He Sells Extra-Long Silk Ties Day!
You've agreed to a blind date with your friend's cousin. What you've been told about him is that he looks a little bit like Campbell Scott, he went into AA during college and hasn't had a drink in twelve years, and he sells extra-long silk ties.
"Why?" you asked in response to the extra-long silk tie selling part.
Your friend said, "You think you have room to be choosey? How long has it been? Get real or your gonna end up like one of those old ladies who lives alone in an apartment drenched in pee."
When he walks into the restaurant tonight, he'll shake your hand and sit down across from you. He looks more like Campbell Scott than you allowed yourself to hope.
"My cousin told you about me?" he'll ask.
"A few things," you should say.
"She told you about my occupation?" he'll ask.
You'll nod.
He'll say, "Extra-long silk ties."
You'll nod again.
"A lot of people fall into a lot of different jobs that they're not proud of. How'd I get stuck with extra-long silk ties?" he'll ask the Gods in the sky.
You should show him that you're interested in his work. "Are they for extra-tall people?"
"I don't ask my customers about their private business," he'll say. He's funny.
"How long?" you should ask.
He'll say, "More silk tie than any man should ever want or need."
Say, "How wasteful."
He'll say, "You have no idea."
Your blind date will be going pretty well by that point. Don't blow this, Spinster.
Happy He Sells Extra-Long Silk Ties Day!
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Hopscotch Day
Hopscotch Day!
Today, because your father is addicted to drugs, you're going to play a round of hopscotch and you're going to throw it, you understand? In the third. You're gonna tumble and you're gonna skin your knee and you're gonna run away crying like a sissy. The kids will all laugh, thinking you went home to your Mama. They won't know your mother's in the mental hospital. And they sure won't know your father is addicted to drugs and that he's waiting for you to bring home some money. They won't know anything about you, except that you skinned your knee and took off running.
You got to make these kids believe you ain't shit. So when you drop ten, they'll meet it. And when you grab the ten and drop twenty, they'll remember the skinned knee and they'll think it's a fluke and they'll meet it. And when you grab their twenty and you throw down fifty bucks, they ain't gonna be shit unless they meet it. And that's when you dance through those squares like every tap of your sneaker on the concrete would bring your Mama a little closer to coming home. That's when you show the whole playground what grace is all about. Then you dance on home to give your father money to buy drugs.
Note: Since your father is addicted to drugs, he won't like the waiting part of this plan. You have to explain to him that this is the only way it's to be done. You have to tell him he can choose to get high once this afternoon and never again, or he can get ten times as high for ten times as long if he just waits a little bit. He'll choose once this afternoon, but tell him no and run before he takes a swing.
Happy Hopscotch Day!
Today, because your father is addicted to drugs, you're going to play a round of hopscotch and you're going to throw it, you understand? In the third. You're gonna tumble and you're gonna skin your knee and you're gonna run away crying like a sissy. The kids will all laugh, thinking you went home to your Mama. They won't know your mother's in the mental hospital. And they sure won't know your father is addicted to drugs and that he's waiting for you to bring home some money. They won't know anything about you, except that you skinned your knee and took off running.
You got to make these kids believe you ain't shit. So when you drop ten, they'll meet it. And when you grab the ten and drop twenty, they'll remember the skinned knee and they'll think it's a fluke and they'll meet it. And when you grab their twenty and you throw down fifty bucks, they ain't gonna be shit unless they meet it. And that's when you dance through those squares like every tap of your sneaker on the concrete would bring your Mama a little closer to coming home. That's when you show the whole playground what grace is all about. Then you dance on home to give your father money to buy drugs.
Note: Since your father is addicted to drugs, he won't like the waiting part of this plan. You have to explain to him that this is the only way it's to be done. You have to tell him he can choose to get high once this afternoon and never again, or he can get ten times as high for ten times as long if he just waits a little bit. He'll choose once this afternoon, but tell him no and run before he takes a swing.
Happy Hopscotch Day!
Monday, July 11, 2005
Chase Kids Through The Woods Day
Chase Kids Through The Woods Day!
You want to get into the woods just before the sun comes up. At sunrise, all the kids who went into the woods to screw the night before will start to wake up and make a run for their cars.
As you step over all of those sleeping bags and piles of beer cans, you'll start to wonder what ever happened to that cute little scamp you used to be. You'll think, "There was a time I had my own little nook off bushes that I used to call the Motel Moskowitz, and anyone who checked in was guaranteed a complimentary fingerbang. Whatever became of that sprightly little charmer?"
You won't be able to answer your own question before you nearly trip over the most delectable pair of seventeen year olds you ever did see. The very sight of them will make your mouth drop open.
"Their hair," you'll whisper. "My lord their hair. It's identical!"
They'll share an identical deep brown color hair in nearly identically trimmed mop cuts of loose, stringy strands, hers being just a little bit longer. But they'll have fallen asleep staring up at the stars and they'll be lying on their backs, side by side with their heads touching. Their hair will be tangled together in such a gorgeous mass and you'll know you've found the children you want to chase.
Walk back thirty paces and shout, "Hey you kids get outta there!"
They'll jerk upright. She'll be in her bra and will cross her arms to cover up.
"Go on!" shout. "Get!"
They'll struggle from their sleeping bags and gather up their things. Take five quick paces towards them to get them moving.
"You!" shout. "Stay where you are. I'll blow your heads off."
The boy won't have anything on below the waist. The girl will wait while the boy hops into his underwear and then his pants. Wait until he's dressed and he's almost gathered everything. Then shout, "That's it!" Make a loud rustling sound as you start to chase after them.
They'll run the way they all run. At least the ones who are in love. They'll run with their hands clasped and their free hands overloaded with sleeping bags and everything else they managed to rescue. They'll run like they have no rights, like you are a government officer with the right to lock them away and ruin their college transcripts forever. They'll run with their young, deep brown coifs rippling in the morning sunlight. They'll run to keep their parents from finding out, to hang onto the chance to do it all again in some other wood on some other night. They'll run away forever probably. You won't see them tomorrow morning. You might never see them again.
Chase them until they're out of the woods and they're free. Don't let them see you waving goodbye.
Happy Chase Kids Through The Woods Day!
You want to get into the woods just before the sun comes up. At sunrise, all the kids who went into the woods to screw the night before will start to wake up and make a run for their cars.
As you step over all of those sleeping bags and piles of beer cans, you'll start to wonder what ever happened to that cute little scamp you used to be. You'll think, "There was a time I had my own little nook off bushes that I used to call the Motel Moskowitz, and anyone who checked in was guaranteed a complimentary fingerbang. Whatever became of that sprightly little charmer?"
You won't be able to answer your own question before you nearly trip over the most delectable pair of seventeen year olds you ever did see. The very sight of them will make your mouth drop open.
"Their hair," you'll whisper. "My lord their hair. It's identical!"
They'll share an identical deep brown color hair in nearly identically trimmed mop cuts of loose, stringy strands, hers being just a little bit longer. But they'll have fallen asleep staring up at the stars and they'll be lying on their backs, side by side with their heads touching. Their hair will be tangled together in such a gorgeous mass and you'll know you've found the children you want to chase.
