Don't Judge That Fucking Cocksucker Who Should Die Until You've Walked A Mile In His Disgusting "Look At Me, I Suck Dick Because I Love Dick And I'm A Fucking Fuckfucker," Stinky, Smelly Shoes Day!
You ain't all that, Princess Prim n' Proper. Now go visit elderly shut-ins and watch TV with them or something. Give back why dontcha? Instead of just constantly looking for worthless piles of shit whose existence you can spend the whole day pondering in disgust until you piss up in the air to try to hit God.
Happy Don't Judge That Fucking Cocksucker Who Should Die Until You've Walked A Mile In His Disgusting "Look At Me, I Suck Dick Because I Love Dick And I'm A Fucking Fuckfucker," Stinky, Smelly Shoes Day!
Friday, November 29, 2002
Tell Them A Lie Day!
Tell them a lie, such as, "Everything's been going pretty good" or "No I haven't had those kinds of thoughts/heard those voices in over a month now" or "This is delicious" or "I actually don't think I'm all that attractive" or "I'm glad I came."
People buy what they're sold. That's why they call it America.
Happy Tell Them A Lie Day!
Tell them a lie, such as, "Everything's been going pretty good" or "No I haven't had those kinds of thoughts/heard those voices in over a month now" or "This is delicious" or "I actually don't think I'm all that attractive" or "I'm glad I came."
People buy what they're sold. That's why they call it America.
Happy Tell Them A Lie Day!
Thursday, November 28, 2002
Welcome Home, But You're Gonna Have To Come Right Out And Ask About Him Or Her Day!
You recognize all those faces and you've been wrapped up in each of those embraces probably a million times. But if you left right now it's like you'd remember tonight as just another night alone and wondering what he or she is up to.
They're all ready to tell you about their new jobs and new loves and who's been fucking who since you split, and they've got a thousand questions for you: where you livin'? how's your drinking? do you remember Michael Bender well he died last year...
They wanna get started because they know you only got one more night before you head back so they wanna get down to it like you used to do and they're just waiting for you to stop looking over their shoulders for the face that isn't waiting for you to paste your mouth up on it no more.
You've got one hell of a funny head. You talk like you think you're worse than shit but you still believe you're the only one in town who knows how to look up a train schedule. And you set yourself up to go looking over people's shoulders at nothing at all from the first day you decided not to write nobody no more.
Anyway, if you wanna find out where he or she is, you're gonna have to ask somebody. Since you never wanted anybody to know about the two of you (explain that one please?) no one thinks they should just come right out and tell you where he or she is as if the two of you was something anybody was supposed know about.
So, you shouldn't have come back. But as long as you're here, Happy Welcome Home, But You're Gonna Have To Come Right Out And Ask About Him Or Her Day!
You recognize all those faces and you've been wrapped up in each of those embraces probably a million times. But if you left right now it's like you'd remember tonight as just another night alone and wondering what he or she is up to.
They're all ready to tell you about their new jobs and new loves and who's been fucking who since you split, and they've got a thousand questions for you: where you livin'? how's your drinking? do you remember Michael Bender well he died last year...
They wanna get started because they know you only got one more night before you head back so they wanna get down to it like you used to do and they're just waiting for you to stop looking over their shoulders for the face that isn't waiting for you to paste your mouth up on it no more.
You've got one hell of a funny head. You talk like you think you're worse than shit but you still believe you're the only one in town who knows how to look up a train schedule. And you set yourself up to go looking over people's shoulders at nothing at all from the first day you decided not to write nobody no more.
Anyway, if you wanna find out where he or she is, you're gonna have to ask somebody. Since you never wanted anybody to know about the two of you (explain that one please?) no one thinks they should just come right out and tell you where he or she is as if the two of you was something anybody was supposed know about.
So, you shouldn't have come back. But as long as you're here, Happy Welcome Home, But You're Gonna Have To Come Right Out And Ask About Him Or Her Day!
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
Outgoing Message Day!
You should do an Osama Bin Laden impression on your answering machine. Have him say, "Hello American infidel! So sorry about the planes and the buildings but you had it coming for a long time! Especially you, Chris! You know what I'm talking about." Then come out of your Osama impression and in your own voice say, "But seriously, you've reached [state your name and that of anyone else who might use that machine]. If you'd like to leave a message, please do so with your name, phone number, and the best time to reach you immediately after the beep. I/we will get back to you as soon as possible. If you're wondering how many times I'll try to call you back before giving up, remember what Kate Nelligan said to Stockard Channing in the 1983 movie 'Without A Trace'..." then do your impression of Kate Nelligan in the 1983 movie Without A Trace and shout, "Until I Can't Stand Anymore!!! Until...I...can't stand anymore!!! HOW DARE YOU!!!" Then go back to your own voice and say, "Oh and uh, if this is in response to that personal ad I placed about the Latte lover with the brown hair and the green poncho who made eye contact with me from across the Starbucks this past Monday, November 25 at 12:45 PM but I was in the middle of signing some papers with my real estate broker so I didn't get to talk to you but I could tell there was something there between us, I'm sorry but you're too late. I've fallen in love with somebody else." Then hold the phone up to the speaker of your stereo while the chorus to Wilson Phillips' "You're In Love" plays. Then turn off the stereo and allow for no more than six seconds of silence before you fire a gun and then drop a sack of rice on the floor to make it sound like someone just got shot (perhaps by his/her own hand?) then fell to the ground with a thump. Then hit the Save OGM button and just sit back and wait for the pussy train to pull into the station with a Toot Toot Toot!
Happy Outgoing Message Day!
You should do an Osama Bin Laden impression on your answering machine. Have him say, "Hello American infidel! So sorry about the planes and the buildings but you had it coming for a long time! Especially you, Chris! You know what I'm talking about." Then come out of your Osama impression and in your own voice say, "But seriously, you've reached [state your name and that of anyone else who might use that machine]. If you'd like to leave a message, please do so with your name, phone number, and the best time to reach you immediately after the beep. I/we will get back to you as soon as possible. If you're wondering how many times I'll try to call you back before giving up, remember what Kate Nelligan said to Stockard Channing in the 1983 movie 'Without A Trace'..." then do your impression of Kate Nelligan in the 1983 movie Without A Trace and shout, "Until I Can't Stand Anymore!!! Until...I...can't stand anymore!!! HOW DARE YOU!!!" Then go back to your own voice and say, "Oh and uh, if this is in response to that personal ad I placed about the Latte lover with the brown hair and the green poncho who made eye contact with me from across the Starbucks this past Monday, November 25 at 12:45 PM but I was in the middle of signing some papers with my real estate broker so I didn't get to talk to you but I could tell there was something there between us, I'm sorry but you're too late. I've fallen in love with somebody else." Then hold the phone up to the speaker of your stereo while the chorus to Wilson Phillips' "You're In Love" plays. Then turn off the stereo and allow for no more than six seconds of silence before you fire a gun and then drop a sack of rice on the floor to make it sound like someone just got shot (perhaps by his/her own hand?) then fell to the ground with a thump. Then hit the Save OGM button and just sit back and wait for the pussy train to pull into the station with a Toot Toot Toot!
Happy Outgoing Message Day!
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Bleeding Infant Day!
Hey Cleveland! Congratulations! At 3 pounds, 7 ounces, your city can lay claim to having the smallest still living infant with a fresh gaping wound in all of the United States!
The premature baby has not yet been named because his parents don't want to get too attached since he only has a ten percent chance of surviving the afternoon. But in keeping with the rules of Bleeding Infant Day, Cleveland Preemie (as he'll be known in the books) has an open flesh wound on his left arm that was purely accidental. When the nurse rushed the baby into his incubator, she scraped his arm along the plastic rim of the lid and opened a half-inch long scratch which has yet to scab over thanks to the efforts of the nursing staff to keep the cut moistened (with permission from the parents of course, who will receive the Thirty Three Thousand Dollar Bleeding Infant Day Prize as next of kin should Cleveland Preemie die before the age of eighteen or sunset). And at only 3 pounds, 7 ounces, Cleveland Preemie is the smallest bleeding infant by nearly a pound and a half!
Second place goes to Janice Bradthwaite of Gretna, Nebraska who, at 4 pounds, 11 ounces, was born two months premature with a hemorrhaging concavity in her left eyeball.
Happy Bleeding Infant Day!
Hey Cleveland! Congratulations! At 3 pounds, 7 ounces, your city can lay claim to having the smallest still living infant with a fresh gaping wound in all of the United States!
The premature baby has not yet been named because his parents don't want to get too attached since he only has a ten percent chance of surviving the afternoon. But in keeping with the rules of Bleeding Infant Day, Cleveland Preemie (as he'll be known in the books) has an open flesh wound on his left arm that was purely accidental. When the nurse rushed the baby into his incubator, she scraped his arm along the plastic rim of the lid and opened a half-inch long scratch which has yet to scab over thanks to the efforts of the nursing staff to keep the cut moistened (with permission from the parents of course, who will receive the Thirty Three Thousand Dollar Bleeding Infant Day Prize as next of kin should Cleveland Preemie die before the age of eighteen or sunset). And at only 3 pounds, 7 ounces, Cleveland Preemie is the smallest bleeding infant by nearly a pound and a half!
Second place goes to Janice Bradthwaite of Gretna, Nebraska who, at 4 pounds, 11 ounces, was born two months premature with a hemorrhaging concavity in her left eyeball.
Happy Bleeding Infant Day!
Monday, November 25, 2002
Break The Land Speed Record Day!
Today you should break the land speed record. You'll need a car that's like a kind of rocketship but that doesn't fly and you should go to the desert and go so fast in your RocketMoBile! that you break the land speed record. Before you do anything though, find out what the land speed record is. If you google "Current Land Speed Record" you get some sites that include those words somewhere within the text of their pages. It looks like the current land speed record is like 763 MPH which is really fucking fast, right? Well, today's the day for you to go faster than that, okay?
I hope you go so fast that when you get out of the RocketMoBile! you're your dead Dad.
Happy Break The Land Speed Record Day!
Today you should break the land speed record. You'll need a car that's like a kind of rocketship but that doesn't fly and you should go to the desert and go so fast in your RocketMoBile! that you break the land speed record. Before you do anything though, find out what the land speed record is. If you google "Current Land Speed Record" you get some sites that include those words somewhere within the text of their pages. It looks like the current land speed record is like 763 MPH which is really fucking fast, right? Well, today's the day for you to go faster than that, okay?
