The Ivy Began To Climb On The Day That He Died Day!

Today is the one-year anniversary of the day you and your husband murdered your former lover and buried him in the yard. He was your nutritionist during your pregnancy and you initiated the affair in your fifth month. You've since blamed your hormones.

For about a month and a half, those twice-weekly appointments were all you could look forward to. Your husband was not interested in anything physical while you were carrying his child, and he left you alone most of the time since he was throwing himself as much as he could into his work so as to take a lot of time off when the baby arrived.

In about the seventh month you were very big and you and the nutritionist cooled off, which is when things got weird. He turned from the seducer to the nurturer. His questions moved from the subject of your diet and your physical well-being to plans for the baby. He wanted to know if you had private or public schools picked out and what religion the baby would be raised. If he didn't like your decision, he tried to talk you out of it.

Your husband learned about the affair on the day little Frankie was born. Your nutritionist appeared at the hospital offering to assist in the delivery. When he was told he wasn't needed, he found himself some scrubs and just walked into the delivery room to stand by your bed. When he edged near you to hold your head and coach you, the doctor asked, "Who is this? Who are you?"

That's when your husband looked in your eyes and understood what had transpired. He grabbed the nutritionist by the throat and dragged him into the hallway, threatening to kill him if he ever shows his face again.

It wasn't really a threat. Your husband had immediately decided the nutritionist was going to die. The nutritionist had made love to you while you were carrying your husband's baby. You know your husband and you know he could never allow a man like that to live.

The nutritionist made it easy. His obsession over you brought him to your house several nights a week. He'd just stand outside watching the windows for signs of you holding your child, the child he was convinced he had fathered. He sent letters and made phone calls always demanding you let him see his son. So your husband set a trap. He had you invite the nutritionist in and once he had stepped on the sheet of plastic covering the living room floor, your husband stepped from the corner and drove a hammer into the nutritionist's skull.

You and your husband buried him in the backyard, and within a day the wall surrounding your yard was covered in beautiful, emerald green ivy. Inexplicably, white roses sprouted from the stems in places. You took one of the roses to a botanist, and he claimed that it was not exactly a rose, that he couldn't classify it. It was a flower that given its makeup should not be able to survive in your climate. You did not sleep with the botanist.

But you did conclude that the nutritionist was a saint of some kind, perhaps a son of God. And you and your husband had killed him. You've drained your bank accounts and quit your jobs in order to devote your life to honoring the nutritionist's memory. Your yard is the church where dozens of believers come to worship, more and more each week. They worship your son as well, since he is the son of the nutritionist. Yes, your husband conceived Frankie with you, but the nutritionist declared that Frankie was his. It must be so.

Today is the anniversary of the Nutritionist's death. The yard will be full from morning to night. You'll need to have snacks ready. Some vegetables and dip can go a long way.

Happy The Ivy Began To Climb On The Day That He Died Day!

Taking That Magician's Assistant Job Has Really Helped Your Marriage Day!

Every day before leaving for work your husband grabs you tight, peers deep into your eyes and says, "If anything happens to you today, if you get sawed in half or are made to disappear and never come back, I want you to know that when I married you I became the luckiest guy on the planet." Then he makes love to you as if for the last time.

It's cruel to him. The hours when you're at work might as well be hours you spend on an operating table. He sits at home waiting for word that you're okay. He searches internet medical sites for predictions of the likelihood of a person surviving six swords being driven through her body (it doesn't look good). Sometimes his parents come over to bring him food and keep him from going stir crazy.

You could just tell him about the fake legs in the box or the secret door in the back of the wardrobe, but then when you come home he might not run to take you in his arms and cover you in kisses. He might not make love to you like the very act is a celebration in honor of God allowing the two of you to have another day.

You see the difference on your nights off. He settles in on the couch and watches his TV and you open up your book. Any effort towards intimacy he'll usually thwart by saying he's too full from dinner. You used to have both your nights off back to back and by the second night he'd have aged twenty years. You switched up your schedule immediately. Making him think you knock on death's door every day is what keeps him young. It holds his attention squarely on you.

As long as the Amazing Ramon keeps raking them into the dinner theater, you'll be right there in his pine box pretending to be dismembered. And the crowd will walk out thrilled and warmed, because not only is the magician a dazzling wonder, but the magician's assistant is clearly a very happily married woman.

Happy Taking That Magician's Assistant Job Has Really Helped Your Marriage Day!

Make The Town Pay For Your Girlfriend's Murder Day!

Your girlfriend was a clairvoyant who helped the police rid the town of murder. Every time someone was killed, your girlfriend was summoned to the crime scene where she would take steps back and forth over the body until a vision of the murder itself appeared in her mind. Sometimes she would spend 36 sleepless hours stepping back and forth over the dead body, looking like a child playing a hopscotch game or an obsessive compulsive performing a ritual, before the vision would come to her. But the visions always came. And while she might not have been able to ID the murderer every time, she always provided information that was useful to the investigation.

Naturally, the town's murderers realized they were pretty much out of business as long as your girlfriend was still alive. So they pooled their resources and killed her. Since your girlfriend was clairvoyant, it was necessary that all of the town's murderers create his or her own private plan for killing your girlfriend and that each murderer try to carry out that plan. This way, there would be so many people trying to kill her in different ways that when the foreboding visions of her impending murders started to pop into her head, they'd be so confusing and cluttered that she couldn't possibly take steps to avoid them all. In the end, she was killed by Squashfingers, the deformed loner who lives out by the railroad tracks. Squashfingers (his fingers are fat and swirly, so he kills people) killed her by rigging the international airport with dynamite so that when she stepped into the terminal on Thanksgiving weekend, it would blow.

Your girlfriend never would have died if her talent hadn't been utilized by the police department to solve all those murders. The town used her so that they could feel safe. And for their peace of mind, she paid with her life. It's time for the town to pay her back.

(Yes, you could just exact your revenge on the town's community of murderers, but they're all really dangerous. Stick with the townsfolk.)

Tonight, go to each house in town one by one and close all the windows and cover the cracks in the doors with towels. Then blow out the pilot light on each stove so that the houses will fill with gas. By dawn, everyone in town will have died from the gas. When federal investigators are summoned, they'll find the preprinted index cards that you'll have left on every house's coffee table. They'll read:

A Debt Was Paid
This Town Is Square

For those houses that don't have gas stoves, you're going to have to strangle everyone in their beds with your bare hands. If you happen upon some residents that are bigger than you and who will probably kill you first if you try to kill them, just let them live. Your girlfriend would have wanted you to stay alive. And even if you kill everyone but those buffest townsfolk who happen to own electric stoves, you'll still get your point across.

Happy Make The Town Pay For Your Girlfriend's Murder Day!

Don't Blame The Whorehouse Day!

The whorehouse has been in operation since before your town was even named. It destroyed your parents' marriage, and it's now about to destroy your brother's after only two years. You've decided it's time to restore your town's legacy as a place where families can settle and be happy. It's time to take down the whorehouse.

Tonight, you're going to speak out at the city council meeting about what you feel is an infestation of immorality that the town has allowed to run rampant. You'll ask everyone in the audience to raise their hands if their relationships were destroyed by the whorehouse. Only one other person besides you will raise her hand, but she's a prostitute who was disowned by her family when it was discovered she was working at the whorehouse.

"Oh come on," you'll say. "None of your husbands have visited the whorehouse?"

A few women will raise their hands that their husbands had visited the whorehouse. The librarian's assistant, Michelle, will stand up and say, "My husband has patronized that house, yes. But he confessed it and we worked it out. That was many years ago, right after my miscarriage when we had decided that we wouldn't try to have any more children. Our sex life has been fine these past few years and if he's still going there, I'm none the wiser."

Karen, the town Milk Maid, will stand up and say, "My husband banged a whore. So what? He's got 960 days sober now and he did a hell of a lot more that was way worse than hitting up a cathouse."

Another woman will shout anonymously from her seat, "Maybe the men in your family are just a bunch of whoremongers."

That's when the Father Herlihy will come to the podium and read something from the Bible about how Christ dug hookers. As platonic friends only, but still.

"Let's put it to a vote," the chairperson will say. All will vote in favor of keeping the whorehouse open. You'll go home defeated, where your sister-in-law will be waiting to find out whether her husband will no longer have a place to go and pay for sex

"You married the wrong man," tell her. Your mother won't look up from her knitting. "So did you Mama."

She won't stop her knitting.

Sit down and take a breath. "Whoring is in our blood. I'm a carrier, ain't I mama?"

Your mother will suck in a pained breath. "If you ever get pregnant just find out the sex and abort the boys�"

"So I can deliver little girl carriers too?" you'll shout. "So I can curse my daughters to a family full of whoring little boys? I won't be responsible for the spread of venereal disease."

Your mother will return to her knitting. You'll go upstairs and check your coffee can full of savings from your babysitting jobs to see if you have enough money to have your tubes tied. Though your brother will have stolen some to pay for whores, you'll be close. Just a few more months of babysitting and your depraved family bloodline will finally be dammed.

Happy Don't Blame The Whorehouse Day!

The Man's At The Door Day!

Open it up. The Man is wearing a small white sweartshirt that reads: Varsity Muffdiving Champion. "If the muff's tough, we get ruff!"

"You're the Man?" ask him.

He'll nod. Then he'll punch you in the face.

"Where's the peanuts?!" he'll shout into the house. Your wife and daughter will run to find him the jar of peanuts from the cabinet. The Man will eat some of the peanuts. Then he'll watch a morning talk show and shout into the room that everyone on the talk show has got it wrong. Then he'll start to paint a wall. Then he'll ask you if you have a son.

Say, "Yes."

Then he'll ask if your son has a toy car racetrack.

Say, "Yes."

The Man will say, "Play me."

Stuff your nose up with tissue to stop the bleeding, then follow the Man into your son's bedroom and kneel down with him on either side of the small, oval electric car racetrack.

The Man will say, "Best of three. Winner buys dinner. I only race for meals."

