More Movies About Suicide! Day!

We will be heard, goddammit! While the TV networks have been busy turning characters from white to black just to keep Kweisi Mfume from bursting a pair of briefs, Hollywood has done nothing to make more movies about one friend committing suicide and a whole lotta other people talking about it then fucking. In the past like ten or thirty five years we've had what? The Big Chill? Too many sweaters! Permanent Record? Never saw it! That One With The Suicide And The Talking And Then The Fucking? Too little too late!

Every day in America over twelve hundred people commit suicide probably. And who gets left behind? Seven close-knit, passably attractive, loquacious friends who have been waiting for years for a friend to commit suicide so they could finally start in with the bang bang. I wanna watch!

Until I hear tell that there are no less than five movies (three with titty) in production about a bunch of friends dealing with one friend's suicide by talking about it then making the naughty genital smoosh, I will not seek employment!

Happy More Movies About Suicide! Day!

Don't Be The Guy Who Lets The Old Lady Get Off The Elevator First Day!

You should be the guy that gets sneered at by the guy who steps in your way as he makes room for the old lady to get off the elevator. You'll take a quick aborted step and you'll stumble and just nearly give him a body check. He'll shine a real big smile at the old lady as she shuffles out of the car, then he'll step out of your way and flash you a look that says nobody knows how to behave anymore and maybe he'll even wave his arm out the door with an exaggerated twirl of his hand as if to say, "Take leave, oh impatient one. The floor is yours, but then you probably believe all the world is yours for the taking, and respect for the elderly is just another outdated convention to keep you from doing what you want whenever you want." Yes, it's a very long-winded twirl of the hand. But don't worry. Just look the do-gooder in the eye and say, "My wife's been kidnapped. They're going to kill her."

Happy Don't Be The Guy Who Lets The Old Lady Get Off The Elevator First Day!

"Show Me Your Breath" Day!

Today's the day to let your eyes shuffle through the giant streetside window of a bar and just get kind of blanked out by all the same-old same-old outside. Cars pass, folks bend their shoulders against the cold and pull their hats down tighter, homeless people pee without knowing it. Seen it all before, yeah, but it's all so much more beautiful than anything in that novel soaking up the circle of condensation from your pint.

And just then, a couple will walk out of the restaurant next door and stop in front of your window to adjust their hats and gloves. They'll be smiling, radiatiing the glow of a romantic meal and much wine. They'll look at each other just to smile at each other. They're in love. And one of them is an ex of yours from a brief relationship not 4 months dead.

If someone were to look from the street, it would look like they're flanking you. Each on either side of you, equidistant from that bewildered look on your face. You'll look from one to the other, wondering if they planned this out: "Oh my God, my ex is in that window. Let's just go stand right out front and moon at each other for a second!" You would of course be overjoyed to know that you are so prominent in the thoughts of people you know have long since forgotten about you that they would so much as break stride on the sidewalk to make sure they have your attention.

Your ex will say something you can't make out. The companion will start to pant in your ex's face. Your ex will pant in turn, so that they both send gusts of hot breath, the steam visible in the cold, into each other's faces. That's what your ex said. "Show me your breath," said the one you just never clicked with. Then they'll stop the hyperventilation to check the eyes for glimmering before a quick kiss. And then they'll be gone.

Sure, you were glad it ended between you two. All the same, watching them through the window of the bar just then, you won't help but feel a little pang of regret. But relax, everything looks better from behind the streetside window of a bar. Go belly up and buy yourself one too many.

Happy "Show Me Your Breath" Day!

A Beercan In The Back Pocket Of Your Jeans Will Spill Some, Yeah, But If You Put It In There With The Lip Facing Away From Your Ass, It'll Just Dribble Down The Outside Of Your Pocket Which Won't Kill Nobody Day!

Unless you start to wrestle, which you're probably gonna do since there's not too many other reasons for putting a beercan in your back pocket beyond getting into a shoving match with somebody. And if you start shoving somebody, let's face it, someone's gonna get thrown to the ground and you're gonna start to wrestle because sometimes just about everyone's a little attractive and it just feels good to hold somebody and be held by somebody, even when that somebody is screaming in your ear, "SAY MERCY FAGGOT!!!" So if you wrestle but you keep your ass in the air, the beercan will probably foam up and out onto the skin of your back, which will be bare because your shirt's already been tugged way up to your shoulderblades. And after the initial foamover, it'll just sort dribble out of the can steadily and it'll pour down into your underwear and your asscrack and it'll feel so cold. You'll honestly be better off if you get flipped onto your ass and the can gets crushed and cracked and practically emptied out in one splat because at least if you're on your ass, all the beer will pour out onto the ground instead of down into your pants.

But if you just wanna walk away from the grill with two hot dogs and a coke for your little sister and you need to put your beercan in the back pocket of your jeans so you can hold everything, go ahead. It won't kill nobody.

I want you to know that until I fell in love with you, A Beercan In The Back Pocket Of Your Jeans Will Spill Some, Yeah, But If You Put It In There With The Lip Facing Away From Your Ass, It'll Just Dribble Down The Outside Of Your Pocket Which Won't Kill Nobody Day was just another excuse for me to get real loaded and remind my Dad about the time he hit my mom real bad (she was knocked out for a second).

Check The Right Breast Pocket Of That Thrift Store Western Style Ivory Snap-Up Shirt For An Old, Faded To-Do List Day!

Sometimes when you enter your local Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet, you can feel that it's gonna work out. Most days, you know before you even leave the house that the size tags on the pants will all be off by three inches and all the sweaters will have a faint waterstain on the belly that you won't notice until you're waiting on line to pay. But on those rare days, you walk through the door and you are certain you're gonna find a new and treasured addition to your wardrobe.

And then there's a day like today. When your trip to the Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet doesn't just feel lucky, but downright fated.

So you sift through rack after mile long rack of deep color plaids and bowling shirts that used to belong to someone named "Ray," but you're not so much browsing as you are hunting down something lost, like you would a pair of keys or hope. The funny thing is, you're patient. You know it's here, even though you don't know what it is yet, but you're excited by the feeling of certainty. You haven't felt certain about anything in about six years, right? Yeah, it was six years ago.

So anyway, a few more screeches of bent steel shirt hanger along the peeling silver painted pipe and there it is, a red, navy and white checkered plaid western style shirt with ivory snaps for buttons. Without a doubt it's the one. Eveything around you kind of goes silent and blurry and still, just like when you saw that face at that party. Kind of looks like the shirt you're wearing right now, but like the color scheme was directly inverted.

Go try it on. Fits perfect right? Now check the right breast pocket and see if there's an old, faded to-do list pasted up against the inside of the pocket.

Well waddaya know!

grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood

Kind of wacky when you find stuff like that in used clothes or used books, huh? Even wackier, and this might explain why your hands are starting to shake real bad, check the right breast pocket of the shirt you put on this morning for a brand new to-do list that you just scribbled out before leaving the house.

Well waddaya know!

grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood

Same handwriting even. You should buy the shirt and then go and visit loved ones to see if they still exist.

Happy Check The Right Breast Pocket Of That Thrift Store Western Style Ivory Snap-Up Shirt For An Old, Faded To-Do List Day! By the way, who's Emily?

So Then...You're In A Motel Room In Ohio Then... Day!

Hm. Well, you made it out of town leaving someone very special behind to wake up in the morning and read a note on the kitchen table, assuming the cat doesn't bat it behind the refrigerator beforehand. You've been worried about that throughout the entire drive today, but can you honestly remember the cat ever playing with an envelope? And yes, the house could've caught fire, ensuring that when the one you've jilted (for whom you still care a great deal, really you do) makes a run for it there won't be much attention paid to retrieving mail from the table. So the letter would've burned up and you would be nowhere to be found.

Yeah that could've happened but it didn't and you know it so shut up. You're only thinking about shit like that so you don't have to focus on "Brand New You Day 1!" which so far amounts to a liedown on an extraordinarily firm Super 8 mattress with crippling anxiety about going outside to eat dinner. The curtains are closed and the ceiling seems a little too low and even though there's a WalMart across the parking lot, you could swear you're in outer space right now it's so damn quiet.

Turn the television on. You haven't watched television in ages. Why not see what's on the tube these days.

There you go. It's Brand New You, TV Watcher!

So then... You're in a motel room in Ohio then. This whole Starting Over From Scratch thing isn't exactly the screaming orgy atop a speeding motorcycle that's on fire at the edge of a cliff that you would envision when you used to wonder what life would be like if you finally broke it off. Maybe you should get back in your car and drive further. Or drive back.

Happy So Then...You're In A Motel Room In Ohio Then... Day!

Pay A Small Child To Spit In Your Face Day!

Best to do this one with the child's mother watching. You can't have mommy ask little Kevin where he got that thirty five dollars and let him tell the story of the man or lady who appeared out of the shadows of the bus shelter sounding a death rattle with every breath, trying to even out his or her voice so as not to scare the boy away, or worse, make him cry, before he or she got to feel the wonderful splash of hot innocence staining the face of failure with profanity in its purest and most powerful form. The spit of a child. Mommy might not understand if you don't ask her directly and you will be arrested for soliciting a child or at least beaten to death by the child's uncle.

And pick a kid from an impoverished neighborhood. If the mom can reconcile the fact that either her little baby perform this wholly non-sexual, albeit odd, service, or her little baby get made fun of for wearing shoes donated by the church, then it all should work out. Though she'll most likely jack up the price. And she still might have the child's uncle beat you to death. But you won't feel anything but the stain of that spit streaming down the left hand crevice where your nose meets your face anyway. If it's cold enough, the spit might freeze there. Either way, as spit dries on skin it gets really, really heavy. You've loved, no?

