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!
Saturday, November 30, 2002
Don't Judge That Fucking Cocksucker Who Should Die Until You've Walked A Mile In His Disgusting "Look At Me, I Suck Dick Because I Love Dick And I'm A Fucking Fuckfucker," Stinky, Smelly Shoes Day!
You ain't all that, Princess Prim n' Proper. Now go visit elderly shut-ins and watch TV with them or something. Give back why dontcha? Instead of just constantly looking for worthless piles of shit whose existence you can spend the whole day pondering in disgust until you piss up in the air to try to hit God.
Happy Don't Judge That Fucking Cocksucker Who Should Die Until You've Walked A Mile In His Disgusting "Look At Me, I Suck Dick Because I Love Dick And I'm A Fucking Fuckfucker," Stinky, Smelly Shoes Day!
You ain't all that, Princess Prim n' Proper. Now go visit elderly shut-ins and watch TV with them or something. Give back why dontcha? Instead of just constantly looking for worthless piles of shit whose existence you can spend the whole day pondering in disgust until you piss up in the air to try to hit God.
Happy Don't Judge That Fucking Cocksucker Who Should Die Until You've Walked A Mile In His Disgusting "Look At Me, I Suck Dick Because I Love Dick And I'm A Fucking Fuckfucker," Stinky, Smelly Shoes Day!
Friday, November 29, 2002
Tell Them A Lie Day!
Tell them a lie, such as, "Everything's been going pretty good" or "No I haven't had those kinds of thoughts/heard those voices in over a month now" or "This is delicious" or "I actually don't think I'm all that attractive" or "I'm glad I came."
People buy what they're sold. That's why they call it America.
Happy Tell Them A Lie Day!
Tell them a lie, such as, "Everything's been going pretty good" or "No I haven't had those kinds of thoughts/heard those voices in over a month now" or "This is delicious" or "I actually don't think I'm all that attractive" or "I'm glad I came."
People buy what they're sold. That's why they call it America.
Happy Tell Them A Lie Day!
Thursday, November 28, 2002
Welcome Home, But You're Gonna Have To Come Right Out And Ask About Him Or Her Day!
You recognize all those faces and you've been wrapped up in each of those embraces probably a million times. But if you left right now it's like you'd remember tonight as just another night alone and wondering what he or she is up to.
They're all ready to tell you about their new jobs and new loves and who's been fucking who since you split, and they've got a thousand questions for you: where you livin'? how's your drinking? do you remember Michael Bender well he died last year...
They wanna get started because they know you only got one more night before you head back so they wanna get down to it like you used to do and they're just waiting for you to stop looking over their shoulders for the face that isn't waiting for you to paste your mouth up on it no more.
You've got one hell of a funny head. You talk like you think you're worse than shit but you still believe you're the only one in town who knows how to look up a train schedule. And you set yourself up to go looking over people's shoulders at nothing at all from the first day you decided not to write nobody no more.
Anyway, if you wanna find out where he or she is, you're gonna have to ask somebody. Since you never wanted anybody to know about the two of you (explain that one please?) no one thinks they should just come right out and tell you where he or she is as if the two of you was something anybody was supposed know about.
So, you shouldn't have come back. But as long as you're here, Happy Welcome Home, But You're Gonna Have To Come Right Out And Ask About Him Or Her Day!
You recognize all those faces and you've been wrapped up in each of those embraces probably a million times. But if you left right now it's like you'd remember tonight as just another night alone and wondering what he or she is up to.
They're all ready to tell you about their new jobs and new loves and who's been fucking who since you split, and they've got a thousand questions for you: where you livin'? how's your drinking? do you remember Michael Bender well he died last year...
They wanna get started because they know you only got one more night before you head back so they wanna get down to it like you used to do and they're just waiting for you to stop looking over their shoulders for the face that isn't waiting for you to paste your mouth up on it no more.
You've got one hell of a funny head. You talk like you think you're worse than shit but you still believe you're the only one in town who knows how to look up a train schedule. And you set yourself up to go looking over people's shoulders at nothing at all from the first day you decided not to write nobody no more.
Anyway, if you wanna find out where he or she is, you're gonna have to ask somebody. Since you never wanted anybody to know about the two of you (explain that one please?) no one thinks they should just come right out and tell you where he or she is as if the two of you was something anybody was supposed know about.
So, you shouldn't have come back. But as long as you're here, Happy Welcome Home, But You're Gonna Have To Come Right Out And Ask About Him Or Her Day!
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
Outgoing Message Day!
You should do an Osama Bin Laden impression on your answering machine. Have him say, "Hello American infidel! So sorry about the planes and the buildings but you had it coming for a long time! Especially you, Chris! You know what I'm talking about." Then come out of your Osama impression and in your own voice say, "But seriously, you've reached [state your name and that of anyone else who might use that machine]. If you'd like to leave a message, please do so with your name, phone number, and the best time to reach you immediately after the beep. I/we will get back to you as soon as possible. If you're wondering how many times I'll try to call you back before giving up, remember what Kate Nelligan said to Stockard Channing in the 1983 movie 'Without A Trace'..." then do your impression of Kate Nelligan in the 1983 movie Without A Trace and shout, "Until I Can't Stand Anymore!!! Until...I...can't stand anymore!!! HOW DARE YOU!!!" Then go back to your own voice and say, "Oh and uh, if this is in response to that personal ad I placed about the Latte lover with the brown hair and the green poncho who made eye contact with me from across the Starbucks this past Monday, November 25 at 12:45 PM but I was in the middle of signing some papers with my real estate broker so I didn't get to talk to you but I could tell there was something there between us, I'm sorry but you're too late. I've fallen in love with somebody else." Then hold the phone up to the speaker of your stereo while the chorus to Wilson Phillips' "You're In Love" plays. Then turn off the stereo and allow for no more than six seconds of silence before you fire a gun and then drop a sack of rice on the floor to make it sound like someone just got shot (perhaps by his/her own hand?) then fell to the ground with a thump. Then hit the Save OGM button and just sit back and wait for the pussy train to pull into the station with a Toot Toot Toot!
Happy Outgoing Message Day!
You should do an Osama Bin Laden impression on your answering machine. Have him say, "Hello American infidel! So sorry about the planes and the buildings but you had it coming for a long time! Especially you, Chris! You know what I'm talking about." Then come out of your Osama impression and in your own voice say, "But seriously, you've reached [state your name and that of anyone else who might use that machine]. If you'd like to leave a message, please do so with your name, phone number, and the best time to reach you immediately after the beep. I/we will get back to you as soon as possible. If you're wondering how many times I'll try to call you back before giving up, remember what Kate Nelligan said to Stockard Channing in the 1983 movie 'Without A Trace'..." then do your impression of Kate Nelligan in the 1983 movie Without A Trace and shout, "Until I Can't Stand Anymore!!! Until...I...can't stand anymore!!! HOW DARE YOU!!!" Then go back to your own voice and say, "Oh and uh, if this is in response to that personal ad I placed about the Latte lover with the brown hair and the green poncho who made eye contact with me from across the Starbucks this past Monday, November 25 at 12:45 PM but I was in the middle of signing some papers with my real estate broker so I didn't get to talk to you but I could tell there was something there between us, I'm sorry but you're too late. I've fallen in love with somebody else." Then hold the phone up to the speaker of your stereo while the chorus to Wilson Phillips' "You're In Love" plays. Then turn off the stereo and allow for no more than six seconds of silence before you fire a gun and then drop a sack of rice on the floor to make it sound like someone just got shot (perhaps by his/her own hand?) then fell to the ground with a thump. Then hit the Save OGM button and just sit back and wait for the pussy train to pull into the station with a Toot Toot Toot!
Happy Outgoing Message Day!
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Bleeding Infant Day!
Hey Cleveland! Congratulations! At 3 pounds, 7 ounces, your city can lay claim to having the smallest still living infant with a fresh gaping wound in all of the United States!
