Rollercoaster Ride Day

Rollercoaster Ride Day!

You remember how last week you had sex with your ex-boyfriend, and he assumed that meant that the two of you were going to get back together, and you let him believe that for a few days but then you wrote him an email telling him that you decided not to leave your current boyfriend? And so he forwarded to your current boyfriend all of the emails you've been writing (to the ex) in which you were trying to figure out whether or not to leave (the current) and get back together (with the ex), remember that? And even though your current didn't break up with you, you did have to beg him to stay. So remember how you got so pissed off at being forced to beg that you went and found your ex at the bar where he was drinking that night and you dragged him off of his stool by his hair? And he bruised your cheek with his beer bottle as he fell, remember that? Well tonight your current is going to break up with you after all, and you're going to go chasing down your ex before the tears start to dry. Long story short, you're gonna fuck and then your ex is gonna fall three stories from a fire escape, though it's not clear whose. He'll live, and you'll start thinking about moving to California.

Happy Rollercoaster Ride Day!

Get More Painkillers Day

Get More Painkillers Day!

You just ate your last five, which means you have about eleven hours to get your hands on five more or else you're going to spend the night curled up in the middle of your bed with every muscle in your body clenched rock-solid and your eyes ripped open wide, staring straight at a memory of your ex-wife and your daughter.

They're in Texas now, with her Dad. You went there once to beg them back but her Dad had the sheriff lock you up with a threat to prosecute if you didn't leave town. You still had Cobra back then and when you got back from Texas you underwent a long-overdue back surgery. The doctor prescribed you a month of bedrest and vicodin. The rest is the rest.

You feel pretty good right now, but the chance that you might not have those pills before bedtime is creeping along the back of your mind like a sleek little panther. In the back of your nasal passages there's just an itch. You don't have any ideas just yet for how to get a hold of those pills. Right now you're just gonna have to pretend that your daughter's coming to visit next week. Just lay still and pretend. You'll go and find more pills in a few hours, when you won't be able to think about anything else.

Happy Get More Painkillers Day!

Ask Your Boss For His Daughter's Hand In Marriage Day

Ask Your Boss For His Daughter's Hand In Marriage Day!

"Please," he'll say. "Not here in my office. You come up to the estate this weekend and we'll do this properly."

You'll thank him and shake his hand, then you'll get his signature on your timecard.

At the estate, you'll first have a drink in the great room with him and his wife and son and of course, his daughter Penelope.

"Good beer," you'll say to his wife.

His wife will respond, "Becks. Yes."

After that, the five of you will adjourn to the badminton court. His wife will sit out the game and have another Manhattan (her fourth). You and Penelope will play against your boss and his son. Your team will get creamed, but at one point when you and Penelope both go for the shuttlecock at the same time, you'll collide and fall to the ground together. You'll be giggling and tangled up in each other's arms. Then you'll stop and lock eyes. Before you know it, the two of you will be rolling around making out in the dirt. You'll have her shirt partway off when your boss starts shouting, "Hey you two are just gonna have to postpone your little kissyfest until me and my boy here send you two to the showers." At that, your boss and his son will exchange a high-five and you and Penelope will get up and finish the game.

Later at dinner, your boss will bring up the fact that you want to marry Penelope.

"That's great," Penelope will say.

You boss will say, "Well if she's cool with it I'm cool with it." He'll add to his wife, "He's one of our finest temps dear. She's in good hands."

After you marry his daughter, you'll be rich.

Happy Ask Your Boss For His Daughter's Hand In Marriage Day!

Merry Go Round Day

Merry Go Round Day!

You and your man hopped on the Merry Go Round at the State Fair. It was glorious for a few spins, almost like a ride designed to take your love and show it off on display for all the patrons to ooh and ahh at. Then your man spied someone from his past. A woman in black.

"I’d better go talk to her," he said to you. And with that he kissed your lips once.

"Don't take too long," you smiled.

He maneuvered along the rotating platform to climb atop an empty horse about three spots up, next to the woman in black. They were far enough around the bend that you could see her, but not him. You remember the scar across his abdomen. When you asked him about it, he said only, "Not all girls are as sweet as you."

You thought you might be sick because suddenly the ride felt like it had shorted out and started spinning with G-force. Everything was moving so fast the woman in black would appear and disappear, and so would your man, the two of them, and all the children surrounding you, flickering in and out like stop-motion animation. The only thing holding still was the swirl of color that was everything and everyone else on the fairgrounds surrounding you. And of course, when the ride finally pulled to a stop and you loosened your grip on the pole protruding from your horse's head, you were the sole patron on the Merry Go Round. Your man was gone. And so was the woman in black.

That was a year ago. Tonight, the fair returns to town. And the Merry Go Round is in service for all of the children and their grandmothers.

Get on a horse and go after your man. After a few spins, I think you'll find his trail.

Happy Merry Go Round Day!

Art Star Day

Art Star Day!

The pills that you take only work to counter the effects of the other pills that you take. You have two shows opening on two continents in April. You have two lovers and you have been impotent since 1989. Lately, you're working only in materials that can be bought from the CVS stationery aisle. Try and fail to kill yourself at 3 PM by sawing deep enough into your left wrist that your hand nearly falls off of your arm. Spend the evening recuperating. You have a lot of work to do.

Happy Art Star Day!

Your Favorite Rock Band Or Your Girlfriend Day

Your Favorite Rock Band Or Your Girlfriend Day!

They've both been taken hostage by one of those genius-killers who like to design their killing sprees according to twisted games that make statements on human nature and the state of morality in the 21st century. Like this one:

You've just woken up in the middle of a warehouse space, fastened to a rocking chair. Instinctively, you begin to rock. Across the floor, you spy two areas roped off by white plastic chains, the kind used to keep lines of people in order at crowded flower shows. In one of the roped off areas stands your girlfriend. In the other stands your favorite rock band, The Fiery Furnaces. You don't realize yet that something is wrong because you've just woken up. You try to get out of your chair and say to your girlfriend, "Wow Stacey, what are you and the Fiery Furnaces doing here in this warehouse?" but the straight razor strapped over your lips cuts a one inch gash into each corner of your mouth. You scream.

A voice is heard over a hidden public address system. It says, "Choose who will die. Your girlfriend, or the Fiery Furnaces."

After you ask a series of questions, including the following:

Really?

Who are you?

What if I refuse?

How can I trust that if I choose one to die, you'll let the other go?

and

Really?

you'll ask, "Why are you doing this?"

The killer will announce over the PA system, "You are not special. You are only the first. One day, everyone in this miserable country will be forced to choose between their girlfriend and their favorite rock band."

When it's clear that you, your girlfriend, and the Fiery Furnaces are all very confused, the killer will add, "If you know what I mean."

Finally, after another moment, the killer will add, "It'll make sense later. Just choose who gets offed."

The killer has promised that whomever you choose to live will be allowed to leave the warehouse unharmed, but he could not make you the same promise. Which means that you shouldn't base your decision in selfish reasoning, since you might killed along with whomever you choose to die. And whomever you choose to die will die painfully. So, should you allow your girlfriend to live, simply out of love for her? Or should you allow The Fiery Furnaces to live, so that the world might hear a follow-up LP to 2004's "Blueberry Boat?" Your girlfriend has little to offer the world at large, but many in her immediate circle of acquaintance will miss her dearly. But then again, The Fiery Furnaces has never cared for you while you were ill. But they have voiced numerous truths to you through their songs, truths that you might never have stumbled upon had you not heard their music.

Now your girlfriend and The Fiery Furnaces are all shouting your name, begging you to let them live. The Fiery Furnaces are promising a really great follow-up to 2004's "Blueberry Boat." Your girlfriend is demanding that you remember the weekend the two of you spent in Virginia.

The killer repeats. "Choose."

Incidentally, whomever you choose to die will be fed to a walk-in closet full of alligators. If you're killed (if!) you'll just be stabbed five times in the stomach and left to bleed until you're gone.

Happy Your Favorite Rock Band Or Your Girlfriend Day!

The Elementary School Diaries Day

The Elementary School Diaries Day!

Between the ages of six and ten, you'd drop your pants for any boy or girl who was the slightest bit curious to see what your pee parts looked like in comparison to their pee parts. Write a tell-all book about all the kids you undressed with and for behind bushes and in basement rec rooms. Call it "Childhood Lost" or "The Curiosity Rapes" or "If You Show Me Yours." If you did not have an addiction to crystal meth between the ages of six and ten, embellish. We are all going to be very very rich.

Happy The Elementary School Diaries Day!

Take Madrigal To Be Put Down Day

Take Madrigal To Be Put Down Day!

The whole drive over, she'll be moaning the way she does all the time. She hasn't been able to eat or drink anything for a week and a half now. You've seen this before, with cats that were your responsibility by choice, not by default.

When you first arrive in the waiting room, it will sound like a jungle with all the different animals howling and meowing and barking. Once you sit down and stop jostling the carrier, Madrigal will begin her moan. And all the other animals will fall silent.

"What his name?" a pretty woman holding onto a leashed terrier will ask you.

"Madrigal," you'll say. "It's a she."

Madrigal's moan is livelier now. Angrier. One of the other cats joins in with a moan that sounds a little scared.

"That's a nice name," the terrier woman will say. "How'd you come up with that?"

"Her meow used to sound like a song or something," you'll say. "Something like that I think."

The terrier woman won't have anything to say to that. Madrigal will moan some more.

You'll say, "She's my girlfriend's." Moan. "My ex-girlfriend's. She took off a couple months ago. Left the cat."

The terrier woman will say, "Oh God."

Madrigal will moan and you'll say, "She's pretty bad now." Look up at the terrier woman. "I think this is it."

The veterinarian will call you in to the back. You'll catch a glimpse of the terrier woman when you move for the door. She'll be crying.

Over the course of Madrigal being examined, sentenced to death by lethal injection, and ultimately destroyed, you'll have gotten up the nerve to ask the terrier woman out. But when you walk back out to the waiting room, her eyes will see the empty pet carrier and they'll crinkle up to cry.

