Take Madrigal To Be Put Down Day!
The whole drive over, she'll be moaning the way she does all the time. She hasn't been able to eat or drink anything for a week and a half now. You've seen this before, with cats that were your responsibility by choice, not by default.
When you first arrive in the waiting room, it will sound like a jungle with all the different animals howling and meowing and barking. Once you sit down and stop jostling the carrier, Madrigal will begin her moan. And all the other animals will fall silent.
"What his name?" a pretty woman holding onto a leashed terrier will ask you.
"Madrigal," you'll say. "It's a she."
Madrigal's moan is livelier now. Angrier. One of the other cats joins in with a moan that sounds a little scared.
"That's a nice name," the terrier woman will say. "How'd you come up with that?"
"Her meow used to sound like a song or something," you'll say. "Something like that I think."
The terrier woman won't have anything to say to that. Madrigal will moan some more.
You'll say, "She's my girlfriend's." Moan. "My ex-girlfriend's. She took off a couple months ago. Left the cat."
The terrier woman will say, "Oh God."
Madrigal will moan and you'll say, "She's pretty bad now." Look up at the terrier woman. "I think this is it."
The veterinarian will call you in to the back. You'll catch a glimpse of the terrier woman when you move for the door. She'll be crying.
Over the course of Madrigal being examined, sentenced to death by lethal injection, and ultimately destroyed, you'll have gotten up the nerve to ask the terrier woman out. But when you walk back out to the waiting room, her eyes will see the empty pet carrier and they'll crinkle up to cry.
You'll drop the carrier on the receptionist's desk. "Donate this," you'll say. Then you'll head out to the car, pissed at your ex because her cat getting sick managed to ruin something with a lady that could have been cool.
Happy Take Madrigal To Be Put Down Day!
Monday, February 28, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Start A Cult Day
Start A Cult Day!
Call it "Children Of Gil," and tell the story about a guy named Gil Patterson who once got so high he thought his name was Patterson Gil, so he went to city hall and changed his name. When he came down from his high, he didn't understand why the various applications he would submit over the years were constantly being denied as invalid. Finally, he returned to city hall and saw that he had changed his name that day years prior when he got high enough to successfully traverse bureaucratic red tape while retaining no memory of having done so. Gil Patterson, now Patterson Gil, decided that he had been kidnapped by aliens who outfitted him with a new consciousness, pulling his essence from deep inside and posing that as his outward beingness. Patterson Gil then went about the earth living his new life according to how the aliens had redesigned him. His goal was to effect change upon the globe before the aliens came for him. You should tell people that Patterson Gil did not die in 1981. He was come for.
No one will join your cult since you make it clear that the cult's origins can be traced back to a drug-induced blackout experienced by the leader.
Happy Start A Cult Day!
Call it "Children Of Gil," and tell the story about a guy named Gil Patterson who once got so high he thought his name was Patterson Gil, so he went to city hall and changed his name. When he came down from his high, he didn't understand why the various applications he would submit over the years were constantly being denied as invalid. Finally, he returned to city hall and saw that he had changed his name that day years prior when he got high enough to successfully traverse bureaucratic red tape while retaining no memory of having done so. Gil Patterson, now Patterson Gil, decided that he had been kidnapped by aliens who outfitted him with a new consciousness, pulling his essence from deep inside and posing that as his outward beingness. Patterson Gil then went about the earth living his new life according to how the aliens had redesigned him. His goal was to effect change upon the globe before the aliens came for him. You should tell people that Patterson Gil did not die in 1981. He was come for.
No one will join your cult since you make it clear that the cult's origins can be traced back to a drug-induced blackout experienced by the leader.
Happy Start A Cult Day!
Saturday, February 26, 2005
First Sleep With Your Husband To Be Day
First Sleep With Your Husband To Be Day!
You're introduced to Ronald at 3 PM when he arrives at your mother's house with a small bag. He'll be staying the night.
He's got flat black hair and wears a great deal of brown. He's taller than you, thank God. That was your only fear, that your mother might have picked a short one. At first sight, you can't really speak to him.
It's only after dinner, when wine has flowed in and out of his and yours and your mother's glasses that some laughter comes. The subject of the arranged marriage is broached and you and he both shake your heads in disbelief that you signed on for it. You both seize on this as a bond between you, that this whole thing is so unlike both of you.
The visit was planned a month prior, according to the developer's schedule which said that the rooms on the second floor of your mother's house would have been finished a week ago. But a week and a half ago a wall full of rotted wood presented a delay in the schedule. You and your mother have been sleeping on air mattresses in the living room for the past month. Ronald was given hotel suggestions, but he said that he would like to stick to the plan of staying the night with you and your mother.
Your air mattresses are hoisted above the ground on plastic legs. They were bought from the hunting section at Wal-Mart. Your mother and you have your cots side-by-side, and Ronald is separated from you by a coffee table. Once your mother's snoring is plaintive, you and Ronald will be able to smile at each other and join hands across the table-top. You'll kiss your palm and stretch it out for Ronald to grab hold. Ronald will kiss his palm and grab hold.
Happy First Sleep With Your Husband To Be Day!
You're introduced to Ronald at 3 PM when he arrives at your mother's house with a small bag. He'll be staying the night.
He's got flat black hair and wears a great deal of brown. He's taller than you, thank God. That was your only fear, that your mother might have picked a short one. At first sight, you can't really speak to him.
It's only after dinner, when wine has flowed in and out of his and yours and your mother's glasses that some laughter comes. The subject of the arranged marriage is broached and you and he both shake your heads in disbelief that you signed on for it. You both seize on this as a bond between you, that this whole thing is so unlike both of you.
The visit was planned a month prior, according to the developer's schedule which said that the rooms on the second floor of your mother's house would have been finished a week ago. But a week and a half ago a wall full of rotted wood presented a delay in the schedule. You and your mother have been sleeping on air mattresses in the living room for the past month. Ronald was given hotel suggestions, but he said that he would like to stick to the plan of staying the night with you and your mother.
Your air mattresses are hoisted above the ground on plastic legs. They were bought from the hunting section at Wal-Mart. Your mother and you have your cots side-by-side, and Ronald is separated from you by a coffee table. Once your mother's snoring is plaintive, you and Ronald will be able to smile at each other and join hands across the table-top. You'll kiss your palm and stretch it out for Ronald to grab hold. Ronald will kiss his palm and grab hold.
Happy First Sleep With Your Husband To Be Day!
Friday, February 25, 2005
Mom's Confession Day
Mom's Confession Day!
"I haven't worn underwear in 17 years," she'll say.
"Dad died 17 years ago," you'll say.
"Your father loved underwear," she'll say.
You'll both continue to drink your milkshakes in silence for a few minutes. Then your Mother will say to you:
"Are you wearing any underwear?"
Tell her the truth. She could die of natural causes at any given moment, and you don't want the last thing you ever said to her to have been a lie.
Happy Mom's Confession Day!
"I haven't worn underwear in 17 years," she'll say.
"Dad died 17 years ago," you'll say.
"Your father loved underwear," she'll say.
You'll both continue to drink your milkshakes in silence for a few minutes. Then your Mother will say to you:
"Are you wearing any underwear?"
Tell her the truth. She could die of natural causes at any given moment, and you don't want the last thing you ever said to her to have been a lie.
Happy Mom's Confession Day!
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Messenger Boys Day
Messenger Boys Day!
Your rock opera about a messenger service acting as a front for a male prostitution ring is not getting any interest from investors. For one thing, it might have been nice if the prostitution ring was serving a higher purpose. Like if it was trying to save a church or something. Your prostitution ring is trying to raise enough money to shut a church down. A small liberal church with a lesbian Pastor, no less. And honestly, the only real conflict in your script is that your male prostitutes love to thrill-kill, and so the pimp running the "messenger service" is constantly trying to dispose of corpses.
It's sweet that in the end the messenger service manages to shut down the church and all those churchgoers have to find another place to worship. It's always satisfying to see a story of hard work paying off, yes. But the closing number is too outrageous. No one would believe that all 16 male prostitutes would just then discover that they were all each other's long lost brothers. It's awesome, no doubt. Just a little unbelievable.
