When A Bullet Whizzes Past Your Eyes Day!
At around 6:08 PM you should be rushing down the sidewalk trying to make it to the station in time to catch the 6:24 train home. You should be preoccupied with a rumor you heard earlier about the CEO of your company being pushed out by the board and what that might mean in terms of layoffs when a bullet whizzes right past your eyes and shatters the 12 foot tall storefront window of the Payless immediately on your right. You'll be so disoriented by the infinitesimal time-frame of the whole experience that in your memory it will seem that the sound of the gunshot came after the shattering glass, and that the blip of the bullet whizzing past your eyes seemed to occur whole minutes before all of it.
You're going to see a bullet fly. You're going to see it, with your eyes. And you're going to feel its tailwind on the bridge of your nose. When you talk about it tonight with your family at the dinner table, your son will ask you if you feel more alive than you did this morning. Tell him, "I guess."
Happy When A Bullet Whizzes Past Your Eyes Day!
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Peace Signs Day
Peace Signs Day!
For today, when you make a peace sign by holding up your index and middle fingers, instead of saying, "No more war or bombs even," what you're saying is, "I'm gonna go stand on a baby. For a couple minutes. See what happens."
And whenever you see the little-more-than-a-Mercedes peace symbol displayed in the window of an establishment, instead of it meaning, "This establishment won't stand for war. Bombs neither. You heard us," for today the peace symbol announces to passersby, "There are some babies inside. Wanna stand on em? See what happens?"
Tomorrow the good fight will once again be fought.
Happy Peace Signs Day!
For today, when you make a peace sign by holding up your index and middle fingers, instead of saying, "No more war or bombs even," what you're saying is, "I'm gonna go stand on a baby. For a couple minutes. See what happens."
And whenever you see the little-more-than-a-Mercedes peace symbol displayed in the window of an establishment, instead of it meaning, "This establishment won't stand for war. Bombs neither. You heard us," for today the peace symbol announces to passersby, "There are some babies inside. Wanna stand on em? See what happens?"
Tomorrow the good fight will once again be fought.
Happy Peace Signs Day!
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Wrap Yourself Up In A Big Bow Day
Wrap Yourself Up In A Big Bow Day!
When she comes home, greet her in the doorway in your raincoat. When she asks what up, drop the raincoat to the floor and reveal yourself, naked except for the giant red bow and ribbon stretched around you.
Say, "Got you a present."
She'll insist that you keep the bow and ribbon on while you have sex with her. It will be the best sex that you can remember. You'll feel like you've finally become the person you've always wanted to be.
"I like being wrapped up in a bow," tell her.
She'll smile. "I liked it too," she'll say.
Tell her, "No, I really liked it."
She'll kiss your shoulder and go in to take a bath. Get up and walk around in the big bow.
The house will feel new. Though you've lived there for six years, it will feel like you've just moved in. It will really feel like home.
"I feel like I belong here," you'll say out loud.
"Where?" she'll ask. She'll be wearing a towel. You won't have heard her come in. "Why are you still wearing that silly thing?"
"I feel so wanted," tell her. "So special."
"You feel like a gift," she'll say. "I get it. I'm gonna go make dinner."
The next day when you dress for work you'll do your best to pad the bow and ribbon down underneath your suit. Though you'll look bulky and rumpled, all day long everyone will be excited to see you and they'll hang on every word you say.
"I don't understand it," the CEO of the company will say. "But it's like as soon as I lay my eyes on you I'm brimming with anticipation. It might be an anxiety attack, but it feels too good. I'm giving you a promotion and a raise."
At home your wife will be happy for you but wary. "So the way things are going, it seems you're probably gonna keep yourself wrapped up in a bow for the rest of your life. Am I warm?"
"I just feel like I belong everywhere I go. Like my presence surprises and delights people. Just by me showing up. I feel like no one would ever say no to me."
"So then," she'll press on. "The bow? All the time?"
"All the time," tell her.
"Laters," she'll say.
Your wife will get up and begin packing her stuff.
"But how can you toss me away?" you'll ask. "The bow!"
"You're wearing a big bow," she'll say. "I'm grossed out. Ew."
You'll miss her, but your bow just feels so awesome. Now go out to the bars. The single ladies are all waiting for the season of giving to begin.
Happy Wrap Yourself Up In A Big Bow Day!
When she comes home, greet her in the doorway in your raincoat. When she asks what up, drop the raincoat to the floor and reveal yourself, naked except for the giant red bow and ribbon stretched around you.
Say, "Got you a present."
