Thursday, October 10, 2013
Demonic Possession Day!
Your brother has been possessed by a demon.
“I can’t take care of this,” you tell your mom. “I’m busy. I can’t fly out to California right now. Besides, his tiny apartment has nowhere for me to stay.”
“Well your father and I have a trip planned,” she says. “We’re not going to cancel just to hold a priest’s hand while he conducts an exorcism.”
You ask if your brother can just leave a key for the priest to let himself in and do the exorcism.
“He’s possessed by a demon! He’s not going to put a key under the mat for a priest.”
You get a hold of your brother’s landlord (you’ve paid his back rent on more than one occasion) and ask him if he can go and unlock your brother’s door so a priest can get inside.
“If this exorcism sucks the building into the ground or anything, your brother will be held liable,” the landlord says.
You say fine. The landlord asks when you plan to come out.
“I can’t make it,” you tell him.
The landlord doesn’t say anything. You hear the judgment in his silence, so you hang up quickly.
You spend the next few days worrying about your brother, then you forget all about it and you don’t bother to check and see if the exorcism went okay. When he shows up for Thanksgiving, he’ll seem fine. None of you will ask about the demon since you’ll all be busy counting how many beers he drinks to see if he’s going to cause another scene like Thanksgiving of ’08.
Happy Demonic Possession Day!
Wednesday, October 09, 2013
Sustainable Kill House Day!
It’s one thing to have a floor covered in the bloody footprints of victims trying to escape. It’s another to leave your own giant carbon footprint on the planet.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” your father will say while sucking meat off of a human femur. “You just connected footprint to footprint, but the two don’t have anything to do with each other.”
“Solar!” you shout, trying to change the subject. “Do you know with three solar panels we could power the entire conveyor-belt-into-circular-saw contraption downstairs without any need for electricity?”
Your brothers will take a break from masturbating into women’s handbags to consider this.
“And why aren’t we composting?” you ask. “The nutrients in all the human hair we throw away could feed a nice tomato plant.”
“Separate out the cans?” one of your brothers offers.
“That’s right!” you say. “We’re the only house on this block that doesn’t recycle!”
“More are coming!” the ghost of your grandmother will say via the rabbit skull on the altar. “They must die!”
“Okay we’ll table this for now,” you’ll say, gathering your scythe to go and murder some unsuspecting youths. “But seriously guys, it’s 2013. It’s time to prove that a kill house doesn’t have to kill the environment.”
Happy Sustainable Kill House Day!
“That doesn’t make any sense,” your father will say while sucking meat off of a human femur. “You just connected footprint to footprint, but the two don’t have anything to do with each other.”
“Solar!” you shout, trying to change the subject. “Do you know with three solar panels we could power the entire conveyor-belt-into-circular-saw contraption downstairs without any need for electricity?”
Your brothers will take a break from masturbating into women’s handbags to consider this.
“And why aren’t we composting?” you ask. “The nutrients in all the human hair we throw away could feed a nice tomato plant.”
“Separate out the cans?” one of your brothers offers.
“That’s right!” you say. “We’re the only house on this block that doesn’t recycle!”
“More are coming!” the ghost of your grandmother will say via the rabbit skull on the altar. “They must die!”
“Okay we’ll table this for now,” you’ll say, gathering your scythe to go and murder some unsuspecting youths. “But seriously guys, it’s 2013. It’s time to prove that a kill house doesn’t have to kill the environment.”
Happy Sustainable Kill House Day!
Tuesday, October 08, 2013
Become Less Materialistic Day!
Today’s the day to stop being so obsessed with material possessions.
“I have had enough of caring more about what I buy than who I am!” you shout while setting fire to your 50 inch plasma screen TV.
“Our house!” your wife will shout as the fire spreads.
“Oh you mean the house we BOUGHT?” you’ll say. “That’s all you care about. You disgust me.”
Your kids will run out to the lawn clutching their favorite stuffed animals. You’ll rip the stuffed animals from their hands and toss them into the fire.
“Asshole!” your kids will shout in unison. “Such an asshole!”
Happy Become Less Materialistic Day!
“I have had enough of caring more about what I buy than who I am!” you shout while setting fire to your 50 inch plasma screen TV.
“Our house!” your wife will shout as the fire spreads.
“Oh you mean the house we BOUGHT?” you’ll say. “That’s all you care about. You disgust me.”
Your kids will run out to the lawn clutching their favorite stuffed animals. You’ll rip the stuffed animals from their hands and toss them into the fire.
“Asshole!” your kids will shout in unison. “Such an asshole!”
Happy Become Less Materialistic Day!
Monday, October 07, 2013
Your Alcoholic Dad Day!
Growing up you used to be embarrassed about your dad being an alcoholic. Now that you’re an alcoholic dad yourself, you regret all those times that you refused to bring friends over because you were afraid of them to see your dad. You know how it feels when your kids make a point of hiding you from their friends, and you feel like hell that you made your dad feel the same way. Give him a call and tell him.
“Hello who’s this? What now?” your dad will say.
“Dad,” you’ll say. “It’szzz me. Yer sssshon.” You’re slurring badly.
“Ssssshon? What’szzz wrong now?” he’s slurring badly too.
“Jushhht wannnna say shorrry,” you’ll say. “Shorry fer…shtuff.”
“What shtuff?” he’ll ask.
“Don’t remember,” you’ll say, laughing. “Can’t ‘member why I called.”
Then, almost in sync with each other, you and your dad will both pass out and drop your phones to the ground. Your kids will find it a couple hours later when they come home. They’ll pick up the phone and hear their grandfather snoring on the other end. Then they’ll hang up the phone and go upstairs to cry in their bedrooms.
Happy Your Alcoholic Dad Day!
“Hello who’s this? What now?” your dad will say.
“Dad,” you’ll say. “It’szzz me. Yer sssshon.” You’re slurring badly.
“Ssssshon? What’szzz wrong now?” he’s slurring badly too.
“Jushhht wannnna say shorrry,” you’ll say. “Shorry fer…shtuff.”
“What shtuff?” he’ll ask.
“Don’t remember,” you’ll say, laughing. “Can’t ‘member why I called.”
Then, almost in sync with each other, you and your dad will both pass out and drop your phones to the ground. Your kids will find it a couple hours later when they come home. They’ll pick up the phone and hear their grandfather snoring on the other end. Then they’ll hang up the phone and go upstairs to cry in their bedrooms.
Happy Your Alcoholic Dad Day!
Sunday, October 06, 2013
You And Your Estranged Dad Are On The Same Flight Day!
Awkward!
Late boarding, and you come running onto the plane just before the door’s closed. Panting and sweaty you push your way down the aisle of the crowded cabin, looking for that one last overhead bin that miraculously still has room for your bag. That’s when you look down and see that son of a bitch’s face staring up at you from seat 17 C.
“You never were the most punctual,” he says. “Didn’t get that from me.”
Your mother kicked him out eleven years ago when you were a teenager, and you spent a few years hating her for it. Then you were old enough to understand his philandering ways and you hated yourself for giving her a hard time, which in turn made you hate him so much more.
The guy sitting next to your dad asks if you two know each other and he says, “She’s my daughter.”
“Was,” you mutter, apparently not loud enough to hear because when you take your seat in the next row, the seatmate asks, “You two want to sit together?”
“God no,” you say.
“It’s going to be a bumpy ride,” your dad says, laughing lightly, trying to bring the seatmate over to his side.
“Family,” the seatmate says, responding to your dad with a chuckle and a shrug.
You lean forward, shove your face in between their headrests and say, “He cheated on my mother with five different women, carried on long-lasting affairs with them, going so far as to put one up in her own apartment, which of course put a strain on our family’s finances so my mother was forced to take a job at a department store.”
You sit back in your seat. Your dad tries to chuckle but the seatmate isn’t having it.
The seatmate glares at your dad, then he shoves his face in between the headrests to address you.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“This is the first time I’ve seen him in years,” you say.
The seatmate looks down at your dad, then back at you.
“We could throw him off the plane,” he says. “I mean, when we’re in the air.”
“Hey!” your dad says.
“That sounds like a plan,” you say.
“Right after they turn off the seatbelts fastened sign?”
“What the hell?” your dad says.
“Wait until we get above Cleveland,” you say. “He always hated Cleveland.”
“Cleveland it is,” your dad’s seatmate says. “What is your name?”
You tell him. Your seatmate, a tall man weighing at least 300 pounds, eventually agrees to switch with your dad’s seatmate.
The two of you spend the rest of the flight talking non-stop. You open up to him, completely. Forcing your lonely, much-sadder-and-older-looking father to learn about the details of your life by eavesdropping on your flirtations with a strange man gives you a delicious, spiteful pleasure. In trying to hurt your father, you happily hand your heart to this stranger, and he happily accepts it.
By the end of the flight, you look into his eyes and you know you’ve already fallen in love. When your father gets up to retrieve his bags, you try to look into his eyes, but he averts them before you can see the hurt you put there.
Happy You And Your Estranged Dad Are On The Same Flight Day!
Late boarding, and you come running onto the plane just before the door’s closed. Panting and sweaty you push your way down the aisle of the crowded cabin, looking for that one last overhead bin that miraculously still has room for your bag. That’s when you look down and see that son of a bitch’s face staring up at you from seat 17 C.
“You never were the most punctual,” he says. “Didn’t get that from me.”
Your mother kicked him out eleven years ago when you were a teenager, and you spent a few years hating her for it. Then you were old enough to understand his philandering ways and you hated yourself for giving her a hard time, which in turn made you hate him so much more.
The guy sitting next to your dad asks if you two know each other and he says, “She’s my daughter.”
“Was,” you mutter, apparently not loud enough to hear because when you take your seat in the next row, the seatmate asks, “You two want to sit together?”
“God no,” you say.
“It’s going to be a bumpy ride,” your dad says, laughing lightly, trying to bring the seatmate over to his side.
“Family,” the seatmate says, responding to your dad with a chuckle and a shrug.
You lean forward, shove your face in between their headrests and say, “He cheated on my mother with five different women, carried on long-lasting affairs with them, going so far as to put one up in her own apartment, which of course put a strain on our family’s finances so my mother was forced to take a job at a department store.”
You sit back in your seat. Your dad tries to chuckle but the seatmate isn’t having it.
The seatmate glares at your dad, then he shoves his face in between the headrests to address you.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“This is the first time I’ve seen him in years,” you say.
The seatmate looks down at your dad, then back at you.
“We could throw him off the plane,” he says. “I mean, when we’re in the air.”
“Hey!” your dad says.
“That sounds like a plan,” you say.
“Right after they turn off the seatbelts fastened sign?”
“What the hell?” your dad says.
“Wait until we get above Cleveland,” you say. “He always hated Cleveland.”
“Cleveland it is,” your dad’s seatmate says. “What is your name?”
You tell him. Your seatmate, a tall man weighing at least 300 pounds, eventually agrees to switch with your dad’s seatmate.