You asked for notes, you talentless cock puff.
Happy Messenger Boys Day!
Your rock opera about a messenger service acting as a front for a male prostitution ring is not getting any interest from investors. For one thing, it might have been nice if the prostitution ring was serving a higher purpose. Like if it was trying to save a church or something. Your prostitution ring is trying to raise enough money to shut a church down. A small liberal church with a lesbian Pastor, no less. And honestly, the only real conflict in your script is that your male prostitutes love to thrill-kill, and so the pimp running the "messenger service" is constantly trying to dispose of corpses.
It's sweet that in the end the messenger service manages to shut down the church and all those churchgoers have to find another place to worship. It's always satisfying to see a story of hard work paying off, yes. But the closing number is too outrageous. No one would believe that all 16 male prostitutes would just then discover that they were all each other's long lost brothers. It's awesome, no doubt. Just a little unbelievable.
You asked for notes, you talentless cock puff.
Happy Messenger Boys Day!
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
You'll Never Save Your Husband From That POW Camp Day
You'll Never Save Your Husband From That POW Camp Day!
It's been over 30 years now since your husband's plane went down over Danang, and it looks like there aren't going to be any more rescue missions heading into those POW camps. It's time to take matters into your own hands.
It's true, you're a 57 year old woman and your work as a seamstress has not kept you in the best of shape. So you'll have to get back into jogging. And you'll have to acquire numerous anti-tank weapons. You have a week.
Once in the POW camp, you'll stay low to the ground, spotting one or two middle-aged to elderly Americans huddled in their bamboo cages and eating their lunch of live bugs and human feces. When you find your husband, the VC will be torturing him to get him to denounce the United States. He'll say no dice, and then he'll feel 100 volts of electricity course up his spine and into the part of his brain that's just behind his eyes. The men torturing him will have a world-weary look on their faces, but they won't skip any steps in the torture. This camp is a well-oiled machine, you'll think.
Before you blow up the watchtower, let the guard up there see you and gasp. Then shoot a rocket at his face. The rest of the guards will lope out to shoot you. Shoot back. This'll never work.
Happy You'll Never Save Your Husband From That POW Camp Day!
It's been over 30 years now since your husband's plane went down over Danang, and it looks like there aren't going to be any more rescue missions heading into those POW camps. It's time to take matters into your own hands.
It's true, you're a 57 year old woman and your work as a seamstress has not kept you in the best of shape. So you'll have to get back into jogging. And you'll have to acquire numerous anti-tank weapons. You have a week.
Once in the POW camp, you'll stay low to the ground, spotting one or two middle-aged to elderly Americans huddled in their bamboo cages and eating their lunch of live bugs and human feces. When you find your husband, the VC will be torturing him to get him to denounce the United States. He'll say no dice, and then he'll feel 100 volts of electricity course up his spine and into the part of his brain that's just behind his eyes. The men torturing him will have a world-weary look on their faces, but they won't skip any steps in the torture. This camp is a well-oiled machine, you'll think.
Before you blow up the watchtower, let the guard up there see you and gasp. Then shoot a rocket at his face. The rest of the guards will lope out to shoot you. Shoot back. This'll never work.
Happy You'll Never Save Your Husband From That POW Camp Day!
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
You Look Like A Raccoon Day
You Look Like A Raccoon Day!
It's because you've been crying so much over how badly your boyfriend treats you. It makes your mascara run.
It's either time to tell him that you're not going to put up with his throwing stuff at your head while penetrating your friends and blowing all your money on electronics he gives to his ex-wife to try and win her back, or it's time to get some waterproof mascara because your boyfriend hates it when your mascara runs. The last time you cried and he saw you with those raccoon eyes, he punished you by promising not to see you for two weeks (he only went a week and a half because he had to go to the Jersey Shore for a winter beach party and he needed 800 dollars).
So, today, it's either tell him to stop making you cry or get yourself some better mascara. Hint: Buying better mascara won't involve any yelling, which you hate.
Happy You Look Like A Raccoon Day!
It's because you've been crying so much over how badly your boyfriend treats you. It makes your mascara run.
It's either time to tell him that you're not going to put up with his throwing stuff at your head while penetrating your friends and blowing all your money on electronics he gives to his ex-wife to try and win her back, or it's time to get some waterproof mascara because your boyfriend hates it when your mascara runs. The last time you cried and he saw you with those raccoon eyes, he punished you by promising not to see you for two weeks (he only went a week and a half because he had to go to the Jersey Shore for a winter beach party and he needed 800 dollars).
So, today, it's either tell him to stop making you cry or get yourself some better mascara. Hint: Buying better mascara won't involve any yelling, which you hate.
Happy You Look Like A Raccoon Day!
Monday, February 21, 2005
Your Dad Once Kidnapped His Partner's Son Day
Your Dad Once Kidnapped His Partner's Son Day!
It's true. Ask him.
"Dad," you'll say. "Did you once kidnap your partner's son?"
"Yeah," he'll say. "But just once."
"Why?" you'll ask.
Your dad will tell you that he's glad you finally found out about it, since it's the thing he's most proud of having done, but he's never been able to tell you about it.
"I've taken care of you and your mother," he'll say. "And that's something to be proud of, certainly. And I've built a heck of a real estate holding company haven't I? But it's that extra step I took to get everything I needed, that one idea I had to lock it all up tight. It's the risks that you take in life, and the risks you take a pass on. The risks are what define a man. Remember that."
Your dad will be beaming now.
"Did you really kidnap a kid, Dad?"
His partner in his first holding company had some deals set up on the side, making some moves to push your Dad out of the picture but hang on to the assets. It would all be legal, but extremely underhanded. Your Dad was facing professional and financial ruin, so he kidnapped his partner's son and successfully extorted a ransom of $500,000 from him without getting caught.
"It was brilliant," your Dad will beam. "I even made my partner believe I was the only one he could trust to help get his son back. No one suspected a thing."
"Did you hurt his son?" you'll ask.
Your Dad will say, "Nope. He probably thinks it was all just a fun vacation away from home."
Your Dad will sit and continue drinking his Sambuca. You'll go back to your room and reread the letter from your Dad's old partner's son. It's an angry letter, full of threats. If he wasn't hurt, you don't quite get why he's so angry at your Dad still, after all these years. Just re-read it, then show it to your Dad. You should probably show it to him tonight. There are some things in that letter that need to be addressed tonight. You might get a bag packed while you're at it.
Happy Your Dad Once Kidnapped His Partner's Son Day!
It's true. Ask him.
"Dad," you'll say. "Did you once kidnap your partner's son?"
"Yeah," he'll say. "But just once."
"Why?" you'll ask.
Your dad will tell you that he's glad you finally found out about it, since it's the thing he's most proud of having done, but he's never been able to tell you about it.
"I've taken care of you and your mother," he'll say. "And that's something to be proud of, certainly. And I've built a heck of a real estate holding company haven't I? But it's that extra step I took to get everything I needed, that one idea I had to lock it all up tight. It's the risks that you take in life, and the risks you take a pass on. The risks are what define a man. Remember that."
Your dad will be beaming now.
"Did you really kidnap a kid, Dad?"
His partner in his first holding company had some deals set up on the side, making some moves to push your Dad out of the picture but hang on to the assets. It would all be legal, but extremely underhanded. Your Dad was facing professional and financial ruin, so he kidnapped his partner's son and successfully extorted a ransom of $500,000 from him without getting caught.
"It was brilliant," your Dad will beam. "I even made my partner believe I was the only one he could trust to help get his son back. No one suspected a thing."
"Did you hurt his son?" you'll ask.
Your Dad will say, "Nope. He probably thinks it was all just a fun vacation away from home."
Your Dad will sit and continue drinking his Sambuca. You'll go back to your room and reread the letter from your Dad's old partner's son. It's an angry letter, full of threats. If he wasn't hurt, you don't quite get why he's so angry at your Dad still, after all these years. Just re-read it, then show it to your Dad. You should probably show it to him tonight. There are some things in that letter that need to be addressed tonight. You might get a bag packed while you're at it.
