Hit Your Boy In The Face With The Shallow Bony Center Of The Palm Of Your Adorable Little Hand Day!

You must be naked from the waist down but clothed from the waist up. He can be inside you or not, your choice. There is one thing that is not your choice however.

You must make his nose bleed.

Again, your cunt must be absolutely free of anything remotely close to clothing. Even if it's mere decoration, such as a little elastic belt with a few swaths of gauze that might flutter up above your belly button should they be caught in the gust of the air conditioner. You can, and should, wear a top. Whatever you like. A windbreaker even. And once more, whether the boy is inside you or not is irrelevant.

But you must slap the dead center of the palm of your hand down onto the poke of his nose with all the force you would use to murder a fly. And if his nose does not immediately gush with blood, you are no woman.

Recommended: The boy underneath you, the two of you stretched across the length of a bed, yours, the boy inside you (still irrelevant, simply recommended).

Also recommended: The boy with his back against a wall, you up against him, attacking the fool like a chunk of his cheek in your belly might offer you the secret to how some humans manage to love each other, the boy shirtless, the boy with defined pectoral muscles and untoned belly, the boy unfuckingcertain.

Non-Negotiable: Whether he's inside you or not, you must both be at the point whereupon it doesn't even matter anymore. Whereupon no one would even notice. Whereupon orgasms are for faggots. Whereupon you both are wondering if the other thinks your face is funny looking, like you're acting or something, because you both feel like you're making that fake fuck face but it's real, you both swear it.

Ultimately: Your little tiny baby girl hand will free itself of whatever it was digging its nails underneath, and your arm like a catapult will flip above your scalp and slam down fast like a rubber band in class and slap crisp, clean and stunning, dead center on the dent at the foremost tip of prettyboy's cave full o'boogie-snot. You will flatten his face. You will make him bleed from his face. You will blacken his eyes and fatten his upper lip and you will smother that boy in a puddle of blood and ugly.

If he doesn't like it, you did something wrong. Skipped a step or something.

Happy Hit Your Boy In The Face With The Shallow Bony Center Of The Palm Of Your Adorable Little Hand Day!

Steve Day!

Our apologies. Today is a special day. One year ago today, a promise was made and in keeping with that promise, today will be devoted solely to Steve, a dear, dear friend of Girls Are Pretty.

Steve, two of your friends have given birth to babies. One a boy, the other, a boy also. Steve, Kim is back living with her parents now. She's been gone six months and in six months more she'll be off to someplace else, probably San Francisco. Kim has an invitation to live there with your and our friend John and his new wife Alma until she gets settled (we all met Alma at Christmas. She's fantastic). Guess you figured Kim wouldn't be staying on in the apartment you two shared in Park Slope, Steve. Steve, the three of your friends who suddenly feel like they can do anything because they don't care about anything anymore are Lem, Christina, and Josephine. Steve, the two of your friends who feel like they can't get out of bed because they don't care about anything anymore are Lisa and Maureen. Don't worry Steve, we're all looking after them. Steve, Mark got another cat. It's a pretty little long-hair named Hilda. Steve, too many nights end with everyone just shaking their heads so crazily amazed at what a great fucking summer this is turning out to be. Steve, Sam and Moo are fucking again. And Leo and Beverly broke up, Steve, and Leo's seeing someone none of us have met yet, and Beverly is just coasting and coming out a lot more. Steve, Martha has a lot of money now. A ton of money. She said it was an inheritance from when her Dad died (Martha's Dad died, Steve). It's weird, Steve, having a friend who's all of a sudden rich. Martha doesn't buy drinks though, Steve.

Everyone went and had dinner at an outdoor mexican place last night and everyone had margaritas in their hands but no one toasted you Steve. In June a few of us got in Ray's car to drive to Philadelphia and Carrie was rooting through Ray's glove compartment for some cigarettes and she pulled out a picture of you. She held it up, we all looked at it, then she put it back in the glove compartment and continued looking for some cigarettes. Your birthday passed, and the anniversary of the day you and Kim met, the day you always threw a party, both those days passed without anyone saying a word. In the past year, I don't remember anyone ever saying out loud, God I wish Steve was here to see this, Steve. Steve, Jeff got a letter from your sister in March. He wrote back saying only that he hadn't heard anything either.

In short, Steve, everyone, every single one of us is absolutely beautiful in every single way. Whether we're smiling, fucking, crying, screaming, fighting, loving or drunk as God, we're all just the most beautiful people you ever did see. And you're nothing. You're not mourned, missed or reminisced over. You're just gone. As promised, today's Steve Day. Happy Steve Day, Steve.

Be One Of The Final Three Day!

There will be twelve to nineteen at the start. By around eleven, there will remain seven (three unemployed). By around 1:30, just four (two unemployed). At 2:30 AM, the final three will remain (one unemployed, two irresponsible). You three, you heroic, fearless fools with livers composed of layer upon layer of most glorious solid gold. You, the final three will tell each other secrets about your childhoods, your past and present loves, what you think is going to be the thing that breaks you in the end. You'll share secrets not so deep and not very dark, but secrets you're good enough to share at the end of the evening to do justice to a slurred conversation at such a horribly late hour. You'll stay till closing, proudly. You'll leave feeling there's something between the three of you that you can lord over the rest of the twelve to nineteen who're as settled into their good night's sleep as they are in their sedentary (read: Happy) lives. And the three of you will stumble from the curb with arms raised and shout at cabs that sail past without breaking stride. One will stop and either two of you or all three of you will share the cab but only two of you will get out together and screw. Try to be one of those two, too.

Happy Be One Of The Final Three Day!

Grandpa Misses Grandma Day!

Today, Grandpa feels like it can't get much worse, but he feels that way every day. Your Grandma died in her sleep a year and seven months ago and he's had no problem filling the hours. He's got money and he's been spending it (why leave it all for you?). But he just cannot stand not having Grandma with him. He keeps looking to his right. She's been dead almost two years but he keeps looking to his right to crack a joke.

And he sometimes gets really, really pissed off. That's why he got so wasted at your son's fifth birthday. He was literally angry at everyone in the family crowding together and running up to hug him and acting like they had a right to his attention. "Mona isn't here," the words kept running through his head. "Mona isn't here. I'm hers and I'll give nothing of myself to anyone but her." Then he stood up from the picnic table and fell down on the ground.

There's really no helping him out. When you're as old as he is, the cliche "time heals all wounds" only draws attention to the day you're gonna die. Just let him miss her, he wants to.

Happy Grandpa Misses Grandma Day!

Things The Song Did Day!

Today the song was played on a jukebox at a bar at 4:33 PM. The boy who played it didn't think it was a good idea to be in a bar alone at such an early hour, but the boy often acts on such ideas. He knows the bar well and the jukebox even better, but the boy had never known the song was in there, and he'd never before thought to look for it on that or any other jukebox. He found the song before he'd selected any others, but he didn't choose it immediately. He went looking for two other songs to play before it so that he'd have enough time to get back to his table and stare out the window and sigh a bit before the song came on. (He hated when his songs were wasted on him scrambling to pick out other songs). So the song played third and the boy had his legs crossed when it came on. The song made him play with his hair a bit, then he shook his head and laughed at himself a bit. Then he made a phone call to someone he thought it a bad idea to make a phone call to. The boy often acts on such ideas, but this time it wasn't his fault. The song did it.

Today the song woke her up at 9:43 AM. He asked if the music was too loud, and she didn't say "of course it is, it just woke me up." She didn't ask, "why are you playing music so early when your guest is clearly still asleep in your bed?" And she didn't ask if he was glad he'd brought her home with him last night (she knew he wasn't, they had that in common at least). Instead she said no, and laid back and listened to the song and decided to not move out of New York City. She would have to get ahold of her roommate and tell her she wasn't leaving, and she would have to wait until he went to take a shower before she could reach the few feet off the bed and push the button on the stereo that made the song play again. She knows choosing not to move means a lot more pain to come, but if it ever gets too hard she can always blame the song.

Today he hunted for the song like there was a bounty on its head. He looked in the pile of shit in the storage space above the closet but the disc wasn't there. He looked in the pile of shit he keeps meaning to sort out from underneath his bed but the disc wasn't there. He looked in the pile of shit he calls his CD collection but the disc wasn't there. So he got dressed and got in his car and drove (high, he'd smoked a half hour before) to Virgin and bought it. On the drive home (the song wasn't playing yet, stereo stolen nineteen months prior) he remembered who he gave the disc to (Clara). The song played at exactly 9:20 PM. It made him sing along in the mirror for the first minute and a half, then he had to go to the bathroom (not the song's fault). When he got back to his bedroom, he started the disc at the beginning because he felt there was something criminal in putting on a disc and listening out of sequence or skipping songs you don't like (Clara did that). The song played again at around 9:45 PM. It didn't make him sing again, though. He didn't notice it playing in fact. He was thinking about something else by then (Clara).

Happy Things The Song Did Day!

Assume You Dreamt It Day!

Today, if you stumble upon a horrible memory, whether it be having said the word "forever" in bed, or a man you hit with a car and left for dead when you were 17 and drunk, or the time you farted and got caught, or the time you got pregnant and had an abortionist suck the living, pain-experiencing, shrieking baby from inside your (God's) womb, or that whole "going to live with your uncle after your parents died and being forced to fellate him" phase you went through, or yesterday, in its entirety, assume you dreamt it.

But stay in bed. And don't answer the phone or check email or ever leave your bed. You dreamt it, it wasn't real, you'll be fine. (Don't go outside)

Happy Assume You Dreamt It Day!

Just The Night Then Day!

Let's say last night you held something in your arms that made you think you'd never held anything in your arms before in your life. No books, no cats, no grocery bags or laundry sacks. Last night was the night you learned what your arms were always meant to do. They were meant to hold something that's naked.

