So Glad The Floral Print Minidress Day!
You've got a desk made out of wooden planks and sawhorses and clothes you bought when you were playing hookie from high school and an alarm clock that used to be your grandmother's and it's got giant red numbers on it because her eyes were going bad before she died. You've also got five left of a six pack that cost more money than you've earned all winter. Give her one and tell her to sit down and wait for you.
You haven't got a job or any idea how you're going to pay rent again tomorrow and you haven't got any dreams to pursue or authorities to run from and you don't even have any music playing in the living room because the stereo that used to be in there was your roommate's and he moved into his own place last month because he's a grownup (one year younger than you). You also haven't got any reason to leave the house in the morning and she did as you said and sat down to wait for you so go on.
You do have a ceiling fan that makes the single remaining bulb's white light skitter across the dark wood floorboards in a way that's fun to watch after 11 at night and you do have a hideous floral print couch that you found on a sidewalk five years ago miracualously clean of the scent of pee. You also have a talent for helping people out of embarrassing situations which is why you're gonna be so glad the floral print minidress she's wearing sports the same exact pattern as the upholstery of the couch she's sitting on and she hasn't the slightest idea. So to save her from suffering a mortifying coincidence you're going to have to rush right over and kiss her till her eyes close and lead her into your bedroom and get that dress off her body just as quick as you can. You're just too nice a guy to let it go any other way.
Happy So Glad The Floral Print Minidress Day!
Thursday, February 27, 2003
No, No, Sell Only One Book Day!
If you want people to feel the healing light to be found in the pages of "The Gospel Of The Judeo-Sikh Messiah, Apostle Sharit O'Reilly Rosengarten," by all means, sell the book for a modest fee on public transportation. But don't open a book store. You can't sell "The Gospel Of The Judeo-Sikh Messiah, Apostle Sharit O'Reilly Rosengarten" and a dog-eared copy of "The Hot Zone."
It might get discouraging when you look into thirty five pairs of eyes repeating, "Care to learn the lessons that'll teach you to live in the modern world?" and just get dead stare after dead stare in return. But even if no one wants to buy today, tomorrow someone might lose her hope and she might find herself wondering if you'll come shoving through her trolley car once again with that book that's "maybe got some insights. Couldn't hurt to read it."
But you're gonna lose all credibility if she hears, "Care to learn the lessons that'll teach you to live in the modern world? No? How bout 'The Nanny Diaries'? 'Bush At War'?" Don't get greedy B. Dalton. People love made-up religion. They just need to take their time accepting the fact that all else is lost.
Happy No, No, Sell Only One Book Day!
If you want people to feel the healing light to be found in the pages of "The Gospel Of The Judeo-Sikh Messiah, Apostle Sharit O'Reilly Rosengarten," by all means, sell the book for a modest fee on public transportation. But don't open a book store. You can't sell "The Gospel Of The Judeo-Sikh Messiah, Apostle Sharit O'Reilly Rosengarten" and a dog-eared copy of "The Hot Zone."
It might get discouraging when you look into thirty five pairs of eyes repeating, "Care to learn the lessons that'll teach you to live in the modern world?" and just get dead stare after dead stare in return. But even if no one wants to buy today, tomorrow someone might lose her hope and she might find herself wondering if you'll come shoving through her trolley car once again with that book that's "maybe got some insights. Couldn't hurt to read it."
But you're gonna lose all credibility if she hears, "Care to learn the lessons that'll teach you to live in the modern world? No? How bout 'The Nanny Diaries'? 'Bush At War'?" Don't get greedy B. Dalton. People love made-up religion. They just need to take their time accepting the fact that all else is lost.
Happy No, No, Sell Only One Book Day!
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Follow Your Crush Around Town Because You Never Know Day!
You have a crush on somebody but you're too shy to do anything about it. So how do you get your crush to spend enough time with you to get to know who you are and realize what a wonderful person has been right in front of his or her eyes all this time?
It's about timing. What you need to do is tail your crush every hour of every day until there's another terrorist attack. This way you and your crush can take cover in a secluded underground shelter (which you will have scoped out ahead of time) and as you develop makeshift technology, dig into the soil under the concrete for food and water, and procreate so that the future generations of man might rise from the darkness, your crush will watch you over the years and start to think, "What was I doing dating all those losers? None of them would ever have thought to distill our urine into an antibacterial ointment."
And that's when you make your move!
Happy Follow Your Crush Around Town Because You Never Know Day!
You have a crush on somebody but you're too shy to do anything about it. So how do you get your crush to spend enough time with you to get to know who you are and realize what a wonderful person has been right in front of his or her eyes all this time?
It's about timing. What you need to do is tail your crush every hour of every day until there's another terrorist attack. This way you and your crush can take cover in a secluded underground shelter (which you will have scoped out ahead of time) and as you develop makeshift technology, dig into the soil under the concrete for food and water, and procreate so that the future generations of man might rise from the darkness, your crush will watch you over the years and start to think, "What was I doing dating all those losers? None of them would ever have thought to distill our urine into an antibacterial ointment."
And that's when you make your move!
Happy Follow Your Crush Around Town Because You Never Know Day!
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
Confess To A Crime You Didn't Commit Day!
There's a lot of reasons to do this, and none more appealing than to be one of those "crackpots" that cops are always talking about whenever they announce that they need a criminal to be responsible for a crime. "Crackpots comin' out of the woodwork" is what policemen say. But they have to talk to you like you are the criminal they want to hire until they can rule you out. So for at least the beginning of the interrogation you get to feel all, "I'm the RiverOaks Strangler and I did it because of television programming!" Eventually, of course, they'll get you to admit that you're afraid of the dark so you couldn't have strangled the people who were strangled at nighttime. But on occasion, every single thing about your personality and history matches up with the real criminal. So they let you go to prison. And it could work out that the real criminal gets hit by a bus right when you go into prison, so there aren't any more crimes committed while you're behind bars. So no one doubts that you did it and when you die in jail from asphyxiation on cocks, America will remember you as "That guy that killed all those people."
Another big reason to confess to a crime you didn't commit is because you're mentally retarded and the police ask you to sign a document. Sign it and you'll get free tater tots every day for the rest of your life.
And one more reason is to avoid being a father to your child and the army won't take you because you have a heart condition. No one asks you to show up for a first communion if you're doing three to five.
Happy Confess To A Crime You Didn't Commit Day!
There's a lot of reasons to do this, and none more appealing than to be one of those "crackpots" that cops are always talking about whenever they announce that they need a criminal to be responsible for a crime. "Crackpots comin' out of the woodwork" is what policemen say. But they have to talk to you like you are the criminal they want to hire until they can rule you out. So for at least the beginning of the interrogation you get to feel all, "I'm the RiverOaks Strangler and I did it because of television programming!" Eventually, of course, they'll get you to admit that you're afraid of the dark so you couldn't have strangled the people who were strangled at nighttime. But on occasion, every single thing about your personality and history matches up with the real criminal. So they let you go to prison. And it could work out that the real criminal gets hit by a bus right when you go into prison, so there aren't any more crimes committed while you're behind bars. So no one doubts that you did it and when you die in jail from asphyxiation on cocks, America will remember you as "That guy that killed all those people."
Another big reason to confess to a crime you didn't commit is because you're mentally retarded and the police ask you to sign a document. Sign it and you'll get free tater tots every day for the rest of your life.
And one more reason is to avoid being a father to your child and the army won't take you because you have a heart condition. No one asks you to show up for a first communion if you're doing three to five.
Happy Confess To A Crime You Didn't Commit Day!
Monday, February 24, 2003
You Are An Ugly Person Day!
Walk tall, beast! A call has been sounded to the hairlipped, the hunchbacked, the overly ruddy complexioned, and those people who look like they swallowed their own chins. Rise up, unroll that turtleneck from atop your nose, and let your offensive visage feel the sun's grin.
You are not unattractive. Your brother's wife is unattractive. You have the power to actually piss people off just by sitting down at a neighboring table in a restaurant.
No one wants to give you anything. Salesmen don't even want to sell you their wares. And because you aren't thrown in prison all the time just because you were spotted, everyone hates the Constitution of the United States.
