“Dad,” explain. “Me and my roommate feel so close, it’s like we’re brothers. It’s to the point where we get angry that we’re not brothers, that the world will only officially acknowledge our relationship to the extent that is delineated by the terms of a lease agreement.”
“But what is it you want?” you Dad demands. He gets excited sometimes. “I understand that you want there to be change, that you want the government to acknowledge siblinghood among roommates who feel such a bond adheres, but I can’t change the law!”
Tell him, “Until the laws are changed, there’s another way for us to be brothers. He’ll divorce his parents and you’ll adopt him.”
“Fine!” your Dad will shout.
After the adoption is finalized, your roommate will kill you with a gun. Before he pulls the trigger, he’ll tell you that he really did feel close to you, but he has to take care of himself too. Next he’ll kill your Dad. As your Dad’s adopted son and sole living heir, he’ll be awarded the inheritance entirely.
Happy Get Your Dad To Adopt Your Roommate Day!
Sunday, September 01, 2013
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Magic Show Day!
Volunteer to be made to disappear at the magic show and when the magician taps twice on the box you’ll be sent to another dimension where you’ll see your dead grandmother.
“Grandma!” you’ll shout.
“Play these lotto numbers!” your grandma will shout. “Play them tonight!” Then she’ll rattle off the lotto numbers, making sure you remember.
When the magician brings you back, you’ll run to the delicatessen and play the numbers your grandma gave you. The jackpot will be $15 million. You can’t believe how lucky you were to volunteer for that magic show so that your dead grandma would tell you the winning lotto numbers.
When the numbers are drawn, every single one you played will be wrong.
Go back to the magic show the next day and volunteer again. When you see your grandma, ask her what the hell.
“I thought you knew the winning numbers,” say to her.
“I just miss playing lotto,” she’ll tell you. “Play these now.”
Your grandma will rattle off another bunch of lotto numbers. You’ll play them, out of respect for her memory, and they’ll all lose too.
The next day you go back to the magic show with your whole family. The magician makes all of you disappear.
“What is this shit?” your dead grandma will say when she sees everybody.
“An intervention,” tell her. “We love you grandma, but you have a gambling problem.”
Spend the next few hours trying to convince your dead grandma to get help.
Happy Magic Show Day!
“Grandma!” you’ll shout.
“Play these lotto numbers!” your grandma will shout. “Play them tonight!” Then she’ll rattle off the lotto numbers, making sure you remember.
When the magician brings you back, you’ll run to the delicatessen and play the numbers your grandma gave you. The jackpot will be $15 million. You can’t believe how lucky you were to volunteer for that magic show so that your dead grandma would tell you the winning lotto numbers.
When the numbers are drawn, every single one you played will be wrong.
Go back to the magic show the next day and volunteer again. When you see your grandma, ask her what the hell.
“I thought you knew the winning numbers,” say to her.
“I just miss playing lotto,” she’ll tell you. “Play these now.”
Your grandma will rattle off another bunch of lotto numbers. You’ll play them, out of respect for her memory, and they’ll all lose too.
The next day you go back to the magic show with your whole family. The magician makes all of you disappear.
“What is this shit?” your dead grandma will say when she sees everybody.
“An intervention,” tell her. “We love you grandma, but you have a gambling problem.”
Spend the next few hours trying to convince your dead grandma to get help.
Happy Magic Show Day!
Friday, August 30, 2013
Your Dog Can Talk Day!
“Hello,” your dog will say matter-of-factly, like it’s been able to talk all this time. Like it’s no big deal at all.
“Oh my God!” you’ll shout. “You can talk! This is the most unbelievable thing in the world!”
“Second most,” your dog will say. “The most unbelievable thing in the world is still the idea that the Twin Towers fell because of hijacked planes crashing into them, and not because the basements were rigged to blow with about a mountain of C-4.”
Your dog will proceed to lay out for you all of the apparent “coincidences” that occurred on the morning of September 11, 2001. It’ll go on for hours.
Happy Your Dog Can Talk Day!
“Oh my God!” you’ll shout. “You can talk! This is the most unbelievable thing in the world!”
“Second most,” your dog will say. “The most unbelievable thing in the world is still the idea that the Twin Towers fell because of hijacked planes crashing into them, and not because the basements were rigged to blow with about a mountain of C-4.”
Your dog will proceed to lay out for you all of the apparent “coincidences” that occurred on the morning of September 11, 2001. It’ll go on for hours.
Happy Your Dog Can Talk Day!
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Alien Detection Glasses Day!
You’re a lonely old man who wears a pair of alien detection glasses that let you detect which people are real and which are secretly aliens. You’ve been wearing them for a few months, and so far, you haven’t found a single alien.
“I think they’re broken,” you tell the kid at the Oakley store who sold them to you.
“The aliens have simply upgraded their cloaking devices to prevent themselves from being detected by this kind of lens,” he tells you. “You need to upgrade to this new pair.”
You pay him the $140 and walk out of the store with your newest version of alien detection glasses. The kid and his coworkers laugh at you after you’re gone, wondering how many times they’ll be able to trick you into buying new sunglasses.
As you walk home, you don’t detect any aliens, but you do detect lots of humanoids disguised as ordinary people. You ask one of the robots where they came from and he says government labs. He asks you to keep their existence a secret. You ask it if he knows if there are any aliens around.
“There are no aliens on this planet,” the humanoid says. “If someone sold you alien detection glasses, you got ripped off.”
Pissed, you throw the glasses in the trash. The humanoid offers to help you concoct a plan to murder the kids at the Oakley store without getting caught. You accept his help, grateful that someone still has the humanity to be kind to a lonely old man, even if that someone happens to be not all that human.
Happy Alien Detection Glasses Day!
“I think they’re broken,” you tell the kid at the Oakley store who sold them to you.
“The aliens have simply upgraded their cloaking devices to prevent themselves from being detected by this kind of lens,” he tells you. “You need to upgrade to this new pair.”
You pay him the $140 and walk out of the store with your newest version of alien detection glasses. The kid and his coworkers laugh at you after you’re gone, wondering how many times they’ll be able to trick you into buying new sunglasses.
As you walk home, you don’t detect any aliens, but you do detect lots of humanoids disguised as ordinary people. You ask one of the robots where they came from and he says government labs. He asks you to keep their existence a secret. You ask it if he knows if there are any aliens around.
“There are no aliens on this planet,” the humanoid says. “If someone sold you alien detection glasses, you got ripped off.”
Pissed, you throw the glasses in the trash. The humanoid offers to help you concoct a plan to murder the kids at the Oakley store without getting caught. You accept his help, grateful that someone still has the humanity to be kind to a lonely old man, even if that someone happens to be not all that human.
Happy Alien Detection Glasses Day!
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Eat The Poop Day!
Poop tastes terrible, which is why when you eat Kelly’s poop today, it will be a gesture of deepest love.
“I want to taste every bit of you, even the bits you expel out of you to be washed away into sewage,” you say. “It’s not fair that alligators and C.H.U.D.s who live in the gutters get to taste a part of you that I’ve never tasted.”
Kelly understands all of that and she’s sorry that she made you explain by walking into the kitchen at 4 AM and finding you with a knife and fork cutting into a piece of her poop.
“How did you get it?” she asks.
You give her an “Am I supposed to remember everything?” shrug. Then you take a bite.
“This is awful,” you tell her.
She nods and says that she would guess it would be. She suggests you come to bed and make love to her.
“Not until I digest this, poop, and eat that poop,” you say. “To know what the poop that I made from eating your poop tastes like, that would be the ultimate intimacy.”
Kelly knows where this is going. She’s had several boyfriends who entered the endless cycle of eating the poop made from eating the poop made from eating the poop made from etc., and they were never able to step out of that poop-eating loop. She considers just going into the bedroom and packing her things now, but it’s late. She’ll wait to leave you until the morning. You’ll feel less distracted from your poop-eating with her gone.
Happy Eat The Poop Day!
“I want to taste every bit of you, even the bits you expel out of you to be washed away into sewage,” you say. “It’s not fair that alligators and C.H.U.D.s who live in the gutters get to taste a part of you that I’ve never tasted.”
Kelly understands all of that and she’s sorry that she made you explain by walking into the kitchen at 4 AM and finding you with a knife and fork cutting into a piece of her poop.
“How did you get it?” she asks.
You give her an “Am I supposed to remember everything?” shrug. Then you take a bite.
“This is awful,” you tell her.
She nods and says that she would guess it would be. She suggests you come to bed and make love to her.
“Not until I digest this, poop, and eat that poop,” you say. “To know what the poop that I made from eating your poop tastes like, that would be the ultimate intimacy.”
Kelly knows where this is going. She’s had several boyfriends who entered the endless cycle of eating the poop made from eating the poop made from eating the poop made from etc., and they were never able to step out of that poop-eating loop. She considers just going into the bedroom and packing her things now, but it’s late. She’ll wait to leave you until the morning. You’ll feel less distracted from your poop-eating with her gone.
Happy Eat The Poop Day!
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Mountain Climbing Day!
You and your buddies are going to be mountain climbing when an old hermit spots you and scurries away into a cave. You’ll chase after him because you want to get an Instagram with him. The old man will run deeper into the cave, making turn after turn in the seemingly endless tunnels, until finally you find him standing in front of you, waiting.
“We just want to get an Instagram with a real live hermit,” you tell him.
He doesn’t respond. He just stands there as one by one you and your buddies take Instagrams with him, each of you adopting a different pose. The devil horns, the arm around the shoulder with the other hand pointing at the old hermit as if to say, “get a load of this guy,” the goofy face, the self-serious portrait.
You’ll take about 76 Instagrams before you and your buddies start arguing about which filter to use next. When you look up from your phones, the old hermit will be gone.
Unable to find your way out, you and your buddies will live in those caves for the rest of your lives, constantly searching for an exit, or at least a part of the cave where you can get a good enough signal to finally upload your Instagrams. If your followers could at least see the pics, you would feel like it was worth it.
Happy Mountain Climbing Day!
“We just want to get an Instagram with a real live hermit,” you tell him.
He doesn’t respond. He just stands there as one by one you and your buddies take Instagrams with him, each of you adopting a different pose. The devil horns, the arm around the shoulder with the other hand pointing at the old hermit as if to say, “get a load of this guy,” the goofy face, the self-serious portrait.
You’ll take about 76 Instagrams before you and your buddies start arguing about which filter to use next. When you look up from your phones, the old hermit will be gone.
Unable to find your way out, you and your buddies will live in those caves for the rest of your lives, constantly searching for an exit, or at least a part of the cave where you can get a good enough signal to finally upload your Instagrams. If your followers could at least see the pics, you would feel like it was worth it.
Happy Mountain Climbing Day!
Monday, August 26, 2013
Party Hard Day!
Party hard today from morning ‘til night. Never stop dancing, never stop laughing, never stop pounding those cold ones and smoking those doobies. Party as hard as you can until you feel like you’ve partied so hard you won’t be able to party anymore, then party a little more. Any time people try to stop you from partying hard, slit their throats. Any time people try to join you in your party when you know they won’t be able to party as hard as you, slit their throats. If anybody offers you tips on partying harder than you already are, but their ideas for partying hard are more attuned to the way they like to party than your sense of what makes a hard party work, slit their throats. Slit all their throats and party in the blood. Use the blood to party even harder, turning it into a slip-n-slide party. You partying hard is the only thing that matters, and the only thing you should do besides partying today is slitting people’s throats. Now stop reading, gather a bunch of knives in a bag, turn up the music, and get that party started, yeah.
Happy Party Hard Day!
Happy Party Hard Day!
Sunday, August 25, 2013
There’s Nothing Fun Anymore Day!
It’s going to hit you today, just when you come out of some brush and hear a rustling behind a tree, a rustling that can only be the vagrant you and your billionaire friends paid to let you hunt and kill him as entertainment for one of your summer weekend parties.
“There’s really nothing fun anymore, is there?” you think as the vagrant’s tan vest becomes discernible in your rifle sight.
As you move your finger to the trigger, you search yourself for that long-lost burst of giddiness you used to feel when you knew you were about to score the kill and win the game. You used to relish the looks on your friends’ and business associates’ faces as you would drag the vagrant’s body back to your mansion’s hind-grounds, ready to gloat. Now you aren’t even sure you feel like going home, with or without the body.
“I might be depressed,” you think as you kill the vagrant with a shot through the back directly into his heart. “Maybe I should talk to somebody?”
Is it because your son left for college? You’ve been a father to a child for so long, it’s got to cause a change in spirit to suddenly become a father to a man. Hog-tying the corpse of the vagrant, you wonder if he had any children. Is that why he agreed to accept the hundred thousand dollars in exchange for his life? To send money off to some family he abandoned? When he died, did he feel satisfied, knowing that in surrendering his life he’d finally made amends?
What would it take for you to be satisfied with your life?
“I’d better put on my host-face,” you think. You can ponder what makes life fulfilling later, and maybe visit a doctor. Right now you have guests. It’s to plaster that smile on, toss the carcass onto the grotto, and go through the motions of someone who can still find some hint of joy in the simple things.
Happy There’s Nothing Fun Anymore Day!
“There’s really nothing fun anymore, is there?” you think as the vagrant’s tan vest becomes discernible in your rifle sight.
As you move your finger to the trigger, you search yourself for that long-lost burst of giddiness you used to feel when you knew you were about to score the kill and win the game. You used to relish the looks on your friends’ and business associates’ faces as you would drag the vagrant’s body back to your mansion’s hind-grounds, ready to gloat. Now you aren’t even sure you feel like going home, with or without the body.
“I might be depressed,” you think as you kill the vagrant with a shot through the back directly into his heart. “Maybe I should talk to somebody?”
Is it because your son left for college? You’ve been a father to a child for so long, it’s got to cause a change in spirit to suddenly become a father to a man. Hog-tying the corpse of the vagrant, you wonder if he had any children. Is that why he agreed to accept the hundred thousand dollars in exchange for his life? To send money off to some family he abandoned? When he died, did he feel satisfied, knowing that in surrendering his life he’d finally made amends?
What would it take for you to be satisfied with your life?
“I’d better put on my host-face,” you think. You can ponder what makes life fulfilling later, and maybe visit a doctor. Right now you have guests. It’s to plaster that smile on, toss the carcass onto the grotto, and go through the motions of someone who can still find some hint of joy in the simple things.
Happy There’s Nothing Fun Anymore Day!
Saturday, August 24, 2013
You’re The Greatest Counterfeiter In The World Day!
The Treasury guys are going to come by today.
“Sorry fellas, I’m out of the game. Haven’t forged a note in 5 years,” you tell them.
That’s the truth. You got out but only because you didn’t need to stay in. Your last batch produced the finest notes you’ve ever printed, your masterpiece, and there’s about $18 million of it hidden under the floorboards that the agents are standing on.
“We know,” they say. “We know you’re out of the game. We were wondering if you could tell us about someone who just got back in?”
You don’t like their tone. You realize you’ve never seen these two before.
“Identification,” you say.
“We showed you—“
“I wanna see it again.”
They hold up their ID’s. You look more closely.
“You’re with the Mint,” you say.
They ask you to take a seat. Then they open up the metal case they were carrying and invite you to inspect its contents.
On first glance you can tell it’s a fake, it’s just a sense, but you can’t find the flaws. Not even with your loupe. You study its grain, its seal, its perfect arrangement of elements.
“This is the most flawless forgery of a 2011 Ten-Year Commemorative Twin Tower 9/11 Plate Featuring Barack Obama And George W Bush With Their Arms Joined Around The Shoulders Of A Firefighter that I’ve ever seen!” you exclaim.
“And we’re betting you know who forged it,” one of the Mint guys says.
“Had to be someone inside,” you say. “Had to have access.”
“It wasn’t someone with access,” he says. “You know it wasn’t.”
You get a sinking feeling in your gut. He said he would get out when you got out. He promised he’d never print another. You gave him more than enough to cover him for two lifetimes. He promised you he’d go straight.
“Heard from your son recently?” the Mint guy asks.
Happy You’re The Greatest Counterfeiter In The World Day!
“Sorry fellas, I’m out of the game. Haven’t forged a note in 5 years,” you tell them.
That’s the truth. You got out but only because you didn’t need to stay in. Your last batch produced the finest notes you’ve ever printed, your masterpiece, and there’s about $18 million of it hidden under the floorboards that the agents are standing on.
“We know,” they say. “We know you’re out of the game. We were wondering if you could tell us about someone who just got back in?”
You don’t like their tone. You realize you’ve never seen these two before.
“Identification,” you say.
“We showed you—“
“I wanna see it again.”
They hold up their ID’s. You look more closely.
“You’re with the Mint,” you say.
They ask you to take a seat. Then they open up the metal case they were carrying and invite you to inspect its contents.
On first glance you can tell it’s a fake, it’s just a sense, but you can’t find the flaws. Not even with your loupe. You study its grain, its seal, its perfect arrangement of elements.
“This is the most flawless forgery of a 2011 Ten-Year Commemorative Twin Tower 9/11 Plate Featuring Barack Obama And George W Bush With Their Arms Joined Around The Shoulders Of A Firefighter that I’ve ever seen!” you exclaim.
“And we’re betting you know who forged it,” one of the Mint guys says.
“Had to be someone inside,” you say. “Had to have access.”
“It wasn’t someone with access,” he says. “You know it wasn’t.”
You get a sinking feeling in your gut. He said he would get out when you got out. He promised he’d never print another. You gave him more than enough to cover him for two lifetimes. He promised you he’d go straight.
“Heard from your son recently?” the Mint guy asks.
Happy You’re The Greatest Counterfeiter In The World Day!
Friday, August 23, 2013
Settle For Him Ella Day!
There’s a marching band behind you, Ella.
They’re playing that anthem just for you.
Today’s the day you settle for a boy.
Today’s the day you know just exactly who you are.
You know your limits and how much you should expect from a boy.
Looks-wise, he’s just handsome enough for you.
Money-wise, he’s just rich enough for you.
Personality-wise, you wish he was less grim sometimes, and he wishes the same about you.
You both have manageable addictions and you enable each other perfectly.
Neither of you wants to be bitter but both of you are and you hate that about yourselves together and it’s wonderful.
Your bad breath. His weird patch of hair on his neck just above his collar line. His lack of interest in any art beyond pop culture. Your propensity for skin cancer.
Flaw for flaw, he’s your boy and you’re his girl.
There are better boys than him out there, and there are better girls than you and you hope they all find each other.
Ella, you are playing in your league. It’s time to go for MVP.
March to your anthem, Ella.
March into his embrace.
His arms are a good length. You fit.
Happy Settle For Him Ella Day!
They’re playing that anthem just for you.
Today’s the day you settle for a boy.
Today’s the day you know just exactly who you are.
You know your limits and how much you should expect from a boy.