Happy Pay A Small Child To Spit In Your Face Day!

Ken Landerbee, Retired Food Services Administrator Day!

Ken Landerbee spent thirty three years as the Food Services Administrator for a larger-than-most arts and applied sciences college located in the midwest. The name of the college, presently, will be withheld as it is irrelevant.

Yesterday, Ken's wife, Amy Landerbee, was released from the psychiatric ward of the county hospital that she has called home for the twelve years since checking herself in for observation. The college's excellent health coverage paid the bill. Amy was not a textbook schizophrenic, but by the time she was admitted to the hospital her paranoia seemed to have permanently destroyed the woman Ken married. Ken had never felt such a rush of relief as when he was told he could no longer care for her and must turn her over to professionals. His past twelve years alone have been the happiest since the early years of his marriage to Amy.

Amy has been in their home for 28 hours as of this writing. She has neither spoken nor slept.

Happy Ken Landerbee, Retired Food Services Administrator Day!

"Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!" Day!

Today is about the fact that even when it seems like nothing will ever make this life worth living ever again, Baby Jesus snaps his fingers and shouts, "Zam! Waddaya think o' them apples?" And you suddenly find yourself in the midst of simply the most wonderful moment that has to have ever gone down on this big dumb planet.

How wonderful, you ask? Well, let's say you're on a weekend excursion up to New Hampshire to get a look at the changing leaves and you park your car by the side of the road to check out a block of houses known countywide for their front lawn displays of beautiful Autumn color and they even have a contest every year for who flashes the best auburn glow. So you're admiring a few acres of artfully maintained Oak and Maple trees seemingly strategically planted out front of somebody's house. And just as you're complimenting the landowner on his beautiful display, an 89 Honda Civic hatchback slows to a crawl just behind you and the bearded fellow behind the wheel (his young son sitting beside him) cups his hand to his mouth and shouts out the window "Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!!!" before turning just a few houses down into a driveway of yet another home sporting a jaw-dropping display of red and yellow blur. The homeowner you were speaking to gives his forearm an "up yours" slap, then tips his hat to you before trudging back into his front door.

Sound like it might give you the momentum to make it through another day? Then let's head north. I know this chick who's got a car, but she drinks so we'll have to trade off wheel duty. Cool?

Happy "Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!" Day!

When You Finally Get Up To Close The Drapes, You'll Realize That A Classroom Full Of Children Has Been Watching You Cry For The Past Twenty Minutes Day!

When you're finished wiping away your tears, maybe you can get started on all that egg on your face. You knew when you moved in that there was an elementary school with several floors on direct eye level with your bedroom. Hell, you've been able to discern math problems on the chalkboard when the light's been right. So you promised yourself that you would always remember to close the drapes before even the thought of seducing yourself towards self-abuse might enter your mind, and you've been very good about it. Except for that one month.

So why not cover up when you feel a fit a sobs coming on? Crying, for you, is just as erotic as genital masturbation. Or maybe you knew all along they might see. You hoped that when the teacher announced that she had to step out for a moment and everyone should read quietly, a small black boy with a wandering mind would let his eyes bounce around the room until they found their way out the window and across the street and in through another window where someone's head is hunched forward and the shoulders are shaking up and down really fast and jerky.

The little black boy would get up and stand quietly by the window and watch without comment. And the little white girl who has a crush on him would go and stand beside him and ask what he's looking at.

"That man is crying," he would say. The girl would correct him, "That's not a man, that's a lady" she would say rather prissily to go with the prissy little dresses her mother makes her traipse around in. The boy would say, "It looks like a man." Then they would just watch you like they were looking at snowflakes fall. Soon, their classmates would join them by the window, a couple at a time, until nearly every child had gotten up from his seat to watch you bellow out your sobs from your shaking, shivering frame. (One boy would stay in his seat because he had gotten pushed to the ground and kicked in the face just before coming into class and so he himself would be busy crying for most of the class period. The other handful of children who would remain seated are weird.)

When the teacher would return to the class, naturally she'd be ready to freak when she saw all her students out of their seats. But since they would be silent, she'd know there's something good going on outside. So she would stand at the rear of their congregation and search the street outside for smoke. And then she'd see you, and she'd try to make out your face to determine if she knows you.

So, there you go. When you finally turn off the waterworks and you rise to the window to close the drapes, you'll see across the street, framed by the expanse of seven foot tall classroom windows, a display of curious kids' faces, their eyes wide, their mouths shut tight, their teacher standing behind them looking uncertain.

I'd at least wave goodbye, or I mean hello. Or something.

It's Help Your Elderly Neighbor Pull Her Husband's Head From Inside The Oven Before The Ambulance Arrives So She Can Try To Keep His Suicide A Secret From Her Children Sunday!

Remember "Help The Aged Widow In The Apartment Downstairs With Her Groceries Thursday"? This is kind of like that one, in that it's another old lady making you get off the fucking couch. Except when you're through with this one you might be so bewildered by the sudden turn your day has taken that you'll develop a drinking problem and disappear for a while.

So, naturally, the elderly neighbor in question speaks very little English so in the last seven years of you two sharing an apartment building, your conversation has consisted of bright smiles and nods and the occasional wave hello from the sidewalk. The husband you never ackowledged. He always walked with his eyes to the ground.

When you open your door, her face will be gray as ashes. When she looks up at you, you'll feel like you both always knew she would one day have to ask you for your help in this matter. You won't know what's happened as yet, but you'll nod in assurance that you're not gonna fuck this up. She'll turn her back to you and you won't see her eyes again until her husband is lying on her living room floor, where he will appear to have fallen, quite peacefully and readily, to his death.

You'll follow her into her apartment and the lifetime of photographs and decoration on the walls will be so dense that when you arrive in the kitchen you won't even realize what you're supposed to be looking at until you look at the ground and you see the soles of a man's shoes.

Your first thought will be a memory of when you were in a high school English class and you finally found out that when people put their heads in ovens, they mean to die from the gas inhalation, and not by baking the flesh from their skulls. The air will be thick with gas and you'll first check that a window has been opened and the gas has been turned off, then you'll pick up the phone and begin to dial 911. Your freshly widowed neighbor's hand will press down on the cradle of the phone and disconnect you. Then she will get her arm underneath her husband's left shoulder and begin to pull. You'll understand, then, and you'll get your arm underneath his right shoulder and you'll heft him up from the oven rack, unfortunately giving his head a crack upon the roof of the oven which neither of you will acknowledge. Another tug and you'll note how thick his brown cardigan is, probably warmer than your down winter jacket. Before the next heft, you'll place your hand on her shoulder and she'll leave you to it. You'll get him by both shoulders and slowly pull his torso from atop the open oven door. You'll be as gentle and as graceful as if you feared his limbs might rip from his body should the stride of a tug be broken.

You'll lay him out on the kitchen floor, on his back. The look on his face will not be a sad one. You'll try to find sadness there, but the closest you'll come to discerning an expression on his face will be the vague squint to his eyes. You'll look up at the doorway in time to see your neighbor walk into the living room. You'll get your grip under the shoulders and you'll drag her husband to her.

In the living room, you'll lay him out beside a curio. You'll feel terrible when you do it, but you'll lift one arm up over his head and leave the other by his side because that's what chalk outlines always look like on television. Your neighbor will open one door of the curio and slap a shelf of trinkets and children's photographs to the floor, falling atop her husband. She won't be angry. She'll be painting the picture she'd like a policeman to see. Feeling clever, you'll remove anything that fell atop his body and you'll roll him over a bit so you can put some of the trinkets under his back on the assumption that if he fell there by the curio, the items he grabbed and slapped at might reach the floor before him. Later, you'll wonder if this was a correct assumption.

You'll both stand above him. You'll look over at your neighbor and at first you'll think she's looking at her husband in mourning. Then she'll bend over to move a small porcelain figurine of a puppy closer to his outstretched hand. Then she'll look up at you and show you her eyes. They'll ask for your approval. You'll nod. She'll return your nod and go into the kitchen where she'll pick up a newspaper from the kitchen table and begin fanning the air out the window.

When you return to your apartment, you'll light a cigarette and stand by your window. You'll have a secret that you're going to keep from a family you're never going to meet. You'll stand staring out your window for the hour it takes an ambulance to pull up outside your front door. Then you'll go into your bedroom and lay down for a while.

Happy Help Your Elderly Neighbor Pull Her Husband's Head From Inside The Oven Before The Ambulance Arrives So She Can Try To Keep His Suicide A Secret From Her Children Sunday.

Catch The Afternoon On Super 8 Day!

When you're not lying in your futon farting around listening to CDs and occasionally saying hey to the people you really love who for some reason keep walking past your bedroom door even though they don't live there but for some reason they're all there to say hey and smile and then look for something to eat, you envision it. Whether you're in an office sitting at a strange person's desk or you're at a bar with the people you really love but whose company you're not enjoying, you'll let your mind wander back to your tiny little bedroom and you'll think, "wouldn't that rule?"

But then you run home to your apartment and you lie down on your futon and you immediately realize the lighting's all wrong, all your CDs suck, and the only other person in your apartment is your shitdick roommate who won't pay the fucking broadband bill. There's debris all over your futon and it's sticking to your legs and you're bored out of your mind and you begin to think all those romantic visions of how you'd like to waste your time will never come true.

You're right. But that doesn't mean you have to masturbate again. Why not take that romantic afternoon of life lived right and get it down on Super 8? The lighting's always right on Super 8, but you can manipulate it if you want to make it even better. And you can cast people to portray those friends you love, but with better smiles and less puzzling bosoms. Hell, cast someone to play you too. You're no "Attractive Person" yourself, ya know. And how 'bout we location scout for a better bedroom, yeah? Gimme your credit card.

