Can't Wait Until Lunchtime Day!

You can't wait until lunchtime because lunchtime is when you get to talk to Raymond the kid behind the counter at Quiznos. Raymond looks exactly like Pat, one of your friends from high school who died on Prom night. You were driving and you bet everyone in the car that you could make it across the train tracks before the train passed. No one in the car took the bet and they begged you to just take them to their prom so that they could live out the night they've dreamed about throughout their teens. But them being scared was just going to make it all that much more fun when you ramped over those train tracks just in the nick of time. It didn't work out that way though, and everyone in the car died but you. Which is why you like ordering your lunch from Raymond every day because it lets you pretend that the world stopped just minutes before you got hit by that train and Pat not only isn't dead, but he's still 17 and he got a job at Quiznos.

Unfortunately, today you're not going to be allowed to order your sandwich because the manager will step in front of Raymond and tell you you're not allowed to eat lunch there anymore since every time you order a sandwich you follow it up by screaming "I'M SO SO SORRY!" and then lunge across the counter to try and hug Raymond and it scares his customers. Head over to Hale and Hearty where one of the salad girls looks like Kelly, one of your friends who was in the backseat, except more of a Latina version of Kelly.

Happy Can't Wait Until Lunchtime Day!

Burglars Catch You Sobbing Day!

When two burglars jimmy your lock and come creeping into your apartment today, they won’t know that you’re home at first. All the lights will be off and the shades drawn, and it will be so musty and dank inside that they’ll assume the place has been left empty for a month. They’ll go about burgling without even worrying about the noise they make. They’ll even turn on the HDTV and check out the picture before they decide to unhook it.

It’s only after they’ve finished gathering all the electronics that they’ll make their way into the bedroom for the jewelry and find you stretched out face down across the width of your bed. They’ll freeze, unsure of whether you’re awake or asleep. They’ll shine a flashlight on your back and watch it shiver as you release your peel of muffled sobs.

“Hey lady,” one will say.

“Just go away!” you’ll shout, without rolling over.

“We don’t wanna hurt you,” the other will say.

“Go ahead! Everyone else has!” you’ll shout back.

The burglars will be thrown. They’ll argue in whispers about what to do with you. Until you interrupt them.

“I said get out! Leave me alone!” you’ll shout, still not rolling over to face them.

They won’t say anything at first. Then:

“We’re stealing all your stuff,” one will say.

“Yeah,” the other will add. “Don’t you wanna stop us?”

This will send you over the top. You’ll spring to a half-sitting position, place your reddened, tear-stained face directly in the beam of their flashlight and you’ll scream, “I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE!!!”

The scream will make each of them remember their own big sisters as teenagers. They’ll remember being concerned, listening at the bedroom door to the breakup tears coming from inside, then they’d get up the courage to shuffle in and ask what’s wrong, only to be commanded to leave with the most blood-curdling screech they’d ever heard.

You’ll fall back on the bed and the burglars will back-step out of your room, pulling the door part-way closed behind them. They’ll argue in louder whispers in the living room, then they’ll gather up their loot and get ready to leave.

Before they go, one will lean back into your bedroom.

“Hey,” the man who is about to take off with all of your valuables will say. “It’s gonna get better.”

Happy Burglars Catch You Sobbing Day!

The Teens Are Out Of Control Day!

When you get to the gate of the singles only condominium complex, they demand that you drive your car fifty feet back and then walk to the gate while they watch. They need to know you don't have any teens inside your car waiting to run through the gates as soon as they open. They need to know you're alone.

"I have no children," you say. "I just need a place to stay. A place safe from the teens."

You can hear laughter in the distance. Youths. They're probably just drinking beer and fornicating in the woods, but who knows. You have to get inside.

"Please," you say.

They wait thirty seconds and then the gate opens. You run inside and the gate closes behind you almost immediately. A thirty-one year old man with hair plugs and capped teeth greets you with a shovel. He holds the shovel out to you.

"Bury the dead," he says, pointing to the corner. There are some teens piled there. They must have tried to get over the wall and got picked off by snipers. Stupid of them, but they have little to no sense once they smell people of legal guardian age. They just do whatever it takes to get closer to their kill. And sometimes they get shot. You have to bury them now.