You'll drop the carrier on the receptionist's desk. "Donate this," you'll say. Then you'll head out to the car, pissed at your ex because her cat getting sick managed to ruin something with a lady that could have been cool.

Happy Take Madrigal To Be Put Down Day!

Start A Cult Day

Start A Cult Day!

Call it "Children Of Gil," and tell the story about a guy named Gil Patterson who once got so high he thought his name was Patterson Gil, so he went to city hall and changed his name. When he came down from his high, he didn't understand why the various applications he would submit over the years were constantly being denied as invalid. Finally, he returned to city hall and saw that he had changed his name that day years prior when he got high enough to successfully traverse bureaucratic red tape while retaining no memory of having done so. Gil Patterson, now Patterson Gil, decided that he had been kidnapped by aliens who outfitted him with a new consciousness, pulling his essence from deep inside and posing that as his outward beingness. Patterson Gil then went about the earth living his new life according to how the aliens had redesigned him. His goal was to effect change upon the globe before the aliens came for him. You should tell people that Patterson Gil did not die in 1981. He was come for.

No one will join your cult since you make it clear that the cult's origins can be traced back to a drug-induced blackout experienced by the leader.

Happy Start A Cult Day!

First Sleep With Your Husband To Be Day

First Sleep With Your Husband To Be Day!

You're introduced to Ronald at 3 PM when he arrives at your mother's house with a small bag. He'll be staying the night.

He's got flat black hair and wears a great deal of brown. He's taller than you, thank God. That was your only fear, that your mother might have picked a short one. At first sight, you can't really speak to him.

It's only after dinner, when wine has flowed in and out of his and yours and your mother's glasses that some laughter comes. The subject of the arranged marriage is broached and you and he both shake your heads in disbelief that you signed on for it. You both seize on this as a bond between you, that this whole thing is so unlike both of you.

The visit was planned a month prior, according to the developer's schedule which said that the rooms on the second floor of your mother's house would have been finished a week ago. But a week and a half ago a wall full of rotted wood presented a delay in the schedule. You and your mother have been sleeping on air mattresses in the living room for the past month. Ronald was given hotel suggestions, but he said that he would like to stick to the plan of staying the night with you and your mother.

Your air mattresses are hoisted above the ground on plastic legs. They were bought from the hunting section at Wal-Mart. Your mother and you have your cots side-by-side, and Ronald is separated from you by a coffee table. Once your mother's snoring is plaintive, you and Ronald will be able to smile at each other and join hands across the table-top. You'll kiss your palm and stretch it out for Ronald to grab hold. Ronald will kiss his palm and grab hold.

Happy First Sleep With Your Husband To Be Day!

Mom's Confession Day

Mom's Confession Day!

"I haven't worn underwear in 17 years," she'll say.

"Dad died 17 years ago," you'll say.

"Your father loved underwear," she'll say.

You'll both continue to drink your milkshakes in silence for a few minutes. Then your Mother will say to you:

"Are you wearing any underwear?"

Tell her the truth. She could die of natural causes at any given moment, and you don't want the last thing you ever said to her to have been a lie.

Happy Mom's Confession Day!

Messenger Boys Day

Messenger Boys Day!

Your rock opera about a messenger service acting as a front for a male prostitution ring is not getting any interest from investors. For one thing, it might have been nice if the prostitution ring was serving a higher purpose. Like if it was trying to save a church or something. Your prostitution ring is trying to raise enough money to shut a church down. A small liberal church with a lesbian Pastor, no less. And honestly, the only real conflict in your script is that your male prostitutes love to thrill-kill, and so the pimp running the "messenger service" is constantly trying to dispose of corpses.

It's sweet that in the end the messenger service manages to shut down the church and all those churchgoers have to find another place to worship. It's always satisfying to see a story of hard work paying off, yes. But the closing number is too outrageous. No one would believe that all 16 male prostitutes would just then discover that they were all each other's long lost brothers. It's awesome, no doubt. Just a little unbelievable.

You asked for notes, you talentless cock puff.

Happy Messenger Boys Day!

You'll Never Save Your Husband From That POW Camp Day

You'll Never Save Your Husband From That POW Camp Day!

It's been over 30 years now since your husband's plane went down over Danang, and it looks like there aren't going to be any more rescue missions heading into those POW camps. It's time to take matters into your own hands.

It's true, you're a 57 year old woman and your work as a seamstress has not kept you in the best of shape. So you'll have to get back into jogging. And you'll have to acquire numerous anti-tank weapons. You have a week.

Once in the POW camp, you'll stay low to the ground, spotting one or two middle-aged to elderly Americans huddled in their bamboo cages and eating their lunch of live bugs and human feces. When you find your husband, the VC will be torturing him to get him to denounce the United States. He'll say no dice, and then he'll feel 100 volts of electricity course up his spine and into the part of his brain that's just behind his eyes. The men torturing him will have a world-weary look on their faces, but they won't skip any steps in the torture. This camp is a well-oiled machine, you'll think.

Before you blow up the watchtower, let the guard up there see you and gasp. Then shoot a rocket at his face. The rest of the guards will lope out to shoot you. Shoot back. This'll never work.

Happy You'll Never Save Your Husband From That POW Camp Day!

You Look Like A Raccoon Day

You Look Like A Raccoon Day!

It's because you've been crying so much over how badly your boyfriend treats you. It makes your mascara run.

It's either time to tell him that you're not going to put up with his throwing stuff at your head while penetrating your friends and blowing all your money on electronics he gives to his ex-wife to try and win her back, or it's time to get some waterproof mascara because your boyfriend hates it when your mascara runs. The last time you cried and he saw you with those raccoon eyes, he punished you by promising not to see you for two weeks (he only went a week and a half because he had to go to the Jersey Shore for a winter beach party and he needed 800 dollars).

So, today, it's either tell him to stop making you cry or get yourself some better mascara. Hint: Buying better mascara won't involve any yelling, which you hate.

Happy You Look Like A Raccoon Day!

Your Dad Once Kidnapped His Partner's Son Day

Your Dad Once Kidnapped His Partner's Son Day!

It's true. Ask him.

"Dad," you'll say. "Did you once kidnap your partner's son?"

"Yeah," he'll say. "But just once."

"Why?" you'll ask.

Your dad will tell you that he's glad you finally found out about it, since it's the thing he's most proud of having done, but he's never been able to tell you about it.

"I've taken care of you and your mother," he'll say. "And that's something to be proud of, certainly. And I've built a heck of a real estate holding company haven't I? But it's that extra step I took to get everything I needed, that one idea I had to lock it all up tight. It's the risks that you take in life, and the risks you take a pass on. The risks are what define a man. Remember that."

Your dad will be beaming now.

"Did you really kidnap a kid, Dad?"

His partner in his first holding company had some deals set up on the side, making some moves to push your Dad out of the picture but hang on to the assets. It would all be legal, but extremely underhanded. Your Dad was facing professional and financial ruin, so he kidnapped his partner's son and successfully extorted a ransom of $500,000 from him without getting caught.

"It was brilliant," your Dad will beam. "I even made my partner believe I was the only one he could trust to help get his son back. No one suspected a thing."

"Did you hurt his son?" you'll ask.

Your Dad will say, "Nope. He probably thinks it was all just a fun vacation away from home."

Your Dad will sit and continue drinking his Sambuca. You'll go back to your room and reread the letter from your Dad's old partner's son. It's an angry letter, full of threats. If he wasn't hurt, you don't quite get why he's so angry at your Dad still, after all these years. Just re-read it, then show it to your Dad. You should probably show it to him tonight. There are some things in that letter that need to be addressed tonight. You might get a bag packed while you're at it.

Happy Your Dad Once Kidnapped His Partner's Son Day!

The Way It Was Done In Your Day Day

The Way It Was Done In Your Day Day!

In your day, a man didn't leave his wife just because she drank too much and hit her son. In your day, a man took the son away and let the wife write to him until she was ready to prove that she could keep sober.

Your son wasn't born in your day. He's taking off tomorrow morning and he's gonna leave your grandson to die in that house with Joan. Talk to him, or else you'll find out you're your grandson's grandpa and legal guardian pretty soon, if he's lucky.

Happy The Way It Was Done In Your Day Day!

You Are On The Rag Day

You Are On The Rag Day!

Today, you got your period again. The 159th time in as many months. You're used to it by now, the discomfort, the mood swings, etc. But this time, you're being held captive by kidnappers.

"Hey!" you pound on the door. "Hey!"

The stringy-haired one pulls the door open a crack, points his gun at you.

"I got my period," you say.

His eyes blink fast, as if you had told him you just delivered a litter of puppies.

"Tampons," you say. "Or whatever."

He wants to ask if you're serious, but he holds his tongue. He must have a girlfriend.

"Fuck," he says. Then slams the door shut.

There are no tampons in the house. You're certain they didn't think this part through ahead of time. You hear loud talking coming through the floor above you. In an hour, the stringy-haired one will come back and hand you through the crack in the door a roll of paper towels.

Happy You Are On The Rag Day!

The Boys You Masturbate To Day

The Boys You Masturbate To Day!

Bad things are happening to the boys you masturbate to. Last night you masturbated to a narrative in which Lee, your brother's friend, slept over and the two of you bumped into each other in the middle of the night when you both walked to the bathroom without any clothes on. And just now, you're brother's going to call you and tell you that Lee was mugged on his way to work this morning. And yesterday your ex-boyfriend Mark had a car crash not six hours after you put yourself to sleep with a memory of him going down on you in the back of a cab. And let's not forget the morning after your co-worker Kyle appeared in a fantasy of yours. He woke up without any eyes.

Choose whom you masturbate to wisely. You have a tremendously evil power that feels so good.

Happy The Boys You Masturbate To Day!

Waiting For The Runaway Day

Waiting For The Runaway Day!