But today you are recognized as important a minority as the beautiful, the wealthy, the people who have telekinesis. Today is the day to remind the world of your presence. When you talk to strangers, touch them on their biceps. When you pull over to help someone change a flat on the freeway and they tell you they'd rather wait for AAA, get out and change the flat anyway. When you sneeze in the office and the chick in the neighboring cubicle doesn't say God Bless You, go to the cubicle and lean in real close to her ear and shout, "Um, Ahhh Chooo!!! Fuckin' douchbag!" Then grab her by the wrist and slap your balled up snotty tissue into her palm, clenching her fist shut around the tissue before you return to your seat. Also, don't forget to mail out framed 5X7 photographs of yourself to everyone for whom you have an address. Include no note of explanation.
See you at the parade!
Walk tall, beast! A call has been sounded to the hairlipped, the hunchbacked, the overly ruddy complexioned, and those people who look like they swallowed their own chins. Rise up, unroll that turtleneck from atop your nose, and let your offensive visage feel the sun's grin.
You are not unattractive. Your brother's wife is unattractive. You have the power to actually piss people off just by sitting down at a neighboring table in a restaurant.
No one wants to give you anything. Salesmen don't even want to sell you their wares. And because you aren't thrown in prison all the time just because you were spotted, everyone hates the Constitution of the United States.
But today you are recognized as important a minority as the beautiful, the wealthy, the people who have telekinesis. Today is the day to remind the world of your presence. When you talk to strangers, touch them on their biceps. When you pull over to help someone change a flat on the freeway and they tell you they'd rather wait for AAA, get out and change the flat anyway. When you sneeze in the office and the chick in the neighboring cubicle doesn't say God Bless You, go to the cubicle and lean in real close to her ear and shout, "Um, Ahhh Chooo!!! Fuckin' douchbag!" Then grab her by the wrist and slap your balled up snotty tissue into her palm, clenching her fist shut around the tissue before you return to your seat. Also, don't forget to mail out framed 5X7 photographs of yourself to everyone for whom you have an address. Include no note of explanation.
See you at the parade!
Sunday, February 23, 2003
Boyfriend In A Sweater-Vest Day!
Your boyfriend showed up in a sweater-vest you've never seen him wear before. It shows the shape of his belly.
You're only meeting for coffee before he heads out to meet a friend and you go and run some errands, both of you ending up in your separate apartments for the night. And he is wearing a button-up shirt and an undershirt underneath the sweater-vest.
So how do you convince him to have sex with you wearing only the sweater-vest? As soon as he walked through the door you decided that's the only thing that matters anymore, him entering you wearing only a sweater-vest. But how?
You first have to convince him to cancel his plans with his friend and take you to his place or your place. That's not too difficult. You rarely demand his body in an urgent kind of way and he's always more than accommodating when you do. But how do you tell him to remove his pants and socks, then remove his sweater-vest, remove his shirt and undershirt, then put his sweater-vest back on, then penetrate you without backing out of it with a giggle to make it seem like a joke?
You can't go half-assed with this. If you go all the way back to one of your apartments and surrender the evening to sex, abandoning your errands and his meeting, and you don't have the kind of sex you want to have, you're going to be pissed off at yourself for not being plaintive and he's going to notice it in your lack of desire and he'll wonder why you made him give up his evening for you in the first place. He'll accuse you of just being possessive and not at all the passionate person you sometimes pretend to be and you'll just fight until one of you gives up and heads home to sleep in your own bed alone, thank goodness.
You could, if you've talked to each other this way before, tell him right there in the coffee shop exactly what you want, ie: "I want you to fuck me in that sweater vest right now, but only in the sweater vest. I want to feel your bare shoulders stubbing out from the wool." He'll be fine with it, especially if you've talked to each other this way before. At the very least, he'll be flattered that you like his new sweater-vest. Even the most brazen consumer likes to have his purchases validated.
But if you tell him everything up front, you might blow your wad right there. Now he knows what's burning inside you, and maybe the desire being so odd and from nowhere and him not having a clue was fanning the flames a bit. Now you both have an entire commute home to think about you wanting to fuck a dude in a sweater-vest and what that means. He'll wonder if your ex used to wear sweater-vests. You'll remember all the sweater-vests your ex used to wear. By the time you get home, the last thing either of you will want to see is that fucking sweater-vest. But you'll still go through with it and you'll both be disappointed and you'll fight the way you were going to fight two paragraphs ago.
The best way to handle this is step-by-step. First get him in bed. Again, this isn't difficult. Remind him that in bed is where he gets to have intercourse with you and he'll remember that intercourse feels good and he'll say "no sweat." Now, just like normal, kiss and grope and peel off clothing, but try to keep him from penetrating you. Then once he's completely naked say, "Can you put your sweater-vest back on?" If he bothers to ask why, just say, "I like how it feels on my skin." But he won't bother to ask why because all males would prefer to have sex with some of their clothes still on. All of them.
Happy Boyfriend In A Sweater Vest Day!
Your boyfriend showed up in a sweater-vest you've never seen him wear before. It shows the shape of his belly.
You're only meeting for coffee before he heads out to meet a friend and you go and run some errands, both of you ending up in your separate apartments for the night. And he is wearing a button-up shirt and an undershirt underneath the sweater-vest.
So how do you convince him to have sex with you wearing only the sweater-vest? As soon as he walked through the door you decided that's the only thing that matters anymore, him entering you wearing only a sweater-vest. But how?
You first have to convince him to cancel his plans with his friend and take you to his place or your place. That's not too difficult. You rarely demand his body in an urgent kind of way and he's always more than accommodating when you do. But how do you tell him to remove his pants and socks, then remove his sweater-vest, remove his shirt and undershirt, then put his sweater-vest back on, then penetrate you without backing out of it with a giggle to make it seem like a joke?
You can't go half-assed with this. If you go all the way back to one of your apartments and surrender the evening to sex, abandoning your errands and his meeting, and you don't have the kind of sex you want to have, you're going to be pissed off at yourself for not being plaintive and he's going to notice it in your lack of desire and he'll wonder why you made him give up his evening for you in the first place. He'll accuse you of just being possessive and not at all the passionate person you sometimes pretend to be and you'll just fight until one of you gives up and heads home to sleep in your own bed alone, thank goodness.
You could, if you've talked to each other this way before, tell him right there in the coffee shop exactly what you want, ie: "I want you to fuck me in that sweater vest right now, but only in the sweater vest. I want to feel your bare shoulders stubbing out from the wool." He'll be fine with it, especially if you've talked to each other this way before. At the very least, he'll be flattered that you like his new sweater-vest. Even the most brazen consumer likes to have his purchases validated.
But if you tell him everything up front, you might blow your wad right there. Now he knows what's burning inside you, and maybe the desire being so odd and from nowhere and him not having a clue was fanning the flames a bit. Now you both have an entire commute home to think about you wanting to fuck a dude in a sweater-vest and what that means. He'll wonder if your ex used to wear sweater-vests. You'll remember all the sweater-vests your ex used to wear. By the time you get home, the last thing either of you will want to see is that fucking sweater-vest. But you'll still go through with it and you'll both be disappointed and you'll fight the way you were going to fight two paragraphs ago.
The best way to handle this is step-by-step. First get him in bed. Again, this isn't difficult. Remind him that in bed is where he gets to have intercourse with you and he'll remember that intercourse feels good and he'll say "no sweat." Now, just like normal, kiss and grope and peel off clothing, but try to keep him from penetrating you. Then once he's completely naked say, "Can you put your sweater-vest back on?" If he bothers to ask why, just say, "I like how it feels on my skin." But he won't bother to ask why because all males would prefer to have sex with some of their clothes still on. All of them.
Happy Boyfriend In A Sweater Vest Day!
Saturday, February 22, 2003
Play Some Tennis Day!
Just get out there and hit the ol' fuzzy yellow ball back and forth over the net until someone lands it outside the perimeter of the court. After every game, meet at the net and whomever won gets to tell a tale (3 hours max) of having loved and lost. If a story particuarly moves you and you don't think you can top it even if you did win the next game, just say "I'm outta here" and split. Then go out to the parking lot and key your opponent's car.
Happy Play Some Tennis Day!
Just get out there and hit the ol' fuzzy yellow ball back and forth over the net until someone lands it outside the perimeter of the court. After every game, meet at the net and whomever won gets to tell a tale (3 hours max) of having loved and lost. If a story particuarly moves you and you don't think you can top it even if you did win the next game, just say "I'm outta here" and split. Then go out to the parking lot and key your opponent's car.
Happy Play Some Tennis Day!
Friday, February 21, 2003
Outlet Shopping Day!