Looks-wise, he’s just handsome enough for you.
Money-wise, he’s just rich enough for you.
Personality-wise, you wish he was less grim sometimes, and he wishes the same about you.
You both have manageable addictions and you enable each other perfectly.
Neither of you wants to be bitter but both of you are and you hate that about yourselves together and it’s wonderful.
Your bad breath. His weird patch of hair on his neck just above his collar line. His lack of interest in any art beyond pop culture. Your propensity for skin cancer.
Flaw for flaw, he’s your boy and you’re his girl.
There are better boys than him out there, and there are better girls than you and you hope they all find each other.
Ella, you are playing in your league. It’s time to go for MVP.
March to your anthem, Ella.
March into his embrace.
His arms are a good length. You fit.
Happy Settle For Him Ella Day!
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Your Robot Family Isn’t Coming Home For Dinner Tonight Day!
You built a robot family and trained them all to love and cherish you. It was great for a while, but gradually they started to find their own interests and develop their own lives away from you.
Your robot husband has taken to spending his nights digging tunnels deep underground. Your robot kids just like to have sex with cars parked around the neighborhood and occasionally they’ll tear someone limb from limb for fun.
“And I’m left to eat all by myself,” you say to the meal you spent all day preparing. “Again.”
You down your glass of wine and pour another. Then you have an idea. You built one robot family, that went from loving and cherishing you to not even caring that you cooked them a big meal (even though they can’t ingest food). There’s no law that says you can’t build another robot family to destroy the first, and then love and cherish you and show up for dinner on time.
“To the lab!” you shout at your cold pot roast. You spill your wine as you head downstairs to begin building your second robot family. This is how the robot wars begin and mankind ends.
Happy Your Robot Family Isn’t Coming Home For Dinner Tonight Day!
Your robot husband has taken to spending his nights digging tunnels deep underground. Your robot kids just like to have sex with cars parked around the neighborhood and occasionally they’ll tear someone limb from limb for fun.
“And I’m left to eat all by myself,” you say to the meal you spent all day preparing. “Again.”
You down your glass of wine and pour another. Then you have an idea. You built one robot family, that went from loving and cherishing you to not even caring that you cooked them a big meal (even though they can’t ingest food). There’s no law that says you can’t build another robot family to destroy the first, and then love and cherish you and show up for dinner on time.
“To the lab!” you shout at your cold pot roast. You spill your wine as you head downstairs to begin building your second robot family. This is how the robot wars begin and mankind ends.
Happy Your Robot Family Isn’t Coming Home For Dinner Tonight Day!
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
You Only Write On Bricks Day!
Books are dead and good riddance. You find the Internet disgusting. Storytelling makes you wish you didn’t have ears.
“Then how do you plan to distribute your next work?” Charlie Rose is asking you on the TV.
Your newest novel is going to be serialized, you explain to him. You’ve copied each chapter in very small print on the side of some bricks. And each week, you’ll drive past people’s houses and throw the bricks through their windows.
“So your novel will literally hit as hard as a brick through a window,” Charlie Rose will try to joke, but he’ll instantly realize he failed and he’ll poke himself in the thigh with a thumb tack to punish himself, which is something he does to make sure he remains a master interviewer. “Was it hard to write that small?”
You tell Charlie Rose that it was. There were lots of bricks you had to pulverize when you discovered spelling errors.
“What if people are killed?” Charlie Rose asks. “By the bricks? Hitting them in the head and covering them in broken glass, etc.”
Then you’ll be put in jail, you tell him. And that should give you some good material for your writing. You laugh quietly to let Charlie Rose know you’re being funny.
“Oh my God that’s a riot,” Charlie Rose says. He then laughs until he cries, and soon there’s no laughter. Just the crying. He never stops crying after that.
Never.
Happy You Only Write On Bricks Day!
“Then how do you plan to distribute your next work?” Charlie Rose is asking you on the TV.
Your newest novel is going to be serialized, you explain to him. You’ve copied each chapter in very small print on the side of some bricks. And each week, you’ll drive past people’s houses and throw the bricks through their windows.
“So your novel will literally hit as hard as a brick through a window,” Charlie Rose will try to joke, but he’ll instantly realize he failed and he’ll poke himself in the thigh with a thumb tack to punish himself, which is something he does to make sure he remains a master interviewer. “Was it hard to write that small?”
You tell Charlie Rose that it was. There were lots of bricks you had to pulverize when you discovered spelling errors.
“What if people are killed?” Charlie Rose asks. “By the bricks? Hitting them in the head and covering them in broken glass, etc.”
Then you’ll be put in jail, you tell him. And that should give you some good material for your writing. You laugh quietly to let Charlie Rose know you’re being funny.
“Oh my God that’s a riot,” Charlie Rose says. He then laughs until he cries, and soon there’s no laughter. Just the crying. He never stops crying after that.
Never.
Happy You Only Write On Bricks Day!
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Yell At The Window Washer Day!
“And another thing, Jeff!” you’re shouting into the mirror, pretending to yell at your supervisor, when the window washer lowers his rig down in front of your window. “You think you know how to run this department because you’ve increased gross revenue by 12%, but I could increase gross revenue by 12% in my sleep!”
The window washer knocks on the window and you’re embarrassed to have been seen having a fantasy argument. You lower your head in shame.
The window washer knocks again, and he uses his finger to write in the grime on your window, “$20. Yell at me. 10 mins.”
He’s offering to let you yell at him for $20 every time you want to have a fantasy argument. Instead of yelling at your mirror, you can yell at a real person just on the other side of a pane of glass, and you’ll have the beautiful skyline over his shoulder to delight your periphery while you do it.
You write on your palm, “Deal!”
So every time you need to have a fantasy argument with someone, you just have to tape a $20 bill to the outside of your window. When the window washer spots the $20, he’ll pause in his rounds and wait for you to start yelling at him. This goes on for a few months, until the window washer says he can tell you’re really angry at your supervisor, and if you give him an extra $20, he’ll murder him for you.
You agree and give him the extra twenty. The window washer botches the murder and you both die in prison.
Happy Yell At The Window Washer Day!
The window washer knocks on the window and you’re embarrassed to have been seen having a fantasy argument. You lower your head in shame.
The window washer knocks again, and he uses his finger to write in the grime on your window, “$20. Yell at me. 10 mins.”
He’s offering to let you yell at him for $20 every time you want to have a fantasy argument. Instead of yelling at your mirror, you can yell at a real person just on the other side of a pane of glass, and you’ll have the beautiful skyline over his shoulder to delight your periphery while you do it.
You write on your palm, “Deal!”
So every time you need to have a fantasy argument with someone, you just have to tape a $20 bill to the outside of your window. When the window washer spots the $20, he’ll pause in his rounds and wait for you to start yelling at him. This goes on for a few months, until the window washer says he can tell you’re really angry at your supervisor, and if you give him an extra $20, he’ll murder him for you.
You agree and give him the extra twenty. The window washer botches the murder and you both die in prison.
Happy Yell At The Window Washer Day!
Monday, August 19, 2013
Married Serial Killers Day!
“Hey, great dinner, sexy,” your husband tells you, doing all he can to stifle the urge to open your throat with his butter knife. He heard a husband call a wife sexy on a radio commercial.
“Thank you, light of my life,” you tell him. You saw a wife say that to her husband on TV today.
Neither of you knows how normal people talk, so you both imitate what people say in popular media.You two are like Mr. and Mrs. Smith except instead of both of you being master assassins unbeknownst to each other, you’re both ingenious serial killers, each of you using the other as your cover story while you run off a couple nights a week to murder. You both assume the other to be a normal, a non-killer, just a victim-in-waiting.
You like to use piano wire. Your husband likes knives.
“I’m off to meet the guys, syrup,” your husband says as he goes out to kill. He’ll regret calling you syrup when he remembers it’s supposed to be “honey,” but you don’t notice.
“Have fun, you,” you say to him. You aren’t sure if you’re going to kill tonight. You have to stare out the porch window for a few hours before you get word that there’s someone out there who needs to die.
Bored, not feeling the murder tonight, you’ll go into the basement to sort through some old boxes and you’ll find the secret room containing a freezer full of body parts from your husband’s kills. It’s an even nicer freezer than yours in the secret bunker under the shed. You’ll be trying to piece the body parts back together into a single body, just for fun, when you’ll hear footsteps upstairs.
When you return to the living room your husband will be holding your bloody piano wire in his hands.
“I was just looking for one of my knives in the shed when I felt the floor under me sink a little,” he says. “So…birds of a feather, eh?”
Happy Married Serial Killers Day!
“Thank you, light of my life,” you tell him. You saw a wife say that to her husband on TV today.
Neither of you knows how normal people talk, so you both imitate what people say in popular media.You two are like Mr. and Mrs. Smith except instead of both of you being master assassins unbeknownst to each other, you’re both ingenious serial killers, each of you using the other as your cover story while you run off a couple nights a week to murder. You both assume the other to be a normal, a non-killer, just a victim-in-waiting.
You like to use piano wire. Your husband likes knives.
“I’m off to meet the guys, syrup,” your husband says as he goes out to kill. He’ll regret calling you syrup when he remembers it’s supposed to be “honey,” but you don’t notice.
“Have fun, you,” you say to him. You aren’t sure if you’re going to kill tonight. You have to stare out the porch window for a few hours before you get word that there’s someone out there who needs to die.
Bored, not feeling the murder tonight, you’ll go into the basement to sort through some old boxes and you’ll find the secret room containing a freezer full of body parts from your husband’s kills. It’s an even nicer freezer than yours in the secret bunker under the shed. You’ll be trying to piece the body parts back together into a single body, just for fun, when you’ll hear footsteps upstairs.
When you return to the living room your husband will be holding your bloody piano wire in his hands.
“I was just looking for one of my knives in the shed when I felt the floor under me sink a little,” he says. “So…birds of a feather, eh?”
Happy Married Serial Killers Day!
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Join A Neighborhood Committee Day!
Tell them you could be in charge of growing disillusionment.
“I’d like to be the secretary of Is This All There Is.”
The president of the neighborhood committee will say that’s great because the last guy killed himself 20 minutes into the job.
They’ll announce you at the meeting then proceed to discuss getting the street light bulbs changed and how to keep undesirables from using the playground. Interrupt the meeting to tell everyone there should be more to your lives than this. Tell them you’re all just building fences and planting flags like that’s going to keep you all from dying.
“We should all run home and hug our children!” shout.
Everyone will run out of the meeting room. The president of the committee will slap you on the back.
“You’re doing a hell of a job,” he’ll say, a tear in his eye. Then he’ll go back to caressing a photo of his wife and sons.
Happy Join A Neighborhood Committee Day!
“I’d like to be the secretary of Is This All There Is.”
The president of the neighborhood committee will say that’s great because the last guy killed himself 20 minutes into the job.
They’ll announce you at the meeting then proceed to discuss getting the street light bulbs changed and how to keep undesirables from using the playground. Interrupt the meeting to tell everyone there should be more to your lives than this. Tell them you’re all just building fences and planting flags like that’s going to keep you all from dying.
“We should all run home and hug our children!” shout.
Everyone will run out of the meeting room. The president of the committee will slap you on the back.
“You’re doing a hell of a job,” he’ll say, a tear in his eye. Then he’ll go back to caressing a photo of his wife and sons.
Happy Join A Neighborhood Committee Day!
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Hotel Why Didn’t It Work Out Between Us Day!
Your flight got cancelled and the only hotel with rooms still available is Hotel Why Didn’t It Work Out Between Us. When you go to get a drink at the bar you see seven guys from your past, three who you slept with but never got serious with, two close friends you always thought you should have slept with but the timing was just never right, one guy who you dated briefly and you still think you should have married, and Marty, your ex-husband.
“Heeeeeey!” they all shout in unison. There’s no one else in the bar but them. Not even a bartender, even though when you look down there’s a drink in your hand.
“So why didn’t it work out between us?” asks Lance, who you slept with eleven times. You both agree the timing was just wrong. You finish your drink. There’s another one in your hand.
“I still wonder why it never worked out between us,” Jeremy says to you. You’re in a booth with him. You tell him he was too angry then, but in the times you’ve seen him since you can tell he’s calmed down, and you feel like maybe if you’d hooked up now instead of back then, maybe. You thought you saw the waitress who brought Jeremy his sparkling water, but it was just a curtain moving with the draft from the window.
“You know what I can’t stop thinking about?” Max asks you, resting his drunk chin on the lip of his beer just like he did the night he convinced you to go home with him.
“I was getting over someone,” you tell him. “So were you. We helped each other through that, but I’m not sure we would have even given each other a second glance otherwise.” You’re getting better at this. Quicker.
“You were drunk throughout the entire marriage Marty,” you tell your ex-husband. “I tried staying with you after you got sober, but we didn’t click as well.”
More exes and flings file into the bar. You start barking at them, “It was the wrong time for us!” and “People change!” as they approach you. You get cornered by a guy you don’t even remember. He says his name’s Chris. He’s crying, insisting that he loves his kids and his wife for giving them to him, but he still can’t help but wonder.
You’re about to give him a line about two ships sailing in the night or maybe you’ll hand him something about a broken clock being right twice a day (does that apply?) when you look over his shoulder at the mirror behind the bar and you see an entirely different clientele, couples, married and dating, flirting and deflecting, all of them strangers, none of them demanding you join them in wondering what might have been.
The mirror clouds with smoke. It’s all exes again. Chris won’t budge.
“We’ll always have Chicago,” you tell Chris.
“Chicago?” Chris asks.
You do your damndest to place.
“Portland?”
Chris shakes his head no. You stomp on his foot. As he’s hopping up and down you race from the bar, grab your bags from the bellman and speed back to the airport where you’ll sleep at the gate, making sure to part your hair differently than you’ve ever worn it, practice saying “no English” in an accent, just in case you bump into anyone you know.
Happy Hotel Why Didn’t It Work Out Between Us Day!
“Heeeeeey!” they all shout in unison. There’s no one else in the bar but them. Not even a bartender, even though when you look down there’s a drink in your hand.
“So why didn’t it work out between us?” asks Lance, who you slept with eleven times. You both agree the timing was just wrong. You finish your drink. There’s another one in your hand.
“I still wonder why it never worked out between us,” Jeremy says to you. You’re in a booth with him. You tell him he was too angry then, but in the times you’ve seen him since you can tell he’s calmed down, and you feel like maybe if you’d hooked up now instead of back then, maybe. You thought you saw the waitress who brought Jeremy his sparkling water, but it was just a curtain moving with the draft from the window.
“You know what I can’t stop thinking about?” Max asks you, resting his drunk chin on the lip of his beer just like he did the night he convinced you to go home with him.
“I was getting over someone,” you tell him. “So were you. We helped each other through that, but I’m not sure we would have even given each other a second glance otherwise.” You’re getting better at this. Quicker.
“You were drunk throughout the entire marriage Marty,” you tell your ex-husband. “I tried staying with you after you got sober, but we didn’t click as well.”
More exes and flings file into the bar. You start barking at them, “It was the wrong time for us!” and “People change!” as they approach you. You get cornered by a guy you don’t even remember. He says his name’s Chris. He’s crying, insisting that he loves his kids and his wife for giving them to him, but he still can’t help but wonder.
You’re about to give him a line about two ships sailing in the night or maybe you’ll hand him something about a broken clock being right twice a day (does that apply?) when you look over his shoulder at the mirror behind the bar and you see an entirely different clientele, couples, married and dating, flirting and deflecting, all of them strangers, none of them demanding you join them in wondering what might have been.
The mirror clouds with smoke. It’s all exes again. Chris won’t budge.
“We’ll always have Chicago,” you tell Chris.
“Chicago?” Chris asks.
You do your damndest to place.
“Portland?”
Chris shakes his head no. You stomp on his foot. As he’s hopping up and down you race from the bar, grab your bags from the bellman and speed back to the airport where you’ll sleep at the gate, making sure to part your hair differently than you’ve ever worn it, practice saying “no English” in an accent, just in case you bump into anyone you know.
Happy Hotel Why Didn’t It Work Out Between Us Day!
Friday, August 16, 2013
Two Bros, Out On The Town Day!
The two of ya’s. Out on the town! Celebrating being bros. Downing some brewskies! Checking out the babes! Hours and hours and mayhem, debauchery, slurred words, idle threats, and the occasional crying jag between old bros. At the end, you both decide the perfect nightcap would be to visit your daddies’ graves.
“Let’s go visit my daddy’s grave!” you tell your bro.
Your bro balks.
“If we’re visiting any daddy’s grave, it’s gonna be mine.”
You fight it out a little, bloodying each other’s noses, then you come to an agreement.
“Since we can’t agree on whose dad’s grave we’ll visit, how about to make it fair, I visit my dad’s grave and you visit your dad’s grave.”
You shake on it, down the bottle your sharing, then you head off, you via bus, your bro via train.
Thirty minutes later you arrive at your dad’s grave, but there’s a man there already. As you get closer, you realize it’s your bro.
“What are you doing at my daddy’s grave?” you ask.
“What are you doing at my daddy’s grave?” he asks you back.
After some piecing together you realize your dad had two families.
“Not only are we bros, but we’re bros!”
You punch it in, then you go back out on the town to celebrate being bros for real this time. Your dad watches from hell, feeling a weight fall off his shoulders. He’s glad the secret is finally out.
Happy Two Bros, Out On The Town Day!
“Let’s go visit my daddy’s grave!” you tell your bro.
Your bro balks.
“If we’re visiting any daddy’s grave, it’s gonna be mine.”
You fight it out a little, bloodying each other’s noses, then you come to an agreement.
“Since we can’t agree on whose dad’s grave we’ll visit, how about to make it fair, I visit my dad’s grave and you visit your dad’s grave.”
You shake on it, down the bottle your sharing, then you head off, you via bus, your bro via train.
Thirty minutes later you arrive at your dad’s grave, but there’s a man there already. As you get closer, you realize it’s your bro.
“What are you doing at my daddy’s grave?” you ask.
“What are you doing at my daddy’s grave?” he asks you back.
After some piecing together you realize your dad had two families.
“Not only are we bros, but we’re bros!”
You punch it in, then you go back out on the town to celebrate being bros for real this time. Your dad watches from hell, feeling a weight fall off his shoulders. He’s glad the secret is finally out.
Happy Two Bros, Out On The Town Day!
Thursday, August 15, 2013
You Threw Your Drugs Into A Bird’s Nest Day!
Your mom was coming in to search your room to make sure you’re not getting high again, so with a bit of quick thinking, you opened the window and tossed your drugs into the birds’ nest on the tree branch just outside your room.
When your mom finishes searching your room and decides that you’ve been clean and you can stay another week, you climb out onto the tree branch to get your drugs back. Unfortunately, all your drugs are gone and all the birds in the birds’ nest are dead. All but one.
