Take Off Your Brassiere While Your Shirt's Still On Just Like That Whore From Flashdance Day

Take Off Your Brassiere While Your Shirt's Still On Just Like That Whore From Flashdance Day!

It sounds forward, but this is the only way you're going to get a man's attention. The next time you're with that special guy that you're really trying to make it work with, take your bra off while your shirt's still on. You could be on a date with him or you could be trying to land a plane with him after all of the pilots have been hypnotized by a child hypnotist who doesn't understand his own power yet. Just take off your bra.

He'll say something like, "I'm really enjoying being on this date with you." Or, "I'm really enjoying hurtling through the sky clueless at the helm of this commercial jet with you."

That's when you should bring up how you want to go back to school. "I want to be a child psychologist," you should say. Then reach your arms behind you and unclasp your brassiere. Make sure you look him in the eye while you do it. Say something like, "I hope you don't mind but I'm going to remove some of my underwear now." Or, "Jesus my breasts are sweaty." Then pull the brassiere down through the sleeve of your shirt and toss it over the back of a chair, making sure that it drapes well so that he can get a good look at just what kind of bra you were just wearing.

Once your bra is off, ask him if he's married. If he says no, he's lying. If he says yes, he's still going to sleep with you. But in four months when you start asking what kind of future you can expect from him, he'll hold it against you that you knew, way back on that day when you took your bra off while your shirt was still on, that he was married. And yet you still began sleeping with him. So the best you can hope for is that he lies and says no, so that when you fight later, you can have a leg to stand on. Regardless, you have a plane to land.

Happy Take Off Your Brassiere While Your Shirt's Still On Just Like That Whore From Flashdance Day!

Get Caught Watching The Paint Dry Day

Get Caught Watching The Paint Dry Day!

You'll have to do it at rush hour, so you should make sure and stand out. Go to the girder with the "Wet Paint, Do Not Stare" sign on it and stand right in front of it while you wait for the train. When the train comes, just stay right where you are while everyone is piling on. Some of the passengers pressed up against the windows are bound to see you staring at the freshly painted girder, and they'll be sure to rat you out to a Marshall on the train car.

The Marshall will pull the signal for the conductor to open the doors again. The Marshall will step out onto the platform and approach you. The train car will close up and pull away. Everyone's eyes will catch you as they pass, and you'll just know those cars are silent as the grave inside. Once the train has completely left the station, the Marshall will point his gun at the side of your head so that when he shoots he won't splatter any blood on the wet paint. Then he'll phone his dispatcher to report that he caught another one.

Your body will lay uncovered until three train cars pass. Commuters will step around you, averting their eyes away from girders bearing signs.

Happy Get Caught Watching The Paint Dry Day!

You'll Build Tennis Courts Day

You'll Build Tennis Courts Day!

Like your Daddy before you and his Daddy before him, it is expected that you'll design and build private tennis courts on the estates of the wealthy. But you have a different dream. You want to design and install swimming pools.

"You're a Crawford," you were told by Grampa Crawford, who is still alive and in charge of the family business. "Crawfords have been designing and building tennis courts for thirty five years."

Your father added, "Crawfords aren’t going to start designing and installing swimming pools."

Today, show them you mean business and leave the family to go and live on your own. You have no money, so you'll have to work as a whore. Your family will send out several private investigators to find you, but they won't be able to locate you until you steal three thousand dollars from your pimp and word gets out on the street that there is a bounty on your head. Your father will have the private investigators pay off the pimp with fifteen thousand dollars, and the promise that he will be killed by policemen if he does not call off the hunt for you. Before the private investigators can drive you home themselves, you'll walk through the front door, a full eight months after you disappeared. Following a few weeks' rest, you'll take your seat at the Vice President's desk that's been waiting for you at the offices of Crawford Courts.

Every once in a while, you'll wonder what might have been if you had been allowed to design and install swimming pools. You'll also wish that you hadn't worked as a prostitute, since that's going to suck.

Happy You'll Build Tennis Courts Day!

"Monitoring The Chatter" Weekend!

It's the Girls Are Pretty "Monitoring The Chatter" Weekend!

As reports of a rash of successful suicide attempts across the globe can attest, yesterday's personal regression assignment was delayed. Apologies to everyone who is dead, but Prettygirl had a very good reason to delay giving you something to read that would keep the bullets on the outside of your skin.

A month ago, Prettygirl heard the sound of people having sex coming from her neighbor's apartment, so she started recording them using a very expensive trio of parabolic microphones. The system was setup so that it would continue to record the goings on in the neighbors' apartment all day long so that Prettygirl would be free to go to her high-powered job at City Hall without missing anything. Naturally, the tapes picked up what sounded like a cold-blooded murder (combination suffocation and stabbing) that appeared to have taken place on Friday afternoon. So this weekend Prettygirl has spent every moment underneath a pair of earphones listening for the killer's next step. This has required the devotion of every circuit of Prettygirl's in-house network, and she's even had to hack into some outside systems to offlay some of the stress on her servers.

But that's all over and done with. After 38 hours of non-stop surveillance, Prettygirl discovered that the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding. What sounded like a combination suffocation slash stabbing was actually the sound of the neighbor's Golden Retriever giving birth to a litter of puppies. Unfortunately, this was discovered after the police were called. Guess who's being called a Nosey Norman in the laundry room of her apartment building.

So anyway, below you'll find today's and the one that would have gone up yesterday if Prettygirl could have afforded the bandwidth. Read yesterday's first.

Sunday, April 10, 2005

Whole Matchbook On Fire Day!

Your brother Willy isn't allowed to light the candles on the cake because Willy has a problem with fire.

"Just this once Mom?" you'll say to her. "Willy's almost 43."

"And the only reason he's lived this long is because I've kept him away from matches," your Mom will bark. "Now light the cake on fire."

Willy used to love fire. Anytime he got his hands on a matchbook he couldn't help but light the whole thing on fire. He hated wasting one match at a time when he knew that the hissing flareup of all those matches would be so much more beautiful. Your mother kept a close eye on him and made it so that he never touched a match after the age of 14. She even wrote letters to administrators at his school. And his employers. She really does deserve the credit for keeping a disaster at bay. But you always felt she had gone too far.