The two of you spend the rest of the flight talking non-stop. You open up to him, completely. Forcing your lonely, much-sadder-and-older-looking father to learn about the details of your life by eavesdropping on your flirtations with a strange man gives you a delicious, spiteful pleasure. In trying to hurt your father, you happily hand your heart to this stranger, and he happily accepts it.
By the end of the flight, you look into his eyes and you know you’ve already fallen in love. When your father gets up to retrieve his bags, you try to look into his eyes, but he averts them before you can see the hurt you put there.
Happy You And Your Estranged Dad Are On The Same Flight Day!
Saturday, October 05, 2013
You’re A Shirt Salesman Day!
But that doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings.
You hear it all day long from your customers.
“Hey shirt salesman, I’d like to buy a shirt. But don’t talk to me too much because who cares about you.”
“Listen up Shirty McShirterberger. If I wanted to hear from a guy who spends his life helping people cover up their upper bodies with a bunch of dumb fabric that buttons in the front, I still wouldn’t listen to you because I’d come to my senses just in the nick of time.”
“I am so angry that you’re alive.”
“Why are my customers so mean?” you’ll ask your wife when you get home tonight.
“Shut up,” she’ll mutter absently while binge-watching Falcon Crest on Netflix.
You’ll go upstairs and look in your closet at all the shirts you own. Is it so bad to sell people something that they need to look presentable? Does it make sense for that to inspire such hostility in people? You like shirts. And you’re good at selling them. If the world wants to hate you for that, so be it.
Just then a brick with the words “Shirt-selling Scum” will fly through your window and crack open your skull. Your wife will find your body after three more episodes of Falcon Crest, then she’ll watch two more before phoning an ambulance.
Happy You’re A Shirt Salesman Day!
You hear it all day long from your customers.
“Hey shirt salesman, I’d like to buy a shirt. But don’t talk to me too much because who cares about you.”
“Listen up Shirty McShirterberger. If I wanted to hear from a guy who spends his life helping people cover up their upper bodies with a bunch of dumb fabric that buttons in the front, I still wouldn’t listen to you because I’d come to my senses just in the nick of time.”
“I am so angry that you’re alive.”
“Why are my customers so mean?” you’ll ask your wife when you get home tonight.
“Shut up,” she’ll mutter absently while binge-watching Falcon Crest on Netflix.
You’ll go upstairs and look in your closet at all the shirts you own. Is it so bad to sell people something that they need to look presentable? Does it make sense for that to inspire such hostility in people? You like shirts. And you’re good at selling them. If the world wants to hate you for that, so be it.
Just then a brick with the words “Shirt-selling Scum” will fly through your window and crack open your skull. Your wife will find your body after three more episodes of Falcon Crest, then she’ll watch two more before phoning an ambulance.
Happy You’re A Shirt Salesman Day!
Friday, October 04, 2013
Space Station Day!
“How long have we been up here?” he asks.
“Fourteen years,” you answer.
“An in that time, we still haven’t learned each other’s—”
“No names,” tell him. “We agreed. It’s hotter that way.”
“But it’s been fourteen years,” he’ll say.
“No names.” You insist. He says fine.
You float to him. He removes his space suit. You remove yours.
“I am so glad you answered my ad,” you say. “Whoever you are.”
“I am too,” he says.
You put on your blindfold. He coats you in baby oil. Just like every day since 1999.
Happy Space Station Day!
“Fourteen years,” you answer.
“An in that time, we still haven’t learned each other’s—”
“No names,” tell him. “We agreed. It’s hotter that way.”
“But it’s been fourteen years,” he’ll say.
“No names.” You insist. He says fine.
You float to him. He removes his space suit. You remove yours.
“I am so glad you answered my ad,” you say. “Whoever you are.”
“I am too,” he says.
You put on your blindfold. He coats you in baby oil. Just like every day since 1999.
Happy Space Station Day!
Thursday, October 03, 2013
Tell Your Husband The Truth Day!
“I only married you because I thought it would make me seem cool,” tell him.
Your husband will demand a divorce because you’re a poser. The court will rule in his favor.
“Being cool is about what’s inside,” the judge will rule. “Marrying someone just because you want to seem awesome, the court finds that that’s lame.”
You’ll split your assets in half then you’ll go back to living alone and unmarried like most lamers do.
Happy Tell Your Husband The Truth Day!
Your husband will demand a divorce because you’re a poser. The court will rule in his favor.
“Being cool is about what’s inside,” the judge will rule. “Marrying someone just because you want to seem awesome, the court finds that that’s lame.”
You’ll split your assets in half then you’ll go back to living alone and unmarried like most lamers do.
Happy Tell Your Husband The Truth Day!
Wednesday, October 02, 2013
Cry Run Day!
It’s a fenced off part of the park where people can go and cry and they can’t be bothered by couples walking arm in arm, people walking dogs, tourists taking pictures, or students showing their parents around town. It’s just for crying.
The floor is hardened dirt. No grass. Nothing can grow, from the steady flow of salty tears to the soil.
The fence is lined with a tarp, seven feet tall, so that people can’t take photos from outside of the Run and post them on Facebook with captions like “Be thankful for what you have” or “You have to choose to be happy.”
Occasionally people will bump into each other and instinctively pull each other into an embrace, which can sometimes lead to that kind of sad, wet, crying kiss that people do when they’re so emotionally vulnerable that they can’t help but start making out. That’s what’s going to happen to you in a second.
While crying over just how empty and lost you’ve felt ever since you left school you’ll accidentally get in the way of a guy who’s finally letting himself cry for his dead Dad who was kind of a bastard. The two of you will apologize and try to step out of each other’s way but then your arms will reach out and you’ll step into each other’s bodies and your cheeks will touch, mixing the tears there, then you’ll move your faces just an inch and your mouths will be on each other. That’s when you’ll feel the hands on you.
“Let’s go,” the Cry Run attendant will say as he hustles you through the gate. “You got the rest of the park for that.”
He’ll shove you out of the Cry Run and then you’ll find a field, lay down, and continue making out with wet, salty lips.
Happy Cry Run Day!
The floor is hardened dirt. No grass. Nothing can grow, from the steady flow of salty tears to the soil.
The fence is lined with a tarp, seven feet tall, so that people can’t take photos from outside of the Run and post them on Facebook with captions like “Be thankful for what you have” or “You have to choose to be happy.”
Occasionally people will bump into each other and instinctively pull each other into an embrace, which can sometimes lead to that kind of sad, wet, crying kiss that people do when they’re so emotionally vulnerable that they can’t help but start making out. That’s what’s going to happen to you in a second.
While crying over just how empty and lost you’ve felt ever since you left school you’ll accidentally get in the way of a guy who’s finally letting himself cry for his dead Dad who was kind of a bastard. The two of you will apologize and try to step out of each other’s way but then your arms will reach out and you’ll step into each other’s bodies and your cheeks will touch, mixing the tears there, then you’ll move your faces just an inch and your mouths will be on each other. That’s when you’ll feel the hands on you.
“Let’s go,” the Cry Run attendant will say as he hustles you through the gate. “You got the rest of the park for that.”
He’ll shove you out of the Cry Run and then you’ll find a field, lay down, and continue making out with wet, salty lips.
Happy Cry Run Day!
Tuesday, October 01, 2013
Three Guys On A Road Trip Day!
Man have you three guys seen America! You’ve had the time of your lives. You’ve grown more over these miles than you’ll ever grow for as long as you live. This road trip has changed you. It’s made you the men you were meant to be, and given you a peek at the kind of lives you want to live.
“I want to go into banking now,” one of you says.
“Me too,” says the other.
“Me three,” says the third. “We’ve seen a lot of people in this country. A lot of different kinds of hardship. A lot of struggle. The only way to avoid that is to go into banking.”
So it’s unanimous! As soon as you get back from the wondrous terrain of America’s expanse, you’ll go into banking! Because the only way to not end up completely fucked in this country is to be the one doing the fucking.
Happy Three Guys On A Road Trip Day!
“I want to go into banking now,” one of you says.
“Me too,” says the other.
“Me three,” says the third. “We’ve seen a lot of people in this country. A lot of different kinds of hardship. A lot of struggle. The only way to avoid that is to go into banking.”
So it’s unanimous! As soon as you get back from the wondrous terrain of America’s expanse, you’ll go into banking! Because the only way to not end up completely fucked in this country is to be the one doing the fucking.
Happy Three Guys On A Road Trip Day!
Monday, September 30, 2013
Barista Sex Day!
The barista who wears the blue kerchief around his neck finds the barista with her bra cups visible through the wide ripped sleeves of her tank top attractive.
“Everybody!” Kerchiefed Barista shouts at the customers. “If you need a refill you’d better get it now.”
“We’re going to have sex on the piled up sacks of beans!” shouts Visible Bra Cup Barista.
A small line of dour-faced customers forms for refills while Kerchiefed Barista and Visible Bra Cup Barista dispense coffee, both of them visibly aroused despite the angry looks they give to the customers who don’t tip because they think dispensing a refill is somehow not as tip-worthy as dispensing the initial cup, even though it takes the exact same amount of fucking work.
“Assholes,” Kerchiefed Barista says to Visible Bra Cup Barista.
“Total assholes,” Visible Bra Cup Barista concurs.
Kerchiefed Barista helps Visible Bra Cup Barista climb up on top of the sacks of beans. They press their sour, pursed lips together in a kiss. It hurts, since both of them have extremely chapped lips. Kerchiefed Barista pulls off his shirt but he refuses to untie his kerchief. Visible Bra Cup Barista feels the same way about her bra. She gladly tosses her tank top to the floor but her lightning blue bra remains fastened. They both unpeel their skin-tight jeans to reveal neither of them were wearing any underwear. Kerchiefed Barista writhes his pale, bony lower body against the yellowish legs and razor hipped pelvis of Visible Bra Cup Barista. It’s clear that Kerchiefed Barista is inside of Visible Bra Cup Barista when their facial expressions change from irritated to distant to a little sad.
“Hey the wi-fi’s out!” a customer shouts from his table.
“Yeah, for me too,” another customer shouts.
“Shut the fuck up!” Kerchiefed Barista shouts back, still thrusting.
“Just reset the router!” a third customer joins in.
“Not now!” Visible Bra Cup Barista responds.
“Reset the goddamned router!” the first customer says, getting out of his seat.
“In a minute!” Kerchiefed Barista says, writhing with a steady rhythm.
“You know you can pull out then go back in again, right?” a customer counsels.
“Just give us a minute!” Visible Bra Cup Barista shouts. “Christ!”
The customers are out of their seats now, gathering around the sacks of beans, demanding that the baristas stop having sex and reset the router.
“Back away!” Kerchiefed Barista says.
The customers continue to gather around the sacks of beans. The people in the back start to shove forward, knocking into the sacks.
“They’re gonna give way!” a customer shouts.
The sacks of beans start to tilt forward with the baristas having sex on top, thrusting and writhing, trying to finish before the inevitable comes to pass. The sacks go completely off balance, the customers screaming as the mountain of beans begins its tumble. The baristas don’t stop even as the sacks fall from underneath them, 50 pounds at a time, customers climbing over each other to get away, but they’re too late. Dozens are killed in the avalanche, including both baristas, still making love, still shouting at the customers who won’t stop bothering them. The baristas die while joined together in erotic passion, a mess of scattered coffee beans and wi-fi craving corpses for their bed. After the dead are cleared out and mourned, the coffee shop closes down and a few months later reopens as a gelato place.