“Why is everyone in my family dead?” the little bird asks you.
“I think they ate all my drugs,” you tell it.
“What are drugs?” the little bird asks.
“They make you feel different,” you tell it. “At first, they make you feel good. Then, they make you feel the only way you want to feel, which is different than the way you really feel, so you have to keep doing them.”
The little bird looks at its dead family.
“I want to feel different than the way I really feel,” it says.
You feel terrible for the little bird, so you promise you’ll help it feel different. You climb down and head into the city to cop. When you come back, you climb back up into the tree with your drugs, and some less powerful drugs you bought especially for the little bird.
“Thank goodness,” the little bird says. “I’ve been crying all day.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” you ask it. “It will change your whole life. Suddenly, you’ll only live for drugs. Your every decision and action will be made in an effort to get more drugs. Nothing will matter except drugs.”
“Right now,” the little bird says, “Nothing matters except sorrow, except this horrible loss and unfathomable promise that there’s going to be a tomorrow that I’ll have to get through, and it will probably be even worse than today. I’d be more than happy to have drugs take the place of all that.”
You give the little bird its bird drugs and you watch all the sadness you caused it disappear as it lays back in the nest with its eyes half-closed. For a second, you wonder if you should do your drugs. Watching the bird, you like the way you feel. You caused it pain, but then you helped make that pain go away. You feel good about yourself for the first time in a while, and just for a second, you don’t want to feel different. But just for a second.
Happy You Threw Your Drugs Into A Bird’s Nest Day!
When your mom finishes searching your room and decides that you’ve been clean and you can stay another week, you climb out onto the tree branch to get your drugs back. Unfortunately, all your drugs are gone and all the birds in the birds’ nest are dead. All but one.
“Why is everyone in my family dead?” the little bird asks you.
“I think they ate all my drugs,” you tell it.
“What are drugs?” the little bird asks.
“They make you feel different,” you tell it. “At first, they make you feel good. Then, they make you feel the only way you want to feel, which is different than the way you really feel, so you have to keep doing them.”
The little bird looks at its dead family.
“I want to feel different than the way I really feel,” it says.
You feel terrible for the little bird, so you promise you’ll help it feel different. You climb down and head into the city to cop. When you come back, you climb back up into the tree with your drugs, and some less powerful drugs you bought especially for the little bird.
“Thank goodness,” the little bird says. “I’ve been crying all day.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” you ask it. “It will change your whole life. Suddenly, you’ll only live for drugs. Your every decision and action will be made in an effort to get more drugs. Nothing will matter except drugs.”
“Right now,” the little bird says, “Nothing matters except sorrow, except this horrible loss and unfathomable promise that there’s going to be a tomorrow that I’ll have to get through, and it will probably be even worse than today. I’d be more than happy to have drugs take the place of all that.”
You give the little bird its bird drugs and you watch all the sadness you caused it disappear as it lays back in the nest with its eyes half-closed. For a second, you wonder if you should do your drugs. Watching the bird, you like the way you feel. You caused it pain, but then you helped make that pain go away. You feel good about yourself for the first time in a while, and just for a second, you don’t want to feel different. But just for a second.
Happy You Threw Your Drugs Into A Bird’s Nest Day!
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
You Used To Date The First Lady Of The United States Day!
While she was living in the White House even.
“Which one, Grandpa?” your grandkids ask.
“Which what?”
“Which First Lady?” they ask.
You’ll never tell. That’s your gift to her. Your expression of gratitude for those few months when she visited your two-room apartment and surrendered her body to you. She had the leader of the free world at home waiting in her bed, but she came to you. She shared her skin, her lips, her legs, her touch, with you. She once even stamped your pelvis with her “Property Of The Office Of The First Lady Of The United States” stamp.
“I didn’t wash my body for weeks,” you tell them.
“The first lady carries around a stamp like that?” your grandkids ask.
“Sure,” you say.
“I don’t think she does,” they say.
“Sure, why wouldn’t she?” you say, growing less sure.
Your grandkids say, “It’s not that we don’t believe you, but maybe you should tell us which president she was married to. We won’t tell.”
You don’t want to betray her, but you don’t want your grandkids to think you’re a fraud. You can trust them.
“Fine,” you say. “It was President Lumpkus. Perhaps you heard of him? And his wife, the first lady, Jenny Lumpkus, was my lover.”
Your grandkids don’t know how to say this to you.
“Granddad, you really didn’t keep up on current events,” they say.
You know the truth without them laying it out for you. You probably always knew.
“No President Lumpkus?” you ask.
“Never was one,” they say. “Not yet.”
“Dammit!” you exclaim. “Why do broads always have to lie to get into a guy’s bedroom?”
Tonight you’ll lay in your bed looking at the photo of Jenny Lumpkus that she gave you to remember her by. She still gave you a few months of erotic bliss. And you got to live most of your life feeling special. Important.
If only you’d died before you learned the truth.
Happy You Used To Date The First Lady Of The United States Day!
“Which one, Grandpa?” your grandkids ask.
“Which what?”
“Which First Lady?” they ask.
You’ll never tell. That’s your gift to her. Your expression of gratitude for those few months when she visited your two-room apartment and surrendered her body to you. She had the leader of the free world at home waiting in her bed, but she came to you. She shared her skin, her lips, her legs, her touch, with you. She once even stamped your pelvis with her “Property Of The Office Of The First Lady Of The United States” stamp.
“I didn’t wash my body for weeks,” you tell them.
“The first lady carries around a stamp like that?” your grandkids ask.
“Sure,” you say.
“I don’t think she does,” they say.
“Sure, why wouldn’t she?” you say, growing less sure.
Your grandkids say, “It’s not that we don’t believe you, but maybe you should tell us which president she was married to. We won’t tell.”
You don’t want to betray her, but you don’t want your grandkids to think you’re a fraud. You can trust them.
“Fine,” you say. “It was President Lumpkus. Perhaps you heard of him? And his wife, the first lady, Jenny Lumpkus, was my lover.”
Your grandkids don’t know how to say this to you.
“Granddad, you really didn’t keep up on current events,” they say.
You know the truth without them laying it out for you. You probably always knew.
“No President Lumpkus?” you ask.
“Never was one,” they say. “Not yet.”
“Dammit!” you exclaim. “Why do broads always have to lie to get into a guy’s bedroom?”
Tonight you’ll lay in your bed looking at the photo of Jenny Lumpkus that she gave you to remember her by. She still gave you a few months of erotic bliss. And you got to live most of your life feeling special. Important.
If only you’d died before you learned the truth.
Happy You Used To Date The First Lady Of The United States Day!
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
You Married Poor Day!
The TV shows and the movies lied. They showed rich married couples as icy, loveless husks who cared more about their design pieces and the temperature of their Chardonnay than they did about each other’s hearts. So you married poor.
“We’re supposed to be more in love,” you shout at your broke husband. “Since we aren’t corrupted by luxury, our love is supposed to be pure.”
“I love you,” he says it like a question.
“No, but we’re supposed to be really in love,” you insist. “You’re supposed to come home and see me and not even care that we’re going to lose the house.”
“But when I see you I wonder how you’ll stay warm when we don’t have a house,” he says.
“With your love!” you exclaim.
“That’s stupid,” he says.
Give him the divorce papers.
“Sorry,” tell him. “I want to leave you and marry Jeff.”
“The oil magnate?”
“He’s more of a tycoon, but yes. He’s been waiting.”
Your husband will be sad, but with you gone, there’ll be less money he needs to earn.
When you call Jeff and tell him the news, he’ll shout, “Sweet! Took you long enough. What happened to your husband? Did he die of an easily treatable condition that went untreated due to insurance problems?”
Tell Jeff you just realized you’d married for the wrong reasons. Ask him if he minds that you spent eleven years with another man solely because you assumed it was wrong to marry rich.
“You were poor when you made that decision,” Jeff will reassure you. “And I couldn’t care less about anything a poor person thinks. But you’re going to be rich now. So watch what conclusions you make about me.”
You tell Jeff you’ll be more discerning from now on. You’ll marry in Fiji, then you’ll spend the next 30 years picking out furniture for the houses.
Happy You Married Poor Day!
“We’re supposed to be more in love,” you shout at your broke husband. “Since we aren’t corrupted by luxury, our love is supposed to be pure.”
“I love you,” he says it like a question.
“No, but we’re supposed to be really in love,” you insist. “You’re supposed to come home and see me and not even care that we’re going to lose the house.”
“But when I see you I wonder how you’ll stay warm when we don’t have a house,” he says.
“With your love!” you exclaim.
“That’s stupid,” he says.
Give him the divorce papers.
“Sorry,” tell him. “I want to leave you and marry Jeff.”
“The oil magnate?”
“He’s more of a tycoon, but yes. He’s been waiting.”
Your husband will be sad, but with you gone, there’ll be less money he needs to earn.
When you call Jeff and tell him the news, he’ll shout, “Sweet! Took you long enough. What happened to your husband? Did he die of an easily treatable condition that went untreated due to insurance problems?”
Tell Jeff you just realized you’d married for the wrong reasons. Ask him if he minds that you spent eleven years with another man solely because you assumed it was wrong to marry rich.
“You were poor when you made that decision,” Jeff will reassure you. “And I couldn’t care less about anything a poor person thinks. But you’re going to be rich now. So watch what conclusions you make about me.”
You tell Jeff you’ll be more discerning from now on. You’ll marry in Fiji, then you’ll spend the next 30 years picking out furniture for the houses.
Happy You Married Poor Day!
Monday, August 12, 2013
Married Woman Day!
You’re dating a married woman who says she won’t leave her husband so you should date other women.
Tell her, “I’m not an idiot. I’m already dating other married women.
“Other married women?” she’ll ask.
“Um, yeah?” you’ll say, real sarcastic like. “They’re the best.”
Explain that married dating married women makes you feel really wanted, because they broke all these vows and have to sneak around and stuff just to be with you. Also, they bring leftovers from the dinners they made their husbands and kids.
“Also, if you date enough of them, at least one or two will let you help them kill their husbands for a cut of the insurance. I’m rich!”
She’ll say she’s stunned and ashamed. She thought there was a real attraction between the two of you. Now that she knows it’s just some weird fetish for you to date married women, she wants to end it.
“I’m going to go back to my husband and rededicate myself to my marriage,” she’ll say. “I’ll never cheat again.”
“That’s another thing,” tell her. “Being the reason a woman goes back to her husband and rededicates herself to her marriage, that really makes me feel good inside. Glad I could help.”
She already left. Call Tina. She’ll be done dropping her kids off at soccer by now.
Happy Married Woman Day!
Tell her, “I’m not an idiot. I’m already dating other married women.
“Other married women?” she’ll ask.
“Um, yeah?” you’ll say, real sarcastic like. “They’re the best.”
Explain that married dating married women makes you feel really wanted, because they broke all these vows and have to sneak around and stuff just to be with you. Also, they bring leftovers from the dinners they made their husbands and kids.
“Also, if you date enough of them, at least one or two will let you help them kill their husbands for a cut of the insurance. I’m rich!”
She’ll say she’s stunned and ashamed. She thought there was a real attraction between the two of you. Now that she knows it’s just some weird fetish for you to date married women, she wants to end it.
“I’m going to go back to my husband and rededicate myself to my marriage,” she’ll say. “I’ll never cheat again.”
“That’s another thing,” tell her. “Being the reason a woman goes back to her husband and rededicates herself to her marriage, that really makes me feel good inside. Glad I could help.”
She already left. Call Tina. She’ll be done dropping her kids off at soccer by now.
Happy Married Woman Day!
Sunday, August 11, 2013
The Reason You Drink Day!
Your drinking buddy’s wife wants to know the reason you drink.
“You drink more than him,” she says. “And he drinks a lot. Why do you drink all that?”
“Because you married the wrong drunk,” tell her.
The two of you drink to it. You spill a little on each other’s naked bodies when you toast. Then you roll over, under the sheets because it’s chilly, and you start having sex again.
Midway through she asks, “Would you have drank less if I married you instead?”
You know you would have. All the nights when the only drink you had was to drown the knowledge that she was at home in bed with him, none of those drinks would have been necessary.
“There’d be others, you know,” she says. “You drink because you don’t have me. You’d drink because you do.”
She finishes.
“If you did,” she pants.
You know that’s true.
“Shame I never got to find out what those drinks taste like,” you tell her.
Happy The Reason You Drink Day!
“You drink more than him,” she says. “And he drinks a lot. Why do you drink all that?”
“Because you married the wrong drunk,” tell her.
The two of you drink to it. You spill a little on each other’s naked bodies when you toast. Then you roll over, under the sheets because it’s chilly, and you start having sex again.
Midway through she asks, “Would you have drank less if I married you instead?”
You know you would have. All the nights when the only drink you had was to drown the knowledge that she was at home in bed with him, none of those drinks would have been necessary.
“There’d be others, you know,” she says. “You drink because you don’t have me. You’d drink because you do.”
She finishes.
“If you did,” she pants.
You know that’s true.
“Shame I never got to find out what those drinks taste like,” you tell her.
Happy The Reason You Drink Day!
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Buried Alive Day!
The dirt’s stopped falling. You can’t hear anyone talking anymore. It’s silent, except for the sound of your breathing. You just got buried alive. Bet you’re rethinking one or two of your decisions, huh asshole?
Happy Buried Alive Day!
Happy Buried Alive Day!
Friday, August 09, 2013
No Time Like The Present, Except For April 9, 2004 Day!
You’ve got a lot on your to-do list. And even more on your bucket list. And let’s not even get started on the point-by-point five year plan to achieve everything you want to achieve professionally and romantically. Well, there’s no time like the present, unless you count April 9, 2004.
If you want to get things done, putting off what you could do now is only going to make things harder. Granted, you’re nowhere near the person you were on April 9, 2004, when you were at your peak physical and emotional self. Your brain chemistry was like a high-functioning state-of-the-art machine, and you were brimming with confidence, introspection, and curiosity. It’s safe to say you could have excelled at anything you put your mind to on April 9, 2004 (you ended up renting some DVDs and vegging out that day). Man, what promise you held briefly.
Still, that day and every subsequent day of gradual decline aside, no time like the present!
Happy No Time Like The Present, Except For April 9, 2004 Day!
If you want to get things done, putting off what you could do now is only going to make things harder. Granted, you’re nowhere near the person you were on April 9, 2004, when you were at your peak physical and emotional self. Your brain chemistry was like a high-functioning state-of-the-art machine, and you were brimming with confidence, introspection, and curiosity. It’s safe to say you could have excelled at anything you put your mind to on April 9, 2004 (you ended up renting some DVDs and vegging out that day). Man, what promise you held briefly.
Still, that day and every subsequent day of gradual decline aside, no time like the present!
Happy No Time Like The Present, Except For April 9, 2004 Day!
Thursday, August 08, 2013
Ask Your Mom Why Love Hurts Day!
“It used to feel so good,” tell her. “Now it hurts so bad. Why is that?”
“I wouldn’t know,” your mom will say. “Never been in love.”
“Hey!” your Dad will say. He’ll get up from the dining room table and go out on the lawn to sulk. The divorced lady who lives across the street will see him out there and she’ll run over and they’ll have an affair right there on the grass while the bug zapper sings its murderous song of summer.
“Oh my God,” your mom will say while watching your dad make love to the divorced lady on the grass. “I guess I have been in love, because I really, really hurt right now.”
Ask your mom if she’ll answer your goddamn question then, or is she too busy thinking about herself. She’ll just stare out the window and weep.
“I’m not enjoying this you know!” your dad, still inside the divorced lady, will shout.
Happy Ask Your Mom Why Love Hurts Day!
“I wouldn’t know,” your mom will say. “Never been in love.”
“Hey!” your Dad will say. He’ll get up from the dining room table and go out on the lawn to sulk. The divorced lady who lives across the street will see him out there and she’ll run over and they’ll have an affair right there on the grass while the bug zapper sings its murderous song of summer.
“Oh my God,” your mom will say while watching your dad make love to the divorced lady on the grass. “I guess I have been in love, because I really, really hurt right now.”
Ask your mom if she’ll answer your goddamn question then, or is she too busy thinking about herself. She’ll just stare out the window and weep.
“I’m not enjoying this you know!” your dad, still inside the divorced lady, will shout.
Happy Ask Your Mom Why Love Hurts Day!
Wednesday, August 07, 2013
Camp Murder Day!
Your mom works three jobs and is just scraping by, but she still wants you to have a summer camp experience. Unfortunately, the only camp she can afford to send you to is Camp Murder.
“They only average about three murders a day,” she’ll tell you. “And between the murders, you’ll still be able to swim and hike and have fun. Just make sure you stretch a lot so you don’t cramp up running from the murderer. And don’t fall for any girls. Getting physical with a girl will basically sign your death certificate.”
“Why can’t I go to Camp Diamond Lake?” you’ll pout.
Your mom will pull over by the side of the road. She’ll stare out her window, looking at nothing in particular. When you see her shoulders shake, you’ll realize you made your mom cry. She works so hard, day in and day out, trying to give you the best life she can give, but it’s still far from the life she wishes she could give to you. The life she knows you deserve.
Before you get the chance to say you’re sorry, she’ll say it to you.
“I’m sorry my sweetie,” she’ll say. “I’m sorry that you can’t have everything you should have. But what we got to do, while times are hard, is we got to make the most of what we got. We got to take the bad, and we got to make it good. Can you do that for me sweetie? Can you do that with me?”
You’re crying now too. “Yes mommy,” tell her. “Of course I can. And I bet I’m going to have the best summer of my life at this camp, even if it is called Camp Murder.”
“That’s my boy,” she’ll say. The two of you will hug and wipe away the tears, then your mom will continue the drive to the camp.
On your second day of camp you’ll be murdered.
Happy Camp Murder Day!
“They only average about three murders a day,” she’ll tell you. “And between the murders, you’ll still be able to swim and hike and have fun. Just make sure you stretch a lot so you don’t cramp up running from the murderer. And don’t fall for any girls. Getting physical with a girl will basically sign your death certificate.”
“Why can’t I go to Camp Diamond Lake?” you’ll pout.
Your mom will pull over by the side of the road. She’ll stare out her window, looking at nothing in particular. When you see her shoulders shake, you’ll realize you made your mom cry. She works so hard, day in and day out, trying to give you the best life she can give, but it’s still far from the life she wishes she could give to you. The life she knows you deserve.
Before you get the chance to say you’re sorry, she’ll say it to you.
“I’m sorry my sweetie,” she’ll say. “I’m sorry that you can’t have everything you should have. But what we got to do, while times are hard, is we got to make the most of what we got. We got to take the bad, and we got to make it good. Can you do that for me sweetie? Can you do that with me?”
You’re crying now too. “Yes mommy,” tell her. “Of course I can. And I bet I’m going to have the best summer of my life at this camp, even if it is called Camp Murder.”
