"You're Wrong About Her. She's Got More Heart In Her Little Pinky Than You Have In Your Entire...Heart...Um...I Mean...Um..." Day!

The above is only one example of how you should observe the day. Make it your own, but just make sure you listen calmly, tolerantly, to whomever is trying to deprive you of your only shot at real happiness or fill you with all the doubt he or she (Father, usually, but Moms and lifelong housemaids serving as proxy for Moms fallen to consumption are awesome too) has fed upon ever since a certain choice was taken out of his or her hands. Let them believe their warnings are being heeded, their wisdom appreciated. Until they cross the line.

That's when you drop everything, or slam a book down on a desktop. Or throw a glass of brandy against the wall. Jump out of your chair and stand nose to nose with the old curmudgeon/barren shrew and tell him or her what you've kept hidden all these years. Unleash the pity you've tried to conceal ever since you were old enough to think for yourself. And, with one sentence, put your foot down, effectively shutting him or her off from your life and the decisions that are yours alone to make.

But fuck it up.

Mixed metaphors are hazy since a lot of people might not catch it. This is the defining moment of your life, the speech that determines how you're going to handle your looming adulthood, so it should look like a blooper reel, dig? Stammering and blanking on words is great. Hiccups, even better. Or wait, what if you get so angry that right when you tell the old prune to butt out, you fart. A quick "POOT!" This is gonna rule.

Happy "You're Wrong About Her. She's Got More Heart In Her Little Pinky Than You Have In Your Entire...Heart...Um...I Mean...Um..." Day!

You Have A Can-Do Entrepreneurial Spirit And You Should Run With That Hardcore Pornographic Placemats Idea Day!
Americans, or at least the Americans I'll allow my kids to consort with, love two things above all else:

1. Photographs of penises in mouths. The more the better!

2. Lifting up their plates of food to see what's underneath!

Well what'll happen if Joe Six-Pack and Jane Supporting-Joe-Six-Pack siddown at the table with their rugrats and they lift up their plates to check for spiders or angels like they always do and what do they see but the most glorious color photographs of human mouths full to the brim with knob?!

They'll wanna kick a pay phone they'll be so hooked, that's what! You're gonna be rich [this is where whoever's speaking says your name to personalize this whole shebang for you, the reader. Who is speaking anyway? And why is he or she trying to sell you on the idea of pornographic placemats if it was your idea in the first place?]! Let's go buy some land!

Happy You Have A Can-Do Entrepreneurial Spirit And You Should Run With That Hardcore Pornographic Placemats Idea Day!

Redefine Hell With Every Waking Moment Of Your Life Day!
"This has got to be as close to hell as you can get," says the guy sitting at his shared cubicle, drenched with the sweat of the 105 degree-with-humidity heat he trudged through to get to work this morning. "I even feel a little shakey with longing for the substance to which I'm growing addicted," he says aloud, proving he might also be losing a grip on his frame of mind. "And to top it all off, I have this nagging suspicion I'm going to die with a false sense of entitlement, owing to the innate talent I have always possessed but never applied to any project of real and obvious substance. This has gotta be the definition of hell, right?"

Just then, he is mouth-raped by an elderly man. "I stand corrected," says the guy we were just talking about up there in the previous paragraph. Just up there.

Happy Redefine Hell With Every Waking Moment Of Your Life Day!

Poor, Blind And Unable To Take Care Of Yourself For A Day Day!
Put your blindfolds on tight and just wander out into the street without having put on any shoes or pants or anything. A good hunk of you all will probably end up getting run over in the first five minutes, killing many. And so you'll have learned what it's like to be poor, blind and unable to take care of yourself. Shitting in your pants and walking into women's dressing rooms because you don't know how to use the toilet and you can't see where your going but you just keep wandering around town with no money or vision or basic survival skills. By the end of the day, you're gonna be so exhausted and you'll feel like a dick for all these years having made fun of people who can't see, buy lunch, or hold in farts. Not so easy is it?

(Note: A lot of you seem to enjoy doing a "retarded" voice. But not everyone who is unable to take care of himself is retarded. Many are just nuts. Please use the "retarded" voice sparingly. Thank you [dick].)

