You Say "Tomato," I Say "We Should Never Stop Drinking Ever" Day!
It's all well and good to sometimes say "Tomato." For example, let's say you have a tomato sitting on top of your TV but your sister hasn't noticed it yet. Nudging her in her side and pointing at the tomato and saying to her "Tomato" won't get you thrown in prison.
But I would much prefer to grab someone by the dress neckline and pant into her sole remaining open eyelid, "We should never stop drinking ever." But that's no reason for you to let that tomato go unnoticed. I'm just glad I am me and not you because your sister's a real pain in the nuts. Now go to hell.
Monday, December 30, 2002
Cashiers Are Way Hornier Day!
Today's the day when you and your friends might walk up to the counter at the Rite Aid with a big cart full of Tequiza and Smirnoff Ice and Jello Shooter Molds and prescription roofies and whatnot and the cashier is gonna say:
"Wow, looks like you guys like to party."
And if you and your friends don't respond, she'll say, "You know, I like to party."
And if you and your friends just kind of nod absently and continue pooling your money, she'll be like, "When I say I like to party, I mean I like to have sex."
And if you and your friends just are like, "Yeah, whatever lady" and then you go back to arguing over why Bob never has any cash to chip in, she'll add, "With guys. I mean I like to have sex with guys."
And if you and your friends still haven't caught on and you just jam the wad of money into her hand, she'll just let her shoulders drop and give up on the hints and she'll just go, "Look, can I have sex with you guys?"
Then all you and your friends have to do is vote on it!
Today's the day when you and your friends might walk up to the counter at the Rite Aid with a big cart full of Tequiza and Smirnoff Ice and Jello Shooter Molds and prescription roofies and whatnot and the cashier is gonna say:
"Wow, looks like you guys like to party."
And if you and your friends don't respond, she'll say, "You know, I like to party."
And if you and your friends just kind of nod absently and continue pooling your money, she'll be like, "When I say I like to party, I mean I like to have sex."
And if you and your friends just are like, "Yeah, whatever lady" and then you go back to arguing over why Bob never has any cash to chip in, she'll add, "With guys. I mean I like to have sex with guys."
And if you and your friends still haven't caught on and you just jam the wad of money into her hand, she'll just let her shoulders drop and give up on the hints and she'll just go, "Look, can I have sex with you guys?"
Then all you and your friends have to do is vote on it!
Sunday, December 29, 2002
The Search Day!
The River Guide is addicted to cocaine. He'll take you to the edge of the Earth and introduce you to the horizon of your senses. But first he needs to do some more cocaine, just to give the raft the shove it needs to float on its way.
As he thrusts his giant bamboo rod into the river bed and drags you along the current at a far enough distance from the banks to avoid blow darts, he starts to imagine his bamboo rod is an enormous rolled up dollar bill and he a giant and the sunny stretched out glint of white along the water's surface the most gargantuan and beautiful line of Brazilian cocaine, as clean cut as that stuff that movie star brought to his cousin's wedding. He gets so excited that he pulls up to the bank of the river to do some more cocaine.
By day three of the search (some Gueriillas kidnapped your daughter and took her deep into the jungle to just get in line and rape her all the time), the River Guide is out of cocaine so he needs some more money from you. You pay, then he starts to drag you back up the river because way back there is the only place he knows that sells cocaine. You realize this is going to bleed a lot of time from the search for your daughter, but you say okay anyway because you need to learn how to assert yourself. You're the kind of person who gives big tips to waitresses even when they're really rude.
Happy The Search Day!
The River Guide is addicted to cocaine. He'll take you to the edge of the Earth and introduce you to the horizon of your senses. But first he needs to do some more cocaine, just to give the raft the shove it needs to float on its way.
As he thrusts his giant bamboo rod into the river bed and drags you along the current at a far enough distance from the banks to avoid blow darts, he starts to imagine his bamboo rod is an enormous rolled up dollar bill and he a giant and the sunny stretched out glint of white along the water's surface the most gargantuan and beautiful line of Brazilian cocaine, as clean cut as that stuff that movie star brought to his cousin's wedding. He gets so excited that he pulls up to the bank of the river to do some more cocaine.
By day three of the search (some Gueriillas kidnapped your daughter and took her deep into the jungle to just get in line and rape her all the time), the River Guide is out of cocaine so he needs some more money from you. You pay, then he starts to drag you back up the river because way back there is the only place he knows that sells cocaine. You realize this is going to bleed a lot of time from the search for your daughter, but you say okay anyway because you need to learn how to assert yourself. You're the kind of person who gives big tips to waitresses even when they're really rude.
Happy The Search Day!
Saturday, December 28, 2002
Can You tell From Here? Day!
Today you're floating up above a party and patrolling all of the boys talking to girls and girls talking to boys and girls talking to girls and boys looking at girls and wondering what they're tallking about. That's right, from up here you can see boobies. And sometimes you can even see the front and center clasp of a bra down below a v-neck line, usually on the smaller boobied people. But still, when you can see the front clasp of a bra it like 99.9% counts as having seen her with her shirt off.
But that's not why you're up here near the ceiling. You can take breaks to get more drinks, that's fine. Four an hour right? Fine. But why you're up here near the ceiling is to see if you can spot who this party is for.
Not, "Who's the birthday boy" or "Who's the xtra frsh DJ that packed the club full o' trance skulls?" But in the grander scope of things, there's a couple down there that just started talking. A boy and a girl. And if you were either one of them you would know that they, their conversation, them just having seen what each other was wearing tonight, they are the reason for this party. And in their minds the whole place just came to a halt and floated up to the ceiling to get a bird's eye view of their conversation and watch what happens next.
You can't find them can you? That's because they look just like everyone else down there. We figured as much, we just wanted to see it through another pair of eyes. When you're done looking at boobies, come find me and I'll buy you a drink. I 've been waiting to talk to you, really talk to you, ever since you walked through the door.
Happy Can You tell From Here? Day!
Today you're floating up above a party and patrolling all of the boys talking to girls and girls talking to boys and girls talking to girls and boys looking at girls and wondering what they're tallking about. That's right, from up here you can see boobies. And sometimes you can even see the front and center clasp of a bra down below a v-neck line, usually on the smaller boobied people. But still, when you can see the front clasp of a bra it like 99.9% counts as having seen her with her shirt off.
But that's not why you're up here near the ceiling. You can take breaks to get more drinks, that's fine. Four an hour right? Fine. But why you're up here near the ceiling is to see if you can spot who this party is for.
Not, "Who's the birthday boy" or "Who's the xtra frsh DJ that packed the club full o' trance skulls?" But in the grander scope of things, there's a couple down there that just started talking. A boy and a girl. And if you were either one of them you would know that they, their conversation, them just having seen what each other was wearing tonight, they are the reason for this party. And in their minds the whole place just came to a halt and floated up to the ceiling to get a bird's eye view of their conversation and watch what happens next.
You can't find them can you? That's because they look just like everyone else down there. We figured as much, we just wanted to see it through another pair of eyes. When you're done looking at boobies, come find me and I'll buy you a drink. I 've been waiting to talk to you, really talk to you, ever since you walked through the door.
Happy Can You tell From Here? Day!
Friday, December 27, 2002
Tell People You're Not A Fan Of African-American Hip Hop Day!
First, tell the bike messenger riding the elevator with you up to your office. That's clearly hip hop music blasting out of his headphones. Just give him a tap on the shoulder and ask "What kind of hip hop is that? Is that African American hip hop?" If he says yes, go "Eww! I hate African-American hip hop! It's fucking awful!" Then ask him if he saw the movie 8 Mile. "Eminem won the rap showdown by making fun of his own shortcomings before the African-Americans could," you can say. I bet you two get into an exciting debate over how much African American hip hop men love to tease. Wouldn't it be funny if at the end of the ride, you and the bike messenger got off at the same floor and he ended up having a package for you the whole time?
The next person you should tell your aversion to African-American hip hop to is your husband. You've left him in the dark long enough. He will be shocked. Then he will ask you to lock your office door and remove your undergarments and perform your wifely duties there on the phone with him. Obey him. He is your husband.
The next person to whom you should say all that shit about not digging black beats is the child you put up for adoption when you were sixteen. The detective gave you his address three months ago. It's about time you contacted him to let him know that you think African-American hip hop is just a bunch of bling bling and guys saying 'Look at me, I'm so mean to people!' Then explain to your long lost son that you don't regret putting him up for adoption because you were not ready to be a mother at such a young age. Tell him you'll understand if he doesn't want you to contact him again.
Finally, send an anonymous letter to Jay Z that says, "I know what you have a blueprint for. You have a blueprint for being sucky!"
Happy Tell People You're Not A Fan Of African-American Hip Hop Day!
First, tell the bike messenger riding the elevator with you up to your office. That's clearly hip hop music blasting out of his headphones. Just give him a tap on the shoulder and ask "What kind of hip hop is that? Is that African American hip hop?" If he says yes, go "Eww! I hate African-American hip hop! It's fucking awful!" Then ask him if he saw the movie 8 Mile. "Eminem won the rap showdown by making fun of his own shortcomings before the African-Americans could," you can say. I bet you two get into an exciting debate over how much African American hip hop men love to tease. Wouldn't it be funny if at the end of the ride, you and the bike messenger got off at the same floor and he ended up having a package for you the whole time?
The next person you should tell your aversion to African-American hip hop to is your husband. You've left him in the dark long enough. He will be shocked. Then he will ask you to lock your office door and remove your undergarments and perform your wifely duties there on the phone with him. Obey him. He is your husband.
The next person to whom you should say all that shit about not digging black beats is the child you put up for adoption when you were sixteen. The detective gave you his address three months ago. It's about time you contacted him to let him know that you think African-American hip hop is just a bunch of bling bling and guys saying 'Look at me, I'm so mean to people!' Then explain to your long lost son that you don't regret putting him up for adoption because you were not ready to be a mother at such a young age. Tell him you'll understand if he doesn't want you to contact him again.
Finally, send an anonymous letter to Jay Z that says, "I know what you have a blueprint for. You have a blueprint for being sucky!"
Happy Tell People You're Not A Fan Of African-American Hip Hop Day!
Thursday, December 26, 2002
Read The Pillow Crease's Indentation Upon Your Cheek Day!
If when you awake, you find that the pillow's crease has left a mark upon your cheek that reads, "Nice ass, but where's it headed?", that is your dead grandmother voicing her opinion that you are a very attractive person, but not very bright. And from her experience, a person such as yourself should try to marry into wealth and construct various "traps" to avoid being divorced by your spouse. For example, if you are a woman, give birth to a child that dies at the age of four (not by your hand please, a mother can manipulate her diet to dictate the fate of a life while it lives in her womb) so that you and your husband sink into a twenty year long depression and chemical co-dependency. Your husband may commit suicide, but he's not going to divorce that fine fine ass of yours.
If you are a man, just make sure you always give off an air of confidence. Chicks dig confidence.
Happy Read The Pillow Crease's Indentation Upon Your Cheek Day!
