He�s chasing you because you�ve got his wife in your backseat. She�s trying to put her clothes on, but you�re weaving and swerving so much that she keeps getting thrown around back there. You�re driving naked. That�s what you were wearing when her husband pulled into the shopping center parking lot where you and her were doing it and he came running at your car with a tire iron. He shattered one window and created a spider-web on the windshield and you can barely see out of it.
�Pull over,� his wife is saying now. She�s in her clothes and she�s staring through the rear windshield at her husband. �Pull over,� she�s saying because she doesn�t care about what happens you. She never thought her husband would keep chase with such determination just to kill the man who laid a hand on her. She�s watching his car and she�s afraid her husband is going to have a change of heart and pull off at an exit any minute now. She�s terrified of it being too late. �Pull over,� she�s saying.
Her clothes are on and she�s speaking to you without taking her eyes off the car behind her. She�s trying to see his face. Her clothes are on and you�re all alone.
�Sorry,� you say.
You�re on the highway now. You�re doing seventy-five and he�s right behind you. He�s not trying to ram you off the road. He�s just keeping pace with you, letting you know that no matter how far you decide to drive, he�ll be right behind you. Cars run out of gas eventually, and he�ll be right behind you when you do.
Happy Car Chase Day!
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Marching Into The Sun Day!
Today the bus carrying a high school marching band to a competition in California will break down in the middle of the desert. The overweight virginal band-members will pour out of the bus and immediately succumb to panic under the blinding hot sun. The bassoon player will find a bush with berries and he'll call his band-mates over and they'll all quickly strip the bush of its fruit. The berries will turn them mad and they'll become savage. Now communicating only through a language created by the music from their instruments, the band will slaughter the bus driver and strip his body of its meat, which they'll eat by fire tonight.
Soon the fathers will come searching for them. They'll hear the sounds of their children's instruments playing from far across the desert. They'll follow the sound, which will be a loud steady hum as they get closer, into a dark cave. Once inside with no idea how to turn back, the fathers will discover that the instruments are sitting in a drafty chamber of the cave and they were being played only by the wind flowing in and out. That's when the marching band will descend from the walls and slaughter their fathers. They'll strip their fathers' bodies of their meat.
The marching band will survive for many decades, luring rescue teams and nature lovers into the cave with the sound of their instruments, and then slaughtering them and stripping the bodies of their meat. They'll finally disband when a development company levels their cave so that they can open a hotel on it.
Happy Marching Into The Sun Day!
Soon the fathers will come searching for them. They'll hear the sounds of their children's instruments playing from far across the desert. They'll follow the sound, which will be a loud steady hum as they get closer, into a dark cave. Once inside with no idea how to turn back, the fathers will discover that the instruments are sitting in a drafty chamber of the cave and they were being played only by the wind flowing in and out. That's when the marching band will descend from the walls and slaughter their fathers. They'll strip their fathers' bodies of their meat.
The marching band will survive for many decades, luring rescue teams and nature lovers into the cave with the sound of their instruments, and then slaughtering them and stripping the bodies of their meat. They'll finally disband when a development company levels their cave so that they can open a hotel on it.
Happy Marching Into The Sun Day!
Monday, November 20, 2006
That Guy You Went Home With Last Night Gave You Rabies Day!
As far as you knew, he was just a nervous guy drinking alone on a Sunday night while soused revelers were partying all around him. You didn't know he had been cleaning his basement earlier that day and when he reached behind the water heater he got bit by a raccoon. The warning signs were there you suppose. As the night wore on, his movements grew more and more jerky and he sort of started growling. And he kind of spat when he talked. Though he didn't really start foaming at the mouth until you were in bed together. Once in bed, he really turned furious. Not just the nibbles on your skin, but he would bury his head in your shoulder like he was trying to shove your bone out of its socket with his forehead. And afterwards, he just got dressed and took off. You thought he was just that type, but you now know he must have needed to rush off and find something fleshy to tear apart in his teeth.
You just had defrosted some hamburger and ate it raw with your hand. You can't stop drooling all over yourself, and you're kind of barking. You made a date to go see Volver with Laura, but you'd better cancel. Tell her that guy you went home with last night gave you rabies. Laura will tell you that that happened to her once and that the guy ended up taking her to the hospital and held her hand while she got her shots. That will make you feel more alone than ever. When Laura asks you if you need her to go to the hospital with you, you'll lie and tell her that the guy you went home with last night is taking you. You could use Laura's company, but you and her are always kind of competing and you don't want her to know that the guy who gave her rabies cared more about her than the guy who gave you rabies cared about you.
Happy That Guy You Went Home With Last Night Gave You Rabies Day!
You just had defrosted some hamburger and ate it raw with your hand. You can't stop drooling all over yourself, and you're kind of barking. You made a date to go see Volver with Laura, but you'd better cancel. Tell her that guy you went home with last night gave you rabies. Laura will tell you that that happened to her once and that the guy ended up taking her to the hospital and held her hand while she got her shots. That will make you feel more alone than ever. When Laura asks you if you need her to go to the hospital with you, you'll lie and tell her that the guy you went home with last night is taking you. You could use Laura's company, but you and her are always kind of competing and you don't want her to know that the guy who gave her rabies cared more about her than the guy who gave you rabies cared about you.
Happy That Guy You Went Home With Last Night Gave You Rabies Day!
Friday, November 17, 2006
Happy Baby Your Butthole Gets Me So Hot If I Found Out It Had Previously Been Used As An Indian Burial Ground I'd Just Go Ahead And Move The Headstones Without Even Digging Up The Bodies If It Meant I Could Get Up There Faster Day!
Today one of the kids you used to babysit is going to approach you in a bar and give you a very potent pickup line that makes it clear that not only does he not recognize you, but that all the times you used to let him stay up late and watch Poltergeist really had an effect on him.
'Milton?' you'll say. 'Remember me?'
'Laura?' he'll say. 'Oh my God this is so embarrassing.'
'Jesus,' you'll say. 'I used to change your pajamas when you wet the bed.'
Milton will say, 'Oh my God do you not find that hot?'
You'll concede that it is kind of hot.
'I have Poltergeist II back at my place,' hell say.
'I bet you do,' you'll say. 'I have to know though, would you really just move the headstones? Or was that just a line?'
Milton will move real close so that you can taste his breath when he pants, 'I wouldn't even move the headstones.'
That's when you'll know you've just begun a superhot affair with the kid you used to babysit who apparently grew up to be one hell of a ghost-story lover/ass-freak.
Happy Baby Your Butthole Gets Me So Hot If I Found Out It Had Previously Been Used As An Indian Burial Ground I'd Just Go Ahead And Move The Headstones Without Even Digging Up The Bodies If It Meant I Could Get Up There Faster Day!
Today one of the kids you used to babysit is going to approach you in a bar and give you a very potent pickup line that makes it clear that not only does he not recognize you, but that all the times you used to let him stay up late and watch Poltergeist really had an effect on him.
'Milton?' you'll say. 'Remember me?'
'Laura?' he'll say. 'Oh my God this is so embarrassing.'
'Jesus,' you'll say. 'I used to change your pajamas when you wet the bed.'
Milton will say, 'Oh my God do you not find that hot?'
You'll concede that it is kind of hot.
'I have Poltergeist II back at my place,' hell say.
'I bet you do,' you'll say. 'I have to know though, would you really just move the headstones? Or was that just a line?'
Milton will move real close so that you can taste his breath when he pants, 'I wouldn't even move the headstones.'
That's when you'll know you've just begun a superhot affair with the kid you used to babysit who apparently grew up to be one hell of a ghost-story lover/ass-freak.
Happy Baby Your Butthole Gets Me So Hot If I Found Out It Had Previously Been Used As An Indian Burial Ground I'd Just Go Ahead And Move The Headstones Without Even Digging Up The Bodies If It Meant I Could Get Up There Faster Day!
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Fall In Love With A Prophet Of Doom Day!
You can see him standing on his street corner in sunshine and in rain, waving his sign to warn his neighbors of the coming end. He has a few different signs with varying copy. He picks which one to wave each day according to how he's feeling that particular morning. If he's feeling particularly generous, he'll go with 'Repent For The End Is Nigh.' If he's in a funk and he really doesn't have much hope for the capacity of the human soul, he'll go with 'The End Is Nigh. Justice Is Come For The Sinner.' And then he's got, 'The End Is Nigh: Haha!' for when he's really pissed.
Most people give him a wide berth, thinking he's just a loon off his meds. But you can see something deeper there. There's his dedication to task for one thing. He certainly works harder at warning the populace of the coming doomsday than your last boyfriend worked on that 'novel' he claimed to be writing. You're pretty sick of guys who are all about 'tomorrow.' I'll change your light bulbs tomorrow. I'll look for a job tomorrow. What if today I have an orgasm and I give one to you tomorrow.
Maybe it's time to get yourself a guy who believes that there isn't going to be a tomorrow.
'The end of the world is nigh!' he'll be shouting when you spot him outside your office today. 'Repent! The end of the world is nigh.'
Sounds like he's in a good mood. Approach him.
'The end of the world is nigh,' he'll say. Then he'll spot you smiling at him. He'll look into your eyes and he'll say just to you, 'The end of the world is nigh.'
Say, 'Then let's make the most of it.'