Sleep Like It's Going To Bring Your Most Beloved Childhood Pet Back To Life Day!
This isn't about just heading into REM state with a do-not-disturb look on your face. Sleep so hard you have to grimace. Grind your body deep into your mattress, clawing and growling and occasionally shouting a swear word. Sleep like you're so unconscious you're shitting out a second unconscious person who's even more unconscious than you. This is for Mr. Toes goddammit, now don't fucking quit on me! If you're not bleeding out of one nostril in the next five minutes I'm gonna steal your wallet. Are you dreaming? You are, aren't you. Well you better be dreaming about sleeping in between two mirrors so there's just like seventy five thousand sleeping yous. Remember, if you don't sleep hard enough and Mr. Toes doesn't come back to life, this time you really did kill him. It's not just your Dad saying stupid shit after a bender like before. You killed Mr. Toes.

Happy Sleep Like It's Going To Bring Your Most Beloved Childhood Pet Back To Life Day!

After A Hard Week At Work You Deserve To Go Home And Get Real Drunk And Pregnant Day!
1. Take your shoes off and turn the tv on.
2. Don't just take off your clothes. Frantically shimmy out of them like they're spotted with the blood of the former junior college professor you've just murdered.
3. Open up a bottle of gin and mount something, bouncing up and down until it impregnates you like twice.
4. Cuddle. Meet friends for drinks in celebration of freshly conceived baby.
5. Beddy bye for you two kittens.

Happy After A Hard Week At Work You Deserve To Go Home And Get Real Drunk And Pregnant Day!

I Think I Left My Religious Conviction In Your Pants Day!
I've been looking all over for my love of Christ. Can you check the rancid strip of crusted genital scuz on the crotch of your underwear and see if it's in there? Give it a whiff. My love of Christ smells like poverty. Call me if you find it. I'm gonna go post some signs around the neighborhood. Even if no one's found my love of Christ, maybe I'll get some of that fine fine ass I've been hearing so much about to give a negro a phone call.

By the way, and you know who you are, you're about as close to perfect as anything will ever come so drink wine and sing songs that are faggy.

Express Disapproval Of The Existence Of Your Red-Headed Step-Child Day!
Whether you're married to the sweetheart or you are just living with the cutie pie because he or she gets bigtime disability and doesn't mind that you turned the kitchen into a meth lab, love is love. And love means warts and all.

Well no one likes to be reminded that their best guy or gal was once involved with someone who had red hair, which is why it turns the stomach to see the progeny of that relationship walking past the tv with a stack of oreos in his or her freckled little hands. It's like the sun-stained little urchin's very existence sends rasberries into your face with chants of "My Mommy/Daddy fucked a redhead so hard their coarse thrusting resulted in all 75 pounds of unholy me that stands before you drinking a cup of grape juice. Look at my red hair! No one would ever mistake me for your child! I am proof that your lover had sex with someone else in the past, at least once though probably a lot of times, because you have to have sex with millions of people before you finally look at someone with red hair and say to yourself, 'What the heck. Might make for a funny story at least.'"

Well then, why not let your red-headed step-child know you would prefer that he or she had never been born. Hitting works. But locking the beast in the closet can really send a message as well, though if you do that often enough the Damien will be expecting it so he or she will start stashing some toys in there to play with the next time. Oh, that's a good one too, breaking the little monster's favorite toy I mean. You do drink, don't you?

Just Because You Can't Remember Anything About Last Night, It Doesn't Necessarily Mean That You're An Alcoholic Day!
Perhaps you were molested. Oftentimes, when someone gets fucked by his or her Dad but isn't really into it, the reluctant little tease's brain goes into whitewash mode and attempts to replace the memory of all that sweet sweet lovin' with something far less erotic, usually involving a chicken.

Do you remember anything about your Dad fucking a chicken last night? If so, he was probably fucking you.

Take a look at this excerpt from a therapy session that took place in the 50's:

Hawkeye: And then my Dad said, "I sure love fucking this chicken!" And the chicken said, "I'm not really into it, Dad."

Dr. Sidney: The chicken spoke? And it called your Dad, "Dad?"

Hawkeye: (wailing) Awww God! IT WAS A BABY!

