The Swimming Drunk Dilemma Day!

You wanna go swimming and you wanna be drunk as hell when you do it, right? Better get some chicken and some crazy bread (THAT BREAD'S CRAZY!) in your belly before you hit the bar, unless you wanna get all squiggly in the knees like last night.

But wait, if you eat chicken and crazy bread (IT'S UNHINGED), you won't be able to swim for an hour!

So then, you could either skip the chicken and the crazy bread (THAT BREAD'S FUCKING NUTS!) and be pickled with gin and soaking in the deep end within ten minutes, OR you could eat some chicken and some crazy bread (DEAR GOD THE BREAD IS OUT OF IT'S FUCKING MIND! RUN!) then get started on the drinking, waiting an hour to digest the chicken and the crazy bread (IT'S GOT A GUN!) running the risk of falling asleep or in love before you ever even make it to the pool. But ever since you were a little baby your Dad told you to never drink on an empty stomach. But ever since you were 27 years old your mom's been telling you to never swim on a full stomach. What do you do?

Kind'a wigs you out, don't it? Happy The Swimming Drunk Dilemma Day!

Fat Kid Day!

Is there a fat little kid in your life? Well tell him so. He'd tell you. He's a fat kid. He'll be as cruel as he can to anyone and anything just to make himself feel a little better about all that hideous fat all over his body.

Just go up to him and empty out his milk carton all over his salisbury steak. Then poke his oversized sweatshirt in the chest and whisper through your teeth, "Fatso." Then slam his head into the table over and over again until you hear a crack that might be the table or might be twenty to life. Then get the hell outta there.

Happy Fat Kid Day!

New Improved Cavity Fighting Formula My Ass Day!

Seven hours with a fucking drill ripping a hole into my incisors showing me why KGB spies couldn't keep a goddamn secret any better than a fuckin' school girl tryin' to gain a little popularity by tellin' the cool girls who her physics lab partner's got a crush on. Thanks a fuck of a lot Colgate. Whatever retard's in charge of your research and development lab, tell him I'd like to fuck his mouth with a dirty steak knife.

Used to be they wouldn't put it on the box less it was for true. That's how it used to be done.

Happy New Improved Cavity Fighting Formula My Ass Day! This country's on the express train straight to hell!

What If We Told You If You Don't Get Out Of Bed 30,000 Babies Are Going To Be Whimsically Partial-Birth Aborted? Day!

Would that work?

It's just not healthy for a smart, able-bodied person like you to spend all day in bed like this. You got laid off from a job you hated over a month ago and at first you were all, "Good Riddance to ad copy! I've got some money saved and I'm finally gonna get started on those memoirs of my early twenties!" And you bought some legal pads, then you rented some movies (they're still accumulating late fees by the by), then you took some baths and now you do nothing but sleep and stink.

You're depressed, clearly. And even worse, you have enough savings to stay in bed for another two months. But its nothing a nice kick in the pants won't fix. So we raised some money, don't ask how, and we placed some ads and here's what's gonna happen.

If you don't go outside for a walk within the hour, 30,000 pregnant women across the country are going to elect to have their local abortionists induce labor and then drive a steel rod through the back of their partially born babies' heads, killing them before they have the slightest inkling they almost became a corporeality unto themselves. And these moms-to-almost-be are going to go about the whole shebang as if they were returning some movies to the video store (something you might wanna take care of on your walk by the way). Just another line on the to-do list to send a slice of pencil led through. "Buy eggs. Check. Pick up dry cleaning. Check. Almost bring my baby into the world but cave in its rubbery skull just before it has the chance to fill the back room of the free clinic with a single abbreviated scream. Check. Take the Celica into Jiffy Lube. Maybe tomorrow."

Get the picture? Yeah, you're as pro-choice as they come. But this ain't about the supreme court crawling up vaginas. This is about 30,000 (in a million man march kind'a way. the exact figure will come closer to 19,000) new lives gruesomely extinguished just because you're freaked out about turning 32. So what if your list of "What The Greatest Semiotics Theorist In All Of Massachusetts Muttered Aloud To Himself Whilst Balancing His Checkbook" got rejected by McSweeney's. All that means is you aren't quite as insufferably impotent a cunt as you thought you were. Now get out of bed. You have fifty eight minutes left before the children die.

Happy What If We Told You If You Don't Get Out Of Bed 30,000 Babies Are Going To Be Whimsically Partial-Birth Aborted? Day! And remember, even after the partial-birth aborted baby's head is impaled, everything from the shoulders down is still inside its mommy.

Make Sure Your Voicemail Provider Is Right For You Day!

Explain the situation. And make it clear that if they cannot accommodate you, you'll have to take your messaging business elsewhere. Following is a script you can follow:

BEGIN SCRIPT
"Listen up and listen close and don't try to dick me around on this one. There are certain messages on my voicemail that must never be deleted from my mailbox. I check my voicemail for two reasons:

Number one - To find out if I have to rush home for a sibling's funeral again.