She'll insist that you keep the bow and ribbon on while you have sex with her. It will be the best sex that you can remember. You'll feel like you've finally become the person you've always wanted to be.
"I like being wrapped up in a bow," tell her.
She'll smile. "I liked it too," she'll say.
Tell her, "No, I really liked it."
She'll kiss your shoulder and go in to take a bath. Get up and walk around in the big bow.
The house will feel new. Though you've lived there for six years, it will feel like you've just moved in. It will really feel like home.
"I feel like I belong here," you'll say out loud.
"Where?" she'll ask. She'll be wearing a towel. You won't have heard her come in. "Why are you still wearing that silly thing?"
"I feel so wanted," tell her. "So special."
"You feel like a gift," she'll say. "I get it. I'm gonna go make dinner."
The next day when you dress for work you'll do your best to pad the bow and ribbon down underneath your suit. Though you'll look bulky and rumpled, all day long everyone will be excited to see you and they'll hang on every word you say.
"I don't understand it," the CEO of the company will say. "But it's like as soon as I lay my eyes on you I'm brimming with anticipation. It might be an anxiety attack, but it feels too good. I'm giving you a promotion and a raise."
At home your wife will be happy for you but wary. "So the way things are going, it seems you're probably gonna keep yourself wrapped up in a bow for the rest of your life. Am I warm?"
"I just feel like I belong everywhere I go. Like my presence surprises and delights people. Just by me showing up. I feel like no one would ever say no to me."
"So then," she'll press on. "The bow? All the time?"
"All the time," tell her.
"Laters," she'll say.
Your wife will get up and begin packing her stuff.
"But how can you toss me away?" you'll ask. "The bow!"
"You're wearing a big bow," she'll say. "I'm grossed out. Ew."
You'll miss her, but your bow just feels so awesome. Now go out to the bars. The single ladies are all waiting for the season of giving to begin.
Happy Wrap Yourself Up In A Big Bow Day!
Monday, June 27, 2005
Snake In The Sleeping Bag Day
Snake In The Sleeping Bag Day!
Tonight, when you slip inside your sleeping bag, you'll feel a snake slither up your leg. Your son will ask you what's wrong when he sees your face. Tell him there's a snake on you and that he shouldn't make any swift movements of the snake might bite.
"I'll go for help," he'll say.
Tell him, "Slowly."
Your son will take a good forty minutes to crawl from the tent and into the car. And then he'll shift into neutral and hold down the brake to let the car gently and almost imperceptibly roll down the hill. You'll watch through the flap for about ten minutes before you get bored.
While you wait for your son to return, you'll lay still and just barely breathe, hoping that the snake will slither up your body and out into the dirt to find another place on the mountain to sleep. After eleven hours, your son will come back alone.
"Couldn't you find anybody?" you'll whisper.
"I talked to the Park Ranger," your son will say. "He said that if I came back here with anybody, the snake might know that I'm up to something and bite you. So he told me to come back here and sit by you like I was doing so the snake doesn't get suspicious."
You'll nod just a touch. "Sounds right," you'll say. The snake will move a little bit on your thigh. He'll be just underneath your shorts then.
After thinking about it for a bit, you'll realize that your son must have put that snake in your sleeping bag because he's still upset that you won't get back together with his mom. You'll turn to your son to accuse him, but you won't be able to before he drops tarantulas all over your face.
Happy Snake In The Sleeping Bag Day!
Tonight, when you slip inside your sleeping bag, you'll feel a snake slither up your leg. Your son will ask you what's wrong when he sees your face. Tell him there's a snake on you and that he shouldn't make any swift movements of the snake might bite.
"I'll go for help," he'll say.
Tell him, "Slowly."
Your son will take a good forty minutes to crawl from the tent and into the car. And then he'll shift into neutral and hold down the brake to let the car gently and almost imperceptibly roll down the hill. You'll watch through the flap for about ten minutes before you get bored.
While you wait for your son to return, you'll lay still and just barely breathe, hoping that the snake will slither up your body and out into the dirt to find another place on the mountain to sleep. After eleven hours, your son will come back alone.
"Couldn't you find anybody?" you'll whisper.
"I talked to the Park Ranger," your son will say. "He said that if I came back here with anybody, the snake might know that I'm up to something and bite you. So he told me to come back here and sit by you like I was doing so the snake doesn't get suspicious."
You'll nod just a touch. "Sounds right," you'll say. The snake will move a little bit on your thigh. He'll be just underneath your shorts then.
