"You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" Day!

FYI: If you haven't heard, Bob Powers' new "choose-your-own-ending" style humor book (for adults who are 33 and failing) is out today. Go check it out!

"You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" Day!

You publish a magazine devoted to the Buick LeSabre. It includes all sorts of celebratory personal essays as well as fan-fiction written from the point of view of sentient Buick LeSabres who can love. Today you're going to get a call that one of your readers has taken a Buick dealership hostage because they've been putting their LeSabres in the back of the lot, away from street-view, and he won't let them go unless you show up and talk to him for a while about how awesome the Buick LeSabre is. You refuse because you're scared. Everyone at the Buick dealership is murdered execution style on the showroom floor.

Happy "You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" Day!

PS:

"Miserable Excuse" excerpt up on the HuffPost

The Huffington Post ran an excerpt from my new book, out this Tuesday. Check it out.

And you can find a much longer sample, with many of the different outcomes, HERE! Give it a read.

Happy Memorial Day.

You're All Outta Love Day!

You're all outta love and you're only 46.

"I blew my love on a whole lotta people who didn't deserve it," you say at the dinner table, eyeing your two sons with scorn. Your two sons both give you the finger in response.

"Are you sure you didn't leave some of your love in your other pants," your wife says pointedly. She knows about the affair with the lady who sells you your pears.

"I should have been more miserly," you say, ignoring your wife. "What kind of man am I going to be now?"

Everyone sits and waits for you to do something that a man who's all outta love might do. Nothing happens. They get hungry and start eating again.

"Pass the salt," your son says.

"Nope," you say.

Everyone drops their forks to their plates and gasps. You realize what you've become and you drop your face into your hands and shriek.

Happy You're All Outta Love Day!

PS: Preorder YOU ARE A MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A HERO, the new book by Bob Powers. Out May 27th!

Sex Bus Day!

You were the sole survivor of the Great Christmas Eve Sex Bus crash of 2006. You barely remember a thing after the bus crashed through the guardrail and broke through the ice on the frozen over lake. There was screaming and there was cold, and then you were lying topless on a muddy bank feeling nothing but a sharp pain behind your eyes. You have no idea why you were the only one to not get trapped inside that sinking bus along with the rest of the exotic dancers, prostitutes, and Teflon salesmen. Some say you were lucky. Others, the families of the dead, they say you were cursed. You're inclined to agree with them.

You're presently paralyzed from the waist down and your heart is broken in two because before the sex bus crash you were engaged to be married to Lenny, the owner and proprietor of Sex Bus Tours Incorporated. Lenny was driving that night. You were all the way in the back of the bus tending bar. In between were twenty-six traveling Teflon salesmen and a staff of half-nude to completely nude women giving the salesmen a Christmas Eve they would never forget. You keep going back to that night, trying harder and harder to remember the moments after the crash. You try to put yourself back there and you try to see down the cabin of the bus, peering through the mass of naked flesh and bulbous middle-aged man to catch a glimpse of your Lenny.

You're certain he would have looked back at you at the end. Even if there were only a millisecond of time, he would have put his eyes to his mirror to find you and make sure you were all right. And you would most definitely have been looking for him. You just want to remember that one last look. You want to remember the last time you saw those eyes.

You start seeing hypnotists to take you back to that night, but the Sex Bus Crash is a spooky event in your town and many hypnotists refuse your business because they don't want you to take them there. Finally, one consents to do whatever it takes to free up your memories of that night.

It's rough going, but after many sessions with the therapist you finally find yourself transported onto that bus, experiencing the crash all over again like it was happening in the present. You search the cabin, peering past all the dancers and Teflon salesmen until you finally catch a glimpse of the driver's seat...and you find it empty. Empty with the exit door open.

"But I buried him," you say. "They brought up his body and I put him in the ground."

"Did you identify him?" the hypnotist asks.

You can barely breathe. It's like you're still in that lake.