Walk back thirty paces and shout, "Hey you kids get outta there!"
They'll jerk upright. She'll be in her bra and will cross her arms to cover up.
"Go on!" shout. "Get!"
They'll struggle from their sleeping bags and gather up their things. Take five quick paces towards them to get them moving.
"You!" shout. "Stay where you are. I'll blow your heads off."
The boy won't have anything on below the waist. The girl will wait while the boy hops into his underwear and then his pants. Wait until he's dressed and he's almost gathered everything. Then shout, "That's it!" Make a loud rustling sound as you start to chase after them.
They'll run the way they all run. At least the ones who are in love. They'll run with their hands clasped and their free hands overloaded with sleeping bags and everything else they managed to rescue. They'll run like they have no rights, like you are a government officer with the right to lock them away and ruin their college transcripts forever. They'll run with their young, deep brown coifs rippling in the morning sunlight. They'll run to keep their parents from finding out, to hang onto the chance to do it all again in some other wood on some other night. They'll run away forever probably. You won't see them tomorrow morning. You might never see them again.
Chase them until they're out of the woods and they're free. Don't let them see you waving goodbye.
Happy Chase Kids Through The Woods Day!
Sunday, July 10, 2005
The Margaritaville Strangler Day
The Margaritaville Strangler Day!
It was supposed to be just another summer looking after the locals as they butt heads with those tourists covered in oil. But somebody went berserk.
THIRD GIRL FOUND ON THE ROCKS, MARGARITAVILLE STRANGLER BLAMED, screamed the Friday morning headlines.
You spent all of Friday on the jetty, sifting through the remains that weren't already carried away in the beaks of the gulls fluttering about. Barowners and shopkeepers have been breathing down your neck to save the rest of the summer and capture the psycho who wasn't content to waste away nibbling on spongecake like everybody else. Somebody in Margaritaville has it out for young girls.
"He ain't no tourist, Sheriff," your deputy concluded on Friday. "He knows his way around too good. We'd have caught him by now."
"This used to be a place of God," you told your deputy. "A pious town, where people could feel at home in the lap of God."
"Boss?" your deputy asked. He looked at you funny.
"These tourist girls don't even look like they seen seventeen," you said, looking down into the victim's one open eye. "They taunt good men. They flaunt their sin."
The deputy was shivering. "You claim…? The girls aren't to blame Sheriff."
You said too much. The deputy's gonna come up the walk within the hour. If he's alone, he's just coming up to talk. If he's got the mayor with him, they're onto you. Either way, you can't just leave that razor wire out on the kitchen counter like that. Those stains are plain as day. You fixing to get caught?
Happy The Margaritaville Strangler Day!
It was supposed to be just another summer looking after the locals as they butt heads with those tourists covered in oil. But somebody went berserk.
THIRD GIRL FOUND ON THE ROCKS, MARGARITAVILLE STRANGLER BLAMED, screamed the Friday morning headlines.
You spent all of Friday on the jetty, sifting through the remains that weren't already carried away in the beaks of the gulls fluttering about. Barowners and shopkeepers have been breathing down your neck to save the rest of the summer and capture the psycho who wasn't content to waste away nibbling on spongecake like everybody else. Somebody in Margaritaville has it out for young girls.
"He ain't no tourist, Sheriff," your deputy concluded on Friday. "He knows his way around too good. We'd have caught him by now."
"This used to be a place of God," you told your deputy. "A pious town, where people could feel at home in the lap of God."
"Boss?" your deputy asked. He looked at you funny.
"These tourist girls don't even look like they seen seventeen," you said, looking down into the victim's one open eye. "They taunt good men. They flaunt their sin."
The deputy was shivering. "You claim…? The girls aren't to blame Sheriff."
You said too much. The deputy's gonna come up the walk within the hour. If he's alone, he's just coming up to talk. If he's got the mayor with him, they're onto you. Either way, you can't just leave that razor wire out on the kitchen counter like that. Those stains are plain as day. You fixing to get caught?
Happy The Margaritaville Strangler Day!
Saturday, July 09, 2005
The Painting Party Day
The Painting Party Day!
Turn your painting party into a super fun time by inviting everyone to paint a deep dark secret on the wall and allow everybody to read it before they all silently paint over the secret and let it disappear into the walls forever.
Say, "I'll start." Then paint on the wall, "When I was six, I killed my best friend. I held a plastic bag over her head. Our parents thought it was an accident, but she struggled, and I fought her to keep the plastic bag wrapped around her neck."
Paint over the secret, and then hand the brush to whoever's nearest. It will be Deborah, your friend Mark's wife. Deborah will paint, "When I wear earrings, I feel like a whore."
And then Deborah's secret will be wiped away and the brush will be passed around the room as everyone gets excited to spill their beans all over your wall. Kevin, your former neighbor, will paint, "I have genital warts. Bad." Linda, your coworker, will paint, "I often hope that my elderly grandmother will pass away. I know that's not an uncommon wish, since the burden can be too much. But there you go. I only came here to paint some walls and meet a guy." Everyone will laugh as they paint over Linda's secret. And Brad, your old boyfriend will sidle up a little closer to her.
The secrets that are shared will come from all sorts of places:
"I've sabotaged the work of several of my colleagues to rise to where I am in my career."
"I was still doing heroin when I was pregnant with Alicia."
"I am a contracted killer, hired to murder someone you all know but who never seems to show up at any of these parties."
"My dick stinks. Everyone says so."
By the time the last secret is being painted, the only wall-space left will be a little corner of the coat closet. Joe, your husband, will paint, "I hate party games. I hate secrets. From the very beginning I've felt that we weren't right for each other but something keeps me by your side. Something I can't live without."
Your guests will all read it and they'll break the rule of silence and start guessing at what your husband can't live without. Your laugh! Your pussy! Your cooking! Your knees! I really think it's your pussy! I mean think about it! Could be her tits! Come on, tits can't hold a marriage together! I'm with Sarah, it's your cooking! Will you people shut up! It's got to be her pussy! Have you ever seen the thing? It's awesome! Your tender and caring demeanor! Your pussy! Did someone say that already?
They'll all just keep on shouting while you kiss your husband with all you've got, his left hand on your back and his right brushing away his secret with a heavy coat of periwinkle.
Happy The Painting Party Day!
Turn your painting party into a super fun time by inviting everyone to paint a deep dark secret on the wall and allow everybody to read it before they all silently paint over the secret and let it disappear into the walls forever.
Say, "I'll start." Then paint on the wall, "When I was six, I killed my best friend. I held a plastic bag over her head. Our parents thought it was an accident, but she struggled, and I fought her to keep the plastic bag wrapped around her neck."
Paint over the secret, and then hand the brush to whoever's nearest. It will be Deborah, your friend Mark's wife. Deborah will paint, "When I wear earrings, I feel like a whore."
And then Deborah's secret will be wiped away and the brush will be passed around the room as everyone gets excited to spill their beans all over your wall. Kevin, your former neighbor, will paint, "I have genital warts. Bad." Linda, your coworker, will paint, "I often hope that my elderly grandmother will pass away. I know that's not an uncommon wish, since the burden can be too much. But there you go. I only came here to paint some walls and meet a guy." Everyone will laugh as they paint over Linda's secret. And Brad, your old boyfriend will sidle up a little closer to her.