You've been awake for a full 60 hours now, and there's no sign that Dina might make it home. You're terrified of falling asleep. After 60 hours, the sleep that's gonna come might never let you wake up. It'll be a sleep that ends with everything different than what it was before you closed your eyes.

The dreams will be the worst. They'll blot out the reality of your daughter being gone. Transmogrify it into bleak fantasies of drowning in lakes or sprinting from killers chasing you in a well-maintained van. When you wake up, you'll enjoy a brief moment of relief that you're dry and you're not on a highway and you'll be glad to be there in your bed. And when your eyes stop blinking, you'll remember what kept you awake for so long. You'll fling yourself out of bed in a panic over what day it is. You'll run down stairs to see if there's been any word, and the heavy-lidded faces of your wife and your sister will greet you with sad smiles. They'll make room on the couch for you to come and sit between them. You'll be given the seat that's right in front of the telephone on the coffee table.

Stay awake a little longer if you can. Try to go for 72 hours. The longer you keep your eyes open, the longer you can delay having to wake up to this.

Happy Waiting For The Runaway Day!

Lord Of The Garanimals™ Day

Lord Of The Garanimals™ Day!

He who is declared Lord gets two desserts.

Most of your opponents presently muddy the dirt under your sneakers with their blood. It is now down to you and Matt Hohlfienz. Last summer, Matt Hohlfienz punched you in the eye and pulled down your swim trunks during a swimming lesson at the community Y. Everyone laughed. It's time to make Matt Hohlfienz scream like a dying animal.

Though Matt is much bigger than you, this is a fair matchup, as you're both 8. You wield a crossbow, Matt has a .22 handgun in the front pocket of his overalls. However, take intelligence into account and no one would bet against you. This is your game to win. You have slain all of the other neighborhood children, now you must slay Matt Hohlfienz.

And remember, if you lose, pray that Matt Hohlfienz does not spare your life. When your father entered you into competition, he made a vow that he would only allow the Lord of the Garanimals™ into his home. If you lose, he cannot recognize you as his son, cannot even tend to your wounds. You will be forced to find your own way in life. Most leave town immediately, even if they plan only to die, they do it out of sight.

And remember, Garanimals™ is the rugged kids brand of clothing that makes every kid feel like a blood-thirsty predator with big teeth and big claws and a very brief lifespan.

Happy Lord Of The Garanimals™ Day!

No More Enemas Day

No More Enemas Day!

Your girlfriend broke up with you because she's sick of giving you enemas.

"At first I thought it was kind of a fun change to be with a guy who liked getting enemas so much," your girlfriend was quoted in an interview with USA Today. "But sometimes I just want to fuck straight and smooth, like there wasn't ever no other way to get it done."

But all you wanted was enemas.

In a conversation you were having with an unknown person in the room with you while you were on hold with Rebate Services LLC, a tele-services contractor that records phone calls for quality control purposes, you were quoted as saying, "Goodbye enemas I guess. Maybe I'll place a personal ad."

An online personal ad found on Nerve.com's personals browser included the phrase, "Enemas are sexy. Like seventeen enemas a day is sexier." Was that your ad? If not, it should have been because it is very clever.

Happy No More Enemas Day!

Hey Illegal Abortionist! You Should Burn The Evidence Of Your Abortions Day

Hey Illegal Abortionist! You Should Burn The Evidence Of Your Abortions Day!

Abortionist, if word ever got out about the abortions you perform, you would be thrown in jail or perhaps murdered by a gun freak who's convinced he is in an army and Jesus is his general. So after every abortion you perform, why not burn all the evidence? The bloody sheets, the bloody rags, the bloody strips of torn up shirts that you used when you ran out of pieces of cloth to sop up all the blood, the bloody housepets, the neighbor children who hang around near the abortions and get covered in blood, the several buckets of blood. Throw it all in the fireplace and at the end of the day it'll be like nothing Godless ever even happened in your kitchen. Don't forget to burn down your own conscience and God's memory, since he saw it all.

Happy Hey Illegal Abortionist! You Should Burn The Evidence Of Your Abortions Day!

Underneath Some Stairs And 40 Minutes To Paris Day!

Underneath Some Stairs And 40 Minutes To Paris Day!

You're underneath some stairs on the ferry between London and Paris. You had some seats in a passenger cabin, but the British couple sharing your row were giving you dirty looks and your girlfriend's chest grew tight again.

Yesterday - or two days ago, it's hard to figure it out - one of her panic attacks sent the two of you to an emergency room in London (free healthcare!) where your girlfriend told the nurse on duty the shortness of breath started in the middle of a fight between the two of you. So the nurse on duty asked what you had said. You didn't tell the nurse on duty.

After 4 hours of sleep in the West End hotel, you convinced your girlfriend that getting out of London and continuing on across Europe with all that eurail pass bullshit would be just the thing to keep her mind from tricking her into thinking she's about to die of a heart attack.

Her breathing grew short again at the train station, before you were even on your way to the ferry. You used a credit card to call your Mom and warn her you might be coming back sooner than you thought. Your Mom did not suggest that you leave your girlfriend on the floor of the train station where she was presently panting. She did not suggest that you throw her plane ticket and a pile of Euros at her and just book. Had she suggested that, who knows what might have happened? But she didn't suggest any such thing.

The ferry left at 11 PM, and you've spent the last five hours trying to stay still, standing or sitting, just stay still long enough to pass out. Finally, you're there underneath some stairs spread out on your spot of boat. There are forty minutes left before you step on France. You're gonna fall asleep in a minute. When you wake up in 35 minutes you'll feel so tired that you're going to cry a lot.

Happy Underneath Some Stairs And 40 Minutes To Paris Day!

Your Dad's In Jail Day

Your Dad's In Jail Day!

Your Dad's in jail. He was fighting with your Mom and the neighbors called the police. Now everyone in the neighborhood is staring at you. The other kids ride their bikes in a circle around you chanting things like, "Your Dad's in jai-ail! He's never gonna come home agai-ain! You'll have to talk to him through plexiglass on Christ-maaas! He'll have to kill a guy on his first day in order to show everyone how hard heeee iiiis! Or else he'll have to make love to me-en! I bet he has a black ey-eye! He's probably being initiated into a gang unified by either race, ancestry, bigotry or religious belie-eeefs!"

Open up a lemonade stand to raise money for your Dad's bail. The kids on bikes might ride around past all day long taunting you. But all the adults who heard your dad screaming and cursing while he was being taken away last night will think it's really sweet that you're working hard to raise money for his bail, and they'll all come and buy lemonade from you just because you're being adorable.

When you get home with all the money you made, you'll run through the door shouting about it to your mom, but your dad will be there sitting on the couch cuddling with her. They'll thank you for going to all that effort, and then they'll explain to you what a bail-bondsman is.

Happy Your Dad's In Jail Day!

You Run A Stupid Coffee Shop Day

You Run A Stupid Coffee Shop Day!

It was always your dream to have your own coffee shop. Well now you have it, and after a year and a half of operation, it's apparent that your coffee shop sucks. The chairs are uncomfortable, the tables are just an inch too high or too low, the "local art" on the wall is not only dull and unskilled, it also manages to irritate people.

note on the local art and how it can irritate: all of the paintings depict idyllic landscapes with US planes flying overhead dropping bombs marked with dollar signs. Looking at these paintings is like reading a paranoid International Socialist Organization pamphlet with all of its typos and grammatical errors

Additionally, your scrabble box is missing tiles. The shop will be shuttered within another 18 months, which will be sad. Far sadder than that, you're about to ruin your marriage by making a pass at your 19 year old counter-girl. You'll do it at 8:00 tonight, when the door is locked and the two of you are finished cleaning up (you close at 7:30 on a Friday? What the fuck?!) Anyway, she's small with ratty burgundy hair and a really pleasant face. And she wears tops that make plaintive presentation of her breasts, a choice you assume is intended for your appreciation and not for the 25 and 35 cent gratuities she's trying to lure into the plastic dish on the counter. Your wife is big and plain. Your counter girl is the kind of girl you always wished you could have dated when you were in your twenties (small, not plain). You're now 36, still not too far away from your twenties, you coach yourself.

So tonight at around 8:00 she'll tell you everything's pretty much taken care of and you'll lunge in and slosh the wet crumbs of the bagel you recently ate into her mouth, and her scream will be muffled by your face. She'll wriggle away and quit. You'll say you're sorry, that you're confused and the shop isn't doing that well. The both of you will look out the storefront window to find your wife watching from the car (she picks you up every night. Why'd you do this when you knew she'd be outside waiting?) Your countergirl will grab her bag and take off out the door, making a hard turn to avoid your wife's eyes. You'll shout at your countergirl's back that her job's still there for her if she wants it and that your son is being held back and it's frightening.

Finally, you'll turn off all the lights, lock the door to the coffee shop, and then climb into the passenger seat of your car beside your wife. She'll cry on the drive home.

Happy You Run A Stupid Coffee Shop Day!

Your Ancestry, Back In The Gold Rush Day

Your Ancestry, Back In The Gold Rush Day!

The only reason you're alive today is because your great great great great grandmother Ginny Rae Kale was a whore. She lived in the long-forgotten town of Riverbed, California. Ginny Rae Kale was one of the thousands of folks who kept going west until they dropped, and where they dropped was home. Civilization sprang up in those days because people had to stop moving to keep their children alive.

Riverbed, California, it turned out, had quite a generous reserve of gold just underneath the dust. Just about everyone who settled there dug up enough riches to set them up for life. A few left town, but most stayed, trying to build on their fortunes. It didn't take long for word to spread about Riverbed. And it didn't take long for desperate crews of gold chasers to come into town and kill everyone in sight.

In those days, once most of the gold had been dug out of America, the people who'd already made it rich were growing poor again. When they got their first rocks, they opened for business, hiring a team of diggers thinking they'd just become a precious metals empire. Of course, they often found out a little too late that gold likes to gather in small crowds, and by the time they set to hunting down new mines to dig in, they'd already spent the majority of their fortunes. Faced with ruin, many took to stealing from others who'd struck gold.