You like pussy, right? I thought so. Even though you're only eleven, you have the look of a girl who likes pussy. Well, unfortunately, today has nothing to do with pussy.
Today is about Brand Name Bargains! So, why not head out to the farthest outskirts of the state in which you live or one within the tri-state area and drop by a seven mile expanse of Outlet Shopping Strip Mall and you might just be able to pick up a plaid American Eagle shirt for five dollars cheaper than you would normally pay for a plaid American Eagle shirt. Also, there are socks!
Happy Outlet Shopping Day!
You like pussy, right? I thought so. Even though you're only eleven, you have the look of a girl who likes pussy. Well, unfortunately, today has nothing to do with pussy.
Today is about Brand Name Bargains! So, why not head out to the farthest outskirts of the state in which you live or one within the tri-state area and drop by a seven mile expanse of Outlet Shopping Strip Mall and you might just be able to pick up a plaid American Eagle shirt for five dollars cheaper than you would normally pay for a plaid American Eagle shirt. Also, there are socks!
Happy Outlet Shopping Day!
Thursday, February 20, 2003
Bluebird Day!
Listen to the song of the Bluebird on your windowsill. Pretty shitty right? Give it a break though, it is just a bird. If you're gonna blame someone for that song, blame God. He wrote it.
Do you believe in an afterlife? If you do, that Bluebird might embody the spirit of someone close to you who died. Or someone close and dead to you could have sent the Bluebird to sing to you this morning in order to ward off any early morning dread. Just because someone died doesn't mean they know what cheers you up. And the dead can't really have a bottle of Wild Turkey delivered to your house, so pretend it's Christmas and you just unwrapped a box full of an ugly sweater that doesn't fit, given to you by someone who thinks this might be the last Christmas they'll ever see. That's right, go "oooh."
So just assume your dearly departed is watching you for as long as the Bluebird is singing on your windowsill. Just smile at it like an idiot. The happier you look, the sooner the dead will leave you alone. So paste a big grin on your face and say real stupid-like, "Hi Mr. Bluebird!" If you think you're gonna die of boredom, pass the time by remembering genitals you've seen over the years.
Happy Bluebird Day!
Listen to the song of the Bluebird on your windowsill. Pretty shitty right? Give it a break though, it is just a bird. If you're gonna blame someone for that song, blame God. He wrote it.
Do you believe in an afterlife? If you do, that Bluebird might embody the spirit of someone close to you who died. Or someone close and dead to you could have sent the Bluebird to sing to you this morning in order to ward off any early morning dread. Just because someone died doesn't mean they know what cheers you up. And the dead can't really have a bottle of Wild Turkey delivered to your house, so pretend it's Christmas and you just unwrapped a box full of an ugly sweater that doesn't fit, given to you by someone who thinks this might be the last Christmas they'll ever see. That's right, go "oooh."
So just assume your dearly departed is watching you for as long as the Bluebird is singing on your windowsill. Just smile at it like an idiot. The happier you look, the sooner the dead will leave you alone. So paste a big grin on your face and say real stupid-like, "Hi Mr. Bluebird!" If you think you're gonna die of boredom, pass the time by remembering genitals you've seen over the years.
Happy Bluebird Day!
Wednesday, February 19, 2003
The Place For Mankind In The Universe Day!
Today is the day to contemplate the place for mankind in the universe but to save you time, Girls Are Pretty will just tell you what it is.
The universe is like a big, warm tub full of water. Mankind is naturally predisposed to want to climb into the tub and soak for a while. But every time mankind does this, all of the universe's hot water gets used up and inevitably, Dad wakes up late for work because he stayed out drinking again and he hops into the universe for a quick shower to wash his cuts and abrasions clean, but there's no hot water left. So he finds mankind and slaps him silly, this time so bad that Mom has to call mankind in sick for school. What mom doesn't know is that the last time mankind's guidance counselor read mankind's absentee note, she looked at the bruise on mankind's arm and said that if mankind missed one more day of school, excused or not, she would call his mother and father in for a conference. Mankind tries to warn his mother from making him stay home but his mother won't be embarrassed by the bloody slice in mankind's upper lip. She keeps him under wraps and mankind spends the day regretting the place he took in the universe because he knows that getting called into the guidance counselor is going to make Daddy angrier than ever. Mankind wonders why he always has to be such a bad boy and make Daddy angry.
Here's hoping you all are feeling a little less inconsequential now.
Happy The Place For Mankind In The Universe Day!
Today is the day to contemplate the place for mankind in the universe but to save you time, Girls Are Pretty will just tell you what it is.
The universe is like a big, warm tub full of water. Mankind is naturally predisposed to want to climb into the tub and soak for a while. But every time mankind does this, all of the universe's hot water gets used up and inevitably, Dad wakes up late for work because he stayed out drinking again and he hops into the universe for a quick shower to wash his cuts and abrasions clean, but there's no hot water left. So he finds mankind and slaps him silly, this time so bad that Mom has to call mankind in sick for school. What mom doesn't know is that the last time mankind's guidance counselor read mankind's absentee note, she looked at the bruise on mankind's arm and said that if mankind missed one more day of school, excused or not, she would call his mother and father in for a conference. Mankind tries to warn his mother from making him stay home but his mother won't be embarrassed by the bloody slice in mankind's upper lip. She keeps him under wraps and mankind spends the day regretting the place he took in the universe because he knows that getting called into the guidance counselor is going to make Daddy angrier than ever. Mankind wonders why he always has to be such a bad boy and make Daddy angry.
Here's hoping you all are feeling a little less inconsequential now.
Happy The Place For Mankind In The Universe Day!
Tuesday, February 18, 2003
Someone Doesn't Have An Arm Anymore Day!
It might be the guy who sells you your donuts, or it might be your wife. Maybe she didn't wanna tell you about the car accident and cause you to ruin the billion-dollar presentation you were to deliver to the Tokyo office. After all, the arm still won't be there when you get back.
If it's the donut guy, he made an ill-advised wager.
Yes, it could be your kitty. In fact, if you can't bear to take a chance, why not hack off the little shit's arm first thing in the morning, because there will only be one and it will be someone you know so if it's not your kitty it could be your daughter or your mistress. And how does one end it with a mistress who is no longer attractive because she only has one arm without feeling way super dicky? Slice the paw.
Don't get too bummed about today. Whether it's your pet or your mother, whoever ends up without an arm today will live the rest of his or her life as an inspiration to us all.
Happy Someone Doesn't Have An Arm Anymore Day!
It might be the guy who sells you your donuts, or it might be your wife. Maybe she didn't wanna tell you about the car accident and cause you to ruin the billion-dollar presentation you were to deliver to the Tokyo office. After all, the arm still won't be there when you get back.
If it's the donut guy, he made an ill-advised wager.
Yes, it could be your kitty. In fact, if you can't bear to take a chance, why not hack off the little shit's arm first thing in the morning, because there will only be one and it will be someone you know so if it's not your kitty it could be your daughter or your mistress. And how does one end it with a mistress who is no longer attractive because she only has one arm without feeling way super dicky? Slice the paw.
Don't get too bummed about today. Whether it's your pet or your mother, whoever ends up without an arm today will live the rest of his or her life as an inspiration to us all.
Happy Someone Doesn't Have An Arm Anymore Day!
Monday, February 17, 2003
Popsicle Sex Day!
It's deep February, true, and a lot of folks are buried under snow or at least late winter malaise. But unfortunately, today is Popsicle Sex Day. And yes, you have to engage in some form of sexual activity that incorporates a popsicle or popsicles. Or ice cream candy bars I suppose.
Actually, scratch that. No ice cream candy bars, you sick son of a bitch. Anyway, if you just wanna go through the motions, do the right thing and circle a nipple with the tip of the popsicle (it hurts, I know) then someone have an orgasm and no one'll be the wiser. Just as long as the popsicle is bared and you guys look like you're aware of it and maybe pretend to dig it a little, just to please the giant invisible ant that watches everyone have sex and eats those who don't do it the way he wants you to. I mentioned this one was his, right?
If you really wanna go whole-hog with this one, slide the popsicle in and out of each other's mouths, vaginas and anuses over and over again in a real "let's fuck the popsicle!" kinda way. If one or both of you has a penis, slap it up against the popsicle then lick the popsicle or let the popsicle melt its juice all over your penises and then you can lick and suck all of the penises clean. Once the popsicle is completely melted, if you're still into having sex with something you shouldn't have sex with, you can use the popsicle stick. I know it doesn't feel as good to have a skinny little popsicle stick inside yourself, but how good did an ice cold popsicle feel? It's more the gesture of it that's getting you off here.