Dr. Sidney: No it wasn't. Your Dad just fucked you but you didn't really dig it is all.

So if you remember your Dad fucking a chicken last night, or if you fucked a chicken (which would mean you fucked one of your kids but you made the first move) you aren't necessarily an alcoholic. But now you might become one because you'll be frightened of that memory about the chicken but you won't know why. So you'll just keep trying to drink your mind blank to avoid ever finding out what's up with the whole chicken fucking shebang. Happy Just Because You Can't Remember Anything About Last Night, It Doesn't Necessarily Mean That You're An Alcoholic Day!

Wonder Why The Fuck You Haven't Been Lolling Around In Your Living Room Wearing Nothing But A Wet Towel For the Past Few Hours Day!
Oh man did you ever fuck up. Had someone offered you two bowls of fate when you were in bed this morning, one full to the brim of nice hot lolling-around-your-living-room-wearing-nothing-but-a-wet-towel-for-a-bunch-of-hours, the other a cold consumme of minutes-taking at the Goal 2003 Database Blueprinting Bi-Weekly Projects Meeting (outside the door it says the conference room was reserved from 10 AM till 3 PM), which would you have chosen? Have you ever felt such a gust of cold gray air blowing just underneath your skin as you did just then? Imagine if you were laying on your couch right now, the wet spot spreading out underneath your ass across the slipcover, eating sour cream and chedder potato chips for breakfast, crumbs all over your chest, watching a Warren Beatty movie co-starring Garry Shandling on the Starz network and you get to touch your genitals in a non-masturbatory way any time you feel like it because the place is all yours.

So tell me, do you try to outline the minutes while you handwrite them or do you save that for the several hours you'll spend typing them up after the meeting's over at 3 PM if no one runs long (which everyone will)? Happy Wonder Why The Fuck You Haven't Been Lolling Around In Your Living Room Wearing Nothing But A Wet Towel For the Past Few Hours Day!

Doodle A Cock And Balls Day!
You haven't doodled a cock and balls in ages! Remember how much fun it used to be? How many public school desktops must've shown your work over the years? Go on. Doodle a cock and balls. You can even put it on a post-it and stick it to your spouse's forehead while he or she is napping. That'd be funny.

Offer Someone You're Into Fifty Bucks To Think About You When He Or She Wakes Up Alone In Bed Tomorrow Morning Day!
Throw in another 25 if he or she will promise to wear a crooked little smile that says, "What the heck am I doing thinking about [you!] lying here damp with the sweat of a night alone in my tiny non-airconditioned bedroom, my legs bent off into different directions and dumb angles and my tee shirt riding halfway up my torso way high up above my belly button and it's connecting strip of pubic hair climbing down into this old ripped up pair of sleeping-alone underwear and first thing in my mind is [you!]? Guess I'm lookin' for trouble."

Oh shit. If you get away with only spending 75 for this, the person you're into is a whore because this shit is worth 500. If he or she says it would be wrong to take money for something he or she does every morning anyway, you'll probably lose all interest because he or she will have presented him or herself as attainable. Happy Offer Someone You're Into Fifty Bucks To Think About You When He Or She Wakes Up Alone In Bed Tomorrow Morning Day!

If Your Caller ID Screen Reads: "The Last Straw," Let The Answering Machine Get It (Unless You Know Somebody Who Works At A Straw Store) Day!
A lot of your friends have weird jobs, and you know one or two of them work at the mall. If I was gonna open a straw store, I'd call it The Last Straw since it has fewer letters than "The Straw That Broke The Camel's Back" and when store owners get signs made, they pay by the letter. Now, can you remember whether any of your friends ever mentioned that they could get you a discount on bendy straws? How about swirly straws? Loop-di-loop straws? If not, I wouldn't take that call if I was you.

In fact, you should really get any handguns or weapons of mass destruction out of reach of yourself because when whoever is on the other end of that line says what he or she has to say, it's probably going to be just one more disappointment in a long line of disappointments and it might send you out into the world to scoop a little "Payback Salad" onto folks' dinner plates. And if someone hates cherry tomatoes, guess what?

Dickhead's getting an extra helping of cherry tomatoes, that's what.