"He was underwater too long, they said," you tell the hypnotist, realizing now that the only reason you're alive is because your Lenny must have jumped out of the sex bus just before the crash, then he swam to the rear entrance and pulled you out.

And then he disappeared. Why, you have no idea. But it's time to go find out...

Happy Sex Bus Day!

PS: Pre-Order "YOU ARE A MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A HERO," the new book by Bob Powers. Out next Tuesday, May 27th.

Hooker Wisdom Day!

Of all the Hookers on your block, Charlene is your favorite. The others are too busy looking for Johns or worrying about the cops to pay attention to you, but Charlene always takes notice of you when you come home at night. Unless she’s leaning inside a stranger’s car trying to make a sale, she’ll be sure to give you a snappy remark or quip that is infused with the wisdom of the streets. You’ll never forget all the clever truisms she’s given you over the years:

“If you get hit by a car, try to find someone who’ll take you to the hospital.”

“Hey sugar. Don’t eat uncooked chicken. It’ll make you sick.”

“What’s up stud? If you have a lot of money, keep it in the bank. They’ll give you interest.”

You always nod and reply with a “You got it Charlene, have a good night!” Then you head upstairs and put your head on your pillow to think about what Charlene said to you.

Tonight you’ll come walking home and you’ll be excited to see Charlene unoccupied. You’ve been feeling a little lost lately and you could use some good advice. When Charlene sees you, she spreads her smile wide and shows you those beautiful white teeth of hers.

“Hey Charlene,” you say.

“Hey handsome,” Charlene says back. “You know what they say don’t you?”

“What’s that Charlene?”

“No matter how much you want to drive a car, you need to get a license first. It’s illegal otherwise. You can still do it without a license, but if you got pulled over, you could get into a lot of trouble. Unless you could convince the policeman that you were on your way to an emergency or something, but that’d be pretty hard to pull off.”

You stay right where you are and you let those words of Charlene’s sink in. Your head is swimming and you can’t help it. As embarrassing as it is in front of all those hookers and all those Johns, Charlene’s words make you just drop to your knees and sob. Charlene rubs your shoulder gently with one hand while you cry before her. Then she tells you to “Get up and do what you gotta do.”

You wipe your tears away and you nod. Then you go upstairs. You turn on that television. And you watch a rerun of “King of Queens.” As you watch, you think to yourself, “Charlene was right. You really can’t drive a car unless you get a license first because it’s illegal otherwise. You can still do it without a license, but if you get pulled over you could get into a lot of trouble. You could try to convince the policeman you had an emergency, but that’s hard.”

You keep watching “King of Queens,” all the while thinking to yourself, “Thank you Charlene. Thank you.”

PS: Take a break from pre-ordering my book to pre-order Rebecca Barry's LATER, AT THE BAR, a fantastic book of fiction about upstate New York drunks, out next week in paperback. It's Girls Are Pretty Approved!

Bodybuilders Should Date Bodybuilders Day!

You're a bodybuilder who loves to whale on your abs and glutes, and you're falling in love with a girl who barely weighs a hundred pounds and doesn't have a muscle on her whole body. Your bodybuilder friends are really rude to her when you bring her to Muscle Beach.

"What are you doing with that softy dude? Bodybuilders stick with bodybuilders. We understand each other's need to whale on our delts," your best friend counsels you.

"I don't see why we have to be so limited in our perspective," you tell him. "There's strength of heart too, you know."

What are you gonna do if you move in with that girl and you want to arm wrestle somebody?" your friend says. "Heck you'll probably rip her arm out of her socket during a thumb wrestling match."

Your girlfriend will over hear this exchange and she'll leave a note in your mailbox telling you that she loves you but she doesn't want to cause you any trouble with your bodybuilding social circles. You'll run and track her down but it'll be too late. She'll have already enlisted in the army and been shipped off to Iraq.

Happy Bodybuilders Should Date Bodybuilders Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

It’s Your Boss’ Birthday Day!