“That’s my boy,” she’ll say. The two of you will hug and wipe away the tears, then your mom will continue the drive to the camp.
On your second day of camp you’ll be murdered.
Happy Camp Murder Day!
Tuesday, August 06, 2013
The World Has To Be Saved By Lou, Who Loves You Day!
Lou, who loves you, has to leave you.
“But we have weddings to go to,” tell him. “I have to go alone?”
Lou, who loves you, has to save the world. He’s the only one who can save it.
“It’s written in a scroll or something,” he’ll say. He’ll show you the scroll. It will say, “The world will end in the year 2013, unless it’s saved by this guy named Lou, who loves [your full name with middle initial] who lives at [your address] and has the social security number [your social security number] and the following three secrets [your secret about the thing you heard your dad say to your mom when your mom was crying, your secret about the time you stole a hat full of money from a street busker, and your secret about the time you pulled over at a car crash before any help was there, and then drove away without doing anything even though the driver was unconscious.]”
“You love me?” ask him.
He never said it before. Seeing it in that scroll is the first time the word even entered the space between you two. Lou, who loves you, will nod.
“Yeah,” he’ll say. “And I love you so much, I don’t even care if the world ends. As long as we’re together!”
“I’m so glad you feel that way!” you’ll shout, as you hug him and the two of you go into your bedroom, putting all that “saving the world” silliness behind you as you have the kind of sex people have when they recently decided they love each other. The world will end a few days later. Thanks, dick.
Happy The World Has To Be Saved By Lou, Who Loves You Day!
“But we have weddings to go to,” tell him. “I have to go alone?”
Lou, who loves you, has to save the world. He’s the only one who can save it.
“It’s written in a scroll or something,” he’ll say. He’ll show you the scroll. It will say, “The world will end in the year 2013, unless it’s saved by this guy named Lou, who loves [your full name with middle initial] who lives at [your address] and has the social security number [your social security number] and the following three secrets [your secret about the thing you heard your dad say to your mom when your mom was crying, your secret about the time you stole a hat full of money from a street busker, and your secret about the time you pulled over at a car crash before any help was there, and then drove away without doing anything even though the driver was unconscious.]”
“You love me?” ask him.
He never said it before. Seeing it in that scroll is the first time the word even entered the space between you two. Lou, who loves you, will nod.
“Yeah,” he’ll say. “And I love you so much, I don’t even care if the world ends. As long as we’re together!”
“I’m so glad you feel that way!” you’ll shout, as you hug him and the two of you go into your bedroom, putting all that “saving the world” silliness behind you as you have the kind of sex people have when they recently decided they love each other. The world will end a few days later. Thanks, dick.
Happy The World Has To Be Saved By Lou, Who Loves You Day!
Monday, August 05, 2013
Haunted Bike Room Day!
Your wife says the bike room is haunted.
“Really?” you ask, panicked.
“As I was walking past it a ghost called me inside,” she says. “He said the things he sees are things I would never in my life want to see. I ran away but he said I won’t be able to run forever.”
“I have sex with the other tenants on the bikes,” tell her. “I go into the bike room and we use the seats. Sometimes one of us sits on the seat. Sometimes one of us bends over the seat. I’m into sex on the seats.”
“You cheated on my with a tenant in our building?”
“I cheated on you with all of the tenants in our building,” tell her. “The ghost was going to tell you eventually, but I’d rather you hear it from me.”
Ask her if she’s at least impressed that you managed to have sex with all of the tenants in the building. “I’m that attractive,” say.
Your wife will say that she is impressed, but she’s still going to leave you.
“But why,” ask her. “Now that I know that room is haunted, I’m too scared to go in there. No more bicycle seats, no more cheating.”
“The bike room isn’t haunted,” she’ll say. “I read in a magazine that the best way to get your husband to admit to stuff is to tell him a ghost is going to tell you.”
Say, “Oh. Cool.”
Your wife will move out, and you’ll stay in the apartment and continue to have sex with tenants in the bike room. Just to be safe, you’ll occasionally have an exorcist come by to make sure the room still isn’t haunted, then you’ll have sex with him on one of the bicycle seats.
Happy Haunted Bike Room Day!
“Really?” you ask, panicked.
“As I was walking past it a ghost called me inside,” she says. “He said the things he sees are things I would never in my life want to see. I ran away but he said I won’t be able to run forever.”
“I have sex with the other tenants on the bikes,” tell her. “I go into the bike room and we use the seats. Sometimes one of us sits on the seat. Sometimes one of us bends over the seat. I’m into sex on the seats.”
“You cheated on my with a tenant in our building?”
“I cheated on you with all of the tenants in our building,” tell her. “The ghost was going to tell you eventually, but I’d rather you hear it from me.”
Ask her if she’s at least impressed that you managed to have sex with all of the tenants in the building. “I’m that attractive,” say.
Your wife will say that she is impressed, but she’s still going to leave you.
“But why,” ask her. “Now that I know that room is haunted, I’m too scared to go in there. No more bicycle seats, no more cheating.”
“The bike room isn’t haunted,” she’ll say. “I read in a magazine that the best way to get your husband to admit to stuff is to tell him a ghost is going to tell you.”
Say, “Oh. Cool.”
Your wife will move out, and you’ll stay in the apartment and continue to have sex with tenants in the bike room. Just to be safe, you’ll occasionally have an exorcist come by to make sure the room still isn’t haunted, then you’ll have sex with him on one of the bicycle seats.
Happy Haunted Bike Room Day!
Sunday, August 04, 2013
Cooking At Home Day!
You and your husband have been ordering in dinner way too much. A little while ago you suggested, “Why don’t we cook tonight?”
“That’s a great idea,” your husband said.
You searched online for a great recipe that called for you to use utensils that you presently own and recognizable ingredients that you’re pretty sure your grocery store sells.
“This is gonna be fun!” you said to your husband.
“Let’s get shopping. I can’t wait to eat this dish,” your husband said.
You’re headed to the grocery store right now, where a cashier’s angry ex-boyfriend showed up a few minutes ago with a shotgun. He’s already killed the store manager and he’s wounded his ex. When the two of you walk in, he’ll shoot your husband dead. You’ll hold your husband’s head in your hands as he dies. He’ll be tackled before he can shoot you too, but you’ll spend the next few years wishing he had pulled the trigger. You’re a block away from the store right now. There’s still time for you to turn around, go back to your couch and order in. There’s still time for you to realize you never should have tried cooking at home.
Happy Cooking At Home Day!
“That’s a great idea,” your husband said.
You searched online for a great recipe that called for you to use utensils that you presently own and recognizable ingredients that you’re pretty sure your grocery store sells.
“This is gonna be fun!” you said to your husband.
“Let’s get shopping. I can’t wait to eat this dish,” your husband said.
You’re headed to the grocery store right now, where a cashier’s angry ex-boyfriend showed up a few minutes ago with a shotgun. He’s already killed the store manager and he’s wounded his ex. When the two of you walk in, he’ll shoot your husband dead. You’ll hold your husband’s head in your hands as he dies. He’ll be tackled before he can shoot you too, but you’ll spend the next few years wishing he had pulled the trigger. You’re a block away from the store right now. There’s still time for you to turn around, go back to your couch and order in. There’s still time for you to realize you never should have tried cooking at home.
Happy Cooking At Home Day!
Saturday, August 03, 2013
Just Stop Being Day!
When someone asks you to help with dinner or to give them a ride to the hospital or how your day is going, say, “I am not.”
They’ll say, “Not what?”
Don’t say anything else. Only people who are still being can talk.
“Not WHAT?!” they’ll demand, getting frustrated. They might start to hit you, but there’s nothing to hit.
Happy Just Stop Being Day!
They’ll say, “Not what?”
Don’t say anything else. Only people who are still being can talk.
“Not WHAT?!” they’ll demand, getting frustrated. They might start to hit you, but there’s nothing to hit.
Happy Just Stop Being Day!
Friday, August 02, 2013
Lovers Screaming In The Street Day!
Three more porch lights just flickered awake at the sound of someone screaming the words “Psycho Bitch Demon.”
They want to see it. We all want to witness it. Witness the lovers screaming in the street. Your love is stronger than ours. We know it, and we want to pay our respects by watching one of you duck as the other of you grabs a planter from a lawn and sends it flying at the other’s head.
Your love is so big and combustible that you have to take it out of doors, away from innocents, into the middle of a street where hopefully no passing motorist will be distracted by someone so vehemently accusing someone else of being a “cocksucking failure of a man.”
Man is a warring creature. When someone surrenders to love as completely as you have, when that love threatens to lower all defenses, that violent, aggressive instinct to protect borders kicks in.
An attack is launched. Sometimes at the dinner party my wife decided to throw. She’s scraping sweet potatoes off the wall, but she’ll be at the window to listen to you soon enough.
What more important border is there than the border between self and other? Your love threatens to erase that border altogether, it compels you to tear down the checkpoints, rip up the passports, and give yourselves entirely to each other.
This can’t be allowed. That’s why you’re shouting in a cul-de-sac, accusing each other of destroying each other’s lives. You’re just trying to fight against something stronger than you, stronger than all of us.
The police just pulled into the cul-de-sac, then made a u-turn and peeled away. Out of respect.
Happy Lovers Screaming In The Street Day!
They want to see it. We all want to witness it. Witness the lovers screaming in the street. Your love is stronger than ours. We know it, and we want to pay our respects by watching one of you duck as the other of you grabs a planter from a lawn and sends it flying at the other’s head.
Your love is so big and combustible that you have to take it out of doors, away from innocents, into the middle of a street where hopefully no passing motorist will be distracted by someone so vehemently accusing someone else of being a “cocksucking failure of a man.”
Man is a warring creature. When someone surrenders to love as completely as you have, when that love threatens to lower all defenses, that violent, aggressive instinct to protect borders kicks in.
An attack is launched. Sometimes at the dinner party my wife decided to throw. She’s scraping sweet potatoes off the wall, but she’ll be at the window to listen to you soon enough.
What more important border is there than the border between self and other? Your love threatens to erase that border altogether, it compels you to tear down the checkpoints, rip up the passports, and give yourselves entirely to each other.
This can’t be allowed. That’s why you’re shouting in a cul-de-sac, accusing each other of destroying each other’s lives. You’re just trying to fight against something stronger than you, stronger than all of us.
The police just pulled into the cul-de-sac, then made a u-turn and peeled away. Out of respect.
Happy Lovers Screaming In The Street Day!
Thursday, August 01, 2013
Hotelier Day!
You’re a wealthy hotelier whose wife took your kids and is moving them from hotel to hotel, staying in a Penthouse suite for weeks at a time before flying to a new city to stay in the Penthouse suite of another of your 4-star luxury accommodations.
“If anyone sees my wife and kids,” you wrote on the flyer you posted in the employee break rooms of all of your hotels, featuring photos of your wife and children, “let me know immediately and you will see a $200 bonus in your next paycheck.”
Your staffs despise you, and harboring your wife and children while they run from you has given them endless joy. They bring them vast buffets of room service, morning, noon and night. The more educated of your staff have been tutoring your children, so that they aren’t behind in school when they finally stop running from you. They’ve even been feeding you false information, sending you flying from Milan to Paris with a fake tip that your wife and kids had just checked in.
“Sorry sir,” you’re told when you arrive. “They must have just sneaked out.”
This is how you’re going to divest yourself of your empire. You’re going to start selling off your hotels, one by one, to limit the number of places she can hide. Until finally, when you’re left with nothing but a vast sum of liquid cash, she’ll come out of hiding and file for divorce, taking half of everything.
But for now, you’re drawing up a new flyer, where you up the employee bonus to $225.
$225. That’s the price you put on reuniting with your family.
Everyone knows you originally planned to offer $300, but decided to lowball.
Happy Hotelier Day!
“If anyone sees my wife and kids,” you wrote on the flyer you posted in the employee break rooms of all of your hotels, featuring photos of your wife and children, “let me know immediately and you will see a $200 bonus in your next paycheck.”
Your staffs despise you, and harboring your wife and children while they run from you has given them endless joy. They bring them vast buffets of room service, morning, noon and night. The more educated of your staff have been tutoring your children, so that they aren’t behind in school when they finally stop running from you. They’ve even been feeding you false information, sending you flying from Milan to Paris with a fake tip that your wife and kids had just checked in.
“Sorry sir,” you’re told when you arrive. “They must have just sneaked out.”
This is how you’re going to divest yourself of your empire. You’re going to start selling off your hotels, one by one, to limit the number of places she can hide. Until finally, when you’re left with nothing but a vast sum of liquid cash, she’ll come out of hiding and file for divorce, taking half of everything.
But for now, you’re drawing up a new flyer, where you up the employee bonus to $225.
$225. That’s the price you put on reuniting with your family.
Everyone knows you originally planned to offer $300, but decided to lowball.
Happy Hotelier Day!
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Slip Into Your Fat Pants Day!
The world is more tangible. Your senses are alive. The colors are brighter. The smells more pungent.
You.
Feel.
Everything.
When you smile it’s because you’re pleased, not polite. When you laugh, the truth of a joke has reached into your body and yanked the laughter from you. When you cry, you know exactly why you’re crying.
Plain as day.
Slip into your fat pants and the veil is torn from in front of your eyes. Life is lived, directly. The plastic, protective coating of your too-tight jeans have been shed. You’re in your true skin. You’re in truth.
You’re in your fat pants.
Repeat after me:
“I live my true life, as my true self, occupying my true space in the world.
The lies are in my hamper.
I am wearing my fat pants, the pants that fit the person I am, not the person I wish I could be.
I am wearing my fat pants.
I wear the universe in a relaxed fit style.”
Happy Slip Into Your Fat Pants Day!
You.
Feel.
Everything.
When you smile it’s because you’re pleased, not polite. When you laugh, the truth of a joke has reached into your body and yanked the laughter from you. When you cry, you know exactly why you’re crying.
Plain as day.
Slip into your fat pants and the veil is torn from in front of your eyes. Life is lived, directly. The plastic, protective coating of your too-tight jeans have been shed. You’re in your true skin. You’re in truth.
You’re in your fat pants.
Repeat after me:
“I live my true life, as my true self, occupying my true space in the world.
The lies are in my hamper.
I am wearing my fat pants, the pants that fit the person I am, not the person I wish I could be.
I am wearing my fat pants.
I wear the universe in a relaxed fit style.”
Happy Slip Into Your Fat Pants Day!
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Survivors Day!
Tell her, “I keep thinking that we were meant to be together ever since we survived that crash.”
She’ll say, “What crash? Who are you?”
Remind her that you were her seatmate on the doomed Flight 363 to Phoenix.
“That flight landed fine,” she’ll say.
“Fine?” you force a laugh. “It was pretty bumpy.”
“It was turbulence!” she’ll say. Then she’ll shout into her house, “Jeff!”
Jeff will come to the door. “You bothering my wife?”
“He’s trying to date me because we were on a bumpy plane together.”
“And we survived!” you remind her. “Why were we put there and allowed to make it safely to land if we weren’t meant to be together?”
Jeff will think about it. “I’ll go pack my bags.”
“Jeff!”
“He’s got a point, honey,” Jeff will say. “You and I never had no shared experience like that. What’s holding us together? You can keep the kids.”
Jeff will pack his car while you unpack yours and bring your things into the bedroom. Once all your stuff is inside you’ll sit down for dinner and eat what’s left on Jeff’s plate. Your seatmate from Flight 363 will cry in the kitchen.
Happy Survivors Day!
She’ll say, “What crash? Who are you?”
Remind her that you were her seatmate on the doomed Flight 363 to Phoenix.
“That flight landed fine,” she’ll say.
“Fine?” you force a laugh. “It was pretty bumpy.”
“It was turbulence!” she’ll say. Then she’ll shout into her house, “Jeff!”
Jeff will come to the door. “You bothering my wife?”
“He’s trying to date me because we were on a bumpy plane together.”
“And we survived!” you remind her. “Why were we put there and allowed to make it safely to land if we weren’t meant to be together?”
Jeff will think about it. “I’ll go pack my bags.”
“Jeff!”
“He’s got a point, honey,” Jeff will say. “You and I never had no shared experience like that. What’s holding us together? You can keep the kids.”
Jeff will pack his car while you unpack yours and bring your things into the bedroom. Once all your stuff is inside you’ll sit down for dinner and eat what’s left on Jeff’s plate. Your seatmate from Flight 363 will cry in the kitchen.
Happy Survivors Day!
Monday, July 29, 2013
Falafel Restaurant Day!
Today you are a falafel restaurant. You’re called “Chick Pea” or “Tahini” or “Pita Town” or some other completely unimaginative name based on one of the ingredients you offer. The name serves only to warn people that you do not bring pleasure to their lives.
“I ruin dinners,” you confess to your therapist, a bowl of olives. “One person who has terrible ideas about what dinner should be will tell his or her significant other, ‘Let’s go to the falafel place.’ The significant other will agree either because they picked the restaurant yesterday or they don’t think they deserve joy, and they’ll come to me and eat my food and it’s always among the least pleasurable experiences of their lives.”
“You could always kill yourself,” the bowl of olives tells you.
Tomorrow police will be baffled when they find a falafel restaurant hanging from the side of a neighboring apartment building. Written on the sidewalk in tahini sauce: “I’m sorry.”
Happy Falafel Restaurant Day!
“I ruin dinners,” you confess to your therapist, a bowl of olives. “One person who has terrible ideas about what dinner should be will tell his or her significant other, ‘Let’s go to the falafel place.’ The significant other will agree either because they picked the restaurant yesterday or they don’t think they deserve joy, and they’ll come to me and eat my food and it’s always among the least pleasurable experiences of their lives.”
“You could always kill yourself,” the bowl of olives tells you.
Tomorrow police will be baffled when they find a falafel restaurant hanging from the side of a neighboring apartment building. Written on the sidewalk in tahini sauce: “I’m sorry.”
Happy Falafel Restaurant Day!
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Breakup Sex Day!
“Want to have some breakup sex?” ask him.
He’ll protest that you aren’t broken up yet.
“I know,” say. “I want to break up while having sex.”
In between kisses, tell him it’s just not working out. As he fondles your breasts, explain that you’re really busy right now and you need to focus on your work. Perform oral sex on him, then tell him he never really gave you what you needed emotionally while he reciprocates, using his mouth to bring you to orgasm (your usual order of things is you have an orgasm orally before intercourse since you can’t via intercourse). During intercourse, he’ll beg for another chance, panting and thrusting while insisting he could be a better man. You’ll feel full with him, like you’re consuming him, as you tell him he’s a great guy and there’s a girl out there who’s right for him but it’s just not you, then he’ll climax.
As he goes into the bathroom to remove his condom, start gathering your things from his room. When he comes back out, both of you still naked, give him a weak hug goodbye.