The premature baby has not yet been named because his parents don't want to get too attached since he only has a ten percent chance of surviving the afternoon. But in keeping with the rules of Bleeding Infant Day, Cleveland Preemie (as he'll be known in the books) has an open flesh wound on his left arm that was purely accidental. When the nurse rushed the baby into his incubator, she scraped his arm along the plastic rim of the lid and opened a half-inch long scratch which has yet to scab over thanks to the efforts of the nursing staff to keep the cut moistened (with permission from the parents of course, who will receive the Thirty Three Thousand Dollar Bleeding Infant Day Prize as next of kin should Cleveland Preemie die before the age of eighteen or sunset). And at only 3 pounds, 7 ounces, Cleveland Preemie is the smallest bleeding infant by nearly a pound and a half!
Second place goes to Janice Bradthwaite of Gretna, Nebraska who, at 4 pounds, 11 ounces, was born two months premature with a hemorrhaging concavity in her left eyeball.
Happy Bleeding Infant Day!
Hey Cleveland! Congratulations! At 3 pounds, 7 ounces, your city can lay claim to having the smallest still living infant with a fresh gaping wound in all of the United States!
The premature baby has not yet been named because his parents don't want to get too attached since he only has a ten percent chance of surviving the afternoon. But in keeping with the rules of Bleeding Infant Day, Cleveland Preemie (as he'll be known in the books) has an open flesh wound on his left arm that was purely accidental. When the nurse rushed the baby into his incubator, she scraped his arm along the plastic rim of the lid and opened a half-inch long scratch which has yet to scab over thanks to the efforts of the nursing staff to keep the cut moistened (with permission from the parents of course, who will receive the Thirty Three Thousand Dollar Bleeding Infant Day Prize as next of kin should Cleveland Preemie die before the age of eighteen or sunset). And at only 3 pounds, 7 ounces, Cleveland Preemie is the smallest bleeding infant by nearly a pound and a half!
Second place goes to Janice Bradthwaite of Gretna, Nebraska who, at 4 pounds, 11 ounces, was born two months premature with a hemorrhaging concavity in her left eyeball.
Happy Bleeding Infant Day!
Monday, November 25, 2002
Break The Land Speed Record Day!
Today you should break the land speed record. You'll need a car that's like a kind of rocketship but that doesn't fly and you should go to the desert and go so fast in your RocketMoBile! that you break the land speed record. Before you do anything though, find out what the land speed record is. If you google "Current Land Speed Record" you get some sites that include those words somewhere within the text of their pages. It looks like the current land speed record is like 763 MPH which is really fucking fast, right? Well, today's the day for you to go faster than that, okay?
I hope you go so fast that when you get out of the RocketMoBile! you're your dead Dad.
Happy Break The Land Speed Record Day!
Today you should break the land speed record. You'll need a car that's like a kind of rocketship but that doesn't fly and you should go to the desert and go so fast in your RocketMoBile! that you break the land speed record. Before you do anything though, find out what the land speed record is. If you google "Current Land Speed Record" you get some sites that include those words somewhere within the text of their pages. It looks like the current land speed record is like 763 MPH which is really fucking fast, right? Well, today's the day for you to go faster than that, okay?
I hope you go so fast that when you get out of the RocketMoBile! you're your dead Dad.
Happy Break The Land Speed Record Day!
Sunday, November 24, 2002
A Mug Full Of Pens And Three Crushes Driving Three Third Grade Boys Out Of Their Heads Day!
Jeffrey likes Marina, a Greek girl with thick black hair and a voice deeper than most third grade girls. Jeffrey fell down on his ankle in gym class and cried there on the floor. Marina laughed along with everyone else.
Fung doesn't really like boys, but Ernie likes Fung a lot. He kissed Fung in the parking lot last week after three hours of standing there not really talking to each other. Most kids make fun of Ernie because Fung is Chinese and Ernie isn't. Ernie's Mom is dead.
Leo spent all last night trying to write Gina an anonymous love letter in a different handwriting than his own. He wrote very slowly and carefully but it's very hard to not write in your own handwriting. So he gave up and just went ahead and wrote in his own handwriting and he thought maybe the two different scripts might throw people off his scent. He could have had a friend write it, but he's pretty certain that even his most trusted friend might be feeding information to Gina's friends about his crush on her. Anyway, he's going to give her the letter tomorrow. He's going to wake up early to plant the letter. He'll walk to school because he doesn't want to ride the bus and have to see anybody beforehand.
And a mug full of pens.
Jeffrey likes Marina, a Greek girl with thick black hair and a voice deeper than most third grade girls. Jeffrey fell down on his ankle in gym class and cried there on the floor. Marina laughed along with everyone else.
Fung doesn't really like boys, but Ernie likes Fung a lot. He kissed Fung in the parking lot last week after three hours of standing there not really talking to each other. Most kids make fun of Ernie because Fung is Chinese and Ernie isn't. Ernie's Mom is dead.
Leo spent all last night trying to write Gina an anonymous love letter in a different handwriting than his own. He wrote very slowly and carefully but it's very hard to not write in your own handwriting. So he gave up and just went ahead and wrote in his own handwriting and he thought maybe the two different scripts might throw people off his scent. He could have had a friend write it, but he's pretty certain that even his most trusted friend might be feeding information to Gina's friends about his crush on her. Anyway, he's going to give her the letter tomorrow. He's going to wake up early to plant the letter. He'll walk to school because he doesn't want to ride the bus and have to see anybody beforehand.
And a mug full of pens.
Saturday, November 23, 2002
Walk For Peace Day!
You don't need some corrupt non-profit to attach their name to your efforts to cure the world of hunger, genocide, rape, and ecology stuff. Just step out your door and start walking around with a real look of self-satisfaction on your face. A look that says, "I'm a pretty damn good person. Generous and concerned about shit. What kind of retard wouldn't want to slice off a hunk of this babybaby?"
You might start bumping into your friends, especially if you know where they are and you want them to see you and ask what you're doing. If your friends say, "Hey, what are you doing?" Tell them you're walking for peace. They'll say "Piece o' what?!" then they'll tell you about a party later where there will be so much trim it will have to rappel down the side of the building and crash through the windows in order to get in. Don't go. The world is not yet healed and we're all counting on you. Keep walking.
Happy Walk For Peace Day!
You don't need some corrupt non-profit to attach their name to your efforts to cure the world of hunger, genocide, rape, and ecology stuff. Just step out your door and start walking around with a real look of self-satisfaction on your face. A look that says, "I'm a pretty damn good person. Generous and concerned about shit. What kind of retard wouldn't want to slice off a hunk of this babybaby?"
You might start bumping into your friends, especially if you know where they are and you want them to see you and ask what you're doing. If your friends say, "Hey, what are you doing?" Tell them you're walking for peace. They'll say "Piece o' what?!" then they'll tell you about a party later where there will be so much trim it will have to rappel down the side of the building and crash through the windows in order to get in. Don't go. The world is not yet healed and we're all counting on you. Keep walking.
Happy Walk For Peace Day!
Friday, November 22, 2002
Foggy Car Windows Day!
Drive to the parking lot of the office where you got laid off and don't forget to bring pornography. Park near where you always used to park so that your co-workers will recognize your car. If you can get there early enough, park in your old space before the chick to whom it was assigned pulls in for the day (they said you were laid off but in actuality they thought you were so weird that they just wanted you out of the office with as generous a severence package as they could dig outta the coffers so as to make sure you don't show up at the office one morning and do something drastic; like you're doing this morning. They went so far as to give your position a new title so it would look like your position was dissolved).
Once you're parked and you've had a couple cups of coffee, open up your pornography and begin to masturbate. You wanna generate the kind of heat that fogs up a car window like only two kids making out in a parking lot can. So you're gonna have to tease yourself. Bring yourself so close to orgasm you start to talk to yourself (start yelling at yourself for something stupid you said at a party a long time ago to someone you don't know anymore. Yell: "STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID!!!") , then lift your hands to the roof of the car, digging your nails into the upholstery, and just let yourself throb and pulse so that you burrow your buttocks into the ridges of the beaded seatcover to spread your asshole open wide until you force an air pocket up inside that makes you wanna let loose a clean fart. Hold the fart in so as to distract your mind from your engorged genitals. Have some more coffee to keep pumping blood down into your naughty crannies. Once the threat of orgasm has subsided, resume manual stimulation until you might come again.