You might wanna destroy the answering machine before you hear the message, actually. You don't have to be holding the phone to your ear to hear someone say something that elicits from you something along the lines of: "That is it! Game Over! Board up the windows, yo, 'cause Hurricane [insert your name here] is comin' down the turnpike and it ain't payin' no tolls!"

Possible messages from "The Last Straw" to follow:

"It's over. I can't try any harder. I'm going back to [insert name of better paid, less physically repulsive former lover of significant other here]. You're just so angry at the world."

"Thanks for coming in for that fourth interview, but we decided to hire This Other Guy."

"This is the cancer clinic calling. Just wanted to say our first diagnosis was wrong. You have cancer in parts of the body we didn't even know existed. Someone upstairs has it in for you. Please don't call back."

"This is the government of America. We just passed laws that make it nearly impossible for an American like you to earn an honest living. We hope this news doesn't make you go batshit or anything. This is the government calling by the way. Did I already say that? I'm a little out of it this morn-- [BEEEEP]"

"Hi, this is happiness. Is this [name that isn't yours]? It isn't. Whoops, wrong number."

"Honey, it's Mom. I'm about to die but I wanted to say I never really dug you all that much. Later, yo."

Ouch. I'd stay to help you get through this, but my shift at the Paper Ring That Keeps Cups Of Coffee From Being Too Hot store starts in twenty minutes.

Anybody Remember To Cut Him Or Herself A Piece Of "I'm A Filthy Whore" Cake? Day!
Carvel might not have these on display. But trust me, they sell 'em.

Now come on, for God's sake. You work hard all day just pawning away all those pieces of yourself into which you might have invested a little pride. You run the hustle and you skim the till. You lie and you scam and in the end you'd partake in a haggle over the asking price for your baby's asthma pump. When you walk past a church nuns shout "There he/she is!" and then they run out to the sidewalk to kick you in the genitals. I don't care if you're selling the land out from under an assisted living facility to make way for a parking lot or you're in the truck stop ladies room from 10 PM till 2 AM performing oral sex for crystal meth. You're a filthy whore and you're way fucking good at it. It's time you got some goddamn cake.

Sorry, but I'm sick of this shit. My Dad was given a cake last September just because he turned 68. And here you are sanding away at every characteristic of your person that might designate you a member of the human race as opposed to, well, a cunt, and do you get a cake? Sure, the Guide Dogs For The Blind Association was good enough to put your face on a poster that reads: "God May Have Taken Our Vision, So Fuck God, But This Guy Made It So We Can't Bring Our Dogs Into Grocery Stores, So Double-Motherfuck This Guy!" but did they give you a cake? And it wouldn't have had to say "Way To Be A Filthy Whore, Douche!" They could've written, "You Made The Poster!" and the whole filthy whore thing would've been implied. Christ.

Happy Anybody Remember To Cut Him Or Herself A Piece Of "I'm A Filthy Whore" Cake? Day! Now get your hand outta my pocket shitbag.

Commit A String Of Murders, Mindboggling In Their Horrific Detail, And Turn Yourself In, Agreeing To Confess Only If You're Permitted To Defend Yourself And Testify During Your Televised Trial Via A Sockpuppet With A Loud, High-Pitched, Scottish Accent Named Count Wiggle-Fuckface Day!
They probably won't let you do it. But still, you never know. Let's play it by ear.

We'll start with the string of murders, perhaps following a complicated system involving choice of victim and method of assault. For example: Your husband was laid off at age 51 and hasn't been rehired in six years. You're a pastry chef at a ritzy restaurant where 26 year olds earning six figures are at the top of the reservation list. Start killing them. Just get your hands on one name and cell phone number off that reservation list every night and wait a few days to track the tyke down. And how about you throw your victims out windows, so everyone but the veteran detective on the case thinks it's just brokers jumping out of windows again. Since everyone who's anyone eats at your restaurant, it'll take a while before the heat gets too hot in the kitchen (pun intended). Look, it's just an example.