“Breakup sex is so hot,” whisper in his ear as you give him a light back-pat. After you pull on your clothes, block him from your phone and unfriend him on Facebook.
Happy Breakup Sex Day!
He’ll protest that you aren’t broken up yet.
“I know,” say. “I want to break up while having sex.”
In between kisses, tell him it’s just not working out. As he fondles your breasts, explain that you’re really busy right now and you need to focus on your work. Perform oral sex on him, then tell him he never really gave you what you needed emotionally while he reciprocates, using his mouth to bring you to orgasm (your usual order of things is you have an orgasm orally before intercourse since you can’t via intercourse). During intercourse, he’ll beg for another chance, panting and thrusting while insisting he could be a better man. You’ll feel full with him, like you’re consuming him, as you tell him he’s a great guy and there’s a girl out there who’s right for him but it’s just not you, then he’ll climax.
As he goes into the bathroom to remove his condom, start gathering your things from his room. When he comes back out, both of you still naked, give him a weak hug goodbye.
“Breakup sex is so hot,” whisper in his ear as you give him a light back-pat. After you pull on your clothes, block him from your phone and unfriend him on Facebook.
Happy Breakup Sex Day!
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Your Husband Could Die Otherwise Is The Addictive New Game For Smartphones Day!
Giraffes are trying to break into a house, the house that your husband’s in. You need to fight off the giraffes with balloons. Your husband could die otherwise.
“Honey we’re going to be late,” your husband shouts.
“BUT YOU COULD DIE!” you shout back as you continue to play on the toilet.
The game has been sweeping the nation, as has a rash of husband deaths thanks to wives who suck at smart-phone gaming. Millions of husbands across the country are being buried every week, and the census bureau is worried that their most recent numbers are already meaningless.
“That game’s so addictive,“ the census bureau says. "We could see less than 10% of American households with a proper father-figure by 2015, which means crime.”
But you’re not going to let your husband die.
“You quit your job?” he asks.
You shout that you didn’t quit. You just didn’t show up so they fired you. Then a giraffe knocks out the back window of the house and you tell him to talk to you about it later.
“I’m having an affair,” your husband says. “You haven’t been there for me.”
You tell him you’d be happy if he slept with the whole neighborhood, as long as he was alive, as long as it wasn’t you that let him die.
You finally beat the game and your phone automatically downloads Your Husband Could Die Otherwise Rio!
Happy Your Husband Could Die Otherwise Is The Addictive New Game For Smartphones Day!
“Honey we’re going to be late,” your husband shouts.
“BUT YOU COULD DIE!” you shout back as you continue to play on the toilet.
The game has been sweeping the nation, as has a rash of husband deaths thanks to wives who suck at smart-phone gaming. Millions of husbands across the country are being buried every week, and the census bureau is worried that their most recent numbers are already meaningless.
“That game’s so addictive,“ the census bureau says. "We could see less than 10% of American households with a proper father-figure by 2015, which means crime.”
But you’re not going to let your husband die.
“You quit your job?” he asks.
You shout that you didn’t quit. You just didn’t show up so they fired you. Then a giraffe knocks out the back window of the house and you tell him to talk to you about it later.
“I’m having an affair,” your husband says. “You haven’t been there for me.”
You tell him you’d be happy if he slept with the whole neighborhood, as long as he was alive, as long as it wasn’t you that let him die.
You finally beat the game and your phone automatically downloads Your Husband Could Die Otherwise Rio!
Happy Your Husband Could Die Otherwise Is The Addictive New Game For Smartphones Day!
Friday, July 26, 2013
Undercover Lovers Day!
You were just infiltrating the high school to find a dealer. You never expected to fall in love.
“You’re just so mature,” you tell Veronica. “You’re not like these other kids.”
Veronica tells you don’t.
You tell her, “I can’t help it.”
Veronica tells you it’s wrong.
You tell her, “It’s never felt so right.”
Veronica tells you you don’t know who she is. But she knows who you are.
You pull away. “I’m just a transfer student. Looking to buy some of the pot, if you know a dealer. Wait, who do you think I am?”
Veronica says, “You’re Officer Pendleton, Narcotics Division.”
Your cover is blown.
“Veronica please,” you beg her. “If my identity is found out, I could be demoted. And my life could be in danger. If you love me as much as I love you, please don’t tell anyone I’m a cop.”
Veronica promises she won’t. Blowing a fellow officer’s cover would boot her off the force.
“What are you saying, Veronica?” you ask.
“My name isn’t Veronica,” she says, pulling out her badge. “It’s Officer Royce, IAD. I was sent her to investigate undercover officers establishing inappropriate relationships with students.”
She’s here to bust you. Even though she’s not a student, you didn’t know that when you professed your love to her.
“Write what you want in the report,” you tell her. “I don’t care about my badge anymore. Discovering that you’re old enough for me to have a legitimate relationship with has made me the happiest man on earth.”
Officer Royce asks what you’ll do for work after she takes your badge. She can’t support the both of you on an IAD income.
“I was thinking of becoming a high school teacher,” you say.
The two of you laugh. The two of you kiss. You kiss deeply. A kiss that lasts all through the days of IAD hearings and shameful newspaper coverage to follow.
Once your badge and gun are taken away, you move into Officer Royce’s apartment and begin studying to get your teacher’s license. You’re going to need that income quick, what with a the half-IAD, half-disgraced former narc baby in Officer Royce’s belly.
Happy Undercover Lovers Day!
“You’re just so mature,” you tell Veronica. “You’re not like these other kids.”
Veronica tells you don’t.
You tell her, “I can’t help it.”
Veronica tells you it’s wrong.
You tell her, “It’s never felt so right.”
Veronica tells you you don’t know who she is. But she knows who you are.
You pull away. “I’m just a transfer student. Looking to buy some of the pot, if you know a dealer. Wait, who do you think I am?”
Veronica says, “You’re Officer Pendleton, Narcotics Division.”
Your cover is blown.
“Veronica please,” you beg her. “If my identity is found out, I could be demoted. And my life could be in danger. If you love me as much as I love you, please don’t tell anyone I’m a cop.”
Veronica promises she won’t. Blowing a fellow officer’s cover would boot her off the force.
“What are you saying, Veronica?” you ask.
“My name isn’t Veronica,” she says, pulling out her badge. “It’s Officer Royce, IAD. I was sent her to investigate undercover officers establishing inappropriate relationships with students.”
She’s here to bust you. Even though she’s not a student, you didn’t know that when you professed your love to her.
“Write what you want in the report,” you tell her. “I don’t care about my badge anymore. Discovering that you’re old enough for me to have a legitimate relationship with has made me the happiest man on earth.”
Officer Royce asks what you’ll do for work after she takes your badge. She can’t support the both of you on an IAD income.
“I was thinking of becoming a high school teacher,” you say.
The two of you laugh. The two of you kiss. You kiss deeply. A kiss that lasts all through the days of IAD hearings and shameful newspaper coverage to follow.
Once your badge and gun are taken away, you move into Officer Royce’s apartment and begin studying to get your teacher’s license. You’re going to need that income quick, what with a the half-IAD, half-disgraced former narc baby in Officer Royce’s belly.
Happy Undercover Lovers Day!
Thursday, July 25, 2013
You’re A Bad Boy Chef Day!
You have a faux-hawk and you wear concert shirts for bad boy rock bands like AC/DC and Stone Temple Pilots that you bought at a department store and you say fuck a lot when talking to your staff and you enjoy the drug cocaine.
When your restaurant closes you ride a motorcycle to restaurants owned by other bad boy chefs and you and the other bad boy chefs drink all night and talk about the busy nights you had cooking food for people as if they were bar fights you got into but really all you were doing was cooking food for people.
Like moms do.
You and the other bad boy chefs talk about waitresses you fucked in your respective restaurants’ bathrooms none of you letting on that all you did was grope waitresses in your respective restaurants’ bathrooms because when it came time to fuck the drug cocaine prevented you from maintaining erections.
Sometimes your asthma acts up.
You like to talk to waiters as if you were telling them how the world works and how if they want to make it in this world they’d better do what you say because you’re the baddest bad boy chef in the whole city but then the waiters quit to pursue their futures because it was just a job serving people food anyway and when you find out they quit you remember all you do is cook food.
You get scared on your motorcycle so you don’t ride it very much.
Happy You’re A Bad Boy Chef Day!
When your restaurant closes you ride a motorcycle to restaurants owned by other bad boy chefs and you and the other bad boy chefs drink all night and talk about the busy nights you had cooking food for people as if they were bar fights you got into but really all you were doing was cooking food for people.
Like moms do.
You and the other bad boy chefs talk about waitresses you fucked in your respective restaurants’ bathrooms none of you letting on that all you did was grope waitresses in your respective restaurants’ bathrooms because when it came time to fuck the drug cocaine prevented you from maintaining erections.
Sometimes your asthma acts up.
You like to talk to waiters as if you were telling them how the world works and how if they want to make it in this world they’d better do what you say because you’re the baddest bad boy chef in the whole city but then the waiters quit to pursue their futures because it was just a job serving people food anyway and when you find out they quit you remember all you do is cook food.
You get scared on your motorcycle so you don’t ride it very much.
Happy You’re A Bad Boy Chef Day!
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Ask Your Teacher For Help Talking To Boys Day!
Say to her, “Miss Wallace, I like Derek but I don’t know how to tell him. What should I say?”
“Tell him he’s allowed to walk all over you until he gets what he wants out of you sexually and tosses you aside for someone in a lower grade,” Miss Wallace says.
The next day Miss Wallace is replaced by a sub and your class is told that she’ll be taking time off until things with Mister Wallace are settled.
You’re glad you got to ask her for advice before she left. You use her advice on Derek and he says he likes you too. “But it’s not like Miss Wallace said,” Derek insists. “I really like you and want to be your boyfriend forever.”
Derek breaks up with you two days after you let him get boob.
Happy Ask Your Teacher For Help Talking To Boys Day!
“Tell him he’s allowed to walk all over you until he gets what he wants out of you sexually and tosses you aside for someone in a lower grade,” Miss Wallace says.
The next day Miss Wallace is replaced by a sub and your class is told that she’ll be taking time off until things with Mister Wallace are settled.
You’re glad you got to ask her for advice before she left. You use her advice on Derek and he says he likes you too. “But it’s not like Miss Wallace said,” Derek insists. “I really like you and want to be your boyfriend forever.”
Derek breaks up with you two days after you let him get boob.
Happy Ask Your Teacher For Help Talking To Boys Day!
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
You Had Each Other’s Husbands’ Kids Day!
You slept with Richard, your next-door-neighbor Kelly’s husband, when you helped him carry his cooler home from one of your summer cookouts. Kelly saw the two of you go off together and she could sense something was up, so she asked your husband, Nat, to give her a tour of your remodeled second floor. Kelly, Nat, you, and Richard were all having sex at almost the exact same moment with a pink summer sunset pouring in through your respective bedroom windows.
Nine months later, just days apart from each other, you and Kelly both gave birth to baby boys.
No one’s spoken of it. No one’s admitted even to the possibility. Neither of your marriages were sexless so there’s still a very good chance that you had your husband’s child, and Kelly had hers. But your son, Hank, is starting to develop Richard’s round pug nose. Kelly’s son, Oliver’s blonde hair is starting to turn Nat’s shade of red.
It’s not certain, but you know. So does Kelly. It’s time your husbands did too.
Tonight you’re out on your lawns at dusk, you and Nat in lawn chairs, Kelly and Richard on their porch swing. Hank and Oliver play together on your shared lawn. All four of you watch them play, watch them argue like siblings.
The ball bounces up onto Kelly’s and Richard’s porch. Oliver shouts, “Daddy, throw it here.”
Kelly says, “Throw it to Hank.”
Richard looks at Kelly, then at Hank, then at Kelly.
Kelly, again, “Throw it to Hank.”
Richard drops the ball, walks across the lawn and pulls Hank into a hug.
Nat looks to you. You nod, a confirmation, as sure as a paternity test.
Nat bursts into tears, crosses the lawn, takes Oliver by the shoulders. When he finds himself in the boy’s eyes, he embraces him.
As your husbands kneel in the grass holding their sons for the very first time, you and Kelly raise your glasses to each other in a toast from across the property line. Thanks to one hot July night a few years prior, this neighborhood is finally a family.
Happy You Had Each Other’s Husbands’ Kids Day!
Nine months later, just days apart from each other, you and Kelly both gave birth to baby boys.
No one’s spoken of it. No one’s admitted even to the possibility. Neither of your marriages were sexless so there’s still a very good chance that you had your husband’s child, and Kelly had hers. But your son, Hank, is starting to develop Richard’s round pug nose. Kelly’s son, Oliver’s blonde hair is starting to turn Nat’s shade of red.
It’s not certain, but you know. So does Kelly. It’s time your husbands did too.
Tonight you’re out on your lawns at dusk, you and Nat in lawn chairs, Kelly and Richard on their porch swing. Hank and Oliver play together on your shared lawn. All four of you watch them play, watch them argue like siblings.
The ball bounces up onto Kelly’s and Richard’s porch. Oliver shouts, “Daddy, throw it here.”
Kelly says, “Throw it to Hank.”
Richard looks at Kelly, then at Hank, then at Kelly.
Kelly, again, “Throw it to Hank.”
Richard drops the ball, walks across the lawn and pulls Hank into a hug.
Nat looks to you. You nod, a confirmation, as sure as a paternity test.
Nat bursts into tears, crosses the lawn, takes Oliver by the shoulders. When he finds himself in the boy’s eyes, he embraces him.
As your husbands kneel in the grass holding their sons for the very first time, you and Kelly raise your glasses to each other in a toast from across the property line. Thanks to one hot July night a few years prior, this neighborhood is finally a family.
Happy You Had Each Other’s Husbands’ Kids Day!
Monday, July 22, 2013
The Weather Girl Is Blaming You For The Heat Day!
Turn on the news. You’re on it.
“If you’re angry about yet another day of sweltering heat, blame this guy,” the weather girl, your (newly) ex-girlfriend is saying as an unflattering photo of you in cargo shorts appears over the map.
“Wait, Cailey, are you saying that man is single-handedly responsible for the heat wave?” Sue, the anchorwoman, asks. You cheated on Cailey with Sue. “How is that possible?”
“Go fuck yourself, Sue,” Cailey says. “As I said folks, this guy is why it’s so hot outside. Here’s his address.”
Your address is on the screen. You turn off the TV just as the first brick flies through your window. There must be a hundred people outside, all of them sick to death of this heat and excited to finally do something about it.
Happy The Weather Girl Is Blaming You For The Heat Day!
“If you’re angry about yet another day of sweltering heat, blame this guy,” the weather girl, your (newly) ex-girlfriend is saying as an unflattering photo of you in cargo shorts appears over the map.
“Wait, Cailey, are you saying that man is single-handedly responsible for the heat wave?” Sue, the anchorwoman, asks. You cheated on Cailey with Sue. “How is that possible?”
“Go fuck yourself, Sue,” Cailey says. “As I said folks, this guy is why it’s so hot outside. Here’s his address.”
Your address is on the screen. You turn off the TV just as the first brick flies through your window. There must be a hundred people outside, all of them sick to death of this heat and excited to finally do something about it.
Happy The Weather Girl Is Blaming You For The Heat Day!
Sunday, July 21, 2013
You Want To Talk About The Murders Day!
You’re new in town and you want to meet people, so go knocking on doors in your area to see who’s home. When someone answers, say, “I want to talk about the murders.”
If there were any murders in that house, you’ll be invited in for a long, intense conversation about them, and those people will become your lifelong friends. If there aren’t any murders to talk about, you’ll be sent on your way.
Unfortunately, doing this means you run the risk of someone inviting you in to talk about a murder, and only after you’re talking about it for a while will you realize that the murder being discussed hasn’t happened yet. At that point you’ll conclude you’re the victim of the murder that’s about to happen, and you’ll jump up and stab the homeowner with the fork you were just using to eat a pastry.
With his last breath the homeowner will smile and say, “I’m glad we got to talk about the murder,” and you’ll realize he was talking about himself being murdered, that he was talking about you being the murderer, that he knew the minute you walked in you were going to be the murderer.
Still, aside from that one guy, you will make some friends.
Happy You Want To Talk About The Murders Day!
If there were any murders in that house, you’ll be invited in for a long, intense conversation about them, and those people will become your lifelong friends. If there aren’t any murders to talk about, you’ll be sent on your way.
Unfortunately, doing this means you run the risk of someone inviting you in to talk about a murder, and only after you’re talking about it for a while will you realize that the murder being discussed hasn’t happened yet. At that point you’ll conclude you’re the victim of the murder that’s about to happen, and you’ll jump up and stab the homeowner with the fork you were just using to eat a pastry.
With his last breath the homeowner will smile and say, “I’m glad we got to talk about the murder,” and you’ll realize he was talking about himself being murdered, that he was talking about you being the murderer, that he knew the minute you walked in you were going to be the murderer.
Still, aside from that one guy, you will make some friends.
Happy You Want To Talk About The Murders Day!
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Bed & Breakfast Day!
You and your husband stayed in the most adorable B&B 30 years ago on your honeymoon and tonight you’re returning for your anniversary.
“I hope I find the barrette I lost that night,” you joke as you climb the porch. Your husband doesn’t laugh.
When you walk in the front door, the very same woman who was running it way back then is still there waiting to check you in.
When she sees you, you’re shocked that she recognizes the two of you just like you recognize her. She looks stunned.
“You’re back,” she says.
“We are,” you say.
“I am,” your husband says.
She seems flustered, like she’s suddenly forgotten how to run the B&B she’s devoted her entire life to.
“The place hasn’t changed a bit,” you say, trying to lighten the mood.
“It looks exactly the same, after all these years I’ve been away,” your husband says. “Thirty years.”
“To the day,” the innkeeper says.
Your husband must have told her it was your anniversary when he made the reservation.
“I suppose you can have your old room then,” the innkeeper says. She hands your husband the key. She looks furious.
Up in the room, you’re shocked to find the bed unmade, everything covered in dust. It’s like no one’s been in the room in…
“Thirty years!” the innkeeper shouts as she bursts into the room. She runs to your husband and starts pounding his chest with her fists. “Thirty years I was left wondering, waiting, hoping, and accepting that you would never return. Thirty years!”
“I couldn’t,” your husband shouts back, to your complete confusion. “I’d just been married. I’d just exchanged vows.”
“You guys, what is this?” you ask. They wave you off.
“Every year I thought, maybe this will be the year I end it,” your husband tells the innkeeper. “This will be the year I go back to the B&B. This will be the year I start my life with the lover I was meant to love. But something always came up.”
“If it was real, you would have come. But you didn’t. So it wasn’t real, was it?”
“Guys?” you ask.
