This Is Pussy Dust Day!
It improves. Sprinkle a little bit of it on your chest and you'll breathe a little better. Place a pinch in your palm and blow the cloud poof through your bedroom and you'll dream about an autumn walk you took in a park once. Scatter it over your desk and shuffle your files about and before you know it, your boss' hand is on your shoulder and he's telling you you're an indispensable cog in the Kraynetech Global Innovations and Technologies Machine. Drop some into your cornflakes in the morning and, ironically, your corn flakes won't go soggy (and they'll taste like pussy). Fling it into the eyes of an assassin and he'll turn all springtime, the murder in his eyes giving way to a boyish twinkle. Stuff it into an envelope addressed to a television news anchor and you'll receive a letter three days later that reads, "Top story tonight: Thanks For The Pussy Dust!"
All this and more, guaranteed. Keep away from cock and balls.
Happy This Is Pussy Dust Day!
Friday, January 30, 2004
Crewcut Lee Day!
Lee Gerosopolous could not be described as, "A Person You'd Recall Having Met Several Times Before." While Lee Gerosopolous might remember word-for-word a twelve minute conversation he had with you at a party, he'll still introduce himself to you the next time he sees you because he'll assume that you haven't the faintest memory of ever having seen him before in your entire life. And he'll be right.
Lee Gerosopolous once saved a woman from choking on an olive pit. He used the Heimlich maneuver on her, stabbed his thumb up underneath her breast and jerked her insides up out of her throat. Then she turned around and cried in his arms, thanking him over and over. Three days later they stood on line together at a bank, Lee directly in front of her. He turned around and said hello and the blank look in her eyes told Lee that he was about to do some explaining until she finally nods and says "Oh right that was you wasn't it," her tone indicating that she is recognizing him solely based on the fact that he knows things only the man who gave her the Heimlich maneuver three nights ago could know.
This story should end up with Lee falling in love with a girl who remembers meeting him, but whom Lee cannot remember meeting. That'd be adorable.
Anyway, Lee's gonna get a crewcut today. He's never had one. After he gets the crewcut, everyone's going to know him as Crewcut Lee. Literally, everyone. It'll start with the barber, who'll flip the smock from atop Lee's big belly and say, "There you go, Crewcut Lee. Upsie-daisy" But Lee will have never been to this barber before, and won't remember telling the Barber his name, or speaking at all in fact. Which is why Lee will wonder what made this barber take it upon himself to give Lee a crewcut, when he clearly walked in with a head full of just-part-it-on-the-side.
When Lee steps out of the Barbershop, a man he's never seen before will stop in his tracks and say to Lee, "Hey, Crewcut Lee. Wanna see my new car?"
Lee will step out of the doorway to allow whomever this man is addressing to step out and follow him to his new car. But no one will be there. So Lee will shrug and follow the man half a block down to where he parked his new Accord.
"Like it?" The man will ask. Lee will nod.
"Good." With that the man will get into his car and drive away.
Before Lee has the chance to ponder what just happened, he'll see a couple he's never seen before waving from across the street. They'll both be shouting, "Crewcut Lee! Crewcut Lee!"
Lee will wave back.
"We did it! She'd due in June!" the man will shout. Then he'll point to the woman's stomach. Lee will decide on a thumbs up. The couple will wave once more and walk on.
Lee will rub his fuzzy skull and glance down the avenue at three large men running towards him. "Things have only been odd for a few minutes," Lee will think. "But it's a safe bet those three guys are comin' for me." Lee will run.
But he won't run fast enough. The three large men will catch up to him after a block and a half. Panting, they'll surround Lee. The shortest one (5' 8", 300+ lbs) will say, "Crewcut Lee, did you see a little white kid run past here? Holding a cash drawer?"
Lee will shake his head no.
"Awright, good lookin' out Crewcut Lee." The three large men will race off around the corner.
Lee will stand where he was stopped, searching the intersection, wondering which of the strangers going about their business will be the next to address him as an old friend.
"Must be something to do with this haircut," he'll say out loud. "Crewcut." He'll face a shop window and take himself in, whisper, "Crewcut Lee."
"Crewcut Lee!"
Lee will turn around to find a green Dodge Neon idling at the curb, the man who just shouted to him smiling behind the driver's seat.
"What you up to?"
Lee will think for a second, look around at nobody. He'll say, "Not a lot. You?"
"I'm gettin' outta this town baby. I ain't comin' back neither. Wanna come?"
Lee will blink three times before getting into the passenger seat. 8 mos. later, no body will have been found, but Crewcut Lee will be assumed dead. A memorial service will attract thousands.
Happy Crewcut Lee Day!
Lee Gerosopolous could not be described as, "A Person You'd Recall Having Met Several Times Before." While Lee Gerosopolous might remember word-for-word a twelve minute conversation he had with you at a party, he'll still introduce himself to you the next time he sees you because he'll assume that you haven't the faintest memory of ever having seen him before in your entire life. And he'll be right.
Lee Gerosopolous once saved a woman from choking on an olive pit. He used the Heimlich maneuver on her, stabbed his thumb up underneath her breast and jerked her insides up out of her throat. Then she turned around and cried in his arms, thanking him over and over. Three days later they stood on line together at a bank, Lee directly in front of her. He turned around and said hello and the blank look in her eyes told Lee that he was about to do some explaining until she finally nods and says "Oh right that was you wasn't it," her tone indicating that she is recognizing him solely based on the fact that he knows things only the man who gave her the Heimlich maneuver three nights ago could know.
This story should end up with Lee falling in love with a girl who remembers meeting him, but whom Lee cannot remember meeting. That'd be adorable.
Anyway, Lee's gonna get a crewcut today. He's never had one. After he gets the crewcut, everyone's going to know him as Crewcut Lee. Literally, everyone. It'll start with the barber, who'll flip the smock from atop Lee's big belly and say, "There you go, Crewcut Lee. Upsie-daisy" But Lee will have never been to this barber before, and won't remember telling the Barber his name, or speaking at all in fact. Which is why Lee will wonder what made this barber take it upon himself to give Lee a crewcut, when he clearly walked in with a head full of just-part-it-on-the-side.
When Lee steps out of the Barbershop, a man he's never seen before will stop in his tracks and say to Lee, "Hey, Crewcut Lee. Wanna see my new car?"
Lee will step out of the doorway to allow whomever this man is addressing to step out and follow him to his new car. But no one will be there. So Lee will shrug and follow the man half a block down to where he parked his new Accord.
"Like it?" The man will ask. Lee will nod.
"Good." With that the man will get into his car and drive away.
Before Lee has the chance to ponder what just happened, he'll see a couple he's never seen before waving from across the street. They'll both be shouting, "Crewcut Lee! Crewcut Lee!"
Lee will wave back.
"We did it! She'd due in June!" the man will shout. Then he'll point to the woman's stomach. Lee will decide on a thumbs up. The couple will wave once more and walk on.
Lee will rub his fuzzy skull and glance down the avenue at three large men running towards him. "Things have only been odd for a few minutes," Lee will think. "But it's a safe bet those three guys are comin' for me." Lee will run.
But he won't run fast enough. The three large men will catch up to him after a block and a half. Panting, they'll surround Lee. The shortest one (5' 8", 300+ lbs) will say, "Crewcut Lee, did you see a little white kid run past here? Holding a cash drawer?"
Lee will shake his head no.
"Awright, good lookin' out Crewcut Lee." The three large men will race off around the corner.
Lee will stand where he was stopped, searching the intersection, wondering which of the strangers going about their business will be the next to address him as an old friend.
"Must be something to do with this haircut," he'll say out loud. "Crewcut." He'll face a shop window and take himself in, whisper, "Crewcut Lee."
"Crewcut Lee!"
Lee will turn around to find a green Dodge Neon idling at the curb, the man who just shouted to him smiling behind the driver's seat.
"What you up to?"
Lee will think for a second, look around at nobody. He'll say, "Not a lot. You?"
"I'm gettin' outta this town baby. I ain't comin' back neither. Wanna come?"
Lee will blink three times before getting into the passenger seat. 8 mos. later, no body will have been found, but Crewcut Lee will be assumed dead. A memorial service will attract thousands.
Happy Crewcut Lee Day!
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Jessica Goodbye Day!
It woulda been awesome:
The Small Time Cross-Country Bandit Lovers On The Run who perform oral sex on each other across the front seat of a moving convertible zipping down the highway. Occasionally, money flitters out from the paper bag the last small town shopkeeper used to empty his register drawer while averting his eyes from the barrel of your pretty baby's handgun. A hundred or two you can bear to lose. It's tribute to the wind. You break up when Jessica gets shot dead and you veer out shooting from behind the train car, drawing fire from the waiting police barricade.
The Hospital Lovers who get married on the oncology floor. You were lucky because you booked the Justice of the Peace in advance and it turned out that Jessica wasn't quite so weak that day. She spoke her vows from bed, you stood beside her, your hand in hers. Your parents were there (hers are dead). When you kissed her, her breath was wrong as black licorice. Jessica dies. You move on.
Lawyers who met as prosecution and defense in a well-publicized murder trial. Jessica got your client the chair. You asked Jessica to dinner. Seven years (three married) later, Jessica dies. Someone got a gun into a courtroom.
The Telekinetic And The Girl Who's Trying To Be Supportive but when word gets out to the press, your previously quiet little love affair is suddenly put under a microscope for all of America to dissect with prejudice. Jessica can't take it and moves back to Santa Clara. But when you're abducted by the government so that they can exploit your powers for military might, Jessica returns to fight for your release. She promises to fight until you come home to her and start floating shit around the house again. You're freed when World Peace happens, and you and Jessica are happy for a while. But when a roof is about to collapse on a school, you use your mind to lift the roof off the building and you save the children, but you accidentally fling the roof onto Jessica. She doesn't die right away. You get to hover over her for a minute or two while she says she loves you and asks if the children are safe. Even though she got hit by the roof of a school, the only visible blemish to her beauty is a small trickle of blood connecting her nostril to her upper lip.
The Widow Who Marries The Guy Who Killed Her Husband but doesn't know it. Or does she? Twenty two years in, postcards arrive at the house. They cryptically intimate the truth. Jessica asks about them. You say, "Beats me." She goes stiff for a few years, then warms to you again. Jessica dies first, at the age of 83, in her sleep. You wake up beside her corpse and think, "Holy shit, this is what it's like to be an old man whose wife just died."
It's not:
The Girl In The Coat Who's Standing Between Two Packed Suitcases Waiting For The Guy In The Kitchen Chair To Say Anything. Anything At All. Even A Sneeze Might Make Her Stay. Anything. Anything. Anything At All. Anything. Jessica leaves.
Happy Jessica Goodbye Day!
It woulda been awesome:
The Small Time Cross-Country Bandit Lovers On The Run who perform oral sex on each other across the front seat of a moving convertible zipping down the highway. Occasionally, money flitters out from the paper bag the last small town shopkeeper used to empty his register drawer while averting his eyes from the barrel of your pretty baby's handgun. A hundred or two you can bear to lose. It's tribute to the wind. You break up when Jessica gets shot dead and you veer out shooting from behind the train car, drawing fire from the waiting police barricade.
The Hospital Lovers who get married on the oncology floor. You were lucky because you booked the Justice of the Peace in advance and it turned out that Jessica wasn't quite so weak that day. She spoke her vows from bed, you stood beside her, your hand in hers. Your parents were there (hers are dead). When you kissed her, her breath was wrong as black licorice. Jessica dies. You move on.
Lawyers who met as prosecution and defense in a well-publicized murder trial. Jessica got your client the chair. You asked Jessica to dinner. Seven years (three married) later, Jessica dies. Someone got a gun into a courtroom.
The Telekinetic And The Girl Who's Trying To Be Supportive but when word gets out to the press, your previously quiet little love affair is suddenly put under a microscope for all of America to dissect with prejudice. Jessica can't take it and moves back to Santa Clara. But when you're abducted by the government so that they can exploit your powers for military might, Jessica returns to fight for your release. She promises to fight until you come home to her and start floating shit around the house again. You're freed when World Peace happens, and you and Jessica are happy for a while. But when a roof is about to collapse on a school, you use your mind to lift the roof off the building and you save the children, but you accidentally fling the roof onto Jessica. She doesn't die right away. You get to hover over her for a minute or two while she says she loves you and asks if the children are safe. Even though she got hit by the roof of a school, the only visible blemish to her beauty is a small trickle of blood connecting her nostril to her upper lip.
The Widow Who Marries The Guy Who Killed Her Husband but doesn't know it. Or does she? Twenty two years in, postcards arrive at the house. They cryptically intimate the truth. Jessica asks about them. You say, "Beats me." She goes stiff for a few years, then warms to you again. Jessica dies first, at the age of 83, in her sleep. You wake up beside her corpse and think, "Holy shit, this is what it's like to be an old man whose wife just died."
It's not:
The Girl In The Coat Who's Standing Between Two Packed Suitcases Waiting For The Guy In The Kitchen Chair To Say Anything. Anything At All. Even A Sneeze Might Make Her Stay. Anything. Anything. Anything At All. Anything. Jessica leaves.
Happy Jessica Goodbye Day!
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
She Done Gone And Fainted Day!
Father Clean is holding a wet towel to Cicely's forehead and repeating, "Breathe my child." Her mother, Mrs. Loom, has unbuttoned the top button from Cicely 's sweater. Her father, Mr. Loom, is trying to peer over Father Clean's shoulder, trying to see if his little girl is gonna be okay. Cicely's brother Hinkley is glaring at you, his fists clenching and relaxing, clenching and relaxing.
"What'd you tell her?" Hinkley barks.
Say, "A secret."
"What the fuck'd you tell her?"
Say, "I told her what made the moon. Why the stars make her happy. I told her if I was handed a machine gun and a fly swatter and forced to choose between opening fire on an elementary school playground or exacting one light slap of the fly swatter upon the back of her hand, I would ask her what she thought I should do. I told her I'm learning to fast-dance so that I won't embarrass her at the many weddings we will be attending together over the next forty some years. I told her how bugs fuck, even gnats. I told her after I first saw her face I didn't sleep for four days, for fear of dying in my sleep without ever seeing her face again. I told her every decision I ever make will be decided based on the answer to one simple question: Will this make Cicely happy?"
"Is that it? That's kind of nice."
Say, "I also might have mentioned that I think I might be queer."
Hinkley will look down at his sister, who is now awake, looking up at you. Only 18 hours before the ceremony. If you don't say anything else, she'll go through with the wedding.
