Remember The Rubdown Your Babysitter Gave You Day!

You were eleven. She was twenty and early in her matriculation at massage school. At eleven, you weren’t much in need of massage. When she asked you if she could practice on you, you said okay.

“Change into your bathing suit,” she said.

You went upstairs and got out of your clothes fast. You hurried into your bathing suit, fumbling with the drawstring and pulling it way too tight so that it would leave a red mark later.

You walked out of your room to the top of the steps and you saw your babysitter in the living room, waiting for you. She’d laid a bed sheet over the couch and was staring up at you in your suit like she was waiting for you to dive off the steps.

“Ready?” she asked.

Without speaking you went down the steps and lay down on your back, like you did at the doctor.

“Turn over on your belly,” your babysitter said. You did as you were told.

Then your babysitter drenched her hands in warm oil and began to rub your eleven-year-old muscles. She rubbed your shoulders. Your neck. The middle of your back. Your thighs. Your calves. Then back on up.

It hurt. Especially around the shoulders and calves. You just didn’t have anything in need of kneading at that age. But you wouldn’t have stopped her for the world. The rubdown made you tenser, in fact, trying to hold still. Trying not to flinch in pain or when you were tickled for fear of any reaction from you making her stop. So you went stiff as a board, hoping to make your babysitter rubdown last as long as you could. Hoping to spend the whole evening under her methodical, mechanical, studied touch. She spread her palms across your flesh and leaned her pelvis against your side like her very future was dependent on how she touched your skin that night.

You didn’t understand what you were supposed to be feeling, but you knew this was a lucky break. It was something you kept quiet about. It was something you don’t tell your parents about, and you weren’t even sure if you were supposed to tell your friends about it. It might have gotten you made fun of, you had no way of knowing. All you knew was to lie still and let this twenty year old girl touch you until she was done.

When she was done, she rubbed you with a towel and told you to go take a bath and get ready for bed. You’re not sure if your parents ever found out. All you know is she stopped babysitting for you soon after. Maybe she finished massage school and didn’t need the money anymore. Or maybe you just got big enough that you were able to stay home alone. Regardless of what became of your babysitter, you know that all of your massages have been letdowns ever since.

“And that’s why I don’t go to massage parlors,” you tell your friends over beers. “That and the whole human trafficking thing. Most of those girls have been kidnapped.”

Then you and your friends drink your beers silently, all of you basking in the vision of a twenty-year-old girl helping an eleven-year-old boy relax.

Happy Remember The Rubdown Your Babysitter Gave You Day!

You Switched Bodies With Another Zombie Day!

You are a zombie who loves to shuffle across the earth very slowly and eat brains. You also love to groan. Thanks to a freaky occurrence last night (you bumped into an old fortune telling machine that people used to put quarters into before the zombie apocalypse) you appear to have switched bodies with another zombie. So you are still the same zombie, except you're in a completely different zombie body. And that other zombie is walking around as you. This is going to be nutty!

You've been getting a lot of looks from other zombies who know the zombie whose body you're occupying and they are confused by how that zombie is suddenly so different-seeming (he used to drag his left foot, and now all of a sudden you're dragging his right). Meanwhile, your body is walking around with this other zombie inside it and you're worried that he's going to destroy the zombie life you've built for yourself. What if he tries to slowly attack the wrong people and gets your head knocked off your body with bats?

You and this other zombie need to figure out how to switch back before your careers are ruined. There's only one way you know how to pull it off. That's by shuffling around, groaning, and eating brains. You can do it!

Happy You Switched Bodies With Another Zombie Day!

Get Struck By Lightning Day!

Today you’re going to get struck by lightning so that you can acquire new magical powers. It’s going to hurt and you’ll be in a coma for a little while so you’re going to miss your Dad’s birthday, but it’ll be worth it when you’re able to touch people and find out how they’re gonna die or whatever.

“So what’d I get?” you’ll ask the doctor when he takes the bandages off your head.

“You got struck by lightning,” he’ll say.

“No, I know that. What powers do I have now? Can I see through walls?”

The doctor points to the wall. “I don’t know. Can you?”

You look at the wall. “Nope. Can I hear people’s thoughts?”

The doctor will look at you and wait. Then, “Did you hear that?”

“Nope,” you’ll say.

“I was thinking you were an idiot.”

“I didn’t hear it. Come on Doc. What’d I get from the lightning? I don’t want to have to wait a few weeks until one day I see a flash and all of a sudden I’m turning sand into pebbles.”

“That’s a power?”

“Could be.”

“Okay,” the doctor said. “I can’t be sure. But I think you might be able to kill people just by saying the word ‘really.’”

“Really?” you’ll say. The doctor will drop to the ground.

“Oh shit!”

The doctor will get back up, laughing hysterically.

“I’m just kidding. You didn’t get any magical powers. You just got struck by lightning you moron. Why does everyone think getting struck by lightning can turn them into superpeople? It's sad. Your life must be really empty that this is all you're hoping for.”

You’ll get so angry that you’ll grow twenty times your size and burst through the roof. After squeezing the doctor into goo with your fist, start running from helicopters.

Happy Get Struck By Lightning Day!

There’s An Atheist In Your Foxhole Day!

After four days hiding from the shelling in your foxhole, some guy pokes his head in and says, “There is no God. Shove over.”

You shove over, then you say, “I thought there weren’t any atheists in foxholes.”

The guy says there’s one in this foxhole so guess that settles that. “Also, your whole religion is a fairy tale,” he says. “Old guy with a beard sittin’ on a cloud givin’ a crap about your life. GIVE ME A BREAK!”

You ask him what God ever did to him and he says, “He took my wife and kids away from me. Couldn’t believe in the guy after that.”

You start to ask him how it happened, but he doesn’t get the chance to tell you about the drunk driver who crashed into his car. The whistle of a bomb streaks undeniably straight for your location, and without thinking the atheist pulls you on top of him and shields himself from the explosion with your body. You’re killed instantly and the atheist decides God delivered you unto him so that you could give your life to spare his and his belief in and love for God is restored. And thus your death was necessary to keep that “No Atheists In Foxholes” rule alive and well. You’d agree it was worth it if your torso wasn’t soup right now.

Happy There’s An Atheist In Your Foxhole Day!

Tell Your Parents You Can’t Move To The New Town With Them Day!

Your Dad just got offered a great new job with a huge raise. It’s really going to set up your whole family for life. Unfortunately, the job requires that you all move to Santa Fe. You’ve tried to explain that this is really inconvenient for you, but they just brush your concerns off, saying you’re only twelve and you’ll make new friends. They’re not taking you seriously.

Today’s the day of the big move. The truck is in the driveway, almost full. One thing not in that truck is your suitcase.

“I’m not going with you, Mom and Dad,” you’ll tell them. They’ll be in the kitchen making calls to arrange for various deliveries and utility transfers.

“Not now,” they’ll say.

Drop your suitcase and shout, “No. Now!”

They’ll hang up their phones and turn their attention to you.

“I have built a life here. I have friends. I have my soccer. I have a girlfriend who just let me kiss her for the first time last Friday afternoon. You can’t ask me to just give all that up and run off with you because you got a new job!”

Your parents will sit down on boxes and they’ll speak in calmer tones.

“You have to understand we’re only thinking about what’s best for all of us.”

Tell them, “What’s best for me is that I finish what I start. That I live the life I’ve been living. My life. Not yours.”

“Where will you live? What will you do for money?” your mother will ask.

“I have my route,” you’ll say. You distribute coupon circulars throughout the neighborhood on a weekly basis. “My school lunches are subsidized by local taxes. I’ll get by.”

“But we’re a team,” your dad will say.

“You can’t be a team if you don’t let your players play their best game.”

Your parents will know then that they’re not going to talk you out of this. “How can we reach you?” your Mom will ask.

“I’ll be staying in the fort me and my friends built out in the woods. I don’t get mail there yet, but if you send word people in this town will know how to find me.”

Your Mom will hug you and your dad will walk you outside. “This girlfriend. She pretty?” he’ll ask.

“She’s okay,” you’ll say.

Your Dad will tell you how he split up with his parents for a girl when he was ten and he never looked back. “You do what you gotta do.”

Your Dad will tousle your hair and wish you luck. You’ll head to the curb and stick out your thumb to hitch your way into the future.

Happy Tell Your Parents You Can’t Move To The New Town With Them Day!

Your Buddies Just Stopped By To Let You Know You're Beautiful Day!

Your buddies Nick and Booter are buzzing your apartment. They're on their way to work at Knutzens Tire Junction, but they just wanted to stop off and let you know that you're beautiful.

"I'm not!" you shout into your intercom.

"You is too!" Nick shouts back. "Don't you fuckin' say otherwise."

"I'm ugly! I am ugly!"

"You fuckin' piece of shit!" shouts Booter. "All throughout high school you were always the most attractive one of our crew. Whenever we'd do whippits, all the girls would fight over who gets to suck on the tube after you."

"And the waitresses always used to give you free cokes at Cracker Barrel," Nick adds.

"So don't fuckin' tell us you're not beautiful!" commands Booter. "Forget what Stacy Knutzen says."

"She's lonely and she's drunk with power," says Nick. "Wants to pretend she's Cleopatra."

Stacy Knutzen took over control of Knutzen's Tire Junction after her father died. She's a 26-year-old junior college grad with not a lot of brains. She announced on her first day on the job that she was firing "all the girls and the not-hot guys." You got the axe.

"There's no accounting for taste," Nick adds.

"What if I exercised?" you ask them. "If I lost like fifteen pounds? Got back down to my hockey weight?"