'Now that's what I call a prophecy,' he'll say. Then he'll toss his sign in the trash, grab you by the hand, and pull you into a tango. You'll dance on the sidewalk and into the oncoming traffic, your feet barely touching the ground as your sage flings you this way and that, sending you twisting towards the gathering crowd only to yank you right back to cuddle up against his many filthy overcoats. When he gets thirsty from the activity, he'll drag you into a liquor store and he'll hold a hunting knife to the counterperson's neck while you take your time picking out several bottles of the finest champagne. Night will be falling and off you'll both go into the dark and dangerous city, running and screaming and drinking from the bottle as you dance in and out of velvet adorned clubs and the most romantic of private lounges. The next dozen hours will be a blur of laughing, kissing, dancing and champagne. Not a single moment will pass wherein you don't feel your prophet's hand in yours. It will be clear he's been waiting for someone like you for as long as you've been waiting for someone like him.
At sunrise, when you're laying in the middle of a rooftop garden you broke into, staring off at the cityscape with your head in your prophet's lap, you'll ask, 'Is the end really nigh?'
'I sure hope so,' he'll say. 'If the world ends tonight I'll die the happiest man on the face of the planet.'
You'll kiss your prophet and he'll wrap his arms around you tight, and you will be overcome with such bliss that when the storm of hellfire rises up and incinerates the world, the world will react with a loud and unanimous shriek of terror and pain, but the two of you won't be able to add anything to the chorus beyond a single soft and contented sigh.
Happy Fall In Love With A Prophet Of Doom Day!
Most people give him a wide berth, thinking he's just a loon off his meds. But you can see something deeper there. There's his dedication to task for one thing. He certainly works harder at warning the populace of the coming doomsday than your last boyfriend worked on that 'novel' he claimed to be writing. You're pretty sick of guys who are all about 'tomorrow.' I'll change your light bulbs tomorrow. I'll look for a job tomorrow. What if today I have an orgasm and I give one to you tomorrow.
Maybe it's time to get yourself a guy who believes that there isn't going to be a tomorrow.
'The end of the world is nigh!' he'll be shouting when you spot him outside your office today. 'Repent! The end of the world is nigh.'
Sounds like he's in a good mood. Approach him.
'The end of the world is nigh,' he'll say. Then he'll spot you smiling at him. He'll look into your eyes and he'll say just to you, 'The end of the world is nigh.'
Say, 'Then let's make the most of it.'
'Now that's what I call a prophecy,' he'll say. Then he'll toss his sign in the trash, grab you by the hand, and pull you into a tango. You'll dance on the sidewalk and into the oncoming traffic, your feet barely touching the ground as your sage flings you this way and that, sending you twisting towards the gathering crowd only to yank you right back to cuddle up against his many filthy overcoats. When he gets thirsty from the activity, he'll drag you into a liquor store and he'll hold a hunting knife to the counterperson's neck while you take your time picking out several bottles of the finest champagne. Night will be falling and off you'll both go into the dark and dangerous city, running and screaming and drinking from the bottle as you dance in and out of velvet adorned clubs and the most romantic of private lounges. The next dozen hours will be a blur of laughing, kissing, dancing and champagne. Not a single moment will pass wherein you don't feel your prophet's hand in yours. It will be clear he's been waiting for someone like you for as long as you've been waiting for someone like him.
At sunrise, when you're laying in the middle of a rooftop garden you broke into, staring off at the cityscape with your head in your prophet's lap, you'll ask, 'Is the end really nigh?'
'I sure hope so,' he'll say. 'If the world ends tonight I'll die the happiest man on the face of the planet.'
You'll kiss your prophet and he'll wrap his arms around you tight, and you will be overcome with such bliss that when the storm of hellfire rises up and incinerates the world, the world will react with a loud and unanimous shriek of terror and pain, but the two of you won't be able to add anything to the chorus beyond a single soft and contented sigh.
Happy Fall In Love With A Prophet Of Doom Day!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
You're Marrying The Wrong Guy Day!
Today your wedding will not be interrupted when the guy you should be marrying shows up and makes a big scene to stop the ceremony and convince you that you're making a mistake. Instead, he's going to wake up next to a girl he sometimes sleeps with when the two of them are both bored and wasted. He went out with some friends last night to try to take his mind off the fact that you're getting married to the wrong guy. They went to a big drugged out party in his old neighborhood and he saw a lot of people he hasn't seen in quite a while because whenever he sees them he always ends up getting a little too ill. The girl he sometimes sleeps with was there, and they went home to her place.
Her place is awful, and today he's going to wake up there, next to her. Instead of taking off immediately like he normally would, today, because you're marrying the wrong guy, he'll stick around and let her make him breakfast and they'll play-act like they're a couple with a chance in hell. Though, it won't take very long before she drops a frying pan on her foot and runs into her bedroom to get high and stay there. He'll put on his clothes and leave.
He'll walk home, trying to keep from being in any one place where he can be found. While you're getting into your dress, he'll be at a record store looking at CDs that he intends to buy on another day. While you're having your hair done, he'll be at a Subway Sandwiches Shop eating a footlong Italian BMT while reading a free newspaper. When your mother comes in to tell you that you look beautiful and to complain about what your Dad's new wife said to her, he'll have bought a pack of cigarettes for the first time in eight months. Since you're marrying the wrong guy, he decided to start smoking again today. It's the kind of thinking where he can rationalize, 'Hey this is a mistake, but it's nowhere near as dangerous as what she's doing.'
Don't worry that he forgot about you. No matter where he is or what he does today, he'll be thinking about what he could have said the last time he saw you to make you call off the engagement. He told you he missed you and he warned you that he would need to avoid you in the future because it hurt to see you anymore. But he never said, 'Don't marry him.' He can't put it all out there like that.
Just like he's not able to burst into a crowded church right after a priest asks the congregation to speak now or forever hold their peace. He couldn't imagine standing there with 300 heads turned around to get a look at him and hear what he's got to say. And then, with everyone looking at him, he'd have to say that he loves you and he's dying without you and he'd have to say that the guy you're marrying is no good for you with the guy standing right there staring at him. That's insane! I mean who would do that?
As far as he's concerned, he blew it. And when the priest asks the congregation to speak now or forever hold their peace, he'll be playing one of those roller-ball video golf games at a bar where it's okay to come in during the day and drink because they show sports on the TV. When the priest says, 'You may kiss the bride,' he'll be on the sidewalk smoking his first cigarette in eight months. You'll have already filed for divorce before he quits again.
Happy You're Marrying The Wrong Guy Day!
Her place is awful, and today he's going to wake up there, next to her. Instead of taking off immediately like he normally would, today, because you're marrying the wrong guy, he'll stick around and let her make him breakfast and they'll play-act like they're a couple with a chance in hell. Though, it won't take very long before she drops a frying pan on her foot and runs into her bedroom to get high and stay there. He'll put on his clothes and leave.
He'll walk home, trying to keep from being in any one place where he can be found. While you're getting into your dress, he'll be at a record store looking at CDs that he intends to buy on another day. While you're having your hair done, he'll be at a Subway Sandwiches Shop eating a footlong Italian BMT while reading a free newspaper. When your mother comes in to tell you that you look beautiful and to complain about what your Dad's new wife said to her, he'll have bought a pack of cigarettes for the first time in eight months. Since you're marrying the wrong guy, he decided to start smoking again today. It's the kind of thinking where he can rationalize, 'Hey this is a mistake, but it's nowhere near as dangerous as what she's doing.'
Don't worry that he forgot about you. No matter where he is or what he does today, he'll be thinking about what he could have said the last time he saw you to make you call off the engagement. He told you he missed you and he warned you that he would need to avoid you in the future because it hurt to see you anymore. But he never said, 'Don't marry him.' He can't put it all out there like that.
Just like he's not able to burst into a crowded church right after a priest asks the congregation to speak now or forever hold their peace. He couldn't imagine standing there with 300 heads turned around to get a look at him and hear what he's got to say. And then, with everyone looking at him, he'd have to say that he loves you and he's dying without you and he'd have to say that the guy you're marrying is no good for you with the guy standing right there staring at him. That's insane! I mean who would do that?
As far as he's concerned, he blew it. And when the priest asks the congregation to speak now or forever hold their peace, he'll be playing one of those roller-ball video golf games at a bar where it's okay to come in during the day and drink because they show sports on the TV. When the priest says, 'You may kiss the bride,' he'll be on the sidewalk smoking his first cigarette in eight months. You'll have already filed for divorce before he quits again.
Happy You're Marrying The Wrong Guy Day!
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Shut Down The Factory Day!
Today you and some of those miserable hippie fucks you hang out with should go and shut down the factory. Just make a bunch of signs that say POISON and MURDERERS and STOP ASSASSINATING OUR OVARIES WITH YOUR WASTE. If you know what product the factory makes, make signs that read [PRODUCTS] = CHILD-FACE RAPE.
Once you and the rest of the filthy hippie pieces of shit have all your signs misspelled and decorated with peace symbols and daisies and shit, go down to the factory before it opens and form a "human" barricade so that no one can drive into the parking lot without killing at least a couple of you wretched little ungrateful hippie vagrant scum. Even though most of society would jump for joy if they found out a handful of you long-haired drug addicted granola eating shit-dicks had been dragged underneath a car until you�re dead, the United States criminal justice system will still charge your killers with murder because the United States criminal justice system still insists that you�re entitled to the same rights as people who actually work and attend church. So no one�s going to be willing to run you down and risk going to jail for it.
