Stop Day!

To pull this off, you need to hear some kind of news that would trigger the kind of nausea that would doom you to a lifetime of endless and uninterrupted vomiting. Like maybe you just found out the woman for whom you’ve always held an unrequited love is going to marry the guy who tricked you into thinking you were the prom king in high school only so you he could shoot a watercannon full of diarrhea into your mouth when you started to give your acceptance speech. You already can’t think of that guy without remembering all that diarrhea you ingested that night in front of all your peers, which made you vomit quite a bit in its own right. But that guy also represents everything in life that you’re against. He is the embodiment of all that is base and shallow and hurtful. So when you hear that the girl you love is going to marry that guy, it makes all your hopes for there to be some sort of order to your existence come crashing down. What is beautiful and right and true can love pure, wretched evil, and what’s in your heart means nothing to the world around you. That alone makes you want to puke, but then you remember the taste of the diarrhea and it just starts coming and never stops. You die in 80 hours because you can’t constantly puke for very long without dying.

Happy Start Throwing Up And Never Stop Day!

Don’t Forget To Take The Drug Money Out Of Your Old Mattress Before The Mattress Delivery Guys Take It Away For You Day!

Today you’re going to be so excited to get your new mattress that you’re going to forget to take out all the drug money you had stuffed in your old mattress before the delivery guys take it away for you. You’ll be rolling around on your new mattress for a good ten minutes before you remember.

“Shoot!” you’ll say. Then you’ll call the mattress store and tell them that you left several hundred thousand dollars in your old mattress and you’d like to know when to come and pick it up.

“Sorry, when we take a mattress away its ours, bedbugs and all,” the mattress associate will tell you.

“But the money isn’t mine,” you’ll say. “It belongs to a drug cartel and if I don’t get it to them, they’ll kill me and everyone I’ve ever cared for.”

“Read your agreement,” the mattress associate will say. You’ll read the delivery agreement you signed, relinquishing all rights to your old mattress once it crosses the threshold from your home.

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” you’ll say. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Yeah well next time,” the mattress associate says, “Realize!”

You’ll hang up, then you’ll rip open your couch to find the semi-automatic weapons you keep there. But you’ll remember that you sold the couch with the weapons on Craigs list. This is your new Crate and Barrel sectional and you haven’t stored any weapons inside it because you wanted it to maintain its support.

You’re going to have to sell all the cocaine you still have in the house and try to make the money back before the cartel comes calling. You tear apart the painting on the wall to grab the kilos stored in its frame. But it’s empty. You must have auctioned off the painting with the kilos hidden in it. This is the new Chagall you just acquired.

“Why must I be so active in the art world yet so forgetful when it comes to drug dealing?” you lament.

You go into the bathroom to take a bath, and you find a small boy. You’d forgotten that you had kidnapped the only son of a crooked Colombian diplomat. All you have to do is get that ransom money and you’re right as rain.

“I got my meal ticket right here,” you say, tousling the boy’s hair. “Now where did I put your Dad’s cell phone number?”

The boy makes a motion like a key in a lock on his lips, letting you know he’s not gonna give you the number. You’d better hope you didn’t accidentally throw out that slip of paper when you cleaned earlier, which is just the kind of airhead thing a drug dealer/kidnapper/art lover like you would do you fucking ditz.

Happy Don’t Forget To Take The Drug Money Out Of Your Old Mattress Before The Mattress Delivery Guys Take It Away For You Day!

The Party City Massacre Day!

Today you’re going to go into Party City, your local discount party superstore, and you’re going to give the girl behind the counter a note that says you have a bomb in your pants and she’d better start filling up the helium balloons or it’s curtains.

The girl will push the police call button under her register that’s there for just this sort of emergency, and then she’ll start filling up the balloons. Soon the police will surround the place asking what you want. Tell them a jet to buy some time while the girl keeps filling up helium balloons. Soon the entire store will be full from floor to ceiling with balloons. The windows will be completely blocked by them. To move back and forth you have to shove your way through that giant huddle of balloons.

Once the girl behind the counter fills up the last balloon, shout out to the police, “You’re out of time.” Then just start shooting the balloons down, one by one. Happy Birthday, Congrats To The Grad, Big 4-0, and Welcome Home, all of them are gonna get it from your .38. The bullets will tear apart the balloons and they’ll fall like the empty clothes in “War Of The Worlds.” The police will be outside cursing the God that made you as they listen helplessly to the massacre inside. Finally, when enough balloons have been shot down that they can see inside, they’ll send in their assault team and take you down. For every balloon they save, that’s another gathering of people given the chance to party.