Nick and Booter hesitate. Then they shout, "Um, yeah! Sure! You could--" But you release the listen button and go back to bed. That moment's hesitation told you everything. You'll never be hot enough to get hired back into that tire shop. It's all over for you.

Happy Your Buddies Just Stopped By To Let You Know You're Beautiful Day!

You Missed Yesterday Day!

You slept through yesterday. You slept a full 36 hours. You don't know why. You weren't drugged. You weren't sick. You just didn't wake up.

You'll go to the doctor and he'll tell you that there's nothing wrong with you.

"You were sleepy," he'll say.

"Do I look different to you?" you'll ask. "Like maybe yesterday was a big sleep to prep for me turning it all around in my life? Do you think maybe from here on in I'm really gonna make it happen?"

You doctor will flash his pen light in your eyes.

"Only time will tell," he'll say.

When you go home from the doctor, you'll sit still on the couch, waiting for your new resolve to kick in. After about an hour, you'll turn on the TV and watch three Law & Order SVU's, then you'll crank call your ex.

Happy You Missed Yesterday Day!

You Make Comforters Filled With Human Fat Day!

Most serial killers just want to kill people in order to dress up in their skin. You think that’s selfish. You never kill someone unless you think they have enough fat inside them to fill a queen sized comforter. So you’re kind of like Dexter. He only kills people who deserve it. You only kill people whose deaths can help others stay warm.

“It’s better than goose down,” you tell the rich people at the entrepreneur fair where you’re hoping to find investors. “It’s squishy, so the blanket oozes around your form, covering you like a womb.”

“But doesn’t human fat decay after not too long?” they ask.

“Yes,” you say. “But for a day, or at least most of an afternoon, you are snug as a bug in a rug. A rug made of human fat.”

“How much would you charge for these rapidly deteriorating blankets?”

“Well, obtaining the fat isn’t easy, but the customer is lucky in that I love the process,” you say. “Fifty grand per blanket.”

“I’d like to invest in your product sir!” one of the rich people shouts. “I will provide full funding! Whatever you need!”

Everyone at the entrepreneur fair applauds because they all know a small-business owner’s dreams just came true. Unfortunately, the man who claims to be a wealthy investor is actually the younger brother of one of your victims and he’s about to chloroform you and spend the next few days sawing you apart, slowly though so you can feel it. You try to explain to him how his older brother helped keep you warm on a cold winter’s night so his death wasn’t for nothing, but this a-hole only cares about himself.

Happy You Make Comforters Filled With Human Fat Day!

Is That All There Is? Day!

You’ve been trying to come up with a fun catchphrase to use at work, at home, and on the racquetball court. Well throw away the drawing board, because from here on in you’re going to be the “Is that all there is?” guy!

Some examples for usage:

The big sales meeting has ended. You’ve just learned that your division’s profit is up by 6% and the merger with London is almost guaranteed to go through. When everyone is ready for you to give them the sign to break for lunch, take a moment. Place your hands on the conference table and stare down at the floor, not blinking so that your eyes turn a little red. Then look up, stare deep into the distance and ask, “Is that all there is?”

You and your wife have just finished dinner. You worked together in the kitchen to make a delicious plate of lamb chops and cauliflower. The candles are still burning. There’s just a nick of wine left in the bottle and the bedroom is calling your names. Take a moment. Stare down at the remains on your plate, then look up and into the candle flame. Look at it like you can see the next fifty years of your life contained in that tiny flame. Ask, “Is that all there is?”

You’ve just been in a car accident. Your car was totaled but you’re fine. The other car exploded with its passengers inside. They are presently running frantically along the median, engulfed in flame. Stare past their firey chaos and ask, “Is that all there is?”

Your first child was just born! Your wife is sobbing. The doctor is laughing, holding the healthy baby boy up for the both of you to see. Let go of your wife’s hand, stare past the baby and ask, “Is that all there is?”

You only have one package of Oreo Cakesters left in the cabinet. Stare past the single package and ask, “Is that all there is?”

You’ve just been told there’s nothing the doctors can do for you and you’ll be dead within the hour. With your final breaths, gasp and wheeze your hilarious catch phrase one last time. “Is… [cough cough] that… [vomit blood, vomit bile, some more blood] all… [die]

Happy Is That All There Is? Day!

You Are An American Designer Of Toilets Day!

You are SICK of always chasing the Japanese! What God decided that all toilet innovation must come from the East? Everyone in the world needs toilets, but only one people is willing to sink the bucks into the research to make those toilets the strangest and best that they can be.

"People don't like a lotta doodads crawling all over em when they take a poo," your boss tells you.

"People lack imagination," you tell him right back.

You're betting the first time an idea of an automated car wash was put on the table it drew a whole lotta gasps. And look at the automated car wash now! Well your toilet design has all of the same elements of the automated car wash and then some. The jiggly rags, the squeegee walls, the multiple high-pressure jets of soapy water. If someone in this country would just take a chance on you, people would finally get the clean they deserve.

Today you've got another lunch meeting with yet another toilet R&D veep at a competing company. If your boss ever finds out you'll be out on your ass. But you have to get your vision out to the people. There are a lot of hurtles, one big one especially.

"Your design has a straight razor?" is the question you always get midway through the presentation.

"Multiple straight razors," is the answer you always give, which never helps to put anyone at ease. "Grooming down there is more popular than ever."

People often accuse you of being juvenile for referring to human genitalia as "down there," but just because you happen to design innovative toilets you don't think that should preclude you from being a gentleman.

Happy You Are An American Designer Of Toilets Day!

You’re The Cool Warden Day!

Today’s the big day. The first day of Dannemora State Prison’s new morale-building program, “Rock n’ Roll Mondays.” From now on, every Monday morning when the gates are pulled back on the cells, the inmates will hear pumped over the PA system several hours of classic Rock music. You picked the first song yourself. “Twist and Shout” by the Beatles. You can’t wait to see the faces of your inmates as they groove their way out of their cells to make their way to work detail.

You’re pretty sure the inmates refer to you as the “Cool Warden.” You’ve been doing everything you can to make clear that there’s really not all that much difference between you and your inmates. As you like to say at your weekly “Rap Sessions” with randomly selected groups of five inmates, they’re people just like you. They just happened to make a big mistake. Could’a happened to anyone.

“Hey, I got a little wild in my day too,” you like to tell them. “We all gotta get a little wild every now and then, am I right? But nowadays when I wanna get wild, I take it out on my ax.” Then you break out your electric guitar and play them some Thorogood. They love that.

You once even bunked in a cell with some inmates for a night, just to let them know you’re not one of those uptight wardens who’d never step foot in one of those cells except for during inspections. Sure, it ended with the inmates taking you hostage and attempting to escape, only to get their heads shot off by snipers, but you’re still pretty sure you reached them that night.

Unfortunately, Warden, today’s not going to be as fun as you’d hoped. Rock n’ Roll Mondays is going to have to be postponed when your guards find that three hacks were quietly beheaded last night. Retribution from the White Supremacists against the Born Agains for stealing one of their “Mouth Dolls” (new inmates who are abducted by a gang, and whose teeth are knocked out of their gums so that there is no bite-down risk when they are forced to perform fellatio on gang members). You’d better help everyone cool off with a mandatory “Chill Out Session” (basically, lockdown). Sometimes, even the Cool Warden has to act like a square.

Happy You’re The Cool Warden Day!

You Sell Old Playboys Day!

Tonight's your third date with Susan and you really think she might be the one for you so you're going to have to tell her the truth.

"I'm not the owner of several night clubs in New York, Miami, and Sao Paolo," you'll say to her over dessert. "I sell old Playboys on the sidewalk. On a blanket."

"A blanket?" she'll ask. "You don't have a folding table?"

"Saving up for one," tell her.

"Why did you lie to me?" she'll ask.

Tell her, "I just like you so much. You look just like Miss July, 1970."

She'll blush. "The one where she's in the hammock?"

You'll stare at her for a second, stunned by what you just heard.

"That's Miss September, 1971 for Christs sake! How could you get that wrong?"

"I'm sorry," Susan will say. "I must have got them confused."

You were all wrong about Susan. Get the hell out of there.

Happy You Sell Old Playboys Day!

Hypnotist Sex Day!

Hypnotist sex is terrible because after it's over you can never remember any of it so it's time to go find someone new.

"I'm through with you," you'll say to your hypnotist girlfriend. "I want someone who can give me a sexual experience that I can remember."

"You are getting sleepy," your hypnotist girlfriend will say to you while swinging a necklace in front of your eyes right before having sex with you again exactly the way she likes it. Tomorrow you'll try to break up with her again but the same thing will happen. And don't try to just make a run for it to the bus station. The minute you try and buy a ticket you'll start clucking like a chicken until the police are summoned.

Happy Hypnotist Sex Day!

The Sculpture Garden Day!

Today when you run down the street to the sculpture garden outside the junior college, you'll be certain that today's the big day when you see those sculptures come to life and fight.

When you get there, they'll all be still. You'll feign disappointment, then you'll walk down the block looking visibly sullen. Once you're out of sight, hide behind a tree and wait a few minutes until the sculptures feel comfortable enough with your absence to move again. It might take a few minutes or a few hours, but keep watching. They'll move. You can bet on it.

One word of warning though. Instead of fighting, when the sculptures come to life the only thing they ever like to do is reenact famous hate crimes. Tonight the sculptures are going to reenact the murder of an abortion doctor, Dr. David Gunn, who was killed in 1993 in Pensacola, FL. The reenactment will be very respectful and very solemn, since everyone involved will be cement gray with mouths sealed shut. It's going to make you feel pretty bad about America tonight, but at least you'll finally get to watch the sculpture garden come to life.