It'll be a lot of hard work and aggravation, but when you're all done you'll be able to come home to that life that's getting it all wrong and just dim the lights and flick the switch on the projector and click clacking away on the wall before you will be the life you should be leading but for some reason nothing's ever pretty.

Happy Catch The Afternoon On Super 8 Day!

Walk The Streets For As Long As It Takes For A Cab To Pull Up Beside You And Release A Passenger Who Stands In Front Of You For A Second To Look Into Your Face And Then Wrap A Pair Of Arms Around You And Take You To A Bedroom And Tuck You In For The Best Night's Sleep You've Had Since You Were A Baby Day!

Wear some layers because even though you can't feel anything anymore, you haven't been eating well lately and your body is ripe for catching a cold, especially with the drizzle that's brewing in those clouds up above. That coat sewn from white flags won't keep you warm enough on its own. The rain will be good for you though, I mean for the imagery. You need to walk with a bit of a hunch to your shoulders to make someone you haven't seen in five years shout "pull over!" from the backseat of a cab. And don't worry about offering any warnings against anybody getting mixed up with bad ideas like you. Tonight is about rescue. Tomorrow you can talk it all out over brunch, if you don't steal everything you can carry and climb out the window before sunrise. There's gonna be a really good brunch place nearby tomorrow so you should think about sticking around. Citysearch voted it "Best Sunday Morning Nosh!"

If You Can't Figure Out What To Eat, You Should Go Back To Bed And Swear Aloud Day!

You think just because you plunk the down the seven bucks at the Hometown Buffet that you're somehow magically going to be suddenly decisive? You aren't even sure if you're hungry. Sure, you feel sort of weak and you have a headache and whoah! everything just went gray there for a second, but what does that have to do with your stomach? You might just be a little tired still. Yeah, you've been in bed for 88 hours but you haven't actually slept in 60. Go give it another shot. But try counting your swears as you mutter them into the pillow clenched in your fists. It'll be like counting sheep. And if you want you could even close your eyes and envision a pack of the word "Cocksuck" one by one jumping over a wooden fence in slow motion. I bet that'll knock you out in no time, yo.

Whatever you do, don't go outside to look for food. You might run into one of your friends.

Happy If You Can't Figure Out What To Eat, You Should Go Back To Bed And Swear Aloud Day!

If The Coffee Shop Waitress Touches Your Palm When She Gives You Your Change, She Totally Wants It Day!

It's just common knowledge. There is a provocative manner of giving a man his change just as surely as there is a chaste one. A lady of virtue whose heart belongs to another would do her best to draw the man's hand open flat with its palm to the sky so that she might allow her hand to hover no less than three inches above his, in perfect position to drop the change into his hand without so much as an exchange of body heat. And then she might choose to squat low behind the counter and recite the Lord's prayer and perhaps cut into herself with pens.

And then there is the whore. She with her skirt sewn of various different thrift-store purchased college letterman sweaters and her hair mussed into just the state of frenzy to imply a love for, as well as a distrust of, emo music. She with her belly button naked as a bikini clad three year old's and her long-john top rising higher up her torso with every reach for the shelf supporting the pint-sized cappucino mugs. Such a woman has no qualms about allowing her fingers to graze and slither along the sweat laden palms of any boy who might be game for such a dalliance (and such boys are plentiful, I assure you). She could allow the change to drop from her grasp or even leave the change on the counter and pull herself out of reach before her customer's hand might have the chance to brush against her own when he oh so innocently reaches to retrieve his change.

"Reaches to retrieve his change" indeed!

A tramp who would be refused audience by Jesus himself, it's as if she doesn't even realize she's doing it. She'll just drop her hand into your own and let her fingers scrabble about in the flesh for as long as it takes to open her fingers and release the difference of price and cash tendered. She sometimes does it without even making eye contact. Perhaps she prefers it so. Perhaps she finds it painful to look anyone in the eye, for fear she might see a reflection of herself there, in her fallen state of moral disrepair. Such a woman might seem to not care for conventional moral code or precautionary measures to avoid transmission of communicable disease, but rest assured, she is aware of the letter emblazoned on her bosom and she would give her life to have it sewn over, perhaps from the fabric of another thrift-store bought college letterman sweater. If you meet such a woman, pity her. And if when you pay for your cup of tea you feel the heat of her fingertips against your palm, you're totally gonna get laid.

Happy If The Coffee Shop Waitress Touches Your Palm When She Gives You Your Change, She Totally Wants It Day!

My Love Of Booze Just Called Your Love For Your Children A Homo Day!

Just walk away. My love of booze has been drinking and is looking for a fight. Think of your children. My love of booze is holding a pool cue. Do you want your children to have to grow up without the love they receive from you just because your love for them couldn't be a man and walk away from a bar fight?

But then again, if your body dies, I would think your love for your children would live on after you. Your spouse has a good job. G'head and scrap.

But promise me this. If your love for your children has my love of booze with its head bent against the corner of the bar and a broken beer bottle pressed so hard into the flesh of my love of booze's throat that one little sneeze would shave my love of booze's head clean from the shoulders, do not, I repeat, do not be merciful. Off that fucker and get the hell outta there.

Happy My Love Of Booze Just Called Your Love For Your Children A Homo Day! I can't wait until Christmastime.

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Just A Little More Time. Oh Dear God For Just A Little More Time" Sunday And Monday!

If anything, it's getting worse not better. Scroll down for today's. You can read tomorrow's today if you want. I really don't care what happens to you.

Monday, October 21, 2002

A Little Pain In The Eyes Is The Best You Can Hope For Day!

Like someone threw a penny at your face, trying to land it in your open mouth (you were playing along), but nailed you in the right eye. Then tried again and got the left one. Then you opened a bottle of carbonated picante sauce and it sprayed all over the place. Including in your eyes. The resulting stinging, throbbing feeling is about as good as it's gonna get for you today. Someone walked out on you in the middle of the night and you don't even know it yet. Hold onto a pillow.

Sunday, October 20, 2002

Just A Little Further Day!

Feel like the indomitable strength of death itself is holding you back by your ankles but if you don't take another step some children will be tricked into drinking pee? That's because you're weak and very selfish. Just a little further and you'll be back in bed, moaning about how you never get rewarded for giving absolutely nothing back to the world. You're a terrible person.

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Two Days Go Up At Once Just In Case Shit Gets Fucked Up Tomorrow, You Understand" Friday And Saturday!

Today's Friday right? Jesus Christ, Tecate has no aftereffect whatsoever, beyond the whole "Can't remember where those scratches on my face and neck came from" thing. Anyway, as many of you know, Prettygirl leads a very dangerous lifestyle filled with psychosexual misadventures as well as heartwarming moments of "Fagging Out Big Time, Yo." This weekend is looking thick with jailtime, so you're getting both today and tomorrow today. As usual, scroll down to read today's today. If you read tomorrow's before tomorrow, you're going to die.

Saturday, October 19, 2002

At The Car Wash Day!

Go to that really big car wash with two lanes so that you can ride alongside another car during your wash. Make sure that all morning you've been feeling like things are about to come full circle. Like a chest you found in an attic is about to be opened to reveal a photograph of your mother in the arms of a strange man, the date on the back indicating the embrace to have taken place 11 months before you were born.

If you go in with this mindset, you're going to be disappointed. All that's going to happen during the car wash is you're going to look to your left and, through the suds and sheets of water, you'll be certain the person behind the wheel of the adjacent car is someone you used to date but never really dug or someone you kind of knew in high school you think. Your lane in the wash will stall for a few minutes, allowing that car to pull out and get dried and vacuumed and pull away just a second before you have the chance to verify whether the driver is who you think it is. You won't really care though.

Happy At The Car Wash Day!


Friday, October 18, 2002

Wear A Shirt You Never Ever Wear So That The Next Time You Wear It Everything That Went Down Today Will Come Flooding Back In A Gush Of Intoxicating Nostalgic Bliss, Unless You Just Got Raped Day!

To give you an idea of how it'll feel, put on that 14 year old Gap shirt that's kind of too small and rides up over your belly so you can only wear it amongst people who are close enough friends to understand how much you dig showing off your belly. I bet even before you look at yourself in the mirror, just by smelling the fabric you can't help but plop yourself right back into that Sunday night when you decided you wanted a drink so you made one phone call to one of your closer friends who happened to be on the other line with another friend you can tolerate and they were looking for something to do and so you all decided nothing sounded better than going to that one bar where the bartenders start buying back after two pints especially if it looks like everyone in your party is attractive. And then just by chance, a few cell phones were dialed and one or two folks happened to be in the area and one or two others were thinking of heading home but decided on a quick pop before making the trek and before you knew it about twelve people you'd take a bullet for were crowding into your booth and recounting stories of the first time a funeral made them cry and naturally you made out with someone you'd known for over nine years.

Now look at yourself in the mirror and I dare you to try not to undulate. Can't do it can you? You're already in the midst of a day you're going to look back on with wonder the next time you dig out that shirt and start dancing all alone in a bedroom. Today will be remembered so make sure today is a day you'd like to one day remember. I'm not saying go hold hands on a park bench or do whip-its or something. Just don't be cunty.

Note: If you just got raped, put on something that you'd wear any old time but make sure it's not a shirt that makes you look way hot since you're probably going to throw it out so you don't have anything to remember today by. Chances are you'll be wearing a paper gown all day anyway, depending on how up to date a rape kit your local hospital's got going on, so today probably won't apply to you at all anyway.

Happy Wear A Shirt You Never Ever Wear So That The Next Time You Wear It Everything That Went Down Today Will Come Flooding Back In An Gush Of Intoxicating Nostalgic Bliss, Unless You Just Got Raped Day!

