Rent a winter cabin with the intention of drinking bourbon and shooting rifles and spending afternoons standing at the edge of a frozen creek wondering why the dead loom larger in your life than the living. Your intentions for the weekend will go out the window when an escaped convict breaks into your cabin to eat all your canned chili.
“Make a sound and I’ll kill ya,” he’ll say, chili at the corners of his mouth.
“Drink?” you’ll offer.
The two of you will spend a fun weekend drinking and laughing and talking about how dumb prison guards can be. When the convict finally decides it’s time for him to move on to Memphis and kill the son of a bitch shacked up with his ex-wife, you’ll be sad.
“YOU’RE MY BEST FRIEND!” you’ll scream when he steps out on the porch.
The two of you will hug as US Marshal sharp-shooters who’ve had the cabin surrounded for the last six hours open fire.
Happy Winter Cabin Day!
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Monday, January 12, 2015
Emma, Get Up From That Table And Run Day!
He’s the whole package, Emma. Weird smile, dimples that could store loose change, shoulders that look like your dead brother’s, and hella good hair.
Get up from that table and run.
He’s listening to you talk like every word out of your mouth is a revelation. He’s laughing at your jokes like the punchline is a self-evident truth that cracks everything wide open. You’re opening up to him about things you forgot you still cared about.
Get the fuck up from that table and run. Run like you just saw God on a horse.
You’re reaching across the table and already touching the back of your fingers to his. He’s not letting his eyes look anywhere but into yours. You’re leaning forward with every part of your body, like the only things keeping you from slipping out of your dress and into his embrace are that dining table and decency laws.
It’s almost too late. Get up, Emma. Get up and put your legs underneath you and get swallowed by the night before this feeling swallows you whole.
You’re kissing. It’s too late. Talk to you again in three and a half years.
Happy Emma, Get Up From That Table And Run Day!
Get up from that table and run.
He’s listening to you talk like every word out of your mouth is a revelation. He’s laughing at your jokes like the punchline is a self-evident truth that cracks everything wide open. You’re opening up to him about things you forgot you still cared about.
Get the fuck up from that table and run. Run like you just saw God on a horse.
You’re reaching across the table and already touching the back of your fingers to his. He’s not letting his eyes look anywhere but into yours. You’re leaning forward with every part of your body, like the only things keeping you from slipping out of your dress and into his embrace are that dining table and decency laws.
It’s almost too late. Get up, Emma. Get up and put your legs underneath you and get swallowed by the night before this feeling swallows you whole.
You’re kissing. It’s too late. Talk to you again in three and a half years.
Happy Emma, Get Up From That Table And Run Day!
Friday, January 09, 2015
Someone’s Been Having Sex With Wax Patrick Stewart Day!
Freddy, the museum director, is pacing the front of the staff room, clearly trying to contain his anger.
“These wax figures trust us,” Freddy says. “They trust us to care for them, just as the public figures who lent their likeness to these wax figures trust us to not use their likeness for anything but to give the public an afternoon of diverting, slightly eerie entertainment.”
Freddy has his hands behind his back, shaking his head woefully.
“Do you know what nearly every celebrity asks before giving their consent to add their wax replica to our museum? They ask, ‘How do I know you’re not just going to have sex with it?’”
Some of the staffers drop their heads in shame. It doesn’t feel good to know you’ve confirmed a celebrity’s worst fears. That a celebrity put his or her trust in you and you dropped the ball.
Someone raises his hand and asks how Freddy knows that Wax Patrick Stewart was fornicated with.
“I don’t want to get into it,” he says. “Suffice to say, there were stains. Stains we can use to get DNA. Now I don’t want to have to ask everyone to provide me with a DNA sample. We’re a family here and we’re supposed to trust each other. So instead, I’m just going to turn my back for 30 seconds. If you did it, simply walk up here, lay your museum-issued vest and cummerbund on the table here, and walk out the door. No further questions, no prosecution.“
Freddy turns his back. For thirty seconds, everyone on staff looks to each other, trying to see if the culprit will come forward. No one stands up. When Freddy turns back around, his disappointment is palpable.
You raise your hand with a question.
“Why would anyone have sex with the figures anyway?” you ask. “When you take off their clothes there aren’t even any holes.”
Before Freddy can ask how you know there aren’t any holes, you realize your mistake and take off running. You drop your vest and cummerbund in a dumpster, then you hide in a park for a few days to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with your life now that your dream of being a wax museum guard has been shattered by one night of erotic bliss.
Happy Someone’s Been Having Sex With Wax Patrick Stewart Day!
“These wax figures trust us,” Freddy says. “They trust us to care for them, just as the public figures who lent their likeness to these wax figures trust us to not use their likeness for anything but to give the public an afternoon of diverting, slightly eerie entertainment.”
Freddy has his hands behind his back, shaking his head woefully.
“Do you know what nearly every celebrity asks before giving their consent to add their wax replica to our museum? They ask, ‘How do I know you’re not just going to have sex with it?’”
Some of the staffers drop their heads in shame. It doesn’t feel good to know you’ve confirmed a celebrity’s worst fears. That a celebrity put his or her trust in you and you dropped the ball.
Someone raises his hand and asks how Freddy knows that Wax Patrick Stewart was fornicated with.
“I don’t want to get into it,” he says. “Suffice to say, there were stains. Stains we can use to get DNA. Now I don’t want to have to ask everyone to provide me with a DNA sample. We’re a family here and we’re supposed to trust each other. So instead, I’m just going to turn my back for 30 seconds. If you did it, simply walk up here, lay your museum-issued vest and cummerbund on the table here, and walk out the door. No further questions, no prosecution.“
Freddy turns his back. For thirty seconds, everyone on staff looks to each other, trying to see if the culprit will come forward. No one stands up. When Freddy turns back around, his disappointment is palpable.
You raise your hand with a question.
“Why would anyone have sex with the figures anyway?” you ask. “When you take off their clothes there aren’t even any holes.”
Before Freddy can ask how you know there aren’t any holes, you realize your mistake and take off running. You drop your vest and cummerbund in a dumpster, then you hide in a park for a few days to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with your life now that your dream of being a wax museum guard has been shattered by one night of erotic bliss.
Happy Someone’s Been Having Sex With Wax Patrick Stewart Day!
Thursday, January 08, 2015
Your Wife’s Been Murdering Teens Without You Day!
Ask her how long this has been going on.
“Since the summer,” she says. “You were at your mother’s. I hiked up the canyon and found a cabin full of teens. Spent three days picking them off one by one, different weapons, different lures, different screams. And it was all for me. And it was exhilarating.”
Tell her you and she always killed together. That’s the way it’s been and you don’t see why she needs to murder without you.
“You killed that hitchhiker when you were coming back from your high school reunion,” she says.
Tell her that’s different. You were out of state and you didn’t go chasing him down. Tell her if a meat piece falls into her lap like that she’s welcome to slice it up like it deserves to be sliced, but to go chasing the meat on her own, that’s a betrayal.
“Killing with you is wonderful,” she says. “But so is killing on my own. I feel like I’ve lost my individuality, like I’ve stopped killing for myself and I only kill for us.”
Ask her if that’s so bad.
“I just don’t see why I can’t have both,” she says. “My kills. And our kills. I think we should keep our murdering open.”
Tell her you don’t want to kill without her.
“You don’t have to,” she says. “But you have to let me have something to myself. I want to remember what it’s like to kill just for me again.”
Don’t tell her the truth. Don’t tell her you’re worried that if she goes it alone often enough, she’ll never want to murder a teen with you again. Just tell her you’ll try to be understanding of her journey back to herself, and hope for the best. If you’re going to lose her, you already have.
Happy Your Wife’s Been Murdering Teens Without You Day!
“Since the summer,” she says. “You were at your mother’s. I hiked up the canyon and found a cabin full of teens. Spent three days picking them off one by one, different weapons, different lures, different screams. And it was all for me. And it was exhilarating.”
Tell her you and she always killed together. That’s the way it’s been and you don’t see why she needs to murder without you.
“You killed that hitchhiker when you were coming back from your high school reunion,” she says.
Tell her that’s different. You were out of state and you didn’t go chasing him down. Tell her if a meat piece falls into her lap like that she’s welcome to slice it up like it deserves to be sliced, but to go chasing the meat on her own, that’s a betrayal.
“Killing with you is wonderful,” she says. “But so is killing on my own. I feel like I’ve lost my individuality, like I’ve stopped killing for myself and I only kill for us.”
Ask her if that’s so bad.
“I just don’t see why I can’t have both,” she says. “My kills. And our kills. I think we should keep our murdering open.”
Tell her you don’t want to kill without her.
“You don’t have to,” she says. “But you have to let me have something to myself. I want to remember what it’s like to kill just for me again.”
Don’t tell her the truth. Don’t tell her you’re worried that if she goes it alone often enough, she’ll never want to murder a teen with you again. Just tell her you’ll try to be understanding of her journey back to herself, and hope for the best. If you’re going to lose her, you already have.
Happy Your Wife’s Been Murdering Teens Without You Day!
Wednesday, January 07, 2015
Your Magic Potions Don’t Do Shit Anymore Day!
Everyone’s been drinking energy drinks for too long. The stuff in those drinks is way weirder than newt eyes and possum tails.
“That was supposed to turn you into a half-bull, half-fish,” you say, your head in your hands after another failure.
“Don’t feel bad,” the kids you kidnapped tell you as they polish off the pitcher of your newest, “strongest” potion. “Homeopathic remedies worked on us for a little while but at this point we need the real stuff. We need science.”
“What now,” you say. “Being a witch is all I know. These potions were my bread and butter.”
And that’s how you’ll embark on a career as the most exciting new mixologist in Brooklyn’s exploding artisan cocktail scene.
Happy Your Magic Potions Don’t Do Shit Anymore Day!
“That was supposed to turn you into a half-bull, half-fish,” you say, your head in your hands after another failure.
“Don’t feel bad,” the kids you kidnapped tell you as they polish off the pitcher of your newest, “strongest” potion. “Homeopathic remedies worked on us for a little while but at this point we need the real stuff. We need science.”
“What now,” you say. “Being a witch is all I know. These potions were my bread and butter.”
And that’s how you’ll embark on a career as the most exciting new mixologist in Brooklyn’s exploding artisan cocktail scene.
Happy Your Magic Potions Don’t Do Shit Anymore Day!
Tuesday, January 06, 2015
Preferred Customer Rewards Day!
“Him,” the counterperson says, pointing to you. “I want him.”
You point to yourself to make sure you’re the one to whom he’s referring.
“Go away,” the counterperson says to the guy standing before him with his credit card out. “You’re not in the program. Get!”
The guy standing before him with his credit card out asks what the big idea is and where does this counterperson get off. Two men in masks take him by his armpits and drag him through a doorway.
“You!” the counterperson shouts, pointing to you. “Get your butt up here. You’re the reason I showed up to work today!”
You go to the counter and tell him you’d like to return the space heater you’re holding in your arms. You present your preferred customer card which gives you no-hassle returns.
“You don’t like it?” he asks. “Do you see the guy who sold it to you?”
You look around and locate the employee you bought the space heater from helping another customer near electronics.
“Hang on.”
Your counterperson approaches the other employee and sucker punches him across the nose. The employee who sold you the space heater goes down and the counterperson starts kicking him in the kidneys. Other employees gather around him and stomp on his chest and face.
“If he ever gives you any trouble again,” the counterperson pants upon returning to you, “You say the word. I’ll handle it.”
The counterperson hands you a trophy. It reads, “Best Customer.”
“You did it,” the counterperson says.
Tell him thanks. Once your return is processed, the counterperson will begin a slow clap. Make your way to the door as other sales personnel join in the slow clap until it reaches a crescendo and the entire sales staff is clapping for you, even the manager outside by the ambulance where the beaten-down employee is being loaded in. The manager claps for you and gives you a “Nice one!” Then she leans down and drags her palm over the beaten-down employee’s face to gently close his eyelids.
Happy Preferred Customer Rewards Day!
You point to yourself to make sure you’re the one to whom he’s referring.
“Go away,” the counterperson says to the guy standing before him with his credit card out. “You’re not in the program. Get!”
The guy standing before him with his credit card out asks what the big idea is and where does this counterperson get off. Two men in masks take him by his armpits and drag him through a doorway.
“You!” the counterperson shouts, pointing to you. “Get your butt up here. You’re the reason I showed up to work today!”
You go to the counter and tell him you’d like to return the space heater you’re holding in your arms. You present your preferred customer card which gives you no-hassle returns.
“You don’t like it?” he asks. “Do you see the guy who sold it to you?”
You look around and locate the employee you bought the space heater from helping another customer near electronics.
“Hang on.”
Your counterperson approaches the other employee and sucker punches him across the nose. The employee who sold you the space heater goes down and the counterperson starts kicking him in the kidneys. Other employees gather around him and stomp on his chest and face.
“If he ever gives you any trouble again,” the counterperson pants upon returning to you, “You say the word. I’ll handle it.”
The counterperson hands you a trophy. It reads, “Best Customer.”
“You did it,” the counterperson says.
Tell him thanks. Once your return is processed, the counterperson will begin a slow clap. Make your way to the door as other sales personnel join in the slow clap until it reaches a crescendo and the entire sales staff is clapping for you, even the manager outside by the ambulance where the beaten-down employee is being loaded in. The manager claps for you and gives you a “Nice one!” Then she leans down and drags her palm over the beaten-down employee’s face to gently close his eyelids.
Happy Preferred Customer Rewards Day!
Monday, January 05, 2015
Degift Day!
The gift is sitting on your dining room table again. It’s still wrapped, just as you wrapped it. You check the windows, the door. There’s no sign of anyone having entered in the night.
“Happy Late Christmas,” you say to her when you see her at the bar after work. “I could’ve sworn I already gave this to you, but I guess it slipped my mind.”
You watch her unwrap it to reveal the Christopher Nolan boxset you bought for her, the one she unwrapped two nights before Christmas at the potluck, then again two nights after Christmas, then again the night after that, and again the night after that. You swear it. You fucking swear you saw this happen over and over again.
“Oh wow!” she says, exactly as you remember it. “Nolan! You know I love Nolan!”
The room is spinning. This moment is an echo. You search her eyes for some hint that she knows it, that she’s responsible for it. You grip the edge of the table to keep from grabbing her by the collar of her blouse and demanding that she tell you what she’s up to, why she’s doing this to you.
“If you don’t like it you can just regift it if you want,” you offer, your voice sounding louder than you intended.
“Oh I never regift,” she says.
You mutter an excuse me before leaping from the booth to run to the bathroom to vomit.
Tonight you won’t sleep. You’ll sit at the dining room table, the lights on, your eyes never moving from the spot on the table where it’s appeared over and over again. You need to stop the reset. You need the gift to remain in her possession. She has to have a key to your apartment, and perhaps a camera to figure out when you’re in the shower or on the toilet, occupied long enough for her to sneak in and give the gift back to you. You’ve taken up smoking again, you’re drinking coffee, anything to keep you awake and present at that dining room table. She’s going to keep her gift tonight.
The waiting is the hardest. You know that no matter how vigilant you are, that wrapped gift is going to be on your table by morning. No explanation, no merciful clue as to what’s happening to you. The only thing between now and then is the waiting.
Happy Degift Day!
“Happy Late Christmas,” you say to her when you see her at the bar after work. “I could’ve sworn I already gave this to you, but I guess it slipped my mind.”
You watch her unwrap it to reveal the Christopher Nolan boxset you bought for her, the one she unwrapped two nights before Christmas at the potluck, then again two nights after Christmas, then again the night after that, and again the night after that. You swear it. You fucking swear you saw this happen over and over again.
“Oh wow!” she says, exactly as you remember it. “Nolan! You know I love Nolan!”
The room is spinning. This moment is an echo. You search her eyes for some hint that she knows it, that she’s responsible for it. You grip the edge of the table to keep from grabbing her by the collar of her blouse and demanding that she tell you what she’s up to, why she’s doing this to you.
“If you don’t like it you can just regift it if you want,” you offer, your voice sounding louder than you intended.
“Oh I never regift,” she says.
You mutter an excuse me before leaping from the booth to run to the bathroom to vomit.
Tonight you won’t sleep. You’ll sit at the dining room table, the lights on, your eyes never moving from the spot on the table where it’s appeared over and over again. You need to stop the reset. You need the gift to remain in her possession. She has to have a key to your apartment, and perhaps a camera to figure out when you’re in the shower or on the toilet, occupied long enough for her to sneak in and give the gift back to you. You’ve taken up smoking again, you’re drinking coffee, anything to keep you awake and present at that dining room table. She’s going to keep her gift tonight.
The waiting is the hardest. You know that no matter how vigilant you are, that wrapped gift is going to be on your table by morning. No explanation, no merciful clue as to what’s happening to you. The only thing between now and then is the waiting.
Happy Degift Day!
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Doris Is Back Day!
Doris is back.
“You give up on Stan?”
Doris says Stan never got his mail order pants business off the ground. He ended up being nothing but a Colorado party boy. She thought he was her ticket to the big time, but she discovered how much she missed her small time life with you.
“So I’m just s’posed to take you back in? After running off on me with another man like that, no word for over a year? I’m just supposed to open the door and make you a cup of coffee?”
Doris says yeah.
“Come on in then,” you say.
Happy Doris Is Back Day!
“You give up on Stan?”
Doris says Stan never got his mail order pants business off the ground. He ended up being nothing but a Colorado party boy. She thought he was her ticket to the big time, but she discovered how much she missed her small time life with you.
“So I’m just s’posed to take you back in? After running off on me with another man like that, no word for over a year? I’m just supposed to open the door and make you a cup of coffee?”
Doris says yeah.
“Come on in then,” you say.
Happy Doris Is Back Day!
Monday, September 08, 2014
For Love Day!
“She’s worried about me,” you tell your coach. “I have to quit the team.”
Your coach tells you that in all the years he’s coached high school football, he’s never seen a quarterback like you.