Happy The Sculpture Garden Day!

You Are A Landlord Who Installs Hidden Cameras In Your Female Tenants Bedrooms Day!

You are a landlord who installs hidden cameras in your female tenants' bedrooms, therefore you know who killed Missy Colgate, the young blond beauty whose murder was splashed across the covers of all the newspapers. Unfortunately, you’re too embarrassed to help the police catch the killer because you fear that people will look down on you because you masturbate to your tenants’ private bedroom activities via hidden camera. The way you see it, you shouldn’t be expected to broadcast your private perversions to the whole world just because you want to help make sure a murder doesn’t go unpunished.

“It’s just not fair,” you say to yourself while watching the girl in 6B get ready for bed. “I shouldn’t have to suffer for being a good citizen.”

Maybe if the world wasn’t so judgmental, things would be different. But you know the sort of stares you’ll get at the market if you go public with what you know. No one will see you and think, “There goes that hero who made sure that poor girl’s killer got what he deserved.” No way. The only thing they’ll think is, “There goes that perv who jacks it to closed circuit video of his tenants.”

When you think about it, it’s so hard for a witness to come forward without being victimized himself that it’s a wonder justice is ever served in this town.

“It’s not my fault people are so closed-minded,” you think. Then when the girl in 6B turns off her light, you turn off your TV monitor and crawl under the covers with the hope that your conscience won’t keep you up tonight.

Happy You Are A Landlord Who Installs Hidden Cameras In Your Female Tenants Bedrooms Day!

The Rubber Bandit Day!

Today you’re going to make your name as the world famous bank robber, The Rubber Bandit. You’re going to walk into the bank and lean over the counter with a rubber band cocked on your finger, aimed straight at the bank teller’s eye. You’re going to shout to the rest of the bank, “If anyone trips the alarm, this bank teller is getting a rubber band straight in her eyeball!”

The other employees will look at each other, unsure what to do. Then the bank manager will shout to the teller, “Carly, I’m going to have to trip the alarm I’m afraid.”

Carly will beg the bank manager not to do it, but he’ll insist that a rubber band in the eye just isn’t a bad enough threat to not risk it.

“But it’ll hurt!” Carly will shout.

“You bet it will. Don’t you trip that alarm,” you’ll say, fearing that they’re not going to take you seriously.

Carly and the bank manager will argue for a few minutes about how it might sting for a while, but we’re talking about thousands of dollars here and a stinging eyeball just isn’t worth that much.

“You’re willing to make that choice for her pal? You really ready to have that on your conscience?”

The bank manager will say. “I already have. I tripped the alarm a couple minutes ago.”

Everyone will wait to see what you’re gonna do. Ultimately, you’ll lower the rubber band without hurting Carly. You knew you didn’t have it in you to irritate an innocent person’s eye like that.

Happy The Rubber Bandit Day!

The 70 Year Old Virgin Day!

You are a 70 year old virgin and you stopped trying to have sex with people several decades ago. You keep your virginity a secret because it embarrasses you. You even adopted kids way back when you were in your 40’s, just so that people might think you had sex once. Your kids learned after a while that the only reason you adopted them was to hide the fact that you’re a virgin, and they were pretty pissed about it so they put you in a home. Today’s your birthday, so they’re making the one of two visits they make per year (the other one’s on Christmas).

The visit will be uncomfortable as usual, with your two kids checking their watches to see how long they have left before they can leave. Your roommate will tell your son that he looks just like you, giving your son the opportunity to say, “Oh well that’s just a coincidence because I’m adopted. We both are.”

Your roommate will then say, “Both your kids are adopted eh? Haven’t you ever had sex?”

You’ll start to cry and that’s when the news will spread all over the nursing home that you’re a virgin. The teasing won’t stop until you die.

Happy The 70 Year Old Virgin Day!

You Steal Bikes Day!

This recession has forced us all to improvise to make ends meat. Some people have started substitute teaching, others have started killing for money. You’ve found that there’s a lot of cash to be made in the theft and resale of bicycles.

Today you’re going to steal a real nice mountain bike from a lady when she parks outside a deli for just a second while she grabs herself a juice. When you bring the bike to the second-hand bike shop, you’re going to find this is one hot bike that won’t be so easy to sell.

“I know this bike,” Jerry the proprietor will say. “You know whose bike this is?”

“Some girl’s,” you’ll say.

Jerry will open up a newspaper to an article on the Molinari mafia trial. You’ll see a photo of Mob kingpin Louie Molinari standing outside the courthouse laughing it up with reporters. Right next to him will be the girl you stole the bike from today. In the photo, she’ll be sitting on that very bike.

“Why’s she sitting on a bike outside the courthouse where her Dad’s on trial?” you’ll ask.

“Maybe she just finished up her bike ride in time to take a picture with her Pop,” Jerry will say. “Who knows? The point is, that girl loves her bike, and you just stole it from her. She’s the daughter of the most dangerous man in the city. If you think I’m gonna let that bike inside my store, you’re dead wrong.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?” you ask.

“Throw it in the river,” Jerry says. “Throw yourself in after it. It’s where you’re gonna end up anyhow.”

And that’s how you'll end up going on the run from the mafia, shithead.

Happy You Steal Bikes Day!

Minidress Day!

Because you look so mothereffing good in that minidress you’re going to find yourself on a private jet to Bermuda by ten p.m. tonight. The way it will happen is you’ll be in a bank when some thieves show up to stage a robbery. Unfortunately, one of the tellers will hit the alarm button (the teller will get shot in the head for that, a message to everyone else that these guys mean business). The police will come and it will turn into a full-scale hostage situation. The robbers will demand a private jet to Bermuda and they’ll decide to take one hostage with them. You’ll look so good in that minidress that there’s no way in hell they wouldn’t pick you. They just want to be near you for a little while longer, and even though they know deep down they’re probably never gonna make it to that beach, on the off chance that things might work out and they might get to see you in a bikini, it’s all but guaranteed they’re gonna drag you onto that plane with them.

So thanks to that minidress, and the way your body looks wrapped up in it, you might never see your husband and two kids again.

Happy Minidress Day!

Mom’s Stuck In A Tree Day!

“Can you get her down?” you’ll ask the fireman.

“Don’t know if anyone can get her down from there but herself,” the fireman will answer.

“But she just climbed up there too high and can’t figure out how to get back down. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” the fireman will say. “You really think that’s all that’s going on here?”

You’ll look up at your Mom. She’s seated on a branch. She looks patient, maybe a little distracted.

“What else is there?”

The fireman will explain that when a cat gets stuck in a tree, it’s typical because cats are stupid and they do stupid stuff like that. But when a human does it, they oughta know better. A human stuck up in a tree is usually the sign that something way deeper is going on here.

“Like what?” you’ll ask.

“Like she married the wrong man. She should’a married the first guy she fell for, but her parents disapproved because he didn’t come from a rich wealthy family.”

You’ll see what’s going on here now. “Did the first guy she fell for come from a family of firemen?”

“I would’a let the whole world burn for her,” the fireman will say. “But I ain’t gonna help her outta that tree. She can’t just decide all these years later to do something to make me rescue her. She has to find her way back down those branches herself.”

Put your hand on the fireman’s shoulder. You’ll enjoy touching him there. He could’ve been your dad, had your Mom not been so willing to let her own happiness slip away.

Happy Mom’s Stuck In A Tree Day

Your Dentist Gases You Until You’re Unconscious Then She Strips You Naked And Climbs Into Your Arms And Just Lies There For A Bit Day!

You have the same body type as her dead husband. She misses him. She’s felt so cold ever since he passed. The minute she saw you she knew you could make her feel the way he used to make her feel when she’d fall asleep naked in his arms. But she’s still not ready to date, still not sure she can go through all those motions of getting to know someone new before both parties agree it’s okay to share intimacy. So to avoid all that she decided it would be best to just misdiagnose you as being in need of extensive dental surgery. You’ve been seeing her once every two weeks for several months now, and at every visit she gases you until you’re unconscious, then she strips you and herself naked and climbs onto the chair, into your arms. Then she just lies there, feeling your warm, heavy limbs around her. She enjoys that for about a half hour, sighing and occasionally crying into your chest hair. When she’s done, she climbs off you, dresses you both back up, then she slices into your gums unnecessarily for a few minutes. When you wake up, none the wiser with a mouth full of pain, you go out to the front desk to schedule your dentist’s next brief respite from cold, cold longing.

Your Dentist Gases You Until You’re Unconscious Then She Strips You Naked And Climbs Into Your Arms And Just Lies There For A Bit Day!

You’re On The Roof Of A Truck Day!

The truck is speeding through town, swerving left and right, trying to make you lose your grip and roll off but it can’t shake you free.

“Goddammit Julie I’m your father!” you shout at your daughter behind the wheel.

“You’re nothing to me!” she shouts back and she once again swerves to make you lose your grip. You almost slide off but just manage to secure yourself.

“Pull this truck over young lady!” you shout.

Your daughter speeds up. “I’ll kill us both if that’s what it takes!”

“No!” you shout.

Julie goes even faster. You can see that the bridge ahead is out. She really hates you that much that she’d kill herself just to make sure you die today. You really were a horrible father to her, weren’t you. But there’s only one way to redeem yourself.

“I love you sweetie!” you shout. Then you roll off the roof. Julie feels the bump when she runs you over. She slows down the truck to check her mirror to see that you’re not moving. Looking at your bloody remains she realizes that you really did love her. You might not have been a good father, but at least she knows you cared enough to give your life in order to save hers. So everything’s fine between you and your daughter now.