This should get your windows nice and fogged up by quarter to nine, when all your former coworkers start pulling in, including your replacement who will pull up right behind you and stop there for maybe thirty seconds to realize that someone is making out where she is supposed to park and let that fact register before going and finding some visitor parking. No one will be able to see inside your car, but you will see blurs of color slowly approach your car and even more slowly pass it by as your coworkers walk to the office, which will be abuzz with talk of "Wasn't that [Insert Your Name Here]'s car with the windows all fogged up in the lot today?"
It will also be abuzz with responses to the above question. Responses like, "Yeah, I think it was."
And the buzzing will continue when the office becomes abuzz with other questions like, "Was [Insert Your Name Here] making out with somebody out there."
Then someone'll say yeah and when your replacement shows up to say that she couldn't park because some kids were making out in her space, they'll sit her down and tell her that that was the weird fucker that used to have her job and don't worry because Kevin's already calling security.
Kevin's already calling security so you should split after you come. Also, and I know this doesn't apply to you, but if you know anybody who would actually be into making out with you in your car parked in your old parking space at around 9 in the morning, go ahead, sure.
Happy Foggy Car Windows Day!
Drive to the parking lot of the office where you got laid off and don't forget to bring pornography. Park near where you always used to park so that your co-workers will recognize your car. If you can get there early enough, park in your old space before the chick to whom it was assigned pulls in for the day (they said you were laid off but in actuality they thought you were so weird that they just wanted you out of the office with as generous a severence package as they could dig outta the coffers so as to make sure you don't show up at the office one morning and do something drastic; like you're doing this morning. They went so far as to give your position a new title so it would look like your position was dissolved).
Once you're parked and you've had a couple cups of coffee, open up your pornography and begin to masturbate. You wanna generate the kind of heat that fogs up a car window like only two kids making out in a parking lot can. So you're gonna have to tease yourself. Bring yourself so close to orgasm you start to talk to yourself (start yelling at yourself for something stupid you said at a party a long time ago to someone you don't know anymore. Yell: "STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID!!!") , then lift your hands to the roof of the car, digging your nails into the upholstery, and just let yourself throb and pulse so that you burrow your buttocks into the ridges of the beaded seatcover to spread your asshole open wide until you force an air pocket up inside that makes you wanna let loose a clean fart. Hold the fart in so as to distract your mind from your engorged genitals. Have some more coffee to keep pumping blood down into your naughty crannies. Once the threat of orgasm has subsided, resume manual stimulation until you might come again.
This should get your windows nice and fogged up by quarter to nine, when all your former coworkers start pulling in, including your replacement who will pull up right behind you and stop there for maybe thirty seconds to realize that someone is making out where she is supposed to park and let that fact register before going and finding some visitor parking. No one will be able to see inside your car, but you will see blurs of color slowly approach your car and even more slowly pass it by as your coworkers walk to the office, which will be abuzz with talk of "Wasn't that [Insert Your Name Here]'s car with the windows all fogged up in the lot today?"
It will also be abuzz with responses to the above question. Responses like, "Yeah, I think it was."
And the buzzing will continue when the office becomes abuzz with other questions like, "Was [Insert Your Name Here] making out with somebody out there."
Then someone'll say yeah and when your replacement shows up to say that she couldn't park because some kids were making out in her space, they'll sit her down and tell her that that was the weird fucker that used to have her job and don't worry because Kevin's already calling security.
Kevin's already calling security so you should split after you come. Also, and I know this doesn't apply to you, but if you know anybody who would actually be into making out with you in your car parked in your old parking space at around 9 in the morning, go ahead, sure.
Happy Foggy Car Windows Day!
Thursday, November 21, 2002
Change Your Haircolor Day!
This way, people will say things to you like, "You changed your haircolor!" and "Your haircolor has changed!" and "The color of your hair, you changed it!" and you will feel like your life is moving forward with the same velocity as everyone else's.
Your friend Jacob just fell in love again not weeks after being thrown out of his home for cheating, and the one he's in love with isn't even the one he got caught cheating with. It's someone completely different.
Your hair now looks better with a red winter cap than with the green one you usually wear with your blue winter coat, so you will have to buy a red winter cap now. But with the blue coat and the red cap you don't want to look all 9/11 or anything.
The woman in the cubicle next to yours, who seemed as mired in the rapidly rising shit brown office carpet as you have been these seven years, just found out the crappy off-off broadway play she wrote to piss off her ex-boyfriend got backing to go off-broadway and Hollywood has expressed interest in a screen adaptation. Her last day is tomorrow, but she might not make it in if she takes the red-eye tonight to make a meeting on the coast tomorrow morning.
You've got some streaks of darker color due to your scattered gray hairs. You'll probably have to make an appointment to get that fixed. When you get around to it maybe.
You had been wondering why your next door neighbors had not extended their annual Thansgiving dinner invite to you yet. The husband, his hands on his three year old son's shoulders, explains that the Ryder truck outside is making the first trip out to the new house that he bought in a nearby affluent suburb, "What with the new baby on the way and all." He used to be your roommate.
Your hair used to be dirty blonde, but now it's dark brown.
Happy Change Your Haircolor Day!
This way, people will say things to you like, "You changed your haircolor!" and "Your haircolor has changed!" and "The color of your hair, you changed it!" and you will feel like your life is moving forward with the same velocity as everyone else's.
Your friend Jacob just fell in love again not weeks after being thrown out of his home for cheating, and the one he's in love with isn't even the one he got caught cheating with. It's someone completely different.
Your hair now looks better with a red winter cap than with the green one you usually wear with your blue winter coat, so you will have to buy a red winter cap now. But with the blue coat and the red cap you don't want to look all 9/11 or anything.
The woman in the cubicle next to yours, who seemed as mired in the rapidly rising shit brown office carpet as you have been these seven years, just found out the crappy off-off broadway play she wrote to piss off her ex-boyfriend got backing to go off-broadway and Hollywood has expressed interest in a screen adaptation. Her last day is tomorrow, but she might not make it in if she takes the red-eye tonight to make a meeting on the coast tomorrow morning.
You've got some streaks of darker color due to your scattered gray hairs. You'll probably have to make an appointment to get that fixed. When you get around to it maybe.
You had been wondering why your next door neighbors had not extended their annual Thansgiving dinner invite to you yet. The husband, his hands on his three year old son's shoulders, explains that the Ryder truck outside is making the first trip out to the new house that he bought in a nearby affluent suburb, "What with the new baby on the way and all." He used to be your roommate.
Your hair used to be dirty blonde, but now it's dark brown.
Happy Change Your Haircolor Day!
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Gonna Have To End It With Your Blammin Hot Lovemuffin Day!
You've been having some way hot pre-Christmas nudity with that single father these past few weeks. Seemed like you'd been searching high and low for someone who'd get you way wet and who'd be cool with you being married to one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the city. And then you took your son to that Saturday afternoon children's story hour at Border's and he started talking to little Maria about some book about a magic ant or something. And when you got a look at the jawline on little Maria's recently divorced pop you knew if you didn't see that jaw open up on a hotel room pillow and wait for you to dip your twat inside within the next seven hours you might start smoking again.
And when you found out this guy was happy to plow into you the three or four times a week you require (in order to keep from seducing the less malodorous help and having them executed soon after in exchange for a promise to provide amply for their families), and all the World's Greatest Dad was asking in return is that you not ask him for any kind of serious obligation as he was trying to ease little Maria into her broken home with as much attention as he could give, well shit if your pussy didn't just jump up from the table and shout out "Bingo!"
Well, I'm afraid the party's about to end. When you arrive at the hotel room this afternoon, Tall, Dark and Notyourhusband will be sitting in the chair next to the vanity fully clothed and completely unresponsive to the way your ass is made manifest by that skirt (normally he has his teeth in the bare stretch of thigh between your hemline and the top of your leather boot before you can even pour yourself a diet coke). Like you give a shit, you'll ask him what's wrong. And that's when he'll tell you that little Maria was diagnosed with leukemia and you're gonna start looking around the room for a fire alarm to pull so you can get the hell outta there before the faggot tries to get you to hug him (shudder). You'd forgotten how nauseous you could be made to feel by a man's teardrop on your shoulder.