After thinking about it for a bit, you'll realize that your son must have put that snake in your sleeping bag because he's still upset that you won't get back together with his mom. You'll turn to your son to accuse him, but you won't be able to before he drops tarantulas all over your face.
Happy Snake In The Sleeping Bag Day!
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Go To Church So You Can Go Back To Your Family And Brag About It Day
Go To Church So You Can Go Back To Your Family And Brag About It Day!
From noon till dinnertime you can just wander around the house with the most saintly swagger you can finagle from those hips.
"How you feelin'?" you can ask your wife. "Little hot?"
She'll say, "It's warm. But not too bad."
Tell her, "I feel just fine. Must be the flames of hellfire tickling at you. Me, I don't have to worry about that. Paid a visit to the big guy this morning. We're buds."
"Fuck you," she'll say. "I had a miscarriage two days ago."
Swagger off to the basement where your thirty-three year old son has been living since his wife ran off on him. Say to him, "Doing anything unchaste down here?"
He won't answer. He's watching tv and trying to stay so quiet that he can convince himself he doesn't exist.
"Me," say. "I've been unchaste as all hell this week. But no worries. Just went to church. Washed the slate clean."
Your son will look at you and say, "I don't believe in God. Do you really believe in God Dad?"
Don't answer. Instead, get into your car and go down to the Dairy Queen so you can tell the girls filling up the cones about what the Deacon had to say today.
Happy Go To Church So You Can Go Back To Your Family And Brag About It Day!
From noon till dinnertime you can just wander around the house with the most saintly swagger you can finagle from those hips.
"How you feelin'?" you can ask your wife. "Little hot?"
She'll say, "It's warm. But not too bad."
Tell her, "I feel just fine. Must be the flames of hellfire tickling at you. Me, I don't have to worry about that. Paid a visit to the big guy this morning. We're buds."
"Fuck you," she'll say. "I had a miscarriage two days ago."
Swagger off to the basement where your thirty-three year old son has been living since his wife ran off on him. Say to him, "Doing anything unchaste down here?"
He won't answer. He's watching tv and trying to stay so quiet that he can convince himself he doesn't exist.
"Me," say. "I've been unchaste as all hell this week. But no worries. Just went to church. Washed the slate clean."
Your son will look at you and say, "I don't believe in God. Do you really believe in God Dad?"
Don't answer. Instead, get into your car and go down to the Dairy Queen so you can tell the girls filling up the cones about what the Deacon had to say today.
Happy Go To Church So You Can Go Back To Your Family And Brag About It Day!
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Just Because He Wants To Shit On Your Face It Doesn't Mean That He Loves You Day
Just Because He Wants To Shit On Your Face It Doesn't Mean That He Loves You Day!
The market for books on relationship advice has ballooned into the stratosphere, and YOU WANT IN! You've been thinking up titles for a book that women will grab off the shelves faster than it can be printed. Some of the titles that you've concluded don't quite have that spark:
HE HATES YOUR CAT AND YOUR FRIENDS
HE PUNCHES YOU IN THE STOMACH
YOU LOVE HIM, BUT IF HE SAYS HE'S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE, KILL THEM BOTH
HE'S A JEW. IS THAT A DEALBREAKER?
HE'S REALLY INTO YOU, BUT YOU HATE YOURSELF SO MUCH
HE CAN DRINK MORE THAN ANYONE YOU'VE EVER MET BEFORE, INCLUDING YOUR DAD!
HE'S MENTALLY RETARDED. YOU'RE NOT.
WHERE'S ALL YOUR STUFF?
They're all just a little too "niche," aren't they. But after banging your head against the wall for at least 45 minutes, you think you've finally nailed that one title that will make young, urban, professional women go, "Finally, someone gets it!" Behold:
JUST BECAUSE HE WANTS TO SHIT ON YOUR FACE, IT DOESN'T MEAN THAT HE LOVES YOU
Can you say, "Oh, hello "New York Times" Best Seller List. I've heard a lot about you. It's time we got to know each other since we'll certainly be spending a lot of time together over the next 114 weeks."
It's time to get writing. Just go through all of the different scenarios in which a young, urban, professional woman can't see what her guy really feels for her because she's blinded by all the shit all over her face. Some suggested chapters:
He Might Not Remember Eating Corn, But He'd Better Remember Your Anniversary
Feel Like A Toilet?
When He Mentions, "Dropping The Kids Off At The Pool," Ask Him If He Wants To Have Children With You.
Why Won't He Kiss You Afterwards?
Say hi to Oprah for me.
Happy Just Because He Wants To Shit On Your Face It Doesn't Mean That He Loves You Day!