If when you awake, you find that the pillow's crease has left a mark upon your cheek that reads, "Nice ass, but where's it headed?", that is your dead grandmother voicing her opinion that you are a very attractive person, but not very bright. And from her experience, a person such as yourself should try to marry into wealth and construct various "traps" to avoid being divorced by your spouse. For example, if you are a woman, give birth to a child that dies at the age of four (not by your hand please, a mother can manipulate her diet to dictate the fate of a life while it lives in her womb) so that you and your husband sink into a twenty year long depression and chemical co-dependency. Your husband may commit suicide, but he's not going to divorce that fine fine ass of yours.
If you are a man, just make sure you always give off an air of confidence. Chicks dig confidence.
Happy Read The Pillow Crease's Indentation Upon Your Cheek Day!
Wednesday, December 25, 2002
There's A Website Where An Account Of Your Alcohol Intake Is Updated Ten Times Daily Day!
The entire world is glued to their monitors because man have you been breaking records ever since the bar car opened up on the Amtrak train last night. There's an online poll up as to whether the little incident at dinner last night was just an accident and you were just reaching across the table for the butter, like you said, or did you really clock your wife in the jaw right in front of your parents and daughter. Guess what 78% of the 80,000 visitors a day think so far?
You know what you should do is go for a drive.
Happy There's A Website Where An Account Of Your Alcohol Intake Is Updated Ten Times Daily Day!
The entire world is glued to their monitors because man have you been breaking records ever since the bar car opened up on the Amtrak train last night. There's an online poll up as to whether the little incident at dinner last night was just an accident and you were just reaching across the table for the butter, like you said, or did you really clock your wife in the jaw right in front of your parents and daughter. Guess what 78% of the 80,000 visitors a day think so far?
You know what you should do is go for a drive.
Happy There's A Website Where An Account Of Your Alcohol Intake Is Updated Ten Times Daily Day!
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
That's Pee! Day!
The odor coming off of that chair your cat-owner friend let you keep for helping him move out of his apartment?
The whitish crust on the inside of your thighs?
The weird flavor of the coke you bought at the drivethru when you were drunk and vocally misogynistic last night?
The tint to the whites of your eyes? (get to a clinic)
The stuff that special someone expelled onto your naked chest at your pleading during an especially dull snow day?
What wakes you up at 6:30 a.m.?
What did you get a fine for squirting onto a parked car last Thursday?
What makes you dance dance dance like you were Michael Jackson with too much pee in his bladder?
What's see-through if you're an alcoholic?
What's stinky if you're going to die in a few hours?
What burns if you're going to die in a few hours?
What's going to be all over your pants after you die in a few hours, besides like a gallon of shit?
That stuff that makes the bathtub fill up with clouds made outta gold?
That black ring on the bathroom floor stretching out from the toilet three feet in diameter? (same thing, but really old)
SSSssssssssssssssssssssssssss?
That's pee!
The odor coming off of that chair your cat-owner friend let you keep for helping him move out of his apartment?
The whitish crust on the inside of your thighs?
The weird flavor of the coke you bought at the drivethru when you were drunk and vocally misogynistic last night?
The tint to the whites of your eyes? (get to a clinic)
The stuff that special someone expelled onto your naked chest at your pleading during an especially dull snow day?
What wakes you up at 6:30 a.m.?
What did you get a fine for squirting onto a parked car last Thursday?
What makes you dance dance dance like you were Michael Jackson with too much pee in his bladder?
What's see-through if you're an alcoholic?
What's stinky if you're going to die in a few hours?
What burns if you're going to die in a few hours?
What's going to be all over your pants after you die in a few hours, besides like a gallon of shit?
That stuff that makes the bathtub fill up with clouds made outta gold?
That black ring on the bathroom floor stretching out from the toilet three feet in diameter? (same thing, but really old)
SSSssssssssssssssssssssssssss?
That's pee!
Monday, December 23, 2002
The Wrong Bus Driver Day!
Ask the wrong bus driver whether you should run away from your parents to Hollywood to become a movie star, and he might say yes because, unbeknownst to you, he declared today "Opposite Day" for himself and he's saying and doing everything that is the opposite of what he means to say and do.
And even if he didn't declare today "Secret Opposite Day" and he's able to tell you that today is opposite day and that's why he said that, he might be the target of a murderous husband he's been cuckolding and just as he's about to tell you that he didn't really mean to say you should run away, he might open the doors at a stop and that vengeful husband might jump up the steps and stab him six times in the belly with a big kitchen knife and then hop back out and run.
And sure, he might have enough strength to lure you close to his mouth and whisper in your ear that today's Opposite Day and that no, he does not think you should run away from home. But then he'll have said both yes and no and then die and you'll be left to wonder which of his opinions to heed as truly the opposite of his real opinion because he's been a good bus driver and you don't want to deny him his final Opposite Day.
Another reason the wrong bus driver might tell you you should run away from home to become a star of the silver screen is because he always used to want to do that but never got the chance and now he'd like to see you go in his stead because bus drivers always want something better for their passengers.
Happy The Wrong Bus Driver Day!
Ask the wrong bus driver whether you should run away from your parents to Hollywood to become a movie star, and he might say yes because, unbeknownst to you, he declared today "Opposite Day" for himself and he's saying and doing everything that is the opposite of what he means to say and do.
And even if he didn't declare today "Secret Opposite Day" and he's able to tell you that today is opposite day and that's why he said that, he might be the target of a murderous husband he's been cuckolding and just as he's about to tell you that he didn't really mean to say you should run away, he might open the doors at a stop and that vengeful husband might jump up the steps and stab him six times in the belly with a big kitchen knife and then hop back out and run.
And sure, he might have enough strength to lure you close to his mouth and whisper in your ear that today's Opposite Day and that no, he does not think you should run away from home. But then he'll have said both yes and no and then die and you'll be left to wonder which of his opinions to heed as truly the opposite of his real opinion because he's been a good bus driver and you don't want to deny him his final Opposite Day.
Another reason the wrong bus driver might tell you you should run away from home to become a star of the silver screen is because he always used to want to do that but never got the chance and now he'd like to see you go in his stead because bus drivers always want something better for their passengers.
Happy The Wrong Bus Driver Day!
Sunday, December 22, 2002
Buy A Chili Dog Day!
For the past seventy three hours there has been an assault rifle trained on your skull. Even while you were taking a bath. Do you believe us?
DO YOU BELIEVE US?
Good. Now you have thirty minutes to buy a chili dog. If you do not buy a chili dog in thirty minutes, the first second of the thirty first minute will be adorned with the sound of a bullet searing into your brain. Be smart. Buy a chili dog.
Happy Buy A Chili Dog Day. Maybe next time you'll mind your business.
For the past seventy three hours there has been an assault rifle trained on your skull. Even while you were taking a bath. Do you believe us?
DO YOU BELIEVE US?
Good. Now you have thirty minutes to buy a chili dog. If you do not buy a chili dog in thirty minutes, the first second of the thirty first minute will be adorned with the sound of a bullet searing into your brain. Be smart. Buy a chili dog.
Happy Buy A Chili Dog Day. Maybe next time you'll mind your business.
Saturday, December 21, 2002
Sunshine Shoulders Through Filthy Gray Window Screen To Meet A Couple Of New Feet Day!
It's coughing because your windowscreen is layered with so many years of gray brown debris Sunshine has to claw and nudge its way into your bedroom like a sensible man finding his way out of a drunken wedding party, blacker than tuxedos that screen is in spots. When Sunshine finally shoulders through the murk to the sleeping aftersex dried drunksweat on mixed up skin smell coming off of you and whatsitsname it can't help but hack and wheeze the freedom out and the freedom in.
You two are way beyond introductions. Though sometimes you still say "Good morning, Sunshine" just to hear Sunshine say "Good morning, Sunshine" right back at you like a mother but Sunshine always giggles to get its own joke. However, Sunshine is already licking at the new set of toes poking out from the end of your too-short comforter. Sunshine's looking up into your eyes from the end of the futon, perspective that suggests someone going way too down, and Sunshine wants to know why it's never met such toes before.
"Where've you been hiding these? These are something else." says Sunshine.
"Not bad right?" You really want an outside opinion.
Sunshine's answer is to swallow the toes and the tops of the feet and to begin crawling way up the comforter, Sunshine is on its way to your new friend's chin and your new friend's lips. Maybe you should wake Sleeping Little Nakedohyeah! before Sunshine molests a squint into those eyes. Nudge your chest into that shoulder to put a kiss on that forehead and hold until those lips stretch into that smile. Then be polite and introduce your new friend.
Say, "Sun's out."
Happy Sunshine Shoulders Through Filthy Gray Window Screen To Meet A Couple Of New Feet Day!
It's coughing because your windowscreen is layered with so many years of gray brown debris Sunshine has to claw and nudge its way into your bedroom like a sensible man finding his way out of a drunken wedding party, blacker than tuxedos that screen is in spots. When Sunshine finally shoulders through the murk to the sleeping aftersex dried drunksweat on mixed up skin smell coming off of you and whatsitsname it can't help but hack and wheeze the freedom out and the freedom in.
You two are way beyond introductions. Though sometimes you still say "Good morning, Sunshine" just to hear Sunshine say "Good morning, Sunshine" right back at you like a mother but Sunshine always giggles to get its own joke. However, Sunshine is already licking at the new set of toes poking out from the end of your too-short comforter. Sunshine's looking up into your eyes from the end of the futon, perspective that suggests someone going way too down, and Sunshine wants to know why it's never met such toes before.
"Where've you been hiding these? These are something else." says Sunshine.
"Not bad right?" You really want an outside opinion.
Sunshine's answer is to swallow the toes and the tops of the feet and to begin crawling way up the comforter, Sunshine is on its way to your new friend's chin and your new friend's lips. Maybe you should wake Sleeping Little Nakedohyeah! before Sunshine molests a squint into those eyes. Nudge your chest into that shoulder to put a kiss on that forehead and hold until those lips stretch into that smile. Then be polite and introduce your new friend.
Say, "Sun's out."
Happy Sunshine Shoulders Through Filthy Gray Window Screen To Meet A Couple Of New Feet Day!
Friday, December 20, 2002
A Girls Are Pretty Original Film About A Photographer Who Fucks And Kills Little Boys Just Before He Takes Photographs Of Them Then Mails Their Dicks Off To Their Parents And The Forensic Team Who Are In A Race Against Time To Stop Him Before He Fucks, Kills, Photographs, Then Slices Off And Mails To A Couple Of Parents The Dick Of Another Innocent Little Boy Day!
By day, he's just another portrait photographer, excluding those parts of the day when he's fucking or killing a kid or taking pictures of a kid's recently fucked and killed body or mailing some kid's dick to his parents.
By night, he's a killer. And he also helps out his friend Mitch by picking up some of his shifts at Friday's whenever Mitch has a date or goes out on a killing spree (Mitch is a killer too, but the guy the movie's about doesn't know that and it's never really revealed to the audience either) or whenever Mitch has a test (Mitch is in grad school for Urban Planning).