The factory will have to phone up the police to take you away and hopefully beat you with night-sticks. But when the police come, the media won�t be far behind, and that�s when your oh-so-very-noble crusade will really make some big strides. The media will portray you as concerned citizens, not leeches sucking on the neck of society, because the media, well let's not even get started on those prostitutes. Once you're all made to look like a bunch of angels, local government figures will be forced to launch an investigation into the accusations you�ve made with your signs. With any luck, the factory will be shut down within six months and the whole town will be out of work just like you and your lice-ridden, unbathed, free-love practicing hobo commie friends. Except unlike you, the whole town was hoping to feed their kids something besides a plate of cheetos and old dandelions, but I suppose you'll be setting the menu for God-fearing Americans from now on, won't you. Congratulations reprobate.
Happy Shut Down The Factory Day!
Once you and the rest of the filthy hippie pieces of shit have all your signs misspelled and decorated with peace symbols and daisies and shit, go down to the factory before it opens and form a "human" barricade so that no one can drive into the parking lot without killing at least a couple of you wretched little ungrateful hippie vagrant scum. Even though most of society would jump for joy if they found out a handful of you long-haired drug addicted granola eating shit-dicks had been dragged underneath a car until you�re dead, the United States criminal justice system will still charge your killers with murder because the United States criminal justice system still insists that you�re entitled to the same rights as people who actually work and attend church. So no one�s going to be willing to run you down and risk going to jail for it.
The factory will have to phone up the police to take you away and hopefully beat you with night-sticks. But when the police come, the media won�t be far behind, and that�s when your oh-so-very-noble crusade will really make some big strides. The media will portray you as concerned citizens, not leeches sucking on the neck of society, because the media, well let's not even get started on those prostitutes. Once you're all made to look like a bunch of angels, local government figures will be forced to launch an investigation into the accusations you�ve made with your signs. With any luck, the factory will be shut down within six months and the whole town will be out of work just like you and your lice-ridden, unbathed, free-love practicing hobo commie friends. Except unlike you, the whole town was hoping to feed their kids something besides a plate of cheetos and old dandelions, but I suppose you'll be setting the menu for God-fearing Americans from now on, won't you. Congratulations reprobate.
Happy Shut Down The Factory Day!
Monday, November 13, 2006
Funeral For Your Forbidden Love Day!
You and Kevin fell in love even though you're poor and Kevin's rich. But Kevin's parents wanted him to marry Bunny, a rich girl who was really boring but was at least Kevin's Dad's friend's daughter. So she was vouched for and whatnot. It wasn't a total cold-call.
But still, you're the one that he loved, so it was really hard for him to go ahead with the wedding. His Dad knew he had to get you out of the picture or Kevin would never agree to marry Bunny. So he offered you a hundred grand to tell Kevin that it was over between the two of you, and to stay away from him forever. You took the money because you're really poor, and so you told Kevin to give up the dream and he went ahead and married Bunny.
Everyone figured that would be the end of it. Kevin and Bunny would be rich and raise a family in a loveless home and you'd use your hundred grand to start a car service or a whorehouse or something. But Kevin ended up feeling so distraught over his lost love that he went ahead and turned on his car with the garage door closed and just sat there. Today's his funeral. You should go and say a few words.
The family will probably try to keep you from getting into the church, so be sure to wear a big hat with a veil. In between eulogies, just get up from the pew and march up to the pulpit as sure as if your name was in the processional program. Keep your eulogy brief. Just say something along the lines of how Kevin's Dad paid you to break his son's heart and while the money really came in handy, it was wrong of Kevin's Dad to offer it to you and therefore Kevin's death is his Dad's fault. If someone suggests that you are just as much to blame for taking the money, tell them that you were perfectly content with getting Kevin's Dad's money by marrying Kevin and making him happy for the rest of his life. You probably would have gotten a lot more if it had worked out that way, you should add. But Kevin's dad wanted to keep it to a hundred grand and who are you to tell someone what to do with his money. So it's Kevin's Dad's fault.
Once everyone at the funeral starts nodding their heads as if to say 'that makes sense' or 'she has a point,' you can go back to your pew and mourn some.
Happy Funeral For Your Forbidden Love Day!
But still, you're the one that he loved, so it was really hard for him to go ahead with the wedding. His Dad knew he had to get you out of the picture or Kevin would never agree to marry Bunny. So he offered you a hundred grand to tell Kevin that it was over between the two of you, and to stay away from him forever. You took the money because you're really poor, and so you told Kevin to give up the dream and he went ahead and married Bunny.
Everyone figured that would be the end of it. Kevin and Bunny would be rich and raise a family in a loveless home and you'd use your hundred grand to start a car service or a whorehouse or something. But Kevin ended up feeling so distraught over his lost love that he went ahead and turned on his car with the garage door closed and just sat there. Today's his funeral. You should go and say a few words.
The family will probably try to keep you from getting into the church, so be sure to wear a big hat with a veil. In between eulogies, just get up from the pew and march up to the pulpit as sure as if your name was in the processional program. Keep your eulogy brief. Just say something along the lines of how Kevin's Dad paid you to break his son's heart and while the money really came in handy, it was wrong of Kevin's Dad to offer it to you and therefore Kevin's death is his Dad's fault. If someone suggests that you are just as much to blame for taking the money, tell them that you were perfectly content with getting Kevin's Dad's money by marrying Kevin and making him happy for the rest of his life. You probably would have gotten a lot more if it had worked out that way, you should add. But Kevin's dad wanted to keep it to a hundred grand and who are you to tell someone what to do with his money. So it's Kevin's Dad's fault.
Once everyone at the funeral starts nodding their heads as if to say 'that makes sense' or 'she has a point,' you can go back to your pew and mourn some.
Happy Funeral For Your Forbidden Love Day!
Friday, November 10, 2006
Virgin Sacrifice Day!
You and your friends had a de-virginization race and you lost. So today you're going to be ritually sacrificed. Rules are rules.
'Isn't there any other way?' your mother will ask.
'Sorry mom,' you'll say. 'I couldn't close the deal. As the last and only virgin in my social circle, I have to be lain upon an altar and have my arteries opened up so that I may bleed into buckets.'
'Of course there's no other way,' your Dad will shout at your mom. They don't get along, and this sacrifice thing is especially hard on them. 'Didn't you ever go to high school? He's the last virgin for God's sake!'
Your Dad will grab you behind your neck and look into your eyes. 'I'm proud of you boy,' he'll say. 'You hear me? When I was growing up the virgins would pack up and head to Canada or Mexico. Cowards they were, had no problem choosing to live a life without honor. I'm sorry that you have to die, but I'd be even more sorry if you had to live like a coward.'
'Oh there must be something we can do!' you mother will shout.
'The virgin surrenders his blood so that at homecoming we may drink from him and taste of lost purity!' your father will bark. 'Jesus, didn't you ever go to high school!'
Your mother will continue blubbering while your father will murmur something about how your mother was probably one of the 'brainiacs' who never had sex and never took part in any sacrificial rituals. Then the doorbell will ring.
Standing on your front step will be Casey, the girl you like.
'I wanted to say goodbye,' she'll say. 'I'm sorry I couldn't help you.'
You'll nod.
'Look,' she'll say. 'I had a little brother who died when he was six. My parents still haven't gotten over it, and it would kill them if they lost me or my brother too. So I had to make sure that wouldn't happen. If I had had sex with you, it would have been like I was helping my brother lose the de-virginization race. I couldn't risk him being the last one to lose his virginity.'
'I kinda figured that was why,' you'll say. 'But if there wasn't any chance of your brother being sacrificed, would you have done it with me?'
'But that's silly. There's always to be a sacrifice.'
'WOULD YOU HAVE DONE IT WITH ME!' you'll explode, shaking her by the shoulders.
'Of course! Of course!' she'll scream. 'I wanted my first time to be with you. Only with you! I loved you!' She'll turn around and run from your house.
You'll close the door and find your Dad waiting with a white tunic in his hands.
'This was what your Uncle Martin wore when he was laid to rest on the altar,' he'll say. 'I was as proud of him as I am of you. I always knew you were just like my little brother. Will you wear his tunic?'
Say, 'With pleasure Dad.'
You'll don the decades old garment and when you get in the car and wait for your father to drive you to the sacrifice, you'll have a big satisfied smile on your face. You may be about to have your blood drained out of you into some buckets, but you got your answer. Casey, the girl you've liked since fourth grade, has admitted that she would have had sex with you if you lived in a world where sex wouldn't hasten her own brother's murder. And everyone in high school knows that if you can imagine a world in which you would have been able to have sex with somebody, well, it kind of counts.
Happy Virgin Sacrifice Day!
'Isn't there any other way?' your mother will ask.
'Sorry mom,' you'll say. 'I couldn't close the deal. As the last and only virgin in my social circle, I have to be lain upon an altar and have my arteries opened up so that I may bleed into buckets.'
'Of course there's no other way,' your Dad will shout at your mom. They don't get along, and this sacrifice thing is especially hard on them. 'Didn't you ever go to high school? He's the last virgin for God's sake!'
Your Dad will grab you behind your neck and look into your eyes. 'I'm proud of you boy,' he'll say. 'You hear me? When I was growing up the virgins would pack up and head to Canada or Mexico. Cowards they were, had no problem choosing to live a life without honor. I'm sorry that you have to die, but I'd be even more sorry if you had to live like a coward.'
'Oh there must be something we can do!' you mother will shout.
'The virgin surrenders his blood so that at homecoming we may drink from him and taste of lost purity!' your father will bark. 'Jesus, didn't you ever go to high school!'
Your mother will continue blubbering while your father will murmur something about how your mother was probably one of the 'brainiacs' who never had sex and never took part in any sacrificial rituals. Then the doorbell will ring.
Standing on your front step will be Casey, the girl you like.
