Hippies Day!
More and more dead hippies are pouring out of the sewers into the bay. They all of them have dollar signs carved into the back of their heads. As Chief of the Coast Guard, it's your responsibility to make sure an investigation gets underway. But no one will listen.
You told the Chief of Police about it when you, he, and the Chief of the Fire Department met for your Thursday dinner. All he said was, "Hippies. Whoopdie do!" Then he pulled you in real close and told you it's an election year.
The only other two people you told are your wife and the President of the United States. But your wife thinks you're a failure and hasn't listened to a word you've said since 1980. All the president said was, "My hands are tied!" Then he pointed to a chalkboard that had the word "Deficit" written on it in big letters.
The going is rough, but you can't give up. Even if you have to spraypaint it onto the face of every child, you must make it known that the hippies are dying. They're almost people too.
Happy Hippies Day!
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Flash Of Lightning, Say Goodbye Day!
You saw it when you were waiting by the printer. A brief flash of lightning from atop those clouds to the south. The storm is beginning.
"The storm is beginning," you should say to the account rep with whom you're in love and from whose cubicle you must keep to a minimum distance of five feet at all times, even when she calls you over for a meeting.
"Mm," she'll say. "That your storm Henry?"
You'll say, "The Final Rain, yes. It has begun."
Run inside her cubicle, race behind her desk and stifle her cries with the palm of your hand.
Whisper into her ear, "I know you are frightened, but you've left us no other choice but to share our last moments thusly. You've chosen not to understand me, but I have some things to say before our time on this Earth ends. Now that we are all about to die, I am not afraid of what repercussions may come."
With the hand that is not clamped over her mouth, pet the top of her head. Whisper, "I have loved you. I have loved you with a love that has consumed all of my being. My love for you has been my life, ever since just before I went perm. This life, and with it this love, is about to be washed away into the swirl of the greatest of floods. I had to voice this love, so that we might both acknowledge its existence and kiss it goodbye."
Kiss the part of her hair. Once.
"Thank you," say. Then let go of her head, walk out of her cubicle, and as she screams accusations of assault and insanity, walk calmly to the stairs, where you will begin your descent into the inevitable.
Happy Flash Of Lightning, Say Goodbye Day!
You saw it when you were waiting by the printer. A brief flash of lightning from atop those clouds to the south. The storm is beginning.
"The storm is beginning," you should say to the account rep with whom you're in love and from whose cubicle you must keep to a minimum distance of five feet at all times, even when she calls you over for a meeting.
"Mm," she'll say. "That your storm Henry?"
You'll say, "The Final Rain, yes. It has begun."
Run inside her cubicle, race behind her desk and stifle her cries with the palm of your hand.
Whisper into her ear, "I know you are frightened, but you've left us no other choice but to share our last moments thusly. You've chosen not to understand me, but I have some things to say before our time on this Earth ends. Now that we are all about to die, I am not afraid of what repercussions may come."
With the hand that is not clamped over her mouth, pet the top of her head. Whisper, "I have loved you. I have loved you with a love that has consumed all of my being. My love for you has been my life, ever since just before I went perm. This life, and with it this love, is about to be washed away into the swirl of the greatest of floods. I had to voice this love, so that we might both acknowledge its existence and kiss it goodbye."
Kiss the part of her hair. Once.
"Thank you," say. Then let go of her head, walk out of her cubicle, and as she screams accusations of assault and insanity, walk calmly to the stairs, where you will begin your descent into the inevitable.
Happy Flash Of Lightning, Say Goodbye Day!
Monday, June 28, 2004
Two Dogs Per Lady Day!
She's got two dogs and a pocketbook full of attitude.
It's 1:40 AM and Janice has brought the mongrels out with her for her trip to the store for some eggs. The fella she brought home is waiting for his omelet. He's a coworker and she promised him an omelet if he'd take her home.
"Mushroom and swiss or nothing," Michael said. They made out for the duration of the cabride.
It was a sendoff for a temp who'd been with the firm for two and a half years, refusing to go perm and waiting for the assignment to be discontinued. Ultimately, she got married and quit. Janice liked the temp and envied her, not for marrying, but simply for knowing that Monday will be a little different. Janice is very aware that this is most likely why she propped herself by Michael's left arm for most of the evening, why he's upstairs in her apartment naked on her couch watching HBO Signature.
The dogs are named Leopold and Marcus Welby MD (Welby for scolding brevity). They're both terriers, both boys. Michael likes them. He likes dogs.
At the store Janice buys the eggs and the mushrooms. She was relieved to find she already had the Swiss, as it's hard to get a counter guy to operate the slicer after midnight. When she's waiting for her change, the counter guy needs to break a roll of quarters. This allows her that extra moment of reflection she needs to conclude that Michael is going to rip her to shreds.
Not tonight. He's going to come back for more, and she's going to fall for him. Whether it's two weeks or two years down the line, Michael is going to break her heart.
She'll quit her job. And maybe she'll even leave the city.
Janice carries the omelet makings back to her apartment at a jauntier pace. She's excited. She's got something big waiting somewhere over the horizon.
Happy Two Dogs Per Lady Day!
She's got two dogs and a pocketbook full of attitude.
It's 1:40 AM and Janice has brought the mongrels out with her for her trip to the store for some eggs. The fella she brought home is waiting for his omelet. He's a coworker and she promised him an omelet if he'd take her home.
"Mushroom and swiss or nothing," Michael said. They made out for the duration of the cabride.
It was a sendoff for a temp who'd been with the firm for two and a half years, refusing to go perm and waiting for the assignment to be discontinued. Ultimately, she got married and quit. Janice liked the temp and envied her, not for marrying, but simply for knowing that Monday will be a little different. Janice is very aware that this is most likely why she propped herself by Michael's left arm for most of the evening, why he's upstairs in her apartment naked on her couch watching HBO Signature.
The dogs are named Leopold and Marcus Welby MD (Welby for scolding brevity). They're both terriers, both boys. Michael likes them. He likes dogs.
At the store Janice buys the eggs and the mushrooms. She was relieved to find she already had the Swiss, as it's hard to get a counter guy to operate the slicer after midnight. When she's waiting for her change, the counter guy needs to break a roll of quarters. This allows her that extra moment of reflection she needs to conclude that Michael is going to rip her to shreds.
Not tonight. He's going to come back for more, and she's going to fall for him. Whether it's two weeks or two years down the line, Michael is going to break her heart.
She'll quit her job. And maybe she'll even leave the city.
Janice carries the omelet makings back to her apartment at a jauntier pace. She's excited. She's got something big waiting somewhere over the horizon.
Happy Two Dogs Per Lady Day!
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Washington DC Day!
Today, Washington DC is where the United States Government happens. At around 9 PM tonight, the United States Government is gonna pack up and haul ass over to St. Louis for a three night engagement. Look out St Louis. The United States Government comin' atcha.
Happy Washington DC Day!
Today, Washington DC is where the United States Government happens. At around 9 PM tonight, the United States Government is gonna pack up and haul ass over to St. Louis for a three night engagement. Look out St Louis. The United States Government comin' atcha.
Happy Washington DC Day!
Saturday, June 26, 2004
Singles Canoes Day!
It's happened to you time and time again. Just after you fuck a dude he gets up and does some kind of crazy shit you never saw coming. One guy told you he could see himself marrying you, if he wasn't already married. You had to call an ambulance for the guy who ate everything that was left in your vial of Vicodin. And then there was Mister "Aren’t my very realistic prosthetic limbs awesome?" It was enough to turn a girl off anonymous sex for as much as two to three weeknights at a time!
So when you saw the ad for Singles Canoes, you jumped for the phone. "Find out how you two get along inside of a canoe," it read. "And you'll know how freaky shit'll be after all the orgasms occur!" You made a reservation for today.
His name was Jason, the guy you got assigned (Singles Canoes matches up their singles based on a complicated algorithm using only height, eye color, and a single turn of the board game "Scruples"). When you met this morning, you shook hands. Jason didn't seem happy.
"Let's get this shit over with," he said.
A half-mile down the river, Jason revealed that he had been signed up for Singles Canoes by his parents. "They want me to find someone special and get married," Jason said. "But I only wanna be with them."
You said, "That's sweet." The back of Jason's head was round and sexy. You took the back of the boat because you don't like to be snuck up on over water. You didn't know at the time that his white tee shirt would paste up against his sweaty torso and reveal some of the most delectable upper body muscles you've seen in quite some time.
"God I miss my Dad," he said, letting his oar rest on across his legs.
"How old are you Jason?" you asked. He said he was 39.
For a good length of the canoe trip, you and Jason kept quiet. The only time the two of you spoke was when he told you, unprovoked, that you couldn't have any of his sandwiches.
"Almost time for the barbecue," you said when you saw it was five o'clock.
Jason said, "I hope to try to leave before the barbecue. I wonder if that'll be okay."
You stopped rowing to open up the Singles Canoes brochure. Each single will share a riverside cabin with the single to whom they are assigned and none will be allowed to leave before the awarding of special prizes on the morning following the canoe trip.
You were relieved. "You could try, I suppose."
Jason turned around to see if the amusement he heard in your voice also showed on your face. There was in fact a smirk there.
Jason, of course won't be allowed to leave. And tonight in your cabin, he will be very talky for several hours, promising you that there will be no sex to be had. He'll go on and on about how relations through blood are all that are necessary and that romance is just theft of the heart. Then around midnight, he's gonna stop talking and wait. You'll go to him and pull his head to your breasts, which are awesome.