“No one takes away a citizen’s right to party,” the commanding officer says. “Not in my city. Deploy SWAT.” Then SWAT deploys right up your pants leg and in and out of the goddamn ball sack pocket of your brief underwears.

Happy The Party City Massacre Day!

Hunting For Toucans Day!

Today you’re going into the jungle to hunt and kill some toucans. Along the way you’ll stumble upon a tribe of savages who will think that you are their God because you look like the cave painting someone did of their God one time, and they’ll all bow down to you and tell you you can have anything you want as long as you finally make the trees bear fruit again. If you don’t make the trees bear fruit again, they’ll burn you because that’s what it said to do within the instructions someone once wrote on the cave wall near the painting of God.

“Okay,” you tell them. “First thing I need is as many dead toucans as you can bring to me.”

They run out into the woods and start strangling toucans. They bring back to you a big pile of the birds and lay them all at your feet. You start to bag them up when the savages ask about the trees bearing fruit.

You’ll say, “I have to confess, I don’t know how to…”

Just then, one of the savages will point up at the trees. Bananas will be growing from their branches like you’re looking at them in fast-forward. God, the real God, must have made that happen. He must hate toucans too and he’s rewarding you for getting so many of them to die by letting you keep your life as well as all those toucans. Congratulations and have fun eating toucan salad sandwiches for the next year and a half.

Happy Hunting For Toucans Day!

Some Kids From MTV Are Here To Watch You Do Stuff Day!

You’re not sure how they got in. They’re all on the floor lining the wall of your living room, and they’ve filled up the couch as well. They’re here to watch you do stuff without paying any real attention to you. Mostly, they’ll just be looking at someplace past you where there’s probably a camera or a producer signaling them. On occasion, when you’ll be on the phone and you’ll say something funny, a few of the kids will chuckle just a second or two late, so that it’s not clear whether they were laughing at what you said or at a private joke.

Don’t eat too fast. You might think that you can eat with abandon since you have all those kids there, but they won’t give you the Heimlich. They’re barely aware of where they are, let alone that you are a human being who can feel and die like them.

Happy Some Kids From MTV Are Here To Watch You Do Stuff Day!

The Magical Wardrobe Day!

You’re a thirteen year old boy who has just discovered that your wardrobe has the magical ability to teleport you to another place in time. Whenever you go inside the wardrobe, a bright light appears and you find yourself inside the locked broom closet of a bus station in Minneapolis, eight minutes into the future. You don’t know how to get out of the closet, and there’s nothing really for you to do there. The best you can do is go into the wardrobe and then listen through the broom closet door to the conversations in the bus station, trying to see if you can get some hint of what the future holds based on what the travelers are all talking about. So, for example, let’s say it was the day OJ was acquitted back in 1994 at the close of the Trial of the Century and you were eight minutes away from the verdict. You could go into the wardrobe and then listen through the broom closet door to people shouting in either joy or disillusionment at the verdict. Eventually someone might say something like, “I can’t believe he got off,” and you would have known the verdict before anyone else.

Since a situation like that doesn’t come along too often, you’ve been using the wardrobe to smoke cigarettes without your parents catching you, and without and risk of harming your lungs since you always smoke in the future. When you return, it’s like you never left and therefore never smoked. You’re really enjoying smoking and it’s getting hard to wait to get into the wardrobe to have another cigarette.

Happy The Magical Wardrobe Day!

Abstinence Makes The Heart Grow Hornier Day!

You and your buddies down at the mill decided to have a contest to see who can go the longest without having sex with a woman. After eighteen years it’s just you, Marcus and Joey left. Chris ended up screwing a hooker when he went to Reno in 2000. And Matt divorced his wife in 1998 and so he kind of went on the warpath and had sex with two different women in 1999. He married the second and kept on having sex with her until 2003. Matt is so out of the running.

Chris and Chipper have started a side contest since Chris hasn’t had any since 2002 and Chipper just did that one deed in 2001 when his ex-wife rolled into town to try to get her new husband pissed. They’re thinking that maybe you, Marcus and Joey will eventually either dip your wicks or die, so they should keep the faith to see if they can outlive you and top your record, whomever of you sets it.

The thing is, after eighteen years without, you're really horny and you’re starting to worry that the absence of intimacy has turned you mean. You’re an elementary school vice-principal and sometimes at the end of the year you look back on the discipline you’ve handed out for even the most innocent of indiscretions and you just marvel over what you’ve become. When it’s all over, is this really the life you want to have lived? You wonder. Then you imagine telling Marcus or Joey that you had sex with somebody and you can already see the smug looks on their faces. Makes you want to puke. You’ll either have to wait it out, kill them both, or kill yourself. No way you’re giving those shitheads the satisfaction of knowing their wills are stronger than yours. No way.