If you don't have anyone to have sex with before the day's out, you can't just masturbate using a popsicle and avoid the wrath of the giant invisible ant. You'll have to have sex with someone using a popsicle before midnight. If the person you choose doesn't want to have sex with you, you can always force him or her to have sex with you. The ant will find you and eat you. Know this.
Happy Popsicle Sex Day!
It's deep February, true, and a lot of folks are buried under snow or at least late winter malaise. But unfortunately, today is Popsicle Sex Day. And yes, you have to engage in some form of sexual activity that incorporates a popsicle or popsicles. Or ice cream candy bars I suppose.
Actually, scratch that. No ice cream candy bars, you sick son of a bitch. Anyway, if you just wanna go through the motions, do the right thing and circle a nipple with the tip of the popsicle (it hurts, I know) then someone have an orgasm and no one'll be the wiser. Just as long as the popsicle is bared and you guys look like you're aware of it and maybe pretend to dig it a little, just to please the giant invisible ant that watches everyone have sex and eats those who don't do it the way he wants you to. I mentioned this one was his, right?
If you really wanna go whole-hog with this one, slide the popsicle in and out of each other's mouths, vaginas and anuses over and over again in a real "let's fuck the popsicle!" kinda way. If one or both of you has a penis, slap it up against the popsicle then lick the popsicle or let the popsicle melt its juice all over your penises and then you can lick and suck all of the penises clean. Once the popsicle is completely melted, if you're still into having sex with something you shouldn't have sex with, you can use the popsicle stick. I know it doesn't feel as good to have a skinny little popsicle stick inside yourself, but how good did an ice cold popsicle feel? It's more the gesture of it that's getting you off here.
If you don't have anyone to have sex with before the day's out, you can't just masturbate using a popsicle and avoid the wrath of the giant invisible ant. You'll have to have sex with someone using a popsicle before midnight. If the person you choose doesn't want to have sex with you, you can always force him or her to have sex with you. The ant will find you and eat you. Know this.
Happy Popsicle Sex Day!
Sunday, February 16, 2003
Use Your Talents As An Accomplished Designer Of Fireworks Displays To Make Abortion Illegal In The United States Day!
Right around 7:30 when the sky's just black enough and all of your neighbors are still gathered near a dinner table or a tv, light off the opening drumroll of bottle rockets to get their attention. One you see the curtains part on their windows, launch the opening act: An Allegory for Abstinence.
Allegory for Abstinence: White sprinklers form shape of a teen mom putting cigarettes out on her baby while a pie burns in an oven.
Next come the numbers. Make them up.
Numbers: Red Place Fires form various abortion statistics in the February night sky. "43,000 aborted baby fingers are washed up onto American beaches every year." "Just a second ago, like nineteen women decided to have their babies killed simply because they don't wanna be pregnant over Memorial Day Weekend." "You can't hear the sound of a fetus screaming only because that suction machine is so damn loud."
Finally, the big finish. An Abortion In Starfire.
An Abortion In Starfire: Blue and pink swerve rockets take the shape of an adorable third trimester fetus. Yellow glare pods form a bubble wand in the fetus' hand. If budget allows, we get green flicker rockets to form bubbles rising from the wand. Next comes the red switch bursts in the form of a giant coat hanger ripping through the chest of the fetus. After about ten seconds, the fetus bursts into several beautiful yet ominous rainbow umbrella shells. The white shriekers are launched to give voice to the silent scream. Then just do the same finale that we did on the 4th.
If you give this one all you got, they're gonna be hearing those Ooohs and Aaahs all the way at the top of Capitol Hill!
Happy Use Your Talents As An Accomplished Designer Of Fireworks Displays To Make Abortion Illegal In The United States Day!
Right around 7:30 when the sky's just black enough and all of your neighbors are still gathered near a dinner table or a tv, light off the opening drumroll of bottle rockets to get their attention. One you see the curtains part on their windows, launch the opening act: An Allegory for Abstinence.
Allegory for Abstinence: White sprinklers form shape of a teen mom putting cigarettes out on her baby while a pie burns in an oven.
Next come the numbers. Make them up.
Numbers: Red Place Fires form various abortion statistics in the February night sky. "43,000 aborted baby fingers are washed up onto American beaches every year." "Just a second ago, like nineteen women decided to have their babies killed simply because they don't wanna be pregnant over Memorial Day Weekend." "You can't hear the sound of a fetus screaming only because that suction machine is so damn loud."
Finally, the big finish. An Abortion In Starfire.
An Abortion In Starfire: Blue and pink swerve rockets take the shape of an adorable third trimester fetus. Yellow glare pods form a bubble wand in the fetus' hand. If budget allows, we get green flicker rockets to form bubbles rising from the wand. Next comes the red switch bursts in the form of a giant coat hanger ripping through the chest of the fetus. After about ten seconds, the fetus bursts into several beautiful yet ominous rainbow umbrella shells. The white shriekers are launched to give voice to the silent scream. Then just do the same finale that we did on the 4th.
If you give this one all you got, they're gonna be hearing those Ooohs and Aaahs all the way at the top of Capitol Hill!
Happy Use Your Talents As An Accomplished Designer Of Fireworks Displays To Make Abortion Illegal In The United States Day!
Saturday, February 15, 2003
Pornography Makes You A Better Person Day!
All 24 hours of today are special because today if you watch pornography it means you're a better parent and you'll also be able to better accept the fact that good people have to die even when they're loved by many and do so much good for others. It only comes around once a year, so make the most of it. Rent, purchase or download as much pornographic material as you can enjoy and you'll feel yourself become less likely to suffer from heart disease and more likely to pummel Collins at Racquetball this Thursday. Not to mention all those dinner party invitations that are gonna start pouring in because you're gonna be one hell of a witty storyteller after watching all that porn!
FAQ
Q:But isn't porn wrong?
A: I don't know.
So hurry over to the shopping center to beat the rush to the renovated coat closet of your favorite Korean video store and just grab as many pornographic video boxes as you can fit into your arms. If someone comes in after you and says, "Hey, you took all the porn!" you tell them you're sorry but you're not going to share. If that person asks you out on a date, you say "Normally I'd say yes, but after I watch all this porn I'm going to be such a wonderful person I'm going to have to beat them off with a stick." If the person asks, "Beat what off with a stick?" say "Big dogs."
Happy Pornography Makes You A Better Person Day!
All 24 hours of today are special because today if you watch pornography it means you're a better parent and you'll also be able to better accept the fact that good people have to die even when they're loved by many and do so much good for others. It only comes around once a year, so make the most of it. Rent, purchase or download as much pornographic material as you can enjoy and you'll feel yourself become less likely to suffer from heart disease and more likely to pummel Collins at Racquetball this Thursday. Not to mention all those dinner party invitations that are gonna start pouring in because you're gonna be one hell of a witty storyteller after watching all that porn!
FAQ
Q:But isn't porn wrong?
A: I don't know.
So hurry over to the shopping center to beat the rush to the renovated coat closet of your favorite Korean video store and just grab as many pornographic video boxes as you can fit into your arms. If someone comes in after you and says, "Hey, you took all the porn!" you tell them you're sorry but you're not going to share. If that person asks you out on a date, you say "Normally I'd say yes, but after I watch all this porn I'm going to be such a wonderful person I'm going to have to beat them off with a stick." If the person asks, "Beat what off with a stick?" say "Big dogs."
Happy Pornography Makes You A Better Person Day!
Friday, February 14, 2003
Admit That You Cannot Get People To Fall In Love With You Simply By Asking Baby Jesus To Make Them Do It Day!
How many times are you gonna do that praying thing before you accept the fact that Baby Jesus just isn't going to help you out? Every night for almost a week now you've been getting down on your knees at bedtime and being all, "Baby Jesus who is all powerful and could beat up anybody in a fight, I know you can make people do things without them realizing it's you that's tugging the strings. So Baby Jesus, make the following people fall in love with me so hard that they call me up panting and being like, 'Holy shit if you so much as punched me in the nose I swear to Christ I'd come.' I know you can do it Baby Jesus so stop making me fucking wait you fat little shit!"
But has he? No. Maybe he knows what a piece of shit you are.