You'll be the red car. The Man will be the blue. You'll win all three races. The man will complain that you cheated, and when you ask how one could cheat at racing a toy car around an electric track, the man will say that he's not going to buy you dinner and he'll deny ever having made the wager. Then he'll look at his watch.

"Your hour's up," he'll say. That's when you have to pay the Man his one hundred and seventy five dollars. The Man takes checks.

Happy The Man's At The Door Day!

The Boy On The Bridge Might Have Been Fun To Date Day!

Sometimes, you wish your boyfriend was someone else. Someone you haven't known for two years already. Someone who doesn't gargle with mouthwash before sex, perhaps. Maybe even someone who doesn't announce to you at the end of every month just how much of his credit card debt he's managed to pay off.

Someone like that boy on the bridge you're going to pass on the way home tonight. He'll stand out because he'll be the only one on the bridge who is neither in a couple nor on a bike. He'll just be standing by the railing at the very middle of the bridge, sobbing out into the expanse of the river below while he scribbles what is most likely a goodbye note onto the back of a Lost Dog flyer.

You'll look to your boyfriend. You'll listen to the song he'll have been whistling for the majority of the past three weeks. And then you'll look back at the boy on the bridge, who will be loading up the pockets of his jacket with heavy stones. Why couldn't you have been my boyfriend for the past two years? you'll wonder. You would have been exciting. I'm young and I need exciting right now. Anyone who finds himself sobbing off the side of the bridge in the middle of the night has to be fun in the sack too, right?

You'll keep walking, and it will be all you can do to keep from turning around to take one last look at the boy on the bridge. Maybe if he sees me looking at him he'll find in my eyes some reason to keep on living. Then I'll have to break it off with my boyfriend and go with the boy on the bridge because a life will be at stake.

"MAAAARTHA!!!" you'll hear him shout out at the cityscape. Good God what you wouldn't give for your name to be Martha. To have a boy so wrapped up in you that he's got nothing else to do but head to the middle of a bridge and scream your name as loud as he can.

"Think you'll ever scream my name like that?" you'll ask your boyfriend.

"Maybe if you're in danger. Like if you're standing in the bus lane while waiting for the crossing light to change. You should never do that you know."

You know. You know that even if you were to break it off with your boyfriend right then, you still wouldn't be able to run and make something happen with the boy on the bridge. You would have to have met him two years ago, right before Martha met him. Then you'd be the reason he's standing on the bridge summing things up on the back of a Lost Dog flyer. Then it would be your name he's screaming into the wind. And then he'd jump, and you'd run out and recover with someone safe. Someone like your current boyfriend of two years.

"Oh Gosh," your boyfriend will say. "Seinfeld reruns start in ten minutes. We have to book it. It's the 'Master of Your Domain' episode."

You and your boyfriend will trot the rest of the length of the bridge to make it home in time for him to watch Seinfeld reruns in bed. Only once will you look back at the boy on the bridge, when you're pretty far away. He'll be gone. Whether he jumped or just had a change of heart and walked home, you won't know. You'll only know that he's gone.

Happy The Boy On The Bridge Might Have Been Fun To Date Day!

Turn Your Home Into A Den Of Sin Day!

You haven't made love to a woman in many years, so you've decided it's time to get yourself a bearskin rug. When you get to your local discount furniture store, you'll discover not one but two bearskin rugs for sale.

"Which one will get me more babes?" you'll ask the salesman.

"That's for the babes to decide," the salesman will say. "You're going to have to try them out."

You'll bring home one bearskin rug, but after several weeks you'll find that it will fail to lure any women through your windows at night. So you'll return it before time runs out on the exchange policy.

"No babes?" the salesman will ask.

You'll shake your head no. "Let me try the other one."

When you bring that other bearskin rug home, you'll stretch it out on the floor and then retire to bed with your hopes low. But late that night you'll hear a rustling in your living room. You'll peek out your bedroom door and find eleven women writhing ecstatically in a large pile atop the bearskin rug. Go to them.

"Hi," you should say.

The women will stop writhing and compose themselves.

"Hello," one will say. "We're sorry. We couldn't control ourselves. The rug. Please don't phone the police."

You'll ask her if she is their leader and she'll nod.

"You like my rug?" ask her. She'll nod again. The others will nod as well.

Tell them how much it cost.

"Wow," the leader will say.

You'll all stand there a bit awkwardly, then when it's clear that none of the women are going to jump your bod, you'll again retire to bed. It will be difficult getting back to sleep when the women resume their writhing in the next room.

The following evening when you get home from work, there will be almost all new women on the rug. The one who was the leader the first night will be nowhere in sight. You'll try to talk to them, but they won't stop wriggling and writhing on the fur. Occasionally, you'll hear them whispering and giggling at you when you pass the pile. It will make you feel bad, so you'll stay in your bedroom for the rest of the night.

Over the next few days, more and more women will come through your windows. Soon, they'll start locking you out when you come home from work and you'll have to get the super to let you in. You won't want to throw them out, because it will have been a long time since you had a woman in your apartment, but you won't feel like they're being very respectful.

You'll try to throw a house meeting, and to make it convenient for them you'll schedule it to be held on the bearskin rug. But you'll end up being the only one to participate. No one else will bother to voice any concerns or pet peeves, and they won't appear to listen when you voice yours.

Finally, you'll decide you can't take it anymore. You'll tell the women that that rug is reserved for someone who thinks that you are special, and that they'll all have to go. They'll be disappointed, but they'll all file out the door.

Except for one.

"I told you that the rug is reserved for someone who thinks I'm special," you'll say.

The woman will smile and she'll say, "I know." Then she'll lie down on the rug. Whether she really cares about you or is just faking it because she doesn't want to leave the rug, you won't care. Because she'll smile up at you from the rug in a way that lets you believe that that bear did not die in vain.

Happy Turn Your Home Into A Den Of Sin Day!

Your Grandmom Banged Two Of Those Construction Workers Who Ate Lunch On That Skyscraper Day!

"They were big celebrities at the time," she'll tell you. "Everyone was giving them a piece."

You had decided to decorate her hospital room with some posters from the gift shop. When you put up the poster of those construction workers eating lunch on a steel girder high atop New York City, your Grandmom will say, "Second from the left. Also, the one without any shirt."

Then she'll think for a second and say, "Well, I'm certain about the second from the left. But the shirtless one was the one everyone was after. So I can't remember whether I actually had him or just wanted some."

You'll ask very delicately if she's saying what you think she's saying.

"Of course. I thought you knew and you brought that poster just to let me reminisce."

You'll ask how they were.

"The second from the left was very gentle," she'll say. "The shirtless one, as I said I'm not sure if I'm just remembering a fantasy I used to have. But I remember my feet never once touching the floor with him. He'd just lift me up and bounce me on his pelvis."

She'll tell you that they were able to get all the girls not just because they weren't scared of heights, but the photo was proof that they had jobs, which was very attractive in the 30's. Then she'll fall asleep.

Before she wakes up, replace the photo of the construction workers eating lunch with the photo of the soldiers raising the flag on Iwo Jima. She'll wake up and when she sees the little guy crouching in the front she'll shout, "Oh Georgie, back for more!"

You'll leave the room with a newfound understanding for why you keep sleeping with whoever is named Employee of the Month at the Friday's where you work. Starfucking is in your blood.

Happy Your Grandmom Banged Two Of Those Construction Workers Who Ate Lunch On That Skyscraper Day!

Mudfight Day!

Today your supervisor is going to tell you that you used up too much vacation time and you're going to have to wait for more time to accrue in your bank. Tell him that you're tired of him walking all over you and you want to settle this in the mud out back.

Due to poor landscaping, the lawn flanking the rear of your corporate plaza is turned into an expansive mud field with every rainfall. The company is in trouble so no funds can be allocated to better seed and shape the lawn. So it was decided 18 months ago that lemonade would have to be made from lemons.

"We'll use it to settle stuff," your CEO announced. "Like this budget measure. Ms. Loehmann, meet me in the mud."

Your CEO and his CFO had the first of many mudfights out there, and it was way hot. Ms. Loehmann even lost her white blouse and the blue bra underneath. But she beat the crap out of Mr. Grisham. The budget measure was voted in.

Mudfights seemed to take place at least once a week out there for a while, and it was suggested that a league be organized to rank the employees. That suggestion was scuttled as soon as a mail clerk was killed in a bout with a VP who was always calling down to the mailroom to see if his packages had arrived yet. The VP strangled the mail clerk with his tie. No charges were pressed (Code Of The Mud) but it was decided that no league should be instituted since the league would then have to regulate the fights and be responsible for deaths, whether accidental or intentional. The mud would only be used to resolve disputes.

The mud field is free at the moment, and you and your supervisor certainly have an issue in dispute.

"Let's go, Beancounter. I wanna bury your face in some brown," tell him.

"Think I'm scared?" he'll say.

Take a step closer and look directly in his eyes when you say, "You'd better be."

He really should be scared. You're so good in that mud puddle people have a nickname for you around the office. It's "Swamp Thing." Whenever you win they all sing the song "Wild Thing" as you walk back to the office, but they replace the word "Wild" with the word "Swamp." It's funny.

Happy Mudfight Day!

Negligee Knife Fight Day!

You and your Mom both look way hot in a negligee. It's hard to say who looks hotter, in fact. Since you moved back into the house, every morning it's like a Victoria's Secret fashion show as you and her traipse around the kitchen in little wisps of hip length silk that make you both look just like raindrops on long, long legs. Then your Mom asks you if you have any job interviews set up, and you run off crying and change into some jeans.

Today your Mom is going to pass along news to you about a very successful former high school classmate of yours. That's when you'll point your butter knife at her and say, "Careful girl. Another word out of you and I'll be opening up that saggy chest of yours."

Your Mom will go stock still for about three seconds as she searches your eyes for a killer. Then the two of you will spring back with butter knives in hand, sending your chairs out from the table to slide up against the kitchen cabinets. You and your Mom are gonna have a good old fashioned negligee knife fight.