Today you're going to try to find out whether you can hold it again for as long as you can stand, for as long as you can keep from having to go to the bathroom. The answer might of course be "yes, of course" because of course you both know that's as the answer should be. Or the answer might be "no, not right now, not a very good time for me because I'm packing all my things and moving away to Washington State." Or the answer might be -silence-. And some waiting. And forgetting.

How to react:

yes, of course
Wash up, get on a train. Hurry fatso.


no, not right now, not a very good time for me because I'm packing all my things and moving away to Washington State
Say, "Just the night then." Hear, "Just the night then."


-silence-
Wait. A little longer. Say (to empty room), "Just the night then." Wait. Say (to empty room), "Just the night then." Wait. Say (to empty room), "Just the night then." Forget.

Happy Just The Night Then Day!

Where The Fuck Is My Dagger? said the man in the cloak Day!

Leonid Brasche was a Moscow plumber for most of his 20's and 30's. His position called for him to wear a cloak to protect his clothing from sewage should a clogged drain suddenly expel its contents without warning. And he liked to carry a dagger on his person at all times, firstly because it was handy for scraping congealed grime from the inside of drain pipes, and second, because when Leonid was 12 his father was murdered by a man to whom he'd lent some money. Stabbed he was, in the throat, out on the crowded Sunday street right in front of Leonid. His father had just bought bread and cream for that night's dinner. The food was on the ground in the snow. Dark dark blood surged from his father's neck into the white. The bread grew soggy with blood. Leonid stayed by his father until his breathing stopped. Then he ran home to fetch his mother. Not long after, dreams of revenge made him buy himself a second-hand dagger and carry it on his person at all times. He still has the same dagger.

When Brasche entered the spy game, he kept the old cloak because he saw no need to start spending just because he'd gotten a slight boost in pay. Plus, the cloak was helpful for spending nights in shadow. And though he had no real practical use for the dagger (he carried a gun, and he had no clogged pipes to deal with) he continued to keep it somewhere in his pockets. But Brasche was a forgetful man, often making himself late rummaging under seat cushions and into the bottom of desk drawers to locate the misplaced dagger. And many in the office would hear him bellow out his frustration with a "Where the fuck is my fucking dagger godammit!" Heads would turn and they'd see the man in the cloak behind his glass office walls tossing pillows in the air and lifting up chairs before eventually sliding his hand into one last unchecked pocket and retrieving the dagger with a shake of the head. This happened so often that when Brasche showed up to work in the morning, more than one person would shout out a jovial "Eh, cloak n' dagger! How they hangin'?"

And thus the words "cloak and dagger" would forever call to mind the world of international super-spies.

Happy Where The Fuck Is My Dagger? said the man in the cloak Day!

God Is So Into You Right Now Day!

God hasn't been able to take his eyes off of you all night long. Did you see how when that guy shot that arrow straight at your face God real clumsily intervened to make sure it killed the guy you've been sleeping with? And I swear, as soon as you complained of having forgotten to bring a sweater with you on such a chilly night, God made it like ten degrees warmer out. And how about when your mom called to say your grandmom just got up and started walking around her hospital bed, cleaning things. All because you got a little drunk and started crying about how you're scared your grandma might die soon. And you told me yesterday you just wish she would finally die so that you don't have to go visit her no more. You just wanted to cry about something in front of everybody again, didn't you? But God must not have known that because as soon as he saw a tear glint in your eye he made your grandma all better. He's a really chivalrous lover, God. He can't stand to see the girl he loves in the slightest distress. But he's also real jealous I think because he never would have made your grandma all better if he heard us talking the other day. I think God only pays attention to you when you're talking to other guys.

Anyway, you're lucky and I think you should give God some. I'd go crazy to have a boyfriend so into me that he'd, like, alter destiny and shit. I mean, people talk about considering the grand scheme of things. But as long as you have God pining after you, the grand scheme of things is gonna change every time you scrunch your brow.

Just don't play games. If you and God make it work, you're gonna be rich.

Happy God Is So Into You Right Now Day!

Reinvent The Wheel Day!

The wheel we have right now sucks. Reinvent it, goddammit, and this time give it the capacity to love. It's 2003!

Happy Reinvent The Wheel Day!

Waste Away The Day (Like You Have A Choice In The Matter?) Day!

Today, because you really couldn't imagine ever living your life in any other way, you should spend the day doing nothing at all productive and just sort of lay there. After a while, talk to your walls. Say something like, "Hello walls." If the walls say, "What up, ya'll?" or something, congratulations, your life has devolved to such a vague, insignificant existence that your walls perceive you as just another inanimate piece of furniture and so they think it's okay to shoot the shit with you.

Happy Waste Away The Day (Like You Have A Choice In The Matter?) Day!

Young Man, Pollute Me Day!

You like the dirty boy, he smells like laundry and he has a scratch of dried mustard streaking out from the corner of his mouth. He's younger than you, he's not as smart as you, and he doesn't really think he's going to amount to much. Fuck him tonight. Grab him by his belt when everyone else has left the table to smoke and say, "Young man, pollute me."

He won't be very good in bed, but you will feel full with a little boy's late evening filth, the filth that gathers after a day of playing outside, the filth that mothers ask little boys to wash from their hands before sitting down for dinner. You'll get what you want, you'll get to sit across from him next week and look at his raggedy form and think to yourself, "I have his grime inside of me."

He'll complain of hunger early tomorrow morning. Send him out with your key and he will bring you back some bagels. He is obedient. And if he gets coffee for himself or you, he will carry the coffee cup in the bag with the bagels, not caring that his pace will spill the coffee from the little airhole in the lid. And when he pulls the bagels from the bag, the bagels and their wax paper wrappers and the large pile of napkins will all be damp with a large black two sugars.

Happy Young Man, Pollute Me Day!

Your Supervisor Suffers From Pyromania Day!

It hits her every day around 3:30, when everyone else is getting ready for a group yawn. She slams her door shut, draws all the blinds, and then you see her phone line light up. You thought she was just making plans to see whoever she's cheating on her husband with. But she's not, she's very faithful, she's just calling her sponsor.

"I can see the flames flicker Harold. I can see them, Harold. They're just so motherfucking beautiful, Harold."

"Breathe."

Around 4:05 her phone line blinks off. And at 4:15, she comes back out and asks you to retype the memo you typed up earlier in the day. She's very calm then.

"Do you have any corrections?"

"It was fine I just....must have misplaced it."

You can sometimes smell the smoke underneath the sudden gust of air freshener wafting from her office.

While you fetch the memo from your hard drive, she goes to the window and takes sleek breaths, like she's smoking an imaginary cigarette.

She stays at the window until five, when you ask her if she needs anything else, and she dismisses you with a shake of the back of her head. As far as you know, she stays there all night. She did once.

Some nights, she stays until as late as nine or ten, when she's certain everyone has gone and the cleaners have finished their shift. She moves a copier from its spot on the floor and builds a small pile of documents and cardboard paper clip boxes and plastic report covers and a scarf or glove or some other item she might have worn to work that day and she lights a tiny blaze, tall enough get her blood into her ears, but small enough to stamp out after just a few moments before the smoke detectors sound. Then she sweeps the remains and the ash into a small trash bag that she'll toss into a dumpster on her walk home, and she'll slide the copier back overtop the scarred carpet. And the next day she'll know what's under there.

Wreckage. She did that.

Happy Your Supervisor Suffers From Pyromania Day!

If You Lay Down Long Enough, Someone Will Come By And Make Some Tea Day!

Hopeless? Sure! But that doesn't mean you're all alone. You've been staying in bed for a few days because it feels like no one cares if you ever get up and put some clothes on again, but that's right where you should be if you wanna get to the good stuff.

A lot of people don't know this because they get out of bed too soon. They either didn't crash hard enough or they felt guilty about people starving in far off lands so they say "ah fuck it you little baby" and they get out of bed and go to work and try to blend back into society (even though inside they just keep stabbing their own eyes out over and over again).

But you seem like you're in for the long haul. There'll be no get-up-and-go for you because you know for a fact that your pain, though caused by no identifiable occurrance, is the most horrible and sorrowful pain ever felt by anyone ever. A pain more palpable even than that felt by a Dad whose six-year-old just died. You're really sad and you ain't gonna budge.

That's why it's probably gonna happen today. You've stuck it out long enough, and sometime near evening there'll be a knock on your door. Obviously, you won't answer. So the door will just creak open and instead of it being your roommate asking if he can borrow your roll-on deodorant again, you'll see poke through the doorway the face of a mother.

Not your mother, mind you. The mother will look like either Vanessa Redgrave or Brenda Blethyn in Lovely And Amazing. The mother will shine her smile down upon you and say, "Are your dreams so entertaining that you'll not be coming down for dinner again tonight?"

You'll stay put (don't give up now), and you'll stay there on your side with your back to the mother who is opening up the blinds over the windows. You can't see her, but when there's a silence in the room, you can be certain she is standing in the middle of the floor with her head tilted to her right shoulder, offering the most sympathetic pout for her little baby. Then she stoops by your bed, kisses you on the back of the head, and she whispers to your hair, "I'll make us some tea. I haven't seen you in a while kiddo."

YES!

You pulled it off. In a few minutes you're going to be sitting up against your pillows and listening to the mother tell an inspiring story about how when her deceased husband (not your father, he looked like either Brendan Gleeson or a really old, fat Robert Sean Leonard) first met her, he was an awkward rude GI looking for a bed in her father's (not your grandfather, he looked like either Max Von Sydow or Jason Robards before he died) hotel in Holland. And he ate three dinners with the family before he asked her father if her could take his daughter back to the United States and make her his wife. He promised her father that she would never have an unhappy day for as long as she stood by his side, and he kept that promise.