The secrets that are shared will come from all sorts of places:
"I've sabotaged the work of several of my colleagues to rise to where I am in my career."
"I was still doing heroin when I was pregnant with Alicia."
"I am a contracted killer, hired to murder someone you all know but who never seems to show up at any of these parties."
"My dick stinks. Everyone says so."
By the time the last secret is being painted, the only wall-space left will be a little corner of the coat closet. Joe, your husband, will paint, "I hate party games. I hate secrets. From the very beginning I've felt that we weren't right for each other but something keeps me by your side. Something I can't live without."
Your guests will all read it and they'll break the rule of silence and start guessing at what your husband can't live without. Your laugh! Your pussy! Your cooking! Your knees! I really think it's your pussy! I mean think about it! Could be her tits! Come on, tits can't hold a marriage together! I'm with Sarah, it's your cooking! Will you people shut up! It's got to be her pussy! Have you ever seen the thing? It's awesome! Your tender and caring demeanor! Your pussy! Did someone say that already?
They'll all just keep on shouting while you kiss your husband with all you've got, his left hand on your back and his right brushing away his secret with a heavy coat of periwinkle.
Happy The Painting Party Day!
Friday, July 08, 2005
Hunt And Kill A Living Thing Day
Hunt And Kill A Living Thing Day!
Yes, if you're in a hurry you can throw on some camouflage pants, sneak up on your rubber tree plant and rip its stalks from its soil. Or, if your cat has been diagnosed with liver failure you can choose to let her die with some dignity by tiptoeing up from behind her and shooting her in the spine. But if you really want to have some fun today, hunt something that you really have a passion to kill. Like that son of a bitch reservations operator at Thrifty Rent-a-Car. Little prick wouldn't give you a weekend rate just because you needed to return the mid-size after 7 PM on a Sunday? Let's see how he feels when a 12-gauge pops out of the bushes and unloads in his face.
The first step is going to be finding out where 1-800 operators for Thrifty Rent-a-Car might actually be situated. He didn't have an accent so they probably haven't outsourced outside of the US yet. However, it's almost certain that their offices aren't located in your city. You're probably going to need to rent a car. Use Hertz or Dollar. If you call Thrifty and he answers, he might be onto your game and burrow under ground.
The next step is going to where he works and waiting for him to reveal his torso in plain view. When you have a good shot, fire off a single round at his chest.
If he drops, go to his carcass and fire another round into the back of his head. Then hoist his body into your truck. Police officers and Samaritans will stop you from taking the body, and you will be arrested and imprisoned perhaps for life. But man, what a rush.
Happy Hunt And Kill A Living Thing Day!
Yes, if you're in a hurry you can throw on some camouflage pants, sneak up on your rubber tree plant and rip its stalks from its soil. Or, if your cat has been diagnosed with liver failure you can choose to let her die with some dignity by tiptoeing up from behind her and shooting her in the spine. But if you really want to have some fun today, hunt something that you really have a passion to kill. Like that son of a bitch reservations operator at Thrifty Rent-a-Car. Little prick wouldn't give you a weekend rate just because you needed to return the mid-size after 7 PM on a Sunday? Let's see how he feels when a 12-gauge pops out of the bushes and unloads in his face.
The first step is going to be finding out where 1-800 operators for Thrifty Rent-a-Car might actually be situated. He didn't have an accent so they probably haven't outsourced outside of the US yet. However, it's almost certain that their offices aren't located in your city. You're probably going to need to rent a car. Use Hertz or Dollar. If you call Thrifty and he answers, he might be onto your game and burrow under ground.
The next step is going to where he works and waiting for him to reveal his torso in plain view. When you have a good shot, fire off a single round at his chest.
If he drops, go to his carcass and fire another round into the back of his head. Then hoist his body into your truck. Police officers and Samaritans will stop you from taking the body, and you will be arrested and imprisoned perhaps for life. But man, what a rush.
Happy Hunt And Kill A Living Thing Day!
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Which Snowboarder Are You? Day
Which Snowboarder Are You? Day!
Today, you are CREEF, the snowboarder who has been raising his little brother, HalfPipe, ever since your parents died in a car crash. Things are getting tougher now that HalfPipe is headed into middle school. The administrators want all the papers of legal guardianship that you never figured out how to get. You're hoping that if you can win this Winter's "Xtremely Pleasant Snowboard Challenge," you'll be able to use the prize money to pay for a lawyer so you and HalfPipe won't be hassled anymore.
Tomorrow, you will be DROOZ, the snowboarder who is going to be accused, tried and convicted of rape.
Happy Which Snowboarder Are You? Day!
Today, you are CREEF, the snowboarder who has been raising his little brother, HalfPipe, ever since your parents died in a car crash. Things are getting tougher now that HalfPipe is headed into middle school. The administrators want all the papers of legal guardianship that you never figured out how to get. You're hoping that if you can win this Winter's "Xtremely Pleasant Snowboard Challenge," you'll be able to use the prize money to pay for a lawyer so you and HalfPipe won't be hassled anymore.
Tomorrow, you will be DROOZ, the snowboarder who is going to be accused, tried and convicted of rape.
Happy Which Snowboarder Are You? Day!
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Be In A Stadium Day
Be In A Stadium Day!
Today, you are to go to your local sports stadium. It is not important what event is taking place there today. Purchase a seat on the southeastern cusp, buy enough hot dogs and beer to stay in your seat for a good 35 minutes, and wait.
Keep your eyes on the Jumbotron. Someone you are not interested in is going to propose to you via the Jumbotron. It's important that you be there to say no and put an end to this fool's game.
Happy Be In A Stadium Day!
Today, you are to go to your local sports stadium. It is not important what event is taking place there today. Purchase a seat on the southeastern cusp, buy enough hot dogs and beer to stay in your seat for a good 35 minutes, and wait.
Keep your eyes on the Jumbotron. Someone you are not interested in is going to propose to you via the Jumbotron. It's important that you be there to say no and put an end to this fool's game.
Happy Be In A Stadium Day!
Saturday, July 02, 2005
It's The Girls Are Pretty "Everything That Moves" Long Weekend!
It's The Girls Are Pretty "Everything That Moves" Long Weekend!
Prettygirl's been feeling a little too citified lately. So she signed up for an "Everything That Moves" weekend retreat in Rye, NY. The "Everything That Moves" retreat takes place on a secluded farmland and everyone who pays the $130,000 must either fuck or kill everything that moves. It won't be very relaxing, since Prettygirl will have to elude the efforts of other retreat-goers to either fuck or kill her. But not to worry. Not only is Prettygirl quite nimble, she is also a master of spontaneous camouflage as well as being way hot. No one will try to kill her if they haven't already fucked her first. The only thing we should all keep our fingers crossed for is that the place isn't overrun with single amputees like last year. Where's the sport?
As usual, the next few days are going up now. Scroll way down to read today's. Don't read tomorrow's until tomorrow. If you read ahead, your skin will dry up and you'll feel like a corn flake.
Tuesday, July 5, 2005
Masturbate All Over Everything Day!