Riverbed was raided ten times over while Ginny Rae Kale lived there. Crews would come in on horseback and shoot their way to the rightful ownership of every last chunk of gold hidden at the bottom of every mother's pillowcase. The crews shot first, hunted for the secreted gold second. But when they saw Ginny Rae Kale, they put their guns down and forced themselves upon her. After the first or second raid, she stopped resisting and started introducing herself as the town whore. A whore doesn't get raped, she gets paid. And no one would dare shoot the only whore in town, especially a whore with eyes like Ginny Rae Kale had. She was considered just as valuable a resource as the shiny rock buried underneath the soil.

The gold that had been dug up from the town must have changed hands ten times with the raids. A crew would come in, kill, and then settle to digging for all that nothing that was left over. Then the next crew would shoot down the last and pull up stakes. Ginny birthed six children, all of whom left her behind once they were old enough to split. Those six babies begat your family line, spreading your lineage through Oregon, into Georgia, and up into Pennsylvania.

Your heritage is traced back to the bed of a whore. Explains a lot.

Happy Your Ancestry, Back In The Gold Rush Day!

Lure Them With A Bowl Of Greek Olives Day

Lure Them With A Bowl Of Greek Olives Day!

If you use the same bowl that you used for the Hershey Kisses, make sure you wash it thoroughly. You don't want your co-workers to bite into a Greek Olive and say, "This tastes like yesterday's Hershey's Kisses. What the fuck, Saperstein?"

You want them to say, "Olives? Hot shit!" And then they'll plant themselves there by your cube, sucking olive meat from those beautiful stones and telling you stories that end with lines like, "I never did make it Constantinople that Summer, and I've regretted it with every breath I've taken since," or stories that begin with lines like, "Buckle up, Dicksnot." You want the salt of your coworkers tears to mix with the sweat on the skin of those Olives. What you want, what you really want, is to know these people who surround you every day.

To finally know them. Jelly beans tomorrow. Go shopping.

Happy Lure Them With A Bowl Of Greek Olives Day!

Park By The River And Tell Him You're Bored Day

Park By The River And Tell Him You're Bored Day!

He's gonna lean over to get some, so you'd better not wait too long before you tell him that you're sick of his face.

"But we're parked at the river," he'll say. "This is where we go to do it."

Explain to him that you took him to the river on purpose. "I wanted the river back," say.

Tell him how, over the years, the river has lent itself for a backdrop to all those moments you figured you'd want to remember one day. How there's so little going on in your shithole corner of the country that you had to go down to the river if you wanted anything important in your life to happen outside of a Quiznos.

"So I took you here for us to do it," say. "But I also came down here the morning after my Dad died. And whenever I get an important package or letter via the mail, I come down here to open it."

He'll say that he's glad you at least thought he would be something you'd want to remember. Don't tell him you were wrong.

"See, I can't let you and I having done it here by the river be the last thing that happened down here. I need my river back, so I had to break your heart here too."

He'll nod. "So you're canceling me out," he'll say.

"No," say. "You and me doing it here will always be here. The river saw it. Just as the river is watching me say goodbye to you. Now the next time I come down here, the river won't have to ask me, Hey, where's your boy?"

"Does the river ever tell you to do stuff?" he'll ask.

Just look straight ahead, look at the river. Contemplate its strength and its persistence.

"Is the river telling you to do something right now?" he'll ask.

Say, "You should go now."

He'll hold your eyes with his.

Scream, "Go!"

Pray that he gets out of the car in time.

Happy Park By The River And Tell Him You're Bored Day!

You Lost Your Virginity To The Tune Of Metallica's "Ride The Lightning" Day

You Lost Your Virginity To The Tune Of Metallica's "Ride The Lightning" Day!

Listen to yourself for God's sake. Talking about "perfect moments" and "a love so strong you just know." When you lost it there was a muddy puddle of beer seeping through the back of your winter coat, which, to complete that "right moment," was still on and half zipped. Joe Pownell took you on the grass of a raided kegger not three feet away from a barbed wire fence with "Ride The Lightning" blasting from Jeff Conway's (sitting fifteen feet away) boom box, and you're going to tell your daughter to be that long-rumoured "ONE" who'll manage to lose it when the moment is right? Buy her some birth control, tell her not to be stupid, and go upstairs to your Netflix.

Additionally, you never had sex again in high school, but you were a whore in college.

Happy You Lost Your Virginity To The Tune Of Metallica's "Ride The Lightning" Day!

Raid On The Cult Compound Day

Raid On The Cult Compound Day!

The ATF is going to raid your compound at 5 PM today. You have to convince your followers to kill themselves before then. Trouble is, while you had planned for them all to kill themselves from the get-go, you expected to have a few more years of brainwashing to convince them that mass suicide was the only way to go. Right now they're all with you in the whole "defend the compound" scenario. But to walk in and say, "I know what, let's all off ourselves," it would really be coming out of left field.

You could try to just rattle of a litany of really depressing stuff and see if that works. Show them a slide-show maybe of puppies being punched in the face or an "According To Jim" marathon. Or how about this? As the leader of the cult, all of your followers wanna marry you, correct? So why not write each of them a "Sorry, I've just always seen you as a friend" letter? Nothing makes people commit suicide like unrequited love.

If it gets to around 4:30 though, you're going to have to kill them all and make it look like a mass suicide instead of a mass murder. Best way to do this is if you slit all of their wrists and forge "goodbye cruel world" notes in each person's handwriting. Not feeling so great now, are you Oh Great One?

Happy Raid On The Cult Compound Day!

Here Comes Trouble Day

Here Comes Trouble Day!

Your son started another fight. His third at this fancy new middle school.

"I thought you people were supposed to be good at dealing with troubled youths," you shout at the principal through the receiver.

"We do what we can with what we're given," her words are very clipped. "And what we're given is designed in the home. How's the home going?"

His Dad's gone and sometimes calls and says he might come back, which is less an empty promise and more an empty threat. "My son hates me. So what? Fix him."

He hates you only because you've decided to let his Dad's absence be replaced with silence. He hates you because you assumed he would and, as far as he can tell, you were fine with that.

"When he takes a swing at a classmate," the principal asked, "who's he really wanna hit?"

I think he wants to drive his arm straight through my belly. You think it but don't say it. "I don't know lady. You perhaps? The more we talk, the more understandable that seems."

She breathes for ten seconds. Then, "If you're not going to work with us, I'm afraid…"

Say, "He won't be back Monday."

She'll say, "I'm afraid that will be best."

With no schools left that will take him, and no money to pay his tuition even if they could, you hang up the phone with the rest of the day ahead of you to try not to think about it.

Happy Here Comes Trouble Day!

Your Date Doctor Is A Quack Day

Your Date Doctor Is A Quack Day!

You misspoke when you said that your date's dress made her look thinner than usual, yes. Your instinct was to laugh at yourself and point out that you're very nervous and are therefore talking like a bit of an idiot. Your Date Doctor suggested a different approach.

"Give her a tickle torture!" he shouted.

So you leapt across the table and dug your wiggling fingertips into her sides. She begged you to stop in between bursts of frantic giggling. When you finally relented, she maced you and ran.

On another date chaperoned by the Date Doctor, you were glad to have him there because your date started choking on a big piece of steak and your Date Doctor administered the heimlich, which was cool. But then he told you to make her feel better by giving her thirty dollars. She maced you and ran.

Last week, you actually got lucky and your date invited you upstairs to fuck. Your Date Doctor insisted that he come along.

"You'll never be able to pull this off without me. You're nothing. You're worthless. I'm your only hope," was his argument. "You're disgusting and you smell bad," were two additional points to his argument.

You couldn't help but agree, so you asked your date if your Date Doctor could come up with you.

"Whatever it takes," she said. "I need it bad."

Upstairs, the sex was going pretty well for a first night. You stayed on top, occasionally holding your date's arms down on the pillows behind her head. About midway through, your Date Doctor pulled you up from the bed in a full-nelson and whispered in your ear, "Keep going."

You were still inside your date, being held aloft with your arms pinned up in the air by your Date Doctor's elbows. You looked down at your date, and she shrugged as if to say, "It's worth a shot.:

So you continued to thrust with your body bent backwards and held captive by your Date Doctor, who stood at the foot of the bed. Things escalated for another couple of minutes until you and your date shared one of the most powerful orgasms either of you could remember.

"Pretty sweet, right?" asked your Date Doctor.

"I have to admit, that ruled," your date said.

"That was almost as good an orgasm as the ones I used to have with my most recent ex-girlfriend," you said.

This upset your date, so your Date Doctor suggested that you write the words I'm sorry on her bedroom window with the semen you collected in your condom. She maced you and ran. But since you were in her place, she could only run into the bathroom. Once you regained your eyesight, you and your Date Doctor went out and got drunk.

Happy Your Date Doctor Is A Quack Day!

Worst. Kitten Funeral. Ever. Day

Worst. Kitten Funeral. Ever. Day!

You've shown ineptitude in the past, but today you've outdone yourself. It was supposed to be a solemn, respectful occasion, something brief, during which we could quietly turn our thoughts to those two out of seven kittens who were crushed underneath boxes of China when the movers got impatient and decided not to look where they were tossing your valuables. Just something to make the kids feel better about it all. But against your wife's wishes, you said, "I'll take care of everything."

Just a brief eulogy would have been fine. "Sorry we never got to know you," and the like. But no, you had to bring the neighbor's aged cat, Morpheus, up to the lectern (where'd you get a lectern?) with you, and you just had pretend that Morpheus was the kittens' mother, throwing your arms around Morpheus' neck and screaming about vengeance for her lost brethren. That was all very cute. Not so cute? Jumping on the kittens' shoebox coffin. When you got back up, the kids could see the shoebox had been crushed, and they were terrified by what they could only imagine was inside that box. Yes, it was very classy of you to hire David Sanborn to play taps when the box was being lowered into the grave. Not so classy: Repeating over and over to the kids that he was charging you $7,000 for the half hour.

