Flower Show Day!

Flower Show Day!

Today, will be the first day of your new life as an Incontinent American. You're gonna pee in your pants in front of the gladiolas at the flower show down at the Civic Center. On the ride home, your boyfriend will laugh it off, and you'll laugh with him, pretending it's just a silly girl thing. But you'll know it wasn't that. You'll know that you lost all control, as if the possibility of control over your bladder was never there in the first place.

Your doctor will put you on one of those medications they're advertising for women in their 30's to 40's who demand that tour buses pull over so they can run to a ladies room. But he'll also recommend you to a therapist. The very possibility that this could be rooted in something mental or emotional is going to send you into a deep depression for a few weeks.

Soon, your boyfriend's going to leave you and you're going to find the strength to soldier on with pee all over your thighs. By next Spring, you'll be a different person. A stronger person. And that's when you'll have the therapy session wherein you summon the repressed memory of walking in on your father making love to a strange woman when you were five and he and your mother were temporarily separated. You'll pee when you remember it. And while getting a grasp on that memory will give your incontinence some origin, you're still gonna wear a diaper until you die when you're 80.

Happy Flower Show Day!

That Belgian You Did It With Stole Your Passport Day!

That Belgian You Did It With Stole Your Passport Day!

When Jean and his sister motioned for you to join them at the café, you were hoping only to be sucked into a very European, very erotic triangle of incest of jealousy. By dinnertime, they'd shown you every secret Austria had to offer. At dinner, you looked in the mirror behind the table and noticed just how much you resembled Cataline, his sister. By midnight, the three of you were drunk in their room at the hostel. You fully expected to have all six of your legs wrapped up tight and naked within the hour, but then Cataline ran off for more wine, never to return, and Jean put his lips on yours. You made love, and fell asleep.

And now, here you are, alone in Jean and Cataline's room, and someone's pounding on the door. That's the day attendant at the hostel, demanding that the room be vacated for the next tenant. You don't know it yet, but Cataline has your passport and she's on her way to the border. You'll never see Cataline again, but you'll see Jean. You'll see him within 18 hours in fact. Answer the door and get this shit going.

Happy That Belgian You Did It With Stole Your Passport Day!

Blood Solitaire Day!

Blood Solitaire Day!

To play Blood Solitaire, open up your left wrist then deal the cards. The object behind Blood Solitaire is to try to get all of your cards face up on the table before you die or there's so much blood on the table that you can't make out the suits anymore. It's rare that anyone gets through a single run through the deck without falling unconscious or changing his mind about dying and running from the table to fashion a tourniquet out of washcloths. Blood Solitaire is a horrible game. Play to win.

Happy Blood Solitaire Day!

Rainstorm Chasers Day!

Rainstorm Chasers Day!

Four guys in a truck are chasing after a drizzle they tracked headed south-southwest.

"Catch that motherfucker and hold it to the ground by the neck underneath the truck tires!" screams Cole. Cole's always the first one out of the truck, but he makes everyone else nervous with his bravado. The equipment belongs to the university, and Cole doesn't always think it's necessary to keep the equipment secure.

"Without that equipment, Cole," Mason will say, "We might as well sit by our bedroom windows and watch puddles form in the driveway."

Cole will just spit to the ground at that. A mixture of chewing tobacco and blood (Cole's dying from the inside fast). "Ain't no regulations when you're staring down the barrel of a sunshower," he'll say.

According to their calculations, the drizzle should be just a half mile ahead. They slow the car. Just to the right, about ten yards away, they see a cow just standing there.

"Hold," Mason says. They drift ahead. Howard behind the wheel keeps his foot ready to brake.

A drip appears on the windshield.

"There," whispers Mason. The car comes to a stop. Everyone holds their breath. They scan the glass of the windshield until, smack dab in the middle of the driver's view, another drop appears.

"Everybody out!" shouts Cole.

The Rainstorm Chasers pile out of the truck and race to the back, snatching up their assault rifles and grenade launchers and just as quickly taking formation shoulder to shoulder in front of their truck. They lift their weapons in front of them and aim at the sky. Cole mutters, "This is for Tommy." And then the Rainstorm Chasers open fire, unleashing a gray fog of artillery directly into the middle of the drizzle.

Happy Rainstorm Chasers Day!

Date A Wizard Day!

Date A Wizard Day!

You should date a wizard for several reasons. Number one, you've always wondered what it would be like to date someone who looks more fabulous than you. The right wizard, the one who is still on his way up and isn't burnt out on weed, will wear only the finest in bedazzled velvet cloaks. Secondly, a wizard can make you rich simply by burning a hole through a live frog with some matches. Thirdly, wizards eat the puss.

A wizard's gonna call you tonight and ask you to go see The Grudge with him. Say hell yes.

Happy Date A Wizard Day!

Hold Each Other Tight Against The Cold Morning Day!

Hold Each Other Tight Against The Cold Morning Day!

Are you coworkers or are you human beings? You've shared this cubicle for three and a half years already, and yet you've never touched. Every morning the two of you come inside with the skin hanging just a little further from your skulls. Yet you avert your eyes, you turn your backs, you pull headphones over your ears and you bend your spines to your desktops.

This morning is cold. It is lonely and mean. You share nearly of third of your lives together. If you try to dispel with warmth from that third, you will both die more quickly.

Take each other. When you arrive in the morning, pull each other into the less visible corner of your cubicle and huddle into each other's deepest crook and shiver and weep and love. "My brother," whisper. "We are both here and we are both dying men. Let's do what we can."

Say, "Let's do what we can."

Happy Hold Each Other Tight Against The Cold Morning Day!

You Live With A Mouse Day!

You Live With A Mouse Day!

It's small, dark gray with a black spot just above its tale. You don't feed it or take care of it, but you make no effort to kill it. It shares your space. Sometimes, you pretend it's a roommate.

You once pulled the trash bag from the can to find several holes in the bag that nearly caused it to split open wide. The next morning, you left a note on the kitchen table.

"Could we all PLEASE try to not eat through the trash bag? There was a BIG hole in it when I went to take the bag to the dumpster tonight. Thx!"

Another time, when you were crying because a girl you liked thought you were disgusting, you looked across the room and saw the mouse sitting in the middle of a dirty dinner dish, staring at you. It held still for over a minute, then ran off. You felt he was there for you that night.

Of course, when he ate through the cable of your hair dryer and you got such a bad shock you passed out, you were pretty pissed. But it was nothing another note couldn't solve.

"I almost died this morning. Don't eat my wires."

For richer or poorer, you live with a mouse. And starting tonight, it's gonna start telling you to do stuff.

Happy You Live With A Mouse Day!

Carnival Cruise Catastrophe Day!

Carnival Cruise Catastrophe Day!

Your parents' Carnival Cruise ship is going down in the middle of the Pacific right now. It's about to sink vertically like a dagger in a dead man's chest. Everyone is climbing to the top end because they all saw Titanic. There's not enough room for everybody though, so they're all just beating the shit out of each other and throwing each other into the—

It just went under. Maybe your parents made it. They had a good time though, up until tonight. A Carnival good time. Hope they make it.

Happy Carnival Cruise Catastrophe Day!

Send In Two Clowns Day!

Send In Two Clowns Day!

From today onward, the song "Send In The Clowns" is now "Send In Two Clowns." And it's about how it's about time they sent in exactly two clowns. The song will not specify whether the two clowns work together, or whether they just ignore each other. It will just demand that two clowns be sent in.

Anyone for whom "Send In The Clowns" was an important song can go off someplace and fuck themselves. It's "Send In Two Clowns" now. The song "Send In The Clowns" never existed as far as you're concerned.

Thank you.

Happy Send In Two Clowns Day!

Run A Breast Cancer Marathon Against Your Prodigal Older Brother Day!

Run A Breast Cancer Marathon Against Your Prodigal Older Brother Day!

Bury that prick.

Even though he split town to sink most of the inheritance your father left behind into a chain of roller rinks that of course sank fast and tragic. Even though you were the one to carry your mother from bedroom to bathroom ten to twenty times a night during her heavy chemo. Even though he once went six months without a phone call before he showed up on the doorstep asking for money, he's still your Mom's favorite.

And guess where 90% of his minimum pledge plateau came from. That's right.

"But sweetie, I know you don't need my help," your mother told you. "I know I can count on you to raise so much money you'd never even ask me for a dime."

It's gotten to be more than you can handle when she goes on and on about how proud she is to have both her boys running for her cure. You don't address it anymore. The one time you inquired into his intentions, both he and your mom furrowed their brows across the dinner table asking, "Why do you have to be so competitive?"

He can do whatever he likes whenever he wants and she'll still welcome him home. He can fail and fail and fail, dragging the family finances down with him, and she'll still be "so proud of him for trying." And no matter how hard you try to make her happy, no matter how much of yourself you hand over in service to her dying wishes, she'll still spend most of the day re-reading his last letter out loud into the living room.

Let him run. Let him put on whatever charade he has to concoct in order to keep her purse strings untied. If he shows up on marathon day, it'll be a miracle. And a bloodbath.

Because if he shows up on marathon day, he will be beaten. Nothing else matters anymore. The both of you can finish at the very back of the pack, but he will not finish before you. You'll take a pipe to his kneecaps if it must be done, but your brother will lose the race for the cure.

Happy Run A Breast Cancer Marathon Against Your Prodigal Older Brother Day!

Today You're Going To Get Electrocuted To Death Day!

Today You're Going To Get Electrocuted To Death Day!

You're not a death row inmate. You're not even a prisoner of war undergoing interrogation. And neither were you involved in the theft of some drugs from a drug kingpin huge enough to use electrocution to torture people into telling him where his stolen drugs are.