Whenever you look around your apartment you think, "Almost there. It just needs something."
Why not masturbate all over everything. It will give your home that, "Everything's been masturbated on" look. There are crafts stores that can sell you stuff that already looks like it's been masturbated all over, sure. But you're a purist. Get to work.
Happy Masturbate All Over Everything Day!
Monday, July 4, 2005
Car Race For A Girl Day!
You and your best friend Mikey both love Marisa, who is dead (crushed between your cars when you were playing chicken one night). Now you're fighting over who gets to mourn her like a lover, and who should limit his mourning only to that of a friend. Race for it.
Happy Car Race For A Girl Day!
Sunday, July 3, 2005
Go To The Park And Make People Dance Day!
Because human beings are simply too elegant to waste their time walking around like a bunch of droll housecats. Turn the public park into a Saturday night dance hall. Whenever you see a group of people whom you would like to watch dance, shoot at their feet.
Happy Go To The Park And Make People Dance Day!
Saturday, July 2, 2005
Check The Fridge Day!
This morning, you're going to base your potential for a relationship with the person you slept with last night according to the feeling you get when you open his or her fridge. Pure gut reaction. When you look inside and see recently purchased jars of hummus, some not rotten fruit and lettuce that looks so fresh it actually makes you want to make a sandwich, and two bottles of spring water, one opened, you might think, "I would dig if this stuff were in my fridge." If so, go back to bed and cuddle.
If you look inside the fridge and there's a little boy shivering inside, slam the door shut. You don't want him to spoil. Then run for it.
Happy Check The Fridge Day!
Prettygirl's been feeling a little too citified lately. So she signed up for an "Everything That Moves" weekend retreat in Rye, NY. The "Everything That Moves" retreat takes place on a secluded farmland and everyone who pays the $130,000 must either fuck or kill everything that moves. It won't be very relaxing, since Prettygirl will have to elude the efforts of other retreat-goers to either fuck or kill her. But not to worry. Not only is Prettygirl quite nimble, she is also a master of spontaneous camouflage as well as being way hot. No one will try to kill her if they haven't already fucked her first. The only thing we should all keep our fingers crossed for is that the place isn't overrun with single amputees like last year. Where's the sport?
As usual, the next few days are going up now. Scroll way down to read today's. Don't read tomorrow's until tomorrow. If you read ahead, your skin will dry up and you'll feel like a corn flake.
Tuesday, July 5, 2005
Masturbate All Over Everything Day!
Whenever you look around your apartment you think, "Almost there. It just needs something."
Why not masturbate all over everything. It will give your home that, "Everything's been masturbated on" look. There are crafts stores that can sell you stuff that already looks like it's been masturbated all over, sure. But you're a purist. Get to work.
Happy Masturbate All Over Everything Day!
Monday, July 4, 2005
Car Race For A Girl Day!
You and your best friend Mikey both love Marisa, who is dead (crushed between your cars when you were playing chicken one night). Now you're fighting over who gets to mourn her like a lover, and who should limit his mourning only to that of a friend. Race for it.
Happy Car Race For A Girl Day!
Sunday, July 3, 2005
Go To The Park And Make People Dance Day!
Because human beings are simply too elegant to waste their time walking around like a bunch of droll housecats. Turn the public park into a Saturday night dance hall. Whenever you see a group of people whom you would like to watch dance, shoot at their feet.
Happy Go To The Park And Make People Dance Day!
Saturday, July 2, 2005
Check The Fridge Day!
This morning, you're going to base your potential for a relationship with the person you slept with last night according to the feeling you get when you open his or her fridge. Pure gut reaction. When you look inside and see recently purchased jars of hummus, some not rotten fruit and lettuce that looks so fresh it actually makes you want to make a sandwich, and two bottles of spring water, one opened, you might think, "I would dig if this stuff were in my fridge." If so, go back to bed and cuddle.
If you look inside the fridge and there's a little boy shivering inside, slam the door shut. You don't want him to spoil. Then run for it.
Happy Check The Fridge Day!
Friday, July 01, 2005
Mannish Woman With A Bouquet Of Roses Today Day!
Mannish Woman With A Bouquet Of Roses Today Day!
Today at around 6:30 PM the mannish woman who walks up your street every evening will be carrying a bouquet of a dozen roses. She'll be holding them to her heart and smiling over them as if in response to a dream hovering just a few feet before her. Grab your husband and bring him to the window.
Say to him, "When was the last time you put a smile like that on my face?"
He'll say, "When I dragged you by your hair out of that brothel in Nevada and spent eight months weening you off of junk."
"Oh yeah," say.
Happy Mannish Woman With A Bouquet Of Roses Today Day!
Today at around 6:30 PM the mannish woman who walks up your street every evening will be carrying a bouquet of a dozen roses. She'll be holding them to her heart and smiling over them as if in response to a dream hovering just a few feet before her. Grab your husband and bring him to the window.
Say to him, "When was the last time you put a smile like that on my face?"
He'll say, "When I dragged you by your hair out of that brothel in Nevada and spent eight months weening you off of junk."
"Oh yeah," say.
Happy Mannish Woman With A Bouquet Of Roses Today Day!
Thursday, June 30, 2005
When A Bullet Whizzes Past Your Eyes Day
When A Bullet Whizzes Past Your Eyes Day!
At around 6:08 PM you should be rushing down the sidewalk trying to make it to the station in time to catch the 6:24 train home. You should be preoccupied with a rumor you heard earlier about the CEO of your company being pushed out by the board and what that might mean in terms of layoffs when a bullet whizzes right past your eyes and shatters the 12 foot tall storefront window of the Payless immediately on your right. You'll be so disoriented by the infinitesimal time-frame of the whole experience that in your memory it will seem that the sound of the gunshot came after the shattering glass, and that the blip of the bullet whizzing past your eyes seemed to occur whole minutes before all of it.
You're going to see a bullet fly. You're going to see it, with your eyes. And you're going to feel its tailwind on the bridge of your nose. When you talk about it tonight with your family at the dinner table, your son will ask you if you feel more alive than you did this morning. Tell him, "I guess."
Happy When A Bullet Whizzes Past Your Eyes Day!
At around 6:08 PM you should be rushing down the sidewalk trying to make it to the station in time to catch the 6:24 train home. You should be preoccupied with a rumor you heard earlier about the CEO of your company being pushed out by the board and what that might mean in terms of layoffs when a bullet whizzes right past your eyes and shatters the 12 foot tall storefront window of the Payless immediately on your right. You'll be so disoriented by the infinitesimal time-frame of the whole experience that in your memory it will seem that the sound of the gunshot came after the shattering glass, and that the blip of the bullet whizzing past your eyes seemed to occur whole minutes before all of it.
You're going to see a bullet fly. You're going to see it, with your eyes. And you're going to feel its tailwind on the bridge of your nose. When you talk about it tonight with your family at the dinner table, your son will ask you if you feel more alive than you did this morning. Tell him, "I guess."
Happy When A Bullet Whizzes Past Your Eyes Day!
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Peace Signs Day
Peace Signs Day!
For today, when you make a peace sign by holding up your index and middle fingers, instead of saying, "No more war or bombs even," what you're saying is, "I'm gonna go stand on a baby. For a couple minutes. See what happens."