The market for books on relationship advice has ballooned into the stratosphere, and YOU WANT IN! You've been thinking up titles for a book that women will grab off the shelves faster than it can be printed. Some of the titles that you've concluded don't quite have that spark:
HE HATES YOUR CAT AND YOUR FRIENDS
HE PUNCHES YOU IN THE STOMACH
YOU LOVE HIM, BUT IF HE SAYS HE'S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE, KILL THEM BOTH
HE'S A JEW. IS THAT A DEALBREAKER?
HE'S REALLY INTO YOU, BUT YOU HATE YOURSELF SO MUCH
HE CAN DRINK MORE THAN ANYONE YOU'VE EVER MET BEFORE, INCLUDING YOUR DAD!
HE'S MENTALLY RETARDED. YOU'RE NOT.
WHERE'S ALL YOUR STUFF?
They're all just a little too "niche," aren't they. But after banging your head against the wall for at least 45 minutes, you think you've finally nailed that one title that will make young, urban, professional women go, "Finally, someone gets it!" Behold:
JUST BECAUSE HE WANTS TO SHIT ON YOUR FACE, IT DOESN'T MEAN THAT HE LOVES YOU
Can you say, "Oh, hello "New York Times" Best Seller List. I've heard a lot about you. It's time we got to know each other since we'll certainly be spending a lot of time together over the next 114 weeks."
It's time to get writing. Just go through all of the different scenarios in which a young, urban, professional woman can't see what her guy really feels for her because she's blinded by all the shit all over her face. Some suggested chapters:
He Might Not Remember Eating Corn, But He'd Better Remember Your Anniversary
Feel Like A Toilet?
When He Mentions, "Dropping The Kids Off At The Pool," Ask Him If He Wants To Have Children With You.
Why Won't He Kiss You Afterwards?
Say hi to Oprah for me.
Happy Just Because He Wants To Shit On Your Face It Doesn't Mean That He Loves You Day!
Friday, June 24, 2005
You Are A Dead Celebrity And Today Is The Anniversary Of The Day That You Died Day
You Are A Dead Celebrity And Today Is The Anniversary Of The Day That You Died Day!
Here on Earth, people will forward emails around their offices sharing lists of hilarious "Reasons Why Everything Has Been A Little Less Magical Since [YOU] Died During The Mescaline-Fueled Tantrum Of That Boy-Prostitute, Edweena." Included in the list will be, "This season's TV schedule bites it worse than ever!"
Down in hell, where you've been staying since the big day, you're going to be forced to eat your legs. They'll grow back, but their regeneration will be even more painful than when you rip into the flesh of your calf with your teeth.
Happy You Are A Dead Celebrity And Today Is The Anniversary Of The Day That You Died Day!
Here on Earth, people will forward emails around their offices sharing lists of hilarious "Reasons Why Everything Has Been A Little Less Magical Since [YOU] Died During The Mescaline-Fueled Tantrum Of That Boy-Prostitute, Edweena." Included in the list will be, "This season's TV schedule bites it worse than ever!"
Down in hell, where you've been staying since the big day, you're going to be forced to eat your legs. They'll grow back, but their regeneration will be even more painful than when you rip into the flesh of your calf with your teeth.
Happy You Are A Dead Celebrity And Today Is The Anniversary Of The Day That You Died Day!
Thursday, June 23, 2005
All Day Long You Write Her Letters Never Sent Day
All Day Long You Write Her Letters Never Sent Day!
The first week of middle school they started calling you "Hemingway" because you always seemed to be scribbling on a notepad any chance you got. You'd scribble away, then rip the page from your pad and toss it crumpled into the garbage can. One day Kevin, a classmate of yours who likes to help out the janitorial staff due to lack of friends, was emptying out a garbage can when he found your crumpled sheets. He opened one up and found a beautifully written love letter, unaddressed.
"Who's the special lady Hemingway?" Kevin asked.
"Not telling," you replied.
"Secret admirer huh?" Kevin said. "Good thinking. It's the only way she wouldn't turn you down on the spot." That's the kind of talk that prevents Kevin from building friendships.
You told Kevin, "When I compose the right letter, it will be impossible for her to refuse me." Just then you stopped scribbling, ripped up your latest note and sent it flying into the trash can.
Kevin said, "Think maybe I could use this myself then? I mean, if it's not good enough for your girl."
You thought about it. "My Dad has emphysema," you said. "Gimme ten bucks."