'I wanted to say goodbye,' she'll say. 'I'm sorry I couldn't help you.'
You'll nod.
'Look,' she'll say. 'I had a little brother who died when he was six. My parents still haven't gotten over it, and it would kill them if they lost me or my brother too. So I had to make sure that wouldn't happen. If I had had sex with you, it would have been like I was helping my brother lose the de-virginization race. I couldn't risk him being the last one to lose his virginity.'
'I kinda figured that was why,' you'll say. 'But if there wasn't any chance of your brother being sacrificed, would you have done it with me?'
'But that's silly. There's always to be a sacrifice.'
'WOULD YOU HAVE DONE IT WITH ME!' you'll explode, shaking her by the shoulders.
'Of course! Of course!' she'll scream. 'I wanted my first time to be with you. Only with you! I loved you!' She'll turn around and run from your house.
You'll close the door and find your Dad waiting with a white tunic in his hands.
'This was what your Uncle Martin wore when he was laid to rest on the altar,' he'll say. 'I was as proud of him as I am of you. I always knew you were just like my little brother. Will you wear his tunic?'
Say, 'With pleasure Dad.'
You'll don the decades old garment and when you get in the car and wait for your father to drive you to the sacrifice, you'll have a big satisfied smile on your face. You may be about to have your blood drained out of you into some buckets, but you got your answer. Casey, the girl you've liked since fourth grade, has admitted that she would have had sex with you if you lived in a world where sex wouldn't hasten her own brother's murder. And everyone in high school knows that if you can imagine a world in which you would have been able to have sex with somebody, well, it kind of counts.
Happy Virgin Sacrifice Day!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
The Mafia Wants A Piece Of Christmas Day!
Today you're going to set up your trees in the parking lot, officially launching the Christmas season. Not long after you stack the last tree for display, the mafia will come into the lot and set all your trees on fire. Then they'll tie you up in garland, stuff a Christmas ball in your mouth, and stick an angel to the top of your head with duct tape. They'll tie you to a signpost by the street so that everyone can see you wrapped up like a human Chistmas tree with the fires rising behind you. That'll let everyone who sees you know that no one sells Christmas trees in this town unless the mafia says so.
Before the mafia leaves, you'll start to hum 'Hark The Herald Angels Sing' through the Christmas ball in your mouth. The mafia will look a little confused at first. Then they'll get angry and start telling you to stop. You'll hum louder, switching songs into 'Silent Night,' and they'll get even angrier. Soon they'll be punching you and cracking at your knees with a club, but you won't stop it with the Christmas carols. By the time you're humming 'Frosty The Snowman,' you'll be covered in blood. The mafia will be out of breath, but you'll notice that they'll also have tears on their cheeks. They'll continue to slap and strike you, but with lighter blows. Until they stop hitting you altogether, and they all just stand there by the side of the road, panting, and listening intently as you hum 'Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.'
A few of them will drop to their knees, exhausted in body and in spirit. They'll scream at the sky, how have we let ourselves become who we are? What has brought us to this? Finally defeated by the spirit of Christmas, one of them will go to you and yank the Christmas ball out of your mouth.
'I'm sorry,' he'll say. 'We're all sorry for what we've done. We shouldn't be messing around with Christmastime.'
You'll tell him it's okay.
'Sing 'The Christmas Song,' he'll say.
You'll shake your head, letting him know you don't know that one.
'Chestnuuuuts'roasting on an open fire'' he'll start. The rest of the mafia will sing along. He'll turn again to you and you'll shrug.
'Never learned it,' you'll say.
He'll suddenly whip his gun out and point it at your forehead. Then he'll say, 'Bang!' and start laughing like a drunk man. The mafia will free you from your bonds, then they'll teach you the Christmas song. You'll join the mafia as they go door-to-door caroling. They'll make lots of money because they're the mafia, and anytime someone slams the door in their faces or tells them it's too early in the year, you'll help the mafia set their houses on fire and drag the fathers out into the street to be beaten in front of their children and wives. 'Serves them right,' you'll think. 'Slamming the door on Christmas.'
Happy The Mafia Wants A Piece Of Christmas Day!
Before the mafia leaves, you'll start to hum 'Hark The Herald Angels Sing' through the Christmas ball in your mouth. The mafia will look a little confused at first. Then they'll get angry and start telling you to stop. You'll hum louder, switching songs into 'Silent Night,' and they'll get even angrier. Soon they'll be punching you and cracking at your knees with a club, but you won't stop it with the Christmas carols. By the time you're humming 'Frosty The Snowman,' you'll be covered in blood. The mafia will be out of breath, but you'll notice that they'll also have tears on their cheeks. They'll continue to slap and strike you, but with lighter blows. Until they stop hitting you altogether, and they all just stand there by the side of the road, panting, and listening intently as you hum 'Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.'
A few of them will drop to their knees, exhausted in body and in spirit. They'll scream at the sky, how have we let ourselves become who we are? What has brought us to this? Finally defeated by the spirit of Christmas, one of them will go to you and yank the Christmas ball out of your mouth.
'I'm sorry,' he'll say. 'We're all sorry for what we've done. We shouldn't be messing around with Christmastime.'
You'll tell him it's okay.
'Sing 'The Christmas Song,' he'll say.
You'll shake your head, letting him know you don't know that one.
'Chestnuuuuts'roasting on an open fire'' he'll start. The rest of the mafia will sing along. He'll turn again to you and you'll shrug.
'Never learned it,' you'll say.
He'll suddenly whip his gun out and point it at your forehead. Then he'll say, 'Bang!' and start laughing like a drunk man. The mafia will free you from your bonds, then they'll teach you the Christmas song. You'll join the mafia as they go door-to-door caroling. They'll make lots of money because they're the mafia, and anytime someone slams the door in their faces or tells them it's too early in the year, you'll help the mafia set their houses on fire and drag the fathers out into the street to be beaten in front of their children and wives. 'Serves them right,' you'll think. 'Slamming the door on Christmas.'
Happy The Mafia Wants A Piece Of Christmas Day!
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
You're Sick And Tired Of Being Jerked Around Day!
Tonight on your way home you'll, remember that you need to pick up some kitty litter from the pet store. You'll arrive at the pet store at 9:40 PM, but the store will have closed at 9, as it does every night. Because you are sick and tired of being jerked around, you'll pick up a trashcan from in front of a neighboring building and toss it through the storefront window, which will show them. The burglar alarm will clang as you climb through the window, find your bag of litter, and climb back out onto the sidewalk, because this is America. Before you reach the end of the block, a police squad car will skid to a halt beside you and the two officers will jump out and point their guns at you, demanding that you drop the litter and put your hands up.
'Figures,' you'll say. Then you'll do as they command and you'll be taken to the station and charged with destruction of private property, burglary, and theft, because that's how they like to screw people like you.
You'll attend your trial with your mouth sealed with the duct tape that you put there yourself, and when you stand for sentencing, you'll keep one fist upraised at all times. The judge will concede that this is your first criminal offense of any kind, and if you were to take the tape off and perhaps say a few words of contrition, it might be beneficial. You'll roll your eyes, because you know that taking your tape off and speaking in your own defense is exactly what they'd love for you to do, because they never get tired of sticking it to ya. The judge will sentence you to nine months in jail and 100 hundred hours of community service. As he reads your sentence, you'll hum 'Amazing Grace' from behind your duct tape very loudly.
When the judge finishes reading your sentence, he'll sit in silence for a moment to listen to your humming and try to figure you out. Finally, he'll shake his head ruefully and signal the bailiff to take you away. That night, the judge will rant to his two sons at dinner about how a lot of people are starting to feel like they aren't getting a fair shake when it comes to stores refusing to stay open later than they claim they will and policemen arresting people for committing crimes. His two sons will giggle because the judge has a very pronounced speech impediment and now that they're old enough, they know how funny it is.
Happy You're Sick And Tired Of Being Jerked Around Day!
'Figures,' you'll say. Then you'll do as they command and you'll be taken to the station and charged with destruction of private property, burglary, and theft, because that's how they like to screw people like you.
You'll attend your trial with your mouth sealed with the duct tape that you put there yourself, and when you stand for sentencing, you'll keep one fist upraised at all times. The judge will concede that this is your first criminal offense of any kind, and if you were to take the tape off and perhaps say a few words of contrition, it might be beneficial. You'll roll your eyes, because you know that taking your tape off and speaking in your own defense is exactly what they'd love for you to do, because they never get tired of sticking it to ya. The judge will sentence you to nine months in jail and 100 hundred hours of community service. As he reads your sentence, you'll hum 'Amazing Grace' from behind your duct tape very loudly.
When the judge finishes reading your sentence, he'll sit in silence for a moment to listen to your humming and try to figure you out. Finally, he'll shake his head ruefully and signal the bailiff to take you away. That night, the judge will rant to his two sons at dinner about how a lot of people are starting to feel like they aren't getting a fair shake when it comes to stores refusing to stay open later than they claim they will and policemen arresting people for committing crimes. His two sons will giggle because the judge has a very pronounced speech impediment and now that they're old enough, they know how funny it is.
Happy You're Sick And Tired Of Being Jerked Around Day!
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Fundamentalist Starbucks Day!
Your local Starbucks is like a living room away from home for you. You love to go there and slip on some headphones and get lost in a good book, forgetting all about your two roommates for a little while. Your local Starbucks would be perfect if it wasn't for the creepy church group that's always hanging out there.
They don't preach to the other customers. They don't even talk all that loud. It looks like they just go there at night to chill out after a meeting of some kind. At first you thought they were just another AA after-crew, but then you saw one of them absently folding one of the poorly illustrated pamphlets that talk about Christ as if he were a lovable cartoon dog.