And whenever you see the little-more-than-a-Mercedes peace symbol displayed in the window of an establishment, instead of it meaning, "This establishment won't stand for war. Bombs neither. You heard us," for today the peace symbol announces to passersby, "There are some babies inside. Wanna stand on em? See what happens?"
Tomorrow the good fight will once again be fought.
Happy Peace Signs Day!
For today, when you make a peace sign by holding up your index and middle fingers, instead of saying, "No more war or bombs even," what you're saying is, "I'm gonna go stand on a baby. For a couple minutes. See what happens."
And whenever you see the little-more-than-a-Mercedes peace symbol displayed in the window of an establishment, instead of it meaning, "This establishment won't stand for war. Bombs neither. You heard us," for today the peace symbol announces to passersby, "There are some babies inside. Wanna stand on em? See what happens?"
Tomorrow the good fight will once again be fought.
Happy Peace Signs Day!
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Wrap Yourself Up In A Big Bow Day
Wrap Yourself Up In A Big Bow Day!
When she comes home, greet her in the doorway in your raincoat. When she asks what up, drop the raincoat to the floor and reveal yourself, naked except for the giant red bow and ribbon stretched around you.
Say, "Got you a present."
She'll insist that you keep the bow and ribbon on while you have sex with her. It will be the best sex that you can remember. You'll feel like you've finally become the person you've always wanted to be.
"I like being wrapped up in a bow," tell her.
She'll smile. "I liked it too," she'll say.
Tell her, "No, I really liked it."
She'll kiss your shoulder and go in to take a bath. Get up and walk around in the big bow.
The house will feel new. Though you've lived there for six years, it will feel like you've just moved in. It will really feel like home.
"I feel like I belong here," you'll say out loud.
"Where?" she'll ask. She'll be wearing a towel. You won't have heard her come in. "Why are you still wearing that silly thing?"
"I feel so wanted," tell her. "So special."
"You feel like a gift," she'll say. "I get it. I'm gonna go make dinner."
The next day when you dress for work you'll do your best to pad the bow and ribbon down underneath your suit. Though you'll look bulky and rumpled, all day long everyone will be excited to see you and they'll hang on every word you say.
"I don't understand it," the CEO of the company will say. "But it's like as soon as I lay my eyes on you I'm brimming with anticipation. It might be an anxiety attack, but it feels too good. I'm giving you a promotion and a raise."
At home your wife will be happy for you but wary. "So the way things are going, it seems you're probably gonna keep yourself wrapped up in a bow for the rest of your life. Am I warm?"
"I just feel like I belong everywhere I go. Like my presence surprises and delights people. Just by me showing up. I feel like no one would ever say no to me."
"So then," she'll press on. "The bow? All the time?"
"All the time," tell her.
"Laters," she'll say.
Your wife will get up and begin packing her stuff.
"But how can you toss me away?" you'll ask. "The bow!"
"You're wearing a big bow," she'll say. "I'm grossed out. Ew."
You'll miss her, but your bow just feels so awesome. Now go out to the bars. The single ladies are all waiting for the season of giving to begin.
Happy Wrap Yourself Up In A Big Bow Day!
When she comes home, greet her in the doorway in your raincoat. When she asks what up, drop the raincoat to the floor and reveal yourself, naked except for the giant red bow and ribbon stretched around you.
Say, "Got you a present."
She'll insist that you keep the bow and ribbon on while you have sex with her. It will be the best sex that you can remember. You'll feel like you've finally become the person you've always wanted to be.
"I like being wrapped up in a bow," tell her.
She'll smile. "I liked it too," she'll say.
Tell her, "No, I really liked it."
She'll kiss your shoulder and go in to take a bath. Get up and walk around in the big bow.
The house will feel new. Though you've lived there for six years, it will feel like you've just moved in. It will really feel like home.
"I feel like I belong here," you'll say out loud.
"Where?" she'll ask. She'll be wearing a towel. You won't have heard her come in. "Why are you still wearing that silly thing?"
"I feel so wanted," tell her. "So special."
"You feel like a gift," she'll say. "I get it. I'm gonna go make dinner."
The next day when you dress for work you'll do your best to pad the bow and ribbon down underneath your suit. Though you'll look bulky and rumpled, all day long everyone will be excited to see you and they'll hang on every word you say.
"I don't understand it," the CEO of the company will say. "But it's like as soon as I lay my eyes on you I'm brimming with anticipation. It might be an anxiety attack, but it feels too good. I'm giving you a promotion and a raise."
At home your wife will be happy for you but wary. "So the way things are going, it seems you're probably gonna keep yourself wrapped up in a bow for the rest of your life. Am I warm?"
"I just feel like I belong everywhere I go. Like my presence surprises and delights people. Just by me showing up. I feel like no one would ever say no to me."
"So then," she'll press on. "The bow? All the time?"
"All the time," tell her.
"Laters," she'll say.
Your wife will get up and begin packing her stuff.
"But how can you toss me away?" you'll ask. "The bow!"
"You're wearing a big bow," she'll say. "I'm grossed out. Ew."
You'll miss her, but your bow just feels so awesome. Now go out to the bars. The single ladies are all waiting for the season of giving to begin.
Happy Wrap Yourself Up In A Big Bow Day!
Monday, June 27, 2005
Snake In The Sleeping Bag Day
Snake In The Sleeping Bag Day!
Tonight, when you slip inside your sleeping bag, you'll feel a snake slither up your leg. Your son will ask you what's wrong when he sees your face. Tell him there's a snake on you and that he shouldn't make any swift movements of the snake might bite.
"I'll go for help," he'll say.
Tell him, "Slowly."
Your son will take a good forty minutes to crawl from the tent and into the car. And then he'll shift into neutral and hold down the brake to let the car gently and almost imperceptibly roll down the hill. You'll watch through the flap for about ten minutes before you get bored.
While you wait for your son to return, you'll lay still and just barely breathe, hoping that the snake will slither up your body and out into the dirt to find another place on the mountain to sleep. After eleven hours, your son will come back alone.
"Couldn't you find anybody?" you'll whisper.
"I talked to the Park Ranger," your son will say. "He said that if I came back here with anybody, the snake might know that I'm up to something and bite you. So he told me to come back here and sit by you like I was doing so the snake doesn't get suspicious."
You'll nod just a touch. "Sounds right," you'll say. The snake will move a little bit on your thigh. He'll be just underneath your shorts then.
After thinking about it for a bit, you'll realize that your son must have put that snake in your sleeping bag because he's still upset that you won't get back together with his mom. You'll turn to your son to accuse him, but you won't be able to before he drops tarantulas all over your face.
Happy Snake In The Sleeping Bag Day!
Tonight, when you slip inside your sleeping bag, you'll feel a snake slither up your leg. Your son will ask you what's wrong when he sees your face. Tell him there's a snake on you and that he shouldn't make any swift movements of the snake might bite.
"I'll go for help," he'll say.
Tell him, "Slowly."
Your son will take a good forty minutes to crawl from the tent and into the car. And then he'll shift into neutral and hold down the brake to let the car gently and almost imperceptibly roll down the hill. You'll watch through the flap for about ten minutes before you get bored.