Jason won't say a word during sex, and he won't let you have any say. When you try to remove his pants, he'll remove your hands from his belt buckle. He'll tug your clothes from your body, guide you to the couch and then remove his clothing himself while you lay across the couch waiting for his next decision. You will be moved from your position on your back across the cushions of the couch, to a standing spot on the rug bent over the arm of the couch and peering into a large mirror fastened above the back of the couch, to the bed, to the headboard of the bed, to the floor by the bed. Each move will occur of a sudden. You will not be consulted beforehand.
Tomorrow morning, you will win tickets to see the Billy Joel musical "Movin' Out." At the barbecue after every canoe trip, Singles Canoes Administrators hand out pens, pieces of paper and envelopes so that each single can write what behavior he or she predicts her assigned single will exhibit following sexual relations that evening. Singles who predict accurately will win one of several prizes provided through sponsoring bodies. Your winning prediction will be, "Jason will stare out the window at the moon and the trees and when I ask him if everything is okay he'll tell me to shut up."
Jason's losing prediction will be, "She'll probably take a bath or some shit like that." When Jason's prediction is revealed to be inaccurate, all of the assembled singles will laugh at him. He'll demand his keys and rush off in his car.
Singles Canoes awards singles that make accurate predictions of their assigned single's behavior because it proves that their canoe trips really help people get to know what makes each other tick.
Happy Singles Canoes Day!
It's happened to you time and time again. Just after you fuck a dude he gets up and does some kind of crazy shit you never saw coming. One guy told you he could see himself marrying you, if he wasn't already married. You had to call an ambulance for the guy who ate everything that was left in your vial of Vicodin. And then there was Mister "Aren’t my very realistic prosthetic limbs awesome?" It was enough to turn a girl off anonymous sex for as much as two to three weeknights at a time!
So when you saw the ad for Singles Canoes, you jumped for the phone. "Find out how you two get along inside of a canoe," it read. "And you'll know how freaky shit'll be after all the orgasms occur!" You made a reservation for today.
His name was Jason, the guy you got assigned (Singles Canoes matches up their singles based on a complicated algorithm using only height, eye color, and a single turn of the board game "Scruples"). When you met this morning, you shook hands. Jason didn't seem happy.
"Let's get this shit over with," he said.
A half-mile down the river, Jason revealed that he had been signed up for Singles Canoes by his parents. "They want me to find someone special and get married," Jason said. "But I only wanna be with them."
You said, "That's sweet." The back of Jason's head was round and sexy. You took the back of the boat because you don't like to be snuck up on over water. You didn't know at the time that his white tee shirt would paste up against his sweaty torso and reveal some of the most delectable upper body muscles you've seen in quite some time.
"God I miss my Dad," he said, letting his oar rest on across his legs.
"How old are you Jason?" you asked. He said he was 39.
For a good length of the canoe trip, you and Jason kept quiet. The only time the two of you spoke was when he told you, unprovoked, that you couldn't have any of his sandwiches.
"Almost time for the barbecue," you said when you saw it was five o'clock.
Jason said, "I hope to try to leave before the barbecue. I wonder if that'll be okay."
You stopped rowing to open up the Singles Canoes brochure. Each single will share a riverside cabin with the single to whom they are assigned and none will be allowed to leave before the awarding of special prizes on the morning following the canoe trip.
You were relieved. "You could try, I suppose."
Jason turned around to see if the amusement he heard in your voice also showed on your face. There was in fact a smirk there.
Jason, of course won't be allowed to leave. And tonight in your cabin, he will be very talky for several hours, promising you that there will be no sex to be had. He'll go on and on about how relations through blood are all that are necessary and that romance is just theft of the heart. Then around midnight, he's gonna stop talking and wait. You'll go to him and pull his head to your breasts, which are awesome.
Jason won't say a word during sex, and he won't let you have any say. When you try to remove his pants, he'll remove your hands from his belt buckle. He'll tug your clothes from your body, guide you to the couch and then remove his clothing himself while you lay across the couch waiting for his next decision. You will be moved from your position on your back across the cushions of the couch, to a standing spot on the rug bent over the arm of the couch and peering into a large mirror fastened above the back of the couch, to the bed, to the headboard of the bed, to the floor by the bed. Each move will occur of a sudden. You will not be consulted beforehand.
Tomorrow morning, you will win tickets to see the Billy Joel musical "Movin' Out." At the barbecue after every canoe trip, Singles Canoes Administrators hand out pens, pieces of paper and envelopes so that each single can write what behavior he or she predicts her assigned single will exhibit following sexual relations that evening. Singles who predict accurately will win one of several prizes provided through sponsoring bodies. Your winning prediction will be, "Jason will stare out the window at the moon and the trees and when I ask him if everything is okay he'll tell me to shut up."
Jason's losing prediction will be, "She'll probably take a bath or some shit like that." When Jason's prediction is revealed to be inaccurate, all of the assembled singles will laugh at him. He'll demand his keys and rush off in his car.
Singles Canoes awards singles that make accurate predictions of their assigned single's behavior because it proves that their canoe trips really help people get to know what makes each other tick.
Happy Singles Canoes Day!
Friday, June 25, 2004
Climb Up And Tell Her So Day!
Scale the trellis with some stealth. Her father has a shotgun. The window isn't going anywhere, so go step by step and keep your weight towards the house. That thing isn't very secure.
Her window will be open, but don't use your voice to wake her. Scratch your fingernail against the screen in swift swipes.
There she is. She's cloudy behind that screen, but she's there.
She'll ask, "What are you doing out there?"
Say "I'm in love with you. I have been since sophomore year."
She'll nod and say mm hmm, scrunching up her nose and rubbing at her eyes when she does it.
"Your boyfriend is wrong for you. My love is true. Please accept it."
When she says, "It's a barbecue," you'll realize she's still half-asleep, in a dream.
Say, "Hey! I need you to get this!"
She'll snap awake and look at you like she just caught sight of you out there.
"That's better," say. "As I was saying, do you wanna go out with me? I love you. Have for a while now."
She'll shake her head.
Ask if it's because she has a boyfriend and explain that she should leave him for you because you're caring and your love is true.
"No," she'll say. "I'm just not attracted to you. I'm too young to settle for the guy who'll take the right care of me."
Blink your eyes, not sure whether you can believe what you're hearing. Remember, you're the only one she should be with, ever.
"For now," she'll say, "I want to raise a little hell. Get hurt a few times. Then I'll make the cautious choice and go for someone like you."
Ask, "How long?"
She'll say "12 years minimum."
Tell her you're gonna go home then.
Happy Climb Up And Tell Her So Day!
Scale the trellis with some stealth. Her father has a shotgun. The window isn't going anywhere, so go step by step and keep your weight towards the house. That thing isn't very secure.
Her window will be open, but don't use your voice to wake her. Scratch your fingernail against the screen in swift swipes.
There she is. She's cloudy behind that screen, but she's there.
She'll ask, "What are you doing out there?"
Say "I'm in love with you. I have been since sophomore year."
She'll nod and say mm hmm, scrunching up her nose and rubbing at her eyes when she does it.
"Your boyfriend is wrong for you. My love is true. Please accept it."
When she says, "It's a barbecue," you'll realize she's still half-asleep, in a dream.
Say, "Hey! I need you to get this!"
She'll snap awake and look at you like she just caught sight of you out there.
"That's better," say. "As I was saying, do you wanna go out with me? I love you. Have for a while now."
She'll shake her head.
Ask if it's because she has a boyfriend and explain that she should leave him for you because you're caring and your love is true.
"No," she'll say. "I'm just not attracted to you. I'm too young to settle for the guy who'll take the right care of me."
Blink your eyes, not sure whether you can believe what you're hearing. Remember, you're the only one she should be with, ever.
"For now," she'll say, "I want to raise a little hell. Get hurt a few times. Then I'll make the cautious choice and go for someone like you."
Ask, "How long?"
She'll say "12 years minimum."
Tell her you're gonna go home then.
Happy Climb Up And Tell Her So Day!
Thursday, June 24, 2004
13th Birthday Day!
All across the globe, little boys and girls are taking the big step into adolescence today. They are frightened about what is going to happen to them.
"I'm 13 now," they'll say. "I'm going to be pregnant soon."
"Only if you're bad," tell them.
"And what's to become of my genitals?" they'll say.
Show them photographs of your and your wife's genitals.
"Oh," they'll say. "And what about smoking?"
Tell them they're not allowed to smoke until they're 18, but they should try soon. "To find out whether you like it or not," say. "Pot's a gateway drug," add. "If you smoke a joint, you'll get addicted to crack. You won't be able to control yourself. You'll finish smoking pot and you'll immediately go running out the window to buy as much crack as you can."
When the kids start to talk about the long-term psychological effects of knowing that their fathers are cheating on their mothers, pull them all into a group hug and shout at the sun, "Why?!"
Happy 13th Birthday Day!
All across the globe, little boys and girls are taking the big step into adolescence today. They are frightened about what is going to happen to them.
"I'm 13 now," they'll say. "I'm going to be pregnant soon."
"Only if you're bad," tell them.
"And what's to become of my genitals?" they'll say.
Show them photographs of your and your wife's genitals.
"Oh," they'll say. "And what about smoking?"