I hope you go so fast that when you get out of the RocketMoBile! you're your dead Dad.
Happy Break The Land Speed Record Day!
Sunday, November 24, 2002
A Mug Full Of Pens And Three Crushes Driving Three Third Grade Boys Out Of Their Heads Day!
Jeffrey likes Marina, a Greek girl with thick black hair and a voice deeper than most third grade girls. Jeffrey fell down on his ankle in gym class and cried there on the floor. Marina laughed along with everyone else.
Fung doesn't really like boys, but Ernie likes Fung a lot. He kissed Fung in the parking lot last week after three hours of standing there not really talking to each other. Most kids make fun of Ernie because Fung is Chinese and Ernie isn't. Ernie's Mom is dead.
Leo spent all last night trying to write Gina an anonymous love letter in a different handwriting than his own. He wrote very slowly and carefully but it's very hard to not write in your own handwriting. So he gave up and just went ahead and wrote in his own handwriting and he thought maybe the two different scripts might throw people off his scent. He could have had a friend write it, but he's pretty certain that even his most trusted friend might be feeding information to Gina's friends about his crush on her. Anyway, he's going to give her the letter tomorrow. He's going to wake up early to plant the letter. He'll walk to school because he doesn't want to ride the bus and have to see anybody beforehand.
And a mug full of pens.
Jeffrey likes Marina, a Greek girl with thick black hair and a voice deeper than most third grade girls. Jeffrey fell down on his ankle in gym class and cried there on the floor. Marina laughed along with everyone else.
Fung doesn't really like boys, but Ernie likes Fung a lot. He kissed Fung in the parking lot last week after three hours of standing there not really talking to each other. Most kids make fun of Ernie because Fung is Chinese and Ernie isn't. Ernie's Mom is dead.
Leo spent all last night trying to write Gina an anonymous love letter in a different handwriting than his own. He wrote very slowly and carefully but it's very hard to not write in your own handwriting. So he gave up and just went ahead and wrote in his own handwriting and he thought maybe the two different scripts might throw people off his scent. He could have had a friend write it, but he's pretty certain that even his most trusted friend might be feeding information to Gina's friends about his crush on her. Anyway, he's going to give her the letter tomorrow. He's going to wake up early to plant the letter. He'll walk to school because he doesn't want to ride the bus and have to see anybody beforehand.
And a mug full of pens.
Saturday, November 23, 2002
Walk For Peace Day!
You don't need some corrupt non-profit to attach their name to your efforts to cure the world of hunger, genocide, rape, and ecology stuff. Just step out your door and start walking around with a real look of self-satisfaction on your face. A look that says, "I'm a pretty damn good person. Generous and concerned about shit. What kind of retard wouldn't want to slice off a hunk of this babybaby?"
You might start bumping into your friends, especially if you know where they are and you want them to see you and ask what you're doing. If your friends say, "Hey, what are you doing?" Tell them you're walking for peace. They'll say "Piece o' what?!" then they'll tell you about a party later where there will be so much trim it will have to rappel down the side of the building and crash through the windows in order to get in. Don't go. The world is not yet healed and we're all counting on you. Keep walking.
Happy Walk For Peace Day!
You don't need some corrupt non-profit to attach their name to your efforts to cure the world of hunger, genocide, rape, and ecology stuff. Just step out your door and start walking around with a real look of self-satisfaction on your face. A look that says, "I'm a pretty damn good person. Generous and concerned about shit. What kind of retard wouldn't want to slice off a hunk of this babybaby?"
You might start bumping into your friends, especially if you know where they are and you want them to see you and ask what you're doing. If your friends say, "Hey, what are you doing?" Tell them you're walking for peace. They'll say "Piece o' what?!" then they'll tell you about a party later where there will be so much trim it will have to rappel down the side of the building and crash through the windows in order to get in. Don't go. The world is not yet healed and we're all counting on you. Keep walking.
Happy Walk For Peace Day!
Friday, November 22, 2002
Foggy Car Windows Day!
Drive to the parking lot of the office where you got laid off and don't forget to bring pornography. Park near where you always used to park so that your co-workers will recognize your car. If you can get there early enough, park in your old space before the chick to whom it was assigned pulls in for the day (they said you were laid off but in actuality they thought you were so weird that they just wanted you out of the office with as generous a severence package as they could dig outta the coffers so as to make sure you don't show up at the office one morning and do something drastic; like you're doing this morning. They went so far as to give your position a new title so it would look like your position was dissolved).
Once you're parked and you've had a couple cups of coffee, open up your pornography and begin to masturbate. You wanna generate the kind of heat that fogs up a car window like only two kids making out in a parking lot can. So you're gonna have to tease yourself. Bring yourself so close to orgasm you start to talk to yourself (start yelling at yourself for something stupid you said at a party a long time ago to someone you don't know anymore. Yell: "STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID!!!") , then lift your hands to the roof of the car, digging your nails into the upholstery, and just let yourself throb and pulse so that you burrow your buttocks into the ridges of the beaded seatcover to spread your asshole open wide until you force an air pocket up inside that makes you wanna let loose a clean fart. Hold the fart in so as to distract your mind from your engorged genitals. Have some more coffee to keep pumping blood down into your naughty crannies. Once the threat of orgasm has subsided, resume manual stimulation until you might come again.
This should get your windows nice and fogged up by quarter to nine, when all your former coworkers start pulling in, including your replacement who will pull up right behind you and stop there for maybe thirty seconds to realize that someone is making out where she is supposed to park and let that fact register before going and finding some visitor parking. No one will be able to see inside your car, but you will see blurs of color slowly approach your car and even more slowly pass it by as your coworkers walk to the office, which will be abuzz with talk of "Wasn't that [Insert Your Name Here]'s car with the windows all fogged up in the lot today?"
It will also be abuzz with responses to the above question. Responses like, "Yeah, I think it was."
And the buzzing will continue when the office becomes abuzz with other questions like, "Was [Insert Your Name Here] making out with somebody out there."
Then someone'll say yeah and when your replacement shows up to say that she couldn't park because some kids were making out in her space, they'll sit her down and tell her that that was the weird fucker that used to have her job and don't worry because Kevin's already calling security.
Kevin's already calling security so you should split after you come. Also, and I know this doesn't apply to you, but if you know anybody who would actually be into making out with you in your car parked in your old parking space at around 9 in the morning, go ahead, sure.
Happy Foggy Car Windows Day!
Drive to the parking lot of the office where you got laid off and don't forget to bring pornography. Park near where you always used to park so that your co-workers will recognize your car. If you can get there early enough, park in your old space before the chick to whom it was assigned pulls in for the day (they said you were laid off but in actuality they thought you were so weird that they just wanted you out of the office with as generous a severence package as they could dig outta the coffers so as to make sure you don't show up at the office one morning and do something drastic; like you're doing this morning. They went so far as to give your position a new title so it would look like your position was dissolved).
Once you're parked and you've had a couple cups of coffee, open up your pornography and begin to masturbate. You wanna generate the kind of heat that fogs up a car window like only two kids making out in a parking lot can. So you're gonna have to tease yourself. Bring yourself so close to orgasm you start to talk to yourself (start yelling at yourself for something stupid you said at a party a long time ago to someone you don't know anymore. Yell: "STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID!!!") , then lift your hands to the roof of the car, digging your nails into the upholstery, and just let yourself throb and pulse so that you burrow your buttocks into the ridges of the beaded seatcover to spread your asshole open wide until you force an air pocket up inside that makes you wanna let loose a clean fart. Hold the fart in so as to distract your mind from your engorged genitals. Have some more coffee to keep pumping blood down into your naughty crannies. Once the threat of orgasm has subsided, resume manual stimulation until you might come again.
This should get your windows nice and fogged up by quarter to nine, when all your former coworkers start pulling in, including your replacement who will pull up right behind you and stop there for maybe thirty seconds to realize that someone is making out where she is supposed to park and let that fact register before going and finding some visitor parking. No one will be able to see inside your car, but you will see blurs of color slowly approach your car and even more slowly pass it by as your coworkers walk to the office, which will be abuzz with talk of "Wasn't that [Insert Your Name Here]'s car with the windows all fogged up in the lot today?"
It will also be abuzz with responses to the above question. Responses like, "Yeah, I think it was."
And the buzzing will continue when the office becomes abuzz with other questions like, "Was [Insert Your Name Here] making out with somebody out there."
Then someone'll say yeah and when your replacement shows up to say that she couldn't park because some kids were making out in her space, they'll sit her down and tell her that that was the weird fucker that used to have her job and don't worry because Kevin's already calling security.
Kevin's already calling security so you should split after you come. Also, and I know this doesn't apply to you, but if you know anybody who would actually be into making out with you in your car parked in your old parking space at around 9 in the morning, go ahead, sure.
Happy Foggy Car Windows Day!
Thursday, November 21, 2002
Change Your Haircolor Day!
This way, people will say things to you like, "You changed your haircolor!" and "Your haircolor has changed!" and "The color of your hair, you changed it!" and you will feel like your life is moving forward with the same velocity as everyone else's.
Your friend Jacob just fell in love again not weeks after being thrown out of his home for cheating, and the one he's in love with isn't even the one he got caught cheating with. It's someone completely different.
Your hair now looks better with a red winter cap than with the green one you usually wear with your blue winter coat, so you will have to buy a red winter cap now. But with the blue coat and the red cap you don't want to look all 9/11 or anything.
The woman in the cubicle next to yours, who seemed as mired in the rapidly rising shit brown office carpet as you have been these seven years, just found out the crappy off-off broadway play she wrote to piss off her ex-boyfriend got backing to go off-broadway and Hollywood has expressed interest in a screen adaptation. Her last day is tomorrow, but she might not make it in if she takes the red-eye tonight to make a meeting on the coast tomorrow morning.
You've got some streaks of darker color due to your scattered gray hairs. You'll probably have to make an appointment to get that fixed. When you get around to it maybe.
You had been wondering why your next door neighbors had not extended their annual Thansgiving dinner invite to you yet. The husband, his hands on his three year old son's shoulders, explains that the Ryder truck outside is making the first trip out to the new house that he bought in a nearby affluent suburb, "What with the new baby on the way and all." He used to be your roommate.
Your hair used to be dirty blonde, but now it's dark brown.
Happy Change Your Haircolor Day!
This way, people will say things to you like, "You changed your haircolor!" and "Your haircolor has changed!" and "The color of your hair, you changed it!" and you will feel like your life is moving forward with the same velocity as everyone else's.