When the mother finishes her story and her tea, she'll leave your apartment. That's your cue to get out of bed and try to find out where folks might be drinkin tonight.

Happy If You Lay Down Long Enough, Someone Will Come By And Make Some Tea Day!

The Blind Can Love Day!

Blind man walks into a park with a tap tap tap of one of those long plastic things. Blind man smells angry pant of breath from big dog mixed with especially hearty dollop of feminine perfume applied by a blind woman (blind women do that with their perfume) and concludes that said blind woman in same park is about to be attacked by big dog. Blind man on the scent, ya'll.

Tap tap tap goes the blind man into the middle of a jungle jim. The wind is heavy for mid-summer and he got thrown off the scent. But with a vigilant whiff he's back on track and he heads to the Five Corners just off Dog Run where he's certain that not a few feet away from him are a big dog and a blind lady sporting an odor that could only be concocted in the house of Claibourne.

The blind man dives into the airspace where he is certain the big dog is about to take flight straight for the blind lady's neck. He hears a guy say, "the fuck?" just before he thumps to the concrete and immediately lunges into the air from his spot on the ground to bearhug the big dog mid-flight before it can open the poor blind lady's neck.

The blind man grabs only damp summer air and falls back down again.

Tap tap tap goes the blind woman to where she heard the plop of person to concrete and she asks, "Did someone fall?" Blind man shouts, "The dog! The dog!"

Blind man and blind woman hear man say, "He's leashed. Settle down."

After enough seconds pass for a blush to fill a cheek and then fade, the blind man starts to giggle from his spot on the ground and the blind woman joins him with that laugh that only blind people can share, a laugh that says, "Holy shit does does living in a world of pitch black darkness suck or what?"

The laughter subsides and the blind woman gives a tap tap tap of her long plastic thing to the blind man's tummy and she says, "Hey hero. Buy you a beer?"

The blind man and the blind woman have a beer together and they fall in love and stay together for fifty thousand years never for one single second not loving each other with every inch of their long plastic things, and then the blind man dies and the blind woman waits to die for a while, happy that she got to love the blind man for all that time.

Happy The Blind Can Love Day!

The Raven Day!

The raven has been doing nothing but farting and fucking in that tree outside for the past nineteen years you lived in this house and every time you take a broom to the branch it just hops up one branch higher and continues about its business like it's perfectly natural for a raven in a tree to screw in plain sight of your kids and ailing mother-in-law. Shoot it. Blow the little omen-gone-gassy into a big burst of jet black down. And while you're at it, the azaleas haven't exactly been "churchly" of late.

Make all of nature pay.

Happy The Raven Day!

The Counterculture Day!

Today, the counterculture is feeling sleeeeeeeepy. Very sleeeeeeeepy. The counterculture can feeeeel itself falling asleeeeeeep with every word it heeeeears. And when the counterculture hears a snap of the fingers, the counterculture will believe that it is a chicken.

SNAP!

Happy The Counterculture Day!

A Cooperative Former Lover Day!

You slept together a few times, it was neither fantastic nor regrettable, but some words were said afterwards and you both decided it'd be best to cease all contact. Until today. You need his help.

No one knows safecracking better than your former lover. And you need the best. You've got the crew, you can get in and out of the basement no problem. But you need the magic key. You need a safecracker who can open that vault as if the combination was his baby daughter's birthdate. You need that guy you used to fuck for a little while to help you steal an amulet.

When he sees you standing there behind his screen door, that grin will flash across his face, that one that says "Well look who's back for another taste." In one split second, you can tell that there is about a 5% chance of the two of you fucking again before this job's done, and the only way that would occur is if the weather is pretty the night you all pull into the interstate motel you'll be using as your headquarters for the final leg of the job. That's the only night you can foresee having a few hours off. "I've got a job for you," say.

He'll get cocky with something along the lines of, you're offering me an opportunity? You need my help is what it is. I want 20%. You'll counter with 15. Then for the rest of the job, your crew will watch the two of you dance around the barely lukewarm haze billowing between you and think to themselves, "Those two might screw, but would it matter?"

Happy A Cooperative Former Lover Day!

Just Two Young Folks Thinkin Bout The Same Old Thing Day!

That's all. That's why he'll call. Just thinkin bout that thought in your head, the one that takes place with you in his bed. That's all. That's why he'll call. Just thinkin bout you thinkin bout laying down for a while. The only touch between you: your forearm across his belly.

It wasn't him who thunk it. All he was thinkin bout was you thinkin bout him and his smell. The way he chews ice cream. And the way his eyes look when they're only two inches away from yours. That's all. That's why he'll call. "Hello?" "Get your mind out of the gutter and get on a train and bring a lot of beer. We might be in for a while."

Happy Just Two Young Folks Thinkin Bout The Same Old Thing Day!

Cheese And Cigarettes Day!

Today you must only eat cheese and smoke cigarettes until midnight. You may not drink liquid, and you may not put the cheese in between slices of bread to form a "sandwich." You may eat the cheese sliced, or nibble from a large hunk, but by midnight you mustn't have let pass a thirty minute period without having both eaten some cheese and smoked at least one cigarette. If you choose to disobey, Girls Are Pretty has your wife and child and Girls Are Pretty will not hesitate to execute them. Be smart.

Now eat the cheese and smoke the cigarettes.

Happy Cheese And Cigarettes Day!

"Need To Get Out Of City ASAP. Please Help!" Day!

She can't be more than seventeen and she's covered in piercings. She's sitting with her back up against the wall of a bank, her face is in her knees and the sign is propped up against her boots. Just in front of the sign is a coffee cup containing maybe three dollars in change. Go to her.

"Are you in danger?"

No, she'll say.

"Do you have a funeral to get to?"

No, she'll say.

"A wedding?"

No, she'll say.

"The humidity getting to you?"

No, she'll say. Well, kind of, she'll say. But that's not it, she'll say.

"Then what is it? Why do you have to get out of the city so bad?"

Because I just can't take it anymore, she'll say. Please help me, she'll say.

Hold her. Tell her not to cry, that things are going to get better, and explain that you don't give money to panhandlers. You prefer to help the needy via legitimate charitable organizations. Then go to dinner.

Happy "Need To Get Out Of City ASAP. Please Help!" Day!

Dead Birds In The Corporate Plaza Fountain Day!

Get up a couple hours early, go up to your roof and kill five pidgeons with a baseball bat. Bag their carcasses, then go back down to your apartment and change out of your pajamas to get ready for work.

You should get to the office early enough that only a few people might be walking in with you, but not so early as to arouse suspicion from the guards. When you cross the plaza, ready the bag of dead pidgeons so that when you get to the fountain, you can casually walk nearly 200 degrees around the edge, every ten paces tossing a pidgeon into the water with just a flick of your wrist behind your back. When the bag is empty, stuff it into your briefcase and stroll on up to work.

You'll be taking a long lunch today. Leaving early enough to get some food and to secure the bench on the plaza with just that perfect view. And returning late enough to not miss a thing. Just sit back and watch as the secretaries and the middle managers set down on the ledge of the fountain for a nice meal of office gossip and panini, then stand back up when someone notices a bludgeoned pidgeon floating past them. The people a few seats down will wonder what the folks around the bend are looking at, but they won't have to when they spy their very own dead pidgeon swaying past like a elderly person on an innertube. Soon, the ledge will be empty and you'll hear murmurings of "Must be using some chemicals in the water" and "THOSE AREN'T CHEMICALS, THESE PIDGEONS WERE BLUDGEONED TO DEATH! DEAR FUCKING CHRIST ALMIGHTY!" Then work will close early so everyone can group into a pipe weilding mob and band out into the streets to find the motherfucker responsible. Don't join them. Go home and nap some.

Happy Dead Birds In The Corporate Plaza Fountain Day!

Happy As A Schoolgirl Day!

Today, something will come to pass that will make you feel just as giddy and lighthearted as a pretty little, ruddy-faced schoolgirl who shoplifts because she doesn't talk to that many people at school except to say "shut up" when they call her "Lesbionic," and who has been making a habit of downing the wine left in her parents' glasses when she clears the table every night, and who has been coming home later and later from school because she enjoys walking underneath the freeway ramps downtown, where the noise wrings out everything she's made of and fills her up with a steady static machine-made moan, and who didn't eat anything yesterday, and who daydreams about saving all of her classmates' lives when the terrorists bomb the school but just when she thinks everyone's safe and half the school is burning down, someone shouts "Look!" and pounding against the inside of a locked second floor bathroom window is Darrell, the possibly mildly retarded but oh so adorable boy who likes to spit on the schoolgirl's schoolbag when she passes where he and his friends smoke cigarettes after three. And so the schoolgirl scales the drain pipe up to the awning beneath the bathroom window, pulls her scrunchie out of her hair to wrap it around her fist for protection when she punches through the pane of glass and unlocks the lock that Darren didn't think to search for. And the schoolgirl swings over to the side and pulls Darren out and hands him down to the teachers waiting to catch him below. And the schoolgirl kicks herself out away from the building just one second too late when a cloud of fire gasps out to shatter the expanse of windows, and a hero ablaze and cut with shards she tumbles unconscious to the concrete below. When she awakens she is in a hospital bed in the center of her gymnasium and her eyes shiver open to see a 20 foot banner that reads "Three Cheers For Our Hero The Schoolgirl" and everyone starts shouting hip hip hooray and lining up to apologize for being mean to her in the past and to ask her out on dates. Some of the boys get into a fight over her.

Happy Happy As A Schoolgirl Day!

Kissing On The Lips Day!