Happy You’re On The Roof Of A Truck Day!

Outdoor Dining Day!

Today at the restaurant when you ask to be seated outside on the sidewalk the hostess will tell you that she can’t allow that to happen because the rival drug gangs in the neighborhood have been getting aggressive and there could be a shooting.

“I know we just met, but I think I just fell in love with you and I can’t risk you being killed by a stray bullet,” she’ll say.

Tell her that if this was meant to be between you two, it was meant to be.

“You have to have faith in us. Set me free.”

She’ll take a deep breath and with a tear in her eye, she’ll seat you at a table close to the curb.

Throughout your lunch she’ll watch you from her post inside, wringing her hands with worry. You’ll occasionally send her a smile to reassure her that you’re hers, and you’re not going anywhere. But every time a car backfires or someone starts shouting she becomes terrified all over again.

You order a chicken salad sandwich and it’s just okay. Not great. But the cole slaw is very good. You leave some of the sandwich but finish the cole slaw.

“Okay now go,” the hostess says when she sees you put your napkin over your plate.

“Just let the waitress bring me my check and I promise I’ll get someplace safe. I’ll wait for you there. I’ll wait to begin my life with you there.”

CRACK CRACK CRACK! Gunshots ring out. You leap from your table to tackle the hostess to the ground. A car squeals away. You check the hostess’s body but there’s no blood. She checks you too. Neither of you were hit. That’s when you hear the screaming.

You both rise to your feet and look to the sidewalk café across the street, where a hostess is bent over the body of a customer. She’s holding his head in her hands, screaming for him to wake up and come back to her, to give her more than just a few minutes. But he’s not moving. He’s not coming back.

And that’s when you know that you and your hostess were really meant to be together, not like those two at the restaurant across the street who were clearly just fooling themselves.

Happy Outdoor Dining Day!

On The Occasion Of Your Little Sister’s High School Graduation, Give Her Some Advice Day!

“Die Hard’s only a movie,” tell her.

She’ll say she knows.

“And even if it wasn’t a movie, that guy was a New York cop.”

He was trained. Your sister will agree with that.

“He knew how to shoot a gun. He’s been in dangerous situations before so his nerves weren’t likely to rattle. He might even have killed people before. None of that stuff applies to you or me.”

Your little sister will nod, then she’ll ask if you’re tired, indicating that you probably dozed off a bit. Ignore her. You need to get this across.

“But above all that even, it’s still just a movie. In real life even the best New York cop would probably get killed if he took on a whole bunch of high-tech terrorists. New York cops aren’t super-soldiers or whatever. Most of them probably never fire their weapons at a person.”

Grab her wrist.

“If John McClane was a real person, he’d probably look just like me right now.”

Your nurse will come in and increase your morphine drip. You’ll be going to sleep very soon and your little sister has a lot of graduation parties to hit. It was really good of her to come visit right after commencement, so make this count.

“So if you ever find yourself in a building that’s been occupied by terrorists, or thieves posing as terrorists, don’t try and turn into a one-man army. Just save yourself.”

Your little sister will nod again.

“If only I could go back in time to last Thursday and tell myself that,” say. Then fall asleep, and try not to dream of all those people whose deaths you failed to avert.

Happy On The Occasion Of Your Little Sister’s High School Graduation, Give Her Some Advice Day!

One Of The Guys Who Works At Your Car Wash Is Hiding In The Back Seat Of Your Car Day!

You don’t notice him until you pull away and drive for a few blocks. That’s when he alerts you to his presence.

“Pssst!”

You don’t respond at first. You just keep driving.

“Pssst!” again.

That time you hear it loud and clear. You turn your head and make out his blue jumpsuit, curled up on the floor of the backseat. He’s still holding a dirty white rag.

“Don’t look man!” he whisper-shouts. “Just keep driving like you’re all alone, okay?”

He’s Latino. Probably eighteen or twenty years old. And he’s scared.

“Just drive me towards the bay, okay man?”

You ask him if he knows how to get to the bay. He says to take a street you never heard of, and you tell him so. He carefully lifts his torso up off the floor of the backseat and looks around to see where you are. Then he says to make a left and plops back down on the floor.

When you ask him what he’s going to do when he gets to the bay, he says he’ll hope on the first big ship that happens to be leaving the port at that moment.

“Stowaway?” you ask, turning your head around to look at him.

He says well they probably ain’t gonna be selling tickets. Then he shouts for you to keep your eyes on the road. “They might be following us okay?”

You tell him that you’d be happy to take him to the police, or to some kind of non-profit group that helps fight human trafficking. “If you’re forced to work at that car wash to pay off your passage into this country,” you say, “there are people who can protect you.”

He says he was born here. He’s running because he just got his girlfriend pregnant. Her dad owns that car wash, and she’s going to tell her Dad the bad news this afternoon.

“He’s gonna make me marry her and work at that car wash forever. I gotta get outta the country, okay? Just get me to a boat, okay? And try not to look suspicious. I’m telling you the minute she tells him he’s gonna hop in a car and come looking for me.”

You keep your eyes straight ahead. You wonder whether this hopping onto the next boat out of the port isn’t a bad plan for you too. Maybe you and… Wait, what’s his name?

“Ralphie. Rafael, but call me Ralphie.”

Maybe you and Ralphie could travel the seas together, him on the run from his family obligations, and you on the run from your Netflix queue and your internal debate over what takeout place to order dinner from every night. You could stowaway on a merchant marine vessel or some kind of tanker that’s already populated with outlaws who are better off keeping away from dry land. They’ll at first want to throw you overboard, then they’ll just give you jobs, the kind of tough manual labor that covers you in black grime from head to toe. Eventually, you’ll both be accepted as part of the crew and they’ll invite you out with them to solicit whores when they dock the ship on East Asian islands. Never again will you have to spend a moment wondering what you’re supposed to do next, because when you’re living and working on the sea the only thing on the agenda is to keep the ship afloat.

You can see the bay just about six blocks up ahead.

“We’re almost there,” you say.

Ralphie pops his head up to see, then shouts, “Oh shit turn man turn here!”

You make a quick turn right. You aren’t sure what at first, then in the corner of your eye you spot a car on the other side of the intersection covered in suds. That must be Ralphie’s boss. He got the news and hopped in the first car waiting to be rinsed off after a wash, leaving the driver stranded in the waiting room staring at a vending machine wondering why his car is taking so long.

“Oh man he knew where to find me. He’s gonna be waiting for me at that dock. How am I gonna get on a boat now?”

“It’s okay,” you say. “From what I could see, the only boat out there today was a garbage barge. I don’t know how long you’d be able to stowaway on that.”

“What now man?!” Ralphie says.

“You need to lay low for a while,” you say. “Come back to my place. I’m unemployed and I don’t have too much going on right now.”

You take Ralphie home and the two of you try to find something to watch on cable for a while, then you have a long conversation about whether you want to order Chinese or Indian food for dinner tonight.

Happy One Of The Guys Who Works At Your Car Wash Is Hiding In The Back Seat Of Your Car Day!

The Nine-Elevens Is A Terrible Name For A Band Day!

You’re just not going to win over a lot of fans with that. Even with an album titled “Too Soon.” It just sounds like you’re being assholes. And before you bring it up, Katrina and the Waves picked that name way before it attained the insensitive connotation it has today.

Controversy gains attention, no doubt. But obvious attempts at courting controversy also makes the public inclined to be dismissive. Have you thought of naming your band the USS Cole? A little subtlety can go a long way is all.

Happy The Nine-Elevens Is A Terrible Name For A Band Day!

Can't Wait Until Lunchtime Day!

You can't wait until lunchtime because lunchtime is when you get to talk to Raymond the kid behind the counter at Quiznos. Raymond looks exactly like Pat, one of your friends from high school who died on Prom night. You were driving and you bet everyone in the car that you could make it across the train tracks before the train passed. No one in the car took the bet and they begged you to just take them to their prom so that they could live out the night they've dreamed about throughout their teens. But them being scared was just going to make it all that much more fun when you ramped over those train tracks just in the nick of time. It didn't work out that way though, and everyone in the car died but you. Which is why you like ordering your lunch from Raymond every day because it lets you pretend that the world stopped just minutes before you got hit by that train and Pat not only isn't dead, but he's still 17 and he got a job at Quiznos.

Unfortunately, today you're not going to be allowed to order your sandwich because the manager will step in front of Raymond and tell you you're not allowed to eat lunch there anymore since every time you order a sandwich you follow it up by screaming "I'M SO SO SORRY!" and then lunge across the counter to try and hug Raymond and it scares his customers. Head over to Hale and Hearty where one of the salad girls looks like Kelly, one of your friends who was in the backseat, except more of a Latina version of Kelly.

Happy Can't Wait Until Lunchtime Day!

Burglars Catch You Sobbing Day!

When two burglars jimmy your lock and come creeping into your apartment today, they won’t know that you’re home at first. All the lights will be off and the shades drawn, and it will be so musty and dank inside that they’ll assume the place has been left empty for a month. They’ll go about burgling without even worrying about the noise they make. They’ll even turn on the HDTV and check out the picture before they decide to unhook it.

It’s only after they’ve finished gathering all the electronics that they’ll make their way into the bedroom for the jewelry and find you stretched out face down across the width of your bed. They’ll freeze, unsure of whether you’re awake or asleep. They’ll shine a flashlight on your back and watch it shiver as you release your peel of muffled sobs.

“Hey lady,” one will say.

“Just go away!” you’ll shout, without rolling over.

“We don’t wanna hurt you,” the other will say.

“Go ahead! Everyone else has!” you’ll shout back.