And so began your thriving new business as a writer of anonymous love notes. The boys lined up in study hall to purchase your cast off musings on beauty so striking it makes one scared to admit to how he really feels. You felt a little guilty, because in your heart you knew you were selling trash to these boys. Sheets and sheets of drivel that you knew your Melanie would laugh at if she ever thought such excrement was intended to win her glorious heart.
But they kept buying it. And more and more often you'd see these boys, your former customers, walking arm in arm with newly acquired ladyfriends. Some of them would flash you a thumbs-up as you passed.
"This school is infested with a scourge of loose women," you thought. "How could they have fallen for it?" And then you'd see your Melanie pass. No note in her hand. No boy by her side. Suddenly you'd feel remiss.
"Dear God," you'd think. "The most beautiful girl in all the school is as yet without an admirer. I must stop churning out this waste and write her the declaration she deserves."
But the money got to you. As these teenage boys awoke from childhood to the stirring in their bellies, they would line up in twos and threes waiting for you to toss aside a missive worthy of anyone but your Melanie. Soon you found yourself purposely generating trash just to get them away from your desk and, more importantly, to get their ten dollar bills in your pocket. Within a few months you had earned over $700, more than enough to cure your father's emphysema. ($250 at the free clinic. I know, "doesn't sound so free to me.") You began to think you were nothing but a businessman. A marketing specialist. An ad guy who knows how to sell a girl on a boy.
"I may not be able to express myself to Melanie in the manner she deserves," you thought. "But I can show her that in my company she'll be cared for."
So you spent all the money you saved adorning yourself with the finest wardrobe and most extravagant portable electronic devices you could find. Today you're going to go to school dressed in the costume of the aristocracy. And you're going to parade your finery in front of your beautiful Melanie.
When you approach her, she will be standing by her locker with her back facing you. As you get closer, you'll see that a boy stands before her, leaning against her locker. A boy you recognize. As you pass, you'll steal a glance of your dear sweet Melanie, and you'll see her smile is lit up by the warmth of a blush. You'll see that the boy before her is the same boy who came to your desk yesterday holding a ten-dollar bill. And you'll see in Melanie's hands a note you'd assumed to be nothing better than an insult to her.
Your blood will race through your veins in a way that over time will grow familiar to you. It's the rush of regret, of feeling like a fool for letting what you wanted slip away. You'll get used to it. Now try to take some comfort in the fact that, though you don't have love, at least your purchases cost more than what most of your peers can afford. This skill will come in handy in the future.
Happy All Day Long You Write Her Letters Never Sent Day!
The first week of middle school they started calling you "Hemingway" because you always seemed to be scribbling on a notepad any chance you got. You'd scribble away, then rip the page from your pad and toss it crumpled into the garbage can. One day Kevin, a classmate of yours who likes to help out the janitorial staff due to lack of friends, was emptying out a garbage can when he found your crumpled sheets. He opened one up and found a beautifully written love letter, unaddressed.
"Who's the special lady Hemingway?" Kevin asked.
"Not telling," you replied.
"Secret admirer huh?" Kevin said. "Good thinking. It's the only way she wouldn't turn you down on the spot." That's the kind of talk that prevents Kevin from building friendships.
You told Kevin, "When I compose the right letter, it will be impossible for her to refuse me." Just then you stopped scribbling, ripped up your latest note and sent it flying into the trash can.
Kevin said, "Think maybe I could use this myself then? I mean, if it's not good enough for your girl."
You thought about it. "My Dad has emphysema," you said. "Gimme ten bucks."
And so began your thriving new business as a writer of anonymous love notes. The boys lined up in study hall to purchase your cast off musings on beauty so striking it makes one scared to admit to how he really feels. You felt a little guilty, because in your heart you knew you were selling trash to these boys. Sheets and sheets of drivel that you knew your Melanie would laugh at if she ever thought such excrement was intended to win her glorious heart.
But they kept buying it. And more and more often you'd see these boys, your former customers, walking arm in arm with newly acquired ladyfriends. Some of them would flash you a thumbs-up as you passed.
"This school is infested with a scourge of loose women," you thought. "How could they have fallen for it?" And then you'd see your Melanie pass. No note in her hand. No boy by her side. Suddenly you'd feel remiss.
"Dear God," you'd think. "The most beautiful girl in all the school is as yet without an admirer. I must stop churning out this waste and write her the declaration she deserves."