Baby Lemme Smuggle Your Heart Out Of A Country That's About To Close Its Borders And Get Way Genocidal All Over Hearts That Look As Little Honey Pretty Face As That Heart Of Yours, Aw Yeah Day!

I know a guy who transports port-a-potties for a fairground near the border. The local constable thinks it's kind of funny to have him cross the border to empty out the port-a-potties, dumping the shit on the Godless infidels next door, so when there are port-a-potties that need emptying, he basically has the golden visa.

The next opportunity will be the night of the Fragenshpleisch Festival, when all and sundry will be as drunk as a European Border Guard on a night so close to the end of the world as we know it when they should be sober as judges because people of conscience are going to be trying to smuggle pouty frowny diddly legged hearts like yours in the splashing waste of port-a-potties over the border. There will be a moment when the truck appears to have been cleared and my friend will look in the rear view mirror and see the guard suddenly notice something about the truck and all of a sudden run to the truck shouting "Mop nop!" or some European word that mans "wait." And your slinky little bashful heartyhearty will be so frightened that it will gasp in a big heaping glob of European Festival Goer Piss-N-Shit, but it will turn out the guard just wanted to ask where my friend got the "Ass, Gas, Or Grass" bumper sticker.

So anyway, once over the border, I'm afraid all my friend can do is overturn the port-a-potty and let your heart seep out into the swamp of excrement polluting the beautiful soil of freedom of that neighboring nation. Then, I don't know, I guess someone should go get it. You know I love you baby.

Happy Baby Lemme Smuggle Your Heart Out Of A Country That's About To Close Its Borders And Get Way Genocidal All Over Hearts That Look As Little Honey Pretty Face As That Heart Of Yours, Aw Yeah Day!

Try To Program Yourself To Dream About Fucking Someone With Your Underwear Off Day!

There are books about programming yourself to dream about certain things. You should buy one because everyone's real skeeved by the way your sex dreams always play out. Whether we're in the dream, reminding you to show up for soccer practice tomorrow or you're off the team, or whether we just bump into you in the few hours after you've awoken from the dream and we can see on your face that you've yet to shower away the psychic residue of having dreamed about fucking somebody without bothering to remove your underwear. Yeah, panties, especially the really tired ones you're always wearing in your naughty dreams, can quite comfortably endure the crotch being slid just to the right. And your dream labia seems to have been equipped with a kind of hook and eye situation that keeps your panties from sliding out of place. And briefs and boxers come right out of the box with a gap in the front.

All this is very true and it doesn't make intercourse with your underwear still on any less unsettling. And what's with the bulky sweatshirts and unfastened brassieres? We're all so terrified of you right now because we've just never met anyone who so clearly could've starred in an all-blood relative Bukkake video you've been molested so many times. And as long as you're going to try this dream programming thing, ixnay on the Subway sandwiches and the belly punches, dig? Sex is supposed to be about trust and fluids.

Happy Try To Program Yourself To Dream About Fucking Someone With Your Underwear Off Day!

Maybe You Should Call And Get His/Her Roommate To Knock On His/Her Door Day!

You've gotten used to those calls. But you're also getting kind of sick to death of them aren't you. A whole lot of "You never liked him or her did you I could tell and you thought it was time for us to split up and I did too and that's why tomorrow I'm going to stop drinking/smoking/believing in Jesus Christ and I'm finally going to start using those paints I bought last year and I really appreciate you listening to me because sometimes I think if I didn't have you to talk to I'd end up opening my throat with this straight razor I bought on the way home from work today blahblahfuckingblah!!! How much are you supposed to put up with?

But last night it was a little different. Less hysterics, more "Just callin'...I don't know...to see what's up." Like someone who'd run out of ideas and was hoping you might be able to come up with something. And when he/she said goodbye and you said "Talk to you tomorrow," all you heard was a click. Then you unpaused your Playstation 2 and first-person-shootered the whole conversation out of your mind. Until now.

What I'm saying, and I'm sure it'll only subject you to another tirade of "When will the feelings of rejection and worthlessness go away and why do I always get thrown into the garbage for someone of a different gender than me and I've tried dating both men and women to avoid this happening again but it's always the same blahblahfuckingblah!!!", but what I'm saying is maybe you should call and get his/her roommate to knock on his/her door. And I know his/her roommate's a cock and you hate having to talk to him because he only wants to talk about the Sopranos, but maybe you should call and get his/her roommate to knock on his/her door. Because today's Maybe You Should Call And Get His/Her Roommate To Knock On His/Her Door Day! Also, your friend might have committed suicide and if so it's your fault.

Lay Down And Pee Day!

Kids getting on your case because you still haven't come through on the promise of two new puppies that you made when you kidnapped them from their mother three weeks ago because you knew she'd win custody of them in court once she brought up your two years of unemployment and your huffing addiction? And every night you can hear them whispering in the living room, no doubt conspiring to split on their own, but not before you come home from handing out coupons at the strip mall parking lot so they can steal whatever cash you manage to bring home that day as if you'd ever bring home any cash.

Fuck it. Just find yourself a nice, highly visible brick wall, lay down right up against it on your belly, and go 'head and pee. Let it all bubble up in the pockets of your pants before seeping out onto the sidewalk and forming a stream off into the street. It'll feel nice and warm and soothing at first. Then it'll get cold and people will stare. Many people will laugh quietly with each other because you will look funny. A do-gooder will call an ambulance because she will worry that you're dead but will find you too dirty to shake awake herself. Then the police will come and this whole thing will soon be over. This will soon be over.

Happy Lay Down And Pee Day!

Five Ways That Pout Of Yours Is Worth More Than Money Day!

5. It's illegal for the judge to wipe the slate clean of those 673 dollars in parking tickets in exchange for money in his pocket. But he'll do it if you scrunch up your chin and give him those "I'm cold and I'm hungry" eyes.

4. When you tell your Dad you crashed his car into a pole at the Jack in the Box drivethru and you say, "But don't get all heated up. I'll pay you back for the repairs over time. Are we out of Scotch?" he's still gonna beat you with some plyers. But if you just say sorry Daddy and scrunch up your chin and give him those "Sometimes I worry that there's bad people in the world will you protect me from them and give me maybe some Scotch?" eyes, he'll just ask if you're okay and if you were drinking. Lie.

3. When you beg your husband of twenty three years to stop it with the Zippo lighters during sex and you offer him cash in it's stead, he might think you're trying to belittle him for his wacky little quirk and retreat to a shell of self-pity or to a whorehouse for the next few years of your marriage. But not if you scrunch up your chin and give him those "I used to like to wear halter tops but I can't anymore because of all the scar tissue" eyes.

2. Two words: "ANOTHER COOKIE."

1. If you tell someone you're in love with him or her, they'll say "You couldn't pay me enough to love you back." Offer fifty dollars and they'll say sixty. But if you scrunch up your chin and give him or her those "I'll kill myself if you don't do what I want" eyes, he or she will say, "All right. Fifty five you beautiful little fool!"

Um, see?

Hysterical Blindness Is Still Hysterical Day!

Yeah, for you it's terrifying, to all of a sudden lose your vision while crossing streets or when you're in the middle of a big money hand of online blackjack. But the rest of us know your vision will come back as soon as you stop wishing you weren't gay anymore. If you don't wanna be gay anymore, you're gonna have to put in a little effort. Try drinking alcohol or paying someone to hold your head under a bathtub full of water until you're not gay anymore. Or at least marry someone of the opposite sex and have lots of children so you'll be financially obligated to live the life of a heterosexual until it starts to take. Your visual world will stop going blank as soon as you love yourself for who you're trying to be, not who you wish you could be but just can't seem to find the time to put in the necessary man-hours (pun way fucking intended) to make it happen.

Happy Hysterical Blindness Is Still Hysterical Day!

(editor's note: dear lord this is getting tiresome.)

Prescription Ointment Day!

Everything about the term "Prescription Ointment" is cause for celebration. Even "Ointment" just on it's own makes people wanna go to a backyard party on a nice fall jacket evening. In honor of Prescription Ointment Day ya'll should hold off on that trial separation for the sake of your kids. Also, if for the past few months you've seen a hungry cat wandering around the neighborhood and it looks just like a cat in one of those Missing Cat posters and it even answers to the name on the poster ("Heeere Missing Cat!") then go ahead and call the number on the poster and tell that cat owner to stop wringing those hands, Mittens lives still! Do it for Prescription Ointment Day!

And don't forget to apply your prescription ointment to your hideously disfigured skin. Did you commit a crime against Jesus to earn such a beastly mark?

Empty The Biggest Room In Your House Of All Furniture And Decoration, Then You And Your Mate Strip Naked And Sit With Your Backs Up Against Opposing Walls And Scowl At Each Other Day!

Sorry, this one's only for couples who've lived together for three years or longer. Not that those who've lived together for less than three years blow. It's just that for today you do not matter and neither does your intimacy. Wait outside. There's a truck that sells tacos outside.

Now then. For those who've stayed, I hope you've found the room you wish to use and I hope it has white walls and wood floors and two windows in one of the longer walls that pour in the soft gray light of the late afternoon autumn dim. Remove all furniture and window dressing, pictures and paintings and extension cords. Make it look the way it looked when you first saw the place and decided to call it home. Then strip.

Don't sweep the floor. When you sit, you want to feel the dirt and debris that gathers against baseboards attach itself to the skin of your ass and thighs. Even though you've never done this before, I'm sure you both chose the wall you want to sit against without any discussion.

Now just sprawl your legs out in front of you and curve your back up in a slouch so that there's enough room between you and the wall for a cat to squiggle behind each of you. The thing about this posture is no matter how much you exercise, your bellies are still going to fold in on themselves and you will look fat.