While digging into the ground you catch a glimpse of the bright green shimmer of the moon reflecting off the pool and shining in the windows of the building. You hope the fence is high enough to dip in their safely. The world may be sinking into ruin now that the teens have been infected with a substance that turns them into fornicating killers out for adult blood, but it'd be nice if you could get in a swim before the end.

Happy The Teens Are Out Of Control Day!

PPPS: Buy "You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" if you haven't already! Long time no talk...

The Guy Who Stole Your Laptop Is Way More Likeable Than You Are Day!

You got your laptop stolen from a coffee shop not long ago (you left it alone on a table to go hit on a girl looking through postcards for terrible plays by the window. By the time the girl told you to leave her alone and you turned around, your laptop was gone). The guy must have immediately gone home and started answering your emails, because within 48 hours of losing your laptop, you and your father had reconciled your differences, your ex-girlfriend drunk dialed you, and your boss started telling everyone in the office that if they all had your attitude, the company’s stock would be through the roof already.

You check your sent mail file on Gmail and find that the guy who stole your laptop is capable of the most eloquent and evocative correspondence you’ve ever read. He was able to read into emails you’d gotten and instantly suss out what the writer was trying to say, and what the writer wanted to hear in response. And man did he tell them what they wanted to hear. Reading the emails he sent to your estranged father, ex-girlfriend, and especially your boss, you can’t help but shed a tear imagining what your life might have been like had you always had this strange man’s voice and grasp of human nature.

You decide to send an email to thank him, so you send it to yourself, assuming that he’s still reading.

Dear Guy Who Stole My Laptop,

Thanks for being me, in a way I could never be. I’m going to change my email password now.

Best

You change your email password and then you put on your good suit. You’re having dinner with your dad tonight.

Happy The Guy Who Stole Your Laptop Is Way More Likeable Than You Are Day!

PS: Hey UNITED KINGDOM, my new book is available in your part of town on July 3rd. Pre-order now!

PPS: Listen to me on NPR's "The Bryant Park Project," reading from and discussing my book.

PPPS: Another reading in NY this Friday, at KGB Bar. 7 PM. Free!

You Are A Fart Guitarist Day!

Today you’re going to quit playing fart guitar for an aspiring parody rock band that parodies popular rock songs in the vein of Weird Al, except without anyone knowing that you do it because you don’t make recordings that people can buy.

“I just don’t think there’s a future for me in Ned Bleppelin,” you’ll tell your lead singer.

“We have that gig at the orphanage in July. You’re just gonna let those kids go without hearing some funny music?”

“It’s not even a gig,” you say. “We just stand outside the orphanage’s window and play. They called the police the last time.”

This makes your lead singer cry. He grew up in that orphanage and his dream was that one day he would come back and perform there as a famous pop song parodist. After a few years of trying to make it, he grew impatient and just started playing outside the orphanage’s windows.

“What are you gonna do?” your lead singer asks.

“I’m going to join a song parody cover band” you say. “We’ll play parodies written by other people, like Al. There’s good money in it.”

“And the integrity?” he asks. “Is there much integrity to be found in that line of work?”

You shrug him off.

“Hey man, maybe one day we’ll parody one of your songs,” you say. “’My Fart Will Go On’ is bound to hit it big one day.”

Your lead singer loses his shit and starts throwing whatever he can find at you. Whoopie cushions, punching nun puppets, George W Bush masks. Whatever’s lying around the rehearsal space he sends flying at your head and cursing. You get the hell out of there and go meet your other band, Dare To Be Stupid, for practice. Tomorrow you’ll find out your former lead singer attempted suicide and is in the hospital. You won’t go visit. This is the business you’ve chosen.

PS: Pick up "You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero," the new book by Bob Powers. Out now!

The President's Gone Day!

It's day 6 and there's still no sign of the President of the United States. He took off over the weekend after he found out he got a staffer pregnant. She didn't want to abort and he got scared of having to raise another kid (his third), so he took off. He left a note for the Vice President that just read, "Sorry man." The nation's police forces have been instructed to treat the president's disappearance as if it were an abduction or a murder investigation. But the nation's citizens are starting to wonder whether he shouldn't just be left alone.

"He didn't want to raise a kid," people are saying to each other across dinner tables. "The Vice President can handle things. Let the guy go."

"Do we really want him to come back to his job even?" other people are saying to each other near water coolers. "If he'll run from something like this, what will he do when someone blasts us with bombs?"

"Don't blame me, I voted for Bill and Opus," some asshole just said to no one listening.