Once you light the cake, you'll go back into the TV room where your brother is getting off the phone with a partner at his law firm. He's got a big case that's about to settle, and he'll have been getting calls ever since he walked through the door.

"Sorry Pal," you'll say. "Mom wouldn't let you light the candles."

"It's just as well," Willy will say to you. "That bitch has controlled me for as long as I can remember."

"Mom?" you'll ask.

"No," Willy will laugh. "Fire. I didn't even ask you to ask mom about lighting the candles for me."

"Yes you did," you'll say.

"No," Willy will say. "Fire did. Fire speaks through me. Always."

Just then, your Mom will carry the cake in and you'll all start singing to your Dad.

Happy Whole Matchbook On Fire Day!


Saturday, April 9, 2005

A Balloon Ride Over New Orleans Day!

Today, you'll soar over New Orleans in a hot air balloon. Your husband will have arranged it.

"I reserved the balloon that says, 'Show Us Your Tits,'" he'll tell you. "So we'll probably get the whole city to take off their shirts from up there."

Once in the basket and floating across the blue sky, you'll find your husband was right. It'll be like a stadium doing the wave. The earth below you will be alive with young women exposing themselves to God.

"It's glorious," you'll say to your husband.

"Happy anniversary," he'll say to you.

Kiss him. "We have a lot of work to do," you'll say. "Let's start tossing the beads."

Happy A Balloon Ride Over New Orleans Day!

Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman Day

Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman Day!

Getting laid off has been hard enough on your marriage. But when The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman steps inside your vestibule, the temptation will be so great that you might as well just go ahead and fill out some divorce papers before you even offer her a sandwich.

"I've got so many wonderful bikinis to offer this season, there is no way I'm leaving this house without having sold you two," she'll say with a tickle of her long red fingernail down the bridge of your nose.

"Fine!" you'll shout. "Just hand over whichever two you want me to buy and go."

The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman will start to cry.

"Hey," you'll say. "Come on now. I'm going to buy the bikinis."

She sniffles, hunched there on the ottoman. "Everyone thinks I'm just out to make a buck. But that's not it. I sell these bikinis because it's important to me. Outfitting the community in the perfect sun and swimwear is what I feel like I was meant to do. Ever since I was fifteen I just knew."

"I'm sorry," you'll say. "How old are you now anyway?"

"Seventeen," she'll say.

"Go on my seventeen year old true believer. Sell me some bikinis."

She'll bound from her seat and shout, "Where can I change?! I know, how about behind this four-foot tall recliner! No peeking."

And so you spend the afternoon with The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman modeling bikini after bikini for you in your living room. Occasionally, they come untied and she has to do what she can to keep herself covered up while giggling. When she complains of the heat, you'll offer her a large soapy sponge to squeeze some cold water down her chest and belly. When she gets thirsty, you'll give her an ice cube to suck on. When she gets hungry, you'll offer her a banana.

After four hours of slipping in and out of bikinis while trying to crouch her five-foot-five-inch frame behind the four-foot tall recliner, the The Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman will leave very happy, having met her quota of selling $600 dollars worth of bikinis with just one house visit. But she won't stay happy, because the check you'll write her is gonna bounce like a superball.

Happy Door-To-Door Bikini Saleswoman Day!

Your Lover Is Gonna Die Day

Your Lover Is Gonna Die Day!

In that hotel room, if you don't get her outta there, she's gonna die of the pills that are keeping her from running away from you.

You brought her up here to the lake to hunt for Champ, the sea beast sighted in Lake Champlain. When you planned the trip, you treated it like a lark with a little bit of "what if" thrown in. But your lover had a different idea.

"If we find this sea serpent, we'll be pretty famous right?" she asked.

You shrugged and said that you guess so.

"And we'll, like, own the thing too won't we?" she asked. "Like, if the Smithsonian or the MOMA wants to get their hands on it they'll have to pay us a shitload. We'll rent out the fucker."

You suggested that actually gaining physical ownership of the mythical sea serpent might be far more difficult a task than the two of you are prepared for.

"But a picture would be nice," you said. When she looked like she was about to leap from the bed and tear your eyelids off your face, you added that a picture would fetch quite a lot of money from various outlets.

She locked herself in the bathroom for two hours while you knocked.

"My drug addiction is expensive," she said when she finally let you in so that you could pull the hair from her face while she sat on the toilet seat lid.

"I know it is," you said.

"I need some way to come up with the money to buy my drugs without having to work," she said. "This Champ thing is my last hope."

But of course, Champ was nowhere to be found. And her pills soon ran out. You have been making treks into neighboring towns and scoring pills that at least end her pain, if they won't get her high. But she's been ingesting narcotics without any regard for what came before or what's coming next. Keep this up and she'll die within the month.

But if you stop giving her whatever drugs you can find, she'll run off back to the city. She's horrible, but you have to keep her close to you. She may not be what you used to dream of, but you know your heart. She's the one.

Happy Your Lover Is Gonna Die Day!

Spray The Garden Maze For Goblins Day!

Everyone knows that Spring hasn't officially arrived until you've thrown your first party at the Estate. But folks in your social scene get pretty antsy waiting for Spring to arrive if you put off the invites for too long. As the temperature climbs, opening day fast approaches. Which means you're going to have to spray the garden maze for Goblins soon.

It usually takes three good sprays of highly toxic poisons to get them all scurrying for the Glen. And the sprays have to be spaced apart, so even if you start spraying tomorrow (which you should) you can expect to still have a Goblin problem for another few weeks. And there can be no party until that maze is clear. You don't want couples drunkenly wandering through those hedges for a private grope, only to get impaled through the larynx with razor-sharp twigs, then torn limb from limb just after being robbed of their rings and cash. Do you?

Don't forget to bolt all of the ground level windows and doors of the house before you spray. They'll run for the house first, and if one Goblin gets inside it will be only twenty minutes before every wing of the structure is burnt to the ground. To be sure to ward them off, paste photographs of housecats in every window of the house. Goblins are terrified of housecats because Goblins are the only creatures on Earth besides housecats that can understand what is really being communicated in a meow.

Happy Spray The Garden Maze For Goblins Day!