Happy Barista Sex Day!
“Everybody!” Kerchiefed Barista shouts at the customers. “If you need a refill you’d better get it now.”
“We’re going to have sex on the piled up sacks of beans!” shouts Visible Bra Cup Barista.
A small line of dour-faced customers forms for refills while Kerchiefed Barista and Visible Bra Cup Barista dispense coffee, both of them visibly aroused despite the angry looks they give to the customers who don’t tip because they think dispensing a refill is somehow not as tip-worthy as dispensing the initial cup, even though it takes the exact same amount of fucking work.
“Assholes,” Kerchiefed Barista says to Visible Bra Cup Barista.
“Total assholes,” Visible Bra Cup Barista concurs.
Kerchiefed Barista helps Visible Bra Cup Barista climb up on top of the sacks of beans. They press their sour, pursed lips together in a kiss. It hurts, since both of them have extremely chapped lips. Kerchiefed Barista pulls off his shirt but he refuses to untie his kerchief. Visible Bra Cup Barista feels the same way about her bra. She gladly tosses her tank top to the floor but her lightning blue bra remains fastened. They both unpeel their skin-tight jeans to reveal neither of them were wearing any underwear. Kerchiefed Barista writhes his pale, bony lower body against the yellowish legs and razor hipped pelvis of Visible Bra Cup Barista. It’s clear that Kerchiefed Barista is inside of Visible Bra Cup Barista when their facial expressions change from irritated to distant to a little sad.
“Hey the wi-fi’s out!” a customer shouts from his table.
“Yeah, for me too,” another customer shouts.
“Shut the fuck up!” Kerchiefed Barista shouts back, still thrusting.
“Just reset the router!” a third customer joins in.
“Not now!” Visible Bra Cup Barista responds.
“Reset the goddamned router!” the first customer says, getting out of his seat.
“In a minute!” Kerchiefed Barista says, writhing with a steady rhythm.
“You know you can pull out then go back in again, right?” a customer counsels.
“Just give us a minute!” Visible Bra Cup Barista shouts. “Christ!”
The customers are out of their seats now, gathering around the sacks of beans, demanding that the baristas stop having sex and reset the router.
“Back away!” Kerchiefed Barista says.
The customers continue to gather around the sacks of beans. The people in the back start to shove forward, knocking into the sacks.
“They’re gonna give way!” a customer shouts.
The sacks of beans start to tilt forward with the baristas having sex on top, thrusting and writhing, trying to finish before the inevitable comes to pass. The sacks go completely off balance, the customers screaming as the mountain of beans begins its tumble. The baristas don’t stop even as the sacks fall from underneath them, 50 pounds at a time, customers climbing over each other to get away, but they’re too late. Dozens are killed in the avalanche, including both baristas, still making love, still shouting at the customers who won’t stop bothering them. The baristas die while joined together in erotic passion, a mess of scattered coffee beans and wi-fi craving corpses for their bed. After the dead are cleared out and mourned, the coffee shop closes down and a few months later reopens as a gelato place.
Happy Barista Sex Day!
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Old Man’s Cabin Day!
Today while hiking you’ll stumble upon an old man’s cabin.
“You’re the first person I seen in thirty years,” he’ll say.
“Do you have any wisdom?” you’ll ask.
“Yeah,” he’ll say. “Don’t run off into the woods and expect to live alone without being bothered by any people, because eventually, whether it be in thirty days or thirty years, some asshole in a Land’s End outfit will show up asking if you have any wisdom like you’re some kind of convenience store that sells insight into human experience. Do you see a sign outside that says, ‘Come in and ask an old guy to say something smart?’ Nice pants, by the way. Great to see in my time away men are less afraid of looking feminine. And that shirt. Looks like a handkerchief fucked Paul Bunyan.”
The old man will then continue to make fun of your clothes until you leave.
Happy Old Man’s Cabin Day!
“You’re the first person I seen in thirty years,” he’ll say.
“Do you have any wisdom?” you’ll ask.
“Yeah,” he’ll say. “Don’t run off into the woods and expect to live alone without being bothered by any people, because eventually, whether it be in thirty days or thirty years, some asshole in a Land’s End outfit will show up asking if you have any wisdom like you’re some kind of convenience store that sells insight into human experience. Do you see a sign outside that says, ‘Come in and ask an old guy to say something smart?’ Nice pants, by the way. Great to see in my time away men are less afraid of looking feminine. And that shirt. Looks like a handkerchief fucked Paul Bunyan.”
The old man will then continue to make fun of your clothes until you leave.
Happy Old Man’s Cabin Day!
Saturday, September 28, 2013
You’re A Dog That Paints Portraits Of Cats Day!
Why cats?
“Why not cats?” is your answer. “Is a cat not made up of blood and tissue, organs and sinew, claws and fangs and fur, just like dogs?”
Today you’re painting a Siamese. The cat is holding still, staring off at a bird on a branch just out your window.
“I think portraits require an outsider’s eye,” you explain to the girl from Artforum. “I see beauty in what one of their own might find commonplace. I can also spot the fleas.”
But what of the hissing?
“It takes some time,” you say. “Usually about three hours of hissing before they finally get tired and give me something unguarded. But that just gives me a special vantage point. I see them go from fury and defensiveness to surrender. I see the whole cat.”
Are there any you just can’t work with?
“On occasion, the cat gets too aggressive, and I can’t help but bark in response,” you say, somewhat ashamed. “It turns into a standoff, and there just isn’t any work getting done at that point. One or two times a cat has chased me out of my own studio and left me afraid to come back for weeks. But it’s worth it for doing what I love.”
You finish the painting of the Siamese. It’s a chaos of paint, globs of color strewn around the canvas randomly, and it’s just horrible.
Happy You’re A Dog That Paints Portraits Of Cats Day!
“Why not cats?” is your answer. “Is a cat not made up of blood and tissue, organs and sinew, claws and fangs and fur, just like dogs?”
Today you’re painting a Siamese. The cat is holding still, staring off at a bird on a branch just out your window.
“I think portraits require an outsider’s eye,” you explain to the girl from Artforum. “I see beauty in what one of their own might find commonplace. I can also spot the fleas.”
But what of the hissing?
“It takes some time,” you say. “Usually about three hours of hissing before they finally get tired and give me something unguarded. But that just gives me a special vantage point. I see them go from fury and defensiveness to surrender. I see the whole cat.”
Are there any you just can’t work with?
“On occasion, the cat gets too aggressive, and I can’t help but bark in response,” you say, somewhat ashamed. “It turns into a standoff, and there just isn’t any work getting done at that point. One or two times a cat has chased me out of my own studio and left me afraid to come back for weeks. But it’s worth it for doing what I love.”
You finish the painting of the Siamese. It’s a chaos of paint, globs of color strewn around the canvas randomly, and it’s just horrible.
Happy You’re A Dog That Paints Portraits Of Cats Day!
Friday, September 27, 2013
Carjacking Gone Right Day!
Today at a stoplight you’re going to be accosted by a man with a gun. He’ll tap his gun on your car window and tell you to get out.
“Wait,” you’ll say. “Maybe we’re heading in the same direction.”
You tell him where you’re headed and it turns out he is headed that way so you agree to carpool.
“But tomorrow,” he says when he gets out of the car. “If you’re not going my way, this car’s mine. Or else you die.”
You end up carpooling every day for the next six years, and he threatens your life every time you drop him off. But during the ride he’s quite pleasant and has lots of stories about his family and his time working on the back of a bread truck.
The only reason you’ll stop carpooling is because you’re going to get transferred to another office that’s not on his way, so he’ll point the gun at you and make you give him your car.
“It’s been really nice, these six years,” he’ll say, still pointing the gun at you as you stand in the street with your hands up.
“You take care of yourself,” you’ll say to your carjacker.
“You too,” he’ll say. Then he’ll drive away, tossing all of your stuff out of the car as he speeds off into the distance.
Happy Carjacking Gone Right Day!
“Wait,” you’ll say. “Maybe we’re heading in the same direction.”
You tell him where you’re headed and it turns out he is headed that way so you agree to carpool.
“But tomorrow,” he says when he gets out of the car. “If you’re not going my way, this car’s mine. Or else you die.”
You end up carpooling every day for the next six years, and he threatens your life every time you drop him off. But during the ride he’s quite pleasant and has lots of stories about his family and his time working on the back of a bread truck.
The only reason you’ll stop carpooling is because you’re going to get transferred to another office that’s not on his way, so he’ll point the gun at you and make you give him your car.
“It’s been really nice, these six years,” he’ll say, still pointing the gun at you as you stand in the street with your hands up.
“You take care of yourself,” you’ll say to your carjacker.
“You too,” he’ll say. Then he’ll drive away, tossing all of your stuff out of the car as he speeds off into the distance.
Happy Carjacking Gone Right Day!
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Magic Cop Day!
You’re Las Vegas’s greatest magician but you’re also a police detective and you use magic to investigate crimes. Today you’re going to go down to the morgue and investigate a murder by sawing the body in half.
“Nope,” you’ll say, investigating the inside of the victim’s torso. “No clues.”
When you put the body back together seamlessly, the coroner will say, “Wow, you really are magic!”
You’ll pull a really long handkerchief out of your sleeve to confirm it.
“So do you know who did it?”
“Not yet,” you say. “But do you have the victim’s clothing?”
The coroner hands you an evidence bag containing everything the victim was wearing. You pull out the victim’s hat and reach inside it. You pull a live rabbit out of it.
“Wow!” the coroner will say. “So was the killer someone who lived in nature? Or a pet store owner?”
You shrug.
“Does your magic help you solve crimes in any way?” the coroner asks. “Like, at all? Is it even relevant?”
With a snap of your fingers you disappear before he has the chance to ask the question again.
Happy Magic Cop Day!
“Nope,” you’ll say, investigating the inside of the victim’s torso. “No clues.”
When you put the body back together seamlessly, the coroner will say, “Wow, you really are magic!”
You’ll pull a really long handkerchief out of your sleeve to confirm it.
“So do you know who did it?”
“Not yet,” you say. “But do you have the victim’s clothing?”
The coroner hands you an evidence bag containing everything the victim was wearing. You pull out the victim’s hat and reach inside it. You pull a live rabbit out of it.
“Wow!” the coroner will say. “So was the killer someone who lived in nature? Or a pet store owner?”
You shrug.
“Does your magic help you solve crimes in any way?” the coroner asks. “Like, at all? Is it even relevant?”
With a snap of your fingers you disappear before he has the chance to ask the question again.
Happy Magic Cop Day!
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Sex Jail Day!
It’s a dystopian future in which hot people are arrested and sentenced to sex jail where they are forced to have sex with other hot people for years and years and the less attractive populace watches it all on camera.