No, you're just another kid trying to hold down a job and find a pretty face to lick when it gets cold outside. Today, just before you get electrocuted to death, you'll have a half-finished not-trying-to-get-back-together-just-wondering-how-you're-doing letter in your bag and you'll be looking forward to going home and finishing that letter with a little help from the eight beers waiting for you in the fridge. You can't be told exactly when, where and how you die of electrocution because if you knew, you'd necessarily avoid your death, thereby altering the natural course of things and sending us all back to the ice age. It could happen when you push a walk signal button at a crosswalk, one of those buttons that probably don't even work. Or, it could happen when you get into a street-fight with a wizard. Either way, Lovesick, you're fried.

Happy Today You're Going To Get Electrocuted To Death Day!

Gentrify My Heart Day!

Gentrify My Heart Day!

You're not the man you hoped you'd be. You've made your money from neighborhood gentrification. But at least you can say you're not just sitting back and letting the cash from a property pile up. You're the point man. You're the guy who goes out door to door, establishing long-term relationships over the course of three to six months, convincing homeowners to so sell to the venture groups you represent. You talk people into leaving their homes.

You're trying to be the happiest woman you can be. But juggling a full-time job, a full-time courseload at City College, and a nine-year old daughter makes you feel like you're one mis-stroke away from drowning. You have a home though. Not long after your ex abandoned the two of you, his mother died and with no will and no son around, you kept her home. The ex of course returned and you took him to court and you were awarded the home fair and square. And now some man wearing a suit he bought off the rack is asking you to sell.

"I fought for this home," you say. "My daughter has a home. Why would I give that up for money."

"If you invite me in," he said.

You invited him in and like everyone else on the block, he's paid you a visit twice a week on weeknights and once every Sunday afternoon. Unlike everyone else on the block, you two have been having the most wonderful sex ever since that third visit, when you stood up to throw him out, and he placed his hand on the mane of your hair draped in between your shoulderblades.

"I'm under contract to convince you and your neighbors to sell your property," you say.

"I'm going to do everything I can to hang on to my home," she said.

And then you roll around inside each other. And when you say goodbye each day, you go back to your canvassing to get signatures on contracts, and you bring cakes to your neighbors to sit them down and beg them not to sell.

Happy Gentrify My Heart Day!

Pool Cleaner Day

Pool Cleaner Day!

It's deep autumn and you don't have a boyfriend anymore. He broke up with you after the Halloween bonfire, saying, "Let's be honest with each other. Before Christmastime, ya know? I mean, what if we bought each other gifts and all."

The deck chair is wet through your jeans. The sky is steel gray. It's cold enough out that it hurts to cry, but you came out here to the pool turned brown with a layer of leaves so you could be alone and let it all out. You didn't count on your Dad finally getting around to summoning the pool guy to gather up the leaves and seal up for the winter.

"Why your Daddy bring me out so late?" he asks you from the foot of your chair. Your face was in between your bents knees and you didn't see him coming. His name's Clarke and he's got a dark gray-white pallor, like his whole body is covered in five o'clock shadow.

"He couldn't afford it until now," you say. You sniffle. You don't hide from Clarke that you've been crying. He got to interrupt you several times last summer, when you would be straddling and kissing your boyfriend in that deckchair, the two of you dripping in your bathing suits. Now he can suffer the repercussions. The tears when the boy's all gone.

"I better get started before I end up shoveling snow outta there," Clarke says. "You go turn on the pump."

You furrow your brow. "That's your job, right Clarke?"

He didn't hear you. "I'll get my net outta the van."

Clarke leaves, and you shrug and do as he said, turning on the pump before returning to your chair by the pool. Clarke comes back and tosses three metal rods at you, one with a net on the end. "Put that together for me?" he says. Then he goes to the rolled up pool cover and starts untying the rope holding it tight.

You get his far-reaching net into one piece and hand it to him. Then you stand by his side as he fishes bunches of leaves from the water. When he steps along the edge, you follow.

"My daughter's two years older than you," he says from silence. "Can I ask you something?"

You nod, but his eyes are on the pool. He takes your silence as assent.

"Why are you all so miserable?"

You laugh in spite of yourself. "It's not our fault," you say.

"The world's so bad to the teenage girls?" Clarke says.

"Maybe the teenage girls were just hoping for something better," you say.

Clarke hands you the net. "Grab those leaves into that pile by the side over there. I'm gonna use your bathroom."

Clarke goes into your house and leaves you floating the net just under the water's chilly surface, grabbing up leaves like schools of fish. You like what you said to Clarke. None of this is your fault. You've just been let down again.

Happy Pool Cleaner Day!

The Girl Without Any Hands Day

The Girl Without Any Hands Day!

"Buy you a drink," you'll ask. The stool beside her is empty.

"Take a seat," she'll say.

You order two gin and tonics. "One with a straw," you say.

"You're very considerate," she'll smile.

"I gotta ask," you'll say.

"I hurt someone once. More than I ever thought I could hurt anybody. He put his heart in my hands."

"You got gotta learn to forgive yourself," you say. You clink your glass against hers and sip.

"Where were you when I was grinding through my wrist with a hacksaw?" she'll ask.

Look deep into her eyes. "If I had been there," say, "We'd be shaking on it right now."

Look'a dat smile!

Happy The Girl Without Any Hands Day!

The Killing Hills Day!

The Killing Hills Day!

You'll marry in The Killing Hills. The view is divine.

You'll honeymoon on Rape Island. The daiquiris are to die for.

You'll summer at Cape Cancer. Where a moonlit nightswim can bring a heart back to God.

You'll live in Get Stabbed In The Face Every Time You Come Home Cove. If you lived there, you'd be home by now (if you were there).

You'll work at the law firm of Deceive, Shove, and Spitalot, where men become rich.

You'll die in a car.

Happy The Killing Hills Day! Your son will go to the University of Snot.

But Has That Bag Boy Been Tested? Day!

But Has That Bag Boy Been Tested? Day!
You’re forty and you’re married. You’re bored and you dig teens. You gotta a bagboy tripping over himself to help you load the trunk every time you hit the safeway. And you know that one day, not today because you’re taking the girls to Jazz Dance, but one day he’s gonna load the trunk and your gonna load him into the bag seat and then he’s gonna euphemism for ass sex.

And how safe is that, Mom? You deserve your kicks as much as anyone else. No one’s denying you that. Your husband gets to "stretch his legs" with every little brunette 23-and-new-to-the-firm who’s still standing at Friday night cocktails. But your choice is limited to bagboys, paperboys, pizza delivery boys, and Keith, your husband’s best friend since college.

And while most of these delectable side-dishes haven’t had the kind of experience that would place them at risk for sperm cancer, they also haven’t had the kind of experience that would teach them to take care. And how can you be sure of how much they’re getting around, anyway? If you’re inviting them home, how many others must be?

I’m afraid that you should be as careful around these boys as if you would be with someone you picked up outside a meth clinic. Why should your extra-marital fun be spoiled by a fatal or disfiguring STD. Get those little kids tested and read the results yourself. In fact, you can drive them to the clinic and get it done before you head home with the whippersnapper. A sixteen year old won’t mind the extra errand. It’ll take a couple hours extra, but really he’ll be fine with it.

The thing you have to be careful of is if he tests positive. Then you’ve got a sixteen year old boy in your car who just found out he’s gonna have to down a 25-pill drug cocktail every day if he wants to live long enough to drink legal. Suddenly, your naughty after-school statutory rape will turn into a motherly there-there (he’ll gonna cry into your breasts like your daughters do, except just five minutes prior you’d have been planning on fucking him). And the worst part is you’re not gonna be able to take him all the way home because you won’t wanna be seen behind the wheel. So this kid will have just heard what he thinks is a death sentence and a few blocks away from his house you’re gonna drop him off and tell him to start walking. Hot!

This isn’t a scare tactic. We’re all rooting for you to make this shit happen. But we also don’t want you to come away from this attempt feeling lower than you ever did. We’re just looking out for you and we want your sex with a boy young enough to be your daughter’s prom date to be the best that it can possibly be. Now hit the schoolyards!

But Has That Bag Boy Been Tested? Day!

Dress Him Up In Your Love Day!

The green one. It's an Indian wraparound thing. It'll fit around his hips.

"What do I wear up top?"

The yellow triangle halter that ties around the back and neck.

How's this?

He looks awful.

"I'm really…"

He's really what? He's really smiling at you for one. A really goofy smile.

"Really hard."

Wow, he is at that. Ask him if he likes it.

"I feel good in your clothes."

Lift up the skirt and play with him. Use your left hand to untie the halter from him. He wants to have sex with you fast and while wearing your clothes. You can deal with him wearing the skirt, but not the halter. His stomach hangs out from underneath it and he's got too much weight on him. For some reason, you imagined him with a little boy's body when you agreed to this. But he's got a well-fed man's body, and his well-fed man-breasts filling in the too-small cups of your halter is really terrifying. Get it off him before he gets inside you.

Happy Dress Him Up In Your Love Day!

Halloween Story Day!

Halloween was extra fun when my Daddy took me around the neighborhood, because my Daddy was a thief and he'd use the opportunity to case people's houses and decide what to steal. I'd say trick or treat and be all cute and all, and my Daddy would ask to use the bathroom, then I was supposed to put on a little show to keep the homeowner occupied while my Daddy scoped out the Betamax and jewelry situation.

I'd have to say that those shows I put on laid the groundwork for my future life in the theater. One year my Daddy would secure me a bumble-bee costume, and the night before Halloween I'd be up till the wee hours writing little bumblebee playlets to perform that were long enough to give my Daddy enough time to decide what he wanted to steal, and engaging enough to keep the homeowners from going upstairs and finding my daddy rifling through a Hope Chest. As soon as he'd head upstairs I'd shout, "Ladies and Gentlemen I give you, The Bumblebee's Quest For Love" and then I'd perform a quick tableau about a Bumblebee who always ended up stinging the ones he loved and making them die. It was sad.