Visit With Your Assassin Friend Day

Visit With Your Assassin Friend Day!

"Thanks for making time for me," Jenny will say.

Tell her she's not the only one who's busy. She's always been this way. Back when she was working those late hours as an editor at MSNBC, she'd berate anyone who dared schedule a birthday party when they knew she'd be at work. And now that she's an assassin and every job means she has to disappear to another continent for four to eight months, everyone is supposed to drop everything for this long series of "Goodbye Jenny" events.

"I guess I know how little you'll be missing me when I'm gone."

Tell her, "You act like you were sentenced to go into this line of work. For God's sake, you're the one who wanted this job. You get paid $75,000 for pulling a trigger on a gun. And we're all supposed to feel sad because you have to spend Autumn and Winter in Morocco?"

"How'd you know I'm going to Morocco?" she'll ask.

Point to the plane ticket she's holding in her hand.

"Fuck!" she'll rip up the ticket and log onto Orbitz.

"So are we getting drinks or what?"

"Just let me change my itinerary okay? Or were you hoping to be the one they would torture until you give up my whereabouts?"

Go and wait outside on the stoop. She'll get weepy after a Cosmo and it'll be nice to say goodbye again. Until she has that Cosmo though, just bite your tongue.

Happy Visit With Your Assassin Friend Day!

Your Coffin Tumbled Day

Your Coffin Tumbled Day!

It was supposed to be a small, peaceful service. It's what you would have wanted, everyone was certain of it. But as the coffin got closer to the grave, your Uncle George and your Aunt Ethel roused the rest of the family with bellicose rhetoric, demanding that no one give you dignity in death went you spent so much of your life stealing dignity from others. Sisters were scolded for bowing their heads before the corpse of the man who released frogs into their bedrooms when he was a boy. Brothers were reminded of Friday night bickering over who gets to take the family car out. Even your grandmother ripped off her veil when she was asked to remember how many times you'd called her while you were alive. Before the preacher could shout a placating word, all twenty-eight family members and friends rushed your coffin.

The pallbearers (your Dad, your Uncle Marv, your friends Pete and Randy, your brother Hank, and your high school physics teacher, Mr. Reidel) just handed you over to the mob without a fight. They were disgusted that they had to be so close to your remains. The collective hands of the crowd held you aloft for a few seconds before the coffin turned in the air and your body hung halfway out the part-way opened lid. Your family tore at your suit until you were naked above the waist. They first ripped a gash in your neck, and after that the rest of you fell apart like a rag doll. All that was meant to preserve you in the grave came spurting out of you and drenched everyone's clothes to the bone. In the end, when the police siren sounded and everyone went running back to your Dad's house, you were left on the ground pinned under the weight of the coffin, some bone visible through the gash in your cheek, your left arm resting in the grass seven feet away from its shoulder. The policemen on the scene remembered when they busted you for truancy when you were fourteen. They spit on your coffin and each fired a round from his pistol into the back of your three-days-dead skull. They told the groundskeepers not to clean you up from the grass until you'd spent a full day rotting under the sun.

Happy Your Coffin Tumbled Day!

Crash Into The Cloudcover Day

Crash Into The Cloudcover Day!

Today, you're skydiving to impress a boy. His name's Dan and he enjoys "extreme living." You prefer reading books by the fire and taking walks on the beach, but your plan is that if you pretend to dig rollerblading up rocky mountains and throwing yourself down stairwells and whatnot, Dan will think that you're the girl for him. And then you'll show him that you're actually the exact opposite of what you pretended to be and, for reasons unclear, Dan will be fine with this and will even go so far as to hang up his snowboard so as to curl up next to you by the fire on the beach with the books.

But today's step one. You're diving out of a plane with Dan so that he can see just how "extreme" a girl you are. Your parachute pack will have mistakenly been filled with the parachute school teacher's laundry and you will die in a four foot hole in the ground dug instantaneously upon impact. Dan will not wonder what could have been, but he'll come to your funeral and cry.

Happy Crash Into The Cloudcover Day!

Sneak Out Of The House And Finger Somebody Day

Sneak Out Of The House And Finger Somebody Day!

Your parents are dictators. It's Saturday and all of your friends are allowed to go to the park and pull down each other's pants on a bed of wet pine needles. You're going to miss out just because of a stupid curfew?

Sneak out. Crawl out onto the roof down the maple tree. Then try to find where your friends are. You might not find them, because they actually already got chased away by police. But you will stumble into a kegger thrown by some older kids. They'll hold your face in the patch of grass where some of them peed earlier.

You'll walk home and come in through the front door. No one will be awake. You'll wash your face and chest in the bathroom but you won't take a shower. You'll go to bed, confused by things.

Happy Sneak Out Of The House And Finger Somebody Day!

Your Pot Dealer Has A Daughter In The Girl Scouts Day

Your Pot Dealer Has A Daughter In The Girl Scouts Day!

She has some cookies that need to be sold.

"Hey man, if I worked in an office it'd be no sweat," he says. "I'd just post the signup sheet on my cubicle, just like the rest of the Dads, and in one day she'd meet her quota for the camping trip. "

He hasn't even sold you your pot yet. You and him are sitting on your bed going over the options in the color brochure spread out across your comforter. He smells terrible. "A lot of people like the Samoas," he says. "But I fucking hate the Samoas."

"Do any girl scouts sell their own cookies anymore?" you ask.

"Are you crazy man? It's too dangerous," he says, while scratching underneath his shirt. He complained to you once that his gun holster itches.

"So I figured," he says. "Who wants cookies more than all the potheads who smoke my shit? You guys are all stoned out of your gourds with the munchies and then in I walk with a chance for you to binge on some snacks and support the futures of a whole lot of little girls."

You say, "But you haven't let me buy my pot yet."

He points to the Thin Mints. "These are fuckin' primo shit. Buy six boxes."

You buy six boxes.

Happy Your Pot Dealer Has A Daughter In The Girl Scouts Day!

Toy Soldiers Day

Toy Soldiers Day!