Happy Admit That You Cannot Get People To Fall In Love With You Simply By Asking Baby Jesus To Make Them Do It Day!
How many times are you gonna do that praying thing before you accept the fact that Baby Jesus just isn't going to help you out? Every night for almost a week now you've been getting down on your knees at bedtime and being all, "Baby Jesus who is all powerful and could beat up anybody in a fight, I know you can make people do things without them realizing it's you that's tugging the strings. So Baby Jesus, make the following people fall in love with me so hard that they call me up panting and being like, 'Holy shit if you so much as punched me in the nose I swear to Christ I'd come.' I know you can do it Baby Jesus so stop making me fucking wait you fat little shit!"
But has he? No. Maybe he knows what a piece of shit you are.
Happy Admit That You Cannot Get People To Fall In Love With You Simply By Asking Baby Jesus To Make Them Do It Day!
Thursday, February 13, 2003
Dead Body Day!
Whether you've already seen a dead body or you've always wanted to see a dead body, today's the day either your best friend or someone you just met - and whom you don't quite trust but whom you find so enchanting you'd follow him anywhere as long as he promised the night wouldn't end before sunrise - will look you in the eye, then look from side to side to make sure you're both alone, then into your eyes again to say, "You wanna see a dead body?"
You say yes now.
Dead bodies are washed up on or near the banks of swamps. Tuck your pants into your socks and bring a handkerchief to hold over your mouth when the stench gets tight. And be prepared to learn a little bit about yourself. You're never gonna forget this day. I envy you.
Whether you've already seen a dead body or you've always wanted to see a dead body, today's the day either your best friend or someone you just met - and whom you don't quite trust but whom you find so enchanting you'd follow him anywhere as long as he promised the night wouldn't end before sunrise - will look you in the eye, then look from side to side to make sure you're both alone, then into your eyes again to say, "You wanna see a dead body?"
You say yes now.
Dead bodies are washed up on or near the banks of swamps. Tuck your pants into your socks and bring a handkerchief to hold over your mouth when the stench gets tight. And be prepared to learn a little bit about yourself. You're never gonna forget this day. I envy you.
Wednesday, February 12, 2003
Crossing Guard Day!
Get way drunk and run outside to mock the crossing guard again. Hurry up and start drinking, she splits from the intersection by 9:30. All the motorists loved it the last time you stood behind her and mimicked the way she spun her arms to direct traffic. When she spun around and hit you with the hand-held stop sign and you fell down on the ice, every sedan was full to the rooftop with belly laughs. It's been about a month now, go out there and put on another show. Just make sure she doesn't mace you again.
Happy Crossing Guard Day!
Get way drunk and run outside to mock the crossing guard again. Hurry up and start drinking, she splits from the intersection by 9:30. All the motorists loved it the last time you stood behind her and mimicked the way she spun her arms to direct traffic. When she spun around and hit you with the hand-held stop sign and you fell down on the ice, every sedan was full to the rooftop with belly laughs. It's been about a month now, go out there and put on another show. Just make sure she doesn't mace you again.
Happy Crossing Guard Day!
Tuesday, February 11, 2003
Pull Down Your Pants Day!
Today's the day when-- Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you!
That's better. Now today's the day when you should stand there in front of me and let me watch you pull down your pants with no music playing. I'll be drinking malt liquor and talking on the phone to a friend who is making me laugh. If you pull down your pants too fast, or if I get distracted and miss the cordoroy roughly bunching down your naked thighs, I'll tell you to do it again, you understand? Don't just nod, say yes!
Just trust me, it's for my benefit. I want to one day remember what the top of your head looked like when you bent down low to untie your shoes and pull your pants legs down from overtop your sweatsocks. Up until then, you'll just have been staring at me kind of afraid, but when you show me the top of your head, you're all mine. And I'll be able to watch your belly fold in on itself without you following my eyes and getting self-conscious about it. Hang on, pull em back up, I got a call waiting.
Happy Pull Down Your Pants Day!
Today's the day when-- Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you!
That's better. Now today's the day when you should stand there in front of me and let me watch you pull down your pants with no music playing. I'll be drinking malt liquor and talking on the phone to a friend who is making me laugh. If you pull down your pants too fast, or if I get distracted and miss the cordoroy roughly bunching down your naked thighs, I'll tell you to do it again, you understand? Don't just nod, say yes!
Just trust me, it's for my benefit. I want to one day remember what the top of your head looked like when you bent down low to untie your shoes and pull your pants legs down from overtop your sweatsocks. Up until then, you'll just have been staring at me kind of afraid, but when you show me the top of your head, you're all mine. And I'll be able to watch your belly fold in on itself without you following my eyes and getting self-conscious about it. Hang on, pull em back up, I got a call waiting.
Happy Pull Down Your Pants Day!
Monday, February 10, 2003
Leonardo DiCaprio Is Dead Day!
People were calling him the next Brando, but maybe Jimmy Dean was the better comparison. In interviews it sounded as if he was all through with the party lifestyle too. CNN is reporting the crash wasn't even his fault, just a trick curve on one of those Southern California canyon roads. It's sad to think of all he might have done with the years to come.
But more than that, I can't help but think about the guy in the car with him, Donald Baughan. According to what I saw on MSNBC, Baughan was an old friend of DiCaprio's, unconnected to the entertainment industry. He was close to getting his master's in I think Russian Literature from Northwestern. He was visiting his girlfriend in LA and made a point of ringing up Leo before he went back to school. On Yahoo News I read that DiCaprio was uncomfortable about meeting up with him because they always had a kind of rivalry between each other. Grades, Girls, whatever. As famous as DiCaprio was, he still remembered the buddy he always tried to top in high school and how he measured up. And the Washington Post says Baughan felt the same trepidation about reuniting, but he made the call because he knew that rivalry was born of mutual respect. And both of them near thirty now, he thought they might be mature enough to channel that respect into real friendship instead of just competition. I don't know how the evening was working out just before they burst through the guardrail, but Fox News does. They said that Baughan was telling a story about the underhanded way he'd dumped his high school sweetheart when he left for college and that DiCaprio was laughing, but not so hard that it necessarily caused the accident.
I guess I'll be glued to the TV as they continue to sift through the wreck.
Happy Leonardo DiCaprio Is Dead Day!
People were calling him the next Brando, but maybe Jimmy Dean was the better comparison. In interviews it sounded as if he was all through with the party lifestyle too. CNN is reporting the crash wasn't even his fault, just a trick curve on one of those Southern California canyon roads. It's sad to think of all he might have done with the years to come.
But more than that, I can't help but think about the guy in the car with him, Donald Baughan. According to what I saw on MSNBC, Baughan was an old friend of DiCaprio's, unconnected to the entertainment industry. He was close to getting his master's in I think Russian Literature from Northwestern. He was visiting his girlfriend in LA and made a point of ringing up Leo before he went back to school. On Yahoo News I read that DiCaprio was uncomfortable about meeting up with him because they always had a kind of rivalry between each other. Grades, Girls, whatever. As famous as DiCaprio was, he still remembered the buddy he always tried to top in high school and how he measured up. And the Washington Post says Baughan felt the same trepidation about reuniting, but he made the call because he knew that rivalry was born of mutual respect. And both of them near thirty now, he thought they might be mature enough to channel that respect into real friendship instead of just competition. I don't know how the evening was working out just before they burst through the guardrail, but Fox News does. They said that Baughan was telling a story about the underhanded way he'd dumped his high school sweetheart when he left for college and that DiCaprio was laughing, but not so hard that it necessarily caused the accident.
I guess I'll be glued to the TV as they continue to sift through the wreck.
Happy Leonardo DiCaprio Is Dead Day!
Sunday, February 09, 2003
Barge In Day!
What's behind that door? Lotta sobbing and shouts of, "Are you sure it's our baby daughter? Check again, she can't be dead!" Well barge right in with a "Heeey! Hoppa Hoppa Mau Mau!"
How 'bout that door? Just a buncha panting and boxspring creaking and shouts of, "Oh baby it can never hurt enough!" Well barge right in with a "Looooooooooooook at MEEEEEEEEEE!!!" Then when they look at you, lean in close and whisper, "Gummi Bears."
And let's not forget that last door. Hear anything? How bout with your ear pressed up close? Anything goin' on? That's strange. Well, better barge right in with a "Looopdilooopdilooopdi!" If there isn't anyone there, and there isn't, and if it's very dark at first and you feel you cannot catch your breath, don't worry. You'll soon realize your lungs aren't necessary behind that door because behind that door is all that might have been and as soon as you let it shut behind you you never were.