Your friend Jacob just fell in love again not weeks after being thrown out of his home for cheating, and the one he's in love with isn't even the one he got caught cheating with. It's someone completely different.
Your hair now looks better with a red winter cap than with the green one you usually wear with your blue winter coat, so you will have to buy a red winter cap now. But with the blue coat and the red cap you don't want to look all 9/11 or anything.
The woman in the cubicle next to yours, who seemed as mired in the rapidly rising shit brown office carpet as you have been these seven years, just found out the crappy off-off broadway play she wrote to piss off her ex-boyfriend got backing to go off-broadway and Hollywood has expressed interest in a screen adaptation. Her last day is tomorrow, but she might not make it in if she takes the red-eye tonight to make a meeting on the coast tomorrow morning.
You've got some streaks of darker color due to your scattered gray hairs. You'll probably have to make an appointment to get that fixed. When you get around to it maybe.
You had been wondering why your next door neighbors had not extended their annual Thansgiving dinner invite to you yet. The husband, his hands on his three year old son's shoulders, explains that the Ryder truck outside is making the first trip out to the new house that he bought in a nearby affluent suburb, "What with the new baby on the way and all." He used to be your roommate.
Your hair used to be dirty blonde, but now it's dark brown.
Happy Change Your Haircolor Day!
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Gonna Have To End It With Your Blammin Hot Lovemuffin Day!
You've been having some way hot pre-Christmas nudity with that single father these past few weeks. Seemed like you'd been searching high and low for someone who'd get you way wet and who'd be cool with you being married to one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the city. And then you took your son to that Saturday afternoon children's story hour at Border's and he started talking to little Maria about some book about a magic ant or something. And when you got a look at the jawline on little Maria's recently divorced pop you knew if you didn't see that jaw open up on a hotel room pillow and wait for you to dip your twat inside within the next seven hours you might start smoking again.
And when you found out this guy was happy to plow into you the three or four times a week you require (in order to keep from seducing the less malodorous help and having them executed soon after in exchange for a promise to provide amply for their families), and all the World's Greatest Dad was asking in return is that you not ask him for any kind of serious obligation as he was trying to ease little Maria into her broken home with as much attention as he could give, well shit if your pussy didn't just jump up from the table and shout out "Bingo!"
Well, I'm afraid the party's about to end. When you arrive at the hotel room this afternoon, Tall, Dark and Notyourhusband will be sitting in the chair next to the vanity fully clothed and completely unresponsive to the way your ass is made manifest by that skirt (normally he has his teeth in the bare stretch of thigh between your hemline and the top of your leather boot before you can even pour yourself a diet coke). Like you give a shit, you'll ask him what's wrong. And that's when he'll tell you that little Maria was diagnosed with leukemia and you're gonna start looking around the room for a fire alarm to pull so you can get the hell outta there before the faggot tries to get you to hug him (shudder). You'd forgotten how nauseous you could be made to feel by a man's teardrop on your shoulder.
Well don't fret. Just tell him he looks hungry and that you'll call room service for some soup. But instead, dial your cell phone and when you answer the ring, act all freaked out and tell him your son got hit by a car or some shit like that and you have to leave. Then sometime within the next week have your assistant give him a check for fifty thousand dollars and tell him that if he contacts you again you'll use your influence to make sure his daughter is forced to cut through a huge mass of bureaucratic red tape before receiving proper treatment for her illness.
Happy Gonna Have To End It With Your Blammin Hot Lovemuffin Day!
You've been having some way hot pre-Christmas nudity with that single father these past few weeks. Seemed like you'd been searching high and low for someone who'd get you way wet and who'd be cool with you being married to one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the city. And then you took your son to that Saturday afternoon children's story hour at Border's and he started talking to little Maria about some book about a magic ant or something. And when you got a look at the jawline on little Maria's recently divorced pop you knew if you didn't see that jaw open up on a hotel room pillow and wait for you to dip your twat inside within the next seven hours you might start smoking again.
And when you found out this guy was happy to plow into you the three or four times a week you require (in order to keep from seducing the less malodorous help and having them executed soon after in exchange for a promise to provide amply for their families), and all the World's Greatest Dad was asking in return is that you not ask him for any kind of serious obligation as he was trying to ease little Maria into her broken home with as much attention as he could give, well shit if your pussy didn't just jump up from the table and shout out "Bingo!"
Well, I'm afraid the party's about to end. When you arrive at the hotel room this afternoon, Tall, Dark and Notyourhusband will be sitting in the chair next to the vanity fully clothed and completely unresponsive to the way your ass is made manifest by that skirt (normally he has his teeth in the bare stretch of thigh between your hemline and the top of your leather boot before you can even pour yourself a diet coke). Like you give a shit, you'll ask him what's wrong. And that's when he'll tell you that little Maria was diagnosed with leukemia and you're gonna start looking around the room for a fire alarm to pull so you can get the hell outta there before the faggot tries to get you to hug him (shudder). You'd forgotten how nauseous you could be made to feel by a man's teardrop on your shoulder.
Well don't fret. Just tell him he looks hungry and that you'll call room service for some soup. But instead, dial your cell phone and when you answer the ring, act all freaked out and tell him your son got hit by a car or some shit like that and you have to leave. Then sometime within the next week have your assistant give him a check for fifty thousand dollars and tell him that if he contacts you again you'll use your influence to make sure his daughter is forced to cut through a huge mass of bureaucratic red tape before receiving proper treatment for her illness.
Happy Gonna Have To End It With Your Blammin Hot Lovemuffin Day!
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Things You Did Not Win While You Were Sleeping Day!
You did not win a brand new bicycle, and neither did you win a Vespa built from items found around the home, such as a portable electric radiator and whirlpool jets. You won no all expenses paid vacation to Tahiti because you have no one to take with you and if you were to ask to receive the cash equivalent of the prize, everyone would have known why once they saw the shallow purple valleys just underneath your eyes. And the Prizegiver did not want to be engaged in such an unhappy interaction.
About the Prizegiver. You have made inquiries as to his identity. Please desist, for your own safety.
The respect of a friend you hold too dear was not a prize that you were awarded while you slept last night and you did not win the love of the little fool that would end up breaking you into shards if he or she ever got a grip on you. Your friend believes that you don't have "conversations" so much as "presentations," and the little fool was celebrating a birthday at a bar and not enjoying his/herself all that very much but he/she got a little drunk and without it being suggested suddenly found him/herself being helped to slow dance in somebody's arms and from those arms there seemed to float in the air between them a kind of enchanting snowy chill and they woke up together this morning and couldn't wait to start making phone calls to mutual friends.
You did not win a free small fries or soda and neither did you win a cigarette boat. And sadly, neither one million dollars nor two hundred and fifty dollars was awarded to you. The big pink bear too. You didn't win the big pink bear because you didn't knock down the milk bottles. You were sleeping.
Also, you were unable to win a smile from the small child held in the arms of the woman in line in front of you at the grocery store. And you did not win the suspicion of that woman even.
Perhaps tonight you might have better luck. Happy Things You Did Not Win While You Were Sleeping Day! Try Again.
You did not win a brand new bicycle, and neither did you win a Vespa built from items found around the home, such as a portable electric radiator and whirlpool jets. You won no all expenses paid vacation to Tahiti because you have no one to take with you and if you were to ask to receive the cash equivalent of the prize, everyone would have known why once they saw the shallow purple valleys just underneath your eyes. And the Prizegiver did not want to be engaged in such an unhappy interaction.
About the Prizegiver. You have made inquiries as to his identity. Please desist, for your own safety.
The respect of a friend you hold too dear was not a prize that you were awarded while you slept last night and you did not win the love of the little fool that would end up breaking you into shards if he or she ever got a grip on you. Your friend believes that you don't have "conversations" so much as "presentations," and the little fool was celebrating a birthday at a bar and not enjoying his/herself all that very much but he/she got a little drunk and without it being suggested suddenly found him/herself being helped to slow dance in somebody's arms and from those arms there seemed to float in the air between them a kind of enchanting snowy chill and they woke up together this morning and couldn't wait to start making phone calls to mutual friends.
You did not win a free small fries or soda and neither did you win a cigarette boat. And sadly, neither one million dollars nor two hundred and fifty dollars was awarded to you. The big pink bear too. You didn't win the big pink bear because you didn't knock down the milk bottles. You were sleeping.
Also, you were unable to win a smile from the small child held in the arms of the woman in line in front of you at the grocery store. And you did not win the suspicion of that woman even.
Perhaps tonight you might have better luck. Happy Things You Did Not Win While You Were Sleeping Day! Try Again.
Monday, November 18, 2002
Office-Wide CPR Class Day!
You never meant to fall in love with nobody. All's you wanted was a weekly paycheck commensurate with your thirty-six and a quarter hours of half-hearted clerical assistance so as to cover the 62 hours of gentle drinking there in your living room easy chair underneath a single 55 watt bulb each weekend (you once lost your breath thinking about the day that bulb's gonna burn out). How much gin does it take to drench a heart to the point of maximum absorption? You just wanna pickle yourself airtight so nothing else can seep in.
But your heart wants what it wants and it couldn't care less about how you choose to carry out your suicide. There in that tiny supply closet searching for paper clips with your back to the door you were like a jackrabbit caught in the sites of an elephant gun (ie. defenseless. (what's an elephant gun? is it big?)). You didn't hear a thing. You might even have been singing a song to yourself. You turned around and the bemused smile blocking the doorway suddenly became the only thing you'd ever let yourself think upon in the few moments of blackout consciousness you'd savor just before passing out into your pillow each evening.
Since then the basement copy center has grown suspicious of your motives since you're the only one who asks that your dupes be held there for you to pick up at 11:45 each morning rather than letting the mailroom carry them up to you. They have their theories, but would never guess that you time your copy center trips to coincide precisely with his/her visits to the basement level New World Coffee vendor. At least twice a week you manage to enjoy 45 to 75 seconds alone together, waiting for the elevator to make its way below ground level and carry you back to your desks. You assumed, since you learned of your new love inside your supply closet, that the two of you shared a floor. But unfortunately he or she was only there thanks to a tip-off in the cafeteria that your floor's supply closet was the only one that still had a box of the letter size accordian files that had been temporarily removed from the online requisition catalogue (due to ferocious outcry, the product has since been made available again). Outside of the trips to the coffee vendor, you haven't seen hide nor tail of the adorable beast anywhere in the building, but thanks to your elevator rides, you are now on single-syllable greeting terms.