Well don't fret. Just tell him he looks hungry and that you'll call room service for some soup. But instead, dial your cell phone and when you answer the ring, act all freaked out and tell him your son got hit by a car or some shit like that and you have to leave. Then sometime within the next week have your assistant give him a check for fifty thousand dollars and tell him that if he contacts you again you'll use your influence to make sure his daughter is forced to cut through a huge mass of bureaucratic red tape before receiving proper treatment for her illness.
Happy Gonna Have To End It With Your Blammin Hot Lovemuffin Day!
You've been having some way hot pre-Christmas nudity with that single father these past few weeks. Seemed like you'd been searching high and low for someone who'd get you way wet and who'd be cool with you being married to one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the city. And then you took your son to that Saturday afternoon children's story hour at Border's and he started talking to little Maria about some book about a magic ant or something. And when you got a look at the jawline on little Maria's recently divorced pop you knew if you didn't see that jaw open up on a hotel room pillow and wait for you to dip your twat inside within the next seven hours you might start smoking again.
And when you found out this guy was happy to plow into you the three or four times a week you require (in order to keep from seducing the less malodorous help and having them executed soon after in exchange for a promise to provide amply for their families), and all the World's Greatest Dad was asking in return is that you not ask him for any kind of serious obligation as he was trying to ease little Maria into her broken home with as much attention as he could give, well shit if your pussy didn't just jump up from the table and shout out "Bingo!"
Well, I'm afraid the party's about to end. When you arrive at the hotel room this afternoon, Tall, Dark and Notyourhusband will be sitting in the chair next to the vanity fully clothed and completely unresponsive to the way your ass is made manifest by that skirt (normally he has his teeth in the bare stretch of thigh between your hemline and the top of your leather boot before you can even pour yourself a diet coke). Like you give a shit, you'll ask him what's wrong. And that's when he'll tell you that little Maria was diagnosed with leukemia and you're gonna start looking around the room for a fire alarm to pull so you can get the hell outta there before the faggot tries to get you to hug him (shudder). You'd forgotten how nauseous you could be made to feel by a man's teardrop on your shoulder.
Well don't fret. Just tell him he looks hungry and that you'll call room service for some soup. But instead, dial your cell phone and when you answer the ring, act all freaked out and tell him your son got hit by a car or some shit like that and you have to leave. Then sometime within the next week have your assistant give him a check for fifty thousand dollars and tell him that if he contacts you again you'll use your influence to make sure his daughter is forced to cut through a huge mass of bureaucratic red tape before receiving proper treatment for her illness.
Happy Gonna Have To End It With Your Blammin Hot Lovemuffin Day!
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Things You Did Not Win While You Were Sleeping Day!
You did not win a brand new bicycle, and neither did you win a Vespa built from items found around the home, such as a portable electric radiator and whirlpool jets. You won no all expenses paid vacation to Tahiti because you have no one to take with you and if you were to ask to receive the cash equivalent of the prize, everyone would have known why once they saw the shallow purple valleys just underneath your eyes. And the Prizegiver did not want to be engaged in such an unhappy interaction.
About the Prizegiver. You have made inquiries as to his identity. Please desist, for your own safety.
The respect of a friend you hold too dear was not a prize that you were awarded while you slept last night and you did not win the love of the little fool that would end up breaking you into shards if he or she ever got a grip on you. Your friend believes that you don't have "conversations" so much as "presentations," and the little fool was celebrating a birthday at a bar and not enjoying his/herself all that very much but he/she got a little drunk and without it being suggested suddenly found him/herself being helped to slow dance in somebody's arms and from those arms there seemed to float in the air between them a kind of enchanting snowy chill and they woke up together this morning and couldn't wait to start making phone calls to mutual friends.
You did not win a free small fries or soda and neither did you win a cigarette boat. And sadly, neither one million dollars nor two hundred and fifty dollars was awarded to you. The big pink bear too. You didn't win the big pink bear because you didn't knock down the milk bottles. You were sleeping.
Also, you were unable to win a smile from the small child held in the arms of the woman in line in front of you at the grocery store. And you did not win the suspicion of that woman even.
Perhaps tonight you might have better luck. Happy Things You Did Not Win While You Were Sleeping Day! Try Again.
You did not win a brand new bicycle, and neither did you win a Vespa built from items found around the home, such as a portable electric radiator and whirlpool jets. You won no all expenses paid vacation to Tahiti because you have no one to take with you and if you were to ask to receive the cash equivalent of the prize, everyone would have known why once they saw the shallow purple valleys just underneath your eyes. And the Prizegiver did not want to be engaged in such an unhappy interaction.
About the Prizegiver. You have made inquiries as to his identity. Please desist, for your own safety.
The respect of a friend you hold too dear was not a prize that you were awarded while you slept last night and you did not win the love of the little fool that would end up breaking you into shards if he or she ever got a grip on you. Your friend believes that you don't have "conversations" so much as "presentations," and the little fool was celebrating a birthday at a bar and not enjoying his/herself all that very much but he/she got a little drunk and without it being suggested suddenly found him/herself being helped to slow dance in somebody's arms and from those arms there seemed to float in the air between them a kind of enchanting snowy chill and they woke up together this morning and couldn't wait to start making phone calls to mutual friends.
You did not win a free small fries or soda and neither did you win a cigarette boat. And sadly, neither one million dollars nor two hundred and fifty dollars was awarded to you. The big pink bear too. You didn't win the big pink bear because you didn't knock down the milk bottles. You were sleeping.
Also, you were unable to win a smile from the small child held in the arms of the woman in line in front of you at the grocery store. And you did not win the suspicion of that woman even.
Perhaps tonight you might have better luck. Happy Things You Did Not Win While You Were Sleeping Day! Try Again.
Monday, November 18, 2002
Office-Wide CPR Class Day!
You never meant to fall in love with nobody. All's you wanted was a weekly paycheck commensurate with your thirty-six and a quarter hours of half-hearted clerical assistance so as to cover the 62 hours of gentle drinking there in your living room easy chair underneath a single 55 watt bulb each weekend (you once lost your breath thinking about the day that bulb's gonna burn out). How much gin does it take to drench a heart to the point of maximum absorption? You just wanna pickle yourself airtight so nothing else can seep in.
But your heart wants what it wants and it couldn't care less about how you choose to carry out your suicide. There in that tiny supply closet searching for paper clips with your back to the door you were like a jackrabbit caught in the sites of an elephant gun (ie. defenseless. (what's an elephant gun? is it big?)). You didn't hear a thing. You might even have been singing a song to yourself. You turned around and the bemused smile blocking the doorway suddenly became the only thing you'd ever let yourself think upon in the few moments of blackout consciousness you'd savor just before passing out into your pillow each evening.
Since then the basement copy center has grown suspicious of your motives since you're the only one who asks that your dupes be held there for you to pick up at 11:45 each morning rather than letting the mailroom carry them up to you. They have their theories, but would never guess that you time your copy center trips to coincide precisely with his/her visits to the basement level New World Coffee vendor. At least twice a week you manage to enjoy 45 to 75 seconds alone together, waiting for the elevator to make its way below ground level and carry you back to your desks. You assumed, since you learned of your new love inside your supply closet, that the two of you shared a floor. But unfortunately he or she was only there thanks to a tip-off in the cafeteria that your floor's supply closet was the only one that still had a box of the letter size accordian files that had been temporarily removed from the online requisition catalogue (due to ferocious outcry, the product has since been made available again). Outside of the trips to the coffee vendor, you haven't seen hide nor tail of the adorable beast anywhere in the building, but thanks to your elevator rides, you are now on single-syllable greeting terms.
Hey. (Head tilt to right.)
Mm. (Nod. But with a bat of the eyes that seems to last the duration of an Indian summer.)
Well you've got some steps planned out for how to get the two of you on panted swearing terms and it's all gonna go down in conference room 25D (unfurnished) where the one you admire from afar will be the one you admire during Volunteer Emergency CPR Class between 2 and 2:45 this afternoon. When you saw his or her name on the signup sheet, you put your name down without even checking what the event was about just so you could have the two of your names on the same sheet of paper for the entire floor to see. Then you started thinking about the CPR training they made you take during gym class in high school and how hot it could sometimes get and you thought maybe you shouldn't miss the opportunity to show him or her just how you look when you press your gently parted lips up against a dyked out lady's asphyxiating plastic head. He or she will have no choice but to slip into a daydream of you pouring your caring and your warmth into your fingertips as you slowly pull the zipper of the dummy's blue jumpsuit through the teeth until that plastic gay lady just wants to drip from the baby blue polyester like a goldfish from an unknotted plastic baggy.