Happy Your Dad Once Kidnapped His Partner's Son Day!
Sunday, February 20, 2005
The Way It Was Done In Your Day Day
The Way It Was Done In Your Day Day!
In your day, a man didn't leave his wife just because she drank too much and hit her son. In your day, a man took the son away and let the wife write to him until she was ready to prove that she could keep sober.
Your son wasn't born in your day. He's taking off tomorrow morning and he's gonna leave your grandson to die in that house with Joan. Talk to him, or else you'll find out you're your grandson's grandpa and legal guardian pretty soon, if he's lucky.
Happy The Way It Was Done In Your Day Day!
In your day, a man didn't leave his wife just because she drank too much and hit her son. In your day, a man took the son away and let the wife write to him until she was ready to prove that she could keep sober.
Your son wasn't born in your day. He's taking off tomorrow morning and he's gonna leave your grandson to die in that house with Joan. Talk to him, or else you'll find out you're your grandson's grandpa and legal guardian pretty soon, if he's lucky.
Happy The Way It Was Done In Your Day Day!
Saturday, February 19, 2005
You Are On The Rag Day
You Are On The Rag Day!
Today, you got your period again. The 159th time in as many months. You're used to it by now, the discomfort, the mood swings, etc. But this time, you're being held captive by kidnappers.
"Hey!" you pound on the door. "Hey!"
The stringy-haired one pulls the door open a crack, points his gun at you.
"I got my period," you say.
His eyes blink fast, as if you had told him you just delivered a litter of puppies.
"Tampons," you say. "Or whatever."
He wants to ask if you're serious, but he holds his tongue. He must have a girlfriend.
"Fuck," he says. Then slams the door shut.
There are no tampons in the house. You're certain they didn't think this part through ahead of time. You hear loud talking coming through the floor above you. In an hour, the stringy-haired one will come back and hand you through the crack in the door a roll of paper towels.
Happy You Are On The Rag Day!
Today, you got your period again. The 159th time in as many months. You're used to it by now, the discomfort, the mood swings, etc. But this time, you're being held captive by kidnappers.
"Hey!" you pound on the door. "Hey!"
The stringy-haired one pulls the door open a crack, points his gun at you.
"I got my period," you say.
His eyes blink fast, as if you had told him you just delivered a litter of puppies.
"Tampons," you say. "Or whatever."
He wants to ask if you're serious, but he holds his tongue. He must have a girlfriend.
"Fuck," he says. Then slams the door shut.
There are no tampons in the house. You're certain they didn't think this part through ahead of time. You hear loud talking coming through the floor above you. In an hour, the stringy-haired one will come back and hand you through the crack in the door a roll of paper towels.
Happy You Are On The Rag Day!
Friday, February 18, 2005
The Boys You Masturbate To Day
The Boys You Masturbate To Day!
Bad things are happening to the boys you masturbate to. Last night you masturbated to a narrative in which Lee, your brother's friend, slept over and the two of you bumped into each other in the middle of the night when you both walked to the bathroom without any clothes on. And just now, you're brother's going to call you and tell you that Lee was mugged on his way to work this morning. And yesterday your ex-boyfriend Mark had a car crash not six hours after you put yourself to sleep with a memory of him going down on you in the back of a cab. And let's not forget the morning after your co-worker Kyle appeared in a fantasy of yours. He woke up without any eyes.
Choose whom you masturbate to wisely. You have a tremendously evil power that feels so good.
Happy The Boys You Masturbate To Day!
Bad things are happening to the boys you masturbate to. Last night you masturbated to a narrative in which Lee, your brother's friend, slept over and the two of you bumped into each other in the middle of the night when you both walked to the bathroom without any clothes on. And just now, you're brother's going to call you and tell you that Lee was mugged on his way to work this morning. And yesterday your ex-boyfriend Mark had a car crash not six hours after you put yourself to sleep with a memory of him going down on you in the back of a cab. And let's not forget the morning after your co-worker Kyle appeared in a fantasy of yours. He woke up without any eyes.
Choose whom you masturbate to wisely. You have a tremendously evil power that feels so good.
Happy The Boys You Masturbate To Day!
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Waiting For The Runaway Day
Waiting For The Runaway Day!
You've been awake for a full 60 hours now, and there's no sign that Dina might make it home. You're terrified of falling asleep. After 60 hours, the sleep that's gonna come might never let you wake up. It'll be a sleep that ends with everything different than what it was before you closed your eyes.
The dreams will be the worst. They'll blot out the reality of your daughter being gone. Transmogrify it into bleak fantasies of drowning in lakes or sprinting from killers chasing you in a well-maintained van. When you wake up, you'll enjoy a brief moment of relief that you're dry and you're not on a highway and you'll be glad to be there in your bed. And when your eyes stop blinking, you'll remember what kept you awake for so long. You'll fling yourself out of bed in a panic over what day it is. You'll run down stairs to see if there's been any word, and the heavy-lidded faces of your wife and your sister will greet you with sad smiles. They'll make room on the couch for you to come and sit between them. You'll be given the seat that's right in front of the telephone on the coffee table.
Stay awake a little longer if you can. Try to go for 72 hours. The longer you keep your eyes open, the longer you can delay having to wake up to this.
Happy Waiting For The Runaway Day!
You've been awake for a full 60 hours now, and there's no sign that Dina might make it home. You're terrified of falling asleep. After 60 hours, the sleep that's gonna come might never let you wake up. It'll be a sleep that ends with everything different than what it was before you closed your eyes.
The dreams will be the worst. They'll blot out the reality of your daughter being gone. Transmogrify it into bleak fantasies of drowning in lakes or sprinting from killers chasing you in a well-maintained van. When you wake up, you'll enjoy a brief moment of relief that you're dry and you're not on a highway and you'll be glad to be there in your bed. And when your eyes stop blinking, you'll remember what kept you awake for so long. You'll fling yourself out of bed in a panic over what day it is. You'll run down stairs to see if there's been any word, and the heavy-lidded faces of your wife and your sister will greet you with sad smiles. They'll make room on the couch for you to come and sit between them. You'll be given the seat that's right in front of the telephone on the coffee table.
Stay awake a little longer if you can. Try to go for 72 hours. The longer you keep your eyes open, the longer you can delay having to wake up to this.
Happy Waiting For The Runaway Day!
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Lord Of The Garanimals™ Day
Lord Of The Garanimals™ Day!
He who is declared Lord gets two desserts.
Most of your opponents presently muddy the dirt under your sneakers with their blood. It is now down to you and Matt Hohlfienz. Last summer, Matt Hohlfienz punched you in the eye and pulled down your swim trunks during a swimming lesson at the community Y. Everyone laughed. It's time to make Matt Hohlfienz scream like a dying animal.
Though Matt is much bigger than you, this is a fair matchup, as you're both 8. You wield a crossbow, Matt has a .22 handgun in the front pocket of his overalls. However, take intelligence into account and no one would bet against you. This is your game to win. You have slain all of the other neighborhood children, now you must slay Matt Hohlfienz.
And remember, if you lose, pray that Matt Hohlfienz does not spare your life. When your father entered you into competition, he made a vow that he would only allow the Lord of the Garanimals™ into his home. If you lose, he cannot recognize you as his son, cannot even tend to your wounds. You will be forced to find your own way in life. Most leave town immediately, even if they plan only to die, they do it out of sight.
And remember, Garanimals™ is the rugged kids brand of clothing that makes every kid feel like a blood-thirsty predator with big teeth and big claws and a very brief lifespan.
Happy Lord Of The Garanimals™ Day!
He who is declared Lord gets two desserts.
Most of your opponents presently muddy the dirt under your sneakers with their blood. It is now down to you and Matt Hohlfienz. Last summer, Matt Hohlfienz punched you in the eye and pulled down your swim trunks during a swimming lesson at the community Y. Everyone laughed. It's time to make Matt Hohlfienz scream like a dying animal.