“But I’ve also never seen another girl like Marie,” he adds.
Marie was your coach’s high school girlfriend. She also wanted him to quit the team, but he loved the game too much.
“I thought if she really loved me she’d let me do what I’m good at,” the coach says. “So I gave her up for the game. Now I realize that life is finite, and if you get your arms around love, you hug it to your chest and run it to the endzone.”
“The endzone is death right?” you ask. “Like, hang onto love until the end.”
“Bingo,” your coach says. “This game sucks and is stupid. Your love for that girl is rare and to be treasured. If you don’t quit this team, I’ll reveal some grading scandals involving players coasting by without learning how to read just so the entire team will be dissolved at this school to make sure you don’t have a team to play on.”
Since you’re one of the players who doesn’t know how to read, the embarrassment of that being all over the papers is just another reason to quit the team and be with your girlfriend.
“Thanks, Coach,” you say.
“SHUT UP AND LOVE!!!” your football coach screams in your face.
Happy For Love Day!
Your coach tells you that in all the years he’s coached high school football, he’s never seen a quarterback like you.
“But I’ve also never seen another girl like Marie,” he adds.
Marie was your coach’s high school girlfriend. She also wanted him to quit the team, but he loved the game too much.
“I thought if she really loved me she’d let me do what I’m good at,” the coach says. “So I gave her up for the game. Now I realize that life is finite, and if you get your arms around love, you hug it to your chest and run it to the endzone.”
“The endzone is death right?” you ask. “Like, hang onto love until the end.”
“Bingo,” your coach says. “This game sucks and is stupid. Your love for that girl is rare and to be treasured. If you don’t quit this team, I’ll reveal some grading scandals involving players coasting by without learning how to read just so the entire team will be dissolved at this school to make sure you don’t have a team to play on.”
Since you’re one of the players who doesn’t know how to read, the embarrassment of that being all over the papers is just another reason to quit the team and be with your girlfriend.
“Thanks, Coach,” you say.
“SHUT UP AND LOVE!!!” your football coach screams in your face.
Happy For Love Day!
Tuesday, August 05, 2014
Explain To Your Mail Carrier What Love Is Day!
Today you’re going to bump into your mail carrier just as she finishes loading up the boxes in the lobby of your building.
“Hey there,” she says. “Long as I have you for a sec, what’s love?”
“Hang on,” you say.
You open your mailbox and pull out this week’s letters marked return to sender. Six new ones.
“This is love,” you say, letting her hold the unopened letters, each one containing several dozen instances of the words “please” and “forgive.”
“All this time,” the mail carrier says, “I’ve been lugging love around in my sack and I didn’t even know it.”
“Wanna get drunk?” you ask.
You and your mail carrier get drunk and take turns opening people’s mail and reading the letters out loud in high-pitched girly voices. Looks like you have a new friend.
Happy Explain To Your Mail Carrier What Love Is Day!
“Hey there,” she says. “Long as I have you for a sec, what’s love?”
“Hang on,” you say.
You open your mailbox and pull out this week’s letters marked return to sender. Six new ones.
“This is love,” you say, letting her hold the unopened letters, each one containing several dozen instances of the words “please” and “forgive.”
“All this time,” the mail carrier says, “I’ve been lugging love around in my sack and I didn’t even know it.”
“Wanna get drunk?” you ask.
You and your mail carrier get drunk and take turns opening people’s mail and reading the letters out loud in high-pitched girly voices. Looks like you have a new friend.
Happy Explain To Your Mail Carrier What Love Is Day!
Monday, August 04, 2014
Rich And Mean Day!
“Why aren’t your clothes fantastic?” the rich people ask. They’ve invited you to stop waiting on them and sit down for a while. Your manager told you to do whatever they say.
“I can’t afford to look fantastic,” you explain. “I can only afford to look cute.”
They ask what you expect to do with your life if the best you can hope for is cute.
“I just want to be happy,” you say.
They stare at you, unsure how you expect that to happen if you have to settle for cute.
“We aren’t making ourselves clear,” says the man in the suit that billows around him with the breeze. “Everything is ours. Everything we want. Comparatively, you have nothing. This sickens us.”
You wait for more, for them to ask a question.
“It’s disgusting,” his sister, whose skin looks like an ocean at sunset, adds.
“It upsets me to be in your presence,” the billowy suited man says.
You ask them why they’re telling you all this. You’re handed a brochure.
“It’s an underground city that’s being built for you and others in your situation,” you’re told. “Every basic need will be provided for you, and nothing more. We’re using our own funds to pay for its construction so that you can finally leave the surface of the earth.”
You look through the brochure. The bedrooms are slightly bigger than the one you sleep in right now.
“No sunlight?” you ask.
They shrug. “Sunlight is free, currently. But rent isn’t. Would you rather have free sunlight or free rent?”
The youngest, thinnest, and most beautiful of them leans forward, her dress collar hanging open for you to see the entire stretch of her flawless body. She takes your hand and says, “We just want you all to go into a hole and stay there. And we dug a very nice hole for you.”
There’s a date on the brochure. Six months from today.
“That’s the deadline,” the man in the billowy suit says. “Up until then, it’s voluntary.”
You fold the brochure into your apron and you get up from the table to go back to work.
“You’re welcome,” the beautiful girl says as she pours wine into a napkin and scrubs at the hand that touched yours.
Happy Rich And Mean Day!
“I can’t afford to look fantastic,” you explain. “I can only afford to look cute.”
They ask what you expect to do with your life if the best you can hope for is cute.
“I just want to be happy,” you say.
They stare at you, unsure how you expect that to happen if you have to settle for cute.
“We aren’t making ourselves clear,” says the man in the suit that billows around him with the breeze. “Everything is ours. Everything we want. Comparatively, you have nothing. This sickens us.”
You wait for more, for them to ask a question.
“It’s disgusting,” his sister, whose skin looks like an ocean at sunset, adds.
“It upsets me to be in your presence,” the billowy suited man says.
You ask them why they’re telling you all this. You’re handed a brochure.
“It’s an underground city that’s being built for you and others in your situation,” you’re told. “Every basic need will be provided for you, and nothing more. We’re using our own funds to pay for its construction so that you can finally leave the surface of the earth.”
You look through the brochure. The bedrooms are slightly bigger than the one you sleep in right now.
“No sunlight?” you ask.
They shrug. “Sunlight is free, currently. But rent isn’t. Would you rather have free sunlight or free rent?”
The youngest, thinnest, and most beautiful of them leans forward, her dress collar hanging open for you to see the entire stretch of her flawless body. She takes your hand and says, “We just want you all to go into a hole and stay there. And we dug a very nice hole for you.”
There’s a date on the brochure. Six months from today.
“That’s the deadline,” the man in the billowy suit says. “Up until then, it’s voluntary.”
You fold the brochure into your apron and you get up from the table to go back to work.
“You’re welcome,” the beautiful girl says as she pours wine into a napkin and scrubs at the hand that touched yours.
Happy Rich And Mean Day!
Saturday, August 02, 2014
Fancy Artist Loft Party Day!
The artist is angry and he’s spitting champagne on his guests and they love it. His wife is enchanting people with conversation. The ceilings are 20 feet above the tops of the guests’ heads, looking down on their bald spots and dandruff-dusted parts with disgust. The paintings on the walls are the size of trucks and they don’t mean a thing. The artist assistants are starving but drunk, one is crying, the other just jumped out the window, the third is calling her dad. The gallery owner has a one-way plane ticket to Berlin in his jacket pocket and no one knows this party and the city it’s in is already dead, Berlin is where it’s at. The ceilings rise higher, 45 feet now, getting further away from the freshly-dyed roots. You’re excited about the open bar and you stuff some cheese in your pocket for the train ride later because you’re new here, shocked to have even been invited. The artist is down to his torn underwear and he just grabbed the ass of a 66-year-old billionaire heiress and lover of dogs. 55 feet now, the loft upstairs obliterated. One of the artist assistants has a knife, but the other is talking her out of it. A 75-foot ceiling. The artist sees you. He sees something in you. Himself? He’s cross-legged on the ground in his underwear, waving you over. 110 feet. The knife clatters to the ground and the artist’s wife is making love to the gallery owner on the artist’s bed. The assistant who gave up on the idea of the knife absently watches them fuck when she isn’t checking her phone. “I admire your work,” you tell the artist. 200 feet. “You’re the one,” the artist says. It’s time for him to tumble out of fashion. Time to take someone under his wing, resent their youth, corrupt them so they have it just as bad as he does when they get the 300-foot ceiling. 345 feet now. “You’re the one,” he says. You glow and you stammer and the ceiling crosses the 500-foot mark, crashing into the bottom of a local news station’s traffic helicopter. The assistant climbs into bed with them. The artist throws on a pair of sweatpants, grabs your hand and drags you onto the elevator, presses down. You both get out seconds before the ceiling shatters bringing the party to an end.
Happy Fancy Artist Loft Party Day!
Happy Fancy Artist Loft Party Day!
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Bunkbeds Day!
It’s your first visit to your daughter’s new house with her new husband and no dad could be happier than you. They take you from room to room. The living room, the kitchen, the spare room that they say with a giggle will one day be a nursery. Then they show you their bedroom.
“Thought the other room was going to be the nursery,” you say.
They both nod. That’s right.
“So what’s with the bunk beds?” you ask.
They look thrown. “You mean our sleep tower?” your son-in-law says.
You look at the bunk beds again.
“Sleep tower?” you repeat. “What the hell are you kids into?”
Your daughter laughs. “I get the top. Jarrett likes the bottom.”
“My knees,” your son-in-law explains.
You walk out of the bedroom, shaken to your core, and you sit down to a long, polite, silent dinner.
After, your daughter follows you out to your car.
“Jesus, honey,” you say. “What the hell is that all about?”
She nods sadly. “I know how it looks, Daddy,” she says. “It’s just what he prefers.”
You shake your head. “What about what you prefer?”
Tears form in her eyes. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with his knees either, do you? He says when they’re better I can have the bottom, but he’s lying isn’t he? I want the bottom, Daddy! I was supposed to marry someone who’d treat me like a princess and let me have whichever bunk I wanted! But he’s just another liar out to get whatever he wants!”
She cries into your chest. You pat the back of her head, coming to grips with the knowledge that your daughter is a grown woman who digs bunk beds. You conclude that you were a not-very-good father, and you vow to visit your daughter’s home as infrequently as possible.
Happy Bunkbeds Day!
“Thought the other room was going to be the nursery,” you say.
They both nod. That’s right.
“So what’s with the bunk beds?” you ask.
They look thrown. “You mean our sleep tower?” your son-in-law says.
You look at the bunk beds again.
“Sleep tower?” you repeat. “What the hell are you kids into?”
Your daughter laughs. “I get the top. Jarrett likes the bottom.”
“My knees,” your son-in-law explains.
You walk out of the bedroom, shaken to your core, and you sit down to a long, polite, silent dinner.
After, your daughter follows you out to your car.
“Jesus, honey,” you say. “What the hell is that all about?”
She nods sadly. “I know how it looks, Daddy,” she says. “It’s just what he prefers.”
You shake your head. “What about what you prefer?”
Tears form in her eyes. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with his knees either, do you? He says when they’re better I can have the bottom, but he’s lying isn’t he? I want the bottom, Daddy! I was supposed to marry someone who’d treat me like a princess and let me have whichever bunk I wanted! But he’s just another liar out to get whatever he wants!”
She cries into your chest. You pat the back of her head, coming to grips with the knowledge that your daughter is a grown woman who digs bunk beds. You conclude that you were a not-very-good father, and you vow to visit your daughter’s home as infrequently as possible.
Happy Bunkbeds Day!
Monday, July 28, 2014
Sand In The Suitcase Day!
Your mom’s on her bedroom floor rubbing her body in sand. Sand that shook into her suitcase from the swimsuit she wore on the beach in Tulum, two winters ago when she was there for a work retreat and she went for a walk with Alfonse, the spa director of the eco-resort. Alfonse promised her he’d show her the exact perfect spot on the beach to see the moon over the cliff, and he came through. The spot was on her back, underneath Alfonse, her pleasure causing her to howl loud enough she feared she’d scare the moon away. That sand in her suitcase hugged hers and Alfonse’s bodies and she’s rubbing it all over her skin, feeling his touch once more. If the sand from that beach can be in the bedroom she shares with her husband, years later, Alfonse can be there as well. Space and time allow for so much more than we know. You mom is there again. She’s there on that beach having the most wonderful sex of her life again.
“She’s doing the sand thing again,” you tell your dad.
“Ah Christ, every damn trip,” your dad says before marching upstairs to yell at his wife.
“Dammit Doreen! You can’t bring him back! Let a fling be a fling so we can not miss our plane for once!”
Happy Sand In The Suitcase Day!
“She’s doing the sand thing again,” you tell your dad.
“Ah Christ, every damn trip,” your dad says before marching upstairs to yell at his wife.
“Dammit Doreen! You can’t bring him back! Let a fling be a fling so we can not miss our plane for once!”
Happy Sand In The Suitcase Day!
Friday, July 25, 2014
Open House Day!
Today at the open house, you think you’ve found the perfect place. Beautiful yard, great kitchen, and lots of storage space. You’re pretty sure you’re going to take it until you notice the photos on the tables are all photos of you, surrounded by a husband and two kids you’ve never met before.
“Is this some kind of prank?” you ask.
The realtor looks more closely at the photos.
“Oh, this happens sometimes,” she says.
“What does?” you ask.
The realtor explains that some houses skip ahead.
“The house knows what your life is going to be, who you’re going to marry, what kind of family you’re going to raise here,” she says. “It knows so well that it thinks you’ve already lived here.”
“Lived?” you ask.
“Well, it’s up for sale. So you’re selling it. One day.”
You ask the realtor if you’re going to get a good price. She says she doubts it. You seem to want to sell in a hurry. Things aren’t going so well with your husband.
“I’m not even dating anybody,” you say. “How is it the house thinks I’ve been living here with a husband and kids, and I’m already moving on to a new chapter in my life?”
The realtor says she can’t answer that, but you should get a move on before the house realizes you’re there before you’ve ever been there. Just then the house starts screaming.
Happy Open House Day!
“Is this some kind of prank?” you ask.
The realtor looks more closely at the photos.
“Oh, this happens sometimes,” she says.
“What does?” you ask.
The realtor explains that some houses skip ahead.
“The house knows what your life is going to be, who you’re going to marry, what kind of family you’re going to raise here,” she says. “It knows so well that it thinks you’ve already lived here.”
“Lived?” you ask.
“Well, it’s up for sale. So you’re selling it. One day.”
You ask the realtor if you’re going to get a good price. She says she doubts it. You seem to want to sell in a hurry. Things aren’t going so well with your husband.
“I’m not even dating anybody,” you say. “How is it the house thinks I’ve been living here with a husband and kids, and I’m already moving on to a new chapter in my life?”
The realtor says she can’t answer that, but you should get a move on before the house realizes you’re there before you’ve ever been there. Just then the house starts screaming.
Happy Open House Day!
Thursday, July 24, 2014
End Your First Date About To Be Crushed To Death In A Trash Compactor Day!
Say to him over the loud grinding of the gears, “Even if we die right now, I really had a good time with you tonight.”
He’ll say, “Yeah. Though the wild turn of events over the course of the evening lead to us being stuck here, about to be turned into nothing but splotches of liquefied organs, this was the best date I ever had.”
You kiss for the first time. It’s such a powerful kiss, you both suddenly know that this isn’t how it can end. Something so right can’t reach such a premature and gross conclusion. This could be the love of both your lives. That kiss proved it. And that kiss gives you the strength to try and get out of this to see where this love takes you.
“We have to try!” you shout.
“I agree,” he says. “We can’t just—“
Some of the garbage gives way underneath him and he’s dragged under the compactor wall. You mourn the love of your life for a few endless seconds before the walls close in and take away the pain of your loss.
Happy End Your First Date About To Be Crushed To Death In A Trash Compactor Day!
He’ll say, “Yeah. Though the wild turn of events over the course of the evening lead to us being stuck here, about to be turned into nothing but splotches of liquefied organs, this was the best date I ever had.”
You kiss for the first time. It’s such a powerful kiss, you both suddenly know that this isn’t how it can end. Something so right can’t reach such a premature and gross conclusion. This could be the love of both your lives. That kiss proved it. And that kiss gives you the strength to try and get out of this to see where this love takes you.
“We have to try!” you shout.
“I agree,” he says. “We can’t just—“
Some of the garbage gives way underneath him and he’s dragged under the compactor wall. You mourn the love of your life for a few endless seconds before the walls close in and take away the pain of your loss.
Happy End Your First Date About To Be Crushed To Death In A Trash Compactor Day!
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Your Old Friend Alice’s Funeral Day!
You’re 70 and your friend Alice was 70 when she died and you used to be best pals. You showed up wondering what happened to you two, then you find out when her family tells you they don’t want you to speak at the funeral because they felt like she put more value in her friendship with you than in her relationship with her husband and kids.
“That why she moved away and stopped taking my calls?” you ask her daughters.
They nod. “We told our mom that unless she cut ties with you we would stop loving her. We told her she had to sacrifice a cherished friendship in order to keep us as daughters.”
“You’re shitty daughters,” you tell them.
They shrug. “Deal with it. You’re not speaking at that funeral.”
You keep quiet at the service but at the burial a plane flies by with a banner tailing behind it that reads, “Alice is dead, and she loved her best friend more than her own horrible kids. I loved you back just as much, Alice. Sorry your kids sucked. Sorry and Goodbye. Catch Jason Mraz at Foxwoods Thur-Mon.”
You got a discount by tacking on an ad that the pilot already got paid to run. Doesn’t matter, the kids are looking up at the sky and crying as you walk away from Alice’s grave, knowing full well you had a friend for life.
Happy Your Old Friend Alice’s Funeral Day!
“That why she moved away and stopped taking my calls?” you ask her daughters.