All you gotta use is your eyes (visine the red out aforehand, you dig Rummy?). When it's your turn to put the moves on Plastic Sapphy, just get down on your knees real hesitant and slow, not letting your kneecaps make a sound when they touch the ground, like you can't believe the two of you (you and the dummy) are there in that room together and at the slightest creak of the bones you might jump up and run from the room out of fear of making a terrible mistake for which your heart might never forgive you. Before you bend in for the kiss, put a little baby smile on your face and send a pop of your eyes up to that beautiful thing and he or she will start wishing they had called for volunteers to take the place of the polysterene field hockey enthusiast you're about to plant one on. Then just bend in and blow.
Your lips to the plastic, a grin to your eyelids, look up at him or her while you resuscitate the dummy. Let him or her know there is life to be found in those lips of yours. "A life whose every waking moment is devoted to thoughts of you. Delicious you." When you rock back on your knees to pump the air out of the braided rat-tailed dummy's lungs, give the dummy's face a smile that says, "Whether you live or die, I will not leave your side." And when you send your lips down for another kiss, do not let your eyes wander from the eyes of the one you love for one millisecond of your descent down onto that mouth. And this time pump your breath into that mouth with the pant of sweetest surrender. Also, make sure you lift your ass up in the air real high too and bob it up and down with your panting. If you do this the right way, you two will be "doing it" before you can say "that dummy's hairdo is kind of butch, dontcha think?"
Happy Office-Wide CPR Class Day!
You never meant to fall in love with nobody. All's you wanted was a weekly paycheck commensurate with your thirty-six and a quarter hours of half-hearted clerical assistance so as to cover the 62 hours of gentle drinking there in your living room easy chair underneath a single 55 watt bulb each weekend (you once lost your breath thinking about the day that bulb's gonna burn out). How much gin does it take to drench a heart to the point of maximum absorption? You just wanna pickle yourself airtight so nothing else can seep in.
But your heart wants what it wants and it couldn't care less about how you choose to carry out your suicide. There in that tiny supply closet searching for paper clips with your back to the door you were like a jackrabbit caught in the sites of an elephant gun (ie. defenseless. (what's an elephant gun? is it big?)). You didn't hear a thing. You might even have been singing a song to yourself. You turned around and the bemused smile blocking the doorway suddenly became the only thing you'd ever let yourself think upon in the few moments of blackout consciousness you'd savor just before passing out into your pillow each evening.
Since then the basement copy center has grown suspicious of your motives since you're the only one who asks that your dupes be held there for you to pick up at 11:45 each morning rather than letting the mailroom carry them up to you. They have their theories, but would never guess that you time your copy center trips to coincide precisely with his/her visits to the basement level New World Coffee vendor. At least twice a week you manage to enjoy 45 to 75 seconds alone together, waiting for the elevator to make its way below ground level and carry you back to your desks. You assumed, since you learned of your new love inside your supply closet, that the two of you shared a floor. But unfortunately he or she was only there thanks to a tip-off in the cafeteria that your floor's supply closet was the only one that still had a box of the letter size accordian files that had been temporarily removed from the online requisition catalogue (due to ferocious outcry, the product has since been made available again). Outside of the trips to the coffee vendor, you haven't seen hide nor tail of the adorable beast anywhere in the building, but thanks to your elevator rides, you are now on single-syllable greeting terms.
Hey. (Head tilt to right.)
Mm. (Nod. But with a bat of the eyes that seems to last the duration of an Indian summer.)
Well you've got some steps planned out for how to get the two of you on panted swearing terms and it's all gonna go down in conference room 25D (unfurnished) where the one you admire from afar will be the one you admire during Volunteer Emergency CPR Class between 2 and 2:45 this afternoon. When you saw his or her name on the signup sheet, you put your name down without even checking what the event was about just so you could have the two of your names on the same sheet of paper for the entire floor to see. Then you started thinking about the CPR training they made you take during gym class in high school and how hot it could sometimes get and you thought maybe you shouldn't miss the opportunity to show him or her just how you look when you press your gently parted lips up against a dyked out lady's asphyxiating plastic head. He or she will have no choice but to slip into a daydream of you pouring your caring and your warmth into your fingertips as you slowly pull the zipper of the dummy's blue jumpsuit through the teeth until that plastic gay lady just wants to drip from the baby blue polyester like a goldfish from an unknotted plastic baggy.
All you gotta use is your eyes (visine the red out aforehand, you dig Rummy?). When it's your turn to put the moves on Plastic Sapphy, just get down on your knees real hesitant and slow, not letting your kneecaps make a sound when they touch the ground, like you can't believe the two of you (you and the dummy) are there in that room together and at the slightest creak of the bones you might jump up and run from the room out of fear of making a terrible mistake for which your heart might never forgive you. Before you bend in for the kiss, put a little baby smile on your face and send a pop of your eyes up to that beautiful thing and he or she will start wishing they had called for volunteers to take the place of the polysterene field hockey enthusiast you're about to plant one on. Then just bend in and blow.
Your lips to the plastic, a grin to your eyelids, look up at him or her while you resuscitate the dummy. Let him or her know there is life to be found in those lips of yours. "A life whose every waking moment is devoted to thoughts of you. Delicious you." When you rock back on your knees to pump the air out of the braided rat-tailed dummy's lungs, give the dummy's face a smile that says, "Whether you live or die, I will not leave your side." And when you send your lips down for another kiss, do not let your eyes wander from the eyes of the one you love for one millisecond of your descent down onto that mouth. And this time pump your breath into that mouth with the pant of sweetest surrender. Also, make sure you lift your ass up in the air real high too and bob it up and down with your panting. If you do this the right way, you two will be "doing it" before you can say "that dummy's hairdo is kind of butch, dontcha think?"
Happy Office-Wide CPR Class Day!
Sunday, November 17, 2002
Don't Get Up From That Dining Room Table Day!
The sound of your forks scraping the china is just deafening. You never knew stainless steel could scream like that did you. The first time you noticed it, you were terrified. Remember? When you realized that neither of you had spoken to the other in a weekend and the forks scratching through to the plates from out of the bulk of the baked potatoes suddenly seemed so loud you feared a phone call from the neighbors to the police department to complain about the strange noises coming from that older couple's house next door? But you got used to it. Soon you felt the noise to be the soundtrack for a good cleansing. The sound of a mind being vigorously scoured of the kind of questions that tend to stick to the pan after nine or so years of childless cohabitation. You have to get your upper body into that kind of scrub.
So watch this. Once you're full enough that you think you can make it through a couple hours of sheer terror, check across the table to make sure that plate's at least half empty too, but don't let nobody join the CPC (Clean Plate Club). You're going to wanna have some leftover in front of you because you might not get out of your chairs for a while and I hope you cooked chicken because you need to be able to eat that shit cold so nobody can escape to use the microwave. In the middle of the symphony of scraping and scratching and screaming utensil extended dance mixing, lay your fork down and grip the sides of your chair, eyes in your lap. It'll take a few minutes before the break in the harmony is detected as more than just a pause to refill your glass of red (again). Baby Lover will look up at you to find out what's going on but there won't be any speaking. When you hear complete silence for about ten seconds, that means the eyes are on you. Look into them.
It's been a while since your eyes met across that table and one of you will probably let out a short wordless scream. It'll be short because neither of you will want to open up your mouths for very long since the words you're going to speak will be the dining room equivalent of "Look out for that falling safe!"
Just don't get up. And don't say anything that doesn't make you convulse. You should be able to find the right words tomorrow just around dawn. Or at the end of it all you both might just get up at the same time so that one of you can help the other pack.
Happy Don't Get Up From That Dining Room Table Day!