The burglars will be thrown. They’ll argue in whispers about what to do with you. Until you interrupt them.

“I said get out! Leave me alone!” you’ll shout, still not rolling over to face them.

They won’t say anything at first. Then:

“We’re stealing all your stuff,” one will say.

“Yeah,” the other will add. “Don’t you wanna stop us?”

This will send you over the top. You’ll spring to a half-sitting position, place your reddened, tear-stained face directly in the beam of their flashlight and you’ll scream, “I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE!!!”

The scream will make each of them remember their own big sisters as teenagers. They’ll remember being concerned, listening at the bedroom door to the breakup tears coming from inside, then they’d get up the courage to shuffle in and ask what’s wrong, only to be commanded to leave with the most blood-curdling screech they’d ever heard.

You’ll fall back on the bed and the burglars will back-step out of your room, pulling the door part-way closed behind them. They’ll argue in louder whispers in the living room, then they’ll gather up their loot and get ready to leave.

Before they go, one will lean back into your bedroom.

“Hey,” the man who is about to take off with all of your valuables will say. “It’s gonna get better.”

Happy Burglars Catch You Sobbing Day!

The Teens Are Out Of Control Day!

When you get to the gate of the singles only condominium complex, they demand that you drive your car fifty feet back and then walk to the gate while they watch. They need to know you don't have any teens inside your car waiting to run through the gates as soon as they open. They need to know you're alone.

"I have no children," you say. "I just need a place to stay. A place safe from the teens."

You can hear laughter in the distance. Youths. They're probably just drinking beer and fornicating in the woods, but who knows. You have to get inside.

"Please," you say.

They wait thirty seconds and then the gate opens. You run inside and the gate closes behind you almost immediately. A thirty-one year old man with hair plugs and capped teeth greets you with a shovel. He holds the shovel out to you.

"Bury the dead," he says, pointing to the corner. There are some teens piled there. They must have tried to get over the wall and got picked off by snipers. Stupid of them, but they have little to no sense once they smell people of legal guardian age. They just do whatever it takes to get closer to their kill. And sometimes they get shot. You have to bury them now.

While digging into the ground you catch a glimpse of the bright green shimmer of the moon reflecting off the pool and shining in the windows of the building. You hope the fence is high enough to dip in their safely. The world may be sinking into ruin now that the teens have been infected with a substance that turns them into fornicating killers out for adult blood, but it'd be nice if you could get in a swim before the end.

Happy The Teens Are Out Of Control Day!

PPPS: Buy "You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" if you haven't already! Long time no talk...

The Guy Who Stole Your Laptop Is Way More Likeable Than You Are Day!

You got your laptop stolen from a coffee shop not long ago (you left it alone on a table to go hit on a girl looking through postcards for terrible plays by the window. By the time the girl told you to leave her alone and you turned around, your laptop was gone). The guy must have immediately gone home and started answering your emails, because within 48 hours of losing your laptop, you and your father had reconciled your differences, your ex-girlfriend drunk dialed you, and your boss started telling everyone in the office that if they all had your attitude, the company’s stock would be through the roof already.

You check your sent mail file on Gmail and find that the guy who stole your laptop is capable of the most eloquent and evocative correspondence you’ve ever read. He was able to read into emails you’d gotten and instantly suss out what the writer was trying to say, and what the writer wanted to hear in response. And man did he tell them what they wanted to hear. Reading the emails he sent to your estranged father, ex-girlfriend, and especially your boss, you can’t help but shed a tear imagining what your life might have been like had you always had this strange man’s voice and grasp of human nature.

You decide to send an email to thank him, so you send it to yourself, assuming that he’s still reading.

Dear Guy Who Stole My Laptop,

Thanks for being me, in a way I could never be. I’m going to change my email password now.

Best

You change your email password and then you put on your good suit. You’re having dinner with your dad tonight.

Happy The Guy Who Stole Your Laptop Is Way More Likeable Than You Are Day!

PS: Hey UNITED KINGDOM, my new book is available in your part of town on July 3rd. Pre-order now!

PPS: Listen to me on NPR's "The Bryant Park Project," reading from and discussing my book.

PPPS: Another reading in NY this Friday, at KGB Bar. 7 PM. Free!

You Are A Fart Guitarist Day!

Today you’re going to quit playing fart guitar for an aspiring parody rock band that parodies popular rock songs in the vein of Weird Al, except without anyone knowing that you do it because you don’t make recordings that people can buy.

“I just don’t think there’s a future for me in Ned Bleppelin,” you’ll tell your lead singer.

“We have that gig at the orphanage in July. You’re just gonna let those kids go without hearing some funny music?”

“It’s not even a gig,” you say. “We just stand outside the orphanage’s window and play. They called the police the last time.”

This makes your lead singer cry. He grew up in that orphanage and his dream was that one day he would come back and perform there as a famous pop song parodist. After a few years of trying to make it, he grew impatient and just started playing outside the orphanage’s windows.

“What are you gonna do?” your lead singer asks.

“I’m going to join a song parody cover band” you say. “We’ll play parodies written by other people, like Al. There’s good money in it.”

“And the integrity?” he asks. “Is there much integrity to be found in that line of work?”

You shrug him off.

“Hey man, maybe one day we’ll parody one of your songs,” you say. “’My Fart Will Go On’ is bound to hit it big one day.”

Your lead singer loses his shit and starts throwing whatever he can find at you. Whoopie cushions, punching nun puppets, George W Bush masks. Whatever’s lying around the rehearsal space he sends flying at your head and cursing. You get the hell out of there and go meet your other band, Dare To Be Stupid, for practice. Tomorrow you’ll find out your former lead singer attempted suicide and is in the hospital. You won’t go visit. This is the business you’ve chosen.

PS: Pick up "You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero," the new book by Bob Powers. Out now!

The President's Gone Day!

It's day 6 and there's still no sign of the President of the United States. He took off over the weekend after he found out he got a staffer pregnant. She didn't want to abort and he got scared of having to raise another kid (his third), so he took off. He left a note for the Vice President that just read, "Sorry man." The nation's police forces have been instructed to treat the president's disappearance as if it were an abduction or a murder investigation. But the nation's citizens are starting to wonder whether he shouldn't just be left alone.

"He didn't want to raise a kid," people are saying to each other across dinner tables. "The Vice President can handle things. Let the guy go."

"Do we really want him to come back to his job even?" other people are saying to each other near water coolers. "If he'll run from something like this, what will he do when someone blasts us with bombs?"

"Don't blame me, I voted for Bill and Opus," some asshole just said to no one listening.

Today you're going to be driving across country to a place where you think there might be work and you're gonna pick up a hitchhiker. After driving for a bit, you'll get a look at his profile and you'll know it's him, but you won't say anything. You'll just keep going, taking your president as far as he needs to go. Just before dropping him off at a truck stop you'll say, "I ain't gonna say nothing."

"Appreciate that," the President of the United States will say. Then he'll wander around to the back parking lot of the truck stop, probably looking for his next ride. You'll drive on, feeling proud. You'll have served your country well today.

Happy The President's Gone Day!

ps: Bob's new book, "You Are A Miserable Excuse for a Hero," is out now! Pick up a copy soonish!

"You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" Day!

FYI: If you haven't heard, Bob Powers' new "choose-your-own-ending" style humor book (for adults who are 33 and failing) is out today. Go check it out!

"You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" Day!

You publish a magazine devoted to the Buick LeSabre. It includes all sorts of celebratory personal essays as well as fan-fiction written from the point of view of sentient Buick LeSabres who can love. Today you're going to get a call that one of your readers has taken a Buick dealership hostage because they've been putting their LeSabres in the back of the lot, away from street-view, and he won't let them go unless you show up and talk to him for a while about how awesome the Buick LeSabre is. You refuse because you're scared. Everyone at the Buick dealership is murdered execution style on the showroom floor.

Happy "You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" Day!

PS:

"Miserable Excuse" excerpt up on the HuffPost

The Huffington Post ran an excerpt from my new book, out this Tuesday. Check it out.

And you can find a much longer sample, with many of the different outcomes, HERE! Give it a read.

Happy Memorial Day.

You're All Outta Love Day!

You're all outta love and you're only 46.

"I blew my love on a whole lotta people who didn't deserve it," you say at the dinner table, eyeing your two sons with scorn. Your two sons both give you the finger in response.

"Are you sure you didn't leave some of your love in your other pants," your wife says pointedly. She knows about the affair with the lady who sells you your pears.

"I should have been more miserly," you say, ignoring your wife. "What kind of man am I going to be now?"

Everyone sits and waits for you to do something that a man who's all outta love might do. Nothing happens. They get hungry and start eating again.

"Pass the salt," your son says.

"Nope," you say.

Everyone drops their forks to their plates and gasps. You realize what you've become and you drop your face into your hands and shriek.

Happy You're All Outta Love Day!

PS: Preorder YOU ARE A MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A HERO, the new book by Bob Powers. Out May 27th!

Sex Bus Day!

You were the sole survivor of the Great Christmas Eve Sex Bus crash of 2006. You barely remember a thing after the bus crashed through the guardrail and broke through the ice on the frozen over lake. There was screaming and there was cold, and then you were lying topless on a muddy bank feeling nothing but a sharp pain behind your eyes. You have no idea why you were the only one to not get trapped inside that sinking bus along with the rest of the exotic dancers, prostitutes, and Teflon salesmen. Some say you were lucky. Others, the families of the dead, they say you were cursed. You're inclined to agree with them.