They nod. “We told our mom that unless she cut ties with you we would stop loving her. We told her she had to sacrifice a cherished friendship in order to keep us as daughters.”
“You’re shitty daughters,” you tell them.
They shrug. “Deal with it. You’re not speaking at that funeral.”
You keep quiet at the service but at the burial a plane flies by with a banner tailing behind it that reads, “Alice is dead, and she loved her best friend more than her own horrible kids. I loved you back just as much, Alice. Sorry your kids sucked. Sorry and Goodbye. Catch Jason Mraz at Foxwoods Thur-Mon.”
You got a discount by tacking on an ad that the pilot already got paid to run. Doesn’t matter, the kids are looking up at the sky and crying as you walk away from Alice’s grave, knowing full well you had a friend for life.
Happy Your Old Friend Alice’s Funeral Day!
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Pam Can’t Drink Day!
You ended it with Pam because she can’t drink.
“It’s because I have to take all this medication for anxiety,” she said. “Alcohol contraindicates.”
That’s all well and good but you told Pam from the get-go that she better be able to keep up with you or you’d be hightailing it to someone who could. Someone like Martha.
“Let’s get started,” Martha likes to say at around 4:30 PM when she pulls the top from the bottle of gin. “Don’t dawdle.”
Martha drinks way better than Pam, and the two of you have a lot of fun getting plastered each night and then spending the next morning helping each other piece together why you have so many bruises on your bodies. But you can’t get over the feeling that maybe you should have found some way to make it work with Pam. No matter how well you and Martha drink together, she’s no Pam.
“Why are you Googling herbal remedies for anxiety?” Martha asks one drunken night after going through your search history. “It’s that Pam, isn’t it? You’re looking for a way to get her to take different meds so she can drink with you.”
You try to lie but Martha’s too blitzed to listen. She throws your laptop at your head, knocking you unconscious. Martha runs to your aid but she slips and cracks her head open on the floor.
When you wake up, the police are hovering over you, having been called by the neighbors. With Martha dead and signs of a domestic dispute all over the apartment, no one buys that Martha did all the disputing. You’re jailed for manslaughter, sentenced to six years of longing for the one that got away because you never thought to convince her to try herbal anxiety remedies that wouldn’t have been contraindicated by alcohol.
Happy Pam Can’t Drink Day!
“It’s because I have to take all this medication for anxiety,” she said. “Alcohol contraindicates.”
That’s all well and good but you told Pam from the get-go that she better be able to keep up with you or you’d be hightailing it to someone who could. Someone like Martha.
“Let’s get started,” Martha likes to say at around 4:30 PM when she pulls the top from the bottle of gin. “Don’t dawdle.”
Martha drinks way better than Pam, and the two of you have a lot of fun getting plastered each night and then spending the next morning helping each other piece together why you have so many bruises on your bodies. But you can’t get over the feeling that maybe you should have found some way to make it work with Pam. No matter how well you and Martha drink together, she’s no Pam.
“Why are you Googling herbal remedies for anxiety?” Martha asks one drunken night after going through your search history. “It’s that Pam, isn’t it? You’re looking for a way to get her to take different meds so she can drink with you.”
You try to lie but Martha’s too blitzed to listen. She throws your laptop at your head, knocking you unconscious. Martha runs to your aid but she slips and cracks her head open on the floor.
When you wake up, the police are hovering over you, having been called by the neighbors. With Martha dead and signs of a domestic dispute all over the apartment, no one buys that Martha did all the disputing. You’re jailed for manslaughter, sentenced to six years of longing for the one that got away because you never thought to convince her to try herbal anxiety remedies that wouldn’t have been contraindicated by alcohol.
Happy Pam Can’t Drink Day!
Monday, July 21, 2014
You Know Anyone Your Mom Might Hit It Off With Day!
Your mom writes love songs but her career’s been in a slump ever since she fell out of love with your dad. House payments need to be made and you’re going to have to go to college somehow.
“Any of those teachers at your school single?” your dad asks you. “Anyone you think your mom might hit it off with?”
You tell your dad you don’t feel comfortable being put in this position. That you think your mom should cheat on him of her own volition, that it should happen naturally.
“Yeah, yeah,” your dad says. “But love sometimes needs a nudge. She wrote dozens of songs about me, but I ain’t doing it for her anymore, and they’re about to cut off our electric.”
On Parent-Teacher night you make sure to introduce your mom to your social studies teacher, Mr. Lawson.
“You two both enjoy things,” you say to them, trying to get some kind of connection to happen.
“Hello,” Mr. Lawson says.
“I hope I never hear you say goodbye,” your mom says. Then she rifles through her bag for a notebook.
Meanwhile, your dad is at home sitting on the back step of the house, staring at a tree he and your mom planted when they first moved in. That tree never stopped growing. Maybe if he tends to his marriage the way he did that tree, your mom will find it in her heart to love him again. He makes a silent promise to try as soon as she gets home, not knowing it’s already too late. She’s found a new song.
Happy You Know Anyone Your Mom Might Hit It Off With Day!
“Any of those teachers at your school single?” your dad asks you. “Anyone you think your mom might hit it off with?”
You tell your dad you don’t feel comfortable being put in this position. That you think your mom should cheat on him of her own volition, that it should happen naturally.
“Yeah, yeah,” your dad says. “But love sometimes needs a nudge. She wrote dozens of songs about me, but I ain’t doing it for her anymore, and they’re about to cut off our electric.”
On Parent-Teacher night you make sure to introduce your mom to your social studies teacher, Mr. Lawson.
“You two both enjoy things,” you say to them, trying to get some kind of connection to happen.
“Hello,” Mr. Lawson says.
“I hope I never hear you say goodbye,” your mom says. Then she rifles through her bag for a notebook.
Meanwhile, your dad is at home sitting on the back step of the house, staring at a tree he and your mom planted when they first moved in. That tree never stopped growing. Maybe if he tends to his marriage the way he did that tree, your mom will find it in her heart to love him again. He makes a silent promise to try as soon as she gets home, not knowing it’s already too late. She’s found a new song.
Happy You Know Anyone Your Mom Might Hit It Off With Day!
Sunday, July 20, 2014
True Romance Day!
DEPARTURE
You ask to be excused from the table and your dad grunts so you head upstairs where your duffle bag is packed and you flash your flashlight three times out the window. He responds with three flashes from a flashlight of his own.
JOURNEY
You board the bus and you kiss for three hundred miles until someone complains to the driver who comes back to ask the two of you to stop kissing. You hold off for fifteen miles before the other passengers complain that your kisses were the only thing keeping them going on this bus ride.
“It’s nice to be around people who are hopeful!” a man with an open face wound shouts.
“The sound of their lips keeps me from hearing the echoes if what my sister said to me when we last saw each other in ’83,” a lady trying to pick the lock on a handcuff concurs.
“Lift the ban!” the other passengers shout. “Lift the ban!”
“Fine.” The bus driver buckles. “Ban lifted.” So you kiss for the next 1100 miles and everyone on the bus is grateful.
EXCITEMENT
Ten miles from your destination you pull out your guns and rob everyone on the bus. Someone tries to be a hero so you shoot him in the heart.
MALAISE
Hiding up in the mountains wears on you after twenty-six months. You try to remember the day you met, just another gray November day of senior year turned suddenly to the brightest springtime morn when you saw his face.
“He’s a transfer,” your best friend whispered into your ear when she spotted you drooling.
But a cold mountain wind blows and the memory scatters with the gust. He comes back to the cabin with not enough meat. You can feel the baby kick.
JOY
The three of you head down the other side of the mountain, to a valley town in a whole other state and no one looks at you twice when you enroll to get your GED. You’ll make a life for your baby, a better one than you made for yourself.
STRIFE
You’re driving home from school when you spot the flashing lights of three squad cars forming a roadblock at the end of your street. You stop in time to see him run down in the middle of the road, pinned to the concrete with the knees of police. They lift him up and you think he can see you. The rest of your life you’ll hope he could see the two of you, that he could see you mouth the word “goodbye.”
MEMORY
You tuck her in and you pretend you’re reading a storybook as you tell her the tale of the boy and the girl who ran off to find out what their love might do to the world. And when she asks if it did anything bad you say yes. And when she asks if it did anything good you kiss her on the forehead and you say yes.
Happy True Romance Day!
You ask to be excused from the table and your dad grunts so you head upstairs where your duffle bag is packed and you flash your flashlight three times out the window. He responds with three flashes from a flashlight of his own.
JOURNEY
You board the bus and you kiss for three hundred miles until someone complains to the driver who comes back to ask the two of you to stop kissing. You hold off for fifteen miles before the other passengers complain that your kisses were the only thing keeping them going on this bus ride.
“It’s nice to be around people who are hopeful!” a man with an open face wound shouts.
“The sound of their lips keeps me from hearing the echoes if what my sister said to me when we last saw each other in ’83,” a lady trying to pick the lock on a handcuff concurs.
“Lift the ban!” the other passengers shout. “Lift the ban!”
“Fine.” The bus driver buckles. “Ban lifted.” So you kiss for the next 1100 miles and everyone on the bus is grateful.
EXCITEMENT
Ten miles from your destination you pull out your guns and rob everyone on the bus. Someone tries to be a hero so you shoot him in the heart.
MALAISE
Hiding up in the mountains wears on you after twenty-six months. You try to remember the day you met, just another gray November day of senior year turned suddenly to the brightest springtime morn when you saw his face.
“He’s a transfer,” your best friend whispered into your ear when she spotted you drooling.
But a cold mountain wind blows and the memory scatters with the gust. He comes back to the cabin with not enough meat. You can feel the baby kick.
JOY
The three of you head down the other side of the mountain, to a valley town in a whole other state and no one looks at you twice when you enroll to get your GED. You’ll make a life for your baby, a better one than you made for yourself.
STRIFE
You’re driving home from school when you spot the flashing lights of three squad cars forming a roadblock at the end of your street. You stop in time to see him run down in the middle of the road, pinned to the concrete with the knees of police. They lift him up and you think he can see you. The rest of your life you’ll hope he could see the two of you, that he could see you mouth the word “goodbye.”
MEMORY
You tuck her in and you pretend you’re reading a storybook as you tell her the tale of the boy and the girl who ran off to find out what their love might do to the world. And when she asks if it did anything bad you say yes. And when she asks if it did anything good you kiss her on the forehead and you say yes.
Happy True Romance Day!
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
They Call You Couch Maureen Day!
Your dad ran a moving company and he was killed by a couch. It was being raised up to the third floor to try and get it through the window of an apartment because it couldn’t fit through the door. The cord snapped and the couch dropped right on your dad’s head, snapping his neck.
“He left the business to me,” you’re telling a customer. “And I’ve built it into a small local empire. I did it with hatred in my heart.”
The logo on your trucks reads “Your Furniture Killed My Daddy, And I Will Never Let Your Furniture Get The Upper Hand Again.” As Couch Maureen, you promise that you will be in control at every point in the move. No one will ever see you or your team members hesitating or guessing at an angle or a width for getting a couch or an armoire through a doorway. You’re always ten steps ahead of your furniture. You’ve already carried their couch up the steps and around the corners and through the vestibule and into the living room before your customers have even finished packing.
“It’s about not letting the furniture get the jump on me,” you’re telling your customer. “Like my dad did.”
You turn to the portrait of your father.
“You were sloppy daddy,” you say.
The customers are getting uncomfortable.
“SLOPPY!” you scream. “YOU WERE SLOPPY DADDY!”
You’re crying now. Spit is coming out of your mouth as you scream.
“HOW COULD YOU, DADDY! HOW COULD YOU LET A COUCH TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME?! HOW? DID YOU WANT IT TO TAKE YOU AWAY? DID YOU NOT WANT TO BE WITH ME AND MOMMY ANY MORE?”
The customers are moved to tears with you. You barely even know they’re there anymore.
“WHYYYYYYY DADDY? WHYYYYYY?”
Getting a grip on yourself you turn back to the customers and slam your fist on their moving contract.
“As God is my witness,” you growl. “I will tame your furniture. I will be its master during the entire course of your move. Your furniture wants to be damaged to prove that it cannot be subjugated to human will. I will make very clear to your furniture that on this matter, it is very mistaken.”
Your customers sign their contract, and then the three of you hug and cry together.
“Fuck your furniture,” you say, waving goodbye as they leave. “Fuck it straight to hell.”
They wave back as they step through the door, confident that their move is in good hands.
Happy They Call You Couch Maureen Day!
“He left the business to me,” you’re telling a customer. “And I’ve built it into a small local empire. I did it with hatred in my heart.”
The logo on your trucks reads “Your Furniture Killed My Daddy, And I Will Never Let Your Furniture Get The Upper Hand Again.” As Couch Maureen, you promise that you will be in control at every point in the move. No one will ever see you or your team members hesitating or guessing at an angle or a width for getting a couch or an armoire through a doorway. You’re always ten steps ahead of your furniture. You’ve already carried their couch up the steps and around the corners and through the vestibule and into the living room before your customers have even finished packing.
“It’s about not letting the furniture get the jump on me,” you’re telling your customer. “Like my dad did.”
You turn to the portrait of your father.
“You were sloppy daddy,” you say.
The customers are getting uncomfortable.
“SLOPPY!” you scream. “YOU WERE SLOPPY DADDY!”
You’re crying now. Spit is coming out of your mouth as you scream.
“HOW COULD YOU, DADDY! HOW COULD YOU LET A COUCH TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME?! HOW? DID YOU WANT IT TO TAKE YOU AWAY? DID YOU NOT WANT TO BE WITH ME AND MOMMY ANY MORE?”
The customers are moved to tears with you. You barely even know they’re there anymore.
“WHYYYYYYY DADDY? WHYYYYYY?”
Getting a grip on yourself you turn back to the customers and slam your fist on their moving contract.
“As God is my witness,” you growl. “I will tame your furniture. I will be its master during the entire course of your move. Your furniture wants to be damaged to prove that it cannot be subjugated to human will. I will make very clear to your furniture that on this matter, it is very mistaken.”
Your customers sign their contract, and then the three of you hug and cry together.
“Fuck your furniture,” you say, waving goodbye as they leave. “Fuck it straight to hell.”
They wave back as they step through the door, confident that their move is in good hands.
Happy They Call You Couch Maureen Day!
Friday, May 09, 2014
Tanning Bed Day!
You’re unlocking the door to your apartment, thinking, “Maybe she’ll be different. Maybe she’ll see there’s still some potential in me.”
You kiss her once more before you push the door open.
“I’m really glad we met tonight,” you say, hoping to win her over before the big letdown.
“Me too,” she says.
You lead her inside your one-room studio, trying to get her into the kitchen before she looks around. Trying to get one more drink in her before she starts asking questions.
“How about a cocktail?” you say, walking backwards, trying to hold her eyes.
She looks in the corner.
“Is that a tanning bed?” she asks.
Here we go.
“It is,” you say, surrendering to the way things always play out. “But it’s more than that. It’s the last remnant of a dream.”
You tell her that you used to run a tanning salon and it was very profitable but your ex-wife was stealing from the company and one day she emptied the bank account and ran off with one of your best customers.
“I don’t blame her,” you say. “He had one hell of a shade.”
You had to liquidate the company, and sell all your furniture, making a point of keeping just one last tanning bed as a memory of what you had, and what you lost.
“I sleep on it,” you say. “And we’ll have to have sex on it if you still want to do that. Unless you wanted to have sex on the floor. Or like, against a wall or something.”
She hesitates, staring at the tanning bed.
“But I guess you probably don’t want to do that anymore,” you say. “They usually don’t.”
She walks across the room and takes your hand.
“Let’s go,” she says.
“Where?” you ask.
“Come with me,” she says.
You get in her car and she drives you across town to her apartment.
“I didn’t want you to see this,” she says, unlocking her door.
Inside the small studio apartment is nothing but a massage table with a blanket and a pillow, some tear-stained tissues crumpled up on the floor around it.
“We called it Couple’s Massage,” she said. “My husband and I worked together, massaging couples on side-by-side tables. He eventually entered a polyamorous relationship with a husband and wife we massaged regularly. I tried to keep up the business but all our clients were couples. It was too much for one person. I got carpal tunnel and sold everything. Except my table.”
You make love on that table. Then you go back to your apartment and make love on your tanning bed. In a few months you open Deep Tan Deep Tissue, the only tanning salon slash massage parlor in town. People will come knowing that they’ll get a tan and a massage as deep and transformative as the love you found the night when you were both at your lowest.
Happy Tanning Bed Day!
You kiss her once more before you push the door open.
“I’m really glad we met tonight,” you say, hoping to win her over before the big letdown.
“Me too,” she says.
You lead her inside your one-room studio, trying to get her into the kitchen before she looks around. Trying to get one more drink in her before she starts asking questions.
“How about a cocktail?” you say, walking backwards, trying to hold her eyes.
She looks in the corner.
“Is that a tanning bed?” she asks.
Here we go.
“It is,” you say, surrendering to the way things always play out. “But it’s more than that. It’s the last remnant of a dream.”
You tell her that you used to run a tanning salon and it was very profitable but your ex-wife was stealing from the company and one day she emptied the bank account and ran off with one of your best customers.
“I don’t blame her,” you say. “He had one hell of a shade.”
You had to liquidate the company, and sell all your furniture, making a point of keeping just one last tanning bed as a memory of what you had, and what you lost.
“I sleep on it,” you say. “And we’ll have to have sex on it if you still want to do that. Unless you wanted to have sex on the floor. Or like, against a wall or something.”
She hesitates, staring at the tanning bed.
“But I guess you probably don’t want to do that anymore,” you say. “They usually don’t.”
She walks across the room and takes your hand.
“Let’s go,” she says.
“Where?” you ask.
“Come with me,” she says.
You get in her car and she drives you across town to her apartment.
“I didn’t want you to see this,” she says, unlocking her door.
Inside the small studio apartment is nothing but a massage table with a blanket and a pillow, some tear-stained tissues crumpled up on the floor around it.