The sound of your forks scraping the china is just deafening. You never knew stainless steel could scream like that did you. The first time you noticed it, you were terrified. Remember? When you realized that neither of you had spoken to the other in a weekend and the forks scratching through to the plates from out of the bulk of the baked potatoes suddenly seemed so loud you feared a phone call from the neighbors to the police department to complain about the strange noises coming from that older couple's house next door? But you got used to it. Soon you felt the noise to be the soundtrack for a good cleansing. The sound of a mind being vigorously scoured of the kind of questions that tend to stick to the pan after nine or so years of childless cohabitation. You have to get your upper body into that kind of scrub.
So watch this. Once you're full enough that you think you can make it through a couple hours of sheer terror, check across the table to make sure that plate's at least half empty too, but don't let nobody join the CPC (Clean Plate Club). You're going to wanna have some leftover in front of you because you might not get out of your chairs for a while and I hope you cooked chicken because you need to be able to eat that shit cold so nobody can escape to use the microwave. In the middle of the symphony of scraping and scratching and screaming utensil extended dance mixing, lay your fork down and grip the sides of your chair, eyes in your lap. It'll take a few minutes before the break in the harmony is detected as more than just a pause to refill your glass of red (again). Baby Lover will look up at you to find out what's going on but there won't be any speaking. When you hear complete silence for about ten seconds, that means the eyes are on you. Look into them.
It's been a while since your eyes met across that table and one of you will probably let out a short wordless scream. It'll be short because neither of you will want to open up your mouths for very long since the words you're going to speak will be the dining room equivalent of "Look out for that falling safe!"
Just don't get up. And don't say anything that doesn't make you convulse. You should be able to find the right words tomorrow just around dawn. Or at the end of it all you both might just get up at the same time so that one of you can help the other pack.
Happy Don't Get Up From That Dining Room Table Day!
Saturday, November 16, 2002
Your Marijuana Addicted Ex Woke Up This Afternoon And Wrote A Shitty Song About You While Lying Next To A Sleeping Naked Mutual Acquaintance Of Yours Day!
It's Saturday, so the phone company won't be able to change your phone number until at least late Monday morning. So it would be best if you rip the phone out of the wall. The dim little fool plans to sing the song into your answering machine later, and your roommate might have finally paid the bill to get your apartment's voicemail hooked back up so don't just turn off the answering machine if you want to avoid having that message enter your life as a reminder of the kind of person you used to allow to sit naked in the wicker basket chair across the room and strum a bass while you filled out continuing education registration forms on the bed.
There's a line in the song where rain is rhymed with pain. I'm so glad you got outta town last year. Everyone's ending up exactly where you would've guessed. I think the song is called, "A Song For You." Fucking christ.
That mutual acquaintance by the way is the one who used to sell shitty ecstasy while waiting tables at the bar you tended. Guess what. The ecstasy dealing gig fell through due to a rather severe assault at the hand of a dissatisifed customer. But the waiting tables gig is really coming along.
Anyway, if you get the message, I don't know. Jesus.
Happy Your Marijuana Addicted Ex Woke Up This Afternoon And Wrote A Shitty Song About You While Lying Next To A Sleeping Naked Mutual Acquaintance Of Yours Day!
It's Saturday, so the phone company won't be able to change your phone number until at least late Monday morning. So it would be best if you rip the phone out of the wall. The dim little fool plans to sing the song into your answering machine later, and your roommate might have finally paid the bill to get your apartment's voicemail hooked back up so don't just turn off the answering machine if you want to avoid having that message enter your life as a reminder of the kind of person you used to allow to sit naked in the wicker basket chair across the room and strum a bass while you filled out continuing education registration forms on the bed.
There's a line in the song where rain is rhymed with pain. I'm so glad you got outta town last year. Everyone's ending up exactly where you would've guessed. I think the song is called, "A Song For You." Fucking christ.
That mutual acquaintance by the way is the one who used to sell shitty ecstasy while waiting tables at the bar you tended. Guess what. The ecstasy dealing gig fell through due to a rather severe assault at the hand of a dissatisifed customer. But the waiting tables gig is really coming along.
Anyway, if you get the message, I don't know. Jesus.
Happy Your Marijuana Addicted Ex Woke Up This Afternoon And Wrote A Shitty Song About You While Lying Next To A Sleeping Naked Mutual Acquaintance Of Yours Day!
Friday, November 15, 2002
Make Like The Wind And Chill The Skin On My Face To The Point Of Cracking, Seep Deep Into The Very Marrow Of My Centermost Bones (Pelvic?) And Just Push Against Me With All The Strength And Merciless Cruelty Of The Heavens As I Try To Simply Make It To My Train On Time In Order To Not Lose My Job And Fail My Family Day!
I shall raise my children as I was raised: To believe in the dream of America.
Do all you can to flavor every moment of my waking day with the excruciating frustration of futility. Remind me with your every breath that I will fail and when I do I will slip on something in front of a crowded room of people in tuxedos who will laugh and then have me removed from their party without giving me my hat. Hit me in the face with the heel of your shoe then spit on my bare genitals. Aw yeah.
I shall live my life as if it is written that my child will place his own feet in every one of the shoeprints I have left in my trail. Except for the whole getting real hot at Plight Of The Modern Everyman Forgotten By The American Machine roleplay games thing. I gotta have something that's just for me, yo. It's a jungle out there.
Happy Make Like The Wind And Chill The Skin On My Face To The Point Of Cracking, Seep Deep Into The Very Marrow Of My Centermost Bones (Pelvic?) And Just Push Against Me With All The Strength And Merciless Cruelty Of The Heavens As I Try To Simply Make It To My Train On Time In Order To Not Lose My Job And Fail My Family Day! Don't judge me.
I shall raise my children as I was raised: To believe in the dream of America.
Do all you can to flavor every moment of my waking day with the excruciating frustration of futility. Remind me with your every breath that I will fail and when I do I will slip on something in front of a crowded room of people in tuxedos who will laugh and then have me removed from their party without giving me my hat. Hit me in the face with the heel of your shoe then spit on my bare genitals. Aw yeah.
I shall live my life as if it is written that my child will place his own feet in every one of the shoeprints I have left in my trail. Except for the whole getting real hot at Plight Of The Modern Everyman Forgotten By The American Machine roleplay games thing. I gotta have something that's just for me, yo. It's a jungle out there.
Happy Make Like The Wind And Chill The Skin On My Face To The Point Of Cracking, Seep Deep Into The Very Marrow Of My Centermost Bones (Pelvic?) And Just Push Against Me With All The Strength And Merciless Cruelty Of The Heavens As I Try To Simply Make It To My Train On Time In Order To Not Lose My Job And Fail My Family Day! Don't judge me.
Thursday, November 14, 2002
Go To A Firing Range Day!
Today's the day to go over to the firing range and as the paper target with the silhouette of the guy comes closer and closer to you, shoot rubber bands at it. If when you try to buy another target they tell you you can't shoot rubber bands at it, tell the counter person that's cool and this time, when the paper man comes rolling towards you, yell at it. Then when it gets close enough, dive forward and rip it to shreds with your bare hands like a real man. If when you try to buy your next paper target you're told that you can't fight your target hand-to-hand and that you'll have to use a gun, tell the salesperson everything's cool and you'll use a gun. Go get your rifle out of your trunk and bring it into the range, showing it off to the counterperson as you pass, and as the paper target rolls toward you, take the rifle by the barrel and lift it up over your head like an executioner with his axe. Then when the target gets within reach, bring the rifle butt down and smash the shit out of it, swinging over and over until the target's just a wad of ripped up construction paper all over your rifle butt. Even though everyone reading this assumes it'll end with the counterperson telling you to leave the firing range and you shooting a round into his chest, do it anyway.
Happy Go To A Firing Range Day!
Today's the day to go over to the firing range and as the paper target with the silhouette of the guy comes closer and closer to you, shoot rubber bands at it. If when you try to buy another target they tell you you can't shoot rubber bands at it, tell the counter person that's cool and this time, when the paper man comes rolling towards you, yell at it. Then when it gets close enough, dive forward and rip it to shreds with your bare hands like a real man. If when you try to buy your next paper target you're told that you can't fight your target hand-to-hand and that you'll have to use a gun, tell the salesperson everything's cool and you'll use a gun. Go get your rifle out of your trunk and bring it into the range, showing it off to the counterperson as you pass, and as the paper target rolls toward you, take the rifle by the barrel and lift it up over your head like an executioner with his axe. Then when the target gets within reach, bring the rifle butt down and smash the shit out of it, swinging over and over until the target's just a wad of ripped up construction paper all over your rifle butt. Even though everyone reading this assumes it'll end with the counterperson telling you to leave the firing range and you shooting a round into his chest, do it anyway.