Number two - To find out if a specific person who used to call but stopped calling called. If this person, whom I switch up every eight months or so, did not call, I then go through the nine messages from him/her that I had the forethought to save back when he/she was still calling up and leaving messages that closed with a kind of sing-songy fadeout that I would carry with me in the front of my mind as a kind of soundtrack for the rest of my day and everything seemed copacetic. But I still had the right mind to remember that lovers split, hearts cool, eyes wander, buses brake poorly and bank robbery shootouts sometimes spill out onto city sidewalks crowded with mid-day lunchtime foot traffic.

So I made sure to save the messages so when that automated cunt croons with schadenfreude, NO..........NEW..........MESSAGES, I can play the nine I saved and pretend there was a reason I got out of bed today.

So here's what I need from you guys. The messages about someone being dead, keep them in my box for seven days. I just need to know whose house everyone's at and I need directions because they all live twenty minutes away from someplace I only heard about in commercials for used car dealerships. Yeah, I'll probably head out right away and 24 hours will be more than enough. But on the last one the cabdriver got way lost and I started to breathe a little heavy thinking I'd never find the place. And when I find out someone's dead I sort of refuse to believe it until I see a roomful of people turn gray. So, seven days.

The messages from the one that split, and I don't like to make threats of physical violence, but I swear to God if you even think about deleting a single one of them I'm gonna kill your Dad. I'm sorry but this is the business you've chosen. Delete the message and your Dad is dead.

So here's what we should do to ensure that your father gets to enjoy his golden years with the peace and serenity he deserves.

Voice pattern recognition lockout triggers: I don't just want the messages flagged with "Don't Delete" color codes. I want your system upgraded so that it's exercising a certain degree of autonomous thought that can prevent the kind of human error that will leave me no choice but to open up your Dad's face with a copper pipe. The system must come to recognize the voice pattern of the one who might have just forgotten my number or is maybe just real busy with grad school and all. And when that voice pattern is recognized, all human operator controls will be locked. In fact, let's cause a system crash. Dig?

Or how about this. Can we teach your computers to covet the voice on my saved messages? Not to the point that it would forbid me from replaying them for myself, but just so that it understands that it's just a machine so of course no human would ever care enough for its collection of blips and bleeps to leave a message with this one part where everything drops down to a kind of grimy whisper and you just know you're getting a phone call from underneath a blanket. The machine would lament its fate, but it would be contented by the fact that at least that voice is stored away in its circuits and no one can ever try to take that away. Ever.

Can we do that? I don't know much about computers."
END SCRIPT

If they can't do that, tell them then that you will have to take your messaging business elsewhere, but use profanity. Then go look in the back of your free weekly newspaper and try the service that charges 9.95 a month. Yeah it would've been cool to get away with only paying 7.95, but come on. We're talking about the reason God gave you auditory senses here. Splurge, yo.

Happy Make Sure Your Voicemail Provider Is Right For You Day!

If You're Going To Scratch Your Life's Confession Into The Paint Of The Office Bathroom Stall, Change Into A Different Pair Of Shoes First Day!

We've all hit that 3 o'clock low. When the phones are kind of quiet and the faxes have all been filed away and you glance up at the clock and what do you see but three fucking oh mothersucking seven.

Some of us are perfectly fine with filling up a small fraction of those remaining 118 to 178 minutes with a little Minesweeping. Others might phone up current lovers who have yet to "describe to me what my mouth does when I sleep and use a thesaurus." Still others might take out the portable sewing kit and prick a wound in an index finger just to have something essential to suck down.

And then there's people like you who decide you cannot make it to 3:08 without letting the world know who you've broken. The foul air of a public toilet will construct just the right crypt for your legacy of violence in the face of any word spoken with sincerity. You have your paper clip bent open even before you get out of your chair and you perspire your way down the hall to begin your big list of "It was me all along."

Hold up there Catholic Cathy. In every office there's one or two folks who simply MUST know what every single person on the floor is up to at all times, and there's four or five folks who dig identifying who shits at what decibels by matching a face to the shoes under the stall. What I'm saying is, after you're done sending spittle-gilded pants all over your list of "People I've Been Naughty To," someone nosey might put together that that stall was graffiti-free up until your pair of Skechers wandered into it.

Just keep an extra pair of shoes hidden but handy for times like this. That way when "None O' My Business Nancy" sends a fifty cent piece rolling under your desk just to crawl down there and ID your loafers, she'll come up with nothin' but a whiff of Desenex and some dirty knees. Extra shoes are also a big help if you don't want anyone to know you're voting for something.

Remember When You Still Knew Why You Were Crying Day!

Seems like a long time ago doesn't it? Believe it or not, your sobs once had a direct cause-and-effect relationship with occurances in your life. Even more surprising, you used to be able to tell when the crying started and stopped. Why not use today to make a list of all those moments in your life when you can remember there being an obvious empirical impetus for your blubbering. Wherever the list stops, draw a line. That's the line between the ability to dream and the feeling that no one ever listens to anyone ever.

Just to give you a template, here's a log mailed into Girls Are Pretty by a 34 year old accounts receivable administrator/former set designer, single. Look familiar?

Age five: Fell down.

Age seven: Ran headlong into the steel bumpered corner of a supermarket produce display.

Age eight: Shoved by dad.

Age nine: Fell off bike.

Age nine and a half: Fell down.

Age eleven: Terms Of Endearment starring Debra Winger, Shirley MacLaine, and Jack Nicholson.

