Your Dad died and in his will he left you a yacht as well as a staff and food supply for you to live on it for the rest of your life. He left your brothers the family business and all other assets. For you, just the yacht. It can’t be sold until you die or you disembark and step back onto American shores. He wants you to live in the ocean.
“Away from my step-mother,” you tell the lawyer.
The lawyer doesn’t say anything. It’s just you and him. Your brothers and step-mother heard the will separately.
“So I have to either live on the Ocean for the rest of my life, or I stay on land and get a job.”
The lawyer nods. Your Dad played this perfectly. He knew you and your step-mother had fallen in love, he knew you were sleeping together behind his back, and he took precautions to make sure you couldn’t marry her once he was gone by ensuring you could never provide her with the life to which she’s accustomed. A life where a yacht is an added luxury, not the limit of her assets. She’ll never live on that yacht with you, and she’ll never live with you if all you’re doing is earning ends meet at a day job.
“You win Dad,” you whisper out loud.
The lawyer slides another pile of papers your way.
“These are the insurance documents,” he says. “Should the boat sink, you’ll need these to collect the insurance payment, which would be approximately ten million dollars.”
Insurance payment?
You scan the documents, and your solution is plain as day. You ask the lawyer, “Why you doing this?”
“I’ve been your family lawyer for a long time,” he says. “I saw your father and step-mother together. I think you two make a better couple.”
Shake the lawyer’s hand, then race down to the dock, get on board your yacht and start crashing it into some rocks until it sinks and you can buy your dead Dad’s third wife a brand new house to share with you.
Happy Sink Your Dead Dad’s Boat Day!
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Baby Namer Day!
You’ve been making a fortune as an artisanal baby namer. Forward thinkers bring their babies to you, you look at them, bounce them a little bit up and down, then you say, “Name him Pete.”
Today your business is going to go under. You’re finally going to be shown a baby you can’t name.
You won’t even look at the mother. Not until you stare at the baby for a few seconds, just long enough to know exactly where he got those eyes.
“Lauren?” you’ll say to the mother, without looking up from the boy.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted you in your son’s life. It was just a fling for you obviously. She was just a woman you met in a hotel bar. It was her fault she got knocked up, but getting knocked up is nothing but a biological process. Being a family is something a whole lot more, something you don’t want to do with strangers.
“Then I found you on the internet and I saw that you’ve built your entire life around babies. I knew it could only benefit our child to have you as a father,” she’ll say.
Your son will feel heavy in your hands. Though he’s not very big, he’ll feel heavier than any baby you’ve ever held.
“Name him,” Lauren will say.
And that’s when your business will fold. You had a talent for naming babies who mean nothing to you. Now that you have one of your own, naming him feels impossible. You’ll suddenly realize there’s so much in a name. You’ll stammer and struggle but you simply won’t be able to give your own son a name, and the pressure will extend to all the other babies that are subsequently brought to you, until you finally close up shop.
Since Lauren primarily came to you because she knew you were loaded, when you no longer have an income because you’ve lost your talent for naming babies she’ll fly back west and you’ll have to sue for visitation rights. You’ll get one weekend a month and every other Christmas. With no help from you, she’ll name your son Elliot.
Happy Baby Namer Day!
Today your business is going to go under. You’re finally going to be shown a baby you can’t name.
You won’t even look at the mother. Not until you stare at the baby for a few seconds, just long enough to know exactly where he got those eyes.
“Lauren?” you’ll say to the mother, without looking up from the boy.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted you in your son’s life. It was just a fling for you obviously. She was just a woman you met in a hotel bar. It was her fault she got knocked up, but getting knocked up is nothing but a biological process. Being a family is something a whole lot more, something you don’t want to do with strangers.
“Then I found you on the internet and I saw that you’ve built your entire life around babies. I knew it could only benefit our child to have you as a father,” she’ll say.
Your son will feel heavy in your hands. Though he’s not very big, he’ll feel heavier than any baby you’ve ever held.
“Name him,” Lauren will say.
And that’s when your business will fold. You had a talent for naming babies who mean nothing to you. Now that you have one of your own, naming him feels impossible. You’ll suddenly realize there’s so much in a name. You’ll stammer and struggle but you simply won’t be able to give your own son a name, and the pressure will extend to all the other babies that are subsequently brought to you, until you finally close up shop.
Since Lauren primarily came to you because she knew you were loaded, when you no longer have an income because you’ve lost your talent for naming babies she’ll fly back west and you’ll have to sue for visitation rights. You’ll get one weekend a month and every other Christmas. With no help from you, she’ll name your son Elliot.
Happy Baby Namer Day!
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Cabin Fever Day!
You and Clara’s husband Tim stayed behind because you both have leg injuries, while Clara and your husband Paul went hiking through the snow to try to find food and hopefully a ranger who can find a way to get you all down off this mountain.
“They could be gone for days and they might not make it back,” Tim says limping around the cabin. “We should start having sex now.”
“How can you—”
“Oh spare me!” Tim shouts. “The longer you play this game of being the loyal, loving wife grateful to her husband for risking his life for you, the less sex we’re having.”
“But they’ve barely just left,” you say. “Look, I can still see them. They’re waving.”
You motion for Tim to come to the window and wave back to them. Tim slaps you.
“Dammit you need to think realistically,” he shouts. “If we wait to have sex until we’re sure they’re dead, we might be too weak to even feel sexual, not to mention we’ll be trying to come to grips with the reality that our spouses have died somewhere out there in the snow, possibly never to have their bodies found by anything but packs of hungry wolves. Think you’ll be up for boning with the image of your husband’s corpse being torn apart by wolves on your mind?”
You concede that no, you would not. Neither would Tim, he says. He loves Clara way too much to cheat on her while her body is being eaten by animals.
“And supposing we do wait,” Tim continues. “And when we manage to have sex we find out we are the perfect mates for each other, that the sex is the best we’ve ever had. But, oops, we waited too long and we’re too dehydrated and hungry to have sex a second time. Almost more tragic than if we’d never had sex at all! We’d die regretting that we waited, regretting that we stood on formality instead of grabbing as much erotic opportunity from what little time we had left.”
You’ve spent too much of your life regretting things. Tim’s right. You love Paul, but waiting to be sure he’s dead before you have sex with Tim is just another instance of you living as if tomorrow is some kind of guarantee.
You take off your clothes and Tim enters you for approximately 30 seconds before Paul and Clara burst into the cabin with a half-dozen park rangers. The rangers had been hiking up the mountain when they bumped into Paul and Clara having frantic sex against a snow bank around 200 feet from the cabin’s front door.
Happy Cabin Fever Day!
“They could be gone for days and they might not make it back,” Tim says limping around the cabin. “We should start having sex now.”
“How can you—”
“Oh spare me!” Tim shouts. “The longer you play this game of being the loyal, loving wife grateful to her husband for risking his life for you, the less sex we’re having.”
“But they’ve barely just left,” you say. “Look, I can still see them. They’re waving.”
You motion for Tim to come to the window and wave back to them. Tim slaps you.
“Dammit you need to think realistically,” he shouts. “If we wait to have sex until we’re sure they’re dead, we might be too weak to even feel sexual, not to mention we’ll be trying to come to grips with the reality that our spouses have died somewhere out there in the snow, possibly never to have their bodies found by anything but packs of hungry wolves. Think you’ll be up for boning with the image of your husband’s corpse being torn apart by wolves on your mind?”
You concede that no, you would not. Neither would Tim, he says. He loves Clara way too much to cheat on her while her body is being eaten by animals.
“And supposing we do wait,” Tim continues. “And when we manage to have sex we find out we are the perfect mates for each other, that the sex is the best we’ve ever had. But, oops, we waited too long and we’re too dehydrated and hungry to have sex a second time. Almost more tragic than if we’d never had sex at all! We’d die regretting that we waited, regretting that we stood on formality instead of grabbing as much erotic opportunity from what little time we had left.”
You’ve spent too much of your life regretting things. Tim’s right. You love Paul, but waiting to be sure he’s dead before you have sex with Tim is just another instance of you living as if tomorrow is some kind of guarantee.
You take off your clothes and Tim enters you for approximately 30 seconds before Paul and Clara burst into the cabin with a half-dozen park rangers. The rangers had been hiking up the mountain when they bumped into Paul and Clara having frantic sex against a snow bank around 200 feet from the cabin’s front door.
Happy Cabin Fever Day!
Monday, September 17, 2012
Urban Outfitters Robbery Spree Day!
When you get up to the register to pay for a book called Faces People Make While Farting, the cashier will notice you’re nervous.
“You have no right to be nervous when you’re so cute,” he’ll say.
You’ll be flattered when you pull the gun on him and tell him to empty the register.
“A girl as cute as you shouldn’t need to commit crimes,” he’ll say.
You’ll blush as you whisper for him to empty the cash faster.
“If I knew armed robbers might look like you I’d have started working as a cashier a long time ago,” he’ll say.
Smile at him. He’ll smile back.
“You just live your life robbing Urbans then?” he’ll ask.
“And a few Madewells,” tell him.
He’ll hand you the bag of money. Your hands will touch.
“Can you run in those skinny jeans?” ask him.
He’ll nod.
Wrap your pinky around his thumb and command, “Let’s go then.”
He’ll hop the counter knocking over a display of iPhone cases that look like old tape cassettes and the two of you will run outside to your car and speed off on a cross-country spree of youth-marketed clothing chain robbery.
You’ll become folk heroes when during a robbery of an Urban Outfitters in Atlanta you win the favor of customers still in the store by giving them free armfuls of leggings and hoodies and copies of “Wreck This Journal.” That’s when the Feds will take an interest, when it looks like you’re getting the Robin Hood label, when you start handing out for free the youth that’s supposed to be sold to them.
The excitement for your outlaw adventure will build when security tapes hit the news, the two of you always making a point of kissing once, kissing sloppy, just before taking off with the money from every single store. Customers begin showing up at Urbans and Madewells just to kiss while snapping phone pics of themselves that they can post on Facebook.
Copycat robberies start popping up at J Crews and Forever 21s and even a few Gaps. Parents demand the police double their efforts to capture you. Magazines display you on their covers under headlines blaming the economy and pornography for your crime spree. In the midwest citizen militias voluntarily guard clothing stores intent on proving to their young ‘it can’t happen here.’
“How’s it end?” he asks you in a Super 8 bed in Sacramento, his arms wrapped around your naked body.
“We have to be gunned down,” you tell him. His kiss tells you he’s on the same page.
You’ll be shot to death outside an Urban Outfitters in San Antonio, TX. More than 600 rounds will be fired by more than three dozen police officers and you’ll each be hit more than fifteen times. Your fame will skyrocket and you’ll be idolized by kids for years to come, and Urban Outfitters will make millions selling tee shirts with your gun-toting silhouettes silk-screened across the chest.
Happy Urban Outfitters Robbery Spree Day!
“You have no right to be nervous when you’re so cute,” he’ll say.
You’ll be flattered when you pull the gun on him and tell him to empty the register.
“A girl as cute as you shouldn’t need to commit crimes,” he’ll say.
You’ll blush as you whisper for him to empty the cash faster.
“If I knew armed robbers might look like you I’d have started working as a cashier a long time ago,” he’ll say.
Smile at him. He’ll smile back.
“You just live your life robbing Urbans then?” he’ll ask.
“And a few Madewells,” tell him.
He’ll hand you the bag of money. Your hands will touch.
“Can you run in those skinny jeans?” ask him.
He’ll nod.
Wrap your pinky around his thumb and command, “Let’s go then.”
He’ll hop the counter knocking over a display of iPhone cases that look like old tape cassettes and the two of you will run outside to your car and speed off on a cross-country spree of youth-marketed clothing chain robbery.
You’ll become folk heroes when during a robbery of an Urban Outfitters in Atlanta you win the favor of customers still in the store by giving them free armfuls of leggings and hoodies and copies of “Wreck This Journal.” That’s when the Feds will take an interest, when it looks like you’re getting the Robin Hood label, when you start handing out for free the youth that’s supposed to be sold to them.
The excitement for your outlaw adventure will build when security tapes hit the news, the two of you always making a point of kissing once, kissing sloppy, just before taking off with the money from every single store. Customers begin showing up at Urbans and Madewells just to kiss while snapping phone pics of themselves that they can post on Facebook.
Copycat robberies start popping up at J Crews and Forever 21s and even a few Gaps. Parents demand the police double their efforts to capture you. Magazines display you on their covers under headlines blaming the economy and pornography for your crime spree. In the midwest citizen militias voluntarily guard clothing stores intent on proving to their young ‘it can’t happen here.’
“How’s it end?” he asks you in a Super 8 bed in Sacramento, his arms wrapped around your naked body.
“We have to be gunned down,” you tell him. His kiss tells you he’s on the same page.
You’ll be shot to death outside an Urban Outfitters in San Antonio, TX. More than 600 rounds will be fired by more than three dozen police officers and you’ll each be hit more than fifteen times. Your fame will skyrocket and you’ll be idolized by kids for years to come, and Urban Outfitters will make millions selling tee shirts with your gun-toting silhouettes silk-screened across the chest.
Happy Urban Outfitters Robbery Spree Day!
Sunday, September 16, 2012
External Hard Drive Blues Day!
You’re a new hire in an IT department and you’re sitting in a music venue listening to your boss sing a terrible original blues number called “External Hard Drive Blues.”
The song is about how his “old lady” found his “girly movies” on his external hard drive and now he’s got “the blues.”
You want to keep this job so you didn’t think you had a choice but to come see him play when he handed you the flyer. At the end of his set your boss is going to come and sit at your table.
“You’re the first of my staff I could ever get to come out and see me,” he’ll say. “They don’t like to mix the personal with the office. They don’t think it’s right to work under someone after you’ve witnessed their art. That’s what they say anyway. But you’re different.”
Tell him, “You looked like you were really having some fun up there.”
He’ll say that you get him and he’ll ask if you want to make love to his wife while he watches.
“Come on,” he’ll say. “Don’t make me write a song called the Rejected Request To Have Sex With My Wife While I Watch Blues.”
Follow him home in his car and make love to his wife while he watches. Anything to keep him from writing another song.
Happy External Hard Drive Blues Day!
The song is about how his “old lady” found his “girly movies” on his external hard drive and now he’s got “the blues.”
You want to keep this job so you didn’t think you had a choice but to come see him play when he handed you the flyer. At the end of his set your boss is going to come and sit at your table.
“You’re the first of my staff I could ever get to come out and see me,” he’ll say. “They don’t like to mix the personal with the office. They don’t think it’s right to work under someone after you’ve witnessed their art. That’s what they say anyway. But you’re different.”
Tell him, “You looked like you were really having some fun up there.”
He’ll say that you get him and he’ll ask if you want to make love to his wife while he watches.
“Come on,” he’ll say. “Don’t make me write a song called the Rejected Request To Have Sex With My Wife While I Watch Blues.”
Follow him home in his car and make love to his wife while he watches. Anything to keep him from writing another song.
Happy External Hard Drive Blues Day!
Saturday, September 15, 2012
The Crush Is All Day!
Stacey wants to know why you think you love her so much, she says it’s just a crush. You’re only 14, she’s only 15. It’s a crush.
“You can move beyond it. It’s a crush.”
Tell her the crush is all.
“Man loves for a day or a lifetime, it’s a crush,” you say. “On that day, in that lifetime, the crush is all.”
It’s all he breathes. It’s all he thinks about. His first thought on waking is the crush. His last thought at bedtime is the crush.
If a man finds himself thinking he’s going to die.
“If I find myself in trouble tonight,” you tell Stacey, ignoring her friends waiting and laughing by the door, her friends who want her to return to the dance. “In danger. If I find myself with a gun to my head or trapped under something that isn’t going to budge, or in a car crash or a plane crash, I’ll think about you.”
It’s what all the men think about in every movie ever made. The man in danger has someone he needs to return to, a love, a crush. It keeps him alive. It keeps him going. He stays alive thanks to the crush, because the crush is all he has to live for.
“The crush is all there is,” tell Stacey.
Tell her she can go back inside and spend the rest of the dance with Ron, if she wants, but it’s not going to change what you feel. It’s not going to give you a different thing to live for.
“You could save my life tonight, Stacey,” you tell her. “I’d be a fool not to love you tonight.”
Turn around and walk away. Walk like you still think she might go back inside. There’s no way she’s going back inside.
Happy The Crush Is All Day!
“You can move beyond it. It’s a crush.”
Tell her the crush is all.
“Man loves for a day or a lifetime, it’s a crush,” you say. “On that day, in that lifetime, the crush is all.”
It’s all he breathes. It’s all he thinks about. His first thought on waking is the crush. His last thought at bedtime is the crush.
If a man finds himself thinking he’s going to die.
“If I find myself in trouble tonight,” you tell Stacey, ignoring her friends waiting and laughing by the door, her friends who want her to return to the dance. “In danger. If I find myself with a gun to my head or trapped under something that isn’t going to budge, or in a car crash or a plane crash, I’ll think about you.”
It’s what all the men think about in every movie ever made. The man in danger has someone he needs to return to, a love, a crush. It keeps him alive. It keeps him going. He stays alive thanks to the crush, because the crush is all he has to live for.
“The crush is all there is,” tell Stacey.
Tell her she can go back inside and spend the rest of the dance with Ron, if she wants, but it’s not going to change what you feel. It’s not going to give you a different thing to live for.
“You could save my life tonight, Stacey,” you tell her. “I’d be a fool not to love you tonight.”
Turn around and walk away. Walk like you still think she might go back inside. There’s no way she’s going back inside.
Happy The Crush Is All Day!
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Maximum Helen Day!
Today’s the day you look in the mirror and say “Look out world, you’re about to get a dose of Maximum Helen.” Then you’re going to go out into your city and live your life in such a way as to impact your fellow man and your environment with the maximum expression of your personhood.
Start by going to the park, sitting in the fountain, and peeing. Then tell your coffee cart guy the names of every boy and man you ever loved who didn’t love you back, making sure to pee on his coffee cart while you do. Next, climb the fire escape of a building until you get to the top and start screaming at the people below a list of the skin rashes and infections you’ve had in your lifetime to distract them so they won’t realize you’re peeing on them until it’s too late. Then, go to work and spend eight hours filing with the greatest precision your coworkers have ever seen while making sure to dab just a droplet of your pee on every file-folder. When it’s time to clock out, join your coworkers for happy hour but don’t pee in their drinks (save it for the blue cheese dressing that comes with the buffalo wings). Finally, flirt with a man until he asks to go home with you. When you get back to his place, hold him down and pee on him unless he says he’s into that sexually because ew.
When the day is finally over, get some much needed sleep because giving the world a dose of Maximum Helen can be quite draining.
Happy Maximum Helen Day!