Happy Go To A Firing Range Day!
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Go To An Emergency Room Waiting Area And Pace Day!
You like strangers to wonder about you but you don't like them to talk to you and you adore Spanish language soap operas, yes? Then you need to head on down to your nearest hospital's emergency room waiting area and pace like you're just a newlywed on a honeymoon whose beautiful new wife "started complaining about feeling a little light-headed and then one of the salesgirls found her on the floor of the dressing room and we couldn't wake her up. This has never happened before."
You should wear brown penny loafers and a docile-patterned plaid shirt tucked into your Dockers. Don't bring a jacket so that when you first walk in it looks like you were probably there the whole time but just stepped out for a smoke or a lotto ticket. All other parties present will be near-entire families waiting to find out their 11 year old daughter/sister did not survive the hit and run. Only you will be alone. No enormous father still wearing his phone company hard-hat to hold you in his gargantuan arms. No haggard mother to recoil from your brother's touch (she'll blame him until she is dead). Just you pacing back and forth, your hand stroking the top of your head, sipping from cold cup of coffee after cold cup of coffee (bring a lot of change for the coffee machine because you have to get change from the desk otherwise and you don't wanna have to draw too much attention from the girls back there if you wanna stay for the whole afternoon). Those families won't take their eyes off you. They'll be glad to see someone suffering and they'll hope that whoever you are waiting to find out about dies so that they can find out how you break down at the news.
Just for fun, but this can be risky, whenever a surgeon steps through the swinging doors into the waiting area, get up and look in his or her eyes anxiously. The surgeon will register you then quickly look away and shout out a last name to avoid having to tell you they don't know anything about your loved one. After a while, on maybe the sixth time you've jumped out of your chair hoping for good news, they'll just get kind of fed up and you can be sure that while they're operating on the next patient, they'll start asking around the table, "Hey, anyone know who that one guy is out there? He's bumming me out." You should split before they ask you to leave though.
If you wanna make a scene before you go, keep it contained. Just pick up an empty chair and slam it to the ground a few times shouting "Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?!!" Then head out for some hot dogs and go home and go to bed. Oh, and uh, Heston? How's about you lay off shaking your fist up at God this time, okay baby?
Happy Go To An Emergency Room Waiting Area And Pace Day!
You like strangers to wonder about you but you don't like them to talk to you and you adore Spanish language soap operas, yes? Then you need to head on down to your nearest hospital's emergency room waiting area and pace like you're just a newlywed on a honeymoon whose beautiful new wife "started complaining about feeling a little light-headed and then one of the salesgirls found her on the floor of the dressing room and we couldn't wake her up. This has never happened before."
You should wear brown penny loafers and a docile-patterned plaid shirt tucked into your Dockers. Don't bring a jacket so that when you first walk in it looks like you were probably there the whole time but just stepped out for a smoke or a lotto ticket. All other parties present will be near-entire families waiting to find out their 11 year old daughter/sister did not survive the hit and run. Only you will be alone. No enormous father still wearing his phone company hard-hat to hold you in his gargantuan arms. No haggard mother to recoil from your brother's touch (she'll blame him until she is dead). Just you pacing back and forth, your hand stroking the top of your head, sipping from cold cup of coffee after cold cup of coffee (bring a lot of change for the coffee machine because you have to get change from the desk otherwise and you don't wanna have to draw too much attention from the girls back there if you wanna stay for the whole afternoon). Those families won't take their eyes off you. They'll be glad to see someone suffering and they'll hope that whoever you are waiting to find out about dies so that they can find out how you break down at the news.
Just for fun, but this can be risky, whenever a surgeon steps through the swinging doors into the waiting area, get up and look in his or her eyes anxiously. The surgeon will register you then quickly look away and shout out a last name to avoid having to tell you they don't know anything about your loved one. After a while, on maybe the sixth time you've jumped out of your chair hoping for good news, they'll just get kind of fed up and you can be sure that while they're operating on the next patient, they'll start asking around the table, "Hey, anyone know who that one guy is out there? He's bumming me out." You should split before they ask you to leave though.
If you wanna make a scene before you go, keep it contained. Just pick up an empty chair and slam it to the ground a few times shouting "Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?!!" Then head out for some hot dogs and go home and go to bed. Oh, and uh, Heston? How's about you lay off shaking your fist up at God this time, okay baby?
Happy Go To An Emergency Room Waiting Area And Pace Day!
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
When You Put All Your Weight Into Your Lips Like That, Everyone On The Commuter Train Can Tell What's On Your Mind Day!
Some of us have been riding this line for years now and each of us can find at least ten people in our car that we've seen every morning of our lives for as long as we've been cursed to remember such things. To look into those empty faces even one more time could be enough to break one or two of us. You being new and you wearing your hair cascading down overtop the fake fur collar of your black overcoat ensured that all our eyes were going to be on you anyway. Christ, that guy with the Clancy novel leaning on the Hep C poster, I even know that his fucking name is Philip and that his wife's name is Lane so fuck you if you think I'm gonna risk making eye contact with him again.
But man alive can you strike a pose on that handrail. I sometimes pass the ride by letting my thoughts make a return trip to a bed I used to visit when I was a younger man, but I'll usually pull my hat down over my eyes and pretend to fall asleep afore I let one of these early-retirement targets covet my daydream face. But you, you ain't even here with us are you? Those eyes burn a hole through every head that stands in the way of passage out that rear exit window. And the lips. The way you've got your lips open just a little bit and cupped up against the back of the hand you've got wrapped up tight around the handrail. If you gave your hand a little kiss I bet you'd lose your balance.
Get a room, lady.
Some of us have been riding this line for years now and each of us can find at least ten people in our car that we've seen every morning of our lives for as long as we've been cursed to remember such things. To look into those empty faces even one more time could be enough to break one or two of us. You being new and you wearing your hair cascading down overtop the fake fur collar of your black overcoat ensured that all our eyes were going to be on you anyway. Christ, that guy with the Clancy novel leaning on the Hep C poster, I even know that his fucking name is Philip and that his wife's name is Lane so fuck you if you think I'm gonna risk making eye contact with him again.
But man alive can you strike a pose on that handrail. I sometimes pass the ride by letting my thoughts make a return trip to a bed I used to visit when I was a younger man, but I'll usually pull my hat down over my eyes and pretend to fall asleep afore I let one of these early-retirement targets covet my daydream face. But you, you ain't even here with us are you? Those eyes burn a hole through every head that stands in the way of passage out that rear exit window. And the lips. The way you've got your lips open just a little bit and cupped up against the back of the hand you've got wrapped up tight around the handrail. If you gave your hand a little kiss I bet you'd lose your balance.
Get a room, lady.
Monday, November 11, 2002
Ignore That Knock On Your Front Door Day!
It's just those people who buzz into apartment houses without saying who they are so they can knock on every door in the building to tell people to go to church. Please play a CD with a beat whose time corresponds to the knocking so you can ignore the knocking completely if it's making you graze your knuckles along the valley of the naked torso lying next to you with a little less of an absent mind.
Or why not pretend you've been lying there for ages, barely wrapping your pelvises in a bathtowel for the rare occasion that one of you has to go to the kitchen to retrieve a few more plums and water from the Brita pitcher, just lolling about for months and years and days, staring at the ceiling or rolling over on your side to see if he or she is staring at the ceiling or if he or she has rolled onto his or her side to find out what you're staring at. Sometimes you rest your fingers on a thigh and sometimes your hair gets stroked away from in front of your eyes and sometimes you fall asleep for a few minutes you think but all the while more and more people gather outside your door and demand that you fulfill your duties to the outside world. Bill collectors, landlords, gas meter readers and UPS deliverymen who need a signature for this package. Ten deep they send their right arms swinging up beside their heads mechanically pounding upon a door that's never ever gonna be unlocked no not even if something's on fire. They'll never stop pounding because they have no respect for the fact that just ten feet away behind eight inches of crumbling drywall one of you just pulled too much blanket over with a kick of the leg and the other one of you just tugged a little bit of the blanket back.