It's just a good thing that it's over with. But no one thinks it's cute that you're spending the night outside praying over their grave. Come to bed, asshole.

Happy Worst. Kitten Funeral. Ever. Day!

Nearing The Conclusion Of Blind Man's Bluff Day!

Nearing The Conclusion Of Blind Man's Bluff Day!

You've lost a lot of blood. There are at least three opponents out there who are still alive and waiting for you to come stumbling out in your private darkness so that they can pummel you into nothing with bats and razor sharp garden saws. Your advantage: There will be no stumbling.

"You got no chance boys!" shout at them. "I've spent the last year with a rag over my eyes every hour of every day. I took it off only to attend my brother's second wedding in July. And I can tell you from here, I know where every pebble in this lawn is placed, where every bump in the soil will rise up to try and stub my toes, and where each one of you is hidden, panting out a whispered prayer to get just one shot in, before I open up your skulls and send you off to meet your teammates in the next world. You got ten seconds to run."

They won't buy it. They won't run. You're going to have to move on to plan b (stumble upon their hiding places completely by chance and then carve into their bellies with the jagged edge of a sawed off wiffle ball bat).

Happy Nearing The Conclusion Of Blind Man's Bluff Day!

Things Don't Turn Out The Way They Were Supposed To Day

Things Don't Turn Out The Way They Were Supposed To Day!

Call in sick to your temp agency and get on a train to your childhood home. Stake it out for a little while, to make sure the current occupants have all left the premises for the day. Once the coast is clear, sprint across the lawn and hop the fence to the back yard.

They chopped down the rose bushes, but the grass where they used to stand doesn't match. Dig there. You remember it being at least six feet under the surface, but you actually never managed to get deeper than a foot and a half.

Slap. You hit the shoebox.

The scotch tape you sealed it with when you were ten just slips off of the cardboard. Inside, the box has become a home to potato bugs and a bunch of larvae of some kind. You fish the piece of paper out from underneath all of the creatures.

Shake the piece of paper out over the grass and unfold it carefully. It still rips at the creases. Lay it down on the ground. It says at the top, "Here's how things are gonna turn out." Underneath that is a crayon drawing of you getting out of a limousine holding money in your fists with lots of people cheering.

"Oh yeah," you think. "That's how things were supposed to turn out."

Take a piss on the drawing, then replace the dirt in the lawn so it looks like you were never there. Now pick up the piss-drenched drawing and box (be careful, they're covered in piss) and toss them in the plastic bag in the back seat of your rental car, making a point to toss them in the trash later. Get back home early enough to lay claim to the TV for the night before your roommate does.

Happy Things Don't Turn Out The Way They Were Supposed To Day!

Big Wheel Near The Train Tracks Day

Big Wheel Near The Train Tracks Day!

Child, have you outgrown your Big Wheel? If so, take care in how you discard it. You can do one of three things:

1. Melt it. Use your Dad's barbecue lighter. And if you're a poorly supervised latchkey kind of kid whose parents are divorcing, take a can of hairspray to the lighter to make a blow torch. Melting your Big Wheel will prohibit anyone from ever enjoying it again and you'll get to see and smell burning plastic. If you already have a sense of mortality, you can connect the sight of the melting Big Wheel to your own passage into pubescence and, ultimately, your next steps towards an inevitable death.

2. Give it to a neighboring poor child. The kid with smudges of soot all over his face who wears dress shoes at all times, even on the playground, because they are the only shoes he has. That kid's parents will never be able to afford a Big Wheel for him because their minds were ruined long ago by inhalants. You'll make one little kid feel very happy if this is the way you decide to go.

3. Toss it into the hill of garbage leading up away from the train tracks. Every day thousands of commuters pass along those tracks on their way to work and back to home and every day they gaze blankly at that hill of garbage trying to quell any metaphors that might spring up in their minds. When they spot the perfectly nice Big Wheel discarded amongst so many rusted shopping carts and hack-sawed pickle barrels, it will be too much for them to handle. Their heads will be clouded with thoughts of death, impoverished children, children being molested in industrial landscapes, tubercular mothers, and fathers who drink and hit. They will remember all the bad there is in the world and they'll give a silent prayer of thanks that they and their families have been fortunate thus far. And they'll pray that nothing comes to pass that would leave them subject to the sort of poetic fate that calls to mind a child's toy gleaming from the tangles of a trash heap. You'll make a thousand adults feel helpless to the whims of a miserable Lord if this is the way you decide to go.

Happy Big Wheel Near The Train Tracks Day!

Firestorm Day

Firestorm Day!

It's your wedding day, yes, but your job is to put out forest fires and wedding or no wedding, you're gonna go drop water out of a plane.

Your bride wants you to stay. "Don't go," she says. "You'll die and we won't even be married yet."

Tell her that you have no choice.

"Why on Earth did you ever take such an insane job anyway?" she asks. "It's not like it's even all that brave. You're just dropping water out of planes."

"It is brave."

"No it's not," she says. "You don't have to get that close to the fire when you drop the water. Aside from being able to watch shit burn from up high, the job really sounds kind of boring."

"Fuck you," tell her.

"No, seriously," she won't let it go. "Doesn't it start to feel really routine, just flying over a lake and collecting the water, then flying over the forest and dropping the water, then flying over the lake and collecting the water again? I'm bored just thinking about it."

"Why are you marrying me if you think I'm so boring?" ask her.

"Because you're hot," she says. "And anyway, I'm probably not marrying you since you're rushing off from our wedding to fly over a forest fire and die. And I never said you were boring. I said your job sucks."

Say, "Wait, if you think I'm going to die out there, how can my job be boring? It would have to be pretty dangerous if I could die, right?"

"You can die washing dishes in a restaurant if you slip in the right puddle," she says. "You'll fuck up is all. Do something stupid probably."

Say, "Jesus."

"Stay. Marry me."

Tell her you have to go because even though your dad died twenty years ago you're still trying to prove something to him.

Happy Firestorm Day!

Michigan's Gone Day

Michigan's Gone Day!

Your brother Michigan is dead. He died with you standing by his deathbed. Your name's Matinee.

"Matinee," he said. "Come closer."

You leaned in.

"Dad's alive."

You asked how he knew and Michigan turned so livid you thought he might not be as sick as the doctors said. "Because he brought me up there to where he's living. He's rich, Matinee. He's got a family."

Your father disappeared after your mother died. You were sixteen, and you were left to raise Michigan, two years younger, until he turned 18 and left you in kind. He came back a month ago to die where he grew up. One of his nurses went to high school with you and contacted you is how you found out where he was.

"Where?"

Michigan's face went gray again. "It's always been about him running off," he said. "He's in Middlecrest. I went there. Before I checked into the hospital."

Your father has been living 20 minutes away from you by car.

"For how long?"

A rumble of coughing. Michigan was starting to go. "The whole time," he sputtered out. The spit on his chin was black. "It just didn't occur to me to call you. I—"

"Michigan," you said. "Stop apologizing. I stayed away from you too. I knew you were in New York and I kept quiet."

He took one last clean breath. "He's got a daughter Matinee. She's older than me."

Daddy had another family. "He's got a wife up there?"

Michigan nodded and died. All that meant was he couldn't answer the several hundred questions you were waiting to ask. You declared Michigan dead back when you were 20 years old and left to live your own life finally. And now, all you can think was that your Daddy had another Mommy stashed away someplace, when you and your brother could have used one, and he kept her all to himself.

Stick around until the nurses pull his eyelids down shut, then drive up the hill to Middlecrest.

Happy Michigan's Gone Day!

Buried Treasure Day

Buried Treasure Day!

Today, after you make certain choices that I'm not really gonna go into here, you'll find a treasure chest containing several billion dollars in ancient jewels. Your husband and son will immediately knock you unconscious and throw you in the trunk of your Honda. When you come to in the trunk of the moving car, you'll retrace the steps you took through out the day. And again, I really can't dwell on all that here in any great detail. But once those steps have been retraced you'll see the big picture, which is that, as far back as the day you met, your husband knew you were be the only person on Earth capable of locating that treasure chest. And he impregnated you with your son because he needed an accomplice who would be tied to him with bonds as thick as blood. Your entire marriage, even your motherhood, was a con. And now you're in the trunk of your Honda next to a chest full of some dead king's gold. You might wanna dig through that chest and see if the king was into collecting any particularly sharp be-jeweled daggers before the Honda pulls to a stop.

Happy Buried Treasure Day!

Blue In The Face Day

Blue In The Face Day!

"She breathed in the gas from her oven until she was blue in the face."

All of the uniform cops stopped what they were doing and looked at Detective Pinsky.

"Why'd you say that Kip?" Pinsky's partner, Detective Karr, asked.

"Just tryin' to make a joke I guess. Like when you do something until you're blue in the face. Screaming or talking. You know?"

"Yeah, I know," Detective Karr said. "But it wasn't funny."

The uniform cops went back to what they were doing.

"I was just…"

"Lady just killed herself. No one's looking for somebody to crack wise with a joke about it," Karr said. "Especially not one of your jokes."

Pinsky crouched down and peeked into the oven. Without looking up at Karr he muttered, "Sorry."

Karr just continued writing in his notebook. Pinsky stood up and looked around the kitchen. He looked like somebody who was considering signing a lease on the place. Then he said, "Jesus, I'm sorry."

"Forget it," Karr said. He and the other cops left Pinsky there in the kitchen, where he stayed until the coroner came for the body. He followed the body bag out to the stoop, and then he sat there on the top step until Karr told him it was time for them to go home.

Happy Blue In The Face Day!

You Live Near A Landfill Day

You Live Near A Landfill Day!

It's trash from a city about 300 miles away. Since you don't have to work after having defrauded the government out of disability payments, today you're gonna take a few bags of that trash and throw it into your hatchback. Drive that steaming trash on up to the city from whence it came. The first couple you see on the street, wave them down. They'll think you just want directions, so you're gonna have to move fast. Hop out of the car, pull the bags out of the hatchback and drop the trash bags at their feet screaming "Pigs! Look at this! What's wrong with you?!" Next, find a place to park your car for the day and take in a show.