Happy She Done Gone And Fainted Day!
Father Clean is holding a wet towel to Cicely's forehead and repeating, "Breathe my child." Her mother, Mrs. Loom, has unbuttoned the top button from Cicely 's sweater. Her father, Mr. Loom, is trying to peer over Father Clean's shoulder, trying to see if his little girl is gonna be okay. Cicely's brother Hinkley is glaring at you, his fists clenching and relaxing, clenching and relaxing.
"What'd you tell her?" Hinkley barks.
Say, "A secret."
"What the fuck'd you tell her?"
Say, "I told her what made the moon. Why the stars make her happy. I told her if I was handed a machine gun and a fly swatter and forced to choose between opening fire on an elementary school playground or exacting one light slap of the fly swatter upon the back of her hand, I would ask her what she thought I should do. I told her I'm learning to fast-dance so that I won't embarrass her at the many weddings we will be attending together over the next forty some years. I told her how bugs fuck, even gnats. I told her after I first saw her face I didn't sleep for four days, for fear of dying in my sleep without ever seeing her face again. I told her every decision I ever make will be decided based on the answer to one simple question: Will this make Cicely happy?"
"Is that it? That's kind of nice."
Say, "I also might have mentioned that I think I might be queer."
Hinkley will look down at his sister, who is now awake, looking up at you. Only 18 hours before the ceremony. If you don't say anything else, she'll go through with the wedding.
Happy She Done Gone And Fainted Day!
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Looks Like Jeff's Dead Day!
When she comes home, make sure you're sitting on the kitchen counter fanning yourself with the postcard. She'll stop in the doorway and she won't put down the groceries. She'll know something exciting is about to happen.
"Looks like Jeff's dead," say.
"Prove it."
Hold up the postcard from Sally. The one you're using to fan yourself. Let her see the photo of Yellowstone and she'll put down the groceries.
Looks like Jeff's Dead. Bears.
Need $800 to get back to New Jersey. Western Union.
I'll call.
"My daughter's coming home," your Mom will smile.
"I told you not to worry."
Admit it though, you were the one who was worried. You never liked your sister's boyfriends, and you thought Jeff was going to be the one to take her away from you forever.
Happy Looks Like Jeff's Dead Day!
When she comes home, make sure you're sitting on the kitchen counter fanning yourself with the postcard. She'll stop in the doorway and she won't put down the groceries. She'll know something exciting is about to happen.
"Looks like Jeff's dead," say.
"Prove it."
Hold up the postcard from Sally. The one you're using to fan yourself. Let her see the photo of Yellowstone and she'll put down the groceries.
Looks like Jeff's Dead. Bears.
Need $800 to get back to New Jersey. Western Union.
I'll call.
"My daughter's coming home," your Mom will smile.
"I told you not to worry."
Admit it though, you were the one who was worried. You never liked your sister's boyfriends, and you thought Jeff was going to be the one to take her away from you forever.
Happy Looks Like Jeff's Dead Day!
Monday, January 26, 2004
She's In Blue Day!
Three desks away from you there's a vision of heaven with hell in her eyes. Cheating on her math test by peeking at some formulas scribbled on a crib sheet isn't helping. She's lost. She's gonna fail the class. She's in blue jeans and a big green sweater with a hole in the shoulder revealing a bra strap.
A bra strap. A pitch-black bra strap shrieking at her winter white skin.
"Girls take off their clothes. Girls take off their clothes. Girls take off their clothes. At night before bed. In the morning before they take a shower. In the locker room, twice, before and after gym class. Sometimes girls take off all their clothes, even their underwear and their beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful bra straps. Other times, girls just take off their shirts and pants to put on other shirts and pants but they don't take off their underwear and their yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee bra straps. Sometimes they take off their clothes just because they're home from school and…"
"Rodney."
"Yes?"
"Why all the chatter?"
"I was just whispering a little song to myself Mrs. Chenoweth."
"Well perhaps you'd like to get up in front of the class so that we can all enjoy your little song."
"You got it baby."
Slip out of your shoes and socks and take your mark in front of Mrs. Chenoweth's desk. Sing Milkshake.
Happy She's In Blue Day!
Three desks away from you there's a vision of heaven with hell in her eyes. Cheating on her math test by peeking at some formulas scribbled on a crib sheet isn't helping. She's lost. She's gonna fail the class. She's in blue jeans and a big green sweater with a hole in the shoulder revealing a bra strap.
A bra strap. A pitch-black bra strap shrieking at her winter white skin.
"Girls take off their clothes. Girls take off their clothes. Girls take off their clothes. At night before bed. In the morning before they take a shower. In the locker room, twice, before and after gym class. Sometimes girls take off all their clothes, even their underwear and their beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful bra straps. Other times, girls just take off their shirts and pants to put on other shirts and pants but they don't take off their underwear and their yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee bra straps. Sometimes they take off their clothes just because they're home from school and…"
"Rodney."
"Yes?"
"Why all the chatter?"
"I was just whispering a little song to myself Mrs. Chenoweth."
"Well perhaps you'd like to get up in front of the class so that we can all enjoy your little song."
"You got it baby."
Slip out of your shoes and socks and take your mark in front of Mrs. Chenoweth's desk. Sing Milkshake.
Happy She's In Blue Day!
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Drunk In Philadelphia Day!
Your rock band broke up two months ago so now you're hanging around with your best friend's rock band and they want you to be their singer. You've been drinking where you sleep, on the floor of an apartment in South Philadelphia, for sixteen days now. You haven't sung a note. You haven't written a lyric. You haven't kissed a lip. Not for sixteen days now.
There's always lots of people circling around you. The door opens, you wake up, you're introduced to at least three people you've never seen before, someone hands you a beer and tells you they're about to order dinner and asks if you want in. Then you sit on the borrowed comforter that comes between you and the floorboards and drink and talk for seven hours. Everyone else is scattered about on chairs and couch cushions, they're all up above. They're telling you they saw your old band play seven months ago and you're great. They're wearing shoes and socks but you're only wearing socks.
Things are good. When you're alone you're asleep. When you're awake you're drunk and you're craning your neck to look up at people who admire you. You eat when someone else does. You drink what's given to you.
You own nothing. You acquire nothing of your own volition. You attain consciousness only when someone pulls you from sleep. Your life is on the floor of someone else's life. One day soon, you're gonna write a new song.
Happy Drunk In Philadelphia Day!
Your rock band broke up two months ago so now you're hanging around with your best friend's rock band and they want you to be their singer. You've been drinking where you sleep, on the floor of an apartment in South Philadelphia, for sixteen days now. You haven't sung a note. You haven't written a lyric. You haven't kissed a lip. Not for sixteen days now.
There's always lots of people circling around you. The door opens, you wake up, you're introduced to at least three people you've never seen before, someone hands you a beer and tells you they're about to order dinner and asks if you want in. Then you sit on the borrowed comforter that comes between you and the floorboards and drink and talk for seven hours. Everyone else is scattered about on chairs and couch cushions, they're all up above. They're telling you they saw your old band play seven months ago and you're great. They're wearing shoes and socks but you're only wearing socks.
Things are good. When you're alone you're asleep. When you're awake you're drunk and you're craning your neck to look up at people who admire you. You eat when someone else does. You drink what's given to you.
You own nothing. You acquire nothing of your own volition. You attain consciousness only when someone pulls you from sleep. Your life is on the floor of someone else's life. One day soon, you're gonna write a new song.
Happy Drunk In Philadelphia Day!
Saturday, January 24, 2004
Army Men Day!
You've been seeing a lot more army men walking through the main square of your town in full fatigues, armed to the hilt and looking at everything with that Thousand-Yard Stare™ stuff. Sometimes they'll just be waiting in line at the Dairy Queen to get a canteen filled up with water. Other times, they'll be lying flat on their bellies in the middle of the sidewalk, making bird noises at each other. And still other times, they open fire on anything that moves.
The next time you see one who doesn't appear to be too involved in any sort of skirmish, go up to him and tug on the ammo belt he wears around his shoulder. When he looks down at you, ask "Are you all ghosts?"
Happy Army Men Day!
You've been seeing a lot more army men walking through the main square of your town in full fatigues, armed to the hilt and looking at everything with that Thousand-Yard Stare™ stuff. Sometimes they'll just be waiting in line at the Dairy Queen to get a canteen filled up with water. Other times, they'll be lying flat on their bellies in the middle of the sidewalk, making bird noises at each other. And still other times, they open fire on anything that moves.
The next time you see one who doesn't appear to be too involved in any sort of skirmish, go up to him and tug on the ammo belt he wears around his shoulder. When he looks down at you, ask "Are you all ghosts?"
Happy Army Men Day!
Friday, January 23, 2004
Whole Body Day 3 And Final!
The TV is still sitting on the floor in the spot where it tumbled from the stand. There's a crack running diagonal across the screen. He has to walk around it to get in and out of the bathroom. Pete will carry it out to the curb eventually, when everything's finished.
Last night she said, "I love you my Pete." Her first full sentence in six days. It was after her bowl of cornflakes and fingernails. They'd made it to fingernails. Tomorrow, it would be hair. They were ahead of schedule.
Pete's in the bathroom, pouring alcohol where the meat was shorn and wrapping fresh gauze over the red plains of thigh and buttocks. He is calculating the costs of the impending purchases. New set of towels. Replace the broken window. Throw out the clamshell chair and maybe finally spring for a couch. New TV, that could wait. The shelving that fell he might be able to reattach to the wall. Though most of the picture frames and knick-knacks had shattered so they might not need any shelves for a while.
"Want the Pete! All the Pete!"
"Just a minute baby." He's just about got the bandage wrapped and fastened around his right thigh. That's the scrape that stings the most. He went too deep there. But the way she was at first, he didn't think he'd ever be able to give her enough.
He was already at the thighs on Day One. Not long after he got her tied to the clamshell chair, he grabbed the citrus knife and shaved a hunk from his left buttock and dangled it naked into her mouth from his lacrosse gloved hand. She took it into her throat without a single bite and her hunger turned furious. She was getting what she wanted, finally.
So he hit the right buttock and fed her again right away. She chewed that piece and calmed a bit. But it wouldn't last long if he didn't give her some more.
He had to distract her in order to stop at the thigh that night. So he first tacked the strip of skin and tissue to the wall behind her chair, making her crane her head back and snap her jaws up at the meat. She fought at the restraints but never took her eyes off the dangling slab while Pete, already naked from the waist down, climbed into the chair and slid inside her.
It turned her snapping and snarling to a steady growl, but she never took her eyes off the meat. With each thrust, her focus on the meat grew more studied. When he was ready to come, and when he thought she was ready for whatever could be interpreted as an orgasm in her state, Pete yanked the meat from the wall with his hand in the lacrosse glove and stuffed it into her mouth. She howled from behind the mouthful of flesh, let her head weave round and round on her neck, swallowed, and fell asleep with Pete in her pussy and her belly.
Before he leaves the bathroom, Pete takes a look in the mirror. He stares into in his own eyes to try to dull the throbbing in his head from all the alcohol. He has to be drunk to start cutting into himself. On that first day, there was only a quarter liter of vodka left in the freezer but he couldn't leave her alone long enough to go out for more. On the second day, during one of her sleeps, he ran out and spent forty bucks on whiskey and wine and for the past five days he's been drunk as New Year's. The hangovers are bleeding into the drunks, so he's cutting back today.
The stench doesn't help his head either. The pile of soiled bathtowels under the window has turned the room septic. She's sitting on their last towel and he's afraid to go in and find out if she's through with it. This is love unmitigated, set free of the bounds of continence.
"Moooore Pete. Love my Pete."
The second day took the limit of his buttocks and nearly half of his left under-thigh. But by nightfall she was willing to eat half a roll he'd pressed up against a wound and bloodied. Day three required a lot of sex. And he did thirty minutes on their exercycle then let her suck on the sweaty tee shirt. Dinner that night was a hamburger wrapped in the skin of his shoulder and thigh, fried. Days four and five weaned her from slabs of flesh onto real food with bits of Pete as a garnish (foot calluses and one earlobe, toasted). By the night of day five, last night, Pete was able to hug Jenna (still in restraints) without her snapping out at his neck or cheek.
They went home together the night they met. They had sex quickly and then stayed up all night, letting their hands graze along each other's inclines and crevices. She'd dance her fingers along the peak of his hip and she'd say I love this. She'd slide her fingers into the thick of his pubis and she'd say I love this. She place her palm flat on his cheek, bent crooked over his mouth, stiff over his eyes, each time she said I love this.
"Love it all," he said. "Take it all."
When Pete met Jenna, he had no use for himself anymore. He wanted to surrender to her all rights to his self. He told her that very first night. "From now on, I am not Pete. I am Jenna's."
That first night, had she asked that he chop himself apart and feed himself to her, he would have consented readily. But she didn't ask. She didn't want to rush things. And as time wore on, Pete's love for her and willingness to give of himself to her never faded. But it was forced to battle distraction. Obligations to his employer, his family and friends, the child to whom he'd volunteered to be a Big Brother, and to Jenna. Long released from the dizzy swirl of newfound love, Pete has his wits about him enough to know that he must keep himself in one piece in order to continue to love and care for Jenna.
But Jenna's need only grew stronger. She's less practical than Pete. She's less considerate of long-term consequences. He has to remind her that if she chops him into pieces and eats him up, when her plate's clean he'll be all gone.
"Pete?" She calls his name the way a human would. The way the people at the office do.
"Pete?"
Pete walks out of the bathroom and Jenna is looking in his eyes. Not like a predator. The need isn't gustatory. It's that need that no one can comprehend. The one that can hurt so much more than a hunk of flesh being shaved from the bone. It’s what he saw in her eyes the first night they lay in bed together.
He takes a step towards her, then remembers to put on his lacrosse gloves. She growls just a bit in the delay. The he climbs into the clamshell chair, settles himself in her spread open lap, and wraps his arms around her neck, taking care to brace his jaw against hers to keep her from whipping about and snapping into his ear.
But he feels no struggle in her jaw. Only the warmth of her cheek as it caresses his. The struggle is in her bound hands. He shouldn't, but he sets her arms free, keeping her torso fastened firmly to the chair frame.
Pete's frightened when her arms rattle around his back and pull him into a tight clench. But she doesn't grab him or twist him towards her mouth. She just holds him.
"Whole body," she whispers. "Whole body."
Her nails dig into his back a bit.
"Whole body," getting louder.