“It was real,” your husband says. “The minute I saw you today, I knew it was real.”
They kiss. Right in front of you. They kiss the way your husband has never kissed you. Ever.
“Guys!” you scream.
They stop kissing, annoyed.
“Oh for God’s sake,” your husband says. “When we came here the night of our honeymoon I fell in love with the innkeeper and she fell in love with me, but we never acted on it and I spent the last thirty years with you living a lie.”
“And I spent them waiting for him to return,” ” the innkeeper says. “I even refused to clean your room after you left. The fluids he left on those sheets are all I had left of him.”
That explains the dust and—ew, those are the sheets from your honeymoon!
“Those are the sheets from our honeymoon!” you exclaim, moving away from the bed.
They kiss again. You pry them apart.
“So are you saying you’ve been cheating on me?” you shout at your husband.
He says no. He just told you they never acted on it, remember?
“Then how did you know you were in love all these years?” you ask.
The innkeeper rolls her eyes. “We knew. We looked each other in the eye, and we both knew. One look. That was enough to keep our love alive over great time and distance.”
You’ve never felt that with your husband. When you look him in the eye he always seems to be looking off elsewhere and—Oh Christ they’re kissing again. You try prying them apart.
“Stop fucking up our first kiss!” your husband shouts. “Look, sorry, but it’s over.”
Your husband asks the innkeeper if there’s another room the two of them can go to. She starts to drag him to the master suite.
“What about me?” you ask.
“You can have this room,” the innkeeper says, then the door slams behind her.
As you listen to your husband have loud sex with the love of his life, you notice something shiny on the floor. It’s the barrette you lost. You reach down to pick it up but a rabid raccoon that’s been living under the bed bites you. You leave your husband behind and rush to the hospital where the handsome doctor who treats you looks in your eyes and you look in his and you both just know, so that worked out.
Bed & Breakfast Day!
“I hope I find the barrette I lost that night,” you joke as you climb the porch. Your husband doesn’t laugh.
When you walk in the front door, the very same woman who was running it way back then is still there waiting to check you in.
When she sees you, you’re shocked that she recognizes the two of you just like you recognize her. She looks stunned.
“You’re back,” she says.
“We are,” you say.
“I am,” your husband says.
She seems flustered, like she’s suddenly forgotten how to run the B&B she’s devoted her entire life to.
“The place hasn’t changed a bit,” you say, trying to lighten the mood.
“It looks exactly the same, after all these years I’ve been away,” your husband says. “Thirty years.”
“To the day,” the innkeeper says.
Your husband must have told her it was your anniversary when he made the reservation.
“I suppose you can have your old room then,” the innkeeper says. She hands your husband the key. She looks furious.
Up in the room, you’re shocked to find the bed unmade, everything covered in dust. It’s like no one’s been in the room in…
“Thirty years!” the innkeeper shouts as she bursts into the room. She runs to your husband and starts pounding his chest with her fists. “Thirty years I was left wondering, waiting, hoping, and accepting that you would never return. Thirty years!”
“I couldn’t,” your husband shouts back, to your complete confusion. “I’d just been married. I’d just exchanged vows.”
“You guys, what is this?” you ask. They wave you off.
“Every year I thought, maybe this will be the year I end it,” your husband tells the innkeeper. “This will be the year I go back to the B&B. This will be the year I start my life with the lover I was meant to love. But something always came up.”
“If it was real, you would have come. But you didn’t. So it wasn’t real, was it?”
“Guys?” you ask.
“It was real,” your husband says. “The minute I saw you today, I knew it was real.”
They kiss. Right in front of you. They kiss the way your husband has never kissed you. Ever.
“Guys!” you scream.
They stop kissing, annoyed.
“Oh for God’s sake,” your husband says. “When we came here the night of our honeymoon I fell in love with the innkeeper and she fell in love with me, but we never acted on it and I spent the last thirty years with you living a lie.”
“And I spent them waiting for him to return,” ” the innkeeper says. “I even refused to clean your room after you left. The fluids he left on those sheets are all I had left of him.”
That explains the dust and—ew, those are the sheets from your honeymoon!
“Those are the sheets from our honeymoon!” you exclaim, moving away from the bed.
They kiss again. You pry them apart.
“So are you saying you’ve been cheating on me?” you shout at your husband.
He says no. He just told you they never acted on it, remember?
“Then how did you know you were in love all these years?” you ask.
The innkeeper rolls her eyes. “We knew. We looked each other in the eye, and we both knew. One look. That was enough to keep our love alive over great time and distance.”
You’ve never felt that with your husband. When you look him in the eye he always seems to be looking off elsewhere and—Oh Christ they’re kissing again. You try prying them apart.
“Stop fucking up our first kiss!” your husband shouts. “Look, sorry, but it’s over.”
Your husband asks the innkeeper if there’s another room the two of them can go to. She starts to drag him to the master suite.
“What about me?” you ask.
“You can have this room,” the innkeeper says, then the door slams behind her.
As you listen to your husband have loud sex with the love of his life, you notice something shiny on the floor. It’s the barrette you lost. You reach down to pick it up but a rabid raccoon that’s been living under the bed bites you. You leave your husband behind and rush to the hospital where the handsome doctor who treats you looks in your eyes and you look in his and you both just know, so that worked out.
Bed & Breakfast Day!
Friday, July 19, 2013
Your Birth Video Day!
You found the videotape of your birth so you decide to watch it and see what your first moments of existence were like. When finished, you call your mom.
“Why didn’t you tell me that just before I came out of your womb, a dark, mist escaped from your vagina in the shape of the devil’s face and he shouted at everyone in the operating room, ‘He is mine and I will return and take him when the time is right?’”
Your mom explains that a lot of things happen during a delivery that no one plans for. “It doesn’t make you any less of a miracle,” she tells you.
You ask her about the crows.
“The nurses couldn’t leave the delivery room because several dozen crows had somehow entered the hospital and gathered in front of the doors of the room, creating an impenetrable black wall with their fluttering wings,” you remind her.
Your mom says that happens with those big revolving doors. Birds get in.
“And why did everyone in the room who was wearing a crucifix start screaming when the crucifixes grew hot and scorched their skin?”
Your mom begins to explain, but your Dad grabs the phone from her. “Oh for the love of Pete,” your Dad shouts. “We let some Satanists summon the devil to have sex with your mother,” he shouts. “They offered us ten grand, and we needed a new car. The Caprice’s transmission was shot. Now stop asking questions and let your mother finish bringing dinner to the table. It’s lasagna night!”
Happy Your Birth Video Day!
“Why didn’t you tell me that just before I came out of your womb, a dark, mist escaped from your vagina in the shape of the devil’s face and he shouted at everyone in the operating room, ‘He is mine and I will return and take him when the time is right?’”
Your mom explains that a lot of things happen during a delivery that no one plans for. “It doesn’t make you any less of a miracle,” she tells you.
You ask her about the crows.
“The nurses couldn’t leave the delivery room because several dozen crows had somehow entered the hospital and gathered in front of the doors of the room, creating an impenetrable black wall with their fluttering wings,” you remind her.
Your mom says that happens with those big revolving doors. Birds get in.
“And why did everyone in the room who was wearing a crucifix start screaming when the crucifixes grew hot and scorched their skin?”
Your mom begins to explain, but your Dad grabs the phone from her. “Oh for the love of Pete,” your Dad shouts. “We let some Satanists summon the devil to have sex with your mother,” he shouts. “They offered us ten grand, and we needed a new car. The Caprice’s transmission was shot. Now stop asking questions and let your mother finish bringing dinner to the table. It’s lasagna night!”
Happy Your Birth Video Day!
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Party ‘Til You Die Day!
The news just announced that several hundred asteroid, all of them the size of Texas are going to hit the earth and wipe out all human life.
“Oh God what should we do?” one of your buddies asks.
“Nothing else to do,” you respond. “We party ‘til we die! Woooooo!”
You all crack open beers. Before your beer cans touch your mouths the asteroids hit and you are instantly obliterated. Way to go out partying though.
Not to draw attention away from your party-to-the-end badass-ness, but it’s really shocking how quickly the human endeavor is brought to an end. It’s like humanity was something that was drawn on an Etch-a-Sketch, and some little kid came along and shook it. Never existed. Clean slate. Poof. Why did we bother with any of it? Religion. Rome. British imperialism. The Friday the 13th series of films. Six Flags theme parks. Lunchables. Every monument to human toil, lost to time with a quick shake. What were we so excited about all these years?
Anyway, fun party.
Happy Party Till You Die Day!
“Oh God what should we do?” one of your buddies asks.
“Nothing else to do,” you respond. “We party ‘til we die! Woooooo!”
You all crack open beers. Before your beer cans touch your mouths the asteroids hit and you are instantly obliterated. Way to go out partying though.
Not to draw attention away from your party-to-the-end badass-ness, but it’s really shocking how quickly the human endeavor is brought to an end. It’s like humanity was something that was drawn on an Etch-a-Sketch, and some little kid came along and shook it. Never existed. Clean slate. Poof. Why did we bother with any of it? Religion. Rome. British imperialism. The Friday the 13th series of films. Six Flags theme parks. Lunchables. Every monument to human toil, lost to time with a quick shake. What were we so excited about all these years?
Anyway, fun party.
Happy Party Till You Die Day!
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Keep Away Day!
You and your coworkers went too far and now you’re all in the hospital emergency room, waiting to get stitched up. A policeman is asking you questions.
“We were just bored so we decided to have some fun,” you tell the policeman.
“Fun,” the policeman repeats.
“Our boss was looking for his staple remover,” Mary adds, holding a napkin to the bloody gash in her forehead. “So Louis found it and he shouted, ‘Keep away!’”
Louis says, “I didn’t expect it to go the way it did.” Louis’s arm is definitely broken. He’s constantly sucking in air from the pain and can barely speak.
“How did it go?” the policeman asks.
Louis threw the staple remover to Mary. Mary threw it to you. You threw it to Louis. Then repeat that a few times, with your boss chasing the staple remover from person to person.
“Then he kind of lost it,” you say.
Your boss first punched you in the stomach. Then he grabbed Mary by her hair and slammed her head into a desk. Then he grabbed Louis’s arm and twisted it up behind his back and dropped him to the floor.
“He was crying the whole time,” Mary says. “Yelling, ‘No fair!’ And just sobbing uncontrollably.”
“Over a game of Keep Away!” Louis exclaims.
The policeman shoots Louis a look. “Keep Away is not a joke,” he says. “Keep Away among adults is lethal. It’s the leading cause of non-alcohol related violent assaults. You can’t dredge up that kind of childhood feeling of exclusion and expect to walk away unscathed.”
“We’re sorry,” you all three say.
“Tell that to him,” the policeman says, pointing to your boss, still crying in the examination room. You can’t hear him through the glass, but you can see he’s telling the other officer, “No fair! They were playing Keep Away.”
The three of you go inside to apologize to your boss for playing Keep Away. He says he accepts your apology, but he doesn’t stop crying. He never stops. In the years to come, when you’ve all left for different jobs, you’ll stay in touch, making sure at least one of you visits your boss in the hospital every week where he continues to cry and repeat, “No fair.” You just sit by his bed and tell him he’s right, it’s no fair. It was no fair at all.
Happy Keep Away Day!
“We were just bored so we decided to have some fun,” you tell the policeman.
“Fun,” the policeman repeats.
“Our boss was looking for his staple remover,” Mary adds, holding a napkin to the bloody gash in her forehead. “So Louis found it and he shouted, ‘Keep away!’”
Louis says, “I didn’t expect it to go the way it did.” Louis’s arm is definitely broken. He’s constantly sucking in air from the pain and can barely speak.
“How did it go?” the policeman asks.
Louis threw the staple remover to Mary. Mary threw it to you. You threw it to Louis. Then repeat that a few times, with your boss chasing the staple remover from person to person.
“Then he kind of lost it,” you say.
Your boss first punched you in the stomach. Then he grabbed Mary by her hair and slammed her head into a desk. Then he grabbed Louis’s arm and twisted it up behind his back and dropped him to the floor.
“He was crying the whole time,” Mary says. “Yelling, ‘No fair!’ And just sobbing uncontrollably.”
“Over a game of Keep Away!” Louis exclaims.
The policeman shoots Louis a look. “Keep Away is not a joke,” he says. “Keep Away among adults is lethal. It’s the leading cause of non-alcohol related violent assaults. You can’t dredge up that kind of childhood feeling of exclusion and expect to walk away unscathed.”
“We’re sorry,” you all three say.
“Tell that to him,” the policeman says, pointing to your boss, still crying in the examination room. You can’t hear him through the glass, but you can see he’s telling the other officer, “No fair! They were playing Keep Away.”
The three of you go inside to apologize to your boss for playing Keep Away. He says he accepts your apology, but he doesn’t stop crying. He never stops. In the years to come, when you’ve all left for different jobs, you’ll stay in touch, making sure at least one of you visits your boss in the hospital every week where he continues to cry and repeat, “No fair.” You just sit by his bed and tell him he’s right, it’s no fair. It was no fair at all.
Happy Keep Away Day!
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Hammock Day!
Your boyfriend doesn’t understand why you won’t have sex with him in the hammock. You try to tell him it just won’t be that comfortable, but he’s not buying it. It’s your last day in the rental cabin and he wants to make sure the two of you get the most out of it.
“Come on,” he says. “We’ve had sex in the lake. In the outdoor shower. At the top of the hiking trail. Even in the papasan chair in the cabin. The only place left is the hammock.”
“Godammit!” you scream at him. “I just don’t want to!”
Your boyfriend goes and mopes by the fire pit. It’s not his fault he wants to have sex with you in the hammock. He just wants to celebrate how much he loves you. You’d better go to him and tell him the truth.
“My Dad died in a hammock,” you tell your boyfriend. “He fell asleep. Then he had a nap nightmare, twisted himself up in the hammock and choked to death. We found him there, wrapped up and blue.”
Your boyfriend hugs you close. He apologizes. Had he known, he never would have suggested it. He should have been more sensitive.
“No,” you say, pissed at yourself for ruining the vacation. “No I need to get over this. My dad dying can’t affect my relationship with hammocks forever. It’s time for me to move on.”
You drag your boyfriend by the hand to the hammock and you take off his clothes, then yours. Gingerly, you climb in, then he climbs in after you. You kiss, carefully, trying to maintain your balance, then before you know it, you’re making love. Passionately, wonderfully. You can’t believe you feared the hammock for so many years. You’re having better sex than you have had all week, until you’re just about to come, and the hammock flips in on itself trapping you both in its net. You’re both dead within seconds.
Happy Hammock Day!
“Come on,” he says. “We’ve had sex in the lake. In the outdoor shower. At the top of the hiking trail. Even in the papasan chair in the cabin. The only place left is the hammock.”
“Godammit!” you scream at him. “I just don’t want to!”
Your boyfriend goes and mopes by the fire pit. It’s not his fault he wants to have sex with you in the hammock. He just wants to celebrate how much he loves you. You’d better go to him and tell him the truth.
“My Dad died in a hammock,” you tell your boyfriend. “He fell asleep. Then he had a nap nightmare, twisted himself up in the hammock and choked to death. We found him there, wrapped up and blue.”
Your boyfriend hugs you close. He apologizes. Had he known, he never would have suggested it. He should have been more sensitive.
“No,” you say, pissed at yourself for ruining the vacation. “No I need to get over this. My dad dying can’t affect my relationship with hammocks forever. It’s time for me to move on.”
You drag your boyfriend by the hand to the hammock and you take off his clothes, then yours. Gingerly, you climb in, then he climbs in after you. You kiss, carefully, trying to maintain your balance, then before you know it, you’re making love. Passionately, wonderfully. You can’t believe you feared the hammock for so many years. You’re having better sex than you have had all week, until you’re just about to come, and the hammock flips in on itself trapping you both in its net. You’re both dead within seconds.
Happy Hammock Day!
Monday, July 15, 2013
The Temps Aren’t Hitting It Off Day!
Bring them into your office and let them know their assignment is ending.
“But I was told this was temp-to-perm,” Larry, the boy temp says.
“And I’ve received no complaints about my work thus far,” Lesley, the girl temp says.
Explain that it’s not about their work. The work is beside the point.
“We were just hoping you two might fall in love,” explain. “Or at least, that you might have a nice steamy fling that we’d all get to watch ignite and them flame out.”
Tell them that everyone in your office is married or hopelessly single, and you’ve all already mixed and matched each other, engaging in every possible workplace affair that can be dreamed up and there’s just no one left to excite the imagination anymore.
“So we were hoping a couple young temps might be brought in here, share a cubicle, maybe share some lunches,” you say. “Before we knew it, you’d be shooting each other dirty looks across the conference table and we’d all be reminded of what it’s like to be young and still feel anything below the waist.”
“So,” Lesley says. “You, like, wanted to watch us have sex?”
“God no,” tell her. “We’re not pervs. We just wanted to share some floorspace with two people hungering for each other. Unfortunately, you two were a bust.”
“We were just being professional,” Larry protests.
“Yeah, I noticed,” tell him. “I mean, I noticed until I got so bored that I clocked out and went home to be with my kids. How boozed up did you two get on Beer Fridays, and not so much as a grope?”
“We thought we were here to help out with the Emerson account,” Lesley says.
“Nah we made that up,” tell them. “You’ve just been refilling old files we pulled out of storage to pretend we had something for you to do. We assumed it’d be so dull that you’d have no choice to but seek stimulation in each other’s pants, but no dice.”
Lesley leans across her chair and starts kissing Larry. She massages his chest awkwardly. Larry tries to reciprocate.
“Embarrassing,” tell them. “Sorry, I been married 24 years and I know what it looks like to fake it.”
Stand up and escort them out of your office.
“Don’t feel so bad,” tell them. “Chemistry isn’t something you can manufacture. Good luck finding a real job.”
After they go, head down the hall to see if those legal proofreaders are feeling any sparks. They’ve been on contract for only a week, but last time you walked past their cubes you thought you heard the girl giggling. Things could be heating up.
Happy The Temps Aren’t Hitting It Off Day!
“But I was told this was temp-to-perm,” Larry, the boy temp says.
“And I’ve received no complaints about my work thus far,” Lesley, the girl temp says.
Explain that it’s not about their work. The work is beside the point.
“We were just hoping you two might fall in love,” explain. “Or at least, that you might have a nice steamy fling that we’d all get to watch ignite and them flame out.”
Tell them that everyone in your office is married or hopelessly single, and you’ve all already mixed and matched each other, engaging in every possible workplace affair that can be dreamed up and there’s just no one left to excite the imagination anymore.
“So we were hoping a couple young temps might be brought in here, share a cubicle, maybe share some lunches,” you say. “Before we knew it, you’d be shooting each other dirty looks across the conference table and we’d all be reminded of what it’s like to be young and still feel anything below the waist.”