Kissing someone on the lips is a really fucking stupid idea and you could get your goddamn head blown off for doing it, especially if when you first start to kiss you only have one hand touching the person's hip and you worry that it might seem like you're about to put your hand on the person's ass so you move it further up to just above the waste, and then you realize that the person you're kissing isn't going to back down and you're thinking, "Well fuck if I'm gonna be the one to pussy out of this," even though you are in fact really frightened. But you keep on kissing and then you end up putting your other hand on the person's other side, but after a few seconds you slide that hand slowly down to the person's hip as if to say, "Ass: Mine!" And the person you're kissing is like, "Think I give a shit?" And all of a sudden the two hands that were just on your shoulders are wrapped around the back of your neck and since you're both too stupid to think about your future, SLAM, your bodies squish up against each other in this big huge moomphal of flesh barely protected by dresses and dress pants and you just stand there wriggling and kissing and until you both are like, "Let's stop. We're getting our faces all wet." And so you pull apart just in time to take a nice long lingering gaze down the pitch black barrel of a motherfucking gun. Way to go, dickheads.

Happy Kissing On The Lips Day!

She's A Faker Day!

She's only saying whatever it takes to get you to pull her head to your chest. She's a faker, a cheat, and she'll swindle you into falling for her then she'll look downstage and take a bow. She'll blink her eyes and suck in her lips and start to sing a song to herself as if she forgot that you were around. And she'll call to say she had fun last night but she didn't, she can't, she's a faker.

She's a faker but she can't really be blamed all that much because she never ever felt anything real. She says what people in the movies say and she only cries when someone's around to watch. She's not trying to make money, this isn't a scam, and she doesn't have an ex-husband she needs you to kill. She just wants to walk, talk, laugh, cry, fuck, fight, sing, scream, leave, stay, go, stay please stay for just one more night, just like the people in the movies always do. She's a faker.

Around 10,000 Hours Day!

Today, if you can look back on a time in your life and shudder at the memory or pine for the loss or wonder what he or she is doing right now, that part of your life lasted for around 10,000 hours. Whether it was a marriage, a telemarketing job you couldn't quit, a first date gone perfect or wrong, a shit, or the night's sleep that followed an episode of absolutely and in every way correct sex, it took up around 10,000 hours that you'll never get back again. And all you can do is remember it and either shudder or pine.

Remember, it wasn't twelve years or eight months or "blind since birth," it was around 10,000 hours long. That's all.

Happy Around 10,000 Hours Day!

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Prettygirl Digs Booze" Thursday And Friday!

Prettygirl got way wasted tonight. Jealous? You're jealous.

Friday, July 11, 2003

Plants And/Or Figurines Day!

They were what you focused on whilst getting fucked up the ass. Either two dead plants that you imagined to be having a conversation about whether the war with Iraq was enough of a message, or the nineteen porcelain ballerina figurines surrounding one miniature porcelain world-weary farmer holding a rake. The farmer's shoulders were slumped and he was looking at the sky. And the ballerinas were his forewomen, commanding him to bring life to his scalp-dry soil but no matter how they swayed, how they bounced how they swayed he couldn't. He just couldn't. But the farmer wouldn't cry. Not while he was surrounded by the ballerinas. You knew he wanted nothing more, but his grizzled eyes wouldn't let shine even the sleekest glint of a tear. Not whilst you were getting fucked up the ass. The two plants and all the figurines were on the windowsill. There was a tree outside, but it got cut down because it was sick last fall.

Happy Plants And/Or Figurines Day!

Thursday, July 10, 2003

Perfect Milk-White Skin And A Tan Boyfriend Day!

You really and honestly can't see any reason why you should not take your life tonight because tonight you have absolutely and undeniably perfect milk-white skin. It's all over your body, not the slightest most miniscule flaw from your bottom lip to your anklet. But your boyfriend is tanned (how do some boys tan the way they do?), he is tan and he has a blemish near his ear. And you've spent three months, two days, and the large portion of a beautiful cool summer nighttime pretending it doesn't matter that he has a blemish near his ear but everyone on the commuter transit knows you are quite plainly furious.

Take your life. Forget the months, the nights, the days. The two hours tonight on commuter transit by his side was enough to conclude that the large part of the best of your life has been wasted with his hand on your thigh. Take your life.

Happy Perfect Milk-White Skin And A Tan Boyfriend Day!

Go To Your Roof And Watch The Girls In Their Party Dresses Wait For Their Taxis On The Street Down Below Day!

You thought the new nightclub up the block would bring a bad element to the neighborhood. Namely, an element that is found frequently in nightclubs. Granted, walking home at 11 PM past a lineup of blonde tipped men in open black tops can make you feel sad about being alive sometimes. But then there's 3 AM.

3 AM. When the Girls in the party dresses have decided to get out and get home alone in bed before they have that one last drink that might let them wake up someplace they don't recognize. The pretty Girls in black and white lycra scatter into twos, ones and threes along the block, all furiously hailing down taxis to get off the sidewalk before the drunk boys with the blonde tips start to bellow.

It's the ones in groups of one you watch from your rooftop. The ones whose friends all paired off away from them. The ones who just couldn't say yes tonight. Who smiled at all the hamhanded attempts and handed out the phone numbers, some real, some fake, she can't remember which one's which anymore. The ones who get on their cell phones to cry to their girlfriends or proposition ex-boyfriends or call the sitters to say they're on their way home.

Like that one, in the lime green spaghetti strap mini dress you swear you've seen before. "You must've wore that last week," you say out loud with an exhale of cigarette smoke. She's on the phone dialing the one she's going to think about during her cab ride. You always fell for a girl with something you can't quite place on her mind. And you swear you've seen that lime green spaghetti strap mini-dress before. Then your cell phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Guess who!"

"Oh my God. Are you back in town?"

"I am."

"Are you wearing your lime green spaghetti strap mini-dress?"

"I am. Can you see me?"

"Um...What do mean? Where are you?"

"I'm right outside your building. On 108th and Amsterdam! I'm waving up at your window. Do you wanna let me up?"

"Um...I moved. To...um...to Jersey actually."

So you watch her stop waving then you move inside the stairwell so the two of you can catch up without the risk of hearing the same passing police siren coming through each other's phones. Nice to hear from her but she's still pretty out there. Good thing you "moved."

Happy Go To Your Roof And Watch The Girls In Their Party Dresses Wait For Their Taxis On The Street Down Below Day!

Immerse Yourself And Your Girlfriend In The Christian Faith Day!

Things have pretty much cooled down between you and your girlfriend, and now you're certain that it's only a matter of time and circumstance before she starts cheating on you. But what can you do about it? Girlfriends cheat on boyfriends, they've done it ever since 1996.

But there is a special kind of girlfriend who won't cheat on her boyfriend. She's a christian! And she's been taught that if her skirt ever hits the floorboards of an unknown apartment, she's going to rot in hell when she dies. That'd keep me from handing out my pussy to any pair of khakis with enough spare change to pay for my Michelobe Ultra, lemme tell you Kenneth. Jesus saves.

Christianity will also cut down on your girlfriend's stealing. And I'm not just talking about shoplifting. She'll even believe that taking twenties out of your pants while you're asleep will sentence her to an eternity trying to get a good night's sleep on a bed of hottest hellfire.

But if you really want this to work, you're going to have to pretend that you're way into Christ yourself. A lot of lazy boyfriends have tried to avoid the whole going to church and studying for conifirmation quizzes thing by just saying to their girlfriends, "I sure wish I could honey. But Christianity is a women's religion." Eventually your girlfriend will remember her grandfather saying grace at Thanksgiving or something and she'll know she's been punk'd.

Happy Immerse Yourself And Your Girlfriend In The Christian Faith Day!

Rip It To Pieces! To Pieces I said Day!

You've finished Atonement by Ian McEwan and found it to be quite enjoyable, often moving. Now rip it to pieces! To pieces I said! I said to pieces!

When you're finished ripping Atonement by Ian McEwan to pieces, phone friends to tell them that you've just finished Atonement by Ian McEwan amd found it to be quite enjoyable, often moving.

If a friend says, "I loved that book!" Say, "Mm," and hang up so you can call another friend. If a friend says, "Hey, you think I could borrow it?" Say, "No." If your friend says, "Why not?" Say, "Because I ripped it to pieces! To pieces I said! I said to pieces!"

Happy Rip It To Pieces! To Pieces I said Day!

A Gardenhose Aimed At Your Big Sister Day!

Walking home from the movie your big sister takes you to tonight, you're going to pass some boys in the grade above you who are frightening. When they catch sight of the two of you, the boy who actually lives at the house, having agreed to the dare of "Dude _____ Clemens is wearing a white tee shirt go turn on your garden hose and I bet we'll see nipple yo," will run across the lawn to unravel his father's garden hose, loosen the spigot, and then run for the edge of the lawn and unleash a barrage of water upon your sister's upper frame. True to form, your sister, dripping wet and in fact showing nipple, will march across the lawn to the gathering of boys, and she will bark a great deal, including the following excerpts:

fucking faggot cocksuck

get a good look so you can suck each other's dicks later when you

knew your older brother Reesey and if I told him about this

should fucking...lick yourselves faggots

my little brother

nothing to say? Of course not you little tiny lacrosse

The boys will say nothing, though two of them will look directly at you as you and your sister continue down the sidewalk. The exchange will raise your sister on high in your esteem, and it will leave you terrified of being pummelled for the next two years of high school, though you will in fact graduate unharmed. High school fistfights happen much more rarely than one would imagine. Over 17,000 die every year in grad school fistfights gone wrong, however.

Happy A Gardenhose Aimed At Your Big Sister Day!

Already Been In Love Day!

You remember it seemed like all the booze was free. You remember there was brown hair for as far as the eye could see. And you remember there were always more cats, no matter how many died there were always more cats that the two of you could find in the classified pages. Things were nice.