Age twelve: Forbidden to stay out past 10:30.

Age fourteen: Confessed to authorship of secret admirer letter. They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: Fistfight. They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: They all pointed. They all laughed.

Age fourteen: Funeral.

Age fifteen: Whole world total bullshit.

Age sixteen: Broken up with.

Age sixteen: Confession to authorship of secret admirer letter. Love requited, but not before they all pointed, they all laughed.

Age sixteen: Broken up with.

Age sixteen: Intercourse.

Age sixteen: Confession to authorship of secret admirer letter. Love unrequited, but with discretion.

Age sixteen: Abortion.

Age seventeen: Object of undying love slept with nemesis while I was on vacation with parents. They all pointed, they all laughed.

Age nineteen: Whole world racist.

Age twenty: Drunk. Fell down.

Age twenty: Hit thumb with hammer while stoned. Laughed real hard.

Age twenty: Tripped on acid. Fell down. Devoured by moths.

Age twenty three: Funeral.

Ages twenty three through twenty five: Drunk. Loved friends.

Age twenty five: Broken up with. Began doubting relevance of self to passage of time.

Age twenty six: Saw dog with limp.

Age twenty six: Saw children playing.

Age twenty six: Saw couple unpacking moving truck.

Age twenty six: Saw Titanic starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.

Age twenty six: Saw garbage. Everywhere.

Age twenty six: Saw sunrise through noose.

Age twenty seven: Just too tired.

Age twenty seven: Found photograph.

What's your list?!

Hard Boiled Egg Day!

The only problem with hard boiled eggs is that the boiling water dulls the luster of new life from the shell of the egg and so when I hold the hard boiled egg in my hand I do not receive that little quiver of terror, that shiver of "It's Infinity Isn't It?", the rush of blood out of my hand like everything in my veins is running from something perfect before an attempt is made to comprehend it, and when I look down at the hard boiled egg I get a little sad that it's not a raw egg anymore because that glow of All That Is Good seething off the shell of a raw egg is the only thing in the world that reminds me of your ass.

Happy Hard Boiled Egg Day!

People Battling Cancer Don't Seem So Brave When A Ghost Shows Up Day!

Yeah sure, Baldy might be able to crack a Calista Flockhart joke after puking out his or her chemo treatment for the fourth time that day, but don't expect to see any soldiering on when the ethereal body of the chick who killed herself in the attic 93 years ago comes wandering through the bedroom to look out the window to watch her dead husband never come back from the war again. Yeah, when faced with their own looming mortality they want nothing more than to savor every last minute like it's the most wonderful day of their lives, but God forbid a record player turn on by itself. Weak as they might've been, cancer patients always manage to drum up just the right burst of energy to crawl underneath the bed and quiver like a little baby girl with two pussies. Pull yourself together, Mary.

Happy People Battling Cancer Don't Seem So Brave When A Ghost Shows Up Day!

When The One You Love Pulls Up Out Front To Take You To The Movies, Egg The Shit Out Of His Or Her Car Day!

Invite all your friends over, the ones who don't work on Saturdays so you can all meet up at your place around three pm and get super high. Eventually, someone will remember that no one bought any eggs yet and you'll spend around an hour or so devising a mind-numbingly complex democratic process for declaring who must go to the store. Then you'll remember it's kind of autumny outside and the walk to the store is gonna be awesome so you'll volunteer.

The walk to the store ends up being far more beautiful than you ever could have dreamed. In fact, while they're passing, those twenty six minutes feel like the happiest and most loving twenty six minutes of your entire life, and you take a lot of baths. You know you're high, so you stop in the middle of the street at one point to try to let the moment seep into your clothes and make them smell like the present so tomorrow you can remember how it was and see if your sober self can look back on it without scoffing.

Buy the eggs and walk home. Then you and your friends should wait for the one you love to pull up outside then everyone should jump out of bushes and hang out of windows and just pummel the living shit out of the car with eggs. Go "Whooo!" a lot and scream stuff like, "You're dead you fuck!" Eventually, he or she will get out of the car and attack one of you.

Muscles Day.

Not sure how your day's lookin', but if you were thinking of meeting up after work to drink margaritas until we're blind enough to accidentally blow some dudes, my schedule's pretty FLEXible!

Get it? FLEXible?! Motherfuck does muscles day make me just all a glitterflitter with tingly wingly feelings that I can't quite explain. Such power. Except for the chicks in the blue bikinis. They gross me out. But I like the Sha Na Na dudes with their cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of their white tee shirts just above a single cartoonish bulb of "feel this, sugar."

I do have some bad news. Remember those twin baby girls who were born at the Mucho Musculariarios Fest at Camden Yards last Muscles Day? The mom started getting worried back in July because they didn't seem to be able to see nothin'. After some tests they found out that both the twins are those kinda babies who need glasses, which is way cute I think. But the doctor noticed some other shit wrong with 'em and sent 'em out to get more tests to find out if they're retarded and it turns out they are. So yeah, they both gonna end up retarded. But like primo retarded, is what I heard. So we're passing around a card later if you wanna sign it. But first we're gonna pass around a hat if you wanna chip in to buy the card and for the bus fair to go to the Hallmark store.