"You have it."
The nails recede.
"Whole body."
Pete whispers into Jenna's ear. "You have it."
They stay still there in the chair for a few hours, then have sex again. Tomorrow he will feed her his hair. He really liked his haircut, but her breathing is still erratic. She still needs a little more of him. Perhaps as early as tomorrow night, she'll want some ice cream.
Happy Whole Body Day 3 And Final!
The TV is still sitting on the floor in the spot where it tumbled from the stand. There's a crack running diagonal across the screen. He has to walk around it to get in and out of the bathroom. Pete will carry it out to the curb eventually, when everything's finished.
Last night she said, "I love you my Pete." Her first full sentence in six days. It was after her bowl of cornflakes and fingernails. They'd made it to fingernails. Tomorrow, it would be hair. They were ahead of schedule.
Pete's in the bathroom, pouring alcohol where the meat was shorn and wrapping fresh gauze over the red plains of thigh and buttocks. He is calculating the costs of the impending purchases. New set of towels. Replace the broken window. Throw out the clamshell chair and maybe finally spring for a couch. New TV, that could wait. The shelving that fell he might be able to reattach to the wall. Though most of the picture frames and knick-knacks had shattered so they might not need any shelves for a while.
"Want the Pete! All the Pete!"
"Just a minute baby." He's just about got the bandage wrapped and fastened around his right thigh. That's the scrape that stings the most. He went too deep there. But the way she was at first, he didn't think he'd ever be able to give her enough.
He was already at the thighs on Day One. Not long after he got her tied to the clamshell chair, he grabbed the citrus knife and shaved a hunk from his left buttock and dangled it naked into her mouth from his lacrosse gloved hand. She took it into her throat without a single bite and her hunger turned furious. She was getting what she wanted, finally.
So he hit the right buttock and fed her again right away. She chewed that piece and calmed a bit. But it wouldn't last long if he didn't give her some more.
He had to distract her in order to stop at the thigh that night. So he first tacked the strip of skin and tissue to the wall behind her chair, making her crane her head back and snap her jaws up at the meat. She fought at the restraints but never took her eyes off the dangling slab while Pete, already naked from the waist down, climbed into the chair and slid inside her.
It turned her snapping and snarling to a steady growl, but she never took her eyes off the meat. With each thrust, her focus on the meat grew more studied. When he was ready to come, and when he thought she was ready for whatever could be interpreted as an orgasm in her state, Pete yanked the meat from the wall with his hand in the lacrosse glove and stuffed it into her mouth. She howled from behind the mouthful of flesh, let her head weave round and round on her neck, swallowed, and fell asleep with Pete in her pussy and her belly.
Before he leaves the bathroom, Pete takes a look in the mirror. He stares into in his own eyes to try to dull the throbbing in his head from all the alcohol. He has to be drunk to start cutting into himself. On that first day, there was only a quarter liter of vodka left in the freezer but he couldn't leave her alone long enough to go out for more. On the second day, during one of her sleeps, he ran out and spent forty bucks on whiskey and wine and for the past five days he's been drunk as New Year's. The hangovers are bleeding into the drunks, so he's cutting back today.
The stench doesn't help his head either. The pile of soiled bathtowels under the window has turned the room septic. She's sitting on their last towel and he's afraid to go in and find out if she's through with it. This is love unmitigated, set free of the bounds of continence.
"Moooore Pete. Love my Pete."
The second day took the limit of his buttocks and nearly half of his left under-thigh. But by nightfall she was willing to eat half a roll he'd pressed up against a wound and bloodied. Day three required a lot of sex. And he did thirty minutes on their exercycle then let her suck on the sweaty tee shirt. Dinner that night was a hamburger wrapped in the skin of his shoulder and thigh, fried. Days four and five weaned her from slabs of flesh onto real food with bits of Pete as a garnish (foot calluses and one earlobe, toasted). By the night of day five, last night, Pete was able to hug Jenna (still in restraints) without her snapping out at his neck or cheek.
They went home together the night they met. They had sex quickly and then stayed up all night, letting their hands graze along each other's inclines and crevices. She'd dance her fingers along the peak of his hip and she'd say I love this. She'd slide her fingers into the thick of his pubis and she'd say I love this. She place her palm flat on his cheek, bent crooked over his mouth, stiff over his eyes, each time she said I love this.
"Love it all," he said. "Take it all."
When Pete met Jenna, he had no use for himself anymore. He wanted to surrender to her all rights to his self. He told her that very first night. "From now on, I am not Pete. I am Jenna's."
That first night, had she asked that he chop himself apart and feed himself to her, he would have consented readily. But she didn't ask. She didn't want to rush things. And as time wore on, Pete's love for her and willingness to give of himself to her never faded. But it was forced to battle distraction. Obligations to his employer, his family and friends, the child to whom he'd volunteered to be a Big Brother, and to Jenna. Long released from the dizzy swirl of newfound love, Pete has his wits about him enough to know that he must keep himself in one piece in order to continue to love and care for Jenna.
But Jenna's need only grew stronger. She's less practical than Pete. She's less considerate of long-term consequences. He has to remind her that if she chops him into pieces and eats him up, when her plate's clean he'll be all gone.
"Pete?" She calls his name the way a human would. The way the people at the office do.
"Pete?"
Pete walks out of the bathroom and Jenna is looking in his eyes. Not like a predator. The need isn't gustatory. It's that need that no one can comprehend. The one that can hurt so much more than a hunk of flesh being shaved from the bone. It’s what he saw in her eyes the first night they lay in bed together.
He takes a step towards her, then remembers to put on his lacrosse gloves. She growls just a bit in the delay. The he climbs into the clamshell chair, settles himself in her spread open lap, and wraps his arms around her neck, taking care to brace his jaw against hers to keep her from whipping about and snapping into his ear.
But he feels no struggle in her jaw. Only the warmth of her cheek as it caresses his. The struggle is in her bound hands. He shouldn't, but he sets her arms free, keeping her torso fastened firmly to the chair frame.
Pete's frightened when her arms rattle around his back and pull him into a tight clench. But she doesn't grab him or twist him towards her mouth. She just holds him.
"Whole body," she whispers. "Whole body."
Her nails dig into his back a bit.
"Whole body," getting louder.
"You have it."
The nails recede.
"Whole body."
Pete whispers into Jenna's ear. "You have it."
They stay still there in the chair for a few hours, then have sex again. Tomorrow he will feed her his hair. He really liked his haircut, but her breathing is still erratic. She still needs a little more of him. Perhaps as early as tomorrow night, she'll want some ice cream.
Happy Whole Body Day 3 And Final!
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Whole Body Day 2!
At the apartment she shares with Pete, Jenna is completely naked in a clamshell chair. Using her index fingernail she taps out a tense rhythm on the wood frame of the chair. She moved the clamshell chair to face the front door, the recline of it providing a sort of launch pad. She swallows three times a minute to contain the rapid flow of saliva into her mouth. Jenna's ready to pounce.
Pete's late. Jenna has to pee. She considers whether she can just let it out, right there in the clamshell chair. The place is going to be pretty messy not long after Pete gets home anyhow. But she decides against it and goes into the bathroom.
It's hard for Jenna to pee because she keeps having to lean forward and fondle Pete's toiletries. His shampoo slash conditioner for dry to normal hair. His Mach 3. His nose-hair clippers and toothbrush. By the time she starts to pee she has all of his things resting in the crevice where her thighs almost touch. His toothbrush is in her mouth.
Back in the clamshell chair, his toothbrush still in her mouth, she's got her legs bundled up with her in the belly of the chair and she's bouncing a little, just letting her head jut out from her neck to the pulse of an old car motor. She whispers out a pant of "PETE PETE PETE PETE PETE PETE PETE," until she hears Pete.
The key goes into the lock, Jenna flies from the clamshell chair. The door opens and Pete and Jenna tumble into the hallway. Jenna's teeth hit Pete on the cheek and break the skin.
"The OW!"
A grocery bag that Pete was holding somehow ends up underneath his back. A box of angel hair pasta is crushed open and the pasta splays out onto the dirty tiled hallway like a fan.
Pete tosses Jenna off him and back inside, forcing her into a clumsy backward roll. Before he can get off of his back, her naked weight is atop him again. She gets his entire left ear in her maw. He yanks his head away before she can bite down. This time he throws her off him with enough force to send her to her feet running backwards into the apartment.
"Jesus, Jenna. You're—"
Naked, she growls. She runs. Pete pulls the door shut and she slams into it with a wet thud. He gets up and holds onto the knob she's now trying to wrench open to the beat of her dotted breaths.
With one hand on the knob, Pete tries to collect the groceries into his shopping bag with the other hand. He hasn't seen her like this since the first month after they moved in together.
"You should see her," Pete told his Dad (divorced, focusing on career) at one of their Wednesday lunches. "Always naked. Always running."
"Your mother."
Pete picked up a ketchup bottle and a pepper shaker to conduct an unnecessary demonstration. He bounced the ketchup bottle a casual few steps across the table. Then he bounced the pepper shaker bang bang bang straight at it, slamming into the ketchup bottle and knocking it onto its side.
"I like that girl. She loves my boy."
"She's biting me."
Pete's Dad whistled.
"Hard."
"I really like that girl."
"Aren't things supposed to get dull when you move in together?"
"Not at first. More than enough time for that," his Dad laughed. "For the first year or two your mother and I…"
"Seriously, go on."
Pete's father shook an incredulous smile onto his face. "We'd…every day and night it was…When we were just dating it was like we were looking through the fence at this fantastic playground. And when we moved in together, we hopped the fence and the playground was ours."
Pete smiled. It had been two years since his Dad moved out and he was just starting to talk about his Mom with some affection in his tone again.
"This doesn't feel like a playground. It's like she thinks time's running out."
"It always is." Pete's Dad likes to invoke defeat.
"But what kind of love is that?" Pete asked.
"The girl you love wants all of you and fast. Men have suffered crueler fates."
This left Pete quiet with a smile for a bit. Then he started talking again.
"My favorite part…"
"Seriously, go on."
Pete had to look down at the table while he said it. "Jenna's…Her pussy's real big."
Pete looked up at his Dad to find his face stone frozen into that of a man who is hearing something he never imagined he'd ever hear in his entire life. Pete looked back down at the table.
"I mean her…her labia. It's fat," Pete says. "When she runs at me like that, naked like that, panting at me like an animal. I imagine the panting's coming out of her pussy. Like she's breathing out of it. It growls and it's got teeth. And it's like 500 pounds."
After that, Pete and his Dad mustered up a strained laugh before either of them could get the chance to say anything else.
That lunch was over a year ago, two weeks after Pete moved in with Jenna. And three weeks after that was when Jenna lost all control. When Pete started having to yell and hold her back. When she started breaking the skin.
With his hand on the doorknob, and Jenna's 120 pounds thudding against the other side of the door, Pete tries to figure out what's triggered it all again. Things had been good of late. But if he had to put their relationship into a word, he'd choose "comfortable." Certainly not "primal." He might never know what sets her off. But he knows how to get her under control.
As he turns the knob and shoves through the door Pete thinks, "Maybe it's my new haircut."
Tomorrow...Whole Body: The Stupid Ending
Happy Whole Body Day 2!
At the apartment she shares with Pete, Jenna is completely naked in a clamshell chair. Using her index fingernail she taps out a tense rhythm on the wood frame of the chair. She moved the clamshell chair to face the front door, the recline of it providing a sort of launch pad. She swallows three times a minute to contain the rapid flow of saliva into her mouth. Jenna's ready to pounce.
Pete's late. Jenna has to pee. She considers whether she can just let it out, right there in the clamshell chair. The place is going to be pretty messy not long after Pete gets home anyhow. But she decides against it and goes into the bathroom.
It's hard for Jenna to pee because she keeps having to lean forward and fondle Pete's toiletries. His shampoo slash conditioner for dry to normal hair. His Mach 3. His nose-hair clippers and toothbrush. By the time she starts to pee she has all of his things resting in the crevice where her thighs almost touch. His toothbrush is in her mouth.
Back in the clamshell chair, his toothbrush still in her mouth, she's got her legs bundled up with her in the belly of the chair and she's bouncing a little, just letting her head jut out from her neck to the pulse of an old car motor. She whispers out a pant of "PETE PETE PETE PETE PETE PETE PETE," until she hears Pete.
The key goes into the lock, Jenna flies from the clamshell chair. The door opens and Pete and Jenna tumble into the hallway. Jenna's teeth hit Pete on the cheek and break the skin.
"The OW!"
A grocery bag that Pete was holding somehow ends up underneath his back. A box of angel hair pasta is crushed open and the pasta splays out onto the dirty tiled hallway like a fan.
Pete tosses Jenna off him and back inside, forcing her into a clumsy backward roll. Before he can get off of his back, her naked weight is atop him again. She gets his entire left ear in her maw. He yanks his head away before she can bite down. This time he throws her off him with enough force to send her to her feet running backwards into the apartment.
"Jesus, Jenna. You're—"
Naked, she growls. She runs. Pete pulls the door shut and she slams into it with a wet thud. He gets up and holds onto the knob she's now trying to wrench open to the beat of her dotted breaths.
With one hand on the knob, Pete tries to collect the groceries into his shopping bag with the other hand. He hasn't seen her like this since the first month after they moved in together.
"You should see her," Pete told his Dad (divorced, focusing on career) at one of their Wednesday lunches. "Always naked. Always running."
"Your mother."
Pete picked up a ketchup bottle and a pepper shaker to conduct an unnecessary demonstration. He bounced the ketchup bottle a casual few steps across the table. Then he bounced the pepper shaker bang bang bang straight at it, slamming into the ketchup bottle and knocking it onto its side.
"I like that girl. She loves my boy."
"She's biting me."
Pete's Dad whistled.
"Hard."
"I really like that girl."
"Aren't things supposed to get dull when you move in together?"
"Not at first. More than enough time for that," his Dad laughed. "For the first year or two your mother and I…"
"Seriously, go on."
Pete's father shook an incredulous smile onto his face. "We'd…every day and night it was…When we were just dating it was like we were looking through the fence at this fantastic playground. And when we moved in together, we hopped the fence and the playground was ours."
Pete smiled. It had been two years since his Dad moved out and he was just starting to talk about his Mom with some affection in his tone again.
"This doesn't feel like a playground. It's like she thinks time's running out."
"It always is." Pete's Dad likes to invoke defeat.
"But what kind of love is that?" Pete asked.