You’ve already got the rifle. It’s just a choice of whose heads are gonna get caved in. Yours, or theirs? Or all three of ya's? Win, lose, or draw, your involvement in this contest ends tonight.

Happy Abstinence Makes The Heart Grow Hornier Day!

The Dog That Drank Himself Into A Coma Day!

You moved to a new city five months ago and you haven’t made any friends yet, so you spend a lot of time at home drinking alone, which you hate. You’re really lonely and you feel awful just sitting there at your kitchen table drunk with no one to talk to or raise your glass with or take a swing at. The only other living thing in your house is your dog, Larue.

Tonight you’re going to spike Larue’s water dish with a little bit of whiskey. Not too much, just a few drops to symbolically ordain him as your drinking buddy. Larue will lap it up, and then he’ll sit by you and listen while you talk to him like a pal.

“How about that game today, Larue,” you’ll say. “Those fairies got trounced.”

Larue will pant, and you’ll say, “Oh, you want another? Well I’ll buy.” Then you’ll pour a little more whiskey into his dish, which he’ll again drink down very quickly.

“This summer ever gonna end? Sweatin’ my ass off,” you’ll say to Larue, and he’ll answer with a bark.

“Another round sounds good to me too.” Larue will have drunk up all the water in his dish, so you’ll pour him a small helping of straight whiskey. He’ll drink it in seconds.

“Not a fan of that porker Jonah Hill. He was pretty much over before he started, ain’t that right Larue?”

Larue will lay down at your feet and whimper a bit. You’ll pour yourself another glass, and without thinking about it you’ll go and fill up Larue’s bowl to the rim, all the while singing the teenage wasteland part to “Baba O’Reilly.” Larue will go and lap up a good bit of the whiskey, then he’ll fall asleep next to the bowl. You’ll fall asleep with your head in your arms on the kitchen table.

When you wake up tomorrow morning, hungover like any other Tuesday, you’ll find Larue still asleep next to his bowl. You’ll kick him gently and his limp body will just lay there. You’ll shake Larue, but he won’t wake up. Then you’ll see his water dish full of brown whiskey and you’ll remember what an idiot you were last night.

You’ll rush Larue to the vet’s office, fearing you killed him. Your vet will tell you that Larue went into a coma.

“What happened yesterday?” she’ll ask.

You’ll burst into tears. “I was lonely and wanted someone to drink with!”

Your vet will hold you in her arms and tell you to never do that again. “From now on, if you need someone to drink with, you call this number,” she’ll say. “It’s my home number.”

“Really?” you’ll ask.

“I’m only thinking about the dog’s well being,” she’ll say.

You’ll thank her, and you’ll call her that very night. She’ll invite you to her place and you’ll share an evening that one day you’ll tell your grandkids about. “He was everything I hated in a pet owner, and yet there was something so adorable about him I just had to come up with a reason to get him to call me,” she’ll tell the family when she’s 81 and you’re already two years dead of natural causes.

Happy The Dog That Drank Himself Into A Coma Day!

You’re Like The Dexter Of Shoplifters Day!

You’re a security guard at a mall Boscov’s, and you probably bust one shoplifter every two days. Though your store publicly claims that its policy is to prosecute shoplifters to the fullest extent of the law, the real policy is that shoplifters are to be caught, taken to the security office where they are photographed and warned to never return to the store or risk prosecution. You’ve turned a total of two shoplifters over to the police, and in both cases the perp got violent when you caught him. Otherwise, they get their picture taken and sent on their way. That’s it.

Not good enough, sez you.

Today you’re going to enact a new policy. From now on, every shoplifter who gets caught and then let go is going to be paid a visit by you. They won’t know it of course. Not until they discover that one of their very valuable possessions has been stolen. You can start with the college student whom you’ll catch trying to walk off with a pair of fur ear muffs in her bag this afternoon.

You’ll let her go, as usual. But not before you get her photo and address. Tomorrow, call in sick and drive over to her dorm while she’s at class. Then break in and steal something you know she’ll miss (the mini-fridge). Leave a note in its place that reads, “It’s not so fun when shrinkage happens to you is it?” When she asks around to find out that the word shrinkage doesn’t just refer to that Seinfeld episode but is also the term used for lost retail revenue due to shoplifting, she’ll know what just happened.

“Justice,” she’ll whisper to herself while crinkling the edges of the note in her hands. “It hurts so good.”

She'll look at the six pack of diet cokes she just brought home from the store. No mini-fridge to keep them cold, not anymore. "A shoplifter like me doesn't deserve cold soda," she'll say. She'll get into bed and spend the next three semesters in a deep depression. Your work is done, security guard.

Happy You’re Like The Dexter Of Shoplifters Day!