You're presently paralyzed from the waist down and your heart is broken in two because before the sex bus crash you were engaged to be married to Lenny, the owner and proprietor of Sex Bus Tours Incorporated. Lenny was driving that night. You were all the way in the back of the bus tending bar. In between were twenty-six traveling Teflon salesmen and a staff of half-nude to completely nude women giving the salesmen a Christmas Eve they would never forget. You keep going back to that night, trying harder and harder to remember the moments after the crash. You try to put yourself back there and you try to see down the cabin of the bus, peering through the mass of naked flesh and bulbous middle-aged man to catch a glimpse of your Lenny.

You're certain he would have looked back at you at the end. Even if there were only a millisecond of time, he would have put his eyes to his mirror to find you and make sure you were all right. And you would most definitely have been looking for him. You just want to remember that one last look. You want to remember the last time you saw those eyes.

You start seeing hypnotists to take you back to that night, but the Sex Bus Crash is a spooky event in your town and many hypnotists refuse your business because they don't want you to take them there. Finally, one consents to do whatever it takes to free up your memories of that night.

It's rough going, but after many sessions with the therapist you finally find yourself transported onto that bus, experiencing the crash all over again like it was happening in the present. You search the cabin, peering past all the dancers and Teflon salesmen until you finally catch a glimpse of the driver's seat...and you find it empty. Empty with the exit door open.

"But I buried him," you say. "They brought up his body and I put him in the ground."

"Did you identify him?" the hypnotist asks.

You can barely breathe. It's like you're still in that lake.

"He was underwater too long, they said," you tell the hypnotist, realizing now that the only reason you're alive is because your Lenny must have jumped out of the sex bus just before the crash, then he swam to the rear entrance and pulled you out.

And then he disappeared. Why, you have no idea. But it's time to go find out...

Happy Sex Bus Day!

PS: Pre-Order "YOU ARE A MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A HERO," the new book by Bob Powers. Out next Tuesday, May 27th.

Hooker Wisdom Day!

Of all the Hookers on your block, Charlene is your favorite. The others are too busy looking for Johns or worrying about the cops to pay attention to you, but Charlene always takes notice of you when you come home at night. Unless she’s leaning inside a stranger’s car trying to make a sale, she’ll be sure to give you a snappy remark or quip that is infused with the wisdom of the streets. You’ll never forget all the clever truisms she’s given you over the years:

“If you get hit by a car, try to find someone who’ll take you to the hospital.”

“Hey sugar. Don’t eat uncooked chicken. It’ll make you sick.”

“What’s up stud? If you have a lot of money, keep it in the bank. They’ll give you interest.”

You always nod and reply with a “You got it Charlene, have a good night!” Then you head upstairs and put your head on your pillow to think about what Charlene said to you.

Tonight you’ll come walking home and you’ll be excited to see Charlene unoccupied. You’ve been feeling a little lost lately and you could use some good advice. When Charlene sees you, she spreads her smile wide and shows you those beautiful white teeth of hers.

“Hey Charlene,” you say.

“Hey handsome,” Charlene says back. “You know what they say don’t you?”

“What’s that Charlene?”

“No matter how much you want to drive a car, you need to get a license first. It’s illegal otherwise. You can still do it without a license, but if you got pulled over, you could get into a lot of trouble. Unless you could convince the policeman that you were on your way to an emergency or something, but that’d be pretty hard to pull off.”

You stay right where you are and you let those words of Charlene’s sink in. Your head is swimming and you can’t help it. As embarrassing as it is in front of all those hookers and all those Johns, Charlene’s words make you just drop to your knees and sob. Charlene rubs your shoulder gently with one hand while you cry before her. Then she tells you to “Get up and do what you gotta do.”

You wipe your tears away and you nod. Then you go upstairs. You turn on that television. And you watch a rerun of “King of Queens.” As you watch, you think to yourself, “Charlene was right. You really can’t drive a car unless you get a license first because it’s illegal otherwise. You can still do it without a license, but if you get pulled over you could get into a lot of trouble. You could try to convince the policeman you had an emergency, but that’s hard.”

You keep watching “King of Queens,” all the while thinking to yourself, “Thank you Charlene. Thank you.”

PS: Take a break from pre-ordering my book to pre-order Rebecca Barry's LATER, AT THE BAR, a fantastic book of fiction about upstate New York drunks, out next week in paperback. It's Girls Are Pretty Approved!

Bodybuilders Should Date Bodybuilders Day!

You're a bodybuilder who loves to whale on your abs and glutes, and you're falling in love with a girl who barely weighs a hundred pounds and doesn't have a muscle on her whole body. Your bodybuilder friends are really rude to her when you bring her to Muscle Beach.

"What are you doing with that softy dude? Bodybuilders stick with bodybuilders. We understand each other's need to whale on our delts," your best friend counsels you.

"I don't see why we have to be so limited in our perspective," you tell him. "There's strength of heart too, you know."

What are you gonna do if you move in with that girl and you want to arm wrestle somebody?" your friend says. "Heck you'll probably rip her arm out of her socket during a thumb wrestling match."

Your girlfriend will over hear this exchange and she'll leave a note in your mailbox telling you that she loves you but she doesn't want to cause you any trouble with your bodybuilding social circles. You'll run and track her down but it'll be too late. She'll have already enlisted in the army and been shipped off to Iraq.

Happy Bodybuilders Should Date Bodybuilders Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

It’s Your Boss’ Birthday Day!

Get him a pony. Just walk it in this morning with a big bow and a “Happy Birthday” ribbon around its neck and park it next to you desk. When your boss asks what’s with the pony, tell him he’ll have to wait until the afternoon when it’s cake-time before he gets his gifts.

Your boss will bring you into his office and tell you to get rid of the pony.

“But I bought it for you,” say. “Don’t you want your present?”

Your boss will say that a pony is inappropriate, and he’ll accuse you of trying to imply that he’s childish.

“So I spent 53,000 dollars on your birthday gift and you accuse me of being underhanded?”

Your boss will apologize.

“You’re a real baby, you know that?” you’ll say.

Your boss will say, there, that’s what he’s talking about.

“You want you rattle baby?”

Your boss will tell you that you go a long long way to try to undermine him. Like the time you built a giant crib and put his desk in the middle of it.

“Just because Dad made me President and you Vice President,” he’ll say.

“I’m two years older than you,” tell him. “I will not take orders from my younger brother. This company is called Linus and Sons. Not Linus and One Son Who’s a Little More Important Than The Other Son, Even Though The Other Son Is Older.”

Your boss will throw his pen at the wall and ask what the Pony’s name is.

“I though you could name him,” tell him.

“I want to name him Aragon,” your boss will say.

“Aragon,” you’ll repeat.

“Aragon,” he’ll say again, with majesty.

You’ll both sit quietly, then, “Thank you for my present.”

Just shrug, then lean out his door and whistle. Aragon will come walking into your boss’s office. You’ll go back to your desk and your boss will spend the rest of the day brushing Aragon’s coat.

Happy It’s Your Boss’ Birthday Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

Middle-Aged Riot Day!

Tomorrow, when they ask who started it all and why, they’ll put your picture on the screen and they’ll show some video of your sons, who will tell a reporter that they haven’t spoken to you since your divorce from their mom and so they can’t say they know why you threw that garbage can through the plate glass window of a Whole Foods. They’ll find your wife tomorrow too, and she’ll tell them that you were very charismatic and she can understand why so many middle-aged men and women followed your lead and started hunting down twenty-year-olds to strip naked and strap to the roofs of cabs so that people still in their offices can toss garbage and sandwich meats from conference room catering trays out their windows and onto the twenty-year-olds’ bellies. They’ll find some of your followers who weren’t put into the police trucks and they’ll ask them if they knew who you were or what they hoped to accomplish.

“HE! IS! OUR! VOICE!” your fifties-ish followers will say. They will be shirtless and they will have bricks in their hands, waiting for the next chance to regroup and tear up the financial district.

No one will know what set you off today. No one will know if you were apprehended or where you were taken. They’ll know only what was done, not why. They’ll know that their parents haven’t been home in a day and they might either be in prison or hitching a ride out of the lives they've spent three decades building.

Late tomorrow, a surveillance video will be accessed and leaked to CNN. It will show a grainy black and white image of you walking out of your office building. The timecode will be today at 3 PM. You’ll stop and crane your head back to catch some raindrops on your tongue. Then you’ll lunge forward and shove a passing bike messenger off of his bike. You’ll stomp on the bike messenger’s torso, and several other middle-aged people who were smoking outside will join you in your beat-down. Then you’ll crane your head back again and howl at the sky. When you take off running, dozens will be following you, as if your howl were a rallying cry. You’re gonna start a middle-aged riot today, and it’s been a long time coming.

Happy Middle-Aged Riot Day!

PS: Buy Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

Have Sex So Forgettable You'll Go Home And Slap Your Mama Day!

Today you should have sex that is so completely forgettable and not even worth the mess that you'll get on a plane and fly back to your mama's house so you can slap her across the face because she never told you sex could be so "eh."

"You're withholding," your Mama will say, rubbing her cheek where you slapped her. "You got that from me."

"But I want to give of myself completely and totally to another," you'll say. "I want to lose myself in strange flesh."

"Psssh," your mother will say. "If you figure out how to do that be sure and send me the handbook when you're done, kay?"

You'll slap your mother again. She'll slap you back and then overturn the coffee table separating the two of you. Both of you grab a weapon and settle this once and for all.

Have Sex So Forgettable You'll Go Home And Slap Your Mama Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

Pay Your Uncle Pete To Ask You To Be An Assassin Day!