While you wait for your son to return, you'll lay still and just barely breathe, hoping that the snake will slither up your body and out into the dirt to find another place on the mountain to sleep. After eleven hours, your son will come back alone.
"Couldn't you find anybody?" you'll whisper.
"I talked to the Park Ranger," your son will say. "He said that if I came back here with anybody, the snake might know that I'm up to something and bite you. So he told me to come back here and sit by you like I was doing so the snake doesn't get suspicious."
You'll nod just a touch. "Sounds right," you'll say. The snake will move a little bit on your thigh. He'll be just underneath your shorts then.
After thinking about it for a bit, you'll realize that your son must have put that snake in your sleeping bag because he's still upset that you won't get back together with his mom. You'll turn to your son to accuse him, but you won't be able to before he drops tarantulas all over your face.
Happy Snake In The Sleeping Bag Day!
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Go To Church So You Can Go Back To Your Family And Brag About It Day
Go To Church So You Can Go Back To Your Family And Brag About It Day!
From noon till dinnertime you can just wander around the house with the most saintly swagger you can finagle from those hips.
"How you feelin'?" you can ask your wife. "Little hot?"
She'll say, "It's warm. But not too bad."
Tell her, "I feel just fine. Must be the flames of hellfire tickling at you. Me, I don't have to worry about that. Paid a visit to the big guy this morning. We're buds."
"Fuck you," she'll say. "I had a miscarriage two days ago."
Swagger off to the basement where your thirty-three year old son has been living since his wife ran off on him. Say to him, "Doing anything unchaste down here?"
He won't answer. He's watching tv and trying to stay so quiet that he can convince himself he doesn't exist.
"Me," say. "I've been unchaste as all hell this week. But no worries. Just went to church. Washed the slate clean."
Your son will look at you and say, "I don't believe in God. Do you really believe in God Dad?"
Don't answer. Instead, get into your car and go down to the Dairy Queen so you can tell the girls filling up the cones about what the Deacon had to say today.
Happy Go To Church So You Can Go Back To Your Family And Brag About It Day!
From noon till dinnertime you can just wander around the house with the most saintly swagger you can finagle from those hips.
"How you feelin'?" you can ask your wife. "Little hot?"
She'll say, "It's warm. But not too bad."
Tell her, "I feel just fine. Must be the flames of hellfire tickling at you. Me, I don't have to worry about that. Paid a visit to the big guy this morning. We're buds."
"Fuck you," she'll say. "I had a miscarriage two days ago."
Swagger off to the basement where your thirty-three year old son has been living since his wife ran off on him. Say to him, "Doing anything unchaste down here?"
He won't answer. He's watching tv and trying to stay so quiet that he can convince himself he doesn't exist.
"Me," say. "I've been unchaste as all hell this week. But no worries. Just went to church. Washed the slate clean."
Your son will look at you and say, "I don't believe in God. Do you really believe in God Dad?"
Don't answer. Instead, get into your car and go down to the Dairy Queen so you can tell the girls filling up the cones about what the Deacon had to say today.
Happy Go To Church So You Can Go Back To Your Family And Brag About It Day!
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Just Because He Wants To Shit On Your Face It Doesn't Mean That He Loves You Day
Just Because He Wants To Shit On Your Face It Doesn't Mean That He Loves You Day!
The market for books on relationship advice has ballooned into the stratosphere, and YOU WANT IN! You've been thinking up titles for a book that women will grab off the shelves faster than it can be printed. Some of the titles that you've concluded don't quite have that spark:
HE HATES YOUR CAT AND YOUR FRIENDS
HE PUNCHES YOU IN THE STOMACH
YOU LOVE HIM, BUT IF HE SAYS HE'S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE, KILL THEM BOTH
HE'S A JEW. IS THAT A DEALBREAKER?
HE'S REALLY INTO YOU, BUT YOU HATE YOURSELF SO MUCH
HE CAN DRINK MORE THAN ANYONE YOU'VE EVER MET BEFORE, INCLUDING YOUR DAD!
HE'S MENTALLY RETARDED. YOU'RE NOT.
WHERE'S ALL YOUR STUFF?
They're all just a little too "niche," aren't they. But after banging your head against the wall for at least 45 minutes, you think you've finally nailed that one title that will make young, urban, professional women go, "Finally, someone gets it!" Behold:
JUST BECAUSE HE WANTS TO SHIT ON YOUR FACE, IT DOESN'T MEAN THAT HE LOVES YOU
Can you say, "Oh, hello "New York Times" Best Seller List. I've heard a lot about you. It's time we got to know each other since we'll certainly be spending a lot of time together over the next 114 weeks."
It's time to get writing. Just go through all of the different scenarios in which a young, urban, professional woman can't see what her guy really feels for her because she's blinded by all the shit all over her face. Some suggested chapters:
He Might Not Remember Eating Corn, But He'd Better Remember Your Anniversary
Feel Like A Toilet?
When He Mentions, "Dropping The Kids Off At The Pool," Ask Him If He Wants To Have Children With You.
Why Won't He Kiss You Afterwards?
Say hi to Oprah for me.
Happy Just Because He Wants To Shit On Your Face It Doesn't Mean That He Loves You Day!
The market for books on relationship advice has ballooned into the stratosphere, and YOU WANT IN! You've been thinking up titles for a book that women will grab off the shelves faster than it can be printed. Some of the titles that you've concluded don't quite have that spark:
HE HATES YOUR CAT AND YOUR FRIENDS
HE PUNCHES YOU IN THE STOMACH
YOU LOVE HIM, BUT IF HE SAYS HE'S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE, KILL THEM BOTH
HE'S A JEW. IS THAT A DEALBREAKER?
HE'S REALLY INTO YOU, BUT YOU HATE YOURSELF SO MUCH
HE CAN DRINK MORE THAN ANYONE YOU'VE EVER MET BEFORE, INCLUDING YOUR DAD!
HE'S MENTALLY RETARDED. YOU'RE NOT.
WHERE'S ALL YOUR STUFF?
They're all just a little too "niche," aren't they. But after banging your head against the wall for at least 45 minutes, you think you've finally nailed that one title that will make young, urban, professional women go, "Finally, someone gets it!" Behold:
JUST BECAUSE HE WANTS TO SHIT ON YOUR FACE, IT DOESN'T MEAN THAT HE LOVES YOU
Can you say, "Oh, hello "New York Times" Best Seller List. I've heard a lot about you. It's time we got to know each other since we'll certainly be spending a lot of time together over the next 114 weeks."
It's time to get writing. Just go through all of the different scenarios in which a young, urban, professional woman can't see what her guy really feels for her because she's blinded by all the shit all over her face. Some suggested chapters:
He Might Not Remember Eating Corn, But He'd Better Remember Your Anniversary
Feel Like A Toilet?
When He Mentions, "Dropping The Kids Off At The Pool," Ask Him If He Wants To Have Children With You.
Why Won't He Kiss You Afterwards?
Say hi to Oprah for me.
Happy Just Because He Wants To Shit On Your Face It Doesn't Mean That He Loves You Day!
