Introduce Some Novelty Into The Bedroom Day!

Tell her, "Meet James."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That looked fine," James will say.

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

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

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

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

Happy Introduce Some Novelty Into The Bedroom Day!

Stormy Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Stormy Day!

Quit Your Band Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Quit Your Band Day!

Teen Sex Fun Town Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" she asks.

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

You and Jane have sex.

Happy Teen Sex Fun Town Day!

You Leaned On Each Other In That Moment Day!

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

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

Happy You Leaned On Each Other In That Moment Day!

Deflate The Baby Day!

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

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

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

Happy Deflate The Baby Day!

Phone Call Made On Tee Shirt Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shirt?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Phone Call Made On Tee Shirt Day!

Lawncare For Love Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Lawncare For Love Day!

Throw Yourself Into The Well Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Throw Yourself Into The Well Day!

Gunfight Day!

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

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

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

Happy Gunfight Day!

You Are A Designer Of Gift Wrap Day!

Here are the top-selling patterns from your line:

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

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

Happy You Are A Designer Of Gift Wrap Day!

Under Blankets Day!

We go under blankets to play Naked Monster Killer.

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

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

"Help me to understand you then."

We fuck.

--

We go under blankets to play Naked War Crimes Tribunal.

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

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

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

We fuck.

--

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

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

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

"Tell me some happy memories about him."

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

--

Happy Under Blankets Day!

Gypsy Kings Mobile Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Gypsy Kings Mobile Day!

Medicine Man Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were married?

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

Did you two get along.

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

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

"I have my surprises."

Happy Medicine Man Day!

The Crucifixion Day!

Jeff and Mindy broke up after the big crucifixion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy The Crucifixion Day!

Bookreaders Day!

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

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

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

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

Happy Bookreaders Day!

Drive Drunk To The Airport Day!

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

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

"Hey Eve," you'll say.

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Drive Drunk To The Airport Day!

Tie A Mask Around Your Eyes Day!

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

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

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

Lie. "Yes!"

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

You're Donny's brother.

Happy Tie A Mask Around Your Eyes Day!

Your Wintry Eyes Day!

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

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

She says, "No I dig that."

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

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

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

Make your move, Jack Frost.

Happy Your Wintry Eyes Day!

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

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

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

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