But it's good you got it out of the way. If you were still in love, or if you fell in love again, you'd probably never get around to refastening the shelves that fell off the bathroom wall last winter you'd be so happy. And you might not be taking the steps you're currently taking in an effort to become as famous as God. Also, you would be able to pretty much kiss your teeth bleaching regimen goodbye. Everything would be headed straight into the shitter.

Lot's of people think that true love only comes around once in a lifetime. It does. You don't have to worry about that anymore. Now go buy a television!

Happy Already Been In Love Day!

Where You're From Day!

Today, you were born on an intercontinetal flight, halfway across the Atlantic Ocean. Your mother was being deported back to Brussels after your father was secretly executed by the NSA. In the dimmer hallways of American National Security, it was understood that the death of your father meant life for the status quo of misinformation. But your mother made a stink as to his disappearance, and she made headlines. The issue of your father's little girl and her inevitable vengeance against her father's assassins was something no one wanted to chance. But murdering your mother before you were born was considered far too high profile a disappearance. The louder she screamed, the more her name appeared in the papers. If she went silent, there would certainly be an inquiry.

So they decided to make it harder on you by forging some documents to get your mother's citizenship called into question. You were not to be born on American soil. But your mother, a clever woman, bore down a thousand miles offshore, which is why your manifesto, issued from whatever bunker has been harboring you and published by an underground and now-defunct publisher, is titled "I Have No Country."

Tomorrow, you're from Dayton again.

Happy Where You're From Day!

Elevator Action Day!

When you finally arrive at the 21st floor, the doors to the elevator will spread and the gunman will immediately open fire. So right now, you should climb up through the emergency hatch in the ceiling of the elevator. Do it now.

Do you have stable footing on the roof of the car? Great! Get yourself as close to the wall of the shaft as you can without getting snagged on anything jutting out from the wall as the car rises. Once you come to a stop, wait for the gunman to let loose with his barrage of bullets, then waste no time climbing up onto the foot-ledge of the exit to the floor just above you. Once he stops shooting, he'll realize the only way you could have escaped is through the hatch, so he will first shoot up at the ceiling of the car, which is why it is important for you to get on that foot-ledge. That is too tough an angle for him to hit you. And, it will give you a positioning advantage when he climbs up through the shaft after you so you can jump down and snap his neck before he even sees where you were hidden.

Okay, did the gunman open fire? What do you mean, No? He had to have.

You're on the ledge of the exit to the 22nd floor right? Where's the car now? It went back down to the first floor? Oh fuck. And the gunman never opened fire?

Wait, are you at 30 Penn Plaza or 30 Penn Place? OH shit. No no no. You're wife's being held on the 21st floor of 30 Penn Place. 30 Penn Plaza is about to blow. Sorry, yo. Abbreviations.

Okay, you have 30 seconds to get out of the building. Wait for someone to ride the elevator up to the 21st floor and hop back onto the roof, climb into the car and ride back down.

Has the car moved from the lobby yet? No? How about now?

You now have nine seconds to wait for someone to ride the elevator up to the 21st floor, hop onto the roof, climb into the car and ride back down. Has the car moved from the lobby yet?

Mm... Well, I'm out of ideas.

Happy Elevator Action Day!

Dandelion Day!

You had a girlfriend when you were sixteen and her name was Ellen. When Ellen moved to Florida with her parents, she asked you whether you thought the two of you would stay in love forever, even though she was moving far away. You said to her only, "When you're thirty-six, mail me a dandelion."

Ellen has been thirty-six for eight months now and you've been checking your mailbox every day with a swiftly growing dread. No dandelions.

She could never have forgotten. Something, or someone, is keeping her from contacting you.

"She could be dead," your father suggested.

"The dead have executors to carry out their wishes posthumously," you say. "No. I think she's being held captive by someone or she's trapped under something. What if she's hungry?"

"Find her," your mother said.

"But my administrative assistant position. I could be fired if I take off from work for too long."

"Oh yeah," your mother said.

You have a three-day weekend starting tomorrow, and you often get let out early on the day before a three-day weekend. Find her. But first, get a search running.

Happy Dandelion Day!

Forget The Words Day!

If tonight, when you sing for your sold-out crowd, you appear to have forgotten the words, stranger will look to stranger to shake their heads like synchronized swimmers. And from the stage you will hear them say "Bun bwah bun bwah bun bwah bun bwah."

Translation: "Our beautiful one is gone. Another idol has fallen. Word will soon spread that the magic has died, and we were here to see it. I have never been so glad to have spent 65 dollars."

But give a stern flap to your glttery cape, shout "Oh the hell with it" and launch back into the chorus, forcing your band to chase time, and your sold-out crowd will rise to their feet in celebration of your soldierly spirit. And stranger will look to stranger to compare their knowing smiles and from the stage you will hear them say, "Lo heen lo hem lo heen lo hem lo heen lo hem lo hem."

Translation: "I knew our hero would come back for us. So brave. Such a survivor. She would never leave her flock behind, and I love this song more than ever now. And I love this song more than you do."

You've been at it too long, everyone knows the songs, you have to give them a reason to have shown up tonight.

Happy Forget The Words Day! Now see if you can make the strangers do it!

Search The Product Descriptions And Instructions Of Your And Your Roommates' Shampoo Bottles For Grammatical Errors Day!

You're not a watcher. You're a doer! While everyone else would like to go out and get that great job and land that hot-bodied husband, you actually consider it sometimes. Life is short and it's too damn dull to not make something happen for yourself. So you're not going to just cower under the covers wondering if any of the shampoo bottles in the bathroom have any grammatical errors within their product descriptions and instructions anymore, you're going to kick your blue veined feet out onto your bedroom floor, march down the hall to the bathroom and spend about twelve minutes searching those labels until:

Use for ten days and you'll see a difference. Best of all, Pantene Pro V enriched hair that is natural bounce and body.

"A Ha!" You'll shout before letting out a barrage of triumphant laughter that feels like it might not stop, like the laughter isn't yours, but it's not going to let you breathe. Like when you started laughing the morning of your older sister's funeral.

Happy Search The Product Descriptions And Instructions Of Your And Your Roommates' Shampoo Bottles For Grammatical Errors Day!

The Sincerest Of Apologies For Having, For The Very First Time In Girls Are Pretty History, Dictated Your Personal Regression Assignment A Day Late Twice Within The Same Week, From Everyone Here At Girls Are Pretty:

Sorry, Dicks!

Sunday, June 29, 2003

Tell Your Dead Roommate's Most Recent Ex That He's Dead Day!

Your really kind of liked her too. Especially since she used to walk around the kitchen in the morning wearing boy's pajama pants and a long john top that flattered her breasts with a shape that would make the most aerodynamically genius of lingerie designers swoon with professional admiration. Plus, at last year's new year's party you caught her alone up against one of the pantry doors when she was looking for some olives, so you took her ass into one of your hands and the side of one of her breasts in the other and then tried to kiss her, which she of course didn't allow, but she never made a peep. She's way cool.

"Hey." You'll start off with that when you see her at the bar tonight. You'll have spotted her hanging on a guy with far more affection than you ever saw between her and Lee in the three months they spent together.

"Hey you!" She's going to say that back to you and then you too will kiss briefly and you'll read too much into it.

"How've you been?" She's been fine.

"How's Lee?" Lee's dead. So are his parents and older sister. They were all four of them, and two family friends, in a chartered plane flying over to a wedding on an island off the coast of Florida. Lee's Dad was worth a million or two, not a huge shitload, but he of course consorted with the type of folks who charter planes for the delivery of wedding guests to islands off the coast of Florida. Sometimes, even though rich people pay for them, chartered planes crash.

"Yeah, weird huh?" She agrees it's weird, but she won't say so. Best not to make her say anything.

"I thought about calling and telling you when it happened, but--" No you didn't.

"I understand. I mean...God. Lee. That's so sad."

"Yeah."

I have no idea what the two of you should do now. I mean, you should of course walk away from each other and maybe never see each other again if that's how it's all going to work out. But all you were supposed to do is tell her he's dead. Now, do whatever you can to go back to enjoying your evening. That will probably involve you going back to your table and telling everyone there about how you just had to tell that chick "about Lee, my roommate who died. She's his ex. They only went out for a couple months, but man. That was weird." And she will most likely return to her table and tell everyone there, "I just found out this guy I dated for a little while last year died in a plane crash." People at her table will say holy shit.

Happy Tell Your Dead Roommate's Most Recent Ex That He's Dead Day!

Saturday, June 28, 2003

Crochet Heroines Day!

You need to get the burglars to fall into the hole you dug in the yard so you can trap them there until the police arrive. Have your grandmother and her buds crochet an afghan that will cover up the hole. It doesn't have to blend in with the grass of the yard. It can be whatever your grandmother and her bitches want it to look like. Don't stifle them. If they want an afghan of green and orange zig-zags, or an afghan of deep blue and purple squares against a black frame, or if they want big holes or tiny holes, it's completely up your grandmother and her afghan crocheting hoes. When they're finished with the horribly ugly thing, tell them they all did a wonderful job but make sure you act like a retarded nine year old just came home from successfully buying a bottle of milk from the 7-11. Then spread the afghan over the mouth of the hole you dug and wait for the burglars to arrive.

Yours is the only house on the block that they haven't robbed yet. Everything's ready. You packed the wife and kids in the car, left the one light on in the living room that you've left on every night this week when you all left for the evening, knowing they were casing the place. Then you walked back from where you parked five blocks away and crept behind the hedge along with Dave and Marcus (Marcus is way too into the vigilante aspect of the whole thing. Dave just wants to get these guys in jail so he can raise his kids again).

Why would they walk onto the afghan if no effort was made to blend it in with the lawn? Because it's an afghan spread out on a backyard lawn. Would you rather look at it from off to the side and say out loud "The hell?" or would you rather step into the middle of it and look at the afghan splayed out around you and say out loud "The hell?"