Tell them they're not allowed to smoke until they're 18, but they should try soon. "To find out whether you like it or not," say. "Pot's a gateway drug," add. "If you smoke a joint, you'll get addicted to crack. You won't be able to control yourself. You'll finish smoking pot and you'll immediately go running out the window to buy as much crack as you can."
When the kids start to talk about the long-term psychological effects of knowing that their fathers are cheating on their mothers, pull them all into a group hug and shout at the sun, "Why?!"
Happy 13th Birthday Day!
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Three Hot Young Chicks Day!
When three hot, young chicks who work at the same munitions factory decide to rent a house together, they'd better be careful. The intention was to just have a fun time being hot and carpooling to work together. But hot, young chicks bring in outsiders.
Ultimately, one of you (but not you) is going to start dating a middle-aged man and the other two are going to be confused by her choice, considering that there's an army base nearby. The middle-aged man will be married. And he'll be unemployed. And he'll watch a lot of television.
When a house meeting is called to find out what up, it will be revealed that the middle-aged man is actually a middle-aged Man Of God. The one dating him will say he's shown her a path to walk and she's devoted her life to him. "My body and the use of my TV is the least of what I am obliged to give to him." That's when the other two of you will say, "Ahem, whose TV?"
There'll be some violence in July. None of you will be hit directly, but someone will get scared and jam a finger into a dooframe trying to get away from one of his rages. Eventually, the two of you who aren't dating him will go to his wife and tell her that he's straying. The wife will be another one who believes he's holy and she'll understand that he needs more than just one woman to serve him. Back to the drawing board!
It will be quite a shock when you find that he's been running a meth lab in out of your basement. He'll offer you ten percent of profits and just to not get killed, you'll agree to his terms. Late one night, you and the one not dating him will go down to the meth lab and start a meth fire (after drugging his whiskey with a barbiturate of course). You'll run out to the yard and drag the one dating him with you. She'll try to run in and save him, and you'll end up having to punch her out. After a week of deprogramming, you three will take two weeks to go down to Cancun and try to salvage the rest of your summer.
Happy Three Hot Young Chicks Day!
When three hot, young chicks who work at the same munitions factory decide to rent a house together, they'd better be careful. The intention was to just have a fun time being hot and carpooling to work together. But hot, young chicks bring in outsiders.
Ultimately, one of you (but not you) is going to start dating a middle-aged man and the other two are going to be confused by her choice, considering that there's an army base nearby. The middle-aged man will be married. And he'll be unemployed. And he'll watch a lot of television.
When a house meeting is called to find out what up, it will be revealed that the middle-aged man is actually a middle-aged Man Of God. The one dating him will say he's shown her a path to walk and she's devoted her life to him. "My body and the use of my TV is the least of what I am obliged to give to him." That's when the other two of you will say, "Ahem, whose TV?"
There'll be some violence in July. None of you will be hit directly, but someone will get scared and jam a finger into a dooframe trying to get away from one of his rages. Eventually, the two of you who aren't dating him will go to his wife and tell her that he's straying. The wife will be another one who believes he's holy and she'll understand that he needs more than just one woman to serve him. Back to the drawing board!
It will be quite a shock when you find that he's been running a meth lab in out of your basement. He'll offer you ten percent of profits and just to not get killed, you'll agree to his terms. Late one night, you and the one not dating him will go down to the meth lab and start a meth fire (after drugging his whiskey with a barbiturate of course). You'll run out to the yard and drag the one dating him with you. She'll try to run in and save him, and you'll end up having to punch her out. After a week of deprogramming, you three will take two weeks to go down to Cancun and try to salvage the rest of your summer.
Happy Three Hot Young Chicks Day!
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Big Mistake Day!
The note reads as follows:
I have taken her away from you, to my home, where she has always belonged. It was fate that you invited me into your bedroom. The first moment I looked into her eyes it was like we were reunited after a life apart. Vanessa is meant for me. You do not deserve her. Any man who would share her could never deserve her. If you follow us, if you try to take Vanessa from me, you will be killed.
David James
Vanessa was way into bringing home anonymous partners to have sex with while you watched from the chair in the corner. In fact, you can't recall correctly now, but it might have been her idea. Regardless, this David James guy is acting like you dragged her down into something seedy when you know damn well that wasn't the case.
He's the crazy one. That's what you gotta remember. He's a lonely man whom you made the mistake of inviting into your bedroom. He became obsessed with Vanessa and he painted you as the villain blocking him access to his obsession. So he stole her.
Problem is, letting another guy have sex with your wife while you watch is so universally frowned upon that you can't help but internalize his accusations. And as you go about your hunt to get her back, there's gonna be a little seed of doubt growing in your belly. Could you be the monster? You won't know for certain until you break into that basement and untie her (you assume she's tied up in a basement someplace). You won't know for sure until she runs into your arms. Only then will it be clear that she dug having sex with strangers while you watched from your chair in the corner. Only then will it be clear that she is yours.
Happy Big Mistake Day!
The note reads as follows:
I have taken her away from you, to my home, where she has always belonged. It was fate that you invited me into your bedroom. The first moment I looked into her eyes it was like we were reunited after a life apart. Vanessa is meant for me. You do not deserve her. Any man who would share her could never deserve her. If you follow us, if you try to take Vanessa from me, you will be killed.
David James
Vanessa was way into bringing home anonymous partners to have sex with while you watched from the chair in the corner. In fact, you can't recall correctly now, but it might have been her idea. Regardless, this David James guy is acting like you dragged her down into something seedy when you know damn well that wasn't the case.
He's the crazy one. That's what you gotta remember. He's a lonely man whom you made the mistake of inviting into your bedroom. He became obsessed with Vanessa and he painted you as the villain blocking him access to his obsession. So he stole her.
Problem is, letting another guy have sex with your wife while you watch is so universally frowned upon that you can't help but internalize his accusations. And as you go about your hunt to get her back, there's gonna be a little seed of doubt growing in your belly. Could you be the monster? You won't know for certain until you break into that basement and untie her (you assume she's tied up in a basement someplace). You won't know for sure until she runs into your arms. Only then will it be clear that she dug having sex with strangers while you watched from your chair in the corner. Only then will it be clear that she is yours.
Happy Big Mistake Day!
Monday, June 21, 2004
After The War Day!
You'll go back to your husband and he'll go back to his wife. Right? That was the plan this whole time. Right? You and he clung to each other only to find some comfort amidst all of this bloodshed and insanity. But your hearts were always back home. Right?
"I mean, can you imagine? Us back home?" you say with a little too ambitious a laugh from the crook of his arm (you're on a chopper to Seoul tomorrow, where you'll meet a boat to the states. He's sticking around to pull the tents out of the ground).
"I can," he says. "I'm a five hour drive from Baltimore."
Your bloodflow came screeching to a halt in your veins when he said that. "So's your wife," you say.
His arm, underneath your head, it's so strong. It's bulletproof. He doesn't move an inch when he says the following: "I'll be with you in America. If you need me to get a divorce, I will. If you need me to stay married, I will. I'll do whatever you ask, as long as you promise that I'll see you in America. This fucking war brought us together. I'm not gonna let it tear us apart."
You've got some thinking to do, pretty young black-haired war nurse you.
Happy After The War Day!
You'll go back to your husband and he'll go back to his wife. Right? That was the plan this whole time. Right? You and he clung to each other only to find some comfort amidst all of this bloodshed and insanity. But your hearts were always back home. Right?
"I mean, can you imagine? Us back home?" you say with a little too ambitious a laugh from the crook of his arm (you're on a chopper to Seoul tomorrow, where you'll meet a boat to the states. He's sticking around to pull the tents out of the ground).
"I can," he says. "I'm a five hour drive from Baltimore."
Your bloodflow came screeching to a halt in your veins when he said that. "So's your wife," you say.
His arm, underneath your head, it's so strong. It's bulletproof. He doesn't move an inch when he says the following: "I'll be with you in America. If you need me to get a divorce, I will. If you need me to stay married, I will. I'll do whatever you ask, as long as you promise that I'll see you in America. This fucking war brought us together. I'm not gonna let it tear us apart."
You've got some thinking to do, pretty young black-haired war nurse you.
Happy After The War Day!
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Believe In Him Day!
Some girls think that believing in their boys amounts to being nothing more than a kiss-ass "yes-man." You know better. You know that back-rubs are necessary.
When your boy comes home from a hard day at the laboratory, he'll sit down at the kitchen table and cry. Go to him.
Say, "No progress today baby?"
He'll say, "Science is dead. There's no one left with vision."
Say, "You'll open their eyes."
He'll pull his head out of his hands and look up at you.
Say, "You're going to change this world baby. I know it."
He'll accuse you of knowing nothing about anything and he'll hit you. You'll cower on the floor, wiping the small bauble of blood from your lower lip.
Say, "I don't want you to feel bad about this baby. I don't want it to get in the way of your work."
He'll say, "You believe in me."
You'll say, "I gave up on God the day I met you. I looked into your eyes and I thought this kid can deliver results."
He'll take off his shirt and sit in kitchen chair. You'll get the oil from atop the refrigerator and you'll coat your hands. You'll knead him back on track.
Happy Believe In Him Day!
Some girls think that believing in their boys amounts to being nothing more than a kiss-ass "yes-man." You know better. You know that back-rubs are necessary.
When your boy comes home from a hard day at the laboratory, he'll sit down at the kitchen table and cry. Go to him.
Say, "No progress today baby?"
He'll say, "Science is dead. There's no one left with vision."