Friday, June 24, 2005
You Are A Dead Celebrity And Today Is The Anniversary Of The Day That You Died Day
You Are A Dead Celebrity And Today Is The Anniversary Of The Day That You Died Day!
Here on Earth, people will forward emails around their offices sharing lists of hilarious "Reasons Why Everything Has Been A Little Less Magical Since [YOU] Died During The Mescaline-Fueled Tantrum Of That Boy-Prostitute, Edweena." Included in the list will be, "This season's TV schedule bites it worse than ever!"
Down in hell, where you've been staying since the big day, you're going to be forced to eat your legs. They'll grow back, but their regeneration will be even more painful than when you rip into the flesh of your calf with your teeth.
Happy You Are A Dead Celebrity And Today Is The Anniversary Of The Day That You Died Day!
Here on Earth, people will forward emails around their offices sharing lists of hilarious "Reasons Why Everything Has Been A Little Less Magical Since [YOU] Died During The Mescaline-Fueled Tantrum Of That Boy-Prostitute, Edweena." Included in the list will be, "This season's TV schedule bites it worse than ever!"
Down in hell, where you've been staying since the big day, you're going to be forced to eat your legs. They'll grow back, but their regeneration will be even more painful than when you rip into the flesh of your calf with your teeth.
Happy You Are A Dead Celebrity And Today Is The Anniversary Of The Day That You Died Day!
Thursday, June 23, 2005
All Day Long You Write Her Letters Never Sent Day
All Day Long You Write Her Letters Never Sent Day!
The first week of middle school they started calling you "Hemingway" because you always seemed to be scribbling on a notepad any chance you got. You'd scribble away, then rip the page from your pad and toss it crumpled into the garbage can. One day Kevin, a classmate of yours who likes to help out the janitorial staff due to lack of friends, was emptying out a garbage can when he found your crumpled sheets. He opened one up and found a beautifully written love letter, unaddressed.
"Who's the special lady Hemingway?" Kevin asked.
"Not telling," you replied.
"Secret admirer huh?" Kevin said. "Good thinking. It's the only way she wouldn't turn you down on the spot." That's the kind of talk that prevents Kevin from building friendships.
You told Kevin, "When I compose the right letter, it will be impossible for her to refuse me." Just then you stopped scribbling, ripped up your latest note and sent it flying into the trash can.
Kevin said, "Think maybe I could use this myself then? I mean, if it's not good enough for your girl."
You thought about it. "My Dad has emphysema," you said. "Gimme ten bucks."
And so began your thriving new business as a writer of anonymous love notes. The boys lined up in study hall to purchase your cast off musings on beauty so striking it makes one scared to admit to how he really feels. You felt a little guilty, because in your heart you knew you were selling trash to these boys. Sheets and sheets of drivel that you knew your Melanie would laugh at if she ever thought such excrement was intended to win her glorious heart.
But they kept buying it. And more and more often you'd see these boys, your former customers, walking arm in arm with newly acquired ladyfriends. Some of them would flash you a thumbs-up as you passed.
"This school is infested with a scourge of loose women," you thought. "How could they have fallen for it?" And then you'd see your Melanie pass. No note in her hand. No boy by her side. Suddenly you'd feel remiss.
"Dear God," you'd think. "The most beautiful girl in all the school is as yet without an admirer. I must stop churning out this waste and write her the declaration she deserves."
But the money got to you. As these teenage boys awoke from childhood to the stirring in their bellies, they would line up in twos and threes waiting for you to toss aside a missive worthy of anyone but your Melanie. Soon you found yourself purposely generating trash just to get them away from your desk and, more importantly, to get their ten dollar bills in your pocket. Within a few months you had earned over $700, more than enough to cure your father's emphysema. ($250 at the free clinic. I know, "doesn't sound so free to me.") You began to think you were nothing but a businessman. A marketing specialist. An ad guy who knows how to sell a girl on a boy.
"I may not be able to express myself to Melanie in the manner she deserves," you thought. "But I can show her that in my company she'll be cared for."
So you spent all the money you saved adorning yourself with the finest wardrobe and most extravagant portable electronic devices you could find. Today you're going to go to school dressed in the costume of the aristocracy. And you're going to parade your finery in front of your beautiful Melanie.
When you approach her, she will be standing by her locker with her back facing you. As you get closer, you'll see that a boy stands before her, leaning against her locker. A boy you recognize. As you pass, you'll steal a glance of your dear sweet Melanie, and you'll see her smile is lit up by the warmth of a blush. You'll see that the boy before her is the same boy who came to your desk yesterday holding a ten-dollar bill. And you'll see in Melanie's hands a note you'd assumed to be nothing better than an insult to her.
Your blood will race through your veins in a way that over time will grow familiar to you. It's the rush of regret, of feeling like a fool for letting what you wanted slip away. You'll get used to it. Now try to take some comfort in the fact that, though you don't have love, at least your purchases cost more than what most of your peers can afford. This skill will come in handy in the future.
Happy All Day Long You Write Her Letters Never Sent Day!
The first week of middle school they started calling you "Hemingway" because you always seemed to be scribbling on a notepad any chance you got. You'd scribble away, then rip the page from your pad and toss it crumpled into the garbage can. One day Kevin, a classmate of yours who likes to help out the janitorial staff due to lack of friends, was emptying out a garbage can when he found your crumpled sheets. He opened one up and found a beautifully written love letter, unaddressed.
"Who's the special lady Hemingway?" Kevin asked.
"Not telling," you replied.
"Secret admirer huh?" Kevin said. "Good thinking. It's the only way she wouldn't turn you down on the spot." That's the kind of talk that prevents Kevin from building friendships.
You told Kevin, "When I compose the right letter, it will be impossible for her to refuse me." Just then you stopped scribbling, ripped up your latest note and sent it flying into the trash can.
Kevin said, "Think maybe I could use this myself then? I mean, if it's not good enough for your girl."
You thought about it. "My Dad has emphysema," you said. "Gimme ten bucks."
And so began your thriving new business as a writer of anonymous love notes. The boys lined up in study hall to purchase your cast off musings on beauty so striking it makes one scared to admit to how he really feels. You felt a little guilty, because in your heart you knew you were selling trash to these boys. Sheets and sheets of drivel that you knew your Melanie would laugh at if she ever thought such excrement was intended to win her glorious heart.
But they kept buying it. And more and more often you'd see these boys, your former customers, walking arm in arm with newly acquired ladyfriends. Some of them would flash you a thumbs-up as you passed.
"This school is infested with a scourge of loose women," you thought. "How could they have fallen for it?" And then you'd see your Melanie pass. No note in her hand. No boy by her side. Suddenly you'd feel remiss.
"Dear God," you'd think. "The most beautiful girl in all the school is as yet without an admirer. I must stop churning out this waste and write her the declaration she deserves."
But the money got to you. As these teenage boys awoke from childhood to the stirring in their bellies, they would line up in twos and threes waiting for you to toss aside a missive worthy of anyone but your Melanie. Soon you found yourself purposely generating trash just to get them away from your desk and, more importantly, to get their ten dollar bills in your pocket. Within a few months you had earned over $700, more than enough to cure your father's emphysema. ($250 at the free clinic. I know, "doesn't sound so free to me.") You began to think you were nothing but a businessman. A marketing specialist. An ad guy who knows how to sell a girl on a boy.