"The girl you love wants all of you and fast. Men have suffered crueler fates."
This left Pete quiet with a smile for a bit. Then he started talking again.
"My favorite part…"
"Seriously, go on."
Pete had to look down at the table while he said it. "Jenna's…Her pussy's real big."
Pete looked up at his Dad to find his face stone frozen into that of a man who is hearing something he never imagined he'd ever hear in his entire life. Pete looked back down at the table.
"I mean her…her labia. It's fat," Pete says. "When she runs at me like that, naked like that, panting at me like an animal. I imagine the panting's coming out of her pussy. Like she's breathing out of it. It growls and it's got teeth. And it's like 500 pounds."
After that, Pete and his Dad mustered up a strained laugh before either of them could get the chance to say anything else.
That lunch was over a year ago, two weeks after Pete moved in with Jenna. And three weeks after that was when Jenna lost all control. When Pete started having to yell and hold her back. When she started breaking the skin.
With his hand on the doorknob, and Jenna's 120 pounds thudding against the other side of the door, Pete tries to figure out what's triggered it all again. Things had been good of late. But if he had to put their relationship into a word, he'd choose "comfortable." Certainly not "primal." He might never know what sets her off. But he knows how to get her under control.
As he turns the knob and shoves through the door Pete thinks, "Maybe it's my new haircut."
Tomorrow...Whole Body: The Stupid Ending
Happy Whole Body Day 2!
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Whole Body Day 1!
Jenna's gonna eat her boyfriend.
Pete, her boyfriend, likes to shout "That tickles hey!" whenever Jenna wraps her teeth around his big toe. He's real ticklish. But she can't help it. She's never had a boy like this before. A boy so very tasty.
"Every goddamn night there's this giant slab of the most beautiful flesh lying right next to me it's driving me crazy wanna bite it!" Jenna tells her Mom (divorced, dating).
"Your father."
Jenna waggles her head involuntarily. "I think about his belly and my lips rise to my gums. Feel my forearm muscles."
"Tense as a jungle cat, yes. Haven't we been through this? It ended badly." Jenna's Mom lets go of Jenna's forearm to light another cigarette. She lights one for Jenna. The only good thing that came out of her divorce was that she gets to spend these afternoons with her daughter Jenna.
While Jenna is with her Mom, Pete is sitting behind a receptionist's desk. He's on a three-month temp assignment at a firm that does marketing for non-profits. The reception area is a quietly lit burgundy. Perfect only for napping and letting your mind drift. Jenna's seen it.
"When can I see where you work?" Jenna pants every time Pete starts a new assignment. "I'll be thinking about you, and I want to get everything right. Can I sneak up tomorrow?"
When Jenna's Mom starts to tell a story, Jenna places Pete behind his desk, reading whatever novel she saw him stuff into his bag that morning, and her mind's eye flies all about him, up top taking in the cowlick of his hair, little lower to the bulk of his neck, down around that round sweet belly, legs she skips, arms with the shirtcuffs rolled up to reveal his forearms and his oh god—
"ARM HAIR!"
"Christ."
Jenna folds her arms on the kitchen counter and grinds her eyes into her skin.
"You scared me half to death."
"Soooooorrrrry." She shoves her face into the join of her arms with all her weight, trying to bust through.
"Jesus, you got it bad. Go home and eat him."
Jenna snaps up her bag and runs out the door.
To be continued...
Happy Whole Body Day 1!
Jenna's gonna eat her boyfriend.
Pete, her boyfriend, likes to shout "That tickles hey!" whenever Jenna wraps her teeth around his big toe. He's real ticklish. But she can't help it. She's never had a boy like this before. A boy so very tasty.
"Every goddamn night there's this giant slab of the most beautiful flesh lying right next to me it's driving me crazy wanna bite it!" Jenna tells her Mom (divorced, dating).
"Your father."
Jenna waggles her head involuntarily. "I think about his belly and my lips rise to my gums. Feel my forearm muscles."
"Tense as a jungle cat, yes. Haven't we been through this? It ended badly." Jenna's Mom lets go of Jenna's forearm to light another cigarette. She lights one for Jenna. The only good thing that came out of her divorce was that she gets to spend these afternoons with her daughter Jenna.
While Jenna is with her Mom, Pete is sitting behind a receptionist's desk. He's on a three-month temp assignment at a firm that does marketing for non-profits. The reception area is a quietly lit burgundy. Perfect only for napping and letting your mind drift. Jenna's seen it.
"When can I see where you work?" Jenna pants every time Pete starts a new assignment. "I'll be thinking about you, and I want to get everything right. Can I sneak up tomorrow?"
When Jenna's Mom starts to tell a story, Jenna places Pete behind his desk, reading whatever novel she saw him stuff into his bag that morning, and her mind's eye flies all about him, up top taking in the cowlick of his hair, little lower to the bulk of his neck, down around that round sweet belly, legs she skips, arms with the shirtcuffs rolled up to reveal his forearms and his oh god—
"ARM HAIR!"
"Christ."
Jenna folds her arms on the kitchen counter and grinds her eyes into her skin.
"You scared me half to death."
"Soooooorrrrry." She shoves her face into the join of her arms with all her weight, trying to bust through.
"Jesus, you got it bad. Go home and eat him."
Jenna snaps up her bag and runs out the door.
To be continued...
Happy Whole Body Day 1!
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Dan The Wastrel Day!
Dan The Wastrel has just been cast out of his own brother's wedding rehearsal dinner. "Your presence chips away at the value inherent in my union. Get someplace where I can't see your face," said Dan the Wastrel's brother.
Dan goes to the muddy beach of the creek running through the golf course. Luckily, he doesn't run into any teenagers getting drunk there. Teenagers often beat him up.
Dan climbs down the beach of the creek to a sewer drain. Secured with a rock against a dry wall of the drain is a book called, "Princess Van Salt And Her 12 Magical Unicorns." Dan grabs the book and begins to read, just as he's done so many other nights after being asked to go away.
"Take me away to your beautiful world, Lon Gloucester," Dan says out loud. Lon Gloucester is the guy who wrote "Princess Van Salt And Her 12 Magical Unicorns." Back in the fifties.
Happy Dan The Wastrel Day!
Dan The Wastrel has just been cast out of his own brother's wedding rehearsal dinner. "Your presence chips away at the value inherent in my union. Get someplace where I can't see your face," said Dan the Wastrel's brother.
Dan goes to the muddy beach of the creek running through the golf course. Luckily, he doesn't run into any teenagers getting drunk there. Teenagers often beat him up.
Dan climbs down the beach of the creek to a sewer drain. Secured with a rock against a dry wall of the drain is a book called, "Princess Van Salt And Her 12 Magical Unicorns." Dan grabs the book and begins to read, just as he's done so many other nights after being asked to go away.
"Take me away to your beautiful world, Lon Gloucester," Dan says out loud. Lon Gloucester is the guy who wrote "Princess Van Salt And Her 12 Magical Unicorns." Back in the fifties.
Happy Dan The Wastrel Day!
Monday, January 19, 2004
At The Whorehouse Day!
The girls at the whorehouse sit Indian style in a circle on the Persian carpet in the parlor. All the customers have left for the night, save one. Zach Baxter.
Zach's been a customer of Lila's for twenty one years now. Looking around the circle, he sees so many faces that have given him such sweet comfort.
There's Nina, who spent three whole days with him when he showed up one night with a pile of divorce papers bearing his signature. Nina waited hours at a time for Zach to finish crying. And when he ran out of tears, Nina cried for him.
There's Melanie. Melanie was Zach's favorite while he was drinking. She'd do the only thing Zach wanted out of a girl back then. She'd finish his bottles. When Zach put the bottle down, Melanie kissed him on the forehead and put herself back on the shelf.
And of course, there's Lila herself. Zach's first. His father brought him to Lila when Zach was fifteen. "He's having a tough time of it Lila. Thought you might be able to set him on the right track," Mr. Baxter had said before shoving Zach through a beaded curtain. Years later, Zach came to Lila when he thought his erection was gone. "You made me a man once," Zach had said. "Beautiful Lila, make me a man again." Lila shook her head. "I'm not the one you want," she said. "But I'll bring her to you."
And Lila introduced Zach Baxter to sweet Frida. Tiny, patient, with naïve eyes, Frida didn't just inspire arousal, she was the blood of the erection itself. There she is at the north end of the circle. A little older now and still most desirable, though not quite the force of nature that Zach remembers from that fateful night. But that sort of bloom doesn't last very long.
If he tried every minute until the day that he dies, Zach Baxter could never thank these women enough. And tonight, they've asked him for a favor.
"People respect you Mr. Baxter," Lila says. "You throw your hat in the ring and ain't nobody gonna put their money on anybody else."
"And you don't even have to win," offers Tatiana, a recent hire at Lila's. "Just put the issue on the table and it'll be struck before election day." Tatiana has had Zach wrapped around her finger these past few weeks. She knows she's got his ear, by way of his heart.
But Zach doesn't need to be manipulated. His answer was yes before he heard the question. "I'll do it. Of course I will," he tells the circle.
Lila rises and kisses Zach Baxter on the cheek. He will run for mayor in an effort to battle the incumbent's plans to level Lila's house and the surrounding twenty blocks to make room for a new sports arena.
Happy At The Whorehouse Day!
The girls at the whorehouse sit Indian style in a circle on the Persian carpet in the parlor. All the customers have left for the night, save one. Zach Baxter.
Zach's been a customer of Lila's for twenty one years now. Looking around the circle, he sees so many faces that have given him such sweet comfort.
There's Nina, who spent three whole days with him when he showed up one night with a pile of divorce papers bearing his signature. Nina waited hours at a time for Zach to finish crying. And when he ran out of tears, Nina cried for him.
There's Melanie. Melanie was Zach's favorite while he was drinking. She'd do the only thing Zach wanted out of a girl back then. She'd finish his bottles. When Zach put the bottle down, Melanie kissed him on the forehead and put herself back on the shelf.
And of course, there's Lila herself. Zach's first. His father brought him to Lila when Zach was fifteen. "He's having a tough time of it Lila. Thought you might be able to set him on the right track," Mr. Baxter had said before shoving Zach through a beaded curtain. Years later, Zach came to Lila when he thought his erection was gone. "You made me a man once," Zach had said. "Beautiful Lila, make me a man again." Lila shook her head. "I'm not the one you want," she said. "But I'll bring her to you."
And Lila introduced Zach Baxter to sweet Frida. Tiny, patient, with naïve eyes, Frida didn't just inspire arousal, she was the blood of the erection itself. There she is at the north end of the circle. A little older now and still most desirable, though not quite the force of nature that Zach remembers from that fateful night. But that sort of bloom doesn't last very long.
If he tried every minute until the day that he dies, Zach Baxter could never thank these women enough. And tonight, they've asked him for a favor.
"People respect you Mr. Baxter," Lila says. "You throw your hat in the ring and ain't nobody gonna put their money on anybody else."
"And you don't even have to win," offers Tatiana, a recent hire at Lila's. "Just put the issue on the table and it'll be struck before election day." Tatiana has had Zach wrapped around her finger these past few weeks. She knows she's got his ear, by way of his heart.
But Zach doesn't need to be manipulated. His answer was yes before he heard the question. "I'll do it. Of course I will," he tells the circle.
Lila rises and kisses Zach Baxter on the cheek. He will run for mayor in an effort to battle the incumbent's plans to level Lila's house and the surrounding twenty blocks to make room for a new sports arena.
Happy At The Whorehouse Day!
Sunday, January 18, 2004
With A Snap Of Your Fingers You Can Make A Girl Cry Day!
That shouldn't be read figuratively. No one's saying you always say the wrong thing or you're always toying with girls' emotions. The deal is this: The man you think is your father is actually not your father. Your mother had an affair with a cold, dark entity that took the form of her continuing education calligraphy instructor. Thankfully, your mother was a good woman and her spirit combated most of the evil that stirred inside her womb. But you did inherit some of your father's qualities. His good looks for one. His swagger. His drive to conquer, that's starting to show in your archery. And of course, his ability to make a girl cry simply by snapping his fingers.
Try it out and you'll see. Start at Rite Aid. When the girl behind the counter speaks to you in an absent, sleepy murmur, snap your fingers and watch her crumple into a sob. Next, do it to your mom. Call her on her cell and say things like, "Mom, I love you and I hope I'm making you proud. That's all I've ever wanted to do." Your mom'll assume you're drunk and will probably crack a joke about you being a sloppy little homo. That's when you snap your fingers and listen to her breath get choppy with tears. She'll say, "I'm sorry, I don't know what's come over me." You can tell her that she must have been overcome with emotion after hearing you speak so sincerely. She'll try to deny it, but you can just say, "Then why you cryin'?" She won't have an answer.
Next, do it to your girlfriend. Right after you beat her at thumb wrestling. Snap your fingers and watch her palms fly up to cup her face. Accuse her of being a sore loser. "And if there's one type of girl I never wanna go steady with, it's a sore loser!" say. She'll beg you not to go so don't.
Next, the ball's in your court. There's 18 million women on the planet. Which one do you wanna see turn into a blubbering mess? If the answer is no one, you're either a liar or a kind person.
Happy With A Snap Of Your Fingers You Can Make A Girl Cry Day!
That shouldn't be read figuratively. No one's saying you always say the wrong thing or you're always toying with girls' emotions. The deal is this: The man you think is your father is actually not your father. Your mother had an affair with a cold, dark entity that took the form of her continuing education calligraphy instructor. Thankfully, your mother was a good woman and her spirit combated most of the evil that stirred inside her womb. But you did inherit some of your father's qualities. His good looks for one. His swagger. His drive to conquer, that's starting to show in your archery. And of course, his ability to make a girl cry simply by snapping his fingers.
Try it out and you'll see. Start at Rite Aid. When the girl behind the counter speaks to you in an absent, sleepy murmur, snap your fingers and watch her crumple into a sob. Next, do it to your mom. Call her on her cell and say things like, "Mom, I love you and I hope I'm making you proud. That's all I've ever wanted to do." Your mom'll assume you're drunk and will probably crack a joke about you being a sloppy little homo. That's when you snap your fingers and listen to her breath get choppy with tears. She'll say, "I'm sorry, I don't know what's come over me." You can tell her that she must have been overcome with emotion after hearing you speak so sincerely. She'll try to deny it, but you can just say, "Then why you cryin'?" She won't have an answer.