Just you wait, your grandmother and her drunk-ass dykewad cronies are going to be Crochet Heroines!

Happy Crochet Heroines Day!

You Are The Straw That Broke The Camel's Back As Regards A Homeless Person's Death Day!

Today, when you refuse to give a homeless person the fifty cents he asks of you, you will be the reason he dies. Not from starvation or the inability to make a phone call to reach out to his brother, the only person left in the world willing to take him in. Rather, when you refuse to give him the change and say, "Get a job, hippy," the homeless person will be overcome with fury and frustration to the point that he will feel it is impossible to take one single step forward. He'll just stand exactly where you left him, exactly where his feet were planted when you told him no, he'll stand in that spot for six minutes without a quiver. And just when he's about to take a step, a frozen rod composed entirely of urine ejected from the belly of a commercial jet will impale him through the chest and he will die. And it will be all your fault because you upset him.

Give to the homeless. It's up to you to keep them from being impaled by human waste turned solid thanks to a combination of jet engine speed and high altitude sub-zero temperatures.

Happy You Are The Straw That Broke The Camel's Back As Regards A Homeless Person's Death Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty Yesterday's And Today's Up Today Day!

Yesterday five men in suits broke into Prettygirl's house and chewed at her flesh for twenty-six hours. Therefore she was unable to post yesterday's personal regression assignment. Her apologies. You are all quite weak.

Thursday, June 26, 2003

Study The Wrinkles Of Your Dog's A-hole Day!

Note where the a-hole twists in on itself in a manner that, to the eye, appears to guarantee an absolutely impenetrable knot, much like a naval. Use a magnifying glass to verify that, yes, though you just watched the little pooch defecate through that very orifice not three hours ago, this a-hole cannot allow passage to even the tiniest of cylindrical object. Then shove your pinky into the center. If your pinky goes inside your dog, say aloud "I was mistaken."

Happy Study The Wrinkles Of Your Dog's A-hole Day!

Wednesday, June 25, 2003

Paint Your Self-Portrait Day!

Start with your hat. If your hat does not currently sport a feather, add one in the painting. No one will know the difference. Do it now.

Next, paint your bare legs and pelvis. Then put on some paints and paint them overtop the bare legs and pelvis. You might not like the way you look in the pants you've chosen to wear. If this is the case, you can either take off your pants, repaint your bare legs and pelvis, then put on a more flattering pair of pants and paint them over top the bare legs and pelvis, or you can embellish. That is what is wonderful about art. It lets you fib.

Using shading around the crotch area, make it look like your vagina is two inches too far to the left.

Next, paint your naked torso. Do not put on a shirt and paint over your naked torso. Paintings are better with titty.

Now for the face. You really can't lie about the expression you give yourself, since this is the expression that comes from deep inside you, unless you blow at painting. But if you can muster the right feelings, you might be able to paint a face that says to the average self-portrait appreciater: "I have lots of money and am a really fun date." If all you can come up with is, "I have eyes but don't know how to paint the right color," then paint a thought bubble above your head with a dollar sign in it. If you want to get your point across, paint a second thought bubble with the image of dick sliding inside a pussy and draw little arrows pointing at each. At the negative end of the arrow pointing at the dick, paint the word "yours". At the negative end of the arrow pointing at the pussy, paint the word "mine."

And now for the background. Use the Acropolis.

Happy Paint Your Self-Portrait Day!

Raid On The Go-Kart Race Day!

Don't go out there, Streak. I got a bad feeling about today.

But I gotta race, honey.

I already lost my Daddy to that state prison. I don't wanna lose you too.

You don't understand. Go-Karting isn't just some Saturday afternoon suburban funtime anymore. Latinos participate now. This is about honor.

Is Go-Karting more important to you than our love?

Yeah.

I understand. I won't hold you back from your destiny. But at the first sign of the police, you get on your Go-Kart and you--

I don't think we should see each other anymore. I can't be with someone who thinks she can tell me what to do because she gets a fucking "bad feeling." Get out.

You're right. I'll pack my things after breakfast.

Do it now.

Okay.

Happy Raid On The Go-Kart Race Day!

Kiss A Girl Day!

You've waited patiently enough, and it has not gone unnoticed. It is well past time for you to kiss a girl.

Go to 3rd and Elm, in the old Chinatown. You'll see a fabric store called Ching Chong Fabrics. Go inside and ask the counterperson if she sells Star Wars Episode One bedsheet fabric. She will lead you to the back room, to a door in the wall. You will turn to her to ask her where the door leads, but she will now be holding a pistol aimed at your head. Open the door and go through it.

Now you are in an alleyway. There is a homeless man singing about three coins in a fountain while rooting deep into a trash can. Kick him in the rear. When he falls head first into the trash can and tumbles over, walk in whatever direction the can tumbles.

After ninety-one paces, you will see a very small fair. There will be a one-horse Merry Go Round, and egg roll booth, and a kissing booth. Go to the egg roll booth and buy and egg roll BUT DON'T EAT IT. It will spoil your breath for the kiss, firstly, and secondly, if you pay the girl at the kissing booth a dollar, she will kiss you. If you give her an egg roll, she will lead you to a basement where young Asian women working off the debt they incurred by being smuggled into the country are forced to kiss boys as if they were in love with them and this was the first and only chance they'd get to kiss the object of their love before they were injected with mumps.

Happy Kiss A Girl Day!

Don't Go Down With The Ship Day!

If the ship you're captaining looks like it's going to sink, do not, I repeat DO NOT stay on it and die a watery death simply because you got promoted to captain because the last guy got shot by a passenger after he tried to screw that passenger's teenage girl daughter and beat her up when she wouldn't let him.

Nowadays, regulations for commercial liners are very strict about there being more than enough lifeboats for passengers to get to safety, so it's not like you'll be taking someone's place. Once everyone's in a boat and it's clear that duct tape isn't going to do the trick, get into a lifeboat yourself and head home to your family. You're just a casino boat captain. No one's going to be hoisting one into the air for you at the wharf tavern in honor of your respect for the code of the high seas. For God's sake, you pay union dues to guarantee a safe working environment.

Happy Don't Go Down With The Ship Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty Labor Weekend!

This weekend, Prettygirl is going to have a baby. She should be done by Sunday. But Friday and Saturday are going up now, because even if she manages to have a baby by Saturday, she is gonna be so loaded after. Don't read Saturday until Saturday or the rationalizations that keep you getting out of bed in the morning will topple like a house of cards.

Saturday, June 21, 2003

Pancakes And Bourbon Day!

Your grandfather used to eat this every single day for forty years before beating your mother senseless. It's time for you to carry on the tradition. Bourbon alone makes a man a but rambunctious. Pancakes alone makes a head get rather hazy. Pancakes and bourbon put together and you'll get in your car with the starkly conscious intention of driving it at high speed directly into your own house. Pancakes and bourbon makes you wig out, s'what I'm saying, ya'll.

Happy Pancakes And Bourbon Day!

Friday, June 20, 2003

Break It To Them With A Pie In The Face Day!

So, your beloved brother Michael is dead. He was your children's favorite uncle and now you have to tell them they're never going to see him again. This will be their first experience of death. Is there any proper way to handle this?

Why not use the old Pie In The Face gag. When your kids walk through the door and start screaming "Mom! Mom?!" step out into the doorway and casually shove a pie into each of their faces. They'll start giggling and maybe crying a little (pie hurts when it gets in your eyes) and they'll want to clean up. Don't let them.

Sit them down on the couch as with the pie drips from their solemn chins into their shivering laps, say "Remember Mommy told you about your Uncle Michael's epilepsy. How he sometimes has seizures? Well last night he had another one when his wife wasn't at home. He choked on his own tongue. I'm afraid he's dead."

Your kids will want to ask things like "You mean we'll never see him again?" But before they do, they'll try to clean off their faces. Don't let them. Just make them sit there with pie on their faces and think about what this all means. After about three minutes, say "Okay, go get cleaned up."

When they're much older, they'll tell this story to their spouses as evidence of you having been out of your mind. But they'll both add, "You know, she kind of had a point. Cruel as it was."

Happy Break It To Them With A Pie In The Face Day!

How Kittens Become Cats Day!

It's time you knew the truth about Mittens.

It would appear that a kitten merely grows in size and coat as it ages, until your sweet little kitten has become the wise and tempered cat that will spend the rest of its days at the foot of your bed. But there is one very clear and specific step a kitten must take before it can become a Cat. The step is bloody.

It happens the night you can't find her, and you assume she got into the basement and is hiding. This is what you assume, but in reality, Mittens is out on the streets, in the backyards, roaming all night long, hunting. For before Mittens becomes a cat, she must kill a fully grown cat, one who is completely innocent. Mittens has to walk right up, with at least one other kitten watching to bring word back, and Mittens has to open up that poor Cat's throat to keep the mewling to a minimum. Then Mittens sends a paw full of claws into that friendly, law-abiding cat's big furry belly and skin it open like a can of sardines. Then Mittens and the kitten that's standing witness sink a claw into that Cat's chest and drag it out into the street, alerting the neighborhood to the fact that another kitten is on the way to becoming a Cat.

When Mittens returns to where the other kittens are awaiting word, she gets the shit kicked out of her and she takes it without a meow. Then Mittens enters into an eighteen-hour cocoon.

Happy How Kittens Become Cats Day!

If You Kill A Praying Mantis You'll Be Fined Fifty Dollars Day!

And if it's your third offense, you'll have to spend a night in jail. And in jail, guards and inmates all agree on one thing: Praying Mantis killers should perform fellatio on people.