Say, "You'll open their eyes."
He'll pull his head out of his hands and look up at you.
Say, "You're going to change this world baby. I know it."
He'll accuse you of knowing nothing about anything and he'll hit you. You'll cower on the floor, wiping the small bauble of blood from your lower lip.
Say, "I don't want you to feel bad about this baby. I don't want it to get in the way of your work."
He'll say, "You believe in me."
You'll say, "I gave up on God the day I met you. I looked into your eyes and I thought this kid can deliver results."
He'll take off his shirt and sit in kitchen chair. You'll get the oil from atop the refrigerator and you'll coat your hands. You'll knead him back on track.
Happy Believe In Him Day!
Saturday, June 19, 2004
If You Hurt Her Day!
I'll lift you off the ground by your hair, shove a six foot copper pipe up your ass, then slam you down on the pipe until the pipe rips up through your torso, your throat, your brain, and then cracks through the top of your skull. Then I'll bury the ass end of the pipe in the ground and let abused kids come by my yard and spin you around on the pipe. Then I'll let dogs eat you. She's very special to me and though she comes off as a tough cookie, she's not.
Happy If You Hurt Her Day!
I'll lift you off the ground by your hair, shove a six foot copper pipe up your ass, then slam you down on the pipe until the pipe rips up through your torso, your throat, your brain, and then cracks through the top of your skull. Then I'll bury the ass end of the pipe in the ground and let abused kids come by my yard and spin you around on the pipe. Then I'll let dogs eat you. She's very special to me and though she comes off as a tough cookie, she's not.
Happy If You Hurt Her Day!
Friday, June 18, 2004
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Magic Picnic Day!
Plant the bottle of white into the bed of the creek and let it chill. When you get back to the blanket, your companion (Marie, third date) is sitting there talking to an adorable little six year old boy with a bowl haircut.
"Well who do we have here?" you say as you kneel down to the boy.
"You're not gonna believe this," Marie says. "Tell him."
"I'm Ernest," says the boy.
"Ernest," you smile. "Unusual name."
Marie says, "That was my brother's name. He died when he was sixteen. I was seventeen."
"You never told me…"
Marie shushes you with a wave of her hand. "Tell him who you are. Really."
Ernest smiles like he's trying to hold in a giggle. "I'm going to be your son."
Before you get a chance to think twice you look at Ernest's nose and think, That's Marie's nose.
"Those are your eyes," Marie says to you.
You drop on your ass onto the blanket, staring into the boy's face. You ask how old he is.
"Six."
"And when will you be born?" Marie asks.
Ernest giggles and gives a shrug that makes your heart melt. You put your hand on Marie's shoulder and she grabs it like you're pulling her out of a stormy sea.
"But…I'm your Daddy."
Ernest nods his head real big.
"And I'm you're Mommy?"
Ernest nods again. "You're my Mommy," he says, proud to know the right answer.
You and Marie just look at Ernest and start to laugh with him, occasionally putting your hands to your mouths to stifle a gasp.
"Can I have a grape?" Ernest asks.
You let him pick five grapes from the stalk and he stuffs all five in his mouth at once, making his cheeks bulge out until he sucks in air and squishes it all down and starts to chew.
"Well," Ernest says. "Bye bye."
You hold out your hand to shake. "It was nice meeting you Ernest."
Marie leans over to kiss his forehead. "I can't wait until we meet again."
Ernest giggles. Again he says, "Bye bye." This time with a wave. Then he runs across the grass to disappear into the woods.
You and Marie watch the woods be still for a while, smiling. You're not able to look at each other without filling up with a blush. You kiss a couple times, but you don't say anything. Not even when you get up to get the wine.
When you get to the creek, the bottle of wine is nowhere to be found. You spend maybe five minutes searching up and down the bank, but it's gone. You can't help but think that Ernest had something to do with it. And after he's born into your home with Marie three years from now, every time he giggles and shrugs you'll be dying to shake him by the shoulders and accuse him of running off with your booze that day three years before he was born when he came to you as a spectre.
Happy Magic Picnic Day!
Plant the bottle of white into the bed of the creek and let it chill. When you get back to the blanket, your companion (Marie, third date) is sitting there talking to an adorable little six year old boy with a bowl haircut.
"Well who do we have here?" you say as you kneel down to the boy.
"You're not gonna believe this," Marie says. "Tell him."
"I'm Ernest," says the boy.
"Ernest," you smile. "Unusual name."
Marie says, "That was my brother's name. He died when he was sixteen. I was seventeen."
"You never told me…"
Marie shushes you with a wave of her hand. "Tell him who you are. Really."
Ernest smiles like he's trying to hold in a giggle. "I'm going to be your son."
Before you get a chance to think twice you look at Ernest's nose and think, That's Marie's nose.
"Those are your eyes," Marie says to you.
You drop on your ass onto the blanket, staring into the boy's face. You ask how old he is.
"Six."
"And when will you be born?" Marie asks.
Ernest giggles and gives a shrug that makes your heart melt. You put your hand on Marie's shoulder and she grabs it like you're pulling her out of a stormy sea.
"But…I'm your Daddy."
Ernest nods his head real big.
"And I'm you're Mommy?"
Ernest nods again. "You're my Mommy," he says, proud to know the right answer.
You and Marie just look at Ernest and start to laugh with him, occasionally putting your hands to your mouths to stifle a gasp.
"Can I have a grape?" Ernest asks.
You let him pick five grapes from the stalk and he stuffs all five in his mouth at once, making his cheeks bulge out until he sucks in air and squishes it all down and starts to chew.
"Well," Ernest says. "Bye bye."
You hold out your hand to shake. "It was nice meeting you Ernest."
Marie leans over to kiss his forehead. "I can't wait until we meet again."
Ernest giggles. Again he says, "Bye bye." This time with a wave. Then he runs across the grass to disappear into the woods.
You and Marie watch the woods be still for a while, smiling. You're not able to look at each other without filling up with a blush. You kiss a couple times, but you don't say anything. Not even when you get up to get the wine.
When you get to the creek, the bottle of wine is nowhere to be found. You spend maybe five minutes searching up and down the bank, but it's gone. You can't help but think that Ernest had something to do with it. And after he's born into your home with Marie three years from now, every time he giggles and shrugs you'll be dying to shake him by the shoulders and accuse him of running off with your booze that day three years before he was born when he came to you as a spectre.
Happy Magic Picnic Day!
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
The Driving Test Day!
Your instructor is going to say that you are by far the absolute worst driver he's ever seen. This will happen after you drive up onto a sidewalk and crash through a giant balloon full of banana peels and slice a man clean in two at the waist. Luckily, your driving instructor has a dorky son.
"He goes to your school. You seem real hot. Take my son to the prom and you'll walk away with a driver's license right here this afternoon."
He'll show you his son's picture. You'll recognize the boy. You'll say, "Bobby Boogerbrain? No way!"
The instructor will yank his son's picture away from you. "His name is Bobby McFarlaine. And you just failed your driving test young lady."
You'll feel bad, and a little pissed. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know your son that well. And I already have a date."
"You'll feel even worse ten years from now when my son uses his intelligence to soar to the top of industry," the driving instructor will say.
"Actually, your son isn't all that bright," you'll say. "It's true, he doesn't fit in all that well. But it's not because he's so caught up in school. I'm in way better classes than he is. In fact, I bet a big reason he doesn't really fit in is because he's so dumb."
"Yeah, you're right," the instructor will say. "And I guess he's in no rush to go to prom. He might get held back this year."
Suddenly, you'll agree to take him to the prom. You'll explain why.
"Wait a minute," you'll say. "Maybe a date with me is just the boost of confidence your son needs to get himself on the track to success. I'll do it!"
"Great," the instructor will say. "Looks like you just became a licensed driver."
"Oh no," you'll object. "I'm not doing this to get the license. I just want to help."
"I know," the instructor will say. "And crash or no crash, we need a generous heart like yours out on the road!"
Happy The Driving Test Day!
Your instructor is going to say that you are by far the absolute worst driver he's ever seen. This will happen after you drive up onto a sidewalk and crash through a giant balloon full of banana peels and slice a man clean in two at the waist. Luckily, your driving instructor has a dorky son.
"He goes to your school. You seem real hot. Take my son to the prom and you'll walk away with a driver's license right here this afternoon."
He'll show you his son's picture. You'll recognize the boy. You'll say, "Bobby Boogerbrain? No way!"
The instructor will yank his son's picture away from you. "His name is Bobby McFarlaine. And you just failed your driving test young lady."
You'll feel bad, and a little pissed. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know your son that well. And I already have a date."
"You'll feel even worse ten years from now when my son uses his intelligence to soar to the top of industry," the driving instructor will say.
"Actually, your son isn't all that bright," you'll say. "It's true, he doesn't fit in all that well. But it's not because he's so caught up in school. I'm in way better classes than he is. In fact, I bet a big reason he doesn't really fit in is because he's so dumb."
"Yeah, you're right," the instructor will say. "And I guess he's in no rush to go to prom. He might get held back this year."
Suddenly, you'll agree to take him to the prom. You'll explain why.
"Wait a minute," you'll say. "Maybe a date with me is just the boost of confidence your son needs to get himself on the track to success. I'll do it!"
"Great," the instructor will say. "Looks like you just became a licensed driver."
"Oh no," you'll object. "I'm not doing this to get the license. I just want to help."
"I know," the instructor will say. "And crash or no crash, we need a generous heart like yours out on the road!"