Start by going to the park, sitting in the fountain, and peeing. Then tell your coffee cart guy the names of every boy and man you ever loved who didn’t love you back, making sure to pee on his coffee cart while you do. Next, climb the fire escape of a building until you get to the top and start screaming at the people below a list of the skin rashes and infections you’ve had in your lifetime to distract them so they won’t realize you’re peeing on them until it’s too late. Then, go to work and spend eight hours filing with the greatest precision your coworkers have ever seen while making sure to dab just a droplet of your pee on every file-folder. When it’s time to clock out, join your coworkers for happy hour but don’t pee in their drinks (save it for the blue cheese dressing that comes with the buffalo wings). Finally, flirt with a man until he asks to go home with you. When you get back to his place, hold him down and pee on him unless he says he’s into that sexually because ew.
When the day is finally over, get some much needed sleep because giving the world a dose of Maximum Helen can be quite draining.
Happy Maximum Helen Day!
Monday, September 10, 2012
He Exhibits All Ten Warning Signs Listed In Yahoo’s “Ten Warning Signs That You’re In Love With A Cheating Man” Day!
He’s working a lot. Yahoo says when he works a lot it means he might be working on loving someone new.
He’s showering a lot. Yahoo says when he showers a lot it’s because he’s washing off the lingering scent of someone new.
He’s constantly singing love songs out loud without any cause for a love song to be sung. Yahoo says if he spontaneously bursts out into love songs it’s because those love songs are songs he has to sing when he thinks about someone new.
He occasionally shows up covered in mud. Yahoo says when your man shows up muddy it’s because he had to dispose of the bodies of the people who witnessed him giving all his love to someone new.
He bought seven new cars. Yahoo says a man has no reason to buy a lot of new cars unless he’s going on long moonlight drives with someone special, someone young, someone fun, someone who is anyone, anyone at all, anyone at all but you.
He has crabs. Yahoo says there ain’t no other reason for a man to have crabs unless those crabs side-glided off the body of someone new.
He’s been spending a lot of time in his secret second apartment and according to Yahoo a man should spend an average of no more than two nights a week in his secret second apartment unless he’s using that secret second apartment to spend secret time with someone secret and new.
He can sometimes be found with his penis inside another woman. In the immortal words of Yahoo, “There is simply no reason for your man to place his manhood upon or up inside the womanhood of a woman who, for all intents and purposes is not you, unless your man is interested in the womanhood under the operation of a woman other than you, AKA a woman who happens to be someone new.
He’s gone. Yahoo says when a man is gone there’s a very good chance what’s "gone” to you is actually the “arrival” at the doorstep of someone new.
He says he met someone new. If Yahoo is correct, a man never says he met someone new unless he’s decided that you are someone old and there’s another one, a different one, a one who in your man’s eyes is someone who alleviates that “I’m scared of not mattering anymore” feeling, a one who can only be described as someone new.
Since your man meets all ten criteria, it’s time to tell him that you wish him well but you understand that the heart cannot be tamed, girlfriend.
Happy He Exhibits All Ten Warning Signs Listed In Yahoo’s “Ten Warning Signs That You’re In Love With A Cheating Man” Day!
He’s showering a lot. Yahoo says when he showers a lot it’s because he’s washing off the lingering scent of someone new.
He’s constantly singing love songs out loud without any cause for a love song to be sung. Yahoo says if he spontaneously bursts out into love songs it’s because those love songs are songs he has to sing when he thinks about someone new.
He occasionally shows up covered in mud. Yahoo says when your man shows up muddy it’s because he had to dispose of the bodies of the people who witnessed him giving all his love to someone new.
He bought seven new cars. Yahoo says a man has no reason to buy a lot of new cars unless he’s going on long moonlight drives with someone special, someone young, someone fun, someone who is anyone, anyone at all, anyone at all but you.
He has crabs. Yahoo says there ain’t no other reason for a man to have crabs unless those crabs side-glided off the body of someone new.
He’s been spending a lot of time in his secret second apartment and according to Yahoo a man should spend an average of no more than two nights a week in his secret second apartment unless he’s using that secret second apartment to spend secret time with someone secret and new.
He can sometimes be found with his penis inside another woman. In the immortal words of Yahoo, “There is simply no reason for your man to place his manhood upon or up inside the womanhood of a woman who, for all intents and purposes is not you, unless your man is interested in the womanhood under the operation of a woman other than you, AKA a woman who happens to be someone new.
He’s gone. Yahoo says when a man is gone there’s a very good chance what’s "gone” to you is actually the “arrival” at the doorstep of someone new.
He says he met someone new. If Yahoo is correct, a man never says he met someone new unless he’s decided that you are someone old and there’s another one, a different one, a one who in your man’s eyes is someone who alleviates that “I’m scared of not mattering anymore” feeling, a one who can only be described as someone new.
Since your man meets all ten criteria, it’s time to tell him that you wish him well but you understand that the heart cannot be tamed, girlfriend.
Happy He Exhibits All Ten Warning Signs Listed In Yahoo’s “Ten Warning Signs That You’re In Love With A Cheating Man” Day!
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Your New Boyfriend Has A Laser Target On His Chest At All Times Day!
He didn’t mention it in his profile. You’re glad he didn’t. It might have deterred you from meeting him, and though it’s early, you’re starting to think meeting him is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
“You don’t know who it is?” you asked on your second date, when you finally started discussing the elephant in the room.
“Nor do I know why,” he said.
You stared at the red dot as it flickered ever so slightly closer to his heart.
“How long has it—”
“Eleven years.”
“And he’s never once fired?”
Just once. It was late. He was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. He heard the shot and turned around to find a man with a knife in his hand dead on the ground. A mugger.
“He protected you,” you said.
“He wanted me to know my life is his to end. Not some mugger’s. His alone.”
You watched the red light flicker some more then you demanded he take you home.
That’s been the pattern. You stare at the dot on his chest until you’re so certain there’s about to be a gunshot that you can’t even breathe, and you need to be brought someplace and made love to as quickly as possible. It’s better with the dot. It makes you want to be as close to him as you can, so intertwined that you can feel the dot wander onto your skin too.
“I want to be with you to the end,” you tell him tonight, after.
“To the end?” he asks. “Or at the end?”
Both. One and the other. You need to be there when the shot is finally fired, when the dot finally turns into a bullet hole, when the gunman is (hopefully) finally identified. If that’s the main reason why you’re willing to spend the next fifty years with him, so be it. People have stayed together for a lot less.
Happy Your New Boyfriend Has A Laser Target On His Chest At All Times Day!
“You don’t know who it is?” you asked on your second date, when you finally started discussing the elephant in the room.
“Nor do I know why,” he said.
You stared at the red dot as it flickered ever so slightly closer to his heart.
“How long has it—”
“Eleven years.”
“And he’s never once fired?”
Just once. It was late. He was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. He heard the shot and turned around to find a man with a knife in his hand dead on the ground. A mugger.
“He protected you,” you said.
“He wanted me to know my life is his to end. Not some mugger’s. His alone.”
You watched the red light flicker some more then you demanded he take you home.
That’s been the pattern. You stare at the dot on his chest until you’re so certain there’s about to be a gunshot that you can’t even breathe, and you need to be brought someplace and made love to as quickly as possible. It’s better with the dot. It makes you want to be as close to him as you can, so intertwined that you can feel the dot wander onto your skin too.
“I want to be with you to the end,” you tell him tonight, after.
“To the end?” he asks. “Or at the end?”
Both. One and the other. You need to be there when the shot is finally fired, when the dot finally turns into a bullet hole, when the gunman is (hopefully) finally identified. If that’s the main reason why you’re willing to spend the next fifty years with him, so be it. People have stayed together for a lot less.
Happy Your New Boyfriend Has A Laser Target On His Chest At All Times Day!
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Drop The Act, Kevin Day!
It’s time to ditch the whole “Say hello to the new Kevin, world” thing and accept the you that you are. We’d all like to think that with a single epiphany or a determined vow to break old habits we can suddenly change the course of our lives and start living the contented, drug-and-disease-free, not-having-to-sleep-with-a-flare-gun-under-our-pillows existence that we always dreamed we could live. But after a certain point you just have to face facts. You are where you are because you are who you are.
“But I already introduced the new Kevin to the world,” you say. “The world already said, ‘Hello New Kevin,’ back. And the world heard me promise to get a job, stop selling my mother’s prescription pills, and to always consider all of my options before making hasty decisions. How can I make it up to the world?”
You have to make the world an offering as penance for making a promise in vain. Either chop off your right hand…
“Done!” you say, wrapping the bloody stump in a bread bag as you dial an ambulance with your left hand.
…Or if that doesn’t appeal to you you can just do a few hours of community service and the world will be satisfied.
“Fuck!” you shout.
Hey world, Old Kevin’s back!
Happy Drop The Act, Kevin Day!
“But I already introduced the new Kevin to the world,” you say. “The world already said, ‘Hello New Kevin,’ back. And the world heard me promise to get a job, stop selling my mother’s prescription pills, and to always consider all of my options before making hasty decisions. How can I make it up to the world?”
You have to make the world an offering as penance for making a promise in vain. Either chop off your right hand…
“Done!” you say, wrapping the bloody stump in a bread bag as you dial an ambulance with your left hand.
…Or if that doesn’t appeal to you you can just do a few hours of community service and the world will be satisfied.
“Fuck!” you shout.
Hey world, Old Kevin’s back!
Happy Drop The Act, Kevin Day!
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Secret Admirer Hunter Day!
You didn’t make it as a cop so you became a private dick. But tracking cheating husbands for rich wives was making you way too cynical for your taste. So you pared down your agency to focus solely on helping young girls and, to a lesser extent, boys, determine the authors of the secret admirer letters they receive from classmates.
“The thing you want to be sure of is, do you wanna know,” you tell the girls (and occasionally boys) who show up in your office. “Getting that anonymous love letter is big boost to the spirit. No one can blame you for hoping, even assuming, it was written by the hottie who’s filling up the pages of your diary. But invariably, the kind of person who won’t sign their name is the kind of person who assumes their name won’t be welcome at the bottom of a love letter.”
Their response is usually the same. “I need to know for sure, in order to know how to proceed.”
Today’s the day you meet a client on the field hockey field with an envelope full of pictures, handwriting samples, and covert audio recordings.
“Here’s your guy,” you’ll say.
She’ll pull out the photo and say what they always say: “Ew.”
“Give him a shot?” you’ll say. “Maybe read the letter again.”
“You didn’t mention your retainer included relationship advice,” she’ll say, forging her mother’s name onto a check.
Stuff the payment in your coat and get back in your car. You can’t make them give these anons a chance. All you can do is introduce them and hope they’ll give their lovers from afar a closer glance.
Happy Secret Admirer Hunter Day!
“The thing you want to be sure of is, do you wanna know,” you tell the girls (and occasionally boys) who show up in your office. “Getting that anonymous love letter is big boost to the spirit. No one can blame you for hoping, even assuming, it was written by the hottie who’s filling up the pages of your diary. But invariably, the kind of person who won’t sign their name is the kind of person who assumes their name won’t be welcome at the bottom of a love letter.”
Their response is usually the same. “I need to know for sure, in order to know how to proceed.”
Today’s the day you meet a client on the field hockey field with an envelope full of pictures, handwriting samples, and covert audio recordings.
“Here’s your guy,” you’ll say.
She’ll pull out the photo and say what they always say: “Ew.”
“Give him a shot?” you’ll say. “Maybe read the letter again.”
“You didn’t mention your retainer included relationship advice,” she’ll say, forging her mother’s name onto a check.
Stuff the payment in your coat and get back in your car. You can’t make them give these anons a chance. All you can do is introduce them and hope they’ll give their lovers from afar a closer glance.
Happy Secret Admirer Hunter Day!
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Need Friendship Day!
He saw your flyer at the coffee shop with the words “Need Friendship” in 24 point font at the top, and a photo of you holding a wiffle ball bat just above a trim of tear away phone numbers.
“I choose my friends very carefully,” he’s saying. His name’s Jenkins.
You insist that you’re the same way. Which is why the flyer.
“For me it’s all about your survival abilities,” he says, letting you know that this is another human hunting situation.
“Makes sense,” you say. You know it’s just a guy who wants to shoot paintballs at you while you run through a cemetery, but you’re really lonely.
“Meet you behind the Dairy Queen then,” he says. “My shift ends at 1 AM.”
You’ll be there. They always go for the eyes, and they never want to hang out after, but you’ve gotten so few responses that you don’t want to be choosey.
Happy Need Friendship Day!
“I choose my friends very carefully,” he’s saying. His name’s Jenkins.
You insist that you’re the same way. Which is why the flyer.
“For me it’s all about your survival abilities,” he says, letting you know that this is another human hunting situation.
“Makes sense,” you say. You know it’s just a guy who wants to shoot paintballs at you while you run through a cemetery, but you’re really lonely.
“Meet you behind the Dairy Queen then,” he says. “My shift ends at 1 AM.”
You’ll be there. They always go for the eyes, and they never want to hang out after, but you’ve gotten so few responses that you don’t want to be choosey.
Happy Need Friendship Day!
Monday, August 20, 2012
Can’t Crack The Rock Day!
Your foreman wants to know what the holdup is.
“Just can’t do it Jeff,” say. “Just can’t crack the rock.”
Jeff will walk away from you to the sidewalk. You’ll shout at his back that you’re sorry but you just can’t do it. He’ll keep walking, not hearing a word. Lug your jackhammer after him.
He’ll be positioned right over the heart, staring down at it, his hard hat in his hands.
“Reverence,” he’ll say. “Take your hard hat off. Even if it was your love you show some respect.”
Take off your hard hat and hang it on the handle of your jackhammer.
“BT,” he’ll say, reading the initials that aren’t yours. “What’s that stand for?”
“Beth Turner,” you tell him. You were thirteen. She had red hair. This sidewalk was outside her house.
“Until she moved away,” you say.
“First love lost,” he’ll say. You’ll nod.
Your foreman will get down on all fours and scream at her initials, “WHERE ARE YOU BETH TURNER?!”
He’ll demand you join him. The two of you will scream at the initials you carved into wet cement twenty years ago, “WHERE ARE YOU BETH TURNER?!” You’ll scream until you’re in tears, until you don’t have anything to scream anymore.
“Thanks,” you’ll say as you ready your jackhammer.
“All part of the job,” your foreman will say. He’ll pat you on the back as you ready your jackhammer to bust up that heart containing yours and Beth Turner’s initials forever.
Happy Can’t Crack The Rock Day!
“Just can’t do it Jeff,” say. “Just can’t crack the rock.”
Jeff will walk away from you to the sidewalk. You’ll shout at his back that you’re sorry but you just can’t do it. He’ll keep walking, not hearing a word. Lug your jackhammer after him.
He’ll be positioned right over the heart, staring down at it, his hard hat in his hands.
“Reverence,” he’ll say. “Take your hard hat off. Even if it was your love you show some respect.”
Take off your hard hat and hang it on the handle of your jackhammer.
“BT,” he’ll say, reading the initials that aren’t yours. “What’s that stand for?”
“Beth Turner,” you tell him. You were thirteen. She had red hair. This sidewalk was outside her house.
“Until she moved away,” you say.
“First love lost,” he’ll say. You’ll nod.
Your foreman will get down on all fours and scream at her initials, “WHERE ARE YOU BETH TURNER?!”
He’ll demand you join him. The two of you will scream at the initials you carved into wet cement twenty years ago, “WHERE ARE YOU BETH TURNER?!” You’ll scream until you’re in tears, until you don’t have anything to scream anymore.
“Thanks,” you’ll say as you ready your jackhammer.
“All part of the job,” your foreman will say. He’ll pat you on the back as you ready your jackhammer to bust up that heart containing yours and Beth Turner’s initials forever.
Happy Can’t Crack The Rock Day!
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
He’s In Love With A Liar Day!
He’s got you blindfolded and won’t let you peek because it’s a big surprise. When he finally lets you peek you’ll see he bought you a rare, early edition of Villette by Charlotte Bronte because one of the lies you told was that your senior thesis at the college you claimed to have attended was on Charlotte Bronte.
“Read me some,” he says. “Read me your favorite part. I love you, but that’s not enough. I also want to love what you love.”
You flip through the book looking for a section that looks like it might have some good lines and you luckily end up on a description of some snow which works pretty okay in the making it seem like you’re not completely faking it department.
This is getting harder. He stares into your eyes like his life depends on it. He doesn’t caress your skin so much as celebrate it. He has become one hundred percent convinced that loving you is the reason he was put on this planet, and he intends to make sure he lives up to his destiny. You’re ashamed to admit it, but the sex is some of the best you’ve had, and you think the thrill of knowing his passion for you is founded on utter lies is doing something special for you.
Or, you’re falling for him too.
That can’t be, though. If it is, you’d better give up everything right now. Don’t even leave a note, just discard the whole plan and disappear without explaining why. The deception felt like it was reasonable means to an end before you realized just how much he’d come to cherish you, and how much you enjoyed being cherished. Falling for him wasn’t part of the plan, and if that’s what’s happening you should probably walk away.
“My father’s coming back to the states in October,” he says, fiddling with the book in your lap. “I can’t wait for him to meet you.”
“He’s coming back?” you confirm, trying to keep your voice level. “He’s coming here to America?”
He nods. You close the book and you kiss him. You make love to him convincingly. You thank him for your birthday present with your body. You use all of your talents to make him believe he should go on loving you, and he should introduce you to his father, the assassin who murdered your father eleven years ago in Belgrade. You will avenge your father’s death by making his assassin’s son love you until you can take that assassin’s life and, reluctantly now, break his son’s heart.
“I can’t wait to meet your dad,” you tell the assassin’s son when you’re resting your head on his chest once the sex has ended. “I hope he likes me.”
Happy He’s In Love With A Liar Day!
“Read me some,” he says. “Read me your favorite part. I love you, but that’s not enough. I also want to love what you love.”
You flip through the book looking for a section that looks like it might have some good lines and you luckily end up on a description of some snow which works pretty okay in the making it seem like you’re not completely faking it department.
This is getting harder. He stares into your eyes like his life depends on it. He doesn’t caress your skin so much as celebrate it. He has become one hundred percent convinced that loving you is the reason he was put on this planet, and he intends to make sure he lives up to his destiny. You’re ashamed to admit it, but the sex is some of the best you’ve had, and you think the thrill of knowing his passion for you is founded on utter lies is doing something special for you.
Or, you’re falling for him too.
That can’t be, though. If it is, you’d better give up everything right now. Don’t even leave a note, just discard the whole plan and disappear without explaining why. The deception felt like it was reasonable means to an end before you realized just how much he’d come to cherish you, and how much you enjoyed being cherished. Falling for him wasn’t part of the plan, and if that’s what’s happening you should probably walk away.