Happy You Live Near A Landfill Day!

Model Train Enthusiast Day

Model Train Enthusiast Day!

Today, you'll bury Meredith, your kitten. Meredith jumped in front of a model train.

She started chasing after it as it rolled along the track. And since you were trying out a new connector that you hadn't even fully soldered yet, various spots on the track had an open current. Meredith went for the engine head-on. The current held her paw to the track and baked her into a twitching mess. The Engine crashed into her forehead and tumbled to its side.

It was then that you learned just where your enthusiasm had taken you. When you saw Meredith catch the current and stop still, you knew she would die there. And all you could consider was the safety of your Engine. Even now, as you realign the wheels and trucks and paint over where the current turned the paint black, you curse that kitten under your breath. You've decided that you'll not try to extend your love to another living thing again. A kitten can now die in your presence and you'll feel nothing for it.

The Trains have taken you.

Happy Model Train Enthusiast Day!

You Made A Move On Your Writing Teacher Day

You Made A Move On Your Writing Teacher Day!

He stopped you on your way out of class. He said, "Walk with me."

You walked him to his car, determined to get inside it. While walking, he said, "Your last story really showed me something new."

At the car, you said, "There's something else I'd like to show you."

"Please don't."

"We both know it's inevitable."

"I'm your teacher."

"And I am your student. Teach me what you know. It's your duty."

"I have a family." He held up a picture of him and his wife and daughters on an amusement park ride. You ripped the picture from his fingertips and tore it in two before throwing it to the ground, grinding it into the concrete and spitting on it. Then you put his hand down your pants.

"Oh God," he said.

"Yeeeeaah," you growled into his ear. "That's what I wanna hear. I wanna hear you scream that shit."

"Hi Dr. Gaines," someone yelled at him. He threw you into the car.

"No one can see us," he said.

You took off your top and undid his pants. "Take us someplace fast. I'm not going to wait."

You fellated him while he sped through town. Your head was down, but at every stop light you could hear the sound of dozens of students crossing the street in front of the car's bumper. When the car stopped, he kept both hands on the wheel. When it moved again, you felt his right hand on your bare back and on your ass underneath your pants.

"Hurry up!" you barked at him. Then you went back to it.

He pulled up to a motel. "Lemme just check in," he said.

You waited. You waited a while. You got angry.

Finally, you saw the door to the office open again. But the man who approached the car wasn't your professor.

"Roll down the window ma'am," the motel manager knocked on the glass. You obeyed.

"That man who came into my office over there, it looks like you scared him something awful," the motel manager said.

"Where is he?"

"He asked me to give you a message. He said he can't go through with it. He asked that you just go home on your own."

You pulled yourself out of the car and marched to the office. The manager shouted at your back. "Now you won't find him in there ma'am. I put him up in one of my rooms and I won't be telling you which one it is I'm afraid."

You stopped and wheeled around to the manager. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I'm a man who values the meaning of family," he said. "And I won't let you take this fella's family down."

The rage was boiling inside you now. "Know what!" You shouted at the motel rooms. "Your car's out here! You're gonna have to come out and get it eventually teacher. And I'll be waiting! Cause you're gonna finish what you started teacher! I'll be waiting right here."

"Now ma'am, if you don't start walking I'm gonna have to call the police," the manager said.

"Oh I'm sure he'd love for that to happen. Go ahead and ask him if he's okay with that before you make the call."

No police ever showed. You've been up all night, shivering cold on the hood of his car. You wonder if he snuck out the back and walked home, but it doesn't really matter. There are papers in his backseat that he needs to grade. He'll come for them eventually. And you'll be waiting.

Happy You Made A Move On Your Writing Teacher Day!

Fire In The Reality Show House Day

Fire In The Reality Show House Day!

Marcus the sexist bodybuilder started it with all those candles he lights in his room every time he brings a waitress home with him. He and the waitress fell asleep. The waitress got out, but Marcus is still in there as the firemen continue to drench the flames from the street. All of America watches.

Still in the house: Nina, the touring acrobat; Bex, the raging alcoholic who gets naked every chance she gets; Kevin, the cartoonist; Freakwide, the rapper; and Lucien, the guy with the prosthetic leg who wants to open his own bar.

On the sidewalk, huddling under flame-retardant blankets: Maxine, the illustrator; Beebo, the pastry chef; that fashion designer chick who broke up with her boyfriend on camera; and Boris, the investment banker.

America thinks Maxine is full of shit, screaming and sobbing about how her roommate Bex is still stuck in there when just last week Maxine confessed in the Gripe Closet that Bex was driving her out of her mind and that she was arranging an alliance with Boris to get her booted. And of course Beebo is the one to wrap his arms around her to calm her down. Beebo's been shot down by every chick in the house, and now that most all of them are in the house being burnt to a crisp, he has no choice but to take a crack at Maxine. Meanwhile, Boris made a cell phone call explaining to someone that his laptop got stuck in the fire and he'd need a new one in the morning. Unfortunate that the camera caught that call. The fashion designer chick is being really helpful, running to get water and blankets for the people evacuated from the neighboring house. She's really showing some leadership skills that, under normal circumstances, would have totally earned her immunity from next week's elimination.

What America wants to know but is too ashamed to ask is this: If most of the residents of the house burn to death, does the show continue on with those remaining alive? It would be pretty anti-climactic to go from twelve contestants to just four or five in a week's time, and it would be hard to pit them against each other in a Creativity Challenge without allowing them enough time to mourn for those who perished. But someone has to win that fleet of Mini-Coopers.

Happy Fire In The Reality Show House Day!

Mary Gorgonzola Day

Mary Gorgonzola Day!

She died thirty-six years ago today. And thirty-six years ago today, her dream came true.

Mary Gorgonzola believed that everyone in the town of Midvale should have a statue of some kittens playing on their front lawns. When people asked her if the statues could perhaps be in their backyards, Mary Gorgonzola would pitch a shitfit and accuse those people of owning pornography. Other citizens would ask how big the statues should be, and how many kittens should the statues depict at play? May Gorgonzola would respond, first, by suggesting that those people are from Mexico, then she'd say the statues had to have six kittens, and they had to be six feet tall and four feet wide, and they had to include a rabbit watching from off to the side. Also, the statues had to be day-glo. Mary Gorgonzola warned that if the town's children knew that the town had considered this proposal and rejected it, the children would never forgive them.

The town of Midvale told Mary Gorgonzola to go to hell so she killed herself, but not before she sent letters to all of the town's children explaining what their parents had done. The children confronted their parents with the letters, asking for an explanation. The parents did not want to lose the love of their children, so they all commissioned the local house full of unmarried artistic women to design and produce the sculptures. For thirty years now, Mary Gorgonzola's legacy has adorned the front lawns of Midvale. And the fate of all of Midvale has been determined by the whims of that house full of unmarried artistic women, since they became very rich after their kitten lawn sculpture design business took off like a jet plane.

Raise your glasses for Mary Gorgonzola today. She was weird.

Happy Mary Gorgonzola Day!

Church Girl Day

Church Girl Day!

You're a church girl, which is to say, you don't screw and everyone resents you for it because you're fine. The other kids paint graffiti all over your locker that says "She thinks her insides are so great that she won't let anyone see or thrust into them," but not in so many words. This bugs you. You want to be liked and you wish there was a way for people to get to know you so that they could see what a great person you are.

There is a way. Have intercourse with a boy tonight and make sure everyone finds out about it. Who you have intercourse with doesn't matter much. You don't have to worry about having sex with the wrong guy since everyone will be too blown away that you did the bangbang at all (in the future, "right guy" and "wrong guy" will become very important when considering public perception). Tonight it just matters that everyone finds out all about it by the end of the weekend. No one will hate you anymore on Monday. In fact, they'll like you so much that they'll all try to have sex with you, which after all is the most anyone can ever like anyone.

Don't cry till it's almost over.

Happy Church Girl Day!

Take The Gun Out Of My Mouth And I'll Tell You Day

Take The Gun Out Of My Mouth And I'll Tell You Day!

It's not safe to have a gun in your mouth. It could go off, and kill you. Also, guns are notoriously dirty. They're often kept inside people's pants, pressed up against the bare pelvis held tight underneath the belted waistline. Sure, she's your girlfriend of two years and you're more than happy to ingest whatever might be smeared all over her pelvis. But you don't know where she got that gun. It's doubtful that she bought it brand new. More likely, she bought it from a gun show or Craig's List. Who knows the state of the pants that gun has lived inside. And now it's in your mouth.

"I don't know how to work this thing," she says. Bringing you back to the "gun could go off and blow your head open" thesis. Considering all the filth that's probably living inside your mouth right now, getting your head blown off doesn't sound like such a bad idea. But there's something you can do to avoid getting your head blown off and to get that filthy gun out of your mouth. You can tell her what she wants to know.

"Grrllllargh," you say.

"You ready to talk?" she asks.

"Khhhlaaaersshhhccch," you say.

"If I pull this gun out of your mouth and you don't tell me what I wanna hear, I'm gonna shove it back in for the last time. Understand? Bye bye brains," she says.

"Haaahgglllh," you say.

She considers your eyes. And with a swift jerk of her shoulder she yanks the gun past your teeth and holds it an inch from your chin. You pant fresh air into your lungs and spit saliva to your chin.

"Make me happy," she says.

"Kim," you say. "I think you're so great that you should look for work as an angel because that's what you look like."

The furrow in her brow goes flat. She looks down at the gun, then looks into your eyes.

"Okay," she says. "Now do you know how to get the hammer to go back into the gun without shooting any bullets?"

"Lemme see," you hold out your hand for her to give you the gun.

"No funny business," she says.

She hands you the gun, and you shove it in her mouth and demand to know who's the squeeziest pleasiest boyfriend she ever had.