It’s brought the crime rate down to 0% because everyone would rather just stay home and watch all the attractive people have sex for them than go out to commit murder or rob banks. Also, with all the attractive people in sex jail, no one is really trying to show off so they don’t need a lot of money or anything.
“This is America,” you tell your friends over chat while you’re all masturbating to the sex jail feed in your respective homes. “It’s not fair that these people don’t get to have the same freedoms as you and me just because they’re really good looking.”
“We should break them out of sex jail,” one of your friends suggests. “Then they’ll show their gratitude by having sex with us.”
You and four of your friends devise a plan to bust into sex jail and set all the hot people free. You blast a giant hole into the side of the jail and direct the hot people to freedom.
At the hole, they peer outside, frightened.
“We don’t know about this,” one hot guy says. He’s devastatingly hot.
“Yeah,” a stunning brunette agrees, peering outside. “We’re kind of feeling like the world finally gets it.”
“No one asks us to contribute or anything,” a hulking dude with pecs for days says. “It’s finally like, America understands. We’re hot. So watch us fuck, then go do your stock markets and stuff, but don’t make us talk to you okay?”
“So you like it in here?” you ask the hot people.
They all look grossed out that you spoke to them.
“We’re going to go back inside and have sex with each other,” the brunette says, her bosom heaving.
As they walk back into the jail, you can’t take your eyes off them, which is why you don’t see the guards before they start shooting at you.
Happy Sex Jail Day!
It’s brought the crime rate down to 0% because everyone would rather just stay home and watch all the attractive people have sex for them than go out to commit murder or rob banks. Also, with all the attractive people in sex jail, no one is really trying to show off so they don’t need a lot of money or anything.
“This is America,” you tell your friends over chat while you’re all masturbating to the sex jail feed in your respective homes. “It’s not fair that these people don’t get to have the same freedoms as you and me just because they’re really good looking.”
“We should break them out of sex jail,” one of your friends suggests. “Then they’ll show their gratitude by having sex with us.”
You and four of your friends devise a plan to bust into sex jail and set all the hot people free. You blast a giant hole into the side of the jail and direct the hot people to freedom.
At the hole, they peer outside, frightened.
“We don’t know about this,” one hot guy says. He’s devastatingly hot.
“Yeah,” a stunning brunette agrees, peering outside. “We’re kind of feeling like the world finally gets it.”
“No one asks us to contribute or anything,” a hulking dude with pecs for days says. “It’s finally like, America understands. We’re hot. So watch us fuck, then go do your stock markets and stuff, but don’t make us talk to you okay?”
“So you like it in here?” you ask the hot people.
They all look grossed out that you spoke to them.
“We’re going to go back inside and have sex with each other,” the brunette says, her bosom heaving.
As they walk back into the jail, you can’t take your eyes off them, which is why you don’t see the guards before they start shooting at you.
Happy Sex Jail Day!
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Maureen Day!
To prove you’re the man for Maureen, you’re going to jump a motorcycle across a gorge.
“What if you die?” a news reporter asks.
The jump is to prove you deserve Maureen, that the love you feel is true and that you are the man for her. If you don’t make it across the gorge, that means your love is false, that Maureen is meant to be with someone else.
“And I’d rather be dead at the bottom of that gorge than live in a world where Maureen is meant to be with another man,” you say.
The news reporter asks you to tell him what it is about Maureen that inspired you to buy this motorcycle this morning, learn how to turn on the ignition, and then declare that you’re going to jump it over a gorge as an expression of your heart’s desire.
“She’s the prettiest waitress I ever saw,” you tell him. “When I saw her last night, carrying a tray of drinks to my table, I knew she was the one.”
The news reporter asks if you’re drunk right now.
“Very,” you say.
Just then you see Maureen in the crowd. You run to her.
“Maureen,” you shout. “You made it!”
“Marina,” she corrects you.
You’re terrible with names.
“Also, that jukebox must have been cranked up to the max,” you explain. “Anyway, when I jump to the other side of that gorge, that means we’re meant to be together.”
“You live in a house?” she asks.
You tell her you rent.
“Good enough,” she says. “The jump’s not necessary. You can have me.”
“No,” you say. “You’ll see. This jump will prove we’re more than just settling for each other. This jump will prove we’re destined for each other.”
After asking the sign painters to change the banner from “Jump For Maureen” to “Jump For Marina,” you hop on the bike, give the thumbs up to the news cameras, speed over the lip of the gorge and plummet quickly to the distant bottom. Marina watches with a frown as they hose you off of the rocks.
Happy Maureen Day!
“What if you die?” a news reporter asks.
The jump is to prove you deserve Maureen, that the love you feel is true and that you are the man for her. If you don’t make it across the gorge, that means your love is false, that Maureen is meant to be with someone else.
“And I’d rather be dead at the bottom of that gorge than live in a world where Maureen is meant to be with another man,” you say.
The news reporter asks you to tell him what it is about Maureen that inspired you to buy this motorcycle this morning, learn how to turn on the ignition, and then declare that you’re going to jump it over a gorge as an expression of your heart’s desire.
“She’s the prettiest waitress I ever saw,” you tell him. “When I saw her last night, carrying a tray of drinks to my table, I knew she was the one.”
The news reporter asks if you’re drunk right now.
“Very,” you say.
Just then you see Maureen in the crowd. You run to her.
“Maureen,” you shout. “You made it!”
“Marina,” she corrects you.
You’re terrible with names.
“Also, that jukebox must have been cranked up to the max,” you explain. “Anyway, when I jump to the other side of that gorge, that means we’re meant to be together.”
“You live in a house?” she asks.
You tell her you rent.
“Good enough,” she says. “The jump’s not necessary. You can have me.”
“No,” you say. “You’ll see. This jump will prove we’re more than just settling for each other. This jump will prove we’re destined for each other.”
After asking the sign painters to change the banner from “Jump For Maureen” to “Jump For Marina,” you hop on the bike, give the thumbs up to the news cameras, speed over the lip of the gorge and plummet quickly to the distant bottom. Marina watches with a frown as they hose you off of the rocks.
Happy Maureen Day!
Monday, September 23, 2013
This Is Why You Can’t Have Not-On-Fire Things Day!
Just when you had your apartment decorated exactly the way you like, you have to go and set everything on fire because she’s gone.
“She sat on the couch,” you tell your friend, Jedd, who was cool enough to pick you up some kerosene and chicken soup (you have a cold). “She slept on the bed. She used to look in that mirror. She gave me that ottoman.”
“She gave you an ottoman?” Jedd asks.
“Yeah, she gave me an ottoman,” you answer. “She never put her things in the dresser. That’s gotta go too.”
“But she never put her things in it,” Jedd says.
“Yeah, so every time I look at it I have to remember how I offered her a drawer in my dresser and she’d just scrunch up her nose as if I was being cute, but she never left so much as a pair of socks. Splash some on the dresser. And this ice cube tray.”
Jedd obliges, dousing the dresser and ice cube tray in kerosene.
“She loved ice,” you tell him.
“You’re too sentimental,” Jedd says, covering all your possessions in kerosene.
“Just hurry,” tell him. “I have to light the match before Mrs. Wallingford smells the kerosene and realizes I’ve been dumped again and tries to set me up with her daughter.”
Jedd says that you need to wall off your heart more, that you shouldn’t have to set everything you own on fire every time someone breaks up with you. Love doesn’t have to be like that.
“Shut up, Jedd,” you say. Then you light the match.
Happy This Is Why You Can’t Have Not-On-Fire Things Day!
“She sat on the couch,” you tell your friend, Jedd, who was cool enough to pick you up some kerosene and chicken soup (you have a cold). “She slept on the bed. She used to look in that mirror. She gave me that ottoman.”
“She gave you an ottoman?” Jedd asks.
“Yeah, she gave me an ottoman,” you answer. “She never put her things in the dresser. That’s gotta go too.”
“But she never put her things in it,” Jedd says.
“Yeah, so every time I look at it I have to remember how I offered her a drawer in my dresser and she’d just scrunch up her nose as if I was being cute, but she never left so much as a pair of socks. Splash some on the dresser. And this ice cube tray.”
Jedd obliges, dousing the dresser and ice cube tray in kerosene.
“She loved ice,” you tell him.
“You’re too sentimental,” Jedd says, covering all your possessions in kerosene.
“Just hurry,” tell him. “I have to light the match before Mrs. Wallingford smells the kerosene and realizes I’ve been dumped again and tries to set me up with her daughter.”
Jedd says that you need to wall off your heart more, that you shouldn’t have to set everything you own on fire every time someone breaks up with you. Love doesn’t have to be like that.
“Shut up, Jedd,” you say. Then you light the match.
Happy This Is Why You Can’t Have Not-On-Fire Things Day!
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Don’t Date Professors Day!
You’re a college guy who’s always been attracted to older women, so you want to date your Native American Studies professor.
“Can I take you to a movie?” you ask her.
“No,” your professor will say. “Go outside and wait by my car. I’ll take you to my house for sex.”
Your professor will be a knowledgeable lover with lots of experience to impart to you. When the sex is over you’ll ask her if it was good for her.
“I like your young body,” she’ll say. “If you want to keep having sex with me you have to kill the head of the Native American Studies department. I want his seat.”
You kill the head of the Native American Studies department, but the professor refuses to have sex with you again.
“You think I’d have sex with a murderer?” she asks you.
Just then the police burst in and charge you with murder. You spend decades in prison. When you get out you give talks to graduating high school students warning them not to have sex with their professors in college.
“They don’t keep their word,” you’ll tell the kids. If you can keep just one from going to jail for a murder they committed in exchange for a reneged promise of more sex, it will have all been worth it.
Happy Don’t Date Professors Day!
“Can I take you to a movie?” you ask her.
“No,” your professor will say. “Go outside and wait by my car. I’ll take you to my house for sex.”
Your professor will be a knowledgeable lover with lots of experience to impart to you. When the sex is over you’ll ask her if it was good for her.
“I like your young body,” she’ll say. “If you want to keep having sex with me you have to kill the head of the Native American Studies department. I want his seat.”
You kill the head of the Native American Studies department, but the professor refuses to have sex with you again.
“You think I’d have sex with a murderer?” she asks you.
Just then the police burst in and charge you with murder. You spend decades in prison. When you get out you give talks to graduating high school students warning them not to have sex with their professors in college.
“They don’t keep their word,” you’ll tell the kids. If you can keep just one from going to jail for a murder they committed in exchange for a reneged promise of more sex, it will have all been worth it.
Happy Don’t Date Professors Day!
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Sad Girl Town Day!
You just pulled in to Sad Girl Town, population 2,376 sad girls.
After checking into a motel, you go to the café to get a bite to eat, but the girl behind the counter looks like she’s really having a bad time.
“Have you been crying?” you ask.
The girl nods.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
She shakes her head.
“I’ll get the crumb cake then.”
You sit down next to a girl who’s staring out the window, looking like her heart is being broken by what she sees, even though there’s no one there. Maybe that’s the problem. The person she wants to see isn’t there.
“Is the reason you look so sad while you stare out that window because you want to see someone out there who is never there?” you ask her.