As you circle the kitchen in your negligees, jabbing into the air between you, it'll look so hot your father and three younger brothers will swoon.

"I'm sick of you needling me," you'll say to your mom, dancing around her lunges and feints. "You're jealous of me."

"I'm sick of you walking around trying to be the hottest one in the house," your Mom will say. She'll bring the knife close enough to your ear you'll hear a wisp of air. "Go get your own house and be hot in that."

Then, no more talking. Just knifing. Since you're using butter knives, you'll end just having to slap each other with the flat of the blades because those things can't slice. But you'll leave a lot of oblong red marks on each other's arms and cheekbones. When all is said and done, you and your Mom will have a newfound respect for each other. Your father will serve large dishes of ice cream and sit you both down to arrange a truce. It's recommended that you both honor it, for the good of the household.

Happy Negligee Knife Fight Day!

Wake Up Covered In Broken Glass Day!

The bedsheets will be soaked in blood and gin and your face, neck, and upper body will be covered in a senseless pattern of lacerations. These last eighteen months, bottles of gin have been the only things you've been able to coax into your bed. They make you feel safe the way a strange man snoring on the next pillow never could. You used to complain when you'd go out with your friends to bars that all these men keep hitting on you, and the only thing you want to bring home is that bottle of Bombay Sapphire back there behind the bar. Your friends finally told you that maybe you should follow your instincts and see how sleeping with some gin works out.

"But maybe pour all the gin into an empty Evian bottle," your best friend Tracy once said. "You shouldn't fall asleep when there's glass in the bed."

Tracy is a pediatrician and she married an anesthesiologist when she was 28. She's very wealthy and though you and she are still close, she has a whole other set of friends who are all Moms and professionals. You are her mixed up friend. Her young friend is what some of her Mom friends call you. You have a brunch date with Tracy today but you're going to call and cancel. You don't feel like letting her know that she was right about sleeping with glass. Which means you're going to have to wait until all the cuts on your face and neck heal before you meet up with her again. That might take a while because that one cut looks pretty deep, and might call for a visit to a doctor.

You could maybe tell people you were attacked. Spend today thinking about how you want to deal with this. Then think about the fact that one of those shards of glass was stuck in your neck not too far from your jugular vein. Since you slept through the glass breaking and slept so deep you didn't even stir when you rolled into all the shards, you could easily have slept right through your own death. You need to get a strong plastic bottle with a secure cap. And you need some more gin. Yours is all over the bed. Though you could wring a lot out from the sheets, maybe enough to fill a highball glass, it will be mixed in with all your blood and months and months of bed-sweat, so it'll be really weak.

Happy Wake Up Covered In Broken Glass Day!

Learn To Play The World's Smallest Violin So That People Can Actually Hear It Day

People like to open up to you about their troubles, and nothing helps them pour their hearts out like when you play them a slow, mournful piece of music, such as something for the violin.

You'd like to be able to play something new and special every time someone solicits your attention for a heart-to-heart. Trouble is, you have a busy schedule with a lot of errands to run. You can't be lugging your violin around with you everywhere you go. That's why you bought yourself the world's smallest violin. It cost you $83,000.

You thought your problem was solved, but learning to play the thing has not been easy. In the quiet of your practice studio, you can hear the instrument fine. Its music is a little softer, but just as beautiful if not more so. It was carved out of a kind of wood you just don't find today.

But it's a lot quieter than you thought, and it's caused several unfortunate altercations with your friends. You'll be walking through a crowded park or sharing a subway ride with a friend and he'll start telling you what sort of trouble he's got himself into. When he's unraveled the bulk of the sad tale, you'll take the world's smallest violin out of your pocket and start to play him something beautiful and poignant, something that might have been written just for him. Trouble is, he can't hear it.

"What is that?" your friend will ask.

"That's the world's smallest violin and I'm playing it just for you. Pretty cool right? Cost me $83,000."

He'll look at your fingers rubbing together, then he'll grow enraged. "Fuck you," he'll say. "Sorry to waste your time, asshole. You used to be a good friend to me."

Then your friend will storm off. You'll try to pull him back so you can put your hand close enough to his ear for him to hear the song you're playing for him. "Please," you'll beg your friend. "It really is such a beautiful song."

Your friend will just throw you to the ground and tell you that he slept with one of your ex-girlfriends while you were still with her, but never told you about it (this has been confessed by three separate friends on three separate occasions, each following an incident with the world's smallest violin). What all this says is that today you should really learn to play the world's smallest violin so that people can hear it. Also, you date tramps.

Happy Learn To Play The World's Smallest Violin So That People Can Actually Hear It Day!

Get Your Mom Stoned Day

Get Your Mom Stoned Day!

You and your friend should get your Mom stoned. It'll rule. Especially because she has glaucoma.

Just sneak up on her in the kitchen, which won't be hard since she can barely see, and then start yelling about how it's about time she partied with you all. She'll say that she's been waiting for you to ask her, because she wants to see again, but she didn't want to horn in on your stash. Then get your friends to hold her arms while you cover her mouth with the lip of the bong and force her to inhale. When she does, hoot and holler.

Once she's stoned, all of you should veg out on the couch together and talk about how stoned you got your Mom. Say, to her, "Dude you're so stoned. I knew you loved to party." She'll say, "I think I'm starting to see again." That's when you should wiggle your fingers in front of her eyes and make spacey noises. She'll totally wig.

Happy Get Your Mom Stoned Day!

Set Your Price Club Membership Card On Fire Day

Set Your Price Club Membership Card On Fire Day!

Whisper into the flames, "Today, I am wet. Born fresh and born free. I understand that there is a past I am purported to have lived. That past has no bearing on the man I am this evening, and henceforth. Every moment will be lived. Every word will be necessary. Every kiss given in love. Every hand offered in sincerest peace. Today I am entire."

Sit with your eyes closed and take in the smell of burning plastic until you feel it in your veins. As the crackling of the fire dies down, you'll hear everyone else in your support circle snickering.

"That was very brave of you," your sponsor will say. "I haven't been this moved since Michael Keaton's performance in Clean and Sober. Now if you're done overcoming your addiction to slashed prices, Marylin's ready to call her Dad and tell him she knows he raped her and that's why she started sniffing H."

Calmly and entirely, say to your sponsor and to the circle, "I am ready. Marilyn, the flames belong to you.

While Marilyn calls her Dad and screams, you should weep inwardly for the purchase points lost in that fire. Later tonight, scrabble in the ash to see if the card can be rescued. You never know.

Happy Set Your Price Club Membership Card On Fire Day!

Pretend You Love To Party Day

Pretend You Love To Party Day!

Just write all over yourself with a magic marker. Then in the gym locker room, when a total stranger asks if you love to party, say "Check this shit out." Take off all of your clothes to show him all the embarrassing curse words and insults written all over you. The total stranger will say, "But that's all written backwards. You wrote that yourself in a mirror didn't you?"

You got served. Just change back into your street clothes and leave. When you get home, cancel your gym membership. It's guaranteed that that guy just told the entire gym about what just happened, and if you ever set foot in that gym again they're all going to point and they're all going to laugh.

Happy Pretend You Love To Party Day!

Mismatched Socks Day

Mismatched Socks Day!

Today without realizing it you’re going to leave the house in mismatched socks, one blue, the other brown and orange argyle. You won’t make it a few blocks without being beaten senseless by a gang of street children, but they won’t tell you it’s because of your socks. They’ll just shout “Freak!” and “Go back to New York!” and things.

You’ll go to the police station and tell them about the beating, but before you even approach the reception area the desk sergeant will have spotted your socks. He’ll listen to your story about the beating, but the socks will in his mind incriminate you for a string of murdered prostitutes they’ve been finding near the freeway. He’ll ask you to step behind the counter, but he won’t press too hard since he’s just a desk sergeant and won’t want to be the one you lose your mind on. You’ll walk free, for a short while until the APB is issued.

At work you’ll be demoted and the process of humiliating you to force you out will begin. “My God man do what’s right for the firm and resign,” the Chairman will say. You’ll go to a dark bar to drown your sorrows where the love of your life will introduce herself and say, “Sometimes a woman can look at a man and know. That’s what happened when I saw your hosiery.”

At that you’ll look down at your ankles and then back up at the woman and you’ll say, “You know me better than I know myself.”

Marry.

Happy Mismatched Socks Day!

The Cuckolded Lumberjack Day

The Cuckolded Lumberjack Day!

Today, the lumberjack will discover just before work that his wife has been cheating on him with his coworker, another lumberjack. The cuckolded lumberjack will drive to work very upset. The emotions swirling around in him will make him dizzy, going from anger to sadness to humiliation to self-pity. When he gets to work, he’ll keep his cool until he sees the lumberjack that cuckolded him. The cuckolded lumberjack will kill the other lumberjack with his chainsaw, naturally, because he’ll have just found out he was cuckolded and he has a chainsaw. What would you do?

Email your responses in soon and you could win.

Happy The Cuckolded Lumberjack Day!

Steal A Suit For Your Son To Wear To His First Big Dance Day

Steal A Suit For Your Son To Wear To His First Big Dance Day!

You are an impoverished single mother and your teenage son is in love with a girl who has two working parents. He confided to you that he wanted to ask this girl to the upcoming winter formal, but that he was afraid she would say no because he was poor and she was not. You did all you could to reassure your son that that girl shouldn’t care about anything except for his character. You tried to give him the courage to march right up and ask her to be his date. It was a wonderful day when he came home beaming with the news that she had said yes. Then you both became aware of a small hurdle that needed to be surpassed.

“I need a suit,” your son said.

“I know,” you told him.

“Did Dad leave any behind?” he asked you.

You shook your head. “I threw all his clothes away.”

“It can’t be from the Salvation Army,” your son said. He was starting to panic. “I need a new suit. A real, new suit. Marion will be able to tell the difference.”

You promised your son, “I’ll take care of it.”