Today you're going to be driving across country to a place where you think there might be work and you're gonna pick up a hitchhiker. After driving for a bit, you'll get a look at his profile and you'll know it's him, but you won't say anything. You'll just keep going, taking your president as far as he needs to go. Just before dropping him off at a truck stop you'll say, "I ain't gonna say nothing."

"Appreciate that," the President of the United States will say. Then he'll wander around to the back parking lot of the truck stop, probably looking for his next ride. You'll drive on, feeling proud. You'll have served your country well today.

Happy The President's Gone Day!

ps: Bob's new book, "You Are A Miserable Excuse for a Hero," is out now! Pick up a copy soonish!

"You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" Day!

FYI: If you haven't heard, Bob Powers' new "choose-your-own-ending" style humor book (for adults who are 33 and failing) is out today. Go check it out!

"You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" Day!

You publish a magazine devoted to the Buick LeSabre. It includes all sorts of celebratory personal essays as well as fan-fiction written from the point of view of sentient Buick LeSabres who can love. Today you're going to get a call that one of your readers has taken a Buick dealership hostage because they've been putting their LeSabres in the back of the lot, away from street-view, and he won't let them go unless you show up and talk to him for a while about how awesome the Buick LeSabre is. You refuse because you're scared. Everyone at the Buick dealership is murdered execution style on the showroom floor.

Happy "You Are A Miserable Excuse For A Hero" Day!

PS:

"Miserable Excuse" excerpt up on the HuffPost

The Huffington Post ran an excerpt from my new book, out this Tuesday. Check it out.

And you can find a much longer sample, with many of the different outcomes, HERE! Give it a read.

Happy Memorial Day.

You're All Outta Love Day!

You're all outta love and you're only 46.

"I blew my love on a whole lotta people who didn't deserve it," you say at the dinner table, eyeing your two sons with scorn. Your two sons both give you the finger in response.

"Are you sure you didn't leave some of your love in your other pants," your wife says pointedly. She knows about the affair with the lady who sells you your pears.

"I should have been more miserly," you say, ignoring your wife. "What kind of man am I going to be now?"

Everyone sits and waits for you to do something that a man who's all outta love might do. Nothing happens. They get hungry and start eating again.

"Pass the salt," your son says.

"Nope," you say.

Everyone drops their forks to their plates and gasps. You realize what you've become and you drop your face into your hands and shriek.

Happy You're All Outta Love Day!

PS: Preorder YOU ARE A MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A HERO, the new book by Bob Powers. Out May 27th!

Sex Bus Day!

You were the sole survivor of the Great Christmas Eve Sex Bus crash of 2006. You barely remember a thing after the bus crashed through the guardrail and broke through the ice on the frozen over lake. There was screaming and there was cold, and then you were lying topless on a muddy bank feeling nothing but a sharp pain behind your eyes. You have no idea why you were the only one to not get trapped inside that sinking bus along with the rest of the exotic dancers, prostitutes, and Teflon salesmen. Some say you were lucky. Others, the families of the dead, they say you were cursed. You're inclined to agree with them.

You're presently paralyzed from the waist down and your heart is broken in two because before the sex bus crash you were engaged to be married to Lenny, the owner and proprietor of Sex Bus Tours Incorporated. Lenny was driving that night. You were all the way in the back of the bus tending bar. In between were twenty-six traveling Teflon salesmen and a staff of half-nude to completely nude women giving the salesmen a Christmas Eve they would never forget. You keep going back to that night, trying harder and harder to remember the moments after the crash. You try to put yourself back there and you try to see down the cabin of the bus, peering through the mass of naked flesh and bulbous middle-aged man to catch a glimpse of your Lenny.

You're certain he would have looked back at you at the end. Even if there were only a millisecond of time, he would have put his eyes to his mirror to find you and make sure you were all right. And you would most definitely have been looking for him. You just want to remember that one last look. You want to remember the last time you saw those eyes.

You start seeing hypnotists to take you back to that night, but the Sex Bus Crash is a spooky event in your town and many hypnotists refuse your business because they don't want you to take them there. Finally, one consents to do whatever it takes to free up your memories of that night.

It's rough going, but after many sessions with the therapist you finally find yourself transported onto that bus, experiencing the crash all over again like it was happening in the present. You search the cabin, peering past all the dancers and Teflon salesmen until you finally catch a glimpse of the driver's seat...and you find it empty. Empty with the exit door open.