Next, do it to your girlfriend. Right after you beat her at thumb wrestling. Snap your fingers and watch her palms fly up to cup her face. Accuse her of being a sore loser. "And if there's one type of girl I never wanna go steady with, it's a sore loser!" say. She'll beg you not to go so don't.
Next, the ball's in your court. There's 18 million women on the planet. Which one do you wanna see turn into a blubbering mess? If the answer is no one, you're either a liar or a kind person.
Happy With A Snap Of Your Fingers You Can Make A Girl Cry Day!
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Scissor Points Day!
People fall in love, hold each other waiting for train arrivals, buy ice cream for each other, smile at work, choose apartments together, fuck on couches, marry, keep scissors in the house.
People rent videotapes, pay utility bills, put gasoline in automobiles, worry over finances, recline into easy chairs and discuss making babies, gather up the hem of the warm blanket of domesticity, entertain offers of quick money to take out local dollar store shopkeepers' burgeoning competition, consider providing for babies and becoming men who can give their wives anything they request.
People pull away a bit, build themselves into a place alone to protect the ones they love from the acts they're about to commit. People plan and keep mum, stake out till all hours making notations and taking caffeine. People lay down late, wake up early, shout when asked to take out the garbage. People who are about to take a life resemble people unhappy with the life they've chosen.
People get suspicious, assume the worst, or at least the worst within a certain frame of reference. People know when they've been told a lie, when they're playing the fool, when everything wonderful is about come tumbling down through no fault of their own. People demand explanations and get no specifics. People decide all is lost and want vengeance.
People get on the same train as a dollar shore shopkeeper with a pocket full of money. People sit at the other end of the car. People pretend to read their newspapers, spying out the corners of their eyes, rise with rehearsed sighs to get off at the number of the stop that's circled in their notebooks.
People follow a dollar store shopkeeper from across the street, from half a block away. People approach the turn down a mostly industrial street at 3 AM. People run ten steps causing a dollar store shopkeeper to stop in his tracks. People pull a gun that's never been fired out of their pockets and people send three bullets through a dollar store shopkeeper's round left pectoral. People make it look like a robbery, take the cash from a dollar store shopkeeper's pants pocket, mentally attaching the amount to the number 10,000 to be supplied by a well-established dollar store shop keeper who doesn't tolerate his business being taken away.
People no longer wonder why a husband might come home at 5 AM without any explanation. People know where he's been, know that the absence of a scent of perfume only indicates the thoroughness of the betrayal. People pretend to sleep soundly, having made their decision. People wait for snoring, go to the sewing drawer, return to the bed and drive scissor points into the space just behind a voicebox. Done, people open the scissors, close them once, they're scissors after all. People wonder what just got cut in two.
Happy Scissor Points Day!
People fall in love, hold each other waiting for train arrivals, buy ice cream for each other, smile at work, choose apartments together, fuck on couches, marry, keep scissors in the house.
People rent videotapes, pay utility bills, put gasoline in automobiles, worry over finances, recline into easy chairs and discuss making babies, gather up the hem of the warm blanket of domesticity, entertain offers of quick money to take out local dollar store shopkeepers' burgeoning competition, consider providing for babies and becoming men who can give their wives anything they request.
People pull away a bit, build themselves into a place alone to protect the ones they love from the acts they're about to commit. People plan and keep mum, stake out till all hours making notations and taking caffeine. People lay down late, wake up early, shout when asked to take out the garbage. People who are about to take a life resemble people unhappy with the life they've chosen.
People get suspicious, assume the worst, or at least the worst within a certain frame of reference. People know when they've been told a lie, when they're playing the fool, when everything wonderful is about come tumbling down through no fault of their own. People demand explanations and get no specifics. People decide all is lost and want vengeance.
People get on the same train as a dollar shore shopkeeper with a pocket full of money. People sit at the other end of the car. People pretend to read their newspapers, spying out the corners of their eyes, rise with rehearsed sighs to get off at the number of the stop that's circled in their notebooks.
People follow a dollar store shopkeeper from across the street, from half a block away. People approach the turn down a mostly industrial street at 3 AM. People run ten steps causing a dollar store shopkeeper to stop in his tracks. People pull a gun that's never been fired out of their pockets and people send three bullets through a dollar store shopkeeper's round left pectoral. People make it look like a robbery, take the cash from a dollar store shopkeeper's pants pocket, mentally attaching the amount to the number 10,000 to be supplied by a well-established dollar store shop keeper who doesn't tolerate his business being taken away.
People no longer wonder why a husband might come home at 5 AM without any explanation. People know where he's been, know that the absence of a scent of perfume only indicates the thoroughness of the betrayal. People pretend to sleep soundly, having made their decision. People wait for snoring, go to the sewing drawer, return to the bed and drive scissor points into the space just behind a voicebox. Done, people open the scissors, close them once, they're scissors after all. People wonder what just got cut in two.
Happy Scissor Points Day!
Friday, January 16, 2004
Jeff The Cripple Day!
Jeff the cripple can't walk and he's getting used to it.
"I have to admit, at first I was kind of jealous of the majority of my fellow man," says Jeff. "But then I remembered that I have a lot more money than a lot people."
Jeff's rich.
"I have thirty seven million dollars."
Jeff can't fuck.
"Oh yeah," says Jeff. "Yeah, that still kinda irks me. It makes me feel kind of…um…"
Jeff feels inadequate. A sad excuse for a man.
"Hey!" says Jeff.
Jeff likes to keep magicians around the house.
"I've always been a huge fan of magic. Houdini. Henning."
Jeff spent most of his life trying to earn enough money to destroy his father, a world-renowned financier who abandoned Jeff and his mother when Jeff was five.
"This accident was a big setback in my efforts to dismantle my father's empire and smile while I'm doing it," says Jeff. "Not that I need to walk to continue to amass wealth. But not being able to walk and…everything else…it just left me kind of depressed for a long time. I had to take a break to reevaluate things. Try to remember what's really important. In the end, I concluded that nothing is more important than taking my father down."
Jeff gets sad.
"I'd just like to be left alone for a while, if you don't mind."
Happy Jeff The Cripple Day!
Jeff the cripple can't walk and he's getting used to it.
"I have to admit, at first I was kind of jealous of the majority of my fellow man," says Jeff. "But then I remembered that I have a lot more money than a lot people."
Jeff's rich.
"I have thirty seven million dollars."
Jeff can't fuck.
"Oh yeah," says Jeff. "Yeah, that still kinda irks me. It makes me feel kind of…um…"
Jeff feels inadequate. A sad excuse for a man.
"Hey!" says Jeff.
Jeff likes to keep magicians around the house.
"I've always been a huge fan of magic. Houdini. Henning."
Jeff spent most of his life trying to earn enough money to destroy his father, a world-renowned financier who abandoned Jeff and his mother when Jeff was five.
"This accident was a big setback in my efforts to dismantle my father's empire and smile while I'm doing it," says Jeff. "Not that I need to walk to continue to amass wealth. But not being able to walk and…everything else…it just left me kind of depressed for a long time. I had to take a break to reevaluate things. Try to remember what's really important. In the end, I concluded that nothing is more important than taking my father down."
Jeff gets sad.
"I'd just like to be left alone for a while, if you don't mind."
Happy Jeff The Cripple Day!
Thursday, January 15, 2004
About Norman Day!
We need to talk about Norman. He's stuck.
Norman was down the basement putting some laundry in the washing machine. He was emptying pants pockets of change and a quarter dropped to the ground and rolled out of sight into a nook underneath the stairs behind the beer fridge. So Norman slid the beer fridge out of the way, got on his knees and stretched his arm way back in between the pole supports holding up the stairs. He slapped his hand all over that dark dusty floor but couldn't find the quarter. So Norman decided he wasn't reaching far enough, so he twisted his shoulders up and shoved his whole head and torso up to the biceps in between those pole supports and started flapping his arm around like it was an amputated stump, one of those flipper arms. In that position, he was as far away from grabbing that quarter as he could ever be, so he tried to shift his position to get his palm to the ground. That's when he twisted his right pectoral onto the point of a rusty nail.
The steel ran deep. It's got to be close to an inch under his skin. And he's so twisted up in between the pole supports that he's not sure how to shift his weight to keep the nail from going in deeper. And he's not sure how deep the nail can go. All he can do is stay there arched over on his knees and try to hold himself up by the strength of his hips, which is just about physically impossible. He has to rest every minute or so, but that means letting himself just sink deeper down the nail.
Norman thinks he's going to die. And he's starting to say things. He's telling me secrets he's kept from me, some that he didn't know I already knew about. And then a whole lot of other things that I didn't know about. Disturbing things. He's trying to clean the slate but all he's doing is scaring me. No matter how many times I tell him he's not going to die, he just keeps on talking. And I'm afraid he's going to reveal something that'll leave him as good as dead as far as I'll be concerned. He's already come pretty close. Did you know about the "Gentleboys' Parties?"
I just need to get out of here for a while. I want to call 911 to have some firemen sent over or something. But honestly, when he gets set free I'm going to have to deal with all this information in some way and…I just need to walk it off a little I think. Can you go down there with him? Call 911 if you want. Just give me a headstart so I can walk it off a little. Thanks.
Happy About Norman Day!
We need to talk about Norman. He's stuck.
Norman was down the basement putting some laundry in the washing machine. He was emptying pants pockets of change and a quarter dropped to the ground and rolled out of sight into a nook underneath the stairs behind the beer fridge. So Norman slid the beer fridge out of the way, got on his knees and stretched his arm way back in between the pole supports holding up the stairs. He slapped his hand all over that dark dusty floor but couldn't find the quarter. So Norman decided he wasn't reaching far enough, so he twisted his shoulders up and shoved his whole head and torso up to the biceps in between those pole supports and started flapping his arm around like it was an amputated stump, one of those flipper arms. In that position, he was as far away from grabbing that quarter as he could ever be, so he tried to shift his position to get his palm to the ground. That's when he twisted his right pectoral onto the point of a rusty nail.
The steel ran deep. It's got to be close to an inch under his skin. And he's so twisted up in between the pole supports that he's not sure how to shift his weight to keep the nail from going in deeper. And he's not sure how deep the nail can go. All he can do is stay there arched over on his knees and try to hold himself up by the strength of his hips, which is just about physically impossible. He has to rest every minute or so, but that means letting himself just sink deeper down the nail.
Norman thinks he's going to die. And he's starting to say things. He's telling me secrets he's kept from me, some that he didn't know I already knew about. And then a whole lot of other things that I didn't know about. Disturbing things. He's trying to clean the slate but all he's doing is scaring me. No matter how many times I tell him he's not going to die, he just keeps on talking. And I'm afraid he's going to reveal something that'll leave him as good as dead as far as I'll be concerned. He's already come pretty close. Did you know about the "Gentleboys' Parties?"
I just need to get out of here for a while. I want to call 911 to have some firemen sent over or something. But honestly, when he gets set free I'm going to have to deal with all this information in some way and…I just need to walk it off a little I think. Can you go down there with him? Call 911 if you want. Just give me a headstart so I can walk it off a little. Thanks.
Happy About Norman Day!
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Name The Baby Day!
Suggest Ray.
"Ray?" she'll say.
"As in Raymond. Like it?"
She'll get up and go to the window and start to cry. And she'll hold her palms to her big fat belly while she does it. Ask her what's wrong.
"Nothing," she'll say.
Tell her she can tell you anything. Even if it's about a love from her past that was so strong it nearly took her life. Even if it's about a boy who brought her halfway across the country with promises of opening up a little store in a little town that they'd run together, waking up together every morning to put out the newspapers and pour coffee for the men who wear orange vests to work. Even if it's about the apartment above the store that they were supposed to fill up with a daughter and a son and enough love to scare an enemy army.
Even if it's about a boy named Ray who took to drinking more than saving, took to shouting more than singing, took to lying more than not. A boy named Ray who could just as well have dropped her off by the side of an interstate for how quickly he abandoned her to her side of the bed. A boy named Ray who never got them out of the Salt Lake City boarding house they pulled up to when they finally hit the dot on the map.
A boy named Ray who never found that storefront to rent. Who filled their rented room with defeat and black words. A boy named Ray who left her four hundred dollars and no note goodbye the morning after he found out she was pregnant with a boy she wanted to name Ray.
She'll ask, "How'd you know all that?"
Say, "I didn't. Girls Are Pretty did."
"Girls Are Pretty?"
"Right over there. See?"
Then point to the empty doorway, where Girls Are Pretty was standing just a second ago, holding a hammer and some nails.
"Wait a minute," say. "I could swear I…"
She'll come and sit by your side. She'll put her hands on your shivering shoulders. And she'll whisper in your ear, "Shhh. Shhh."
That same beautiful sound is going to be floating through your newborn son's ears in just a few more months. With her whispering lips just an inch from your ear, you'll be so overcome with love for your wife you're going to have to sob just to get some air in your lungs.
"I believe you," she'll say. "Until the day that I die, even when you lie, I'm going to believe every word you say."
Happy Name The Baby Day!
Suggest Ray.
"Ray?" she'll say.
"As in Raymond. Like it?"
She'll get up and go to the window and start to cry. And she'll hold her palms to her big fat belly while she does it. Ask her what's wrong.
"Nothing," she'll say.
Tell her she can tell you anything. Even if it's about a love from her past that was so strong it nearly took her life. Even if it's about a boy who brought her halfway across the country with promises of opening up a little store in a little town that they'd run together, waking up together every morning to put out the newspapers and pour coffee for the men who wear orange vests to work. Even if it's about the apartment above the store that they were supposed to fill up with a daughter and a son and enough love to scare an enemy army.
Even if it's about a boy named Ray who took to drinking more than saving, took to shouting more than singing, took to lying more than not. A boy named Ray who could just as well have dropped her off by the side of an interstate for how quickly he abandoned her to her side of the bed. A boy named Ray who never got them out of the Salt Lake City boarding house they pulled up to when they finally hit the dot on the map.
A boy named Ray who never found that storefront to rent. Who filled their rented room with defeat and black words. A boy named Ray who left her four hundred dollars and no note goodbye the morning after he found out she was pregnant with a boy she wanted to name Ray.
She'll ask, "How'd you know all that?"
Say, "I didn't. Girls Are Pretty did."
"Girls Are Pretty?"
"Right over there. See?"
Then point to the empty doorway, where Girls Are Pretty was standing just a second ago, holding a hammer and some nails.
"Wait a minute," say. "I could swear I…"
She'll come and sit by your side. She'll put her hands on your shivering shoulders. And she'll whisper in your ear, "Shhh. Shhh."