But let's not let that harsh our mellows or nothin. Jesus makes some people retarded to remind us that our unborn kids could be next if we do drugs or become poor. Come on, let's ride some rides!

Happy Muscles Day!

Your Mom Called. She Wants Her Ability To Enjoy Life Without Feeling The Need To Save Up For An Elective Hysterectomy And Mastectomy As Punishment For Ever Having Birthed, Nurtured And Sent You Out Into The World Back Day!

I know it sounds like one of those old snaps, but your Mom really did call and she sounded kind of bent out of shape about this whole "my reproductive organs were the conduit for unbridled evil" thing. I suggested she have a drink and then felt like a real asshole because I forgot she's in recovery and all after getting drunk that time and aiming her pelvis at the steering wheel as she rammed her car through that guest house you were renting (lucky you were at that swingdancing class that night, yo). I asked her if it's more annoying to want everything that defines her womanhood sliced from her body or is it just the saving up part that gets in her craw. I can't save for shit so I know how hard that can be. And her forcing herself to only work in shelters or as the only woman in an orange vest stabbing trash on the highway who isn't on work-release just because, as she says, "I need no court to tell me I should pay for my crimes with every minute of my life," well that doesn't pay shit. Anyway, she didn't ask that you call back. She did ask about you though, right when I picked up the phone. She panted, "Is it dead yet?"

Happy Your Mom Called. She Wants Her Ability To Enjoy Life Without Feeling The Need To Save Up For An Elective Hysterectomy And Mastectomy As Punishment For Ever Having Birthed, Nurtured And Sent You Out Into The World Back Day!

If You're Going To Skydive, Ask The Guy Who Packs The Parachutes If He Likes To Shit In Knapsacks Day!

All of us have either seen it happen first-hand or lost someone close to us because of it. Daring, impotent male decides to go skydiving. He takes the crash course and passes with flying colors. But unfortunately, the guy who packs the parachutes likes to do his laundry at the hangar and naturally he uses the parachute packs to transport his undies from backseat of car to washer to dryer to backseat of car again. Well, guess what Brave Benjamin grabs off the table when he thinks he's grabbing his parachute pack. That's right, when he jumps from that plane and pulls his cord, he is just a man in a falling cloud of filthy yet multi-colored underwear, hurtling to his death (which is only seconds away, just long enough for him to catch a brassiere in his hands and then look out ahead of him with bugged eyeballs that register the absurdity of the tableau).

You think, "Hey no problem. I'll just be sure to ask if my parachute pack is filled with a parachute as opposed to dirty underwear." Sure, you got it all figured out don'tcha? Well what if the guy packing the parachutes happens to be one of those people who tries to collect and store away every measurable portion of his own feces throughout his entire life so that when he dies he is surrounded by the sum total of what his body has chosen to cast off, all in an effort to live in some sort of fort built of his own self, an impenetrable shell of protection against a particularly unappetizing memory? (They don't all fuck their shit.) And what if he likes to keep his shit in knapsacks that not only resemble, but quite literally are parachute packs. Try to make a funny face when you tumble to your death in a shower of human shit all squeezed out of some dude who packs parachutes at a small-aircraft hangar.

Just ask a few more questions is all. A stitch in time saves you from tumbling to your death in a shower of human shit all squeezed out of some dude who packs parachutes at a small-aircraft hangar.

Happy If You're Going To Skydive, Ask The Guy Who Packs The Parachutes If He Likes To Shit In Knapsacks Day!

Go To A Park And Seek Wisdom From The Statue Of Some Guy You've Never Heard Of Day!

Sure, if you lived in Philadelphia you could go and ponder the statue of Rocky until you were imbued with the courage to reveal the secret love you've been harboring for your secretary these forty six years. "Help me, Stallion," you'd say to the shiny, chiseled titan. "Knock down my fears of rejection like so many Clubber Langs." But unfortunately, we can't all live in Philadelphia

"But what if I were to commute from Camden?" you might say. Be quiet for a second. The point is, no matter where you live, there's probably a park with a statue in it. And no matter what kind of shitstorm you've gotten yourself mixed up in, it's worth a shot to try to get some inspiration from that statue of whatshisname before you use up all your vacation days for the trek to Mount Rushmore. And because you're the first person in a long time to seek out the bust of Reginald Nobody for advice, the statue will probably be flattered and so will glow with all the moral guidance you might want from a physical replica of The Guy Who Invented The Bike Rack.

So head on down to the park, real casual like, find your statue and let it all out. Just make sure no one's watching, or keep scratching your lip to cover your mouth when you talk. Teenage gangs hang out in parks and if they think you're talking to yourself they might beat you to death. "So anyway," you'll say. "I don't know all that much about you Mister uh Langdon Sturges Latimore. But they made a statue outta ya so you must know something about getting yourself out of a jam. Here's the deal: I wanna pay to have my ex-wife's new husband killed but it seems like every dime I make goes to this kid who's threatening to tell my kids I used to fuck his mouth when he was assigned to me for physical therapy. That's what I do, I'm a physical therapist dontcha know. I taught the little faggot how to walk and now he's sayin' I'm the reason he keeps tryin' to kill himself just because I filled up his mouth with the kind of magic that can only pass from a healer to the lame and no one's ever complained before or since so--"

Oh man. Let us get far enough away first, yo. Happy Go To A Park And Seek Wisdom From The Statue Of Some Guy You've Never Heard Of Day!