You Don’t Want To Rent Dune Buggies Out In The Desert Day!

“I don’t like the desert,” tell him. “It’s dry, and dune buggies are dangerous. We’ll never get insured.”

He’s turning 35 in a year and eight months and he wants to get out of the rat race in advance of that. His idea is to go out into the desert, live in a wooden shack and rent out Dune Buggies to people who want to come out and have fun in the sand, or who are looking for someone who went into the desert and never came back.

“Get your feet off my dreams,” your fiancé will say. “I don’t want to be a wealthy securities broker when I’m 35. I wanna feel sand on my lips. I wanna smell the rubber of big round tires. I wanna live in a house with inventive plumbing.”

Tell him if he does that, the marriage is off. He’ll go and think about it, then come back to you.

“Okay, never mind the dune buggies. Let’s own and operate a roller coaster in Illinois.”

He’ll show you a Craig’s List ad for a Roller Coaster that is for sale. It’s located not far from where the man you truly love lives. This is a sign. You are meant to operate that roller coaster so he can take his kids there, see you, and the two of you can throw yourselves into a thrilling and careless affair.

“Done,” say. Your fiancé will kiss you on the lips in gratitude. He has no idea.

Happy You Don’t Want To Rent Dune Buggies Out In The Desert Day!

You Know Lou Barlow Day!

You don’t have all that much going for you except that you know Lou Barlow. You and he used to be roommates way, way back when, and after losing touch with him, you moved into his current neighborhood solely so that you would be able to contact him and tell him you and he should get together again. You had brunch in 2005, and that’s the last you and he spoke face to face. Though you do send him emails.

Since there’s really not much to be said for you and what you’ve done with yourself while you’ve existed, it doesn’t take you too long to tell someone you’ve just met that you know Lou Barlow. “We have brunch sometimes,” you say. 85% of the time, you have to explain who Lou Barlow is. Of the 15% who don’t need you to explain, only 4% of them seem impressed, and of that 4%, 95% are faking it because they’re just happy to finally have something to talk to you about.

Today Lou Barlow is going to call you and ask if you can come pick him up from a service station. His car broke down and since you live in his neighborhood, he figured you wouldn’t mind that much. Unfortunately, he’ll call when you’re not getting a signal. When you get the message, you’ll call him back and leave a voicemail asking if he still needs a ride. A few hours later, he’ll text back with “never mind.” You’ll call him and leave a voicemail with a long apology, and Lou Barlow will text back “don’t worry about it.” Tonight, you’ll feel like that was your last shot at really having a relationship with Lou Barlow and you blew it. You’ll spend the next ten years coming to terms with the fact that it’s all downhill from here.

Happy You Know Lou Barlow Day!

Troublemaker Day!

Your Dad is a taxidermist and you’re a rebellious teenager so it’s time for you to rebel against him by stuffing M-80's inside the dead animals that are brought to him and blowing giant holes in their carcasses.

“Do you know how much extra work you’re making me do when you do that? I have to sew up those rips and tears and make sure that the fur covers over the seams. You’re slowing my business down.”

Tell your dad you don’t care.

“Well I’ll make you understand the value of a dollar,” your dad will say. Then he’ll sell your bed to pay for an assistant to help him with the extra work and he’ll make you sleep on a bed of the dead animals waiting to be stuffed.

“Can’t I sleep on the couch?” you’ll ask. Your Dad will tell you that he had to sell the couch too, in order to keep his business from going under.

“Now do you understand the value of a dollar?” your Dad will ask as you settle into the pile of bloody pelts and crunching animal bones.

“No!” you’ll say just to be obstinate. But you’re starting to understand it. People who don’t have dollars make their sons sleep on dead animals. You’ll probably do the same to your son one day.

Happy Troublemaker Day!

Sad Rock And Roll Star Day!

The rock and roll star is sad because his brother is trapped in a mine.

“I’m gonna do a concert for him,” the sad rock and roll start will say. “Right next to the mine. And I’m gonna keep playing until he’s rescued. I’m gonna play for the rescue workers to keep their spirits up, and hopefully my brother will be able to hear me down there in that mine, and he’ll know I’m waiting here to give him a hug and buy him a beer.”

The concert starts off with a really exciting two and a half hour set, broken up by lots of stories about when the rock and roll star and his brother were growing up together and how much fun they used to have. “My brother used to always tease me about my music,” the rock and roll star will tell the crowd. “He prefers classic rock, not the kind of electroclash influenced emo that I like to play. But he always supported me. He told me not to give up. Well brother, I’M NOT GIVING UP!!!” Then he’ll launch into his next hit and the crowd will roar their approval.