Though Matt is much bigger than you, this is a fair matchup, as you're both 8. You wield a crossbow, Matt has a .22 handgun in the front pocket of his overalls. However, take intelligence into account and no one would bet against you. This is your game to win. You have slain all of the other neighborhood children, now you must slay Matt Hohlfienz.
And remember, if you lose, pray that Matt Hohlfienz does not spare your life. When your father entered you into competition, he made a vow that he would only allow the Lord of the Garanimals™ into his home. If you lose, he cannot recognize you as his son, cannot even tend to your wounds. You will be forced to find your own way in life. Most leave town immediately, even if they plan only to die, they do it out of sight.
And remember, Garanimals™ is the rugged kids brand of clothing that makes every kid feel like a blood-thirsty predator with big teeth and big claws and a very brief lifespan.
Happy Lord Of The Garanimals™ Day!
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
No More Enemas Day
No More Enemas Day!
Your girlfriend broke up with you because she's sick of giving you enemas.
"At first I thought it was kind of a fun change to be with a guy who liked getting enemas so much," your girlfriend was quoted in an interview with USA Today. "But sometimes I just want to fuck straight and smooth, like there wasn't ever no other way to get it done."
But all you wanted was enemas.
In a conversation you were having with an unknown person in the room with you while you were on hold with Rebate Services LLC, a tele-services contractor that records phone calls for quality control purposes, you were quoted as saying, "Goodbye enemas I guess. Maybe I'll place a personal ad."
An online personal ad found on Nerve.com's personals browser included the phrase, "Enemas are sexy. Like seventeen enemas a day is sexier." Was that your ad? If not, it should have been because it is very clever.
Happy No More Enemas Day!
Your girlfriend broke up with you because she's sick of giving you enemas.
"At first I thought it was kind of a fun change to be with a guy who liked getting enemas so much," your girlfriend was quoted in an interview with USA Today. "But sometimes I just want to fuck straight and smooth, like there wasn't ever no other way to get it done."
But all you wanted was enemas.
In a conversation you were having with an unknown person in the room with you while you were on hold with Rebate Services LLC, a tele-services contractor that records phone calls for quality control purposes, you were quoted as saying, "Goodbye enemas I guess. Maybe I'll place a personal ad."
An online personal ad found on Nerve.com's personals browser included the phrase, "Enemas are sexy. Like seventeen enemas a day is sexier." Was that your ad? If not, it should have been because it is very clever.
Happy No More Enemas Day!
Monday, February 14, 2005
Hey Illegal Abortionist! You Should Burn The Evidence Of Your Abortions Day
Hey Illegal Abortionist! You Should Burn The Evidence Of Your Abortions Day!
Abortionist, if word ever got out about the abortions you perform, you would be thrown in jail or perhaps murdered by a gun freak who's convinced he is in an army and Jesus is his general. So after every abortion you perform, why not burn all the evidence? The bloody sheets, the bloody rags, the bloody strips of torn up shirts that you used when you ran out of pieces of cloth to sop up all the blood, the bloody housepets, the neighbor children who hang around near the abortions and get covered in blood, the several buckets of blood. Throw it all in the fireplace and at the end of the day it'll be like nothing Godless ever even happened in your kitchen. Don't forget to burn down your own conscience and God's memory, since he saw it all.
Happy Hey Illegal Abortionist! You Should Burn The Evidence Of Your Abortions Day!
Abortionist, if word ever got out about the abortions you perform, you would be thrown in jail or perhaps murdered by a gun freak who's convinced he is in an army and Jesus is his general. So after every abortion you perform, why not burn all the evidence? The bloody sheets, the bloody rags, the bloody strips of torn up shirts that you used when you ran out of pieces of cloth to sop up all the blood, the bloody housepets, the neighbor children who hang around near the abortions and get covered in blood, the several buckets of blood. Throw it all in the fireplace and at the end of the day it'll be like nothing Godless ever even happened in your kitchen. Don't forget to burn down your own conscience and God's memory, since he saw it all.
Happy Hey Illegal Abortionist! You Should Burn The Evidence Of Your Abortions Day!
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Underneath Some Stairs And 40 Minutes To Paris Day!
Underneath Some Stairs And 40 Minutes To Paris Day!
You're underneath some stairs on the ferry between London and Paris. You had some seats in a passenger cabin, but the British couple sharing your row were giving you dirty looks and your girlfriend's chest grew tight again.
Yesterday - or two days ago, it's hard to figure it out - one of her panic attacks sent the two of you to an emergency room in London (free healthcare!) where your girlfriend told the nurse on duty the shortness of breath started in the middle of a fight between the two of you. So the nurse on duty asked what you had said. You didn't tell the nurse on duty.
After 4 hours of sleep in the West End hotel, you convinced your girlfriend that getting out of London and continuing on across Europe with all that eurail pass bullshit would be just the thing to keep her mind from tricking her into thinking she's about to die of a heart attack.
Her breathing grew short again at the train station, before you were even on your way to the ferry. You used a credit card to call your Mom and warn her you might be coming back sooner than you thought. Your Mom did not suggest that you leave your girlfriend on the floor of the train station where she was presently panting. She did not suggest that you throw her plane ticket and a pile of Euros at her and just book. Had she suggested that, who knows what might have happened? But she didn't suggest any such thing.
The ferry left at 11 PM, and you've spent the last five hours trying to stay still, standing or sitting, just stay still long enough to pass out. Finally, you're there underneath some stairs spread out on your spot of boat. There are forty minutes left before you step on France. You're gonna fall asleep in a minute. When you wake up in 35 minutes you'll feel so tired that you're going to cry a lot.
Happy Underneath Some Stairs And 40 Minutes To Paris Day!
You're underneath some stairs on the ferry between London and Paris. You had some seats in a passenger cabin, but the British couple sharing your row were giving you dirty looks and your girlfriend's chest grew tight again.
Yesterday - or two days ago, it's hard to figure it out - one of her panic attacks sent the two of you to an emergency room in London (free healthcare!) where your girlfriend told the nurse on duty the shortness of breath started in the middle of a fight between the two of you. So the nurse on duty asked what you had said. You didn't tell the nurse on duty.
After 4 hours of sleep in the West End hotel, you convinced your girlfriend that getting out of London and continuing on across Europe with all that eurail pass bullshit would be just the thing to keep her mind from tricking her into thinking she's about to die of a heart attack.
Her breathing grew short again at the train station, before you were even on your way to the ferry. You used a credit card to call your Mom and warn her you might be coming back sooner than you thought. Your Mom did not suggest that you leave your girlfriend on the floor of the train station where she was presently panting. She did not suggest that you throw her plane ticket and a pile of Euros at her and just book. Had she suggested that, who knows what might have happened? But she didn't suggest any such thing.
The ferry left at 11 PM, and you've spent the last five hours trying to stay still, standing or sitting, just stay still long enough to pass out. Finally, you're there underneath some stairs spread out on your spot of boat. There are forty minutes left before you step on France. You're gonna fall asleep in a minute. When you wake up in 35 minutes you'll feel so tired that you're going to cry a lot.
Happy Underneath Some Stairs And 40 Minutes To Paris Day!
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Your Dad's In Jail Day
Your Dad's In Jail Day!
Your Dad's in jail. He was fighting with your Mom and the neighbors called the police. Now everyone in the neighborhood is staring at you. The other kids ride their bikes in a circle around you chanting things like, "Your Dad's in jai-ail! He's never gonna come home agai-ain! You'll have to talk to him through plexiglass on Christ-maaas! He'll have to kill a guy on his first day in order to show everyone how hard heeee iiiis! Or else he'll have to make love to me-en! I bet he has a black ey-eye! He's probably being initiated into a gang unified by either race, ancestry, bigotry or religious belie-eeefs!"
Open up a lemonade stand to raise money for your Dad's bail. The kids on bikes might ride around past all day long taunting you. But all the adults who heard your dad screaming and cursing while he was being taken away last night will think it's really sweet that you're working hard to raise money for his bail, and they'll all come and buy lemonade from you just because you're being adorable.