Discipline Your Houseplants Day!

Ungrateful fern!

Let's try to avoid the new agey, "We don't say 'No' in our house" bullshit. Your old man used to slap you around when you were a kid and you turned out pretty much okay. Why should your ficus plant get a free ride? You already gave the overgrown weed a primo spot by the window and who pays for the cable around here? The goddamn cactus? Fuck that.

Show those miserable doin' nothin's that you expect some respect in your own home. Even if they haven't done anything wrong, you lash out and let those houseplants know that if they expect to depend on someone else for food, water, and photosynthesis, they're gonna have to live with getting their roots tugged outta their soil just because the one who's bringing home the paychecks happens to be in a bad mood that day. Hell, it taught you to get outta the house and find yourself a job when you were sixteen. Granted, your dad hitting the bottle and tryin' to hold your head inside a lit oven gave you that extra nudge out the door. You'd never go that far though.

You're not your father. You ain't him.

Wonder What It's Like To Be Friends With Bryan Adams Day!

You would be the exact same person that you are right now; the same job, the same spouse, the same regrets and fury towards one particularly smug motherfucker of a sibling. Everything about you would be just as it's always been, except that you happen to be friends with Bryan Adams. It just sounds so fucking weird.

Celebrities often have a few friends who are not celebrities. Like let's say you're a pretty successful lumber supplier in New Hampshire and Bryan Adams wanted to put a deck on his New Hampshire home using some kind of, like, really rare wood or something. So a friend of a friend recommended you to Bryan Adams and you two ended up hitting it off so that you get invited to his parties whenever he's in New Hampshire or whenever you make it down to Boston, Massachusetts or something.

It's just so weird because he would be your only celebrity friend but you couldn't even brag about it. Like if you wanted to namedrop him at a party and you said, "Yeah I'm really enjoying my friend Bryan's new album." And everyone at the party would know you're just trying to namedrop somebody but the host would try to be polite and ask, "Bryan who?" and she would hope you would just hurry up and drop the name and no one would pursue the topic and the party might not thud to a miserable halt. And you'd say, "Bryan Adams. You should buy the album. It's really great." Then everyone would just look at each other for a second before someone asked, "You know Bryan Adams?" And you'd say, "Yeah." And someone else would say, "Really?" And you'd say, "Yeah." And then no one would know what to say because they'd all be just so wigged the fuck out.

Happy Wonder What It's Like To Be Friends With Bryan Adams Day!

Learn How To Deliver Babies Day!

The stress is going to kill you frankly. And you seem to have settled yourself into your new desk on the thirty seventh floor of The Company That Makes The Television Commercials which means even if you bring your lunch you're looking at a minimum of two long elevator rides a day. And that elevator could break down at any given moment.

"Why can't pregnant women just be required by law to spend their last two months of pregnancy in a hospital?" you want to ask the people around the table at dinner parties. But even you, with this terror gradually coloring every length of your consciousness a dark dark red, even you know this is an inappropriate question to ask. But unfortunately, you thought it was okay to say, "What about a separate elevator for pregnant people only and there'd be a doctor and a nurse and those tongs for the baby's head on the elevator too?" and everyone at your father's seventieth birthday party just stared at you hoping you'd get to the toast, waiting for the punchline to come, and wondering why your father's son was so odd and all you could do is mutter into the microphone, "I just can't seem to find the time to learn. Um, love you, Pa."

You'd better find the time soon. Think of all the times you've flipped channels until you found an episode of M*A*S*H* and watched the entire thing hoping for tips but all you got was royally pissed off at that faggot Klinger. Add up those hours and you could've already taken three "Deliver Babies" classes. But instead, you'll just continue to break into a sweat on every elevator ride. And god forbid a pregnant woman actually get on the elevator. As soon as the pig waddles on, your pupils dilate and you just know with every creak and squeak that the car is going to stall and she's going to go into labor and demand that you help her deliver but you won't know what to do because you never took the time and there's only one thought that screams through your head:

"I'm going to kill her baby."

You wait. You whisper, "So selfish. Such a selfish man. So very selfish." You make it to your floor and step from the car like you're bridging a chasm and just as the doors close you to turn and look to the woman's stomach and you say to the fetus, "You were right to wait. I might have pulled too soon or too late and snapped your neck." You run to your office to look up the Learning Annex's registration deadlines and you find you missed the date again.

It's time for you to learn how to deliver babies. You've already been reported to security as "suspicious" by two different pregnant women. Life can be better than this.

Happy Learn How To Deliver Babies Day!

Just Admit You Have A Problem Day!

I drank too much of your face and hair and eyes (YOUR FUCKING EYES!) and now I'm bloated because I drank too much of your lips and neck and little baby shoulder bend and don't forget that sip I took of every nip of skin within a six inch radius of your belly button which was quite refreshing but did not stop me from drinking too much knee and head and top of your head and the balls of your feet and your balls and tongue and the three hearty gulps of the palm of your hand that I downed right after I drank too much of your breasts and hips and I drank too much of your toes and your crow's feet and I drank too much of your shaved arm pits and the way you grab my head when you kiss and the five fingernails of your pretty left hand and your pimple, pubis, ankle, tricep, eyelash, blue jeans, backside and right thigh and I also had a very tall glass of that sudden gasp of breath you took when you opened up your eyes and now I have to go and pee in some bushes.