After a short break, the next hour-long set is a little more subdued. Then the breaks start getting longer and the sets shorter. The Rock and Roll Star starts singing a lot more covers. By day two, after being awake and performing for 24 hours, he just starts singing things like “99 Bottles of Beer on The Wall” and “Happy Birthday.” Then he gets a second wind and does a really long set of nothing but Christmas carols. On Day three he brings a laptop on stage and sings the entire Duran Duran album “Rio,” reading the lyrics off the web. On day 4 he does a 45 minute version of the song “Ghostbusters” in which he doesn’t sing any of the verses, just occasionally shouts the refrain “Who ya gonna call” and makes the crowd shout “Ghostbusters!” which we all stop doing after a while. On day 5, the rock and roll star stops singing in any known language and he gives a performance that is hard to comprehend, but has flashes of absolute brilliance. On day 6, sleepless and crazed, the sad rock and roll star dies.

That’s when his brother is finally rescued from the mine. When he surfaces, he tells the cameras, "I was fine. I just heard my brother up here singing that crap of his so I hid from the rescuers until he finished." Everyone laughs and commiserates over how crappy his brother's music was.

"What do you mean was?" the rock star's brother says. When they tell him his brother died on stage, the rock star's brother screams "No!" at the sky. Then he punishes himself by diving back into the mine just as it collapses again.

Happy Sad Rock And Roll Star Day!

There’s A Prince At The Door Day!

He’s got a cock ring and he wants to see if it fits you. Someone left it behind at a masquerade ball the night prior. Try it on and maybe you can be his princess.

“Well?” you’ll say when you come out of the bathroom sporting the glittery rubber ring.

The Prince will look at you and shake his head. “Good God no. Take that off at once and wash it.”

You’ll do as he says. You’ll feel very stupid and rejected while scrubbing away at the cock ring. Once or twice you’ll hear the Prince sigh impatiently outside the bathroom door.

“Here,” you’ll say, holding the cock ring out to him. “Sorry I made you wait.”

“As you should be, peasant,” the Prince will say.

“Who’s out there Bryan?” your roommate, Leon, will shout to you from his room.

“Just some Prince, Leon,” you’ll say.

Leon will race into the living room and he and the Prince will lock eyes. The Prince will hold the cock ring out to Leon, and you’ll know before he even bothers to try it on that it will fit perfectly. When Leon comes out of the bathroom looking absolutely majestic in his cock ring, the Prince will whisk him away to live the rest of his life as royalty, and you’ll go on Craig’s List to place yet another ad seeking a roommate.

Happy There’s A Prince At The Door Day!

Man You Are Really Into Egg McMuffins Day!

You decided to start a website devoted to the wonder and beauty of the McDonalds Egg McMuffin, hoping that maybe there will be other people out there who also love Egg McMuffins who have been looking for someplace where they can get together and meet people who have similar interests.

“Here’s my online shrine to the Egg McMuffin,” your homepage reads. “Hope all you other McMuffin lovers enjoy my little world wide McMuffin club, and maybe we can all get together and talk about our first experience with the Egg McMuffin and why it turned us into devoted followers of the McMuffin’s many travels and adventures over the decades. I’ll start:

When I was eleven my babysitter gave me a handjob while she was eating an Egg McMuffin. Occasionally she’d use both hands, but she wouldn’t put her half-eaten McMuffin down, she’d just hold it in her finger and thumb while stroking me with her palm. The McMuffin grazed my penis several times and later I found cheese on my little shaft. It was my very first sexual experience, and I have enjoyed Egg McMuffins ever since. Now you!”

Your visitors will arrive by the millions and they’ll all pretty much have had the same experience. Eventually you’ll start receiving threats because you don’t have a page where people can post McMuffin fan fiction. You’ll create one, but it will be too late and that’s why one of your website fans is going to kidnap your son tonight.

Happy Man You Are Really Into Egg McMuffins Day!

Your Mom’s Second Husband Moved Into The Building Across The Street Day!

He likes to strangle himself while masturbating, apparently. His name’s Lou and your Mom (dead six years now, natural causes) married him in 1991, then divorced him in 1994. Lou is presently jerking off while hanging from a belt attached to a large hook mounted on his bedroom wall. He’s kicking his legs.

She cheated on your Dad with him. Since he was the guy who brought about the downfall of your parents’ marriage, Lou has always loomed pretty big in your family history. Though after she divorced him, anytime he was brought up in conversation your Mom would just shake her head as if she were embarrassed by her foolishness in marrying such a man. As Lou’s hand jerks with even more fury and his face turns purple, you think you understand why.