Happy The Driving Test Day!
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Arranged Marriages Are Bad Day!
You're bored and thirty one. Your mother is bored and disappointed in you. Your father is trying to stave off death with some affairs and some brazen embezzlement. You're taking suggestions.
Which is why you didn't object when your Mom started talking about arranging a marriage for you. She joined this group of mothers who wanted to change their adult children's lives for the better by making their adult children's lifemate decisions for them. Basically, it was a bunch of Moms who were going to mix and match their kids into marriage. As was previously stated, you were bored. And you saw it as just a slightly more aggressive set-up situation.
Problem is, and a blind dead person could've seen this coming, but at the big arranged marriage mixer party, you were introduced to your mate-for-life and you found her to be loathsome. But you met Marty Cooperman's mate-for-life (JULIE!) and you thought she was aces, tits to toes, and she thought the same about you. You asked your Mom to ask THE COUNCIL if you and Julie could be set-up, but the Moms on THE COUNCIL said hells no. Their reasoning was that when you signed on for an arranged marriage, you agreed to submit to their pairing process.
"Everyone who mates according to our decree will only mate for the better," Mrs. Gamberslee, head of the council, declared just before banging her gavel (she just brought it in with her one day)(drunk with power).
What's going to happen is love is going to try to prevail against reason. You and Julie won't be able to keep away from each other. THE COUNCIL is going to order you to cease contact. Julie's gonna pretend to have killed herself, so you're going to kill yourself for reals, then Julie's gonna kill herself for reals, and your Dad's gonna go to jail for falsifying quarterly earnings statements.
Happy Arranged Marriages Are Bad Day!
You're bored and thirty one. Your mother is bored and disappointed in you. Your father is trying to stave off death with some affairs and some brazen embezzlement. You're taking suggestions.
Which is why you didn't object when your Mom started talking about arranging a marriage for you. She joined this group of mothers who wanted to change their adult children's lives for the better by making their adult children's lifemate decisions for them. Basically, it was a bunch of Moms who were going to mix and match their kids into marriage. As was previously stated, you were bored. And you saw it as just a slightly more aggressive set-up situation.
Problem is, and a blind dead person could've seen this coming, but at the big arranged marriage mixer party, you were introduced to your mate-for-life and you found her to be loathsome. But you met Marty Cooperman's mate-for-life (JULIE!) and you thought she was aces, tits to toes, and she thought the same about you. You asked your Mom to ask THE COUNCIL if you and Julie could be set-up, but the Moms on THE COUNCIL said hells no. Their reasoning was that when you signed on for an arranged marriage, you agreed to submit to their pairing process.
"Everyone who mates according to our decree will only mate for the better," Mrs. Gamberslee, head of the council, declared just before banging her gavel (she just brought it in with her one day)(drunk with power).
What's going to happen is love is going to try to prevail against reason. You and Julie won't be able to keep away from each other. THE COUNCIL is going to order you to cease contact. Julie's gonna pretend to have killed herself, so you're going to kill yourself for reals, then Julie's gonna kill herself for reals, and your Dad's gonna go to jail for falsifying quarterly earnings statements.
Happy Arranged Marriages Are Bad Day!
Monday, June 14, 2004
Muddy The Dirt Day!
Make it so no one can get to her anymore.
Say, "This dirt is too loose baby." Pour your seltzer bottle onto the mound atop her grave until the color of the dirt goes dark. "I know that didn't do enough, but soon it'll rain baby. And the dirt will soak through and then firm up like cement and none of the sons of bitches in this hideous town will ever be able to get near you again."
From where he's standing just a few graves away, Lane will say, "C'mon Greg before someone sees you."
Drop to your knees and hold some of her wet dirt in your fingertips.
"Damn shame," Lane will say, looking off away from you. It's like Lane is the generous-hearted guard who's taking you off to prison and he's giving you one last kiss goodbye with your sweetheart. He's looking away to give you privacy.
So you put the dirt to your lips and give it a kiss. And you feel a little better for doing it. The mud stays on your lips and you'll taste it there for the rest of the afternoon.
"Let's go Greg," Lane says. "Let's go make some motherfuckers pay."
"Okay," you say. You rise from the grave and walk with Lane to his car, which will drive the two of you back to the center of town, where the funeral reception is still in full swing.
Happy Muddy The Dirt Day!
Make it so no one can get to her anymore.
Say, "This dirt is too loose baby." Pour your seltzer bottle onto the mound atop her grave until the color of the dirt goes dark. "I know that didn't do enough, but soon it'll rain baby. And the dirt will soak through and then firm up like cement and none of the sons of bitches in this hideous town will ever be able to get near you again."
From where he's standing just a few graves away, Lane will say, "C'mon Greg before someone sees you."
Drop to your knees and hold some of her wet dirt in your fingertips.
"Damn shame," Lane will say, looking off away from you. It's like Lane is the generous-hearted guard who's taking you off to prison and he's giving you one last kiss goodbye with your sweetheart. He's looking away to give you privacy.
So you put the dirt to your lips and give it a kiss. And you feel a little better for doing it. The mud stays on your lips and you'll taste it there for the rest of the afternoon.
"Let's go Greg," Lane says. "Let's go make some motherfuckers pay."
"Okay," you say. You rise from the grave and walk with Lane to his car, which will drive the two of you back to the center of town, where the funeral reception is still in full swing.
Happy Muddy The Dirt Day!
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Put Your Hands To Her Tear-Stained Cheeks And Ask Her What She's Done Day!
She left a lipstick stained coffee cup on the dashboard of the getaway car. You already know the answer. And you know that she's pretty much drawn the police a map to your hideout. You should already be out the back door, since the sirens can be heard a ways off. But she thinks that she can shed a few tears and you'll forgive her and take care of everything. Even though that's true, and even though you have around twelve seconds to get the hell out of there, you two find it so hard to actually discuss anything that you only pick the most inopportune moments to make it clear how you feel. Moments that make it impossible to get anywhere near a resolution.
Take the twelve seconds before your desert police chase for example. You want to tell her that, although remembering to toss a lipstick-stained coffee cup out of the getaway car is a small detail, you feel like she missed that detail because this whole bank job was your idea, your creation, and she didn't pay attention to the small details because she never took your work seriously. You want to tell her that you turned down a 6-figure diamond heist last Autumn because she was pregnant, and that even though the miscarriage wasn't her fault, you've nevertheless resented her ever since. You want to tell her that she's always hated you for stealing her away from her District Attorney ex-husband, and that she's grown bored with throwing your promises to go straight up in your face, so now she's decided to go ahead and get you pinched.
"It's how it's gonna end anyhow, so why not get it over with," you want to tell her.
You'd like to hit her. Which is why you place your hands over her tear-stained cheeks. It's like you're hitting her real soft and slow. You say, "What have you done?"
She sniffles. She tries to say I'm sorry but a sob cracks it in two. You grab her by the arm.
"Come on," you say. And you drag her out the back so you can get into the car with the clean plates and start your way bitchin' police chase. She's gonna die before you, but you're gonna die. In a motel room above a bar.
Happy Put Your Hands To Her Tear-Stained Cheeks And Ask Her What She's Done Day!
She left a lipstick stained coffee cup on the dashboard of the getaway car. You already know the answer. And you know that she's pretty much drawn the police a map to your hideout. You should already be out the back door, since the sirens can be heard a ways off. But she thinks that she can shed a few tears and you'll forgive her and take care of everything. Even though that's true, and even though you have around twelve seconds to get the hell out of there, you two find it so hard to actually discuss anything that you only pick the most inopportune moments to make it clear how you feel. Moments that make it impossible to get anywhere near a resolution.
Take the twelve seconds before your desert police chase for example. You want to tell her that, although remembering to toss a lipstick-stained coffee cup out of the getaway car is a small detail, you feel like she missed that detail because this whole bank job was your idea, your creation, and she didn't pay attention to the small details because she never took your work seriously. You want to tell her that you turned down a 6-figure diamond heist last Autumn because she was pregnant, and that even though the miscarriage wasn't her fault, you've nevertheless resented her ever since. You want to tell her that she's always hated you for stealing her away from her District Attorney ex-husband, and that she's grown bored with throwing your promises to go straight up in your face, so now she's decided to go ahead and get you pinched.
"It's how it's gonna end anyhow, so why not get it over with," you want to tell her.
You'd like to hit her. Which is why you place your hands over her tear-stained cheeks. It's like you're hitting her real soft and slow. You say, "What have you done?"
She sniffles. She tries to say I'm sorry but a sob cracks it in two. You grab her by the arm.
"Come on," you say. And you drag her out the back so you can get into the car with the clean plates and start your way bitchin' police chase. She's gonna die before you, but you're gonna die. In a motel room above a bar.
Happy Put Your Hands To Her Tear-Stained Cheeks And Ask Her What She's Done Day!
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Just A Faint Wind Day!
The wine glasses hanging above the wet bar in your summer cottage are shaking in their slots, banging together at the steady rhythm of an oncoming train signal. A storm wind sent in through the deck door sent them rattling. The noise wakes you up and sends you into the maniacal clutches of your vengeful ex-husband. The phone is dead.
You were awarded both the summer cottage and the Brooklyn flat, nothing beyond what you'd requested. Both combined don't equal the value of the Greenwich home your ex will be keeping for himself. But Jess didn't want to relinquish his claim on the memories housed inside each.
"Lets sell them both," he offered. "You'll keep all the proceeds."