Another year, I was Luke Skywalker. So I performed "The Story Of The Pregnant Lady About To Give Birth In the Stalled Elevator," and then I'd demonstrate Luke Skywalker using the force to help deliver a baby. That was the year that Daddy punched a homeowner in one of the houses. While I was performing my playlet, the man of the house heard a noise upstairs and went up to see what my Daddy was up to. When he got upstairs, my Daddy was taking pictures off the wall looking for a safe. They fought, and my Daddy won because my Daddy was strong. So strong that that man had to go to the hospital for a long time.

My Daddy came running downstairs and he grabbed my hand and dragged me to the curb.
"I'm sorry Daddy," I said as we ran home. "I'm sorry my play wasn't entertaining enough to keep that man distracted."

"Your play was top notch," my Daddy told me as he helped me climb over a neighbor's hedge. "These bumblefuck suburbanites wouldn't know good theater if it crawled up and bit them on their patio seats."

When we got home, my Daddy told me to go inside and tell my Mommy that he wasn't going to be home for a while. "Tell her she’s been real cool. Reeeal cool," he stressed. Then he lifted my chin and said, "You were a great Luke Skywalker tonight kiddo."

My Mommy never did see my Daddy again. He went to jail, and now I'm not allowed to mention him when my mommy's close enough to hear me. But every year around Halloween, I go to the prison and visit my Daddy. In costume and off-book. This year, I'm going dressed as Morphius from the Matrix. And I will be performing the short period piece, "Morphius Tries To Stop The Wright Brothers From Building Their Flying Machine." And just like last year and every year before that, my Daddy will be shouting out to everyone on his side of the plexi-glass partitioned visiting room, "That's my boy!"

Happy Halloween Story Day!

Drive My Girlfriend Across The Border Day!

He's too famous. He'd be stopped at every checkpoint just for autographs.

"They'll kill her if they find her," he says. "The revolution is days away. She has to get out of the country."

You say, "But you might never see her again."

He finishes applying his makeup. "I'd rather never see her again then have to see her die. Take her away in the back of your truck. Marry her and give her babies. I don't care. Just don't let her die."

"I'll do it," you say. "Tomorrow…"

"Tonight," he says. He pulls on the Dreamcoat (he's playing Joseph). "Every hour lost is an hour closer to her execution."

You nod. You would do anything for this man. He's taken you on as his friend, and he might not have done so if he knew what a fan you are of his. But he knows he can count on you to not ask out loud whether all the noble sacrifice is just a mask over his desire to get out of his relationship. No one wants to be accused of exploiting the revolution for practical convenience.

"She's in my apartment, at least she was when I said goodbye," he says. "If she's not there, find her tonight. Take her to freedom."

With that he takes the stage, and you head to his apartment to, of course, find it empty. She's taken off on her own, and if you don't find her before the militias do, you might never be trusted again.

Happy Drive My Girlfriend Across The Border Day!

Navy Birthday Day!

You care about your bunkmate. You truly care. It didn't take much to rush onto shore and hunt down a bakery when the submarine pulled into port off of Iceland. But Gerry's gonna think you whipped it up out of thin air.

Surprise him with traditional Navy protocol. First, make sure he's in his underwear in his cot. Next, tie his sheets to the corners of the bunk so he can't run. Then, everyone not at his post should crawl overtop him and squeeze his nuts hard just once. Finally, it's cake time. Walk the cake through the door with the candles lit, holding it up high so Gerry can see it from where he is bound to his top bunk. Though he just got his nuts crushed 28 times, these tears will be tears of joy.

Take a fork and force-feed the entire cake, bite by bite, down Gerry's throat. Before the cake is gone, he'll start to throw up on himself. Untie him from the bed and let him run for the head, but be sure to pull his underwear off of him before he makes it through the door. When he gets on his hands and knees in the head, hold his face in the toilet water and flush repeatedly so that he has to swim in the vomit still pouring forth from his mouth.

Happy Navy Birthday Day!

Stop Putting It Out There For Them Day!

If you keep showing up so pretty, Hot Stuff, you're going to lose all your friends because all the guys your friends are hot for are gonna be hot only for you.

"Not my fault," you pout.

Don't matter, Sexiness. Your friends are still gonna blame you for drawing their crush-meat away from them. And you're gonna be shit outta friends, Luscious-Lips. Just don't wear the ass-skirt.

"Ass-skirt?"

The black skirt that makes your ass go, BLAM!, Adorable Award Winner 29 Years Running, and you can stop pretending like you don't know what I'm talking about.

"Maybe I need to feel pretty right now. Maybe the boy I want is the only one who doesn't want me. Maybe my friends should learn to understand that all the male attention in the world means nothing to me in the face of a slight from my wonderful, wonderful Frank."

Frank hasn't called you, Delicious Nose?

"Nope."

It's been a week not hasn't it, Scruptious Knees.

"Yup."

Did you have sex with him on your date, Fantastic Lashes?

"Yes. On coats. In the bedroom of his friend whose party he took me to. I didn't know anyone at the party, but I did have sex on all their coats."

This is all very said, Mmm-Mmm-Good-Thighs, but your friends will not care a damn if the boys they want to go home with keeping looking over their shoulders at you. Now put on some slacks.

Happy Stop Putting It Out There For Them Day!

Canned Hearts Day!

Billy's New Improved Can O' Hearts is just what a girl like you is looking for, Christine. With Can O' Hearts, Christine, you just have to plunk down 89 cents and you'll have 12 full ounces of hearts that you can rip to shreds as quick as you can spin a can opener through the tin.

No more wasting months and months of building false trust between you and a stinky smelly boy. Now, Christine, you can just pour those hearts out on the kitchen table and have your way. Wanna light one on fire? Go nuts, Christine. Wanna crush a few under the spike heel of your pump? Dance the night away Christine. Wanna swat a couple across the living room with the swing of a wiffle ball bat? You're a cold, calculating bitch, Christine.

Canned hearts have never been this good, Christine. Get down to your grocery store and buy Billy's New Improved Can O' Hearts. You're gonna have one fucking A Saturday night Christine you wraith.

Happy Canned Hearts Day!

Backrub Train Day!

The backrub train of 1995 stretched from border to border across the state of Delaware, with 739 backs getting deliciously kneaded within the Southeastern tip of Pennsylvania.

"We can cover Delaware," you think. "But our overspill might not hit 739. Atkins has really shrunk folks down."

Is that the organizer of the Rhode Island Hands Across America branch that's telling me "I can't?" Could it be? Could it be the same man who stretched a girl-on-girl oral sex daisy chain around the perimeter of the Grand Canyon in 1979 is calling it quits?

"You're right. 800 backs will be rubbed in Pennsylvania tomorrow morning. We've got the recruitment push, we've got the massage oils. Goddammit, we've got the goods."

There goes the best Guy-Who-Can-Make-A-Lot-Of-People-Do-Shit-In-A-Single-File-Line there ever was.

Happy Backrub Train Day!

Christianity Time Day!

Your son's six. It's time to teach him about Jesus Christ.

Give a knock on his door, then poke your head in. He'll be playing with a Spiderman doll.

"Hey kid," say to him. "Guess what time it is."

"Roundhouse uppercut right to the stuffed hippo that we'll hang from the drop ceiling time?" he'll ask. His name's Greg, your son.

"Nope, that time's come and gone," say.

Greg will shrug, giving up the guessing game. Walk to the side of his bed and look down at his eyes gravely.

Say, "It's Christianity time."

Greg will say, "Aw yeah."

"Were you waiting for this talk?" ask.

"The kids at school have been talking a lot about Jesus Christ," Greg will say. "And I felt left out because I didn't know who he was."

Sit down on the edge of his bed and say, "I'm sorry kid. I've just been so busy at work."

"It made me feel really sad and alone. Not knowing who Jesus Christ was, I mean," Greg will say.

"Well I'm gonna tell you who he was so stop it with the guilt trip," say.

Greg will lean back on his heels and fold his arms in front of him in that adorable "I'm listening" posture. It kind of pisses you off a little, really.

Tell it to him thusly: "Jesus Christ was the nicest person in all of humanity. He could turn water into wine and rocks into money. He could tell the future, and he couldn't die. He's the reason you're here today. Because without him, there wouldn't even be a planet, because he fought off the alien worms."

Then take his hands and place them in front of him, palms together. Say, "This is what it looks like when you believe in Jesus Christ." Then run, he'll never be able to catch you.

Happy Christianity Time Day!

Do The Mashed Potato Day!

The wealthy eccentric who kidnaps middle-aged men and makes them do the dances he wants them to do under penalty of death asks that today you do the Mashed Potato. He is watching.

If you do not know the Mashed Potato, improvise. He might not know what it is either, but once he sees someone doing a dance with confidence, no matter what the moves, he'll believe that that is the dance he requested, and he'll have all of the others dragged from the dance floor and killed.

So you know, in case you were wondering, the wealthy eccentric wears only a pair of boxer shorts in the booth high above from where he watches you dance, and he actually manages to get a lot of work done. He is the sort of wealthy man wherein "work" involves nothing more than moving his investments around all day. The wealthy man spends so much time up there in his chair watching you dance that his butler has to beg him to change his boxer shorts when they grow too fragrant. Now do the mashed potato or you'll never see your daughters again.

Happy Do The Mashed Potato Day!

Poor And Nine Months Pregnant, The Calendar Day!

It's what you like to look at and no one should try to judge you for it. Women, usually sitting on bare mattresses, their faces smudged, their bellies distended, their eyes on a fuzzy TV across the room on the floor.

It's not sexual. It just evokes a very specific future in a way that nature scenes and asses on Ferraris can’t seem to manage.

Luckily, you secured the cubicle with an additional wall that is not visible to anyone walking past, so while you have to wheel around in your chair a bit to get a look at that month's destitute mom-to-be, at least you won't be getting any passive-aggressive memos about appropriate personal space decoration like you did last year. By the way, wasn't March heartbreaking?

Happy Poor And Nine Months Pregnant, The Calendar Day!