Once you're caught, the DA won't like the idea of you being permitted to defend yourself and testify during your televised trial via a sockpuppet with a loud, high-pitched, scottish accent named Count Wiggle-Fuckface as he/she will think you're trying to get off with an insanity defense. Explain that you'll agree to a psych evaluation and you will pass with flying colors and the DA can convince the jury that not only are you sane and responsible for the crimes in question, but you are so cowardly that you are trying to pull crazy antics to skirt the punishment you deserve. The jury will cook your ass so fast you'd think they all just pitched in for a George Foreman grill and can't wait to see why everyone's ejaculating all over the place over a fucking waffle iron that looks like an iMac.

In honor of Commit A String Of Murders, Mindboggling In Their Horrific Detail, And Turn Yourself In, Agreeing To Confess Only If You're Permitted To Defend Yourself And Testify During Your Televised Trial Via A Sockpuppet With A Loud, High-Pitched, Scottish Accent Named Count Wiggle-Fuckface Day, let's keep the partial birth abortions to a minimum. Dig?

You're Shooting Heroin Into Your Labia All Wrong!! Day!
Fucking amateurs.

First of all, let's set some shit on fire in this place. Start with the mismatched sneakers you were hanging on to as the only remembrance of the baby you sold yesterday. No one's gonna buy them so let's set them on fire and throw them under the curtains. If you're gonna stick a needle with wet yellowish bile all over the tip into your labia majora, you better do it in a building that's about to crumble all around your oblivious junky ass.

Second, you call those eyelids vomit encrusted?!

Third, will you marry me? Just say yes. We're going for irony here, so let's play with the kind of respect for the future that is so far removed from a world where someone such as yourself might choose to stab into her vaginal tissue with an instrument of near-certain death.

Fourth, I get to go first so while I fall on my side, careful not to snap the needle while still dangling from my scrotum, you should look off wistfully at a memory of your high school graduation or your mother waving to you from behind the barred window of an insane asylum or something like that. Betray no emotion while in transit down memory lane, however.

Fifth, I'm going to choke on some vomit and die, so you're going to have to pull the needle out of my balls yourself. I won't be there to lead you through the next few steps so I hope you read ahead.

Sixth, give yourself one last once-over, hoping against hope that there's a pretty little virgin vein that all these years was just kind of shy and leaning with her back against the wall afraid of someone asking her to dance. Accidentally slip your thumb inside a wound on your neck and scream.

Seventh, keep screaming.

Eighth, pound in my skull with a brick. I took you down this road after all. (I loved you baby.)

Ninth, shake and bake. Careful. Now pull down your pants and go so numb your pulse is weaker than mine.

Tenth.

Um, happy You're Shooting Heroin Into Your Labia All Wrong!! Day!

I Think That German Guy Wearing The "Get A Job" Tee Shirt, The One With The Drawing Of The Angry Skeleton Forcing The Other Skeleton To Perform Oral Sex On His Empty Pelvis, Likes You Day!
That's right, the one with his hair done up in three pony tails with his bangs shaved who keeps screaming at the band "Rock and rolling great fuck!" He keeps smiling over here and pretending to fellate his bottle of Smirnoff Ice, but I doubt that means he likes to fellate things, more that he wonders if you like to fellate things. Do you like him? Because he gave me this note to give to you:

Hammy burgers. This is German MEN. Eat the hammy burgers and then the disco. You fuck faster?!

___ Chek if I am true

___ Chek when you have boyfriend all right.

Well?! What'd you check?

When A Car Drives Past Your Window Blasting That Jewel Song Where She Says "You Can Be Henry Miller And I'll Be Anais Nin" But She Pronounces Anais Like An Asshole, That's The Signal Day!
Dressed in the Boy With Beautiful Eyes Who Has Cancer disguise, go to your rooftop and release the Falcon. Off the south edge of the rooftop will be a neighboring rooftop, fifteen feet below. You will see a television antenna. Impale yourself upon it, secure in the knowledge that the operation has commenced and by the way good work coming up with a signal that couldn't be mistaken for just a coincidence. We honestly thought Eminem's "Without Me" wouldn't catch on the way it did. Happy When A Car Drives Past Your Window Blasting That Jewel Song Where She Says "You Can Be Henry Miller And I'll Be Anais Nin" But She Pronounces Anais Like An Asshole, That's The Signal Day!