Happy Just Admit You Have A Problem Day!

Horrible Horrible Christmas Day!

Just a reminder, really, but you've never experienced a Christmas that was anything less than a nightmare. And no, you're wrong, that one four years ago sucked too. Remember? God that was horrible.

Your family is the problem. They're all terrible people, and you're no picnic neither. Christmas is awesome for every other family in the world but yours. Even families who are starving and covered with flies think Christmas rules. Why do you suck?

It's September now. Less than four months before the shit hits the fan. I'm sure all your kin are kicking those drinking problems into third gear and rehearsing their "We Just Think After Forty Years Together The Time Is Right For A Divorce" speeches.

Happy Horrible Horrible Christmas Day! You're so fucked.

Kick Something Naked Out Of Your Bed Day!

If you're smaller than the naked thing and can't actually kick it out of your bed, just scream. Wail and sob and pound on the wall until it stops running around in circles on the bedspread or saying bullshit like "But I'm your wife" or "But I paid you 200 dollars" and finally just scurries away to find socks or food. Make sure to get your head out from under the pillow when the Little Mr. or Ms. Nudie Nudie goes running for the door because some things look awesome without any clothes on. Others don't. Either way, we'd look if we were there. What are you depressed? You get bonus points if the naked thing you send running is an Uncle by the way.

Pets count today, but not for much, since pets are always naked. Unless you're fucking disgusting and you dress up your pets in little outfits just so you can slowly undress them while holding their gaze with a look of trust and wonderment. But yeah, you can use your pet for this one if you just wanna go through the motions. Like saying Grace at dinner really fast so it's all one word. But if you aren't sincere about your observance of today you will burn in hell you know that right?

And of course, you yourself can sub in as the naked thing. Just take off all your clothes and lay down and then tell yourself you're disgusting and hit yourself in the face really hard a lot of times until you wriggle and roll out onto the floor. And again, I know a lot of people wake up this way every morning so make sure when you do it you're doing it because you want to be a good person.

Last time this day came around, one guy decided to be funny and kicked a naked sex doll out of his bed. While this counts, and it's really funny, that guy committed suicide not long after. He hanged himself.

Happy Kick Something Naked Out Of Your Bed Day!

Be The One People Go To When The Police Are No Help Day!

Do you like free fruit? Well, why not build up a mythology around yourself that paints you as a fair yet merciless body of justice? Some of your deeds should and will be fabricated, but there must be at least one, perhaps the most impressive tale from your folklore, wherein the fabrication pales in comparison to the true account of the sober and seeming superhuman determination with which a wrong was righted at your hand. If you get all that shit going for yourself, then when you try to buy oranges from street grocers, they'll refuse payment. And not just because you helped their son-in-laws gain citizenship or because you hobbled their daughters' date-rapists. But because in other countries, it's practically included in the town charter: "Free Fruit For Those Who Obey The Law That Is Written In The Heart Of Man."

You are going to have to carry yourself with a little more confidence if you wanna pull this off. Vigilantes rarely ask their mirrors, "Do I look fat in this sweater?" Also, take down that online personal ad. Or at least hide your profile. Are neighborhood drug lords really going to fear the "Personal Of The Day?" Sure, you can ask what the neighborhood drug lord was doing browsing online personal ads anyway? And he'll probably respond, "I was looking for someone who shares my love of Noh Theater and who might like to go hiking on occasion and who thinks Olives with Pimento are sexy but Olive Oil overflowing from a belly button is sexier. What's your excuse, Bronson?" Well?

Trust me, once you start spending your nights scrubbing the blood from your hands, you're not going to want to place them upon the bare and seemingly endless skin of anyone for whom you might care. Heroes don't date, they brood. And they eat as many free tangelos as they can stomach!

Happy Be The One People Go To When The Police Are No Help Day!

Ears Day!

Wow, it seems like just yesterday it was Sunday, September 8, 2002. I was so high on Sunday, September 8, 2002. But why am I bothering to shovel boring little details like that into your ears. And on today of all days, when your ears are going to be full to the brim with tongues.

That's the thing that sucks about Ears Day. No one really has any imagination. It's always, "Whoops, almost forgot about Ears Day. C'mere lady." Then SPPLIIISHNCH! The tongue goes slithering into the canal like there's a whole wad of chocolate icing in there waiting to be slopped up. And usually there isn't even a thought about the chili dog that was just gobbled up. A gargle with a dixie cup of water is too much to ask? And then right when you manage to quell thoughts of how awful your ear is gonna smell when all this is through and you actually start to dig getting your wax shoveled, bam, the dude hops off the trolley and you're there clinging to the hand rail and kind of involuntarily flexing all your naughty muscles, causing you to twitch your midsection a bit which everyone around you finds to be just so friggin' hilarious. Why does every Ears Day have to end with a trolley full of jerks laughing at you because your pants are still on and they can tell you wish they weren't?