But no matter what time of day it is, he's really crazy.
It's up to one brilliant forensics investigating police officer and his female partner to stop the killer (not Mitch) before he fucks, kills, slices off and mails to some parents the dick of a little kid again.
But time is running out. In fact, the guy just did all that stuff he does to little kids to another one. They're too late. They suck.
See the movie only Girls Are Pretty would make. The forensics investigating police officer and his female partner fuck.
This summer, Girls Are Pretty presents, the most terrifying film in the world.
Clare Danes and Tom Cruise in...
Mitch!
6.31.03
Happy A Girls Are Pretty Original Film About A Photographer Who Fucks And Kills Little Boys Just Before He Takes Photographs Of Them Then Mails Their Dicks Off To Their Parents And The Forensic Team Who Are In A Race Against Time To Stop Him Before He Fucks, Kills, Photographs, Then Slices Off And Mails To A Couple Of Parents The Dick Of Another Innocent Little Boy Day!
By day, he's just another portrait photographer, excluding those parts of the day when he's fucking or killing a kid or taking pictures of a kid's recently fucked and killed body or mailing some kid's dick to his parents.
By night, he's a killer. And he also helps out his friend Mitch by picking up some of his shifts at Friday's whenever Mitch has a date or goes out on a killing spree (Mitch is a killer too, but the guy the movie's about doesn't know that and it's never really revealed to the audience either) or whenever Mitch has a test (Mitch is in grad school for Urban Planning).
But no matter what time of day it is, he's really crazy.
It's up to one brilliant forensics investigating police officer and his female partner to stop the killer (not Mitch) before he fucks, kills, slices off and mails to some parents the dick of a little kid again.
But time is running out. In fact, the guy just did all that stuff he does to little kids to another one. They're too late. They suck.
See the movie only Girls Are Pretty would make. The forensics investigating police officer and his female partner fuck.
This summer, Girls Are Pretty presents, the most terrifying film in the world.
Clare Danes and Tom Cruise in...
Mitch!
6.31.03
Happy A Girls Are Pretty Original Film About A Photographer Who Fucks And Kills Little Boys Just Before He Takes Photographs Of Them Then Mails Their Dicks Off To Their Parents And The Forensic Team Who Are In A Race Against Time To Stop Him Before He Fucks, Kills, Photographs, Then Slices Off And Mails To A Couple Of Parents The Dick Of Another Innocent Little Boy Day!
Thursday, December 19, 2002
Loaf Of Pumpernickel Bread Day!
You've been trying to fuck that loaf of pumpernickel bread for months. Just admit that it's never going to happen because loaves of pumpernickel bread aren't attracted to deaf people. Now make a sandwich.
I said, "MAKE A SANDWICH!!!" God, the deaf blow.
Happy Loaf Of Pumpernickel Bread Day!
You've been trying to fuck that loaf of pumpernickel bread for months. Just admit that it's never going to happen because loaves of pumpernickel bread aren't attracted to deaf people. Now make a sandwich.
I said, "MAKE A SANDWICH!!!" God, the deaf blow.
Happy Loaf Of Pumpernickel Bread Day!
Wednesday, December 18, 2002
You Bet That's Just What The Shitfucker Who Calls You Up From Sallie Mae Looks Like Day!
A fucking beret?! And a notebook in his hand while standing outside on the sidewalk. What the fuck is he doing, scribbling some "Street Journalism" the fucking piece of shit. And speaking of pieces of shit, if that isn't the asshole who calls you up from Sallie Mae to find out whether your current student loan payment plan is too aggressive for your current income and perhaps you'd like to switch to a smaller payment at a higher rate, then that's gotta be the asshole who fucks that Sallie Mae asshole in the mouth every Sunday after one of them gets back from the local crafts fair or church or some faggy shit like that, fucking piece of shit Sallie Mae licklick.
A fucking beret?! With a...Oh fucking no. Yes. Yes, it's a fucking Che Guevara pin! On a fucking beret! A FUCKING CHE GUEVARA PIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That fat fat fat Sallie Mae cunt would have a big fat wobbly chin like that. You can hear the fat warbling into the phone whenever he says fucking cockcock shit like "get with the program, guy" or "penalty." And he'd have to button his coat up over that big fat belly, just like this asshole. Oh definitely, every time you hear that voice you're gonna see that fat piece of shit standing right outside the Starbucks hunched over A FUCKING OPEN NOTEBOOK ON A PUBLIC SIDEWALK YOU CUNT and you're gonna remember the time you walked outside and threw a mocha latte in his face right before punching him square in the throat just like you're gonna get up and go do right now c'mon this is it kill the fuck don't think.
A fucking beret?! And a notebook in his hand while standing outside on the sidewalk. What the fuck is he doing, scribbling some "Street Journalism" the fucking piece of shit. And speaking of pieces of shit, if that isn't the asshole who calls you up from Sallie Mae to find out whether your current student loan payment plan is too aggressive for your current income and perhaps you'd like to switch to a smaller payment at a higher rate, then that's gotta be the asshole who fucks that Sallie Mae asshole in the mouth every Sunday after one of them gets back from the local crafts fair or church or some faggy shit like that, fucking piece of shit Sallie Mae licklick.
A fucking beret?! With a...Oh fucking no. Yes. Yes, it's a fucking Che Guevara pin! On a fucking beret! A FUCKING CHE GUEVARA PIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That fat fat fat Sallie Mae cunt would have a big fat wobbly chin like that. You can hear the fat warbling into the phone whenever he says fucking cockcock shit like "get with the program, guy" or "penalty." And he'd have to button his coat up over that big fat belly, just like this asshole. Oh definitely, every time you hear that voice you're gonna see that fat piece of shit standing right outside the Starbucks hunched over A FUCKING OPEN NOTEBOOK ON A PUBLIC SIDEWALK YOU CUNT and you're gonna remember the time you walked outside and threw a mocha latte in his face right before punching him square in the throat just like you're gonna get up and go do right now c'mon this is it kill the fuck don't think.
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
Don't Sell The Motel Day!
You and your husband are partners in life and it necessarily follows that you're partners in your finances as well. Neither of you have ever made a business decision without consulting the other first. That's the way it's been, that neither of you would spend so much as five dollars without checking with the other. It's what's made your marriage a successful one. And it's why you cannot rationalize that since the motel was left by your grandfather in your name alone, you should be able to act against your husband's will and keep the money-bleeder just because you happened to conduct a twelve year adulterous affair in room 112.
Let's look at the arguments for and against before you go ahead with anything.
Why you should sell:
When the Renfork Freeway was opened, it detoured 40% of traffic away from your interstate and shut down two rest areas within forty miles. You've been closing the past three years deeper and deeper in the red. To continue operating your motor lodge even for another six months will require the largest loan you've ever drawn, and the bank doesn't exactly fork over the free lollipops when you walk in anymore. You're fifty one and your husband is fifty seven. Now is not the time to build on top of your debt. You may not want to admit it, but at your age you should only be making the safe bets. And the safe bet is taking the half a mil you've been offered for the land.
Why you should not sell:
You agreed never to try to establish contact with Brennan in any other way than to walk into room 112 and put your lips to his veiny eyelids. And Brennan agreed to never show up without calling to reserve room 112 under the name Latham and always three days in advance. He agreed to arrive always on a Thursday, when your husband is at Walt's Tavern for video trivia night, and he agreed to stay for as long as it took you to put your skeleton key in his deadbolt.
You both also agreed to never tell each other a lie. Therefore, when he said he would come back, he made a promise. As did you when you said you'd be waiting until the world ends.
--
You can't just sell the motel and walk away, no question. You made a promise. But you also cannot doom you and your husband to watching your lives come to a close in poverty.
You promised to wait until the world ends. So end the world. Burn down room 112. That's the only world you and Brennan ever shared. Burn it down along with the rest of the motel and collect the insurance on top of what you'll be selling the land for, if you can manage to make it look like an accident. If not, you can still sell the land.
Who knows when developers will get around to leveling the structure. A year? Two? There is simply no way you can walk away from room 112 and leave Brennan to find it abandoned and empty, negating your promise and therefore obliterating the only thing you both could demand from each other. End the world and let the love between you and your lover live.
Happy Don't Sell The Motel Day!
You and your husband are partners in life and it necessarily follows that you're partners in your finances as well. Neither of you have ever made a business decision without consulting the other first. That's the way it's been, that neither of you would spend so much as five dollars without checking with the other. It's what's made your marriage a successful one. And it's why you cannot rationalize that since the motel was left by your grandfather in your name alone, you should be able to act against your husband's will and keep the money-bleeder just because you happened to conduct a twelve year adulterous affair in room 112.
Let's look at the arguments for and against before you go ahead with anything.
Why you should sell:
When the Renfork Freeway was opened, it detoured 40% of traffic away from your interstate and shut down two rest areas within forty miles. You've been closing the past three years deeper and deeper in the red. To continue operating your motor lodge even for another six months will require the largest loan you've ever drawn, and the bank doesn't exactly fork over the free lollipops when you walk in anymore. You're fifty one and your husband is fifty seven. Now is not the time to build on top of your debt. You may not want to admit it, but at your age you should only be making the safe bets. And the safe bet is taking the half a mil you've been offered for the land.
Why you should not sell:
You agreed never to try to establish contact with Brennan in any other way than to walk into room 112 and put your lips to his veiny eyelids. And Brennan agreed to never show up without calling to reserve room 112 under the name Latham and always three days in advance. He agreed to arrive always on a Thursday, when your husband is at Walt's Tavern for video trivia night, and he agreed to stay for as long as it took you to put your skeleton key in his deadbolt.
You both also agreed to never tell each other a lie. Therefore, when he said he would come back, he made a promise. As did you when you said you'd be waiting until the world ends.
--
You can't just sell the motel and walk away, no question. You made a promise. But you also cannot doom you and your husband to watching your lives come to a close in poverty.
You promised to wait until the world ends. So end the world. Burn down room 112. That's the only world you and Brennan ever shared. Burn it down along with the rest of the motel and collect the insurance on top of what you'll be selling the land for, if you can manage to make it look like an accident. If not, you can still sell the land.
Who knows when developers will get around to leveling the structure. A year? Two? There is simply no way you can walk away from room 112 and leave Brennan to find it abandoned and empty, negating your promise and therefore obliterating the only thing you both could demand from each other. End the world and let the love between you and your lover live.
Happy Don't Sell The Motel Day!
Monday, December 16, 2002
Make Amends Day!
Hey Pretty Little Baby Baby, you made a boy lose his balloon today.
You wouldn't hold the lobby door open for a little boy carrying a balloon on a string because you knew if you held the door then it might not close fast behind the boy and catch the string in the doorframe with the balloon still stuck outside. The boy kept walking right behind you into the lobby of your building until the string was ripped from his little boy hand. And having only a little boy brain the boy didn't think to grab the string again before opening the door to retrieve his balloon, and so he set the string free of the doorframe and the wind whipped his balloon away.