By the time Lou comes and releases himself to drop from the belt to the carpet below him, you’re crying. The coincidence of Lou moving in across the street, and the lucky break that he doesn’t care for curtains, has opened your eyes to a whole new side of your dearly departed mom. It’s like you’ve just had a conversation with her where you’ve learned something new about her. You were always so grateful for those rare moments when she let you know she’s just as human as you, and she’s made just as many mistakes as you will. When you get the chance, you’re going to go over to Lou’s building and tip the doorman so you can find out Lou’s apartment number and send him up some anonymous flowers as thanks. For now though, you’re just going to keep watching to make sure Lou gets back up off his carpet.

Happy Your Mom’s Second Husband Moved Into The Building Across The Street Day!

College Sophomore Day!

Today you’re a college student starting up your sophomore year and you’ve decided to switch it up as regards the identity thing.

“I’m gonna go transgender,” you tell your dad as he drives his hatchback full of your Bed Bath and Beyond bags onto campus. “Or transsexual I mean. Whichever one doesn’t involve me getting my junk chopped up.”

“Sounds like this decision is going to be sending a pretty hefty credit card bill my way,” your dad will say. “New outfits and all.”

“Goddammit why do you have to try and strangle my personality development with your talk of interest rates and finances,” you’ll shout. “The LGBT Union has the coolest parties on campus. Everyone does it right out in the open.”

“Yeah but only the gay guys could be called traditionally attractive,” your Dad will argue.

He’s got a point. The parties might get wild with potential for an orgy breaking out, but there aren’t a whole lot of attendees there that you’d ever want to see naked.

“I wanna transfer to Brown,” you’ll say.

Your Dad will make a U-turn, cursing as he tries to reprogram his GPS for Rhode Island.

Happy College Sophomore Day!

The Ex-Girlfriend Across The Street Day!

You left your ex a few weeks ago and promptly moved in with the girl you were cheating on her with and you’ve never been happier. It was really just such a great decision. Except that your ex-girlfriend doesn’t want to let go.

“It’s just really creepy,” your new girlfriend and former secret lover Stacey says. “Why does she have to wear a nightgown and no shoes?”

“That’s what she used to wear to bed when we were together. I guess she thinks it’s bedtime. Come away from the window and go to sleep.”

“It’s starting to rain,” Stacey says. Indeed it is. But you know that won’t send your ex away. She’s been coming to the sidewalk across the street from your building every night at 11 PM. And every night she stands there until sunrise, staring at your window. And occasionally screaming wordlessly.

Stacey comes away from the window. “I’m starting to think you like having her there. That you like knowing she can’t move on.”

“Hey I left her for you. You have no right to be jealous. I’m with you now.”

“And if you ever get bored with me you can just go right across the street into her waiting arms.”

Just then you hear your ex scream. It’s a longer one.

“Can’t you just tell her to go home?” Stacey asks.

“It would be easier if I got someone who lives in the building across the street to break up with her boyfriend so that her boyfriend would hold vigil on this side of the street and he and my ex could spend the nights staring into each other’s eyes and eventually they’d realize they have a lot in common, namely the tendency to stand on a sidewalk in their nightclothes for days at a time when they’ve been wronged, and they’d both just go off together and get some rest.”

You and Stacey look at each other. You both know it’s just crazy enough to work! But you’re going to have to get into that building across the street before you can convince one of the tenants that she should break up with her boyfriend, so you’d better start learning to pick door locks.

Happy The Ex-Girlfriend Across The Street Day!

Best Cocaine In Maine Day!

You’ve become known throughout Maine as the supplier of the best cocaine in the whole State. You deal to everyone from the lobster trappers to the bed and breakfast operators to the school kids. It’s safe to say that if you were to die, there wouldn’t be parties in Maine for quite a long time.

“I want to be known for something else,” you think. “I want to run and win a marathon.”

So you enter a marathon in support of some cause or other and you train for months and then when the big day comes, you run your heart out. And when you hit your last five miles, you make sure to do a bump of your own cocaine, which sends you speeding to the head of the pack it's so good. It looks like you’re going to win, but that bump might have been a little too heaping, as you start having major chest pains in your last mile and you end up coming in fourth. You’ll later learn you had a minor heart attack.

“Looks like I was asking for too much,” you think while in your hospital bed. “I got greedy. I wanted all the glory in the state of Maine, so I tried to be known for dealing the best coke as well as winning the big race. I should be happy to be known for anything at all, and goddammit if I die with no more glory than being the supplier of top-notch blow for an entire state, sounds like I can die pretty proud.”

Just then there’s a knock on your hospital room door. When it opens, everyone in Maine is waiting to come in. From the Mayor of Maine on down to the guy who washes dishes at Maine Tavern and Lobsters. They all came to see you and wish you well and buy some coke. Tell them to split up into two lines, one for people who have money, and the other for people who want to know whether they can pay in ass.

