The Girl Without Any Hands Day

The Girl Without Any Hands Day!

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

"Take a seat," she'll say.

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

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

"I gotta ask," you'll say.

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

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

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

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

Look'a dat smile!

Happy The Girl Without Any Hands Day!

The Killing Hills Day!

The Killing Hills Day!

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

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

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

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

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

You'll die in a car.

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

But Has That Bag Boy Been Tested? Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Has That Bag Boy Been Tested? Day!

Dress Him Up In Your Love Day!

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

"What do I wear up top?"

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

How's this?

He looks awful.

"I'm really…"

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

"Really hard."

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

"I feel good in your clothes."

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

Happy Dress Him Up In Your Love Day!

Halloween Story Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Halloween Story Day!

Drive My Girlfriend Across The Border Day!

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

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

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

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

"I'll do it," you say. "Tomorrow…"

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

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

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

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

Happy Drive My Girlfriend Across The Border Day!

Navy Birthday Day!

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

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

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

Happy Navy Birthday Day!

Stop Putting It Out There For Them Day!

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

"Not my fault," you pout.

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

"Ass-skirt?"

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

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

Frank hasn't called you, Delicious Nose?

"Nope."

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

"Yup."

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

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

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

Happy Stop Putting It Out There For Them Day!

Canned Hearts Day!

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

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

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

Happy Canned Hearts Day!

Backrub Train Day!

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Backrub Train Day!

Christianity Time Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say, "It's Christianity time."

Greg will say, "Aw yeah."

"Were you waiting for this talk?" ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Christianity Time Day!

Do The Mashed Potato Day!

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

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

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

Happy Do The Mashed Potato Day!

Poor And Nine Months Pregnant, The Calendar Day!

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

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

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

Happy Poor And Nine Months Pregnant, The Calendar Day!

Be A Killing Machine Day!

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

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

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

Happy Be A Killing Machine Day!

Hearts On A Tree Trunk Day!

Mike

'N

George
-2002-

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

George
Is
An
Asswipe
-2004-

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

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

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

Happy Hearts On A Tree Trunk Day!

Introduce Some Novelty Into The Bedroom Day!

Tell her, "Meet James."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That looked fine," James will say.

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

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

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

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

Happy Introduce Some Novelty Into The Bedroom Day!

Stormy Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Stormy Day!

Quit Your Band Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Quit Your Band Day!

Teen Sex Fun Town Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" she asks.

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

You and Jane have sex.

Happy Teen Sex Fun Town Day!

You Leaned On Each Other In That Moment Day!

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

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

Happy You Leaned On Each Other In That Moment Day!