And then you rode the elevator up with the crying little balloonless boy (the balloon said "Happy Birthday!") and you enjoyed every minute of it. He couldn't even blame you because as far as he knew, you didn't see him coming in behind you. And when you saw the little boy enter the apartment right next to yours, you ran inside your own apartment and put your ear up to the adjoining wall to giddily listen to him cry to his housekeeper. Then you tore up some photographs and drafted some angry emails to friends that you wisely deleted unsent.
Pretty Little Baby Baby was a little baby shit today.
But we understand that you were only so dark hearted today because you felt so unattractive and poor. Also, you are addicted to many substances and you have a pain in your side that is not indigestion because you only eat lettuce and bourbon. Everyone deserves to be cunty sometimes, as long as you eventually try to make amends.
No, don't go buy another balloon and give it to the boy. You have to live next to these people remember. Don't risk getting on a first-name basis. A much better idea would be to reverse a wrong anonymously.
For example, you know that list of accused date rapists some college girls started in the stall of the ladies' room of your favorite bar? Go back and put an "X" over all the names of your friends that you added to the list. And next to each one, add a parenthetical that reads "(Just Joshin'!)".
You're gonna go to bed feeling like you just volunteered at a goddamn soup kitchen!
Happy Make Amends Day!
Hey Pretty Little Baby Baby, you made a boy lose his balloon today.
You wouldn't hold the lobby door open for a little boy carrying a balloon on a string because you knew if you held the door then it might not close fast behind the boy and catch the string in the doorframe with the balloon still stuck outside. The boy kept walking right behind you into the lobby of your building until the string was ripped from his little boy hand. And having only a little boy brain the boy didn't think to grab the string again before opening the door to retrieve his balloon, and so he set the string free of the doorframe and the wind whipped his balloon away.
And then you rode the elevator up with the crying little balloonless boy (the balloon said "Happy Birthday!") and you enjoyed every minute of it. He couldn't even blame you because as far as he knew, you didn't see him coming in behind you. And when you saw the little boy enter the apartment right next to yours, you ran inside your own apartment and put your ear up to the adjoining wall to giddily listen to him cry to his housekeeper. Then you tore up some photographs and drafted some angry emails to friends that you wisely deleted unsent.
Pretty Little Baby Baby was a little baby shit today.
But we understand that you were only so dark hearted today because you felt so unattractive and poor. Also, you are addicted to many substances and you have a pain in your side that is not indigestion because you only eat lettuce and bourbon. Everyone deserves to be cunty sometimes, as long as you eventually try to make amends.
No, don't go buy another balloon and give it to the boy. You have to live next to these people remember. Don't risk getting on a first-name basis. A much better idea would be to reverse a wrong anonymously.
For example, you know that list of accused date rapists some college girls started in the stall of the ladies' room of your favorite bar? Go back and put an "X" over all the names of your friends that you added to the list. And next to each one, add a parenthetical that reads "(Just Joshin'!)".
You're gonna go to bed feeling like you just volunteered at a goddamn soup kitchen!
Happy Make Amends Day!
Saturday, December 14, 2002
Sunday, December 15, 2002
You Can Pull This Off Day!
"Simply put, I believe my father was assassinated," he'll say. His eyes will suddenly bore into your own. After searching the bottom of his highball glass for what seemed like the first few centuries of the date, his gaze will feel like a pair of hands stretched out across the table to grip the sides of your head in their grasp and hold you still.
"I am alone in my conviction," he'll continue. "And my refusal to concede to the conclusions reached by others regarding his death has sentenced me to a lonely life."
Nod here.
"My mother severed contact with me years ago. She would rather lose a son than accept that her life with her husband was a lie. That the man she'd married conducted his life in a manner unbeknownst to her, a manner that demanded his execution."
Kind of wince. And let your eyelids droop piteously.
"My brothers despise me," he'll go on. "They've threatened me with violence if ever show my face near their homes. They refuse me presence with my nephews, afraid I might fill their minds with truth. Who am I to tell someone how to raise his child?"
Give a brief, silent laugh, just a jerk of your shoulders, to let him know you got his joke.
"There have been other women," he'll say. Now his look will turn accusatory. "Women who appeared to ally themselves to my cause. Some proved weak, unwilling to do what was necessary to help me bring the truth to light."
Shake your head.
"Others were lonely. They were liars willing to humor me to secure a warm body in their beds at night."
That's you. Keep going.
"'At least he doesn't drink,' they rationalized. That's why I started drinking. To ward off those desperate women who thought they might be able to tolerate a man with a less conventional preoccupation. Women who prefer the devil they don't know to the devil they just divorced."
Scowl here. Let him know with the corners of your mouth that these women are held in your contempt for their deceit. Don't say anything yet.
Now he'll finish his drink. And when he puts his glass on the table, wrap your hand around his hand that's wrapped around the empty glass. He'll search your eyes for a lie. If you don't flinch, you'll see him warm to you, then stiffen.
"I live only to learn how and why my father was killed, and to bring his assassins to justice. My allies are as dear to me as the blood in my veins. My enemies are those who doubt me."
Now you speak. And it's okay to ask the question. It won't scare him off. He would suspect you if you didn't ask it.
Say, "Do you have any evidence that he was assassinated?"
He'll say, "Not yet. The evidence is out there. But I haven't gotten around to looking for it yet. But tomorrow I plan to find out where the libarary is and use their microfiche machines to look up old newspaper articles. See if there's any clues."
Nod, as if you think he's on the right track and that that would never have occurred to you.
Then ask, "What was your father like?"
Now he'll look down at the table. He's yours now by the way. But he'll look down at the table and play with the ring of condensation from his glass and say, "He was a sad man. His eyebrows were always bent up and out like the handlebars of an old bicycle."
Say, "The kind with the little plastic streamers coming out of the hand grips."
"And a little bell," he'll say.
"And a little bell," you'll say.
When the check comes, pay it. Tell him, "Save your money. You'll need it for bribes." Then take him back to your apartment and have sex with him. I know it seems like the whole thing is going to be interminable, but it really won't be that hard to pull off and once you do you'll be having sex with somebody. And the best part is, if you like having sex with him and you want to keep on doing it, all you have to do is pretend to believe, or rather, pretend you give a shit about this assassination crap and he'll keep having sex with you. And as soon as you don't dig his plow no more, all you have to do is tell him you think he's full of shit and he'll declare you "blind for the light" or whatever and he'll never talk to you again.
He will ask you for money, though. "For the investigation." But it won't be all that much since he really does believe everything he's spewing and he won't be able to justify spending money on items unrelated to the search, except for lunch and stuff. But since he doesn't know what he should do to begin the search and he's really lazy about getting started, you're really only going to be buying the lunch and stuff. Now put on your party dress and bag yourself a man!
Happy You Can Pull This Off Day!
Saturday, December 14, 2002
Acid For Blood Day!
You know how in Aliens the aliens had acid for blood? That's like the final, fail-safe, naturally occurring defense mechanism; even at the moment of destruction the alien can still kill its prey and with no effort of its own exerted. Engage the creature in combat and even in victory you can still be defeated.
Well today's the day that you have acid for blood too. You might not believe that's possible, but today it is. Look, it's written right there in front of you on some asshole's fagotty little blog. So before midnight tonight, go find your ex's new lover and try to kill the twat. Having acid for blood, you might be charged with the confidence necessary to take his or her life with ease. But you should allow for your opponent to exact at least one flesh wound upon you so he or she can watch the blood spurt to the ground and sear a clean hole through the floorboards to the basement. Everyone'll freak and the whole town'll agree that you're King Shit of the Winner Bitches
One problem with having acid for blood; when your blood is drawn forth from a wound, you basically have to be suspended in the air so that the blood can drip straight to the ground without seeping from the wound out upon your skin, thereby searing away at your own body. Also, when you came to have acid for blood, all that acid basically ate away at your insides and your epidermis and you probably amount to just a puddle of acid melting your desk chair and the floor below where you were just sitting before you logged on and read that you had acid for blood. Also, some CDs you borrowed from your roommate that you left on the floor are totally ruined.
Happy Acid For Blood Day!
You Can Pull This Off Day!
"Simply put, I believe my father was assassinated," he'll say. His eyes will suddenly bore into your own. After searching the bottom of his highball glass for what seemed like the first few centuries of the date, his gaze will feel like a pair of hands stretched out across the table to grip the sides of your head in their grasp and hold you still.
"I am alone in my conviction," he'll continue. "And my refusal to concede to the conclusions reached by others regarding his death has sentenced me to a lonely life."
Nod here.
"My mother severed contact with me years ago. She would rather lose a son than accept that her life with her husband was a lie. That the man she'd married conducted his life in a manner unbeknownst to her, a manner that demanded his execution."
Kind of wince. And let your eyelids droop piteously.
"My brothers despise me," he'll go on. "They've threatened me with violence if ever show my face near their homes. They refuse me presence with my nephews, afraid I might fill their minds with truth. Who am I to tell someone how to raise his child?"
Give a brief, silent laugh, just a jerk of your shoulders, to let him know you got his joke.
"There have been other women," he'll say. Now his look will turn accusatory. "Women who appeared to ally themselves to my cause. Some proved weak, unwilling to do what was necessary to help me bring the truth to light."
Shake your head.
"Others were lonely. They were liars willing to humor me to secure a warm body in their beds at night."
That's you. Keep going.
"'At least he doesn't drink,' they rationalized. That's why I started drinking. To ward off those desperate women who thought they might be able to tolerate a man with a less conventional preoccupation. Women who prefer the devil they don't know to the devil they just divorced."
Scowl here. Let him know with the corners of your mouth that these women are held in your contempt for their deceit. Don't say anything yet.
Now he'll finish his drink. And when he puts his glass on the table, wrap your hand around his hand that's wrapped around the empty glass. He'll search your eyes for a lie. If you don't flinch, you'll see him warm to you, then stiffen.
"I live only to learn how and why my father was killed, and to bring his assassins to justice. My allies are as dear to me as the blood in my veins. My enemies are those who doubt me."
Now you speak. And it's okay to ask the question. It won't scare him off. He would suspect you if you didn't ask it.
Say, "Do you have any evidence that he was assassinated?"
He'll say, "Not yet. The evidence is out there. But I haven't gotten around to looking for it yet. But tomorrow I plan to find out where the libarary is and use their microfiche machines to look up old newspaper articles. See if there's any clues."
Nod, as if you think he's on the right track and that that would never have occurred to you.
Then ask, "What was your father like?"
Now he'll look down at the table. He's yours now by the way. But he'll look down at the table and play with the ring of condensation from his glass and say, "He was a sad man. His eyebrows were always bent up and out like the handlebars of an old bicycle."
Say, "The kind with the little plastic streamers coming out of the hand grips."
"And a little bell," he'll say.
"And a little bell," you'll say.