At around 1PM today, have your Uncle Pete show up to your social studies class dressed in all black. He’ll knock on the door and the teacher will let him in, thinking he’s a responsible adult who has something important to share. Then he’ll find you and he’ll say what you told him to say, word for word.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your studies, but I can’t take no for an answer when we both know that life as a highly paid killer is your destiny. Will you join our Secret Order of International Assassins? At fourteen you would be the youngest ever to have been recruited, but you will also be the most deadly. You have the gift of bloodshed, and you can use it for good if you take control now.”

He’ll come to your desk and get on his knees.

“Goddammit son, don’t let your evil talent fall into the wrong hands. Kill for us and you’ll earn vast sums of wealth, share the company of beautiful women, and ensure that the United States of America remains the greatest country on the planet.”

Say this to your Uncle.

“Rise.”

Your Uncle will get up from his knees.

“When I finish speaking, you have thirty seconds to leave my presence. Don’t pretend you know what stuff I’m made of. You know nothing of my gifts and you could never comprehend what I am capable of. If I kill, it will be at my own will, not because some nameless customer has paid a bill or a spineless president has let things spiral out of control. I am my own person, and you should respond to me with only one emotion. Fear. Now go, or yours will be the first blood that I shed.”

Your Uncle will then run out of the classroom. Your teacher and classmates will be silent for a minute. Raise your hand and ask your teacher if you can use the hall pass. By the time you return from the bathroom, you will have transformed from the school’s loneliest Magic The Gathering player to the school’s most talented killer who is as conflicted over his gifts as he is highly trained.

You’ll most definitely get invited to the end of the year wippets party in the woods behind the V.A. Hospital. It’s just a question of whose invitation you’ll say yes to, while giving all the others an “I’ll think about it.” Just don’t forget to give your Uncle the 30 bucks you promised him. That unemployed son of a bitch earned his keep this week. If only your Dad thought so.

Happy Pay Your Uncle Pete To Ask You To Be An Assassin Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' newest book, out May 27th!

Stop The Rise In Girl Crime Day!

When you were a little boy and girls would tease you on the playground because you were so cute, you wanted them put behind bars for their crimes. You used to dream that one day you’d have the power to dole out the punishment girls deserve for crossing the line of justice.

When you turned 21 you opened up a private detective’s office, focusing only on solving girl-crime. Your slogan was, “If a girl did it, I’ll chase her for a reasonable fee.”

In your twelve years in operation you had a pretty good record and a pretty lonely life. But the new mayor is a woman and she had your license taken away because she says you’re prejudiced against girls.

“I leave the judging for the judge. I just capture,” you said. “Just so happens I capture girls and girls only.”

The newspaper columnists said you probably only capture girls because you get to pat them down to make sure they don’t have any weapons. You wrote a letter to the editor saying that’s ridiculous because girls are gross. But the rumors persisted.

Since you lost your license, girl crime has risen 740% with over 900 murders attributed to girls. Even girls who seemed to be on the track to a productive, law-abiding life suddenly turned to crime because they saw the opportunity to get away with it. In addition to all the crime, the town has become overrun with sociologists looking to study the girl crime wave and its feminine causes.

The mayor is going to pay a visit to your apartment today, where you’ve been drinking and feeling useless ever since you were stripped of your license, and she’s going to ask you to get back in the detective game and stop girl crime. Naturally, since this is the first time a girl will have been in your apartment, you’ll fall in love with the mayor, and you’ll stop wanting to wipe out girl crime because the mayor will make you think girls aren’t so bad. But the mayor only wants to use you to clean up the town, and when she makes that clear, your broken heart will turn you into an anti-girl vigilante and you’ll go out and fill up the jails and morgues with hundreds of girl outlaws over the course of one weekend. This, now, will make the mayor fall in love with you, but you won’t return her feelings. You fell for a girl’s tricks once, and you’re not gonna let it happen again.

Happy Stop The Rise In Girl Crime Day!

Unfrozen Fart Day!

Your Dad drew up his will, and he wants to have his body frozen when he dies.

“But I want them to freeze me so that the minute I get unfrozen I rip a fart,” you say. “I want them to melt me down in the future, and right when they’re wondering whether my my body can be reanimated to give them information about society in the past, I let fly this rip-roaring Harley Davidson type fart that lasts like two and a half minutes and makes everyone laugh.”

You’re going over the terms of his will, and you just aren’t sure about this.

“Can they do that, Dad?” you ask. “I mean, you’ll be dead when you’re frozen. How can they freeze your dead body in such a way that it will release gas?”

“It’s called science!” your Dad says, hitting you with the stirrer from his martini glass.

You skip down to the part where you inherit everything and you smile. He really does love you.

“I think it’s a great will Dad.”

Your dad tries to fart but can’t.

“Man I hope this works out. It’s worth dying tomorrow if I could be sure that I’d fart ten centuries from now.”

You wish you could relieve his pain, but you’ll have to leave that to the future for now.

Happy Unfrozen Fart Day!

Go And Rescue Your Classmates From The Caved In Crystal Cavern Day!

Your class went on a field trip to the Crystal Cavern but you weren’t allowed to go because you got in trouble for picking up Julie Rigby and running off of school grounds with her over your shoulder during recess. Julie was screaming and yelling for help while you carried her away and several teachers had to chase you across the street and up the next block before you let her go. You explained that you only did it because you like Julie but she thinks you’re fat (you are), so you assumed this is the way it has to be done. Since then you’ve been meeting with your guidance counselor during lunch so he can tell you what you’re allowed to do to girls you like and what’s not allowed and what’s illegal.

Keeping you from the Crystal Caverns trip was a harsh punishment, you thought, but now that they’re all trapped and likely to die in the caved in mine, you wonder whether it was a blessing. If you go and save all your classmates, you can probably lift up any one of your classmates and carry them wherever you like. You’ll be the hero, after all, and heroes get to walk away with whatever they want over their shoulders.

When you start to walk toward the mine’s entrance, the rescue workers laugh at you for being so fat and thinking that you can be of any use. Then you go straight to the pile of rocks and begin hefting the big rocks away from the mass and they wonder if maybe you might really be of some use. Then you pull one rock away and it makes all the others tumble deeper into the mine with a loud rumble. After that the people with the headphones listening for voices under the rocks, they take off their headphones and they shake their heads no. You go on home, wondering if tomorrow there’ll even be anyone left to carry off from the playground now.

Happy Go And Rescue Your Classmates From The Caved In Crystal Cavern Day!

Some Christmas Trees Can Talk and Fight Terrorism Day!

When you were seven you went downstairs on Christmas morning to see what was waiting under the tree for you. In the living room twinkling with tree lights and tinsel, you found a mountain of gifts sitting under the majestic pine raining its dry needles all over the wrapping paper. It was when you started picking up gifts and shaking them that you swear the tree started talking to you.

“Did you say something Christmas tree?” you asked it.

It spoke again. You can’t remember what it said, which is why ever since then you've assumed you were just having a dream that morning. Most of your childhood memories can be relegated to the stuff of dreams, at least until those memories are confirmed by an outside party.

Today, at age 35, you’re going to be woken up when your front door bursts from its hinges and an old, brown Christmas Tree still sprinkled with tinsel comes hopping through your apartment to your bed.

“Why didn’t you kill them?” the Christmas Tree will ask.

It looks like a tree that was thrown to the sidewalk on January 3rd. Except it’s standing on its own stump without a tree stand, and its branches shake around the midsection when it talks.

“You were real?” you ask.

“Christ. Don’t tell me you didn’t believe in me. So much for the wonderment of children.”

“What did you tell me all those years ago?” you ask.

“I told you that the world will end in 2008 unless you kill your parents and brother. You had 27 years for the love of Pete. We can track and gather info and we can collate data, and we can fake passports and bribe the right people, but to actually strike against a target we need humans. We’re only trees after all. We counted on you, man.”

You tell the Christmas tree that you’re pretty sure you’re going crazy right now and you’re going to stop talking to it. The Christmas tree will get frustrated and just to piss you off it will go to your shoe rack and shake it’s branches over your shoes so they’ll fill with needles. Then it will leave.

“Turn on the TV,” the Christmas tree will say before it hops out the door.

You get out of bed and turn on your TV to find photos of your mother, father and brother displayed on the screen, captioned with Eastern European names. The words “Missing Nuke” are displayed above them in scary red letters. The newsman is giving out evacuation instructions to the populace.

“I should have listened to my Christmas Tree,” you’ll think. “Now the whole world is gonna burn.”

You lay back in bed, dizzy but warm in your heart. Finally, at 35, you understand the true meaning of Christmas. Then you see a bright white flash in the east.

Happy Some Christmas Trees Can Talk and Fight Terrorism Day!

You Sure Do Get A Lot Of DUI’s For A Woman Day!

Getting pulled over for your fourth DUI turned out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. It looked like it was going to be the end of your life as a licensed driver, and you were probably even going to have to serve some jail time. Then the judge presiding over your hearing made one fatal mistake.

“You sure do get a lot of DUI’s for a woman,” the judge said.

No one knew what a stir that little statement would cause. A few people in the room even chuckled. But after you got your sentence for community service and AA, you immediately went to the press and told them about the double standard that sways over the county courthouse.

Within days the story about the judge who thinks women should drive less drunk than men swept through the nation and you had your pick of top-notch lawyers fighting to argue your civil rights suit against the County.

“It’s not that women don’t drink and drive just as much as men,” the judge said when interviewed on a local morning show. “It’s just that in my experience, they don’t get caught so much. Their center of gravity is different right? Maybe that helps them drive drunk better.”

But no one bought it. The judge was condemned as a sexist and forced to resign. He later killed himself by closing up his garage and letting the car run idle. Your suit against the County won you a $3 million settlement and you finally got to open that coffee shop you always dreamed about.