That same beautiful sound is going to be floating through your newborn son's ears in just a few more months. With her whispering lips just an inch from your ear, you'll be so overcome with love for your wife you're going to have to sob just to get some air in your lungs.
"I believe you," she'll say. "Until the day that I die, even when you lie, I'm going to believe every word you say."
Happy Name The Baby Day!
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Martin Is So "It" Day!
Martin and Elise are gonna fall in love. They don't know it yet because there are presently a great many distractions afoot. For example, there's the barback lying unconscious and bloody by the curb outside. Martin and Elise have a table by the window, so it's hard to keep the conversation lively when all eyes are watching to see if the barback comes to. The barback just got hit by a car.
"I have one of those jobs where people hear what I do and they say, Wow, I always wondered who does that!"
Elise says, "What? I'm sorry. His left hand is twitching."
Martin and Elise watch in silence as the barback's left hand tries to jump from the wrist.
"Wow. So anyway?"
"Right," says Elise. "Your job. I'm sorry. What do you do?"
"I change the light bulbs in street lamps."
Martin waits. Elise lets her head nod forward. Elise lets her brow furrow. Elise lets her mouth smile. Elise doesn't let herself look at the barback bleeding on the street.
"Betcha always wondered who does that didn't ya?" Martin gloats.
"No," says Elise. "I never did. But ya know, now that I hear it, I'm thinking Gee, why didn't I ever wonder who does that?"
Martin's heart flutters. His eyelids sigh shut just a bit, then again open wide and smiling on Elise. "You're not like the other girls."
Elise's smile is coy. She wants to look at the barback in the street, but she knows that Martin wants to know the date is going as well as he thinks. To turn her attention from Martin might break his spirit. So she lays her hand over his and warms her smile. Martin's eyes rejoice. Elise's eyes scurry to the barback in the street.
"I think he's dead," says Martin.
"No he isn't. See? You can see his chest rising sometimes."
They watch the barback's chest fill up with air then deflate again. Once every eight to fifteen seconds.
Martin's looking at the barback when he says, "My brother's in prison for manslaughter."
Elise looks at Martin. He glances at her, then back to the barback. Elise squeezes his hand tight. Martin elaborates.
"Got drunk one night and went to his ex-wife's house to raise hell. Her brother was staying there with her. He tried to keep my brother from getting in. They kinda locked in a hold on the front steps and tumbled down. Her brother's neck broke. My brother got ten years."
At the end of the story, Martin looks to Elise to see how it went over. Elise puts sympathy on her face. Martin nods.
"Every family's got shit like that, right? Who needs a margarita?"
Elise smiles. They both turn to the waitress, who is just a few steps away from their table, staring past them at the barback. There are EMT workers in orange jackets hovering over him now. The waitress has her hands cupped over her nose and stale tears fogging her eyes.
"Could we uh??" Martin motions to their empty glasses. The waitress nods and goes to the bar.
Elise is glad she likes Martin. When a date is surrounded by wild circumstances like these, she knows it at least guarantees a second date. And more often than not, it's the start of something huge. Watching Martin swivel his straw around in the ice of his empty margarita, Elise lets herself imagine how she and Martin might inhabit something huge.
The fresh Margaritas arrive and Elise asks the waitress, "He worked here?"
The waitress blanches.
"I'm sorry. He? I'm sorry."
The waitress inhales, and when she exhales she coughs out a little sob. "He's our barback." She's staring at him. The EMT workers are guiding a brace underneath the barback's neck. "His name's Martin."
Martin says to Elise, "Same name as me." Elise wishes he hadn't said that, but she knew he was going to.
The waitress says, "Every night when we're setting up, he runs out to get everybody's cigarettes. Everyone here smokes, and some nights he heads out there with fifty bucks if we're all empty. Tonight he and I were the only ones who needed a pack. He went out for his Marlboro Lights and my Parliaments. And crossing the street that car just veered around the corner and God."
"Did you guys ever go out?" Elise asks.
Martin is taken aback, but the waitress answers without hesitating. "Early on. Not really. But some nights early on after I started here we'd end up going home. But not really."
The waitress goes to the bar and puts her arm around the shoulders of the hostess.
Elise and Martin watch the EMT workers lift Martin the barback on a stretcher and load him into the back of the ambulance. They sip their margaritas.
Elise says to Martin, "I took care of my mother for the eight months before she died. She had lung cancer. I didn't really take care of her. I mean, she had hospice care. But I left college and moved into the house and behaved as if it was my job to look after her. When really I could have stayed in school, and visited her every single day."
Martin asks, "Were you looking for a reason to quit?"
"No," says Elise. "I don't think I was at all. I started again two months after my mother passed. But while she was dying, in my head I just decided I have no choice but to devote all my time to her. When most of the time I was just sitting around waiting for her to come out of her sleep."
Martin nods. "You know, when my brother was on trial, I really let it eat up my whole life. It was a big deal for me, no question. But with the way it occupied my thoughts, I think I wanted to get caught up in something way bigger than me."
Elise is very glad she likes Martin on the day Martin the barback got hit by a car.
Happy Martin Is So "It" Day!
Martin and Elise are gonna fall in love. They don't know it yet because there are presently a great many distractions afoot. For example, there's the barback lying unconscious and bloody by the curb outside. Martin and Elise have a table by the window, so it's hard to keep the conversation lively when all eyes are watching to see if the barback comes to. The barback just got hit by a car.
"I have one of those jobs where people hear what I do and they say, Wow, I always wondered who does that!"
Elise says, "What? I'm sorry. His left hand is twitching."
Martin and Elise watch in silence as the barback's left hand tries to jump from the wrist.
"Wow. So anyway?"
"Right," says Elise. "Your job. I'm sorry. What do you do?"
"I change the light bulbs in street lamps."
Martin waits. Elise lets her head nod forward. Elise lets her brow furrow. Elise lets her mouth smile. Elise doesn't let herself look at the barback bleeding on the street.
"Betcha always wondered who does that didn't ya?" Martin gloats.
"No," says Elise. "I never did. But ya know, now that I hear it, I'm thinking Gee, why didn't I ever wonder who does that?"
Martin's heart flutters. His eyelids sigh shut just a bit, then again open wide and smiling on Elise. "You're not like the other girls."
Elise's smile is coy. She wants to look at the barback in the street, but she knows that Martin wants to know the date is going as well as he thinks. To turn her attention from Martin might break his spirit. So she lays her hand over his and warms her smile. Martin's eyes rejoice. Elise's eyes scurry to the barback in the street.
"I think he's dead," says Martin.
"No he isn't. See? You can see his chest rising sometimes."
They watch the barback's chest fill up with air then deflate again. Once every eight to fifteen seconds.
Martin's looking at the barback when he says, "My brother's in prison for manslaughter."
Elise looks at Martin. He glances at her, then back to the barback. Elise squeezes his hand tight. Martin elaborates.
"Got drunk one night and went to his ex-wife's house to raise hell. Her brother was staying there with her. He tried to keep my brother from getting in. They kinda locked in a hold on the front steps and tumbled down. Her brother's neck broke. My brother got ten years."
At the end of the story, Martin looks to Elise to see how it went over. Elise puts sympathy on her face. Martin nods.
"Every family's got shit like that, right? Who needs a margarita?"
Elise smiles. They both turn to the waitress, who is just a few steps away from their table, staring past them at the barback. There are EMT workers in orange jackets hovering over him now. The waitress has her hands cupped over her nose and stale tears fogging her eyes.
"Could we uh??" Martin motions to their empty glasses. The waitress nods and goes to the bar.
Elise is glad she likes Martin. When a date is surrounded by wild circumstances like these, she knows it at least guarantees a second date. And more often than not, it's the start of something huge. Watching Martin swivel his straw around in the ice of his empty margarita, Elise lets herself imagine how she and Martin might inhabit something huge.
The fresh Margaritas arrive and Elise asks the waitress, "He worked here?"
The waitress blanches.
"I'm sorry. He? I'm sorry."
The waitress inhales, and when she exhales she coughs out a little sob. "He's our barback." She's staring at him. The EMT workers are guiding a brace underneath the barback's neck. "His name's Martin."
Martin says to Elise, "Same name as me." Elise wishes he hadn't said that, but she knew he was going to.
The waitress says, "Every night when we're setting up, he runs out to get everybody's cigarettes. Everyone here smokes, and some nights he heads out there with fifty bucks if we're all empty. Tonight he and I were the only ones who needed a pack. He went out for his Marlboro Lights and my Parliaments. And crossing the street that car just veered around the corner and God."
"Did you guys ever go out?" Elise asks.
Martin is taken aback, but the waitress answers without hesitating. "Early on. Not really. But some nights early on after I started here we'd end up going home. But not really."
The waitress goes to the bar and puts her arm around the shoulders of the hostess.
Elise and Martin watch the EMT workers lift Martin the barback on a stretcher and load him into the back of the ambulance. They sip their margaritas.
Elise says to Martin, "I took care of my mother for the eight months before she died. She had lung cancer. I didn't really take care of her. I mean, she had hospice care. But I left college and moved into the house and behaved as if it was my job to look after her. When really I could have stayed in school, and visited her every single day."
Martin asks, "Were you looking for a reason to quit?"
"No," says Elise. "I don't think I was at all. I started again two months after my mother passed. But while she was dying, in my head I just decided I have no choice but to devote all my time to her. When most of the time I was just sitting around waiting for her to come out of her sleep."
Martin nods. "You know, when my brother was on trial, I really let it eat up my whole life. It was a big deal for me, no question. But with the way it occupied my thoughts, I think I wanted to get caught up in something way bigger than me."
Elise is very glad she likes Martin on the day Martin the barback got hit by a car.
Happy Martin Is So "It" Day!
Monday, January 12, 2004
Waiting For A Policeman Day!
Mrs. Elizabeth Roundtree sits beside her husband on the front porch of his newly rented Los Angeles home at 2:45 in the morning. There’s a cigarette between her fingertips. Her husband’s fingertips are empty.
"I shouldn’t take this as a sign right?" she asks her husband.
The street is the emptiest they’ve ever seen it. Car lights travel towards them once every million years, driving slowly. Letting them hope for far too long that this is it, the police are finally here. They’ll take our statements. They’ll crack wise about there being no chance in hell of ever finding the guys who did this. They’ll get a call on their radio about "a 327 in progress" or some other number that stands for a far more exciting crime than a burglary. And they’ll rush off pining for gunplay.
"It's kind of lucky," says Daniel Prekop, Mrs. Elizabeth Roundtree's husband. "We needed something to talk about."
Elizabeth says that she feels "violated." Daniel says that his "whole life was on that computer." Elizabeth says that she's "surprised they didn't take the VCR." Daniel says that they must have been able to tell it was a "piece of crap." Elizabeth and Daniel laugh loud enough to drown out the word that's screaming through both of their heads. "Suitcases."
"Good thing we shipped your books ahead," says Daniel.
"'DOS For Dummies' is waiting safe and sound for me to arrive," says Elizabeth. "I wanna go inside for a second but I don't wanna put out my cigarette. Cool?"
She's already standing, ready to go in. Daniel smiles up at her; smoke where you wanna. Tonight is all about lawlessness. The hem of her dress is at his mouth. She always had real long legs.
They haven't had sex. Not since she moved in. But she walks around in her underwear and a tee shirt and his dick gets hard every ten seconds. He's been masturbating into the toilet twice, sometimes three times a day so they can continue to lay in bed together without him sliding his legs around on the sheets.
The day she moved in, Daniel put a folded bed sheet on the couch. It's still there, still folded. Even the burglars didn't disturb it. They want to share the bed. They want to fall asleep together and wake up together and they don't want to have to talk about it. It would be the saddest thing in the world to enter her these days.
Inside Elizabeth's kicked some picture frames and broken glass to make a clean circle on the rug where she can sit Indian style. She wishes it were messier. The way a house looks when someone's searching for stolen diamonds or microchips. Torn up chair cushions. Smashed open grandfather clocks.
Here, all she gets is some wires dangling where electronics were attached. Some tumbled knick-knacks. Muddy footprints and the aforementioned broken glass. A drinking glass that got knocked from the mantle. Just an accident. Sorry 'bout that. Love, The Burglars.
This stuff is all his so she can't break it. Two months ago it was still in their apartment. It was theirs. But now it's his, it's what he took. She can't sweep everything from atop the folding table, lift the table by two of its legs and swing it against the wall, toss it through the picture window. Even though they used to use it as a breakfast table. Now it's his desk.
She has to settle for this mess. It's good enough. It's comforting to sit amidst disarray. The air is good. It would be better if the burglars had been kind enough to piss on something. But she's breathing better tonight. She might even sleep without taking a pill.
"Bless this mess," she says out loud. She leans her head out beyond her calves and lets a wad of spit dribble from her lips into a little dark puddle on the carpet.
"Honey," Daniel calls. The policeman is here.
Daniel's on the lawn talking to him when she comes to the door. The policeman's black. Daniel's white. The policeman has a notepad in his hand. Daniel has Elizabeth's pack of cigarettes in his. She wants one.
"My computer. Um, the TV. My printer too. Two suitcases."
"Suitcases?"
Elizabeth takes the cigarettes from Daniel's hand and decides to enjoy herself. "I'm going to New York in the morning."
"In the suitcases? Just clothes?"
The smile Daniel gives his wife asks her what game she's going to play. He tells the policeman, "And three thousand dollars cash."
Elizabeth lets fly a belly laugh.
"Three thousand."
"I didn't want to forget it," says Elizabeth, taking a deep breath. "So I rolled it up and put it in the suitcase. There was also a um…" She lights a cigarette and drags deeply, Daniel knows, to keep from laughing in the policeman's face. "There was also a hair dryer. In the other suitcase."
"What time'd you get home?"
"Around 12:30," says Daniel.
"Where were you?"
"Dinner. At Mao Palace in the Valley."
"It was a special occasion," Elizabeth says, dragging from the cigarette.
"What's the occasion?"
Daniel's eyes beg her to stop. "Her um…Her New York trip. Tomorrow."
"Your name ma'am?" The policeman has by now decided to spend as little time as he can with these two people.
Daniel can see Elizabeth is holding back gale force laughter. Standing side-by-side with Daniel and talking to people has been troublesome for Elizabeth of late. "Mrs. Elizabeth Roundtree," she says.
"Mr. Roundtree, has your house been burglarized before?"