When the check comes, pay it. Tell him, "Save your money. You'll need it for bribes." Then take him back to your apartment and have sex with him. I know it seems like the whole thing is going to be interminable, but it really won't be that hard to pull off and once you do you'll be having sex with somebody. And the best part is, if you like having sex with him and you want to keep on doing it, all you have to do is pretend to believe, or rather, pretend you give a shit about this assassination crap and he'll keep having sex with you. And as soon as you don't dig his plow no more, all you have to do is tell him you think he's full of shit and he'll declare you "blind for the light" or whatever and he'll never talk to you again.
He will ask you for money, though. "For the investigation." But it won't be all that much since he really does believe everything he's spewing and he won't be able to justify spending money on items unrelated to the search, except for lunch and stuff. But since he doesn't know what he should do to begin the search and he's really lazy about getting started, you're really only going to be buying the lunch and stuff. Now put on your party dress and bag yourself a man!
Happy You Can Pull This Off Day!
Saturday, December 14, 2002
Acid For Blood Day!
You know how in Aliens the aliens had acid for blood? That's like the final, fail-safe, naturally occurring defense mechanism; even at the moment of destruction the alien can still kill its prey and with no effort of its own exerted. Engage the creature in combat and even in victory you can still be defeated.
Well today's the day that you have acid for blood too. You might not believe that's possible, but today it is. Look, it's written right there in front of you on some asshole's fagotty little blog. So before midnight tonight, go find your ex's new lover and try to kill the twat. Having acid for blood, you might be charged with the confidence necessary to take his or her life with ease. But you should allow for your opponent to exact at least one flesh wound upon you so he or she can watch the blood spurt to the ground and sear a clean hole through the floorboards to the basement. Everyone'll freak and the whole town'll agree that you're King Shit of the Winner Bitches
One problem with having acid for blood; when your blood is drawn forth from a wound, you basically have to be suspended in the air so that the blood can drip straight to the ground without seeping from the wound out upon your skin, thereby searing away at your own body. Also, when you came to have acid for blood, all that acid basically ate away at your insides and your epidermis and you probably amount to just a puddle of acid melting your desk chair and the floor below where you were just sitting before you logged on and read that you had acid for blood. Also, some CDs you borrowed from your roommate that you left on the floor are totally ruined.
Happy Acid For Blood Day!
Friday, December 13, 2002
The Kid Who Sells You Your Chinese Takeout Doesn't Care How Retarded You Are Day!
All day long you go from being coddled and doted upon at the hands of shopkeepers and mailmen to being ridiculed by everyone from schoolchildren to female mail carriers. You'll go up to the deli to buy your grandmother's cold cuts and damn if old Mr. Nathanson doesn't just cradle you in his arms and sing you a lullaby you're so retarded. Your cold cuts in hand, you barely get two steps out the door of the deli before you get slammed in the face with a snowball and surrounded by middle school students who try to make you eat yellow snow. You eat the snow and get a big laugh and then it's off to the 7-11 to buy your brother's lotto ticket (you have the numbers memorized! But just in case, you have them written on a piece of paper too!), where Ahmed welcomes you to as many Big Gulp refills as you can stomach. Such an emotional rollercoaster. No one but the retarded can watch a day go from good to bad and potentially back to good again with every turn of the corner.
It's hard to be retarded.
But there is one place you can go where you're just another four dollars and thirty five cents that doesn't pay attention to board of health violations. Down the block at Mandarin Palace, when you order your "Sesame Chicken with NOOO BROCOLLI!!!" in that really loud, retarded way, all the kid behind the counter wants to know is "whiteriefrierie?" You'll put a little extra tard in it when you answer, "I hate brocolli!" but he just writes white rice on the order slip and goes back to bagging fortune cookies and soy sauce packets. The kid who sells you your chinese takeout doesn't care how retarded you are, just like you don't care that he's chinese and has orange hair.
Go ahead, show him your new gloves. He won't even look at them. He'll just nod his head a bit as he continues to sketch on the back of a menu possible flyer designs for his upcoming DJ gig. To him you're no different than the drunk waiting in line behind you to order from that fried chicken part of the menu. Or the dipshit on the phone complaining that he didn't want any snow peas in his Hunan Beef. Even when you go full-on retard and show him how good you are at karate kicks he doesn't so much as blink an eye. He just bags up your order, shouts out "sesamechicken!!", and shoves the bag into the hand you just used to send a pulled karate chop into the pile of unfolded menus.
This is one of the few destinations on your schedule where you're no less normal than anybody else. You'll get no derision from the kid who sells you your chinese takeout. Neither will you be offered any complimentary provisions to help you along on your special journey through this life. Just like it says on the sign outside, the only thing you can expect from Madarin Palace Takeout is a nice hot plate of "Epicurean Elegance." You pay now.
All day long you go from being coddled and doted upon at the hands of shopkeepers and mailmen to being ridiculed by everyone from schoolchildren to female mail carriers. You'll go up to the deli to buy your grandmother's cold cuts and damn if old Mr. Nathanson doesn't just cradle you in his arms and sing you a lullaby you're so retarded. Your cold cuts in hand, you barely get two steps out the door of the deli before you get slammed in the face with a snowball and surrounded by middle school students who try to make you eat yellow snow. You eat the snow and get a big laugh and then it's off to the 7-11 to buy your brother's lotto ticket (you have the numbers memorized! But just in case, you have them written on a piece of paper too!), where Ahmed welcomes you to as many Big Gulp refills as you can stomach. Such an emotional rollercoaster. No one but the retarded can watch a day go from good to bad and potentially back to good again with every turn of the corner.
It's hard to be retarded.
But there is one place you can go where you're just another four dollars and thirty five cents that doesn't pay attention to board of health violations. Down the block at Mandarin Palace, when you order your "Sesame Chicken with NOOO BROCOLLI!!!" in that really loud, retarded way, all the kid behind the counter wants to know is "whiteriefrierie?" You'll put a little extra tard in it when you answer, "I hate brocolli!" but he just writes white rice on the order slip and goes back to bagging fortune cookies and soy sauce packets. The kid who sells you your chinese takeout doesn't care how retarded you are, just like you don't care that he's chinese and has orange hair.
Go ahead, show him your new gloves. He won't even look at them. He'll just nod his head a bit as he continues to sketch on the back of a menu possible flyer designs for his upcoming DJ gig. To him you're no different than the drunk waiting in line behind you to order from that fried chicken part of the menu. Or the dipshit on the phone complaining that he didn't want any snow peas in his Hunan Beef. Even when you go full-on retard and show him how good you are at karate kicks he doesn't so much as blink an eye. He just bags up your order, shouts out "sesamechicken!!", and shoves the bag into the hand you just used to send a pulled karate chop into the pile of unfolded menus.
This is one of the few destinations on your schedule where you're no less normal than anybody else. You'll get no derision from the kid who sells you your chinese takeout. Neither will you be offered any complimentary provisions to help you along on your special journey through this life. Just like it says on the sign outside, the only thing you can expect from Madarin Palace Takeout is a nice hot plate of "Epicurean Elegance." You pay now.
Thursday, December 12, 2002
Pity The Combat Surgical Hospital Nurse Day!
Assisting two doctors, one of whom is criminally incompetent (Doctor Maisley), the other a gifted surgeon (Doctor Moyer), she is forced to determine which wounds require the greater skill and which soldiers are more likely to survive a botched surgery. She is often left with no other choice but to send a man to his near-certain death. And tonight who was rolled in on a gurney but the married Private with whom she fell in love during the R&R she spent in Tokyo. He took some shrapnel to the shoulder. Not critical, but close enough to the heart for her to not hesitate about sending him in to Doctor Moyer. The Corporal with the punctured lung arrived just before her Private, and when she sent him in to Doctor Maisley she knew full well that she was putting an end to his life so that her new love might live long enough to tell her his first name.
The Corporal died. Her Private, of course, lived. He was never in any real danger after all. The combat surgical hospital nurse has just set upon her knees to pray to Jesus for forgiveness. He was able to sacrifice his happiness on Earth for the sake of all men. She could not risk even the slim chance of losing the man she'd thought would exist only in her mind as a beautiful memory. She killed a man for her happiness tonight, and after she crosses herself she will go to her Private's bedside and wait for him to open his eyes.
Happy Pity The Combat Surgical Hospital Nurse Day!
Assisting two doctors, one of whom is criminally incompetent (Doctor Maisley), the other a gifted surgeon (Doctor Moyer), she is forced to determine which wounds require the greater skill and which soldiers are more likely to survive a botched surgery. She is often left with no other choice but to send a man to his near-certain death. And tonight who was rolled in on a gurney but the married Private with whom she fell in love during the R&R she spent in Tokyo. He took some shrapnel to the shoulder. Not critical, but close enough to the heart for her to not hesitate about sending him in to Doctor Moyer. The Corporal with the punctured lung arrived just before her Private, and when she sent him in to Doctor Maisley she knew full well that she was putting an end to his life so that her new love might live long enough to tell her his first name.
The Corporal died. Her Private, of course, lived. He was never in any real danger after all. The combat surgical hospital nurse has just set upon her knees to pray to Jesus for forgiveness. He was able to sacrifice his happiness on Earth for the sake of all men. She could not risk even the slim chance of losing the man she'd thought would exist only in her mind as a beautiful memory. She killed a man for her happiness tonight, and after she crosses herself she will go to her Private's bedside and wait for him to open his eyes.
Happy Pity The Combat Surgical Hospital Nurse Day!
Wednesday, December 11, 2002
It's Time You Had "The Talk" Day!
You'd hoped your temp assignment might have ended before this came to pass, but sadly it hasn't. Fact is, Roger Leventhal esq., the attorney whose secretary you've been filling in for these past few days, has been getting quite a lot of calls from someone with a giggle to her voice who goes by the name of "Martha."
And Mr. Leventhal (as he allows you to call him) has been giving you the desk instructions that only a man in love would give. "I'll be on my conference call. But if Martha calls, interrupt me." And don't forget when he came back from his luncheon yesterday and had you call operations to order him a new cell phone. "This one doesn't seem to be working. I've been expecting a call from Martha all afternoon and she hasn't called yet. She must not be able to get through. She hasn't called here has she?" And how about when he asked you what sort of flowers he should send to "Communicate to someone named Martha that she's made me realize how much a man can love a woman and that I've abandoned all my usual defenses and safeguards against getting too close and that even if I get chewed up and spit out into the sewer, I'll celebrate every patch of flesh that she might deign to rip from my body with her bared and frothing fangs." You said chrysanthemums and then you began to worry.
This assignment ends Friday so you'd better pencil in a block of time in Mr. Leventhal's schedule for you and he to have "the talk." He's just like a little boy lately, dancing in and out of his office and calling his divorce attorney and telling him to call the dogs off his soon-to-be-ex-wife and give her whatever she asks just as long as it gets things finalized as soon as possible. "And hey," you accidentally overheard when you hit the conference button on his line, "You might wanna get a standard pre-nup ready while you're at it." This is clearly not the same attorney you met on Monday morning when he came out of his office, saw you at his desk and shouted, "Belinda's on vacation this week? Just fucking great!" before slamming his office door shut behind him. This guy is head-over-heels in love and being head-over-heels in love is not the time to think about proceeding with caution. But if Roger Leventhal, esq. isn't able to consider the possible consequences of reckless behavior, his temp's going to have to do it for him.