You’re going to have to steal a suit for him from one of the apartments that you clean as a visiting maid. The apartment you clean on Saturdays is occupied by a low level record executive in his twenties. He’s about as tall as your son, maybe a little bit taller. You were shocked the first time you opened his closet door by how many suits he had. Steal one today.

No matter how much you implore your son to be careful to keep the suit clean, he’ll end up catching the suit on fire when the car he’s riding in crashes into a telephone pole. Your son won’t be hurt, but you’ll have to figure out how to replace an $800 suit before the owner notices it missing.

Have a car wash. In the end you’ll make enough money, but the owner will discover that the suit is a replacement by some detail you won’t think to consider, and he’ll have you fired from the cleaning service. But don’t worry. When you confront the suit owner with the reality of what a hardship he’s brought upon you and your son, he’ll fall in love with your feistiness and end up being a surrogate role model for your boy.

Happy Steal A Suit For Your Son To Wear To His First Big Dance Day!

Take Your Buddy's Wife Out While He's Away Day!

Take Your Buddy's Wife Out While He's Away Day!

Your friend Dave has a very attractive wife and he's afraid of her cheating on him unless she is constantly entertained by male companionship.

"Can you take her out tonight?" he asked you yesterday. "I have an offsite in Springfield and I won't get back until tomorrow. If she's left alone for the evening, who knows how many times she'll cheat on me."

You told Dave that you understand his terror and that you'd be glad to take her out so that he can know who she's cheating on him with.

"No!" Dave shouted. "I just want you to take her to a movie and some dinner and be good company for her so she doesn't feel the need to have sex with anybody. Can I trust you to do that?"

That bummed you out, but you agreed to help him.

Tonight at dinner, you'll discover that you're no match for Dave's wife in conversation. She's very well-read and knows a lot about economics. You'll try to keep up, but whenever you go silent or you trudge through a boring story, you'll see her eyes glaze over and she'll start sending glances in the direction of other men in the restaurant.

To keep her from luring strange men, you'll resort to spilling your wine on the table and tapping her plate with your fork and asking her if you can try her entrée. You'll lose sight of her when you drop your knife under the table, and she'll make a dash for the rest room where another diner has gotten the message and will be meeting her in one of the stalls. Luckily, you'll burst in just in time to pry them apart.

"Stop it," you'll shout at the other diner. "She's just bored!"

The other diner will run away. Dave's wife will shout, "Damn right I'm bored. Why don't you go wait in the car?"

Say to her, "Because I'm your husband's friend. And your husband loves you so much that he asked his friend to keep you entertained so you wouldn't be forced to betray him. But I guess I didn't do that good a job,"

Dave's wife will feel bad. "No, you were great company. Really." She'll put her arm on your shoulder.

Say to her, "Your husband really cares about you. You owe it to him to get through the night without having sex with other people."

Dave's wife will take a deep breath. She'll say, "I'll try."

"That's all I ask," you'll say.

After that, go back to the table and talk about movies. Her attention will stray occasionally, but she won't try to have sex with anyone for the rest of the meal. Just to be safe, after you take her home, drive to the end of the block and keep your eye on her house.

Happy Take Your Buddy's Wife Out While He's Away Day!

Pull Your Son Into The Life Day

Pull Your Son Into The Life Day!

His mom is seeing a new guy, so he came running to you for a bed to sleep in. Back when you split his mom said she wouldn't let him come see you because she thought you were a bad influence.

"I'm not sending his life down the same toilet that took you under," she said.

You knew you weren't ready to raise him, but it made you furious that she could talk as if the way in which you earn your money made you some kind of child molester. Her "Good Influence" bullshit sure took a breather as soon as she found a drunk who could hold down a job that was willing to move in. So what if he throws her son up against the wall, least half the rent's paid.

Nothing would make you happier than for her to find out her good little boy is following in her Daddy's footsteps. He says he wants to learn how to live on his own. Go ahead. Pull your son into The Life.

"When I was your age I never thought, 'When I grow up I want to give people Henna Tattoos at corporate events and city-organized street fairs.' But I fell into it and it's provided me with the living that lets me hang onto this apartment and all these furnishings."

Your son will tell you that he wants to learn.

"You sure?" ask him. "My fingertips are brown and they're gonna stay that way forever."

Your son will repeat that he wants to learn.

"I can't see the world no more. It's all obscured in wild swirls. Everything's more ornate than it needs to be."

Your son will say that he needs this.

"Okay," tell him. "Settle in. First I'll show you how to dry off a sweaty hand without offending the customer."

For the first time, your son will look at you like he was looking at his Dad.

Happy Pull Your Son Into The Life Day!

Get Horny Day

Get Horny Day!

Today, when someone puts a gun in your brother's face and demands that you achieve an erection in your pants or your brother gets it, you're going to have only one question.

"Do you have any photographs of Topher Grace?"

The fear in your brother's face will momentarily be replaced with shock. "Dude, you're queer?"

Tell him, "For Topher Grace. Yeah. Isn't everybody?"

The gunman will ask you if you have sex with men or with women.

"No matter who I have sex with, I'm only thinking about Topher Grace."

Your brother will ask you why you didn't tell him about this all these years.

"Did you think I would be ashamed of you? Because I'm not," he'll say.

Say, "Why would you be? I bet you're thinking about Topher Grace right now."

Your brother will insist that he's not. Then when the gunman presses the gun harder against his cheek, your brother will admit that Topher Grace is on his mind, but it's only because you all are talking about how hot you think Topher Grace is.

The gunman will remind you that you have to achieve an erection soon.

"I know," tell him. "I need a photo of Topher Grace I said."

The gunman will find some photos on Google. They'll do the trick and your brother will be saved.

Happy Get Horny Day!

You Love The Movie "Grease" Day

You Love The Movie "Grease" Day!

Today, you should tell everyone how much you love the movie "Grease" so that they all think that you were raped by a relative when you were young. Just go on and on about how many times you've watched the movie, about which C-list stars were your favorites in the revived play, making it clear that you've returned to the play at the announcement of every cast change. Your coworkers will pass word around the office that everyone deal a bit more gently with you since you are clearly an incest survivor who has chosen to bury the memory under the heavy blanket of your postured love for the movie "Grease." Your friends will hate themselves for not having seen the obvious emotional scars of abuse sooner and they will stage an intervention for you later this evening. They'll try to convince you that you only think you love the movie "Grease," but in reality you were probably whored out by your mom to her brothers and you've been trying to forget. They'll present to you some scientific studies that make it clear how nine time out of ten, an expressed love for the movie "Grease" is really just a way of saying, "It all got taken away from me the night my Mom went into the hospital with food poisoning and I was left alone with Uncle Pete."

Happy You Love The Movie "Grease" Day!

A Hooker Named Mistletoe Day

A Hooker Named Mistletoe Day!

"The way it works is, I come over and stand on a tall stool. You and your wife come and stand next to the stool. I arch myself over the two of you and you kiss. And whatever else you like. $200 an hour."

You've been stumped for what to get your wife this Christmas. The idea came to you when you were masturbating into the back of your free weekly and you saw Mistletoe's ad.

"I've been out of the game for a while, but there's no way for us to catch a disease from you by having you in our house, right?"

Mistletoe will tell you that unless she catches a cold or the Mumps, it should be cool.

"Mumps, huh?"

Think about it.

"What's the Mumps like?"

Mistletoe will tell you that as far as she knows, it's sucky.

"Hmm."

Think about it. Your wife has complained that your gifts aren't very inventive, and inviting a prostitute to hover on a stool over the two of you would certainly impress her. She also complains that you're too careful with her in bed, and that she wishes you'd be more reckless.

"Can I check my wife's medical history and get back to you?"

Mistletoe will say, "I'm booking up fast."

Say, "Fuck it. Come over on Christmas morning and hover over us while we screw. I have a birthmark on my penis."

Mistletoe will ask, "Why'd you tell me that?"

Explain, "I just don't like to surprise girls with it. In case you feared I had a disease. My wife was very understanding. She even said it turned her on. It's how I knew she was the one."

"She's gonna like her present," Mistletoe will tell you.

"Thanks Mistletoe," say to her. "And please don't slit our throats."

Mistletoe will hang up without responding.

Happy A Hooker Named Mistletoe Day!

Send The Mayor A Necklace Day

Send The Mayor A Necklace Day!

Include a note that says, "Mr Mayor. I can't get you out of my mind. Ever since you revamped the infrastructure. It's like we are just one person split in two, trying to find each other and rejoin that body that was intended. Enclosed is a necklace. It cost me $57 dollars, all the money I could steal from my husband. Wear it to your next press conference, and I'll know you feel the same.

Love,

Millicent Rhodes (Taxpayer)"

If at the next press conference the mayor does not wear your necklace, he's a naughty little tease who likes to be chased.

Happy Send The Mayor A Necklace Day!

Morning Breath Day

Morning Breath Day!

Everyone calls you Morning Breath because your breath smells horrible. You've tried to use breath spray and mints but it doesn't help. You've changed your diet. You've even changed your soap and shampoo just in case it's been affecting your body chemistry somehow. No dice.

Tonight you have a big date and just like all of your big dates, it's not going to go well if she thinks your terrible breath is caused only by you being disgusting. You're going to have to tell her that you're dying.

"I have an intestinal disease," say. "That's why my saliva smells so bad."

She'll say, "I'm sorry."

Ask her if she'd like to be your girlfriend until you die. "I only have six months. You can be in love with me, then you can mourn me for a really long time after that and no one will blame you for skipping out on parties or being late for work because they'll assume you were crying."

She'll say, "Sounds good. I'm in. I'm gonna love you to the end."

Rock! You're gonna have a girlfriend who is cool with your breathing stinking like old milk because she thinks you won't live that long, and who will love you as passionately as someone who thinks time is running out. And when you don't die in six months, all she'll be able to assume is that you recovered and she'll have to be happy for you. So it'll be like another three months after that before she decides that she can't be around someone who stinks so bad if he isn't dying. That's nine whole months of girlfriend, baby. You're stinking pretty tonight!