Get him a pony. Just walk it in this morning with a big bow and a “Happy Birthday” ribbon around its neck and park it next to you desk. When your boss asks what’s with the pony, tell him he’ll have to wait until the afternoon when it’s cake-time before he gets his gifts.

Your boss will bring you into his office and tell you to get rid of the pony.

“But I bought it for you,” say. “Don’t you want your present?”

Your boss will say that a pony is inappropriate, and he’ll accuse you of trying to imply that he’s childish.

“So I spent 53,000 dollars on your birthday gift and you accuse me of being underhanded?”

Your boss will apologize.

“You’re a real baby, you know that?” you’ll say.

Your boss will say, there, that’s what he’s talking about.

“You want you rattle baby?”

Your boss will tell you that you go a long long way to try to undermine him. Like the time you built a giant crib and put his desk in the middle of it.

“Just because Dad made me President and you Vice President,” he’ll say.

“I’m two years older than you,” tell him. “I will not take orders from my younger brother. This company is called Linus and Sons. Not Linus and One Son Who’s a Little More Important Than The Other Son, Even Though The Other Son Is Older.”

Your boss will throw his pen at the wall and ask what the Pony’s name is.

“I though you could name him,” tell him.

“I want to name him Aragon,” your boss will say.

“Aragon,” you’ll repeat.

“Aragon,” he’ll say again, with majesty.

You’ll both sit quietly, then, “Thank you for my present.”

Just shrug, then lean out his door and whistle. Aragon will come walking into your boss’s office. You’ll go back to your desk and your boss will spend the rest of the day brushing Aragon’s coat.

Happy It’s Your Boss’ Birthday Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

Middle-Aged Riot Day!

Tomorrow, when they ask who started it all and why, they’ll put your picture on the screen and they’ll show some video of your sons, who will tell a reporter that they haven’t spoken to you since your divorce from their mom and so they can’t say they know why you threw that garbage can through the plate glass window of a Whole Foods. They’ll find your wife tomorrow too, and she’ll tell them that you were very charismatic and she can understand why so many middle-aged men and women followed your lead and started hunting down twenty-year-olds to strip naked and strap to the roofs of cabs so that people still in their offices can toss garbage and sandwich meats from conference room catering trays out their windows and onto the twenty-year-olds’ bellies. They’ll find some of your followers who weren’t put into the police trucks and they’ll ask them if they knew who you were or what they hoped to accomplish.

“HE! IS! OUR! VOICE!” your fifties-ish followers will say. They will be shirtless and they will have bricks in their hands, waiting for the next chance to regroup and tear up the financial district.

No one will know what set you off today. No one will know if you were apprehended or where you were taken. They’ll know only what was done, not why. They’ll know that their parents haven’t been home in a day and they might either be in prison or hitching a ride out of the lives they've spent three decades building.

Late tomorrow, a surveillance video will be accessed and leaked to CNN. It will show a grainy black and white image of you walking out of your office building. The timecode will be today at 3 PM. You’ll stop and crane your head back to catch some raindrops on your tongue. Then you’ll lunge forward and shove a passing bike messenger off of his bike. You’ll stomp on the bike messenger’s torso, and several other middle-aged people who were smoking outside will join you in your beat-down. Then you’ll crane your head back again and howl at the sky. When you take off running, dozens will be following you, as if your howl were a rallying cry. You’re gonna start a middle-aged riot today, and it’s been a long time coming.

Happy Middle-Aged Riot Day!

PS: Buy Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

Have Sex So Forgettable You'll Go Home And Slap Your Mama Day!

Today you should have sex that is so completely forgettable and not even worth the mess that you'll get on a plane and fly back to your mama's house so you can slap her across the face because she never told you sex could be so "eh."

"You're withholding," your Mama will say, rubbing her cheek where you slapped her. "You got that from me."

"But I want to give of myself completely and totally to another," you'll say. "I want to lose myself in strange flesh."

"Psssh," your mother will say. "If you figure out how to do that be sure and send me the handbook when you're done, kay?"