As soon as you found out they were a church group you were suddenly unable to relax. You haven't been able to concentrate when you read because you're always looking over at them to see if they're going to pray or hold hands or something. Whenever one of them starts whispering to another, you get goosebumps. You can't quite explain why, they just creep you out and you want them to go. Here's how to do it.
Approach their couches and say, 'Listen Christians, lets make a deal. One of you comes out back with me and we have ourselves a fistfight. If I win, you all have to find another Starbucks where you can sit around and get all caffeinated while basking in the light of the Lord. If you win, I'll go over to the Dunkin Donuts across the street and you'll never see me again. Deal?'
The Christians will say 'Deal!' Then they'll nominate Martin, a tall blonde man who looks a little older than you, to represent their group in the fistfight. When you get out back, Martin will shake your hand and say, 'May the best man win.' Then he'll kick your fucking ass.
After the fight, Martin will help you up and you'll say that a deal's a deal and you'll go pack up your stuff. The Christians will demand that you stay at the Starbucks. They would feel terrible if they knew they were keeping you from your favorite coffee shop. You'll thank them for being so forgiving.
From then on, whenever you arrive at the Starbucks, the Christians will all shout your name and jokingly call you a Christian-hater and a pussy who got his ass beat by an altar boy. You'll laugh along with them and find yourself a seat that points away from their couches, because even though they proved to be really cool and really tough, they're still a church group and you just can't help it. They make you nervous.
Happy Fundamentalist Starbucks Day!
They don't preach to the other customers. They don't even talk all that loud. It looks like they just go there at night to chill out after a meeting of some kind. At first you thought they were just another AA after-crew, but then you saw one of them absently folding one of the poorly illustrated pamphlets that talk about Christ as if he were a lovable cartoon dog.
As soon as you found out they were a church group you were suddenly unable to relax. You haven't been able to concentrate when you read because you're always looking over at them to see if they're going to pray or hold hands or something. Whenever one of them starts whispering to another, you get goosebumps. You can't quite explain why, they just creep you out and you want them to go. Here's how to do it.
Approach their couches and say, 'Listen Christians, lets make a deal. One of you comes out back with me and we have ourselves a fistfight. If I win, you all have to find another Starbucks where you can sit around and get all caffeinated while basking in the light of the Lord. If you win, I'll go over to the Dunkin Donuts across the street and you'll never see me again. Deal?'
The Christians will say 'Deal!' Then they'll nominate Martin, a tall blonde man who looks a little older than you, to represent their group in the fistfight. When you get out back, Martin will shake your hand and say, 'May the best man win.' Then he'll kick your fucking ass.
After the fight, Martin will help you up and you'll say that a deal's a deal and you'll go pack up your stuff. The Christians will demand that you stay at the Starbucks. They would feel terrible if they knew they were keeping you from your favorite coffee shop. You'll thank them for being so forgiving.
From then on, whenever you arrive at the Starbucks, the Christians will all shout your name and jokingly call you a Christian-hater and a pussy who got his ass beat by an altar boy. You'll laugh along with them and find yourself a seat that points away from their couches, because even though they proved to be really cool and really tough, they're still a church group and you just can't help it. They make you nervous.
Happy Fundamentalist Starbucks Day!
Monday, November 06, 2006
Heaven, Room 103 Day!
Today you are going to be bludgeoned to death in a motel room. You only went there because a man you met at a truck stop told you he had some crank, and he said if you come back to his room with him the two of you could have a party. Even though ninety-nine percent of such encounters end in a bludgeoning just like yours, you never saw it coming.
When you arrive in Heaven, the talking puppy at the gate will look up your name and find your accommodations. 'Ah, you're staying in the Eastern Pass. Would you like to go to your room immediately, or would you care to drop into the Room 103 Reunion Party?'
'The Room 103 Reunion Party?' you'll ask.
'The Room 103 Reunion Party,' the talking puppy will say. 'They're expecting you.'
The talking puppy will point one of his paws towards a gathering of clouds off to the right where perhaps three dozen people are laughing and sipping from goblets like they're at some sort of medieval cocktail party. The talking puppy will say, 'Go on. They can't wait to meet you.' Then he'll roll over and bark once.
As you walk towards the gathering of people, you'll remember that 103 was the number of the hotel room where you were killed. Before you reach the gathering, everyone will turn to you and shout your name with open arms.
As they welcome you into their circle, they'll hand you a goblet of frozen mango margarita and they'll introduce themselves and point on their bodies to where they were shot, stabbed, or beaten with hammers. This is the Room 103 Reunion Party, and the only way anyone's getting on the guest list is if they die tragically in Room 103 at the I-80 Best Western off of exit 33-B Westbound.
'Looks like you took the 103 expressway up!' they'll joke with you, in between tales of how they were lured back to the motel room against their better judgement. You'll meet prostitutes, pimps, drug addicts and dealers, closeted gay preachers, even a couple of night-shift motel operators who were stupid enough to knock on the door to find out if that was a woman's scream they just heard.
'He was my knight in shining armor,' one former prostitute will say with her arms wrapped around a former motel operator. 'According to the coroner report, I was killed instantly, but I swear I saw him in that doorway. The last thing I remember is this here motel operator doubling over after the John unloaded a shotgun in his belly. He heard me scream for help when the John started beating me, and he came knocking to try and save my life. Too bad for you, huh baby?'
The motel operator will say, 'Just doing my job.' The prostitute will kiss his cheek. You'll get the sense they're kind of an item now.
They'll ask for your story, and you'll tell them about the truck stop and the crank and the paranoid shouting that resulted in a telephone being buried in your head.
'He seemed so nice,' you'll say. 'Then he just turned into a monster. I don't know why he did it.'
A voice behind you will say, 'Just got carried away I guess.'
You'll turn and you'll gasp when you see his face. It's him, your killer, but with a pair of crystal clear eyes and a face that looks decades younger, like the years of abuse have been washed away. If this is how he looks, you suddenly want to get to a mirror because you must look fantastic.
'All that crank just kind of fried me,' he'll say. 'I'm really sorry.'
'How'd you get here?' you'll ask.
'I sparked up right next to your dead body and OD'd,' he'll say. 'Heart attack. They found the both of us dead side by side and it took them a while to figure out what the hell happened.'
You'll laugh in spite of yourself. 'I bet,' you'll say.
He'll say, 'No hard feelings?'
You'll lift your goblet and touch it against his. 'To room 103,' you'll say.
The others will hear your toast and raise their goblets in kind. 'To room 103,' they'll shout, and the lot of you will sip from your drinks, feeling a sense of belonging deeper than anything you ever felt while you were still alive.
Happy Heaven, Room 103 Day!
When you arrive in Heaven, the talking puppy at the gate will look up your name and find your accommodations. 'Ah, you're staying in the Eastern Pass. Would you like to go to your room immediately, or would you care to drop into the Room 103 Reunion Party?'
'The Room 103 Reunion Party?' you'll ask.
'The Room 103 Reunion Party,' the talking puppy will say. 'They're expecting you.'
The talking puppy will point one of his paws towards a gathering of clouds off to the right where perhaps three dozen people are laughing and sipping from goblets like they're at some sort of medieval cocktail party. The talking puppy will say, 'Go on. They can't wait to meet you.' Then he'll roll over and bark once.
As you walk towards the gathering of people, you'll remember that 103 was the number of the hotel room where you were killed. Before you reach the gathering, everyone will turn to you and shout your name with open arms.
As they welcome you into their circle, they'll hand you a goblet of frozen mango margarita and they'll introduce themselves and point on their bodies to where they were shot, stabbed, or beaten with hammers. This is the Room 103 Reunion Party, and the only way anyone's getting on the guest list is if they die tragically in Room 103 at the I-80 Best Western off of exit 33-B Westbound.
'Looks like you took the 103 expressway up!' they'll joke with you, in between tales of how they were lured back to the motel room against their better judgement. You'll meet prostitutes, pimps, drug addicts and dealers, closeted gay preachers, even a couple of night-shift motel operators who were stupid enough to knock on the door to find out if that was a woman's scream they just heard.
'He was my knight in shining armor,' one former prostitute will say with her arms wrapped around a former motel operator. 'According to the coroner report, I was killed instantly, but I swear I saw him in that doorway. The last thing I remember is this here motel operator doubling over after the John unloaded a shotgun in his belly. He heard me scream for help when the John started beating me, and he came knocking to try and save my life. Too bad for you, huh baby?'
The motel operator will say, 'Just doing my job.' The prostitute will kiss his cheek. You'll get the sense they're kind of an item now.
They'll ask for your story, and you'll tell them about the truck stop and the crank and the paranoid shouting that resulted in a telephone being buried in your head.
'He seemed so nice,' you'll say. 'Then he just turned into a monster. I don't know why he did it.'
A voice behind you will say, 'Just got carried away I guess.'
You'll turn and you'll gasp when you see his face. It's him, your killer, but with a pair of crystal clear eyes and a face that looks decades younger, like the years of abuse have been washed away. If this is how he looks, you suddenly want to get to a mirror because you must look fantastic.
'All that crank just kind of fried me,' he'll say. 'I'm really sorry.'
'How'd you get here?' you'll ask.
'I sparked up right next to your dead body and OD'd,' he'll say. 'Heart attack. They found the both of us dead side by side and it took them a while to figure out what the hell happened.'
You'll laugh in spite of yourself. 'I bet,' you'll say.