But the money got to you. As these teenage boys awoke from childhood to the stirring in their bellies, they would line up in twos and threes waiting for you to toss aside a missive worthy of anyone but your Melanie. Soon you found yourself purposely generating trash just to get them away from your desk and, more importantly, to get their ten dollar bills in your pocket. Within a few months you had earned over $700, more than enough to cure your father's emphysema. ($250 at the free clinic. I know, "doesn't sound so free to me.") You began to think you were nothing but a businessman. A marketing specialist. An ad guy who knows how to sell a girl on a boy.
"I may not be able to express myself to Melanie in the manner she deserves," you thought. "But I can show her that in my company she'll be cared for."
So you spent all the money you saved adorning yourself with the finest wardrobe and most extravagant portable electronic devices you could find. Today you're going to go to school dressed in the costume of the aristocracy. And you're going to parade your finery in front of your beautiful Melanie.
When you approach her, she will be standing by her locker with her back facing you. As you get closer, you'll see that a boy stands before her, leaning against her locker. A boy you recognize. As you pass, you'll steal a glance of your dear sweet Melanie, and you'll see her smile is lit up by the warmth of a blush. You'll see that the boy before her is the same boy who came to your desk yesterday holding a ten-dollar bill. And you'll see in Melanie's hands a note you'd assumed to be nothing better than an insult to her.
Your blood will race through your veins in a way that over time will grow familiar to you. It's the rush of regret, of feeling like a fool for letting what you wanted slip away. You'll get used to it. Now try to take some comfort in the fact that, though you don't have love, at least your purchases cost more than what most of your peers can afford. This skill will come in handy in the future.
Happy All Day Long You Write Her Letters Never Sent Day!
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Make A Chocolate Cake So Good It Can Stop Spousal Abuse Day
Make A Chocolate Cake So Good It Can Stop Spousal Abuse Day!
The folks down at the women's shelter thought you were shitting them. They'll tell you that the first time they watch a miserable wife-beater turn soft and cuddly after a few bites of your chocolate cake. "I thought you were shitting me," the director of the shelter will say. "What's in this cake? Anti-Motherfucker Paste?"
You don't know what's in the cake. You wouldn't know how to write the recipe down if there was a gun to your head. All you know is that you made a cake once and when your Daddy ate it, he died. When you were mixing the batter, you thought over and over with every swirl of your spatula about him sending your mom tumbling to the radiator. About him screaming at her for making things hard. And you mixed the batter until it was just so fine, all the while thinking about nothing but how nice it would be if he just fell down and died.
The cake went into the oven. It came back out and cooled. The icing went on top and your dad bit down and he fell. He didn't get back up.
You haven't used your power since. But your job as an office assistant has turned dull. You need to do some good again. So today, make a cake, but think about stopping spousal abuse while you do it. Don't think about killing nobody. Just think in a gneral way about turning bitter, defensive men into gentle, cooing souls who want nothing but to embrace and sigh with the ones they've got. Then drop the cake off at the shelter.
Tomorrow, make a cake that makes people buy winning lotto tickets. Get rich or get nowhere.
Happy Make A Chocolate Cake So Good It Can Stop Spousal Abuse Day!
The folks down at the women's shelter thought you were shitting them. They'll tell you that the first time they watch a miserable wife-beater turn soft and cuddly after a few bites of your chocolate cake. "I thought you were shitting me," the director of the shelter will say. "What's in this cake? Anti-Motherfucker Paste?"
You don't know what's in the cake. You wouldn't know how to write the recipe down if there was a gun to your head. All you know is that you made a cake once and when your Daddy ate it, he died. When you were mixing the batter, you thought over and over with every swirl of your spatula about him sending your mom tumbling to the radiator. About him screaming at her for making things hard. And you mixed the batter until it was just so fine, all the while thinking about nothing but how nice it would be if he just fell down and died.
The cake went into the oven. It came back out and cooled. The icing went on top and your dad bit down and he fell. He didn't get back up.
You haven't used your power since. But your job as an office assistant has turned dull. You need to do some good again. So today, make a cake, but think about stopping spousal abuse while you do it. Don't think about killing nobody. Just think in a gneral way about turning bitter, defensive men into gentle, cooing souls who want nothing but to embrace and sigh with the ones they've got. Then drop the cake off at the shelter.
Tomorrow, make a cake that makes people buy winning lotto tickets. Get rich or get nowhere.
Happy Make A Chocolate Cake So Good It Can Stop Spousal Abuse Day!
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Make Some Plans In A Stranger's Bed Day
Make Some Plans In A Stranger's Bed Day!
You'll wake up before him, as usual. But there'll be something different about this guy. Something that will keep you from emptying his wallet into your purse and bolting for the door. You'll like having your shoulder up against his.