You'll slap your mother again. She'll slap you back and then overturn the coffee table separating the two of you. Both of you grab a weapon and settle this once and for all.

Have Sex So Forgettable You'll Go Home And Slap Your Mama Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

Pay Your Uncle Pete To Ask You To Be An Assassin Day!

At around 1PM today, have your Uncle Pete show up to your social studies class dressed in all black. He’ll knock on the door and the teacher will let him in, thinking he’s a responsible adult who has something important to share. Then he’ll find you and he’ll say what you told him to say, word for word.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your studies, but I can’t take no for an answer when we both know that life as a highly paid killer is your destiny. Will you join our Secret Order of International Assassins? At fourteen you would be the youngest ever to have been recruited, but you will also be the most deadly. You have the gift of bloodshed, and you can use it for good if you take control now.”

He’ll come to your desk and get on his knees.

“Goddammit son, don’t let your evil talent fall into the wrong hands. Kill for us and you’ll earn vast sums of wealth, share the company of beautiful women, and ensure that the United States of America remains the greatest country on the planet.”

Say this to your Uncle.

“Rise.”

Your Uncle will get up from his knees.

“When I finish speaking, you have thirty seconds to leave my presence. Don’t pretend you know what stuff I’m made of. You know nothing of my gifts and you could never comprehend what I am capable of. If I kill, it will be at my own will, not because some nameless customer has paid a bill or a spineless president has let things spiral out of control. I am my own person, and you should respond to me with only one emotion. Fear. Now go, or yours will be the first blood that I shed.”

Your Uncle will then run out of the classroom. Your teacher and classmates will be silent for a minute. Raise your hand and ask your teacher if you can use the hall pass. By the time you return from the bathroom, you will have transformed from the school’s loneliest Magic The Gathering player to the school’s most talented killer who is as conflicted over his gifts as he is highly trained.

You’ll most definitely get invited to the end of the year wippets party in the woods behind the V.A. Hospital. It’s just a question of whose invitation you’ll say yes to, while giving all the others an “I’ll think about it.” Just don’t forget to give your Uncle the 30 bucks you promised him. That unemployed son of a bitch earned his keep this week. If only your Dad thought so.

Happy Pay Your Uncle Pete To Ask You To Be An Assassin Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' newest book, out May 27th!

Stop The Rise In Girl Crime Day!

When you were a little boy and girls would tease you on the playground because you were so cute, you wanted them put behind bars for their crimes. You used to dream that one day you’d have the power to dole out the punishment girls deserve for crossing the line of justice.

When you turned 21 you opened up a private detective’s office, focusing only on solving girl-crime. Your slogan was, “If a girl did it, I’ll chase her for a reasonable fee.”

In your twelve years in operation you had a pretty good record and a pretty lonely life. But the new mayor is a woman and she had your license taken away because she says you’re prejudiced against girls.

“I leave the judging for the judge. I just capture,” you said. “Just so happens I capture girls and girls only.”

The newspaper columnists said you probably only capture girls because you get to pat them down to make sure they don’t have any weapons. You wrote a letter to the editor saying that’s ridiculous because girls are gross. But the rumors persisted.

Since you lost your license, girl crime has risen 740% with over 900 murders attributed to girls. Even girls who seemed to be on the track to a productive, law-abiding life suddenly turned to crime because they saw the opportunity to get away with it. In addition to all the crime, the town has become overrun with sociologists looking to study the girl crime wave and its feminine causes.

The mayor is going to pay a visit to your apartment today, where you’ve been drinking and feeling useless ever since you were stripped of your license, and she’s going to ask you to get back in the detective game and stop girl crime. Naturally, since this is the first time a girl will have been in your apartment, you’ll fall in love with the mayor, and you’ll stop wanting to wipe out girl crime because the mayor will make you think girls aren’t so bad. But the mayor only wants to use you to clean up the town, and when she makes that clear, your broken heart will turn you into an anti-girl vigilante and you’ll go out and fill up the jails and morgues with hundreds of girl outlaws over the course of one weekend. This, now, will make the mayor fall in love with you, but you won’t return her feelings. You fell for a girl’s tricks once, and you’re not gonna let it happen again.