You still drink and drive, and you still get caught a lot, but you never have to do any time. None of the judges want you in their court room for even half a second after they saw how you handled their colleague. Which is nice because you used to be afraid to drink certain places knowing how far you'd have to drive home wasted. Funny thing is, now that you can drink and drive all over the place, all you want to do is sit at home and drink alone.

"Weird how that kind of thing works out," you mutter into your glass of bourbon just before it drops to the floor and you fall asleep sitting upright in a living room chair.

Happy You Sure Do Get A Lot Of DUI’s For A Woman Day!

You Can’t Stop Driving Day!

Your ex-girlfriend used to design parking lots and since she left you’ve been unable to park your car without being reminded of her. She hurt you real bad, left you for your landlord, and you just can’t handle knowing that every time you park your car you might be doing it thanks to her ingenuity of drawing straight lines on a paved lot. It’s made it so that every time you get into your car to run an errand, you find yourself unable to park. You just keep driving until you run out of gas or open the door and roll out of the car while it’s still moving, hoping that it crashes lightly into a tree or a river and not some kids.

Your therapist was good enough to give you one last session. He’s running beside your car right now, trying to open the passenger door. He needs you to go slower.

“I’m only going five miles per hour,” you shout at him.

“Slower!” he pants. “I can’t get in!”

“I’m going three miles an hour! If I go any slower I’ll park. I can’t park!”

“I can’t get in. Slower!”

He’s grabbing at the door handle, slapping at it but he can’t seem to get a good enough grip to open it.

“This won’t work! Call me!”

You keep driving and you watch your therapist shrink in the rear view. You look over at the door and realize you forgot to unlock it. You can’t help but burst out laughing. You laugh and you laugh until you see the post office and you roll out of the car to pick up some stamps. The car crashes into a Blockbuster Video, which is convenient since you had to return “Becoming Jane” anyhow. It's sitting on the dash.

Happy You Can’t Stop Driving Day!

Your Lawyer’s Here Day!

He’s got some bad news.

“I did the best I could. But the State won’t allow you to receive your lethal injection from a man dressed in a Boba Fett costume while another man in a Darth Vader costume massages your balls and talks about how you and he are one and the same. And they won’t abduct your mother and make her watch while her exclamations of disgust are pumped into the execution room via a hidden microphone.”

“What about the topless woman in a Greedo mask walking in just as I’m about to die and admitting to me that she shot first?”

“No go,” your lawyer says.

You shake your head in sadness for America. “They call this humane?”

“You shouldn’t have killed those kids,” your lawyer says.

Happy Your Lawyer’s Here Day!

Your Best Friend’s Boyfriend Is Your Boyfriend Now Day!

Your best friend’s boyfriend is knocking on the door. Open it up and he’ll tell you he’s your boyfriend now.

“Okay!” you say. You wrap your arms around him and give him a big kiss. Your first as a couple. “We don’t kiss now,” he says. “Newhart’s on.”

You hand him the remote and you order burritos. “We don’t eat burritos on Tuesdays,” he says. “Tuesday is sandwiches night.”

You throw away the burritos and you and he make some sandwiches. Then you turn off the TV and start having sex.

“We don’t have sex like this,” he says, pulling off your mask. “We have missionary position vagina sex.”

You change-up and it is magical. When you finish, you get up and go look for some marijuana.

“We don’t smoke weed after,” he says. “I lay here and you turn your back to me and cry.”

You’re starting to get the sense that he’s a little set in his ways. “I don’t want to cry,” you say.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he says. “But, when in Rome.”

You both get high, but he doesn’t loosen up. You invite him to take a shower with you, where you start scrubbing his front, but he doesn’t do anything to you.

“We don’t scrub each other’s fronts first,” he says. “I wash your ass for around eighteen minutes and then the water gets cold.”

He washes your ass for only twelve minutes before the water turns freezing.

“This is all wrong!” he shouts as he hops out of the shower hunting for a towel, which isn’t kept where he thinks it should be. Then he complains that the temperature in the apartment is maintained at a lower grade than it should be, and the light bulbs in the fixtures are 60 watt when they should be 75. When he looks in the fridge and finds no string cheese or celery sticks, he tries to pick up the refrigerator and throw it out the window, but he can’t.

“I think you might need a little more time to get over your old girlfriend,” you say. “She’s my best friend and she’s really great. I can understand why you’re having trouble adjusting to her being gone.”

“But I’m your boyfriend,” he says. “You’re just doing everything wrong.”

“I’ve probably already lost my best friend, and it’s just not worth it to trade a wonderful friendship for someone who’s just going to follow me around telling me everything’s wrong,” you say. “Seriously, go back to my best friend, or go home and be alone for a while.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’ll get used to you doing everything incorrectly. Really. Pretty soon, the way you do everything wrong will be the right way to do everything, and by the time I leave you I’ll be pissed off at the way the next girl does stuff because it isn’t the way you did it.”

You can’t help it. You like the thought of some girl two years from now having to put up with hearing how she’s all wrong because she’s not you. You decide it’s worth it. You take a seat on the couch and pull a pillow over your lap.

“You don’t hold pillows,” he says.

“Deal with it,” you say.

The phone rings. It’s your best friend. When you answer, she hangs up.

Happy Your Best Friend’s Boyfriend Is Your Boyfriend Now Day!

You Think You Know What The Smoke Monster Is Day!

You have been living alone for the twelve years since your divorce and you never really had much in your life to keep you occupied until you started watching "Lost." Now you spend all your days commenting in message boards and editing "Lostpedia" with your theories, but many of the other fans think you're a crackpot. The one theory of yours that no one wants to accept is that of the nature and origin of the Smoke Monster.

"It's sexual," you start off. "The smoke monster is an embodiment of the unresolved sexual tension between all of those characters who should be having sex with each other but aren't because they're either too busy worrying about the freighties or because they've already been killed and buried. Anytime someone comes close to having sex on the island but gets shot instead, the smoke monster grows stronger."

No one wants to accept your theory and anytime you add it to Lostpedia, it gets removed almost immediately. You're starting to get a little pissed which is why today you're going to find the other major players in decoding Lost-lore online and you're going to bring them to your house and starve them until they're too weak to escape. Then you're going to make them live with you as members of your family and all of you will watch Lost together when it starts up again. You've never watched Lost with anyone before, and you bet it would be fun. Just as long as the people you're watching with don't get stupid and contradict you, because for those foolish folks you'll keep a branding iron glowing hot and ready to scar their naked torsos (keep them all naked to make it harder for them to run away).

Be careful though. When you walk toward that first house of the first Lost "expert" you want to kidnap, how do you know he isn't waiting for you? How do you know he wasn't planning this all along? How do you know this isn't exactly what the island wants you to do?

Happy You Think You Know What The Smoke Monster Is Day!

You And The New Guy Should Get Along Day!

When you show up to work today, you boss tells you that you have to train the new guy.

“He’s just like you,” your boss says.

“Almost like your clone,” your boss’ right-hand man adds.

“You guys should get along just fine. You’re practically the same person,” your boss says.

You go to your desk and you find the new guy sitting on the floor next to it. He’s eating pudding out of a plastic container and it’s all over his face. When he finishes the pudding container, he throws it at the back of someone’s head then laughs very loudly.

“You’re the new guy?” you ask. “I’m supposed to train you."

“Thank God you’re not black,” the new guy says.

You march right back to your boss’ office.

“What do you mean he’s just like me?”

“You don’t see the similarity?”

You look back at the new guy. He’s now in a desk chair and he’s got his pelvis arched up under the desk, clearly massaging his boner with the desk’s underside.

“Okay, maybe a slight resemblance," you say. "But I’m not racist.”

“Yes you are,” your boss says without looking up from the documents he’s reading.

You decide to go back to the new guy and learn more about yourself.

“It’s hard to believe my boogie-snot still tastes good after so many years," the new guy says. "You’d think my changing chemical makeup might have altered the taste after a while. Or it might have been affected by my all-consuming sense of disappointment. But nope. It’s still my favorite meal."

You send out an email to the entire office, apologizing for your behavior in general. You promise to try to be easier to tolerate.

“Can I access the kind of pornography where it looks like someone is being victimized on this computer? Or do I have to use my iPhone?” the new guy says.

“tiedupandscared.com isn’t blocked yet,” you say. “But we’d better start training soon.”

“Let me just finish this threatening letter I’m writing to someone I want to be,” he says.

You wait.

“Okay, finished. Just have to drip a little of my blood at the bottom here. Aaaaad, let’s get to work.”

You’re amazed by just how bad the new guy smells. You send out another email, telling everyone in the office that you now understand why you’re seated alone by the window and you’ll try to rectify the situation.

It’s all getting too much to bear. You kind of want to train the new guy and then resign so you can start anew someplace where people aren’t already so familiar with your repulsive character. There’s just so much you have to change about yourself.

“Before we start training,” you say to the new guy. “I want to thank you. You’ve taught me so much about myself already.”

The new guy leans in. “I’m an undercover agent with the FBI. This office is a front for a human trafficking ring. You’re the only one here who isn’t in on it, so I made sure they’d pair me up with you by appearing to be compatible to your personality. Help me bust these scumbags.”

You shake his hand. He wipes his hand with an anti-bacterial napkin after you let go. Then you begin your brief tenure as the world’s most repulsive crime-fighter, all the while thinking, “I may be awaiting trial for masturbating next to patients' beds in a burn ward, but at least I’m not running a sex slave ring.”

Happy You And The New Guy Should Get Along Day!