"But I buried him," you say. "They brought up his body and I put him in the ground."

"Did you identify him?" the hypnotist asks.

You can barely breathe. It's like you're still in that lake.

"He was underwater too long, they said," you tell the hypnotist, realizing now that the only reason you're alive is because your Lenny must have jumped out of the sex bus just before the crash, then he swam to the rear entrance and pulled you out.

And then he disappeared. Why, you have no idea. But it's time to go find out...

Happy Sex Bus Day!

PS: Pre-Order "YOU ARE A MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A HERO," the new book by Bob Powers. Out next Tuesday, May 27th.

Hooker Wisdom Day!

Of all the Hookers on your block, Charlene is your favorite. The others are too busy looking for Johns or worrying about the cops to pay attention to you, but Charlene always takes notice of you when you come home at night. Unless she’s leaning inside a stranger’s car trying to make a sale, she’ll be sure to give you a snappy remark or quip that is infused with the wisdom of the streets. You’ll never forget all the clever truisms she’s given you over the years:

“If you get hit by a car, try to find someone who’ll take you to the hospital.”

“Hey sugar. Don’t eat uncooked chicken. It’ll make you sick.”

“What’s up stud? If you have a lot of money, keep it in the bank. They’ll give you interest.”

You always nod and reply with a “You got it Charlene, have a good night!” Then you head upstairs and put your head on your pillow to think about what Charlene said to you.

Tonight you’ll come walking home and you’ll be excited to see Charlene unoccupied. You’ve been feeling a little lost lately and you could use some good advice. When Charlene sees you, she spreads her smile wide and shows you those beautiful white teeth of hers.

“Hey Charlene,” you say.

“Hey handsome,” Charlene says back. “You know what they say don’t you?”

“What’s that Charlene?”

“No matter how much you want to drive a car, you need to get a license first. It’s illegal otherwise. You can still do it without a license, but if you got pulled over, you could get into a lot of trouble. Unless you could convince the policeman that you were on your way to an emergency or something, but that’d be pretty hard to pull off.”

You stay right where you are and you let those words of Charlene’s sink in. Your head is swimming and you can’t help it. As embarrassing as it is in front of all those hookers and all those Johns, Charlene’s words make you just drop to your knees and sob. Charlene rubs your shoulder gently with one hand while you cry before her. Then she tells you to “Get up and do what you gotta do.”

You wipe your tears away and you nod. Then you go upstairs. You turn on that television. And you watch a rerun of “King of Queens.” As you watch, you think to yourself, “Charlene was right. You really can’t drive a car unless you get a license first because it’s illegal otherwise. You can still do it without a license, but if you get pulled over you could get into a lot of trouble. You could try to convince the policeman you had an emergency, but that’s hard.”

You keep watching “King of Queens,” all the while thinking to yourself, “Thank you Charlene. Thank you.”

PS: Take a break from pre-ordering my book to pre-order Rebecca Barry's LATER, AT THE BAR, a fantastic book of fiction about upstate New York drunks, out next week in paperback. It's Girls Are Pretty Approved!

Bodybuilders Should Date Bodybuilders Day!

You're a bodybuilder who loves to whale on your abs and glutes, and you're falling in love with a girl who barely weighs a hundred pounds and doesn't have a muscle on her whole body. Your bodybuilder friends are really rude to her when you bring her to Muscle Beach.

"What are you doing with that softy dude? Bodybuilders stick with bodybuilders. We understand each other's need to whale on our delts," your best friend counsels you.

"I don't see why we have to be so limited in our perspective," you tell him. "There's strength of heart too, you know."

What are you gonna do if you move in with that girl and you want to arm wrestle somebody?" your friend says. "Heck you'll probably rip her arm out of her socket during a thumb wrestling match."

Your girlfriend will over hear this exchange and she'll leave a note in your mailbox telling you that she loves you but she doesn't want to cause you any trouble with your bodybuilding social circles. You'll run and track her down but it'll be too late. She'll have already enlisted in the army and been shipped off to Iraq.

Happy Bodybuilders Should Date Bodybuilders Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

It’s Your Boss’ Birthday Day!

Get him a pony. Just walk it in this morning with a big bow and a “Happy Birthday” ribbon around its neck and park it next to you desk. When your boss asks what’s with the pony, tell him he’ll have to wait until the afternoon when it’s cake-time before he gets his gifts.