He'll say, 'No hard feelings?'
You'll lift your goblet and touch it against his. 'To room 103,' you'll say.
The others will hear your toast and raise their goblets in kind. 'To room 103,' they'll shout, and the lot of you will sip from your drinks, feeling a sense of belonging deeper than anything you ever felt while you were still alive.
Happy Heaven, Room 103 Day!
Friday, November 03, 2006
Fuck Boat Day!
Four months ago, right when the papers on your divorce were finalized, you bought a ticket on the Fuck Boat, an orgy cruise of the Caribbean. You figured it was time for you to get back out there, and the brochure said that most of the Fuck Boat's passengers are your age (55) or older. You were really looking forward to it. And then you got the call.
'I miss you,' your now ex-wife said over the phone just twelve hours before your cruise was scheduled to depart.
'I'm going on the Fuck Boat tomorrow,' you said.
'But I want you back,' she said. 'You can take your vacation, but I haven't seen anyone else yet. If you're thinking that we have another shot at it, I'd appreciate if you didn't have sex with anyone else.'
You said, 'But it's the Fuck Boat.'
Today you'll be leaning on the railing surrounding the pool deck, staring out at the sea. Just behind you, eighteen middle-to-senior aged people will be fornicating on series of four-person rafts floating in the pool. One of the women, very pretty and young (41) will join you at the railing and ask you if you'd like to jump in and join the fun.
'I'm still not sure,' you'll say.
She'll smile a pretty smile. 'It's only a four-day cruise,' she'll say. 'Better make your decision pretty quick. But you're not going to get a clear head by depriving yourself of the fun you came here to have.'
The woman will then run back to the pool and dive in. She's right, you'll realize. You bought this trip for yourself as a divorced man, and your decision to ride the Fuck Boat was made with the knowledge that it would affect only you and you alone. If your ex-wife had a change of heart and chose to barge back into your life at a point when she might get hurt, that's her decision. You don't know if her heart will change again by the time you get back, and until you're sure that you want to try again you should live your life the way you want. That's why you're going to stop frowning at the ocean, you're going to pull your swim trunks down around your ankles, and you're going to taking a running leap into the pool full of pale and slack flesh waiting for you. It's only a four-day cruise. Just like you have to decide whether you want to get back together with an overworked tax attorney who is prone to scolding more than cuddling, your ex can decide whether she wants to get back together with a middle-aged biophysicist who just got off the Fuck Boat after a four day cruise, and he spent every day making sure it was money well spent.
Happy Fuck Boat Day!
'I miss you,' your now ex-wife said over the phone just twelve hours before your cruise was scheduled to depart.
'I'm going on the Fuck Boat tomorrow,' you said.
'But I want you back,' she said. 'You can take your vacation, but I haven't seen anyone else yet. If you're thinking that we have another shot at it, I'd appreciate if you didn't have sex with anyone else.'
You said, 'But it's the Fuck Boat.'
Today you'll be leaning on the railing surrounding the pool deck, staring out at the sea. Just behind you, eighteen middle-to-senior aged people will be fornicating on series of four-person rafts floating in the pool. One of the women, very pretty and young (41) will join you at the railing and ask you if you'd like to jump in and join the fun.
'I'm still not sure,' you'll say.
She'll smile a pretty smile. 'It's only a four-day cruise,' she'll say. 'Better make your decision pretty quick. But you're not going to get a clear head by depriving yourself of the fun you came here to have.'
The woman will then run back to the pool and dive in. She's right, you'll realize. You bought this trip for yourself as a divorced man, and your decision to ride the Fuck Boat was made with the knowledge that it would affect only you and you alone. If your ex-wife had a change of heart and chose to barge back into your life at a point when she might get hurt, that's her decision. You don't know if her heart will change again by the time you get back, and until you're sure that you want to try again you should live your life the way you want. That's why you're going to stop frowning at the ocean, you're going to pull your swim trunks down around your ankles, and you're going to taking a running leap into the pool full of pale and slack flesh waiting for you. It's only a four-day cruise. Just like you have to decide whether you want to get back together with an overworked tax attorney who is prone to scolding more than cuddling, your ex can decide whether she wants to get back together with a middle-aged biophysicist who just got off the Fuck Boat after a four day cruise, and he spent every day making sure it was money well spent.
Happy Fuck Boat Day!
Thursday, November 02, 2006
You Just Inherited Millions From That Lonely Old Man You Robbed Day!
Today a lawyer is going to come to your house and read you the will of that lonely old guy you robbed six years ago, the one who came into the bedroom while you were rooting through his drawers. You tied him up and he started talking a mile a minute while you were there. He asked you all sorts of questions about the modern world and you answered him honestly from your street-smart point of view. He found your candor refreshing and he talked on and on, not even seeming to mind that you were upending his bedroom, just as long as you continued to engage him. Before you left, he called you a wise and honest young man and he thanked you for your time. Then you stuffed one of his socks in his mouth, shoved the chair he was tied to over on its side, and took off. You were never caught.
The lawyer will read, 'To the straight shooter who robbed me six years ago and was more honest and direct with me than all the yes-man assistants I have ever employed, and who was far more endearing than anyone in that terrible family I failed to raise, and who in my final years gave me a glimpse of what it is to truly grasp and grab for an existence, I leave everything.'
You'll jump up and down, waking your baby. Unfortunately, the family will contest the will for years and years. You'll be front page news for a very long time with everyone wanting to know what you and the old man talked about. You'll keep it to yourself until you're given a huge deal to write a book called, 'The Old Man and The Burglar.' You'll recreate the night in that book, throwing in lots of fabricated details about you telling the old man what it's like to grow up in the projects and the old man teaching you about the sacrifice people like him made for their country during World War II. You'll write scenes in which you and the old man cry together, and one scene where you even kiss each other on the lips. It will be a huge hit, and you'll be glad you chose not to tell the real story about how the old man only asked questions about whether modern girls were taking it 'in the pooper' and how long it took before they let you 'put in the pooper' and whether 'the pooper' feels as good as he'd always dreamed it would those 91 years he spent on this Earth. Print the legend.
Happy You Just Inherited Millions From That Lonely Old Man You Robbed Day!
The lawyer will read, 'To the straight shooter who robbed me six years ago and was more honest and direct with me than all the yes-man assistants I have ever employed, and who was far more endearing than anyone in that terrible family I failed to raise, and who in my final years gave me a glimpse of what it is to truly grasp and grab for an existence, I leave everything.'
You'll jump up and down, waking your baby. Unfortunately, the family will contest the will for years and years. You'll be front page news for a very long time with everyone wanting to know what you and the old man talked about. You'll keep it to yourself until you're given a huge deal to write a book called, 'The Old Man and The Burglar.' You'll recreate the night in that book, throwing in lots of fabricated details about you telling the old man what it's like to grow up in the projects and the old man teaching you about the sacrifice people like him made for their country during World War II. You'll write scenes in which you and the old man cry together, and one scene where you even kiss each other on the lips. It will be a huge hit, and you'll be glad you chose not to tell the real story about how the old man only asked questions about whether modern girls were taking it 'in the pooper' and how long it took before they let you 'put in the pooper' and whether 'the pooper' feels as good as he'd always dreamed it would those 91 years he spent on this Earth. Print the legend.
Happy You Just Inherited Millions From That Lonely Old Man You Robbed Day!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Clip-On Ties Day!
Last week you went to a psychic and she told you to always wear clip-on ties. You told her that you only wanted to find out who you should make a play for at work, but she said the only thing she could see in your future is a need to wear clip-ons. You told her you wanted your money back and she said that in addition to the clip-on thing, if you ask her for your money back you'll end up regretting it. 'I have brothers,' she said. You told her to fuck herself and give you your money back anyway, so she did.
Today one of her brothers will come to kick your ass and you're going to get into a big cliff-side fist-fight with him. You'll end up shoving the psychic's brother over the edge and when he starts to tumble backwards, he'll grab your tie to try and take you with him. Luckily, though you thought she was a charlatan, you'll have taken that psychic's visions to heart and her brother will yank your clip-on right off of your shirt and go flying to his death on the rocks below with the tie still clutched tight in his fist.
After you lean over the cliff and spit on the body, you'll go find that psychic and tell her she is truly a woman blessed with a vision. You'll give her the money you owed for that first reading and you'll tell her she was even right about you regretting taking the money back because if you hadn't, you might not be feeling bad right now about killing her brother in a first-fight.
'You're very honest,' you'll say. 'You obviously knew it was your brother who would grab that tie and you didn't have to tell me to wear a clip-on, but you knew it would save my life so you told me.'
She'll tell you that she had no idea her brother would die in a fight with you. Her brothers are really tough and she assumed they'd beat your ass bloody. She told you to wear a clip-on because when she tried to see into your workplace and figure who you should make a move on, all she could see was you leaning way to close to the paper shredder and your tie getting caught in the blades on the day of your performance review. She'll tell you she wishes she had told you to wear a noose for a tie so her brother could have grabbed the rope and snapped your neck with one quick yank before he died. She'll warn you that she knows a firestarter so don't be surprised if one of these days you're walking down the street and all of a sudden you just explode into a superhot motherfucking fireball.
Then she'll throw your money back at you and say, 'Now go find another psychic who's willing to help you get your candyass laid.'
You'll walk out sad. Once a week for the rest of your life, you'll visit the psychic's brother's grave to lay flowers on the soil. But the rest of your life only lasts five weeks before your belt bursts into flames and burns you in two.
Happy Clip-On Ties Day!