Elizabeth takes five steps away from Daniel and stands facing a bush. Daniel now has a very big grin on his face. "My name isn't Roundtree. It's Daniel Prekop."
"Your wife kept her name?"
"Yes," Daniel says. Tonight might be the last night he can see her laugh. "And she'll keep on keeping it too."
Elizabeth laughs so hard she's doubled over, coughing into the bush. Daniel watches her, smiling at her, keeping his eyes away from the policeman who has placed his hand on his nightstick.
"Go in the house. Drink some water," Daniel shouts at his wife. She runs inside.
The policeman waits. "Sorry," says Daniel. "We're getting divorced. She's moving to New York."
The policeman lowers his eyes to his notepad and writes something. Daniel peers over the pad to see what he's writing, but he can't make it out. When the policeman stops writing, he gives Daniel a card with a number to call and then drives away.
Inside Elizabeth lay in bed with a lit cigarette in her hand, resting on her forehead. She's done laughing. Daniel gets in bed beside her. He won't need to masturbate tonight. He's not going to get hard. Tonight's a special occasion.
"My money," Elizabeth says.
"I can take out five hundred tomorrow. I'll write you a check for more."
"But that's your money."
Daniel's hands are on his belly. "I don't need it. Pay me back if you want."
She puts her cigarette out in a beer bottle by the bed. She rolls over to face him, folding her hands in the space between them. "I will. I think I'm supposed to."
The light's still on. They're going to stay up. Only five hours left before they leave for the airport.
Happy Waiting For A Policeman Day!
Mrs. Elizabeth Roundtree sits beside her husband on the front porch of his newly rented Los Angeles home at 2:45 in the morning. There’s a cigarette between her fingertips. Her husband’s fingertips are empty.
"I shouldn’t take this as a sign right?" she asks her husband.
The street is the emptiest they’ve ever seen it. Car lights travel towards them once every million years, driving slowly. Letting them hope for far too long that this is it, the police are finally here. They’ll take our statements. They’ll crack wise about there being no chance in hell of ever finding the guys who did this. They’ll get a call on their radio about "a 327 in progress" or some other number that stands for a far more exciting crime than a burglary. And they’ll rush off pining for gunplay.
"It's kind of lucky," says Daniel Prekop, Mrs. Elizabeth Roundtree's husband. "We needed something to talk about."
Elizabeth says that she feels "violated." Daniel says that his "whole life was on that computer." Elizabeth says that she's "surprised they didn't take the VCR." Daniel says that they must have been able to tell it was a "piece of crap." Elizabeth and Daniel laugh loud enough to drown out the word that's screaming through both of their heads. "Suitcases."
"Good thing we shipped your books ahead," says Daniel.
"'DOS For Dummies' is waiting safe and sound for me to arrive," says Elizabeth. "I wanna go inside for a second but I don't wanna put out my cigarette. Cool?"
She's already standing, ready to go in. Daniel smiles up at her; smoke where you wanna. Tonight is all about lawlessness. The hem of her dress is at his mouth. She always had real long legs.
They haven't had sex. Not since she moved in. But she walks around in her underwear and a tee shirt and his dick gets hard every ten seconds. He's been masturbating into the toilet twice, sometimes three times a day so they can continue to lay in bed together without him sliding his legs around on the sheets.
The day she moved in, Daniel put a folded bed sheet on the couch. It's still there, still folded. Even the burglars didn't disturb it. They want to share the bed. They want to fall asleep together and wake up together and they don't want to have to talk about it. It would be the saddest thing in the world to enter her these days.
Inside Elizabeth's kicked some picture frames and broken glass to make a clean circle on the rug where she can sit Indian style. She wishes it were messier. The way a house looks when someone's searching for stolen diamonds or microchips. Torn up chair cushions. Smashed open grandfather clocks.
Here, all she gets is some wires dangling where electronics were attached. Some tumbled knick-knacks. Muddy footprints and the aforementioned broken glass. A drinking glass that got knocked from the mantle. Just an accident. Sorry 'bout that. Love, The Burglars.
This stuff is all his so she can't break it. Two months ago it was still in their apartment. It was theirs. But now it's his, it's what he took. She can't sweep everything from atop the folding table, lift the table by two of its legs and swing it against the wall, toss it through the picture window. Even though they used to use it as a breakfast table. Now it's his desk.
She has to settle for this mess. It's good enough. It's comforting to sit amidst disarray. The air is good. It would be better if the burglars had been kind enough to piss on something. But she's breathing better tonight. She might even sleep without taking a pill.
"Bless this mess," she says out loud. She leans her head out beyond her calves and lets a wad of spit dribble from her lips into a little dark puddle on the carpet.
"Honey," Daniel calls. The policeman is here.
Daniel's on the lawn talking to him when she comes to the door. The policeman's black. Daniel's white. The policeman has a notepad in his hand. Daniel has Elizabeth's pack of cigarettes in his. She wants one.
"My computer. Um, the TV. My printer too. Two suitcases."
"Suitcases?"
Elizabeth takes the cigarettes from Daniel's hand and decides to enjoy herself. "I'm going to New York in the morning."
"In the suitcases? Just clothes?"
The smile Daniel gives his wife asks her what game she's going to play. He tells the policeman, "And three thousand dollars cash."
Elizabeth lets fly a belly laugh.
"Three thousand."
"I didn't want to forget it," says Elizabeth, taking a deep breath. "So I rolled it up and put it in the suitcase. There was also a um…" She lights a cigarette and drags deeply, Daniel knows, to keep from laughing in the policeman's face. "There was also a hair dryer. In the other suitcase."
"What time'd you get home?"
"Around 12:30," says Daniel.
"Where were you?"
"Dinner. At Mao Palace in the Valley."
"It was a special occasion," Elizabeth says, dragging from the cigarette.
"What's the occasion?"
Daniel's eyes beg her to stop. "Her um…Her New York trip. Tomorrow."
"Your name ma'am?" The policeman has by now decided to spend as little time as he can with these two people.
Daniel can see Elizabeth is holding back gale force laughter. Standing side-by-side with Daniel and talking to people has been troublesome for Elizabeth of late. "Mrs. Elizabeth Roundtree," she says.
"Mr. Roundtree, has your house been burglarized before?"
Elizabeth takes five steps away from Daniel and stands facing a bush. Daniel now has a very big grin on his face. "My name isn't Roundtree. It's Daniel Prekop."
"Your wife kept her name?"
"Yes," Daniel says. Tonight might be the last night he can see her laugh. "And she'll keep on keeping it too."
Elizabeth laughs so hard she's doubled over, coughing into the bush. Daniel watches her, smiling at her, keeping his eyes away from the policeman who has placed his hand on his nightstick.
"Go in the house. Drink some water," Daniel shouts at his wife. She runs inside.
The policeman waits. "Sorry," says Daniel. "We're getting divorced. She's moving to New York."
The policeman lowers his eyes to his notepad and writes something. Daniel peers over the pad to see what he's writing, but he can't make it out. When the policeman stops writing, he gives Daniel a card with a number to call and then drives away.
Inside Elizabeth lay in bed with a lit cigarette in her hand, resting on her forehead. She's done laughing. Daniel gets in bed beside her. He won't need to masturbate tonight. He's not going to get hard. Tonight's a special occasion.
"My money," Elizabeth says.
"I can take out five hundred tomorrow. I'll write you a check for more."
"But that's your money."
Daniel's hands are on his belly. "I don't need it. Pay me back if you want."
She puts her cigarette out in a beer bottle by the bed. She rolls over to face him, folding her hands in the space between them. "I will. I think I'm supposed to."
The light's still on. They're going to stay up. Only five hours left before they leave for the airport.
Happy Waiting For A Policeman Day!
Friday, January 09, 2004
It's The Girls Are Pretty "What's That Ghost Trying To Communicate To The Living So That He Can Finally Be At Peace?" Weekend!
Now that the new year has finally come to pass, Prettygirl has decided to get a lot of overdue errands out of the way. First on the to-do list is to finally shut that ghost up who keeps turning on all the faucets in the house every night at 2:45 AM. It's not going to be fun. The last ghost who had some shit to settle made Prettygirl drive to a Blockbuster in Rhode Island and pay off some late fees on an overdue rental of Anaconda. This one probably won't be much more interesting, but it could be as time consuming. Which is why the next three personal regression assignments are going up today. As usual, scroll down to read today's. If you read tomorrow's today, you'll lose the gift of sight.
Prettygirl is relatively sure this ghost has some unsettled issues involving water.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Drive-Thru Day!
You should have spent the night before getting real drunk and filling up a lot of water balloons with your piss. Today, when you're finished sleeping it off, get drunk enough to drive through some fast food drive-thru's without getting "the blindnesses." Place a giant order at each drive-thru. Ten items minimum. When you pull up to the window, your food won't be ready, so shout into the window "Let's go! I'm sittin' here with my dick in my hand! Let's go! Let's go!" over and over again. When the kid behind the window finally hands you all your food and asks for some money, say "You're about to meet my insides baby." Then slam the kid in the face with your balloon full of piss. Drive off without paying and repeat at the next drive-thru. Before long, you're going to be chased by policemen. You will either get away, crash your car and die, or go to jail for drunk driving, assault, and theft.
Happy Drive-Thru Day!
Saturday, January 10, 2004
Buried Alive Day!
Today, you and your lover should go out into the yard with some shovels and dig a six foot hole then flip a coin. If you called heads and the coin comes up heads, you get to be buried alive first. Lay down in the hole and smile up at your lover as he or she scoops the dirt overtop your most definitely alive and probably in love body. Once the weight of the six foot mound of loosened soil is atop your frame, crushing your lungs and defining your existence as a place that is only and ever darkness, take stock and you might find out a few things.
1.) If whilst buried alive you think to yourself, "Here I am happy because the dirt has clotted in my ears and there is no chance of ever hearing my lover's cold, condescending tone of voice anytime he or she refuses to admit that he or she is a monster who does monstrous things. Such peace," then you two have a few things to work out after you get dug back up, bury your lover alive, dig your lover back up again and go inside for cocktails.
2.) If your lover does not dig you back up, you can conclude that your lover is seeing someone else before you die of asphyxiation.
3.) If you get hard, I don't know man.
When and if your lover digs you back up, your lover should lay down in the grave and smile up at you while you shovel the dirt. Make sure to dig your lover back up or else he or she will find out about your affair.
Happy Buried Alive Day!
Friday, January 9, 2004
Puppy The Guppy Day!
Lewis has a ten gallon tropical fish tank, meticulously ornamented, and containing only one guppy. He's named his guppy, Puppy. From now until the end of time, it's Lewis and his friend, Puppy the guppy.
"Puppy doesn't like you. I'm afraid we can't keep seeing each other," Lewis has told several women he's dated over the years. "I'm sorry, it's not you. It's Puppy."
Puppy is very protective of Lewis. One might call Puppy possessive.
"Lewis is pretty awesome to me," says Puppy, "But when I think about him giving his attention to someone else, human or fish, I just wanna go ripshit." In a jealous rage, Puppy will often try to trash his fish tank, but he usually just ends up gently swimming into things.
"All I wanna do is make Puppy happy," says Lewis. "But I can never do enough it seems."
Puppy is presently not speaking to Lewis ever since Puppy caught Lewis updating his Nerve Personals profile.
"I'm a man. Puppy's a fish. He's the most important living thing in my life but I just need more." Lewis shakes his head. "This isn't going to end well at all."
It really isn't.
Happy Puppy The Guppy Day!
Now that the new year has finally come to pass, Prettygirl has decided to get a lot of overdue errands out of the way. First on the to-do list is to finally shut that ghost up who keeps turning on all the faucets in the house every night at 2:45 AM. It's not going to be fun. The last ghost who had some shit to settle made Prettygirl drive to a Blockbuster in Rhode Island and pay off some late fees on an overdue rental of Anaconda. This one probably won't be much more interesting, but it could be as time consuming. Which is why the next three personal regression assignments are going up today. As usual, scroll down to read today's. If you read tomorrow's today, you'll lose the gift of sight.
Prettygirl is relatively sure this ghost has some unsettled issues involving water.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Drive-Thru Day!
You should have spent the night before getting real drunk and filling up a lot of water balloons with your piss. Today, when you're finished sleeping it off, get drunk enough to drive through some fast food drive-thru's without getting "the blindnesses." Place a giant order at each drive-thru. Ten items minimum. When you pull up to the window, your food won't be ready, so shout into the window "Let's go! I'm sittin' here with my dick in my hand! Let's go! Let's go!" over and over again. When the kid behind the window finally hands you all your food and asks for some money, say "You're about to meet my insides baby." Then slam the kid in the face with your balloon full of piss. Drive off without paying and repeat at the next drive-thru. Before long, you're going to be chased by policemen. You will either get away, crash your car and die, or go to jail for drunk driving, assault, and theft.
Happy Drive-Thru Day!
Saturday, January 10, 2004
Buried Alive Day!
Today, you and your lover should go out into the yard with some shovels and dig a six foot hole then flip a coin. If you called heads and the coin comes up heads, you get to be buried alive first. Lay down in the hole and smile up at your lover as he or she scoops the dirt overtop your most definitely alive and probably in love body. Once the weight of the six foot mound of loosened soil is atop your frame, crushing your lungs and defining your existence as a place that is only and ever darkness, take stock and you might find out a few things.
1.) If whilst buried alive you think to yourself, "Here I am happy because the dirt has clotted in my ears and there is no chance of ever hearing my lover's cold, condescending tone of voice anytime he or she refuses to admit that he or she is a monster who does monstrous things. Such peace," then you two have a few things to work out after you get dug back up, bury your lover alive, dig your lover back up again and go inside for cocktails.
2.) If your lover does not dig you back up, you can conclude that your lover is seeing someone else before you die of asphyxiation.
3.) If you get hard, I don't know man.
When and if your lover digs you back up, your lover should lay down in the grave and smile up at you while you shovel the dirt. Make sure to dig your lover back up or else he or she will find out about your affair.
Happy Buried Alive Day!
Friday, January 9, 2004
Puppy The Guppy Day!
Lewis has a ten gallon tropical fish tank, meticulously ornamented, and containing only one guppy. He's named his guppy, Puppy. From now until the end of time, it's Lewis and his friend, Puppy the guppy.
"Puppy doesn't like you. I'm afraid we can't keep seeing each other," Lewis has told several women he's dated over the years. "I'm sorry, it's not you. It's Puppy."
Puppy is very protective of Lewis. One might call Puppy possessive.