Happy Barge In Day!
What's behind that door? Lotta sobbing and shouts of, "Are you sure it's our baby daughter? Check again, she can't be dead!" Well barge right in with a "Heeey! Hoppa Hoppa Mau Mau!"
How 'bout that door? Just a buncha panting and boxspring creaking and shouts of, "Oh baby it can never hurt enough!" Well barge right in with a "Looooooooooooook at MEEEEEEEEEE!!!" Then when they look at you, lean in close and whisper, "Gummi Bears."
And let's not forget that last door. Hear anything? How bout with your ear pressed up close? Anything goin' on? That's strange. Well, better barge right in with a "Looopdilooopdilooopdi!" If there isn't anyone there, and there isn't, and if it's very dark at first and you feel you cannot catch your breath, don't worry. You'll soon realize your lungs aren't necessary behind that door because behind that door is all that might have been and as soon as you let it shut behind you you never were.
Happy Barge In Day!
Friday, February 07, 2003
It's the Girls Are Pretty "Go Back To Bed. No One's Asking After You" Weekend!
Today and tomorrow are going up at once because this is another one of those weekends when Prettygirl cares so little about you all that she wishes your absence could take the form of a baby so she could breastfeed it. Scroll down to read today's. Don't read tomorrow's till tomorrow. I can't believe you sometimes get through the day without tossing yourselves in front of speeding buses.
Saturday, February 8, 2003
Dance Again Day!
The Machine Parts Plant Owner has promised to curb his factory's harmful smog emissions if you beat his number one bodyguard at the Danceoff. You haven't danced since your opponent hanged himself following the trouncing you dished out to him at the 86 regionals. But this is for the environment and to prove you can still fit into the pants. Now hit the floor, Travolta.
Friday, February 7, 2003
So Motherfucking Beautiful Day!
Fuck the sunset. Fuck the snowy Sunday morning on a city street cramped tight with fire escapes. Fuck the little baby in his angelic baby smile. Fuck a momma cat licking a baby kitten clean. Fuck a rescued kidnapped little boy running down the street into the open arms of his crying Daddy. Fuck the autumn foliage and fuck the pussy-ass deer while we're at it. Fuck horses and fuck a plate of seared tuna with three stalks of asparagus lying aside. Fuck a bed of roses and motherfuck glitter too. Rainbows, ocean waves, mountain ranges and acts of kindness, FUCK ALL Y'ALL! Fuck the Big Dipper, fuck the Little Dipper, and fuck the little kid sitting alone on his roof pondering the night sky. Fuck all that shit because you just showed up and you're wearing that dress and HOLY MOTHERFUCK!!!
Happy So Motherfucking Beautiful Day!
Today and tomorrow are going up at once because this is another one of those weekends when Prettygirl cares so little about you all that she wishes your absence could take the form of a baby so she could breastfeed it. Scroll down to read today's. Don't read tomorrow's till tomorrow. I can't believe you sometimes get through the day without tossing yourselves in front of speeding buses.
Saturday, February 8, 2003
Dance Again Day!
The Machine Parts Plant Owner has promised to curb his factory's harmful smog emissions if you beat his number one bodyguard at the Danceoff. You haven't danced since your opponent hanged himself following the trouncing you dished out to him at the 86 regionals. But this is for the environment and to prove you can still fit into the pants. Now hit the floor, Travolta.
Friday, February 7, 2003
So Motherfucking Beautiful Day!
Fuck the sunset. Fuck the snowy Sunday morning on a city street cramped tight with fire escapes. Fuck the little baby in his angelic baby smile. Fuck a momma cat licking a baby kitten clean. Fuck a rescued kidnapped little boy running down the street into the open arms of his crying Daddy. Fuck the autumn foliage and fuck the pussy-ass deer while we're at it. Fuck horses and fuck a plate of seared tuna with three stalks of asparagus lying aside. Fuck a bed of roses and motherfuck glitter too. Rainbows, ocean waves, mountain ranges and acts of kindness, FUCK ALL Y'ALL! Fuck the Big Dipper, fuck the Little Dipper, and fuck the little kid sitting alone on his roof pondering the night sky. Fuck all that shit because you just showed up and you're wearing that dress and HOLY MOTHERFUCK!!!
Happy So Motherfucking Beautiful Day!
Thursday, February 06, 2003
Taunt The Evil Millionairess With Letters Falsely Declaring Your Undying Love Day!
She had the orphanage evicted. And she had the mayor drive out the animal shelter because it upset her allergies when she'd drive past it on her way to her jewelers. Plus, she's commisioned a death ray.
It's time someone made that old bitch cry!
Turn up the heat high enough and even the iciest of hearts are gonna melt. You can get through to her. Just pace yourself. Be mysterious with the first few letters, saying you two have been on a first name basis for years, but you won't reveal your identity to her for fear of her denying you her presence. "I would rather carry my love to my coffin than risk never seeing your beautiful face again." Write that. Did you write it?
Her first letter back to you will be cautious, but she will make sure her words carry just enough warmth to encourage you to write again. This woman may be evil but she, like everyone else in this miserable town, wants to feel loved just once more before she dies. Make her think her wish is about to come true.
As I said, her first letters will be cautious. "I appreciate your kind words but I am far too old and far too busy for such silliness." She'll write that. You should respond with, "I understand, and since I respect your well-being above all else in this world, I won't write again for fear of irritating you in the slightest." Be sure to drop some hint as to who you claim to be or where your life has taken you. Like this: "A brutal winter thus far. I haven't felt such a chill since my years in Stockholm."
That'll give her an in to write back with something like, "Stockholm? What a coincidence. I've been led to believe that my sister settled there after Father cut her off for marrying low. Perhaps you know her?" Don't worry about it being a trap. She hasn't spoken to her sister in 25 years and the only reason she believes her to still be alive is because the family's lawyers always let everyone know when one of them has died. Just say you traveled in a very small social circle when you were there and so it's unlikely the two of you would've met.
At this point the bag will do whatever she must in order to keep your correspondence alive. This includes agreeing to meet you in person. In your next and final letter, tell her that you cannot continue to conduct yourself in such a cowardly fashion. You must show her your face or cease all future contact. "Reluctantly," she will agree to meet you at the romantic outdoor lunch spot of your choosing.
All of you get up on the rooftop of the neighboring building to watch from above as she waits the hour you make her wait for her secret love to never arrive. The waiter, I assume you've already pulled him into the fold. Because he is integral in drawing tears from those cracked and decaying ducts. He should be quite obsequious when she first takes her seat, and then should grow more and more impatient with her as she waits for her friend to arrive before she orders. He should also have pushed at least two glasses of wine on her to make her wistful with memories of one of her weddings. You want the tears before the fireworks.
At the end of the hour, when she's just about to signal for her check, send in the decoy. An elegant man, 60 years young with the white ascot to prove it. He should approach her table with a radiant smile, almost certainly holding eye contact with her until there is only one last step left for him to pivot around her table and sit with the pretty young thing (one of yours of course) at the table just behind her.
That's it. She's done. She's ready to go. It's time.
First, the snipers. Kneecap shots only. Then get some boys to rappel down the wall and tie her arms and what's left of her legs to the chair. Wheel in the cage containing the sexual orgy of eight teenage runaways. Throw her inside the cage, making sure she's thrown right in the middle of the writhing mass of teens paid to copulate. When all of the teens have come, set them free from the cage and toss in the rabid starving mongooses. Make sure you all gather around the cage and laugh really loud while she is nibbled to death.
One word of caution. As the "love affair" progresses, her heart will soften and she may even use her wealth to do some good for the first time since she can remember. This might make you rethink torturing her to death. I know I wouldn't be able to go through with it once I saw that she was just a lonely old lady wishing she had a little love in her life. Maybe you oughta stop thinking about rich old ladies and check the temperature of the heart beating inside your very own chest, Ebenezer.
Happy Taunt The Evil Millionairess With Letters Falsely Declaring Your Undying Love Day!
She had the orphanage evicted. And she had the mayor drive out the animal shelter because it upset her allergies when she'd drive past it on her way to her jewelers. Plus, she's commisioned a death ray.
It's time someone made that old bitch cry!