She nods.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
She shakes her head.
When you leave the café you almost trip over a girl sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, sobbing into her hands.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask.
She shakes her head.
As you walk through town you start to get the sense that the sad girls are following you. You turn around and see a handful of girls walking behind you, sniffling and fixing their eyeliner. Then you walk for half of a block and turn around again and find even more sad girls behind you.
Before long there will be hundreds of sad girls following you. Their sobs will be deafening.
“Is there anything I can do to help!” you shout.
They all shake their heads no, creating a palpable breeze.
That night you have trouble sleeping with all the sad girls wandering around the parking lot of your motel, crying and sniffling, shuffling about in deepest woe. You lock the door when you hear them scratching at it, but they come crashing through the window, a pile of them on the floor of your room, sobbing and bleeding from the broken glass.
You run to the bathroom, trying to shut the door behind you but the sad girls block it from shutting. They push into the tiny bathroom, still sobbing, while you cower in the corner of the bathtub.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask one last time before they shake their heads no and reach their arms out, grabbing at you.
Happy Sad Girl Town Day!
After checking into a motel, you go to the café to get a bite to eat, but the girl behind the counter looks like she’s really having a bad time.
“Have you been crying?” you ask.
The girl nods.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
She shakes her head.
“I’ll get the crumb cake then.”
You sit down next to a girl who’s staring out the window, looking like her heart is being broken by what she sees, even though there’s no one there. Maybe that’s the problem. The person she wants to see isn’t there.
“Is the reason you look so sad while you stare out that window because you want to see someone out there who is never there?” you ask her.
She nods.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
She shakes her head.
When you leave the café you almost trip over a girl sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, sobbing into her hands.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask.
She shakes her head.
As you walk through town you start to get the sense that the sad girls are following you. You turn around and see a handful of girls walking behind you, sniffling and fixing their eyeliner. Then you walk for half of a block and turn around again and find even more sad girls behind you.
Before long there will be hundreds of sad girls following you. Their sobs will be deafening.
“Is there anything I can do to help!” you shout.
They all shake their heads no, creating a palpable breeze.
That night you have trouble sleeping with all the sad girls wandering around the parking lot of your motel, crying and sniffling, shuffling about in deepest woe. You lock the door when you hear them scratching at it, but they come crashing through the window, a pile of them on the floor of your room, sobbing and bleeding from the broken glass.
You run to the bathroom, trying to shut the door behind you but the sad girls block it from shutting. They push into the tiny bathroom, still sobbing, while you cower in the corner of the bathtub.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask one last time before they shake their heads no and reach their arms out, grabbing at you.
Happy Sad Girl Town Day!
Friday, September 20, 2013
Pumpkin Patch Day!
The pumpkin patch makes adults do things they wouldn’t normally do, which is why your Dad is laying down in a pile of pumpkins and making out with some other kids’ mom.
“Daddy stop!” you’ll shout, tugging at your dad’s arm to pull his hand off the woman’s breast.
“Mommy, that’s not daddy!” the other kids will shout, yanking on and hitting her shoulder to get her to remove her hand from your dad’s pants.
Eventually, your dad and the other kids’ mom will growl, “GET AWAY!” You’ll look in their eyes and see only darkness, so you and the other kids will run to the hayride truck and let it drive you away from your fornicating father.
When the hayride truck returns, your dad will be waiting, his clothes a little rumpled, a big smile on his face.
“Was wondering where you went off to,” he’ll say like nothing happened. The other kids’ mom will be waiting as well, seemingly unaware of the wanton behavior she exhibited in the pumpkin patch.
You’ll all go home and you won’t say anything to your mom about what your dad did. It will seem to be ancient history until you spot the woman from the pumpkin patch six months from now in a grocery store, her stomach big with child. You won’t have any way of knowing if it’s your dad’s, so you won’t bring it up.
On the night she goes into labor, your dad will get up from the dining table as if in a trance and he’ll run from the house, sprinting in his bare feet. He’ll find the woman in a creek bed, ready to deliver her child. The baby she delivers will be a vessel for demonic power and it will enslave the human race to the whim of Satan. All because you nagged your dad to take you to get a pumpkin for Halloween.
Happy Pumpkin Patch Day!
“Daddy stop!” you’ll shout, tugging at your dad’s arm to pull his hand off the woman’s breast.
“Mommy, that’s not daddy!” the other kids will shout, yanking on and hitting her shoulder to get her to remove her hand from your dad’s pants.
Eventually, your dad and the other kids’ mom will growl, “GET AWAY!” You’ll look in their eyes and see only darkness, so you and the other kids will run to the hayride truck and let it drive you away from your fornicating father.
When the hayride truck returns, your dad will be waiting, his clothes a little rumpled, a big smile on his face.
“Was wondering where you went off to,” he’ll say like nothing happened. The other kids’ mom will be waiting as well, seemingly unaware of the wanton behavior she exhibited in the pumpkin patch.
You’ll all go home and you won’t say anything to your mom about what your dad did. It will seem to be ancient history until you spot the woman from the pumpkin patch six months from now in a grocery store, her stomach big with child. You won’t have any way of knowing if it’s your dad’s, so you won’t bring it up.
On the night she goes into labor, your dad will get up from the dining table as if in a trance and he’ll run from the house, sprinting in his bare feet. He’ll find the woman in a creek bed, ready to deliver her child. The baby she delivers will be a vessel for demonic power and it will enslave the human race to the whim of Satan. All because you nagged your dad to take you to get a pumpkin for Halloween.
Happy Pumpkin Patch Day!
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Santa Claus Day!
Today you’re going to go downstairs to find Santa Claus in your living room, holding his trusty sack.
“Santa?” you’ll say. “It’s not Christmas.”
“So?” Santa will ask. He’ll pull a bat out of his bag and wave it at you.
“So I don’t like you being here when it’s not Christmas,” you’ll say, picking up the fireplace poker.
Santa will swing the bat at your head and miss. You’ll land the fireplace poker right in his skull. He’ll drop to his knees and blood will pour from his mouth onto his beard. You’ll tug the poker out of his skull and just to be sure you’ll bring it down again, even harder this time. The life will go out of his eyes.
When your wife and kids wake up they’ll be angry that you killed Santa, but you’ll explain that it was kill or be killed.
“We never speak of this,” you’ll say to them. “When no one gets any presents this Christmas, you make like you’re just as surprised as everyone else.”
Your wife and kids agree. Then you drag Santa down into the basement to hack his body apart. You’ll bury him out in the mud fields near the bottling plant.
Happy Santa Claus Day!
“Santa?” you’ll say. “It’s not Christmas.”
“So?” Santa will ask. He’ll pull a bat out of his bag and wave it at you.
“So I don’t like you being here when it’s not Christmas,” you’ll say, picking up the fireplace poker.
Santa will swing the bat at your head and miss. You’ll land the fireplace poker right in his skull. He’ll drop to his knees and blood will pour from his mouth onto his beard. You’ll tug the poker out of his skull and just to be sure you’ll bring it down again, even harder this time. The life will go out of his eyes.
When your wife and kids wake up they’ll be angry that you killed Santa, but you’ll explain that it was kill or be killed.
“We never speak of this,” you’ll say to them. “When no one gets any presents this Christmas, you make like you’re just as surprised as everyone else.”
Your wife and kids agree. Then you drag Santa down into the basement to hack his body apart. You’ll bury him out in the mud fields near the bottling plant.
Happy Santa Claus Day!
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Party King Day!
You are the Party King. While you sit in the comfiest chair at the party, feasting on pigs in blankets, mini puff pastries, and microbrews, the rest of the guests at the party are forced to get by on scraps.
“There’s been talk of the guests conspiring to commit regicide,” the host of tonight’s birthday party will tell you as you lounge in your chair pouring a large bowl of Fritos down your throat.
“Let them eat cake,” you’ll say.
“Really?” the host will ask, excited that his guests will be allowed to eat the birthday cake his wife cooked for him.
“Figure of speech,” tell the host. “Tell them if they wish to attend a party, they must submit to the whim of their king.”
Just then two of the guests will grab fondue forks and stab you fifty times in the chest and stomach. The death of the Party King will launch a party revolution as various revelers lay claim to your throne. Parties will take to the battlefield as anniversary gatherings lay siege upon birthday parties and retirement parties will attempt to overtake December holiday open houses. Thousands will die. Event halls will become awash in a sea of blood before finally one man ascends to be recognized across the land as the new and rightful Party King. His name’s Lance and he’s a really good dancer.
Happy Party King Day!
“There’s been talk of the guests conspiring to commit regicide,” the host of tonight’s birthday party will tell you as you lounge in your chair pouring a large bowl of Fritos down your throat.
“Let them eat cake,” you’ll say.
“Really?” the host will ask, excited that his guests will be allowed to eat the birthday cake his wife cooked for him.
“Figure of speech,” tell the host. “Tell them if they wish to attend a party, they must submit to the whim of their king.”
Just then two of the guests will grab fondue forks and stab you fifty times in the chest and stomach. The death of the Party King will launch a party revolution as various revelers lay claim to your throne. Parties will take to the battlefield as anniversary gatherings lay siege upon birthday parties and retirement parties will attempt to overtake December holiday open houses. Thousands will die. Event halls will become awash in a sea of blood before finally one man ascends to be recognized across the land as the new and rightful Party King. His name’s Lance and he’s a really good dancer.
Happy Party King Day!
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
The Auto Mechanic’s Naked Lady Army Day!
You’re an auto mechanic and like most auto mechanics your garage walls are covered in pornography. You’ve pinned up dozens of photos of naked women over the years, and staring at them has really helped you fill the hours during those long workdays. In recent years your life has gotten a little lonelier than you’d like. Friends have moved away, family has either passed on or relocated, your shop has shrunk its operations so that you don’t even have a staff anymore. It’s just you. And your naked ladies.
“I wish you were real,” you’ll say tonight, with your hands on the photographs.
“Done,” you’ll hear a woman’s voice say behind you. You’ll turn around and find dozens of beautiful naked ladies, all the girls in the pictures come to vibrant life.
“Oh my god,” you’ll say. “You’re real! Can I have sex with all of you?”
“Anything you want,” the one with the live boa constrictor around her neck and draped over her breasts will say.
You’ll have sex with all the naked ladies for a few weeks, then the one with the roller skates and hardhat on will say, “What else can we do for you? We are all-powerful.”
“I hate Iowa!” you’ll say.
Your naked lady army will travel two states over to Iowa and immediately lay waste to everything in their path. Within a few days, the entire state will be in ruins.
“Wow!” you’ll say, marveling at all the bodies of the people your naked lady army just killed. “Can we have sex some more?”
You’ll have sex with all the naked ladies for another couple weeks, then you’ll tell them to destroy Minnesota. Then New York. Then they’ll take you to Paris because you’ve always wanted to see it, but you won’t like it so they’ll destroy it. It will look like your naked lady army is going to destroy the whole world until a secretary accidentally brings to life the models in her Shirtless Firefighters Holding Kittens calendar. The shirtless firefighters and their vicious indestructible kittens will go to war with the naked lady army and they’ll end up saving the world. You’ll be executed, which will be fine because you got to have sex with all those naked ladies so you’re all good life-wise.