Today one of her brothers will come to kick your ass and you're going to get into a big cliff-side fist-fight with him. You'll end up shoving the psychic's brother over the edge and when he starts to tumble backwards, he'll grab your tie to try and take you with him. Luckily, though you thought she was a charlatan, you'll have taken that psychic's visions to heart and her brother will yank your clip-on right off of your shirt and go flying to his death on the rocks below with the tie still clutched tight in his fist.
After you lean over the cliff and spit on the body, you'll go find that psychic and tell her she is truly a woman blessed with a vision. You'll give her the money you owed for that first reading and you'll tell her she was even right about you regretting taking the money back because if you hadn't, you might not be feeling bad right now about killing her brother in a first-fight.
'You're very honest,' you'll say. 'You obviously knew it was your brother who would grab that tie and you didn't have to tell me to wear a clip-on, but you knew it would save my life so you told me.'
She'll tell you that she had no idea her brother would die in a fight with you. Her brothers are really tough and she assumed they'd beat your ass bloody. She told you to wear a clip-on because when she tried to see into your workplace and figure who you should make a move on, all she could see was you leaning way to close to the paper shredder and your tie getting caught in the blades on the day of your performance review. She'll tell you she wishes she had told you to wear a noose for a tie so her brother could have grabbed the rope and snapped your neck with one quick yank before he died. She'll warn you that she knows a firestarter so don't be surprised if one of these days you're walking down the street and all of a sudden you just explode into a superhot motherfucking fireball.
Then she'll throw your money back at you and say, 'Now go find another psychic who's willing to help you get your candyass laid.'
You'll walk out sad. Once a week for the rest of your life, you'll visit the psychic's brother's grave to lay flowers on the soil. But the rest of your life only lasts five weeks before your belt bursts into flames and burns you in two.
Happy Clip-On Ties Day!
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
The Butcher's Thumb Day!
Today at the Taste of Italy festival, the butcher you've always had your eye on will be so distracted by your pretty face that he'll accidentally chop off his thumb while chopping up sausage and peppers to make you a sausage and peppers hero. You'll run and buy a sno-cone without any flavoring, then you'll shove the thumb inside the sno-cone and hop inside the ambulance.
On the ride to the ambulance he'll scream and yell about the pain and how if the thumb doesn't get reattached his career will be over. 'No one will buy food from a butcher with a missing digit,' he'll say. 'It makes people think there'll be thumbs and pinkies in everything I sell.'
You'll tell the butcher not to worry, that if he can't get his thumb reattached, you promise to take care of him. He'll say you're damn right you'll take care of him since your pretty face is the reason he chopped his thumb off in the first place. You'll sprinkle ice on his forehead and stroke his hair, all the while secretly hoping that they won't be able to reattach his thumb so that you'll finally have a live-in boyfriend.
After a marathon surgery, they'll reattach his thumb and he'll be overjoyed and excited to go back to his business. You'll be happy for him, but heartsick for yourself. You'll be shocked that it didn't even mean anything to him that you would pledge to take care of him forever as penance for what anyone would see was an accident resulting from the butcher's own carelessness. You'll be furious with him and you'll stay as far away from his butcher shop as possible.
After many months of eating terrible meat, you'll finally return to his butcher shop. When he sees you, he'll stop in his tracks. He'll ignore all of the other customers holding numbered tickets and he'll go straight to you. You'll tell him to wrap you up a rib-eye for one. He'll ask how you are and you'll ask him why he cares. He has his store, his career, everything he wants. You'll ask him again to wrap you up your steak.
He'll cut you a piece of meat and package it up in a bag, then he'll tell you that he hasn't been able to stop thinking about you and that you're more important than any stupid butcher shop. To prove it, he'll chop off his thumb again and he'll say, 'You promised you'd take care of me forever.'
You'll burst into tears of joy, then you'll put the thumb on ice and rush him to the hospital to have it reattached. You'll promise again that you will take care of him forever, but you don't want him to lose his butcher shop because you were hoping to not have to work anymore once you find a fella.
Happy The Butcher's Thumb Day!
On the ride to the ambulance he'll scream and yell about the pain and how if the thumb doesn't get reattached his career will be over. 'No one will buy food from a butcher with a missing digit,' he'll say. 'It makes people think there'll be thumbs and pinkies in everything I sell.'
You'll tell the butcher not to worry, that if he can't get his thumb reattached, you promise to take care of him. He'll say you're damn right you'll take care of him since your pretty face is the reason he chopped his thumb off in the first place. You'll sprinkle ice on his forehead and stroke his hair, all the while secretly hoping that they won't be able to reattach his thumb so that you'll finally have a live-in boyfriend.
After a marathon surgery, they'll reattach his thumb and he'll be overjoyed and excited to go back to his business. You'll be happy for him, but heartsick for yourself. You'll be shocked that it didn't even mean anything to him that you would pledge to take care of him forever as penance for what anyone would see was an accident resulting from the butcher's own carelessness. You'll be furious with him and you'll stay as far away from his butcher shop as possible.
After many months of eating terrible meat, you'll finally return to his butcher shop. When he sees you, he'll stop in his tracks. He'll ignore all of the other customers holding numbered tickets and he'll go straight to you. You'll tell him to wrap you up a rib-eye for one. He'll ask how you are and you'll ask him why he cares. He has his store, his career, everything he wants. You'll ask him again to wrap you up your steak.
He'll cut you a piece of meat and package it up in a bag, then he'll tell you that he hasn't been able to stop thinking about you and that you're more important than any stupid butcher shop. To prove it, he'll chop off his thumb again and he'll say, 'You promised you'd take care of me forever.'
You'll burst into tears of joy, then you'll put the thumb on ice and rush him to the hospital to have it reattached. You'll promise again that you will take care of him forever, but you don't want him to lose his butcher shop because you were hoping to not have to work anymore once you find a fella.
Happy The Butcher's Thumb Day!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Wear A Wire Day!
The police found out that you smoke marijuana (there are cameras everywhere, just like you always said). They made you a deal: you wear a wire and help them catch your dealer, or you go to jail for twenty years.
You'll talk it over with your wife. 'They told me that if I go to jail, they'll talk to some inmates and make sure that my jail-time is really hard on me. Lots of teasing, they said.'
Your wife will tell you that in jail, teasing means that when they come into your cell to rape you, they let you run around and beg and plead for them not to do it first. It tires you out and they feel like it makes the whole affair a little more romantic.
You'll run it by your boss (you are the Chief Financial Officer of Prudential Securities). 'If I don't wear this wire during a drug buy, I'd have to take a pretty long leave of absence. I was wondering, is there any kind of jail-time compensation? Because if not, there really should be. I mean it sends a bad message if the company doesn't take care of anybody unless they get knocked up first. It's like you're condoning unsafe sex.'
Your boss will tell you that you need to talk to HR. 'Let me know what you find out,' he'll say. 'And if you decide to wear the wire, break a leg.'
Finally, you'll ask your daughter's teachers when you pick her up from school. Your daughter's teachers all have a big crush on you because you're rich and you seem to care for your child. They'll tell you to wear the wire. 'They're the police,' your daughter's teachers will say. 'Do what they tell you. The police are good.'
You'll agree to wear the wire tonight when you go to your drug dealer's house. She's a neighbor, an older woman who grows pot in her basement. At first the visit will go like normal. You'll sit down for some crackers and a beer. You'll talk about how your daughter's doing in school and she'll talk about hers. (Your daughters play together sometimes.) You'll talk about politics for a little bit, then you'll look at your watch and you'll ask her if you can buy the pot you came to buy. When she says yes, policemen will fly through her windows and doors and shoot her until her head's gone. For as long as you live, you'll never be able to smoke up without remembering her fondly.
Happy Wear A Wire Day!
You'll talk it over with your wife. 'They told me that if I go to jail, they'll talk to some inmates and make sure that my jail-time is really hard on me. Lots of teasing, they said.'
Your wife will tell you that in jail, teasing means that when they come into your cell to rape you, they let you run around and beg and plead for them not to do it first. It tires you out and they feel like it makes the whole affair a little more romantic.
You'll run it by your boss (you are the Chief Financial Officer of Prudential Securities). 'If I don't wear this wire during a drug buy, I'd have to take a pretty long leave of absence. I was wondering, is there any kind of jail-time compensation? Because if not, there really should be. I mean it sends a bad message if the company doesn't take care of anybody unless they get knocked up first. It's like you're condoning unsafe sex.'
Your boss will tell you that you need to talk to HR. 'Let me know what you find out,' he'll say. 'And if you decide to wear the wire, break a leg.'
Finally, you'll ask your daughter's teachers when you pick her up from school. Your daughter's teachers all have a big crush on you because you're rich and you seem to care for your child. They'll tell you to wear the wire. 'They're the police,' your daughter's teachers will say. 'Do what they tell you. The police are good.'
You'll agree to wear the wire tonight when you go to your drug dealer's house. She's a neighbor, an older woman who grows pot in her basement. At first the visit will go like normal. You'll sit down for some crackers and a beer. You'll talk about how your daughter's doing in school and she'll talk about hers. (Your daughters play together sometimes.) You'll talk about politics for a little bit, then you'll look at your watch and you'll ask her if you can buy the pot you came to buy. When she says yes, policemen will fly through her windows and doors and shoot her until her head's gone. For as long as you live, you'll never be able to smoke up without remembering her fondly.
Happy Wear A Wire Day!
Friday, October 27, 2006
You Are An Aspiring Daredevil Day!