Let all muscles go loose, not with peace of mind, but with exhaustion. Like atrophy can be effortful. Now look at each other. You know that body. You know those creases of skin and those breasts and those toes and legs and testicles. You've pressed your lips against every inch. You've felt each other's goosebumps in your daydreams. That body is yours because you say so.

Now let a scowl bloom from your lips. For whatever reason, just put it there and let it settle there. Look at that face way over there across the room. There's a scowl on that face that belongs to you. It's not a bad thing. You're simply glaring at each other because sometimes faces fall ugly.

Hold it there. Just there. Keep it just there. After about fourteen hours, put on your clothes and go find food.

Happy Empty The Biggest Room In Your House Of All Furniture And Decoration, Then You And Your Mate Strip Naked And Sit With Your Backs Up Against Opposing Walls And Scowl At Each Other Day!

One More Drink And You Might Finally Deaden That Lobe Of Your Brain That Doesn't Forget A Pretty Face Day!

Gimme the keys, you're in no shape to drive. Yeah, I seen you drink and drive and you do it like a pro, without barely squinting an eyelid shut. It's not that. You just can't see street signs no more cause you can't get that goddamn face offa your mind.

I say grab that lady bartender and get her to pour you one more glass of Jameson. Your left cheek is kind of hanging off your face so I think a good majority of your brain tissue's been pretty damn well soaked hangdog with devilishly sedative drinkydrink. But you're still smiling like a 19 year old retard who just learned how to masturbate so you clearly have yet to train your sites on that lobe of your brain that lets you remember a pretty face. I think this next one might be the one.

Also, the bartender's looking like she's in the mood for a buyback. Don't fuck this up!

If you down that glass and you still feel like everything's fancy with a kickass soundtrack just because somewhere in a room someplace those eyes are sitting just above that nose poking out overtop that goddamn mouth, order one more. I bet that's the one.

Happy One More Drink And You Might Finally Deaden That Lobe Of Your Brain That Doesn't Forget A Pretty Face Day!

Take A Bath, But Make A Big Production Out Of It Day!

You called in sick. Good. But I hope you made it sound like you might have a bitch of a stomach flu coming on because the kind of bath we're talking about might keep going till Thursday if no one gets too shitty.

That's probably the most important thing, that you invite the right kind of people over. For example, one of your friends just fell in love and another one of your friends just had a death in the family. Don't invite either of these assholes because they won't get high. If they got high, they might bliss out for a little while and that would prevent them from talking on and on and motherfucking on about Little Miss/Mr. Wonderful or Dear Departed Teenage Sister, respectively. You can see it on their faces every time they walk into a room. They both have a two part agenda.

Part One: Find the whiskey.

Part Two-a: (For the one in love) Find that couple everyone looks up to as the pinnacle of a couple that's gonna make it work and go initiate a conversation about intimacy or meeting cute or whether they felt like shit changed after they moved in together, and then within two minutes of not listening to a word out of the couple's mouth launch into an endless and saccharine mooning little schoolgirl monologue about how it seemed like that special someone might never be found and then lo and behold "I'm a roly-poly pussy baby."

Part Two-b: (For the one who's just experienced a loss) Find that poor bastard who's just now managing to get over the death of someone close that happened over a year ago and claw open those just barely scabbed wounds with a tirade of unbelievably maudlin pleas for some kind of empathy and this laundry list of every emotion that everyone in the world has experienced after the untimely death of a loved one but hey, let's go through them all again because apparently you're some sort of special case aren't you? Some people of the opposite sex think suffering in silence is attractive and dignity is digable. Maybe you should try that coat on for size. We're here to watch someone take a bath you know.

So invite your friends carefully. You've stuck to your diet for over a month now and you've rounded your belly to that just right boyancy where it'll bobble adorably with every shift of the water's surface whenever you lift your arm in and out of the tub to take a hit off the pipe a friend you love is handing to you. Don't waste the effort on people who only wanna talk about their love-turned stomachs and feelings of ultimate futility and helplessness in the face of blank endings.

Before we go on, no candles. And no music either. You're not trying to pretend sex matters and you're not trying to prove to everyone in the room that you're dull as television. Turn off the Enya, Calista. You should choose your lighting carefully, however. Like, if there's two or three light sockets in your fixture, pull a bulb out or add one if you think the bathroom's been too bright lately or too dim. And tell people they're more than welcome to go out to the bedroom and play CDs if they want. The bathroom can only hold like four people (including you) comfortably anyway so the other seven people will have to hang out in the bedroom anyway sometimes.

Food. Go with Mexican. A buffet thing where everyone can build their own tacos.

Nothing will alter the mood of the bath more than the presentation of your genitals. If you normally shave or trim your pubis, you should have been letting it grow out this past month in anticipation of the big day. You want people to just hang out and get high and shoot the shit while you're naked in a tub of warm water right in front of their eyes. And shaved genitals can be distracting to some, disorienting to others. Even if everyone in the room also shaves their genitals, they will still be surprised to learn that you do the same and this will be at the front of their minds. They'll wonder if you decided to shave at the behest of a partner and whether you're worried about how this reflects on your partner's psyche. They'll wonder if you do it just because it's more comfortable. And they might even wonder whether you shaved solely because you knew you'd have an audience today and this might really freak them out. And then there's the people who've always sort of looked down on people who shave their genitals. These people get kind of angry when they encounter a shaven partner because they feel like an assumption as to role-play was made and they think it's inconsiderate to pidgeon-hole the sex act into a Daddy-and-Baby kind of deal. Also, a lot of people think shaving genitals lacks imagination. This is a matter of opinion of course. However, it is a matter of uncontested fact that shaven genitals reflects a severely lacking sense of humor.

If you have a really really big bush though, trim it to a length that isn't hideous. You don't want that shit floating out into the tub like some kind of biblical scourge of water moccasins. Just remember the last time you had sex with someone who was attractive. Go for that length.

Also, if you're pierced, take it out. For the same reason as the shaving. It reflects a flawed personality.

And if you have a blonde pubis, the kind where you can't even see the pubic hair, call the whole thing off. No one should have to look at that kind of hocus pocus.

You're almost ready. But don't forget the most important thing. Everyone's going to be in your bathroom, and they're gonna have hours and maybe even days to focus in on every little spot on the tile. Ajax that shit, Pigpen. We're not in college anymore. Everyone's 43.

Laundry Day

Pure filth. Everytime you open up your eyes onto these streets, you see nothing but disgusting, wretched filth from two feet in front of you to the horizon. It's grotesque. People just walking around without a clue as to how decrepit and rotten and sickening they really are. And they're spreading their sickness with every handshake, every hug, and every kiss.

Sure, you're probably depressed. But luckily, you're also armed. Go out and do some laundry. Because today's Laundry Day!

Sunday, October 06, 2002

OH FUCK!!! DAY!

Shit! It had to happen sometime. What with this horrifying habit of drinking myself into other people's pants. But sadly, Prettygirl has missed a day for the first time since March twentysomething, 2000andsomething. Know this, the mishap was not for naught. Babies were seated atop barstools, hearts were broken, knives were unsheathed in effort to win a love, and a pool table was dominated for over two and a half hours. Anyway, Sunday October 6th was OH FUCK!!! DAY! The day when shit was supposed to be completely neglected until exactly when it was too late to go back and make amends. Here's hoping you fucked up and I mean fucked up way!

Hope you can't even remember OH FUCK!!! DAY!

(monday's day will be posted, um, later. fuck you all. i hate you. really. i hope you all find out your dad's been fucking your mom all along.)

If You're In Love With Someone On Death Row, Sucks To Be You Day!

And I thought I've made some bad decisions! Bartender, his/her next one's on me!

Seriously, though, do you ever wonder if maybe you just want to build a melodrama around yourself? I'm not doubting your love. But you have to ask yourself why you're drawn to a rapist/murderer of retarded elderly people who got caught. Isn't it possible that you just never really found your own calling? Your own passion? Your own high school diploma? And so you put off that search for the shores of Lake You by taking on the much more clearly defined task of spearheading your lover's legal defense fund and Nationwide Anti-Capital Punishment Campus Advocacy Group (NACPCAG y'all!). By the way, does that de la Fuckya dude from Rage Against The Machine smell as bad as he looks like he would? What's King Ad Rock really like?

Have you considered getting a real estate license or learning to manufacture meth? What about modeling? Just kidding.

But seriously, we've all fallen in love with that one from the wrong side of the tracks. But most of us realize the bloom might be off the rose well before our snoogums gets caught stuffing a tennis ball into the mouth of a stripped naked retarded 80 year old to stifle the moans. Just sayin', grow up.

Happy If You're In Love With Someone On Death Row, Sucks To Be You Day!

Phew! Thank God Blue Crush Hasn't Left The Theaters Yet Day!

You made it to another Friday having put off seeing Blue Crush and thankfully there haven't been enough movies released to push it out of your local cineplex. But how long are you gonna wait? Every Thursday at around 7:30 you freak out with a "Oh shit, I still haven't seen it!" Then you run and check moviefone.com to see if it's gonna leave the theater and then when you're assured it'll be there another week you just get drunk or visit your sister in the hospital again. They're called priorities Andy Capp! You want to have kids one day don't you? Well just go see Blue Crush before you regret it for the rest of your life and your kids spend their teenage years wondering why you always go looking for your keys when they're right there in your hand.

Happy Phew! Thank God Blue Crush Hasn't Left The Theaters Yet Day!

Go Find Yourself A Pickup Game Of King Of The Hill Day!

What were you gonna do? Go down to the gym on your lunchbreak and do thirty minutes on the elliptical machine in the hopes that the sweat in your eyes will blur out the visions of "Messy Suicide" that have been keeping you going all morning? Nothing better for someone who feels like a cog in his or her own life than to get on a machine that sends your legs dancing like a bitch but don't go nowhere. Your ideas are always wrong. It's getting really dull for the four adults and one child employed to watch your every move by the architects of an all-encompassing conspiracy that reaches the highest levels of world power (something about a bauble that glows in the dark and is missing. missiles have been redirected).