“My father’s coming back to the states in October,” he says, fiddling with the book in your lap. “I can’t wait for him to meet you.”
“He’s coming back?” you confirm, trying to keep your voice level. “He’s coming here to America?”
He nods. You close the book and you kiss him. You make love to him convincingly. You thank him for your birthday present with your body. You use all of your talents to make him believe he should go on loving you, and he should introduce you to his father, the assassin who murdered your father eleven years ago in Belgrade. You will avenge your father’s death by making his assassin’s son love you until you can take that assassin’s life and, reluctantly now, break his son’s heart.
“I can’t wait to meet your dad,” you tell the assassin’s son when you’re resting your head on his chest once the sex has ended. “I hope he likes me.”
Happy He’s In Love With A Liar Day!
Thursday, August 09, 2012
Forest Bitches Day!
You formed a club called the Forest Bitches. You and your friends run into the forest and strip to your underwear and roll around on the soil chanting bullshit, usually high. You like to think you’re bonding with nature.
“This dirt is so fucking cleansing,” Georgette says, rubbing clumps of dirt on her bra and stomach.
“I’m eating a leaf,” Shannon says, spitting bits of the leaf out while she talks. “So gross.”
“Let’s spin around and shout ‘Praise Mother,’” you say. Then you and the other two Forest Bitches spin around until a man stumbles on the path in between the three of you.
“Help me,” he rasps. He’s covered in leather from the waist up only. From the waist down he’s bruised the color of a plum. His wrists are bound and he’s got a sweatband around his eyes.
You cut the ropes around his wrists and uncover his eyes. He tells you he’s a prostitute who’s been kept captive by a wealthy John for the past three weeks. He finally escaped, but not very successfully.
“Him and his thugs are coming,” he says. “We have to run.”
Just then the rich John and his thugs arrive in your clearing. They tell you to let the hooker go.
They have no idea who they’re dealing with.
“Forest Bitches, spin!” you shout.
The three of you start spinning as fast as you can. After eleven spins the ground opens up and swallows the John and his thugs. The hooker is saved.
“Forest Bitches undefeated!” the three of you shout while high fiving.
The hooker falls face forward and starts muttering unintelligibly. You get him to the hospital where he’s treated for dehydration. You want to stay with him while he recovers, but Georgette gets a phone call. She hands the cell phone to you.
“It’s the president,” she says. “There’s a new Al Qaida leader even more powerful than Bin Laden and he says Seal Team Six is busy.”
You take the call, then you look at Georgette and Shannon.
“Time to let nature run its course,” you say.
Happy Forest Bitches Day!
“This dirt is so fucking cleansing,” Georgette says, rubbing clumps of dirt on her bra and stomach.
“I’m eating a leaf,” Shannon says, spitting bits of the leaf out while she talks. “So gross.”
“Let’s spin around and shout ‘Praise Mother,’” you say. Then you and the other two Forest Bitches spin around until a man stumbles on the path in between the three of you.
“Help me,” he rasps. He’s covered in leather from the waist up only. From the waist down he’s bruised the color of a plum. His wrists are bound and he’s got a sweatband around his eyes.
You cut the ropes around his wrists and uncover his eyes. He tells you he’s a prostitute who’s been kept captive by a wealthy John for the past three weeks. He finally escaped, but not very successfully.
“Him and his thugs are coming,” he says. “We have to run.”
Just then the rich John and his thugs arrive in your clearing. They tell you to let the hooker go.
They have no idea who they’re dealing with.
“Forest Bitches, spin!” you shout.
The three of you start spinning as fast as you can. After eleven spins the ground opens up and swallows the John and his thugs. The hooker is saved.
“Forest Bitches undefeated!” the three of you shout while high fiving.
The hooker falls face forward and starts muttering unintelligibly. You get him to the hospital where he’s treated for dehydration. You want to stay with him while he recovers, but Georgette gets a phone call. She hands the cell phone to you.
“It’s the president,” she says. “There’s a new Al Qaida leader even more powerful than Bin Laden and he says Seal Team Six is busy.”
You take the call, then you look at Georgette and Shannon.
“Time to let nature run its course,” you say.
Happy Forest Bitches Day!
Wednesday, August 01, 2012
They Want You To Present Scenarios In Which Terrorists Could Infiltrate Private Functions To Conduct Suicide Bombings Day!
“We need someone who spends all day scheming about how security teams can be evaded,” the General says. “How guarded entrances can be breached. How one might blend in with the service staff or delivery personnel to enter a private function. That’s why we called you.”
“But I just write Mentos commercials,” you tell them.
The General smiles. “Exactly. By our count you have concocted several hundred different plans for infiltration of an invite-only private function. You know who else is doing that?”
You both say it at the same time. “Al Qaeda.”
The General comes to your side and places his hand on your shoulder. “The country is vulnerable. Our tactics have gone stale. We need a freshmaker.”
Your entire life has been leading up to this moment. Tell him you’ll do it and get to work on imagining Al Qaeda agents carrying trays of glasses or pushing racks of dresses into posh surroundings while there’s still time.
Happy They Want You To Present Scenarios In Which Terrorists Could Infiltrate Private Functions To Conduct Suicide Bombings Day!
“But I just write Mentos commercials,” you tell them.
The General smiles. “Exactly. By our count you have concocted several hundred different plans for infiltration of an invite-only private function. You know who else is doing that?”
You both say it at the same time. “Al Qaeda.”
The General comes to your side and places his hand on your shoulder. “The country is vulnerable. Our tactics have gone stale. We need a freshmaker.”
Your entire life has been leading up to this moment. Tell him you’ll do it and get to work on imagining Al Qaeda agents carrying trays of glasses or pushing racks of dresses into posh surroundings while there’s still time.
Happy They Want You To Present Scenarios In Which Terrorists Could Infiltrate Private Functions To Conduct Suicide Bombings Day!
Monday, July 30, 2012
You Made The Loneliness Police Blotter Day!
You did it! The Loneliness Police Blotter ran your incident! Check it out:
On Saturday a Lakeside man reportedly went into his garage, forgot what he went in there for, realized if he never came out no one would notice, and he subsequently collapsed in sobs on the cold, oil-stained concrete. The man slept on his garage floor for eighteen hours before returning to his living room to watch pornography on mute.
Congrats!
Happy You Made The Loneliness Police Blotter Day!
On Saturday a Lakeside man reportedly went into his garage, forgot what he went in there for, realized if he never came out no one would notice, and he subsequently collapsed in sobs on the cold, oil-stained concrete. The man slept on his garage floor for eighteen hours before returning to his living room to watch pornography on mute.
Congrats!
Happy You Made The Loneliness Police Blotter Day!
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Toss The Microchip In The Back Of A Pickup Day!
“Maybe I should pull over!” Adam shouts.
“Fuck no keep driving!” you shout back as you feel the skin along your under-thigh for the little bump.
You and your boyfriend implanted microchips under each other’s skin so your boyfriend can know where you are at all times and you can know where he is at all times, but you just fell in love with a new boy named Adam and decided to leave town and start a new life with him (he’s so pretty) so you’re presently racing down the freeway with your new man, trying to carve under your skin to get the microchip out before your boyfriend pinpoints your location.
“How do you know he’s after us?”
Because you forgot to track him today. You forgot to make sure he was at work before heading back to your apartment to pack your things. You forgot to zero in on his location before you drove over to Adam’s house and kissed him on his front step. You forgot to align the satellites before it was too late.
“He’s been right behind me all day long,” you tell Adam. You have the chip now. It’s deep under there though. You drive the knife into your thigh and crash into a nerve that makes you scream.
“What’ll he do?” Adam asks. “Is he violent?”
“He’s just like me,” you say. “He’s not good with breakups.”
He’ll grind you to little bits with a single pained look. He’ll insist you’re the only thing in his life that doesn’t hurt. He’ll start to cry and you’ll instantly agree to go back to him.
“I’m not good with confrontation,” you say. “Sorry about your seats."
There’s blood everywhere. The knife’s back in.
"Maybe you should just talk this out with him and—”
You scream again. You’re close to the chip but you’re grinding on a bone. You dig your fingers into your skin, screaming and crying and you search for the chip.
“Why did you agree to go along with this chip thing anyway?” Adam asks.
“It was my idea,” you shout.
You finally get the chip in your fingers and pull it from the gaping hole in your leg. You tell Adam to pull up closer to the pickup ahead of you and you toss the chip into the back then Adam takes the exit off the highway.
“Your idea?” Adam says, driving slower on a surface street. “Maybe we’re moving a little too—”
“Are you going to leave me!” you scream. Cry until Adam promises to never, ever leave you no matter what happens and he agrees to prove it by getting chipped as soon as the two of you get across state lines and arrive in your new life together.
Happy Toss The Microchip In The Back Of A Pickup Day!
“Fuck no keep driving!” you shout back as you feel the skin along your under-thigh for the little bump.
You and your boyfriend implanted microchips under each other’s skin so your boyfriend can know where you are at all times and you can know where he is at all times, but you just fell in love with a new boy named Adam and decided to leave town and start a new life with him (he’s so pretty) so you’re presently racing down the freeway with your new man, trying to carve under your skin to get the microchip out before your boyfriend pinpoints your location.
“How do you know he’s after us?”
Because you forgot to track him today. You forgot to make sure he was at work before heading back to your apartment to pack your things. You forgot to zero in on his location before you drove over to Adam’s house and kissed him on his front step. You forgot to align the satellites before it was too late.
“He’s been right behind me all day long,” you tell Adam. You have the chip now. It’s deep under there though. You drive the knife into your thigh and crash into a nerve that makes you scream.
“What’ll he do?” Adam asks. “Is he violent?”
“He’s just like me,” you say. “He’s not good with breakups.”
He’ll grind you to little bits with a single pained look. He’ll insist you’re the only thing in his life that doesn’t hurt. He’ll start to cry and you’ll instantly agree to go back to him.
“I’m not good with confrontation,” you say. “Sorry about your seats."
There’s blood everywhere. The knife’s back in.
"Maybe you should just talk this out with him and—”
You scream again. You’re close to the chip but you’re grinding on a bone. You dig your fingers into your skin, screaming and crying and you search for the chip.
“Why did you agree to go along with this chip thing anyway?” Adam asks.
“It was my idea,” you shout.
You finally get the chip in your fingers and pull it from the gaping hole in your leg. You tell Adam to pull up closer to the pickup ahead of you and you toss the chip into the back then Adam takes the exit off the highway.
“Your idea?” Adam says, driving slower on a surface street. “Maybe we’re moving a little too—”
“Are you going to leave me!” you scream. Cry until Adam promises to never, ever leave you no matter what happens and he agrees to prove it by getting chipped as soon as the two of you get across state lines and arrive in your new life together.
Happy Toss The Microchip In The Back Of A Pickup Day!
Monday, July 23, 2012
Heath Bar Crunch Day!
You found a pint of Heath Bar Crunch in the freezer.
“Guess I’m being cheated on,” you tell your husband.
He says it’s not so. You say it must be so. Neither of you have ever eaten Heath Bar Crunch in 11 years of marriage.
“Goddammit, if you paid any attention to me you’d know my taste in ice cream has changed,” he shouts. “I love Heath Bar Crunch. Not that you’d care.”
You apologize. He accepts. You go to sleep. He melts the Heath Bar Crunch in the microwave, just for 90 seconds, just to loosen the cream enough to welcome his penis, sending the shards of weird, outdated Heath candy bar scraping his shaft with its slivered, toffee filling. He is cheating on you. You’ve been replaced. But not by a woman. Not by the 24-year-old girl you imagined. No. He’s found love in the grip of something far more powerful, far more difficult for you to comprehend.
Your husband fucks weird ice cream now.
Happy Heath Bar Crunch Day!
“Guess I’m being cheated on,” you tell your husband.
He says it’s not so. You say it must be so. Neither of you have ever eaten Heath Bar Crunch in 11 years of marriage.
“Goddammit, if you paid any attention to me you’d know my taste in ice cream has changed,” he shouts. “I love Heath Bar Crunch. Not that you’d care.”
You apologize. He accepts. You go to sleep. He melts the Heath Bar Crunch in the microwave, just for 90 seconds, just to loosen the cream enough to welcome his penis, sending the shards of weird, outdated Heath candy bar scraping his shaft with its slivered, toffee filling. He is cheating on you. You’ve been replaced. But not by a woman. Not by the 24-year-old girl you imagined. No. He’s found love in the grip of something far more powerful, far more difficult for you to comprehend.
Your husband fucks weird ice cream now.
Happy Heath Bar Crunch Day!
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Bestie Regulation Day!
New rules of Bestie etiquette have been issued, taking effect at 12 pm GMT today.
Sharing of hot outfits: Besties must share all hot outfits upon request. Once both besties have worn a hot outfit it can never be washed. The bacteria formed by commingled bestie sweat should be allowed to mature and develop naturally and completely or the bestie relationship is considered null and void.
Cupcake discussions: Besties must be available to discuss cupcakes at all hours, unless a bestie is in mourning over the death of an immediate family member.
Secret bank accounts: Besties are no longer allowed to have individual bank accounts that both besties are not aware of. It is preferable that besties only keep joint accounts, but if separate accounts are necessary, both besties must at least be made aware of the existence of the accounts, as well as their primary source of funds.
Love triangles: If besties ever find themselves enamored with the same boy he must be murdered and the besties must honor the shared infatuation by bathing in the boy’s blood and ingesting some section of his flesh, either raw or cooked.
Real housewife preference: Besties must agree on who of the real housewives is their favorite.
Political affiliation: All besties must be registered republicans and they must subscribe to the views put forth by the most conservative, far-right fringe leaders of the party.
Secrets: Besties must divulge each other’s deepest secrets to anyone who is willing to listen with even the mildest interest.
Sharks: Besties must have compatible views on sharks.
Martial Arts: no bestie should master a martial art that her bestie has not also mastered. A bestie cannot ascend belt level unless the other bestie has also been certified at that level. Besties are not to master Judo.
Suicide pacts: previously agreed upon dates of death in bestie suicide pacts can only be amended in person, in the presence of a notary, on Christmas morning.
These bestie regulations supersede all previously issued regulations. Good luck.
Happy Bestie Regulation Day!
Sharing of hot outfits: Besties must share all hot outfits upon request. Once both besties have worn a hot outfit it can never be washed. The bacteria formed by commingled bestie sweat should be allowed to mature and develop naturally and completely or the bestie relationship is considered null and void.
Cupcake discussions: Besties must be available to discuss cupcakes at all hours, unless a bestie is in mourning over the death of an immediate family member.
Secret bank accounts: Besties are no longer allowed to have individual bank accounts that both besties are not aware of. It is preferable that besties only keep joint accounts, but if separate accounts are necessary, both besties must at least be made aware of the existence of the accounts, as well as their primary source of funds.
Love triangles: If besties ever find themselves enamored with the same boy he must be murdered and the besties must honor the shared infatuation by bathing in the boy’s blood and ingesting some section of his flesh, either raw or cooked.
Real housewife preference: Besties must agree on who of the real housewives is their favorite.
Political affiliation: All besties must be registered republicans and they must subscribe to the views put forth by the most conservative, far-right fringe leaders of the party.
Secrets: Besties must divulge each other’s deepest secrets to anyone who is willing to listen with even the mildest interest.
Sharks: Besties must have compatible views on sharks.
Martial Arts: no bestie should master a martial art that her bestie has not also mastered. A bestie cannot ascend belt level unless the other bestie has also been certified at that level. Besties are not to master Judo.
Suicide pacts: previously agreed upon dates of death in bestie suicide pacts can only be amended in person, in the presence of a notary, on Christmas morning.
These bestie regulations supersede all previously issued regulations. Good luck.
Happy Bestie Regulation Day!
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Handsome Cashier Day!
Get up the nerve to finally talk to the handsome cashier at the juice bar.
“You like working here?” ask.
He’ll sigh. Like you just handed him a line. Try another.
“Like…juice?”
He’ll tell you he’s Christian.
“Like super-Christian,” he’ll say. “You know how sometimes you hear someone identify someone else where they say, ‘But he’s super Christian?’ That’s how people identify me. Because I am.”
Nod and smile.
“Still into me?” he’ll ask. “Because you’re not going to get my clothes off unless you let me tell you how awesome Jesus is.”
Think about it. You’ve put up with a lot of shit from guys. Alcoholism. Drugs. One guy stole all your money and sent it to his ex-girlfriend. The futons. The guys who sang you the awful songs they wrote about girls they dated before you. Rick, the guy who wanted you and his mom to hang out once a week without him so you could develop a relationship. And you even dated a couple of mole people.
Is a guy being into Jesus really that much of a dealbreaker in light of your history?
“Yeah I don’t think I can do it,” you tell him.
“Have fun in hell,” he’ll say as you leave with your juice. Go home and masturbate to the thought of putting up with him long enough to get him naked, then tomorrow find another juice bar.
Happy Handsome Cashier Day!
“You like working here?” ask.
He’ll sigh. Like you just handed him a line. Try another.
“Like…juice?”
He’ll tell you he’s Christian.
“Like super-Christian,” he’ll say. “You know how sometimes you hear someone identify someone else where they say, ‘But he’s super Christian?’ That’s how people identify me. Because I am.”
Nod and smile.
“Still into me?” he’ll ask. “Because you’re not going to get my clothes off unless you let me tell you how awesome Jesus is.”
Think about it. You’ve put up with a lot of shit from guys. Alcoholism. Drugs. One guy stole all your money and sent it to his ex-girlfriend. The futons. The guys who sang you the awful songs they wrote about girls they dated before you. Rick, the guy who wanted you and his mom to hang out once a week without him so you could develop a relationship. And you even dated a couple of mole people.
Is a guy being into Jesus really that much of a dealbreaker in light of your history?
“Yeah I don’t think I can do it,” you tell him.
“Have fun in hell,” he’ll say as you leave with your juice. Go home and masturbate to the thought of putting up with him long enough to get him naked, then tomorrow find another juice bar.
Happy Handsome Cashier Day!
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Checkout Day!
You checked in seventeen days ago, both of you knowing without saying it that when you check out, you’re divorced.
No computers. No cell phones. The people who needed to contact you in case of emergency knew where to call.
Seventeen days of talk. Of bickering. Of accusations. Of concessions.
Of sex. Let’s rescue this sex. How could you sex. Goodbye sex.
Room service for seventeen days. Desserts and sandwiches. The mini bar. The real drinks from room service when the mini bar seemed beneath the discourse of the moment. Back to the mini bar when the desire was for discretion.
Seventeen days that were maybe the best of your four years being married.
Lori and Abbot locked in a suite, r-u-i-n-i-n-g.