Your son is a latchkey kid. I know you don't like to hear it said but saying it is saying the truth and there ain't nothing wrong with saying the truth is there? You don't like to hear it because when you were growing up it was the latchkey kids who were always running around behind houses breaking windows and watching stray cats give birth. You never wanted that for your son. You expected to be there for him when he got home from school, making him cookies, helping him with his homework, keeping him from joining a circle of boys around a neighborhood girl who's willing to pull down her pants and underwear. But your husband ran off and you needed to take on another job. In other words, you failed him. Once again, the truth is the truth and the truth is you're a failure.

Anyway, tonight when you get home you'll find your best frying pan covered in an oddly shaped splotch of green plastic. Today your son melted all his toy soldiers in a pan. Then he killed his hamster when he slammed it shut inside a bible.

Happy Toy Soldiers Day!

The Motorist Day

The Motorist Day!

When you're in your car, you are The Motorist, a superhero who rights wrongs from the confines of his car.

Look to your left. A woman is shouting angrily into her cell phone. Flap your index finger once in her direction and BAM her uterine wall is strong enough to hold a fertilized egg.

Look to your right. A middle-aged driver has his forehead in his hands. Wiggle all ten of your fingers his way and KAZOW he's no longer phobic of ants.

And that blind child peeking out of the rear windshield of the car in front of you. Just wink twice towards his sweet face and KERCHOW he has acid for blood.

Thank you The Motorist. You're late for work.

Happy The Motorist Day!

The Dog House Day

The Dog House Day!

Tonight you're sleeping in the dog house because your wife is dying of a rare bone disease and she's shrieking so much that you couldn't stay in the house without sobbing, even behind the closed door of the guest room. You had to get away from the sound, so you alerted her live-in nurse that you would be taking a walk. From the liquor cabinet you grabbed a bottle of Cutty Sark and wandered the streets of your neighborhood, drinking and being sad for you poor little bride. When you finally made it home, the bottle was empty and you were so drunk that you tumbled through the gate of your backyard and landed on the grass with your arms and head inside the doghouse.

Tomorrow you're going to wake up when your neighbor, Greg, pulls his car out of his garage. Greg will see you sitting there on the lawn part way inside your dog house, but he'll just look away as if he hadn't seen a thing. Greg can't imagine what he would do if it was his wife.

Happy The Dog House Day!

He Belongs To Critical Mass Day

He Belongs To Critical Mass Day!

Though you've dated frequently, you've been single for almost a year now. Your friends accuse you of being too choosy and electing to remain alone out of a fear of commitment. Except in the case of Ray.

"He was in Critical Mass?" your friend Martha asked. "Jesus, how long did he wait to tell you? Men are scum."

Jonathan, your roommate, was shocked. "He wasn't what I would call funny or anything, but he at least seemed like he might be in possession of a sense of humor. Jesus, a bicycle activist."

"Yeah," you shook your head.

"Man," he said.

Your mother was the only one who was angry with you. "I used to think you were throwing them away for the littlest things. Now I know you're just hunting down the lowest of the low so you can be sure it won't work. My God what sort of sleezeball bars are you going to?"

"I didn't know Mom," you shouted.

Ray called you a few times today, offering explanations into your machine, as well as some story about how a Critical Mass demonstration made the WTO change meeting rooms at a Holiday Inn or something. You've put in the order to have your number changed, but it won't take effect for another four hours. You're spending the night at your friend Shannon's just in case Ray gets drunk and bike rides over to your house tonight. And because you don't think you can be alone right now. It was just a deception, but you every time you remember his touch, you run into the bathroom to take another scalding hot shower.

Happy He Belongs To Critical Mass Day!

Your Name Is Greg Day

Your Name Is Greg Day!

Your name is Greg and you clean up after orgies. You get paid 70 dollars to show up every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morning at 11 AM and clean the floor of all of the spilled wine, cubed cheese, and other. You've never seen one of the orgies in person, but you used to know somebody who went to a few.

"That was when I was involved with a particularly crazy older lady by the name of Grace," said your former girlfriend's Uncle Leland. "I do have to say that it was interesting. But not every thing that is interesting is necessarily something that I'd ever want to experience again."

Your girlfriend at the time, she got excited to finally hear the inside scoop. She was intrigued by your job and was always excited when you told her about a particularly hard-to-explain puddle or when you showed her trinkets like cufflinks and compacts that you found during your morning sweep. "Were the girls pretty, Uncle Leland?" she asked, nearly bouncing on her couch cushion.

"To give you an idea," Uncle Leland said. "The next time you walk into town, take note of the first thirty-seven people that cross your path. No matter who they might be. I want you to imagine exactly those thirty-seven people scattered about a meeting hall in various states of fornication. That will give you an idea of the range of physicality that you'll find at the Modern Living Party."

That's what they call it, The Modern Living Party. Not that you've ever even seen an invitation. You're not with your former girlfriend anymore. No girlfriend to speak of at all at the moment. You can't afford a girlfriend with a cleaning man's salary.

Right now you're tired on your couch from this morning's work. On your coffee table is a locket with a little boy's photo inside. You know the little boy, cause he's you. Or was, when you were six. You found it this morning cleaning underneath a barstool. You have been planning to find new employment for about six months. And right now, staring at that locket, you really regret not having stepped on the gas with that job hunt.

Happy Your Name Is Greg Day!

Another Dead Gossip Columnist Day

Another Dead Gossip Columnist Day!

"Item! Someone really hates gossip columnists."

You're a coroner with a horrible sense of gallows humor. Everyone you work with hates you, especially your wife, which has made it more and more difficult to keep up the appearances of your folksy, privately run, Mom & Pop-style morgue.

"I wish you were a gossip columnist," your wife says as she pries open the rib cage.

"Fuck you dickhead," you say to your wife. "You're saying you wish I could die right along with all these poor celebrity chasers."

"I'm saying," she says, "that maybe it'd be nice if my husband had sought a more palatable career path."

"But you're a coroner too!" you shout.

The mayor breaks it up. "Will you too stop bickering and get me a clue to who's killing these gossip columnists?!"

"Sorry Mayor," you and your wife say. Your wife shoots you one last dirty look before getting to work.

"You're lucky I wanna keep these murders under the radar," the mayor said. "If I didn't think these deaths would cause a wave of panic that would cripple the city's PR industry, your folksy, privately run, Mom & Pop-style morgue wouldn't get a lick of business from me. They're much more pleasant at the City Morgue."