Be A Killing Machine Day!

First, sew guns all over your clothes so that if you need to kill you can just rub your hand over your upper body and drag your finger through some triggers so that at least a few of the guns discharge. You should also hold a gun in each hand so that you can aim them at specific stuff you want dead.

Next, trick a chaste and charitable woman into thinking that there is a very deep well of good underneath your rakish surface, and get her to betray her principles and give completely of herself to you. Then abandon her without mercy, illustrating without a doubt that she was wrong and she had been fooled into soiling her character, that she had loved falsely, and therefore can see no other course of action but to take her own life.

Finally, breathe on people. That shit’s rank, yo.

Happy Be A Killing Machine Day!

Hearts On A Tree Trunk Day!

Mike

'N

George
-2002-

Hard to believe you once had what it takes to carve that in there, huh Mikey?

George
Is
An
Asswipe
-2004-

Nice one, Mikey. But don't you mean:

George
Is
A
Dead Junky
Asswipe
Who
Let
A Junky
Hooker
Work Out
Of
My Apt
While
I
Was At
Work
-2004-

Too bad you don't have a sharper screwdriver and a couple hours, eh Mikey? By the bye, how are things between you and Pete?

Happy Hearts On A Tree Trunk Day!

Introduce Some Novelty Into The Bedroom Day!

Tell her, "Meet James."

That's the cue for that guy, James, to come into the bedroom and sit down in the corner.

"James is gonna tell us what to do tonight."

Your wife will look to James and say, "Hello." James will say, "Yup." Then he'll shrug for no apparent reason.

Climb under the covers and untie the drawstring on your wife's pajama pants. She'll ask, "Who is he?"

Look at James, to see if he's paying attention. He really isn't. Say to your wife, "He's just a guy I know from the driving range. But I think I met him someplace else." Pull her panties down. You'll get up on your knees so that your wife can take your penis into her mouth, which is how things usually start. Then you'll remember that you're getting ahead of yourself.

"Sorry, James," say. "I forgot that you're supposed to be calling the shots tonight. What's your poison?"

"That looked fine," James will say.

You'll pretty much run through the motions like you normally do. James will sign off on just about everything you wanna do. He won't invest too much of himself, spending most of the encounter on his cell phone. He'll only throw down a veto when you hoist your wife onto all fours and begin eating her pussy.

"Hang on," James will say into his cell phone. Then to you, "Not that. I hate that."

You'll both hold still for a second. Your wife will look back over her shoulder at you, then she'll say to James, "Aye aye." So you'll pull back onto your knees and enter your wife, who will still be on all fours. You'll look to James before thrusting ahead, and James will just offer a silent thumbs up so as not to interrupt his phone call.

The encounter will come to a close when James gets into a fight with whom you assume to be his boyfriend on his cell phone, and he stomps out into the living room so he can yell into his cell phone with abandon. Not long after that, you'll hear the front door slam and the sound of James' car peeling out of the driveway.

Happy Introduce Some Novelty Into The Bedroom Day!

Stormy Day!

"She put her hand into the thresher," you say. "That was that."

Captain Gleason pours his brandy. He knows by now not to ask you if you'd like a glass. And tonight, he's not even going to crack a joke about it. He won't be laughing with you anymore.

"I appreciate you coming all the way up here to tell me in person," says Captain Gleason.

"You put a lot of money behind her," you say.

"Behind you both," he says, loud, like a door-slam. "She played the tournaments. You were her manager. I trusted my investment in you both."

Captain Gleason is standing by the window, staring out at the trees bending their backs with the wind. His back is to you. He probably learned a long time ago that this is how to stand in the company of someone whose life is in his hands.

"That storm won't let you go home tonight," he says. "Dalton will fix a room for you. You'll stay here tonight."

"I'll be living through the night then?" You asked it before thinking twice.

"Of course," says Captain Gleason. "How else will you help me find that miserable whore of a pool shark?"

Happy Stormy Day!

Quit Your Band Day!

Your band is terrible and it's not going to go anywhere. Quit. Here's how:

First, tell the band's leader that you hate him and if you don't quit now you're going to hold him up against a well, aim your dick up at his face and piss into his nostrils.

Second, tell the bass player that he might be the least talented musician you've ever met, and he deserves to have his nostrils pissed in.

Next, tell the drummer you've been sleeping with his girlfriend, and you're in love with her. "She likes it when I piss in her nostrils." Shrug in a "the heart wants what it wants" kind of way.

Fourth, get into a small struggle with the lead guitarist, fall to the ground and cry.

Fifth, leave in tears. The kind of middle-school fight-shock tears that bellow out of you and really have nothing to do with physical pain.

Finally, go home and let your new girlfriend care for you, then piss in her nostrils. Don't tell her that you quit the band, because she only dates boys in bands.

Happy Quit Your Band Day!

Teen Sex Fun Town Day!

There's only one movie theater in Teen Sex Fun Town, and from February of 1991 to April of 1993, it showed Cinema Paradiso.

60% of the able-bodied workforce in Teen Sex Fun Town are on the unemployment rolls.

Hep C cases have skyrocketed 30% since one year ago today in Teen Sex Fun Town.

It's been going downhill for years, but there's always further to fall.

"Did you hear about the landmines?" you ask your lover Jane, age seventeen.

"Landmines?" asks Jane. Her foot nuzzles your ankle.

"Mayor Skokie is going to plant active landmines in the sidewalks," you say.

"Why?" she asks.

"Skokie's in the pockets of the Velcro wallet factory. The Velcro wallet factory employs family men. They want to clean this town free of teen sex fun. They want us to die."

You and Jane have sex.

Happy Teen Sex Fun Town Day!

You Leaned On Each Other In That Moment Day!

When you brought your cat into the Vet's office, you didn't expect that he would have to be put down. And you certainly didn't expect to make love to the veterinarian who administered the fatal shot. But she had just been hired at the office, and yours was the very first animal she had to euthanize. She needed to be held at the moment. She needed to pull another body inside of her to forget about her own. And you, in your grief, you just needed to be cared for.

You helped each other through it. Don't feel guilty. And don't confess the infidelity to your spouses.

Happy You Leaned On Each Other In That Moment Day!

Deflate The Baby Day!

You and Sarah decided around fourteen months ago that before you decided to have a baby together, it might be a good idea to try to take care of a "pretend" baby, like you did in high school. But instead of caring for a sack of flour, you chose the inflatable "Bumble Bee" swimming pool toy, because it's lighter.

The exercise went downhill once Sarah developed an addiction to Percoset. You've cared for her through these months, you've been washing the bedsheets regularly. About a month ago, though, you decided you and Sarah were done for. You're tired of trying to get her to eat.

Cleaning out the space between the couch and the endtable, you find your "baby," the Bumble Bee toy. It's semi-deflated and it's still smiling. Pull the cork on the air valve. Once it's completed empty of air, it will still be smiling. Stash the deflated baby underneath the sink.

Happy Deflate The Baby Day!

Phone Call Made On Tee Shirt Day!

You tell Michelle you know Karen's there. You tell Michelle if she doesn't put Karen on the phone, you're coming over there. You tell Michelle she should keep her little dyke nose out his relationship.

"I'll put my little dyke nose wherever I like," Michelle says.

"I know where you'd like to put it," you say.

Michelle breathes deep. The phone goes muffled. You think you can make out another voice in the background.

"Karen's not here," Michelle says. "But if you like, you can give me a message for her. And if I hear from her, I'll pass it along."

This fills you with such a fury you think you might jam your phone through the screen of your computer monitor. But you have to make the message count. Unfortunately, your supervisor is standing at your cubicle, his eyebrows raised in demand that you put your call on hold. You beg for one more moment with an index finger in the air. He doesn't leave.

"Tell her," you say to Michelle, casting an eye back to the impatient fellow leaning inside your cubicle wearing a tee shirt that reads, 'One Brand, One Vision.' "Tell her I'm sorry."

Michelle sighs. Even she knows how little that'll do. But you can't keep your girlfriend from leaving town with middle-management waiting to give you an FYI.

"I gotta go," you hang up and turn to Phil.

"Picture time," Phil says. "Get your shirt on."

"Shirt?"

Phil's face sags. This is what he was afraid of. You look at the letters on his shirt, unable to translate meaning of the symbols in your mind.

"It's brand rollout day," Phil says. He is so disappointed in you. "Every department's taking a group photo in their shirts. For the website."

"I forgot all about it Phil. Sorry man."

"You can't be in the group photo then," Phil says.

You affect some regret with your posture. At least you hope that you do.

Phil walks off allowing an exhausted sigh to trail behind him. You pick up the phone and dial Michelle's.

Happy Phone Call Made On Tee Shirt Day!

Lawncare For Love Day!

In the summer, you mow her lawn. In the fall, you rake her leaves. In the winter, you shovel her walk. In the spring, you pick one daisy from the garden by the walk and you offer it to her.

It's the last year of high school. Rich girl Jenny's going off to college soon. Her father's money is going to send her far away. Your father's absence and your mother's unemployment will bring you to her front yard once again to rake her leaves, and to shovel her walk. And she'll offer you hope as she likes to do, in the form of a cup of hot cocoa walked out into the yard by Jenny personally. She'll be kind to you when it's clear you're only in her presence to earn her father's money.

"Going to the dance?" you'll ask, if there's a dance on the calendar.

"Of course," she'll say. Knowing full well your attendance at the dance isn't such a foregone conclusion.

It's in the spring, when nature takes care of itself just fine, when your presence at her door cannot be misconstrued. For three seasons she's flattered by the unspoken knowledge that you're sweating in her front lawn only to be near her, and perhaps share a word with her. But in the spring, you show up again, with a flower in your hand, and you force her to send you away until the sun's too hot and the grass grows too high.

Don't fight it. You'd be as much a fool as if you were to try to fight the passage of the seasons over time. Jenny's a rich girl and you're a poor boy. And the world keeps spinning along.