When you balked, Jess grew more aggressive. Showing up at your sister's where you were staying to argue his case. In twelve minute orations delivered on the front step of her house, he'd complain of you bringing a new man back to his cottage and tainting everything the two of you shared there. "What we have is dead," he once said, back when he could control his anger. "But please don't try to kill what we had."
You told him to speak to his lawyer, who would in turn speak to hers. In the divorce mediation, he let more outbursts against your character fly across the table. At night, he'd pull up outside your sister's house and park there for hours. Until one morning, your sister's son walked out to meet his schoolbus and found a pair of your panties on the front lawn. He brought it into the house and gave it his mother, who handed the pair to you. The next morning, the mediation judge exacted a restraining order upon Jess, and the divorce agreement was rapidly sewn up not long after, since Jess' objections would no longer be granted any merit.
Tonight, the memories built in the cottage remain untainted. You've brought no man home. You're alone, and the wine glasses are clanging away with a sound that should be a signal for nothing. But you have to go and close the deck door. Jess is sitting at the head of the breakfast table. He sits in violation of his restraining order because he has something unpleasant to tell you.
Happy Just A Faint Wind Day!
The wine glasses hanging above the wet bar in your summer cottage are shaking in their slots, banging together at the steady rhythm of an oncoming train signal. A storm wind sent in through the deck door sent them rattling. The noise wakes you up and sends you into the maniacal clutches of your vengeful ex-husband. The phone is dead.
You were awarded both the summer cottage and the Brooklyn flat, nothing beyond what you'd requested. Both combined don't equal the value of the Greenwich home your ex will be keeping for himself. But Jess didn't want to relinquish his claim on the memories housed inside each.
"Lets sell them both," he offered. "You'll keep all the proceeds."
When you balked, Jess grew more aggressive. Showing up at your sister's where you were staying to argue his case. In twelve minute orations delivered on the front step of her house, he'd complain of you bringing a new man back to his cottage and tainting everything the two of you shared there. "What we have is dead," he once said, back when he could control his anger. "But please don't try to kill what we had."
You told him to speak to his lawyer, who would in turn speak to hers. In the divorce mediation, he let more outbursts against your character fly across the table. At night, he'd pull up outside your sister's house and park there for hours. Until one morning, your sister's son walked out to meet his schoolbus and found a pair of your panties on the front lawn. He brought it into the house and gave it his mother, who handed the pair to you. The next morning, the mediation judge exacted a restraining order upon Jess, and the divorce agreement was rapidly sewn up not long after, since Jess' objections would no longer be granted any merit.
Tonight, the memories built in the cottage remain untainted. You've brought no man home. You're alone, and the wine glasses are clanging away with a sound that should be a signal for nothing. But you have to go and close the deck door. Jess is sitting at the head of the breakfast table. He sits in violation of his restraining order because he has something unpleasant to tell you.
Happy Just A Faint Wind Day!
Friday, June 11, 2004
Give Your Girlfriend A Box Of Bullets Day!
Tell her, "These are for your handgun."
She'll say, "Baby, you know I don't have a handgun."
Say, "That's where you're wrong." Then give her the handgun you bought for her from that guy. She'll be so happy.
"Oh my God where on earth did you get the money for this?"
Tell her that you got the gun at a discount because it was used for something pretty bad. But that it's clean. No traceable serial numbers.
"The owner just wanted to get rid of it because he knew the police would trace his crimes back to him one day, and he would be made to pay. When that day comes, he doesn't want the weapon in his house. He wants there to be no physical evidence. He wants to be convicted based only on the accusation and his confession."
Your girlfriend will already have started shooting stuff.
Be encouraging. Say to her, "Wow, that was a nice one," when she hits her intended targets.
I think this is going to be what makes her realize you are the greatest person on the face of the planet. I think this is going to be what makes her kiss you all over your face even on your open eyes.
Happy Give Your Girlfriend A Box Of Bullets Day!
Tell her, "These are for your handgun."
She'll say, "Baby, you know I don't have a handgun."
Say, "That's where you're wrong." Then give her the handgun you bought for her from that guy. She'll be so happy.
"Oh my God where on earth did you get the money for this?"
Tell her that you got the gun at a discount because it was used for something pretty bad. But that it's clean. No traceable serial numbers.
"The owner just wanted to get rid of it because he knew the police would trace his crimes back to him one day, and he would be made to pay. When that day comes, he doesn't want the weapon in his house. He wants there to be no physical evidence. He wants to be convicted based only on the accusation and his confession."
Your girlfriend will already have started shooting stuff.
Be encouraging. Say to her, "Wow, that was a nice one," when she hits her intended targets.
I think this is going to be what makes her realize you are the greatest person on the face of the planet. I think this is going to be what makes her kiss you all over your face even on your open eyes.
Happy Give Your Girlfriend A Box Of Bullets Day!
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Hats Off Day!
To the son of the bossman for killing the bossman. No more will you have to suffer under the incompetent chicanery of that fool. The whole office should send the son of the bossman a big fat thank you card attached to a little piece of sweet pie. Sure, the son of the bossman killed the bossman only because the bossman was trying to divorce Mrs. Bossman so he could go and live with the mother of his other family. But he should still get a little credit for what he didn't intend. Anyway, take a long lunchbreak and go see Troy and think about what a great guy the son of the bossman turned out to be.
Happy Hats Off Day!
To the son of the bossman for killing the bossman. No more will you have to suffer under the incompetent chicanery of that fool. The whole office should send the son of the bossman a big fat thank you card attached to a little piece of sweet pie. Sure, the son of the bossman killed the bossman only because the bossman was trying to divorce Mrs. Bossman so he could go and live with the mother of his other family. But he should still get a little credit for what he didn't intend. Anyway, take a long lunchbreak and go see Troy and think about what a great guy the son of the bossman turned out to be.
Happy Hats Off Day!
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Running Down The Middle Of The Street To Stop A Chick From Making A Big Mistake: Still Awesome! Day!
We checked. Looking at it from all angles, there's very little to top the image of a dude in a blazer who probably just rudely left a table full of future in-laws to chase down the girl he's supposed to be with, but whose family doesn't really have that much money. She'll either be about to marry someone her father picked out for her, or she'll be ethnic and about to board a bus to go home and help her father run the ethnic person's small business he's been running on his own ever since her mother died.
The street's wet but it's not raining. For a huge stretch of it, the stretch in which the concreteness of the dude's resolve is made evident, the street is completely empty, allowing him to sprint into his destiny. Then he'll turn onto an avenue and start tumbling over the hoods of cabs.
The best part, and you fucking know I'm right, is when he finally reaches the girl as she's getting into a cab/wedding dress and says what he has to say, she won't necessarily run off to be with him. If she does, all of us out on our stoops are happy because the young kids in love are gonna live happily ever after. If she doesn't, it'll be because she realized that life isn't a fairy tale, and he'll realize it too, and all of us out on our verandas (we're all wearing white) are happy because the young kids in love learned something.
Fuck it, even if he's trying to return American Wedding before Blockbuster closes, as long as the DVD is kept concealed inside his blazer the image of the dude running down the middle of the street is way bitchin. Today, as he runs past you, shout "Go get her. She's the one!" Then go inside your living room and eat out your wife.
Happy Running Down The Middle Of The Street To Stop A Chick From Making A Big Mistake: Still Awesome! Day!
We checked. Looking at it from all angles, there's very little to top the image of a dude in a blazer who probably just rudely left a table full of future in-laws to chase down the girl he's supposed to be with, but whose family doesn't really have that much money. She'll either be about to marry someone her father picked out for her, or she'll be ethnic and about to board a bus to go home and help her father run the ethnic person's small business he's been running on his own ever since her mother died.
The street's wet but it's not raining. For a huge stretch of it, the stretch in which the concreteness of the dude's resolve is made evident, the street is completely empty, allowing him to sprint into his destiny. Then he'll turn onto an avenue and start tumbling over the hoods of cabs.
The best part, and you fucking know I'm right, is when he finally reaches the girl as she's getting into a cab/wedding dress and says what he has to say, she won't necessarily run off to be with him. If she does, all of us out on our stoops are happy because the young kids in love are gonna live happily ever after. If she doesn't, it'll be because she realized that life isn't a fairy tale, and he'll realize it too, and all of us out on our verandas (we're all wearing white) are happy because the young kids in love learned something.
Fuck it, even if he's trying to return American Wedding before Blockbuster closes, as long as the DVD is kept concealed inside his blazer the image of the dude running down the middle of the street is way bitchin. Today, as he runs past you, shout "Go get her. She's the one!" Then go inside your living room and eat out your wife.
Happy Running Down The Middle Of The Street To Stop A Chick From Making A Big Mistake: Still Awesome! Day!
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
By Candlelight Day!
You do coke only by candlelight. You're trying to preserve the romance of recreational cocaine use. Only problem is, immediately after you take a hit, you wanna take the candle flame and set fire to anything in your house that'll catch. You let the flames crawl up the curtains and across the couch cushions and you sit cross-legged in the middle of the floor in your briefs and you just giggle like a baboon. Then you come down just in time to get out of the house while there's still a path through the fires.
Today you're moving into your new split-level. The adjuster will be over later to give you the check paying off your last claim and to tell you that they're not going to insure you anymore, which is cool. The adjuster is pretty smokin', but you've been laying off out of respect for your professional relationship. But now that her company won't work with you anymore, she's fair game. Offer her some coke and a match. The only thing better than the blood pounding through your veins to the pulse of a fire raging through your living room is to have someone who looks good in her underwear standing by your side while it's happening.