Ask Your Blind Date Whether He Or She Can Ever Hear The Sound Of Blood Screaming Through His Or Her Veins Day!
The hard part is finding the right moment. I've always been a big fan of the seventh lull in the conversation, about that time when the both of you realize the date isn't going very well but you haven't even gotten your entrees yet. Just fold your napkin with about twelve sharp creases, wincing with each fold, and place it on your plate before you take his or her hand and say, "I need to ask you an important question and I'll know if you answer dishonestly so don't."

Of course, whether the date is going well or not has nothing to do with the necessity that The Question be posed. Let's say penetration has commenced. You suddenly remember that The Question was never asked. No problem, start sobbing. Just let out a few wails, sending a gale of fists into the mattress or vestibule wall until your date gets the message that you have something important to ask. Your date will say, "Tell me. I want to know what's wrong." But your date will be a liar which is why you should let him or her watch you slice open the skin of your palm with a nail file a few times before you take his or her face into your bloody grip and say, "At night I never sleep. Even if I turn the radio on at full volume I can't escape it. Blood. My blood with the voice of a thousand ghouls racing through my veins. Do you ever feel that way? Like your blood is screaming? It sounds like hungry babies." Then run.

Happy Ask Your Blind Date Whether He Or She Can Ever Hear The Sound Of Blood Screaming Through His Or Her Veins Day!

Feast Upon Your Regret Like It's The Lifelong Scourge Upon Your People, Responsible For The Death Of Your Extended Family, At Long Last Slain And Roasted Upon A Spit At The Foot Of A Simmering Volcano Day!
Of course everything would have worked out much better had you minored in Japanese Literature as opposed to Theater Studies. Well don't just sigh and think, "If only Banana Yoshimoto didn't write such shitty books. Then I might not dig fucking kids so much." Actually let that decision take the form of a centuries-old twelve foot wilderbeast that could sweep into your village like a cold wind through the joins of the perimeter wall, stealing away the young and the old indiscriminately, only to leave them torn wide and stretched like a throw rug deep in the thicket. Well a mysterious drifter (Costner) recently arrived to the village, pursuant to an agreement to slay the beast in an exchange for gasoline, has returned from battle victorious with the gargantuan carcass in tow. The drifter died of his wounds before he could receive his reward, adding that much more weight to the celebration of the beast's demise. Feed upon its body. It will sustain you for as long as you can stand the bitter taste. Just as a village can gorge upon such a pestilence, so can one father's regret feed an entire family for years and years until a glass of arsenic is placed upon a death bed's nightstand. Pass the pepper, yo.

Take A Pottery Class In The Hopes That Your Real Father Will Be The Instructor Day!
You'll be his star pupil. He'll find in your ashtrays and car key-chain caddies the seeds of a master pottery...whatever (potter?). He'll devote more attention to you than to the rest of the class, largely because he thinks your pot making is awesome, but something in his bones will tell him there's more to it than that. He'll need to be near you and if you're of the gender he likes to fist, he might mistake the need for a sexual one. You'll run crying from the classroom when he makes a move but you'll leave behind a clue to the fact that he's your real dad, like a surveillance photo of him dropping you off at an orphanage or DNA test results you obtained by slicing off a piece of his elbow when he showed up to class wasted and passed out on his desk (have you ever been to the Learning Annex?). After you skip your next class he'll probably show up at your job (you either wait tables at a diner or are a senator) and he'll say "I could tell by the way you pottered that you have the blood of a potteryer flowing through your veins. I just never imagined it was mine." Then he'll give you his sob story about being too young to raise a kid blah blah. Don't cut him any slack. Tell him you have customers to take dinner orders from or bills to vote on and that he can wait for you to make time for him.

He will. He's your father.

If the guy teaching your pottery class isn't your real father or is a woman or if you already know who your real father is, pipe down.

Happy Take A Pottery Class In The Hopes That Your Real Father Will Be The Instructor Day!

Are You Ever Afraid That Your Smile Might Make Someone Spit On A Cop? Day!
I remember when I first saw you smile I screamed "Fucking No!" then I started chasing a squirrel. Luckily, the squirrel didn't run in front of a bus or into a women's locker room so I didn't die or get hit in the face with soap, but what if?