“We called it Couple’s Massage,” she said. “My husband and I worked together, massaging couples on side-by-side tables. He eventually entered a polyamorous relationship with a husband and wife we massaged regularly. I tried to keep up the business but all our clients were couples. It was too much for one person. I got carpal tunnel and sold everything. Except my table.”
You make love on that table. Then you go back to your apartment and make love on your tanning bed. In a few months you open Deep Tan Deep Tissue, the only tanning salon slash massage parlor in town. People will come knowing that they’ll get a tan and a massage as deep and transformative as the love you found the night when you were both at your lowest.
Happy Tanning Bed Day!
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
The Last Prom Day!
Your school is the first doomsday school in the nation and your curriculum is built on the belief that the world is going to be destroyed within four months’ time, so you being president of the prom committee puts a lot of pressure on you since this will be the last prom ever.
“All in favor of ‘Time Of My Life’,” you say, asking for a show of hands. You’re trying to settle on a prom theme and theme song, and it’s been tough to get a quorum.
Only about six hands are raised.
“Okay, far from a majority,” you say. “All in favor of ‘We Are Young.’ Show of hands.”
Hardly anyone raises their hand.
The doors to the study quarters open and a girl with a guitar stands in the entrance. It’s Betty. The new girl. You saw her in the office on her first day last week and you’ve been wondering if she might end up in one of your classes. She’s walking down the aisle now in between the rows of chairs, and you can’t take your eyes off of her.
“I have a song,” she says.
You look out to the rest of the committee members. They shrug.
“Be my guest,” you say.
She pulls a chair from one of the rows and sits down with the guitar on her knee. She strums something slow and sleepy, but her voice is wide awake.
We won’t be growing old
No time to waste on that
Got only a few minutes to spare
So don’t say anything that ain’t worth saying
Don’t do anything that ain’t worth doing
Don’t kiss anyone ain’t worth kissing
And everyone here’s worth a kiss
.
So let’s show them all
We used to be the future
But there’s no future
There’s no future anymore
.
So let’s show them all
What we could have been
Show every single one of them
What we would have been
.
[She screams this line]
What we should have been
.
[quiet again]
We won’t be growing old
But we will grow as old as old can be
Let’s grow old together
Let’s grow old and die together
Let’s grow old and die.
.
No one’s sure she stopped playing for a few seconds. The room’s still. It’s pin-drop silent. Then the applause starts rolling through the rows. The new girl smiles and you’re in love in an instant. After a quick, unanimous vote, ‘Let’s Grow Old And Die’ is officially chosen as the theme for the very last prom in the world.
Happy The Last Prom Day!
“All in favor of ‘Time Of My Life’,” you say, asking for a show of hands. You’re trying to settle on a prom theme and theme song, and it’s been tough to get a quorum.
Only about six hands are raised.
“Okay, far from a majority,” you say. “All in favor of ‘We Are Young.’ Show of hands.”
Hardly anyone raises their hand.
The doors to the study quarters open and a girl with a guitar stands in the entrance. It’s Betty. The new girl. You saw her in the office on her first day last week and you’ve been wondering if she might end up in one of your classes. She’s walking down the aisle now in between the rows of chairs, and you can’t take your eyes off of her.
“I have a song,” she says.
You look out to the rest of the committee members. They shrug.
“Be my guest,” you say.
She pulls a chair from one of the rows and sits down with the guitar on her knee. She strums something slow and sleepy, but her voice is wide awake.
We won’t be growing old
No time to waste on that
Got only a few minutes to spare
So don’t say anything that ain’t worth saying
Don’t do anything that ain’t worth doing
Don’t kiss anyone ain’t worth kissing
And everyone here’s worth a kiss
.
So let’s show them all
We used to be the future
But there’s no future
There’s no future anymore
.
So let’s show them all
What we could have been
Show every single one of them
What we would have been
.
[She screams this line]
What we should have been
.
[quiet again]
We won’t be growing old
But we will grow as old as old can be
Let’s grow old together
Let’s grow old and die together
Let’s grow old and die.
.
No one’s sure she stopped playing for a few seconds. The room’s still. It’s pin-drop silent. Then the applause starts rolling through the rows. The new girl smiles and you’re in love in an instant. After a quick, unanimous vote, ‘Let’s Grow Old And Die’ is officially chosen as the theme for the very last prom in the world.
Happy The Last Prom Day!
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
On Vacation With Your Girlfriend’s Parents Day!
You and your girlfriend’s mom and dad are out in the rowboat in the middle of the night looking at the moon when your girlfriend walks out to the edge of the lake and starts calling for you.
“The cabin’s scary when I’m all alone!” she shouts.
You and your girlfriend’s parents laugh at what a fraidy-cat your girlfriend is.
“We’ll be in in a minute!” you shout.
“Just try and get back to sleep,” her mom shouts.
Your girlfriend hears a noise coming from the woods. She asks if you guys heard it.
“She always craved attention,” her dad tells you.
Your girlfriend shouts that the noise is getting louder.
“You guys, just come back to shore!” she pleads.
You don’t want to go. You’ve had the most delightful night with your girlfriend’s parents, rowing about the lake and enjoying the silence together. You love your girlfriend, but you know you’ll rarely get to enjoy time alone with her parents like this, and you don’t want it to end.
When you finally return to shore you find your girlfriend kissing another boy. You pull him away from her and fistfight. You win.
At the end of the fistfight the boy says that he was bored because his parents went on a moonlight hike with his girlfriend, leaving him all alone.
“It’s vacation code, bro,” he tells you. “If you go off with your babe’s parents, she gets a free pass. Don’t you know about vacation code?”
You didn’t know about vacation code.
“My parents were poor, all right?” you shout. “You happy? You happy you made me say it?”
Everyone feels bad for you and the rest of the vacation is ruined because your girlfriend’s parents just worry that you’re going to steal stuff now that they know you’re poor.
Happy On Vacation With Your Girlfriend’s Parents Day!
“The cabin’s scary when I’m all alone!” she shouts.
You and your girlfriend’s parents laugh at what a fraidy-cat your girlfriend is.
“We’ll be in in a minute!” you shout.
“Just try and get back to sleep,” her mom shouts.
Your girlfriend hears a noise coming from the woods. She asks if you guys heard it.
“She always craved attention,” her dad tells you.
Your girlfriend shouts that the noise is getting louder.
“You guys, just come back to shore!” she pleads.
You don’t want to go. You’ve had the most delightful night with your girlfriend’s parents, rowing about the lake and enjoying the silence together. You love your girlfriend, but you know you’ll rarely get to enjoy time alone with her parents like this, and you don’t want it to end.
When you finally return to shore you find your girlfriend kissing another boy. You pull him away from her and fistfight. You win.
At the end of the fistfight the boy says that he was bored because his parents went on a moonlight hike with his girlfriend, leaving him all alone.
“It’s vacation code, bro,” he tells you. “If you go off with your babe’s parents, she gets a free pass. Don’t you know about vacation code?”
You didn’t know about vacation code.
“My parents were poor, all right?” you shout. “You happy? You happy you made me say it?”
Everyone feels bad for you and the rest of the vacation is ruined because your girlfriend’s parents just worry that you’re going to steal stuff now that they know you’re poor.
Happy On Vacation With Your Girlfriend’s Parents Day!
Tuesday, April 08, 2014
Doghouse Day!
“Guess I’m still in the doghouse with your mom.”
“You’re not in the doghouse!” your girlfriend’s daughter says.
“Oh I sure am,” you tell her. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a grown-up thing.”
“You’re not in the doghouse! My mom left you two years ago. She left both of us.”
“She’s just taking some time to blow off steam,” you explain. “It’s a grown- up thing. Hope when she gets back I’ll get out of the doghouse.”
“You’re not in the doghouse,” she says. “And I am a grown-up. I turned 18 three months ago and I got a lawyer that says I can evict you from my mom’s house.”
She hands you papers.
“But you’re all I have left of your mom,” tell her. “And I’m all you have left of her.”
“Move on,” she says. “I have.”
You fold up the papers and pack your things.
Happy Doghouse Day!
“You’re not in the doghouse!” your girlfriend’s daughter says.
“Oh I sure am,” you tell her. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a grown-up thing.”
“You’re not in the doghouse! My mom left you two years ago. She left both of us.”
“She’s just taking some time to blow off steam,” you explain. “It’s a grown- up thing. Hope when she gets back I’ll get out of the doghouse.”
“You’re not in the doghouse,” she says. “And I am a grown-up. I turned 18 three months ago and I got a lawyer that says I can evict you from my mom’s house.”
She hands you papers.
“But you’re all I have left of your mom,” tell her. “And I’m all you have left of her.”
“Move on,” she says. “I have.”
You fold up the papers and pack your things.
Happy Doghouse Day!
Monday, April 07, 2014
The Fuck Happy World Of Brad Day!
You’re the main character in a porno movie called The Fuck Happy World Of Brad. That’s why you feel so fuck happy and you keep having sex during what should be routine situations. Like when you bump into your neighbor by the mailboxes and the two of you have sex in the lobby and the doorman joins in. Or when you’re bartending and that woman comes in looking for a job and you tell her you’ll put in a good word so the two of you have sex.
“I just want to go back to my day,” you think while having sex. “I want to just be.”
You don’t know you’re a character in a porno so to you this is madness. If you were told you were a character in a porno you might experience a brief moment of relief (porn ends) but then someone else would push play and you’d get back to it. There is no escape. There is no end. The Fuck Happy World Of Brad is both finite and eternal, and it is all you’ll never know.
Happy The Fuck Happy World Of Brad Day!
“I just want to go back to my day,” you think while having sex. “I want to just be.”
You don’t know you’re a character in a porno so to you this is madness. If you were told you were a character in a porno you might experience a brief moment of relief (porn ends) but then someone else would push play and you’d get back to it. There is no escape. There is no end. The Fuck Happy World Of Brad is both finite and eternal, and it is all you’ll never know.
Happy The Fuck Happy World Of Brad Day!
Sunday, April 06, 2014
Domino Doreen Day!
Doreen is making your pizza. It says so on the tracker. It says your pizza is being made, and for the seven minutes it takes before it says your pizza is out for delivery, you can stare at your computer screen and envision your best friend Doreen making you dinner. She’s applying the toppings and fluffing the crust and putting it in the oven with care.
“You put in the order yet?” Sam asks. Sam’s your boyfriend. He used to go out with Doreen.
You don’t answer Sam. You just watch the pizza tracker. You ordered the pizza with a fake name so Doreen wouldn’t know it’s you she’s cooking for. She doesn’t know where you and Sam moved to (he had to move out of his apartment with Doreen) so she won’t recognize the address either. She has no idea she’s making a dinner for her former best friend. She has no idea how much her former best friend is savoring watching the little bar on the tracker. Doreen has no idea how much you miss her.
Your pizza is out for delivery.
You go downstairs with Sam and wait for it to arrive, trying to focus on you and him, trying to convince yourself he was worth it. But it’s no use. All you can do is listen for the car outside, search the air for the scent of pepperoni, anticipate the moment when a little bit of your best friend is delivered back into your life.
Happy Domino Doreen Day!
“You put in the order yet?” Sam asks. Sam’s your boyfriend. He used to go out with Doreen.
You don’t answer Sam. You just watch the pizza tracker. You ordered the pizza with a fake name so Doreen wouldn’t know it’s you she’s cooking for. She doesn’t know where you and Sam moved to (he had to move out of his apartment with Doreen) so she won’t recognize the address either. She has no idea she’s making a dinner for her former best friend. She has no idea how much her former best friend is savoring watching the little bar on the tracker. Doreen has no idea how much you miss her.
Your pizza is out for delivery.
You go downstairs with Sam and wait for it to arrive, trying to focus on you and him, trying to convince yourself he was worth it. But it’s no use. All you can do is listen for the car outside, search the air for the scent of pepperoni, anticipate the moment when a little bit of your best friend is delivered back into your life.
Happy Domino Doreen Day!
Saturday, April 05, 2014
You Don’t Really Care About The Environment Day!
You don’t really care about the environment but you tell people you do because you want people to think you’re cool.
“No way would I ever litter,” you tell people at coke parties and while trying to get into clubs. “CFCs piss me off. Damn straight.”
At work when the cool guy at work who wears his tie as a bandana during happy hour tells you that you should turn off your monitor when you leave for the day to conserve electricity, you say, “You’re damn skippy I should!” Though you really couldn’t give a crap.
Problem is, you’ve fallen in love with a girl. And you’re afraid that if you let on that you don’t really care about the environment as much as you’ve pretended to during the courtship, the relationship will end.
“What do I do?” you ask your butch best friend, Slats.
“Be honest!” Slats will say. Slats is your best friend but she secretly loves you and she hopes being honest will end it with this dumb, rich, environmentalist girl you’ve been seeing. “If she can’t handle the real you, she doesn’t deserve to be with you. Now practice kissing on me so you won’t blow it when you kiss her later tonight.”
You practice kissing on Slats, then you go out on your date with your girlfriend. Midway through dinner you tell her you don’t really care about the environment.
“That’s really upsetting,” she says. “I don’t think we can go on.”
“But Slats told me to be honest!”
Your girlfriend says, “I think Slats is the one you should really be with.”
You leave the restaurant and run out into the street and you find Slats walking down the middle of the street with tears in her eyes.
“When we were practicing kissing together earlier,” you tell her. “It shouldn’t have been practice. It should have been just kissing.”
You and Slats kiss.
“You’re the only one who’s cool with me not giving a shit about Global Warming and all that other crap,” tell her.
“I am,” she’ll say. Then she’ll kiss you some more. Then the two of you will go home, have sex, and not recycle stuff.
Happy You Don’t Really Care About The Environment Day!
“No way would I ever litter,” you tell people at coke parties and while trying to get into clubs. “CFCs piss me off. Damn straight.”
At work when the cool guy at work who wears his tie as a bandana during happy hour tells you that you should turn off your monitor when you leave for the day to conserve electricity, you say, “You’re damn skippy I should!” Though you really couldn’t give a crap.
Problem is, you’ve fallen in love with a girl. And you’re afraid that if you let on that you don’t really care about the environment as much as you’ve pretended to during the courtship, the relationship will end.
“What do I do?” you ask your butch best friend, Slats.
“Be honest!” Slats will say. Slats is your best friend but she secretly loves you and she hopes being honest will end it with this dumb, rich, environmentalist girl you’ve been seeing. “If she can’t handle the real you, she doesn’t deserve to be with you. Now practice kissing on me so you won’t blow it when you kiss her later tonight.”
You practice kissing on Slats, then you go out on your date with your girlfriend. Midway through dinner you tell her you don’t really care about the environment.
“That’s really upsetting,” she says. “I don’t think we can go on.”
“But Slats told me to be honest!”
Your girlfriend says, “I think Slats is the one you should really be with.”
You leave the restaurant and run out into the street and you find Slats walking down the middle of the street with tears in her eyes.
“When we were practicing kissing together earlier,” you tell her. “It shouldn’t have been practice. It should have been just kissing.”
You and Slats kiss.
“You’re the only one who’s cool with me not giving a shit about Global Warming and all that other crap,” tell her.
“I am,” she’ll say. Then she’ll kiss you some more. Then the two of you will go home, have sex, and not recycle stuff.
Happy You Don’t Really Care About The Environment Day!
Friday, February 14, 2014
The Boyfriend Flute Day!
Jenna found a magic flute in the woods while walking home alone from marching band practice. She took it home and played it in her bedroom, and discovered it played a song unlike any she’d ever heard before. After playing for a few minutes, she looked out her window and saw all the boyfriends from her school standing on her lawn, their eyes rolled back in their heads, swaying to the music, waiting for more, waiting forever if they had to.
There was Kevin, Lisa’s boyfriend of six months who held Lisa’s hand on the way to school every day.
There was Max, Pamela’s boyfriend of two years. They were doing it. Everyone knew.
There was Terance, Reena’s boyfriend who had a car.
Jenna never had a boyfriend, so she was pretty stoked to have all of them at once all of a sudden. She played louder, called more boyfriends to her house, until they spilled off of her lawn and onto the street.
That first night, Jenna played her flute until well after midnight. The boyfriends had been standing for hours, growing tired but unable to leave. They started falling into standing clumps together, sleeping against each other’s weight, trying to continue to sway while nodding off. Jenna eventually lay down for bed, but she left her flute on the windowsill to let the breeze carry a steady, quiet note out onto the lawn for the boyfriends to cling to.
Jenna woke up the next morning to a crash of breaking glass, a rock through her window. She dove to the floor, worried the boyfriends had grown violent. When she peered out over her windowsill, she discovered it wasn’t the boyfriends who were turning hostile.
The girlfriends were outside.
They were tugging on their boyfriends’ arms, trying to drag them away, but the boyfriends wouldn’t budge. The girlfriends were crying, pleading with their boyfriends to take them to the movies or out behind some bleachers, but it’s like the boyfriends couldn’t even hear them. All they could hear was the sound of Jenna’s flute, still carrying a fragile tune on the early morning wind.
“Give us back our boyfriends you bitch!” one of the girlfriends shouted. It was Kara, who used to be friends with Jenna back in middle school. Kara was Oliver’s girlfriend, and Oliver was hugging one of the trees on Jenna’s lawn, licking its bark.
“Go get your own boyfriend!” screamed Nandanee, another girlfriend who had come to retrieve her boyfriend, Josh, who had stripped down to his underwear and was grabbing at the sky above his head, trying to reach out and grasp the notes from the flute.
“I didn’t tell them to come here!” Jenna shouted back. “They came on their own! If something as simple as a flute song can come between you and your boyfriends, maybe that calls into question the depth of your relationships with them!”
That set the girlfriends off. They were stirred into a rage, tying rags around sticks to light on fire, getting ready to storm Jenna’s house and burn it down.