“It feels good to be known in your hometown,” you tell them. They all cheer and shout, then a fight breaks out when someone tries to butt into one of the lines. There’s a stabbing.

Happy Best Cocaine In Maine Day!

You Give People Boners Marsha Day!

Today your boss is going to fire you, Marsha, because you give people boners.

“I’ve got one right now,” he’ll say.

“Ew,” tell him.

“Your fault.”

Ask him if he’s aware of just how fast you’re going to sue him for inappropriate conduct and unjustified dismissal.

“Give it a shot,” he’ll say. “And when the judge takes one look at you and gets a boner I’m sure he’ll see my side. Man, mine’s dripping now.”

“Some judges are women,” tell him.

“You give women boners too. Give a listen.” He’ll push the intercom for his secretary.

“Yes sir?” his secretary will ask.

“Got a boner?”

“I’m sitting on a towel.”

He’ll take his hand off the intercom button.

“Well how am I supposed to make a living?”

“You could probably be used in the war. Go look into that, Marsha. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to get going so we can all finally get up from our desks again.”

Get the hell out of there, Marsha, and go down to the Man’s office to see about a space for you in the war effort.

Happy You Give People Boners Marsha Day!

This Time, It Really Kinda Will Be Adam & Steve…Sort Of… Day!

After your last breakup, you decided to move into an underwater bio bubble and live under the observation of some scientists while being constantly filmed by MTV. The scientists are watching to see what sort of society you and your roommates will create when thrown into a microcosm of the world above. MTV is watching to see three of you get drunk and have sex in a hot tub.

The two worlds will collide when all seven of you start to argue over who gets to be among the three people who have sex in the hot tub. After several months of living in your underwater realm, you’ve all become consumed with the need to procreate and protect the species. An essential element to the experiment is that you have no contact with anyone on the surface world, including the scientists and production staff from MTV. Thus, not only do you have no clue as to whether the world above has been wiped out by nuclear holocaust and/or environmental catastrophe, you’ve all accepted that it has with absolute certainty.

“I know they said we’d never hear from them,” Steve the danceclub DJ tells the rest of you during the weekly chore meeting. “But do you really think they’d actually go so far as to never once make contact? They’re all dead. We’re it! We have to make sure the human race lives on!”

“This is just the bubble fucking with you,” Nancy the environmental activist replies. “Hold on to your senses.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” says Denise the girl with HIV. She leaves the room and when you all smell smoke, you realize she’s lit your house on fire to see if anyone comes to help put it out. You all rush to extinguish the fire and when Denise tries to stop you, you club her to death.

“Murderers!” shouts Andy, the video artist who was in love with Denise. Andy comes running at the rest of you with a lamp. He manages to kill Doris, the singer/songwriter from Niger. The rest of you swarm Andy and crush his skull under a West Elm sofa.

Now that both Denise and Doris have been killed, you, Nancy, and Leona the Vegan are the only women left, and you really want to be the one who gets to have three-way sex in the hot tub, thereby becoming mother of the species. So tonight when Leona and Nancy are asleep you’re going to stab them in their chests and necks. Tomorrow you will enter the hot tub with Steve the danceclub DJ and Adam, the med school student who will certainly up the ratings when he climbs into the tub with you and Steve and promptly comes out of the closet. Steve will still be willing to make it happen with you, though it is pretty cool that this time around the origin of humanity will actually be able to reference both Adam and Steve as being present and you all acknowledge that for the cameras while surrendering to hot, wet, bicurious species propagation.

Happy This Time, It Really Kinda Will Be Adam & Steve…Sort Of… Day!

You’re An Alcoholic And You Just Got A Brilliant Idea Day!

You’ll be sitting around your apartment not drinking when it will hit you.

“I should drink now!” you’ll think. You’ll immediately sprint outside and find alcohol.

“It worked! It worked!” you’ll shout after you ingest the alcohol and stop feeling sad and scared.

You’ll drink throughout the rest of the day, just to see what happens. Occasionally, you’ll start to take notes on a bar napkin, but it will always devolve into doodles of the “Star Wars” logo or Yoda.

At the end of the day, you’ll conclude that the presence of alcohol in your system created an overall effect of everything not being awful, excluding the occasional twenty minute period of directionless fury. In the end, you’ll decide that drinking was a brilliant idea and that you are a genius. To celebrate, you’ll leave your daytime bar and head over to your nighttime bar for a drink or two.

On your way to the nighttime bar, you’ll think to yourself, “I’m like Stephen Hawking with legs that work!” Then you’ll stumble on an uneven sidewalk and fall down, which will be so funny that you’ll wish you weren’t alone. You'll wish there was someone you could laugh with.