It's clear that when you smile it makes people...well...do things. Things that are unbecoming of the sort of person who just wants to sit in silence and ponder Christ. Things that can make a Mom put her hand over a child's eyes. Dangerous things. Naughty things that two eight year old boys might do behind a garage just because it's summertime. It's your smile, what I'm saying, that puts the idea into the head of someone who sees you smile to go ahead and rent the wrong pornography ("wrong pornography" should read "pornography with a futuristic plot and a small budget for costumes"). And what about that pornography where everyone looks like they're covered in clown makeup? What the fuck is wrong with some people?

We were discussing your smile weren't we? Here's the thing. One day you're going to smile at a citizen and that citizen, who might have indigent relatives to visit for all you know, will just turn to his or her right and spit on a cop and then where are we? This isn't the 70's. Yes, people are usually cunts so when the spitter gets shot or shived in prison it will probably be "about fucking time" in the words of the poor bastard who made the mistake of falling in love with such a douchebag back when he or she was uncertain about stuff. But still, you don't know. So cut into your lips with a citrus knife. Slice big slits from the surface of that plum red upper lip way up through the bronzed and shimmery skin and go into that adorable little baby nostril (MOTHERFUCK!) and make sure to actually remove a small chunk of skin so things don't heal right because knowing you you would probably wear a scar like the belt that makes your outfit just barely work. Leave the bottom lip alone. The world should remember what once was and it should mourn and drink in daylight. It's settled then.

Don't Be Poor Day!
Why don't you have lots of money?

Fucking answer me!

I knew someone like you before. Murray, the lovable neighborhood retard who everyone tolerated because when we asked him to he would dance. Murray didn't have lots of money. But he was also one time driven deep into the cemetery and forced to strip down and fellate teenage boys and then left out there to nearly freeze to death. No one's seen Murray in a while. No one ever asks about him either. If he's dead, it has nothing to do with the cemetery thing because that happened years ago and Murray survived and even played video games at the pizza place with those boys sometimes.

Did that ever happen to you? If it did, whatever. You should really try to get lots of money though. As it is now, you're just kinda grossing everybody out.

Happy Don't Be Poor Day! Don't touch me.

Organize A Workplace Morale Building Whitewater Rafting Trip For You And Your Fellow Toll Booth Attendants Day!
The hard part will be finding rapids nearby, since 9 out of ten of your fellow employees, including yourself, would be in violation of their parole if they left the state. Kind of ironic, working on an interstate highway whilst you yourself are prohibited from interstate travel. Almost like every single car is thumbing its nose at you. "Way to go convict! Look what I can do that you can't!!!" Little do they know that that goat-tee you're not smiling through was once dripping with the blood from the tendon of another man's shoulder clenched between your jaws (but not in a gay way).

They unlocked the cage and put you in a box, what they did. That drawer there got about 700 dollars in it already. What's the plan, convict? Next guy pull up gonna get ripped from his window by the esophagus? Borrow yourself a new Lexus with a "Born To Lose" bumper sticker on the back? Or you maybe wait it out till lunchtime? Sit down at the Grover Cleveland Rest Area Roy Rogers and poke through some Rafting brochures?

Your move convict. Happy Organize A Workplace Morale Building Whitewater Rafting Trip For You And Your Fellow Toll Booth Attendants Day!

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Oh Dear God What Have I Done?" Week!
Looks like today's the day that Pretty Girl is sending the last few years tumbling end over end into the big black nothing. No, silly, no one's opening up any wrists. But a one way plane ticket will be redeemed and an air mattress will be inflated. Out of respect for the alcohol intake to come, Girls Are Pretty is giving you the next week's posts all at once. Don't blow your wad. Scroll to the bottom for today's and then save tomorrow's for tomorrow. Even if you have no intention of observing each day's holiday, do you really feel your life is full enough to go without reading something stupid and new on the internet for a whole week? Ration it.

Sunday, July 7, 2002

Don't Even Open Your Eyes Day!
You saw it all yesterday. Some buildings. One or two cute babies. A guy pissing on a bank. Where's the suspense? Just keep your eyes closed and pretend you live in Lavender Footie Pajama World where everyone and everything is made of pie.