When you get home with all the money you made, you'll run through the door shouting about it to your mom, but your dad will be there sitting on the couch cuddling with her. They'll thank you for going to all that effort, and then they'll explain to you what a bail-bondsman is.
Happy Your Dad's In Jail Day!
Your Dad's in jail. He was fighting with your Mom and the neighbors called the police. Now everyone in the neighborhood is staring at you. The other kids ride their bikes in a circle around you chanting things like, "Your Dad's in jai-ail! He's never gonna come home agai-ain! You'll have to talk to him through plexiglass on Christ-maaas! He'll have to kill a guy on his first day in order to show everyone how hard heeee iiiis! Or else he'll have to make love to me-en! I bet he has a black ey-eye! He's probably being initiated into a gang unified by either race, ancestry, bigotry or religious belie-eeefs!"
Open up a lemonade stand to raise money for your Dad's bail. The kids on bikes might ride around past all day long taunting you. But all the adults who heard your dad screaming and cursing while he was being taken away last night will think it's really sweet that you're working hard to raise money for his bail, and they'll all come and buy lemonade from you just because you're being adorable.
When you get home with all the money you made, you'll run through the door shouting about it to your mom, but your dad will be there sitting on the couch cuddling with her. They'll thank you for going to all that effort, and then they'll explain to you what a bail-bondsman is.
Happy Your Dad's In Jail Day!
Friday, February 11, 2005
You Run A Stupid Coffee Shop Day
You Run A Stupid Coffee Shop Day!
It was always your dream to have your own coffee shop. Well now you have it, and after a year and a half of operation, it's apparent that your coffee shop sucks. The chairs are uncomfortable, the tables are just an inch too high or too low, the "local art" on the wall is not only dull and unskilled, it also manages to irritate people.
note on the local art and how it can irritate: all of the paintings depict idyllic landscapes with US planes flying overhead dropping bombs marked with dollar signs. Looking at these paintings is like reading a paranoid International Socialist Organization pamphlet with all of its typos and grammatical errors
Additionally, your scrabble box is missing tiles. The shop will be shuttered within another 18 months, which will be sad. Far sadder than that, you're about to ruin your marriage by making a pass at your 19 year old counter-girl. You'll do it at 8:00 tonight, when the door is locked and the two of you are finished cleaning up (you close at 7:30 on a Friday? What the fuck?!) Anyway, she's small with ratty burgundy hair and a really pleasant face. And she wears tops that make plaintive presentation of her breasts, a choice you assume is intended for your appreciation and not for the 25 and 35 cent gratuities she's trying to lure into the plastic dish on the counter. Your wife is big and plain. Your counter girl is the kind of girl you always wished you could have dated when you were in your twenties (small, not plain). You're now 36, still not too far away from your twenties, you coach yourself.
So tonight at around 8:00 she'll tell you everything's pretty much taken care of and you'll lunge in and slosh the wet crumbs of the bagel you recently ate into her mouth, and her scream will be muffled by your face. She'll wriggle away and quit. You'll say you're sorry, that you're confused and the shop isn't doing that well. The both of you will look out the storefront window to find your wife watching from the car (she picks you up every night. Why'd you do this when you knew she'd be outside waiting?) Your countergirl will grab her bag and take off out the door, making a hard turn to avoid your wife's eyes. You'll shout at your countergirl's back that her job's still there for her if she wants it and that your son is being held back and it's frightening.
Finally, you'll turn off all the lights, lock the door to the coffee shop, and then climb into the passenger seat of your car beside your wife. She'll cry on the drive home.
Happy You Run A Stupid Coffee Shop Day!
It was always your dream to have your own coffee shop. Well now you have it, and after a year and a half of operation, it's apparent that your coffee shop sucks. The chairs are uncomfortable, the tables are just an inch too high or too low, the "local art" on the wall is not only dull and unskilled, it also manages to irritate people.
note on the local art and how it can irritate: all of the paintings depict idyllic landscapes with US planes flying overhead dropping bombs marked with dollar signs. Looking at these paintings is like reading a paranoid International Socialist Organization pamphlet with all of its typos and grammatical errors
Additionally, your scrabble box is missing tiles. The shop will be shuttered within another 18 months, which will be sad. Far sadder than that, you're about to ruin your marriage by making a pass at your 19 year old counter-girl. You'll do it at 8:00 tonight, when the door is locked and the two of you are finished cleaning up (you close at 7:30 on a Friday? What the fuck?!) Anyway, she's small with ratty burgundy hair and a really pleasant face. And she wears tops that make plaintive presentation of her breasts, a choice you assume is intended for your appreciation and not for the 25 and 35 cent gratuities she's trying to lure into the plastic dish on the counter. Your wife is big and plain. Your counter girl is the kind of girl you always wished you could have dated when you were in your twenties (small, not plain). You're now 36, still not too far away from your twenties, you coach yourself.
So tonight at around 8:00 she'll tell you everything's pretty much taken care of and you'll lunge in and slosh the wet crumbs of the bagel you recently ate into her mouth, and her scream will be muffled by your face. She'll wriggle away and quit. You'll say you're sorry, that you're confused and the shop isn't doing that well. The both of you will look out the storefront window to find your wife watching from the car (she picks you up every night. Why'd you do this when you knew she'd be outside waiting?) Your countergirl will grab her bag and take off out the door, making a hard turn to avoid your wife's eyes. You'll shout at your countergirl's back that her job's still there for her if she wants it and that your son is being held back and it's frightening.
Finally, you'll turn off all the lights, lock the door to the coffee shop, and then climb into the passenger seat of your car beside your wife. She'll cry on the drive home.
Happy You Run A Stupid Coffee Shop Day!
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Your Ancestry, Back In The Gold Rush Day
Your Ancestry, Back In The Gold Rush Day!
The only reason you're alive today is because your great great great great grandmother Ginny Rae Kale was a whore. She lived in the long-forgotten town of Riverbed, California. Ginny Rae Kale was one of the thousands of folks who kept going west until they dropped, and where they dropped was home. Civilization sprang up in those days because people had to stop moving to keep their children alive.
Riverbed, California, it turned out, had quite a generous reserve of gold just underneath the dust. Just about everyone who settled there dug up enough riches to set them up for life. A few left town, but most stayed, trying to build on their fortunes. It didn't take long for word to spread about Riverbed. And it didn't take long for desperate crews of gold chasers to come into town and kill everyone in sight.
In those days, once most of the gold had been dug out of America, the people who'd already made it rich were growing poor again. When they got their first rocks, they opened for business, hiring a team of diggers thinking they'd just become a precious metals empire. Of course, they often found out a little too late that gold likes to gather in small crowds, and by the time they set to hunting down new mines to dig in, they'd already spent the majority of their fortunes. Faced with ruin, many took to stealing from others who'd struck gold.
Riverbed was raided ten times over while Ginny Rae Kale lived there. Crews would come in on horseback and shoot their way to the rightful ownership of every last chunk of gold hidden at the bottom of every mother's pillowcase. The crews shot first, hunted for the secreted gold second. But when they saw Ginny Rae Kale, they put their guns down and forced themselves upon her. After the first or second raid, she stopped resisting and started introducing herself as the town whore. A whore doesn't get raped, she gets paid. And no one would dare shoot the only whore in town, especially a whore with eyes like Ginny Rae Kale had. She was considered just as valuable a resource as the shiny rock buried underneath the soil.
The gold that had been dug up from the town must have changed hands ten times with the raids. A crew would come in, kill, and then settle to digging for all that nothing that was left over. Then the next crew would shoot down the last and pull up stakes. Ginny birthed six children, all of whom left her behind once they were old enough to split. Those six babies begat your family line, spreading your lineage through Oregon, into Georgia, and up into Pennsylvania.
Your heritage is traced back to the bed of a whore. Explains a lot.
Happy Your Ancestry, Back In The Gold Rush Day!
The only reason you're alive today is because your great great great great grandmother Ginny Rae Kale was a whore. She lived in the long-forgotten town of Riverbed, California. Ginny Rae Kale was one of the thousands of folks who kept going west until they dropped, and where they dropped was home. Civilization sprang up in those days because people had to stop moving to keep their children alive.