Happy Morning Breath Day!

Be A Poker Ace Day

Be A Poker Ace Day!

If you become a Poker Ace, no one will say things like, "You have a gambling addiction and you need to get help" anymore. Poker Aces are nothing but gambling addicts who win all the time, so start winning all the time. People will look up to you as a Poker Ace because they'll know that you always have $80,000 in cash on your person. And no one will mind anymore that you're supremely unattractive because Poker Aces always are. It's what gives them their drive to win so much of other people's money. Ask any Poker Ace why they do it, and they'll say that they're angry at God for making them look that way, so they decided to get back at him by taking all the money God saw fit to let other people have.

So go back downstairs to the tables and start to win every single hand. You have to win $250,000 in one night in order to become a Poker Ace, and you have to not care about a dime of it. Also, you're not allowed to send any back to your wife and daughter. It's not the Poker Ace's way. And finally, you're going to have to die in the near future from a gunshot to the temple. You're welcome to pull the trigger, or you can just wait for someone else to do it. When you're a Poker Ace, you can bet that someone surely will.

Happy Be A Poker Ace Day!

Homeowner Day

Homeowner Day!

Though you are a homeowner, you are not allowed to shoot trespassing children unless they pose a credible threat to your person or your family. So when little Marty climbs the wall of your yard to retrieve a ball, provoke him.

Point your shotgun at him and say, "You wouldn't have to be staring down the barrels of this here gun if you learned how to catch, girl-arm."

Marty will say, "You're right, I don't know how to catch. Can I stay here with you? When I go back to the game they're all just gonna make fun of me."

You'll be confused because you've been an angry old man ever since your wife Georgia died. It's been a long time since anyone asked to keep your company. "What'll we do?" ask him.

Marty will shrug his shoulders. "Got anything to teach me?"

Say, "Do you know how to make Hollandaise sauce?"

Marty will shake his head no. Then he'll toss the ball over the fence to his friends and come running to your side.

In the kitchen, you'll show Marty how to make your special Hollandaise sauce. "Put this on a couple poached eggs and you'll feel like you deserve a little bit more than most people. Which you don't. It's important for a boy your age to learn that you aren't special. Almost as important as it is that you learn to make a good Hollandaise. Keep stirring."

Marty will stir the Hollandaise sauce and tell you about how his father and grandfather don't talk.

"I don't talk to my son neither, the little bastard."

Marty will ask if you'll be his grandpa. Since his Dad won't let him have one.

Say, "I need to confess something first. When I came out there in the yard earlier with my shotgun, I really wanted to shoot you. Shoot you dead. I was hoping you might throw that ball at me so I could say I'd been attacked and open fire. If you can live with your grandpa doing something like that, sure. I'll be your grandpa, kid."

Marty will hug your legs. Give him a check for five dollars.

Happy Homeowner Day!

Naked Pictures Your Ex-Girlfriend Took Day

Naked Pictures Your Ex-Girlfriend Took Day!

Apparently your ex-girlfriend got a little drunk last night and posted some naked pictures of you on the internet. It wasn't malicious. You and she are still in touch, and you've even met her husband and 2-year old son. She was with some friends and they were all admiring the naked photographs of you and it was decided in their drunken state that it would be the right thing if the photos were put up on the internet.

"They were actually kind of angry with me that I hadn't shown them the pictures earlier," your ex told you when she called this morning. "They felt that I had been selfish because naked pictures of you are so pleasing to the eye. My friends said that in order to make amends for my selfish behavior, I must share the photos with the world immediately."

"I understand," you said.

"You're getting a lot of hits," she said. "I posted your email address next to the photos so that people can write to you."

"Thank you," you said.

When you get to your computer you'll find your inbox flooded with several thousand emails from people who have seen the naked photographs of you and wanted to make contact with you for one reason or another. Most of the emails are simply complimentary. "Congratulations on the excellent naked photographs," they read. Others are more passionate.

"I've left my husband. I'm coming to your city. Tell me where to find you so I won't have to track you down, which will cost money. I'm broke."

And then there were of course a great deal of emails from people who were made angry or who were offended by the photographs. "You are clearly attempting to portray a Godlike physique in these photographs, but there is only one God. There are many sinners. I intend to rid the Earth of just one. You."

You were afraid of this kind of thing. But you let your ex take the photographs anyway. Many times you had the opportunity to destroy them, but you didn't. Perhaps you wanted to see just what would happen.

There's some racket outside. Go to the window and watch a crowd of your admirers clash with a crowd of people who came out to kidnap you and burn you in a public park. Each group is several hundred people strong. Many are about to die. All because you look so motherfucking hot when you drop your pants for a Polaroid.

Happy Naked Pictures Your Ex-Girlfriend Took Day!

Your Chauffer Knows Where There Are Hookers Day

Your Chauffer Knows Where There Are Hookers Day!

"You are very lucky to have me as your limousine chauffer for the evening," Hector told you when you began your drive from the airport. "I know where there are hookers."

You told him that you just wanted to get to your hotel so that you can get some sleep and then wake up bright and early to reconcile with your daughter after all these years. He seemed hurt.

"But…don't you want to know where there are hookers?" he pouted.

You said, "Okay Hector. Show me where there are hookers."

The first place he took you was an underpass.

"See?" he said. There were indeed hookers for as far as the eye could see.

"That's great," you said. "But you know, it is an underpass. Everyone knows that the hookers live underneath the underpass."

Hector said, "You are very brilliant. I will take you someplace where you never would have guessed you would find a hooker."

Hector took you to 378 Oak Tree Lane. He knocked on the door and an old woman answered. Hector told her, "He wants to see the hooker."

She led the two of you quietly up the stairs to a bedroom where a 20-year-old woman was napping. She looked quite pretty.

"My daughter," the old woman whispered.

"A hooker too, yes?" Hector asked excitedly.

The old woman nodded. Then closed the door softly.

Back in the car, Hector said, "Impressed?"

"Yes Hector, I never would have guessed there was a hooker in there. Can I go to my hotel now?"

Hector said he wanted to take you to one more place where there are hookers. The place he took you to was a Stop N Shop.

"There," he said, pointing at the supermarket.

"Hookers are here?" you asked. "Which aisle?"

Hector didn't like your joke. He peeled out of the parking lot and started speeding down the highway.

"I'm sorry Hector. It was just…"

"The hookers are in the back of the store inside the loading dock! But you do not deserve to know where there are hookers!" Hector said. "You deserve to be tied to a wall and carved open while you are still alive."

That's what Hector's doing to you right now. It's awful, and you'll die soon. Just a day before you were finally going to pull your daughter back into your life.

Happy Your Chauffer Knows Where There Are Hookers Day!

Your Prized Caroler Is Pregnant Day

Your Prized Caroler Is Pregnant Day!

19-year-old Stacey is showing. You haven't seen her all year and you didn't know about this until just now when you all gathered for cocoa at Rafe's. You told Stacey that you don't think it looks right, singing about the lord and about family cheer and whatnot when everyone in town knows that she isn't married. Maybe she should sit this year out, you suggested.

The others objected that without Stacey they just didn't have what it takes. She's the angel on our tree, they said. She's the nose on Rudolph, they added. She's the pipe in Frosty's mouth, they belabored.

"Besides," Stacey said. "It's Christmas, the one time of year when everyone claims to believe in a virgin birth. Tell them I'm just another carrier of the heavenly seed."

Well you certainly had no plans of telling anyone anything like that. But it was clear that Stacey wasn't going to bow out of the season's greetings, so you bucked up and decided to captain your troupe of carolers with the leadership they expect from you. You and your fellow carolers would bring song unto your neighbors.

Things will go fine tonight, until you get to Jake Henning's house. Jake will open the door while you're singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." He'll slam it in your faces when Stacey pushes her way to the front step and bellows up at him, "Glory to THE NEWBORN KING!!!" You'll all leave the Hennings' house, but Stacey will stay and scream the complete song at the house while Jake draws all the curtains and turns off the downstairs lights.

She'll catch up to you after she tosses a snowball through the glass pane of Jake's bedroom window. None of you will say much about it, but it'll be pretty clear that Jake's the father of Stacey's baby. Jake and his wife have already got two kids so what he'd want with another one nobody thought it was a good idea to ask.

Happy Your Prized Caroler Is Pregnant Day!

Embark On A Magical Journey That You'll Never Forget Day

Embark On A Magical Journey That You'll Never Forget Day!

Most people believe that in order for a journey to be magical, you have to go into the woods with an adult who is shorter than four feet tall as a companion. These people are creepy and they're trying to lure you into a rural underbelly where adults who are shorter than four feet tall are paid to fistfight children to the death.

Your magical journey will begin when you least expect it. Such as when a horse-drawn sleigh approaches from the darkness and the old sleigh driver tells you that though you are just a schoolboy, you are the last hope for saving the forgotten country of Mostanzipan, a gleaming land of hope and good that rests in the dark cliffs of Metuchen, New Jersey.

You will tell the sleigh driver, "I won't fistfight midgets."

The sleigh driver will pass this information back to the cloaked figures sitting side by side in the sleigh. The cloaked figures will confer, then they will nod to the sleigh driver, who will say to you, "Never mind then." And the sleigh will rattle off down the road until it disappears into the black horizon.

Once the sleigh is gone and the street is still, you'll and wonder about the journey you passed up. Then you'll be thrown into a van and driven to a television studio where you'll be told you've been picked to be a contestant on a new reality show called, "Scavenger Hunt," and the prize is one million dollars.

Happy Embark On A Magical Journey That You'll Never Forget Day!

Your Religion Sucks Ass Day

Your Religion Sucks Ass Day!

You drive past other houses of worship and you hear nothing but rocking music pumping through the walls and you see nothing but hot puss waiting to get in. Some houses of worship even have flags. Flags! Of their very own!