“So,” Lesley says. “You, like, wanted to watch us have sex?”
“God no,” tell her. “We’re not pervs. We just wanted to share some floorspace with two people hungering for each other. Unfortunately, you two were a bust.”
“We were just being professional,” Larry protests.
“Yeah, I noticed,” tell him. “I mean, I noticed until I got so bored that I clocked out and went home to be with my kids. How boozed up did you two get on Beer Fridays, and not so much as a grope?”
“We thought we were here to help out with the Emerson account,” Lesley says.
“Nah we made that up,” tell them. “You’ve just been refilling old files we pulled out of storage to pretend we had something for you to do. We assumed it’d be so dull that you’d have no choice to but seek stimulation in each other’s pants, but no dice.”
Lesley leans across her chair and starts kissing Larry. She massages his chest awkwardly. Larry tries to reciprocate.
“Embarrassing,” tell them. “Sorry, I been married 24 years and I know what it looks like to fake it.”
Stand up and escort them out of your office.
“Don’t feel so bad,” tell them. “Chemistry isn’t something you can manufacture. Good luck finding a real job.”
After they go, head down the hall to see if those legal proofreaders are feeling any sparks. They’ve been on contract for only a week, but last time you walked past their cubes you thought you heard the girl giggling. Things could be heating up.
Happy The Temps Aren’t Hitting It Off Day!
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Public School Kids Day!
When she transferred out of private to public school, you thought it best to let her go. She’d fallen below your class. It was time for you to find someone new.
You didn’t count on missing her.
You started showing up at her new school after the bell. She’d come into your Jeep and you’d talk and you’d tell her you might have been wrong.
The poor kids from her public school were always watching. Especially one kid. A guy. He couldn’t take his eyes off the two of you. You asked her about him, but she said he’s just a boy named Jack.
“Does he like you?” you asked.
She shrugged. She blushed a little.
One day when you arrived, a crowd of poor kids swarmed your Jeep. They told you to stop coming around.
“She belongs here now,” they said. “She belongs with Jack. And you’re in the way.”
You laughed at them. You admit it, you looked down on them. Public school kids. You told them you’ll come and see her until she says not to. You told them she’d be a fool to stay with the likes of them when a private school kid was giving her a second chance.
They said you were confusing things for her. She belongs at their public school, and she and Jack are in love. She just can’t let it happen until you’re out of the picture.
“Out of the picture?” you asked with a laugh. They didn’t laugh with you. Eventually, she got in the Jeep, confused by all the classmates surrounding it. When you pulled away you glanced up at one of the classroom windows and you saw him, Jack, staring down at you.
A few days later, a Friday, you were driving home from your private academy and you noticed a car following you. It made turn after turn with you, until you finally stopped on an empty street and the car sped up and rammed your rear bumper.
You got out. You went to look at the damage. You saw the driver, one of the public school kids, a girl, who crowded around your Jeep. You called her a bitch. She stepped on the gas and crushed your legs against your Jeep.
The girl got out of her car and stood over you, pinned between the two bumpers.
“She’s a public school girl now,” the girl said. “She belongs to Jack. Stay away from her if you don’t want to lose the top half too.”
Now you’re in a hospital room. You won’t ever be able to walk again. She hasn’t come to visit. You spend your nights alone, wishing to God you had never tried to get in between the love of a couple of public school kids.
Happy Public School Kids Day!
You didn’t count on missing her.
You started showing up at her new school after the bell. She’d come into your Jeep and you’d talk and you’d tell her you might have been wrong.
The poor kids from her public school were always watching. Especially one kid. A guy. He couldn’t take his eyes off the two of you. You asked her about him, but she said he’s just a boy named Jack.
“Does he like you?” you asked.
She shrugged. She blushed a little.
One day when you arrived, a crowd of poor kids swarmed your Jeep. They told you to stop coming around.
“She belongs here now,” they said. “She belongs with Jack. And you’re in the way.”
You laughed at them. You admit it, you looked down on them. Public school kids. You told them you’ll come and see her until she says not to. You told them she’d be a fool to stay with the likes of them when a private school kid was giving her a second chance.
They said you were confusing things for her. She belongs at their public school, and she and Jack are in love. She just can’t let it happen until you’re out of the picture.
“Out of the picture?” you asked with a laugh. They didn’t laugh with you. Eventually, she got in the Jeep, confused by all the classmates surrounding it. When you pulled away you glanced up at one of the classroom windows and you saw him, Jack, staring down at you.
A few days later, a Friday, you were driving home from your private academy and you noticed a car following you. It made turn after turn with you, until you finally stopped on an empty street and the car sped up and rammed your rear bumper.
You got out. You went to look at the damage. You saw the driver, one of the public school kids, a girl, who crowded around your Jeep. You called her a bitch. She stepped on the gas and crushed your legs against your Jeep.
The girl got out of her car and stood over you, pinned between the two bumpers.
“She’s a public school girl now,” the girl said. “She belongs to Jack. Stay away from her if you don’t want to lose the top half too.”
Now you’re in a hospital room. You won’t ever be able to walk again. She hasn’t come to visit. You spend your nights alone, wishing to God you had never tried to get in between the love of a couple of public school kids.
Happy Public School Kids Day!
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Fist-Bump Forever Day!
You and your buddy Greg are best friends and you always have been best friends and last night you both died in a car wreck. Your wives just found your wills.
“Greg’s will has a weird request,” Greg’s widow tells your widow.
“Oh God, his too?” your widow tells Greg’s widow.
You and Greg, in a fit of friendship one night, went to an all night lawyer and had your wills changed to read that if you and Greg both die at the same time, you’d like to be buried in a two person coffin with your right fists sewn together in a fist-bump.
“This way if we ever get dug up by grave-robbers or archeologists, future generations will know we were bros forever,” your wills read.
“Do you think they committed suicide just to make this happen?” your widow will ask.
“This is embarrassing for us,” Greg’s widow says. “Everyone at the funeral will think they loved each other more than us.”
“Oh God, it’s—“
Greg’s widow confirms with a nod. “Bros before hos.”
Your widows, feeling angry and betrayed, honor your request nonetheless, and everyone in the funeral pays their respects to your fist-bumping corpses, frozen in an eternal bro-out.
Your widows remarry hastily.
Fist-Bump Forever Day!
“Greg’s will has a weird request,” Greg’s widow tells your widow.
“Oh God, his too?” your widow tells Greg’s widow.
You and Greg, in a fit of friendship one night, went to an all night lawyer and had your wills changed to read that if you and Greg both die at the same time, you’d like to be buried in a two person coffin with your right fists sewn together in a fist-bump.
“This way if we ever get dug up by grave-robbers or archeologists, future generations will know we were bros forever,” your wills read.
“Do you think they committed suicide just to make this happen?” your widow will ask.
“This is embarrassing for us,” Greg’s widow says. “Everyone at the funeral will think they loved each other more than us.”
“Oh God, it’s—“
Greg’s widow confirms with a nod. “Bros before hos.”
Your widows, feeling angry and betrayed, honor your request nonetheless, and everyone in the funeral pays their respects to your fist-bumping corpses, frozen in an eternal bro-out.
Your widows remarry hastily.
Fist-Bump Forever Day!
Friday, July 12, 2013
All Of Them Cheaters Day!
Today Sam’s cheating on Joan with Mary, a library science grad student he met at a Chipotle. Joan’s cheating on Sam with Morris, some guy who owns a gun store and who is cheating on Luanne, an attorney who doesn’t realize her firm reps the mob yet. Luanne’s cheating on Morris with Kevin, a major beltway insider who is cheating on Debbie, a homemaker with a limp. Debbie is cheating on Kevin with this motherfucker with a big-ass beard who hangs out at the Muddy Deuce (they don’t use names) and who is cheating on Vivian (advertising copywriter). Vivian’s cheating on the motherfucker with a big-ass beard who hangs out at the Muddy Deuce with her favorite Starbucks barista, Pam, who’s cheating on Lisa, currently unemployed but big into clowning. Lisa’s cheating on Pam with Oliver, a guy who sells weed at the Sunoco, who is cheating on Geraldine, a disaster preparedness expert who is cheating on you. You’re not cheating on Geraldine. You love her and don’t want anyone else but her and you don’t know what you’d do if you ever found out she wasn’t true to you.
Happy All Of Them Cheaters Day!
Happy All Of Them Cheaters Day!
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Dance Lessons Day!
She doesn’t understand.
“He thinks bad things happen when he dances,” she tells the instructor.
“Everyone’s nervous the first time they try to dance,” the instructor says to you. “But we all have the movement of the wind in our limbs. We just need to grow comfortable with allowing it to take control.”
You tell the instructor it’s not the first time you danced. You tell them both, bad things happened the last time.
“So are we not supposed to have a first dance at our wedding then?” your fiancé pouts.
“Don’t disappoint her,” the instructor says. “I’ll help you. Now first, let me just put on this waltz and see what you do.”
You insist that they need to take you seriously. They roll their eyes.
“Fine,” you say. “But both of you need to move to the other side of the room while I dance alone.”
The music begins. You take a step. Then another. Then another. Then you raise your arms. And you spin.
When you come out of the spin your fiancé and the instructor are naked and ravenously fucking while growling like dogs. The mirrors have all been scorched a solid black as if by fire. Out the window you see people covering their ears to block the sound of police horses yowling like housecats in heat. It’s 2 pm, but the sky is night. The floor of the dance studio opens and Satan rises from the gap like a geyser of black oil gushing in slow motion to form a many-winged beast. The walls of the studio explode outward and Satan releases a howl that instantly sends everyone within a thousand miles into madness. The reckoning has commenced.
You stop dancing and say to your fiancé and the instructor, “See?”
Happy Dance Lessons Day!
“He thinks bad things happen when he dances,” she tells the instructor.
“Everyone’s nervous the first time they try to dance,” the instructor says to you. “But we all have the movement of the wind in our limbs. We just need to grow comfortable with allowing it to take control.”
You tell the instructor it’s not the first time you danced. You tell them both, bad things happened the last time.
“So are we not supposed to have a first dance at our wedding then?” your fiancé pouts.
“Don’t disappoint her,” the instructor says. “I’ll help you. Now first, let me just put on this waltz and see what you do.”
You insist that they need to take you seriously. They roll their eyes.
“Fine,” you say. “But both of you need to move to the other side of the room while I dance alone.”
The music begins. You take a step. Then another. Then another. Then you raise your arms. And you spin.
When you come out of the spin your fiancé and the instructor are naked and ravenously fucking while growling like dogs. The mirrors have all been scorched a solid black as if by fire. Out the window you see people covering their ears to block the sound of police horses yowling like housecats in heat. It’s 2 pm, but the sky is night. The floor of the dance studio opens and Satan rises from the gap like a geyser of black oil gushing in slow motion to form a many-winged beast. The walls of the studio explode outward and Satan releases a howl that instantly sends everyone within a thousand miles into madness. The reckoning has commenced.
You stop dancing and say to your fiancé and the instructor, “See?”
Happy Dance Lessons Day!
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
You’re The Captain Of A Cruise Ship Day!
“Captain,” your first mate says. “All of the passengers are gone.”
“Gone?” you ask. “We’re in the middle of the ocean.”
“I’ve looked everywhere,” he says. “All 1,426 passengers are missing.”
Walk around the ship yelling, “Passengers! Passengers, where are you?” No one will answer.
“Well fuck!” you shout when you return to the Captain’s deck. “Everyone on shore is gonna be so mad!”
You return to shore and apologize for having lost so many family members and colleagues. You say you understand if no one ever wants to board one of your ships again.
Overnight your next cruise sells out.
“You’re our golden goose,” the chairman of the cruise company says. “Everyone assumes you sailed through a door to the next dimension. People want to know what other realms of existence are possible. You’re going to travel the exact same coordinates as you did when all your passengers went poof.”
The cruise line changes their advertising to specifically sell journeys into the unknowable. Cruise after cruise sells out until most of the North American population has disappeared and the cruise line goes bankrupt. You spend the rest of your life feeling lonely because everyone’s gone.
Happy You’re The Captain Of A Cruise Ship Day!
“Gone?” you ask. “We’re in the middle of the ocean.”
“I’ve looked everywhere,” he says. “All 1,426 passengers are missing.”
Walk around the ship yelling, “Passengers! Passengers, where are you?” No one will answer.
“Well fuck!” you shout when you return to the Captain’s deck. “Everyone on shore is gonna be so mad!”
You return to shore and apologize for having lost so many family members and colleagues. You say you understand if no one ever wants to board one of your ships again.
Overnight your next cruise sells out.
“You’re our golden goose,” the chairman of the cruise company says. “Everyone assumes you sailed through a door to the next dimension. People want to know what other realms of existence are possible. You’re going to travel the exact same coordinates as you did when all your passengers went poof.”
The cruise line changes their advertising to specifically sell journeys into the unknowable. Cruise after cruise sells out until most of the North American population has disappeared and the cruise line goes bankrupt. You spend the rest of your life feeling lonely because everyone’s gone.
Happy You’re The Captain Of A Cruise Ship Day!
Tuesday, July 09, 2013
Get A Room You Two Day!
Meet him at a parade, it doesn’t matter which one or what it celebrates (nothing racist). You’ll both be alone. You’ll grow comfortable with his appreciation of certain floats, his awe at certain balloon designs, his disappointment with certain marching brigades of local organization members.
“Knights of Columbus need to step up their game,” you’ll say to him, and he’ll high five you. You’ll let your palm linger on his for a second too long, a moment too right.
“Let’s go,” tell him.
In the room, agree to stay on either sides of the bed for at least an hour. Discuss television favorites and your online social networking policies—what earns your add, what makes you unfollow—until you feel you know each other well enough to kiss. Then kiss.
Retreat back to opposite sides of the room, this time switching placement. Share a secret you’ve kept from someone indispensible in your life—a parent, a spouse if you have one, a pet. Tell each other what you can’t say to the one you can’t live without. Now strip.
Stand up and study each other’s bodies for thirty seconds, then sit down on bath towels. If you have anything that’s a dealbreaker during the act, make it known now.
One full minute of no talking. Just waiting. Anticipating. Panting for the starting gun.
The minute complete, move to the center of the bed, take each other’s naked bodies in each other’s arms, stimulate each other (with full consideration of each other’s dealbreakers) until you’re both ready to commence intercourse (unless “no intercourse” was a dealbreaker for either of you). Finish up. The entire act should take between three and seven minutes.
After, spend ten minutes telling each other stories about your childhood. Then shower separately.
Get dressed and decide who leaves first. The person who leaves second should be the one whose credit card was given for incidentals, just to be sure the other person won’t take the opportunity to rack up a huge minibar bill.
Don’t kiss goodbye. Share a smile from five feet away. Remember that just a few hours ago you were strangers. You may never see each other again. You might walk out and forget all about each other, or you might become obsessed with each other and today will completely upend the rest of your lives. In this moment, it’s just a shared smile.
You know each other as well as anyone could expect you to know each other after a single afternoon in a hotel room. You’ve done all you can. It’s out of your hands now.
Happy Get A Room You Two Day!
“Knights of Columbus need to step up their game,” you’ll say to him, and he’ll high five you. You’ll let your palm linger on his for a second too long, a moment too right.
“Let’s go,” tell him.
In the room, agree to stay on either sides of the bed for at least an hour. Discuss television favorites and your online social networking policies—what earns your add, what makes you unfollow—until you feel you know each other well enough to kiss. Then kiss.
Retreat back to opposite sides of the room, this time switching placement. Share a secret you’ve kept from someone indispensible in your life—a parent, a spouse if you have one, a pet. Tell each other what you can’t say to the one you can’t live without. Now strip.
Stand up and study each other’s bodies for thirty seconds, then sit down on bath towels. If you have anything that’s a dealbreaker during the act, make it known now.
One full minute of no talking. Just waiting. Anticipating. Panting for the starting gun.
The minute complete, move to the center of the bed, take each other’s naked bodies in each other’s arms, stimulate each other (with full consideration of each other’s dealbreakers) until you’re both ready to commence intercourse (unless “no intercourse” was a dealbreaker for either of you). Finish up. The entire act should take between three and seven minutes.
After, spend ten minutes telling each other stories about your childhood. Then shower separately.
Get dressed and decide who leaves first. The person who leaves second should be the one whose credit card was given for incidentals, just to be sure the other person won’t take the opportunity to rack up a huge minibar bill.
Don’t kiss goodbye. Share a smile from five feet away. Remember that just a few hours ago you were strangers. You may never see each other again. You might walk out and forget all about each other, or you might become obsessed with each other and today will completely upend the rest of your lives. In this moment, it’s just a shared smile.
You know each other as well as anyone could expect you to know each other after a single afternoon in a hotel room. You’ve done all you can. It’s out of your hands now.
Happy Get A Room You Two Day!
Monday, July 08, 2013
Convenience Store Rescue Day!
You signed up your convenience store to be on a show called Convenience Store Rescue, on which the host, a loud, alpha male who claims to be a convenience store expert, helps store owners turn things around for their businesses.
“What’s the problem with the store?” he asks in the parking lot.
“It’s been kidnapped,” you tell him. You point to the spot on the ground where the store used to be. “They said they want a million dollars or the store gets killed.”
The host walks around the parking lot. “First of all, you need to repaint the spaces on this parking lot.”
You tell him your wife was working in the store when it was kidnapped. She’s still inside it and time is running out.
“Also, that sign. You got the wrong bulbs in there. Lighting is key to get people on the road to pull in and check you out.”
You tell him that they put the store on the phone earlier and it was screaming.
“I can get you a deal on Techsmoke Electronic Cigarettes. You need new, younger clientele. E-Cigs are the way to go.”
You ask him if he’s going to do anything to rescue your store from kidnappers, or if he’s just going to make marketing suggestions.
“Don’t worry,” he says as a helicopter lands. He hops inside and picks up a machine gun. “I’ll rescue your store. And I’ll make sure they pay for what they did.”
“Think you Convenience Store Rescue Man!” you shout as he flies away, en route to bring your store back safe, ready to make those kidnappers feel worse than the hot dogs on your store’s spinning heat rollers.
Happy Convenience Store Rescue Day!
“What’s the problem with the store?” he asks in the parking lot.
“It’s been kidnapped,” you tell him. You point to the spot on the ground where the store used to be. “They said they want a million dollars or the store gets killed.”
The host walks around the parking lot. “First of all, you need to repaint the spaces on this parking lot.”
You tell him your wife was working in the store when it was kidnapped. She’s still inside it and time is running out.
“Also, that sign. You got the wrong bulbs in there. Lighting is key to get people on the road to pull in and check you out.”
You tell him that they put the store on the phone earlier and it was screaming.
“I can get you a deal on Techsmoke Electronic Cigarettes. You need new, younger clientele. E-Cigs are the way to go.”