Happy Lawncare For Love Day!

Throw Yourself Into The Well Day!

Yours is not a new story. You were supposed to marry Lance. But Lance all of a sudden pulled a switcheroo and decided he doesn't think you two should marry after all. You're devastated and you plan to kill yourself. But who's gonna care?

America, if you do it right. Look around your house and check out what materials you have at your disposal to make this the most buzz-worthy suicide that's ever hit the headlines. I'll save you some time. Look out at your front yard.

That's right. The well. Throw yourself in it.

The key here, though, is to not die right away. People who don't survive a fall down a well don't get much airtime. But people who hit the bottom and live, albeit with a plethora of broken bones that prevent any effort to escape, those are the people who can steal airtime from the playoffs.

So go on and take a swim in your drinking water. Pretty soon, the rescue workers and media are gonna show, and they're gonna ask you why so glum? Tell them about Lance, and you can bet your ass they're gonna drag him down to get him on video shouting down into the water underground at you. Make sure to offer some soundbites like, "My heart hurts so much I might just hold my head under this shallow collection of springwater and wait to die." And, "Men lie."

Lance, of course, is gonna have to admit that he's queer. And you're gonna have to deal with the fact that you attract men trying to hide from their true selves, and you accept their false love as your lot in life. But you'll be shivering at the bottom of a well when you do. Have fun in America's prayers!

Happy Throw Yourself Into The Well Day!

Gunfight Day!

Chicks with guns is pretty awesome all around. Two chicks with guns in holsters who want to settle something once and for all walking away from each other for fifty paces, that’s too good to be true.

Melanie and Josephine both like George. Melanie liked, and slept with, him first. But the minute Melanie went out of town, Josephine hit that. When Melanie found out, she and Josephine asked George which girl was for him. George said, "I don't care." So Josephine and Melanie agreed to resolve the situation by shooting at each other according to the dictates of the Duel, a traditional dispute-resolution structure that has been in use at their high school since the 1980's.

Neither Melanie nor Josephine has ever fired, or held, a handgun. Being as they are each using five-chamber revolvers, and they will be firing from a distance of fifty paces, it will be a miracle if one of them manages to hit her target before she runs out of ammunition or the gun malfunctions. If by chance one of them does hit her target, the other could either be wounded or die, and George will go to the girl still standing. If neither of the girls hits her target, they will abandon their firearms to engage in a Catfight, a traditional dispute-resolution structure that has been in use at their high school since 1891, when Clementine Bartholomew caught her promised Mortimer Rothschild getting a handjob from Jezebel Smead behind the Homecoming Butter Churn.

Happy Gunfight Day!

You Are A Designer Of Gift Wrap Day!

Here are the top-selling patterns from your line:

1. Vaginas And Some Rainbows
2. Locker Combinations To Famous People's Gym Lockers, And Some Santa Clauses
3. Leonardo Dicaprio In Racecars And The Word "Baby"
4. Christmas Trees And Sandwiches
5. A Chart Of Presently Legal Assault Weaponry

Today you unveil the Your Dead Sons And Some Fire Engines line. It's misguided, but you miss your dead son so much you have no choice but to watercolor him all over your Gift Wrap. As usual, fans of your designs have already pre-ordered 7,000 rolls without even a preview. You're rich and really crazy.

Happy You Are A Designer Of Gift Wrap Day!

Under Blankets Day!

We go under blankets to play Naked Monster Killer.

"Are you the Monster who has been terrorizing the villagers?" I ask.

"I am that Monster," she growls. "I am misunderstood."

"Help me to understand you then."

We fuck.

--

We go under blankets to play Naked War Crimes Tribunal.

"Are you the leader of the country who has exacted genocide upon the lands?" I ask.

"I am that leader," she says, using a non-descript accent (kinda Russian). "I only killed those who posed a threat."

"Explain to me how an entire race of people, including its women and its young children, could constitute a threat to you."

We fuck.

--

We go under blankets to play Naked Bereaved Granddaughter Being Consoled.

"Are you the granddaughter whose grandfather has recently died?" I ask.

"I am that granddaughter," she sobs. "He was pretty awesome."

"Tell me some happy memories about him."

We fuck. (there's nothing wrong with that)

--

Happy Under Blankets Day!

Gypsy Kings Mobile Day!

You had it made special by the homosexual artist fellow who lives down the block. He took the photos you gave him and painted the likenesses onto durable plastic cutouts, allowing you to decide which Gypsy Kings should be wearing sunglasses, which should not.

"Black jeans on all of them," you said. "Faded."

"Like hope in the desert," said the homosexual artist fellow.

You smiled. Your baby's mobile was in good hands.

Your wife won't be there with you when you fasten it above the crib and send it on its first spin. She doesn't understand.

"He's a child and shit," she said. "He should be staring at like giraffes and monkeys and shit."

"I had to wait until I was fourteen before I was first introduced to the Gypsy Kings," you said. "My son will have a better life."

You hold the mobile up to the light and stare at those melodic little men bouncing on their strings. You wish you were young enough to sleep underneath a mobile like this one.

"I'd tell you all what happened to me today," you whisper to the little men.

Finally, it's time. Your son is in his crib, kicking at the air and ogling up at you.

"It's for you Nicolas," you say to your boy. "These are good men, all of them. And they'll take care of you."

From the doorway, your wife says, "Your father loves you Nicolas."

You turn to her. And she joins you by your side, kisses your cheek and stares down at her son. "He has a fantasy, Nicolas. Your father's fantasy is only to make you happy."

You squeeze her close, and you reach up and flick the switch on the mobile. The brilliant little men begin to spin as the first precious notes of a music-box Bamboleo begins to play.

"Today, I gave my son a pleasant dream," you whisper to the little men.

Happy Gypsy Kings Mobile Day!

Medicine Man Day!

This year's bake sale is going to be no different than the last five years. No one's going to buy any of your rice crispie treats.

"Folks don't know that I'm not only all about conjuring spells and bone-crumbling potions. Of course I am also a very skilled baker."

True, giving it some thought it would make sense that your sweet confections would be just as effective at tweaking the sweet tooth as your pupil searing poison is at bleaching eyeballs dead white.

"Whatever. Their loss. More treats for me."

You could always threaten people. Perhaps if you told them they must purchase and consume your treats right before your eyes or you'll spike the village well with an odorless impotence potion.

"No way. You'd be surprised at the placebo effect of fear. Someone could bite into my completely harmless yet delicious rice crispy treats and drop dead there on the spot just because their minds have convinced their hearts to stop. No shit. It's how my wife died."

You were married?

"Briefly. She had a sick sister. Her parents came to me for a healing but they had no money. I told them I'd take their other daughter's hand in marriage as payment and they went for it."

Did you two get along.

"As well as you might guess. Anyway, one night I decided to surprise her by having dinner ready for her when she came home. She couldn't refuse me, as my wife. But she did assume that I had decided to poison her. And her fear sent her into a shock that I couldn't rescue her from."

That's a sad story. Yours must be a pretty lonely life.

"I have my surprises."

Happy Medicine Man Day!

The Crucifixion Day!

Jeff and Mindy broke up after the big crucifixion.

"We watched the condemned man devolve into just a stretch of skin and bones and more and more strained wails of pain and we didn't say it then but we were both thinking, 'That's our relationship up there on that cross.'" Jeff throws a rock into the lake and you both watch the ripples.

"How'd she take it?" you ask.

Jeff laughs. "It was her idea," he says. "On the subway ride home, she said, 'Our love is in worse shape than that guy who died today, and it didn't even have to steal a car like he did. All our love had to do to get ripped to shreds is be the love thst is ours.'"

Jeff says now that he and Mindy broke up he's gonna stay alone for a while.

"And I don't think I'm going to view any more public crucifixions. They kinda bum me out."

You don't get this last part. You decide he's just depressed.

Happy The Crucifixion Day!

Bookreaders Day!

Girls who read books don't have sex with men because they only wish to have sex with women, everybody knows this. But you're still going to try to have sex with your bookreader friend.

"We both read books and we get so excited talking about books to each other I just know she wants me to enter her," is your silly little argument.

How exactly do you plan to go about this "entering" you've suddenly decided is scientifically possible? Are you going to move your face closer and closer to hers as you both grow more and more livid about Joyce Carol Oates until you say, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" And she says, "Do it!" And all of a sudden you're up her?

Please, she'll bite down on her cyanide pill before she lets anything like that happen. They all have one in the valley of their one remaining wisdom tooth you know.

Happy Bookreaders Day!

Drive Drunk To The Airport Day!

You'll barely make it there alive. You'll circle the terminals around twelve times over because you won't have the clarity of mind needed to change lanes. You'll finally pull over in front of the correct terminal and go inside to the baggage carousel.

Your sister will be sitting the edge of an empty carousel, talking into her cell phone. Talking to your mom probably, asking where the hell you are. Stagger to her.

"Hey Eve," you'll say.

"Forget it, he's here," she'll say before clapping her phone shut. "What the hell took you so long?"

"I got…oh you know." You'll pick up one of her bags and it will throw you off balance.

"What the fuck?" she'll ask. "Mom sent you out driving like this?"

"She's a lot worse off than me," you'll say. "You should probably drive home. I'm lucky to have made it here."

Your sister will grab her bag back from you and she'll march through the sliding doors. She'll ask you where the car is, and it won't take long for her to gather that you parked it in a tow away zone and it's presently being torn apart and searched by an explosives team. Your Mom's is a one-car household, so your sister is going to have to pay 78 dollars for a cab ride. This will of your Dad's better be a pretty good fucking read.

Happy Drive Drunk To The Airport Day!

Tie A Mask Around Your Eyes Day!

You feel pretty awful starting work as a paperboy at the age of 33. But there's no reason why you can't make something completely new of it. And tying a mask around your eyes is a perfect way to do that. This way, when kids on their ay to school see you pushing your shopping cart full of papers and they ask, "You're the paperboy?!"