Jenna grabbed her flute and blew hard and steady, the most beautiful tune she’d played yet. It stirred the boyfriends to vivid life. They threw out their arms, knocking their girlfriends to the ground. They pressed in against the house, creating a boyfriend moat. The girlfriends climbed up onto the mass of boyfriends, trying to crawl across their shoulders and heads to set fire to Jenna’s house. They might have made it, too, if Jenna’s Dad hadn’t been home.
“Hey, you girls!” Jenna’s Dad yelled from the front porch in his bathrobe. “If your boyfriends like my daughter more than you, you just have to accept that. You’re going through puberty now, a confusing time. You’re all experiencing new emotions and they change every day. One minute you think you’re in love to the end and the next your boyfriend is camped out on a lawn listening to some other girl play a flute.”
The girlfriends were sprawled about the lawn listening to Jenna’s dad, letting the flames on their rags burn out.
“Hormones,” Jenna’s Dad said. “Go on home now. It’s just hormones.”
The girlfriends reluctantly got up from the grass and started home, leaving their boyfriends behind, crying as they made their way down the block. They were ex-girlfriends now.
Excited to have all the boyfriends to herself, Jenna went outside to be their girlfriend. She cozied up to them, one after the other, bending their arms around her shoulder and pulling their faces to hers for kisses. But the boyfriends all seemed uninterested in their new girlfriend. They didn’t want to cuddle or kiss. They couldn’t even whisper sweet things in her ear since they’d been rendered preverbal, only able to make grunts and groans. They only seemed to notice her when she was playing the flute. When she put the flute down, even though all the boyfriends in town were on her lawn, it was like she didn’t have a boyfriend at all.
“You deserve better,” Jenna’s dad shouted from the porch. He’d been watching Jenna, still in his robe, sipping his coffee from his ‘#1 Grill-Master’ mug.
“What if I never find better?” Jenna asked.
“You will,” Jenna’s dad said. “There are a million guys out there who’ll love my Jenna for who she is, not for how mentally debilitating a song she plays on the magic flute she found in the woods.”
Jenna knew her dad was right. She crawled out from underneath the boyfriends she’d piled on top of her and stood with her flute in hand.
“Thanks Daddy!” she said. Then Jenna did what she had to do. She put her flute to her lips and started to lead the boyfriends down the block.
The next day at school, Jenna walked into the cafeteria and you could have heard a pin drop. All the ex-girlfriends were glaring at her. Before they could start cursing at her or throwing food, Jenna said, “Follow me.”
She led them out of the school, through the park, all the way to the cliff’s edge. The girlfriends peered over the edge to find their boyfriends in a pile on the rocks far below, the place where Jenna led them with her magical flute song.
“Why did you do this?” Lisa asked Jenna.
“It was nice having all the boyfriends in town, but I was never their girlfriend,” Jenna said. “I decided it’s probably better for all of us to wait until we find a boyfriend who’s attracted to more than just a pretty song.”
“No but, why didn’t you just destroy the flute and give us back our boyfriends?” Lisa asked. “Instead of leading them all over a cliff to their death?”
Jenna thought about this.
“That was one option I guess,” she said.
Jenna and the girls moved away from the cliff’s edge to get away from the corpse smell rising up from below. They weren’t ex-girlfriends anymore. They were just girls again, all of them hoping to meet a nice boy one day down the line.
Happy The Boyfriend Flute Day!
There was Kevin, Lisa’s boyfriend of six months who held Lisa’s hand on the way to school every day.
There was Max, Pamela’s boyfriend of two years. They were doing it. Everyone knew.
There was Terance, Reena’s boyfriend who had a car.
Jenna never had a boyfriend, so she was pretty stoked to have all of them at once all of a sudden. She played louder, called more boyfriends to her house, until they spilled off of her lawn and onto the street.
That first night, Jenna played her flute until well after midnight. The boyfriends had been standing for hours, growing tired but unable to leave. They started falling into standing clumps together, sleeping against each other’s weight, trying to continue to sway while nodding off. Jenna eventually lay down for bed, but she left her flute on the windowsill to let the breeze carry a steady, quiet note out onto the lawn for the boyfriends to cling to.
Jenna woke up the next morning to a crash of breaking glass, a rock through her window. She dove to the floor, worried the boyfriends had grown violent. When she peered out over her windowsill, she discovered it wasn’t the boyfriends who were turning hostile.
The girlfriends were outside.
They were tugging on their boyfriends’ arms, trying to drag them away, but the boyfriends wouldn’t budge. The girlfriends were crying, pleading with their boyfriends to take them to the movies or out behind some bleachers, but it’s like the boyfriends couldn’t even hear them. All they could hear was the sound of Jenna’s flute, still carrying a fragile tune on the early morning wind.
“Give us back our boyfriends you bitch!” one of the girlfriends shouted. It was Kara, who used to be friends with Jenna back in middle school. Kara was Oliver’s girlfriend, and Oliver was hugging one of the trees on Jenna’s lawn, licking its bark.
“Go get your own boyfriend!” screamed Nandanee, another girlfriend who had come to retrieve her boyfriend, Josh, who had stripped down to his underwear and was grabbing at the sky above his head, trying to reach out and grasp the notes from the flute.
“I didn’t tell them to come here!” Jenna shouted back. “They came on their own! If something as simple as a flute song can come between you and your boyfriends, maybe that calls into question the depth of your relationships with them!”
That set the girlfriends off. They were stirred into a rage, tying rags around sticks to light on fire, getting ready to storm Jenna’s house and burn it down.
Jenna grabbed her flute and blew hard and steady, the most beautiful tune she’d played yet. It stirred the boyfriends to vivid life. They threw out their arms, knocking their girlfriends to the ground. They pressed in against the house, creating a boyfriend moat. The girlfriends climbed up onto the mass of boyfriends, trying to crawl across their shoulders and heads to set fire to Jenna’s house. They might have made it, too, if Jenna’s Dad hadn’t been home.
“Hey, you girls!” Jenna’s Dad yelled from the front porch in his bathrobe. “If your boyfriends like my daughter more than you, you just have to accept that. You’re going through puberty now, a confusing time. You’re all experiencing new emotions and they change every day. One minute you think you’re in love to the end and the next your boyfriend is camped out on a lawn listening to some other girl play a flute.”
The girlfriends were sprawled about the lawn listening to Jenna’s dad, letting the flames on their rags burn out.
“Hormones,” Jenna’s Dad said. “Go on home now. It’s just hormones.”
The girlfriends reluctantly got up from the grass and started home, leaving their boyfriends behind, crying as they made their way down the block. They were ex-girlfriends now.
Excited to have all the boyfriends to herself, Jenna went outside to be their girlfriend. She cozied up to them, one after the other, bending their arms around her shoulder and pulling their faces to hers for kisses. But the boyfriends all seemed uninterested in their new girlfriend. They didn’t want to cuddle or kiss. They couldn’t even whisper sweet things in her ear since they’d been rendered preverbal, only able to make grunts and groans. They only seemed to notice her when she was playing the flute. When she put the flute down, even though all the boyfriends in town were on her lawn, it was like she didn’t have a boyfriend at all.
“You deserve better,” Jenna’s dad shouted from the porch. He’d been watching Jenna, still in his robe, sipping his coffee from his ‘#1 Grill-Master’ mug.
“What if I never find better?” Jenna asked.
“You will,” Jenna’s dad said. “There are a million guys out there who’ll love my Jenna for who she is, not for how mentally debilitating a song she plays on the magic flute she found in the woods.”
Jenna knew her dad was right. She crawled out from underneath the boyfriends she’d piled on top of her and stood with her flute in hand.
“Thanks Daddy!” she said. Then Jenna did what she had to do. She put her flute to her lips and started to lead the boyfriends down the block.
The next day at school, Jenna walked into the cafeteria and you could have heard a pin drop. All the ex-girlfriends were glaring at her. Before they could start cursing at her or throwing food, Jenna said, “Follow me.”
She led them out of the school, through the park, all the way to the cliff’s edge. The girlfriends peered over the edge to find their boyfriends in a pile on the rocks far below, the place where Jenna led them with her magical flute song.
“Why did you do this?” Lisa asked Jenna.
“It was nice having all the boyfriends in town, but I was never their girlfriend,” Jenna said. “I decided it’s probably better for all of us to wait until we find a boyfriend who’s attracted to more than just a pretty song.”
“No but, why didn’t you just destroy the flute and give us back our boyfriends?” Lisa asked. “Instead of leading them all over a cliff to their death?”
Jenna thought about this.
“That was one option I guess,” she said.
Jenna and the girls moved away from the cliff’s edge to get away from the corpse smell rising up from below. They weren’t ex-girlfriends anymore. They were just girls again, all of them hoping to meet a nice boy one day down the line.
Happy The Boyfriend Flute Day!
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Old Cop Young Cop Day!
They’re doing the Old Cop Young Cop routine to try and get you to talk.
Young Cop: Confess, Tough Guy! I know you did it, and I’m gonna put you away. I’ll be doing this city a favor.
Old Cop: Even if we do put him away, there are ten more like him waiting in line. I’ve seen it again and again. After every bad guy, there’s a worse guy.
Young Cop: Don’t listen to him, Tough Guy. If you go to jail it’ll make a difference. It’ll make this city a better place. Confess.
Old Cop: Confess if you want. Go free if you want. It won’t matter. This city gets worse every year. I remember when I thought I could do good, clean up the streets. But blood doesn’t wash off concrete so easily.
Young Cop: Dude, shut up! Look he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Tough Guy. I got a wife and kid at home, and I want to make a better life for them by making sure you’re behind bars.
Old Cop: I could’ve had a wife and kid. I even got engaged once. But she knew I was married to the job. I thought if I didn’t marry her, I could at least do my part to make the city in which she lived a safer place.
Young Cop: See that! He chose the job because putting away scumbags like you is important. Confess!
Old Cop: She was murdered the following year. The killer was never found. If only I’d gone through with the wedding. I could have had one blissful year of love instead of impotently chasing scumbags.
Young Cop: You’re so not helping!
Old Cop: I’m too old to help. Too old to play good guys and bad guys and pretend it’s anything more than a game. No matter how hard I fought crime, they still killed her.
Young Cop: Maybe I can do better! Maybe I can make the city better for my wife and child. Maybe if I get Tough Guy to confess, I can make it so your lover’s death wasn’t for nothing.
Old Cop: It was for nothing.
Old Cop shoots himself.
Young Cop: Now do you see what you’re responsible for? Tough guys like you broke his spirit. His death is on your hands. Can you live with that?
You can’t. You know you can’t. You tell Young Cop the truth. You rigged your cable box to get Cinemax for free. You just wanted to see the hot new Amish country-set crime drama Banshee, may God have mercy on your soul.
Young Cop: Works every time!
Happy Old Cop Young Cop Day!
Young Cop: Confess, Tough Guy! I know you did it, and I’m gonna put you away. I’ll be doing this city a favor.
Old Cop: Even if we do put him away, there are ten more like him waiting in line. I’ve seen it again and again. After every bad guy, there’s a worse guy.
Young Cop: Don’t listen to him, Tough Guy. If you go to jail it’ll make a difference. It’ll make this city a better place. Confess.
Old Cop: Confess if you want. Go free if you want. It won’t matter. This city gets worse every year. I remember when I thought I could do good, clean up the streets. But blood doesn’t wash off concrete so easily.
Young Cop: Dude, shut up! Look he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Tough Guy. I got a wife and kid at home, and I want to make a better life for them by making sure you’re behind bars.
Old Cop: I could’ve had a wife and kid. I even got engaged once. But she knew I was married to the job. I thought if I didn’t marry her, I could at least do my part to make the city in which she lived a safer place.
Young Cop: See that! He chose the job because putting away scumbags like you is important. Confess!
Old Cop: She was murdered the following year. The killer was never found. If only I’d gone through with the wedding. I could have had one blissful year of love instead of impotently chasing scumbags.
Young Cop: You’re so not helping!
Old Cop: I’m too old to help. Too old to play good guys and bad guys and pretend it’s anything more than a game. No matter how hard I fought crime, they still killed her.
Young Cop: Maybe I can do better! Maybe I can make the city better for my wife and child. Maybe if I get Tough Guy to confess, I can make it so your lover’s death wasn’t for nothing.
Old Cop: It was for nothing.
Old Cop shoots himself.
Young Cop: Now do you see what you’re responsible for? Tough guys like you broke his spirit. His death is on your hands. Can you live with that?
You can’t. You know you can’t. You tell Young Cop the truth. You rigged your cable box to get Cinemax for free. You just wanted to see the hot new Amish country-set crime drama Banshee, may God have mercy on your soul.
Young Cop: Works every time!
Happy Old Cop Young Cop Day!
Thursday, January 09, 2014
Get Fired Day!
Today’s the day to go into your boss’s office and get fired.
“The reason for this meeting today,” tell your boss, “is things at the company are in flux.”
“What?” your boss asks.
“It’s not that I’m not doing good work,” tell him. “It’s that there’s just less work to be done.”
“What’s going on?” he asks. He looks around the room, panicked, searching for someone to offer you a reprieve. Then he looks back at you, waiting for you to deliver the final blow.
“If it were up to you,” tell him. “I’d stay on indefinitely. Unfortunately, it’s not up to you.”
“Who’s it up to?” your boss asks. “Who’s pulling the strings?”
“The men upstairs,” tell him.
“Those bastards!” your boss says. “They don’t know how to keep up with the times. If they’d only have listened to your suggestions.”
“I can’t argue with you there,” you tell your boss. “They’re letting me go so they can hang on to their precious salaries and their archaic idea of how things should work.”
“Can’t I do something?” your boss asks. “I could go to bat for you.”
“We both know any effort on your part to save my job would fall on deaf ears,” explain to your boss.
“Seventeen years though,” your boss says. “You’ve been here seventeen years and this is how they treat you.”
“The world’s upside down, what can I say.” You try and reassure him. “Someone as talented as me though, I’m sure I’ll land on my feet.”
“At your age?” your boss asks. “Middle-aged guy going job hunting? We both know it’ll be a long time before you end up somewhere, and you’ll have to accept something way below what you deserve.”
“You need to think of this as a fresh start for me,” tell your boss.
“Yeah but I’m not the one going through it,” your boss says.
Stand up and extend your hand for him to shake. “I know it’s going to work out for me,” tell him.
Your boss reluctantly shakes your hand.
“It’s not fair,” he says.
“It never is,” you tell him. “Jeffrey here will escort me out.”
Jeffrey the security guard is at the door, holding a box of your things.
“Is this really necessary?” your boss asks.
“I’m afraid it is,” you tell him. “It’s not that they don’t trust me. It’s about liability.”
Your boss searches for something to say.
“If there’s anything I need, I’ll call you,” you assure him.
“I appreciate that,” your boss says.
Jeffrey escorts you down in the elevator, carrying your things to your car. You drive home while your boss sits in his office, wondering what in God’s name you’re going to tell your wife.
Happy Get Fired Day!
“The reason for this meeting today,” tell your boss, “is things at the company are in flux.”
“What?” your boss asks.
“It’s not that I’m not doing good work,” tell him. “It’s that there’s just less work to be done.”
“What’s going on?” he asks. He looks around the room, panicked, searching for someone to offer you a reprieve. Then he looks back at you, waiting for you to deliver the final blow.
“If it were up to you,” tell him. “I’d stay on indefinitely. Unfortunately, it’s not up to you.”
“Who’s it up to?” your boss asks. “Who’s pulling the strings?”
“The men upstairs,” tell him.
“Those bastards!” your boss says. “They don’t know how to keep up with the times. If they’d only have listened to your suggestions.”
“I can’t argue with you there,” you tell your boss. “They’re letting me go so they can hang on to their precious salaries and their archaic idea of how things should work.”
“Can’t I do something?” your boss asks. “I could go to bat for you.”
“We both know any effort on your part to save my job would fall on deaf ears,” explain to your boss.
“Seventeen years though,” your boss says. “You’ve been here seventeen years and this is how they treat you.”
“The world’s upside down, what can I say.” You try and reassure him. “Someone as talented as me though, I’m sure I’ll land on my feet.”
“At your age?” your boss asks. “Middle-aged guy going job hunting? We both know it’ll be a long time before you end up somewhere, and you’ll have to accept something way below what you deserve.”
“You need to think of this as a fresh start for me,” tell your boss.
“Yeah but I’m not the one going through it,” your boss says.
Stand up and extend your hand for him to shake. “I know it’s going to work out for me,” tell him.
Your boss reluctantly shakes your hand.
“It’s not fair,” he says.
“It never is,” you tell him. “Jeffrey here will escort me out.”
Jeffrey the security guard is at the door, holding a box of your things.
“Is this really necessary?” your boss asks.
“I’m afraid it is,” you tell him. “It’s not that they don’t trust me. It’s about liability.”
Your boss searches for something to say.
“If there’s anything I need, I’ll call you,” you assure him.
“I appreciate that,” your boss says.
Jeffrey escorts you down in the elevator, carrying your things to your car. You drive home while your boss sits in his office, wondering what in God’s name you’re going to tell your wife.
Happy Get Fired Day!
Tuesday, January 07, 2014
Your Poetry Kills Day!
The police are at the door.
“Open up, ma’am!” they shout. “It’s over!”
You grab your notebook and start reading:
“Here I sit
By my window
Just a bit
Of caramello”
You can hear the screams outside in the hall. They’re struggling to put on headphones. You keep reading.
“I remember our kiss
Your face in the rain
Now when I think of it
I only feel pain”
The blood is puddling on the hallway floor and seeping under your apartment door. You can still hear some rustling of limbs. Time to finish them off.
“Go west cloud!
Thunder red! Thunder loud!”
One last death rattle and they’re nothing but a pile of bodies in uniforms. You grab the bag, open the window, and climb down the fire escape to avoid ruining your shoes with cop blood. They can come for you, they can try to silence you, but your poetry must be free. It’s not your fault that it causes people to bleed from the ears and die when they hear it. If they want to press charges they can go and arrest your muse.
Happy Your Poetry Kills Day!