Your boss will bring you into his office and tell you to get rid of the pony.

“But I bought it for you,” say. “Don’t you want your present?”

Your boss will say that a pony is inappropriate, and he’ll accuse you of trying to imply that he’s childish.

“So I spent 53,000 dollars on your birthday gift and you accuse me of being underhanded?”

Your boss will apologize.

“You’re a real baby, you know that?” you’ll say.

Your boss will say, there, that’s what he’s talking about.

“You want you rattle baby?”

Your boss will tell you that you go a long long way to try to undermine him. Like the time you built a giant crib and put his desk in the middle of it.

“Just because Dad made me President and you Vice President,” he’ll say.

“I’m two years older than you,” tell him. “I will not take orders from my younger brother. This company is called Linus and Sons. Not Linus and One Son Who’s a Little More Important Than The Other Son, Even Though The Other Son Is Older.”

Your boss will throw his pen at the wall and ask what the Pony’s name is.

“I though you could name him,” tell him.

“I want to name him Aragon,” your boss will say.

“Aragon,” you’ll repeat.

“Aragon,” he’ll say again, with majesty.

You’ll both sit quietly, then, “Thank you for my present.”

Just shrug, then lean out his door and whistle. Aragon will come walking into your boss’s office. You’ll go back to your desk and your boss will spend the rest of the day brushing Aragon’s coat.

Happy It’s Your Boss’ Birthday Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

Middle-Aged Riot Day!

Tomorrow, when they ask who started it all and why, they’ll put your picture on the screen and they’ll show some video of your sons, who will tell a reporter that they haven’t spoken to you since your divorce from their mom and so they can’t say they know why you threw that garbage can through the plate glass window of a Whole Foods. They’ll find your wife tomorrow too, and she’ll tell them that you were very charismatic and she can understand why so many middle-aged men and women followed your lead and started hunting down twenty-year-olds to strip naked and strap to the roofs of cabs so that people still in their offices can toss garbage and sandwich meats from conference room catering trays out their windows and onto the twenty-year-olds’ bellies. They’ll find some of your followers who weren’t put into the police trucks and they’ll ask them if they knew who you were or what they hoped to accomplish.

“HE! IS! OUR! VOICE!” your fifties-ish followers will say. They will be shirtless and they will have bricks in their hands, waiting for the next chance to regroup and tear up the financial district.

No one will know what set you off today. No one will know if you were apprehended or where you were taken. They’ll know only what was done, not why. They’ll know that their parents haven’t been home in a day and they might either be in prison or hitching a ride out of the lives they've spent three decades building.

Late tomorrow, a surveillance video will be accessed and leaked to CNN. It will show a grainy black and white image of you walking out of your office building. The timecode will be today at 3 PM. You’ll stop and crane your head back to catch some raindrops on your tongue. Then you’ll lunge forward and shove a passing bike messenger off of his bike. You’ll stomp on the bike messenger’s torso, and several other middle-aged people who were smoking outside will join you in your beat-down. Then you’ll crane your head back again and howl at the sky. When you take off running, dozens will be following you, as if your howl were a rallying cry. You’re gonna start a middle-aged riot today, and it’s been a long time coming.

Happy Middle-Aged Riot Day!

PS: Buy Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

Have Sex So Forgettable You'll Go Home And Slap Your Mama Day!

Today you should have sex that is so completely forgettable and not even worth the mess that you'll get on a plane and fly back to your mama's house so you can slap her across the face because she never told you sex could be so "eh."

"You're withholding," your Mama will say, rubbing her cheek where you slapped her. "You got that from me."

"But I want to give of myself completely and totally to another," you'll say. "I want to lose myself in strange flesh."

"Psssh," your mother will say. "If you figure out how to do that be sure and send me the handbook when you're done, kay?"

You'll slap your mother again. She'll slap you back and then overturn the coffee table separating the two of you. Both of you grab a weapon and settle this once and for all.

Have Sex So Forgettable You'll Go Home And Slap Your Mama Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' new book, out May 27th!

Pay Your Uncle Pete To Ask You To Be An Assassin Day!