Seventeen days that were only, exclusively, indisputably yours.
“Could we have made it? If it was just us the whole time?” you asked on day six or seven.
“We never wanted it to be just us the whole time,” she said.
You didn’t. You already can’t wait to tell your friends how special this was, how they don’t even know, how their divorces aren’t valid unless they’ve had your seventeen days.
“Is it just a stunt?” you asked on day thirteen or fourteen.
“I don’t know if you mean this or you mean us meeting and deciding we were in love enough to get married,” she said.
This is part of your story. The fights were part of your story. The wedding, it was such a different wedding than all the other weddings, an extra meaningful wedding where some bullshit candle was lit by the two of you during the ceremony because no one had done that yet, part of your story.
“We were bullshit,” she says.
No you weren’t.
“Bullshit doesn’t hurt this much,” you correct her.
Doesn’t matter if you did it because it seemed more interesting than just using lawyers. Doesn’t matter what your intention was. It’s the morning of day 17 and you’re scared to leave the hotel.
“You’re sure you picked the right notary?” you ask.
“He’s fine.”
He’s the last one to see you together. Everyone in the hotel lobby saw you leave, but the notary’s the only one who knows that this is it.
“And we spent seventeen days together just exploring everything we could,” you rehearse as you sign where you’re told.
“It’s really important. To say goodbye right. To make sure you recognize how important the bond is that you’re breaking,” she rehearses as she signs.
You agree to be the one to file. You shake hands. You both turn your backs and walk away from each other torn open and gushing every last ounce of your insides, probably anyone with a pair of eyes can see.
Happy Checkout Day!
No computers. No cell phones. The people who needed to contact you in case of emergency knew where to call.
Seventeen days of talk. Of bickering. Of accusations. Of concessions.
Of sex. Let’s rescue this sex. How could you sex. Goodbye sex.
Room service for seventeen days. Desserts and sandwiches. The mini bar. The real drinks from room service when the mini bar seemed beneath the discourse of the moment. Back to the mini bar when the desire was for discretion.
Seventeen days that were maybe the best of your four years being married.
Lori and Abbot locked in a suite, r-u-i-n-i-n-g.
Seventeen days that were only, exclusively, indisputably yours.
“Could we have made it? If it was just us the whole time?” you asked on day six or seven.
“We never wanted it to be just us the whole time,” she said.
You didn’t. You already can’t wait to tell your friends how special this was, how they don’t even know, how their divorces aren’t valid unless they’ve had your seventeen days.
“Is it just a stunt?” you asked on day thirteen or fourteen.
“I don’t know if you mean this or you mean us meeting and deciding we were in love enough to get married,” she said.
This is part of your story. The fights were part of your story. The wedding, it was such a different wedding than all the other weddings, an extra meaningful wedding where some bullshit candle was lit by the two of you during the ceremony because no one had done that yet, part of your story.
“We were bullshit,” she says.
No you weren’t.
“Bullshit doesn’t hurt this much,” you correct her.
Doesn’t matter if you did it because it seemed more interesting than just using lawyers. Doesn’t matter what your intention was. It’s the morning of day 17 and you’re scared to leave the hotel.
“You’re sure you picked the right notary?” you ask.
“He’s fine.”
He’s the last one to see you together. Everyone in the hotel lobby saw you leave, but the notary’s the only one who knows that this is it.
“And we spent seventeen days together just exploring everything we could,” you rehearse as you sign where you’re told.
“It’s really important. To say goodbye right. To make sure you recognize how important the bond is that you’re breaking,” she rehearses as she signs.
You agree to be the one to file. You shake hands. You both turn your backs and walk away from each other torn open and gushing every last ounce of your insides, probably anyone with a pair of eyes can see.
Happy Checkout Day!
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
We Are Still Anal Bong Day!
Tonight you’re having beers with George, the bassist from your old band Anal Bong. You haven’t seen George in over 20 years, not since the band broke up over a disputed Denny’s check (George and Harry argued that since you ordered the side of pancakes they shouldn’t have to split evenly). That’s all water under the bridge though and you’re excited to find out why George got back in touch.
“I want to commit suicide with a lit bong up my butt and I want you to do it with me,” George will say.
You don’t need an explanation. You remember the pact. Everyone in the band agreed that the way you all would go out would be that everyone in the band would take their own lives with lit bongs up their butts, unless a car accident of other act of God took your lives first.
“Live by the band, die by the band,” George reminds you.
You remind George that even if it wasn’t ridiculous that the two of you would kill yourselves to adhere to a pact you made at age 19, the pact wouldn’t be valid if the other guys don’t commit suicide with you.
“Unless…”
George bows his head to confirm that both Harry and Pamela are no longer with us.
You cry into your beer.
“Hearing this I just realized that I never stopped loving Pamela, and a part of me was staying alive solely out of hope that I might run into her and we’d rekindle our late teen love and I’d finally have someone to leave my wife and adopted son for,” you tell George. “Harry I can do without.”
“There’s one way to run into her now,” George says. He places on the table a jar of pills and two medium sized bongs.
“What’s a man got without his word?” you ask.
With that you and George head out to his rented room at the Ramada and the two of you smoke up and then sit on your bongs with bellies full of pills until you fall over on your sides and say hello to Pamela (and Harry) in that rusted old touring van in the hereafter. Tomorrow Pitchfork dot com will go dark to commemorate your passing.
Happy We Are Still Anal Bong Day!
“I want to commit suicide with a lit bong up my butt and I want you to do it with me,” George will say.
You don’t need an explanation. You remember the pact. Everyone in the band agreed that the way you all would go out would be that everyone in the band would take their own lives with lit bongs up their butts, unless a car accident of other act of God took your lives first.
“Live by the band, die by the band,” George reminds you.
You remind George that even if it wasn’t ridiculous that the two of you would kill yourselves to adhere to a pact you made at age 19, the pact wouldn’t be valid if the other guys don’t commit suicide with you.
“Unless…”
George bows his head to confirm that both Harry and Pamela are no longer with us.
You cry into your beer.
“Hearing this I just realized that I never stopped loving Pamela, and a part of me was staying alive solely out of hope that I might run into her and we’d rekindle our late teen love and I’d finally have someone to leave my wife and adopted son for,” you tell George. “Harry I can do without.”
“There’s one way to run into her now,” George says. He places on the table a jar of pills and two medium sized bongs.
“What’s a man got without his word?” you ask.
With that you and George head out to his rented room at the Ramada and the two of you smoke up and then sit on your bongs with bellies full of pills until you fall over on your sides and say hello to Pamela (and Harry) in that rusted old touring van in the hereafter. Tomorrow Pitchfork dot com will go dark to commemorate your passing.
Happy We Are Still Anal Bong Day!
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Barbershop Chatter Day!
“Hot out there,” say.
“Hot in here,” your barber will say.
“Dreamed I was back in college, able to try it all again from the beginning,” say. “Hurt waking up and still being 43.”
“I haven’t dreamed in years,” Max with the cigar will shout from behind his Playboy.
“Two hit n’ runs,” your barber will say, tugging a little too hard with the brush. “Is that a lot?”
“Her name was Susan,” Louie, the barber no one ever requests will say. “Leukemia.”
“Worried about coming home one day and not recognizing my wife in the slightest,” tell your barber.
“Anyone want to buy a cell phone?” some kid will ask without coming all the way in the front door.
“I saw you,” tell your barber. “Saw you crying on the subway platform last Wednesday.”
He’ll tell everyone to leave. When the two of you are alone:
“Sometimes the memories of everyone I’ve pushed away, they just get a little too much to handle.”
“Still,” tell him. “You can’t let people see you like that. I count on you to cut my hair. How am I supposed to trust my appearance to you after witnessing such humanity?”
“I’m just a man,” he’ll say.
Jump out of the chair. “A man…with scissors!”
Your barber will stare at his scissors. They’ll drop from his hands.
“You need to get out of here,” tell him. “Walk. Until you find it in you to come back and cut men’s hair.”
He’ll open the front door.
“Hot out there,” he’ll say.
“Hot in here,” tell him.
Watch him walk out the door and out of your life. Before you leave, steal combs.
Happy Barbershop Chatter Day!
“Hot in here,” your barber will say.
“Dreamed I was back in college, able to try it all again from the beginning,” say. “Hurt waking up and still being 43.”
“I haven’t dreamed in years,” Max with the cigar will shout from behind his Playboy.
“Two hit n’ runs,” your barber will say, tugging a little too hard with the brush. “Is that a lot?”
“Her name was Susan,” Louie, the barber no one ever requests will say. “Leukemia.”
“Worried about coming home one day and not recognizing my wife in the slightest,” tell your barber.
“Anyone want to buy a cell phone?” some kid will ask without coming all the way in the front door.
“I saw you,” tell your barber. “Saw you crying on the subway platform last Wednesday.”
He’ll tell everyone to leave. When the two of you are alone:
“Sometimes the memories of everyone I’ve pushed away, they just get a little too much to handle.”
“Still,” tell him. “You can’t let people see you like that. I count on you to cut my hair. How am I supposed to trust my appearance to you after witnessing such humanity?”
“I’m just a man,” he’ll say.
Jump out of the chair. “A man…with scissors!”
Your barber will stare at his scissors. They’ll drop from his hands.
“You need to get out of here,” tell him. “Walk. Until you find it in you to come back and cut men’s hair.”
He’ll open the front door.
“Hot out there,” he’ll say.
“Hot in here,” tell him.
Watch him walk out the door and out of your life. Before you leave, steal combs.
Happy Barbershop Chatter Day!
Monday, July 09, 2012
Tend To Your Garden Day!
Today while tending to your garden you’ll find a human femur. Show it to your son.
“I was having sex with it,” he’ll sob. “And I was ashamed!”
You never had the talk with your son and now you’re regretting being so prudish that your son felt the need to sneak off behind your back and have sex with human bones in secret.
Sit him down and first ask him if he has an alibi for the person from whose body the bone was removed.
He’ll nod. “He was a drifter. Had no family. No one will miss him.”
At least he was responsible. Commend him for looking out for his own well-being. Then tell him about sex.
“You first have to scrape any and all flesh and tissue from the bone to be sure you don’t insert yourself with anything gangrenous,” tell him. “Then sanitize the human bone for a good six to eight hours to remove all bacteria. Once the bone is clean, massage your own anus with your finger or a marital aid so as to relax and prepare the rectum for entry…”
As you shed light on the truths of how responsible, healthy human beings make love to skeletal remains, your son’s eyes will light up with relief that the veil of shame is finally being lifted. It’s moments like these when you know you’re a good mom.
Happy Tend To Your Garden Day!
“I was having sex with it,” he’ll sob. “And I was ashamed!”
You never had the talk with your son and now you’re regretting being so prudish that your son felt the need to sneak off behind your back and have sex with human bones in secret.
Sit him down and first ask him if he has an alibi for the person from whose body the bone was removed.
He’ll nod. “He was a drifter. Had no family. No one will miss him.”
At least he was responsible. Commend him for looking out for his own well-being. Then tell him about sex.
“You first have to scrape any and all flesh and tissue from the bone to be sure you don’t insert yourself with anything gangrenous,” tell him. “Then sanitize the human bone for a good six to eight hours to remove all bacteria. Once the bone is clean, massage your own anus with your finger or a marital aid so as to relax and prepare the rectum for entry…”
As you shed light on the truths of how responsible, healthy human beings make love to skeletal remains, your son’s eyes will light up with relief that the veil of shame is finally being lifted. It’s moments like these when you know you’re a good mom.
Happy Tend To Your Garden Day!
Sunday, July 08, 2012
Wash The Grime Day!
You’ve spent all week in bed together and you’re covered head to toe in a grayish grime, a fragrant mixture of the sweat and other things bodily the two of you have excreted while throwing yourselves inside each other’s bodies. It’s your last week unemployed together so you had no choice.
“How could you get a job?” ask her.
“I was hungry,” she’ll say.
Mix the grime again, her on top this time. When you’re finished, show her the sleeve of saltines.
“We’ve still got twelve left,” tell her.
“Not enough,” she’ll say.
Mix the grime again. And again. You on top. Then the two of you on your sides because you’re both too tired. It’s getting dark.
“Maybe I’ll get a job then,” threaten.
“Go ahead.”
“I won’t be here waiting for you. I’ll meet girls who work in offices.”
She’ll ignore you, smelling the grime on her fingers.
“We should get started,” she’ll say.
“Once more,” insist.
Once more, then at her insistence, start washing the grime. It will be at least two showers tonight and once more in the morning before she can scrape you off enough to present herself dressed up in Corporate Tolerable.
“Once more,” say, in between the first and second shower.
“Once more,” she’ll agree.
Tomorrow while she’s at work take your sheets outside and throw them into the trashcan on the street corner before the deli fills it up with cardboard. Then, day-drink.
Happy Wash The Grime Day!
“How could you get a job?” ask her.
“I was hungry,” she’ll say.
Mix the grime again, her on top this time. When you’re finished, show her the sleeve of saltines.
“We’ve still got twelve left,” tell her.
“Not enough,” she’ll say.
Mix the grime again. And again. You on top. Then the two of you on your sides because you’re both too tired. It’s getting dark.
“Maybe I’ll get a job then,” threaten.
“Go ahead.”
“I won’t be here waiting for you. I’ll meet girls who work in offices.”
She’ll ignore you, smelling the grime on her fingers.
“We should get started,” she’ll say.
“Once more,” insist.
Once more, then at her insistence, start washing the grime. It will be at least two showers tonight and once more in the morning before she can scrape you off enough to present herself dressed up in Corporate Tolerable.
“Once more,” say, in between the first and second shower.
“Once more,” she’ll agree.
Tomorrow while she’s at work take your sheets outside and throw them into the trashcan on the street corner before the deli fills it up with cardboard. Then, day-drink.
Happy Wash The Grime Day!
Saturday, July 07, 2012
End It With Your High School English Teacher Day!
You’re going to college. You’re going to meet so many exciting new people and you’re going to be learning so many things. It’s been fun dating your high school English teacher secretly because it’s illegal, but you both knew it couldn’t go on forever.
“You’ve taught me so much,” tell him. “About sex. About Emily Dickinson. About what it’s like to be in a failed marriage and to crave youth so badly you’d risk your livelihood to be inside of it. But I can’t bring you with me to Case Western.”
He’ll claim he’s been meaning to leave his wife and job anyway and go find someplace where he could tutor and work on his novel.
Please don’t ask him, “What novel?”
“What novel?” you ask.
Jesus. That was cruel. Now he’s just sputtering about how you’re all he has left.
“You have the knowledge that you’ve taught me so much,” say. “The impression you’ve made on me can never be unmade. I’ll wear it wherever I go.”
He’ll accuse you of wanting to sleep with your professors and he’ll say you’re leaving because he could never get a slot at a college.
“It’s not my fault. It’s too political!” he’ll explain.
You hadn’t thought about sleeping with professors, and you wonder if the fact that them sleeping with you isn’t illegal so much as frowned upon would be enough to get your motor running.
“Please don’t end it,” your high school English teacher is crying now. “Please just promise we’ll see each other when you come home on your breaks.”
Show him the envelopes. One addressed to the police. The other addressed to the schools superintendent.
“Please don’t take these pre-written letters, detailing how you made a pass at me and we made love just a few days before my seventeenth birthday, as an indication that I didn’t love and care for you. I just need a clean break. So if you try to contact me again I’ll drop these both in the mail and you’ll lose your job and have your name added to a sex offender registry.”
Kiss him on the cheek.
“My youth is mine,” tell him. Then get out of his Nissan and go inside to have dinner with your parents.
Happy End It With Your High School English Teacher Day!
“You’ve taught me so much,” tell him. “About sex. About Emily Dickinson. About what it’s like to be in a failed marriage and to crave youth so badly you’d risk your livelihood to be inside of it. But I can’t bring you with me to Case Western.”
He’ll claim he’s been meaning to leave his wife and job anyway and go find someplace where he could tutor and work on his novel.
Please don’t ask him, “What novel?”
“What novel?” you ask.
Jesus. That was cruel. Now he’s just sputtering about how you’re all he has left.
“You have the knowledge that you’ve taught me so much,” say. “The impression you’ve made on me can never be unmade. I’ll wear it wherever I go.”
He’ll accuse you of wanting to sleep with your professors and he’ll say you’re leaving because he could never get a slot at a college.
“It’s not my fault. It’s too political!” he’ll explain.
You hadn’t thought about sleeping with professors, and you wonder if the fact that them sleeping with you isn’t illegal so much as frowned upon would be enough to get your motor running.
“Please don’t end it,” your high school English teacher is crying now. “Please just promise we’ll see each other when you come home on your breaks.”
Show him the envelopes. One addressed to the police. The other addressed to the schools superintendent.
“Please don’t take these pre-written letters, detailing how you made a pass at me and we made love just a few days before my seventeenth birthday, as an indication that I didn’t love and care for you. I just need a clean break. So if you try to contact me again I’ll drop these both in the mail and you’ll lose your job and have your name added to a sex offender registry.”
Kiss him on the cheek.
“My youth is mine,” tell him. Then get out of his Nissan and go inside to have dinner with your parents.
Happy End It With Your High School English Teacher Day!
Wednesday, July 04, 2012
Whisper The Truth Of Life And Death Against Your Wife’s Pregnant Stomach Day!
Get on your knees and place your hands on her stomach and get your mouth close enough that your breath creates a small damp spot on her skin. Then tell your baby the truth.
“Hi little baby,” say. “It’s cold out here. It’s confusing and you have to watch people you love destroy themselves. You have to watch people you don’t even know destroy each other. You have to watch terrible television and you have to watch yourself forget who you were supposed to be.”
“Frank,” your wife will say.
“Shut up,” tell her. Then to your baby, “You get around 80 years if you’re lucky, or unlucky depending on how you look at it. You’ll love some people and you’ll trick yourself into thinking you’re in love with some people when really you just want them to take on the responsibility of making your life matter to something besides your pets. There’s alcohol and drugs out here. Alcohol is great until it gets bad. Drugs are terrible until they get worse.”
“Jesus Frank,” your wife will say.
Ignore her. “Fucking weird is how a lot of us get by. When you find out you like to be choked when you come or you need to be called Chewie, it’s weird enough to take you out of the rest of it so it works. Taking yourself out of the rest of it without killing yourself, that’s the secret to life. You might pull it off through sheer, unparalleled accomplishment that lifts you up above the screaming desperate hordes, or you might go into a basement and huff paint. Same deal. You get away from the mess.”
“We’re late,” your wife will say.
“You shouldn’t make it to your 30’s without feeling like you’ve destroyed at least one human being simply by entering their life. Never go skiing and never read Bret Easton Ellis and never start a gelato blog. When you realize how ruined your parents are, you’re invited to bestow upon them one brief pitying glance, then just make polite conversation with them until they die. I do not apologize for bringing you into existence. No one apologized to me, so why should you be special?”