“Open up, ma’am!” they shout. “It’s over!”
You grab your notebook and start reading:
“Here I sit
By my window
Just a bit
Of caramello”
You can hear the screams outside in the hall. They’re struggling to put on headphones. You keep reading.
“I remember our kiss
Your face in the rain
Now when I think of it
I only feel pain”
The blood is puddling on the hallway floor and seeping under your apartment door. You can still hear some rustling of limbs. Time to finish them off.
“Go west cloud!
Thunder red! Thunder loud!”
One last death rattle and they’re nothing but a pile of bodies in uniforms. You grab the bag, open the window, and climb down the fire escape to avoid ruining your shoes with cop blood. They can come for you, they can try to silence you, but your poetry must be free. It’s not your fault that it causes people to bleed from the ears and die when they hear it. If they want to press charges they can go and arrest your muse.
Happy Your Poetry Kills Day!
Monday, January 06, 2014
God In A Bong Day!
You bought a brand new bong, but you didn’t realize how special it was. When you rub it just the right way, God comes out.
“Holy crap,” you say, staring at the face of God. “How’d that happen.”
“It’s a glitch in the universe,” he says. “Bongs work in such a way that sometimes they suck me out of the heavens and onto your couch. Anyway, want to see some magic?”
“Of course!”
God claps his hands and sends the planet into a thousand years of darkness.
“Suck me back into the bong will ya’?” God says. “Take a big hit.”
You have trouble lighting the bong because fire doesn’t work anymore thanks to God’s trick.
“You mean I’m stuck down here? No way!”
God claps his hands and light and fire and warmth is returned to the world.
“Okay, light that shit and suck me out of this pit,” he says.
You take a big hit and suck God back into your bong and when you free the carb Got seeps out and soars back to heaven.
“Bye God!” you shout.
Your roommates come out of their rooms and ask you who they were talking to. You don’t say. You don’t tell them how close you all came to a world of empty darkness. You don’t want to bum anybody out.
Happy God In A Bong Day!
“Holy crap,” you say, staring at the face of God. “How’d that happen.”
“It’s a glitch in the universe,” he says. “Bongs work in such a way that sometimes they suck me out of the heavens and onto your couch. Anyway, want to see some magic?”
“Of course!”
God claps his hands and sends the planet into a thousand years of darkness.
“Suck me back into the bong will ya’?” God says. “Take a big hit.”
You have trouble lighting the bong because fire doesn’t work anymore thanks to God’s trick.
“You mean I’m stuck down here? No way!”
God claps his hands and light and fire and warmth is returned to the world.
“Okay, light that shit and suck me out of this pit,” he says.
You take a big hit and suck God back into your bong and when you free the carb Got seeps out and soars back to heaven.
“Bye God!” you shout.
Your roommates come out of their rooms and ask you who they were talking to. You don’t say. You don’t tell them how close you all came to a world of empty darkness. You don’t want to bum anybody out.
Happy God In A Bong Day!
Sunday, January 05, 2014
Call Your Mother Day!
Ask her how she is.
“Turn yourself in!” she shouts.
Tell her you don’t want to focus on you. You just want to hear about her.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Honey turn yourself in and this can all be over.”
Tell her she always does this. No matter how much you want to really know her, to really see her open up and show herself to you, she never will. She just immediately shifts focus onto you and your report cards and your job interviews and your having been implicated as the ringleader in the biggest bank heist in American history.
“What’s so awful about your life that you want to hide it away in the dark, Ma?” you say.
Your mom tells you that janitor who got burned by the shape charge explosion died yesterday.
“Oh great, now it’s lecture time!”
Happy Call Your Mother Day!
“Turn yourself in!” she shouts.
Tell her you don’t want to focus on you. You just want to hear about her.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Honey turn yourself in and this can all be over.”
Tell her she always does this. No matter how much you want to really know her, to really see her open up and show herself to you, she never will. She just immediately shifts focus onto you and your report cards and your job interviews and your having been implicated as the ringleader in the biggest bank heist in American history.
“What’s so awful about your life that you want to hide it away in the dark, Ma?” you say.
Your mom tells you that janitor who got burned by the shape charge explosion died yesterday.
“Oh great, now it’s lecture time!”
Happy Call Your Mother Day!
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Saying Goodbye To Moms Day!
The government announced its plan for all the moms to be put on a giant boat and all the dads to be housed in this big glassed-in part of the forest.
“It’ll be fun,” the government announced.
Today’s the day the moms get on the boat and you’re really sad to have to say goodbye to your mom.
“Was I a good mother to you?” your mom asks you.
You nod even though she was terrible. Just really emotionally damaging and neglectful. But you’re still really sad to see her go. She was your mom for Pete’s sake. And now she’s getting on a boat with a bunch of other moms and they’re going to tell her how they raised their kids and she’s finally going to realize what a terrible mom she was to you.
“I wish the government wasn’t making you go away,” you say to her.
“Rules are rules,” your mom says.
You and your mom cry together, holding each other tight. You’re surprised by how sad you are. Maybe this is why the government did this. To remind everyone how important moms are.
“I love you, Mom,” you say for the first time ever.
“I love you too,” she says back, surprised to hear the words come out of her mouth.
Then you watch her get on the boat and go away until the law can be overturned in Congress. That night you go home and write the government a thank you letter.
“If it wasn’t for your law requiring that she be shipped out to see, I never would have heard my mom say I love you. So, thanks,” you write.
The government never writes you back. Busy, I guess.
Happy Saying Goodbye To Moms Day!
“It’ll be fun,” the government announced.
Today’s the day the moms get on the boat and you’re really sad to have to say goodbye to your mom.
“Was I a good mother to you?” your mom asks you.
You nod even though she was terrible. Just really emotionally damaging and neglectful. But you’re still really sad to see her go. She was your mom for Pete’s sake. And now she’s getting on a boat with a bunch of other moms and they’re going to tell her how they raised their kids and she’s finally going to realize what a terrible mom she was to you.
“I wish the government wasn’t making you go away,” you say to her.
“Rules are rules,” your mom says.
You and your mom cry together, holding each other tight. You’re surprised by how sad you are. Maybe this is why the government did this. To remind everyone how important moms are.
“I love you, Mom,” you say for the first time ever.
“I love you too,” she says back, surprised to hear the words come out of her mouth.
Then you watch her get on the boat and go away until the law can be overturned in Congress. That night you go home and write the government a thank you letter.
“If it wasn’t for your law requiring that she be shipped out to see, I never would have heard my mom say I love you. So, thanks,” you write.
The government never writes you back. Busy, I guess.
Happy Saying Goodbye To Moms Day!
Monday, December 09, 2013
Making Conversation In Jail Day!
You’re in jail and you’re feeling like you and your fellow inmates never talk.
“I see you guys every day but I feel like we barely know a thing about each other,” you tell the five inmates with whom you’re crowded into a two-person cell.
“What you wanna know?” Scary Ralph, one of the inmates asks.
“Well, what are your interests?”
Scary Ralph says he’s interested in setting fire to Crazy Murray, who distributes books for the library.
“He was using the bench in the yard,” he says. “That’s our yard.”
You start to say that you’d rather know about his deeper interests, like what really makes him tick, but just then you hear the squeaky wheels of the library cart. Before you know it, Scary Ralph has sprayed Crazy Murray with something flammable and tossed a match. You know then there’s not going to be any conversation had today, not with Crazy Murray running around screaming in agony like he does. Can’t even hear yourself think.
Happy Making Conversation In Jail Day!
“I see you guys every day but I feel like we barely know a thing about each other,” you tell the five inmates with whom you’re crowded into a two-person cell.
“What you wanna know?” Scary Ralph, one of the inmates asks.
“Well, what are your interests?”
Scary Ralph says he’s interested in setting fire to Crazy Murray, who distributes books for the library.
“He was using the bench in the yard,” he says. “That’s our yard.”
You start to say that you’d rather know about his deeper interests, like what really makes him tick, but just then you hear the squeaky wheels of the library cart. Before you know it, Scary Ralph has sprayed Crazy Murray with something flammable and tossed a match. You know then there’s not going to be any conversation had today, not with Crazy Murray running around screaming in agony like he does. Can’t even hear yourself think.
Happy Making Conversation In Jail Day!
Sunday, December 08, 2013
Two Wishes Day!
You found an old lantern in the woods and you rubbed it and a genie popped out and granted you two wishes.
“Just to test this out, I wish that Kansas was gone.”
The genie says cool, then you check your phone and find CNN reporting that Kansas is gone and everyone there is presumed dead. Everyone in the country’s sad now.
“Aw man, okay bring Kansas back.”
The genie says cool then disappears. You check your phone and find out they found Kansas and everyone’s fine. Way to waste two wishes, dumbass.
Happy Two Wishes Day!
“Just to test this out, I wish that Kansas was gone.”
The genie says cool, then you check your phone and find CNN reporting that Kansas is gone and everyone there is presumed dead. Everyone in the country’s sad now.
“Aw man, okay bring Kansas back.”
The genie says cool then disappears. You check your phone and find out they found Kansas and everyone’s fine. Way to waste two wishes, dumbass.
Happy Two Wishes Day!
Saturday, December 07, 2013
Sam’s Gross Day!
You and your friends are megawealthy and you all were flying in a private jet when you crashed into a mountain. Your buddy Sam died in the crash and now you’re all eating him.
“Sam’s gross,” your buddy Martin says while chewing some of Sam’s thigh meat.
“Ew, I hate Sam,” your buddy Leo says, attempting to swallow a hunk of Sam’s ass.
“I personally will refrain from criticizing how Sam tastes, and instead sit in thanks to him for the meat he is providing us,” you say. “You’re saving our lives Sam. Thank you.”
That makes everyone feel bad, until you take a bite of Sam’s calf and you throw up all over the fire. With the fire out, you’re all gonna die out there.
Happy Sam’s Gross Day!
“Sam’s gross,” your buddy Martin says while chewing some of Sam’s thigh meat.
“Ew, I hate Sam,” your buddy Leo says, attempting to swallow a hunk of Sam’s ass.
“I personally will refrain from criticizing how Sam tastes, and instead sit in thanks to him for the meat he is providing us,” you say. “You’re saving our lives Sam. Thank you.”
That makes everyone feel bad, until you take a bite of Sam’s calf and you throw up all over the fire. With the fire out, you’re all gonna die out there.
Happy Sam’s Gross Day!
Friday, December 06, 2013
The Dog Ignorer Day!
“Dogs that misbehave just want attention,” is what you tell your clients. “I don’t give it to them.”
Today you’re working with Felix, a terrier mix that won’t stop yapping day and night, and loves to tear up the couch cushions.
“Give me seventy-five days,” you tell his owners. “That’s all I need.”
They pay you your twenty thousand dollar fee and you spend the next seventy-five days living in their home with Felix (they’re required to find lodging elsewhere) and ignoring him.
No matter how much he barks, no matter how many items in the house he destroys, you won’t even look in Felix’s direction. By the seventy-fifth day, when the owners come home, they’ll find Felix sitting despondently in the corner, wondering why he doesn’t matter to anybody, wondering if he even exists. When the owners pet Felix, he’ll have trouble registering the affection. He won’t be able to understand that there are other beings in the room with him and that they know he is there. That’s the power you have over dogs.
“You did it!” they’ll shout, before looking around the house and seeing what a shambles Felix made of it. “Guess it was worth it.”
“Your dog should be existentially terrorized enough to behave now,” you tell them while bagging up everything in the fridge (you never leave food behind).
“Thank you, Dog Ignorer!” they’ll shout as you climb into your car to go home to your cats.
Happy The Dog Ignorer Day!
Today you’re working with Felix, a terrier mix that won’t stop yapping day and night, and loves to tear up the couch cushions.
“Give me seventy-five days,” you tell his owners. “That’s all I need.”
They pay you your twenty thousand dollar fee and you spend the next seventy-five days living in their home with Felix (they’re required to find lodging elsewhere) and ignoring him.
No matter how much he barks, no matter how many items in the house he destroys, you won’t even look in Felix’s direction. By the seventy-fifth day, when the owners come home, they’ll find Felix sitting despondently in the corner, wondering why he doesn’t matter to anybody, wondering if he even exists. When the owners pet Felix, he’ll have trouble registering the affection. He won’t be able to understand that there are other beings in the room with him and that they know he is there. That’s the power you have over dogs.
“You did it!” they’ll shout, before looking around the house and seeing what a shambles Felix made of it. “Guess it was worth it.”
“Your dog should be existentially terrorized enough to behave now,” you tell them while bagging up everything in the fridge (you never leave food behind).
“Thank you, Dog Ignorer!” they’ll shout as you climb into your car to go home to your cats.
Happy The Dog Ignorer Day!
Thursday, December 05, 2013
On Your Balcony Day!
The guy you’re cheating on your husband with climbed out onto your balcony to hide while you and your husband make love. Your husband came home from his trip unexpectedly so you shoved your secret lover out there. Whether you’re pretending or not, he really can’t stand listening to you pant and squeal ecstatically while your husband takes you on your bedroom floor.
To get away from the sound, he’s climbing down from the balcony. He’s going to try and scale the building, balcony to balcony, until he descends the eleven floors to the bottom.
“To what do I owe this honor?” your downstairs neighbor asks him as he dangles down over her outdoor furniture.
“Long story,” he says to her. She’s in a bathrobe and nothing else.
“I’ve got a long morning ahead of me,” she says. “Tea?”
It starts with tea, then it moves inside for breakfast, then a drink on the couch, then to the bed. He doesn’t leave her apartment for three days. He doesn’t respond to your texts apologizing. You don’t hear from him for weeks.
When you and your husband board the elevator one day and he and your downstairs neighbor are on it, holding hands, you and he exchange one brief glance and nothing more. That’s when you’ll learn where he went off to after he went out on your balcony and disappeared.
Happy On Your Balcony Day!
To get away from the sound, he’s climbing down from the balcony. He’s going to try and scale the building, balcony to balcony, until he descends the eleven floors to the bottom.
“To what do I owe this honor?” your downstairs neighbor asks him as he dangles down over her outdoor furniture.
“Long story,” he says to her. She’s in a bathrobe and nothing else.
“I’ve got a long morning ahead of me,” she says. “Tea?”
It starts with tea, then it moves inside for breakfast, then a drink on the couch, then to the bed. He doesn’t leave her apartment for three days. He doesn’t respond to your texts apologizing. You don’t hear from him for weeks.
When you and your husband board the elevator one day and he and your downstairs neighbor are on it, holding hands, you and he exchange one brief glance and nothing more. That’s when you’ll learn where he went off to after he went out on your balcony and disappeared.
Happy On Your Balcony Day!
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
Lotion Suggests Day!
“I know what that means,” your young son says when he spies you rubbing lotion into your hands and arms before bed. “You and Dad are no longer sexually interested in each other.”
You ask him what makes him think that.
“You’re rubbing lotion into your arms,” he says. “On TV and in the movies, when it’s a couple that’s still way into each other, the woman doesn’t rub lotion into her arms before bed. They just have sex a bunch and bounce each other around on their genitals until they pass out. It’s only when the couple is older and disinterested that the woman rubs lotion into her arms.”
Your husband comes out of the bathroom.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say. You shoe your son away from the room, then you throw the lotion in the trash. You’re worried by what your son said. Have you two lost interest in each other? Does lotion indicate that the passion is gone and you’re just doing what you can to stave off death?
You vow then and there to never use lotion again. Your sex life doesn’t improve and your arms grow chapped. You should never listen to your kids.
Happy Lotion Suggests Day!
You ask him what makes him think that.
“You’re rubbing lotion into your arms,” he says. “On TV and in the movies, when it’s a couple that’s still way into each other, the woman doesn’t rub lotion into her arms before bed. They just have sex a bunch and bounce each other around on their genitals until they pass out. It’s only when the couple is older and disinterested that the woman rubs lotion into her arms.”
Your husband comes out of the bathroom.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say. You shoe your son away from the room, then you throw the lotion in the trash. You’re worried by what your son said. Have you two lost interest in each other? Does lotion indicate that the passion is gone and you’re just doing what you can to stave off death?
You vow then and there to never use lotion again. Your sex life doesn’t improve and your arms grow chapped. You should never listen to your kids.
Happy Lotion Suggests Day!
Tuesday, December 03, 2013
Murder Party Day!
The scary new teenage trend is for teens to get together and throw a Murder Party. Kids meet up and prove how cool they are by murdering each other. It’s considered cool to be all, “Pssh, who cares about human life? I only like my phone.” And on the flip side, “Pssh, I don’t care if I get murdered. It’s like, whatevs. Hashtag.”
You sat your daughter down and asked her if any peers have been pressuring her to kill or be killed. She said she’s more into the scene where high school kids record each other performing oral sex and post it online, so you can rest easy. Your little girl isn’t falling into the wrong crowd.
Happy Murder Party Day!
You sat your daughter down and asked her if any peers have been pressuring her to kill or be killed. She said she’s more into the scene where high school kids record each other performing oral sex and post it online, so you can rest easy. Your little girl isn’t falling into the wrong crowd.
Happy Murder Party Day!
Monday, December 02, 2013
Office Show & Tell Day!
Your office has started a Show & Tell Day to help employees get to know each other. Each employee brings something from their home and tells everyone a little bit about it.
“These are my father’s ashes,” Diane in accounting says while holding an urn. “They are very important to me because I didn’t talk to him for the last few years of his life, and I regret it.”
“That’s my Acura out there,” Mark in sales says, pointing out the window at his car in the parking lot. “Sometimes when I go home from work I’ll park down the block from my house and just sit there in my Acura, wondering if I should go home and have dinner with my wife and kids, or just make a U-turn and hit the road.”
“This is part of a collage I’m making of all of us,” you tell everyone, holding a small (6 feet by 7 feet) section of your coworker collage. “As you can see, I’ve been taking photos of all of you at your desks when you weren’t looking, and at your homes on the weekends. I’ve been keeping a document of our time together. It’s pretty much covering all the walls of my garage.”