Hey. (Head tilt to right.)
Mm. (Nod. But with a bat of the eyes that seems to last the duration of an Indian summer.)
Well you've got some steps planned out for how to get the two of you on panted swearing terms and it's all gonna go down in conference room 25D (unfurnished) where the one you admire from afar will be the one you admire during Volunteer Emergency CPR Class between 2 and 2:45 this afternoon. When you saw his or her name on the signup sheet, you put your name down without even checking what the event was about just so you could have the two of your names on the same sheet of paper for the entire floor to see. Then you started thinking about the CPR training they made you take during gym class in high school and how hot it could sometimes get and you thought maybe you shouldn't miss the opportunity to show him or her just how you look when you press your gently parted lips up against a dyked out lady's asphyxiating plastic head. He or she will have no choice but to slip into a daydream of you pouring your caring and your warmth into your fingertips as you slowly pull the zipper of the dummy's blue jumpsuit through the teeth until that plastic gay lady just wants to drip from the baby blue polyester like a goldfish from an unknotted plastic baggy.
All you gotta use is your eyes (visine the red out aforehand, you dig Rummy?). When it's your turn to put the moves on Plastic Sapphy, just get down on your knees real hesitant and slow, not letting your kneecaps make a sound when they touch the ground, like you can't believe the two of you (you and the dummy) are there in that room together and at the slightest creak of the bones you might jump up and run from the room out of fear of making a terrible mistake for which your heart might never forgive you. Before you bend in for the kiss, put a little baby smile on your face and send a pop of your eyes up to that beautiful thing and he or she will start wishing they had called for volunteers to take the place of the polysterene field hockey enthusiast you're about to plant one on. Then just bend in and blow.
Your lips to the plastic, a grin to your eyelids, look up at him or her while you resuscitate the dummy. Let him or her know there is life to be found in those lips of yours. "A life whose every waking moment is devoted to thoughts of you. Delicious you." When you rock back on your knees to pump the air out of the braided rat-tailed dummy's lungs, give the dummy's face a smile that says, "Whether you live or die, I will not leave your side." And when you send your lips down for another kiss, do not let your eyes wander from the eyes of the one you love for one millisecond of your descent down onto that mouth. And this time pump your breath into that mouth with the pant of sweetest surrender. Also, make sure you lift your ass up in the air real high too and bob it up and down with your panting. If you do this the right way, you two will be "doing it" before you can say "that dummy's hairdo is kind of butch, dontcha think?"
Happy Office-Wide CPR Class Day!
You never meant to fall in love with nobody. All's you wanted was a weekly paycheck commensurate with your thirty-six and a quarter hours of half-hearted clerical assistance so as to cover the 62 hours of gentle drinking there in your living room easy chair underneath a single 55 watt bulb each weekend (you once lost your breath thinking about the day that bulb's gonna burn out). How much gin does it take to drench a heart to the point of maximum absorption? You just wanna pickle yourself airtight so nothing else can seep in.
But your heart wants what it wants and it couldn't care less about how you choose to carry out your suicide. There in that tiny supply closet searching for paper clips with your back to the door you were like a jackrabbit caught in the sites of an elephant gun (ie. defenseless. (what's an elephant gun? is it big?)). You didn't hear a thing. You might even have been singing a song to yourself. You turned around and the bemused smile blocking the doorway suddenly became the only thing you'd ever let yourself think upon in the few moments of blackout consciousness you'd savor just before passing out into your pillow each evening.
Since then the basement copy center has grown suspicious of your motives since you're the only one who asks that your dupes be held there for you to pick up at 11:45 each morning rather than letting the mailroom carry them up to you. They have their theories, but would never guess that you time your copy center trips to coincide precisely with his/her visits to the basement level New World Coffee vendor. At least twice a week you manage to enjoy 45 to 75 seconds alone together, waiting for the elevator to make its way below ground level and carry you back to your desks. You assumed, since you learned of your new love inside your supply closet, that the two of you shared a floor. But unfortunately he or she was only there thanks to a tip-off in the cafeteria that your floor's supply closet was the only one that still had a box of the letter size accordian files that had been temporarily removed from the online requisition catalogue (due to ferocious outcry, the product has since been made available again). Outside of the trips to the coffee vendor, you haven't seen hide nor tail of the adorable beast anywhere in the building, but thanks to your elevator rides, you are now on single-syllable greeting terms.
Hey. (Head tilt to right.)
Mm. (Nod. But with a bat of the eyes that seems to last the duration of an Indian summer.)
Well you've got some steps planned out for how to get the two of you on panted swearing terms and it's all gonna go down in conference room 25D (unfurnished) where the one you admire from afar will be the one you admire during Volunteer Emergency CPR Class between 2 and 2:45 this afternoon. When you saw his or her name on the signup sheet, you put your name down without even checking what the event was about just so you could have the two of your names on the same sheet of paper for the entire floor to see. Then you started thinking about the CPR training they made you take during gym class in high school and how hot it could sometimes get and you thought maybe you shouldn't miss the opportunity to show him or her just how you look when you press your gently parted lips up against a dyked out lady's asphyxiating plastic head. He or she will have no choice but to slip into a daydream of you pouring your caring and your warmth into your fingertips as you slowly pull the zipper of the dummy's blue jumpsuit through the teeth until that plastic gay lady just wants to drip from the baby blue polyester like a goldfish from an unknotted plastic baggy.
All you gotta use is your eyes (visine the red out aforehand, you dig Rummy?). When it's your turn to put the moves on Plastic Sapphy, just get down on your knees real hesitant and slow, not letting your kneecaps make a sound when they touch the ground, like you can't believe the two of you (you and the dummy) are there in that room together and at the slightest creak of the bones you might jump up and run from the room out of fear of making a terrible mistake for which your heart might never forgive you. Before you bend in for the kiss, put a little baby smile on your face and send a pop of your eyes up to that beautiful thing and he or she will start wishing they had called for volunteers to take the place of the polysterene field hockey enthusiast you're about to plant one on. Then just bend in and blow.
Your lips to the plastic, a grin to your eyelids, look up at him or her while you resuscitate the dummy. Let him or her know there is life to be found in those lips of yours. "A life whose every waking moment is devoted to thoughts of you. Delicious you." When you rock back on your knees to pump the air out of the braided rat-tailed dummy's lungs, give the dummy's face a smile that says, "Whether you live or die, I will not leave your side." And when you send your lips down for another kiss, do not let your eyes wander from the eyes of the one you love for one millisecond of your descent down onto that mouth. And this time pump your breath into that mouth with the pant of sweetest surrender. Also, make sure you lift your ass up in the air real high too and bob it up and down with your panting. If you do this the right way, you two will be "doing it" before you can say "that dummy's hairdo is kind of butch, dontcha think?"
Happy Office-Wide CPR Class Day!
Sunday, November 17, 2002
Don't Get Up From That Dining Room Table Day!
The sound of your forks scraping the china is just deafening. You never knew stainless steel could scream like that did you. The first time you noticed it, you were terrified. Remember? When you realized that neither of you had spoken to the other in a weekend and the forks scratching through to the plates from out of the bulk of the baked potatoes suddenly seemed so loud you feared a phone call from the neighbors to the police department to complain about the strange noises coming from that older couple's house next door? But you got used to it. Soon you felt the noise to be the soundtrack for a good cleansing. The sound of a mind being vigorously scoured of the kind of questions that tend to stick to the pan after nine or so years of childless cohabitation. You have to get your upper body into that kind of scrub.
So watch this. Once you're full enough that you think you can make it through a couple hours of sheer terror, check across the table to make sure that plate's at least half empty too, but don't let nobody join the CPC (Clean Plate Club). You're going to wanna have some leftover in front of you because you might not get out of your chairs for a while and I hope you cooked chicken because you need to be able to eat that shit cold so nobody can escape to use the microwave. In the middle of the symphony of scraping and scratching and screaming utensil extended dance mixing, lay your fork down and grip the sides of your chair, eyes in your lap. It'll take a few minutes before the break in the harmony is detected as more than just a pause to refill your glass of red (again). Baby Lover will look up at you to find out what's going on but there won't be any speaking. When you hear complete silence for about ten seconds, that means the eyes are on you. Look into them.
It's been a while since your eyes met across that table and one of you will probably let out a short wordless scream. It'll be short because neither of you will want to open up your mouths for very long since the words you're going to speak will be the dining room equivalent of "Look out for that falling safe!"
Just don't get up. And don't say anything that doesn't make you convulse. You should be able to find the right words tomorrow just around dawn. Or at the end of it all you both might just get up at the same time so that one of you can help the other pack.
Happy Don't Get Up From That Dining Room Table Day!
The sound of your forks scraping the china is just deafening. You never knew stainless steel could scream like that did you. The first time you noticed it, you were terrified. Remember? When you realized that neither of you had spoken to the other in a weekend and the forks scratching through to the plates from out of the bulk of the baked potatoes suddenly seemed so loud you feared a phone call from the neighbors to the police department to complain about the strange noises coming from that older couple's house next door? But you got used to it. Soon you felt the noise to be the soundtrack for a good cleansing. The sound of a mind being vigorously scoured of the kind of questions that tend to stick to the pan after nine or so years of childless cohabitation. You have to get your upper body into that kind of scrub.
So watch this. Once you're full enough that you think you can make it through a couple hours of sheer terror, check across the table to make sure that plate's at least half empty too, but don't let nobody join the CPC (Clean Plate Club). You're going to wanna have some leftover in front of you because you might not get out of your chairs for a while and I hope you cooked chicken because you need to be able to eat that shit cold so nobody can escape to use the microwave. In the middle of the symphony of scraping and scratching and screaming utensil extended dance mixing, lay your fork down and grip the sides of your chair, eyes in your lap. It'll take a few minutes before the break in the harmony is detected as more than just a pause to refill your glass of red (again). Baby Lover will look up at you to find out what's going on but there won't be any speaking. When you hear complete silence for about ten seconds, that means the eyes are on you. Look into them.
It's been a while since your eyes met across that table and one of you will probably let out a short wordless scream. It'll be short because neither of you will want to open up your mouths for very long since the words you're going to speak will be the dining room equivalent of "Look out for that falling safe!"
Just don't get up. And don't say anything that doesn't make you convulse. You should be able to find the right words tomorrow just around dawn. Or at the end of it all you both might just get up at the same time so that one of you can help the other pack.
Happy Don't Get Up From That Dining Room Table Day!