Happy By Candlelight Day!
You do coke only by candlelight. You're trying to preserve the romance of recreational cocaine use. Only problem is, immediately after you take a hit, you wanna take the candle flame and set fire to anything in your house that'll catch. You let the flames crawl up the curtains and across the couch cushions and you sit cross-legged in the middle of the floor in your briefs and you just giggle like a baboon. Then you come down just in time to get out of the house while there's still a path through the fires.
Today you're moving into your new split-level. The adjuster will be over later to give you the check paying off your last claim and to tell you that they're not going to insure you anymore, which is cool. The adjuster is pretty smokin', but you've been laying off out of respect for your professional relationship. But now that her company won't work with you anymore, she's fair game. Offer her some coke and a match. The only thing better than the blood pounding through your veins to the pulse of a fire raging through your living room is to have someone who looks good in her underwear standing by your side while it's happening.
Happy By Candlelight Day!
Monday, June 07, 2004
Your Little Weekend Away Day!
The closest you ever came to love was the three-star hotel birthday weekend you spent with your friend's wife. You bought the room on Priceline and you'd intended to invite everyone over to trash the place in celebration of your thirtieth. But when you joked to Lydia over email about you and her keeping it to yourselves, she asked for the room number.
After the first sex, she said things with her and Mark (your buddy) were over and that you shouldn't feel guilty. Mark was out in LA, getting things ready for Lydia to follow him out there. Lydia told you she wasn't going to go. After the second sex (in the shower) she wanted booze so you went out and got it. When you got back, you were surprised to see her still there. But she was crying. You didn't try to comfort her, you just poured two glasses from the bottle and waited for her to drink her tears down. Then you had sex and fell asleep.
The next day, Saturday, you woke up and had breakfast and some sex. Then you bought The Bourne Identity on the hotel Pay Per View and watched it. After the Bourne Identity, you started drinking again, both of you. You had really, really good sex at 3 o'clock that day. Her back was flat up against the headboard for a good hunk of it. It was aces. By 7 o'clock, you both wanted out, but instead you took a bath together. You held her in your arms, thinking about your Mom and Dad. She lay against you, thinking whatever she was thinking. By ten o'clock you were both good and drunk. For around forty minutes she was hysterical, laughing and crying. You ordered a pizza from room service so you'd have enough food in the two of you to sleep through the night.
The next morning, Sunday, you woke up early and tried to order porn on the pay-per-view, but the porn option was unavailable. You assumed it was because it was Sunday or something. That bummed you out. You'd been trying all weekend to get up the nerve to suggest the two of you watching porn while fucking, then when you woke up that Sunday you figured fuck it, I'll just turn on the porn and see what she does. But there wasn't any porn to be had so you just had quiet, sleepy sex then lay around for an hour or so. You went in and took a shower by yourself and when you came out, she was gone. There were several goodbye parties for Mark and Lydia over the next couple months and you avoided them all. You haven't spoken to Lydia since. Mark's emailed you once or twice and you've been cordial.
Today's the two-year-seven-month-and-thirteen-day anniversary of that last morning in your hotel room together. Write Lydia a postcard wishing her a happy two-year-seven-month-and-thirteen-day anniversary and ask her if she had a nice time with you.
Happy Your Little Weekend Away Day!
The closest you ever came to love was the three-star hotel birthday weekend you spent with your friend's wife. You bought the room on Priceline and you'd intended to invite everyone over to trash the place in celebration of your thirtieth. But when you joked to Lydia over email about you and her keeping it to yourselves, she asked for the room number.
After the first sex, she said things with her and Mark (your buddy) were over and that you shouldn't feel guilty. Mark was out in LA, getting things ready for Lydia to follow him out there. Lydia told you she wasn't going to go. After the second sex (in the shower) she wanted booze so you went out and got it. When you got back, you were surprised to see her still there. But she was crying. You didn't try to comfort her, you just poured two glasses from the bottle and waited for her to drink her tears down. Then you had sex and fell asleep.
The next day, Saturday, you woke up and had breakfast and some sex. Then you bought The Bourne Identity on the hotel Pay Per View and watched it. After the Bourne Identity, you started drinking again, both of you. You had really, really good sex at 3 o'clock that day. Her back was flat up against the headboard for a good hunk of it. It was aces. By 7 o'clock, you both wanted out, but instead you took a bath together. You held her in your arms, thinking about your Mom and Dad. She lay against you, thinking whatever she was thinking. By ten o'clock you were both good and drunk. For around forty minutes she was hysterical, laughing and crying. You ordered a pizza from room service so you'd have enough food in the two of you to sleep through the night.
The next morning, Sunday, you woke up early and tried to order porn on the pay-per-view, but the porn option was unavailable. You assumed it was because it was Sunday or something. That bummed you out. You'd been trying all weekend to get up the nerve to suggest the two of you watching porn while fucking, then when you woke up that Sunday you figured fuck it, I'll just turn on the porn and see what she does. But there wasn't any porn to be had so you just had quiet, sleepy sex then lay around for an hour or so. You went in and took a shower by yourself and when you came out, she was gone. There were several goodbye parties for Mark and Lydia over the next couple months and you avoided them all. You haven't spoken to Lydia since. Mark's emailed you once or twice and you've been cordial.
Today's the two-year-seven-month-and-thirteen-day anniversary of that last morning in your hotel room together. Write Lydia a postcard wishing her a happy two-year-seven-month-and-thirteen-day anniversary and ask her if she had a nice time with you.
Happy Your Little Weekend Away Day!
Sunday, June 06, 2004
You Can See The Past In Her Pants Day!
You don't really like Candy. But the first time you opened the zipper on her pants you saw a snowball fight you had when you were nine, plain as if you were watching a movie. You could have stood there for hours staring at her crotch, just watching a nine-year old you duck behind a fort for protection from a volley of snowballs, but Candy made you have sex with her.
So Candy is getting a little bit harder to tolerate with every date, but in the three times you've gone home together since that first snowball fight vision, you've seen your big brother beat you in the face with a dustpan when you were six, you've seen your childhood cat Fred deliver her kittens when you were eleven, and you've seen a ten year old you put your hand on the chest of ten year old Janice, the girl who lived two houses down. You plan to keep sleeping with Candy until you get to see your Dad come out of his anesthesia after the open heart surgery he had when you were fourteen. You're hoping to make out whether he really muttered the word "failure."
Just nod and smile.
Happy You Can See The Past In Her Pants Day!
You don't really like Candy. But the first time you opened the zipper on her pants you saw a snowball fight you had when you were nine, plain as if you were watching a movie. You could have stood there for hours staring at her crotch, just watching a nine-year old you duck behind a fort for protection from a volley of snowballs, but Candy made you have sex with her.
So Candy is getting a little bit harder to tolerate with every date, but in the three times you've gone home together since that first snowball fight vision, you've seen your big brother beat you in the face with a dustpan when you were six, you've seen your childhood cat Fred deliver her kittens when you were eleven, and you've seen a ten year old you put your hand on the chest of ten year old Janice, the girl who lived two houses down. You plan to keep sleeping with Candy until you get to see your Dad come out of his anesthesia after the open heart surgery he had when you were fourteen. You're hoping to make out whether he really muttered the word "failure."
Just nod and smile.
Happy You Can See The Past In Her Pants Day!
Saturday, June 05, 2004
Make Your Building's Doorman Jealous Day!
Tell him about the five course dinner you just ate. And the big expensive play you just saw. And the operation you elected to have. And the big expensive things you constantly buy. When you bring hookers home, have them stop in front of the doorman and say to them, "Ladies, tell Jerry how much each of you cost."
Then go down the line as each of your evening's hookers sounds off with her price tag (don't do this if any of your evening's hookers cost less than 500 dollars).
Additionally, sometimes your doorman brings his son in to work with him. Usually on Saturdays. That's when you should have your son play with his most expensive toys in the lobby. And hire a clown to come to the lobby and play with your son.
If your doorman doesn't get jealous at all that, he must be pretty happy with his life. He's probably in love. Or he's a Taoist. You can't piss those dudes off.
Happy Make Your Building's Doorman Jealous Day!
Tell him about the five course dinner you just ate. And the big expensive play you just saw. And the operation you elected to have. And the big expensive things you constantly buy. When you bring hookers home, have them stop in front of the doorman and say to them, "Ladies, tell Jerry how much each of you cost."
Then go down the line as each of your evening's hookers sounds off with her price tag (don't do this if any of your evening's hookers cost less than 500 dollars).
Additionally, sometimes your doorman brings his son in to work with him. Usually on Saturdays. That's when you should have your son play with his most expensive toys in the lobby. And hire a clown to come to the lobby and play with your son.
If your doorman doesn't get jealous at all that, he must be pretty happy with his life. He's probably in love. Or he's a Taoist. You can't piss those dudes off.
Happy Make Your Building's Doorman Jealous Day!
Friday, June 04, 2004
Make Up A Kid Day!
Get a custom-made mug with a picture of a baby all over it and caption the photo with the declaration: "I Wish I Loved Him But I Don't." When a coworker raises his eyebrow at the mug while you're getting a coffee fillup in the break room, say, "Yeah. That's my son Joey."
Your coworker won't know what to say and will try to leave. Block the doorway.