"You're right mayor," you say.

"Seriously, though," the mayor says. "You're both horrible people."

Happy Another Dead Gossip Columnist Day!

Tell Your Dad You're In Love With A Girl Day

Tell Your Dad You're In Love With A Girl Day!

Sit down on the couch to the right of him in his easy chair.

"I met a girl dad," say.

Your Dad will say, "Get ready for some pain."

"I don't think so Dad," say. "She loves me and I love her. And I can feel it in my bones, we're never going to do anything but make each other happy."

Your Dad will laugh so hard he'll die. You'll bring your girlfriend to the funeral. During the priest's eulogy at the burial, she'll sneak off and cheat on you behind a tree.

Happy Tell Your Dad You're In Love With A Girl Day!

How To Kill Bees Day

How To Kill Bees Day!

Bees are very scary animals, perhaps the scariest in all of the outdoors. Today, you're going to learn how to kill them. You're going to learn from a 70 year old man who lives in a shack under a tree in the woods.

"I've survived out here 70 years. Never been stung once," he'll tell you.

"Never?" you'll ask.

"Not since last May," he'll say. Then he'll show you how to fling a hammer at a small target.

"Should I only use your methods in self-defense?" you'll ask, confusing bee killing with the ancient Asian martial art, Karate.

"This isn't Karate," the old man will say. "I'd recommend you kill every bee you see. The fewer the better."

Just then a bee will land on your face.

"Hold still," the old man will say. Then he'll fling a hammer at your face.

The bee will sting you and fall to the ground and die. You'll bleed profusely from the hole in your face. The old man will look from you to the dead bee and he'll wonder whether he can count this in his kill column. Everything will go black.

Happy How To Kill Bees Day!

Buddy Pictures Day

Buddy Pictures Day!

The temp agency sent over a guy named Buddy Pictures to fill in for your secretary while she's on maternity leave.

"My parents loved the Lethal Weapon movies," he'll say.

You'll nod with a tolerant smile on your face. Normally, you don't like it when temps make conversation with you, and if it happens more than twice in a day, you usually call the agency to send them over a replacement. But this Buddy Pictures kid is bringing out your giddy side.

"I hate my parents," Buddy will say.

Get up from your desk and put your hand on his shoulder. "Something you should know about me Buddy. I'm kind of a loose cannon. When a straight-laced, by-the-book kid like you gets partnered up with a nutcase like me, it seems like it could be hilarious, sure. But make no mistake, by the end of this temp assignment, your daughter will have been kidnapped."

Buddy will say, "But I don't have a daughter. I'm only twenty two and a half."

"Feeling a little too old for this assignment?" you'll say.

Buddy will look confused for a second. Then he'll burst into an obsequious laugh. "Ooooh. I get it, sure."

Say, "Fuck you temp and don't touch me again." Then take your hand off of Buddy's shoulder and pinch his forearm until he yelps. You're losing your mind, Assistant Vice President Riggs.

Happy Buddy Pictures Day!

Bail Your Best Buddy Out Of Jail Day

Bail Your Best Buddy Out Of Jail Day!

"Promise Jenny's my girlfriend now?" you should say through the bars. The policemen of course allowed you go to the jail cell and talk to your best friend Mikey before you decide to bail him out. They warned you that the other prisoners will throw their semen at you as you pass their cells.

Mikey will say, "If Jenny wants you and not me there's nothing I can do about that is there?"

Get up from your chair. "Not good enough."

"Well what do you want me to say?" Mikey will ask. "I'll say whatever you want if you get me out of here. These guys already beat the crap out of me. My head's bleeding see?" He'll point to the matted blood caking the back of his head, then you'll look to the terrifying men sitting on the floor against the rear wall of the cell. They won't take their eyes off of you and Mikey, and you'll know that as soon as you're gone and there's no chance of the guards coming back for a bit they're really going to do a number on Mikey, especially now that he just bitched.

"I know you're scared of dying Mikey," say. "But you should have thought of that before you burst into Jenny's house and found us making love. You were out of control."

"I'm sorry," Mikey will say. "You're my best friend and she's my girlfriend. I got jealous."

"That's not the kind of talk that's gonna get you out of here Mikey," say.

"Fine," Mikey will say. "Jenny's your girlfriend now."

"And you'll make sure of that?" ask him.

"How?" he'll say.

"Threaten her or something. Tell her that if she ever sees anyone but me you'll hurt her and her family. I've been waiting a long time for this Mikey, ever since you started seeing her really. But we're starting out as an infidelity, which puts our relationship on really shakey ground," say. Now lean in real close to the bars. "I need your help pal."

Mikey will say, "Fine. I'll let her know that she has to keep seeing you or she'll enter a world of hurt that she never could have imagined."

Reach through the bars for a handshake. Say, "Sounds like someone just made bail!" Then grab your handkerchief to wipe away the semen that someone just splattered across the bridge of your nose. When you get home to Jenny, tell her about your agreement with Mikey, and how she's on thin ice.

Happy Bail Your Best Buddy Out Of Jail Day!

Cruising Altitude Day

Cruising Altitude Day!

Your father was a gay flight attendant, and all of his greatest loves were found in the air. He met your mother (and by extension, you) on a New York to London redeye, more than enough time for her to explain the contractual obligations of providing her with his sperm, and for him to agree only on the condition that he be granted visiting rights and an opportunity to apply for joint custody. And he met Carl, his true love, on both trips of a Vegas hop. He fell in love with Carl on the flight in, but promised himself that unless he saw Carl, happy with winnings, on the return flight, he wouldn't make a move. Nothing guarantees a heartbreak like a gambler on a losing streak with something to prove.

As it turned out, your father saw Carl, happy as can be but about 1400 dollars in the hole on the flight back. "I'm smiling," he said, "Because even with my empty pockets, when I saw it was you pushing the drink cart down the aisle I thought to myself...Jackpot." Your father couldn't resist. And they never looked back.

And today you're taking off for Los Angeles with the same fantasy that runs through your head on every flight you take without your wife. "Please just let me meet someone I love enough to leave my wife for." On this flight, you're not going to find that person. You will meet an adorable woman named Marci who you would love just fine if you were single, but you don't love her enough to end a marriage for. Maybe next trip. You've got the miles.