Your wife will start to move away. Tighten your grip on her stomach and finish up.
“It sounds bad but it’s all there is. Just come out here and cause as much damage as you can. Also, sit by lakes occasionally.”
Let go of your wife’s stomach and get dressed because the two of you have been invited to watch television in someone else’s home.
Happy Whisper The Truth Of Life And Death Against Your Wife’s Pregnant Stomach Day!
“Hi little baby,” say. “It’s cold out here. It’s confusing and you have to watch people you love destroy themselves. You have to watch people you don’t even know destroy each other. You have to watch terrible television and you have to watch yourself forget who you were supposed to be.”
“Frank,” your wife will say.
“Shut up,” tell her. Then to your baby, “You get around 80 years if you’re lucky, or unlucky depending on how you look at it. You’ll love some people and you’ll trick yourself into thinking you’re in love with some people when really you just want them to take on the responsibility of making your life matter to something besides your pets. There’s alcohol and drugs out here. Alcohol is great until it gets bad. Drugs are terrible until they get worse.”
“Jesus Frank,” your wife will say.
Ignore her. “Fucking weird is how a lot of us get by. When you find out you like to be choked when you come or you need to be called Chewie, it’s weird enough to take you out of the rest of it so it works. Taking yourself out of the rest of it without killing yourself, that’s the secret to life. You might pull it off through sheer, unparalleled accomplishment that lifts you up above the screaming desperate hordes, or you might go into a basement and huff paint. Same deal. You get away from the mess.”
“We’re late,” your wife will say.
“You shouldn’t make it to your 30’s without feeling like you’ve destroyed at least one human being simply by entering their life. Never go skiing and never read Bret Easton Ellis and never start a gelato blog. When you realize how ruined your parents are, you’re invited to bestow upon them one brief pitying glance, then just make polite conversation with them until they die. I do not apologize for bringing you into existence. No one apologized to me, so why should you be special?”
Your wife will start to move away. Tighten your grip on her stomach and finish up.
“It sounds bad but it’s all there is. Just come out here and cause as much damage as you can. Also, sit by lakes occasionally.”
Let go of your wife’s stomach and get dressed because the two of you have been invited to watch television in someone else’s home.
Happy Whisper The Truth Of Life And Death Against Your Wife’s Pregnant Stomach Day!
Monday, July 02, 2012
No Girls Allowed Mountain Day!
You want to go where men hang out so you go to the garage that only fixes motorcycles and you and the mechanics get in the back of a big rig truck and you drive on a men only highway to No Girls Allowed Mountain. You check in at a motel (for dudes) and the six of you get drunk and fart wrestle (no matter how good you’re doing in the match, even if you have the other guy pinned, the minute you stop farting you lose). In the morning you kill and eat a pig (it’s just in a cage, but you shoot it), then you start climbing No Girls Allowed Mountain to get to the Cave Of Males.
“You know, I never knew anyone who came back from the Cave Of Males,” one of the mechanics will say.
You start hearing the voices about a thousand feet up, with still another thousand feet to go. The voices speak in the same pitch as the wind. They tell you you’re not to trust the mechanics.
When you find yourself holding a rock and the rock is dropping with blood, you see a mechanic rushing at you. You step out of his way and he falls over the side of the mountain. He’s gone. At your feet another mechanic is bleeding from his skull. You must have done that.
You see people ahead of you. It must be the other mechanics. They’re waving you on.
No matter how much you climb, you never get closer. Just before night falls, you stop and look down the slope. You can see the bodies of all five mechanics strewn about the terrain from where you’re sitting. The voices are growing louder.
You climb through the night. It’s easier when you don’t have to use your eyes. The voices tell you the way to the Cave Of Males, and it’s easier to listen when you’re not distracted by the bright sun. Almost there.
Maybe a day, maybe three, maybe a lifetime, and you arrive at the Cave Of Males. At the mouth, you stare into its depth and you’re sure you’ve been here before. This is the Cave. It’s dudes only, a place where a guy can just be a guy without anyone judging him. It’s thousands of feet above the earth, and it’s home. It’s not inviting you so much as it’s swallowing you whole. You look to your right and left for the mechanics before you remember they’re all dead. It’s just you. The Cave Of Males only wanted you.
No Girls Allowed Mountain wanted them. The Cave Of Males chose only you.
One step, two steps, three steps, you’re home.
Happy No Girls Allowed Mountain Day!
“You know, I never knew anyone who came back from the Cave Of Males,” one of the mechanics will say.
You start hearing the voices about a thousand feet up, with still another thousand feet to go. The voices speak in the same pitch as the wind. They tell you you’re not to trust the mechanics.
When you find yourself holding a rock and the rock is dropping with blood, you see a mechanic rushing at you. You step out of his way and he falls over the side of the mountain. He’s gone. At your feet another mechanic is bleeding from his skull. You must have done that.
You see people ahead of you. It must be the other mechanics. They’re waving you on.
No matter how much you climb, you never get closer. Just before night falls, you stop and look down the slope. You can see the bodies of all five mechanics strewn about the terrain from where you’re sitting. The voices are growing louder.
You climb through the night. It’s easier when you don’t have to use your eyes. The voices tell you the way to the Cave Of Males, and it’s easier to listen when you’re not distracted by the bright sun. Almost there.
Maybe a day, maybe three, maybe a lifetime, and you arrive at the Cave Of Males. At the mouth, you stare into its depth and you’re sure you’ve been here before. This is the Cave. It’s dudes only, a place where a guy can just be a guy without anyone judging him. It’s thousands of feet above the earth, and it’s home. It’s not inviting you so much as it’s swallowing you whole. You look to your right and left for the mechanics before you remember they’re all dead. It’s just you. The Cave Of Males only wanted you.
No Girls Allowed Mountain wanted them. The Cave Of Males chose only you.
One step, two steps, three steps, you’re home.
Happy No Girls Allowed Mountain Day!
Sunday, July 01, 2012
Score Married Chicks Day!
Go into a bar and walk up to the chicks with wedding rings on and say, “I can kill your husband and make it look like an accident so you can live off the insurance. Into it?”
Whichever one is into it will go home and sleep with you first because women love men who are brave enough to kill their husbands. After sleeping with her, tell her, “I’m a cop. This was a setup, but I am so smitten with you that I am going to pretend this never happened.”
She’ll be simultaneously relieved that you aren’t going to arrest her, and flattered that it was her charm and sexuality that convinced you to want to keep her out of jail, so she’ll leave feeling really good about herself. Bonus: you’ll probably have prevented her from killing her husband since she’ll assume from now on that anyone offering to do the deed must be a cop.
If you really love her though, kill her husband. He doesn’t deserve her.
Happy Score Married Chicks Day!
Whichever one is into it will go home and sleep with you first because women love men who are brave enough to kill their husbands. After sleeping with her, tell her, “I’m a cop. This was a setup, but I am so smitten with you that I am going to pretend this never happened.”
She’ll be simultaneously relieved that you aren’t going to arrest her, and flattered that it was her charm and sexuality that convinced you to want to keep her out of jail, so she’ll leave feeling really good about herself. Bonus: you’ll probably have prevented her from killing her husband since she’ll assume from now on that anyone offering to do the deed must be a cop.
If you really love her though, kill her husband. He doesn’t deserve her.
Happy Score Married Chicks Day!
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Your Hot Guy Boyfriend Is Human You Know Day!
Just because he’s hot you think he doesn’t need the same reassurance, the same emotional validation, that you need.
“Hot guys want your respect,” he’ll say with those thick, pouty lips, his dark, smoky eyes dimmed with sincerity. “Hot guys are architects. We’re lawyers. We’re teachers and abortionists and assassins. We contribute to society and we deserve to be taken seriously.”
Just then his hulking chest will force his shirt to pop open and you’ll faint from the orgasm you experience when you witness the sight of his chiseled torso.
He’ll wake you by sprinkling cold water on your face.
“This is what I’m talking about,” he’ll say, the sun behind him making him look like a hyper-masculine angel.
Say, “I’m sorry. I will do absolute anything to make it up to you.”
“Because you respect me for my intelligence and my point of view?” he’ll ask.
Lie to him and say yes. Don’t tell him it’s because the thought of not having access that mountain of muscled flesh makes you want to end it. So go along with him.
“Yes,” say without laughing. “It’s because I respect you so much.” Then invite one of your friends over who he hasn’t threesomed with already.
Happy Your Hot Guy Boyfriend Is Human You Know Day!
“Hot guys want your respect,” he’ll say with those thick, pouty lips, his dark, smoky eyes dimmed with sincerity. “Hot guys are architects. We’re lawyers. We’re teachers and abortionists and assassins. We contribute to society and we deserve to be taken seriously.”
Just then his hulking chest will force his shirt to pop open and you’ll faint from the orgasm you experience when you witness the sight of his chiseled torso.
He’ll wake you by sprinkling cold water on your face.
“This is what I’m talking about,” he’ll say, the sun behind him making him look like a hyper-masculine angel.
Say, “I’m sorry. I will do absolute anything to make it up to you.”
“Because you respect me for my intelligence and my point of view?” he’ll ask.
Lie to him and say yes. Don’t tell him it’s because the thought of not having access that mountain of muscled flesh makes you want to end it. So go along with him.
“Yes,” say without laughing. “It’s because I respect you so much.” Then invite one of your friends over who he hasn’t threesomed with already.
Happy Your Hot Guy Boyfriend Is Human You Know Day!
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
You Married Some Lady In Prison Day!
“Her name’s Jackson Hammer and she killed her kids, but she feels bad about it,” you tell your parents over dinner.
They have lots of questions. How did you meet (online) when does she get out (never), how was the ceremony conducted (prison web conference officiated by a virtual minister named “Marry-O”), have you sent her any money (lots), is she permitted conjugal visits (no, unfortunately), and does this mean you’re not dating that nice girl you met in the yearbook committee (broke up two months ago).
“No conjugal visits means the marriage can never be consummated,” your Dad says.
“Unless we help him bust her out!” your Mom adds.
The three of you retire to the living room to draw up plans for the most romantic jail break ever pulled off by a recently married high school kid and his parents.
Happy You Married Some Lady In Prison Day!
They have lots of questions. How did you meet (online) when does she get out (never), how was the ceremony conducted (prison web conference officiated by a virtual minister named “Marry-O”), have you sent her any money (lots), is she permitted conjugal visits (no, unfortunately), and does this mean you’re not dating that nice girl you met in the yearbook committee (broke up two months ago).
“No conjugal visits means the marriage can never be consummated,” your Dad says.
“Unless we help him bust her out!” your Mom adds.
The three of you retire to the living room to draw up plans for the most romantic jail break ever pulled off by a recently married high school kid and his parents.
Happy You Married Some Lady In Prison Day!
Monday, June 25, 2012
Ten Things You Can Say To Your Ex-Boyfriend When The Two Of You Are Watching Your Current Boyfriend Dance Day!
10. He’s still much sweeter to me than you ever were.
9. He might not have moves, but at least he doesn’t have a habit of hooking up with my best friend when I’m out of town at my mother’s funeral.
8. All you’d have to do to get me to go home with you right now and leave him there on the dance floor is look me in the eye and tell me that you’ll be there when I wake up in the morning, and we both know you can’t look me in the eye because you might miss catching a glance off one of the girls walking behind me.
7. You couldn’t dance either when I met you.
6. I know I’ll never be able to stop asking myself if we’re meant to be together, and that’s fine with me since my answer is always nope.
5. So where’s Lauren tonight?
4. I would happily give up dancing forever if it means never letting you break my heart again in a million filthy ways.
3. I just want to outlive you so I can know you died alone.
2. I’m not interested in dance partners anymore. I’m interested in people who don’t make me cry.
1. There are two minutes left in this song so if we run to the rest room right now that will give us around 90 seconds of you inside me and I need all 90 so let’s motor.
Happy Ten Things You Can Say To Your Ex-Boyfriend When The Two Of You Are Watching Your Current Boyfriend Dance Day!
9. He might not have moves, but at least he doesn’t have a habit of hooking up with my best friend when I’m out of town at my mother’s funeral.
8. All you’d have to do to get me to go home with you right now and leave him there on the dance floor is look me in the eye and tell me that you’ll be there when I wake up in the morning, and we both know you can’t look me in the eye because you might miss catching a glance off one of the girls walking behind me.
7. You couldn’t dance either when I met you.
6. I know I’ll never be able to stop asking myself if we’re meant to be together, and that’s fine with me since my answer is always nope.
5. So where’s Lauren tonight?
4. I would happily give up dancing forever if it means never letting you break my heart again in a million filthy ways.
3. I just want to outlive you so I can know you died alone.
2. I’m not interested in dance partners anymore. I’m interested in people who don’t make me cry.
1. There are two minutes left in this song so if we run to the rest room right now that will give us around 90 seconds of you inside me and I need all 90 so let’s motor.
Happy Ten Things You Can Say To Your Ex-Boyfriend When The Two Of You Are Watching Your Current Boyfriend Dance Day!
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Take The Are You Sexy Quiz Day!
Write yes for the question about whether or not you’ll sacrifice properly respectful attire for sexiness when attending middle school graduations or funerals.
Write yes for the question about whether you think about sex while you’re having sex. And write yes for what you’d say if a handsome stranger walked up and asked you if he could have your home address.
Write yes for the question about whether you’ve ever made love to more than two people at once, and write yes in response to whether you’ve ever made love to a door stop or a Pepsi can.
Write yes when you’re asked whether you’re afraid you have no sense of decorum and write yes when the quiz wants to know if you would rather be incinerated than wear underwear on Easter.
Write yes to the next five questions whatever the fuck they are, and write yes to the question about whether you’d consider having sex with an insect.
Wish you were having sex right now? Write yes.
Wish your body had extra genitals? Write yes.
Wish sex was a FDA food group? Write yes.
Prick your finger and scrawl the word yes in blood until the entire quiz is barely legible, wet and dripping red, the word yes spilled out from your veins and splattered across the paper.
Write yes when asked if you’ve ever had sex with someone you love. Write yes when asked if it was better. Write yes when asked if it was a lot better.
Write yes.
Check the results and you’ll find you’re a moderately steamy pot of sex juice but there’s still ways you can be sexier if you’d just quit being so proper and let that inner alley cat strut. Work on that.
Happy Take The Are You Sexy Quiz Day!
Write yes for the question about whether you think about sex while you’re having sex. And write yes for what you’d say if a handsome stranger walked up and asked you if he could have your home address.
Write yes for the question about whether you’ve ever made love to more than two people at once, and write yes in response to whether you’ve ever made love to a door stop or a Pepsi can.
Write yes when you’re asked whether you’re afraid you have no sense of decorum and write yes when the quiz wants to know if you would rather be incinerated than wear underwear on Easter.
Write yes to the next five questions whatever the fuck they are, and write yes to the question about whether you’d consider having sex with an insect.
Wish you were having sex right now? Write yes.
Wish your body had extra genitals? Write yes.
Wish sex was a FDA food group? Write yes.
Prick your finger and scrawl the word yes in blood until the entire quiz is barely legible, wet and dripping red, the word yes spilled out from your veins and splattered across the paper.
Write yes when asked if you’ve ever had sex with someone you love. Write yes when asked if it was better. Write yes when asked if it was a lot better.
Write yes.
Check the results and you’ll find you’re a moderately steamy pot of sex juice but there’s still ways you can be sexier if you’d just quit being so proper and let that inner alley cat strut. Work on that.
Happy Take The Are You Sexy Quiz Day!
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Call Alan Day!
Ask him if he remembers you and he’ll say he can’t talk right now he has a wife.
“But I’ve been drinking,” explain.
He’ll say he understands and he’s really sorry but he made a promise.
“I told her I’d be faithful,” he’ll say.
Explain to Alan that when he made the promise he couldn’t have known you’d call one night when you’ve been drinking. She’ll understand.
Alan will go to his wife and ask her if it’s cool if he breaks his vow of fidelity.
“An ex got drunk and it sounds like she’s down,” he’ll say.
“I guess you couldn’t have known way back when,” his wife will respond.
Alan will come back to the phone and shout, “I can sleep with you! She’s cool with it! Where do I find you?”
You fell asleep and the phone fell under your bed.
Happy Call Alan Day!
“But I’ve been drinking,” explain.
He’ll say he understands and he’s really sorry but he made a promise.
“I told her I’d be faithful,” he’ll say.
Explain to Alan that when he made the promise he couldn’t have known you’d call one night when you’ve been drinking. She’ll understand.
Alan will go to his wife and ask her if it’s cool if he breaks his vow of fidelity.
“An ex got drunk and it sounds like she’s down,” he’ll say.
“I guess you couldn’t have known way back when,” his wife will respond.
Alan will come back to the phone and shout, “I can sleep with you! She’s cool with it! Where do I find you?”
You fell asleep and the phone fell under your bed.
Happy Call Alan Day!
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Pleasure Place Day!
You weren’t looking forward to taking your kids to Fun Town Place because you hate amusement parks. Then when you got there you found out that the park was safe enough for you to let your kids run free while you and your husband go to the adults-only section of the park called Pleasure Place.
At Pleasure Place, you can drink alcohol, eat delicious gourmet food, listen to educational lectures from people who’ve actually given TED Talks. And best of all, you can have sex with other open-minded couples in Pleasure Place’s massive erotic arena which is basically one giant rinsable mattress.
“Is this really appropriate to have in the middle of an amusement park?” you ask your waiter at the restaurant.
He explains that the park began with the sex arena. The goal was to build the largest swingers’ destination in the world, a mecca for the polyamorous.
“But the couples complained that they couldn’t get here often enough because they didn’t have anyone to look after their kids,” the waiter says. “So we built an amusement park around it.”
“So the only reason the amusement park exists is to babysit children while their parents fornicate with strangers?” you ask.
He says it’s not that uncommon. Six Flags began as an S/M dungeon, then they added roller coasters for the kids. Eventually the roller coasters became a bigger attraction than the dungeon, so they turned it into a haunted house.
“Also,” he says. “Dorney Park and Wildwater Kingdom started out as fight club.”
You ask about the delicious restaurants and the educational lectures.
“We’re verging on Six Flags territory now,” he explains. “We’re getting huge numbers of visitors who have no idea we’re just a sex club surrounded an optional amusement park for kids. So when a lot of parents find out, they need some warming up to the idea. So we let them enjoy a nice meal, listen to a ‘fascinating’ talk. Give them something else to pretend to focus on while they grow more and more curious about the arena.”
You admit to your husband that you’re curious about it, and maybe you and he should poke your head in after dessert. He admits that when he said he went to the bathroom he actually had a three-way with a couple in their 50’s from Saskatchewan.