Happy Stop The Rise In Girl Crime Day!

Unfrozen Fart Day!

Your Dad drew up his will, and he wants to have his body frozen when he dies.

“But I want them to freeze me so that the minute I get unfrozen I rip a fart,” you say. “I want them to melt me down in the future, and right when they’re wondering whether my my body can be reanimated to give them information about society in the past, I let fly this rip-roaring Harley Davidson type fart that lasts like two and a half minutes and makes everyone laugh.”

You’re going over the terms of his will, and you just aren’t sure about this.

“Can they do that, Dad?” you ask. “I mean, you’ll be dead when you’re frozen. How can they freeze your dead body in such a way that it will release gas?”

“It’s called science!” your Dad says, hitting you with the stirrer from his martini glass.

You skip down to the part where you inherit everything and you smile. He really does love you.

“I think it’s a great will Dad.”

Your dad tries to fart but can’t.

“Man I hope this works out. It’s worth dying tomorrow if I could be sure that I’d fart ten centuries from now.”

You wish you could relieve his pain, but you’ll have to leave that to the future for now.

Happy Unfrozen Fart Day!

Go And Rescue Your Classmates From The Caved In Crystal Cavern Day!

Your class went on a field trip to the Crystal Cavern but you weren’t allowed to go because you got in trouble for picking up Julie Rigby and running off of school grounds with her over your shoulder during recess. Julie was screaming and yelling for help while you carried her away and several teachers had to chase you across the street and up the next block before you let her go. You explained that you only did it because you like Julie but she thinks you’re fat (you are), so you assumed this is the way it has to be done. Since then you’ve been meeting with your guidance counselor during lunch so he can tell you what you’re allowed to do to girls you like and what’s not allowed and what’s illegal.

Keeping you from the Crystal Caverns trip was a harsh punishment, you thought, but now that they’re all trapped and likely to die in the caved in mine, you wonder whether it was a blessing. If you go and save all your classmates, you can probably lift up any one of your classmates and carry them wherever you like. You’ll be the hero, after all, and heroes get to walk away with whatever they want over their shoulders.

When you start to walk toward the mine’s entrance, the rescue workers laugh at you for being so fat and thinking that you can be of any use. Then you go straight to the pile of rocks and begin hefting the big rocks away from the mass and they wonder if maybe you might really be of some use. Then you pull one rock away and it makes all the others tumble deeper into the mine with a loud rumble. After that the people with the headphones listening for voices under the rocks, they take off their headphones and they shake their heads no. You go on home, wondering if tomorrow there’ll even be anyone left to carry off from the playground now.

Happy Go And Rescue Your Classmates From The Caved In Crystal Cavern Day!

Some Christmas Trees Can Talk and Fight Terrorism Day!

When you were seven you went downstairs on Christmas morning to see what was waiting under the tree for you. In the living room twinkling with tree lights and tinsel, you found a mountain of gifts sitting under the majestic pine raining its dry needles all over the wrapping paper. It was when you started picking up gifts and shaking them that you swear the tree started talking to you.

“Did you say something Christmas tree?” you asked it.

It spoke again. You can’t remember what it said, which is why ever since then you've assumed you were just having a dream that morning. Most of your childhood memories can be relegated to the stuff of dreams, at least until those memories are confirmed by an outside party.

Today, at age 35, you’re going to be woken up when your front door bursts from its hinges and an old, brown Christmas Tree still sprinkled with tinsel comes hopping through your apartment to your bed.

“Why didn’t you kill them?” the Christmas Tree will ask.

It looks like a tree that was thrown to the sidewalk on January 3rd. Except it’s standing on its own stump without a tree stand, and its branches shake around the midsection when it talks.

“You were real?” you ask.

“Christ. Don’t tell me you didn’t believe in me. So much for the wonderment of children.”

“What did you tell me all those years ago?” you ask.