Happy Take The Gun Out Of My Mouth And I'll Tell You Day!

A Famous Tapdancer Day

A Famous Tapdancer Day!

"Not Gregory Hines!" they shout.

You hate this game. You don't know any fucking famous tapdancers, yet if you don't think of one fast you're going to let your whole team down.

"Running out of time," the dick with the hourglass shouts.

"Fuck you."

No one says anything. You try to laugh it off, then you remember that your wife is the only one in the room who met you before tonight.

"Honey," your wife says.

"Fuck you too," you say. "This party sucks. This party game sucks harder."

Leave.

Happy A Famous Tapdancer Day!

Teach Your Son A Trick Day

Teach Your Son A Trick Day!

Hold the lighter up in front of the hairspray nozzle. Ignite the lighter, then press down on the nozzle to send the spray to the flame. Let the firestream blow for just a few seconds.

Say, "And that's how you make a Hairspray Fireball. Now you try it."

Your son's hands are too small to hold the hairspray can and press the nozzle in one hand, so let him just hold the can and ignite the lighter and you can press down on the nozzle for him.

"Remember," say, "If you let the firestream blow for too long, the flame could crawl up the stream into your hairspray can and blow it up in your hand like a big tin bomb."

Your son will say, "Sometimes I really wish Mommy were still around."

Say, "I don't."

Happy Teach Your Son A Trick Day!

Wafer Thin Excuses Day

Wafer Thin Excuses Day!

Your wife says she got caught in the middle of a liquor store holdup and that's why she couldn't make it home in time for your birthday party.

"Should I explain this to all of my coworkers? My boss? My parents? That you got caught in the middle of a liquor store holdup?"

Tap your foot accusingly.

"I thought about making a move for his gun," she'll say. "But this guy had a lotta crazy in his eyes."

Don't say anything until she does. She'll say, "Feel like this is the first day of the rest of my life really." She'll pop a stuffed mushroom in her mouth. "Food tastes really awesome."

Say, "It tasted even better when it was hot."

She'll say, "Wow, that would have been something. If my food tasted better because I cheated death and I got to bite into a fresh hot stuffed mushroom like this one."

You should sigh.

"But then in order for me to cheat death the food would have to get a little cold really."

Wait for it.

"Heh, heh," she says. "Cold canapés, but really good cold canapés."

Raise one eyebrow as if to say, Don't gimme no guff.

"It's your brother. We're in love."

Happy Wafer Thin Excuses Day!

Atlantic City Day

Atlantic City Day!

Today, in Atlantic City, none of your dreams will come true. Unless you dreamed about losing the four thousand dollars you needed to pay for your mother's residence home before throwing yourself off of a 16-story balcony. She lost her memory a year ago, so she won't mourn you. She'll just be removed from the home with no idea that there was once someone in her life who was supposed to prevent that from happening.

Happy Atlantic City Day!

Clear. Blue. Not So Easy. Day!

Clear. Blue. Not So Easy. Day!

Pregnant? Fuck!

You're gonna have to get outta town. If your Dad finds out, he'll have it taken away from you because he thinks you're dangerous. And if your ex-boyfriend finds out, he'll try to get custody. And with your record, he'd stand a hell of a good shot (You threw your mom down some steps).

When you get across the state lines, open a bar. Name the bar and the baby the same name. Gluggs. The bar will become your favorite place in the world.

Your dad, your ex-boyfriend, and the law are gonna come after you to get their hands on the kid. When they all die, it will be thanks to your son. He'll have killed them to save your life. That night, he'll burn down the bar and take off.

Though you won't have the bar anymore, you won't be sad. Because you'll know that somewhere in this country Gluggs lives on in the shape of your beautiful boy. All you ever wanted was a bar that would outlive you.

Happy Clear. Blue. Not So Easy. Day!

Your Boyfriend Is Blind And High-Maintenance Day!

Your Boyfriend Is Blind And High-Maintenance Day!

All day long it's "Get that for me, I can't see it!" and "What are they doing on the television now?" and "No, you drive!" Doesn't this guy realize that a girl likes herself a doer?

You feel like you're being taken for granted, and you are. It's best not to confront him directly on this. What you should do is start stealing his money. Just a little at a time, but enough for him to notice when he counts out the bills in his wallet at the beginning of every day. Eventually, he'll ask you about it.

"But you knew I'd catch you. You know that I have to keep my bill count exact."

Say, "I know."

He'll say, "I think you felt that I was taking you for granted and so you started stealing from me to draw my attention to a lack that you felt."

Say, "Yes."

He'll swing his stick out at you and cut your eye. It'll bleed, but he won't let you call a doctor. He'll just shriek at you until you go.

Happy Your Boyfriend Is Blind And High-Maintenance Day!

Stumble Onto A Communiqué From Your Wife To The Leader Of A Foreign Government's Intelligence Agency Day

Stumble Onto A Communiqué From Your Wife To The Leader Of A Foreign Government's Intelligence Agency Day!

It'll have today's date on it and it'll say that everything is going according to plan. "American blood with muddy the soil," it will read. And it will also mention her return to the arms of "my real husband, my only love." You'll finish reading it just as she returns from her morning jog. She'll be standing in the doorway when you turn away from the computer.

"Whatcha readin'?" she'll ask.

Happy Stumble Onto A Communiqué From Your Wife To The Leader Of A Foreign Government's Intelligence Agency Day!

Make A Move On The Lady In Front Of You Waiting In Line For Milk Day

Make A Move On The Lady In Front Of You Waiting In Line For Milk Day!

So it's day three in the milk line for you. Your wife and kids have come to visit you a couple of times a day to bring you a bucket to defecate in. Your mother stopped by yesterday to tell you that your father had passed that morning (he needed milk). And people near the front of the line have been getting shot at intermittently.

But hold the phone. Who's the refugee with the pretty blue eyes? She showed up a few hours ago to take her brother's place in line after he slipped into a coma. You didn't notice her at first because she's covered in so many cloaks and a big part of her head is wrapped in bloody bandages. But just now she turned and wept in your direction. Looks like she digs the goods.

You only have a couple more days to take a shot. Less, if rumors of an airlift are true. What are you waiting for? She's right there sobbing into her hands, waiting for you to take the hint. Are you gonna let this one slip away?

"You know," you should say. "The warlords are coming back. There's no time to waste."

If you want, you can do it without leaving your places in line. Everyone's watching that woman deliver her baby about ten feet behind you. Turn that gravel under your feet into the Sands Of Pleasure.

Happy Make A Move On The Lady In Front Of You Waiting In Line For Milk Day!

No Left Thumb Day

No Left Thumb Day!

Your left thumb went first. It's useless now and all you can do is wait for it to turn black and disattach itself.

You are so very bored with yourself, but refuse to commit suicide. So your appendages and organs have no choice but to do what they can to cease functioning at a cellular level in the hopes up withering up and falling away from you. So your left thumb took the mutinous steps necessary to invite gangrene to settle in. Now, no one looks to it for results, and soon, it will go away forever. You envy your purple little thumb.

Happy No Left Thumb Day!

Witchcraft Day

Witchcraft Day!

Your wife's taking Witchcraft Class at the Rochester Women's Center. You keep asking her if it's like a History of Witchcraft or if it's about integrating folklore into practical modern practice, and she never gets any more committal in her response than to say, "Sort of like that, you could say."

What's bugging you is you've woken up in the middle of the night once or twice to find her side of the bed empty. You haven't gotten out of bed to track her down. You just don't want to find out she's nowhere around.

Today things are going to become a bit more urgent. For today, Mark Caslow, your colleague and fellow candidate for VP at your Securities firm, will be found dead in his car, his eyes having turned to black coals. The car will have gone head first into a ravine.

If she was responsible, yes, she'll have killed and that's very bad. More importantly, the killing will reveal that she clearly didn't think you had what it takes to secure that promotion. You never thought of yourself as the kind of man who needs his wife to go out and sear people's eyeballs black in order to help him get ahead. But she clearly did.

Happy Witchcraft Day!

Calibrate The Love Ray Day

Calibrate The Love Ray Day!

It's time to exact your luscious justice upon a fast devolving society. You've spent many years and sacrificed many lives trying to obtain the nuclear components necessary to adequately power your Love Ray. If calculations are correct, the activated Love Ray should fire a current of your droopy-eyed affections that will permeate the loins of every living thing on the face of the earth within a matter of seconds.

Go and stand on a mountaintop and say, "Soon, my Love Ray will circle the globe. Everyone on the planet will become consumed with that special something of mine that makes the ladies go 'Heck yeah.' As of tomorrow, human beings will stop waging war on each other so that they can get to the rubbing up against each other faster."

Start to climb down the mountain, then climb back up to add one more thing. "Terrorism will stop too. Everyone hates terrorism."

Now, climb all the way down the mountain and steer your pod under the riverbed to your laboratory deep under the surface of the earth. Calibrate your Love Ray so that tomorrow at 9 AM it'll be ready to start spraying the boogie.

Happy Calibrate The Love Ray Day!

The Russian Mafia Day

The Russian Mafia Day!

Today, you should go to the Russian Mafia for help. Your assigned parking space at your apartment complex is right next to a tree, and you have to take extra care when you open the door to keep from dimpling the body of your Saturn. There's a primo space that's right in front of your unit, but the guy who has it won't give it up. That guy drives a motorcycle and could park it wherever he wants. He's just hanging on to the parking space to stir some shit.

Ask the Russian Mafia to talk some sense into him. What they'll do is they'll kill him with a hammer. You'll get your parking space in no time, and then you'll owe the Russian Mafia 25% of the annual revenue from your candy store, pre-tax.

Happy The Russian Mafia Day!

Each Of These, My Three Babies Day

Each Of These, My Three Babies Day!

"I've decided my life needs to be more simple," tell them.

"How, Max?" asks Tricia.

"Yes, Max. How?" asks Maria.

"Have I made your life complicated Max?" worries Carolyn.