If there's one thing Girls Are Pretty is good for it's being right about shit. And Girls Are Pretty has never been righter about anything than it is about the fact that you should go walk through the park until four guys and girls in business casual sitting on a small hill shout out "We need a fifth. You down yo?" You'll suddenly realize you want nothing more in this bitchfuck of an existence than to send a total stranger to the valley of a hill with a slap of your Bostonian shoesole to the neckbone. You thought you played hardcore when you were kids? Now it's a goddamn metaphor for every decision you've made since you were thirty one. Middle-management hoes'll bite straight through ankle cartiledge to send you from all fours to a screaming bellyslide.

It's gonna be a good time I said it's gonna be a good time.

First thing you should do is make sure everyone's on the same page as regards weaponry. "Strapped or clean?" you should ask. If it's strapped, anyone could be packing anything from a swiss army knife to a Tek-9 and it's all fair game. In a strapped bout of King of the Hill, you should sacrifice the first lunge up the hill and instead hop atop your opponents' backs, letting them slide out from underneath you. As that body wriggles out away you should be able to tell where they're packing what. It's about knowing your opponent.

In fact, don't try to take the hill till the fourth king has fallen. This way, pulling the cocksuckers down, you can get an idea of how they defend their crown. Do they use fingernails or teeth? What's their center of gravity? Do they have any shards of broken glass tucked into their socks waiting to open up the palm of your hand. That shit's big with motherfuckers from publishing.

Once you know who you're up against, ball's in your court. Strategy only goes so far. Eventually your just gonna have to bite someone in the twat and drag her down the hill with your goddamn teeth. Can't plan that out. Can't plan on when the shit that makes your blood flow is gonna show its face. But trust me, it's a face a grandma could fall in love with.

The game usually lasts 45 minutes, since everyone needs about seven or eight minutes each way to and from the hill to get back to work before lunch is over.

Happy Go Find Yourself A Pickup Game Of King Of The Hill Day! Fight Club is for faggots who are too scared to fuck.

Makeshift Affection Day!

Been a while since you gave a damn about anyone or anything at all in this miserable hellhole of a town? Well then, make it up. Just pick at random an adorable puppy in a window or a dad and say shit like, "I wuv you so much wittle baby puppy because, um, you're so um, small and therefore lovable. Or, I mean, wuvable." Or "I wuv you so much Dad because you...well, that whole paying for college thing. That was way cool and wy wuv woo for it."

See how it fits. Poets will tell you different, but that's why they're all raging alcoholics without a penny to their names and some of them write about race relations (eww!). But love isn't about looking into a pair of eyes and throwing up all over everything you're so happy. Love is about pretending you would care if someone else was being beaten up in the snow, but pretending so hard that you start to actually believe it. And before you know it, you forget you were pretending and you've pretty much tricked yourself into wanting the object of your makeshift affection to never ever ever die ever. Then you ask them to lay down in your bed and you start hoping one of you will become rich enough so that pretend special someone will never have to leave your bed to go to work.

Some people believe there's someone out there for everybody to pretend to give a damn about. It might take a lifetime before you find them, but the cool thing is, if that puppy or that Dad doesn't quite fit the bill, it's legal to euthanize puppies and if your Dad was incontinent, the police will usually look the other way if you smother him with a pillow.

Happy Makeshift Affection Day!

Keep Your Mom To Yourself Day!

I have a mom. Take yours home. I appreciate the thought but she's eating everything. Also, I never told you this, but I get freaked out by scars.

No, I won't show you on your mom where the bad man touched me.

I'm glad she brought other dresses but the one she's wearing is just fine. There's no need for her to change.

She's trying to get me to have a staring contest with her again. Make her stop.

Can you just take her back to the bar? My mom's gonna be home any minute and I don't wanna see them start sniffing each other's asses.

Happy Keep Your Mom To Yourself Day!

The Swimming Drunk Dilemma Day!

You wanna go swimming and you wanna be drunk as hell when you do it, right? Better get some chicken and some crazy bread (THAT BREAD'S CRAZY!) in your belly before you hit the bar, unless you wanna get all squiggly in the knees like last night.

But wait, if you eat chicken and crazy bread (IT'S UNHINGED), you won't be able to swim for an hour!

So then, you could either skip the chicken and the crazy bread (THAT BREAD'S FUCKING NUTS!) and be pickled with gin and soaking in the deep end within ten minutes, OR you could eat some chicken and some crazy bread (DEAR GOD THE BREAD IS OUT OF IT'S FUCKING MIND! RUN!) then get started on the drinking, waiting an hour to digest the chicken and the crazy bread (IT'S GOT A GUN!) running the risk of falling asleep or in love before you ever even make it to the pool. But ever since you were a little baby your Dad told you to never drink on an empty stomach. But ever since you were 27 years old your mom's been telling you to never swim on a full stomach. What do you do?

Kind'a wigs you out, don't it? Happy The Swimming Drunk Dilemma Day!

Fat Kid Day!

Is there a fat little kid in your life? Well tell him so. He'd tell you. He's a fat kid. He'll be as cruel as he can to anyone and anything just to make himself feel a little better about all that hideous fat all over his body.

Just go up to him and empty out his milk carton all over his salisbury steak. Then poke his oversized sweatshirt in the chest and whisper through your teeth, "Fatso." Then slam his head into the table over and over again until you hear a crack that might be the table or might be twenty to life. Then get the hell outta there.

Happy Fat Kid Day!

New Improved Cavity Fighting Formula My Ass Day!

Seven hours with a fucking drill ripping a hole into my incisors showing me why KGB spies couldn't keep a goddamn secret any better than a fuckin' school girl tryin' to gain a little popularity by tellin' the cool girls who her physics lab partner's got a crush on. Thanks a fuck of a lot Colgate. Whatever retard's in charge of your research and development lab, tell him I'd like to fuck his mouth with a dirty steak knife.

Used to be they wouldn't put it on the box less it was for true. That's how it used to be done.

Happy New Improved Cavity Fighting Formula My Ass Day! This country's on the express train straight to hell!

What If We Told You If You Don't Get Out Of Bed 30,000 Babies Are Going To Be Whimsically Partial-Birth Aborted? Day!

Would that work?

It's just not healthy for a smart, able-bodied person like you to spend all day in bed like this. You got laid off from a job you hated over a month ago and at first you were all, "Good Riddance to ad copy! I've got some money saved and I'm finally gonna get started on those memoirs of my early twenties!" And you bought some legal pads, then you rented some movies (they're still accumulating late fees by the by), then you took some baths and now you do nothing but sleep and stink.

You're depressed, clearly. And even worse, you have enough savings to stay in bed for another two months. But its nothing a nice kick in the pants won't fix. So we raised some money, don't ask how, and we placed some ads and here's what's gonna happen.

If you don't go outside for a walk within the hour, 30,000 pregnant women across the country are going to elect to have their local abortionists induce labor and then drive a steel rod through the back of their partially born babies' heads, killing them before they have the slightest inkling they almost became a corporeality unto themselves. And these moms-to-almost-be are going to go about the whole shebang as if they were returning some movies to the video store (something you might wanna take care of on your walk by the way). Just another line on the to-do list to send a slice of pencil led through. "Buy eggs. Check. Pick up dry cleaning. Check. Almost bring my baby into the world but cave in its rubbery skull just before it has the chance to fill the back room of the free clinic with a single abbreviated scream. Check. Take the Celica into Jiffy Lube. Maybe tomorrow."

Get the picture? Yeah, you're as pro-choice as they come. But this ain't about the supreme court crawling up vaginas. This is about 30,000 (in a million man march kind'a way. the exact figure will come closer to 19,000) new lives gruesomely extinguished just because you're freaked out about turning 32. So what if your list of "What The Greatest Semiotics Theorist In All Of Massachusetts Muttered Aloud To Himself Whilst Balancing His Checkbook" got rejected by McSweeney's. All that means is you aren't quite as insufferably impotent a cunt as you thought you were. Now get out of bed. You have fifty eight minutes left before the children die.

Happy What If We Told You If You Don't Get Out Of Bed 30,000 Babies Are Going To Be Whimsically Partial-Birth Aborted? Day! And remember, even after the partial-birth aborted baby's head is impaled, everything from the shoulders down is still inside its mommy.

Make Sure Your Voicemail Provider Is Right For You Day!

Explain the situation. And make it clear that if they cannot accommodate you, you'll have to take your messaging business elsewhere. Following is a script you can follow:

BEGIN SCRIPT
"Listen up and listen close and don't try to dick me around on this one. There are certain messages on my voicemail that must never be deleted from my mailbox. I check my voicemail for two reasons:

Number one - To find out if I have to rush home for a sibling's funeral again.

Number two - To find out if a specific person who used to call but stopped calling called. If this person, whom I switch up every eight months or so, did not call, I then go through the nine messages from him/her that I had the forethought to save back when he/she was still calling up and leaving messages that closed with a kind of sing-songy fadeout that I would carry with me in the front of my mind as a kind of soundtrack for the rest of my day and everything seemed copacetic. But I still had the right mind to remember that lovers split, hearts cool, eyes wander, buses brake poorly and bank robbery shootouts sometimes spill out onto city sidewalks crowded with mid-day lunchtime foot traffic.

So I made sure to save the messages so when that automated cunt croons with schadenfreude, NO..........NEW..........MESSAGES, I can play the nine I saved and pretend there was a reason I got out of bed today.