Saturday, November 16, 2002
Your Marijuana Addicted Ex Woke Up This Afternoon And Wrote A Shitty Song About You While Lying Next To A Sleeping Naked Mutual Acquaintance Of Yours Day!
It's Saturday, so the phone company won't be able to change your phone number until at least late Monday morning. So it would be best if you rip the phone out of the wall. The dim little fool plans to sing the song into your answering machine later, and your roommate might have finally paid the bill to get your apartment's voicemail hooked back up so don't just turn off the answering machine if you want to avoid having that message enter your life as a reminder of the kind of person you used to allow to sit naked in the wicker basket chair across the room and strum a bass while you filled out continuing education registration forms on the bed.
There's a line in the song where rain is rhymed with pain. I'm so glad you got outta town last year. Everyone's ending up exactly where you would've guessed. I think the song is called, "A Song For You." Fucking christ.
That mutual acquaintance by the way is the one who used to sell shitty ecstasy while waiting tables at the bar you tended. Guess what. The ecstasy dealing gig fell through due to a rather severe assault at the hand of a dissatisifed customer. But the waiting tables gig is really coming along.
Anyway, if you get the message, I don't know. Jesus.
Happy Your Marijuana Addicted Ex Woke Up This Afternoon And Wrote A Shitty Song About You While Lying Next To A Sleeping Naked Mutual Acquaintance Of Yours Day!
It's Saturday, so the phone company won't be able to change your phone number until at least late Monday morning. So it would be best if you rip the phone out of the wall. The dim little fool plans to sing the song into your answering machine later, and your roommate might have finally paid the bill to get your apartment's voicemail hooked back up so don't just turn off the answering machine if you want to avoid having that message enter your life as a reminder of the kind of person you used to allow to sit naked in the wicker basket chair across the room and strum a bass while you filled out continuing education registration forms on the bed.
There's a line in the song where rain is rhymed with pain. I'm so glad you got outta town last year. Everyone's ending up exactly where you would've guessed. I think the song is called, "A Song For You." Fucking christ.
That mutual acquaintance by the way is the one who used to sell shitty ecstasy while waiting tables at the bar you tended. Guess what. The ecstasy dealing gig fell through due to a rather severe assault at the hand of a dissatisifed customer. But the waiting tables gig is really coming along.
Anyway, if you get the message, I don't know. Jesus.
Happy Your Marijuana Addicted Ex Woke Up This Afternoon And Wrote A Shitty Song About You While Lying Next To A Sleeping Naked Mutual Acquaintance Of Yours Day!
Friday, November 15, 2002
Make Like The Wind And Chill The Skin On My Face To The Point Of Cracking, Seep Deep Into The Very Marrow Of My Centermost Bones (Pelvic?) And Just Push Against Me With All The Strength And Merciless Cruelty Of The Heavens As I Try To Simply Make It To My Train On Time In Order To Not Lose My Job And Fail My Family Day!
I shall raise my children as I was raised: To believe in the dream of America.
Do all you can to flavor every moment of my waking day with the excruciating frustration of futility. Remind me with your every breath that I will fail and when I do I will slip on something in front of a crowded room of people in tuxedos who will laugh and then have me removed from their party without giving me my hat. Hit me in the face with the heel of your shoe then spit on my bare genitals. Aw yeah.
I shall live my life as if it is written that my child will place his own feet in every one of the shoeprints I have left in my trail. Except for the whole getting real hot at Plight Of The Modern Everyman Forgotten By The American Machine roleplay games thing. I gotta have something that's just for me, yo. It's a jungle out there.
Happy Make Like The Wind And Chill The Skin On My Face To The Point Of Cracking, Seep Deep Into The Very Marrow Of My Centermost Bones (Pelvic?) And Just Push Against Me With All The Strength And Merciless Cruelty Of The Heavens As I Try To Simply Make It To My Train On Time In Order To Not Lose My Job And Fail My Family Day! Don't judge me.
I shall raise my children as I was raised: To believe in the dream of America.
Do all you can to flavor every moment of my waking day with the excruciating frustration of futility. Remind me with your every breath that I will fail and when I do I will slip on something in front of a crowded room of people in tuxedos who will laugh and then have me removed from their party without giving me my hat. Hit me in the face with the heel of your shoe then spit on my bare genitals. Aw yeah.
I shall live my life as if it is written that my child will place his own feet in every one of the shoeprints I have left in my trail. Except for the whole getting real hot at Plight Of The Modern Everyman Forgotten By The American Machine roleplay games thing. I gotta have something that's just for me, yo. It's a jungle out there.
Happy Make Like The Wind And Chill The Skin On My Face To The Point Of Cracking, Seep Deep Into The Very Marrow Of My Centermost Bones (Pelvic?) And Just Push Against Me With All The Strength And Merciless Cruelty Of The Heavens As I Try To Simply Make It To My Train On Time In Order To Not Lose My Job And Fail My Family Day! Don't judge me.
Thursday, November 14, 2002
Go To A Firing Range Day!
Today's the day to go over to the firing range and as the paper target with the silhouette of the guy comes closer and closer to you, shoot rubber bands at it. If when you try to buy another target they tell you you can't shoot rubber bands at it, tell the counter person that's cool and this time, when the paper man comes rolling towards you, yell at it. Then when it gets close enough, dive forward and rip it to shreds with your bare hands like a real man. If when you try to buy your next paper target you're told that you can't fight your target hand-to-hand and that you'll have to use a gun, tell the salesperson everything's cool and you'll use a gun. Go get your rifle out of your trunk and bring it into the range, showing it off to the counterperson as you pass, and as the paper target rolls toward you, take the rifle by the barrel and lift it up over your head like an executioner with his axe. Then when the target gets within reach, bring the rifle butt down and smash the shit out of it, swinging over and over until the target's just a wad of ripped up construction paper all over your rifle butt. Even though everyone reading this assumes it'll end with the counterperson telling you to leave the firing range and you shooting a round into his chest, do it anyway.
Happy Go To A Firing Range Day!
Today's the day to go over to the firing range and as the paper target with the silhouette of the guy comes closer and closer to you, shoot rubber bands at it. If when you try to buy another target they tell you you can't shoot rubber bands at it, tell the counter person that's cool and this time, when the paper man comes rolling towards you, yell at it. Then when it gets close enough, dive forward and rip it to shreds with your bare hands like a real man. If when you try to buy your next paper target you're told that you can't fight your target hand-to-hand and that you'll have to use a gun, tell the salesperson everything's cool and you'll use a gun. Go get your rifle out of your trunk and bring it into the range, showing it off to the counterperson as you pass, and as the paper target rolls toward you, take the rifle by the barrel and lift it up over your head like an executioner with his axe. Then when the target gets within reach, bring the rifle butt down and smash the shit out of it, swinging over and over until the target's just a wad of ripped up construction paper all over your rifle butt. Even though everyone reading this assumes it'll end with the counterperson telling you to leave the firing range and you shooting a round into his chest, do it anyway.
Happy Go To A Firing Range Day!
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Go To An Emergency Room Waiting Area And Pace Day!
You like strangers to wonder about you but you don't like them to talk to you and you adore Spanish language soap operas, yes? Then you need to head on down to your nearest hospital's emergency room waiting area and pace like you're just a newlywed on a honeymoon whose beautiful new wife "started complaining about feeling a little light-headed and then one of the salesgirls found her on the floor of the dressing room and we couldn't wake her up. This has never happened before."
You should wear brown penny loafers and a docile-patterned plaid shirt tucked into your Dockers. Don't bring a jacket so that when you first walk in it looks like you were probably there the whole time but just stepped out for a smoke or a lotto ticket. All other parties present will be near-entire families waiting to find out their 11 year old daughter/sister did not survive the hit and run. Only you will be alone. No enormous father still wearing his phone company hard-hat to hold you in his gargantuan arms. No haggard mother to recoil from your brother's touch (she'll blame him until she is dead). Just you pacing back and forth, your hand stroking the top of your head, sipping from cold cup of coffee after cold cup of coffee (bring a lot of change for the coffee machine because you have to get change from the desk otherwise and you don't wanna have to draw too much attention from the girls back there if you wanna stay for the whole afternoon). Those families won't take their eyes off you. They'll be glad to see someone suffering and they'll hope that whoever you are waiting to find out about dies so that they can find out how you break down at the news.
Just for fun, but this can be risky, whenever a surgeon steps through the swinging doors into the waiting area, get up and look in his or her eyes anxiously. The surgeon will register you then quickly look away and shout out a last name to avoid having to tell you they don't know anything about your loved one. After a while, on maybe the sixth time you've jumped out of your chair hoping for good news, they'll just get kind of fed up and you can be sure that while they're operating on the next patient, they'll start asking around the table, "Hey, anyone know who that one guy is out there? He's bumming me out." You should split before they ask you to leave though.
If you wanna make a scene before you go, keep it contained. Just pick up an empty chair and slam it to the ground a few times shouting "Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?!!" Then head out for some hot dogs and go home and go to bed. Oh, and uh, Heston? How's about you lay off shaking your fist up at God this time, okay baby?
Happy Go To An Emergency Room Waiting Area And Pace Day!
You like strangers to wonder about you but you don't like them to talk to you and you adore Spanish language soap operas, yes? Then you need to head on down to your nearest hospital's emergency room waiting area and pace like you're just a newlywed on a honeymoon whose beautiful new wife "started complaining about feeling a little light-headed and then one of the salesgirls found her on the floor of the dressing room and we couldn't wake her up. This has never happened before."
You should wear brown penny loafers and a docile-patterned plaid shirt tucked into your Dockers. Don't bring a jacket so that when you first walk in it looks like you were probably there the whole time but just stepped out for a smoke or a lotto ticket. All other parties present will be near-entire families waiting to find out their 11 year old daughter/sister did not survive the hit and run. Only you will be alone. No enormous father still wearing his phone company hard-hat to hold you in his gargantuan arms. No haggard mother to recoil from your brother's touch (she'll blame him until she is dead). Just you pacing back and forth, your hand stroking the top of your head, sipping from cold cup of coffee after cold cup of coffee (bring a lot of change for the coffee machine because you have to get change from the desk otherwise and you don't wanna have to draw too much attention from the girls back there if you wanna stay for the whole afternoon). Those families won't take their eyes off you. They'll be glad to see someone suffering and they'll hope that whoever you are waiting to find out about dies so that they can find out how you break down at the news.