Happy Ignore That Knock On Your Front Door Day!
It's just those people who buzz into apartment houses without saying who they are so they can knock on every door in the building to tell people to go to church. Please play a CD with a beat whose time corresponds to the knocking so you can ignore the knocking completely if it's making you graze your knuckles along the valley of the naked torso lying next to you with a little less of an absent mind.
Or why not pretend you've been lying there for ages, barely wrapping your pelvises in a bathtowel for the rare occasion that one of you has to go to the kitchen to retrieve a few more plums and water from the Brita pitcher, just lolling about for months and years and days, staring at the ceiling or rolling over on your side to see if he or she is staring at the ceiling or if he or she has rolled onto his or her side to find out what you're staring at. Sometimes you rest your fingers on a thigh and sometimes your hair gets stroked away from in front of your eyes and sometimes you fall asleep for a few minutes you think but all the while more and more people gather outside your door and demand that you fulfill your duties to the outside world. Bill collectors, landlords, gas meter readers and UPS deliverymen who need a signature for this package. Ten deep they send their right arms swinging up beside their heads mechanically pounding upon a door that's never ever gonna be unlocked no not even if something's on fire. They'll never stop pounding because they have no respect for the fact that just ten feet away behind eight inches of crumbling drywall one of you just pulled too much blanket over with a kick of the leg and the other one of you just tugged a little bit of the blanket back.
Happy Ignore That Knock On Your Front Door Day!
Sunday, November 10, 2002
Saturday, November 09, 2002
Don't Die From Lack Of Sleep Day!
Die from the hallucination brought about by your lack of sleep. For example, put a handgun on your desk. Then just stand there until you believe you are not in your own study but rather in the parlour of a wealthy and reknowned society type whom you believe to be cuckolding you with the spouse you never had. The handgun was placed there on the edge of his desk by you, obviously, laying down the gauntlet if you will. When your ailing cat saunters past your line of vision, you will hallucinate that the society type has lunged for the gun because that is the cowardly thing to do. Grab his forearm and try to direct the barrel of the gun towards the enormous (and I mean big) mirror. Either you or the dude that's in your head should fire the gun and shatter that big ass mirror. That's when all of the socialites will run from the party in the ballroom to see what happened (ie. your mom will get up from watching 60 Minutes 2 to see what the cat knocked over). When a crowd has formed around the two of you struggling for control of the gun and women are shrieking and men are shouting for 911 to be dialed (ie. when your mom asks you what the hell you're doing) fire one more shot. Then the two of you should just look each other in the eye for a second, neither of you betraying who was shot, until finally one of you falls to the ground dead, leaving the other to stand there, mouth agape, blood-stained hands outstretched in revulsion at having done just what you drove up to this mansion to do.
And by the by, the one who falls down dead will be you since you only made up the other dude because you haven't slept in a couple days and you thought maybe you could hallucinate yourself some friends but it all went kinda haywire. The bullet should hit your belly. Van Gogh died that way I think. (Bullet to the abdomen, I mean. I haven't a clue what kind of hallucinations went through that faggot's head.)
Happy Don't Die From Lack Of Sleep Day!
Die from the hallucination brought about by your lack of sleep. For example, put a handgun on your desk. Then just stand there until you believe you are not in your own study but rather in the parlour of a wealthy and reknowned society type whom you believe to be cuckolding you with the spouse you never had. The handgun was placed there on the edge of his desk by you, obviously, laying down the gauntlet if you will. When your ailing cat saunters past your line of vision, you will hallucinate that the society type has lunged for the gun because that is the cowardly thing to do. Grab his forearm and try to direct the barrel of the gun towards the enormous (and I mean big) mirror. Either you or the dude that's in your head should fire the gun and shatter that big ass mirror. That's when all of the socialites will run from the party in the ballroom to see what happened (ie. your mom will get up from watching 60 Minutes 2 to see what the cat knocked over). When a crowd has formed around the two of you struggling for control of the gun and women are shrieking and men are shouting for 911 to be dialed (ie. when your mom asks you what the hell you're doing) fire one more shot. Then the two of you should just look each other in the eye for a second, neither of you betraying who was shot, until finally one of you falls to the ground dead, leaving the other to stand there, mouth agape, blood-stained hands outstretched in revulsion at having done just what you drove up to this mansion to do.
And by the by, the one who falls down dead will be you since you only made up the other dude because you haven't slept in a couple days and you thought maybe you could hallucinate yourself some friends but it all went kinda haywire. The bullet should hit your belly. Van Gogh died that way I think. (Bullet to the abdomen, I mean. I haven't a clue what kind of hallucinations went through that faggot's head.)
Happy Don't Die From Lack Of Sleep Day!
Friday, November 08, 2002
Freak The Babysitter The Fuck Out Day!
Whether it's the bookish neighbor girl who seems a little sad about something or the gay boy that was recommended to you on your office email bulletin board, he or she has gotten a free ride for long enough. These are your children we're talking about. How's about you keep their hormone-addled, potentially suicidal, possibly recently date-raped teenage caregiver on his or her toes.
I'm not saying get a nannycam, Orwell. I'm saying send the virgin rifling into houseplants and behind crevices on the bookshelf to find the nannycam that ain't even there. All you have to do is go about your business like you would any other "Date Night" (you two are fucked by the way). "Jenny had a nap at five so she might be a little rowdy," you'll say in the dismissive tone of someone saying shit no one needs to hear because everyone's on the same page. "There's some pizza and coke in the fridge and you're welcome to it." Right, right. Little Tommy is already at his or her feet begging to be held upside down. And when the spouse is already in the car and you're just about to close the door just let the following drop to the carpet as light as a feather:
"Oh and by the way we know what's going on. Be home at 11."
Then shut the door behind you. When that movie or that dinner party starts to bore the living shit out of you, just imagine the frenetic activity going on in your home as a freshly panicked teen racks his or her brain to make sure what was heard was heard right. If only you could be there to watch your sitter hold your baby in such a delicate and hesitant manner so as to avoid any possible misinterpretation of "innapropriate touching." How sad the phone calls will be to boyfriends and girlfriends who can't come over and remove their tops on your couch anymore (this bums you out a little). Sure, you might have to look for another sitter next week, but at least that kid's gonna remember you for the rest of his or her gradually less enchanting lifetime. Not to mention that no one's going to be complaining about stretched out dresses no more.
What's it like to be as unhappy as you?
Happy Freak The Babysitter The Fuck Out Day!
Whether it's the bookish neighbor girl who seems a little sad about something or the gay boy that was recommended to you on your office email bulletin board, he or she has gotten a free ride for long enough. These are your children we're talking about. How's about you keep their hormone-addled, potentially suicidal, possibly recently date-raped teenage caregiver on his or her toes.
I'm not saying get a nannycam, Orwell. I'm saying send the virgin rifling into houseplants and behind crevices on the bookshelf to find the nannycam that ain't even there. All you have to do is go about your business like you would any other "Date Night" (you two are fucked by the way). "Jenny had a nap at five so she might be a little rowdy," you'll say in the dismissive tone of someone saying shit no one needs to hear because everyone's on the same page. "There's some pizza and coke in the fridge and you're welcome to it." Right, right. Little Tommy is already at his or her feet begging to be held upside down. And when the spouse is already in the car and you're just about to close the door just let the following drop to the carpet as light as a feather:
"Oh and by the way we know what's going on. Be home at 11."
Then shut the door behind you. When that movie or that dinner party starts to bore the living shit out of you, just imagine the frenetic activity going on in your home as a freshly panicked teen racks his or her brain to make sure what was heard was heard right. If only you could be there to watch your sitter hold your baby in such a delicate and hesitant manner so as to avoid any possible misinterpretation of "innapropriate touching." How sad the phone calls will be to boyfriends and girlfriends who can't come over and remove their tops on your couch anymore (this bums you out a little). Sure, you might have to look for another sitter next week, but at least that kid's gonna remember you for the rest of his or her gradually less enchanting lifetime. Not to mention that no one's going to be complaining about stretched out dresses no more.
What's it like to be as unhappy as you?
Happy Freak The Babysitter The Fuck Out Day!
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