Turn up the heat high enough and even the iciest of hearts are gonna melt. You can get through to her. Just pace yourself. Be mysterious with the first few letters, saying you two have been on a first name basis for years, but you won't reveal your identity to her for fear of her denying you her presence. "I would rather carry my love to my coffin than risk never seeing your beautiful face again." Write that. Did you write it?
Her first letter back to you will be cautious, but she will make sure her words carry just enough warmth to encourage you to write again. This woman may be evil but she, like everyone else in this miserable town, wants to feel loved just once more before she dies. Make her think her wish is about to come true.
As I said, her first letters will be cautious. "I appreciate your kind words but I am far too old and far too busy for such silliness." She'll write that. You should respond with, "I understand, and since I respect your well-being above all else in this world, I won't write again for fear of irritating you in the slightest." Be sure to drop some hint as to who you claim to be or where your life has taken you. Like this: "A brutal winter thus far. I haven't felt such a chill since my years in Stockholm."
That'll give her an in to write back with something like, "Stockholm? What a coincidence. I've been led to believe that my sister settled there after Father cut her off for marrying low. Perhaps you know her?" Don't worry about it being a trap. She hasn't spoken to her sister in 25 years and the only reason she believes her to still be alive is because the family's lawyers always let everyone know when one of them has died. Just say you traveled in a very small social circle when you were there and so it's unlikely the two of you would've met.
At this point the bag will do whatever she must in order to keep your correspondence alive. This includes agreeing to meet you in person. In your next and final letter, tell her that you cannot continue to conduct yourself in such a cowardly fashion. You must show her your face or cease all future contact. "Reluctantly," she will agree to meet you at the romantic outdoor lunch spot of your choosing.
All of you get up on the rooftop of the neighboring building to watch from above as she waits the hour you make her wait for her secret love to never arrive. The waiter, I assume you've already pulled him into the fold. Because he is integral in drawing tears from those cracked and decaying ducts. He should be quite obsequious when she first takes her seat, and then should grow more and more impatient with her as she waits for her friend to arrive before she orders. He should also have pushed at least two glasses of wine on her to make her wistful with memories of one of her weddings. You want the tears before the fireworks.
At the end of the hour, when she's just about to signal for her check, send in the decoy. An elegant man, 60 years young with the white ascot to prove it. He should approach her table with a radiant smile, almost certainly holding eye contact with her until there is only one last step left for him to pivot around her table and sit with the pretty young thing (one of yours of course) at the table just behind her.
That's it. She's done. She's ready to go. It's time.
First, the snipers. Kneecap shots only. Then get some boys to rappel down the wall and tie her arms and what's left of her legs to the chair. Wheel in the cage containing the sexual orgy of eight teenage runaways. Throw her inside the cage, making sure she's thrown right in the middle of the writhing mass of teens paid to copulate. When all of the teens have come, set them free from the cage and toss in the rabid starving mongooses. Make sure you all gather around the cage and laugh really loud while she is nibbled to death.
One word of caution. As the "love affair" progresses, her heart will soften and she may even use her wealth to do some good for the first time since she can remember. This might make you rethink torturing her to death. I know I wouldn't be able to go through with it once I saw that she was just a lonely old lady wishing she had a little love in her life. Maybe you oughta stop thinking about rich old ladies and check the temperature of the heart beating inside your very own chest, Ebenezer.
Happy Taunt The Evil Millionairess With Letters Falsely Declaring Your Undying Love Day!
Wednesday, February 05, 2003
The Exit Signs Have Been Disabled Day!
You noticed it when you returned from lunch. Every afternoon as you digest behind your desk, you stare into the fisheye mirror suspended from the wall of your cubicle (put there so that you can close any documents of a classified nature should visiting clients approach from behind) and you let your pupils dilate around the warped reflection of the red "Exit" sign suspended from the drop ceiling 20 yards back. Today you notice the light on the sign is out. Just the grayed out pink plastic in a white casing.
That's odd.
Having some time to kill before the VP you assist calls in from Tokyo to retrieve his messages, you take a walk around the floor. First one, then another, and another Exit sign, all gone dark. Your pace quickens, as does your anxious pant. Another, and another. And one other. Just above the main exit from the floor.
You run your magnetic card over the electronic key guard to the door. No click. No green light. No red light either. It's like the power to the door has been completely shut down, and the door is sealed. You glide your card over the pad again and again, frantic now, not just because you can't get out but because something from your walk around the floor has just registered. All the desks were empty.
Back at your desk now, you take a breath and you steel yourself against the sound of the footstomps you hear coming from the stairwell. You place your cyanide capsule in between your teeth and gum. The index and middle fingers of your left hand hover over the red button underneath your desk, its glass shield already smashed. Your right hand caresses the butt of a revolver loaded with six rounds, no more.
"Temp to perm." The words dance through your head, drawing from your quaking belly a gallows chuckle. "People get caught up in trouble when they go from temp to perm. But what are the odds?" Such an innocent little thing you were.
You knew this day would come. It was there in your veins, the knowledge. In a flash, you register shock at just how ready you are for them. Ready and waiting?
Happy The Exit Signs Have Been Disabled Day!
You noticed it when you returned from lunch. Every afternoon as you digest behind your desk, you stare into the fisheye mirror suspended from the wall of your cubicle (put there so that you can close any documents of a classified nature should visiting clients approach from behind) and you let your pupils dilate around the warped reflection of the red "Exit" sign suspended from the drop ceiling 20 yards back. Today you notice the light on the sign is out. Just the grayed out pink plastic in a white casing.
That's odd.
Having some time to kill before the VP you assist calls in from Tokyo to retrieve his messages, you take a walk around the floor. First one, then another, and another Exit sign, all gone dark. Your pace quickens, as does your anxious pant. Another, and another. And one other. Just above the main exit from the floor.
You run your magnetic card over the electronic key guard to the door. No click. No green light. No red light either. It's like the power to the door has been completely shut down, and the door is sealed. You glide your card over the pad again and again, frantic now, not just because you can't get out but because something from your walk around the floor has just registered. All the desks were empty.
Back at your desk now, you take a breath and you steel yourself against the sound of the footstomps you hear coming from the stairwell. You place your cyanide capsule in between your teeth and gum. The index and middle fingers of your left hand hover over the red button underneath your desk, its glass shield already smashed. Your right hand caresses the butt of a revolver loaded with six rounds, no more.
"Temp to perm." The words dance through your head, drawing from your quaking belly a gallows chuckle. "People get caught up in trouble when they go from temp to perm. But what are the odds?" Such an innocent little thing you were.
You knew this day would come. It was there in your veins, the knowledge. In a flash, you register shock at just how ready you are for them. Ready and waiting?
Happy The Exit Signs Have Been Disabled Day!
Tuesday, February 04, 2003
Make Some Promises But Try Not To Burst Out Laughing Day!
You need money to drink for another week right? Well I'm betting there's someone who would be thrilled to give you money, a car, even sex if you would just promise to quit drinking. People go fucking batshit with joy when someone promises to quit drinking. It makes them feel important or something. They get way conceited too, acting all, "I matter more than alcohol" as if that were possible.
It'll come back to haunt them later. Whenever someone is convinced that someone quit drinking for him or her, he or she will start blabbing it all over town. They just can't wait to call up their friends and say, "We're putting the divorce on hold because Allison/Joshua promised to quit drinking because that's how fine this ass is. How's your divorce coming?" Then about ten seconds later when ol' Drunkles crashes like seven cars into the living room with a shrug, everyone in town laughs at the foolish little fool because he or she got just desserts for being boastful.
But you can't change a person. If the one you wanna promise to quit drinking to so you can get some money is the kind of person who brags a lot, that's not your problem. All you have to do is get down on your knees and keep a straight face until you get the cash in your palm. And once you watch the money unfold in between your fingertips and you think you might explode with laughter, don't run out the door without an explanation. Just say something like, "Thanks man. Now I gotta go apologize to people for shit I did when I was loaded. I'll be at McGilli-- er, a meeting." At least you made someone happy for a few minutes, and a few minutes can last a lifetime. Especially if they die a few minutes from now.
Happy Make Some Promises But Try Not To Burst Out Laughing Day!
You need money to drink for another week right? Well I'm betting there's someone who would be thrilled to give you money, a car, even sex if you would just promise to quit drinking. People go fucking batshit with joy when someone promises to quit drinking. It makes them feel important or something. They get way conceited too, acting all, "I matter more than alcohol" as if that were possible.