And so when you go to jail, word spreads real fast that you're there because you killed a praying mantis and you're only there for one night. And everyone in jail thinks to themselves, "We've got to teach this guy a lesson. Let's make him perform oral sex on us." So they all wait until after chow* and then they work really hard masturbating to thoughts of beautiful women in order to attain erections. And then they all pile into your cell and close their eyes tight so they can pretend that they're receiving fellatio from a beautiful young woman, perhaps a celebrity, instead of a man, because that's gay and they'd probably all throw up if they had to actually see another man with his mouth on their genitals.

Some of them are so disgusted that they really do start to throw up. They're the ones who pull their penises out of your mouth before you've brought them to orgasm, and they throw themselves against the wall of your cell screaming "Dear God I can't go through with it! It's just too horrible, homosexual relations I mean." And then the other inmates slap their faces and scream, "Do you think we like it? Of course we'd like to throw up until we're gray! But this guy is a Praying Mantis killer. And we have to let him know that if you kill a Praying Mantis, you'll have to swallow the ejaculate of an entire cell block. How else will he learn?!"

And so you don't even get to hang onto that glimmer of relief you feel when a guy gets out of line and you think, "Awesome, that's one person who's sperm I don't have to feel splattered all over my lips and teeth and dripping down my throat." Because he just gets right back into line, except now he'll take a lot longer to come. You really shouldn't kill Praying Mantises.

Happy If You Kill A Praying Mantis You'll Be Fined Fifty Dollars Day!

*Dinner

Surfer Boy Day!

Surfer Boy is about to call you. He got your number a year and a half ago at a party when you had a line on a used air conditioner. He never called about the air conditioner, which is good news because air conditioners are heavy. You see, Surfer Boy doesn't even know how he got your number. He's calling you because he needs someone to help him move.

"What?"

"I swear man, I know this is weird but all my friends flaked on me."

Surfer Boy always seemed to enjoy a deep throng of friends and lovers. When he'd arrive at the beach, he'd often be greeted with, "Hey look, here comes Surfer Boy!" And everyone would crowd around him as he pulled himself into his wet suit, asking him what he thought of the waves and whether he wants to go beat up some Howlies. And then Surfer Boy would run down to the beach and all would watch him with mouths agape. He was the kind of person people wanted to be seen talking to.

"Have you tried calling a moving company?"

"Too last minute. Please man."

A party was considered a success if Surfer Boy showed up. Oftentimes a party would erupt out of a casual gathering simply because Surfer Boy decided to hang around for a while. When the mayor wanted to close a popular beach to get some much needed improvements underway, he brought Surfer Boy into his office and asked him if he had any concerns.

"Are you sure there isn't a single friend you can call?"

"I'm just an idea to them."

You might pity Surfer Boy, and it will feel good. All those night's you envied his ability to walk into a room and stop the music. And now you learn that in truth his is a life of loneliness. Everyone shouts to their friends, "Hey it's Surfer Boy!" But no one's ever going to walk up and say, "Hi Surfer Boy. How are you? You look a little thin."

You might pity Surfer Boy, and that might make you think you should help him in his time of need. That depends on you and whatever you might have been hoping to do today.

"So how 'bout it man, whaddya say?"

Happy Surfer Boy Day!

Cool Dads Beat Up Gay Dads Day!

If you're a dweeby little dorky gay Dad and you're walking your kid to school, stay away from the cool Dads who are standing by the edge of the lawn smoking and talking about chicks (wives). Because if they see you, they'll beat you up right in front of your son. So not only will you be humiliated in front of your son, but now that you're all older men, a fight can lead to death. Not because you might die of a heart attack, but grown Dads don't always cry and run away the way you did when you got into your first fight, when both parties would be like "Holy shit I'm really in a fistfight! Ow fuck!"

So, you could die if you don't stay away from the cool Dads. And then your son will forgo college to avenge you and that'll just break his mother's heart.

Happy Cool Dads Beat Up Gay Dads Day!

You've Got A Faggot Day!

Your faggot's on the fire escape. He's watching the police car lights whirl-flash and the Escalades make their left turns. He sees so many Escalades trying to leave town and make sure the plan for the rest of the night works out. And the police car lights, it's just one police car, parked every night outside of the school. Your faggot's not sure what's going on but you'd think someone's digging for something with the way a police car blocks off a lane of streetway every single night with its lights and its black and white.

Your faggot's on the fire escape learning to smoke and wondering what gravity could do. He's worried about shifting his feet and sending the soot and the fragments under his bare feet twirling to the scalps below; some of them are children holding large hands. Your faggot can't hear the phone ring out there so your faggot is hopeful and smoking, hopeful that he'll come back in to find he missed a message, and smoking because it makes him go slightly blind in one eye.

The important thing to remember is you've got a faggot today. That faggot, no matter how he fills the hours, is there for you to perhaps wonder about him. He wants you to wonder what he's doing right now, where he is, is he inside somebody. He's hoping you're doing absolutely nothing, living for absolutely no other reason, than for the fact that he's sitting on his fire escape watching lights flash and Escalade roofs pass.

Happy You've Got A Faggot Day!

Do Your Favorite Dances Day!

Do the side - to - side and the up - down - up - down and the three - steps - forward - then - think - it - through - for - a - minute - then - take - two - more - steps - forward - and - wait. You've been practicing them in your room for hours every single night after your father goes to bed, and you've been really quiet because your father forbids dancing (he's Jewish). Well today's the day to go to The Black Cat or The Black Dog and dance with all the attractive boys and the sluts. Show them that you're the best dancer in the house with the way you wiggle and stomp when you do the Crepe-Paper Sashay and the Dry-Clean Only and the Cunt Of Hate. Everyone will get in a circle and clap and you'll have to choose between the girl with the honest heart or the girl who's addicted to drugs and loves only lord god money.

Happy Do Your Favorite Dances Day!

Map The Butterfly Genome Day!

Because everyone who ever took AP Biology in high school is mapping the human genome. Why not forge your own path?

Sure, mapping the butterfly genome is far from the glamour and 'tang you'll get by mapping the human genome. It's not going to land you on the front page of the Times. But butterflies are far prettier than humans, and so their genomes are probably prettier too. And if you have to map something, wouldn't you rather map something that's pretty than something that's not? I bet Ayn Rand and Seamus McNally had a lot more fun mapping Honolulu than they did mapping Dayton.

And with everyone busy mapping the human genome, they're going to be arguing for years over who gets the credit and they'll probably start stealing each other's girlfriends. And all the while you'll be quietly mapping your way to butterfly-genome-mapping history. And when humanity or kittens are threatened with a horrible virus and the President needs someone who knows all about the terrain of the butterfly genome to come up with a vaccine made of something to do with butterflies, you'll be able to say "What's in it for me Mr. President?"

If there is no such thing as a butterfly genome, don't try to map one. Instead, eat less and exercise more.

Happy Map The Butterfly Genome Day!

Driving Instructor Day!

At the end of today's driving lesson, your overweight aging instructor will give you a business card with the words, "The Optimist's Creed" on the front and a whole bunch of uplifting statements on the back of it. You will not read a word of it, and you will be so bewildered by the whole situation that you'll wish he could have just placed your hand on his crotch instead.

Happy Driving Instructor Day!

The Frat House Got A Porch Swing Day!

Theta Chi! Gently sway on the front porch whilst enjoying a nice lemonade as the late spring sun sets, or die!

Just kidding, the house slogan is the same. But they did get a new porch swing. The house treasurer found a surplus of 700 dollars in the structural improvements budget and he brought it up at every Sunday meeting for about five weeks, trying to get the brothers to take a vote on how it should be spent. The only item anyone suggested they buy was a new home theater, but the Phillips system they already had cost two grand, so there was no point in trying to replace it with something cheaper. After everyone got bored with addressing the topic every week, the Vice President of the chapter finally just invited the treasurer to find something to spend it on himself and consider it approved.

The treasurer, Pete, saw the porch swing on display at Home Depot and was flooded with memories of the porch swing he shared with his mother and sister for a few minutes every evening until he turned fifteen. When his parents split up, they sold the house and he had to go and live with his Dad.

The porch swing was just delivered to the house. Pete hasn't sat on it yet. He has been standing on the porch, though, to get his brothers' reactions as they come in and out. Some of them look at the swing and Pete strangely, but most just shrug and pass it by. Soon, Pete thinks, they'll be unable to remember a time when they lived in the house without it.

Happy The Frat House Got A Porch Swing Day!

The New Constellation Day!

Astronomers and stargazers are floating on air today. A new constellation has been found, one of the largest ever, comprising what is now believed to be 130 individual stars, all holding firmly in place to form the outline of you taking a problematic shit.

It's definitely you, because the stars have arranged themselves in such a way as to detail that cowlick at the tip of your head. And the shape is clearly the shape that you take when you appear in someone's daydream. The night sky is a brilliant minimalist, and that's never been more evident than in the two short clumps of white light that denote the wrinkles stretching back from the corners of your eyes, signalling the strain put upon every muscle in your body as you do all you can to dislodge a turd from just inside the cavern of your anus. Your mouth hangs open to form a tense oval, as if you are in the middle of saying "Oh fucking christ not again! Always at a dinner party. Every fucking time and I get stuck in here for fifteen fucking minutes! Just drop already for christ's sake!"

The stars have also fallen into line to draw a conservative pair of casual dress pants clumped around your ankles, the kind of pants you only wear when you have to look a little nicer than you want to. But the stars did give you a very nice pair of shoes. I like your shoes.

Happy The New Constellation Day!

You're Back! Bigger, Better, But With Gonorrhea Day!

Everyone who considered you down for the count is going to be sorely disappointed. The road home might have been long and bumpy, but no one can deny that you sir have finally made it. A poster-child for the old trope "That which doesn't kill us only makes us stronger." You are, most decidedly and undeniably, BACK! You are richer, stronger, happier, wiser, better in every way. Except now you have gonorrhea. But the parade marches on, because you are almost certain that gonorrhea is highly treatable.