At around 1PM today, have your Uncle Pete show up to your social studies class dressed in all black. He’ll knock on the door and the teacher will let him in, thinking he’s a responsible adult who has something important to share. Then he’ll find you and he’ll say what you told him to say, word for word.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your studies, but I can’t take no for an answer when we both know that life as a highly paid killer is your destiny. Will you join our Secret Order of International Assassins? At fourteen you would be the youngest ever to have been recruited, but you will also be the most deadly. You have the gift of bloodshed, and you can use it for good if you take control now.”

He’ll come to your desk and get on his knees.

“Goddammit son, don’t let your evil talent fall into the wrong hands. Kill for us and you’ll earn vast sums of wealth, share the company of beautiful women, and ensure that the United States of America remains the greatest country on the planet.”

Say this to your Uncle.

“Rise.”

Your Uncle will get up from his knees.

“When I finish speaking, you have thirty seconds to leave my presence. Don’t pretend you know what stuff I’m made of. You know nothing of my gifts and you could never comprehend what I am capable of. If I kill, it will be at my own will, not because some nameless customer has paid a bill or a spineless president has let things spiral out of control. I am my own person, and you should respond to me with only one emotion. Fear. Now go, or yours will be the first blood that I shed.”

Your Uncle will then run out of the classroom. Your teacher and classmates will be silent for a minute. Raise your hand and ask your teacher if you can use the hall pass. By the time you return from the bathroom, you will have transformed from the school’s loneliest Magic The Gathering player to the school’s most talented killer who is as conflicted over his gifts as he is highly trained.

You’ll most definitely get invited to the end of the year wippets party in the woods behind the V.A. Hospital. It’s just a question of whose invitation you’ll say yes to, while giving all the others an “I’ll think about it.” Just don’t forget to give your Uncle the 30 bucks you promised him. That unemployed son of a bitch earned his keep this week. If only your Dad thought so.

Happy Pay Your Uncle Pete To Ask You To Be An Assassin Day!

PS: Preorder Bob Powers' newest book, out May 27th!

Stop The Rise In Girl Crime Day!

When you were a little boy and girls would tease you on the playground because you were so cute, you wanted them put behind bars for their crimes. You used to dream that one day you’d have the power to dole out the punishment girls deserve for crossing the line of justice.

When you turned 21 you opened up a private detective’s office, focusing only on solving girl-crime. Your slogan was, “If a girl did it, I’ll chase her for a reasonable fee.”

In your twelve years in operation you had a pretty good record and a pretty lonely life. But the new mayor is a woman and she had your license taken away because she says you’re prejudiced against girls.

“I leave the judging for the judge. I just capture,” you said. “Just so happens I capture girls and girls only.”

The newspaper columnists said you probably only capture girls because you get to pat them down to make sure they don’t have any weapons. You wrote a letter to the editor saying that’s ridiculous because girls are gross. But the rumors persisted.

Since you lost your license, girl crime has risen 740% with over 900 murders attributed to girls. Even girls who seemed to be on the track to a productive, law-abiding life suddenly turned to crime because they saw the opportunity to get away with it. In addition to all the crime, the town has become overrun with sociologists looking to study the girl crime wave and its feminine causes.

The mayor is going to pay a visit to your apartment today, where you’ve been drinking and feeling useless ever since you were stripped of your license, and she’s going to ask you to get back in the detective game and stop girl crime. Naturally, since this is the first time a girl will have been in your apartment, you’ll fall in love with the mayor, and you’ll stop wanting to wipe out girl crime because the mayor will make you think girls aren’t so bad. But the mayor only wants to use you to clean up the town, and when she makes that clear, your broken heart will turn you into an anti-girl vigilante and you’ll go out and fill up the jails and morgues with hundreds of girl outlaws over the course of one weekend. This, now, will make the mayor fall in love with you, but you won’t return her feelings. You fell for a girl’s tricks once, and you’re not gonna let it happen again.

Happy Stop The Rise In Girl Crime Day!

Unfrozen Fart Day!

Your Dad drew up his will, and he wants to have his body frozen when he dies.

“But I want them to freeze me so that the minute I get unfrozen I rip a fart,” you say. “I want them to melt me down in the future, and right when they’re wondering whether my my body can be reanimated to give them information about society in the past, I let fly this rip-roaring Harley Davidson type fart that lasts like two and a half minutes and makes everyone laugh.”

You’re going over the terms of his will, and you just aren’t sure about this.

“Can they do that, Dad?” you ask. “I mean, you’ll be dead when you’re frozen. How can they freeze your dead body in such a way that it will release gas?”