It'll come back to haunt them later. Whenever someone is convinced that someone quit drinking for him or her, he or she will start blabbing it all over town. They just can't wait to call up their friends and say, "We're putting the divorce on hold because Allison/Joshua promised to quit drinking because that's how fine this ass is. How's your divorce coming?" Then about ten seconds later when ol' Drunkles crashes like seven cars into the living room with a shrug, everyone in town laughs at the foolish little fool because he or she got just desserts for being boastful.
But you can't change a person. If the one you wanna promise to quit drinking to so you can get some money is the kind of person who brags a lot, that's not your problem. All you have to do is get down on your knees and keep a straight face until you get the cash in your palm. And once you watch the money unfold in between your fingertips and you think you might explode with laughter, don't run out the door without an explanation. Just say something like, "Thanks man. Now I gotta go apologize to people for shit I did when I was loaded. I'll be at McGilli-- er, a meeting." At least you made someone happy for a few minutes, and a few minutes can last a lifetime. Especially if they die a few minutes from now.
Happy Make Some Promises But Try Not To Burst Out Laughing Day!
Monday, February 03, 2003
Listen To The Pitter Patter Of Little Feet Just Underneath Your Sternum Day!
Your heart is beating to the rhythm of 13 Irish children running from a drunk father with a belt in his hand. Yet you no longer leave your bed, and neither do you possess the capacity to react to things. Why should your heart be pounding so?
Simple. Your heart thinks it got a raw deal by being born into your shell and now it wants out. Don't let it. Wrap your torso up tight in bandages, lay down on your futon and pull your chest of drawers down atop you. Then get your roommate/spouse/building superintendent to perch a ten speed bike up atop the chest of drawers. Let's see the little bastard try to bust through all that. Ha!
Happy Listen To The Pitter Patter Of Little Feet Just Underneath Your Sternum Day! The nights are getting longer, yes?
Your heart is beating to the rhythm of 13 Irish children running from a drunk father with a belt in his hand. Yet you no longer leave your bed, and neither do you possess the capacity to react to things. Why should your heart be pounding so?
Simple. Your heart thinks it got a raw deal by being born into your shell and now it wants out. Don't let it. Wrap your torso up tight in bandages, lay down on your futon and pull your chest of drawers down atop you. Then get your roommate/spouse/building superintendent to perch a ten speed bike up atop the chest of drawers. Let's see the little bastard try to bust through all that. Ha!
Happy Listen To The Pitter Patter Of Little Feet Just Underneath Your Sternum Day! The nights are getting longer, yes?
Sunday, February 02, 2003
Kiss Her Goodbye Before She Boards Her First Of Three Connecting Buses Day!
Her father doesn't know where she's been all day and if he asks her when she gets home and she tells the truth and says, "Heaven," he'll still beat her senseless.
But that don't matter just this moment three paces outside your apartment building. Just three minutes before her bus arrives. Just a little nervous that she already missed it because you don't know how this bus runs since she never came all the way out this way before, but then again you've never missed this much school before.
Her cheeks are puffed up about to burst with all the smile she wants to shine upon your beautiful stupid head. She wants to guffaw at how dumb you look right now, trying to look down into her eyes and figure out why she's soft. You look like a fucking idiot.
Kiss her. Nothing but the truth in that kiss, like the signature to a love letter, end it honest but end it with a look in the eye. Give her your word and a squeeze to her torso that lets her know how much you wish she wasn't gonna go back home tonight.
When she gets on the bus you stay put stupid and wait for that bus to pull away. Even if it takes the majority of a day you stay right where you are and wait for her to smile out that scratchiti'd window with all the warmth of the entire afternoon packed tight into and radiating out of three sets of wrinkles along the bridge of her nose. Tomorrow you're gonna be a hundred and forty three and you're gonna remember that smile not like it was yesterday but because it was yesterday.
Happy Kiss Her Goodbye Before She Boards Her First Of Three Connecting Buses Day!
Her father doesn't know where she's been all day and if he asks her when she gets home and she tells the truth and says, "Heaven," he'll still beat her senseless.
But that don't matter just this moment three paces outside your apartment building. Just three minutes before her bus arrives. Just a little nervous that she already missed it because you don't know how this bus runs since she never came all the way out this way before, but then again you've never missed this much school before.
Her cheeks are puffed up about to burst with all the smile she wants to shine upon your beautiful stupid head. She wants to guffaw at how dumb you look right now, trying to look down into her eyes and figure out why she's soft. You look like a fucking idiot.
Kiss her. Nothing but the truth in that kiss, like the signature to a love letter, end it honest but end it with a look in the eye. Give her your word and a squeeze to her torso that lets her know how much you wish she wasn't gonna go back home tonight.
When she gets on the bus you stay put stupid and wait for that bus to pull away. Even if it takes the majority of a day you stay right where you are and wait for her to smile out that scratchiti'd window with all the warmth of the entire afternoon packed tight into and radiating out of three sets of wrinkles along the bridge of her nose. Tomorrow you're gonna be a hundred and forty three and you're gonna remember that smile not like it was yesterday but because it was yesterday.
Happy Kiss Her Goodbye Before She Boards Her First Of Three Connecting Buses Day!
Saturday, February 01, 2003
No One In Your Neighborhood Named Birdman Day!
Go ahead, ask around. Drop by the divier bars in the afternoon and say it so everyone can hear it: "Lookin' for the Birdman."
If there was in fact someone in your neighborhood spending most of his time in the shade of a rooftop water tower tending to a cage of near-domesticated pigeons, every drunk without an ear full of wax would swivel on his stool to get a look at you before one of them, not the bartender, but the one on the third stool from the end, prime distance between the draft of the open door and the waitress' service station, the kind of stool that rewards seniority, the one on that stool'd be the only one to ask, "Who wants to know?"
Because the one they call Birdman would have been involved in quite a lot more than just birds. Specifically, he'd act as a liaison between local crews dabbling in cargo hijackings and out of town fences he'd met in his travels when he hit the road to dodge the Viet Nam draft. Everyone would assume the Birdman was protected from someone on high, but since no one knew exactly who, no one'd ever dream about coming near him.
You'd never be able to meet Birdman unless he decided it was worth it for him to meet you. But you'd at least know he existed if, when you asked after him in the bar that afternoon, you felt the temperature drop 10 degrees and you began to wonder if you were gonna see daylight again.
But instead, when you drop by Kincannon's today and ask for "The Birdman," the kid behind the bar will ask you to repeat yourself twice before he hands you a menu of his beers on tap and returns to the Vice City game he'd paused on the overhead TV that sometimes is used for the broadcasting of sporting events. The seven people sitting on stools will not look at you. They are busy staring at their own faces in the mirror behind the bar and wondering if they should make an important phone call they forgot to make twelve years ago. There's no one in your neighborhood named Birdman. Move.
Go ahead, ask around. Drop by the divier bars in the afternoon and say it so everyone can hear it: "Lookin' for the Birdman."
If there was in fact someone in your neighborhood spending most of his time in the shade of a rooftop water tower tending to a cage of near-domesticated pigeons, every drunk without an ear full of wax would swivel on his stool to get a look at you before one of them, not the bartender, but the one on the third stool from the end, prime distance between the draft of the open door and the waitress' service station, the kind of stool that rewards seniority, the one on that stool'd be the only one to ask, "Who wants to know?"
Because the one they call Birdman would have been involved in quite a lot more than just birds. Specifically, he'd act as a liaison between local crews dabbling in cargo hijackings and out of town fences he'd met in his travels when he hit the road to dodge the Viet Nam draft. Everyone would assume the Birdman was protected from someone on high, but since no one knew exactly who, no one'd ever dream about coming near him.
You'd never be able to meet Birdman unless he decided it was worth it for him to meet you. But you'd at least know he existed if, when you asked after him in the bar that afternoon, you felt the temperature drop 10 degrees and you began to wonder if you were gonna see daylight again.
But instead, when you drop by Kincannon's today and ask for "The Birdman," the kid behind the bar will ask you to repeat yourself twice before he hands you a menu of his beers on tap and returns to the Vice City game he'd paused on the overhead TV that sometimes is used for the broadcasting of sporting events. The seven people sitting on stools will not look at you. They are busy staring at their own faces in the mirror behind the bar and wondering if they should make an important phone call they forgot to make twelve years ago. There's no one in your neighborhood named Birdman. Move.
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