"Everything else in my life feels so right. My job. My marriage to my husband. My parents are my best friends in the world."
Step closer.
"But my son, when I hold him, I feel...unmoved. It feels like we're remaining mother and son out of duty." Sip your coffee. "Sometimes I wonder if I only had him out of a sense of fashion."
Then slip out of the breakroom without a goodbye, go to your department manager and tell him you accept his offer to go perm.
Happy Make Up A Kid Day!
Get a custom-made mug with a picture of a baby all over it and caption the photo with the declaration: "I Wish I Loved Him But I Don't." When a coworker raises his eyebrow at the mug while you're getting a coffee fillup in the break room, say, "Yeah. That's my son Joey."
Your coworker won't know what to say and will try to leave. Block the doorway.
"Everything else in my life feels so right. My job. My marriage to my husband. My parents are my best friends in the world."
Step closer.
"But my son, when I hold him, I feel...unmoved. It feels like we're remaining mother and son out of duty." Sip your coffee. "Sometimes I wonder if I only had him out of a sense of fashion."
Then slip out of the breakroom without a goodbye, go to your department manager and tell him you accept his offer to go perm.
Happy Make Up A Kid Day!
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Scene Of The Crime Day!
When the victim's mother arrives at the scene of the crime and demands that she see the body of her daughter, initiate an affair. She'll be comforted by the warm touch of a new man, and you'll feel just a little less impotent in your ability to right the wrongs of this city.
People die around you left and right, and so many of the killers are never found. Or if they are found, they've already been killed by someone else. It's beginning to seem like killing is a reasonable conclusion to a relationship and when you start poking around to find out who did it and why, you're just being nosey.
What's kept you from quitting homicide is meeting the mothers. They're still reacting with horror when their sons and daughters are murdered. When you see their tears and hear their screams, you're reminded of what's right. Act on behalf of the grief of the mothers. If you can't give with justice, offer them the comfort of your embrace over a series of discreet late-evening engagements. Your wife won't understand that by having sex with the bereaved, you're just trying to make your city a better place for your two daughters and her daughter from a previous marriage. So keep it on the hush hush.
Happy Scene Of The Crime Day!
When the victim's mother arrives at the scene of the crime and demands that she see the body of her daughter, initiate an affair. She'll be comforted by the warm touch of a new man, and you'll feel just a little less impotent in your ability to right the wrongs of this city.
People die around you left and right, and so many of the killers are never found. Or if they are found, they've already been killed by someone else. It's beginning to seem like killing is a reasonable conclusion to a relationship and when you start poking around to find out who did it and why, you're just being nosey.
What's kept you from quitting homicide is meeting the mothers. They're still reacting with horror when their sons and daughters are murdered. When you see their tears and hear their screams, you're reminded of what's right. Act on behalf of the grief of the mothers. If you can't give with justice, offer them the comfort of your embrace over a series of discreet late-evening engagements. Your wife won't understand that by having sex with the bereaved, you're just trying to make your city a better place for your two daughters and her daughter from a previous marriage. So keep it on the hush hush.
Happy Scene Of The Crime Day!
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
1...2...3...Brush Day!
Getting your wife to brush her teeth is no small feat. She hates the feeling of having something plastic inside her mouth and she thinks her teeth are indestructible little weapons more powerful than solid steel. And when you tell her her breath smells, all she says is "Fuck you royally."
You're going to have to combine brushing her teeth with a race for some chicken. Tonight, come home from the store with a full rotisserie chicken in a see through container. Your wife will see the chicken and throw herself from her chair, swinging her arms out in front of her to grab at the bird and stuff it into her mouth. Just hold the tray up above your head and make her jump for it and kick at your shins. Once she's settled down a bit, tell her you want to play a game.
Put the chicken up atop the kitchen cabinets and take her into the bathroom with you. Tell her that on the count of three, the two of you will start to brush. And the first person who manages to scrub every accessible surface of every tooth three times gets the entire chicken.
"And the loser?" she'll ask.
"The loser doesn't eat until morning."
Your wife will smile that same beautiful smile she wore when she looked up and said I do. "Hope you had a big fuckin' lunch dickhead cause you're going down!" she'll say.
Your wife will snap her fingers in front of your eyeballs, then wheel around and grab for a toothbrush. Before you start the count, she'll strip down to her waist (she has to do that before brushing). When she's ready, apply toothpaste to each of your toothbrushes, and get them held at the ready.
"1…2…3…and BRUSH!"
And simple as that, your wife will brush her teeth with such a fury her naked breasts will ripple like a lake in the rain. Those grunts coming out of her mouth will be the sound of months and months of plaque and grime being ripped away from her teeth. You'll look into the mirror at the steady cascade of foam pouring from her lower lip and you'll want to cry. You'll have done it. Your wife's teeth will finally be clean.
"YEAH!" she'll scream through her mouth full of foamy paste, her toothbrush held in the air. "Go get me my chicken bitch, and I want your skinny ass to watch me eat every bite! Go on!"
You'll rinse your mouth clean and then go and set the chicken down in front of your wife's seat at the table. You'll sit across from her ad watch her as she makes exaggerated groans of ecstasy after every bite. You'll have to eat a quick dinner before you come home every night from now on. But it's worth it. Her teeth are worth it.
Happy 1…2.…3…Brush Day!
Getting your wife to brush her teeth is no small feat. She hates the feeling of having something plastic inside her mouth and she thinks her teeth are indestructible little weapons more powerful than solid steel. And when you tell her her breath smells, all she says is "Fuck you royally."
You're going to have to combine brushing her teeth with a race for some chicken. Tonight, come home from the store with a full rotisserie chicken in a see through container. Your wife will see the chicken and throw herself from her chair, swinging her arms out in front of her to grab at the bird and stuff it into her mouth. Just hold the tray up above your head and make her jump for it and kick at your shins. Once she's settled down a bit, tell her you want to play a game.
Put the chicken up atop the kitchen cabinets and take her into the bathroom with you. Tell her that on the count of three, the two of you will start to brush. And the first person who manages to scrub every accessible surface of every tooth three times gets the entire chicken.
"And the loser?" she'll ask.
"The loser doesn't eat until morning."
Your wife will smile that same beautiful smile she wore when she looked up and said I do. "Hope you had a big fuckin' lunch dickhead cause you're going down!" she'll say.
Your wife will snap her fingers in front of your eyeballs, then wheel around and grab for a toothbrush. Before you start the count, she'll strip down to her waist (she has to do that before brushing). When she's ready, apply toothpaste to each of your toothbrushes, and get them held at the ready.
"1…2…3…and BRUSH!"
And simple as that, your wife will brush her teeth with such a fury her naked breasts will ripple like a lake in the rain. Those grunts coming out of her mouth will be the sound of months and months of plaque and grime being ripped away from her teeth. You'll look into the mirror at the steady cascade of foam pouring from her lower lip and you'll want to cry. You'll have done it. Your wife's teeth will finally be clean.
"YEAH!" she'll scream through her mouth full of foamy paste, her toothbrush held in the air. "Go get me my chicken bitch, and I want your skinny ass to watch me eat every bite! Go on!"
You'll rinse your mouth clean and then go and set the chicken down in front of your wife's seat at the table. You'll sit across from her ad watch her as she makes exaggerated groans of ecstasy after every bite. You'll have to eat a quick dinner before you come home every night from now on. But it's worth it. Her teeth are worth it.
Happy 1…2.…3…Brush Day!
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Homoerotica Day!
Today, all homoerotica is half off. This includes homoerotic literature, homoerotic pornography, and the homoeroticism of the dirty conversations you have with your roommate. The kind where your roommate, purportedly straight, asks you if you've "banged" a particular woman you've been seeing, and you respond that, yes, you and she are pretty serious now. Which elicits a frothing response from your roommate, something along the lines of "Aww yeah! Yeah! You banged that pussy! Yeah! Make that pussy SCREEEAM! Yeah! I really like pussy. Really. I really do." Your roommate then presses you for details, which you refuse to provide. Your roommate asks questions about the woman's anatomy, such as, "Does she have big tits" and "Does she have a nice ass you know the kind." You just shake your head. At which point, without explanation yet without fail, your roommate launches himself across the living room to tackle you on the couch and bounce his weight upon you, occasionally crawling up to grind his ass into your face*, all the while screaming in a high pitched voice as if he were the woman you were having sex with. That conversation, for today only, is half off.
Happy Homoerotica Day!
*He once bloodied your nose.
Today, all homoerotica is half off. This includes homoerotic literature, homoerotic pornography, and the homoeroticism of the dirty conversations you have with your roommate. The kind where your roommate, purportedly straight, asks you if you've "banged" a particular woman you've been seeing, and you respond that, yes, you and she are pretty serious now. Which elicits a frothing response from your roommate, something along the lines of "Aww yeah! Yeah! You banged that pussy! Yeah! Make that pussy SCREEEAM! Yeah! I really like pussy. Really. I really do." Your roommate then presses you for details, which you refuse to provide. Your roommate asks questions about the woman's anatomy, such as, "Does she have big tits" and "Does she have a nice ass you know the kind." You just shake your head. At which point, without explanation yet without fail, your roommate launches himself across the living room to tackle you on the couch and bounce his weight upon you, occasionally crawling up to grind his ass into your face*, all the while screaming in a high pitched voice as if he were the woman you were having sex with. That conversation, for today only, is half off.
Happy Homoerotica Day!
*He once bloodied your nose.
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