Happy The Auto Mechanic’s Naked Lady Army Day!
“I wish you were real,” you’ll say tonight, with your hands on the photographs.
“Done,” you’ll hear a woman’s voice say behind you. You’ll turn around and find dozens of beautiful naked ladies, all the girls in the pictures come to vibrant life.
“Oh my god,” you’ll say. “You’re real! Can I have sex with all of you?”
“Anything you want,” the one with the live boa constrictor around her neck and draped over her breasts will say.
You’ll have sex with all the naked ladies for a few weeks, then the one with the roller skates and hardhat on will say, “What else can we do for you? We are all-powerful.”
“I hate Iowa!” you’ll say.
Your naked lady army will travel two states over to Iowa and immediately lay waste to everything in their path. Within a few days, the entire state will be in ruins.
“Wow!” you’ll say, marveling at all the bodies of the people your naked lady army just killed. “Can we have sex some more?”
You’ll have sex with all the naked ladies for another couple weeks, then you’ll tell them to destroy Minnesota. Then New York. Then they’ll take you to Paris because you’ve always wanted to see it, but you won’t like it so they’ll destroy it. It will look like your naked lady army is going to destroy the whole world until a secretary accidentally brings to life the models in her Shirtless Firefighters Holding Kittens calendar. The shirtless firefighters and their vicious indestructible kittens will go to war with the naked lady army and they’ll end up saving the world. You’ll be executed, which will be fine because you got to have sex with all those naked ladies so you’re all good life-wise.
Happy The Auto Mechanic’s Naked Lady Army Day!
Monday, September 16, 2013
The Real Louise Day!
You’ve been cubicle-mates with a woman named Louise for the past 12 years. Your relationship has been polite, not too personal. You’ve shared some gossip, occasionally you’ve gotten irritated with her, but for the most part she’s just been Louise, the coworker who sits at the adjacent desk.
Today you’re going to find out it’s all been lies.
You’ll know something’s wrong when you hear some noise at the reception area. Someone’s shouting out there. You’ll see Louise tense up. She’ll stand up from her chair to peer over the cubicle wall.
Just then a chair from the lobby will crash through the glass door and a woman will burst onto the floor. She’ll be bedraggled, covered in dirt and dust, but she’ll look exactly like Louise. And she’ll march right to your cubicle.
“Hey Louise,” you’ll say to your cubicle mate. “She looks just like you!”
Louise will open her mouth and a whirring, high-pitched grinding sound will come out. It won’t quite be a scream, but it will be unpleasant, like when something gets caught in an engine.
The bedraggled woman will arrive at your cubicle. She’ll shout, “I’m the real Louise!” Then she’ll grab a three-hole-punch on your desk and start bashing it into your cubicle mate’s head.
Instead of bleeding and falling unconscious, your cubicle-mate will start twitching and fluttering. The skin will peel from her head to reveal a metal casing underneath. Eventually, the metal will crack and an intricate circuitry of cables and microchips will be exposed. All the while, your cubicle-mate will release noises that sound more like they should come out of a piece of factory equipment than a human.
When your cubicle-mate is finally still, the bedraggled woman will reveal that the Louise you thought was your cubicle-mate was a robot that abducted the real Louise about six years ago. The robot adopted her appearance, and then kept her hostage while the robot lived out her life, until the real Louise finally escaped. The real Louise has no idea what the robot’s goal was in all of this.
“But you’re free now,” you’ll say after they drag the robot away to the garbage. “What are you going to do?”
“Finish these spreadsheets I guess,” the real Louise will say, noting that robot Louise was halfway through a project when she was destroyed.
The real Louise will sink herself into her workload and she’ll finish out the day without any further incident. On Friday your office will throw her a welcome back party.
Happy The Real Louise Day!
Today you’re going to find out it’s all been lies.
You’ll know something’s wrong when you hear some noise at the reception area. Someone’s shouting out there. You’ll see Louise tense up. She’ll stand up from her chair to peer over the cubicle wall.
Just then a chair from the lobby will crash through the glass door and a woman will burst onto the floor. She’ll be bedraggled, covered in dirt and dust, but she’ll look exactly like Louise. And she’ll march right to your cubicle.
“Hey Louise,” you’ll say to your cubicle mate. “She looks just like you!”
Louise will open her mouth and a whirring, high-pitched grinding sound will come out. It won’t quite be a scream, but it will be unpleasant, like when something gets caught in an engine.
The bedraggled woman will arrive at your cubicle. She’ll shout, “I’m the real Louise!” Then she’ll grab a three-hole-punch on your desk and start bashing it into your cubicle mate’s head.
Instead of bleeding and falling unconscious, your cubicle-mate will start twitching and fluttering. The skin will peel from her head to reveal a metal casing underneath. Eventually, the metal will crack and an intricate circuitry of cables and microchips will be exposed. All the while, your cubicle-mate will release noises that sound more like they should come out of a piece of factory equipment than a human.
When your cubicle-mate is finally still, the bedraggled woman will reveal that the Louise you thought was your cubicle-mate was a robot that abducted the real Louise about six years ago. The robot adopted her appearance, and then kept her hostage while the robot lived out her life, until the real Louise finally escaped. The real Louise has no idea what the robot’s goal was in all of this.
“But you’re free now,” you’ll say after they drag the robot away to the garbage. “What are you going to do?”
“Finish these spreadsheets I guess,” the real Louise will say, noting that robot Louise was halfway through a project when she was destroyed.
The real Louise will sink herself into her workload and she’ll finish out the day without any further incident. On Friday your office will throw her a welcome back party.
Happy The Real Louise Day!
Sunday, September 15, 2013
You’re A Dancer Day!
Don’t tell him so. Show him. Dance. Dance around your apartment with complete and utter surrender to the movement. Your body is your mind. Show him your thoughts are flourishes. Your feelings are leaps. You brood with your toes. You cry with a single cock of the chin. You’re a dancer. Dance for him.
“What the hell?” he’ll say when you finish. “You broke all of the lamps. You’re a terrible dancer.”
Now he knows. He knows you’re a dancer.
“You’re a really terrible dancer!” he’ll say again. “The worst dancer ever. You’re bleeding even.”
It’s clear to him. He saw it and can’t deny it. You’re a dancer.
“The absolute worst dancer I’ve ever seen,” he’ll go on, confirming and reiterating that you’re a dancer, and you dance. “Ever. Ever ever. Ever ever ever! You are the worst dancer in the history of dance.”
You are a part of the history of dance. He knows it. For he knows that you are a dancer.
“She’s the worst!” he’ll shout, yelling at this blogpost. “The worst!”
But you are a dancer. He admitted it himself, despite his criticism. You’re a dancer.
Happy You’re A Dancer Day!
“What the hell?” he’ll say when you finish. “You broke all of the lamps. You’re a terrible dancer.”
Now he knows. He knows you’re a dancer.
“You’re a really terrible dancer!” he’ll say again. “The worst dancer ever. You’re bleeding even.”
It’s clear to him. He saw it and can’t deny it. You’re a dancer.
“The absolute worst dancer I’ve ever seen,” he’ll go on, confirming and reiterating that you’re a dancer, and you dance. “Ever. Ever ever. Ever ever ever! You are the worst dancer in the history of dance.”
You are a part of the history of dance. He knows it. For he knows that you are a dancer.
“She’s the worst!” he’ll shout, yelling at this blogpost. “The worst!”
But you are a dancer. He admitted it himself, despite his criticism. You’re a dancer.
Happy You’re A Dancer Day!
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Prank Video Day!
Make a prank video where you go up to girls and ask them to marry you. If they say no, that will be awesome for the prank video because the prank is that you asked. I mean, who does that? Who asks strange girls to marry them? Classic prank!
If a girl says yes, marry her. Then just stay married to her. Classic prank! Continue to love and support her through the good times and bad. She’ll never see it coming! Have two kids with her, a boy and a girl, and discover all the realms of emotion you never even knew existed. It’ll be hilarious. When you find out she’s been unfaithful, agree to work through it with her, because you don’t want to throw away all the years you’ve shared over one indiscretion and because it’ll be classic.
After the kids are grown and out of the house, it’ll be great for the prank if you and the girl start to find a new level of maturity and closeness in your love for each other. Travel together, fulfill some life-long dreams, cross a few things off the bucket list. If she dies before you, try to go it alone but it would be hilarious if you died within the year because she was really the only thing that made life worth living for you.
Try to keep it under two minutes.
Happy Prank Video Day!
If a girl says yes, marry her. Then just stay married to her. Classic prank! Continue to love and support her through the good times and bad. She’ll never see it coming! Have two kids with her, a boy and a girl, and discover all the realms of emotion you never even knew existed. It’ll be hilarious. When you find out she’s been unfaithful, agree to work through it with her, because you don’t want to throw away all the years you’ve shared over one indiscretion and because it’ll be classic.
After the kids are grown and out of the house, it’ll be great for the prank if you and the girl start to find a new level of maturity and closeness in your love for each other. Travel together, fulfill some life-long dreams, cross a few things off the bucket list. If she dies before you, try to go it alone but it would be hilarious if you died within the year because she was really the only thing that made life worth living for you.
Try to keep it under two minutes.
Happy Prank Video Day!
Friday, September 13, 2013
Find Out That You’re Indestructible, Except For One Fatal Flaw Day!
Today while waiting for the subway you’re going to accidentally drop your phone on the tracks. You’ll climb down to get it, and just then the train will arrive. Unable to climb back up in time, you’ll stand on the tracks and think of your family as the train takes you.
When the train makes impact, the sound will be deafening. Wreckage, metal on metal, screams from all directions.
When you open your eyes you’ll realize that you haven’t moved an inch, but the train crumpled in on itself, killing hundreds, maiming more.
As the smoke clears and the screams swirl all around you you’ll look down at yourself and say, “Hey, wow! I’m indestructible!”
A first responder will hear you and say, “Yeah, big congrats! Maybe you can use your power to help us carry some of these bodies out, jerkface!”
Upon hearing “jerkface,” you’ll fall to the ground, weak and utterly defenseless. You’re indestructible except for one fatal flaw: name-calling.
Happy Find Out That You’re Indestructible, Except For One Fatal Flaw Day!
When the train makes impact, the sound will be deafening. Wreckage, metal on metal, screams from all directions.
When you open your eyes you’ll realize that you haven’t moved an inch, but the train crumpled in on itself, killing hundreds, maiming more.
As the smoke clears and the screams swirl all around you you’ll look down at yourself and say, “Hey, wow! I’m indestructible!”
A first responder will hear you and say, “Yeah, big congrats! Maybe you can use your power to help us carry some of these bodies out, jerkface!”
Upon hearing “jerkface,” you’ll fall to the ground, weak and utterly defenseless. You’re indestructible except for one fatal flaw: name-calling.
Happy Find Out That You’re Indestructible, Except For One Fatal Flaw Day!