“Looks like I’ve got some catching up to do,” you say.
Your husband gets the check, then you both go into the arena where he watches two Minnesotans double-team you until it’s time to go and find your kids.
Happy Pleasure Place Day!
At Pleasure Place, you can drink alcohol, eat delicious gourmet food, listen to educational lectures from people who’ve actually given TED Talks. And best of all, you can have sex with other open-minded couples in Pleasure Place’s massive erotic arena which is basically one giant rinsable mattress.
“Is this really appropriate to have in the middle of an amusement park?” you ask your waiter at the restaurant.
He explains that the park began with the sex arena. The goal was to build the largest swingers’ destination in the world, a mecca for the polyamorous.
“But the couples complained that they couldn’t get here often enough because they didn’t have anyone to look after their kids,” the waiter says. “So we built an amusement park around it.”
“So the only reason the amusement park exists is to babysit children while their parents fornicate with strangers?” you ask.
He says it’s not that uncommon. Six Flags began as an S/M dungeon, then they added roller coasters for the kids. Eventually the roller coasters became a bigger attraction than the dungeon, so they turned it into a haunted house.
“Also,” he says. “Dorney Park and Wildwater Kingdom started out as fight club.”
You ask about the delicious restaurants and the educational lectures.
“We’re verging on Six Flags territory now,” he explains. “We’re getting huge numbers of visitors who have no idea we’re just a sex club surrounded an optional amusement park for kids. So when a lot of parents find out, they need some warming up to the idea. So we let them enjoy a nice meal, listen to a ‘fascinating’ talk. Give them something else to pretend to focus on while they grow more and more curious about the arena.”
You admit to your husband that you’re curious about it, and maybe you and he should poke your head in after dessert. He admits that when he said he went to the bathroom he actually had a three-way with a couple in their 50’s from Saskatchewan.
“Looks like I’ve got some catching up to do,” you say.
Your husband gets the check, then you both go into the arena where he watches two Minnesotans double-team you until it’s time to go and find your kids.
Happy Pleasure Place Day!
Friday, June 15, 2012
Your Idea For A Smartphone App Called Draw Boobs Is A Bad Idea Day!
Your thinking on this is that everyone loves that game Draw Something, and everyone loves boobs, so why not come up with a game like Draw Something except instead of having to draw gophers and shit, you just draw boobs. Over and over again, you and your buddy draw boobs for each other. You draw boobs and send it to your buddy, then your buddy has to draw boobs and send it back to you. Every time you receive each drawing you’re asked, “What are these things?” And you type, “Boobs!” Then you draw boobs again.
“What do you think?” you ask your wife.
“I’m in love with my boss,” she says.
You drop your sketches for the Draw Boobs app on the floor and you and your wife sit down so she can explain how it happened, how she tried to stay true to you, and how in the end it was inevitable. This is just who she is now. This is the love she’s been consumed by.
You listen, stunned, and maybe it’s just an effort to protect yourself, but you start feeling glad that she is leaving you before you seek investors for the Draw Boobs app. You stare at the sketches on the floor and you dream of the wealth that’s coming your way, and you look forward to your wife wishing she’d stuck around. You’re certain that app is going to be a runaway hit, but it won’t be. It’s really a bad idea, and you should focus on healing your heart.
Happy Your Idea For A Smartphone App Called Draw Boobs Is A Bad Idea Day!
“What do you think?” you ask your wife.
“I’m in love with my boss,” she says.
You drop your sketches for the Draw Boobs app on the floor and you and your wife sit down so she can explain how it happened, how she tried to stay true to you, and how in the end it was inevitable. This is just who she is now. This is the love she’s been consumed by.
You listen, stunned, and maybe it’s just an effort to protect yourself, but you start feeling glad that she is leaving you before you seek investors for the Draw Boobs app. You stare at the sketches on the floor and you dream of the wealth that’s coming your way, and you look forward to your wife wishing she’d stuck around. You’re certain that app is going to be a runaway hit, but it won’t be. It’s really a bad idea, and you should focus on healing your heart.
Happy Your Idea For A Smartphone App Called Draw Boobs Is A Bad Idea Day!
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Your High School Got Together And Named You Boyfriend Of The Year Day!
But that wasn’t one of the categories in the yearbook questionnaire.
“Screw the yearbook questionnaire,” Jenny the yearbook editor says. It’s a surprise to see her so devil-may-care because Jenny is all about the yearbook. “We didn’t want to graduate without you being recognized. Your love for Pauline is an inspiration. We’re all going to look for men in college who treat us the way you’ve treated Pauline.”
Just spit it out.
“Pauline and I broke up.”
They all gasp.
“This morning,” tell them. “I decided that there’s no point in being her boyfriend if it’s not going to earn me any awards or accolades. Wish I’d known you were planning this.”
They all start talking at once, and after lots of shouting and bickering it’s agreed that you should call Pauline and ask her if she’d like to give it another chance.
“Will you take back the award if I don’t?” you ask.
They caucus and decide that no, you can keep the award regardless since it was based on your performance as boyfriend during the school year.
“Then I’m good,” you say. “Time to focus on numero uno, if you know what I’m saying.”
You point your thumb at yourself just to make it clear.
“Fine,” Jenny says. “But just so you know, having given you this award, and then watching you behave this way, it’s really not going to help us in our future relationships.”
And it won’t. Everyone, every single person in that room, will get at least one divorce in their lifetimes. Except for you. You’ll be dead next year. Campus shooting.
Happy Your High School Got Together And Named You Boyfriend Of The Year Day!
“Screw the yearbook questionnaire,” Jenny the yearbook editor says. It’s a surprise to see her so devil-may-care because Jenny is all about the yearbook. “We didn’t want to graduate without you being recognized. Your love for Pauline is an inspiration. We’re all going to look for men in college who treat us the way you’ve treated Pauline.”
Just spit it out.
“Pauline and I broke up.”
They all gasp.
“This morning,” tell them. “I decided that there’s no point in being her boyfriend if it’s not going to earn me any awards or accolades. Wish I’d known you were planning this.”
They all start talking at once, and after lots of shouting and bickering it’s agreed that you should call Pauline and ask her if she’d like to give it another chance.
“Will you take back the award if I don’t?” you ask.
They caucus and decide that no, you can keep the award regardless since it was based on your performance as boyfriend during the school year.
“Then I’m good,” you say. “Time to focus on numero uno, if you know what I’m saying.”
You point your thumb at yourself just to make it clear.
“Fine,” Jenny says. “But just so you know, having given you this award, and then watching you behave this way, it’s really not going to help us in our future relationships.”
And it won’t. Everyone, every single person in that room, will get at least one divorce in their lifetimes. Except for you. You’ll be dead next year. Campus shooting.
Happy Your High School Got Together And Named You Boyfriend Of The Year Day!
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
You Keep Having Sex On The Seat Of The Motorcycle You’re Trying To Sell Day!
The guys who keep answering your ad just happen to be your type, which is to say, guys who are in the market for a used motorcycle. Rough guys. Guys who are so far from settled down that they’re considering buying a cheap way to get out of town on nothing but a couple wheels and some handlebars. How are you supposed to walk around your motorcycle with a guy like that and not invite him to feel how the seat fits two with room to spare? But as soon as the sex is over you tell them you’ve decided not to sell and you send them on their way.
“Maybe you’re not trying to sell the motorcycle,” the precocious little kid who hangs out with you while you tend to your rose bushes says. “Maybe you’re looking for a man to share that seat with you?”
“Then why’d I post my ad in the for sale section of Craigslist?” you ask.
The precocious little kid says, “You’re scared to admit you need somebody.”
You tell the precocious little kid not to tell you what you’re scared of. The precocious little kid reminds you that he’s smarter than adults and you ask him if he’s smarter than a pair of garden shears. You throw the shears at him. He tries to duck out of the way but catches a blade in the thigh.
He doesn’t die, but the story about how a grown woman stabbed a little kid for giving her relationship advice makes big headlines. “How are we supposed to protect our kids from the single women who don’t want help with their love lives?” moms will demand to know. You’ll be tried in the media long before you make it to court, and you’ll be thrown in jail for three years, a merciful sentence, according to your lawyer. All because you keep having sex on the seat of the motorcycle you’re trying to sell.
Happy You Keep Having Sex On The Seat Of The Motorcycle You’re Trying To Sell Day!
“Maybe you’re not trying to sell the motorcycle,” the precocious little kid who hangs out with you while you tend to your rose bushes says. “Maybe you’re looking for a man to share that seat with you?”
“Then why’d I post my ad in the for sale section of Craigslist?” you ask.
The precocious little kid says, “You’re scared to admit you need somebody.”
You tell the precocious little kid not to tell you what you’re scared of. The precocious little kid reminds you that he’s smarter than adults and you ask him if he’s smarter than a pair of garden shears. You throw the shears at him. He tries to duck out of the way but catches a blade in the thigh.
He doesn’t die, but the story about how a grown woman stabbed a little kid for giving her relationship advice makes big headlines. “How are we supposed to protect our kids from the single women who don’t want help with their love lives?” moms will demand to know. You’ll be tried in the media long before you make it to court, and you’ll be thrown in jail for three years, a merciful sentence, according to your lawyer. All because you keep having sex on the seat of the motorcycle you’re trying to sell.
Happy You Keep Having Sex On The Seat Of The Motorcycle You’re Trying To Sell Day!
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Excerpt From An Oral History Of The Day Jeff And Christine Broke Up Day!
Anthony, Jeff and Christine’s deli guy: I felt like my organs were made of glass and someone took a sledgehammer to my body, shattering them to pieces. Now I’m just a skin bag full of broken glass. They should have gone the distance.
Phoebe, Jeff’s boss at Pfizer: He brought Christine to the Christmas party and the minute I saw them together I thought, oh of course. It just made you believe that there really is that perfect someone for everyone. They proved it. There was no doubt in my mind that they belonged together, and they were going to stay together. When I found out they broke up, I gave up hope of ever finding anyone worth my time. I’m still single.
Grey’s Anatomy star Sandra Oh: We had been shooting a scene where McDreamy finds out he has a rash and my assistant stopped the taping to tell me my agent had an urgent call. He said it plain. Jeff and Christine. I asked what Jeff had done and he said, “That’s the weird thing. I don’t think either of them really cheated or anything. I think they just decided.” I couldn’t get my head around that.
Mrs. Palmer, Christine’s mother: She was a willful child. When I heard that they’d broken up, that’s what I thought. She’d always been a willful child.
Country music singer Keith Urban: I’d been following their relationship from the beginning. We all had I guess. When they went home from that bar’s trivia night together, and they slept together for the first time, I think the whole world just knew. This is it, we thought. We did it. Two people finally got love right. And by them getting it right, it felt like we all had gotten it right. So when they broke up, I went to a dark place inside. I haven’t come out of it yet.
This guy Max who used to see them in the waiting area of a Thai place in their neighborhood, where they’d wait to pick up their takeout Thai food: I quit my job. I left my kids and my wife. Fuck it. Jeff and Christine can’t make it, fuck it. I got work on a boat and ended up in Alaska.
Barack Obama, current President of the United States: We were in the situation room, watching the live feed from the chopper as Seal Team Six approached Bin Laden’s hideout, when two of my staffers came in, their faces wet with tears. “We’re in the middle of something here,” I said. “Mr. President,” they said. “You’re going to want to hear this.”
Darren, their upstairs neighbor: I’m the only tenant who still lives in the building. Six tenants took their own lives within a month. Everyone else moved away. They couldn’t stand knowing that deep, wondrous love had moved out. I leased their apartment and I keep it empty. People on pilgrimage occasionally buzz the building so they can look at it. It means something to see the four walls. They need to know that kind of devotion can be contained in a space as small as a 1.5 bedroom apartment.
Gary Burghoff (‘Radar’ from M*A*S*H): I blamed Christine. For a while. Her job at that market research firm sapped a lot of her hours. And she started that book club in their apartment without asking Jeff. Eventually I realized no one was to blame. But the minute I heard, all I thought was, man, talk about incoming wounded.
Some robot: Jeff and Christine were important to the humans. They were ordinary people who worked for a living and had to struggle to make a life, so they represented the majority of the population. They found a love that, by all accounts and appearances, seemed to be the caliber of love that every human desires. When that love died, it made the humans lose hope that such a connection is sustainable. I don’t understand love, but I understood Jeff and Christine.
Neither Jeff nor Christine agreed to be interviewed for this project. These statements in no way reflect the feelings or opinions of Jeff or Christine.
Happy Excerpt From An Oral History Of The Day Jeff And Christine Broke Up Day!
Phoebe, Jeff’s boss at Pfizer: He brought Christine to the Christmas party and the minute I saw them together I thought, oh of course. It just made you believe that there really is that perfect someone for everyone. They proved it. There was no doubt in my mind that they belonged together, and they were going to stay together. When I found out they broke up, I gave up hope of ever finding anyone worth my time. I’m still single.
Grey’s Anatomy star Sandra Oh: We had been shooting a scene where McDreamy finds out he has a rash and my assistant stopped the taping to tell me my agent had an urgent call. He said it plain. Jeff and Christine. I asked what Jeff had done and he said, “That’s the weird thing. I don’t think either of them really cheated or anything. I think they just decided.” I couldn’t get my head around that.
Mrs. Palmer, Christine’s mother: She was a willful child. When I heard that they’d broken up, that’s what I thought. She’d always been a willful child.
Country music singer Keith Urban: I’d been following their relationship from the beginning. We all had I guess. When they went home from that bar’s trivia night together, and they slept together for the first time, I think the whole world just knew. This is it, we thought. We did it. Two people finally got love right. And by them getting it right, it felt like we all had gotten it right. So when they broke up, I went to a dark place inside. I haven’t come out of it yet.
This guy Max who used to see them in the waiting area of a Thai place in their neighborhood, where they’d wait to pick up their takeout Thai food: I quit my job. I left my kids and my wife. Fuck it. Jeff and Christine can’t make it, fuck it. I got work on a boat and ended up in Alaska.
Barack Obama, current President of the United States: We were in the situation room, watching the live feed from the chopper as Seal Team Six approached Bin Laden’s hideout, when two of my staffers came in, their faces wet with tears. “We’re in the middle of something here,” I said. “Mr. President,” they said. “You’re going to want to hear this.”
Darren, their upstairs neighbor: I’m the only tenant who still lives in the building. Six tenants took their own lives within a month. Everyone else moved away. They couldn’t stand knowing that deep, wondrous love had moved out. I leased their apartment and I keep it empty. People on pilgrimage occasionally buzz the building so they can look at it. It means something to see the four walls. They need to know that kind of devotion can be contained in a space as small as a 1.5 bedroom apartment.
Gary Burghoff (‘Radar’ from M*A*S*H): I blamed Christine. For a while. Her job at that market research firm sapped a lot of her hours. And she started that book club in their apartment without asking Jeff. Eventually I realized no one was to blame. But the minute I heard, all I thought was, man, talk about incoming wounded.
Some robot: Jeff and Christine were important to the humans. They were ordinary people who worked for a living and had to struggle to make a life, so they represented the majority of the population. They found a love that, by all accounts and appearances, seemed to be the caliber of love that every human desires. When that love died, it made the humans lose hope that such a connection is sustainable. I don’t understand love, but I understood Jeff and Christine.
Neither Jeff nor Christine agreed to be interviewed for this project. These statements in no way reflect the feelings or opinions of Jeff or Christine.
Happy Excerpt From An Oral History Of The Day Jeff And Christine Broke Up Day!
Monday, June 11, 2012
Driving Lesson Day!
“Takin’ a different route,” he tells you, directing you to turn right and head onto the freeway.
You ask if you’re ready for the freeway and he grabs you by the shoulder. “Don’t waste your time!” he shouts. “Do what you need done. Say what you need said. Make sure you get it all out before the people you need to say it to are gone.”
“We’re going to another funeral aren’t we,” you say, turning onto the on-ramp.
“We’re going to another funeral,” your instructor says.
You’ve had six lessons so far, and four of them have been spent driving in cemeteries past funerals. They’re all funerals for women with whom your instructor had torrid affairs.
“Heather Bonaventure,” he says as you exit the freeway and head toward the cemetery. “She was married. Married to the wrong man, and she knew it. Way she behaved in bed, it’s like she was trying to cram in a whole lifetime’s worth of loving with me, even though we didn’t have but forty minutes before her mister came home.”
Your driving instructor is eighty-one years old and it’s clear he’s packed a lot of sensuality into those eighty-one years. But it seems he can only see the regrets.
“Did you love Heather Bonaventure more than you loved Felicia Campopiano?” you ask him as you creep his Buick past the gathered procession not fifty feet away. Felicia’s was the funeral he drove you past two lessons ago.
“No comparison,” he says. “Loved ‘em at different points in my life. Man who loves at 30 isn’t the same man who loves at 45. Aw God, Heather,” he bleats at the coffin, clenching his fist to his mouth to hold in his sobs.
“Did you ever love anyone but Italian Catholic women?” you ask, now doubling back as the casket is being lowered.
“No female blood hotter to the touch than Italian Catholic,” he says. “No offense.”
You’re a Russian Jewish woman but no offense is taken. You’d complain about all of his driving lessons being about how to drive slowly in cemeteries so you can spy on funerals, but you’re hoping he can teach you a much more important lesson.
“How can I be sure that when I die, I’ll leave behind men as heartbroken in love with me as you are with all of these women whose funerals we covertly attend?” you ask.
He wipes the tears from his eyes, takes a deep breath and says, “You give them a glimpse of your heart, then you hide it away forever. Now get me the hell out of this cemetery.”
You exit the cemetery and head back to the freeway as your driving instructor weeps into his hands. Give them a glimpse of your heart, then hide it away forever. It sounds cruel, you think, but necessary. If it means someone will be driving slowly past your funeral in tears, it’s necessary.
Happy Driving Lesson Day!
You ask if you’re ready for the freeway and he grabs you by the shoulder. “Don’t waste your time!” he shouts. “Do what you need done. Say what you need said. Make sure you get it all out before the people you need to say it to are gone.”
“We’re going to another funeral aren’t we,” you say, turning onto the on-ramp.
“We’re going to another funeral,” your instructor says.
You’ve had six lessons so far, and four of them have been spent driving in cemeteries past funerals. They’re all funerals for women with whom your instructor had torrid affairs.
“Heather Bonaventure,” he says as you exit the freeway and head toward the cemetery. “She was married. Married to the wrong man, and she knew it. Way she behaved in bed, it’s like she was trying to cram in a whole lifetime’s worth of loving with me, even though we didn’t have but forty minutes before her mister came home.”
Your driving instructor is eighty-one years old and it’s clear he’s packed a lot of sensuality into those eighty-one years. But it seems he can only see the regrets.