Saturday, July 6, 2002

Ask That Cunt Who Runs The Lotto Machine At Friends' Tavern To Marry You Day!
Goddamnit when are you going to realize happiness isn't just gonna walk up and bite you on the ass? That cunt who runs the lotto machine at Friend's Tavern would make you a damn good wife, and frankly, she's the only woman you've spoken to since Easter Sunday. You're still holding a grudge because when the jackpot was up to 95 million and you let her pick the numbers for your 147th ticket she picked all losers but for Christ's sake perfect girls go to Hollywood. You gotta settle for what you can reach out and grab. Her name's Allison by the way.

You never know, maybe if you get married before you turn 57 some long lost uncle will die and leave you millions of dollars just like I think I saw happen in a movie once.

Friday, July 5, 2002

Don't Feed Your Kids Day
I honestly hate this day, I really do. It's actually because of this holiday that I gave custody of my daughter back to my ex last year. I just couldn't handle being so cruel. Even for the other 364 days it would haunt me. I would shower her with love, but I knew it was just me compensating for the torment to come and it started to feel like she knew too. This is just too too miserable a day for me and if there's some higher reason for it that I can't comprehend, that only proves that this universe is really the bottom of the fucking barrel.

And I'm afraid the loopholes aren't valid. The name of the day would imply that kids who can walk and talk could be taught to run out and get food for themselves. But all research suggests that, historically, people have always observed the day by literally prohibiting their children from eating. Fucking awful.

Thursday, July 4, 2002

Skinnydip. But alone. And Quietly. Day!
Today is that special summer day when everyone has to swim naked and alone just like when we weren't born yet. No splashing or rope swinging (excuse the pun) either. Just nice even strokes out into the middle of the pond, tread a bit, then back again. You can stay out there all you want but, unfortunately, this is a very sacred holiday in most parts of the US. And even if someone saw you out there and was just bursting with the need to shout, "Mind if I join you?" or "If I swim out there to you will you have sex with me?" he or she will more often than not respect the holiday and your right to celebrate it by leaving you be.

Happy Skinnydip. But alone. And Quietly. Day!

Wednesday, July 3, 2002

Policewomen Are Amazing In Bed Day!
And the awesome thing is, and a lot of people don't know this, but policewomen are in fact allowed to have sex with people who aren't policemen. They can have sex with strip club owners and restaurateurs and ex-husbands, even battered women who need a place to sleep after the shelter's already closed for the night! And underneath their hat is this unbelievable head of long brown hair wrapped up in a bun that they let cascade down when they're up for it. But be careful. If you're not good at having sex and you have sex with a policewoman, she might plant heroin on you.

Happy Policewomen Are Amazing In Bed Day!

Tuesday, July 2, 2002

Get Loaded And Tell The New Friendlier ATM Screen That It Doesn't Know Anything About You And It Can Go Fuck Itself Day!
And then pee on it. But seriously, this big money spitting fuckwad of a computer thinks it can stupid up its lingo and suddenly you two are gonna be best friends? Fuckin' fake motherfucker talkin' down to you?! When's it been there for you? Where was he when your wife was deliverin' your third daughter and you was on third shift at the dreamcatcher factory with no sick time and damn right you were gonna get canned if you split. Countin' money's where. You're buddy, Ray, that's a friend. Fuckin' bankboy ho.

Now pee on it.

Monday, July 1, 2002

DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! Day!
I don't care if you have strawberry jam on your toast every morning. Today's the day to have some second thoughts. It don't matter about what. Just be uncertain. Got a gut feeling that you're doing the right thing? Well you just doubt yourself enough and that gut feeling is gonna turn into a nice debilitating yet companionable ulcer in no time. There are some bumper stickers for sale by the bathrooms, just so you know. Here's the top seller:

"You've Been Wrong Before.
Why Not Now?"

Cute huh? How 'bout this one:

"Vacillators Do It Eventually Maybe"

Make sure you pick one up for your brother-in-law who is a riot. Now go out there and tackle that Monday but please try not to do anything rash.

Happy DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! Day!