But you just keep on driving to your tired old house of worship where all the chairs are comfortable and lived in and everyone prays with a contented sigh. Sure it's comforting and it's cozy, but goddammit you didn't latch onto a faith to get put to sleep. You started believing because you were sick of the grind and you wanted a little action. A little pop and flash. Better drugs. Bigger appetizer servings. Chicks who know two languages. What's the point of recognizing God if not to get your hands on some recently updated Star Maps?

You came into your religion late in the game, and everyone's always reminiscing about how awesome it used to be before the 1640s. You can't help but feel like you showed up long after a scene has been played out. Your religion seems to survive solely so that congregants can get together every once in a while to remember when they were kickass. Well why not jump ship and go find the religion where the congregants don't have time to reminisce because they're too busy talking smack on trivia night? Remember, we're all pretty much praying to the same big cheese. Why not pray in the pew that's wired with PS2 game controllers.

Take the plunge. Go Greek Orthodox. You know what they say: "Once you go Greek Ortho, you'll be stoneder than shit."

Happy Your Religion Sucks Ass Day!

Strike Gold Day

Strike Gold Day!

You're extremely wealthy and you've just bought some homes from some poor people for far less than they were worth. The poor people took the offer because they didn't know any better and they were unaware that the sum you offered would not buy them a rotted out shack by the highway in today's market. But you wanted to open up a Harmful Chemicals Plant on the plot of land where their houses were, so you swindled them into near-homelessness.

Today you're going to level their homes and discover that the dirt is chock full of gold. All of those poor people could have been millionaires had they just dug a few feet under their basements and saw the glitter. Instead, they're all renting small apartments.

Now that you own the land, the gold is yours. While it is worth hundreds of millions all told, you really won't notice the addition to your assets and it will actually cause some problems for you come tax time.

Happy Strike Gold Day!

Take Your Stockboy To Lunch And Give Him Some Advice Day

Take Your Stockboy To Lunch And Give Him Some Advice Day!

You were just like him at his age, pounding the pavement and knocking on shop windows looking for some way to make some soda pop money. He works hard and he keeps his fingernails clean. As best you can tell, he don't steal from the register neither. He's a good kid. Take him out for a hamburger and tell him the three things he needs to know:

"All waterfront hookers got knives in their purses."

He'll write it down on that little pad he uses to take notes on inventory.

"Everyone says that if you hang yourself from a belt and beat off, the orgasm is the best you'll ever have. They're wrong. The orgasm is just okay. And it's not worth the risk."

He'll write – "Belt myth. Not worth the risk."

"There's no room for pride in love. You find yourself in love, you hand it all over. Your money, your car, government secrets. No one's gonna blame you for doing what it takes to hang onto the only thing keeping us going. We're all gonna die. Might as well die with someone caring a damn about you."

He'll ask you to repeat what you said starting with "your car," but slower.

Happy Take Your Stockboy To Lunch And Give Him Some Advice Day!

Send A Naked Photograph Of Yourself To Your Parents Day

Send A Naked Photograph Of Yourself To Your Parents Day!

Include a note that reads: "Mom and Dad, here's what I look like when I'm naked these days. I figured you'd be kicking it soon and I didn't want you to die wondering. As you can see, no tattoos (Note: If you have tattoos, don't write this.) I never liked tattoos and I think anyone who has them is stupid. (Note: Again, the previous sentence should be left out of your letter if you have any noticeable tattoos.) It's like, 'Hey look at me. I'm so retarded that I got something stupid drawn on my body for permanent.' (Note: It will be confusing, is why you should leave out the parts about the tattoos if you have them. Your parents will wonder why you think they don't see your tattoos.) I'd die a lot sooner than you would if I had a tattoo. Because I'd kill myself for being so stupid. (Note: Sigh.) Anyway, Mom and Dad, I don't make as much money as I'd like to make and I blame you. You raised me to make less. By the way, my dick isn't even really hard in that picture. It's always that big. That's default. (Note: If you don't have a dick, don't write this.) Love, [Your name]."

If you want the letter to be extra special, write all of the above in blood.

Happy Send A Naked Photograph Of Yourself To Your Parents Day!

Welcome Back, Shooter Day

Welcome Back, Shooter Day!

Your visit to the Grand Canyon won't go as planned. This will be apparent from the minute you sidle up to the information desk and the teenage girl behind the counter looks at your face and says, "Nice to see you again Shooter. You back to see if you can fill that canyon to the rim with innocent baby's blood?"

Tell the girl your name and ask her whether there was any space left at any of the campgrounds where you could hitch your trailer. She'll suggest that you just put a bullet in whoever might be occupying the hitch you're looking for.

"Wouldn't expect nothing less from you, Shooter," she'll say.

Again, tell her your name and say that she must have you mistaken for someone else.

When you walk out to your trailer, the girl will follow. She'll put her fingers to her lips and release a loud whistle. The other tour guides and park rangers will turn at the sound and when they spot you they'll all go pale and warn the younger children to get back inside their cars.

When you get back into the trailer explain to your wife that everyone at the Grand Canyon thinks you're someone named Shooter.

"Who's Shooter?" one of your kids will say.

"Sounds like he's a kid-killer honey. Sounds like the staff around here have been waiting a pretty long time for some payback. Load my Glock will you sweetie?"

Your wife will ask you if she can expect some shit this evening. "We gonna have to plug some poor dumb citizens?" she'll say.

Tell her that unless they can get it in their head that you're not the Shooter they're looking for, unless they can leave you and your family alone to enjoy the majesty of the Grand Canyon, then yes, every last one of them is gonna have to die.

Your wife will kiss your cheek because she's been looking for some action ever since Nebraska.

Happy Welcome Back, Shooter Day!

Fill Your Apartment From Floor To Ceiling With Piles Of Newspapers Day

Fill Your Apartment From Floor To Ceiling With Piles Of Newspapers Day!

If you fill your apartment with piles of newspapers from floor to ceiling, any boy you bring home will look at all the newspapers and shout, "Wow! You probably have every newspaper ever printed for the last ten years in here!"

Say, "I try to collect them all. But sometimes I end up in the hospital for a while." Then offer a nightcap.

The boy will say, "I bet if I wanted to find out what the big news story was on April 9th, 1997, I'd be able to root through the pile and see for myself."

Tell him that he probably could but it would take a while to find the right paper. "I tried to order them according to how far off the weather report was from the actual weather, but the degrees of difference did not vary as much as I thought. So then I started separating them into piles of when Ziggy talked or when he was just reading a funny sign. But that doesn't make a particular issue easy to find."

The boy will say, "I could move in and put them in order for you. By date even. Should take me four years."

Say okay. Then pee into a saucepan.

"We have to pee into buckets and saucepans and empty them out the window," tell the boy. "I took the toilet out to make room for more newspapers."

The boy will nod.

"Can you turn around?" ask him. "I'm shy."

The boy will turn around. Continue peeing into your saucepan, then go and make love to your new live-in boyfriend on a pile of Ziggy's-Just-Reading-A-Funny-Sign.

Happy Fill Your Apartment From Floor To Ceiling With Piles Of Newspapers Day!

Communicate To Somebody That A Crime Is Taking Place Using Only Pantomime Day

Communicate To Somebody That A Crime Is Taking Place Using Only Pantomime Day!

Today, when you are walking through the parking lot of a bar you've never patronized before, you'll spy someone trying to break into a car by jamming a coat hanger into the windowframe of the driver's side door. Since you've never alerted someone to a crime in progress before, make it especially memorable by using only pantomime.

Just run inside to the bartender and wave your hands hysterically to bring him to your end of the bar.

"What's the problem, Bub?" he'll ask.

Point to the front door. Remember to keep your eyes wide the whole time to make it clear that you're very excited about something and everyone who's trying to read your wacky gestures should be very excited too.

"Something going on outside?" the bartender will ask.

Move your fists in front of you like you're driving a car.

"Something to do with a car?" he'll ask.

You're doing good so far. But now you have to figure out how to portray a thief. Try looking suspiciously over your shoulders, then grab a wad of bills off the bar and put them in your pocket.

The bartender will say, "I saw that. Put that money back."

Shake your head no to make it clear that you are only pretending to steal the money for the purpose of what you're trying to get across to him.

"Don't tell me no. Put the money back, son. Think you can distract me with some story about someone driving a car just so you can grab twelve bucks off my bartop? Dummy or no dummy you're taking that money outta your pocket."

The bartender will be holding onto the end of a baseball bat. Put the money back on the bar.

"That's better," the bartender will say. "Now hightail it outta here."

Shake your head no with those scared wide eyes again. Point at the door.

"Now what?"

Make the driving motion.

"Driving," the bartender will say. "Got it."

Now you've got to make it clear that a crime is being committed. If you can't come up with a good one for thievery, try murder. Point a fake gun at someone, then pretend to be that someone with his hands up. Then pretend to get shot.

The bartender will shout, "My God, someone's getting killed out there!" He'll grab his bat and call two of his customers to come with him. After a few minutes, they'll come back in.

"Ain't no one trying to kill nobody out there. Only thing that we saw was some fool trying to break into Daryl's car. You tried to distract me again so you could cop some cash, didn't you dummy?"

It's time to start talking because they're going to get pretty mean if you don't make with an explanation fast.

"No, I wasn't," say. "It was the car thief I was trying to tell you about."

One of the customers will shout, "Son of a bitch ain't even mute!" They'll all grab you and shake you upside down until your wallet falls out. Someone will empty your wallet. The people shaking you will lose their grip and drop you on your head. You'll fall unconscious.

One of the patrons will agree to take you home with him and tend to your wound. While you're asleep, he'll touch your privates and pleasure himself.

Happy Communicate To Somebody That A Crime Is Taking Place Using Only Pantomime Day!

Win The Racist Races Day!

Win The Racist Races Day!

Every year your hate group holds a day of track and field events to raise money towards keeping Mexicans out. The big day is today it's time to do whatever it takes to get that trophy back from your nemesis, Grand Wizard Lightning Toes.