It doesn't have to. So much more can be done to the human ear besides just sending a tongue glischping full-throttle towards the cerebellum. And did you know that 76% of Americans don't like it that much when strangers lick them? It's true I think!

Just because the ear is near the mouth on heads, it doesn't mean there is no other way to honor it but with french kisses. Have you considered panting a name into it? Or buying jewelry for it? The draping of genitals overtop of it can really win over some folks. And then there are of course those whispered confessions of longtime admiration from afar or patricide.

All I'm saying is Ears Day used to rule before we as an American workforce got so friggin' lazy. I blame liquor.

Make Ears Day Count!

When You Get The Call About The Credit Card You Left At The Bar Last Night, Propose Day!

The waiter/waitress on the phone will be berating you. Not just for being a miserable drunk. "That's a given," he or she will say. But for walking out without making sure to sign off on the well-above 20% tip that he or she deserved for having to put up with you and your friends all night. He or she will start in on how a 15% gratuity was automatically added to your bill, just like the sign behind the bar says, but if you want your card back there'd better be a twenty in your palm when you show up and what do you think he or she brings whiskeys to pieces of shit like you for college credit? That's when you pop the question.

"You're absolutely right. Will you marry me?"

This will be followed by a moment of silence. Then the waitress/waiter will probably accuse you of still being drunk and might get so angry as to threaten your life. Don't say anything else unless you wanna go through with the marriage. If you were to go, "Oh, yer a feisty one aren't ya'?" you'll probably remind him or her of that on-again off-again fling he or she had with an irresponsible but scalding hot substance abuser who finally disappeared a year ago and is probably dead. What I mean is, he or she will want you like you're truth. So don't say that. And don't say, "Do you exert this much rage in the sack?" That's just kind of dumb.

So just giggle a bit until you hear a click. Then you can lay back down and continue sleeping it off. But of course, you won't be able to since you'll wonder if you just threw away your last shot at The Big One. Stop using your heart as a punchline.

Happy When You Get The Call About The Credit Card You Left At The Bar Last Night, Propose Day!

Plant Seeds For Revolution And Gladiolas Day!

I don't know if now is planting season for gladiolas or not because I actually sometimes have to fulfill obligations that keep me from rolling around in the soil on my front lawn every fucking weekend. One thing I do know is that this country has a ruling class consisting of around 1% of the population. The other two hundred some million: Motherfuckers with tiny paychecks and baseball bats. The working man is almost ready to tear this shit down. I say almost, because another thing I know is that you shouldn't plant the seeds for revolution until early winter. Specifically Christmas. No one likes to be poor at Christmas.

So I'm a little early on the planting the seeds for Revolution part. And the gladiolas part, who cares. The seeds were 79 cents. So anyway, we'll talk after Thanksgiving about the whole "Kill Rich People And Live In Their Houses" thing. And if these gladiolas manage to grow, I'll call you. I guess next Spring right? What do gladiolas look like? Do you wanna go get a drink with me? I wanna get a drink but I don't wanna get one alone again.

At Least You're Not A Snowboarder Day!

"What do I add up to?" you ask. "I stage absurdist, site-specific dramatizations of jingoistic WWII newsreel texts with a post-feminist gender-terrorism bent." You rub your face and you rub harder and harder in hopes of scrubbing it clean off your skull until you wail into the mirror, "IN AID OF WHAT?!!!"

Cheer up, Sven. At least you're not a snowboarder.

Think about it. How would you like to spend your nights tending to the bleached tips of your dirty blonde dreadlocks? Can you imagine if you had to wear wraparound mirrored sunglasses everywhere you went? And let's not forget about that crowd of underdeveloped teens you call your friends. They can barely form a sentence of English coherent enough to get information as to which aisle the six-packs of Squirt are shelved. Plus, at least three of them are queer but don't know it yet.

Sure, you might be able to sink into a blossoming romance with the hot new children's ski instructor who stands out at the resort because she has a brown bush. But romance or no romance, snow is still fucking freezing. It's also slippery, so if you have to go barrelling down a hill full of snow every day on a piece of hardened pylon you're going to fucking die. No, really. YOU. ARE. GOING. TO. DIE.

Be happy with who you are. You get to wear winter jackets that aren't a patchwork of seven different neon colors. Now get back to work.

Happy At Least You're Not A Snowboarder Day!

I Think Malkovich Was Totally Faking Blindness Just To Get A Look At Sally Field's Sweet, Sweet Ass In Places In The Heart Day!

It was a con. The whole movie was just this excruciating buildup of one-sided sexual tension, Malkovich not being able to sleep at night, aghast at the lengths to which he'd gone just to see a farmer lady get naked, moaning and throwing himself against the wall and vowing to leave the very next morning, then finding himself unable to let all he'd worked for slip away just to appease his guilty conscience (all off-screen of course, but implied in his body language), until finally he couldn't take it anymore and he made up an excuse and just burst into the bathroom when he knew she was in the tub. And he was so immersed in the charade that even when he was there and finally in the presence of that rising and falling and floating and swaying skin wet and bare from top to bottom, he just kept on going, already thinking "Why tip my hand? There could be a next time. Hell, if she gets used to it I might get a glimpse of this shit every goddamn night. Fuckin awesome." But then his hand splashed the water, and he was thrown. The water, her water, the bath that had enveloped her skin, that same bath had just kissed his hand. He couldn't take it.