Just for fun, but this can be risky, whenever a surgeon steps through the swinging doors into the waiting area, get up and look in his or her eyes anxiously. The surgeon will register you then quickly look away and shout out a last name to avoid having to tell you they don't know anything about your loved one. After a while, on maybe the sixth time you've jumped out of your chair hoping for good news, they'll just get kind of fed up and you can be sure that while they're operating on the next patient, they'll start asking around the table, "Hey, anyone know who that one guy is out there? He's bumming me out." You should split before they ask you to leave though.
If you wanna make a scene before you go, keep it contained. Just pick up an empty chair and slam it to the ground a few times shouting "Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?!!" Then head out for some hot dogs and go home and go to bed. Oh, and uh, Heston? How's about you lay off shaking your fist up at God this time, okay baby?
Happy Go To An Emergency Room Waiting Area And Pace Day!
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
When You Put All Your Weight Into Your Lips Like That, Everyone On The Commuter Train Can Tell What's On Your Mind Day!
Some of us have been riding this line for years now and each of us can find at least ten people in our car that we've seen every morning of our lives for as long as we've been cursed to remember such things. To look into those empty faces even one more time could be enough to break one or two of us. You being new and you wearing your hair cascading down overtop the fake fur collar of your black overcoat ensured that all our eyes were going to be on you anyway. Christ, that guy with the Clancy novel leaning on the Hep C poster, I even know that his fucking name is Philip and that his wife's name is Lane so fuck you if you think I'm gonna risk making eye contact with him again.
But man alive can you strike a pose on that handrail. I sometimes pass the ride by letting my thoughts make a return trip to a bed I used to visit when I was a younger man, but I'll usually pull my hat down over my eyes and pretend to fall asleep afore I let one of these early-retirement targets covet my daydream face. But you, you ain't even here with us are you? Those eyes burn a hole through every head that stands in the way of passage out that rear exit window. And the lips. The way you've got your lips open just a little bit and cupped up against the back of the hand you've got wrapped up tight around the handrail. If you gave your hand a little kiss I bet you'd lose your balance.
Get a room, lady.
Some of us have been riding this line for years now and each of us can find at least ten people in our car that we've seen every morning of our lives for as long as we've been cursed to remember such things. To look into those empty faces even one more time could be enough to break one or two of us. You being new and you wearing your hair cascading down overtop the fake fur collar of your black overcoat ensured that all our eyes were going to be on you anyway. Christ, that guy with the Clancy novel leaning on the Hep C poster, I even know that his fucking name is Philip and that his wife's name is Lane so fuck you if you think I'm gonna risk making eye contact with him again.
But man alive can you strike a pose on that handrail. I sometimes pass the ride by letting my thoughts make a return trip to a bed I used to visit when I was a younger man, but I'll usually pull my hat down over my eyes and pretend to fall asleep afore I let one of these early-retirement targets covet my daydream face. But you, you ain't even here with us are you? Those eyes burn a hole through every head that stands in the way of passage out that rear exit window. And the lips. The way you've got your lips open just a little bit and cupped up against the back of the hand you've got wrapped up tight around the handrail. If you gave your hand a little kiss I bet you'd lose your balance.
Get a room, lady.
Monday, November 11, 2002
Ignore That Knock On Your Front Door Day!
It's just those people who buzz into apartment houses without saying who they are so they can knock on every door in the building to tell people to go to church. Please play a CD with a beat whose time corresponds to the knocking so you can ignore the knocking completely if it's making you graze your knuckles along the valley of the naked torso lying next to you with a little less of an absent mind.
Or why not pretend you've been lying there for ages, barely wrapping your pelvises in a bathtowel for the rare occasion that one of you has to go to the kitchen to retrieve a few more plums and water from the Brita pitcher, just lolling about for months and years and days, staring at the ceiling or rolling over on your side to see if he or she is staring at the ceiling or if he or she has rolled onto his or her side to find out what you're staring at. Sometimes you rest your fingers on a thigh and sometimes your hair gets stroked away from in front of your eyes and sometimes you fall asleep for a few minutes you think but all the while more and more people gather outside your door and demand that you fulfill your duties to the outside world. Bill collectors, landlords, gas meter readers and UPS deliverymen who need a signature for this package. Ten deep they send their right arms swinging up beside their heads mechanically pounding upon a door that's never ever gonna be unlocked no not even if something's on fire. They'll never stop pounding because they have no respect for the fact that just ten feet away behind eight inches of crumbling drywall one of you just pulled too much blanket over with a kick of the leg and the other one of you just tugged a little bit of the blanket back.
Happy Ignore That Knock On Your Front Door Day!
It's just those people who buzz into apartment houses without saying who they are so they can knock on every door in the building to tell people to go to church. Please play a CD with a beat whose time corresponds to the knocking so you can ignore the knocking completely if it's making you graze your knuckles along the valley of the naked torso lying next to you with a little less of an absent mind.
Or why not pretend you've been lying there for ages, barely wrapping your pelvises in a bathtowel for the rare occasion that one of you has to go to the kitchen to retrieve a few more plums and water from the Brita pitcher, just lolling about for months and years and days, staring at the ceiling or rolling over on your side to see if he or she is staring at the ceiling or if he or she has rolled onto his or her side to find out what you're staring at. Sometimes you rest your fingers on a thigh and sometimes your hair gets stroked away from in front of your eyes and sometimes you fall asleep for a few minutes you think but all the while more and more people gather outside your door and demand that you fulfill your duties to the outside world. Bill collectors, landlords, gas meter readers and UPS deliverymen who need a signature for this package. Ten deep they send their right arms swinging up beside their heads mechanically pounding upon a door that's never ever gonna be unlocked no not even if something's on fire. They'll never stop pounding because they have no respect for the fact that just ten feet away behind eight inches of crumbling drywall one of you just pulled too much blanket over with a kick of the leg and the other one of you just tugged a little bit of the blanket back.
Happy Ignore That Knock On Your Front Door Day!
Sunday, November 10, 2002
Saturday, November 09, 2002
Don't Die From Lack Of Sleep Day!
Die from the hallucination brought about by your lack of sleep. For example, put a handgun on your desk. Then just stand there until you believe you are not in your own study but rather in the parlour of a wealthy and reknowned society type whom you believe to be cuckolding you with the spouse you never had. The handgun was placed there on the edge of his desk by you, obviously, laying down the gauntlet if you will. When your ailing cat saunters past your line of vision, you will hallucinate that the society type has lunged for the gun because that is the cowardly thing to do. Grab his forearm and try to direct the barrel of the gun towards the enormous (and I mean big) mirror. Either you or the dude that's in your head should fire the gun and shatter that big ass mirror. That's when all of the socialites will run from the party in the ballroom to see what happened (ie. your mom will get up from watching 60 Minutes 2 to see what the cat knocked over). When a crowd has formed around the two of you struggling for control of the gun and women are shrieking and men are shouting for 911 to be dialed (ie. when your mom asks you what the hell you're doing) fire one more shot. Then the two of you should just look each other in the eye for a second, neither of you betraying who was shot, until finally one of you falls to the ground dead, leaving the other to stand there, mouth agape, blood-stained hands outstretched in revulsion at having done just what you drove up to this mansion to do.
And by the by, the one who falls down dead will be you since you only made up the other dude because you haven't slept in a couple days and you thought maybe you could hallucinate yourself some friends but it all went kinda haywire. The bullet should hit your belly. Van Gogh died that way I think. (Bullet to the abdomen, I mean. I haven't a clue what kind of hallucinations went through that faggot's head.)
Happy Don't Die From Lack Of Sleep Day!
Die from the hallucination brought about by your lack of sleep. For example, put a handgun on your desk. Then just stand there until you believe you are not in your own study but rather in the parlour of a wealthy and reknowned society type whom you believe to be cuckolding you with the spouse you never had. The handgun was placed there on the edge of his desk by you, obviously, laying down the gauntlet if you will. When your ailing cat saunters past your line of vision, you will hallucinate that the society type has lunged for the gun because that is the cowardly thing to do. Grab his forearm and try to direct the barrel of the gun towards the enormous (and I mean big) mirror. Either you or the dude that's in your head should fire the gun and shatter that big ass mirror. That's when all of the socialites will run from the party in the ballroom to see what happened (ie. your mom will get up from watching 60 Minutes 2 to see what the cat knocked over). When a crowd has formed around the two of you struggling for control of the gun and women are shrieking and men are shouting for 911 to be dialed (ie. when your mom asks you what the hell you're doing) fire one more shot. Then the two of you should just look each other in the eye for a second, neither of you betraying who was shot, until finally one of you falls to the ground dead, leaving the other to stand there, mouth agape, blood-stained hands outstretched in revulsion at having done just what you drove up to this mansion to do.
And by the by, the one who falls down dead will be you since you only made up the other dude because you haven't slept in a couple days and you thought maybe you could hallucinate yourself some friends but it all went kinda haywire. The bullet should hit your belly. Van Gogh died that way I think. (Bullet to the abdomen, I mean. I haven't a clue what kind of hallucinations went through that faggot's head.)
Happy Don't Die From Lack Of Sleep Day!
Friday, November 08, 2002
Freak The Babysitter The Fuck Out Day!
Whether it's the bookish neighbor girl who seems a little sad about something or the gay boy that was recommended to you on your office email bulletin board, he or she has gotten a free ride for long enough. These are your children we're talking about. How's about you keep their hormone-addled, potentially suicidal, possibly recently date-raped teenage caregiver on his or her toes.
I'm not saying get a nannycam, Orwell. I'm saying send the virgin rifling into houseplants and behind crevices on the bookshelf to find the nannycam that ain't even there. All you have to do is go about your business like you would any other "Date Night" (you two are fucked by the way). "Jenny had a nap at five so she might be a little rowdy," you'll say in the dismissive tone of someone saying shit no one needs to hear because everyone's on the same page. "There's some pizza and coke in the fridge and you're welcome to it." Right, right. Little Tommy is already at his or her feet begging to be held upside down. And when the spouse is already in the car and you're just about to close the door just let the following drop to the carpet as light as a feather:
"Oh and by the way we know what's going on. Be home at 11."
Then shut the door behind you. When that movie or that dinner party starts to bore the living shit out of you, just imagine the frenetic activity going on in your home as a freshly panicked teen racks his or her brain to make sure what was heard was heard right. If only you could be there to watch your sitter hold your baby in such a delicate and hesitant manner so as to avoid any possible misinterpretation of "innapropriate touching." How sad the phone calls will be to boyfriends and girlfriends who can't come over and remove their tops on your couch anymore (this bums you out a little). Sure, you might have to look for another sitter next week, but at least that kid's gonna remember you for the rest of his or her gradually less enchanting lifetime. Not to mention that no one's going to be complaining about stretched out dresses no more.