“It’s called science!” your Dad says, hitting you with the stirrer from his martini glass.

You skip down to the part where you inherit everything and you smile. He really does love you.

“I think it’s a great will Dad.”

Your dad tries to fart but can’t.

“Man I hope this works out. It’s worth dying tomorrow if I could be sure that I’d fart ten centuries from now.”

You wish you could relieve his pain, but you’ll have to leave that to the future for now.

Happy Unfrozen Fart Day!

Go And Rescue Your Classmates From The Caved In Crystal Cavern Day!

Your class went on a field trip to the Crystal Cavern but you weren’t allowed to go because you got in trouble for picking up Julie Rigby and running off of school grounds with her over your shoulder during recess. Julie was screaming and yelling for help while you carried her away and several teachers had to chase you across the street and up the next block before you let her go. You explained that you only did it because you like Julie but she thinks you’re fat (you are), so you assumed this is the way it has to be done. Since then you’ve been meeting with your guidance counselor during lunch so he can tell you what you’re allowed to do to girls you like and what’s not allowed and what’s illegal.

Keeping you from the Crystal Caverns trip was a harsh punishment, you thought, but now that they’re all trapped and likely to die in the caved in mine, you wonder whether it was a blessing. If you go and save all your classmates, you can probably lift up any one of your classmates and carry them wherever you like. You’ll be the hero, after all, and heroes get to walk away with whatever they want over their shoulders.

When you start to walk toward the mine’s entrance, the rescue workers laugh at you for being so fat and thinking that you can be of any use. Then you go straight to the pile of rocks and begin hefting the big rocks away from the mass and they wonder if maybe you might really be of some use. Then you pull one rock away and it makes all the others tumble deeper into the mine with a loud rumble. After that the people with the headphones listening for voices under the rocks, they take off their headphones and they shake their heads no. You go on home, wondering if tomorrow there’ll even be anyone left to carry off from the playground now.

Happy Go And Rescue Your Classmates From The Caved In Crystal Cavern Day!

Some Christmas Trees Can Talk and Fight Terrorism Day!

When you were seven you went downstairs on Christmas morning to see what was waiting under the tree for you. In the living room twinkling with tree lights and tinsel, you found a mountain of gifts sitting under the majestic pine raining its dry needles all over the wrapping paper. It was when you started picking up gifts and shaking them that you swear the tree started talking to you.

“Did you say something Christmas tree?” you asked it.

It spoke again. You can’t remember what it said, which is why ever since then you've assumed you were just having a dream that morning. Most of your childhood memories can be relegated to the stuff of dreams, at least until those memories are confirmed by an outside party.

Today, at age 35, you’re going to be woken up when your front door bursts from its hinges and an old, brown Christmas Tree still sprinkled with tinsel comes hopping through your apartment to your bed.

“Why didn’t you kill them?” the Christmas Tree will ask.

It looks like a tree that was thrown to the sidewalk on January 3rd. Except it’s standing on its own stump without a tree stand, and its branches shake around the midsection when it talks.

“You were real?” you ask.

“Christ. Don’t tell me you didn’t believe in me. So much for the wonderment of children.”

“What did you tell me all those years ago?” you ask.

“I told you that the world will end in 2008 unless you kill your parents and brother. You had 27 years for the love of Pete. We can track and gather info and we can collate data, and we can fake passports and bribe the right people, but to actually strike against a target we need humans. We’re only trees after all. We counted on you, man.”

You tell the Christmas tree that you’re pretty sure you’re going crazy right now and you’re going to stop talking to it. The Christmas tree will get frustrated and just to piss you off it will go to your shoe rack and shake it’s branches over your shoes so they’ll fill with needles. Then it will leave.

“Turn on the TV,” the Christmas tree will say before it hops out the door.

You get out of bed and turn on your TV to find photos of your mother, father and brother displayed on the screen, captioned with Eastern European names. The words “Missing Nuke” are displayed above them in scary red letters. The newsman is giving out evacuation instructions to the populace.

“I should have listened to my Christmas Tree,” you’ll think. “Now the whole world is gonna burn.”

You lay back in bed, dizzy but warm in your heart. Finally, at 35, you understand the true meaning of Christmas. Then you see a bright white flash in the east.

Happy Some Christmas Trees Can Talk and Fight Terrorism Day!