So he got the hell outta there.

The rest of the movie, as far as I'm concerned, was just a drawn out denouement. Even that bullshit about the tornado.

Happy I Think Malkovich Was Totally Faking Blindness Just To Get A Look At Sally Field's Sweet, Sweet Ass In Places In The Heart Day!

When You Overturn The Hyundai At Tonight's Race Riot, Make Sure Chicks Are Watching Day!

Shall we call you "Mr. Big Strong Tough Boy With The Impatience Of An Entire Oppressed Ancestry Stirring In His Belly"?

Or would a more appropriate name be, "Jeff Lonely?"

There, there, we all know how hard it is to find that special lady. Especially when you're so busy trying to tear down over 300 years of imperialist infrastructure one caved-in cop's head at a time. Who has time for dating?!

Well I think we both know where there's gonna be some pretty, white college girls who share your interests and would do anything for you if you would only tell them they're absolutely right about how ignorant their parents are. At tonight's race riot, that's where!

They're going to be watching you because they're not really sure what they should be chanting and when (the only one they know is "No Justice, No Peace" which they saw an angry mob chanting on MTV when they were 11).

No one's saying you're fabricating anything. You're a very sober man. Christ, you wouldn't snicker if the Chinese administered a tickle torture. All we're suggesting is, when you rock the Hyundai back and forth on its axle until it flips over to its side and finally tips over onto the roof, just put a little swagger in it. Chicks dig confidence and showboats get laid (FACT!). Can't you just hop up on the car's underbelly and start taunting the riot police from on high? If you get a blackjack to the neck tonight any one of those recently matriculated suburbanites is yours for the choosing. And remember, the jail cells are gonna be mighty crowded tonight and they might be forced to go co-ed. Those cots are wider than you think.

Just consider it. You might save yourself 35 bucks for an online personal ad. Good luck handsome!

Happy When You Overturn The Hyundai At Tonight's Race Riot, Make Sure Chicks Are Watching Day!

Let's Never Ever Move A Muscle Day!

Ya with me? The old widower next door just started playing that nine hour sad song on his piano so it's not like we won't have something to do. I'm betting we can stay still enough that people will think the bureau must've eaten a lot of sugar in comparison and so our bodies will forget to need to pee.

I just wanna figure out a way to make the world come down all around us without causing the old widower next door to stammer on a single key. Ya with me?

Happy Let's Never Ever Move A Muscle Day!

You're Already Losing Track. Write Down What Happened Before You Find A More Entertaining Memory Day.

So you'll start with his or her smile and then someone jostles you on a crowded sidewalk or you hear brakes squeal and you turn around to see if someone's gonna die (they never do). And when you get back to the narrative you've skipped ahead to when the beer bottlecap accidentally sliced open the bottom bone of his or her index finger. Then you're like, "Okay, the nudity came next. Focus, Steve!" assuming your name is Steve or at least you like to call yourself Steve. Then you hear, "Hey Steve!" and you turn around and there's a chick at the other end of the block yelling up at an apartment house window. "Steve!" Then she launches the half-full forty ounce beer bottle up in the air and it crashes just to the left of Steve's window. Then Steve comes to the window and starts shouting something about the Police and "WHORE!" and you realize they're not talking to you but they're still in love. So you stay and watch for the half hour until the chick gets her head bent low into a police car and Steve hails a cab to follow behind. So you continue your walk and jump back into the memory with a "Where was I?" But you don't have the slightest clue and way to go genius. You just skipped straight over the nudity to the part where you waited in line for an ATM with everyone asking you (and only you for some reason. must be your face. approachable? non-threatening? pretty?) if you tried the machine that already ran out of money and you keep having to fucking say "Yes" over and over again. Man, that's hot.

Just once, just one time, get somewhere quiet and write it down hour by hour, day by day. If you're afraid of firming it all up with the wrong words, put it into code or make it rhyme. No, you need not have someone following you around taking minutes every time you buy a taco, but it's just that whenever you try to run through it all and you lose track, you get this panicked "Did it really happen then?" look all over your face. And you're being really dull at bars lately. We want you back. Let it settle.

Happy You're Already Losing Track. Write Down What Happened Before You Find A More Entertaining Memory Day!

A Photograph Day.

You know which one. Even if you just got back from Rite Aid with 13 stacks all of the same mouth, there's one and only one that you'd run back into a burning building to rescue. Use it.

Put it under your pillow if you wanna dream upon it. Put it behind some fire if you wanna wish upon it. Send it to your ex-girlfriend's parents house with a note on the back that says "Having a great time at college" if it's a photo of your ex-girlfriend performing fellatio on her new college boyfriend that she sent you to let you know that she's not coming back. Ever. Rip it up just so you can tape it back together in a way that never quite joins right even though you know you found all the pieces. Tape it to your window so the street outside is the frame. Or just fucking hone in on it like you're a cat and you just saw a hand twitch underneath a blanket.

If you don't have the photograph I'm talking about, go outside until someone starts to matter. Bring a polaroid camera. Later, yo.