Riverbed, California, it turned out, had quite a generous reserve of gold just underneath the dust. Just about everyone who settled there dug up enough riches to set them up for life. A few left town, but most stayed, trying to build on their fortunes. It didn't take long for word to spread about Riverbed. And it didn't take long for desperate crews of gold chasers to come into town and kill everyone in sight.
In those days, once most of the gold had been dug out of America, the people who'd already made it rich were growing poor again. When they got their first rocks, they opened for business, hiring a team of diggers thinking they'd just become a precious metals empire. Of course, they often found out a little too late that gold likes to gather in small crowds, and by the time they set to hunting down new mines to dig in, they'd already spent the majority of their fortunes. Faced with ruin, many took to stealing from others who'd struck gold.
Riverbed was raided ten times over while Ginny Rae Kale lived there. Crews would come in on horseback and shoot their way to the rightful ownership of every last chunk of gold hidden at the bottom of every mother's pillowcase. The crews shot first, hunted for the secreted gold second. But when they saw Ginny Rae Kale, they put their guns down and forced themselves upon her. After the first or second raid, she stopped resisting and started introducing herself as the town whore. A whore doesn't get raped, she gets paid. And no one would dare shoot the only whore in town, especially a whore with eyes like Ginny Rae Kale had. She was considered just as valuable a resource as the shiny rock buried underneath the soil.
The gold that had been dug up from the town must have changed hands ten times with the raids. A crew would come in, kill, and then settle to digging for all that nothing that was left over. Then the next crew would shoot down the last and pull up stakes. Ginny birthed six children, all of whom left her behind once they were old enough to split. Those six babies begat your family line, spreading your lineage through Oregon, into Georgia, and up into Pennsylvania.
Your heritage is traced back to the bed of a whore. Explains a lot.
Happy Your Ancestry, Back In The Gold Rush Day!
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Lure Them With A Bowl Of Greek Olives Day
Lure Them With A Bowl Of Greek Olives Day!
If you use the same bowl that you used for the Hershey Kisses, make sure you wash it thoroughly. You don't want your co-workers to bite into a Greek Olive and say, "This tastes like yesterday's Hershey's Kisses. What the fuck, Saperstein?"
You want them to say, "Olives? Hot shit!" And then they'll plant themselves there by your cube, sucking olive meat from those beautiful stones and telling you stories that end with lines like, "I never did make it Constantinople that Summer, and I've regretted it with every breath I've taken since," or stories that begin with lines like, "Buckle up, Dicksnot." You want the salt of your coworkers tears to mix with the sweat on the skin of those Olives. What you want, what you really want, is to know these people who surround you every day.
To finally know them. Jelly beans tomorrow. Go shopping.
Happy Lure Them With A Bowl Of Greek Olives Day!
If you use the same bowl that you used for the Hershey Kisses, make sure you wash it thoroughly. You don't want your co-workers to bite into a Greek Olive and say, "This tastes like yesterday's Hershey's Kisses. What the fuck, Saperstein?"
You want them to say, "Olives? Hot shit!" And then they'll plant themselves there by your cube, sucking olive meat from those beautiful stones and telling you stories that end with lines like, "I never did make it Constantinople that Summer, and I've regretted it with every breath I've taken since," or stories that begin with lines like, "Buckle up, Dicksnot." You want the salt of your coworkers tears to mix with the sweat on the skin of those Olives. What you want, what you really want, is to know these people who surround you every day.
To finally know them. Jelly beans tomorrow. Go shopping.
Happy Lure Them With A Bowl Of Greek Olives Day!
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Park By The River And Tell Him You're Bored Day
Park By The River And Tell Him You're Bored Day!
He's gonna lean over to get some, so you'd better not wait too long before you tell him that you're sick of his face.
"But we're parked at the river," he'll say. "This is where we go to do it."
Explain to him that you took him to the river on purpose. "I wanted the river back," say.
Tell him how, over the years, the river has lent itself for a backdrop to all those moments you figured you'd want to remember one day. How there's so little going on in your shithole corner of the country that you had to go down to the river if you wanted anything important in your life to happen outside of a Quiznos.
"So I took you here for us to do it," say. "But I also came down here the morning after my Dad died. And whenever I get an important package or letter via the mail, I come down here to open it."
He'll say that he's glad you at least thought he would be something you'd want to remember. Don't tell him you were wrong.
"See, I can't let you and I having done it here by the river be the last thing that happened down here. I need my river back, so I had to break your heart here too."
He'll nod. "So you're canceling me out," he'll say.
"No," say. "You and me doing it here will always be here. The river saw it. Just as the river is watching me say goodbye to you. Now the next time I come down here, the river won't have to ask me, Hey, where's your boy?"
"Does the river ever tell you to do stuff?" he'll ask.
Just look straight ahead, look at the river. Contemplate its strength and its persistence.
"Is the river telling you to do something right now?" he'll ask.
Say, "You should go now."
He'll hold your eyes with his.
Scream, "Go!"
Pray that he gets out of the car in time.
Happy Park By The River And Tell Him You're Bored Day!
He's gonna lean over to get some, so you'd better not wait too long before you tell him that you're sick of his face.
"But we're parked at the river," he'll say. "This is where we go to do it."
Explain to him that you took him to the river on purpose. "I wanted the river back," say.
Tell him how, over the years, the river has lent itself for a backdrop to all those moments you figured you'd want to remember one day. How there's so little going on in your shithole corner of the country that you had to go down to the river if you wanted anything important in your life to happen outside of a Quiznos.
"So I took you here for us to do it," say. "But I also came down here the morning after my Dad died. And whenever I get an important package or letter via the mail, I come down here to open it."
He'll say that he's glad you at least thought he would be something you'd want to remember. Don't tell him you were wrong.
"See, I can't let you and I having done it here by the river be the last thing that happened down here. I need my river back, so I had to break your heart here too."
He'll nod. "So you're canceling me out," he'll say.
"No," say. "You and me doing it here will always be here. The river saw it. Just as the river is watching me say goodbye to you. Now the next time I come down here, the river won't have to ask me, Hey, where's your boy?"
"Does the river ever tell you to do stuff?" he'll ask.
Just look straight ahead, look at the river. Contemplate its strength and its persistence.
"Is the river telling you to do something right now?" he'll ask.
Say, "You should go now."
He'll hold your eyes with his.
Scream, "Go!"
Pray that he gets out of the car in time.
Happy Park By The River And Tell Him You're Bored Day!
Monday, February 07, 2005
You Lost Your Virginity To The Tune Of Metallica's "Ride The Lightning" Day
You Lost Your Virginity To The Tune Of Metallica's "Ride The Lightning" Day!
Listen to yourself for God's sake. Talking about "perfect moments" and "a love so strong you just know." When you lost it there was a muddy puddle of beer seeping through the back of your winter coat, which, to complete that "right moment," was still on and half zipped. Joe Pownell took you on the grass of a raided kegger not three feet away from a barbed wire fence with "Ride The Lightning" blasting from Jeff Conway's (sitting fifteen feet away) boom box, and you're going to tell your daughter to be that long-rumoured "ONE" who'll manage to lose it when the moment is right? Buy her some birth control, tell her not to be stupid, and go upstairs to your Netflix.
Additionally, you never had sex again in high school, but you were a whore in college.
Happy You Lost Your Virginity To The Tune Of Metallica's "Ride The Lightning" Day!
Listen to yourself for God's sake. Talking about "perfect moments" and "a love so strong you just know." When you lost it there was a muddy puddle of beer seeping through the back of your winter coat, which, to complete that "right moment," was still on and half zipped. Joe Pownell took you on the grass of a raided kegger not three feet away from a barbed wire fence with "Ride The Lightning" blasting from Jeff Conway's (sitting fifteen feet away) boom box, and you're going to tell your daughter to be that long-rumoured "ONE" who'll manage to lose it when the moment is right? Buy her some birth control, tell her not to be stupid, and go upstairs to your Netflix.