What's it like to be as unhappy as you?
Happy Freak The Babysitter The Fuck Out Day!
Whether it's the bookish neighbor girl who seems a little sad about something or the gay boy that was recommended to you on your office email bulletin board, he or she has gotten a free ride for long enough. These are your children we're talking about. How's about you keep their hormone-addled, potentially suicidal, possibly recently date-raped teenage caregiver on his or her toes.
I'm not saying get a nannycam, Orwell. I'm saying send the virgin rifling into houseplants and behind crevices on the bookshelf to find the nannycam that ain't even there. All you have to do is go about your business like you would any other "Date Night" (you two are fucked by the way). "Jenny had a nap at five so she might be a little rowdy," you'll say in the dismissive tone of someone saying shit no one needs to hear because everyone's on the same page. "There's some pizza and coke in the fridge and you're welcome to it." Right, right. Little Tommy is already at his or her feet begging to be held upside down. And when the spouse is already in the car and you're just about to close the door just let the following drop to the carpet as light as a feather:
"Oh and by the way we know what's going on. Be home at 11."
Then shut the door behind you. When that movie or that dinner party starts to bore the living shit out of you, just imagine the frenetic activity going on in your home as a freshly panicked teen racks his or her brain to make sure what was heard was heard right. If only you could be there to watch your sitter hold your baby in such a delicate and hesitant manner so as to avoid any possible misinterpretation of "innapropriate touching." How sad the phone calls will be to boyfriends and girlfriends who can't come over and remove their tops on your couch anymore (this bums you out a little). Sure, you might have to look for another sitter next week, but at least that kid's gonna remember you for the rest of his or her gradually less enchanting lifetime. Not to mention that no one's going to be complaining about stretched out dresses no more.
What's it like to be as unhappy as you?
Happy Freak The Babysitter The Fuck Out Day!
Thursday, November 07, 2002
About That Bridge You Were Worried About, When You Come To It, RUN LIKE HELL IT'S GONNA BLOW!!! Day!
Yeah, the fucker's wired with enough C-4 to blow a hole in the riverbed so big it'll bring the water level down three full inches (it's a really wide river). That's the bridge we were talking about you crossing when you finally came to it, right? Well, you're too late. It's a suicide mission, Connor. They're only sending in the bomb squad guys who've either got no family or full pension going to their wives when they bite the bullet. And ain't no one here wearing a badge who ain't made his phone call home yet to tell the little lady where the insurance policies are filed and the loose cash is hidden.
I know this is disappointing, but if you head south on the Patch Thruway you'll hit the Stratford Tunnel and that'll get you across the river with maybe having lost about 40 minutes drivetime. And if you're gonna hit rush hour, best to do it from the Stratford than from this here bridge that you came to to cross. Now get goin.
And for Christ's sake Connor, make sure you got some change for the toll!
Happy About That Bridge You Were Worried About, When You Come To It, RUN LIKE HELL IT'S GONNA BLOW!!! Day!
Yeah, the fucker's wired with enough C-4 to blow a hole in the riverbed so big it'll bring the water level down three full inches (it's a really wide river). That's the bridge we were talking about you crossing when you finally came to it, right? Well, you're too late. It's a suicide mission, Connor. They're only sending in the bomb squad guys who've either got no family or full pension going to their wives when they bite the bullet. And ain't no one here wearing a badge who ain't made his phone call home yet to tell the little lady where the insurance policies are filed and the loose cash is hidden.
I know this is disappointing, but if you head south on the Patch Thruway you'll hit the Stratford Tunnel and that'll get you across the river with maybe having lost about 40 minutes drivetime. And if you're gonna hit rush hour, best to do it from the Stratford than from this here bridge that you came to to cross. Now get goin.
And for Christ's sake Connor, make sure you got some change for the toll!
Happy About That Bridge You Were Worried About, When You Come To It, RUN LIKE HELL IT'S GONNA BLOW!!! Day!
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
More Movies About Suicide! Day!
We will be heard, goddammit! While the TV networks have been busy turning characters from white to black just to keep Kweisi Mfume from bursting a pair of briefs, Hollywood has done nothing to make more movies about one friend committing suicide and a whole lotta other people talking about it then fucking. In the past like ten or thirty five years we've had what? The Big Chill? Too many sweaters! Permanent Record? Never saw it! That One With The Suicide And The Talking And Then The Fucking? Too little too late!
Every day in America over twelve hundred people commit suicide probably. And who gets left behind? Seven close-knit, passably attractive, loquacious friends who have been waiting for years for a friend to commit suicide so they could finally start in with the bang bang. I wanna watch!
Until I hear tell that there are no less than five movies (three with titty) in production about a bunch of friends dealing with one friend's suicide by talking about it then making the naughty genital smoosh, I will not seek employment!
Happy More Movies About Suicide! Day!
We will be heard, goddammit! While the TV networks have been busy turning characters from white to black just to keep Kweisi Mfume from bursting a pair of briefs, Hollywood has done nothing to make more movies about one friend committing suicide and a whole lotta other people talking about it then fucking. In the past like ten or thirty five years we've had what? The Big Chill? Too many sweaters! Permanent Record? Never saw it! That One With The Suicide And The Talking And Then The Fucking? Too little too late!
Every day in America over twelve hundred people commit suicide probably. And who gets left behind? Seven close-knit, passably attractive, loquacious friends who have been waiting for years for a friend to commit suicide so they could finally start in with the bang bang. I wanna watch!
Until I hear tell that there are no less than five movies (three with titty) in production about a bunch of friends dealing with one friend's suicide by talking about it then making the naughty genital smoosh, I will not seek employment!
Happy More Movies About Suicide! Day!
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
Don't Be The Guy Who Lets The Old Lady Get Off The Elevator First Day!
You should be the guy that gets sneered at by the guy who steps in your way as he makes room for the old lady to get off the elevator. You'll take a quick aborted step and you'll stumble and just nearly give him a body check. He'll shine a real big smile at the old lady as she shuffles out of the car, then he'll step out of your way and flash you a look that says nobody knows how to behave anymore and maybe he'll even wave his arm out the door with an exaggerated twirl of his hand as if to say, "Take leave, oh impatient one. The floor is yours, but then you probably believe all the world is yours for the taking, and respect for the elderly is just another outdated convention to keep you from doing what you want whenever you want." Yes, it's a very long-winded twirl of the hand. But don't worry. Just look the do-gooder in the eye and say, "My wife's been kidnapped. They're going to kill her."
Happy Don't Be The Guy Who Lets The Old Lady Get Off The Elevator First Day!
You should be the guy that gets sneered at by the guy who steps in your way as he makes room for the old lady to get off the elevator. You'll take a quick aborted step and you'll stumble and just nearly give him a body check. He'll shine a real big smile at the old lady as she shuffles out of the car, then he'll step out of your way and flash you a look that says nobody knows how to behave anymore and maybe he'll even wave his arm out the door with an exaggerated twirl of his hand as if to say, "Take leave, oh impatient one. The floor is yours, but then you probably believe all the world is yours for the taking, and respect for the elderly is just another outdated convention to keep you from doing what you want whenever you want." Yes, it's a very long-winded twirl of the hand. But don't worry. Just look the do-gooder in the eye and say, "My wife's been kidnapped. They're going to kill her."
Happy Don't Be The Guy Who Lets The Old Lady Get Off The Elevator First Day!
Monday, November 04, 2002
"Show Me Your Breath" Day!
Today's the day to let your eyes shuffle through the giant streetside window of a bar and just get kind of blanked out by all the same-old same-old outside. Cars pass, folks bend their shoulders against the cold and pull their hats down tighter, homeless people pee without knowing it. Seen it all before, yeah, but it's all so much more beautiful than anything in that novel soaking up the circle of condensation from your pint.
And just then, a couple will walk out of the restaurant next door and stop in front of your window to adjust their hats and gloves. They'll be smiling, radiatiing the glow of a romantic meal and much wine. They'll look at each other just to smile at each other. They're in love. And one of them is an ex of yours from a brief relationship not 4 months dead.
If someone were to look from the street, it would look like they're flanking you. Each on either side of you, equidistant from that bewildered look on your face. You'll look from one to the other, wondering if they planned this out: "Oh my God, my ex is in that window. Let's just go stand right out front and moon at each other for a second!" You would of course be overjoyed to know that you are so prominent in the thoughts of people you know have long since forgotten about you that they would so much as break stride on the sidewalk to make sure they have your attention.
Your ex will say something you can't make out. The companion will start to pant in your ex's face. Your ex will pant in turn, so that they both send gusts of hot breath, the steam visible in the cold, into each other's faces. That's what your ex said. "Show me your breath," said the one you just never clicked with. Then they'll stop the hyperventilation to check the eyes for glimmering before a quick kiss. And then they'll be gone.
Sure, you were glad it ended between you two. All the same, watching them through the window of the bar just then, you won't help but feel a little pang of regret. But relax, everything looks better from behind the streetside window of a bar. Go belly up and buy yourself one too many.
Happy "Show Me Your Breath" Day!
Today's the day to let your eyes shuffle through the giant streetside window of a bar and just get kind of blanked out by all the same-old same-old outside. Cars pass, folks bend their shoulders against the cold and pull their hats down tighter, homeless people pee without knowing it. Seen it all before, yeah, but it's all so much more beautiful than anything in that novel soaking up the circle of condensation from your pint.
And just then, a couple will walk out of the restaurant next door and stop in front of your window to adjust their hats and gloves. They'll be smiling, radiatiing the glow of a romantic meal and much wine. They'll look at each other just to smile at each other. They're in love. And one of them is an ex of yours from a brief relationship not 4 months dead.
If someone were to look from the street, it would look like they're flanking you. Each on either side of you, equidistant from that bewildered look on your face. You'll look from one to the other, wondering if they planned this out: "Oh my God, my ex is in that window. Let's just go stand right out front and moon at each other for a second!" You would of course be overjoyed to know that you are so prominent in the thoughts of people you know have long since forgotten about you that they would so much as break stride on the sidewalk to make sure they have your attention.
Your ex will say something you can't make out. The companion will start to pant in your ex's face. Your ex will pant in turn, so that they both send gusts of hot breath, the steam visible in the cold, into each other's faces. That's what your ex said. "Show me your breath," said the one you just never clicked with. Then they'll stop the hyperventilation to check the eyes for glimmering before a quick kiss. And then they'll be gone.