You ask him if he’s going to do anything to rescue your store from kidnappers, or if he’s just going to make marketing suggestions.
“Don’t worry,” he says as a helicopter lands. He hops inside and picks up a machine gun. “I’ll rescue your store. And I’ll make sure they pay for what they did.”
“Think you Convenience Store Rescue Man!” you shout as he flies away, en route to bring your store back safe, ready to make those kidnappers feel worse than the hot dogs on your store’s spinning heat rollers.
Happy Convenience Store Rescue Day!
Sunday, July 07, 2013
Get Kissed Day!
Today on the plane ride home the woman in the seat next to you is going to kiss you. She’s just going to lean over the armrest and plant her bright red lipstick on your mouth.
“I’m married,” tell her.
“Not anymore,” the flight attendant will say. She’ll be holding a special sky phone out for you to take. “It’s your wife. She knows.”
You take the phone and your wife tells you she wants the house, but custody of the kids should be shared pretty evenly. “The kids need both of us. There’s no reason they should have to suffer because you accepted that kiss.”
You hang up the phone, newly single. You lean over to kiss the woman in the next seat. She pulls away. “The moment’s passed,” she’ll say. “Besides, I don’t want to be the step-mom trying to win your kids’ affection.”
When the plane lands, a divorce attorney is waiting at the gate for you to sign papers.
“Hope getting kissed was worth it,” he’ll say.
You don’t wash the lipstick off your mouth for at least a month. That kiss is all you have left, and you don’t want to let it go.
Happy Get Kissed Day!
“I’m married,” tell her.
“Not anymore,” the flight attendant will say. She’ll be holding a special sky phone out for you to take. “It’s your wife. She knows.”
You take the phone and your wife tells you she wants the house, but custody of the kids should be shared pretty evenly. “The kids need both of us. There’s no reason they should have to suffer because you accepted that kiss.”
You hang up the phone, newly single. You lean over to kiss the woman in the next seat. She pulls away. “The moment’s passed,” she’ll say. “Besides, I don’t want to be the step-mom trying to win your kids’ affection.”
When the plane lands, a divorce attorney is waiting at the gate for you to sign papers.
“Hope getting kissed was worth it,” he’ll say.
You don’t wash the lipstick off your mouth for at least a month. That kiss is all you have left, and you don’t want to let it go.
Happy Get Kissed Day!
Saturday, July 06, 2013
Take Him Day!
Burst into his parents’ house at dinnertime.
“He’s mine,” tell Mr. Herbert. “All mine.”
Mr. Herbert will drop his cutlery to his plate with a clank.
“The boy is going to run the hardware store,” Mr. Herbert will say.
“The boy is going to come to the city with me and marry me,” tell Mr. Herbert.
“The boy is going to do what I did and my father did before me,” Mr. Herbert will say. “The boy is a Herbert.”
Step to the table. Pick up a piece of pork chop off of Mr. Herbert’s plate. Take a bite. Drop the chop, then grab Mr. Herbert’s knife and hold it to Mrs. Herbert’s throat.
“Marilyn!” Mr. Herbert will shout. “Marilyn stay calm!”
“Let him go or Marilyn meets her maker,” shout.
“Just let the boy go!” Mrs. Herbert will shout.
“The boy will run the store, Marilyn!”
Press the knife deeper.
“For God’s sake, Lewis,” Mrs. Herbert will shout. “I want more years with you!”
“Please let my wife go,” Mr. Herbert will shout. “And let me keep my boy.”
Tell him it’s over. “And you know it,” say. “He’s going, and you can’t stop him. He’s going to leave with me, he’s going to love me, and he’s going to one day try to hold on to a boy of our own the way you’re trying to hold on to him, but he’s going to settle for holding on to me.”
Mr. Herbert will sink into his seat, let his head drop, and nod slightly.
Remove the knife from Mrs. Herbert’s throat. She’ll throw her arms around her husband. Grab the boy’s hand and yank him from his seat. Drag him out the front door and put him in the car. As you pull away, he’ll try and wave to his parents.
“Don’t wave,” tell him.
He’ll stop waving.
Happy Take Him Day!
“He’s mine,” tell Mr. Herbert. “All mine.”
Mr. Herbert will drop his cutlery to his plate with a clank.
“The boy is going to run the hardware store,” Mr. Herbert will say.
“The boy is going to come to the city with me and marry me,” tell Mr. Herbert.
“The boy is going to do what I did and my father did before me,” Mr. Herbert will say. “The boy is a Herbert.”
Step to the table. Pick up a piece of pork chop off of Mr. Herbert’s plate. Take a bite. Drop the chop, then grab Mr. Herbert’s knife and hold it to Mrs. Herbert’s throat.
“Marilyn!” Mr. Herbert will shout. “Marilyn stay calm!”
“Let him go or Marilyn meets her maker,” shout.
“Just let the boy go!” Mrs. Herbert will shout.
“The boy will run the store, Marilyn!”
Press the knife deeper.
“For God’s sake, Lewis,” Mrs. Herbert will shout. “I want more years with you!”
“Please let my wife go,” Mr. Herbert will shout. “And let me keep my boy.”
Tell him it’s over. “And you know it,” say. “He’s going, and you can’t stop him. He’s going to leave with me, he’s going to love me, and he’s going to one day try to hold on to a boy of our own the way you’re trying to hold on to him, but he’s going to settle for holding on to me.”
Mr. Herbert will sink into his seat, let his head drop, and nod slightly.
Remove the knife from Mrs. Herbert’s throat. She’ll throw her arms around her husband. Grab the boy’s hand and yank him from his seat. Drag him out the front door and put him in the car. As you pull away, he’ll try and wave to his parents.
“Don’t wave,” tell him.
He’ll stop waving.
Happy Take Him Day!
Friday, July 05, 2013
Kid Bunker Day!
You’re on Day 34 of shooting on the reality show Kid Bunker, where a bunch of kids live together in a bunker deep underground, completely unsupervised, and none of you know that the world ended on the surface last week.
“Jeff had better watch his step,” you’re telling the camera during your Confession Session. “If he plays with my PSP once more without asking, I’m going to break his dumb face.”
You and Jeff have been going at it from day one, and when there were still viewers of your show, before everyone was incinerated in a nuclear blast, fans of the show sided with you.
“I don’t know why Jeff thinks it’s okay to be a poophead, but he does.”
“Poophead” is your signature dis. It was sweeping the nation almost as fast as the wall of hot white light and flame stormed from sea to sea after the silos were remotely infiltrated and detonated. Thousands of people bought “Poophead” t-shirts and wore them proudly. All those t-shirts are ash now.
“I think today I might tell Emily I like her,” you say to the camera, your face turning red.
Emily is a ten-year-old brown-haired girl who likes to draw with you. You two have been having an adorable will-they-won’t-they relationship. Before millions of pairs of eyes burst like grapes in a heat that rivaled that of the sun, all eyes were planted on the screen whenever you two played together, waiting for one of you to lean over and plant a kiss on the other’s cheek.
“Okay that’s all I have to say. Bye mommy I miss you!”
She used to love watching you sign off all your confessions with that.
Happy Kid Bunker Day!
“Jeff had better watch his step,” you’re telling the camera during your Confession Session. “If he plays with my PSP once more without asking, I’m going to break his dumb face.”
You and Jeff have been going at it from day one, and when there were still viewers of your show, before everyone was incinerated in a nuclear blast, fans of the show sided with you.
“I don’t know why Jeff thinks it’s okay to be a poophead, but he does.”
“Poophead” is your signature dis. It was sweeping the nation almost as fast as the wall of hot white light and flame stormed from sea to sea after the silos were remotely infiltrated and detonated. Thousands of people bought “Poophead” t-shirts and wore them proudly. All those t-shirts are ash now.
“I think today I might tell Emily I like her,” you say to the camera, your face turning red.
Emily is a ten-year-old brown-haired girl who likes to draw with you. You two have been having an adorable will-they-won’t-they relationship. Before millions of pairs of eyes burst like grapes in a heat that rivaled that of the sun, all eyes were planted on the screen whenever you two played together, waiting for one of you to lean over and plant a kiss on the other’s cheek.
“Okay that’s all I have to say. Bye mommy I miss you!”
She used to love watching you sign off all your confessions with that.
Happy Kid Bunker Day!
Thursday, July 04, 2013
Shower Cam Sheldon Day!
It’s 2046 and you’re in a nursing home. Someone is standing in your doorway. A woman in her 50s.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she says. “I was visiting my father down the hall, and I noticed your name written on the chart outside your room. Sheldon Pendleton?”
“Pretty nosey,” tell her.
“Sheldon Pendleton,” she repeats. “Many years ago, and excuse me if I’m wrong, but did you ever go by the name…Shower Cam Sheldon?”
Oh great.
“Look, what I did when I was young and needed money I’m not going to apologize for,” tell her. “You’ve never done anything to make ends meat?”
The woman will leave without saying a word. She’ll return holding a balloon. The balloon will read “THANK YOU.”
“Where’d you get that?” ask her.
“Gift shop,” she’ll say. She’ll step into your room, cross to your chair, and hand you the balloon.
“You gave a lot to me,” she’ll say. “When I was in my first marriage, a marriage I had no business being in. In the years following my first divorce…”
“You got off to me,” say. “You’re welcome.”
“Yes, occasionally,” she says. “But most of the time, I was just grateful to be invited in. Watching you shower and masturbate on camera, it was an escape from the unbearable confines of my own life into the intimate, closed off, completely anonymous confines of someone else’s. When I turned on your shower feed, I felt like a little kid sick of her parents fighting and running off into a tree-house.”
You’ve been recognized off and on through the years, but most people just think it’s a lark to meet someone from the world of porn. They see you as a tourist attraction. This is different.
“Do you have family?” she asks.
You shake your head, no.
She’ll visit you weekly. Every time she visits her father, she’ll spend an hour with you. Then after her father dies she’ll continue to visit you. She’ll be there on the day that you die.
“Why did you visit me all these years?” you’ll ask her with some of your final breath. “Was it pity?”
“It was selfishness,” she’ll tell you. “Through your shower cam, I felt I knew you, intimately. I felt I had a friend in you. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted you to know me. When I found you here, Shower Cam Sheldon, all these years later, it gave me the opportunity to make you know me. I took it.”
You feel her hand tighten around yours. The room is graying. You seem to go in and out of sleep. You can’t know how long it takes you to respond to her when you say, “I’m glad you did.”
Happy Shower Cam Sheldon Day!
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she says. “I was visiting my father down the hall, and I noticed your name written on the chart outside your room. Sheldon Pendleton?”
“Pretty nosey,” tell her.
“Sheldon Pendleton,” she repeats. “Many years ago, and excuse me if I’m wrong, but did you ever go by the name…Shower Cam Sheldon?”
Oh great.
“Look, what I did when I was young and needed money I’m not going to apologize for,” tell her. “You’ve never done anything to make ends meat?”
The woman will leave without saying a word. She’ll return holding a balloon. The balloon will read “THANK YOU.”
“Where’d you get that?” ask her.
“Gift shop,” she’ll say. She’ll step into your room, cross to your chair, and hand you the balloon.
“You gave a lot to me,” she’ll say. “When I was in my first marriage, a marriage I had no business being in. In the years following my first divorce…”
“You got off to me,” say. “You’re welcome.”
“Yes, occasionally,” she says. “But most of the time, I was just grateful to be invited in. Watching you shower and masturbate on camera, it was an escape from the unbearable confines of my own life into the intimate, closed off, completely anonymous confines of someone else’s. When I turned on your shower feed, I felt like a little kid sick of her parents fighting and running off into a tree-house.”
You’ve been recognized off and on through the years, but most people just think it’s a lark to meet someone from the world of porn. They see you as a tourist attraction. This is different.
“Do you have family?” she asks.
You shake your head, no.
She’ll visit you weekly. Every time she visits her father, she’ll spend an hour with you. Then after her father dies she’ll continue to visit you. She’ll be there on the day that you die.
“Why did you visit me all these years?” you’ll ask her with some of your final breath. “Was it pity?”
“It was selfishness,” she’ll tell you. “Through your shower cam, I felt I knew you, intimately. I felt I had a friend in you. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted you to know me. When I found you here, Shower Cam Sheldon, all these years later, it gave me the opportunity to make you know me. I took it.”
You feel her hand tighten around yours. The room is graying. You seem to go in and out of sleep. You can’t know how long it takes you to respond to her when you say, “I’m glad you did.”
Happy Shower Cam Sheldon Day!
Wednesday, July 03, 2013
Make Love To Your Husband’s Old College Roommate, Dave Day!
Your husband’s old college roommate Dave is staying with you for a week. You’re sick of hearing them reminisce about college. You wish you had something to reminisce with Dave about that your husband could be sick of. Your husband’s at work today, so you should make love to Dave.
“Why?” Dave will ask.
“We just should,” tell him.
“I need a reason,” he’ll say.
“You’re here. I’m here,” you say, taking off your top. “My top’s off. Boobs.” You point to one of your boobs.
“You’re just reciting details about the present,” he’ll say. “Not why we should have sex.”
He drives a hard bargain.
“You knew my husband when he was younger so you represent a part of his life that I don’t know,” tell him. “Having sex with you will let me lay a claim of my own on that part of his life.”
“So it will bring you closer to him?” Dave will say. “Well, if it helps my old college buddy’s marriage, okay.”
When your husband comes home early and finds Dave inside of you, he’ll pull you both into a group hug.
“I hated you not having some claim of your own on that part of my life,” he’ll shout.
Later, your husband and Dave will reminisce about college, and you and Dave will reminisce about the sex you had earlier, and everything will be even.
Happy Make Love To Your Husband’s Old College Roommate, Dave Day!
“Why?” Dave will ask.
“We just should,” tell him.
“I need a reason,” he’ll say.
“You’re here. I’m here,” you say, taking off your top. “My top’s off. Boobs.” You point to one of your boobs.
“You’re just reciting details about the present,” he’ll say. “Not why we should have sex.”
He drives a hard bargain.
“You knew my husband when he was younger so you represent a part of his life that I don’t know,” tell him. “Having sex with you will let me lay a claim of my own on that part of his life.”
“So it will bring you closer to him?” Dave will say. “Well, if it helps my old college buddy’s marriage, okay.”
When your husband comes home early and finds Dave inside of you, he’ll pull you both into a group hug.
“I hated you not having some claim of your own on that part of my life,” he’ll shout.
Later, your husband and Dave will reminisce about college, and you and Dave will reminisce about the sex you had earlier, and everything will be even.
Happy Make Love To Your Husband’s Old College Roommate, Dave Day!
Tuesday, July 02, 2013
Herbert Day!
He’s in the shower. Take the bag you packed and run down into the basement and find the cat. Put the cat into the carrier then run back upstairs and say goodbye to your daughters.
“Your dad sucks,” explain.
“Can we come?”
Tell them you don’t have the money.
“You’re taking Herbert?”
Nod. “You want mommy to have something to keep her company don’t you?”
They ask if you could maybe just date.
“I feel like I need to be off the dating scene for a bit,” tell them. “Your dad really soured me on dudes.”
They suggest that you could find a support group or something.
“Look, I want the goddamn cat,” tell them.
They’re crying now. Weird, you’d think if they liked the cat so damn much they would have changed the box once in a while. Wait. Wait, tell them that!
“Funny,” you say. “If you liked Herbert so much, maybe you should have expressed your appreciation by changing his cat box every once in a while.”
Burn.
“Leave the cat,” your daughter, Laura, says. “Or I’ll run upstairs and tell Daddy you’re going.”
“You wouldn’t,” tell her.
She would.
“Herbert stays, or you both do,” Laura says.
You open the carrier and set Herbert free. Then you climb out of your daughters’ window.
You’ve never been prouder of your ten-year-old girl. She’s not going to be pushed around by men like you were. She’s going to get what she wants.
Happy Herbert Day!
“Your dad sucks,” explain.
“Can we come?”
Tell them you don’t have the money.
“You’re taking Herbert?”
Nod. “You want mommy to have something to keep her company don’t you?”
They ask if you could maybe just date.
“I feel like I need to be off the dating scene for a bit,” tell them. “Your dad really soured me on dudes.”
They suggest that you could find a support group or something.
“Look, I want the goddamn cat,” tell them.
They’re crying now. Weird, you’d think if they liked the cat so damn much they would have changed the box once in a while. Wait. Wait, tell them that!
“Funny,” you say. “If you liked Herbert so much, maybe you should have expressed your appreciation by changing his cat box every once in a while.”
Burn.
“Leave the cat,” your daughter, Laura, says. “Or I’ll run upstairs and tell Daddy you’re going.”
“You wouldn’t,” tell her.
She would.
“Herbert stays, or you both do,” Laura says.
You open the carrier and set Herbert free. Then you climb out of your daughters’ window.
You’ve never been prouder of your ten-year-old girl. She’s not going to be pushed around by men like you were. She’s going to get what she wants.
Happy Herbert Day!
Monday, July 01, 2013
Time To Be Honest With Your Roommate Day!
Say, “Roommate, I am in love with you.”
Roommate will say, “This is music to my ears. I have loved you since the day you were added to the lease.”
You’ll go to him, but he’ll push you away. Even while refusing your embrace, his hands on your shoulders still make your heart flutter.
“What of the Roommate oath?” he’ll say. “Whether spoken or not, we entered into it the day we began sharing a living space. We will bring shame to this apartment if we engage in romantic relations.”
“Then let’s get rid of the apartment,” tell him.
Thirty minutes later your apartment building is engulfed in flame. You pulled the fire alarm to try and get everyone out (only four perished). Your apartment is gone. There’s nothing left to be shamed by your love.
“We’re free,” you say. “With no apartment, we’re no longer roommates.”
“Free to love,” he’ll say. “With no roommate oath to stand in our way.
“My Alice!” an old man will cry upon realizing his wife didn’t make it.
Happy Time To Be Honest With Your Roommate Day!
Roommate will say, “This is music to my ears. I have loved you since the day you were added to the lease.”
You’ll go to him, but he’ll push you away. Even while refusing your embrace, his hands on your shoulders still make your heart flutter.
“What of the Roommate oath?” he’ll say. “Whether spoken or not, we entered into it the day we began sharing a living space. We will bring shame to this apartment if we engage in romantic relations.”
“Then let’s get rid of the apartment,” tell him.
Thirty minutes later your apartment building is engulfed in flame. You pulled the fire alarm to try and get everyone out (only four perished). Your apartment is gone. There’s nothing left to be shamed by your love.
“We’re free,” you say. “With no apartment, we’re no longer roommates.”
“Free to love,” he’ll say. “With no roommate oath to stand in our way.
“My Alice!” an old man will cry upon realizing his wife didn’t make it.
Happy Time To Be Honest With Your Roommate Day!
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