Grand Wizard Lightning Toes' real name is Grand Wizard George Normandy. But when it was discovered just how fast he could run, all of his minions decided that he deserved a nickname because Grand Wizard George Normandy didn't make it sound like he was a very fast racist. Some people objected that the name Grand Wizard Lightning Toes sounded like an Indian name, and Indians are brown. But everyone agreed that in this case the paranoia surrounding such things could yield to the necessity of getting the word out to all the other hate groups in town that their Grand Wizard was the fastest pure-blood European descendant ever to set fire to a big cross then run away.

But you know something about Grand Wizard Lightning Toes that probably no one else knows. Grand Wizard Lightning Toes is allergic to mustard powder. This morning you're going to slip into the kitchen at Ma Hatred's Breakfast Nook and drop just a spoonful into her biscuit batter. Grand Wizard Lightning Toes is a braggart and he loves to announce that he can run just as fast with three biscuits in his belly. Once he takes a bite of Ma Hatred's delicious buttermilk biscuits, he'll die. Then you can head over to the field grounds and win that race fair and square.

Happy Win The Racist Races Day!

You Found Twelve Buttons of Mescaline In Your Son's Underwear Drawer Day

You Found Twelve Buttons of Mescaline In Your Son's Underwear Drawer Day!

"Tell me you're not using these," you'll say. "Please tell me you're just dealing."

Your son will tell you to stop being a square.

"What were you doing in my underwear drawer anyway, pervboy?"

Tell him you were just checking to see if he'd updated his sissy little diary yet.

"Wanna read about my action because you're not getting any yourself, that right?" he'll say.

Hit him. He'll hit back but it won't hurt.

Say, "Look, I just think we should have a talk about hallucinogens. They don't make you funnier or more attractive the way cocaine does."

Your son will say that he was just holding them for a friend.

"You think I'm going to fall for that?" ask him.

Your son will say that you got no choice and if you try to confiscate them his friend will demand that he pay for or replace the buttons or else.

"You want to see me on crutches? Go ahead and flush them."

Tell him he's hanging around with the wrong crowd and he should never hold or deal for anybody who isn't giving him a strong piece of the supply.

"5 to 8 percent," say. Then tell him you're leaving town for a few days on business and he'll have to figure out how to eat and get to school on his own.

"I got it covered," your son will say. "I love you Dad."

Hold your son in your arms.

Happy You Found Twelve Buttons of Mescaline In Your Son's Underwear Drawer Day!

Gayfaces Day!

Gayfaces Day!

Your boss is going to come to your desk this morning and wait for you to finish taking an appointment for him. You'll let the phone call linger longer than it needs to because you hate it when he stands by your desk and waits. When you finally hang up he'll say,

"Let's make gayfaces at each other."

"Gayfaces?" you'll say.

"Gayfaces. Like this." Your boss will make the face of a man who's just learned that the woman he thought was his mother was actually his father's second wife, and that she had conspired with his father to murder his natural mother.

"Oh," you'll say. "You mean like this?" Make the face of a woman who has nowhere to sleep tonight, just like last night.

"No! Gayfaces!" he'll shout. "Like this!" Your boss will make the face of Ramo, the grafitti artist who got electrocuted on the third rail of the subway in Beat Street. Except he'll make the face Ramo would have made if he was watching a magic show.

"Oh," you'll say. "I get it. Like this." Make a face like you're trying to fart but can't.

Your boss will say, "Forget it."

Say, "Wait I think I got it." Then dig your fingers into your cheeks and scratch four bloody wounds down each side of your face. Dig deep enough that the blood will flow fast and drip from your chin and onto your desk.

Your boss will say, "You suck at making gayfaces."

Just then Kevin from accounting will approach your boss. They'll make gayfaces at each other and you'll realize what you were doing wrong.

Your boss will say about Kevin, "Now that's a gayface."

Say, "I understand. I'll pack my things."

Empty your desk into a box and go.

Happy Gayfaces Day!

Your Girlfriend Sells Batteries On The Subway Day

Your Girlfriend Sells Batteries On The Subway Day!

"It's just till I can get up on my feet," she said last night, your first night together. You were lying in bed, which you considered a miracle, and you started talking about who had to be up for work in the morning.

"I'm a lawyer," you told her. "I work in copyright and trademark infringement."

She nuzzled your neck. "You'd be able to do quite a number on me if you saw the stuff I sell. They all have the same logos as Duracell and Energizer, but with just a slight misspelling."

You asked her if she has a home. She said that she lives in a one-bedroom share.

"I have seven roommates. They're all real nice."

You caressed her beautiful bare back and you asked her what she's working towards.

"Light-up yoyos and boxing nun finger puppets. Those are the big money items," she said. "And once I have enough saved I'll open up a boutique where I'll sell my handmade leather pocketbooks."

You told her that perhaps you could help her with the startup money and she accused you of being high-handed and started getting her clothes back on.

"Wait," you said. "I'm sorry. Won't I see you again?"

She told you to ride the D train between 7:30 and 10 AM. Her smile let you know that she wasn't going to stay angry.

Today, you should ride the D train between 7:30 and 10 AM. When she comes into your car, she'll look at your headphones and ask if you'd like to buy a pack of batteries for your walkman.

"It's an iPod," you'll say. "Rechargeable."

Her smile will disappear and she'll walk away from you chanting BAH-TEREEE, One dollar. You'll have blown it again. It's not going to get any easier for quite a while.

Happy Your Girlfriend Sells Batteries On The Subway Day!

Assassinate The President Of Your Block Association's Christmas Decorating Committee Day

Assassinate The President Of Your Block Association's Christmas Decorating Committee Day!

Block Association Christmas Decorating Committee President Susannah Carmine has held her post for seven consecutive terms. But the shame she has forced you and your neighbors to shoulder will be remembered for generations. Every year it's the same thing. Paper bag lanterns on the sidewalk, white lights in the trees, and at the end of the block Santa and his sleigh coming in for a landing with an elf holding air traffic controller glow sticks directing them.

She has no taste for candy canes. Frosty is not on her radar. And her administration can't even get it together to coordinate a series of front door wreathes.

She has to go. Her second in command, Barbara Talbot, is silent at meetings. But at the Ghosins' 4th of July barbecue Talbot it made it very clear she is unhappy with the direction the block's winter display has taken these past seven years. Knock Carmine off the throne and Talbot will do what needs to be done. But it has to happen tonight.

Mr. Carmine will be picking up their son Jake from Lacrosse practice this evening, leaving Susannah at home alone from 5:20 until 6:15. Make it look like an accident (you can use an assault rifle, but leave some banana peels on the floor so that it looks like after she got shot, she slipped and fell). Tomorrow, after some brief mourning, everyone will agree that Susannah would have wanted you to continue with preparations for the winter display. And with that your block will be on its way to decorating for the best Christmas ever.

Happy Assassinate The President Of Your Block Association's Christmas Decorating Committee Day!

You Divorced The Pilot Day

You Divorced The Pilot Day!

Your ex-wife, Grace, is a commercial airline pilot and after the divorce you made a point of never flying United to avoid being one of her passengers. It wasn't too difficult, since you're terrified of flying anyway. But considering how incendiary the proceedings were, had she ever discovered you in the cabin of one of her flights it's likely she would crash the whole jet just to take you out.

Today you're flying Delta to Chicago. Unbeknownst to you, Grace left United for Delta about four months ago. She's in the cockpit and she just got a look at the manifest and saw your name.

"Finally got you to take an interest in my work," she says when she comes back to your seat.

"Hello Grace," you say. "You've lost weight."

"No money to eat," she says.

All of the passengers are watching or listening in. You suggest that you take your conversation elsewhere since the other passengers might not like to watch their pilot lose her temper. Grace refuses, so you try to calm her down.

"I have to say, you look better than ever," you tell Grace.

"Are you traveling on business?" she asks. You suggest that perhaps it's best that the two of you not go too much into detail about each other's lives.

"What's her name?" Grace asks. You see her eyes go small, the way they always did right before she would throw a vase at your face. Out of the corner of your eye you see several passengers turn their heads in your direction.

"Smith, Beecher and Weinhart," you say. "A client of mine is being sued by a client of theirs."

Grace asks where you're staying in Chicago and whether it would be okay for her to come and visit you tonight. She really is looking better than ever.

"We shouldn't," you say. "It will end badly."

Grace says that she understands and then she recommends that you fasten your seatbelt because she thinks the plane might be running into some turbulence pretty soon.

"Grace," you say. "Don't be crazy."

She smiles and says that she's sorry but she has no control over the force of the wind in the skies. As she walks back to the cabin, everyone in the plane fastens their seatbelts.

For the next hour and a half, you endure the worst, most terrifying turbulence you've felt. You throw up twice. Your neighbor throws up three times. Several people shout at you for not having accepted their pilot's offer. "Was your marriage so bad that it’s worth risking our lives?" they shout.

"It was a trainwreck!" you shout back. "Nothing but headgames and bile!"

Up in the cockpit, Grace just sobs and jerks the controls up and down and left and right, treating the plane like a bumper car. Her co-pilot has seen her like this before and knows not to object.

A passenger screams at you, "Goddammit go up there and tell her she can have some of that tonight! My wife is turning blue!"

People start tossing their food trays and peanuts at you until you unfasten your seatbelt and pull your way up the aisle, grabbing hold of each headrest as you go to steady yourself.

You knock on the cockpit door and ask Grace to see you. The copilot opens up and you see Grace yanking the plane left and right through the calm night sky.

"You win," you tell her. "I'm at the Radisson."

Grace doesn't stop jerking the plane to and fro.

"Grace, I'm yours. Tonight. Come by."

Grace continues to yank at the controls. You make your way back to your seat. The other passengers grip their armrests and glare at you. The plane continues to bump and shake.

A few minutes later, a flight attendant approaches you with a slip of paper that reads: "Can we get dinner first?" There's a box for Yes and a box for No at the bottom of the note.

"For God's sake hurry!" the flight attendant shouts.