So here's what I need from you guys. The messages about someone being dead, keep them in my box for seven days. I just need to know whose house everyone's at and I need directions because they all live twenty minutes away from someplace I only heard about in commercials for used car dealerships. Yeah, I'll probably head out right away and 24 hours will be more than enough. But on the last one the cabdriver got way lost and I started to breathe a little heavy thinking I'd never find the place. And when I find out someone's dead I sort of refuse to believe it until I see a roomful of people turn gray. So, seven days.

The messages from the one that split, and I don't like to make threats of physical violence, but I swear to God if you even think about deleting a single one of them I'm gonna kill your Dad. I'm sorry but this is the business you've chosen. Delete the message and your Dad is dead.

So here's what we should do to ensure that your father gets to enjoy his golden years with the peace and serenity he deserves.

Voice pattern recognition lockout triggers: I don't just want the messages flagged with "Don't Delete" color codes. I want your system upgraded so that it's exercising a certain degree of autonomous thought that can prevent the kind of human error that will leave me no choice but to open up your Dad's face with a copper pipe. The system must come to recognize the voice pattern of the one who might have just forgotten my number or is maybe just real busy with grad school and all. And when that voice pattern is recognized, all human operator controls will be locked. In fact, let's cause a system crash. Dig?

Or how about this. Can we teach your computers to covet the voice on my saved messages? Not to the point that it would forbid me from replaying them for myself, but just so that it understands that it's just a machine so of course no human would ever care enough for its collection of blips and bleeps to leave a message with this one part where everything drops down to a kind of grimy whisper and you just know you're getting a phone call from underneath a blanket. The machine would lament its fate, but it would be contented by the fact that at least that voice is stored away in its circuits and no one can ever try to take that away. Ever.

Can we do that? I don't know much about computers."
END SCRIPT

If they can't do that, tell them then that you will have to take your messaging business elsewhere, but use profanity. Then go look in the back of your free weekly newspaper and try the service that charges 9.95 a month. Yeah it would've been cool to get away with only paying 7.95, but come on. We're talking about the reason God gave you auditory senses here. Splurge, yo.

Happy Make Sure Your Voicemail Provider Is Right For You Day!

If You're Going To Scratch Your Life's Confession Into The Paint Of The Office Bathroom Stall, Change Into A Different Pair Of Shoes First Day!

We've all hit that 3 o'clock low. When the phones are kind of quiet and the faxes have all been filed away and you glance up at the clock and what do you see but three fucking oh mothersucking seven.

Some of us are perfectly fine with filling up a small fraction of those remaining 118 to 178 minutes with a little Minesweeping. Others might phone up current lovers who have yet to "describe to me what my mouth does when I sleep and use a thesaurus." Still others might take out the portable sewing kit and prick a wound in an index finger just to have something essential to suck down.

And then there's people like you who decide you cannot make it to 3:08 without letting the world know who you've broken. The foul air of a public toilet will construct just the right crypt for your legacy of violence in the face of any word spoken with sincerity. You have your paper clip bent open even before you get out of your chair and you perspire your way down the hall to begin your big list of "It was me all along."

Hold up there Catholic Cathy. In every office there's one or two folks who simply MUST know what every single person on the floor is up to at all times, and there's four or five folks who dig identifying who shits at what decibels by matching a face to the shoes under the stall. What I'm saying is, after you're done sending spittle-gilded pants all over your list of "People I've Been Naughty To," someone nosey might put together that that stall was graffiti-free up until your pair of Skechers wandered into it.

Just keep an extra pair of shoes hidden but handy for times like this. That way when "None O' My Business Nancy" sends a fifty cent piece rolling under your desk just to crawl down there and ID your loafers, she'll come up with nothin' but a whiff of Desenex and some dirty knees. Extra shoes are also a big help if you don't want anyone to know you're voting for something.

Remember When You Still Knew Why You Were Crying Day!

Seems like a long time ago doesn't it? Believe it or not, your sobs once had a direct cause-and-effect relationship with occurances in your life. Even more surprising, you used to be able to tell when the crying started and stopped. Why not use today to make a list of all those moments in your life when you can remember there being an obvious empirical impetus for your blubbering. Wherever the list stops, draw a line. That's the line between the ability to dream and the feeling that no one ever listens to anyone ever.

Just to give you a template, here's a log mailed into Girls Are Pretty by a 34 year old accounts receivable administrator/former set designer, single. Look familiar?

Age five: Fell down.

Age seven: Ran headlong into the steel bumpered corner of a supermarket produce display.

Age eight: Shoved by dad.

Age nine: Fell off bike.

Age nine and a half: Fell down.

Age eleven: Terms Of Endearment starring Debra Winger, Shirley MacLaine, and Jack Nicholson.

Age twelve: Forbidden to stay out past 10:30.

Age fourteen: Confessed to authorship of secret admirer letter. They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: Fistfight. They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: Funeral.

Age fifteen: Whole world total bullshit.

Age sixteen: Broken up with.

Age sixteen: Confession to authorship of secret admirer letter. Love requited, but not before they all pointed, they all laughed.

Age sixteen: Broken up with.

Age sixteen: Intercourse.

Age sixteen: Confession to authorship of secret admirer letter. Love unrequited, but with discretion.

Age sixteen: Abortion.

Age seventeen: Object of undying love slept with nemesis while I was on vacation with parents. They all pointed, they all laughed.

Age nineteen: Whole world racist.

Age twenty: Drunk. Fell down.

Age twenty: Hit thumb with hammer while stoned. Laughed real hard.

Age twenty: Tripped on acid. Fell down. Devoured by moths.

Age twenty three: Funeral.

Ages twenty three through twenty five: Drunk. Loved friends.

Age twenty five: Broken up with. Began doubting relevance of self to passage of time.

Age twenty six: Saw dog with limp.

Age twenty six: Saw children playing.

Age twenty six: Saw couple unpacking moving truck.

Age twenty six: Saw Titanic starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.

Age twenty six: Saw garbage. Everywhere.

Age twenty six: Saw sunrise through noose.

Age twenty seven: Just too tired.

Age twenty seven: Found photograph.

What's your list?!

Hard Boiled Egg Day!

The only problem with hard boiled eggs is that the boiling water dulls the luster of new life from the shell of the egg and so when I hold the hard boiled egg in my hand I do not receive that little quiver of terror, that shiver of "It's Infinity Isn't It?", the rush of blood out of my hand like everything in my veins is running from something perfect before an attempt is made to comprehend it, and when I look down at the hard boiled egg I get a little sad that it's not a raw egg anymore because that glow of All That Is Good seething off the shell of a raw egg is the only thing in the world that reminds me of your ass.

Happy Hard Boiled Egg Day!

People Battling Cancer Don't Seem So Brave When A Ghost Shows Up Day!

Yeah sure, Baldy might be able to crack a Calista Flockhart joke after puking out his or her chemo treatment for the fourth time that day, but don't expect to see any soldiering on when the ethereal body of the chick who killed herself in the attic 93 years ago comes wandering through the bedroom to look out the window to watch her dead husband never come back from the war again. Yeah, when faced with their own looming mortality they want nothing more than to savor every last minute like it's the most wonderful day of their lives, but God forbid a record player turn on by itself. Weak as they might've been, cancer patients always manage to drum up just the right burst of energy to crawl underneath the bed and quiver like a little baby girl with two pussies. Pull yourself together, Mary.

Happy People Battling Cancer Don't Seem So Brave When A Ghost Shows Up Day!

When The One You Love Pulls Up Out Front To Take You To The Movies, Egg The Shit Out Of His Or Her Car Day!

Invite all your friends over, the ones who don't work on Saturdays so you can all meet up at your place around three pm and get super high. Eventually, someone will remember that no one bought any eggs yet and you'll spend around an hour or so devising a mind-numbingly complex democratic process for declaring who must go to the store. Then you'll remember it's kind of autumny outside and the walk to the store is gonna be awesome so you'll volunteer.

The walk to the store ends up being far more beautiful than you ever could have dreamed. In fact, while they're passing, those twenty six minutes feel like the happiest and most loving twenty six minutes of your entire life, and you take a lot of baths. You know you're high, so you stop in the middle of the street at one point to try to let the moment seep into your clothes and make them smell like the present so tomorrow you can remember how it was and see if your sober self can look back on it without scoffing.

Buy the eggs and walk home. Then you and your friends should wait for the one you love to pull up outside then everyone should jump out of bushes and hang out of windows and just pummel the living shit out of the car with eggs. Go "Whooo!" a lot and scream stuff like, "You're dead you fuck!" Eventually, he or she will get out of the car and attack one of you.

Muscles Day.

Not sure how your day's lookin', but if you were thinking of meeting up after work to drink margaritas until we're blind enough to accidentally blow some dudes, my schedule's pretty FLEXible!

Get it? FLEXible?! Motherfuck does muscles day make me just all a glitterflitter with tingly wingly feelings that I can't quite explain. Such power. Except for the chicks in the blue bikinis. They gross me out. But I like the Sha Na Na dudes with their cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of their white tee shirts just above a single cartoonish bulb of "feel this, sugar."

I do have some bad news. Remember those twin baby girls who were born at the Mucho Musculariarios Fest at Camden Yards last Muscles Day? The mom started getting worried back in July because they didn't seem to be able to see nothin'. After some tests they found out that both the twins are those kinda babies who need glasses, which is way cute I think. But the doctor noticed some other shit wrong with 'em and sent 'em out to get more tests to find out if they're retarded and it turns out they are. So yeah, they both gonna end up retarded. But like primo retarded, is what I heard. So we're passing around a card later if you wanna sign it. But first we're gonna pass around a hat if you wanna chip in to buy the card and for the bus fair to go to the Hallmark store.