Happy Cruising Altitude Day!

The Washington Monument Day

The Washington Monument Day!

She said, "Meet me in a year at the Washington Monument." That's today.

It's raining and you'll sit under a black umbrella, looking at all the men around you sitting alone under their black umbrellas, wondering if they're waiting to reunite with a love or if they're just journalists meeting informants. Either way, you're probably on a watchlist by now. Anyone who lingers alone near a DC monument for more than an hour or two probably gets thrown on a watchlist automatically. Actually, you were probably already on a watchlist. We're all on watchlists I bet. They're just broken down according to what to watch for. Like I'm probably on a watchlist for "awesomeness conspiracies." And you're probably on a "acting like a total loser who shows up a year later to meet his ex-girlfriend where she told him to meet her and waits all day but she never shows up" watchlist.

She's in San Francisco. She's living with that guy still. She followed him out there actually. He treats her like crap. You were much better for her.

But anyway, wait all day then go home and be sad.

Happy The Washington Monument Day!

That Part Of You That You Hate, That's Pretty Much All That's Left Day

That Part Of You That You Hate, That's Pretty Much All That's Left Day!

It was the part that you used to say was "holding me back" and "making me say the things that send people away." The part that you "need to work on" and "have to hold in check." Maybe a therapist could help you "figure out what fuels that side of me" you used to wonder, though you never bothered to find out.

Don't feel bad when you hear this. Honestly, this is what happens to 99% of human beings who turn 36. That part of you that you hate, the one that drinks exactly the wrong amount of alcohol at the exact wrong moment? The part that makes excessive demands of loved one that appease nothing more than your desire to prove that everyone will one day let you down? That part that quietly (except when you're drinking) believes that petowners are fascistic? That part is all that's left. But seriously, don't feel bad. The reason it's all that's left is because it was the only thing that was ever true about your character. Everything else was you making efforts to try to battle it and bury it under gloss. You're going to feel like a big weight has fallen off your shoulders in about six months.

Happy That Part Of You That You Hate, That's Pretty Much All That's Left Day!

Mandatory Bellybuttons Day

Mandatory Bellybuttons Day!

Your tireless campaign efforts have were successful, and today the Mandatory Bellybuttons policy will be enacted into your workplace's bylaws. At this morning's status meeting, before the agenda is read, everyone in attendance will be required to untuck their shirts and expose their bellybuttons. And each of them will then be required to say one nice thing about one of their coworker's bellybuttons before the meeting can commence. It's hard to believe it took upper management so long to catch up with the new millennium.

Happy Mandatory Bellybuttons Day!

Ride To The Dance Day

Ride To The Dance Day!

Your older sister's gonna give you and your girlfriend a ride to the dance tonight. She'll give you each a wine cooler to drink on the way. Your girlfriend will throw up on her dress from the wine cooler, and you'll have to pull over to get some napkins from a Burger King to clean her off before you go to the dance. Once you're inside, your older sister will drive around for a while, then she'll park outside her ex-boyfriend's house. Then she'll come and pick you up and take you both home. She'll seem happy when she comes to get you.

Happy Ride To The Dance Day!

Towel Each Other Off Day

Towel Each Other Off Day!

You and your fellow college diving teammates don't quite have it together this season and it's because you all are still afraid to really care for each other. You all turn out for practice every morning. You all cheer each other on at the meets, and it can't be said that any one of you cares more about himself than about the team's success as a whole. But you all treat the diving team as if it's something outside of your lives. What happens inside the confines of that natatorium can't touch your real lives, the lives you lead in your dorm rooms and classrooms.

What you have to do to solidify your diving team is you have to open the doors to the natatorium so life can walk in and go for a swim with you boys. Your teammates share a goal with you, they stand side-by-side with you as you all push yourselves to the limits of your physical ability. Day after day you watch each other strive to create a momentary flash of grace. Acknowledge all that you share and the ragged incongruities that make you all beautiful to each other will show themselves in contrast.

And most importantly, you should all towel each other off after every practice, and during meets, after every dive. You all have nice, toned bodies and we want to see you towel each other's wet bodies dry. We want to imagine that back in the locker rooms you're peeling off your Speedos and gently padding each other's groins with the towels, so do that too and tell us about it. You want to win your division don't you? You want to make your fathers proud?

Happy Towel Each Other Off Day!

Chad 1.5 Day

Chad 1.5 Day!

Julie's sad tonight. She barely ate her open-faced turkey sandwich. And she's laughing a lot. Whenever she's low her laugh gets louder and more disturbing.

You have something to tell her, something she's not going to like. But every time you feel ready to broach the subject she says something else she finds funny, and that laugh bursts out with the clatter of a loose window shutter on a stormy day. You push forth.

"I'm seeing Chad again," you say.

Julie doesn't laugh. In fact, she looks as if she might start to cry into the mashed potatoes she didn't touch.

"It just happened," you say.

Julie dated Chad for six months, and six months after that you started seeing him. Julie didn't speak to you for nearly a year, which was fine because you only went out with Chad to hurt her. But when you and Chad broke up after a year and a half, you discovered you actually missed him. You craved him for months, until last night, when you held him again.

"I thought you hated him," Julie says.

"He's different now."

Julie's eyes are dull and looking at the wall. She looks crazy and medicated.

"It's like he's Chad, version 1.5," you say.

Julie doesn't respond. She looks like she didn't even hear you, which you hope is the case because you're embarrassed by the Chad 1.5 comment. It made you sound like this was all a whim of yours, and now you're worried that it could be.

"It's been over between you and him for so long," you say.

"I won't be able to be around you two," Julie will say.

You're furious with your self now. Last night, when he called and you went to his apartment you were sure that it was right. Now that Julie is withering in front of you, you think maybe you just tried to repeat that to yourself over and over to make no room in your head for second-guesses.

"If that's the way it's got to be," you say.

Julie grabs her coat and runs through the diner and out the door. Chad's probably a mistake, and if so you'll see Julie again in a year when you break up again. Assuming she doesn't hurt herself. Or leave town. (Julie has no one else in this city.)