It's hard to get up and go to your day job every morning when you know your time would be better spent trying to perfect the stunt where you light a brick wall on fire and crash a motorcycle into it. Keeping your eyes on the prize can be tough when you're spending all day behind a desk answering phones and juggling the calendars for a bunch of multi-millionaire patent lawyers. Everyone has to pay their dues. You just can't help but wonder how long it'll be before you're paid up. Sadly, today is really going to put your resolve to the test.
When you get into work, you'll be summoned to HR where you're told that all of your sick days have been used up and you'll have to take an unpaid leave of absence if you stay out with so much as a cold before the end of the year.
'Maybe you need to allow for the fact that human beings aren't robots!' you'll argue. 'We get ill and we need time off.'
The HR rep will explain that the accrual of sick days works for most employees and you just happen to be unique. 'Three comas in one six-month period can really chew up your bank of days,' she'll say. 'Perhaps if you were more careful?'
'What the hell is that supposed to mean?' you'll ask.
The rep will close her mouth up tight and she'll keep her eyes on your file.
'You knew what I did when I started working here and you said your firm was very supportive of admin employees pursuing other careers.'
'We didn't realize the toll your craft would take on your job performance,' she'll say. 'I admit when you told us you were a daredevil I just thought you were some kind of 'bad boy' magician, or that you went out on the weekends and drank horse semen or something. I didn't know you'd spend every Saturday intentionally setting yourself on fire.'
'What about all the actors and singers who leave for auditions every day?' you'll ask.
'Actors and singers don't have eleven hospital stays a year,' she'll say. 'Do you know that you've single-handedly drained our condolences budget? All those get well baskets we sent you cleaned us out. If any of your coworkers has a death in the family they're not getting any flowers, thanks to you.'
You'll fight it out some more, explaining to her that the firm should be happy to have people with diverse interests on the staff. She'll counter that some clients have remarked on having to stare at the second-degree burns all over your face and how it makes them very uncomfortable while in the waiting room, especially when the bandages have just been removed and all of the wounds are still damp. You'll challenge her to ask you to quit pursuing your career as daredevil, but she won't fall for it, knowing full well that you could have a lawsuit on your hands if they ever let you go for something you warned them about before they hired you. Instead, she'll say 'Pursue your craft as much as you want. Just don't get injured.' Which she full well knows is damned impossible. Any stunt that you can develop without any injuries is a stunt that's not worth you zipping up your silver jumpsuit. It looks like you're going to have to find a more understanding day job.
You'll go home frustrated as always, intending to drink a lot and complain to your girlfriend about what a long hard road it is to that elusive big break. But when you get home, your girlfriend will be standing next to a packed suitcase. She'll say that her back hurts from having to sleep in a chair in your hospital room all the time and that at first trying to have sex through a body cast was sort of new, but lately it's just been a chore.
Say, 'Everyone is conspiring to make me give up my dream!'
She'll say that she just wants a boyfriend who doesn't lose consciousness for three months out of the year. You'll call her selfish and you'll suggest that maybe she should look into why she needs so much attention. Your girlfriend will tell you to blow yourself, and to remember to set yourself on fire first and videotape it.
Happy You Are An Aspiring Daredevil Day!
When you get into work, you'll be summoned to HR where you're told that all of your sick days have been used up and you'll have to take an unpaid leave of absence if you stay out with so much as a cold before the end of the year.
'Maybe you need to allow for the fact that human beings aren't robots!' you'll argue. 'We get ill and we need time off.'
The HR rep will explain that the accrual of sick days works for most employees and you just happen to be unique. 'Three comas in one six-month period can really chew up your bank of days,' she'll say. 'Perhaps if you were more careful?'
'What the hell is that supposed to mean?' you'll ask.
The rep will close her mouth up tight and she'll keep her eyes on your file.
'You knew what I did when I started working here and you said your firm was very supportive of admin employees pursuing other careers.'
'We didn't realize the toll your craft would take on your job performance,' she'll say. 'I admit when you told us you were a daredevil I just thought you were some kind of 'bad boy' magician, or that you went out on the weekends and drank horse semen or something. I didn't know you'd spend every Saturday intentionally setting yourself on fire.'
'What about all the actors and singers who leave for auditions every day?' you'll ask.
'Actors and singers don't have eleven hospital stays a year,' she'll say. 'Do you know that you've single-handedly drained our condolences budget? All those get well baskets we sent you cleaned us out. If any of your coworkers has a death in the family they're not getting any flowers, thanks to you.'
You'll fight it out some more, explaining to her that the firm should be happy to have people with diverse interests on the staff. She'll counter that some clients have remarked on having to stare at the second-degree burns all over your face and how it makes them very uncomfortable while in the waiting room, especially when the bandages have just been removed and all of the wounds are still damp. You'll challenge her to ask you to quit pursuing your career as daredevil, but she won't fall for it, knowing full well that you could have a lawsuit on your hands if they ever let you go for something you warned them about before they hired you. Instead, she'll say 'Pursue your craft as much as you want. Just don't get injured.' Which she full well knows is damned impossible. Any stunt that you can develop without any injuries is a stunt that's not worth you zipping up your silver jumpsuit. It looks like you're going to have to find a more understanding day job.
You'll go home frustrated as always, intending to drink a lot and complain to your girlfriend about what a long hard road it is to that elusive big break. But when you get home, your girlfriend will be standing next to a packed suitcase. She'll say that her back hurts from having to sleep in a chair in your hospital room all the time and that at first trying to have sex through a body cast was sort of new, but lately it's just been a chore.
Say, 'Everyone is conspiring to make me give up my dream!'
She'll say that she just wants a boyfriend who doesn't lose consciousness for three months out of the year. You'll call her selfish and you'll suggest that maybe she should look into why she needs so much attention. Your girlfriend will tell you to blow yourself, and to remember to set yourself on fire first and videotape it.
Happy You Are An Aspiring Daredevil Day!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Tell Matt You Don't Want To Be His Accountability Buddy Anymore Day!
You and Matt met at a church group and you both expressed anger at how easily pornography can be accessed over the internet, and what a sad and lonely thing it is that so many people appease their sexual urges by visiting those sites. Matt suggested that you both install Accountability Buddy software, which is set up so that anytime one of you visits a pornographic website, your computer sends an email to the other with the URL of the adult site. Sounded perfect to you, so you went right home and set it all up.
Today you're going to tell Matt that you don't want to be his accountability buddy anymore. Having the software on your computer has helped you to avoid viewing any online pornography, since you couldn't bare to face Matt if he knew what you'd been looking at. Matt, however, has not been able to stay away. In fact, you immediately started receiving two or three emails a day containing long lists of pornographic URLs that he's visited. As the days passed, the list only seemed to grow. His computer was sending yours so many emails that you ended up just automatically sending them all to your spam folder.
The way it's supposed to work out is after you get one of those emails you were supposed to call Matt and confront him. You did that after the first day or two, but then you were getting so many that you didn't know how to deal with it. That's when Matt would call you and ask, 'Did you get a look at that site?' You'd tell him you found the site repulsive, and he'd say, 'Oh yeah, totally. What about the other one? Did you check that out?' The way he always seemed to be out of breath when he spoke made you suspicious that Matt just set this software up because he gets turned on knowing that someone knows what he's masturbating to. Confront him today.
'Heck yes,' Matt will say. 'There's no hotter way to masturbate. You're the one who talked about how lonely it can be to look at web-porn! This is the answer buddy!'
Tell Matt you're not his buddy anymore. He'll grab your lapels and demand to know what he's supposed to do now. 'Those emails can't just go into the ether, man!'
Give Matt the address of a secular support group for men who are addicted to web porn. 'Go to these meetings,' say. 'They can help you.'
You know the meetings are most likely just a bunch of guys looking for other guys to receive their 'I'm looking at porn, check it out!' emails. But at least it's outside the church. For God's sake, get that man's hands away from Christ.
Happy Tell Matt You Don't Want To Be His Accountability Buddy Anymore Day!
Today you're going to tell Matt that you don't want to be his accountability buddy anymore. Having the software on your computer has helped you to avoid viewing any online pornography, since you couldn't bare to face Matt if he knew what you'd been looking at. Matt, however, has not been able to stay away. In fact, you immediately started receiving two or three emails a day containing long lists of pornographic URLs that he's visited. As the days passed, the list only seemed to grow. His computer was sending yours so many emails that you ended up just automatically sending them all to your spam folder.
The way it's supposed to work out is after you get one of those emails you were supposed to call Matt and confront him. You did that after the first day or two, but then you were getting so many that you didn't know how to deal with it. That's when Matt would call you and ask, 'Did you get a look at that site?' You'd tell him you found the site repulsive, and he'd say, 'Oh yeah, totally. What about the other one? Did you check that out?' The way he always seemed to be out of breath when he spoke made you suspicious that Matt just set this software up because he gets turned on knowing that someone knows what he's masturbating to. Confront him today.
'Heck yes,' Matt will say. 'There's no hotter way to masturbate. You're the one who talked about how lonely it can be to look at web-porn! This is the answer buddy!'
Tell Matt you're not his buddy anymore. He'll grab your lapels and demand to know what he's supposed to do now. 'Those emails can't just go into the ether, man!'
Give Matt the address of a secular support group for men who are addicted to web porn. 'Go to these meetings,' say. 'They can help you.'
You know the meetings are most likely just a bunch of guys looking for other guys to receive their 'I'm looking at porn, check it out!' emails. But at least it's outside the church. For God's sake, get that man's hands away from Christ.
Happy Tell Matt You Don't Want To Be His Accountability Buddy Anymore Day!
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