"Lewis is pretty awesome to me," says Puppy, "But when I think about him giving his attention to someone else, human or fish, I just wanna go ripshit." In a jealous rage, Puppy will often try to trash his fish tank, but he usually just ends up gently swimming into things.
"All I wanna do is make Puppy happy," says Lewis. "But I can never do enough it seems."
Puppy is presently not speaking to Lewis ever since Puppy caught Lewis updating his Nerve Personals profile.
"I'm a man. Puppy's a fish. He's the most important living thing in my life but I just need more." Lewis shakes his head. "This isn't going to end well at all."
It really isn't.
Happy Puppy The Guppy Day!
Thursday, January 08, 2004
In Boats Day!
Your brother was strangled in a canoe. His body was chained up to some cement blocks and tossed over the side. The man who strangled him is still alive. He is a United States Senator.
Your brother was working for this Senator's campaign in 1994. Your brother found a document that implicated the Senator in a vast insurance fraud. Your brother had no intention of revealing the Senator's crimes. In fact, your brother loved the Senator. This was not good enough for the Senator.
Just thought you should know seeing as you've been hunting down your brother's murderer these six or seven years. Oh, and we got your brother's body from the lake. He's over there.
Happy In Boats Day!
Your brother was strangled in a canoe. His body was chained up to some cement blocks and tossed over the side. The man who strangled him is still alive. He is a United States Senator.
Your brother was working for this Senator's campaign in 1994. Your brother found a document that implicated the Senator in a vast insurance fraud. Your brother had no intention of revealing the Senator's crimes. In fact, your brother loved the Senator. This was not good enough for the Senator.
Just thought you should know seeing as you've been hunting down your brother's murderer these six or seven years. Oh, and we got your brother's body from the lake. He's over there.
Happy In Boats Day!
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Quicksand Day!
Today, there's a guy named Martin, though everyone calls him Quicksand, and Martin robbed one liquor store three years ago. He has an okay job right now, driving Xerox parts back and forth between office buildings. He took about 400 dollars from the liquor store that night. And within two months he was earning more than 500 a week driving Xerox parts back and forth between office buildings.
He chose a liquor store three towns over. He cased it for months, getting every last detail of the store's routine down in his notepad. The gun was his grandfather's. It had been left to Martin in the will. Never registered. And he would do it on foot so no one could tie him to a license plate. Martin chose the Freemont Liquors because of its location just off a freeway. Martin robbed the place one minute before closing, stepped outside with the money, and ran up the hill to the freeway (very little traffic, as he'd expected). He walked home through the wooded median of the freeway. It took him seven hours.
After the success of the Freemont Liquors robbery, Martin believed he had begun a profitable life of crime. He chose his next target immediately, a convenience store with a lottery machine. He plotted some escape routes and possible timeframes. But Martin just couldn't muster the enthusiasm he needed in order to sit in surveillance for the weeks and weeks it would take to leave nothing to chance.
He was more enthusiastic about his new girlfriend, Joyce. Martin would sit in his car for a bit, watching people walk in empty handed and walk out with small parcels and lotto tickets. Taking down the numbers, noting the busy times. And he'd be thinking about when he'd see Joyce later and what movie she'd rented for them to watch. Eventually, he'd cut the stakeout short and drive over to Joyce's apartment, telling her that everything looked to be on schedule with the next robbery. A few weeks later, the job driving xerox parts back and forth between office buildings came along and Martin took it. The hours were more conducive to Joyce's schedule. Martin doesn't plan to commit any robberies in the future, but he does wonder how far he could have gone in that sort of life had he not given it up. Martin is still with Joyce today. They're very happy.
Happy Quicksand Day!
Today, there's a guy named Martin, though everyone calls him Quicksand, and Martin robbed one liquor store three years ago. He has an okay job right now, driving Xerox parts back and forth between office buildings. He took about 400 dollars from the liquor store that night. And within two months he was earning more than 500 a week driving Xerox parts back and forth between office buildings.
He chose a liquor store three towns over. He cased it for months, getting every last detail of the store's routine down in his notepad. The gun was his grandfather's. It had been left to Martin in the will. Never registered. And he would do it on foot so no one could tie him to a license plate. Martin chose the Freemont Liquors because of its location just off a freeway. Martin robbed the place one minute before closing, stepped outside with the money, and ran up the hill to the freeway (very little traffic, as he'd expected). He walked home through the wooded median of the freeway. It took him seven hours.
After the success of the Freemont Liquors robbery, Martin believed he had begun a profitable life of crime. He chose his next target immediately, a convenience store with a lottery machine. He plotted some escape routes and possible timeframes. But Martin just couldn't muster the enthusiasm he needed in order to sit in surveillance for the weeks and weeks it would take to leave nothing to chance.
He was more enthusiastic about his new girlfriend, Joyce. Martin would sit in his car for a bit, watching people walk in empty handed and walk out with small parcels and lotto tickets. Taking down the numbers, noting the busy times. And he'd be thinking about when he'd see Joyce later and what movie she'd rented for them to watch. Eventually, he'd cut the stakeout short and drive over to Joyce's apartment, telling her that everything looked to be on schedule with the next robbery. A few weeks later, the job driving xerox parts back and forth between office buildings came along and Martin took it. The hours were more conducive to Joyce's schedule. Martin doesn't plan to commit any robberies in the future, but he does wonder how far he could have gone in that sort of life had he not given it up. Martin is still with Joyce today. They're very happy.
Happy Quicksand Day!
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Underwear Fantastic Day!
Lay down on your belly and read the New York Times Magazine. Sip some coffee and wonder if you're hungry. Look up and out the window and watch trash from time to time. Only wearing your underwear fantastic, you're not spending your unemployment check. The patch of blanket under your breasts must be bitchin'.
Happy Underwear Fantastic Day!
Lay down on your belly and read the New York Times Magazine. Sip some coffee and wonder if you're hungry. Look up and out the window and watch trash from time to time. Only wearing your underwear fantastic, you're not spending your unemployment check. The patch of blanket under your breasts must be bitchin'.
Happy Underwear Fantastic Day!
Monday, January 05, 2004
Most Games Aren't Fun Day!
Spin The Bottle is not "most games." Spin The Bottle is a game in which between three and eight players of similar sexual orientation sit in a circle surrounding an empty soda bottle on the floor of a basement. Each player takes turns spinning the bottle in its place on the floor. When the bottle stops spinning, the person at whom it points must accept the spinner's loving kiss. Players should be under the age of fourteen and hot.
Seven Minutes In Heaven is another game which can be quite fun. Seven Minutes In Heaven is a game in which two people of similar sexual orientation (if both straight, players should be male and female. If both gay, players should be of the same sex) enter a closet. Within the confines of that closet, for only seven minutes, all inhibitions of the everyday world should be forgotten and frantic fornication should ensue. When the seven minutes are up, the players are required to leave the closet and ignore each other for the remainder of the party and school year. Players should be under the age of 35.
Happy Most Games Aren't Fun Day!
Spin The Bottle is not "most games." Spin The Bottle is a game in which between three and eight players of similar sexual orientation sit in a circle surrounding an empty soda bottle on the floor of a basement. Each player takes turns spinning the bottle in its place on the floor. When the bottle stops spinning, the person at whom it points must accept the spinner's loving kiss. Players should be under the age of fourteen and hot.
Seven Minutes In Heaven is another game which can be quite fun. Seven Minutes In Heaven is a game in which two people of similar sexual orientation (if both straight, players should be male and female. If both gay, players should be of the same sex) enter a closet. Within the confines of that closet, for only seven minutes, all inhibitions of the everyday world should be forgotten and frantic fornication should ensue. When the seven minutes are up, the players are required to leave the closet and ignore each other for the remainder of the party and school year. Players should be under the age of 35.
Happy Most Games Aren't Fun Day!
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Your Finger's Bleeding Day!
You got some on the polaroid. Worry about the band aid later. His eye's gone. And the pattern on his sweater's been interrupted. Place the polaroid on the desk, careful to keep it level so the bauble doesn't slide. Get a paper towel and try to dab it up but for God's sake hurry.
It's not going to be clean. Prepare yourself. You bled some of him away. You really should make a point of getting the important photos tucked away before you sew buttons back to coats.
Happy Your Finger's Bleeding Day!
You got some on the polaroid. Worry about the band aid later. His eye's gone. And the pattern on his sweater's been interrupted. Place the polaroid on the desk, careful to keep it level so the bauble doesn't slide. Get a paper towel and try to dab it up but for God's sake hurry.
It's not going to be clean. Prepare yourself. You bled some of him away. You really should make a point of getting the important photos tucked away before you sew buttons back to coats.
Happy Your Finger's Bleeding Day!
Saturday, January 03, 2004
Crossbows And Crow’s Feet Day!
Today you will join a marauding gang of middle-aged female land pirates and you will lay waste to contained areas of the American midwest using your top-of-the-line crossbows, leaving behind you a trail of blood, theft, and lady-rape (just kind of rub your pussy on folks). Get ready to become the stuff of legend, ladies.
Happy Crossbows And Crow’s Feet Day!
Today you will join a marauding gang of middle-aged female land pirates and you will lay waste to contained areas of the American midwest using your top-of-the-line crossbows, leaving behind you a trail of blood, theft, and lady-rape (just kind of rub your pussy on folks). Get ready to become the stuff of legend, ladies.
Happy Crossbows And Crow’s Feet Day!
Friday, January 02, 2004
You’re A Beautiful Physician Rick Day!
It never works out she says it just leaves everyone feeling ruined. We’re doctors she says we’re here to help not to go grabbing after love. You don’t know me she says you’ll see I’m intolerable really. No she says no.
“Look, you’re a beautiful physician Rick. But I just can’t date anyone from the hospital anymore.”
We’ve had our fun she says can’t we just be happy with what we had. Don’t look at me like that she says you know what that look does to me. Please Rick she says oh please I just want to be right. No she says yes.
“Oh. You’re a beautiful physician Rick.”
Happy You’re A Beautiful Physician Rick Day!
It never works out she says it just leaves everyone feeling ruined. We’re doctors she says we’re here to help not to go grabbing after love. You don’t know me she says you’ll see I’m intolerable really. No she says no.
“Look, you’re a beautiful physician Rick. But I just can’t date anyone from the hospital anymore.”
We’ve had our fun she says can’t we just be happy with what we had. Don’t look at me like that she says you know what that look does to me. Please Rick she says oh please I just want to be right. No she says yes.
“Oh. You’re a beautiful physician Rick.”
Happy You’re A Beautiful Physician Rick Day!
Thursday, January 01, 2004
The Ravishing Mrs. Ames Day!
Her mascara is eroding and she doesn't even care. The ravishing Mrs. Ames sits on an empty crosstown bus on her way to a beautiful bridge. (There's a driver on the bus. Otherwise, how would it move?)
She might prefer a crowd. The driver's eyes might keep to the road a bit more if they weren't so interested in what's up with the passenger who is quite ravishing but has recently wept. A face full of runny black streaks would blend in with bus folk.
As it is, she keeps her eyes on the passing streets outside, fingering the man's comb in her pocket. On the sidewalk, people walk alone with their faces pointed at the concrete. People hold each other as if in goodbye or "I'm sorry." People scream at the sky, they really do. You've seen them.
How many of them came to a conclusion tonight? How many made a discovery and a decision? How many are about to cut someone out of their lives? How many have a man's comb in their pockets?
There's a trash truck blocking the road. If the bus never makes it to the bridge, she could stay married forever. Always the ravishing Mrs. Ames. Never again, Madelaine. It's a thought that makes her shiver. Forever married to a man, Mr. Ames, who recites witticisms from magazines as if they were his own concoctions. A man fond of money, and those who have just a little less of it than he. A man who combs his thinning hair in the bathroom, in the car before getting out, in restaurant restrooms and shop windows, in lake reflections. A dull man who, the ravishing Mrs. Ames discovered tonight, sleeps with a dull young woman who is most certainly not ravishing. His comb is in her pocket.
A twenty minute walk to the middle of the bridge. The traffic is extraordinary for midnight. Leaning against the handrail, the comb is to her nose. She smells his hair. Remembers when he had so much of it. Remembers that she fell in love with him when he fell on some ice. His hand was in hers and then it wasn't and he was on the ground. She saw him there where he fell, his arms still in the air with the drop, one leg upraised. It looked to her like she was watching him fall from an airplane. From that moment on, her heart was his. And now, watching his comb fall from a bridge, just a few seconds before the black night swallows it, Madelaine's got her heart back.
Happy The Ravishing Mrs. Ames Day!
Her mascara is eroding and she doesn't even care. The ravishing Mrs. Ames sits on an empty crosstown bus on her way to a beautiful bridge. (There's a driver on the bus. Otherwise, how would it move?)
She might prefer a crowd. The driver's eyes might keep to the road a bit more if they weren't so interested in what's up with the passenger who is quite ravishing but has recently wept. A face full of runny black streaks would blend in with bus folk.
As it is, she keeps her eyes on the passing streets outside, fingering the man's comb in her pocket. On the sidewalk, people walk alone with their faces pointed at the concrete. People hold each other as if in goodbye or "I'm sorry." People scream at the sky, they really do. You've seen them.
How many of them came to a conclusion tonight? How many made a discovery and a decision? How many are about to cut someone out of their lives? How many have a man's comb in their pockets?
There's a trash truck blocking the road. If the bus never makes it to the bridge, she could stay married forever. Always the ravishing Mrs. Ames. Never again, Madelaine. It's a thought that makes her shiver. Forever married to a man, Mr. Ames, who recites witticisms from magazines as if they were his own concoctions. A man fond of money, and those who have just a little less of it than he. A man who combs his thinning hair in the bathroom, in the car before getting out, in restaurant restrooms and shop windows, in lake reflections. A dull man who, the ravishing Mrs. Ames discovered tonight, sleeps with a dull young woman who is most certainly not ravishing. His comb is in her pocket.
A twenty minute walk to the middle of the bridge. The traffic is extraordinary for midnight. Leaning against the handrail, the comb is to her nose. She smells his hair. Remembers when he had so much of it. Remembers that she fell in love with him when he fell on some ice. His hand was in hers and then it wasn't and he was on the ground. She saw him there where he fell, his arms still in the air with the drop, one leg upraised. It looked to her like she was watching him fall from an airplane. From that moment on, her heart was his. And now, watching his comb fall from a bridge, just a few seconds before the black night swallows it, Madelaine's got her heart back.
Happy The Ravishing Mrs. Ames Day!
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