Happy Chad 1.5 Day!

UFO Sucks You Into Outer Space Day!

So today a UFO will be sucking you into outer space. But before the UFO takes off, it will give you the opportunity to resolve one earthly concern of your choosing.

"Not that it really matters," the alien telling you all of this will tell you. "You were all always just a bunch of noise inside the fingernail of this gigantic dickhead that everyone in the Galaxy already hates. But we'll make a quick stop if you want to say something to somebody."

"Susie Camenbaren's house please," you'll say without a moment's thought.

So the UFO (it's as big as Washington DC) moves to Susie Camenbaren's tri-state area and extends a stairway of lights down so you two can talk. When you walk down the stairs, she's waiting there at the bottom with her football player boyfriend, Kurt Holtz.

"What's with the alien craft, faggot?" Kurt Holtz will say.

Tell him, "I just need a word with Susie, if that's okay with you Kurt."

Kurt doesn't look like he heard you, or at least it's not clear that he understood you, so you walk behind the stairway of lights with Susie Camenbaren.

"Pretty bitchin, yeah?" you say.

Susie says, "Why'd you bring this spaceship here, faggot?"

Tell her that you've had a crush on her ever since seventh grade and when the alien told you that you could visit with just one last person to resolve something, you chose her.

"Okay, faggot," Susie will say. "What are we resolving?"

"Well," say. "I've always loved you. And I brought extraterrestrials to your house."

Susie will say, "Ew!"

At that, a ray of heat from the hovering craft will destroy Susie, and another will destroy Kurt Holtz, who didn't even notice Susie's destruction before he himself had been turned into a small pile of ash that immediately blew away in the gust of air that travels off of the river often.

"Why'd you do that?" you'll ask the alien when you get back up to the ship.

"She was a cock," the alien will say. AND THUSLY SHALL YOUR ADVENTURES BEGIN.

Happy UFO Sucks You Into Outer Space Day!

Mausoleum Day

Mausoleum Day!

While standing in her foyer, waiting for her to go and grab a wrap to wear, you notice her dayplanner open on the table under the mirror. She had asked you to touch nothing while you wait, but she didn't forbid you to look. It's open to this week. You barely even have to glance at it to make out the word "Mausoleum" written in the box for tomorrow. No time even. Just that word. "Mausoleum."

At dinner, you bring up all of the people in your family who have died. She mentions her grandmother.

"I hate going to the cemetery," you say.

She says that she got lucky because her grandmother opted for cremation and a sprinkling of ashes over the Redwoods in California.

Over dessert you try another angle. "I like all music except Death Metal."

She says she doesn't even know what Death Metal would sound like. "Sounds gross," she says. "I like mostly alternative rock I guess."

Walking by the water you start grasping. "My friend is so boring and his house is so musty and dismal whenever I visit him I tell people, 'I'm going into the coffin.'"

She chuckles.

Riding on the Ferris Wheel, just after you've kissed at the top, you say, "Dance clubs have the silliest names don't they? Morgue. Coroner's Office. House Where The Dead People Are Buried In The Walls."

She says she never heard of those and that she hates clubs.

Staring at the moon and the shooting stars that are constantly flying past, you say, "I broke up with a girl once because she liked to fuck corpses. You don't do that do you?"

She says nope.

Back at her house, she invites you in. You say, "I don't know, you don't have any big plans for tomorrow?"

She says not until sundown.

After having sex for the fourth time, you say, "I feel like I could share anything with you."

She says, "Me too. Almost anything."

You ask her why she's building walls between the two of you already, and if she knows a nine-letter word for gravesite that begins with the letter M so that you can solve this crossword puzzle you've been working on.

"I'm not. I'm just reticent to share everything with someone right away. And does Mortuary have nine letters?"

You sigh. You tell her about the dayplanner. She says, "It's all right. You couldn't help it. You shouldn't blame yourself for what's going to happen."

"What's going to happen?" you ask.

She doesn't say anything, but her eyeballs go white and some cloaked figures appear out of nowhere. Your depth perception gets skewed in a million wild ways. Figures that are miles away from you seem to hold you down on the bed. Though you're alive, you can feel your insides being torn to shreds. You scream with all of your strength but all you hear is laughter. Your date is dancing on the windowpanes like a fan dancer. Your pain is unimaginable and seems to last for centuries, though you can still make out the clock, which says that not twelve minutes have passed since your date last spoke. There are dogs in the bedroom now and they're coated in blood and your innards dangle from their teeth. They bite your face. A fire has started and flames begin to climb up your legs and over your torso. Two of the cloaked figures carve a hole in your chest and punch you in the heart. Your date is having sex with a pig on her roll-top desk. You swear that you've lived three lifetimes, but the clock says only another minute has passed. The cloaked figures stop up your breathing by taking turns covering your nose and mouth with their anuses. They found a hammer and a garlic press and they're going at your kneecaps and ears (hammer to the ears, garlic press to the kneecaps). Now they all sigh at once, growing tired of creating a hell from your existence, and one says to the other, "Anything going on tomorrow?"

Everyone looks at that cloaked figure like he's an idiot. He looks at them, looks down at you, then says, "Oh yeah! Duh."

Happy Mausoleum Day!

Masquerade Day

Masquerade Day!

Rooting through your wife's handbag looking for her cocaine, you'll find an invite to a masquerade ball that occurred three weeks ago. Confront her.

"Did you find my cocaine?" Jenny will ask when you come back into the room.

Say, "You're out. We'll have to call Guillermo." Take the invitation out of your pocket. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I didn't think you'd be interested," she'll say.

Say, "But you love masquerade balls. I would have gone for you."

Jenny will look down at the floor. Calculate.

"Wait a minute," say. "Three weeks ago I was in Cincinnati. I remember there was one night when I couldn't get you on the phone."

She'll say, "I went."

"Alone?"

She'll shake her head.

"With Beth," you'll conclude.

Long, boring story short: Beth is your ex-wife who hired Jenny to have you killed. While plotting the assassination, Jenny fell in love with both Beth and with you, but she realized that you would provide her with the better future. So she broke it off with Beth, promised to kill her if any harm came your way, and married you. They're still friends.