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Classroom Fistfight Day!
Some boys are having a classroom fistfight and you can’t decide which one you’re falling for. The boy who’s winning is really strong, but the boy who’s losing is really smart. If you go for the strong boy, he might marry you and protect you from physical harm should society crumble due to environmental changes or economic collapse. If you go for the smart boy he might be able to get a good job and earn enough money to put you in the higher echelon of people who might be granted entrance into an underground bunker where important scientists and thinkers are kept safe for future generations. If you go for the strong boy he might look back on his years in high school playing sports as the best years of his life, which means he’ll be bitter and you won’t have a happy home. If you go for the smart boy he might value the intellect more than emotion which means your marriage will be passionless. If you—Oops, the strong boy fell and cracked his head open on the corner of the desk and he’s dead. The smart boy is running, trying to get off-campus before the cops come. Looks like you’re date-less again, loser.
Happy Classroom Fistfight Day!
Happy Classroom Fistfight Day!
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Get Lost Day!
Make a wrong turn off the turnpike and you’ll find yourself in the middle of some unknown backwater town.
“I’m lost,” tell the first man you see.
“You can take that house over there,” he says, pointing to an empty two-story house.
Move into the house and then explore the town a bit, telling everyone you meet that you’re lost. They’ll all say that they can’t help you with directions, and one woman will fall in love with you and move out of her house and into yours.
“I left the turnpike 11 years ago,” she’ll tell you in bed later. “Been here ever since.”
“I only just got here,” you’ll say.
“Your old life will fade away soon,” she’ll say.
Over the years you’ll make friends with the townsfolk. You’ll quickly learn that they don’t like people to talk about the lives they left behind when they made the wrong turn. Better conversation starters are, “Where is this place, anyway?” and “Starting to get used to things around here?”
It’s not such a bad life. It’s a town like any other. Sure, any time a news helicopter flies over head you all rush out into the street waving your arms at it. But other than that, it’s an okay place to spend the remainder of a lifetime.
Happy Get Lost Day!
“I’m lost,” tell the first man you see.
“You can take that house over there,” he says, pointing to an empty two-story house.
Move into the house and then explore the town a bit, telling everyone you meet that you’re lost. They’ll all say that they can’t help you with directions, and one woman will fall in love with you and move out of her house and into yours.
“I left the turnpike 11 years ago,” she’ll tell you in bed later. “Been here ever since.”
“I only just got here,” you’ll say.
“Your old life will fade away soon,” she’ll say.
Over the years you’ll make friends with the townsfolk. You’ll quickly learn that they don’t like people to talk about the lives they left behind when they made the wrong turn. Better conversation starters are, “Where is this place, anyway?” and “Starting to get used to things around here?”
It’s not such a bad life. It’s a town like any other. Sure, any time a news helicopter flies over head you all rush out into the street waving your arms at it. But other than that, it’s an okay place to spend the remainder of a lifetime.
Happy Get Lost Day!
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Quit Drinking Day!
You and your three buddies are starting to think it’s time to quit drinking.
“What should we do with the time we used to spend drinking?” one of your buddies asks.
“Help the poor I guess,” you say.
You start helping the poor every night, staying out all night long helping them find food and shelter and healthcare and whatnot.
“This isn’t as fun as drinking,” one of your buddies says. “And I can remember everything the next day, even though I wish I couldn’t.”
“Let’s try helping the rich,” you say.
You and your buddies go out at night and stay out until dawn helping the rich find exciting new restaurants and underground sex clubs where they can watch beautiful prostitutes engage in unimaginable acts.
“I still dug drinking more than this,” one of your buddies says.
“Should we help the middle class?” you suggest.
You stay out all night helping the middle class deal with things like property taxes, local crime, and how best to invest so that they might have something to retire on one day.
“This is worst of all,” one of your buddies says.
“We tried,” you say.
You and your buddies go out drinking, just like you used to. You help no one. No one.
Happy Quit Drinking Day!
“What should we do with the time we used to spend drinking?” one of your buddies asks.
“Help the poor I guess,” you say.
You start helping the poor every night, staying out all night long helping them find food and shelter and healthcare and whatnot.
“This isn’t as fun as drinking,” one of your buddies says. “And I can remember everything the next day, even though I wish I couldn’t.”
“Let’s try helping the rich,” you say.
You and your buddies go out at night and stay out until dawn helping the rich find exciting new restaurants and underground sex clubs where they can watch beautiful prostitutes engage in unimaginable acts.
“I still dug drinking more than this,” one of your buddies says.
“Should we help the middle class?” you suggest.
You stay out all night helping the middle class deal with things like property taxes, local crime, and how best to invest so that they might have something to retire on one day.
“This is worst of all,” one of your buddies says.
“We tried,” you say.
You and your buddies go out drinking, just like you used to. You help no one. No one.
Happy Quit Drinking Day!
Monday, September 09, 2013
Kill Your Mutual Friends Day!
You and your husband are getting a divorce, but you don’t want to be one of those couples that splits up their friends after a divorce. You have so many mutual friends, you don’t see why it has to be that you get to keep some while your husband keeps the others. You’d hate to think about your husband hanging out with all your friends without you, and you doubt you’d be able to enjoy the friendships you keep, knowing they’ve chosen to ostracize your husband.
“So that’s why we need this list of people taken care of,” you explain to the hit man.
“There’s like thirty names on this list,” the hit man says.
You and your husband nod. “We were really popular,” you say.
“One of those couples who’s always expected to throw the New Year’s get-together,” your husband adds.
“This is gonna cost a lot of money,” the hit man says.
“We don’t care how much it costs,” your husband says. “You can’t put a price on friendship.”
You give the hit man a down payment of $100,000, and he agrees to kill the first six of your friends (you went alphabetical, and that gets you all the way to the D’s) within the week. At this rate, your entire social circle should be dead by the time your divorce is finalized, making it easy for you both to move on into your new lives, ready to establish new and exciting friendships.
Happy Kill Your Mutual Friends Day!
“So that’s why we need this list of people taken care of,” you explain to the hit man.
“There’s like thirty names on this list,” the hit man says.
You and your husband nod. “We were really popular,” you say.
“One of those couples who’s always expected to throw the New Year’s get-together,” your husband adds.
“This is gonna cost a lot of money,” the hit man says.
“We don’t care how much it costs,” your husband says. “You can’t put a price on friendship.”
You give the hit man a down payment of $100,000, and he agrees to kill the first six of your friends (you went alphabetical, and that gets you all the way to the D’s) within the week. At this rate, your entire social circle should be dead by the time your divorce is finalized, making it easy for you both to move on into your new lives, ready to establish new and exciting friendships.
Happy Kill Your Mutual Friends Day!
Sunday, September 08, 2013
You’re The Fixer Day!
When someone needs stuff done, you’re the guy they call.
Need a guy killed? You’re the guy they call.
Need a guy beaten up? You’re the guy they call.
Need a guy talked down to? You’re the guy they call.
Need a guy to feel special because it’s his birthday and he’s had a rough year? You’re the guy they call.
Just need to talk? Just about life or whatever? Just need someone to talk to to feel less alone in this world? You’re the guy they call.
House on fire and need someone to call the fire department? You’re the guy they call.
Need a sink fixed? You’re the guy they call to put pressure on the super to fix it.
Today the President of the United States is going to call you.
“I need the country to be better,” he’ll say.
“On it,” you’ll tell him. Then you’ll start your day, going to American after American, threatening them one by one into making their little part of the country better. By lunchtime you’ll have threatened everyone on the East coast. By dinner, you’ll have promised, in so many words, violent retribution against everyone in the Midwest should they fail to make this country great.
Tonight you’ll be in Oregon, threatening a family of five when the dad will say, “Don’t you realize you’ve been set up?”
The President’s trying to fix the fixer! The fix is in! Fix this!
Happy You’re The Fixer Day!
Need a guy killed? You’re the guy they call.
Need a guy beaten up? You’re the guy they call.
Need a guy talked down to? You’re the guy they call.
Need a guy to feel special because it’s his birthday and he’s had a rough year? You’re the guy they call.
Just need to talk? Just about life or whatever? Just need someone to talk to to feel less alone in this world? You’re the guy they call.
House on fire and need someone to call the fire department? You’re the guy they call.
Need a sink fixed? You’re the guy they call to put pressure on the super to fix it.
Today the President of the United States is going to call you.
“I need the country to be better,” he’ll say.
“On it,” you’ll tell him. Then you’ll start your day, going to American after American, threatening them one by one into making their little part of the country better. By lunchtime you’ll have threatened everyone on the East coast. By dinner, you’ll have promised, in so many words, violent retribution against everyone in the Midwest should they fail to make this country great.
Tonight you’ll be in Oregon, threatening a family of five when the dad will say, “Don’t you realize you’ve been set up?”
The President’s trying to fix the fixer! The fix is in! Fix this!
Happy You’re The Fixer Day!
Saturday, September 07, 2013
Be The First Volunteer Day!
The government just announced that they want to start one of those programs where humans are put in comas in little pods scattered across a giant wall and they’re used as an energy source or something and they need volunteers.
“Meeeeeeee!” you shout.
Everyone turns their heads to look at you.
“You know he means like in The Matrix, right?” a friend says.
“I know!” you shout. “Amazing right? Finally!”
“Amazing?” your friend says. “Are you crazy?”
You’re starting to think The Matrix wasn’t a horror movie about a bunch of people who were finally getting enough sleep until some asshole rebels came and started waking them up.
“This could be the end of civilization,” your friend insists.
“So this is our last chance to get some sleep!” you say, jumping out of your chair and raising your hand higher.
Before you can ask if you can bring your pillow from home, agents seize you, drag you into a medical facility, and numb your medulla with a needle jabbed up under your skull. As your functions begin shutting down you feel like you might finally get a good eight hours for the first time in forever.
Happy Be The First Volunteer Day!
“Meeeeeeee!” you shout.
Everyone turns their heads to look at you.
“You know he means like in The Matrix, right?” a friend says.
“I know!” you shout. “Amazing right? Finally!”
“Amazing?” your friend says. “Are you crazy?”
You’re starting to think The Matrix wasn’t a horror movie about a bunch of people who were finally getting enough sleep until some asshole rebels came and started waking them up.
“This could be the end of civilization,” your friend insists.
“So this is our last chance to get some sleep!” you say, jumping out of your chair and raising your hand higher.
Before you can ask if you can bring your pillow from home, agents seize you, drag you into a medical facility, and numb your medulla with a needle jabbed up under your skull. As your functions begin shutting down you feel like you might finally get a good eight hours for the first time in forever.
Happy Be The First Volunteer Day!
Friday, September 06, 2013
Hold On To Jeff Day!
Jeff, your coworker, just fell out the window while reenacting a scene from a Vin Diesel movie he watched on demand last night, and you grabbed his hand just in time. He’s dangling twelve stories above the sidewalk and the only thing keeping him alive is you.
“Hold on to him,” someone whispers in your ear, which is weird because you’re alone in the room.
“Who is that?” you ask the empty room.