You check the box for yes and the flight attendant clamors back to the cockpit with the note. A moment passes, and then the plane steadies. A cheer goes up from the cabin and several people pat you on the shoulder, talking to you about "taking one for the team." You try to forget that you'll be having a rendezvous with your ex-wife in just six hours. Instead you close your eyes and you dream of land.

Happy You Divorced The Pilot Day!

Drinks Are On You, Asshole Day

Drinks Are On You, Asshole Day!

In 1888, your great grandfather invented something everybody needs, and your entire family has been rich ever since. All the money came down to you a year ago and when your Mom died, and you've been trying to come up with new fun ways to spend your wealth ever since. Today, you should go into a bar, buy everyone in the bar a round of drinks, then act like an asshole until you get chased outside.

"Drinks are on me!" shout into the crowd of patrons. Everyone will look at each other to see if anyone recognizes you, then they'll all agree to give thanks with a simultaneous, "Yaaay!"

Shout, "Yeah, I hope you choke on em you fucks!"

They'll all put down their glasses and wait for more from you. Don't give them anything. You don't want to blow your wad yet. Just let them all order their drinks, then lay your credit card down for the barkeep.

The barkeep will ask, "And what'll you have Niceguy?"

Tell him, "Nothing. I wouldn't drink with these miserable humps if it was gonna buy me two more mansions on two more mountaintops."

One of the customers will step off his stool and ask, "Do you have a problem with somebody mister?"

Say, "I got a problem with you if you're gonna drink up my charity and then mouth off to me."

The customer will say, "Come again?" Two of his neighbors will have climbed off of their stools to flank him.

Say, "You'll never see me come here again. Now slurp that welfare cheese of a whiskey so I can go and close down a racetrack just to see how fast my new Ferrari can vroom."

The customer will slam his drink down on the bar unfinished. "You take your money and you get outta here mister."

"I'll go when I please," say. "I'll go when the smell of your struggle to feed your kids gets too much for me."

At that, a shotglass will bounce off of your head. You'll be knocked to the floor but you'll be conscious. Crawl out to the sidewalk and start running. When it's clear that they aren't still following you, go into another bar and repeat. By the time the night is over, you'll have bought drinks for several hundred people, and every last one of them will hate your fat guts.

Happy Drinks Are On You, Asshole Day!

You Agreed To Help Your Dad Serenade Your Mom Day

You Agreed To Help Your Dad Serenade Your Mom Day!

Your Mom kicked your Dad out of the house when you were fifteen. She kicked him out for drinking too much. Not long after the split, your mom got herself a real good job and you and her got along just fine.

But you always wondered whether she could have given him a few more chances. You're living on your own now and you've got a pretty good job yourself, and when you see your Dad around town you can't help but invite him back to your apartment for dinner. It's nice to have him around. He's not so much your Dad anymore as he is a guy who's just kind of lonely and down on his luck a little. He works though, and he won't take any money from you. Just food and booze.

About a week ago, your Dad told you he had an idea to win your mom back. Your mom is dating a salesman that you know she isn't too excited about. And you do see her face turn soft whenever someone starts to tell a story about your Dad. So when he talked about the serenade, you gave it some thought.

"Nothing turns a woman on like a man who risks getting arrested for trespassing just so he could sing a pretty song to a lady," he said. You couldn't argue. He was drunk, sure, but you had never seen him so animated. The little kid in you sure was excited to see your Dad finally decide to take a stand and reclaim the woman who was his.

Tonight's the night. You agreed to play guitar for him. You'll get there at eleven on the dot, right on time. But after waiting for around a half hour, it will be clear your Dad's not going to show. You'll go inside your Mom's house and crash in your old room. You do that sometimes when you're closer to her place than yours. In the morning she'll make you breakfast and you won't mention your Dad.

A couple of weeks from now, your Dad will knock on your door at dinnertime. You'll make him a meal and ask him where he was the night of the serenade. You'll ask him what kept him from winning back his bride. He'll pretend to not know what you're talking about.

Happy You Agreed To Help Your Dad Serenade Your Mom Day!

Promise Jesus You’re Not Gonna Climb Trees No More Day

Promise Jesus You’re Not Gonna Climb Trees No More Day!

Jesus is very angry with you for climbing trees. That’s why he made you lose your grip and fall and break your arm in two places. Now your Dad is going to have to work two shifts for a couple of weeks to pay for your healing.

But the worst part is your Mom says that you shouldn’t assume that breaking your arm was the extent of the punishment Jesus has in mind for you.

“He’s probably so angry at you he’s just waiting for you to go out into the street so that he can run you down with a tractor-trailer. He’ll probably make the driver wonder what that noise was and pull up in reverse to see what he runned over, just so that Jesus can watch you get flattened two times,” your Mom said. “Better look both ways, ‘cause Jesus hates your guts.”

While you’re in bed today waiting for the throbbing in your arm to go away, spend the time praying to Jesus to forgive you. Promise him you’re never gonna climb no trees again if he just agrees to not murder you with some methed up trucker’s cab.

Happy Promise Jesus You’re Not Gonna Climb Trees No More Day!

Fake Whiplash Day

Fake Whiplash Day!

Today you should put on a neck brace and accuse your wife of owing you millions of dollars because she made your neck hurt.

Tell your wife, "You told me they had refilled the dip in the vegetable tray at Steve's party. That made me turn and look and now my neck hurts too much to do anything ever. Pay me!"

Your wife will tell you she's tapped out.

"You spent all my money on mistresses," she'll say.

"Well then you better call Daddy because I'm taking you to the cleaners," tell her. "And I only ever had one mistress and she was very special so don't disrespect her by pretending she was just one in a long trail of puss for me."

Your wife will go to her father and ask for millions. He'll pay her promptly. "You gotta hold onto this guy," her father will say. "He's the best you ever had."

It's true. Her last husband was a bank robber that she fell in love with during the hostage bargaining. A justice of the peace who was also being held hostage married the two of them. They were only married for fourteen minutes before her new husband was shot eleven times by a SWAT team.

"But Daddy," she'll say. "I think he might be faking the whiplash."

Her father will explain that fake or no fake, when it comes to whiplash, whoever gets the neck brace on first wins. That's why if you think someone is about to claim that they have whiplash you have to grab their neck and hold onto it so that they can't get the neck brace on. Once they do, no jury in the world will rule against them.

"Pay him," her father will say.

She'll get you the money tonight. Spend it on something nice for her, like televisions. She's been good to you and she deserves some televisions.

Happy Fake Whiplash Day!

Marry The Daughter Of The Guy Who Owns The Hot Topic At The Mall Day

Marry The Daughter Of The Guy Who Owns The Hot Topic At The Mall Day!

The guy who owns the Hot Topic at the mall doesn't just own that Hot Topic. He also owns two other Hot Topics at malls across the river, not to mention a construction company and a limousine service.

Marry his daughter. But don't let on that you're doing it just because you want to move up to senior manager at Hot Topic. His daughter will consider that to be unromantic and she'll say to you, "No." Her father could possibly respect your go-getter spirit and promote you on the spot for your efforts. But if he sees you made his daughter cry, he'll have you killed or at least blinded. He's mob, BTW.

Speaking of which, his being mob could be a problem. If he sees you as too much of a take-charge guy then he might pull you out of the Hot Topic and make you murder an enemy of his using only the heel of your boot and fire. No fun! The key here is to finally get the chance to run the Hot Topic the way you know it should be run. That requires that you woo the owner's daughter to the point that she'd rather die than risk letting you go. But make sure to come off a little bit fey so as to avoid her Dad assigning you the hard-nosed stuff. The best way to show some weakness is to overreact when you sip from hot drinks. Act like they're burning your tongue off every time and that you might cry, but you just have to keep drinking it, it's such a good latte.

Get her to love you, and you will get your hands on your Hot Topic franchise. And before you know it, the next sixty years will be laid out for you like they were penned into your day-planner.

Happy Marry The Daughter Of The Guy Who Owns The Hot Topic At The Mall Day!

Break Up All Night Long Day

Break Up All Night Long Day!

You shouldn't start up before ten forty-five. You can be hanging around each other before then. In fact, you might need to be at dinner or something so that you can both just sit and marvel at how long you can share a 2 X 2 foot table without exchanging a single word of English. The walk home would also need to be passed in silence while each of you fights an imaginary and entirely satisfying fight with the other inside your respective heads. Once at home, it's plausible that you could just end up with one of you going to bed while the other IM's with an ex, like you've been doing every night. So someone's going to have to say something horrible to the other, like:

"Did you make the plane reservations? I don't want those to be screwed up the way you screwed up your career as a dancer."

Or

"I have to get a good night's sleep tonight so when you come to bed don't kiss my cheek like you did last night."

Then just settle in for a good nine or ten hours of moving from room to room crying and blaming and talking about how happy you were when you went sledding once. Get out your suitcase and pack all of your clothes and things only so that you can throw the open suitcase against the hallway wall sending everything you own to rain down on your lover's head. Open up the history pane of your web browser and show your lover the long trail of viewed porn he leaves behind every time you step out of the room for ten minutes. Both of you should drink enough to take a break from the breaking up to have sex briefly, later allowing the act itself to serve as further evidence of your foundering bond.

Nearing dawn though, you should feel only sober, dry as a husk, yet strangely at peace. You'll both know that it's just the compensating high that comes before the exhaustion of a sleepless night takes its toll, but you'll find yourselves on the floor, sitting up against opposing walls, in good humor. At this point, you'll both feel as if you're fellow soldiers who've weathered a war together. You'll be able to laugh sparingly. You'll be able to divvy up your things, theoretically. You'll be able to touch hands and trade compliments on a relationship well-done. But most of all, you'll be able to imagine a night spent alone in a brand new apartment all your own. That vision of the life that awaits you will seem to be nothing short of paradise.

It won't be. You'll live surrounded by boxes, occasionally sleeping with your arms wrapped around a toaster that used to belong to your lover way back before you two even moved in together.

Happy Break Up All Night Long Day!