"She's a lot of fun at masquerade balls," Jenny will say.

"And I'm not?" you'll say. But you know the answer to that. You always choose a "visual pun" kind of costume that requires lots of explanation. And you always complain of itching.

Say, "I feel so inadequate."

Jenny will say, "Only when it comes to masquerade balls. In every other area, except for ski weekends, you're the best."

Go outside on the front step and smoke. You should wait until the cocaine arrives before you two discuss this further. If you're both irritable because you haven't done any cocaine yet, you might say something you regret.

Happy Masquerade Day!

Teenage President Day

Teenage President Day!

As the first American ever to be elected President of the United States before turning twenty, you have put a new face on this country. You have brought the country's government into the hands of the country's future. You have quickened the blood in your countrymen's veins with a newfound vitality. You have told Congress to "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

But today, you will meet the greatest challenge of your brief tenure in office. At 3 PM, North Korea will detonate a nuclear bomb in New York City, immediately wiping out the metropolitan area and forcing evacuation of much of the surrounding region.

Many of your critics have ranted in their op-ed columns that you're the wrong man to run the country because you're just a teenager. This nuclear holocaust is the perfect opportunity to prove them wrong.

Happy Teenage President Day!

Your Masseuse Is At The Door Day!

"I'm being chased," she'll say.

"Greta, meet my wife. Pauline, this is Greta, my masseuse."

Greta and Pauline will shake hands. Pauline will fix Greta a drink.

"I left my boyfriend last week," Greta will tell you. "He's a real sleezeball. He got some guys to follow me today. Lucky I remembered where you live. I don't have many clients in this neighborhood."

Pauline will tell Greta, "My husband just raves about you."

Over dinner, you will be excited to have Greta and Pauline at the same table, as you've spent many hours imagining having sex with the both of them at once.

"So Greta," Pauline will ask, "Do you ever get disgusted by the state of a client's skin?"

Greta will have to take a moment to chew all of the food she had shoveled into her mouth. "No," she'll say. "If it's really gross, with open sores or loose moles, I refuse to do the job because I could cause damage by doing a rubdown on skin like that. But really, it's just the job."

After dinner, Pauline will invite Greta to spend the night.

"Only if you let me give you a rub," Greta will say.

After her rubdown, Pauline will fix up Greta's bed for her, then she'll join you in bed.

"She's going to get back together with her ex-boyfriend," Pauline will say to you. "She told me as much during the rubdown."

"That thug?" you'll ask.

Pauline will say, "You know, that rubdown wasn't that good."

Demand that Pauline take back what she said about Greta's rubdown or else you'll leave her.

Happy Your Masseuse Is At The Door Day!

Roof Access Day

Roof Access Day!

You don't have roof access, but your neighbor does. This is not because he has a private access-way to the roof from his apartment. For either of you to get out to the roof, you must leave your apartment and walk up the main stairway, the same stairway that would take you down to the ground floor. It just so happens that he can go up the stairs and out to the roof, and you cannot. When you signed the lease, the landlady told you the deal.

"I'm telling you up front so that you don't have to sniff around on your own and get sore about this," she said. "6E has roof access. 6W, no roof access. You're in 6W. Sorry, but that's the way it's always been."

"Does 6E pay a higher rent?" you asked.

"Don't try to find the reason in it," she bellowed. "Things just are a certain way sometimes."

She had trouble catching her breath after that.

"Sorry," you said.

"Everyone thinks the world oughta make sense," she said. "The world is shit."

You signed the lease.

And then you signed another. 14 months in that apartment and you never tried to go out to the roof. You can hear when your neighbor goes out there. He seems to be out there a lot. You'd listen to the footsteps on your ceiling and wonder what life must be like up on top of the building. In the summer, you'd go out onto your fire escape and climb a few rungs near the roof, just to see if you could estimate the view. But you honored the rules, and you never climbed the remaining rungs to the top.

But tonight, you're going to go up on the roof. Tonight is going to be the night because on your train ride home today a well-dressed man in his 50's, apparently drunk, will spit on you on his way off the train. He'll disappear through the closing doors before you even get a chance to shout. And then the entire car will watch you wipe the man's spit from your cheek and jacket and they'll all just shake their heads.

When you hear the footsteps through your ceiling, you'll already have been looking for a way to be defiant. You'll be lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling, and you'll say fuck it. I'm going up there.

When you push your way through the door, you'll find a completely barren and useless rooftop. Nothing but a sloping spread of blacktop and variously shaped chimney stacks. The view, you'll see, is blocked by a riverfront office tower that you never noticed before. It doesn't even look like there's anywhere to sit, which might be why your neighbor is squatting in his spot by the edge of the roof.

When he sees you, he'll approach slowly. When his face gets out of the glare of the sunlight, you'll see the shock in his eyes.

"You don't have access," he'll say. His tone will be incredulous.

"I know," you'll respond.

He'll take a step closer. He'll put his hands on you and push a little, trying to see if his hands go through you. Then he'll look down at himself.

"But…you don't have access," he'll say again.

You'll nod. You'll say, "What's going to happen?"

You'll both look down at the palms of your hands. Then you'll look around at the skyline to see if any of the buildings have fallen away.

"Why'd you have to try it?" your neighbor will ask. "While I'm out here too. Why?"

"I'm sorry," you'll say. "A man spit on me today. I had to try something."

Your neighbor will turn to the sun.

"I'd hope," you'll say, "That this will only affect me. I broke the rules."

Your neighbor will keep his eye on the sun, afraid of letting it out of his sight. "6E has roof access. 6W, no roof access. You're in 6W." He'll turn back to you. "I'm in 6E. The door's gone."

Behind you, the door into the building will have disappeared. It'll just be a wall now.

"Oh," you'll reach to touch where the door was, but think better of it. "God I'm sorry."

Your neighbor will turn back to the sun. "Just have to wait to find out what's changed."

"I could do with some things changing," you'll say.

Your neighbor will nod in agreement. He'll keep his eye on the sun. You'll check your pockets to see if you're rich. You'll want to call your mom to see if maybe your brother never died, but you don't know how to get back down yet. You're gonna feel really bad if your neighbor all of a sudden flickers and disappears.

Happy Roof Access Day!

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!