"I may not be able to express myself to Melanie in the manner she deserves," you thought. "But I can show her that in my company she'll be cared for."
So you spent all the money you saved adorning yourself with the finest wardrobe and most extravagant portable electronic devices you could find. Today you're going to go to school dressed in the costume of the aristocracy. And you're going to parade your finery in front of your beautiful Melanie.
When you approach her, she will be standing by her locker with her back facing you. As you get closer, you'll see that a boy stands before her, leaning against her locker. A boy you recognize. As you pass, you'll steal a glance of your dear sweet Melanie, and you'll see her smile is lit up by the warmth of a blush. You'll see that the boy before her is the same boy who came to your desk yesterday holding a ten-dollar bill. And you'll see in Melanie's hands a note you'd assumed to be nothing better than an insult to her.
Your blood will race through your veins in a way that over time will grow familiar to you. It's the rush of regret, of feeling like a fool for letting what you wanted slip away. You'll get used to it. Now try to take some comfort in the fact that, though you don't have love, at least your purchases cost more than what most of your peers can afford. This skill will come in handy in the future.
Happy All Day Long You Write Her Letters Never Sent Day!
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Make A Chocolate Cake So Good It Can Stop Spousal Abuse Day
Make A Chocolate Cake So Good It Can Stop Spousal Abuse Day!
The folks down at the women's shelter thought you were shitting them. They'll tell you that the first time they watch a miserable wife-beater turn soft and cuddly after a few bites of your chocolate cake. "I thought you were shitting me," the director of the shelter will say. "What's in this cake? Anti-Motherfucker Paste?"
You don't know what's in the cake. You wouldn't know how to write the recipe down if there was a gun to your head. All you know is that you made a cake once and when your Daddy ate it, he died. When you were mixing the batter, you thought over and over with every swirl of your spatula about him sending your mom tumbling to the radiator. About him screaming at her for making things hard. And you mixed the batter until it was just so fine, all the while thinking about nothing but how nice it would be if he just fell down and died.
The cake went into the oven. It came back out and cooled. The icing went on top and your dad bit down and he fell. He didn't get back up.
You haven't used your power since. But your job as an office assistant has turned dull. You need to do some good again. So today, make a cake, but think about stopping spousal abuse while you do it. Don't think about killing nobody. Just think in a gneral way about turning bitter, defensive men into gentle, cooing souls who want nothing but to embrace and sigh with the ones they've got. Then drop the cake off at the shelter.
Tomorrow, make a cake that makes people buy winning lotto tickets. Get rich or get nowhere.
Happy Make A Chocolate Cake So Good It Can Stop Spousal Abuse Day!
The folks down at the women's shelter thought you were shitting them. They'll tell you that the first time they watch a miserable wife-beater turn soft and cuddly after a few bites of your chocolate cake. "I thought you were shitting me," the director of the shelter will say. "What's in this cake? Anti-Motherfucker Paste?"
You don't know what's in the cake. You wouldn't know how to write the recipe down if there was a gun to your head. All you know is that you made a cake once and when your Daddy ate it, he died. When you were mixing the batter, you thought over and over with every swirl of your spatula about him sending your mom tumbling to the radiator. About him screaming at her for making things hard. And you mixed the batter until it was just so fine, all the while thinking about nothing but how nice it would be if he just fell down and died.
The cake went into the oven. It came back out and cooled. The icing went on top and your dad bit down and he fell. He didn't get back up.
You haven't used your power since. But your job as an office assistant has turned dull. You need to do some good again. So today, make a cake, but think about stopping spousal abuse while you do it. Don't think about killing nobody. Just think in a gneral way about turning bitter, defensive men into gentle, cooing souls who want nothing but to embrace and sigh with the ones they've got. Then drop the cake off at the shelter.
Tomorrow, make a cake that makes people buy winning lotto tickets. Get rich or get nowhere.
Happy Make A Chocolate Cake So Good It Can Stop Spousal Abuse Day!
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Make Some Plans In A Stranger's Bed Day
Make Some Plans In A Stranger's Bed Day!
You'll wake up before him, as usual. But there'll be something different about this guy. Something that will keep you from emptying his wallet into your purse and bolting for the door. You'll like having your shoulder up against his.
"This isn't so bad," you'll think. "I could come back here. If he bought better sheets."
You'll look around the room. You'll hate the yellow walls and you'll picture a nice light blue to contrast with the green of the garden that's visible through the window.
His closet door will be open. He has a lot of shirts with loud stripe patterns, which you can't stand. He'll have worn one the previous night in fact, but you let it slide. No matter, a few birthdays and Christmases and you could outfit him with a whole new wardrobe of your devising.
You'll sit up and look at the two of you in his bureau mirror. If he lets his hair grow out, you'll think, you two could look perfect together. He has one tattoo on his bicep of a 50's style pinup model, and you'll think about how adorable it would look to curl that tattoo'd arm around a baby.
"He's not snoring," you'll think. "This can't get much more perfect."
You'll lay back down into his too firm pillow and curl up to him from behind. He'll rustle a bit in your embrace, then he'll start to wake up. You'll smile when he rolls over and puts his arm around you. Then he'll reach past you to pick up his alarm clock and check the time.
"My girlfriend's coming by at 11 so you'd better get going," he'll say. "I told you about her right?"
When he goes into the bathroom, you'll want to throw something. But you'll remember that he did tell you about his girlfriend the night before. When you first woke up you just kind of forgot.
"Guess I can't get angry at him," you'll decide. You'll take his iPod and leave.
Happy Make Some Plans In A Stranger's Bed Day!
You'll wake up before him, as usual. But there'll be something different about this guy. Something that will keep you from emptying his wallet into your purse and bolting for the door. You'll like having your shoulder up against his.
"This isn't so bad," you'll think. "I could come back here. If he bought better sheets."
You'll look around the room. You'll hate the yellow walls and you'll picture a nice light blue to contrast with the green of the garden that's visible through the window.
His closet door will be open. He has a lot of shirts with loud stripe patterns, which you can't stand. He'll have worn one the previous night in fact, but you let it slide. No matter, a few birthdays and Christmases and you could outfit him with a whole new wardrobe of your devising.
You'll sit up and look at the two of you in his bureau mirror. If he lets his hair grow out, you'll think, you two could look perfect together. He has one tattoo on his bicep of a 50's style pinup model, and you'll think about how adorable it would look to curl that tattoo'd arm around a baby.
"He's not snoring," you'll think. "This can't get much more perfect."
You'll lay back down into his too firm pillow and curl up to him from behind. He'll rustle a bit in your embrace, then he'll start to wake up. You'll smile when he rolls over and puts his arm around you. Then he'll reach past you to pick up his alarm clock and check the time.
"My girlfriend's coming by at 11 so you'd better get going," he'll say. "I told you about her right?"
When he goes into the bathroom, you'll want to throw something. But you'll remember that he did tell you about his girlfriend the night before. When you first woke up you just kind of forgot.
"Guess I can't get angry at him," you'll decide. You'll take his iPod and leave.
Happy Make Some Plans In A Stranger's Bed Day!
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