Bottom line, I think it's time you talked to the attorney whose secretary you've been filling in for these past few days about sex.
Explain to him that it's only natural for a 47 year-old, recently separated, 7-figure-salaried attorney (who happens to be quite liquid thank you very much) to start having some confusing feelings about girls. And it's only natural for him to all of a sudden feel like he wants to touch and squeeze a pretty girl who makes him feel good. But you have to warn him that some girls might take advantage of those feelings just to get him to marry them because they're scared of dying poor. Tell him there's only one way to be sure if this Martha person is really in love with him. This is delicate, so use these words and you should get through it okay:
"Mr. Leventhal, I'm sure Martha is a lovely woman, but don't have sex with her unless she really likes to watch you ejaculate. Say to her, 'I wanna masturbate in front of you and I want you to watch me come all over my own belly. I want you to sit in this chair and watch me come. I'm gonna sit cross-legged on the floor here. Will you watch me make myself come, Martha?' If she agrees and she looks like she's way into it, she really does love you and you shouldn't even bother with the pre-nup. But if she acts like she doesn't dig it, she's a cop."
Phew, you'd think after temping as long as you have, this wouldn't be no big deal. But the squirm factor seems to get worse every time doesn't it?
Happy It's Time You Had "The Talk" Day!
You'd hoped your temp assignment might have ended before this came to pass, but sadly it hasn't. Fact is, Roger Leventhal esq., the attorney whose secretary you've been filling in for these past few days, has been getting quite a lot of calls from someone with a giggle to her voice who goes by the name of "Martha."
And Mr. Leventhal (as he allows you to call him) has been giving you the desk instructions that only a man in love would give. "I'll be on my conference call. But if Martha calls, interrupt me." And don't forget when he came back from his luncheon yesterday and had you call operations to order him a new cell phone. "This one doesn't seem to be working. I've been expecting a call from Martha all afternoon and she hasn't called yet. She must not be able to get through. She hasn't called here has she?" And how about when he asked you what sort of flowers he should send to "Communicate to someone named Martha that she's made me realize how much a man can love a woman and that I've abandoned all my usual defenses and safeguards against getting too close and that even if I get chewed up and spit out into the sewer, I'll celebrate every patch of flesh that she might deign to rip from my body with her bared and frothing fangs." You said chrysanthemums and then you began to worry.
This assignment ends Friday so you'd better pencil in a block of time in Mr. Leventhal's schedule for you and he to have "the talk." He's just like a little boy lately, dancing in and out of his office and calling his divorce attorney and telling him to call the dogs off his soon-to-be-ex-wife and give her whatever she asks just as long as it gets things finalized as soon as possible. "And hey," you accidentally overheard when you hit the conference button on his line, "You might wanna get a standard pre-nup ready while you're at it." This is clearly not the same attorney you met on Monday morning when he came out of his office, saw you at his desk and shouted, "Belinda's on vacation this week? Just fucking great!" before slamming his office door shut behind him. This guy is head-over-heels in love and being head-over-heels in love is not the time to think about proceeding with caution. But if Roger Leventhal, esq. isn't able to consider the possible consequences of reckless behavior, his temp's going to have to do it for him.
Bottom line, I think it's time you talked to the attorney whose secretary you've been filling in for these past few days about sex.
Explain to him that it's only natural for a 47 year-old, recently separated, 7-figure-salaried attorney (who happens to be quite liquid thank you very much) to start having some confusing feelings about girls. And it's only natural for him to all of a sudden feel like he wants to touch and squeeze a pretty girl who makes him feel good. But you have to warn him that some girls might take advantage of those feelings just to get him to marry them because they're scared of dying poor. Tell him there's only one way to be sure if this Martha person is really in love with him. This is delicate, so use these words and you should get through it okay:
"Mr. Leventhal, I'm sure Martha is a lovely woman, but don't have sex with her unless she really likes to watch you ejaculate. Say to her, 'I wanna masturbate in front of you and I want you to watch me come all over my own belly. I want you to sit in this chair and watch me come. I'm gonna sit cross-legged on the floor here. Will you watch me make myself come, Martha?' If she agrees and she looks like she's way into it, she really does love you and you shouldn't even bother with the pre-nup. But if she acts like she doesn't dig it, she's a cop."
Phew, you'd think after temping as long as you have, this wouldn't be no big deal. But the squirm factor seems to get worse every time doesn't it?
Happy It's Time You Had "The Talk" Day!
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
Kurt Cobain Day!
A lot of people think they can observe Kurt Cobain day simply by wearing a cardigan sweater to work. When these people die they are going to go to hell.
Solemn and heartful observance of Kurt Cobain day involves three brief, measured rituals:
First, make some French Toast. This is to demonstrate that you know that if Kurt Cobain's ghost came into your kitchen while you were eating French Toast, he'd probably lick his pretty pink lips and say, "Man, I sure wish I could eat some French Toast." Then he'd probably just hover over your table and look really jealous. When you're finished with your breakfast, look up at Kurt Cobain's ghost and say, "Shouldn't have killed yourself, Cobain. Fame might be a bitch, but French Toast is still delicious."
Second, push your thumbs into your eyeballs until you rip narrow caverns into them and they spew forth with gelatinous eye goo. If Kurt Cobain's ghost shows up he'll probably say, "Oh Jesus! Why'd you do that?" Tell him that he robbed the world of his beautiful blue eyes and so you decided to blind yourself for some reason. When he says "Ew!" tell him it's pussy-ass reactions like that that kept him from being able to deal with stress and that's why he blew his own head off. Then call him a faggot.
Third, hug somebody who's attractive but make sure Kurt Cobain's ghost is watching and from over the shoulder of the attractive person who's front is pressed up against your front, give Cobain's ghost a look that says, "Kinda wish you could have yourself a little squeeze of this, dontcha baby boy? You probably could've, if you hadn't swallowed a shotgun in your garage that is. By the way, next office party, I'ma fuck this. You wanna bet?" Kurt Cobain's ghost won't make a bet because he can tell you probably will make that shit happen, especially if the two of you have had a lot to drink. Kurt Cobain's ghost will be real jealous because even though he's dead he still remembers that intercourse was lots of fun.
Happy Kurt Cobain Day!
A lot of people think they can observe Kurt Cobain day simply by wearing a cardigan sweater to work. When these people die they are going to go to hell.
Solemn and heartful observance of Kurt Cobain day involves three brief, measured rituals:
First, make some French Toast. This is to demonstrate that you know that if Kurt Cobain's ghost came into your kitchen while you were eating French Toast, he'd probably lick his pretty pink lips and say, "Man, I sure wish I could eat some French Toast." Then he'd probably just hover over your table and look really jealous. When you're finished with your breakfast, look up at Kurt Cobain's ghost and say, "Shouldn't have killed yourself, Cobain. Fame might be a bitch, but French Toast is still delicious."
Second, push your thumbs into your eyeballs until you rip narrow caverns into them and they spew forth with gelatinous eye goo. If Kurt Cobain's ghost shows up he'll probably say, "Oh Jesus! Why'd you do that?" Tell him that he robbed the world of his beautiful blue eyes and so you decided to blind yourself for some reason. When he says "Ew!" tell him it's pussy-ass reactions like that that kept him from being able to deal with stress and that's why he blew his own head off. Then call him a faggot.
Third, hug somebody who's attractive but make sure Kurt Cobain's ghost is watching and from over the shoulder of the attractive person who's front is pressed up against your front, give Cobain's ghost a look that says, "Kinda wish you could have yourself a little squeeze of this, dontcha baby boy? You probably could've, if you hadn't swallowed a shotgun in your garage that is. By the way, next office party, I'ma fuck this. You wanna bet?" Kurt Cobain's ghost won't make a bet because he can tell you probably will make that shit happen, especially if the two of you have had a lot to drink. Kurt Cobain's ghost will be real jealous because even though he's dead he still remembers that intercourse was lots of fun.
Happy Kurt Cobain Day!
Monday, December 09, 2002
Your Mom's Been Following You Day! (DON'T LOOK!)
Just keep walking and act casual. It's okay to smoke. She already saw you smoking earlier so you don't have to hide it anymore. She's been following you for three days now.
Don't look! Just keep walking. According to your Dad, the other night she fixed up a macaroni casserole in the big dish, they sat down to eat and your Dad thought it was a pretty damn good casserole, but your Mom wasn't touching her plate. Your Dad asked what's on her mind and she asked him if he remembered how to work the microwave because she wanted to fly out and tail you for a while so he'd have to microwave himself the remainder of the casserole through the coming week, which was cool with him because if he had his druthers he'd eat macaroni casserole every night and he wouldn't share a home with your mother. So she got on a plane.
Your Dad said to just not lead her into any kind of wigged out perverted sex clubs if you do that kind of thing (which is none of his business as long as you weren't peer pressured into it) and don't let her see you buy drugs if you have a drug habit. Other than that, do what you want, you're an adult.
She looks hungry. Pull into this diner up here. I know you just ate but your mother couldn't find any place where she could get some food and keep an eye on you at the same time. If you go into the diner, she can sit in that soup place across the street and watch you through the sidewalk window. She's hungry you little shit, let your mother have some dinner.
You know, as long as she's gonna keep tailing you, maybe you could take her to some of those places you always try to get your parents to go to when they visit but they always just wanna go to the most touristy shitholes in town, like the folks from their church drew up a list of awful places they have to buy tee shirts from. Why not go check out-- Wait! You lost the bitch! Duck into this alley and slip into the kitchen entrance of the blues club. Be slippery.
Happy Your Mom's Been Following You Day! (DON'T LOOK!)
Just keep walking and act casual. It's okay to smoke. She already saw you smoking earlier so you don't have to hide it anymore. She's been following you for three days now.
Don't look! Just keep walking. According to your Dad, the other night she fixed up a macaroni casserole in the big dish, they sat down to eat and your Dad thought it was a pretty damn good casserole, but your Mom wasn't touching her plate. Your Dad asked what's on her mind and she asked him if he remembered how to work the microwave because she wanted to fly out and tail you for a while so he'd have to microwave himself the remainder of the casserole through the coming week, which was cool with him because if he had his druthers he'd eat macaroni casserole every night and he wouldn't share a home with your mother. So she got on a plane.
Your Dad said to just not lead her into any kind of wigged out perverted sex clubs if you do that kind of thing (which is none of his business as long as you weren't peer pressured into it) and don't let her see you buy drugs if you have a drug habit. Other than that, do what you want, you're an adult.
She looks hungry. Pull into this diner up here. I know you just ate but your mother couldn't find any place where she could get some food and keep an eye on you at the same time. If you go into the diner, she can sit in that soup place across the street and watch you through the sidewalk window. She's hungry you little shit, let your mother have some dinner.