“I told you that the world will end in 2008 unless you kill your parents and brother. You had 27 years for the love of Pete. We can track and gather info and we can collate data, and we can fake passports and bribe the right people, but to actually strike against a target we need humans. We’re only trees after all. We counted on you, man.”

You tell the Christmas tree that you’re pretty sure you’re going crazy right now and you’re going to stop talking to it. The Christmas tree will get frustrated and just to piss you off it will go to your shoe rack and shake it’s branches over your shoes so they’ll fill with needles. Then it will leave.

“Turn on the TV,” the Christmas tree will say before it hops out the door.

You get out of bed and turn on your TV to find photos of your mother, father and brother displayed on the screen, captioned with Eastern European names. The words “Missing Nuke” are displayed above them in scary red letters. The newsman is giving out evacuation instructions to the populace.

“I should have listened to my Christmas Tree,” you’ll think. “Now the whole world is gonna burn.”

You lay back in bed, dizzy but warm in your heart. Finally, at 35, you understand the true meaning of Christmas. Then you see a bright white flash in the east.

Happy Some Christmas Trees Can Talk and Fight Terrorism Day!

You Sure Do Get A Lot Of DUI’s For A Woman Day!

Getting pulled over for your fourth DUI turned out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. It looked like it was going to be the end of your life as a licensed driver, and you were probably even going to have to serve some jail time. Then the judge presiding over your hearing made one fatal mistake.

“You sure do get a lot of DUI’s for a woman,” the judge said.

No one knew what a stir that little statement would cause. A few people in the room even chuckled. But after you got your sentence for community service and AA, you immediately went to the press and told them about the double standard that sways over the county courthouse.

Within days the story about the judge who thinks women should drive less drunk than men swept through the nation and you had your pick of top-notch lawyers fighting to argue your civil rights suit against the County.

“It’s not that women don’t drink and drive just as much as men,” the judge said when interviewed on a local morning show. “It’s just that in my experience, they don’t get caught so much. Their center of gravity is different right? Maybe that helps them drive drunk better.”

But no one bought it. The judge was condemned as a sexist and forced to resign. He later killed himself by closing up his garage and letting the car run idle. Your suit against the County won you a $3 million settlement and you finally got to open that coffee shop you always dreamed about.

You still drink and drive, and you still get caught a lot, but you never have to do any time. None of the judges want you in their court room for even half a second after they saw how you handled their colleague. Which is nice because you used to be afraid to drink certain places knowing how far you'd have to drive home wasted. Funny thing is, now that you can drink and drive all over the place, all you want to do is sit at home and drink alone.

"Weird how that kind of thing works out," you mutter into your glass of bourbon just before it drops to the floor and you fall asleep sitting upright in a living room chair.

Happy You Sure Do Get A Lot Of DUI’s For A Woman Day!

You Can’t Stop Driving Day!

Your ex-girlfriend used to design parking lots and since she left you’ve been unable to park your car without being reminded of her. She hurt you real bad, left you for your landlord, and you just can’t handle knowing that every time you park your car you might be doing it thanks to her ingenuity of drawing straight lines on a paved lot. It’s made it so that every time you get into your car to run an errand, you find yourself unable to park. You just keep driving until you run out of gas or open the door and roll out of the car while it’s still moving, hoping that it crashes lightly into a tree or a river and not some kids.

Your therapist was good enough to give you one last session. He’s running beside your car right now, trying to open the passenger door. He needs you to go slower.

“I’m only going five miles per hour,” you shout at him.

“Slower!” he pants. “I can’t get in!”

“I’m going three miles an hour! If I go any slower I’ll park. I can’t park!”

“I can’t get in. Slower!”

He’s grabbing at the door handle, slapping at it but he can’t seem to get a good enough grip to open it.

“This won’t work! Call me!”

You keep driving and you watch your therapist shrink in the rear view. You look over at the door and realize you forgot to unlock it. You can’t help but burst out laughing. You laugh and you laugh until you see the post office and you roll out of the car to pick up some stamps. The car crashes into a Blockbuster Video, which is convenient since you had to return “Becoming Jane” anyhow. It's sitting on the dash.