"You've all been wonderful to me. Very giving." Go to each of them and give them a long kiss on the lips.

"We're living in a conventional world, now," tell them. "And I'm at an age where I think it's time for me to adhere closer to convention."

Look at them wait for your conclusion. Were it not for their rivalries, they could huddle together in comfort. Each using her grip to steady the other's shaking.

"It is time that I made do with only one girlfriend," you say. They gasp in unison. Your eyes are to the carpet.

Carolyn's voice cracks. "Who do you choose?"

Pull the papers from your drawer. "That is yet to be decided. You'll find on this sheet of paper a list of items that can be found in various locations throughout the city. The one of you who acquires the most of the items on this list will remain my girlfriend. We will tally the fruits of your hunt in 24 hours from now, here in the living room. Do your best."

Your girlfriends scatter. Tricia is crying as she walks out the door.

Happy Each Of These, My Three Babies Day!

End It Via A Fingerpainting Of A Dragon Day

End It Via A Fingerpainting Of A Dragon Day!

You met on parents' night. He came alone, one of the only dads who was there alone. He lingered behind after you'd finished your presentation because you're one of the only teachers in the school who isn't shaped like a medicine ball.

"Does Mike have talent?" he asked, examining his son's construction paper rendering of a tree in a field on a sunny day.

"He doesn't eat the paste," you said. You had fulfilled your parents' night responsibilities. He walked you to your car.

You've spent a total of eleven hours together, split up over four individual nights, but that was the best night of all. When he sat in the passenger seat of your parked car and the two of you watched the parents walk to their parking spaces.

"That's the Lamberts," you said when Kevin Lambert's parents came walking out of the main entrance. "Their son Kevin got beat up in the rain after school last Thursday."

The Lamberts were laughing as they approached their Hyundai. "Poor Kevin," he said.

"The Morrisseys," you said when the very tall and shaven-headed Mr. Morrissey walked past your car with his tiny wife. "I bet when their girl Jessica hits middle school she'll be the most popular kid in the place."

"I'll tell Mike to start laying the groundwork, get in early," he said.

You said, "Jessica would never go steady with Mike."

He looked shocked, and you laughed very hard, then leaned in and kissed him for four minutes.

Today you've sent Mike home without any stars on his fingerpainting.

"Keep a close eye on Mike's artwork," you had said. "If I give him three gold stars, you're to meet me at the Super 8 the following evening at 7 PM."

"And what if I want to see you?" he asked.

"Too bad," you said. "You're married. You're not supposed to want to see me."

He had his index finger on your bare breast when you said that. He'd lifted up your sweater and tugged down your bra cup.

"We'll see each other only when I wanna see you," you said. "And when I never wanna see you again, poor little Mike won't get any stars that day."

He took his fingertip from your breast. "Why does Mike have to be involved?"

"I'm Mike's art teacher," you said. "Don't try to forget that."

Mike cried on his way home, his fingerpainting of a dragon crumpling at the edges where his fists held it close to his chest. He didn't ask you why you skipped him when you were giving out the stars. But he waited at his desk long after the rest of the class had left. You walked out with your eyes to the floor, unable to look at him.

It was bad enough that you were expected to assign grades to the first creative endeavors of children. You'd always tried to give out the stars so arbitrarily you thought it might even be fun to use that grading system for your lascivious communiqués.

But there'd been so many days when you wanted so badly to see Mike's Dad. But those were days when Mike had turned in work that was decidedly less than three-star quality. You found you just couldn't do it, and so you gave him the stars he deserved and spent the following night at home alone. And if Mike ever turned in a three-star project, it was always in a week when a rendezvous would have been impossible.

You'd managed four nights together, and each night had required you to give Mike an inappropriate star grade. But today was the last straw.

Today, Mike made a fingerpainting of a dragon. It was the best work Mike had ever done. The best fingerpainting of the entire class since school began last Autumn. A decidedly five star piece. But you wanted to see his Daddy tomorrow night.

You couldn't do it. When you looked at that painting, you knew the affair had to end today. Not another work would be awarded with anything but the most honest of praise. And to punish yourself for falling into such a state of compromise, you would break a student's heart on the day he'd done his best. You'd condemn yourself to the lowest point in your teaching career.

Mike cried on his way home. And so did you.

Happy End It Via A Fingerpainting Of A Dragon Day!

The Daily Number Day!

The Daily Number Day!

After you've bought $79 worth of three digit daily number lottery tickets, ask the 19-year old girl behind the machine for a suggestion.

"314!" she offers with a smile.

Say, "Straight and box for a dollar. If that wins, it'll be our wedding date."

The number of course will win, and you'll be $540 richer. That $540 will help pay for your divorce from your wife of 46 years (you're 71). The 19-year old lotto machine operator will be a little hesitant about marrying you before she finishes college, but she'll be glad to not have to live at her parents' house anymore during summer break. Her boyfriend will not be too happy with the way she breaks up with him ("A deal's a deal baby. Can't you be a little more mature about this?") He'll punch you once and give you a minor heart attack (your fourth), but you'll recover after not too long and you and the lottery machine operator will enjoy a happy life together for the 17 months remaining before you die in the bath.

Happy The Daily Number Day!

Car Off The Cliff Day

Car Off The Cliff Day!

Yes, sometimes when a car goes off a cliff, the passengers can manage to jump out and land safely on the rock face before the car explodes. But that requires a lot of dexterity and quick-thinking. And you have to hope that the passengers did not have seatbelts on or else who could imagine them having the cool heads necessary to unfasten their seatbelts, then open the doors and jump all in a matter of seconds? Then there's the tumble into the rock-face, which is more than enough to kill them. All things considered, the chances that someone could go off a cliff in a speeding car and survive are very slim. It's best to assume your fiancé is dead and start dating again.

No one's calling off the search and rescue teams. Hell, we couldn't if we wanted to. Those fires have to be put out whether your sweetstuff is alive or not. All we're saying is, it's been hours already. When are you going to accept that she's dead and start calling chicks you had your eye on while she was still alive? Such as her friends and sisters. They are waiting to extend to you their companionship.

All you've been doing since she went over the cliff this morning is howling at the heavens or peering over the cliff's edge to see if anyone found anything. You could have composed like nine Nerve Personal profiles in that time, one for every type of love affair you're looking for. Stop living in the past and go home and work out. I don't know how much you ate at that rehearsal dinner, but you're looking a little doughy. If you're gonna get back in the game you gotta be ready to play.

Oh, it sounds like they found her and she's alive. All the same, until she's brought up to the surface road and you can see that she is out of danger, you should assume she's dead and try to move on with your life. Goddammit, it's what she would have wanted.

Happy Car Off The Cliff Day!

Confess Day

Confess Day!

Unless the thing you're confessing about could put you in jail. But if it's something along the lines of, "I know you really like your Ho-Ho's dude," go ahead and own up. You'll feel better about it.

But you shouldn't think that confessing is an across-the-board good idea. For example, let's say that about six months ago you killed a rapist. You were just walking through the park looking for someone to sell you some acid when you heard a woman's muffled shouting. You stepped over a fence and pushed through some bushes to find a man pinning a woman down in the grass, the dull edge of his knife pressed into the corners of her mouth.

You shouted, "Hey!"

The guy wheeled around at you. His eyes were yellow with bright red bulbs in the center.

The woman kneed him in the abdomen and wriggled free. He grabbed at her pants leg but she took off. You never saw her again.

The guy got up and came at you. The sharp edge of his knife was coming right at your nose. He was smaller than you but a lot stronger. He had you on the ground. You were holding his knife hand away from you, but the knife was coming closer. You were growing weaker. You were about to die.

Your left hand scrabbled in the grass and found a rock. You swung your left arm up from the grass and cracked the rock into the back of the rapist's head. When the rock hit his skull, the yelp that came out of his mouth sounded like he was gargling mouthwash.

You rolled him off of you, stood, then saw the blood in the grass. It was coming near your shoes. You ran.

The next day, you read about the dead man in the paper. The story told nothing of an attempted rape. It only told of a dead man who'd been arrested for burglary in the past.

You read the paper every day for a month, but the story disappeared after less than a week. Never was there any mention of an attempted rape.

If that's the kind of thing you were thinking of confessing, that kind of "murder in self-defense resulting from a prevented rape that you can't prove," keep your mouth shut.

But if you ate your roommate's Ho-Ho's, by all means wipe the slate clean. Unless you can't afford to replace them. Then blame his buddy Ken.

Happy Confess Day!

That Shade Of Pearl Doesn't Communicate To Visitors The Awesomeness Of Your Balls Day!

That Shade Of Pearl Doesn't Communicate To Visitors The Awesomeness Of Your Balls Day!

Just stir in a little more yellow, just a drip. Right now, the paint looks pretty much "there" when it's in the can. But dry on the wall, your balls just seem sort of, how you say, "GUMDROPPY." A little more yellow and you'll cross the line over to "Those computer generated orbs that are always flying around in the animation they use to demonstrate the digital sound system at the movie theater before the movie starts." And you'll be well on your way to communicating the true awesomeness contained therein (your pants). You want someone to just blink twice at your walls and think, "I could not compete with, nor could I refuse, this man's balls, should I be challenged by or offered said same."

Little more yellow. Try it, I'm telling you.

Happy That Shade Of Pearl Doesn't Communicate To Visitors The Awesomeness Of Your Balls Day!

Settle Your Roommate Problems With A Calm Discussion Day

Settle Your Roommate Problems With A Calm Discussion Day!

Sit cross-legged on the couch. Encourage your roommate to sit cross-legged on the comfy chair. Invite your roommate to present the first grievance.

He'll say, "I would appreciate it if you could clean up after yourself in the kitchen with a bit more diligence. I just don't want to attract bugs."

Say, "Fair enough. I would appreciate if you were less assholish. You're such an asshole. Asshole."

Your roommate will tell you that he'll try. Accuse him of lying and then borrow his money.

Happy Settle Your Roommate Problems With A Calm Discussion Day!