Additionally, you never had sex again in high school, but you were a whore in college.
Happy You Lost Your Virginity To The Tune Of Metallica's "Ride The Lightning" Day!
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Raid On The Cult Compound Day
Raid On The Cult Compound Day!
The ATF is going to raid your compound at 5 PM today. You have to convince your followers to kill themselves before then. Trouble is, while you had planned for them all to kill themselves from the get-go, you expected to have a few more years of brainwashing to convince them that mass suicide was the only way to go. Right now they're all with you in the whole "defend the compound" scenario. But to walk in and say, "I know what, let's all off ourselves," it would really be coming out of left field.
You could try to just rattle of a litany of really depressing stuff and see if that works. Show them a slide-show maybe of puppies being punched in the face or an "According To Jim" marathon. Or how about this? As the leader of the cult, all of your followers wanna marry you, correct? So why not write each of them a "Sorry, I've just always seen you as a friend" letter? Nothing makes people commit suicide like unrequited love.
If it gets to around 4:30 though, you're going to have to kill them all and make it look like a mass suicide instead of a mass murder. Best way to do this is if you slit all of their wrists and forge "goodbye cruel world" notes in each person's handwriting. Not feeling so great now, are you Oh Great One?
Happy Raid On The Cult Compound Day!
The ATF is going to raid your compound at 5 PM today. You have to convince your followers to kill themselves before then. Trouble is, while you had planned for them all to kill themselves from the get-go, you expected to have a few more years of brainwashing to convince them that mass suicide was the only way to go. Right now they're all with you in the whole "defend the compound" scenario. But to walk in and say, "I know what, let's all off ourselves," it would really be coming out of left field.
You could try to just rattle of a litany of really depressing stuff and see if that works. Show them a slide-show maybe of puppies being punched in the face or an "According To Jim" marathon. Or how about this? As the leader of the cult, all of your followers wanna marry you, correct? So why not write each of them a "Sorry, I've just always seen you as a friend" letter? Nothing makes people commit suicide like unrequited love.
If it gets to around 4:30 though, you're going to have to kill them all and make it look like a mass suicide instead of a mass murder. Best way to do this is if you slit all of their wrists and forge "goodbye cruel world" notes in each person's handwriting. Not feeling so great now, are you Oh Great One?
Happy Raid On The Cult Compound Day!
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Here Comes Trouble Day
Here Comes Trouble Day!
Your son started another fight. His third at this fancy new middle school.
"I thought you people were supposed to be good at dealing with troubled youths," you shout at the principal through the receiver.
"We do what we can with what we're given," her words are very clipped. "And what we're given is designed in the home. How's the home going?"
His Dad's gone and sometimes calls and says he might come back, which is less an empty promise and more an empty threat. "My son hates me. So what? Fix him."
He hates you only because you've decided to let his Dad's absence be replaced with silence. He hates you because you assumed he would and, as far as he can tell, you were fine with that.
"When he takes a swing at a classmate," the principal asked, "who's he really wanna hit?"
I think he wants to drive his arm straight through my belly. You think it but don't say it. "I don't know lady. You perhaps? The more we talk, the more understandable that seems."
She breathes for ten seconds. Then, "If you're not going to work with us, I'm afraid…"
Say, "He won't be back Monday."
She'll say, "I'm afraid that will be best."
With no schools left that will take him, and no money to pay his tuition even if they could, you hang up the phone with the rest of the day ahead of you to try not to think about it.
Happy Here Comes Trouble Day!
Your son started another fight. His third at this fancy new middle school.
"I thought you people were supposed to be good at dealing with troubled youths," you shout at the principal through the receiver.
"We do what we can with what we're given," her words are very clipped. "And what we're given is designed in the home. How's the home going?"
His Dad's gone and sometimes calls and says he might come back, which is less an empty promise and more an empty threat. "My son hates me. So what? Fix him."
He hates you only because you've decided to let his Dad's absence be replaced with silence. He hates you because you assumed he would and, as far as he can tell, you were fine with that.
"When he takes a swing at a classmate," the principal asked, "who's he really wanna hit?"
I think he wants to drive his arm straight through my belly. You think it but don't say it. "I don't know lady. You perhaps? The more we talk, the more understandable that seems."
She breathes for ten seconds. Then, "If you're not going to work with us, I'm afraid…"
Say, "He won't be back Monday."
She'll say, "I'm afraid that will be best."
With no schools left that will take him, and no money to pay his tuition even if they could, you hang up the phone with the rest of the day ahead of you to try not to think about it.
Happy Here Comes Trouble Day!
Friday, February 04, 2005
Your Date Doctor Is A Quack Day
Your Date Doctor Is A Quack Day!
You misspoke when you said that your date's dress made her look thinner than usual, yes. Your instinct was to laugh at yourself and point out that you're very nervous and are therefore talking like a bit of an idiot. Your Date Doctor suggested a different approach.
"Give her a tickle torture!" he shouted.
So you leapt across the table and dug your wiggling fingertips into her sides. She begged you to stop in between bursts of frantic giggling. When you finally relented, she maced you and ran.
On another date chaperoned by the Date Doctor, you were glad to have him there because your date started choking on a big piece of steak and your Date Doctor administered the heimlich, which was cool. But then he told you to make her feel better by giving her thirty dollars. She maced you and ran.
Last week, you actually got lucky and your date invited you upstairs to fuck. Your Date Doctor insisted that he come along.
"You'll never be able to pull this off without me. You're nothing. You're worthless. I'm your only hope," was his argument. "You're disgusting and you smell bad," were two additional points to his argument.
You couldn't help but agree, so you asked your date if your Date Doctor could come up with you.
"Whatever it takes," she said. "I need it bad."
Upstairs, the sex was going pretty well for a first night. You stayed on top, occasionally holding your date's arms down on the pillows behind her head. About midway through, your Date Doctor pulled you up from the bed in a full-nelson and whispered in your ear, "Keep going."
You were still inside your date, being held aloft with your arms pinned up in the air by your Date Doctor's elbows. You looked down at your date, and she shrugged as if to say, "It's worth a shot.:
So you continued to thrust with your body bent backwards and held captive by your Date Doctor, who stood at the foot of the bed. Things escalated for another couple of minutes until you and your date shared one of the most powerful orgasms either of you could remember.
"Pretty sweet, right?" asked your Date Doctor.
"I have to admit, that ruled," your date said.
"That was almost as good an orgasm as the ones I used to have with my most recent ex-girlfriend," you said.
This upset your date, so your Date Doctor suggested that you write the words I'm sorry on her bedroom window with the semen you collected in your condom. She maced you and ran. But since you were in her place, she could only run into the bathroom. Once you regained your eyesight, you and your Date Doctor went out and got drunk.
Happy Your Date Doctor Is A Quack Day!
You misspoke when you said that your date's dress made her look thinner than usual, yes. Your instinct was to laugh at yourself and point out that you're very nervous and are therefore talking like a bit of an idiot. Your Date Doctor suggested a different approach.
"Give her a tickle torture!" he shouted.
So you leapt across the table and dug your wiggling fingertips into her sides. She begged you to stop in between bursts of frantic giggling. When you finally relented, she maced you and ran.
On another date chaperoned by the Date Doctor, you were glad to have him there because your date started choking on a big piece of steak and your Date Doctor administered the heimlich, which was cool. But then he told you to make her feel better by giving her thirty dollars. She maced you and ran.
Last week, you actually got lucky and your date invited you upstairs to fuck. Your Date Doctor insisted that he come along.
"You'll never be able to pull this off without me. You're nothing. You're worthless. I'm your only hope," was his argument. "You're disgusting and you smell bad," were two additional points to his argument.
You couldn't help but agree, so you asked your date if your Date Doctor could come up with you.
"Whatever it takes," she said. "I need it bad."
Upstairs, the sex was going pretty well for a first night. You stayed on top, occasionally holding your date's arms down on the pillows behind her head. About midway through, your Date Doctor pulled you up from the bed in a full-nelson and whispered in your ear, "Keep going."