You know, as long as she's gonna keep tailing you, maybe you could take her to some of those places you always try to get your parents to go to when they visit but they always just wanna go to the most touristy shitholes in town, like the folks from their church drew up a list of awful places they have to buy tee shirts from. Why not go check out-- Wait! You lost the bitch! Duck into this alley and slip into the kitchen entrance of the blues club. Be slippery.
Happy Your Mom's Been Following You Day! (DON'T LOOK!)
Sunday, December 08, 2002
That's The Black Sludge Part Of You Day!
The stains on your sheets are growing in diameter and a large portion of the floral pattern has been blacked out completely in a dense opaque cloud of rorschach blots. The one that used to look like your uncle's face in your childhood bedroom doorway now just looks like a unicorn.
You've smelled them. There's no odor. But when you inhale you do feel like you just repeated one of the worst mistakes of judgement you've ever made in your entire life.
You touch the spots in the morning when they're still damp and warm, but when you pull your fingers away they're bone dry and as cold as the last time you kissed them to relay a buss to the lid of a coffin.
"Get to the point," you're saying. "Am I dying or not?"
You are dying, but that's beside the point. And we haven't even broached the subject of the whispers you mistake for half-sleep dreams.
"But it is a half-dream," you're saying. "Whenever I lay my head on the pillow and flail my way between sleeping and waking I get one of those jolt-awake dreams where a recently raped boy screams at me for washing too cursorily. What does that have to do with the black spots? And what are those black spots?"
That's the black sludge part of you. It's everything about you that's gone rotten, the cancer of stiffed ambition blazing through your tissue like wild horses from a burning stable. It's a black froth of anxiety that began to bubble up to your skin when you turned 28. You didn't really think so many instances of failure would just line up as memories fixed in place and time did you? Everyone you've hurt and everything good that you've cast away has simmered into a dark gloppy muck that seeps out of you at night and waits for you to wake up in the morning and cuddle. Wash your sheets before someone's ejaculate drips into one of those stains. You're not allowed to smoke in your apartment and when ejaculate mixes with the black sludge part of you, a cloud of smoke puffs up into the air and it smells a lot like a lit cigarette but the cloud has a nose and a mouth and eyes without eyelashes.
Happy That's The Black Sludge Part Of You Day!
The stains on your sheets are growing in diameter and a large portion of the floral pattern has been blacked out completely in a dense opaque cloud of rorschach blots. The one that used to look like your uncle's face in your childhood bedroom doorway now just looks like a unicorn.
You've smelled them. There's no odor. But when you inhale you do feel like you just repeated one of the worst mistakes of judgement you've ever made in your entire life.
You touch the spots in the morning when they're still damp and warm, but when you pull your fingers away they're bone dry and as cold as the last time you kissed them to relay a buss to the lid of a coffin.
"Get to the point," you're saying. "Am I dying or not?"
You are dying, but that's beside the point. And we haven't even broached the subject of the whispers you mistake for half-sleep dreams.
"But it is a half-dream," you're saying. "Whenever I lay my head on the pillow and flail my way between sleeping and waking I get one of those jolt-awake dreams where a recently raped boy screams at me for washing too cursorily. What does that have to do with the black spots? And what are those black spots?"
That's the black sludge part of you. It's everything about you that's gone rotten, the cancer of stiffed ambition blazing through your tissue like wild horses from a burning stable. It's a black froth of anxiety that began to bubble up to your skin when you turned 28. You didn't really think so many instances of failure would just line up as memories fixed in place and time did you? Everyone you've hurt and everything good that you've cast away has simmered into a dark gloppy muck that seeps out of you at night and waits for you to wake up in the morning and cuddle. Wash your sheets before someone's ejaculate drips into one of those stains. You're not allowed to smoke in your apartment and when ejaculate mixes with the black sludge part of you, a cloud of smoke puffs up into the air and it smells a lot like a lit cigarette but the cloud has a nose and a mouth and eyes without eyelashes.
Happy That's The Black Sludge Part Of You Day!
Saturday, December 07, 2002
Only Every Once In A While So Go Do It Now Day!
It's only every once in a while that you clean the bathroom in your apartment and so it's only every once in a while that you hang out your living room window and smack your bath rug with a broom to free it of all the caked and coagulated debris and scuzz and so it's only every once in a while that everyone walking on the sidewalk below your apartment gets to get caught in a downpour of your and your roomates' pubic hairs tumbling en masse to get tangled into the tops of their heads and to float on the suface of their lidless cups of coffee so go do it now!!!
Happy Only Every Once In A While So Go Do It Now Day!
It's only every once in a while that you clean the bathroom in your apartment and so it's only every once in a while that you hang out your living room window and smack your bath rug with a broom to free it of all the caked and coagulated debris and scuzz and so it's only every once in a while that everyone walking on the sidewalk below your apartment gets to get caught in a downpour of your and your roomates' pubic hairs tumbling en masse to get tangled into the tops of their heads and to float on the suface of their lidless cups of coffee so go do it now!!!
Happy Only Every Once In A While So Go Do It Now Day!
Friday, December 06, 2002
Wear A Mask Day!
There are some cool costume shops around town, especially near the university, where you can rent or buy a mask of Tom Cruise or Marylin Monroe or someone beautiful and famous like that. The bummer is, all the masks of beautiful people are also of famous people. They don't sell any masks that are nothing more than the rubber visage of some nameless vision of striking beauty. If someone opened up a costume shop that sold only "Attractive Person" costumes, they could make a killing off of people like you.
So anyway, buy the beautiful famous person mask because it's better than nothing. It'll suck because you'll have a lot of explaining to do at work. Everyone you bump into in the kitchen is going to be like, "Hey. It's not Halloween. You must really be a big fan of that celebrity if you're wearing that mask!"* Simply explain that you are not a fan of that celebrity. That you chose to wear a mask of that celebrity because you are ugly and you want to cover up your ugly face with a mask designed in the image of a face that is beautiful, such as Jeremy Davies'.
Your coworker might ask, "Why not just get plastic surgery? I mean, the mask is all rubbery and lifeless. It's not like anyone thinks that's your real face." Explain that you are not trying to hide the fact that you are an ugly person. You simply do not wish to continue to go out into the world with your ugly face naked of any obfuscation, that you no longer want people to look at you and think, "My goodness what an ugly person. One of the ugliest, no doubt, in the entire supermarket." You would prefer that they look at you in your mask and think, "That person must be quite ugly. And that is a very well-crafted mask of Tilda Swinton and it was probably quite expensive." The nice thing about so many people asking you about your mask is that you might talk to someone whose voice is pleasant.
Happy Wear A Mask Day!
*The person who says this will then laugh heartily at what he or she just said because when inside of an office, people will say things that should be said quite matter-of-factly, things devoid of any humor or suggestive meaning, but for some reason they will say these things quite loudly and laugh uproariously at them, regardless of the fact that the person could have just said something as basely declarative as "I use the staple remover to remove the staples."
There are some cool costume shops around town, especially near the university, where you can rent or buy a mask of Tom Cruise or Marylin Monroe or someone beautiful and famous like that. The bummer is, all the masks of beautiful people are also of famous people. They don't sell any masks that are nothing more than the rubber visage of some nameless vision of striking beauty. If someone opened up a costume shop that sold only "Attractive Person" costumes, they could make a killing off of people like you.
So anyway, buy the beautiful famous person mask because it's better than nothing. It'll suck because you'll have a lot of explaining to do at work. Everyone you bump into in the kitchen is going to be like, "Hey. It's not Halloween. You must really be a big fan of that celebrity if you're wearing that mask!"* Simply explain that you are not a fan of that celebrity. That you chose to wear a mask of that celebrity because you are ugly and you want to cover up your ugly face with a mask designed in the image of a face that is beautiful, such as Jeremy Davies'.
Your coworker might ask, "Why not just get plastic surgery? I mean, the mask is all rubbery and lifeless. It's not like anyone thinks that's your real face." Explain that you are not trying to hide the fact that you are an ugly person. You simply do not wish to continue to go out into the world with your ugly face naked of any obfuscation, that you no longer want people to look at you and think, "My goodness what an ugly person. One of the ugliest, no doubt, in the entire supermarket." You would prefer that they look at you in your mask and think, "That person must be quite ugly. And that is a very well-crafted mask of Tilda Swinton and it was probably quite expensive." The nice thing about so many people asking you about your mask is that you might talk to someone whose voice is pleasant.
Happy Wear A Mask Day!
*The person who says this will then laugh heartily at what he or she just said because when inside of an office, people will say things that should be said quite matter-of-factly, things devoid of any humor or suggestive meaning, but for some reason they will say these things quite loudly and laugh uproariously at them, regardless of the fact that the person could have just said something as basely declarative as "I use the staple remover to remove the staples."
Thursday, December 05, 2002
We're Queer! We're Here! We're Sorry About All The Shouting! Day!
We didn't wake anybody did we?!! We're real sorry about that! We just get real excited about being homosexual and arriving as a group at a location, and when we do show up someplace we just can't help but start making a whole bunch of noise! I guess you could say we live for the moment, the parameters of said moment being defined by only two things however: Our sexual preference and the fact that we occupy a space in time! Beyond that, it's just a lot of worrying about bills and trying to figure out the TeVo, just like you. But when it comes to digging sex with folks of the same gender and showing up at places, well shit if we just don't freak out and start hollering about it, especially when both events coincide! One without the other isn't all that much to write home about, though sometimes I'll be on a long drive or I'll be on like hour three in line at the DMV, and even though I haven't really arrived anywhere I'll get a little urge to just start yelling about being queer. But it's not the same as when I'm surrounded by like a hundred dudes in mustaches and leather Jeff caps and we just made a left turn smack dab into the middle of the St. Patrick's Day Parade. But anyway, had we known the baby was napping we just would've thrown some glitter in the air or something like that. Sorry, yo.
Happy We're Queer! We're Here! We're Sorry About All The Shouting! Day!
We didn't wake anybody did we?!! We're real sorry about that! We just get real excited about being homosexual and arriving as a group at a location, and when we do show up someplace we just can't help but start making a whole bunch of noise! I guess you could say we live for the moment, the parameters of said moment being defined by only two things however: Our sexual preference and the fact that we occupy a space in time! Beyond that, it's just a lot of worrying about bills and trying to figure out the TeVo, just like you. But when it comes to digging sex with folks of the same gender and showing up at places, well shit if we just don't freak out and start hollering about it, especially when both events coincide! One without the other isn't all that much to write home about, though sometimes I'll be on a long drive or I'll be on like hour three in line at the DMV, and even though I haven't really arrived anywhere I'll get a little urge to just start yelling about being queer. But it's not the same as when I'm surrounded by like a hundred dudes in mustaches and leather Jeff caps and we just made a left turn smack dab into the middle of the St. Patrick's Day Parade. But anyway, had we known the baby was napping we just would've thrown some glitter in the air or something like that. Sorry, yo.