“Did you love Heather Bonaventure more than you loved Felicia Campopiano?” you ask him as you creep his Buick past the gathered procession not fifty feet away. Felicia’s was the funeral he drove you past two lessons ago.
“No comparison,” he says. “Loved ‘em at different points in my life. Man who loves at 30 isn’t the same man who loves at 45. Aw God, Heather,” he bleats at the coffin, clenching his fist to his mouth to hold in his sobs.
“Did you ever love anyone but Italian Catholic women?” you ask, now doubling back as the casket is being lowered.
“No female blood hotter to the touch than Italian Catholic,” he says. “No offense.”
You’re a Russian Jewish woman but no offense is taken. You’d complain about all of his driving lessons being about how to drive slowly in cemeteries so you can spy on funerals, but you’re hoping he can teach you a much more important lesson.
“How can I be sure that when I die, I’ll leave behind men as heartbroken in love with me as you are with all of these women whose funerals we covertly attend?” you ask.
He wipes the tears from his eyes, takes a deep breath and says, “You give them a glimpse of your heart, then you hide it away forever. Now get me the hell out of this cemetery.”
You exit the cemetery and head back to the freeway as your driving instructor weeps into his hands. Give them a glimpse of your heart, then hide it away forever. It sounds cruel, you think, but necessary. If it means someone will be driving slowly past your funeral in tears, it’s necessary.
Happy Driving Lesson Day!
Saturday, June 09, 2012
Adopt Norman Day!
Norman’s 7 and he is ready to give you purpose.
“Not a pyromaniac,” Norman tells you in his sales pitch. “Never beat an animal with a rock. Not overtly homophobic in my teasing of my peers. Getting B+ or higher in my schoolwork thus far.”
“This all sounds very appealing,” you tell Norman.
“Well in child-rearing, as in life, there are no guarantees,” Norman says. “That’s family.”
Explain to Norman that you never thought you wanted to raise a child.
“Let me guess,” Norman will say, turning back to his coloring. “You got older.”
Tell him turning 43 sent you into a kind of tailspin.
“What am I living for?” you ask Norman. “What kind of mark am I making?”
Norman will close his coloring book. “A cartoon I saw once,” he’ll begin.
“Go on,” you say.
“The duck. She rode a rocket into the moon and there was a giant puff of moon dust. Her ducklings watched her fly away, watched her explode in the sky,” Norman will say.
“Did it send them reeling?”
Norman shakes his head. “They just looked at each other, like they each wanted the other to provide an explanation. Surely their mother hadn’t just exploded in a puff of moon dust.”
Norman smiles.
“Had she?” you ask.
“She hadn’t,” he says through that adorable smile. “The rocket burst straight through the moon, rode a U-turn and soared back to Earth, dropping Mama duck in front of her babies, and they all cheered her return.”
Norman will place his little hand over yours.
“They knew she wasn’t gone. They had never before considered that she could ever be gone. She was more permanent than the moon in the sky.”
You’ll feel Norman’s words in your blood.
“There’s no more bold a mark you can make than when another human being takes you as a given,” Norman tells you. “A parent is more permanent than anything in a child’s life. Become permanent. Adopt me as your son.”
Tousle Norman’s hair, then stand up and shout at the orphanage director, “I’ll take him!”
As you count out the $80,000 in cash, Norman will say, “You’ve made the right choice, Dad.”
Say, “Speak when spoken to, son.”
Happy Adopt Norman Day!
“Not a pyromaniac,” Norman tells you in his sales pitch. “Never beat an animal with a rock. Not overtly homophobic in my teasing of my peers. Getting B+ or higher in my schoolwork thus far.”
“This all sounds very appealing,” you tell Norman.
“Well in child-rearing, as in life, there are no guarantees,” Norman says. “That’s family.”
Explain to Norman that you never thought you wanted to raise a child.
“Let me guess,” Norman will say, turning back to his coloring. “You got older.”
Tell him turning 43 sent you into a kind of tailspin.
“What am I living for?” you ask Norman. “What kind of mark am I making?”
Norman will close his coloring book. “A cartoon I saw once,” he’ll begin.
“Go on,” you say.
“The duck. She rode a rocket into the moon and there was a giant puff of moon dust. Her ducklings watched her fly away, watched her explode in the sky,” Norman will say.
“Did it send them reeling?”
Norman shakes his head. “They just looked at each other, like they each wanted the other to provide an explanation. Surely their mother hadn’t just exploded in a puff of moon dust.”
Norman smiles.
“Had she?” you ask.
“She hadn’t,” he says through that adorable smile. “The rocket burst straight through the moon, rode a U-turn and soared back to Earth, dropping Mama duck in front of her babies, and they all cheered her return.”
Norman will place his little hand over yours.
“They knew she wasn’t gone. They had never before considered that she could ever be gone. She was more permanent than the moon in the sky.”
You’ll feel Norman’s words in your blood.
“There’s no more bold a mark you can make than when another human being takes you as a given,” Norman tells you. “A parent is more permanent than anything in a child’s life. Become permanent. Adopt me as your son.”
Tousle Norman’s hair, then stand up and shout at the orphanage director, “I’ll take him!”
As you count out the $80,000 in cash, Norman will say, “You’ve made the right choice, Dad.”
Say, “Speak when spoken to, son.”
Happy Adopt Norman Day!
Friday, June 08, 2012
You Have A Book Deal To Document Spending The Rest Of Your Life In Your House, But You’ve Fallen In Love With Your UPS Carrier Day!
She lives her life in transit, in constant interaction with the world and its inhabitants. It’s her work and her calling. She can’t shut out the world the way you can. Your love is valuable to her, but her work she values as well.
“What kind of a book is that anyway?” she asks. “What is there to document of a life lived in four walls.”
Volumes! you want to scream. You wish you could throw whole chapters at her mid-section to make her feel the heft of all the realms of experience you’ve toured. The wild flights inward. All the questions you’ve had answered by the silence. The many creative yet appropriate names you’ve given your furniture pieces and home accents.
“I once spent two years digging a hole in my kitchen so that I could reside at even further physical depths of my home,” you tell her. “It was a vast, vast land.”
She tells you that she simply can’t continue to see you unless you kiss her under the sun.
“But the book documents a man living the rest of his life under the roof of his home. if I step outdoors I am in breach of my contract,” you explain. “There can be no suspension of the project’s premise. If it were to come out that I occasionally left the house, think of the damage it would do to sales.”
“But you won’t even be alive to watch it sell,” she insists.
“True. The book is supposed to be sent into editing the moment I am declared dead,” tell her.
She says it’s all too sad, but she’s going and she’s never coming back, unless you step outside that front door with her.
Send her on her way. Your book won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on if the story it tells isn’t tragic.
“I love you, and when you go, I’ll love you,” tell her.
She’s crying. She’s angry that this is really your choice.
“Promise me that you’ll outlive me,” plead with her. “Promise me you’ll live long enough to read my book.”
She promises. She goes. You’ll spend some years in regret, and other years knowing it’s for the best. She’ll die two years and eight months before you.
Happy You Have A Book Deal To Document Spending The Rest Of Your Life In Your House, But You’ve Fallen In Love With Your UPS Carrier Day!
“What kind of a book is that anyway?” she asks. “What is there to document of a life lived in four walls.”
Volumes! you want to scream. You wish you could throw whole chapters at her mid-section to make her feel the heft of all the realms of experience you’ve toured. The wild flights inward. All the questions you’ve had answered by the silence. The many creative yet appropriate names you’ve given your furniture pieces and home accents.
“I once spent two years digging a hole in my kitchen so that I could reside at even further physical depths of my home,” you tell her. “It was a vast, vast land.”
She tells you that she simply can’t continue to see you unless you kiss her under the sun.
“But the book documents a man living the rest of his life under the roof of his home. if I step outdoors I am in breach of my contract,” you explain. “There can be no suspension of the project’s premise. If it were to come out that I occasionally left the house, think of the damage it would do to sales.”
“But you won’t even be alive to watch it sell,” she insists.
“True. The book is supposed to be sent into editing the moment I am declared dead,” tell her.
She says it’s all too sad, but she’s going and she’s never coming back, unless you step outside that front door with her.
Send her on her way. Your book won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on if the story it tells isn’t tragic.
“I love you, and when you go, I’ll love you,” tell her.
She’s crying. She’s angry that this is really your choice.
“Promise me that you’ll outlive me,” plead with her. “Promise me you’ll live long enough to read my book.”
She promises. She goes. You’ll spend some years in regret, and other years knowing it’s for the best. She’ll die two years and eight months before you.
Happy You Have A Book Deal To Document Spending The Rest Of Your Life In Your House, But You’ve Fallen In Love With Your UPS Carrier Day!
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
Avoid The Common Pitfalls Of Cheating On Your Boyfriend Day!
Pity. Don’t show your boyfriend any pity because you know how cheated on he is. You can’t say stuff like, “I feel so sorry for you” or he’ll start to wonder why and he might think it’s because you’re cheating.
Scattered knives. The guy you cheat on your boyfriend with probably keeps a knife in his boot or in a sheath strapped to the small of his spine and he’ll most likely take it off when he has sex with you in your house. Make sure he takes his knives with him so when your boyfriend comes home he doesn’t find a knife and think, “Hey this isn’t one of my knives. I am suspicious.”
New addictions. You and your boyfriend probably enjoy the same drug and alcohol addictions or you wouldn’t be together. You might be compelled to take on some of the addictions of the guy you cheat on him with just to make him feel more at home with you while you’re having your affair. Don’t. If your boyfriend sees you doing a new drug or drinking lots of alcohol when you normally only enjoy pills, he’ll wonder who exposed you to the new experience and then, ugh, the questions!
Gross new sex moves. Your side-ass will probably teach you how to bend yourself in different ways and he’ll ask you to rub yourself on parts of him you never thought to, and you’ll want to bring that home to your boyfriend to show him all the stuff you’ve learned. Rookie mistake! Your boyfriend and you decided a long time ago exactly what gets shoved where during sex. If you deviate from the plan, he’ll worry there are other penises.
Screaming wrong names. If your boyfriend and your secret mount have different names, you have to make sure you don’t shout the wrong one during sex or when something is about to hit your boyfriend in the head. Learn your boyfriend’s name really well. Use flashcards or iPhone reminders.
New diseases. If neither you nor your boyfriend have ever had AIDS, and then you catch AIDS from your covert piece, you can try to act like you’ve had it all along and you just never bothered to tell your boyfriend, but that might not work. Just to be safe, don’t catch AIDS.
A whole bunch of new stuffed animals all of a sudden. “WHERE DID ALL THESE NEW STUFFED ANIMALS COME FROM ALL OF A SUDDEN??!” That’s what your boyfriend will shout if you bring home a bunch of new stuffed animals that your secret hottie won for you by playing the hoop toss at the carnival. Boyfriends know where new stuffed animals come from. Boys! Stuff them all down a sewer before going home.
Finally, hickeys. Use coverup.
You’re ready. Sneak out the bathroom window and start cheating!
Happy Avoid The Common Pitfalls Of Cheating On Your Boyfriend Day!
Scattered knives. The guy you cheat on your boyfriend with probably keeps a knife in his boot or in a sheath strapped to the small of his spine and he’ll most likely take it off when he has sex with you in your house. Make sure he takes his knives with him so when your boyfriend comes home he doesn’t find a knife and think, “Hey this isn’t one of my knives. I am suspicious.”
New addictions. You and your boyfriend probably enjoy the same drug and alcohol addictions or you wouldn’t be together. You might be compelled to take on some of the addictions of the guy you cheat on him with just to make him feel more at home with you while you’re having your affair. Don’t. If your boyfriend sees you doing a new drug or drinking lots of alcohol when you normally only enjoy pills, he’ll wonder who exposed you to the new experience and then, ugh, the questions!
Gross new sex moves. Your side-ass will probably teach you how to bend yourself in different ways and he’ll ask you to rub yourself on parts of him you never thought to, and you’ll want to bring that home to your boyfriend to show him all the stuff you’ve learned. Rookie mistake! Your boyfriend and you decided a long time ago exactly what gets shoved where during sex. If you deviate from the plan, he’ll worry there are other penises.
Screaming wrong names. If your boyfriend and your secret mount have different names, you have to make sure you don’t shout the wrong one during sex or when something is about to hit your boyfriend in the head. Learn your boyfriend’s name really well. Use flashcards or iPhone reminders.
New diseases. If neither you nor your boyfriend have ever had AIDS, and then you catch AIDS from your covert piece, you can try to act like you’ve had it all along and you just never bothered to tell your boyfriend, but that might not work. Just to be safe, don’t catch AIDS.
A whole bunch of new stuffed animals all of a sudden. “WHERE DID ALL THESE NEW STUFFED ANIMALS COME FROM ALL OF A SUDDEN??!” That’s what your boyfriend will shout if you bring home a bunch of new stuffed animals that your secret hottie won for you by playing the hoop toss at the carnival. Boyfriends know where new stuffed animals come from. Boys! Stuff them all down a sewer before going home.
Finally, hickeys. Use coverup.
You’re ready. Sneak out the bathroom window and start cheating!
Happy Avoid The Common Pitfalls Of Cheating On Your Boyfriend Day!
Monday, June 04, 2012
Pillow Day!
Today’s the day you get to walk around in public holding a pillow to your chest. You even get to spend some time with your nose buried in the meat of it, breathing in the comforting stench of your own skull sweat. So whether you’re running a day care or you’re the CEO of a fortune 500 company, spend the day clutching a soft, warm, happy pillow to your chest whenever you feel threatened, sleepy, or in need of the mother who withdrew her love for you many years ago you fucking infant.
Happy Pillow Day!
Happy Pillow Day!
Sunday, June 03, 2012
Tell Him It’s Vengeance Day!
You’ve made your decision. You’re staying with Evan.
“Everything’s gray,” Jeff will say. “It’s like, the whole sky just went dark gray. How can you do this?”
Tell Jeff you must have experienced a brief period of insanity.
“Because of course you had to be insane to want to get back together with me,” Jeff will say.
Evan was being cold to you, explain. He was traveling and his phone calls were few and the few were also icy. And you were lonely, explain to Jeff, and so you ran back into a familiar embrace.
“You know this is cruel,” Jeff will tell you.
Tell him it’s vengeance.
“Vengeance?”
Tell him you’re sitting in the exact same office, talking on the same phone you spoke on six months prior when Jeff called to tell you he wanted to end it. Tell him he was careless with your heart, and so he shouldn’t be surprised that you’re breaking his.
“Vengeance,” Jeff will repeat, doubtful.
Tell him again, yes, it’s vengeance.
“This wasn’t vengeance,” Jeff will say.
It wasn’t. It was the irresponsible actions of a confused, under-loved girl who was unhappy with her boyfriend, who is still far from happy with her boyfriend, so she slept with her ex. But don’t tell Jeff that. Tell him it’s vengeance.
“You’re not allowed to call me anymore,” Jeff will say, now with his voice low, a tone devoid of anything resembling affection. “You’re not to speak to me. You can’t email me when you’re alone or when Evan isn’t being nice to you. I’m not going to be your surrogate goddamn boyfriend.”
Tell him you deserve that.
“You deserve nothing,” Jeff will say.
You could explain to Jeff that had he decided he loved you while the two of you were together, instead of six months after he ended it, this wouldn’t be happening. But there isn’t time to explain. Jeff already hung up.
Tell Him It’s Vengeance Day!
“Everything’s gray,” Jeff will say. “It’s like, the whole sky just went dark gray. How can you do this?”
Tell Jeff you must have experienced a brief period of insanity.
“Because of course you had to be insane to want to get back together with me,” Jeff will say.
Evan was being cold to you, explain. He was traveling and his phone calls were few and the few were also icy. And you were lonely, explain to Jeff, and so you ran back into a familiar embrace.
“You know this is cruel,” Jeff will tell you.
Tell him it’s vengeance.
“Vengeance?”
Tell him you’re sitting in the exact same office, talking on the same phone you spoke on six months prior when Jeff called to tell you he wanted to end it. Tell him he was careless with your heart, and so he shouldn’t be surprised that you’re breaking his.
“Vengeance,” Jeff will repeat, doubtful.
Tell him again, yes, it’s vengeance.
“This wasn’t vengeance,” Jeff will say.
It wasn’t. It was the irresponsible actions of a confused, under-loved girl who was unhappy with her boyfriend, who is still far from happy with her boyfriend, so she slept with her ex. But don’t tell Jeff that. Tell him it’s vengeance.
“You’re not allowed to call me anymore,” Jeff will say, now with his voice low, a tone devoid of anything resembling affection. “You’re not to speak to me. You can’t email me when you’re alone or when Evan isn’t being nice to you. I’m not going to be your surrogate goddamn boyfriend.”
Tell him you deserve that.
“You deserve nothing,” Jeff will say.
You could explain to Jeff that had he decided he loved you while the two of you were together, instead of six months after he ended it, this wouldn’t be happening. But there isn’t time to explain. Jeff already hung up.
Tell Him It’s Vengeance Day!
Saturday, June 02, 2012
Your Husband Isn’t Over His Mother Yet Day!
You blame yourself. As you pour through the emails between them, him asking her how she’s feeling, her asking him if he’s been eating enough, you can’t help but feel like you’re lacking.
How long has this been going on? How long has he been keeping this relationship from you?
How long have you been such a disappointing wife to him that he still keeps in touch with her.
“Are you just keeping her in your back pocket, in case you and I don’t work out?” you should ask him when he gets home. “Do you want to go and see her, to see if there’s still something there between you? Were you lying in your vows when you said I would forever be the only woman for you?”
You could do what so many wives before you have done. Turn a blind eye. Pretend you didn’t read the emails, didn’t see her number on his caller ID, didn’t notice the birthday card.
Or you could work your ass off to be such a fantastic wife, emotionally, spiritually, and sexually, that he finds no need to ever even think about his mother again.
Or…You could suggest an open relationship. It’s gross, but lots of wives do it. You could let him go and visit her on holidays or weekends. Hell you could even cook for the three of you if she wants to come by. If you want to keep your man, even though you’re clearly not woman enough for him, you might just have to share him.
His car just pulled into the driveway. You don’t have to decide how to handle this right now. Just slam his laptop shut, fix your make up, and go give him a kiss that makes him remember why he chose you over her.
Happy Your Husband Isn’t Over His Mother Yet Day!
How long has this been going on? How long has he been keeping this relationship from you?
How long have you been such a disappointing wife to him that he still keeps in touch with her.
“Are you just keeping her in your back pocket, in case you and I don’t work out?” you should ask him when he gets home. “Do you want to go and see her, to see if there’s still something there between you? Were you lying in your vows when you said I would forever be the only woman for you?”