You were still inside your date, being held aloft with your arms pinned up in the air by your Date Doctor's elbows. You looked down at your date, and she shrugged as if to say, "It's worth a shot.:
So you continued to thrust with your body bent backwards and held captive by your Date Doctor, who stood at the foot of the bed. Things escalated for another couple of minutes until you and your date shared one of the most powerful orgasms either of you could remember.
"Pretty sweet, right?" asked your Date Doctor.
"I have to admit, that ruled," your date said.
"That was almost as good an orgasm as the ones I used to have with my most recent ex-girlfriend," you said.
This upset your date, so your Date Doctor suggested that you write the words I'm sorry on her bedroom window with the semen you collected in your condom. She maced you and ran. But since you were in her place, she could only run into the bathroom. Once you regained your eyesight, you and your Date Doctor went out and got drunk.
Happy Your Date Doctor Is A Quack Day!
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Worst. Kitten Funeral. Ever. Day
Worst. Kitten Funeral. Ever. Day!
You've shown ineptitude in the past, but today you've outdone yourself. It was supposed to be a solemn, respectful occasion, something brief, during which we could quietly turn our thoughts to those two out of seven kittens who were crushed underneath boxes of China when the movers got impatient and decided not to look where they were tossing your valuables. Just something to make the kids feel better about it all. But against your wife's wishes, you said, "I'll take care of everything."
Just a brief eulogy would have been fine. "Sorry we never got to know you," and the like. But no, you had to bring the neighbor's aged cat, Morpheus, up to the lectern (where'd you get a lectern?) with you, and you just had pretend that Morpheus was the kittens' mother, throwing your arms around Morpheus' neck and screaming about vengeance for her lost brethren. That was all very cute. Not so cute? Jumping on the kittens' shoebox coffin. When you got back up, the kids could see the shoebox had been crushed, and they were terrified by what they could only imagine was inside that box. Yes, it was very classy of you to hire David Sanborn to play taps when the box was being lowered into the grave. Not so classy: Repeating over and over to the kids that he was charging you $7,000 for the half hour.
It's just a good thing that it's over with. But no one thinks it's cute that you're spending the night outside praying over their grave. Come to bed, asshole.
Happy Worst. Kitten Funeral. Ever. Day!
You've shown ineptitude in the past, but today you've outdone yourself. It was supposed to be a solemn, respectful occasion, something brief, during which we could quietly turn our thoughts to those two out of seven kittens who were crushed underneath boxes of China when the movers got impatient and decided not to look where they were tossing your valuables. Just something to make the kids feel better about it all. But against your wife's wishes, you said, "I'll take care of everything."
Just a brief eulogy would have been fine. "Sorry we never got to know you," and the like. But no, you had to bring the neighbor's aged cat, Morpheus, up to the lectern (where'd you get a lectern?) with you, and you just had pretend that Morpheus was the kittens' mother, throwing your arms around Morpheus' neck and screaming about vengeance for her lost brethren. That was all very cute. Not so cute? Jumping on the kittens' shoebox coffin. When you got back up, the kids could see the shoebox had been crushed, and they were terrified by what they could only imagine was inside that box. Yes, it was very classy of you to hire David Sanborn to play taps when the box was being lowered into the grave. Not so classy: Repeating over and over to the kids that he was charging you $7,000 for the half hour.
It's just a good thing that it's over with. But no one thinks it's cute that you're spending the night outside praying over their grave. Come to bed, asshole.
Happy Worst. Kitten Funeral. Ever. Day!
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Nearing The Conclusion Of Blind Man's Bluff Day!
Nearing The Conclusion Of Blind Man's Bluff Day!
You've lost a lot of blood. There are at least three opponents out there who are still alive and waiting for you to come stumbling out in your private darkness so that they can pummel you into nothing with bats and razor sharp garden saws. Your advantage: There will be no stumbling.
"You got no chance boys!" shout at them. "I've spent the last year with a rag over my eyes every hour of every day. I took it off only to attend my brother's second wedding in July. And I can tell you from here, I know where every pebble in this lawn is placed, where every bump in the soil will rise up to try and stub my toes, and where each one of you is hidden, panting out a whispered prayer to get just one shot in, before I open up your skulls and send you off to meet your teammates in the next world. You got ten seconds to run."
They won't buy it. They won't run. You're going to have to move on to plan b (stumble upon their hiding places completely by chance and then carve into their bellies with the jagged edge of a sawed off wiffle ball bat).
Happy Nearing The Conclusion Of Blind Man's Bluff Day!
You've lost a lot of blood. There are at least three opponents out there who are still alive and waiting for you to come stumbling out in your private darkness so that they can pummel you into nothing with bats and razor sharp garden saws. Your advantage: There will be no stumbling.
"You got no chance boys!" shout at them. "I've spent the last year with a rag over my eyes every hour of every day. I took it off only to attend my brother's second wedding in July. And I can tell you from here, I know where every pebble in this lawn is placed, where every bump in the soil will rise up to try and stub my toes, and where each one of you is hidden, panting out a whispered prayer to get just one shot in, before I open up your skulls and send you off to meet your teammates in the next world. You got ten seconds to run."
They won't buy it. They won't run. You're going to have to move on to plan b (stumble upon their hiding places completely by chance and then carve into their bellies with the jagged edge of a sawed off wiffle ball bat).
Happy Nearing The Conclusion Of Blind Man's Bluff Day!
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Things Don't Turn Out The Way They Were Supposed To Day
Things Don't Turn Out The Way They Were Supposed To Day!
Call in sick to your temp agency and get on a train to your childhood home. Stake it out for a little while, to make sure the current occupants have all left the premises for the day. Once the coast is clear, sprint across the lawn and hop the fence to the back yard.
They chopped down the rose bushes, but the grass where they used to stand doesn't match. Dig there. You remember it being at least six feet under the surface, but you actually never managed to get deeper than a foot and a half.
Slap. You hit the shoebox.
The scotch tape you sealed it with when you were ten just slips off of the cardboard. Inside, the box has become a home to potato bugs and a bunch of larvae of some kind. You fish the piece of paper out from underneath all of the creatures.
Shake the piece of paper out over the grass and unfold it carefully. It still rips at the creases. Lay it down on the ground. It says at the top, "Here's how things are gonna turn out." Underneath that is a crayon drawing of you getting out of a limousine holding money in your fists with lots of people cheering.
"Oh yeah," you think. "That's how things were supposed to turn out."
Take a piss on the drawing, then replace the dirt in the lawn so it looks like you were never there. Now pick up the piss-drenched drawing and box (be careful, they're covered in piss) and toss them in the plastic bag in the back seat of your rental car, making a point to toss them in the trash later. Get back home early enough to lay claim to the TV for the night before your roommate does.
Happy Things Don't Turn Out The Way They Were Supposed To Day!
Call in sick to your temp agency and get on a train to your childhood home. Stake it out for a little while, to make sure the current occupants have all left the premises for the day. Once the coast is clear, sprint across the lawn and hop the fence to the back yard.
They chopped down the rose bushes, but the grass where they used to stand doesn't match. Dig there. You remember it being at least six feet under the surface, but you actually never managed to get deeper than a foot and a half.
Slap. You hit the shoebox.
The scotch tape you sealed it with when you were ten just slips off of the cardboard. Inside, the box has become a home to potato bugs and a bunch of larvae of some kind. You fish the piece of paper out from underneath all of the creatures.
Shake the piece of paper out over the grass and unfold it carefully. It still rips at the creases. Lay it down on the ground. It says at the top, "Here's how things are gonna turn out." Underneath that is a crayon drawing of you getting out of a limousine holding money in your fists with lots of people cheering.
"Oh yeah," you think. "That's how things were supposed to turn out."
Take a piss on the drawing, then replace the dirt in the lawn so it looks like you were never there. Now pick up the piss-drenched drawing and box (be careful, they're covered in piss) and toss them in the plastic bag in the back seat of your rental car, making a point to toss them in the trash later. Get back home early enough to lay claim to the TV for the night before your roommate does.
Happy Things Don't Turn Out The Way They Were Supposed To Day!