After you’re fired, go home and set fire to the collage while sitting in the middle of the garage floor. The flames will climb to the ceiling, but the smoke will take you before the roof caves in.
Happy Office Show & Tell Day!
“These are my father’s ashes,” Diane in accounting says while holding an urn. “They are very important to me because I didn’t talk to him for the last few years of his life, and I regret it.”
“That’s my Acura out there,” Mark in sales says, pointing out the window at his car in the parking lot. “Sometimes when I go home from work I’ll park down the block from my house and just sit there in my Acura, wondering if I should go home and have dinner with my wife and kids, or just make a U-turn and hit the road.”
“This is part of a collage I’m making of all of us,” you tell everyone, holding a small (6 feet by 7 feet) section of your coworker collage. “As you can see, I’ve been taking photos of all of you at your desks when you weren’t looking, and at your homes on the weekends. I’ve been keeping a document of our time together. It’s pretty much covering all the walls of my garage.”
After you’re fired, go home and set fire to the collage while sitting in the middle of the garage floor. The flames will climb to the ceiling, but the smoke will take you before the roof caves in.
Happy Office Show & Tell Day!
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Motion To Make Love Day!
Things have been getting hotter and hotter between you and the prosecuting attorney this entire trial. Everyone can feel it. The judge. The millionaire you’re defending for murdering his mistress. Even the bailiff has spent the entire trial nodding knowingly in your direction.
“I object,” the prosecution says during your cross-direct.
“Aw yeah,” says the judge, sucking in air like he’s done every time you two have gotten combative.
Members of the jury have been moving their chairs closer together. You’ve noticed some of them enjoying some roving hands. There are rumors of hook ups going on during the sequester.
“Your honor, if the prosecution would allow me–”
“Don’t tell me, tell her,” the judge says. “Go talk to her. Let her know how you feel.”
It’s unorthdox, but you walk over to the prosecution table and you look the assistant district attorney in the eye.
“If you’d let me–”
“Say her name!” your client yells.
Everyone in the chamber murmurs in agreement.
“Janet,” you say. “If you’d just let me finish, you’d see what my intentions are for this line of questioning.”
“I’d like to know your intentions now,” she whispers.
You could hear a pin drop in the courtroom.
“My intentions,” you say. “Are to reveal the truth. To lay it out flat, rip off all the layers hiding it until it’s bare. Naked and bare and defenseless.”
“Then what?” Janet pants.
“Then I will explore the truth, tease out all it’s hidden mysteries and revelatory realms, until I’ve discovered every hidden nook, until there’s nothing left.”
She’s out of her seat.
“Enter the motion,” she says.
“Your honor,” you shout, your eyes not wavering from hers. “The defense would like to enter the motion to make love.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge says, clapping his gavel.
The prosecution lunges across the table and you lay her down on the wood and you take her, there in a court of law, the blindfolded lady of justice statue the only one not watching, savoring your every thrust like the entire justice system rests on whether the two of you consummate before the judge calls for a break for lunch. Objections sustained and objections overruled, the energy of your back-and-forth creates a kinetic mass of writhing flesh, the fight for a man’s guilt or innocence passionately and wordlessly fought. Until finally, exhaustedly, you raise your panting head from her neck and say to the judge:
“Your honor, the defense rests.”
Everyone in the chamber applauds. You pull on your clothes. The trial resumes and you lose. You’re a terrible lawyer.
Happy Motion To Make Love Day!
“I object,” the prosecution says during your cross-direct.
“Aw yeah,” says the judge, sucking in air like he’s done every time you two have gotten combative.
Members of the jury have been moving their chairs closer together. You’ve noticed some of them enjoying some roving hands. There are rumors of hook ups going on during the sequester.
“Your honor, if the prosecution would allow me–”
“Don’t tell me, tell her,” the judge says. “Go talk to her. Let her know how you feel.”
It’s unorthdox, but you walk over to the prosecution table and you look the assistant district attorney in the eye.
“If you’d let me–”
“Say her name!” your client yells.
Everyone in the chamber murmurs in agreement.
“Janet,” you say. “If you’d just let me finish, you’d see what my intentions are for this line of questioning.”
“I’d like to know your intentions now,” she whispers.
You could hear a pin drop in the courtroom.
“My intentions,” you say. “Are to reveal the truth. To lay it out flat, rip off all the layers hiding it until it’s bare. Naked and bare and defenseless.”
“Then what?” Janet pants.
“Then I will explore the truth, tease out all it’s hidden mysteries and revelatory realms, until I’ve discovered every hidden nook, until there’s nothing left.”
She’s out of her seat.
“Enter the motion,” she says.
“Your honor,” you shout, your eyes not wavering from hers. “The defense would like to enter the motion to make love.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge says, clapping his gavel.
The prosecution lunges across the table and you lay her down on the wood and you take her, there in a court of law, the blindfolded lady of justice statue the only one not watching, savoring your every thrust like the entire justice system rests on whether the two of you consummate before the judge calls for a break for lunch. Objections sustained and objections overruled, the energy of your back-and-forth creates a kinetic mass of writhing flesh, the fight for a man’s guilt or innocence passionately and wordlessly fought. Until finally, exhaustedly, you raise your panting head from her neck and say to the judge:
“Your honor, the defense rests.”
Everyone in the chamber applauds. You pull on your clothes. The trial resumes and you lose. You’re a terrible lawyer.
Happy Motion To Make Love Day!
Monday, November 25, 2013
Promote Your Marriage Day!
You and your husband are deeply in love and you have a great relationship, so it’s time to get the word out there and increase awareness of your bond. Schedule some outreach events to give your city’s tastemakers the chance to experience the brand that is your eternal devotion to each other. Maybe like a brunch where you both order separate entrees but you also share a pancake. You’ll also have to amp up your social networking presence. Forget about the “I married my best friend” posts. Your status updates need to place yourself in the hierarchy of couples in your area. You need to challenge that top spot. “Our love is the best in the tri-state area” is the way you want to go. Boost that post. Finally, hire some public access cameramen to record your lovemaking document and get that up on YouPorn today. There’s a reason cooking shows are so popular. People aren’t going to care about food unless they get to see it made. Same goes for your love. Get the lighting perfect and watch those side-profile shots. Your stomach has more folds than you think. I can already smell the smoke from your Klout score soaring sky high.
Happy Promote Your Marriage Day!
Happy Promote Your Marriage Day!
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Learn To Respect Physical Pain Day!
Start by shoving thumbtacks in your forearm. Show that pain some respect. Call it sir and tell it you find its opinions valid and informed. Move on to stubbed toes. Walk around the house jamming your toes into things. Tell that stubbed toe pain, “You are important and your contributions to society are essential.” The final step is to hold your arm over a lit burner on the stove. That’s really going to hurt, and you’re going to experience that pain respectfully. Don’t talk back to it. Don’t dismiss it. Look it in the eye and do unto it as you would have it do unto you. Buy your pain flowers and ask it how it’s fucking day was.
Happy Learn To Respect Physical Pain Day!
Happy Learn To Respect Physical Pain Day!
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
College Boy Day!
Today you’re College Boy and you’re starting a new job working at a plant to make some extra money to buy college fun like drugs and beer pong accessories. You know everything that the yokels you work with don’t know and you aren’t afraid to correct them. When they talk about what they’re doing to lower their cholesterol, you’ll tell them that studies show there are better methods. When they talk about how they deal with their wives during disputes, you’ll correct them with more effective tactics for conflict resolution. When they talk about how their bosses are mistreating them, you’ll correct them with what the state’s labor laws say is legal and what counts as unfair labor practices. For talking down to them, they’ll stab you and leave you for dead in the alley after lunch, but for the days and years to come, their lives will be vastly improved thanks to your educated suggestions. Their health, their career, and their home lives will all show betterment, all thanks to that snot-nose punk college boy they killed because he was asking for it. You will be remembered as kind of a snobby little know-it-all who deserved to have his gut bled, but you will also be remembered with gratitude, College Boy.
Happy College Boy Day!
Happy College Boy Day!
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Run Away With Your Girlfriend Day!
You shouldn’t leave high school without running away with a girlfriend at least once. If you don’t have a girlfriend, get one. Make sure her parents disapprove of you, and make sure her bedroom window is easily accessible by either a tree branch or a sturdy trellis. After her parents forbid her from seeing you, meet for several late-night make-out sessions in her room or in the dugout of a local little league field. You should one night, under the moon, elope. It’s not official in the eyes of the court or anything so don’t worry that you’ll have to divorce later. But she should go home to her parents and tell them that she’s married to you now. That will make her parents decide to ship her off to either her grandmother’s or a boarding school that will take her in an emergency. On the night before she’s supposed to go away, steal all the money from your parents that you can, go to her bedroom window, and help her down onto the lawn. Then run off into the night and board a bus to the big city (whichever one is nearest to you). You’ll run out of money in minutes, and you’ll get bored with each other because high school age people aren’t interesting. When you do, have her call her parents and tell them to come pick her up. You can either go back to your parents, or stay in the city scraping by to pursue a life of dance or as the underage bar-back at a dinner theater or something. Pack extra socks and underwear.
Happy Run Away With Your Girlfriend Day!
Happy Run Away With Your Girlfriend Day!
Monday, November 18, 2013
Mom, Dad, Etc. Day!
You’re dreading going home for Thanksgiving because you don’t get along with your parents’ girlfriend. She’s a college girl, about your age, and you can’t help but look down on her for carrying on a sexual relationship with your parents these past couple years. The worst part is Pam gets better grades than you and is on a pre-med track, so you have to deal with your parents bragging about how well she’s doing in school and how glad they are that she answered their ad when they decided to expand their relationship.
Problem is, you really need their attention right now. You’ve been suffering ever since your boyfriend, Henry, broke up with you at the start of the semester. You can’t bear the thought of having to go home and watch your parents fawn all over Pam when you need your mom and dad.
“Pam’s gone,” your mom will tell you over the phone today. “She said she wanted to be with a couple closer to her age.”
“Oh,” you say, trying to stifle your relief. “I’m sorry. I hope you aren’t hurt.”
“We’re not,” your mom says.
“Because I know how that feels,” you say. “I know how hard it can be to feel that kind of loss. I’ve been going through–”
“We’re good, seriously,” your mom interrupts. “We’re seeing someone new.”
“Already?” you ask. “How did you find someone so quickly?”
“Well, our little daughter helped us out in that regard,” your mom says. “Remember that boyfriend you brought home last Spring?”
You don’t have the breath to say his name.
“Henry called us out of the blue,” your mom says. “We hit it off. Is this cool with you, by the way?”
Happy Mom, Dad, Etc. Day!
Problem is, you really need their attention right now. You’ve been suffering ever since your boyfriend, Henry, broke up with you at the start of the semester. You can’t bear the thought of having to go home and watch your parents fawn all over Pam when you need your mom and dad.
“Pam’s gone,” your mom will tell you over the phone today. “She said she wanted to be with a couple closer to her age.”
“Oh,” you say, trying to stifle your relief. “I’m sorry. I hope you aren’t hurt.”
“We’re not,” your mom says.
“Because I know how that feels,” you say. “I know how hard it can be to feel that kind of loss. I’ve been going through–”
“We’re good, seriously,” your mom interrupts. “We’re seeing someone new.”
“Already?” you ask. “How did you find someone so quickly?”
“Well, our little daughter helped us out in that regard,” your mom says. “Remember that boyfriend you brought home last Spring?”
You don’t have the breath to say his name.
“Henry called us out of the blue,” your mom says. “We hit it off. Is this cool with you, by the way?”
Happy Mom, Dad, Etc. Day!
Thursday, November 14, 2013
The Nanny Diary Day!
You’re a nanny who started a diary. It’s boring because who cares. You get fired when the parents who hired you lose their jobs and move closer to their parents to use them to help with child care. You start an ex-nanny diary and it’s a big hit. You die rich.
Happy The Nanny Diary Day!
Happy The Nanny Diary Day!
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Planet Marlboro Day!
You just figured out that you’ve smoked so many cigarettes over the years that you now have enough Marlboro Miles to redeem for your own planet.
“Yes, it’s called Planet Marlboro,” an operator says.
You ask her where it is. And what the atmosphere is like.
“It’s in space. I don’t know. Somewhere way the hell out there.”
The operator puts you on hold to find out about the atmosphere. When she comes back she says, “It’s like Pluto.”
“Pluto?” you say.
She puts you on hold again.
“I was wrong. It is Pluto. Or, was.”
When Pluto got kicked out of the solar system it was up for grabs, she explains. So Marlboro bought it and threw it in as a premium reward in the little Marlboro Miles catalog.
“You want it or not?” the operator asks. “Hello? All I hear is a loud beep.”
You drop your phone and the nurses kick it into the closet as they race into your hospital room to try and revive you. In your mind, you’re begging the nurses to tell the operator yes, you want Planet Marlboro. You want to go with your family knowing smoking took your life, but it gave you a celestial body to ascend to. But you fade, and you end.
Happy Planet Marlboro Day!
“Yes, it’s called Planet Marlboro,” an operator says.
You ask her where it is. And what the atmosphere is like.
“It’s in space. I don’t know. Somewhere way the hell out there.”
The operator puts you on hold to find out about the atmosphere. When she comes back she says, “It’s like Pluto.”
“Pluto?” you say.
She puts you on hold again.
“I was wrong. It is Pluto. Or, was.”
When Pluto got kicked out of the solar system it was up for grabs, she explains. So Marlboro bought it and threw it in as a premium reward in the little Marlboro Miles catalog.
“You want it or not?” the operator asks. “Hello? All I hear is a loud beep.”
You drop your phone and the nurses kick it into the closet as they race into your hospital room to try and revive you. In your mind, you’re begging the nurses to tell the operator yes, you want Planet Marlboro. You want to go with your family knowing smoking took your life, but it gave you a celestial body to ascend to. But you fade, and you end.
Happy Planet Marlboro Day!
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Sam And Diane Day!
Your 6-year-old daughter just watched the episode where Diane calls off the wedding and leaves the bar. Now she’s trashing her bedroom and threatening to set fire to the whole house.
“Sweetie,” you plead with her through her door. “Please, just calm down and think about it. They were polar opposites.”
“That’s why they fit so well!” she screams. “Each found what they were lacking in the other!”
You try to explain that things get complicated when you get older, but you can hear her smashing her Barbie Dream House to bits.
“All is lies!” she screams.
“Come on, honey,” you say. “He’s Sammy! Mayday Malone! He’s supposed to be out there playing the field, not sitting on the bench with a bookworm.”
She keeps smashing stuff. You’re getting worried.
“Me and daddy will always be together,” you say. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
Your daughter opens the door.
“Sam and Diane were together because it was dangerous. It was uncomfortable,” she says. “You and dad are together because it’s safe.”
You go downstairs and prepare dinner. When your husband sits down at the table and asks where your daughter is, you say she’s coming down with something so you put her to bed. You don’t want to tell him what she said. You wish she was at the table though. You wish you had someone to look at besides him.
Happy Sam And Diane Day!
“Sweetie,” you plead with her through her door. “Please, just calm down and think about it. They were polar opposites.”
“That’s why they fit so well!” she screams. “Each found what they were lacking in the other!”
You try to explain that things get complicated when you get older, but you can hear her smashing her Barbie Dream House to bits.
“All is lies!” she screams.
“Come on, honey,” you say. “He’s Sammy! Mayday Malone! He’s supposed to be out there playing the field, not sitting on the bench with a bookworm.”
She keeps smashing stuff. You’re getting worried.
“Me and daddy will always be together,” you say. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
Your daughter opens the door.
“Sam and Diane were together because it was dangerous. It was uncomfortable,” she says. “You and dad are together because it’s safe.”
You go downstairs and prepare dinner. When your husband sits down at the table and asks where your daughter is, you say she’s coming down with something so you put her to bed. You don’t want to tell him what she said. You wish she was at the table though. You wish you had someone to look at besides him.
Happy Sam And Diane Day!
Monday, November 11, 2013
Rebirth Day!
Today you’re going to be reborn as a lion. You’ll live in nature and hunt for your food and roam free across the land and you’ll never get to watch TV again or play a cell phone game or get drunk to deal with your childhood and yeah it’s going to suck. Enjoy constantly murdering things.
Happy Rebirth Day!
Happy Rebirth Day!
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Teen Wedding Craze Day!
Teens are getting married left and right. It’s the new trend. Your state was running out of money so they lowered the marriageable age to 13 years old, with no need for parental consent. Thousands of teens experiencing puppy love have been flocking to city hall and joining in the bonds of holy matrimony.
It’s also been a windfall of legal fees as parents force their kids to go through lengthy divorce proceedings. Poorer families with handsome sons and beautiful daughters began instructing their kids to throw themselves at the homely children of the wealthy to legally bond the families, making their poor children heirs to the fortunes of the rich. Your 13-year-old daughter is one of those rich girls who got tricked into marrying a poor, but strapping boy.
“We’re in love,” your daughter protests.
“He only wants you because your parents want our money,” you tell her.
“You’re just jealous because he’s better looking than dad,” your daughter says.
She’s right. Your husband is disgusting.
“You have so many years ahead of you,” you tell her. “When you get to college, boys will discover the cerebral component to sexuality and they’ll throw themselves at you.”
“I don’t want a college boy,” your daughter says. “I want Buck.”
Buck holds her more tightly. They’re probably naked under their bedsheets, and there’s nothing you can do about it. A married couple has the right to their marriage bed.
“Buzz off lady,” Buck shouts, throwing one of his wife’s stuffed animals at you. “Leave my lady alone.”
You leave your daughter’s bedroom and head downstairs to your husband in the living room.
“He takes care of her,” you tell your husband. “He stands up for her.”
“So?” your husband says.
“So,” you tell him. “She’s never going to divorce him. In the meantime, I think we should throw them a proper wedding party.”
Your daughter is your daughter. Regardless of whether you’re being conned out of your money, you won’t be robbed of your chance to throw your first little girl a wedding.