Happy You’re An Alcoholic And You Just Got A Brilliant Idea Day!

Sell State Secrets To Hostile Foreign Governments Day!

You’re out of light bulbs, stamps, and toner cartridges. Where’s all the money gonna come from to get back up to speed?!

“That is it!” you think. “I need a new job and fast!”

You should start selling state secrets to hostile foreign governments. All you need to do is get your hands on some state secrets (make love to a head of state and then write down everything he says in his sleep) then you need to advertise to hostile foreign governments (don’t use Craig’s List or you’ll get caught by the CIA. Just go to the Capitol buildings of hostile countries and stand outside with a sandwich board telling everyone with eyes what you’ve got in your jacket lining).

For a good state secret (launch codes, where the frozen aliens are hidden) you can make anywhere from a trillion to a googol dollars. For a bad state secret (abort codes, who to bribe in the parking space lottery drawing) you can make 20 to 40 billion dollars. For state secrets that everyone already knows (where America is, what America is) you’ll really be selling that stuff just for the frame it comes in. You can still make a couple of million though. Just make sure you don’t get caught or you’ll get hanged. But no one said taking some initiative to improve your financial well-being wasn’t risky!

Happy Sell State Secrets To Hostile Foreign Governments Day!

You Live In A Windmill Day!

Your lease is up next month on your windmill apartment, and you have to tell your landlord today whether you want to sign on for another year at a 4% rent increase. You just can’t decide whether or not you’re ready to settle down into a real relationship with one of the many women who come back to your windmill for a one-night fling and never return.

It’s not hard to get a woman to go home with you. You could do it every night if you had the stamina and the drinks money. “You live in a windmill?” they ask incredulously. You’ve heard it as a question so many times it’s hard not to ask, “I live in a windmill?” in response. Then they inevitably accept your offer to come see it. They know they’re getting married before they turn thirty (to someone else) and they want to have the story of the time they did it in the windmill under their belts.

But the next day, when you suggest a second date, the question from last night suddenly becomes the most obvious and self-explanatory statement they’ve ever made. “You live in a windmill.” Then they make a “don’t you get it, I could never move my things in here, what with all the whirring” face and call a car service. And you go out that night and find someone new.

So it’s lease time. How old are you now and how lonely does it get up in that big wooden fan? Ready to open up the possibility that someone might want to remember your address? Or is another year of hastily forgotten sex on the menu? You have to mail that letter of intent back today you know.

Happy You Live In A Windmill Day!

A Eulogy Which Demands That Mourners Line Up To Feel Your Muscle Day!

So your Dad died and today’s the funeral. You being the only son, everyone’s excited to hear your eulogy. They’ve all been talking all week about it, speculating as to what you might say. Some people think you’re going to talk about how your Dad taught you that hard work is what makes a man. Others are hoping you’ll throw a curveball and tell everyone that your Dad is a son of a bitch and he had a secret second family two towns over (and you’ll point to the family in the rear pews, and then you’d scream at the sky “Who do you think you are? You didn’t even have enough love to give for one family you son of a bitch!”).

Instead you’re going to tell them all that you never felt closer to your Dad than when you’d go down to the basement and lift weights with him. “My Daddy had really big arms and I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. I told him that, so he showed me how to lift weights to become a stronger man.” Then you go from talking about looking up to your Dad into a litany of bragging about what you can bench and how certain types of weight-gainers work better than others. It’ll be real shameless and boring, especially when you complain about how bad Mega-Mass tastes. In the end, you’ll announce that your bicep is the product of your Daddy. The strength in your arms is the strength of the influence your father had on your life. “You can’t get closer to my father than these arms,” you’ll tell the church. “Come get close to my Dad. Feel my muscle and say goodbye. Come on up.”

After a little more prodding, the mourners will rise from their pews and line up in the aisle like there’s going to be a second communion. They’ll move to the front of the church and one by one they’ll squeeze your bicep. Some of them will burst into tears when they squeeze. Others will give it a perfunctory tap and look at you with utter disappointment (these are your sisters and mother, BTW). A few others will squeeze your muscle, then they’ll hold up their arms for you to feel theirs, but you’ll tell them that today is about your Dad, not theirs. One or two ladies in the crowd will smile and tell you that your muscle is really big.

Finally, after everyone has come up and felt your muscle, you’ll look up at the sky and say, “I’m gonna stay strong for you Dad.” You’ll choke down some tears and say, “Today, I’m gonna channel all my grief over your and wail on my glutes.” You’ll be pretty sure that you hear a few people laughing when you finally return to your pew (these are your sisters and mother, BTW). Sorry about your Dad.

Happy A Eulogy Which Demands That Mourners Line Up To Feel Your Muscle Day!