You can respond, "I am The Masked Paperboy! Every morning I shall bring the news to my fellow townsfolk, anonymously feeding people's hearts and minds with objective facts."

"Do you write what's in the paper?" the kids will ask.

Lie. "Yes!"

The kids will walk away giggling. One will say, "I didn't know Donny's brother was retarded."

You're Donny's brother.

Happy Tie A Mask Around Your Eyes Day!

Your Wintry Eyes Day!

I feel a chill every time you look at me, she says.

You ask if it has to do with the way in which you look at her. The way you let your eyes crawl up and down her body, starting at the hem of her dress, and climbing up over her hips and around her ass and quick around over her belly slithering to both breasts and then tiptoeing real slow along her neck, and waiting there, on her neck.

She says, "No I dig that."

It's your eyes. They cast a spell of cold on any world they blink at. "When I look in your eyes I remember that I'm gonna die, and so will my Dad and my Mom."

"Must make you feel like there's no time to waste," you're wise to say.

"It makes me want to bring about a birth. Nothing can get me on my back faster than a death knell."

Make your move, Jack Frost.

Happy Your Wintry Eyes Day!

You’ve Been Trying Not To Use Your Witchcraft Day!

You know the danger of it. You know that every spell you cast into the world forces the natural continuum to contract and right itself, sometimes quite dramatically. "Casting the spell that brushes a hair into place can make nature reply with an earthquake," is what you were taught. You were taught to fear your power.

But you can’t help it. You have to turn Mallory Hoberman’s lips into a pair of fanged, screeching worms. The next time she tries to give your boyfriend head underneath a set of bleachers she won’t find him quite so complicit. Turn her lips into a pair of fanged, screeching worms. Clearly yours won’t be the first spell cast this year, based on all the hurricanes. Now go buy some eye of newt and wash your pestle.

Happy You’ve Been Trying Not To Use Your Witchcraft Day!

Do It All For Your Girlfriend's Smile Day!

Tell her if it makes her smile, it's done.

"Steal that for me," she'll say. You'll pocket the peppermint patty and halfway down the block you'll place it on her tongue. Her smile will bob back and forth like a rowboat on rough seas as she chews her candy.

"Dance there," she'll say. You'll get up from your table and do the running man in the center of the patio. All of the brunchers will laugh. But you won't notice. Your eyes will be trained on your girlfriend's mouth, pink stretched wide over white.

"Kill my Dad," she'll say. You'll leap from the couch and slam his head into the living room floor over and over again until you hear a crack. She'll get up and kick his stilled ribs. You'll smear the blood from your eyelids but she won't be smiling.

"Where's my smile?" you'll ask. "Come on."

She'll cry. You'll understand. But all the same, you did have a deal.

She'll cry into the palms of her hands and you'll rub her back instead of accusing her of welching.

Happy Do It All For Your Girlfriend's Smile Day!

Send A Secret Admirer Letter To The Brunette Waitress At Duck Confederacy Day!

Dear Brown-Haired Waitress,

Please do not throw this away. I am rich.

"If you are rich," you might think. "Why are you so unconfident that you have to send a secret admirer letter?'

A ha. Well-played. But, I must confess, I do not normally lack confidence. In fact, if you knew who I was, you would have noticed that when I dine at Duck Confederacy, my companion is usually a woman of stunning physical beauty. Though they are rarely as stunning in conversation.

Which is why I tend to beam when you approach my table. I relish when the time comes to hear you tell me your specials for the day. I think I have ordered every dish you've ever recommended (you're beginning to guess who I might be, I'm sure) and they are always delicious. You have a marvelously discerning palate. A woman who truly appreciates food might be the sexiest of all women.

So yes, my money does afford me the acquaintance of "beautiful" women. But it is when I meet a woman who is not only physically beautiful, but is also a uniquely intriguing person, that I grow nervous. I can tell my money would mean nothing to you. And therefore I would be reliant upon the strength of my personality to carry you past the initial disgust of my "lobster arm."

Now, perhaps you have positively identified me in your memory. Yes, I am the well-dressed gentleman with the arm that appears to end in a soft, useless "claw." It's a disfigurement I've worn since birth, and I can say that it's only forced me to try harder and harder to be the greatest man I know.

While I would never insult you to presume that you would care about my wealth, I do ask that you take my financial success as evidence that I am much more than my disgusting little claw. I am a man of conviction and drive. I have been told my charm is the key to much of my success. And some have said that my disfigurement has even added to my beauty, after they've gotten to know me of course. I am not your everyday man.

I have an 8:30 reservation tomorrow evening. I have requested that I be seated in your station. I will ask for your recommendation and I will order it. If you assent to meeting me for a drink after your shift, add a garnish of razor-sliced beets to my plate, and I will return to pick you up a half-hour after closing. If you do not add the garnish to my plate, I will not order dessert. I will pay my bill, tipping generously, and I will never dine at Duck Confederacy again.

Until dinner, then.

Yours,

Happy Send A Secret Admirer Letter To The Brunette Waitress At Duck Confederacy Day!

Just As You Finish Chewing Your Foot Off At The Ankle, The Elevator Starts To Work Again Day!

It’s almost like the thump of your limp disembodied appendage to the floor of the car hit a switch and sent the elevator back into action.

"That’s always the way," you say to yourself as you wrap your tourniquet tight around your calf.

Don’t worry. Your heroic tale will be an inspiration to people who have been trapped in a stopped elevator for upwards of 40 minutes everywhere. Not all of us would have had the gumption to take that first bite into the ankle. We’d think, "Maybe the fire department will turn up before chewing off my own foot becomes necessary." We'd ask ourselves, "Will chewing off my own foot help this situation in any way shape or form? After all, it’s not like my foot is stuck or anything."

Ultimately, it comes down to what kind of person you are. Are you the sort of person who will wait patiently for help to arrive, perhaps taking out a crossword puzzle to pass the time if one is handy? Or are you the type of person who will chew off his own foot at the ankle?

Today, you’ve answered that question loud and clear. Now hop along, Cassidy!

Happy Just As You Finish Chewing Your Foot Off At The Ankle, The Elevator Starts To Work Again Day!

Meet Your Hero Day!

He might not look to be endowed with anything beyond a doomed sense of his own self. As he squirrels himself awake at the early hour of 10:30, he whispers aloud, "What the hell is wrong with me?"

His first words spoken to the morning sun.

Yes, it may not look like he will soon be the one we all look to for hope, the one we pray to as we huddle in the corners of our homes, covering our children’s ears as the fists pounding against our front doors rattle the windows in their frames. He might just look like another loser with a drinking problem and a pregnant girlfriend who isn’t a hundred percent on the whole abortion thing just yet, even though she’s already 8 weeks along. When you look at him, you might not be able to see beyond the unemployment compensation fraud. When you look at him, you might just be glad you don’t have to know what his bedroom smells like.

Yet it shall come to pass. A sequence of events, which will not be elaborated upon here or ever, will take this not very young man to the height of human possibility for bravery and compassion, and in the early years of a soon-to-be reborn America, his name will be spoken with reverence. And his ways will be taught to every child who can be held still long enough to listen.

He might be absently scratching his ass underneath his boxer shorts right now, and it might appear that he’ll never stop. Just you wait.

Happy Meet Your Hero Day!

Studio Apartment With One Small Window Day!

It's big enough. Seems to have been well maintained. You really like the bathtub. The only thing is the window.

"Why are those five bricks there?" you ask the landlord.

"I'll tell you this once then I'll go downstairs," the landlord says. "You want the apartment after I tell you, you come down and knock on my door. You don't want it, you walk out the building and good luck to you. But what I'm about to tell you is non-negotiable."

He didn't buy real estate so that he could make a lot of money, he says. He did it so that he could play with the people who want to live in his building.

"For instance, the man in 2R, name of Kuperman," he says. "He lives in my farts. I fart into his shower air vent. Once every day."

He goes on to talk about how he installed central air into 3B. "Mrs. Louis' world is controlled by me. Every morning, I decide how hot or cold her apartment will be, based on my mood. She hates me."

"And you," he says. "You live here, I'll be burying you alive. One brick at a time. Those five bricks there took me about nine months to put up. I can't tell you how often I'll add to the bricks. But I fully intend to cover that window with bricks and bury you alive in your apartment. Those are the terms. Goodbye."

You stare out the window for a little while. The bricks really aren't that large. A few tests of the water pressure later and you're downstairs signing a lease.

Happy Studio Apartment With One Small Window Day!

Your Son Is In Love Day!

You, being a wealthy society type, want your son to marry the daughter of the partner in a competing firm in order to ally the firm with yours and therefore bind the two Wall Street behemoths into an unstoppable financial titan.

Your son is in love with a girl he met at the dog run. You've just ordered him to cut off all ties with her and prepare to marry well. The following is the last you will hear from your son until the day his mother dies (you'll be a suspect) 26 years from now:

You might think I'm doing this just to spite you. To tell you the truth, I don't know whether you're right or wrong. I hate you so much it's possible that I would alter the course of my life just to hurt you a little tiny bit. But know this, I will never take anything you have to give. And I will do all I can to live my life the way you would not. I will not become you. I'll die before I resemble you in the slightest. You won't see me again.

Then he'll leave. Everyone at the New York Stock Exchange is gonna laugh at you when they find out you drove your only son away.

Happy Your Son Is In Love Day!

Statement From A Man Who Just Woke Up From A 25 Year Coma Day!

When I woke up from my 25 year coma, the first thing I did was I went out searching for my wife and daughter. I was told that they ran off because their lives halted to a standstill when I went under, and in order to go on living they had to pretend that I was dead. They've since heard that I'm alive and I'm conscious. My wife refuses to see me, and my daughter refuses to believe that I'm anything but dead.

"I don't care if you say you're alive," she wrote to me. "When I left your bedside I left you for dead. Therefore, you're dead."