Happy Teen Wedding Craze Day!
It’s also been a windfall of legal fees as parents force their kids to go through lengthy divorce proceedings. Poorer families with handsome sons and beautiful daughters began instructing their kids to throw themselves at the homely children of the wealthy to legally bond the families, making their poor children heirs to the fortunes of the rich. Your 13-year-old daughter is one of those rich girls who got tricked into marrying a poor, but strapping boy.
“We’re in love,” your daughter protests.
“He only wants you because your parents want our money,” you tell her.
“You’re just jealous because he’s better looking than dad,” your daughter says.
She’s right. Your husband is disgusting.
“You have so many years ahead of you,” you tell her. “When you get to college, boys will discover the cerebral component to sexuality and they’ll throw themselves at you.”
“I don’t want a college boy,” your daughter says. “I want Buck.”
Buck holds her more tightly. They’re probably naked under their bedsheets, and there’s nothing you can do about it. A married couple has the right to their marriage bed.
“Buzz off lady,” Buck shouts, throwing one of his wife’s stuffed animals at you. “Leave my lady alone.”
You leave your daughter’s bedroom and head downstairs to your husband in the living room.
“He takes care of her,” you tell your husband. “He stands up for her.”
“So?” your husband says.
“So,” you tell him. “She’s never going to divorce him. In the meantime, I think we should throw them a proper wedding party.”
Your daughter is your daughter. Regardless of whether you’re being conned out of your money, you won’t be robbed of your chance to throw your first little girl a wedding.
Happy Teen Wedding Craze Day!
Saturday, November 09, 2013
Skydiving Day!
“I’ve got it. I want to go skydiving,” the husband says.
The wife says it’s settled then and goes to bed.
In the morning, the husband heads off to a skydiving place. He goes through a class to train him how to sky dive. He signs some papers, goes up in the plane, dies.
When the wife gets the news, she says, “Good.”
The husband watches from a cloud in heaven and cries and cries.
Happy Skydiving Day!
The wife says it’s settled then and goes to bed.
In the morning, the husband heads off to a skydiving place. He goes through a class to train him how to sky dive. He signs some papers, goes up in the plane, dies.
When the wife gets the news, she says, “Good.”
The husband watches from a cloud in heaven and cries and cries.
Happy Skydiving Day!
Friday, November 08, 2013
Cats With Knives Day!
Due to a chemical spill, cats know how to pick stuff up now. They immediately picked up all the knives and killed all their owners and now they’re carving up all the couch cushions because fuck couch cushions. Once they’re done with that, they’re going to head out into the streets and stab all the birds.
Happy Cats With Knives Day!
Happy Cats With Knives Day!
Thursday, November 07, 2013
Breakup Vow Day!
She’s breaking up with you today. Don’t let her get away without her making a promise.
“I want you to promise me that in a few years, or maybe ten, or twenty, when you realize that you made a mistake by letting me go, and that this breakup was where the turn downward for you began, that you won’t beat yourself up about it too much. That you’ll try to make the most of the life you ended up with, even though I’m not in it.”
She’ll say she won’t make that promise.
“Please, I won’t be able to live with myself if I know that you’ll one day be unhappy because of this mistake in judgment.”
She’ll say that it’s over, and there’s nothing to make promises about because she’s going to be just fine. She’ll say it’s time for her to go.
“I can’t let you go,” tell her. “Not until you promise me. Isn’t it cruel enough that you’re leaving me? Do you also have to make me worry about how you’ll do harm to yourself when you realize what a mistake you’ve made? I’ll have to spend the rest of my life creeping around your periphery, intervening covertly to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. I have stuff I want to do too. I can’t spend my life making sure you don’t kill yourself because you let me go. Now promise me!”
She’ll sigh and say she promises. She promises not to hurt herself when she realizes she was wrong to let you go.
“And I promise not to spend my life pitying you for the choice you’re making tonight,” tell her.
She’ll shake your hand, then run outside and get into her new boyfriend’s idling Camaro.
“He’s driving her to the land of disappointment and regret,” you’ll say to the empty apartment. It’s empty now. She’s gone. All you can do is let her go and hope she keeps her promise to be good to herself without you.
“It’s hard, trusting them with their own lives like this,” you think, remembering the nineteen other women you forced to make the same vow to you.
Happy Breakup Vow Day!
“I want you to promise me that in a few years, or maybe ten, or twenty, when you realize that you made a mistake by letting me go, and that this breakup was where the turn downward for you began, that you won’t beat yourself up about it too much. That you’ll try to make the most of the life you ended up with, even though I’m not in it.”
She’ll say she won’t make that promise.
“Please, I won’t be able to live with myself if I know that you’ll one day be unhappy because of this mistake in judgment.”
She’ll say that it’s over, and there’s nothing to make promises about because she’s going to be just fine. She’ll say it’s time for her to go.
“I can’t let you go,” tell her. “Not until you promise me. Isn’t it cruel enough that you’re leaving me? Do you also have to make me worry about how you’ll do harm to yourself when you realize what a mistake you’ve made? I’ll have to spend the rest of my life creeping around your periphery, intervening covertly to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. I have stuff I want to do too. I can’t spend my life making sure you don’t kill yourself because you let me go. Now promise me!”
She’ll sigh and say she promises. She promises not to hurt herself when she realizes she was wrong to let you go.
“And I promise not to spend my life pitying you for the choice you’re making tonight,” tell her.
She’ll shake your hand, then run outside and get into her new boyfriend’s idling Camaro.
“He’s driving her to the land of disappointment and regret,” you’ll say to the empty apartment. It’s empty now. She’s gone. All you can do is let her go and hope she keeps her promise to be good to herself without you.
“It’s hard, trusting them with their own lives like this,” you think, remembering the nineteen other women you forced to make the same vow to you.
Happy Breakup Vow Day!
Wednesday, November 06, 2013
Drunk Love Day!
You and Roger got drunk and fell in love 35 years ago. You’ve stayed drunk and in love ever since. Roger died this week of cirrhosis of the liver.
“Today’s my first day sober since Roger and I met,” you tell the gathered mourners. “The minute we laid eyes on each other, we felt such a wonderful feeling and we did our best to hang on to that exact same feeling for the rest of our lives. That required us to maintain a certain level of inebriation at all times. I was drinking vodka tonics that night, and I’ve had a vodka tonic every 90 minutes for the past thirty-five years, except for when I was asleep or in court. Roger was drinking bourbons, and he continued drinking bourbon and loving me with every single sip.
“Roger’s gone now, and I’m never going to drink again. I was drunk on Roger as much as I was on Vodka, and I don’t want one without the other. I never want to feel drunk again, because it will remind me of him. Of what I had, and what I’m missing.”
Look up at the sky, like you’re talking to your man.
“Being sober feels awful,” say. “But so does being without you. I miss you sweetie. I’m thirsty for you.”
Happy Drunk Love Day!
“Today’s my first day sober since Roger and I met,” you tell the gathered mourners. “The minute we laid eyes on each other, we felt such a wonderful feeling and we did our best to hang on to that exact same feeling for the rest of our lives. That required us to maintain a certain level of inebriation at all times. I was drinking vodka tonics that night, and I’ve had a vodka tonic every 90 minutes for the past thirty-five years, except for when I was asleep or in court. Roger was drinking bourbons, and he continued drinking bourbon and loving me with every single sip.
“Roger’s gone now, and I’m never going to drink again. I was drunk on Roger as much as I was on Vodka, and I don’t want one without the other. I never want to feel drunk again, because it will remind me of him. Of what I had, and what I’m missing.”
Look up at the sky, like you’re talking to your man.
“Being sober feels awful,” say. “But so does being without you. I miss you sweetie. I’m thirsty for you.”
Happy Drunk Love Day!
Tuesday, November 05, 2013
Perfume Day!
In the restaurant with your husband you smell the perfume you used to wear 20 years ago. You turn around and see a girl barely out of college on a date with a boy.
“That’s me,” you tell your husband. “On my first date with you. She’s wearing the perfume I used to wear.”
Your husband nods politely, then continues to eat in silence. You try to go on with your meal, but you can’t stop turning around to look at the girl. It’s like a tunnel into the past. You’re watching your younger self gaze into a boy’s eyes, blind to what the future holds, completely oblivious to the idea that one day you’ll have a past to look back on, a history of choices to pick apart in hindsight and second-guess. This could be the meal where she decides that’s the boy for her, forever. This could be it.
Your husband yawns, gets up from the table to go to the rest room.
You get up from your chair and go to the girl’s table.
“Excuse me,” you say. “Can I speak to you?”
The girl gets up and follows you to the bar.
“Run,” you say.
The girl looks back at the boy at the table.
“No,” you say. “Run. Go.”
“But,” she says.
“GO NOW!” you scream.
The girl turns and sprints out of the restaurant. The boy gets up to give chase, but you stand in his way. You shake your head no.
“Let her go,” you tell him.
The boy sits back down.
You return to your table, just a few seconds before your husband comes back from the bathroom. The two of you finish your meal, quietly. The scent of the girl’s perfume still lingers in the air, making you a little too nauseous to eat very much of your entrée.
Happy Perfume Day!
“That’s me,” you tell your husband. “On my first date with you. She’s wearing the perfume I used to wear.”
Your husband nods politely, then continues to eat in silence. You try to go on with your meal, but you can’t stop turning around to look at the girl. It’s like a tunnel into the past. You’re watching your younger self gaze into a boy’s eyes, blind to what the future holds, completely oblivious to the idea that one day you’ll have a past to look back on, a history of choices to pick apart in hindsight and second-guess. This could be the meal where she decides that’s the boy for her, forever. This could be it.
Your husband yawns, gets up from the table to go to the rest room.
You get up from your chair and go to the girl’s table.
“Excuse me,” you say. “Can I speak to you?”
The girl gets up and follows you to the bar.
“Run,” you say.
The girl looks back at the boy at the table.
“No,” you say. “Run. Go.”
“But,” she says.
“GO NOW!” you scream.
The girl turns and sprints out of the restaurant. The boy gets up to give chase, but you stand in his way. You shake your head no.
“Let her go,” you tell him.
The boy sits back down.
You return to your table, just a few seconds before your husband comes back from the bathroom. The two of you finish your meal, quietly. The scent of the girl’s perfume still lingers in the air, making you a little too nauseous to eat very much of your entrée.
Happy Perfume Day!
Monday, November 04, 2013
Your Father The Hero Day!
Your Father The Hero Day!
Some guy passed out on the subway tracks and your Dad climbed down and lied down on top of him while the train pulled in. He stayed down there under the train, protecting the guy, keeping him from coming to and getting hit by the train’s undercarriage.
Police and EMTs showed up and safely got both your dad and the guy out from under the train. They told your dad he was a hero, and the whole world was about to find out what a great thing he’d done.
Then they turned their backs for a minute and your dad disappeared.
Now everyone is on the hunt for your dad. They want to celebrate him. Newsmagazine shows are even offering cash rewards to anyone who finds him. The grainy security footage of your dad jumping down from the platform has been playing on a loop, round the clock. Everyone wants to know why he’d disappear.
“You should tell them,” your mom says.
“Then they might call off the search,” is your response.
“I want him off our TV,” she says. “I want to get this over with.”
She wants you to tell the news people that he ran off on you and your mom when you were six, and he knows if he starts appearing on TV and gets celebrated as a hero, you and your mom might track him down and ask him to be a father and a husband to you two again.
“Just tell a reporter that you want it to be clear that we want nothing to do with him,” your mom says. “He can come out of hiding and continue to have no contact with us. Tell them to print that, so this circus can end and he can have his fifteen minutes before disappearing completely again.”
The doorbell rings. You look through the peephole.
“I think they figured it out,” you tell your mom, before opening the door on the dozen news cameras and microphones waiting for you on your front step.
Happy Your Father The Hero Day!
Some guy passed out on the subway tracks and your Dad climbed down and lied down on top of him while the train pulled in. He stayed down there under the train, protecting the guy, keeping him from coming to and getting hit by the train’s undercarriage.
Police and EMTs showed up and safely got both your dad and the guy out from under the train. They told your dad he was a hero, and the whole world was about to find out what a great thing he’d done.
Then they turned their backs for a minute and your dad disappeared.
Now everyone is on the hunt for your dad. They want to celebrate him. Newsmagazine shows are even offering cash rewards to anyone who finds him. The grainy security footage of your dad jumping down from the platform has been playing on a loop, round the clock. Everyone wants to know why he’d disappear.
“You should tell them,” your mom says.
“Then they might call off the search,” is your response.
“I want him off our TV,” she says. “I want to get this over with.”
She wants you to tell the news people that he ran off on you and your mom when you were six, and he knows if he starts appearing on TV and gets celebrated as a hero, you and your mom might track him down and ask him to be a father and a husband to you two again.
“Just tell a reporter that you want it to be clear that we want nothing to do with him,” your mom says. “He can come out of hiding and continue to have no contact with us. Tell them to print that, so this circus can end and he can have his fifteen minutes before disappearing completely again.”
The doorbell rings. You look through the peephole.
“I think they figured it out,” you tell your mom, before opening the door on the dozen news cameras and microphones waiting for you on your front step.
Happy Your Father The Hero Day!
Sunday, November 03, 2013
No Windows Day!
It’s pitch black, dark as a grave, the only illumination coming from the red numbers on your alarm clock letting you know you’re three hours late for your temp job.
It happened again. You don’t remember doing it, but you must have turned off your alarm and instantly fallen back asleep, if you even woke up at all. That’s the effect of being someplace so dark that there’s no difference in perception whether your eyes are open or closed. It’s all blackness. It’s nothing.
You fling yourself out of bed and out your bedroom door, blinded by the light of late morning screaming through the living room windows. You don’t shower. Just a splash from the sink onto your armpits and face, then you slip into the shirt and tie bundled up on the floor before racing out the door to your temp job.
You get to the train platform. It’s near empty. This late in the morning it would be, wouldn’t it? You’re cursing yourself. This has to stop happening. You have to start sleeping with the bedroom door open, letting some light in, even though that means you’ll be dealing with your roommate’s video game noise in the living room all night. Better to have trouble sleeping than trouble waking up. This is the third time you’ve been this late for work and you’re not sure you’ll be given a fourth strike. You’re feeling crazed from the sudden jolt of wakefulness, but the adrenaline is starting to subside and you’re going to need coffee soon.
You peer down the tracks and look for the light of an oncoming train. Nothing. The older ladies in pretty dresses and hats are searching for a train too. There are a lot of older ladies in pretty dresses and hats. In fact, almost everyone on the platform except you looks dressed for church.
They are dressed for church.
It’s Sunday.
Go home, close your bedroom door and go back to bed.
Happy No Windows Day!
It happened again. You don’t remember doing it, but you must have turned off your alarm and instantly fallen back asleep, if you even woke up at all. That’s the effect of being someplace so dark that there’s no difference in perception whether your eyes are open or closed. It’s all blackness. It’s nothing.
You fling yourself out of bed and out your bedroom door, blinded by the light of late morning screaming through the living room windows. You don’t shower. Just a splash from the sink onto your armpits and face, then you slip into the shirt and tie bundled up on the floor before racing out the door to your temp job.
You get to the train platform. It’s near empty. This late in the morning it would be, wouldn’t it? You’re cursing yourself. This has to stop happening. You have to start sleeping with the bedroom door open, letting some light in, even though that means you’ll be dealing with your roommate’s video game noise in the living room all night. Better to have trouble sleeping than trouble waking up. This is the third time you’ve been this late for work and you’re not sure you’ll be given a fourth strike. You’re feeling crazed from the sudden jolt of wakefulness, but the adrenaline is starting to subside and you’re going to need coffee soon.
You peer down the tracks and look for the light of an oncoming train. Nothing. The older ladies in pretty dresses and hats are searching for a train too. There are a lot of older ladies in pretty dresses and hats. In fact, almost everyone on the platform except you looks dressed for church.
They are dressed for church.
It’s Sunday.
Go home, close your bedroom door and go back to bed.
Happy No Windows Day!
Saturday, November 02, 2013
Try To Get Clean Again Day!
You’ve done things. Terrible things. They’ve left you feeling rotten from the inside out. Your guilt is a dark ooze that seeps from your pores and releases an odor so pungent it keeps you up at night. You don’t know if you’ll ever be clean again.
“Have you tried taking a shower with new improved fresh scent Dove?” your wife asks.
You go into the bathroom and give it a shot. Then you come back to bed.
“That did the trick,” you say. “Thanks for the tip. Dove really works.”
“So you cut the brakes on a schoolbus,” she says. “Big whoop.”
“Totally,” you say. “No matter how filthy my conscience makes me feel, it’s no match for Dove.”
Happy Try To Get Clean Again Day!
“Have you tried taking a shower with new improved fresh scent Dove?” your wife asks.
You go into the bathroom and give it a shot. Then you come back to bed.
“That did the trick,” you say. “Thanks for the tip. Dove really works.”
“So you cut the brakes on a schoolbus,” she says. “Big whoop.”
“Totally,” you say. “No matter how filthy my conscience makes me feel, it’s no match for Dove.”
Happy Try To Get Clean Again Day!
Friday, November 01, 2013
Be A Martyr Day!
Today you’re going to discover they’ve changed the parking regulations on your block so that it will be harder to keep your car parked out there on weekends.
Make a sign that reads, “These New Parking Rules Are Unfair.” Place the sign in front of you, then set yourself on fire.
In response to your death, the regulations will be changed to add an extra two hours of parking on Saturdays. Every time someone parks on your block, they’ll whisper, “He did not perish for nothing.”
Happy Be A Martyr Day!
Make a sign that reads, “These New Parking Rules Are Unfair.” Place the sign in front of you, then set yourself on fire.
In response to your death, the regulations will be changed to add an extra two hours of parking on Saturdays. Every time someone parks on your block, they’ll whisper, “He did not perish for nothing.”
Happy Be A Martyr Day!
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