“A ghost,” the voice says. “I haunt this conference room.”
You ask the ghost if she’s Jeff’s guardian angel.
“Kind of,” she says. “I do what I can to keep Jeff from dying, but only because no one wants to have to deal with him in the afterlife. Jeff’s an a-hole.”
You’re stunned. “I know, right?”
“Who are you talking to?” Jeff shouts from outside.
“Shut up!” you and the ghost shout, though he only hears you.
“Just keep him alive for a few more years,” the ghost says. “It might suck having to work with him, but imagine knowing you’re going to deal with his shit for an eternity.”
You tell the ghost you’ll do what you can. Down below you see the fire department setting up a net.
“You owe me when I die, though!” You tell the ghost.
“You bet,” the ghost says.
You hold onto Jeff just long enough to let him drop safely into the net assembled below. When you see Jeff later he calls you a homo for holding his hand so long, then he invites everyone in the office to go out for shots to celebrate him being still alive. No one responds to the invite.
Happy Hold On To Jeff Day!
“Hold on to him,” someone whispers in your ear, which is weird because you’re alone in the room.
“Who is that?” you ask the empty room.
“A ghost,” the voice says. “I haunt this conference room.”
You ask the ghost if she’s Jeff’s guardian angel.
“Kind of,” she says. “I do what I can to keep Jeff from dying, but only because no one wants to have to deal with him in the afterlife. Jeff’s an a-hole.”
You’re stunned. “I know, right?”
“Who are you talking to?” Jeff shouts from outside.
“Shut up!” you and the ghost shout, though he only hears you.
“Just keep him alive for a few more years,” the ghost says. “It might suck having to work with him, but imagine knowing you’re going to deal with his shit for an eternity.”
You tell the ghost you’ll do what you can. Down below you see the fire department setting up a net.
“You owe me when I die, though!” You tell the ghost.
“You bet,” the ghost says.
You hold onto Jeff just long enough to let him drop safely into the net assembled below. When you see Jeff later he calls you a homo for holding his hand so long, then he invites everyone in the office to go out for shots to celebrate him being still alive. No one responds to the invite.
Happy Hold On To Jeff Day!
Thursday, September 05, 2013
Order Some Sex Online Day!
Click the boxes for the hair, eyes, and body fat that you want, all to your liking. You can pick your style of sex (gentle, rough, furtive, giggly, or Sicilian), and how much sex you want (short, long, extra-long, or weekend getaway). Click confirm and you can watch the sex tracker as it shows you where in the process of preparation and delivery your sex is at any given time (ranges from “We are waiting for him/her to be let out on bail” to “Your sex is in the van on the way to your house”). Try not to masturbate to the tracker. A lot of people masturbate to the tracker and finish before the sex arrives, and they get angry when they still have to pay for the sex even though they don’t want it anymore. There are websites that allow you to masturbate to other people’s sex trackers, in case you enjoy just watching imminent sex travel across a city. When your sex arrives, check him or her to make sure all your fixins are there and that he or she is still warm. The van driver will wait 45 seconds after delivery for you to send the sex back (having masturbated to the tracker is not refundable cause for sending sex back). Enjoy your sex and remember, once you close your front door we provide no guarantees for your safety/against you falling in love.
Order Some Sex Online Day!
Order Some Sex Online Day!
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
Don’t Tell Him Where You Hide Your Money Day!
Tell him what you used to want to be when you were a little girl, tell him the places you have to see before you die, tell him the things that scare you most out of everything in this world, but don’t tell him where you hide your money.
It’s not because he’s after your cash. It’s not because you’re the mark in a long con. It’s not because if he knew how much money you had it might change things in your relationship.
It’s because it’s gross.
“Like, really gross,” explain to him.
He starts looking around your apartment.
“You keep it at the bottom of your laundry basket?”
So much grosser than that.
“Your butt?”
Grosser.
“Your cat’s butt?”
Oh God, doesn’t he know how much time your cat spends cleaning her butt? Grosser.
“You have a jar of boogie-snot? And when you open the jar it looks like just boogie-snot, but if you dig just an inch below the boogie-snot you’ll find a wad of money?”
You’re starting to worry that he won’t guess gross enough.
“It’s in the middle of a photo album featuring nothing but photos of you doing things you don’t enjoy to impress others?”
What’s gross about that?
“Compromised character is disgusting.”
Grosser.
“In a bucket of human hair you surreptitiously snip from women you sit near on the bus?”
This isn’t working out.
“In a shoebox full of ear wax?”
It’s not going well.
“Under a bunch of socks full of spit?”
Just go to bed. Make him stop guessing and go to bed.
But neither of you will sleep. Both of you will realize why so many couples fight about money. It’s because they end up trying to guess the gross places where each other is hiding their money wads, and they realize they aren’t grossed out by the same things.
Money changes everything.
Happy Don’t Tell Him Where You Hide Your Money Day!
It’s not because he’s after your cash. It’s not because you’re the mark in a long con. It’s not because if he knew how much money you had it might change things in your relationship.
It’s because it’s gross.
“Like, really gross,” explain to him.
He starts looking around your apartment.
“You keep it at the bottom of your laundry basket?”
So much grosser than that.
“Your butt?”
Grosser.
“Your cat’s butt?”
Oh God, doesn’t he know how much time your cat spends cleaning her butt? Grosser.
“You have a jar of boogie-snot? And when you open the jar it looks like just boogie-snot, but if you dig just an inch below the boogie-snot you’ll find a wad of money?”
You’re starting to worry that he won’t guess gross enough.
“It’s in the middle of a photo album featuring nothing but photos of you doing things you don’t enjoy to impress others?”
What’s gross about that?
“Compromised character is disgusting.”
Grosser.
“In a bucket of human hair you surreptitiously snip from women you sit near on the bus?”
This isn’t working out.
“In a shoebox full of ear wax?”
It’s not going well.
“Under a bunch of socks full of spit?”
Just go to bed. Make him stop guessing and go to bed.
But neither of you will sleep. Both of you will realize why so many couples fight about money. It’s because they end up trying to guess the gross places where each other is hiding their money wads, and they realize they aren’t grossed out by the same things.
Money changes everything.
Happy Don’t Tell Him Where You Hide Your Money Day!
Tuesday, September 03, 2013
Watch The World Burn Day!
Today you’re a member of an alien race that’s just wiped out the planet earth in a single strike, engulfing the world in a thick coating of fire, and your mom is getting on your case big time.
“What are you doing, Trgph?” she’s asking through your bedroom door.
“Watching the world burn,” you tell her.
“Which one?” she asks.
“The blue one,” you tell her. “Or, the one that used to be blue. It’s probably black now.”
“Well it’ll still be burning after you do your homework. Hit the books mister.”
You finish your homework, then you go back to the window. Your mom was right. It’s still burning. It will burn for another few months, in fact. Then it will be gone, except for a few charred remnants that float off into the black.
Happy Watch The World Burn Day!
“What are you doing, Trgph?” she’s asking through your bedroom door.
“Watching the world burn,” you tell her.
“Which one?” she asks.
“The blue one,” you tell her. “Or, the one that used to be blue. It’s probably black now.”
“Well it’ll still be burning after you do your homework. Hit the books mister.”
You finish your homework, then you go back to the window. Your mom was right. It’s still burning. It will burn for another few months, in fact. Then it will be gone, except for a few charred remnants that float off into the black.
Happy Watch The World Burn Day!
Monday, September 02, 2013
You Named All Your Cats After Your Friends’ Wives Day!
“That one’s Georgina,” you tell Max, who is married to a woman named Georgina. Max thinks it’s kind of a funny coincidence.
“Georgina poops a lot,” you say, looking Max in the eye when you say it.
“What’s that one’s name?” Harold asks, pointing to the tuxedo sleeping in the corner. Harold is married to a woman named Bridey.
“Bridey,” you tell him.
Harold’s brow furrows.
“And that one?” Paul asks, standing over you, pointing to the gray girl in the corner. “Or let me guess. Constance.”
Paul is married to a woman named Constance.
“No,” you answer.
Paul unclenches his fists.
“Constance is over there on the radiator cover,” you say. “That gray girl is Nandini.”
“Hey!” shouts Ashwin, whose wife is named Nandini.
“You named all your cats after our wives,” Max says. “You adopted four female housecats and gave them our wives’ names.”
You think about it for a second, looking around at the cats, then at your friends.
“Oh my God, I did! That’s funny. I guess I always did like your wives’ names.”
They stare at you. You stare back.
“Why haven’t you ever had a serious relationship with a woman?” Harold asks.
You tell them you haven’t found the right girl, you guess.
“I think it’s more than that,” Max says.
Paul says, “I want you to switch Constance’s name with Nandini’s. The gray cat is way prettier.”
“Wait, we can switch them up?” Harold asks.
They start fighting over which cat should be named after which wife. When you refuse to switch the names, they start hitting you. Max hits you really hard a couple of times, but the other guys pull him off. They start chasing the cats, each of them trying to take the one that’s named after his wife, but the cats either scurry away or claw out of their arms.
Eventually they leave, and you spend the rest of the afternoon napping under the weight of Georgina, Bridey, Constance and Nandini, all of them napping on your stomach and crotch, licking each other clean, loving their new home.
Happy You Named All Your Cats After Your Friends’ Wives Day!
“Georgina poops a lot,” you say, looking Max in the eye when you say it.
“What’s that one’s name?” Harold asks, pointing to the tuxedo sleeping in the corner. Harold is married to a woman named Bridey.
“Bridey,” you tell him.
Harold’s brow furrows.
“And that one?” Paul asks, standing over you, pointing to the gray girl in the corner. “Or let me guess. Constance.”
Paul is married to a woman named Constance.
“No,” you answer.
Paul unclenches his fists.
“Constance is over there on the radiator cover,” you say. “That gray girl is Nandini.”
“Hey!” shouts Ashwin, whose wife is named Nandini.
“You named all your cats after our wives,” Max says. “You adopted four female housecats and gave them our wives’ names.”
You think about it for a second, looking around at the cats, then at your friends.
“Oh my God, I did! That’s funny. I guess I always did like your wives’ names.”
They stare at you. You stare back.
“Why haven’t you ever had a serious relationship with a woman?” Harold asks.
You tell them you haven’t found the right girl, you guess.
“I think it’s more than that,” Max says.
Paul says, “I want you to switch Constance’s name with Nandini’s. The gray cat is way prettier.”
“Wait, we can switch them up?” Harold asks.
They start fighting over which cat should be named after which wife. When you refuse to switch the names, they start hitting you. Max hits you really hard a couple of times, but the other guys pull him off. They start chasing the cats, each of them trying to take the one that’s named after his wife, but the cats either scurry away or claw out of their arms.
Eventually they leave, and you spend the rest of the afternoon napping under the weight of Georgina, Bridey, Constance and Nandini, all of them napping on your stomach and crotch, licking each other clean, loving their new home.
Happy You Named All Your Cats After Your Friends’ Wives Day!
Sunday, September 01, 2013
Get Your Dad To Adopt Your Roommate Day!
“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!
“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!
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!
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