Additionally, when I went into my coma, M*A*S*H was on TV. It's not anymore.

Happy Statement From A Man Who Just Woke Up From A 25 Year Coma Day!

He Can Reduce You To Tears With Just A Shiver Of His Curly Hair Day!

You don't know that you can make it through an entire dinner without stabbing yourself in the back of your hand with a fork he's just so gosh darn delicious.

"So you're unemployed?"

"Mmm," he says, his mouth overflowing with baked ziti. "Hopin' to stay that way too. 'Cept I don't have any money."

You place your hand over his, which nearly makes you break into song, and you say, "I'll get this then."

He smiles, like you just made a joke. He assumed you'd be paying for dinner from the get-go.

"You got a nice body," he says. Hooray! your heart shouts into your veins. He does like me, he does like me!

"Thank you," you say with a shy smile.

"You don't look like my ex-girlfriend at all," he says. "For the first six months after the breakup I only messed around with girls who looked like her. Now I'm trying to go the opposite route."

"Has it been working out so far?" you ask with some play in your eyes.

He shrugs. "I don't care."

"I don't normally behave this way," you say. "But when you finish eating your entrée, would you mind terribly if we went straight back to my place?"

"To fuck?" he asks. There's a chunk of sausage on his chin.

"Yes," you say. "I swear this isn't the way I am all the time. There's just something about you that makes me want to skip over all the usual games."

His mouth wide open, he chews his ziti, then says, "I wanna stop at a bar first. I wanna get some beers in me first."

You smile and nod. "That's fine. I can wait." Then you lean in with a naughty whisper. "But not for too long."

"Look, get off my back!" he shouts. Some tomato sauce hits you in the eye.

"I'm sorry," you say. "Take your time."

For the rest of the evening, you try to only speak when spoken to.

Happy He Can Reduce You To Tears With Just A Shiver Of His Curly Hair Day!

Buy Your Husband A Crown Day!

Give it to him on one of his last few birthdays before he dies, when he's old enough that the little he'll have accomplished can be estimated to be the height of what he can hope to accomplish before he dies.

You probably won't have a lot of money for something full of gold and rubies, thanks to Mr. Play-It-Safe having missed out on a total of nine big investment paydays. But you'll be able to get maybe a nice dirty white gold piece, or an ivory and fake emerald little number that he can be held still with some bobby pins.

When he asks what it's supposed to mean, say, "You are my king. This is your kingdom and I am you subject. I shall do your bidding."

This dimly lit, two-bedroom ranch-style home is your kingdom. And this decidedly elderly woman, who's been pretty kind these past few decades, is prepared to obey you.

He'll raise his eyebrows and chuckle, getting the joke, and enjoying it too. "An espresso, knave," he'll say. "And there'd best be a head atop it or I'll have to make do with yours."

Bow with faux-modesty and then retreat to the kitchen to make him an espresso with the machine his daughter gave him as a gift earlier that evening at dinner. He'll sit in front of the TV with his crown on his head and he'll wait.

Happy Buy Your Husband A Crown Day!

My Love Is Squared Day!

"Let’s say that yesterday I loved you to a certain degree. Well, in the last 24 hours, I’ve squared it. Today, I love you times my love for you."

"Your love is squared?" say. You’re lying naked in bed, on your backs, side by side, your fingertips grazing in his pubis. You had sex 70 minutes ago and there’s some semen under you.

"Yeah, my love is squared."

You feel guilty. You love him, but if your love for him is growing at all, it’s not growing very rapidly. You could safely say that you love him maybe 7% more than you did yesterday.

"You’re loving me too fast," say.

"I can’t stop."

Don’t say anything else. Think on it a while. If you say the wrong thing, you two might break up.

Happy My Love Is Squared Day!

Phone Call From A Sobbing Married Man Day!

Please, he's saying, please he needs you and he loves you.

"I'm definitely leaving her," he's saying. "I don't even want to lay my eyes on her again."

Please I need you and let me come over, he's saying.

"I can't," you're saying. "You won't leave. I know you won't leave."

I have no choice is what he's saying. If you'd heard the way she talked to me tonight is the thing he's trying to drive home. You'd know it's already dead. If you'd been there, when they fought, you'd know there's nothing left.

"Please," he's saying.

"I want to be with you," is what you're going on about. "But not until you leave her. For good."

He's saying this is for good baby.

"No, you have to leave her first." You just put your foot down.

Now he's really crying. "My God I've left. I'm out on the street. I'm calling you from the street."

You wanna ask him, did you really leave.

"Did you really leave?" you ask him.

You don't wanna ask him if he left because it was the end of a fight or if he left because people who decide they're going to divorce leave.

He's saying yes he left. You both knew from the beginning that he was gonna come over. Everyone did. No reason to go on with it all. The end.

Happy Phone Call From A Sobbing Married Man Day!

Cash In Day!

"Fuck my artistic integrity," you'll tell your wife. "I'm gonna make me some dollars."

She won't say it out loud, but she'll regret having married you.

"What?" you'll say. "Why should everyone else get rich while I starve on the ground floor trying to wrest my vision from the recesses of my soul?"

She'll shrug. She'll go about cutting coupons.

"You telling me you like this life?"

Take her scissors away from her.

"I'm doing it so I can provide for you baby," you'll say.

"I never wanted my husband to be my provider," she'll say. "I want him to be my hero."

She'll go about cutting coupons, and you'll go back to your workshop (you carve vaginas out of soap. It's your "statement").

Happy Cash In Day!

Bed Bath And Beyond Day!

Your magic bath-rug is like a magic carpet in that, um, it's got powers. But a magic carpet basically just lets you fly around on it. Your magic bath-rug inspires love between any two people who step on it at the same time, no matter who they might be. Which is why you found your five-year old son and four-year old daughter climbing up onto the windowsill last night. They stood on the carpet together, getting ready to climb into the tub for their shared bath, when they suddenly knew they were in love, and that theirs was a love that dare not speak its name (being as they're brother and sister). So they decided to end it all, just as you or I would. But you interrupted them and ordered them to stop playing around and take their bath. They thank you for it. They relished every moment of that bath, knowing that before long they would have to make another attempt on their lives. But over the course of that bath, as they took turns squeezing the sponge to send torrents of water cascading down each other's backs, the world was theirs. But they know the illusion cannot last. They're going to try again. Keep an eye on them.

Happy Bed Bath And Beyond Day!

She Used To Ride A Motorcycle Day!

She keeps her curly hair long and pinned down over the right side of her head with a barrette. There's a bald spot on that side of her head. That's where her skull got cracked.

She gets headaches. That date she cancelled on you, your second, she had a headache then. Her headaches can make her throw up.

"39 feet," as she tells it. "They measured it. From the guardrail to where I landed, I flew 39 feet and landed smack on my head."

She says that she's lucky that he skull cracked. It was either that or her spine, and there's a better chance you're gonna be able to pull yourself out of a chair if you're skull's cracked. The only thing is, when you get out of the chair you might not remember why you did it, and you'll just end up sitting back down again.

"That don't sound like all that bad a fate," you tell her. Your index finger is sliding around on her bald spot, noting the crests and canyons of skull introducing themselves from just below that smooth patch of flesh.

"Not if you got a comfortable place to sit I suppose." Her hands are clasped up by her cheek. She's thinking about something else.

Happy She Used To Ride A Motorcycle Day!

An Excerpt From A Eulogy For Mitten Day!

...And she was a good cat. Happy to share my home and provide me with her company. Something I needed desperately after Frank ran off. I'm childless, as most of you know, and I don't wish my fate on any woman alive...

Happy An Excerpt From A Eulogy For Mitten Day!

The Winners Day!

The winners, of course, are having sex with each other (all nine of them) inside a glass chamber full of money. Occasionally, they'll ring a bell, at which time an unattractive person will be brought to stand before the wall of the glass chamber and the winners will stop having sex long enough to watch the unattractive person be shot in the back of the head. The unattractive people who sign on to be murdered before the eyes of the fornicating winners are the sort of unattractive people who don't feel very "needed" by their adult children, and they are more than happy to give up their lives in exchange for sharing a moment of private company, albeit from behind a glass dividing wall, with the winners.

"Does it bother you," asks Jamie, winner of The Prize, "that we can no longer be excited by something as carnal as group sex without the addition of a human volunteering to be slaughtered for our entertainment?"

Mark, winner of The Award, shrugs his shoulders. "I don't let it get to me. It's a scary thought, true. I mean, what about when we no longer get a charge from these murders? What will we resort to next?"

Linda, winner of The Medal, scoffs at the lot of them. "We'll do whatever we like," she says. "And no one will object to it. The very fact that we desire it makes it right. The outside world feels this is so, why shouldn't we?"

Martin, winner of The Trophy, stops caressing his genitals so that he might look again at the unattractive woman lying dead at the foot of their chamber, her very human blood seeping out from her wound to from a very expansive puddle on the floor. Martin feels a little sick now, but he'll continue to have sex with his fellow winners once they resume.

Happy The Winners Day!

A Houndstooth Check Blood Pattern Day!

In all your years on the job, you ain't never seen anything like this.

"The assailant used a stencil," you tell the flatfoot with a notebook.

"He a fruit, Detective?"

You take in a lot of air, let out a long, low hiss of disgust. "Most definitely," you say. "I'd stake my badge on it."

"Takes one to know one!" you expect someone to shout into the silence that follows. A part of you would welcome it. The part that's still in love with the seventeen-year old Puerto Rican boy you sent to maximum security 28 years ago. The part that's doing all it can to substitute love of your work for the love you only gave once to Julio. In the backseat of your police issue, by the side of route 40, you lied and said you'd let him go if he does this one thing, just this one thing. He knew the game, he'd played it before, so many times that when it was all over and you smacked his head up against the cage behind the front seat he didn't even seem surprised. He knew he was going to jail the whole time, but he played the game anyhow.