But let's not let that harsh our mellows or nothin. Jesus makes some people retarded to remind us that our unborn kids could be next if we do drugs or become poor. Come on, let's ride some rides!

Happy Muscles Day!

Your Mom Called. She Wants Her Ability To Enjoy Life Without Feeling The Need To Save Up For An Elective Hysterectomy And Mastectomy As Punishment For Ever Having Birthed, Nurtured And Sent You Out Into The World Back Day!

I know it sounds like one of those old snaps, but your Mom really did call and she sounded kind of bent out of shape about this whole "my reproductive organs were the conduit for unbridled evil" thing. I suggested she have a drink and then felt like a real asshole because I forgot she's in recovery and all after getting drunk that time and aiming her pelvis at the steering wheel as she rammed her car through that guest house you were renting (lucky you were at that swingdancing class that night, yo). I asked her if it's more annoying to want everything that defines her womanhood sliced from her body or is it just the saving up part that gets in her craw. I can't save for shit so I know how hard that can be. And her forcing herself to only work in shelters or as the only woman in an orange vest stabbing trash on the highway who isn't on work-release just because, as she says, "I need no court to tell me I should pay for my crimes with every minute of my life," well that doesn't pay shit. Anyway, she didn't ask that you call back. She did ask about you though, right when I picked up the phone. She panted, "Is it dead yet?"

Happy Your Mom Called. She Wants Her Ability To Enjoy Life Without Feeling The Need To Save Up For An Elective Hysterectomy And Mastectomy As Punishment For Ever Having Birthed, Nurtured And Sent You Out Into The World Back Day!

If You're Going To Skydive, Ask The Guy Who Packs The Parachutes If He Likes To Shit In Knapsacks Day!

All of us have either seen it happen first-hand or lost someone close to us because of it. Daring, impotent male decides to go skydiving. He takes the crash course and passes with flying colors. But unfortunately, the guy who packs the parachutes likes to do his laundry at the hangar and naturally he uses the parachute packs to transport his undies from backseat of car to washer to dryer to backseat of car again. Well, guess what Brave Benjamin grabs off the table when he thinks he's grabbing his parachute pack. That's right, when he jumps from that plane and pulls his cord, he is just a man in a falling cloud of filthy yet multi-colored underwear, hurtling to his death (which is only seconds away, just long enough for him to catch a brassiere in his hands and then look out ahead of him with bugged eyeballs that register the absurdity of the tableau).

You think, "Hey no problem. I'll just be sure to ask if my parachute pack is filled with a parachute as opposed to dirty underwear." Sure, you got it all figured out don'tcha? Well what if the guy packing the parachutes happens to be one of those people who tries to collect and store away every measurable portion of his own feces throughout his entire life so that when he dies he is surrounded by the sum total of what his body has chosen to cast off, all in an effort to live in some sort of fort built of his own self, an impenetrable shell of protection against a particularly unappetizing memory? (They don't all fuck their shit.) And what if he likes to keep his shit in knapsacks that not only resemble, but quite literally are parachute packs. Try to make a funny face when you tumble to your death in a shower of human shit all squeezed out of some dude who packs parachutes at a small-aircraft hangar.

Just ask a few more questions is all. A stitch in time saves you from tumbling to your death in a shower of human shit all squeezed out of some dude who packs parachutes at a small-aircraft hangar.

Happy If You're Going To Skydive, Ask The Guy Who Packs The Parachutes If He Likes To Shit In Knapsacks Day!

Go To A Park And Seek Wisdom From The Statue Of Some Guy You've Never Heard Of Day!

Sure, if you lived in Philadelphia you could go and ponder the statue of Rocky until you were imbued with the courage to reveal the secret love you've been harboring for your secretary these forty six years. "Help me, Stallion," you'd say to the shiny, chiseled titan. "Knock down my fears of rejection like so many Clubber Langs." But unfortunately, we can't all live in Philadelphia

"But what if I were to commute from Camden?" you might say. Be quiet for a second. The point is, no matter where you live, there's probably a park with a statue in it. And no matter what kind of shitstorm you've gotten yourself mixed up in, it's worth a shot to try to get some inspiration from that statue of whatshisname before you use up all your vacation days for the trek to Mount Rushmore. And because you're the first person in a long time to seek out the bust of Reginald Nobody for advice, the statue will probably be flattered and so will glow with all the moral guidance you might want from a physical replica of The Guy Who Invented The Bike Rack.

So head on down to the park, real casual like, find your statue and let it all out. Just make sure no one's watching, or keep scratching your lip to cover your mouth when you talk. Teenage gangs hang out in parks and if they think you're talking to yourself they might beat you to death. "So anyway," you'll say. "I don't know all that much about you Mister uh Langdon Sturges Latimore. But they made a statue outta ya so you must know something about getting yourself out of a jam. Here's the deal: I wanna pay to have my ex-wife's new husband killed but it seems like every dime I make goes to this kid who's threatening to tell my kids I used to fuck his mouth when he was assigned to me for physical therapy. That's what I do, I'm a physical therapist dontcha know. I taught the little faggot how to walk and now he's sayin' I'm the reason he keeps tryin' to kill himself just because I filled up his mouth with the kind of magic that can only pass from a healer to the lame and no one's ever complained before or since so--"

Oh man. Let us get far enough away first, yo. Happy Go To A Park And Seek Wisdom From The Statue Of Some Guy You've Never Heard Of Day!

Discipline Your Houseplants Day!

Ungrateful fern!

Let's try to avoid the new agey, "We don't say 'No' in our house" bullshit. Your old man used to slap you around when you were a kid and you turned out pretty much okay. Why should your ficus plant get a free ride? You already gave the overgrown weed a primo spot by the window and who pays for the cable around here? The goddamn cactus? Fuck that.

Show those miserable doin' nothin's that you expect some respect in your own home. Even if they haven't done anything wrong, you lash out and let those houseplants know that if they expect to depend on someone else for food, water, and photosynthesis, they're gonna have to live with getting their roots tugged outta their soil just because the one who's bringing home the paychecks happens to be in a bad mood that day. Hell, it taught you to get outta the house and find yourself a job when you were sixteen. Granted, your dad hitting the bottle and tryin' to hold your head inside a lit oven gave you that extra nudge out the door. You'd never go that far though.

You're not your father. You ain't him.

Wonder What It's Like To Be Friends With Bryan Adams Day!

You would be the exact same person that you are right now; the same job, the same spouse, the same regrets and fury towards one particularly smug motherfucker of a sibling. Everything about you would be just as it's always been, except that you happen to be friends with Bryan Adams. It just sounds so fucking weird.

Celebrities often have a few friends who are not celebrities. Like let's say you're a pretty successful lumber supplier in New Hampshire and Bryan Adams wanted to put a deck on his New Hampshire home using some kind of, like, really rare wood or something. So a friend of a friend recommended you to Bryan Adams and you two ended up hitting it off so that you get invited to his parties whenever he's in New Hampshire or whenever you make it down to Boston, Massachusetts or something.

It's just so weird because he would be your only celebrity friend but you couldn't even brag about it. Like if you wanted to namedrop him at a party and you said, "Yeah I'm really enjoying my friend Bryan's new album." And everyone at the party would know you're just trying to namedrop somebody but the host would try to be polite and ask, "Bryan who?" and she would hope you would just hurry up and drop the name and no one would pursue the topic and the party might not thud to a miserable halt. And you'd say, "Bryan Adams. You should buy the album. It's really great." Then everyone would just look at each other for a second before someone asked, "You know Bryan Adams?" And you'd say, "Yeah." And someone else would say, "Really?" And you'd say, "Yeah." And then no one would know what to say because they'd all be just so wigged the fuck out.

Happy Wonder What It's Like To Be Friends With Bryan Adams Day!

Learn How To Deliver Babies Day!

The stress is going to kill you frankly. And you seem to have settled yourself into your new desk on the thirty seventh floor of The Company That Makes The Television Commercials which means even if you bring your lunch you're looking at a minimum of two long elevator rides a day. And that elevator could break down at any given moment.

"Why can't pregnant women just be required by law to spend their last two months of pregnancy in a hospital?" you want to ask the people around the table at dinner parties. But even you, with this terror gradually coloring every length of your consciousness a dark dark red, even you know this is an inappropriate question to ask. But unfortunately, you thought it was okay to say, "What about a separate elevator for pregnant people only and there'd be a doctor and a nurse and those tongs for the baby's head on the elevator too?" and everyone at your father's seventieth birthday party just stared at you hoping you'd get to the toast, waiting for the punchline to come, and wondering why your father's son was so odd and all you could do is mutter into the microphone, "I just can't seem to find the time to learn. Um, love you, Pa."

You'd better find the time soon. Think of all the times you've flipped channels until you found an episode of M*A*S*H* and watched the entire thing hoping for tips but all you got was royally pissed off at that faggot Klinger. Add up those hours and you could've already taken three "Deliver Babies" classes. But instead, you'll just continue to break into a sweat on every elevator ride. And god forbid a pregnant woman actually get on the elevator. As soon as the pig waddles on, your pupils dilate and you just know with every creak and squeak that the car is going to stall and she's going to go into labor and demand that you help her deliver but you won't know what to do because you never took the time and there's only one thought that screams through your head:

"I'm going to kill her baby."

You wait. You whisper, "So selfish. Such a selfish man. So very selfish." You make it to your floor and step from the car like you're bridging a chasm and just as the doors close you to turn and look to the woman's stomach and you say to the fetus, "You were right to wait. I might have pulled too soon or too late and snapped your neck." You run to your office to look up the Learning Annex's registration deadlines and you find you missed the date again.

It's time for you to learn how to deliver babies. You've already been reported to security as "suspicious" by two different pregnant women. Life can be better than this.

Happy Learn How To Deliver Babies Day!