"This isn't so bad," you'll think. "I could come back here. If he bought better sheets."
You'll look around the room. You'll hate the yellow walls and you'll picture a nice light blue to contrast with the green of the garden that's visible through the window.
His closet door will be open. He has a lot of shirts with loud stripe patterns, which you can't stand. He'll have worn one the previous night in fact, but you let it slide. No matter, a few birthdays and Christmases and you could outfit him with a whole new wardrobe of your devising.
You'll sit up and look at the two of you in his bureau mirror. If he lets his hair grow out, you'll think, you two could look perfect together. He has one tattoo on his bicep of a 50's style pinup model, and you'll think about how adorable it would look to curl that tattoo'd arm around a baby.
"He's not snoring," you'll think. "This can't get much more perfect."
You'll lay back down into his too firm pillow and curl up to him from behind. He'll rustle a bit in your embrace, then he'll start to wake up. You'll smile when he rolls over and puts his arm around you. Then he'll reach past you to pick up his alarm clock and check the time.
"My girlfriend's coming by at 11 so you'd better get going," he'll say. "I told you about her right?"
When he goes into the bathroom, you'll want to throw something. But you'll remember that he did tell you about his girlfriend the night before. When you first woke up you just kind of forgot.
"Guess I can't get angry at him," you'll decide. You'll take his iPod and leave.
Happy Make Some Plans In A Stranger's Bed Day!
You'll wake up before him, as usual. But there'll be something different about this guy. Something that will keep you from emptying his wallet into your purse and bolting for the door. You'll like having your shoulder up against his.
"This isn't so bad," you'll think. "I could come back here. If he bought better sheets."
You'll look around the room. You'll hate the yellow walls and you'll picture a nice light blue to contrast with the green of the garden that's visible through the window.
His closet door will be open. He has a lot of shirts with loud stripe patterns, which you can't stand. He'll have worn one the previous night in fact, but you let it slide. No matter, a few birthdays and Christmases and you could outfit him with a whole new wardrobe of your devising.
You'll sit up and look at the two of you in his bureau mirror. If he lets his hair grow out, you'll think, you two could look perfect together. He has one tattoo on his bicep of a 50's style pinup model, and you'll think about how adorable it would look to curl that tattoo'd arm around a baby.
"He's not snoring," you'll think. "This can't get much more perfect."
You'll lay back down into his too firm pillow and curl up to him from behind. He'll rustle a bit in your embrace, then he'll start to wake up. You'll smile when he rolls over and puts his arm around you. Then he'll reach past you to pick up his alarm clock and check the time.
"My girlfriend's coming by at 11 so you'd better get going," he'll say. "I told you about her right?"
When he goes into the bathroom, you'll want to throw something. But you'll remember that he did tell you about his girlfriend the night before. When you first woke up you just kind of forgot.
"Guess I can't get angry at him," you'll decide. You'll take his iPod and leave.
Happy Make Some Plans In A Stranger's Bed Day!
Monday, June 20, 2005
Bring Pain To Everyone Who Tries To Be A Part Of Your Life Day
Bring Pain To Everyone Who Tries To Be A Part Of Your Life Day!
Today, whenever That Special Someone tells you she thinks you're special and she's ready to throw caution to the wind and make a go of it with you, get into a barroom shoving match that escalates to a knife fight. Deliver an unstoppable leg sweep that should do nothing but win the fight for you, but when your opponent lands with the meat of his neck on a barstool, some explaining will be necessary.
You'll be tried for manslaughter. While there will be many witnesses to attest to the death being nothing more than an accident, the DA will pressure That Special Someone to testify that you started that fight with an intent to kill. When you get out of prison thirteen years from today, you'll track her down only to be introduced to your twelve and a half year old daughter. That Special Someone will explain that she was carrying your child the day of that fight, and when you went to trial the DA threatened to turn the kid over to the state upon delivery if she didn't testify against you.
"It was to give your daughter a better life you bastard," she'll bellow at you. "It's bad enough her Daddy was behind bars for 13 years and her Mommy was crying herself to sleep every night. I couldn't let her go into those foster homes that did such a number on me. I couldn't let that happen to my child."
Your daughter will be standing a few feet behind her mother, staring up at you. Tell her, "Sorry kiddo. I bring pain to everyone who tries to be a part of my life."
Your daughter will say, "I never tried. I had no choice in the matter." Then she'll kick you and her mother once each in the shin before running upstairs to listen to Staind.
"Feisty," you'll tell That Special Someone.
"In case there was any doubt she was yours," That Special Someone will say.