Happy You're Back! Bigger, Better, But With Gonorrhea Day!

The 1920's Day!

The 1920's lasted for ten years, early in the 20th century. They took place not long after World War I, but long enough before World War II for no one to be very worried about it. At the end of the 1920's, the Great Depression began, creating a period of time that was known throughout the world as "The Time America Sucked."

The 1920's are never going to happen again, so today is the day to be glad that you don't have to wait in line for free soup, and it's the day to be sad that World War II already happened instead of it not having happened yet.

Happy The 1920's Day!

A Crash Course In Self-Discipline Day!

Starting today, anytime you consider doing something to make yourself feel good, stick a thumbtack into your thigh instead. Like if you think, "I should eat a brownie or two," don't go out and buy yourself brownies. Stick a thumbtack into your thigh. Or if you think, "I've worked hard all week, I'm going to go fuck whores." Instead of going and fucking whores, stick a thunbtack into your thigh. Or if you decide, "That's it! I'm buying myself a Jeep!" Don't buy yourself a Jeep. Stick a thumbtack into your thigh.

After a few weeks of this, you won't want to do anything to make yourself feel good anymore.

Happy A Crash Course In Self-Discipline Day!

Make It Nice And Clear Day!

The kid you put up for adoption twenty six years ago is going to look you up with a lot of wishful thinking in his head. His name is Keith and when he visits, he'll be reciting claptrap like, "So I guess when you gave birth to me you were young and had no money and you didn't feel like you could provide for me the home that I deserve, right?" Say, "No. That's not right. That's wrong."

Tell Keith the truth. Tell him that he was conceived just before one of your many "let's manufacture some drama because summers between college semesters are way fucking dull" breakups. Tell Keith how his mother used her pregnancy to drag his father back by her side and after a few days' deliberation to heighten the suspense, his father agreed to get back together on the condition that little Keith be vacuumed piece by piece from deep inside Mommy's belly.

"And everything looked to be rosy-pink," bio-daddy should say. "Mommy was going to have you torn apart and we were going to continue in our utterly joyless late-teen relationship until we went back to our separate state schools and start cheating again just like we promised not too." Then lean real close to the nosy little punk and say, "Except Mommy wanted to play a different game."

"Stop it, Harold," bio-Mommy should say to bio-Daddy.

"Our boy's come home!" bio-Daddy should say to bio-Mommy. "All these miles just to meet Mom and Dad. I think he deserves to hear how you and me and baby made three, don't you Olivia?"

"Bastard," bio-Mommy should whisper from behind the hi-ball glass upturned to her lips.

"Is she talking about me or is she talking about you? I think she's talking about me," bio-Daddy should say to Keith. "Where was I? Oh, the aborted abortion, of course. So then, long lost apple of my eye, you don't play poker with many women do you? Of course you don't. Men can appreciate the rewards of a fair game played. But women can't resist the urge to stick a card up their sleeves."

Bio-Mommy should rest her cheek against the leather head-rest of her chair in a kind of alcohol-soaked waking sleep. "Why shouldn't they cheat?" bio-Daddy should continue. "They have no use for sport. They do not hunt, they gather. They take, and they think sport is only a complicated way of winning that which can merely be taken."

Bio-Daddy should stand up and look at bio-Mommy to feast on the dread in her face, but he will be disappointed when her expression implies she might not remember that the afternoon even took place. He'll freshen his drink, then, and he'll finish his story whether it strikes the blow he intended or not. "Bio-Mommy knew she'd have a few more pots to win before we called it a night. So looked me in the eye and slipped into her shirt-sleeve an ace. An ace by the name of Kevin."

Keith will say "Keith."

"Son," Bio-Daddy should say. "A boy. She lied. She told me she'd abort my baby and she held onto it long enough to tell me she was going to have my boy. She started to show. Our parents got involved. Hers demanded our marriage. Mine, being of a higher economic class, demanded that we finish college. A compromise was made."

Now, bio-Daddy should just hover over bio-Mommy's chair and tell the rest of the story to her sedated frame. "We would marry, and the baby would be put up for adoption since I obviously didn't want it. And though no one made her say it, your mother certainly had no feelings for you beyond those a terrorist might have for a hostage. You were useful, and then you, Keith, were no longer necessary."

"In a way, you can be proud," bio-Daddy should address Keith again. "You were a good son to your mother. Simply by being born, you made sure your poor mother was taken care of. Even if she never had the manners to introduce herself. Though, her side of the family was never considered the most mannered of people."

Now, bio-Daddy and Keith will watch bio-Mommy sleeping in her chair. Bio-Daddy should say, "Adorable isn't she?" And then bio-Daddy should offer Keith a drink.

Happy Make It Nice And Clear Day!

God Exists Day!

For today only, there's a God so we don't have to do nothin' because everything's God's fault. It's God's world, we're just fucking it up.

One problem, God can die. And there is an evil genius who's figured out how (you have to hit God with twenty five nuclear missiles at once). The evil genius has got the codes and he's just got to get to 3,000 feet above sea level (is that high?) before his remote launch system can have the range to activate the launch. You have to stop him or God will be killed and all will be lost.

Or if you can at least hold him off until midnight, whereupon we will once again be living an accidental existence never having had a God to believe in, that'll be cool. But as long as God lives, you can't just sit back and let him get blown up. He's God. Lend a hand.

Happy God Exists Day!

Impress Your Mom Day!

Moms want to know that their little girls and boys have grown into big, strong women and men who can drink a shitload. So go and pay your Mom a surprise visit. When she greets you at the door, she'll say "My Goodness! What are you doing here?!" Or maybe, "To what do I owe this honor?" if your Mom is hilarious. Put your hands on her shoulders and say, "Take a seat Momma. I want to show you how good I am at drinking now."

She'll sit down on the edge of the couch and look up at you, standing in the middle of the living room fishing through your backpack, and she'll have anticipation twinkling in her eyes. Pull the can of Budweiser from your bag with a broad flourish. Then hold it out to your Mom and say, "Would you like to inspect the can for any hidden wires?" She'll either laugh or she won't, it doesn't fucking matter.

Now, explain to her exactly what's at stake here. "Momma, when I was younger, I wasn't very good at drinking beer and over the years I've gotten much better. Looking back at the person I once was, I find that person laughable. Youth was no excuse. I should've been better at drinking. You and Father must have been so disappointed in me.

"I flew out here today to show you that you were a good mother to me and I wanted to give you a chance to see all that you have to be proud of before you die soon."

Then hold the can in position to be popped open, take a deep breath, look your mother in the eye and say "Check this shit ya'll." Then pop the can open and slam that shit down your throat like it's gonna stop a car crash. When the can's empty, slap it into your skull until it's a disc and then fling it like a frisbee at your aged cat. Then say, "Aw fuck yes!"

Your mother will rise slowly and extend her arms to you, her lips quivering with joyful sobs. Take her to you and hold her. She is your mother and she is proud of you. Not just for what you can do, but because you want her to be proud of what you can do. This, ultimately, is the real evidence that she was a good mother to you.

Happy Impress Your Mom Day!

Paint Yourself Into a Corner Day!

But don't use paint, use extramarital dalliances. Like, you know how when you're painting your floor (if you owned a shed I guess you might think about painting the floor) and you're not paying attention so you just go ahead and spread the paint all over and before you know it you're stuck in the corner of the shed, standing in the only part of the floor not yet covered in wet paint and now you have to either wait for the paint to dry or dig your way out because you weren't paying attention to the consequences? Do the same thing but with extramarital dalliances. So every time one of your mistresses calls and says, "Let's boff!" just say, "Sure, meet me in my shed at 7!" And so you go down to the shed at 6:56 right after ice cream and you stand in the corner while one by one, both of your mistresses show up to do it with you. But they look at each other, then they look at you, and they start shouting at you, and so you just think "Boy did I paint myself into a corner here!" And then you see your son standing in the door watching you. He's eight.

Happy Paint Yourself Into a Corner Day!

Toenail Cookies Day!

Everyone at work loves your chocolate chip cookies. They're the highlight of every potluck lunch and Christmas party. Your colleagues just can't eat enough of them.

So next time an office occasion calls for a batch of your cookies, bake your collection of clipped toenails into them. Just make sure to chop the toenails into such little bits that no one will notice anything more than a bit of an extra crunch. This way, when your coworkers spend the day stuffing their faces and raving to you about how they can't get enough of your cookies, you'll know they've all been eating your fucking toenails all day. And you will feel nice.

Happy Toenail Cookies Day!

Accept An Apology From The Policeman That Accidentally Murdered Your Wife In His Chokehold Day!

Refusing to acknowledge the penance he's served is not going to bring her back. After that horrible day at the WTO demonstration, yours wasn't the only life to fall apart. Officer Quaid's drinking escalated until he was thrown off the force and out of his marriage. After a month in prison for a parking lot brawl and two suicide attempts, he tried Christ, then AA, then social service. He's spent the last nineteen months training community watch teams at low-income housing projects how to keep drugs and dealers out of their buildings, and he's about to take over the Security Chief post overseeing five Women In Need shelters (a program providing aid to homeless women).

Big fucking deal? He agrees. None of this will rekindle the life he snuffed out that day. He's said as much in his letters to you. And hearing that you don't want him dead isn't going to get him to bed any easier, either. He knows this.

"I murdered a woman." Every time he opens his mouth, he feels like he's about to say those words. No moment in his life comes close to weighing as much as the moment your wife's life ended behind his nightstick. You are the only other person who cares so much about that single moment in time. So, he wants to talk to you about it.

Also, your wife hit him in the face with a pipe. He got excited.

Happy Accept An Apology From The Policeman That Accidentally Murdered Your Wife In His Chokehold Day!