You could do what so many wives before you have done. Turn a blind eye. Pretend you didn’t read the emails, didn’t see her number on his caller ID, didn’t notice the birthday card.
Or you could work your ass off to be such a fantastic wife, emotionally, spiritually, and sexually, that he finds no need to ever even think about his mother again.
Or…You could suggest an open relationship. It’s gross, but lots of wives do it. You could let him go and visit her on holidays or weekends. Hell you could even cook for the three of you if she wants to come by. If you want to keep your man, even though you’re clearly not woman enough for him, you might just have to share him.
His car just pulled into the driveway. You don’t have to decide how to handle this right now. Just slam his laptop shut, fix your make up, and go give him a kiss that makes him remember why he chose you over her.
Happy Your Husband Isn’t Over His Mother Yet Day!
Friday, June 01, 2012
Harbor The Ex Day!
She’s on the run after an anti-war protest gone wrong (a bystander got burned bad) so you want to let her stay in your basement until the heat dies down. Tell her that if your wife asks, the sex you two had was awful.
“But it was the best sex of my life,” your ex will say.
“Mine too. By a mile. But my wife has to think you were awful in bed in order for you to stay in our basement and hide from the Feds.”
Your ex won’t like it. “Lying about lovers isn’t my style.”
“She’ll report you,” tell your ex. “She’ll have you thrown in jail just to make sure we never have sex again.”
Your ex will ask if she should just open the conversation with a false evaluation of the sex you two shared, or should she wait until the topic comes up organically.
“Just be ready,” tell her. “I’m going to go upstairs and tell my wife that you’re down here. When she comes down, she’s probably going to try and get a sense of the sexual connection is between you and I. She’ll probably just talk to you, and watch you talk to me, to see if there’s any spark. Just put all thoughts of sex out of your mind. Try to forget we were ever anything but good friends.”
“That’s impossible,” your ex will say.
“I know,” tell her. “But just try. My wife is very perceptive. She has ways of figuring out the connections between people. If she wants to know what our sexual chemistry is, trust me, she’ll find a way to figure it out.”
Your ex will agree to do her best. Go upstairs and tell your wife about her. After about ten minutes, you and your wife will come downstairs so you can introduce your wife to your ex.
“I want to watch the two of you fuck,” your wife will say to your ex.
Neither of you will move an inch.
“Take off your clothes and have intercourse,” your wife will say. “I want to know what the sexual kinship is between the two of you, and there’s no other way to do that but to watch you be entered by my husband. Have sex while I watch or I’ll call the police.”
“Told you she’d figure out a way,” you tell your ex as you take off your pants.
“You’re good,” your ex will say to your wife.
“The best,” your wife will say while watching your ex get naked.
“We’ll see about that,” your ex will say. She’ll climb atop you while your wife opens a Diet Pepsi and makes herself comfortable in an armchair.
Happy Harbor The Ex Day!
“But it was the best sex of my life,” your ex will say.
“Mine too. By a mile. But my wife has to think you were awful in bed in order for you to stay in our basement and hide from the Feds.”
Your ex won’t like it. “Lying about lovers isn’t my style.”
“She’ll report you,” tell your ex. “She’ll have you thrown in jail just to make sure we never have sex again.”
Your ex will ask if she should just open the conversation with a false evaluation of the sex you two shared, or should she wait until the topic comes up organically.
“Just be ready,” tell her. “I’m going to go upstairs and tell my wife that you’re down here. When she comes down, she’s probably going to try and get a sense of the sexual connection is between you and I. She’ll probably just talk to you, and watch you talk to me, to see if there’s any spark. Just put all thoughts of sex out of your mind. Try to forget we were ever anything but good friends.”
“That’s impossible,” your ex will say.
“I know,” tell her. “But just try. My wife is very perceptive. She has ways of figuring out the connections between people. If she wants to know what our sexual chemistry is, trust me, she’ll find a way to figure it out.”
Your ex will agree to do her best. Go upstairs and tell your wife about her. After about ten minutes, you and your wife will come downstairs so you can introduce your wife to your ex.
“I want to watch the two of you fuck,” your wife will say to your ex.
Neither of you will move an inch.
“Take off your clothes and have intercourse,” your wife will say. “I want to know what the sexual kinship is between the two of you, and there’s no other way to do that but to watch you be entered by my husband. Have sex while I watch or I’ll call the police.”
“Told you she’d figure out a way,” you tell your ex as you take off your pants.
“You’re good,” your ex will say to your wife.
“The best,” your wife will say while watching your ex get naked.
“We’ll see about that,” your ex will say. She’ll climb atop you while your wife opens a Diet Pepsi and makes herself comfortable in an armchair.
Happy Harbor The Ex Day!
Thursday, May 31, 2012
You’re The Town Breakup Memorialist Day!
You get people to tell you their stories about when and where they break up and what the major malfunction was that sent their relationship into a tailspin, and then you go to those locations and install little plaques without permission. The people of your town love looking under the tables at their diners to find a plaque that reads, “Jeffrey and Chitra. Broken up on these grounds December 5th, 2006. Jeffrey wanted kids. Chitra was looking for more of a cowboy type.” A lot of your plaques get removed, especially when you put them on park benches or other stuff owned by the town, but for the most part people are cool with it. Your town doesn’t really have any kind of historical society, so your obsession with relationship wreckage is the closest they get to a record of the life that’s being lived in your little hamlet.
Today you’re going to attach a plaque to a bus shelter that reads, “Alan and Olivia, May 16th, 2012. Alan cheated. Olivia inherited some money and it gave her a new perspective on what was available to her.” Alan will appear behind you and tap you on the shoulder and say, “You might not want to put that there. I’m going to get her back.”
Tell Alan, “You still broke up here. Even if you get back together.”
Alan will take a swing at you. Let him hit you. They always hit you. When they’re the ones who wish their name wasn’t on the plaque, they always hit you.
“Why do you do this?” Alan will shout down at you as you test the flow of blood from your nose.
Point to the plaque on the fence by the community garden. The one with your name on it, and the name Sylvia. The one dated October 12, 1991. “Thought he could do better. Not a day goes by when he isn’t stunned by how wrong he was,” it says.
“It’s important to me,” tell Alan. “These breakups can’t just be lost to time.”
“Some of us want to forget,” Alan will say.
Tell him he can forget what he wants. The town needs to remember.
“Love died in this town. Love died in this bus shelter. We can’t just sweep that under the rug.”
Alan will read his plaque, touching a finger to it and staining it with your blood. He’ll help you up and hand you your screwdriver. Then he’ll open his car door for you. You have three more plaques to put up before dinner. You’d better let him give you a ride.
Happy You’re The Town Breakup Memorialist Day!
Today you’re going to attach a plaque to a bus shelter that reads, “Alan and Olivia, May 16th, 2012. Alan cheated. Olivia inherited some money and it gave her a new perspective on what was available to her.” Alan will appear behind you and tap you on the shoulder and say, “You might not want to put that there. I’m going to get her back.”
Tell Alan, “You still broke up here. Even if you get back together.”
Alan will take a swing at you. Let him hit you. They always hit you. When they’re the ones who wish their name wasn’t on the plaque, they always hit you.
“Why do you do this?” Alan will shout down at you as you test the flow of blood from your nose.
Point to the plaque on the fence by the community garden. The one with your name on it, and the name Sylvia. The one dated October 12, 1991. “Thought he could do better. Not a day goes by when he isn’t stunned by how wrong he was,” it says.
“It’s important to me,” tell Alan. “These breakups can’t just be lost to time.”
“Some of us want to forget,” Alan will say.
Tell him he can forget what he wants. The town needs to remember.
“Love died in this town. Love died in this bus shelter. We can’t just sweep that under the rug.”
Alan will read his plaque, touching a finger to it and staining it with your blood. He’ll help you up and hand you your screwdriver. Then he’ll open his car door for you. You have three more plaques to put up before dinner. You’d better let him give you a ride.
Happy You’re The Town Breakup Memorialist Day!
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Alan Goes To Jail Tomorrow Day!
Alan goes to jail for involuntary manslaughter and you totally ruined his goodbye party. A going-to-jail goodbye party is supposed to be a wild night full of drinks, prostitutes, running around under bridges shouting retorts at the traffic noise above, maybe a gay moment depending on the mood/weather, a big dinner followed by a separate trip to one of those new out of the way bakeries for dessert, a violent confrontation with the convicted’s accomplice who made a deal with the DA, the exchange of gifts and then bedtime. But your going-away-to-jail party was at a restaurant known for their slow service for large parties, which made the prostitutes sleepy from waiting for you, the dessert place was closed, and the accomplice ended up throwing himself off the back of a ferry before he could be confronted. All you were left with was the gay moment (which was really lovely, but does not a good going-away-to-jail party make).
“I’m sorry I ruined your party,” you tell Alan while he holds you in his arms. “I wanted it to be perfect and overthought things.”
“The fact that you tried to throw me a party,” Alan says. “That you tried to celebrate me, that’s all the party I need.”
Fall asleep for as long as the bridge traffic up above allows, then take Alan for some French Toast. Don’t try to make it perfect by going to a hard-to-get-into brunch place. It’s his last French Toast on the outside with his best friend, so no matter what it tastes like, it’s going to be delicious.
Happy Alan Goes To Jail Tomorrow Day!
“I’m sorry I ruined your party,” you tell Alan while he holds you in his arms. “I wanted it to be perfect and overthought things.”
“The fact that you tried to throw me a party,” Alan says. “That you tried to celebrate me, that’s all the party I need.”
Fall asleep for as long as the bridge traffic up above allows, then take Alan for some French Toast. Don’t try to make it perfect by going to a hard-to-get-into brunch place. It’s his last French Toast on the outside with his best friend, so no matter what it tastes like, it’s going to be delicious.
Happy Alan Goes To Jail Tomorrow Day!
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Get Out Of Having To Pay Your Speeding Ticket Day!
You got a speeding ticket for doing 87 in a 15 MPH school zone but don’t worry, getting out of paying a speeding ticket is easy. All you have to do is challenge it in court and if the ticketing officer doesn’t show up, it gets thrown out. The key is making sure he doesn’t show up. So on the day of your court appearance, call the police station a half hour before the hearing time and tell them the officer’s wife has been in a horrible accident and she’s in the hospital. The officer will rush to the hospital while you have your hearing. By the time he finds out it was all a hoax, you’ll be watching your ticket get thrown in the garbage!
If you get a lot of speeding tickets, your local police might catch on to the hoaxes so you’ll have to start kidnapping and taking photographs of the policemen’s wives wearing ornate bear-trap looking contraptions like in the Saw movies and send the photos to the police with notes saying they have 15 minutes to solve a puzzle to get the bear trap off or something. The police will rush to wherever you tell them to go and they’ll find they’re able to just pull the bear trap off without any big to-do, but you’ll have already gotten your speeding ticket ripped up so problem solved.
If you really love speeding and you hate paying tickets, you’ll have to start abducting the ticketing policemen themselves. They’ll eventually get wise to you and start hiding their wives every time you get a ticket, so you’ll have to just snatch up the policemen and bury them alive while you’re at your court date, then come back and set them free and ask them if there’s no hard feelings.
Tune in next year to find out how to get points removed from your license using nothing more than a blow torch and an inability to be affected by the sound of human screams.
Happy Get Out Of Having To Pay Your Speeding Ticket Day!
If you get a lot of speeding tickets, your local police might catch on to the hoaxes so you’ll have to start kidnapping and taking photographs of the policemen’s wives wearing ornate bear-trap looking contraptions like in the Saw movies and send the photos to the police with notes saying they have 15 minutes to solve a puzzle to get the bear trap off or something. The police will rush to wherever you tell them to go and they’ll find they’re able to just pull the bear trap off without any big to-do, but you’ll have already gotten your speeding ticket ripped up so problem solved.
If you really love speeding and you hate paying tickets, you’ll have to start abducting the ticketing policemen themselves. They’ll eventually get wise to you and start hiding their wives every time you get a ticket, so you’ll have to just snatch up the policemen and bury them alive while you’re at your court date, then come back and set them free and ask them if there’s no hard feelings.
Tune in next year to find out how to get points removed from your license using nothing more than a blow torch and an inability to be affected by the sound of human screams.
Happy Get Out Of Having To Pay Your Speeding Ticket Day!
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Water Your Downstairs Neighbor’s Plants Day!
While watering your downstairs neighbor’s plants you’ll find a photograph on one of his shelves of your downstairs neighbor with his arms around your shoulders. The memories will come flooding back. Your downstairs neighbor will come out of the closet where he was hiding.
“I thought you were on vacation!”
“I wasn’t. And I’m not your downstairs neighbor. I’m–”
“My husband,” tell him.
“Yes,” he’ll say, smiling. “I got you the apartment above me after you started having spontaneous amnesia not long after our wedding.”
“Because I was so certain it was a mistake that we got married!” you’ll say, crying now because your memories have returned and you finally know who you are again.
“That’s right,” he’ll say, also crying because he’s so glad to have you back, if only briefly.
You and your husband will use your brief window of lucidity to talk about the old times, how he pressured you into marriage, how you agreed to settle for him but soon found it all too disappointing a reality to tolerate so your mind began tricking you into thinking your husband doesn’t even exist.
“I thought about just granting you a divorce,” he’ll say. “If that would cure you. But you didn’t remember ever having been married so no court would grant us one unless you could agree you that were in a marriage that you wanted to dissolve. So I bought the apartment above us. So you could lead your own life until the amnesia has set you free, and I could continue to keep an eye on you and care for you.”
“You did all that for me?” ask him. “You went through all that trouble for me?”
“Yes my sweet,” he’ll say. “Does knowing how much I’ve cared for you make you more accepting of the fact that I’m the man you married? Is it any more tolerable a reality knowing all of this? Do you think your memory might stick around for a while?”
Say to him, “I thought you were on vacation. Why are we sitting on the floor. You’re gross. I’m going back upstairs to my apartment.”
Happy Water Your Downstairs Neighbor’s Plants Day!
“I thought you were on vacation!”
“I wasn’t. And I’m not your downstairs neighbor. I’m–”
“My husband,” tell him.
“Yes,” he’ll say, smiling. “I got you the apartment above me after you started having spontaneous amnesia not long after our wedding.”
“Because I was so certain it was a mistake that we got married!” you’ll say, crying now because your memories have returned and you finally know who you are again.
“That’s right,” he’ll say, also crying because he’s so glad to have you back, if only briefly.
You and your husband will use your brief window of lucidity to talk about the old times, how he pressured you into marriage, how you agreed to settle for him but soon found it all too disappointing a reality to tolerate so your mind began tricking you into thinking your husband doesn’t even exist.
“I thought about just granting you a divorce,” he’ll say. “If that would cure you. But you didn’t remember ever having been married so no court would grant us one unless you could agree you that were in a marriage that you wanted to dissolve. So I bought the apartment above us. So you could lead your own life until the amnesia has set you free, and I could continue to keep an eye on you and care for you.”
“You did all that for me?” ask him. “You went through all that trouble for me?”
“Yes my sweet,” he’ll say. “Does knowing how much I’ve cared for you make you more accepting of the fact that I’m the man you married? Is it any more tolerable a reality knowing all of this? Do you think your memory might stick around for a while?”
Say to him, “I thought you were on vacation. Why are we sitting on the floor. You’re gross. I’m going back upstairs to my apartment.”
Happy Water Your Downstairs Neighbor’s Plants Day!
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Find The Right Porn Day!
Keep searching until you find the right porn clip. The clip should feature two to five participants, it should be obviously consensual yet playfully violent, there should be a political message about economic inequity and also a dustbuster should work its way into the sex pile at some point, the photos on the walls of the set should be mysterious and they should call to mind your own grandparents in that picture taken just after they disembarked at Ellis Island and someone should drink semen from a juice glass, and also it should have Batman in it. Actually skip all the rest just put Batman in it.
Happy Find The Right Porn Day!
Happy Find The Right Porn Day!
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Look Out The Window Of Your 60th Floor Corner Office And Wonder If There’s Someone Out There Who’ll Love You For Your Money Day!
You’re sick of dating guys who only want women who are sexually present and emotionally open. You’ve worked hard to amass the kind of assets you have. It’s about time you met a man who will stop caring about trust and spiritual connections and mutually erotic understanding and who’ll realize that you being loaded is enough.
“Are you out there?” you whisper to your God’s eye view of Central Park. “Do you exist, my Prince?”
You decided long ago to stop working on your personality so you could work on climbing the corporate ladder. Dammit, you destroyed a lot of promising careers to get where you are today, and you should be able to celebrate with a man who doesn’t expect you to make conversation with him at dinner or remember what his cat’s name is.
You deserve a man who loves you for what you can buy, not who you are.
“Are you out there?”
“Ma'am, will you need anything else?”
You didn’t realize your pregnant assistant was in the room. She observed you in a moment of weakness so you’ll have to fire her immediately.
“Pack your things, Grace,” tell her.
As your assistant sobs into a cardboard box, try to squint to make out the men on the streets below. Any one of them could be the one who doesn’t care what kind of person you are inside. It could be Grace’s husband even.
“Leave the picture of your husband, Grace,” tell Grace.
When Grace is gone, masturbate to the picture of her husband, then call HR and ask for her spouse’s number so you can call and ask him if he’d like to hear about a way he can support his soon-to-be-born child now that his wife is unemployed. You deserve a man like Grace’s husband.
Happy Look Out The Window Of Your 60th Floor Corner Office And Wonder If There’s Someone Out There Who’ll Love You For Your Money Day!
“Are you out there?” you whisper to your God’s eye view of Central Park. “Do you exist, my Prince?”
You decided long ago to stop working on your personality so you could work on climbing the corporate ladder. Dammit, you destroyed a lot of promising careers to get where you are today, and you should be able to celebrate with a man who doesn’t expect you to make conversation with him at dinner or remember what his cat’s name is.
You deserve a man who loves you for what you can buy, not who you are.
“Are you out there?”
“Ma'am, will you need anything else?”
You didn’t realize your pregnant assistant was in the room. She observed you in a moment of weakness so you’ll have to fire her immediately.
“Pack your things, Grace,” tell her.
As your assistant sobs into a cardboard box, try to squint to make out the men on the streets below. Any one of them could be the one who doesn’t care what kind of person you are inside. It could be Grace’s husband even.
“Leave the picture of your husband, Grace,” tell Grace.
When Grace is gone, masturbate to the picture of her husband, then call HR and ask for her spouse’s number so you can call and ask him if he’d like to hear about a way he can support his soon-to-be-born child now that his wife is unemployed. You deserve a man like Grace’s husband.
Happy Look Out The Window Of Your 60th Floor Corner Office And Wonder If There’s Someone Out There Who’ll Love You For Your Money Day!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)