Happy We're Queer! We're Here! We're Sorry About All The Shouting! Day!
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
Be The Leaf Monster Day!
Get out to the sidewalk about five minutes early to wait for the guys in your carpool to pull up. Five minutes will be just long enough for you to completely bury yourself in that pile of leaves you had your kid rake up all weekend after you pretended you didn't approve of his behavior when you walked into his bedroom and found him lying naked on the bed with a joint in his mouth and an erection in his hand (seventeen is fucking disgusting). A good measure of whether anyone can see you is daylight. There should be none there under your beautiful blanket of dead leaves. Just crouch still and don't breathe. To pass the time while you wait for the car to pull up, why not worry that a dog is going to pee on you.
When you hear the car pull up, wait just a moment, just long enough for your coworkers to wonder, "Hey, what's taking Debbie so long?" Just when they're debating whether to break the cardinal carpool rule and tap the horn, that's when you spring up from the pile of leaves with your hands hooked over like long-clawed paws high above your head and as the leaves shower to the ground around you summon from the deep of your bowels an unholy:
"RRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWHHHHHHRRR!!!"
Dave, who's always sitting in the backseat craning his neck to covet your low-crime suburban neighborhood will be the first to spot you and he'll alert everyone else to you by saying, "OH JESUS!!! IT'S THE FUCKING LEAF MONSTER!!! DRIVE BOB! DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE!"
Lumber towards the car, arms still above your head, with big, reverborating steps through the dewy grass. Bob will try to get the car in gear but true to form (just like he bungled the Winthrop Hammerlens account), the car will jolt in reverse right toward you. That's when you should toss your briefcase aside and hop atop the trunk of the car. Ashok, who to this point has kept his cool, will now send through his gaping mouth a slow whisper that assesses the situation to a tee.
Ashok: Ohhhhh dear God almighty...
Dave will be crying too hard to tell the sound of your fist thrusting through the rear windshield from the screaming through his own bald little head. He won't have time to compare before you send your claws deep into his throat and clench your paw around his voicebox to keep him from waking the neighbors. Send Dave's head to the door frame with enough force to pin his skull to the coathook. Ashok will run from the car, funnily enough in between the houses to the other side of your block where you happen to know three other leaf monsters are waiting impatiently for their breakfast.
Bob should have gotten the car started by now, so make sure you've got your balance when you climb up on the roof to punch a hole through it. You might stub a claw on the top of Bob's head if you punch too hard, so pull back. You just want to slam a hole big enough to get your elbow through so you can have the wiggle room necessary to rip Bob's scalp from his skull. He shouldn't have gotten the car up above thirty miles an hour before he goes into shock, so the car should just ease to a stop about a block and a half down if it doesn't run up onto somebody's lawn first. When it stops, pull Bob up through the hole in the roof and lay him across your lap. Then tear him in two at the waist, tossing the legs and crotch to the street below, and sink your head into his intestines to feed.
Once you're stuffed, walk back to your house and tell your son he's gonna have to drive you to work in his car and you'll write him a note to excuse his tardiness to high school.
Happy Be The Leaf Monster Day!
Get out to the sidewalk about five minutes early to wait for the guys in your carpool to pull up. Five minutes will be just long enough for you to completely bury yourself in that pile of leaves you had your kid rake up all weekend after you pretended you didn't approve of his behavior when you walked into his bedroom and found him lying naked on the bed with a joint in his mouth and an erection in his hand (seventeen is fucking disgusting). A good measure of whether anyone can see you is daylight. There should be none there under your beautiful blanket of dead leaves. Just crouch still and don't breathe. To pass the time while you wait for the car to pull up, why not worry that a dog is going to pee on you.
When you hear the car pull up, wait just a moment, just long enough for your coworkers to wonder, "Hey, what's taking Debbie so long?" Just when they're debating whether to break the cardinal carpool rule and tap the horn, that's when you spring up from the pile of leaves with your hands hooked over like long-clawed paws high above your head and as the leaves shower to the ground around you summon from the deep of your bowels an unholy:
"RRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWHHHHHHRRR!!!"
Dave, who's always sitting in the backseat craning his neck to covet your low-crime suburban neighborhood will be the first to spot you and he'll alert everyone else to you by saying, "OH JESUS!!! IT'S THE FUCKING LEAF MONSTER!!! DRIVE BOB! DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE!"
Lumber towards the car, arms still above your head, with big, reverborating steps through the dewy grass. Bob will try to get the car in gear but true to form (just like he bungled the Winthrop Hammerlens account), the car will jolt in reverse right toward you. That's when you should toss your briefcase aside and hop atop the trunk of the car. Ashok, who to this point has kept his cool, will now send through his gaping mouth a slow whisper that assesses the situation to a tee.
Ashok: Ohhhhh dear God almighty...
Dave will be crying too hard to tell the sound of your fist thrusting through the rear windshield from the screaming through his own bald little head. He won't have time to compare before you send your claws deep into his throat and clench your paw around his voicebox to keep him from waking the neighbors. Send Dave's head to the door frame with enough force to pin his skull to the coathook. Ashok will run from the car, funnily enough in between the houses to the other side of your block where you happen to know three other leaf monsters are waiting impatiently for their breakfast.
Bob should have gotten the car started by now, so make sure you've got your balance when you climb up on the roof to punch a hole through it. You might stub a claw on the top of Bob's head if you punch too hard, so pull back. You just want to slam a hole big enough to get your elbow through so you can have the wiggle room necessary to rip Bob's scalp from his skull. He shouldn't have gotten the car up above thirty miles an hour before he goes into shock, so the car should just ease to a stop about a block and a half down if it doesn't run up onto somebody's lawn first. When it stops, pull Bob up through the hole in the roof and lay him across your lap. Then tear him in two at the waist, tossing the legs and crotch to the street below, and sink your head into his intestines to feed.
Once you're stuffed, walk back to your house and tell your son he's gonna have to drive you to work in his car and you'll write him a note to excuse his tardiness to high school.
Happy Be The Leaf Monster Day!
Tuesday, December 03, 2002
You Love Like I Fart Day!
Your love just seems to seep out of you, just barely a hint of a breeze sending a puff through the bedsheet, no warning, no "You might wanna get the hell outta here because I think I just fell in love with you." Just a vague look of contentment creasing through your crow's feet and before you know it the room is full to bursting with your love and everyone's running for a breath of that air that used to be there's alone to breathe without suddenly being full to bursting with the love you offer so abundantly you appear to be telling the truth when you say you're sorry you gave me your love but you "couldn't help it, I tried to hold it in all night long. Jesus like you never fell in love with nobody before."
We've all fallen in love with somebody before but most of us can tell whether we should let ourselves fall in love or whether we just need to take a really good shit.
Happy You Love Like I Fart Day!
Your love just seems to seep out of you, just barely a hint of a breeze sending a puff through the bedsheet, no warning, no "You might wanna get the hell outta here because I think I just fell in love with you." Just a vague look of contentment creasing through your crow's feet and before you know it the room is full to bursting with your love and everyone's running for a breath of that air that used to be there's alone to breathe without suddenly being full to bursting with the love you offer so abundantly you appear to be telling the truth when you say you're sorry you gave me your love but you "couldn't help it, I tried to hold it in all night long. Jesus like you never fell in love with nobody before."
We've all fallen in love with somebody before but most of us can tell whether we should let ourselves fall in love or whether we just need to take a really good shit.
Happy You Love Like I Fart Day!
Monday, December 02, 2002
Mistake Yourself For Someone Else Day!
When you pass your reflection in the mirror, make yourself think that the person whose reflection you just caught a glimpse of was someone who can make love without getting all knifey or someone who likes jobs and telling the truth or someone without buttloads of eczema. Then just keep walking without looking back or doing a doubletake. If you do a doubletake, you'll shake off the mistake and the reflection will just be the spitting image of the person who put 100 watt bulbs into all three sockets of the bedroom light fixture 75 hours ago because he or she decided if sleep is never going to come again, then there shouldn't be any shadows anymore.
Happy Mistake Yourself For Someone Else Day!
When you pass your reflection in the mirror, make yourself think that the person whose reflection you just caught a glimpse of was someone who can make love without getting all knifey or someone who likes jobs and telling the truth or someone without buttloads of eczema. Then just keep walking without looking back or doing a doubletake. If you do a doubletake, you'll shake off the mistake and the reflection will just be the spitting image of the person who put 100 watt bulbs into all three sockets of the bedroom light fixture 75 hours ago because he or she decided if sleep is never going to come again, then there shouldn't be any shadows anymore.
Happy Mistake Yourself For Someone Else Day!
Sunday, December 01, 2002
If You're A Whore, You Should Make A List Of Your Talents And Strengths So As To Try To Find A Way To Make Money Without Having To Fuck For It Day!
For example, everyone always used to like your cookies. Maybe you're so good at making cookies that you could sell them to people who like cookies. You don't have to go whole-hog at first. You could just bring a tin of your cookies with you the next time you go out to "Turn Tricks" and when it comes time for your "John" to "Pay You For The Sex You Just Had" just say, "throw in another buck and I'll give you one of my world famous chocolate chip cookies." Your "John" ("John" means "Guy who pays a whore to go buckwile") might ask if he can stuff the dollar bill in your mouth then cover up your nose so you can't breathe until he lets go. Say no because you could die if he doesn't let go. But if he buys the cookie and he likes it then maybe you should open up your own business. If he doesn't like the cookies, go down to the next talent on the list and figure out how you can make money off that. Like if you know Quark, maybe instead of having sex for money, someone might pay you to do stuff in Quark at their office.
If you start making money off of something besides whoring, don't tell anyone you used to whore. No one likes whores except Jesus and no one likes Jesus.
Happy If You're A Whore, You Should Make A List Of Your Talents And Strengths So As To Try To Find A Way To Make Money Without Having To Fuck For It Day!
For example, everyone always used to like your cookies. Maybe you're so good at making cookies that you could sell them to people who like cookies. You don't have to go whole-hog at first. You could just bring a tin of your cookies with you the next time you go out to "Turn Tricks" and when it comes time for your "John" to "Pay You For The Sex You Just Had" just say, "throw in another buck and I'll give you one of my world famous chocolate chip cookies." Your "John" ("John" means "Guy who pays a whore to go buckwile") might ask if he can stuff the dollar bill in your mouth then cover up your nose so you can't breathe until he lets go. Say no because you could die if he doesn't let go. But if he buys the cookie and he likes it then maybe you should open up your own business. If he doesn't like the cookies, go down to the next talent on the list and figure out how you can make money off that. Like if you know Quark, maybe instead of having sex for money, someone might pay you to do stuff in Quark at their office.
If you start making money off of something besides whoring, don't tell anyone you used to whore. No one likes whores except Jesus and no one likes Jesus.
Happy If You're A Whore, You Should Make A List Of Your Talents And Strengths So As To Try To Find A Way To Make Money Without Having To Fuck For It Day!
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