"He loved me," you think, every night just before passing out in your chair. "Julio knows what I am."

He's the only one.

Happy A Houndstooth Check Blood Pattern Day!

Burglars Day!

Today, burglars all over the nation are postponing that one last score so that they can head into the park for a nice, friendly, here-comes-autumn picnic. Burglars don't find time to get together as often as they'd like. It's hard to take them off the job. Even today, they're not gonna take off the ski-masks. At least not at first.

At first it'll just be the same as always. Everyone crowds around the burglar who brought a velvet cloth full of diamonds. They'll ooh and aah while he says, "Isn't that a great diamond? I'm a hell of a burglar." But eventually, the sun will send them all to the blanket, peering up at the blue sky, wiping their minds clean of safe-cracking shortcuts and generic chloroform price hikes. Soon, one of them will whip out a Frisbee, and they'll be running this way and that like a bunch of little kids on the first day of spring (albeit in ski masks).

The picnic on Burglars Day never goes sour. Everyone leaves happier than they came, and full of just a little bit more cold fried chicken. Last year, one of the female burglars hit it off with one of the male burglars and they went for a walk. This year, they're coming back wearing wedding rings they stole for each other.

See you at the park, unless you're in jail.

Happy Burglars Day!

Happy 15th Anniversary You Two Day!

You know the drill. Get naked and sit Indian Style in the middle of the floor. Lean forward as far as you can. Lean forward so far that it feels like your spines are about to snap. Try to touch noses. Hold it.

On the count of three, shout the first thing that comes into your mind.

She shouted failure. He shouted Evelyn (her name's Doris).

Happy Happy 15th Anniversary You Two Day!

Lou Rawls Day!

Lou Rawls told his wife, "She's not gonna bother us anymore."

His wife didn't say anything.

Lou Rawls told her again, "She's not gonna bother us anymore, I said."

His wife nodded at the table. Lou said, "You got nothing to say then?"

His wife just kept looking at the toaster. Lou Rawls went into the living room, rustled his newspaper on his lap, and began his new life, a life undisturbed by an infidelity. But just before it began, he shouted to his wife, "I killed her!"

His wife ran into the living room, saying, "Thanks a lot for protecting me, Douche!"

"What," said Lou Rawls. "You don't wanna know about it? Don't wanna know that it takes a murder to keep this marriage from falling apart?"

"Now I'm an accomplice," she shouted at Lou Rawls. "This is just like you. Far be it from you to suffer in silence to protect me. With you it's all about Look at all the sacrifices I've made for you. As if I should feel guilty just for having accepted your wedding proposal. You never made any sacrifices, just excuses. Every choice you ever made was an excuse to get outta doin' what you really wanted to do."

"Fuck you!" said Lou Rawls. And they fought on and on like that, like they do every night.

Happy Lou Rawls Day!

The Rock Band Died Day!

Last night, your favorite rock band died. They were coming out of church when they spotted a kitten meowing in the second floor window of a burning house. Every member of your favorite rock band – lead singer, lead guitar, bass player, drummer, backup guitar, keyboard player, and the guy who plays the cow bells and the maracas – swung into action. The lead singer and the bass player joined hands to hoist the lead guitarist up onto the trellis, from where he climbed onto the roof adjacent to the awning below the window where the cat was calling out. The drummer and the backup guitarist climbed the moleberry tree that hung over another awning adjacent to that window. Meanwhile, the lead singer, bass player, keyboardist, and the guy who plays the cow bells and maracas headed into the house to try to get up to that room to block the cat from running back into the fire to get away from his rooftop rescuers. Once everyone was either on top of or inside the house, the roof collapsed, killing all but the keyboard player, who died later that night of a heroin overdose while in bed with a handful of fourteen year old groupies, who also died that night, but of natural causes. The cat's fine.

Happy The Rock Band Died Day!

It's Like The Frog And The Scorpion Day!

"The one where the frog asks the scorpion for a lift across the river?"

"Scorpion asks the frog," say.

"Which one am I?" she'll ask.

"Duh," say. "You're the scorpion."

"So," she says, "My suggesting moving in with you is comparable in your mind to you helping me across a river, and my murdering you before we get across, bringing about my own death by drowning."

"Right," say. "Wait, I thought they get across, then she bites him."

"She? Have you always thought that the scorpion was necessarily a female and the frog a male?"

"And they're dating, yeah. But I thought they get across, she kills him, and goes on with her life."

She shakes her head, which sort of turns into a shake of her entire body. "No, I think she bites him midway through, which illustrates the whole 'it's my nature' thing about it."

"That doesn't work as well," say.

"No?"

"No, not as a parable for dating."

She'll say, "Holy shit."

"What?" say. "I just don't think we're ready." Then go to your guitar lesson.

Happy It's Like The Frog And The Scropion Day!

Today, You'll Say The Following Into The Barrel Of A Gun Day!

So I guess this is it?

You're a big, giant, festering, weak pussy. I fucking dare you to pull that trigger you faggot.

I should've known it would end this way.

It's right there on the bottom shelf of the curio. See for yourself (when she turns her head you'll grab for the gun but the tables won't turn).

I never thought I could find you more attractive until I saw your pretty little eyebrows pop out from around the hammer of that handgun. I'm going to unbutton your blouse now. Don't shoot.

Awwwwwww God! Awwwwwww God I don't wanna die!

Thanks, I love oyster crackers.

His name…is your name. Kandinski. He's your brother Patricia.

Oooooh isn't she just such a scawy wittle gangster girl. Evewybody wun fwom the scawy wittle gangster girl.

(Glancing under the recliner from your spot on the floor) So that's where the DVD remote ended up.

Kill me and you'll never get your hands on the antidote.

Nice gun. Who'd you blow for it? Ooooh! Dis!

Happy Today, You'll Say The Following Into The Barrel Of A Gun Day!

Pull The Fire Alarm Day!

There's not much time. Yank that handle down. You'll find out whether it's true that your hand gets sprayed with ink so that authorities can determine who it was that pulled the alarm.

Look at your hand and say, "Well waddaya know."

Your coworkers will be milling absently towards the fire exit. Go to Kara's desk and whisper through the thick of her hair and into her ear, "This isn't a drill. Don't cause a panic, just come with me."

Lead her (by the hand) to a non-designated fire stair, one where it's just the two of you.

"Will this get us to the sidewalk," she'll ask.

Stop on the stairs and say, "Who cares?"

She'll say, "The fire."

Say, "What? Oh, there's no fire. I pulled the alarm. I needed to get you alone so I could present my case for why you should leave your husband and kids and marry me."

She'll lean back against the wall of the stairwell, her arms crossed, and she'll say, "I'm listening."

Breathe deep and lay it on her. "I just think we've got something here. A connection. Am I wrong?"

Kara will take a second to consider your proposal. Say, "Goddammit the suspense is killing me! Yes or no!"

She'll say, "I need some time. I really dig my husband and kids. And I never noticed that connection thing you mentioned. But I have to admit, it was romantic of you to pull a fire alarm just to get me alone."

Get closer to her, and in a soft voice say, "I had no choice but to get you alone. I was too afraid of being laughed at by Dave (the loudmouth temp)." Say this whilst grazing your thumb along the circumference of where you estimate her right areola to be underneath her sweater.

She'll begin to pant. Then she'll push you away, telling you she needs to make a list of the pros and cons.

Happy Pull The Fire Alarm Day!

The Keys To The Kingdom Day!

It's been six years since your wife let you have sex with her and you're racking your brain for how to get yourself some of that. The problem is, you're so close to your wife that you can't see the forest for the trees. The easiest way into your wife's pants is through your wallet.

Your wife loves money. Actually, loves might be the wrong word. Your wife thinks holding money is as close as you can get to touching the bloody foot of Jesus Christ while he is dying on the cross. Since she was old enough to make her own decisions, every decision she's made has been in effort to acquire more money. It's why she married you. You were loaded and she knew it. When she danced with you that night you met, she could feel in your back that you were the kind of guy who was rich and would stay that way.

When she decided to make you propose to her, she thought, "I think he has enough money."

Using your money is clearly how you can get her to do what you want.

"But how?" you pant. "We share all of my money. Anything I have to give she's already got."

Take it away from her. Empty all of your bank accounts and open new ones. Hide the cars and houses and all of her clothes and food. Lock it all away until she demands it back.

"Not unless," say to her, "you have sex with me."

She'll tell you that as your wife that money is hers just as much as yours. Any court would agree.

"True, but courts take a long time to come to an agreement. You can wait months and months in a courtroom to be awarded the money by a judge. Or you can have it all back today, before dinnertime, just by letting me have sex with you."

She'd be a fool not to go for it. Have fun loverboy!

Happy The Keys To The Kingdom Day!

Your Kid's Piggy Bank Is Empty Day!

This is warning sign number two that he's addicted to the pot. Warning sign number one was when he was rude to his mother the other night. And warning sign number three is on its way. That's when he'll run through the living room naked, tearing at his own flesh, screaming "GET EM OFF ME! GET EM OFF ME!"

Just so's you can kept an eye out, here are all of the warning signs that your kid's addicted to the pot:

4) You find him in his little sister's room, forcing the barrel of a semi-automatic weapon in between her teeth (she's 9).

5) Large black people on the front step.

6) Unraked leaves.

7) He can levitate.

8) He is dead and there's nothing you can do about it now because you didn't heed the warning signs.

9) He is fathering children left and right.

10) He talks endlessly about how awesome the pot is and how it's the best thing ever.

11) When you ask him if he wants to go play mini golf with you on the weekends he just doesn't seem all that interested.

12) He has withdrawn roughly $78,000 from your bank account.

13) Snot pours out of his nose like water from a spigot.

If your kid exhibits any or all, or hell, even none, of these signs, he's probably addicted to the pot and you should beat him with a ring of keys until he's better.

Happy Your Kid's Piggy Bank Is Empty Day!