Happy You Can’t Stop Driving Day!

Your Lawyer’s Here Day!

He’s got some bad news.

“I did the best I could. But the State won’t allow you to receive your lethal injection from a man dressed in a Boba Fett costume while another man in a Darth Vader costume massages your balls and talks about how you and he are one and the same. And they won’t abduct your mother and make her watch while her exclamations of disgust are pumped into the execution room via a hidden microphone.”

“What about the topless woman in a Greedo mask walking in just as I’m about to die and admitting to me that she shot first?”

“No go,” your lawyer says.

You shake your head in sadness for America. “They call this humane?”

“You shouldn’t have killed those kids,” your lawyer says.

Happy Your Lawyer’s Here Day!

Your Best Friend’s Boyfriend Is Your Boyfriend Now Day!

Your best friend’s boyfriend is knocking on the door. Open it up and he’ll tell you he’s your boyfriend now.

“Okay!” you say. You wrap your arms around him and give him a big kiss. Your first as a couple. “We don’t kiss now,” he says. “Newhart’s on.”

You hand him the remote and you order burritos. “We don’t eat burritos on Tuesdays,” he says. “Tuesday is sandwiches night.”

You throw away the burritos and you and he make some sandwiches. Then you turn off the TV and start having sex.

“We don’t have sex like this,” he says, pulling off your mask. “We have missionary position vagina sex.”

You change-up and it is magical. When you finish, you get up and go look for some marijuana.

“We don’t smoke weed after,” he says. “I lay here and you turn your back to me and cry.”

You’re starting to get the sense that he’s a little set in his ways. “I don’t want to cry,” you say.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he says. “But, when in Rome.”

You both get high, but he doesn’t loosen up. You invite him to take a shower with you, where you start scrubbing his front, but he doesn’t do anything to you.

“We don’t scrub each other’s fronts first,” he says. “I wash your ass for around eighteen minutes and then the water gets cold.”

He washes your ass for only twelve minutes before the water turns freezing.

“This is all wrong!” he shouts as he hops out of the shower hunting for a towel, which isn’t kept where he thinks it should be. Then he complains that the temperature in the apartment is maintained at a lower grade than it should be, and the light bulbs in the fixtures are 60 watt when they should be 75. When he looks in the fridge and finds no string cheese or celery sticks, he tries to pick up the refrigerator and throw it out the window, but he can’t.

“I think you might need a little more time to get over your old girlfriend,” you say. “She’s my best friend and she’s really great. I can understand why you’re having trouble adjusting to her being gone.”

“But I’m your boyfriend,” he says. “You’re just doing everything wrong.”

“I’ve probably already lost my best friend, and it’s just not worth it to trade a wonderful friendship for someone who’s just going to follow me around telling me everything’s wrong,” you say. “Seriously, go back to my best friend, or go home and be alone for a while.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’ll get used to you doing everything incorrectly. Really. Pretty soon, the way you do everything wrong will be the right way to do everything, and by the time I leave you I’ll be pissed off at the way the next girl does stuff because it isn’t the way you did it.”

You can’t help it. You like the thought of some girl two years from now having to put up with hearing how she’s all wrong because she’s not you. You decide it’s worth it. You take a seat on the couch and pull a pillow over your lap.

“You don’t hold pillows,” he says.

“Deal with it,” you say.

The phone rings. It’s your best friend. When you answer, she hangs up.

Happy Your Best Friend’s Boyfriend Is Your Boyfriend Now Day!

You Think You Know What The Smoke Monster Is Day!

You have been living alone for the twelve years since your divorce and you never really had much in your life to keep you occupied until you started watching "Lost." Now you spend all your days commenting in message boards and editing "Lostpedia" with your theories, but many of the other fans think you're a crackpot. The one theory of yours that no one wants to accept is that of the nature and origin of the Smoke Monster.