Sure, you were glad it ended between you two. All the same, watching them through the window of the bar just then, you won't help but feel a little pang of regret. But relax, everything looks better from behind the streetside window of a bar. Go belly up and buy yourself one too many.
Happy "Show Me Your Breath" Day!
Sunday, November 03, 2002
A Beercan In The Back Pocket Of Your Jeans Will Spill Some, Yeah, But If You Put It In There With The Lip Facing Away From Your Ass, It'll Just Dribble Down The Outside Of Your Pocket Which Won't Kill Nobody Day!
Unless you start to wrestle, which you're probably gonna do since there's not too many other reasons for putting a beercan in your back pocket beyond getting into a shoving match with somebody. And if you start shoving somebody, let's face it, someone's gonna get thrown to the ground and you're gonna start to wrestle because sometimes just about everyone's a little attractive and it just feels good to hold somebody and be held by somebody, even when that somebody is screaming in your ear, "SAY MERCY FAGGOT!!!" So if you wrestle but you keep your ass in the air, the beercan will probably foam up and out onto the skin of your back, which will be bare because your shirt's already been tugged way up to your shoulderblades. And after the initial foamover, it'll just sort dribble out of the can steadily and it'll pour down into your underwear and your asscrack and it'll feel so cold. You'll honestly be better off if you get flipped onto your ass and the can gets crushed and cracked and practically emptied out in one splat because at least if you're on your ass, all the beer will pour out onto the ground instead of down into your pants.
But if you just wanna walk away from the grill with two hot dogs and a coke for your little sister and you need to put your beercan in the back pocket of your jeans so you can hold everything, go ahead. It won't kill nobody.
I want you to know that until I fell in love with you, A Beercan In The Back Pocket Of Your Jeans Will Spill Some, Yeah, But If You Put It In There With The Lip Facing Away From Your Ass, It'll Just Dribble Down The Outside Of Your Pocket Which Won't Kill Nobody Day was just another excuse for me to get real loaded and remind my Dad about the time he hit my mom real bad (she was knocked out for a second).
Unless you start to wrestle, which you're probably gonna do since there's not too many other reasons for putting a beercan in your back pocket beyond getting into a shoving match with somebody. And if you start shoving somebody, let's face it, someone's gonna get thrown to the ground and you're gonna start to wrestle because sometimes just about everyone's a little attractive and it just feels good to hold somebody and be held by somebody, even when that somebody is screaming in your ear, "SAY MERCY FAGGOT!!!" So if you wrestle but you keep your ass in the air, the beercan will probably foam up and out onto the skin of your back, which will be bare because your shirt's already been tugged way up to your shoulderblades. And after the initial foamover, it'll just sort dribble out of the can steadily and it'll pour down into your underwear and your asscrack and it'll feel so cold. You'll honestly be better off if you get flipped onto your ass and the can gets crushed and cracked and practically emptied out in one splat because at least if you're on your ass, all the beer will pour out onto the ground instead of down into your pants.
But if you just wanna walk away from the grill with two hot dogs and a coke for your little sister and you need to put your beercan in the back pocket of your jeans so you can hold everything, go ahead. It won't kill nobody.
I want you to know that until I fell in love with you, A Beercan In The Back Pocket Of Your Jeans Will Spill Some, Yeah, But If You Put It In There With The Lip Facing Away From Your Ass, It'll Just Dribble Down The Outside Of Your Pocket Which Won't Kill Nobody Day was just another excuse for me to get real loaded and remind my Dad about the time he hit my mom real bad (she was knocked out for a second).
Saturday, November 02, 2002
Check The Right Breast Pocket Of That Thrift Store Western Style Ivory Snap-Up Shirt For An Old, Faded To-Do List Day!
Sometimes when you enter your local Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet, you can feel that it's gonna work out. Most days, you know before you even leave the house that the size tags on the pants will all be off by three inches and all the sweaters will have a faint waterstain on the belly that you won't notice until you're waiting on line to pay. But on those rare days, you walk through the door and you are certain you're gonna find a new and treasured addition to your wardrobe.
And then there's a day like today. When your trip to the Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet doesn't just feel lucky, but downright fated.
So you sift through rack after mile long rack of deep color plaids and bowling shirts that used to belong to someone named "Ray," but you're not so much browsing as you are hunting down something lost, like you would a pair of keys or hope. The funny thing is, you're patient. You know it's here, even though you don't know what it is yet, but you're excited by the feeling of certainty. You haven't felt certain about anything in about six years, right? Yeah, it was six years ago.
So anyway, a few more screeches of bent steel shirt hanger along the peeling silver painted pipe and there it is, a red, navy and white checkered plaid western style shirt with ivory snaps for buttons. Without a doubt it's the one. Eveything around you kind of goes silent and blurry and still, just like when you saw that face at that party. Kind of looks like the shirt you're wearing right now, but like the color scheme was directly inverted.
Go try it on. Fits perfect right? Now check the right breast pocket and see if there's an old, faded to-do list pasted up against the inside of the pocket.
Well waddaya know!
grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood
Kind of wacky when you find stuff like that in used clothes or used books, huh? Even wackier, and this might explain why your hands are starting to shake real bad, check the right breast pocket of the shirt you put on this morning for a brand new to-do list that you just scribbled out before leaving the house.
Well waddaya know!
grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood
Same handwriting even. You should buy the shirt and then go and visit loved ones to see if they still exist.
Happy Check The Right Breast Pocket Of That Thrift Store Western Style Ivory Snap-Up Shirt For An Old, Faded To-Do List Day! By the way, who's Emily?
Sometimes when you enter your local Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet, you can feel that it's gonna work out. Most days, you know before you even leave the house that the size tags on the pants will all be off by three inches and all the sweaters will have a faint waterstain on the belly that you won't notice until you're waiting on line to pay. But on those rare days, you walk through the door and you are certain you're gonna find a new and treasured addition to your wardrobe.
And then there's a day like today. When your trip to the Used Clothing Warehouse and Overpriced No-Brand Small Appliance Outlet doesn't just feel lucky, but downright fated.
So you sift through rack after mile long rack of deep color plaids and bowling shirts that used to belong to someone named "Ray," but you're not so much browsing as you are hunting down something lost, like you would a pair of keys or hope. The funny thing is, you're patient. You know it's here, even though you don't know what it is yet, but you're excited by the feeling of certainty. You haven't felt certain about anything in about six years, right? Yeah, it was six years ago.
So anyway, a few more screeches of bent steel shirt hanger along the peeling silver painted pipe and there it is, a red, navy and white checkered plaid western style shirt with ivory snaps for buttons. Without a doubt it's the one. Eveything around you kind of goes silent and blurry and still, just like when you saw that face at that party. Kind of looks like the shirt you're wearing right now, but like the color scheme was directly inverted.
Go try it on. Fits perfect right? Now check the right breast pocket and see if there's an old, faded to-do list pasted up against the inside of the pocket.
Well waddaya know!
grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood
Kind of wacky when you find stuff like that in used clothes or used books, huh? Even wackier, and this might explain why your hands are starting to shake real bad, check the right breast pocket of the shirt you put on this morning for a brand new to-do list that you just scribbled out before leaving the house.
Well waddaya know!
grapes for fruit salad
eggs
money order - $372
mom's b-day gift
call futon place
Emily maybe (stupid???)
firewood
Same handwriting even. You should buy the shirt and then go and visit loved ones to see if they still exist.
Happy Check The Right Breast Pocket Of That Thrift Store Western Style Ivory Snap-Up Shirt For An Old, Faded To-Do List Day! By the way, who's Emily?
Friday, November 01, 2002
So Then...You're In A Motel Room In Ohio Then... Day!
Hm. Well, you made it out of town leaving someone very special behind to wake up in the morning and read a note on the kitchen table, assuming the cat doesn't bat it behind the refrigerator beforehand. You've been worried about that throughout the entire drive today, but can you honestly remember the cat ever playing with an envelope? And yes, the house could've caught fire, ensuring that when the one you've jilted (for whom you still care a great deal, really you do) makes a run for it there won't be much attention paid to retrieving mail from the table. So the letter would've burned up and you would be nowhere to be found.
Yeah that could've happened but it didn't and you know it so shut up. You're only thinking about shit like that so you don't have to focus on "Brand New You Day 1!" which so far amounts to a liedown on an extraordinarily firm Super 8 mattress with crippling anxiety about going outside to eat dinner. The curtains are closed and the ceiling seems a little too low and even though there's a WalMart across the parking lot, you could swear you're in outer space right now it's so damn quiet.
Turn the television on. You haven't watched television in ages. Why not see what's on the tube these days.
There you go. It's Brand New You, TV Watcher!
So then... You're in a motel room in Ohio then. This whole Starting Over From Scratch thing isn't exactly the screaming orgy atop a speeding motorcycle that's on fire at the edge of a cliff that you would envision when you used to wonder what life would be like if you finally broke it off. Maybe you should get back in your car and drive further. Or drive back.
Happy So Then...You're In A Motel Room In Ohio Then... Day!
Hm. Well, you made it out of town leaving someone very special behind to wake up in the morning and read a note on the kitchen table, assuming the cat doesn't bat it behind the refrigerator beforehand. You've been worried about that throughout the entire drive today, but can you honestly remember the cat ever playing with an envelope? And yes, the house could've caught fire, ensuring that when the one you've jilted (for whom you still care a great deal, really you do) makes a run for it there won't be much attention paid to retrieving mail from the table. So the letter would've burned up and you would be nowhere to be found.
Yeah that could've happened but it didn't and you know it so shut up. You're only thinking about shit like that so you don't have to focus on "Brand New You Day 1!" which so far amounts to a liedown on an extraordinarily firm Super 8 mattress with crippling anxiety about going outside to eat dinner. The curtains are closed and the ceiling seems a little too low and even though there's a WalMart across the parking lot, you could swear you're in outer space right now it's so damn quiet.
Turn the television on. You haven't watched television in ages. Why not see what's on the tube these days.
There you go. It's Brand New You, TV Watcher!
So then... You're in a motel room in Ohio then. This whole Starting Over From Scratch thing isn't exactly the screaming orgy atop a speeding motorcycle that's on fire at the edge of a cliff that you would envision when you used to wonder what life would be like if you finally broke it off. Maybe you should get back in your car and drive further. Or drive back.
Happy So Then...You're In A Motel Room In Ohio Then... Day!
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