"It's sexual," you start off. "The smoke monster is an embodiment of the unresolved sexual tension between all of those characters who should be having sex with each other but aren't because they're either too busy worrying about the freighties or because they've already been killed and buried. Anytime someone comes close to having sex on the island but gets shot instead, the smoke monster grows stronger."

No one wants to accept your theory and anytime you add it to Lostpedia, it gets removed almost immediately. You're starting to get a little pissed which is why today you're going to find the other major players in decoding Lost-lore online and you're going to bring them to your house and starve them until they're too weak to escape. Then you're going to make them live with you as members of your family and all of you will watch Lost together when it starts up again. You've never watched Lost with anyone before, and you bet it would be fun. Just as long as the people you're watching with don't get stupid and contradict you, because for those foolish folks you'll keep a branding iron glowing hot and ready to scar their naked torsos (keep them all naked to make it harder for them to run away).

Be careful though. When you walk toward that first house of the first Lost "expert" you want to kidnap, how do you know he isn't waiting for you? How do you know he wasn't planning this all along? How do you know this isn't exactly what the island wants you to do?

Happy You Think You Know What The Smoke Monster Is Day!

You And The New Guy Should Get Along Day!

When you show up to work today, you boss tells you that you have to train the new guy.

“He’s just like you,” your boss says.

“Almost like your clone,” your boss’ right-hand man adds.

“You guys should get along just fine. You’re practically the same person,” your boss says.

You go to your desk and you find the new guy sitting on the floor next to it. He’s eating pudding out of a plastic container and it’s all over his face. When he finishes the pudding container, he throws it at the back of someone’s head then laughs very loudly.

“You’re the new guy?” you ask. “I’m supposed to train you."

“Thank God you’re not black,” the new guy says.

You march right back to your boss’ office.

“What do you mean he’s just like me?”

“You don’t see the similarity?”

You look back at the new guy. He’s now in a desk chair and he’s got his pelvis arched up under the desk, clearly massaging his boner with the desk’s underside.

“Okay, maybe a slight resemblance," you say. "But I’m not racist.”

“Yes you are,” your boss says without looking up from the documents he’s reading.

You decide to go back to the new guy and learn more about yourself.

“It’s hard to believe my boogie-snot still tastes good after so many years," the new guy says. "You’d think my changing chemical makeup might have altered the taste after a while. Or it might have been affected by my all-consuming sense of disappointment. But nope. It’s still my favorite meal."

You send out an email to the entire office, apologizing for your behavior in general. You promise to try to be easier to tolerate.

“Can I access the kind of pornography where it looks like someone is being victimized on this computer? Or do I have to use my iPhone?” the new guy says.

“tiedupandscared.com isn’t blocked yet,” you say. “But we’d better start training soon.”

“Let me just finish this threatening letter I’m writing to someone I want to be,” he says.

You wait.

“Okay, finished. Just have to drip a little of my blood at the bottom here. Aaaaad, let’s get to work.”

You’re amazed by just how bad the new guy smells. You send out another email, telling everyone in the office that you now understand why you’re seated alone by the window and you’ll try to rectify the situation.

It’s all getting too much to bear. You kind of want to train the new guy and then resign so you can start anew someplace where people aren’t already so familiar with your repulsive character. There’s just so much you have to change about yourself.

“Before we start training,” you say to the new guy. “I want to thank you. You’ve taught me so much about myself already.”

The new guy leans in. “I’m an undercover agent with the FBI. This office is a front for a human trafficking ring. You’re the only one here who isn’t in on it, so I made sure they’d pair me up with you by appearing to be compatible to your personality. Help me bust these scumbags.”

You shake his hand. He wipes his hand with an anti-bacterial napkin after you let go. Then you begin your brief tenure as the world’s most repulsive crime-fighter, all the while thinking, “I may be awaiting trial for masturbating next to patients' beds in a burn ward, but at least I’m not running a sex slave ring.”

Happy You And The New Guy Should Get Along Day!