The two of you will kiss and everything will work out as well as it can for an ex-con trying to reenter society after thirteen years' hard time.
Happy Bring Pain To Everyone Who Tries To Be A Part Of Your Life Day!
Today, whenever That Special Someone tells you she thinks you're special and she's ready to throw caution to the wind and make a go of it with you, get into a barroom shoving match that escalates to a knife fight. Deliver an unstoppable leg sweep that should do nothing but win the fight for you, but when your opponent lands with the meat of his neck on a barstool, some explaining will be necessary.
You'll be tried for manslaughter. While there will be many witnesses to attest to the death being nothing more than an accident, the DA will pressure That Special Someone to testify that you started that fight with an intent to kill. When you get out of prison thirteen years from today, you'll track her down only to be introduced to your twelve and a half year old daughter. That Special Someone will explain that she was carrying your child the day of that fight, and when you went to trial the DA threatened to turn the kid over to the state upon delivery if she didn't testify against you.
"It was to give your daughter a better life you bastard," she'll bellow at you. "It's bad enough her Daddy was behind bars for 13 years and her Mommy was crying herself to sleep every night. I couldn't let her go into those foster homes that did such a number on me. I couldn't let that happen to my child."
Your daughter will be standing a few feet behind her mother, staring up at you. Tell her, "Sorry kiddo. I bring pain to everyone who tries to be a part of my life."
Your daughter will say, "I never tried. I had no choice in the matter." Then she'll kick you and her mother once each in the shin before running upstairs to listen to Staind.
"Feisty," you'll tell That Special Someone.
"In case there was any doubt she was yours," That Special Someone will say.
The two of you will kiss and everything will work out as well as it can for an ex-con trying to reenter society after thirteen years' hard time.
Happy Bring Pain To Everyone Who Tries To Be A Part Of Your Life Day!
Sunday, June 19, 2005
You're A Vampire, She's Wayne Gretsky Day
You're A Vampire, She's Wayne Gretsky Day!
You hate costume parties, but apparently, she likes hockey.
"I like hockey," you tell her.
She says, "I hate hockey. But my boyfriend loves it."
She points to a guy in a goalie mask and full pads.
"Does he make you laugh?" you ask.
Wayne Gretsky shrugs.
Say, "I lied. I hate hockey. But I like your smile."
She'll stop smiling. She'll say, "I have all my teeth." She'll smear the grease-paint off of one of her teeth.
Tell her, "Still into it."
The guy in the goalie mask and pads will make his way over to you.
"Hey Dracula," he'll shout. "You gonna grab the puck or you waitin' to get checked?"
Gretsky will find you later in the party and hand you her number. You fuck that MVP hard.
Happy You're A Vampire, She's Wayne Gretsky Day!
You hate costume parties, but apparently, she likes hockey.
"I like hockey," you tell her.
She says, "I hate hockey. But my boyfriend loves it."
She points to a guy in a goalie mask and full pads.
"Does he make you laugh?" you ask.
Wayne Gretsky shrugs.
Say, "I lied. I hate hockey. But I like your smile."
She'll stop smiling. She'll say, "I have all my teeth." She'll smear the grease-paint off of one of her teeth.
Tell her, "Still into it."
The guy in the goalie mask and pads will make his way over to you.
"Hey Dracula," he'll shout. "You gonna grab the puck or you waitin' to get checked?"
Gretsky will find you later in the party and hand you her number. You fuck that MVP hard.
Happy You're A Vampire, She's Wayne Gretsky Day!
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Wait For Him To Call Day
Wait For Him To Call Day!
Today, your net worth is dependent on whether or not he calls. Tell your friends.
“Wow,” all of your friends will say in unison, even the ones who are out of town. “So today’s the big day.”
“Yup,” say. “Today I find out if I’m pretty.”
“Smart too,” your friends will say. “And don’t forget resourceful. And funny.”
One of your friends will tell you that he always thought you were all those things.
Tell him, “Well, I guess today we’ll find out if you were right or wrong.”
Secretly, your friend will hope that he was wrong because he wants to see you get cut down to size.
Say to your friends, “Let’s all join hands.”
You and your friends will join hands and stare silently at the phone, waiting to find out whether you’re pretty or ugly, engaging or dull, sweet-smelling or malodorous.
One of your friends will say, “He hasn’t called yet.”
Another will say, “I bet he does.”
Though no one will give it voice, you and every one of your friends at that exact second will worry that he got trapped under something or that he got shot in the hands and can’t dial. Everyone will want to ask whether it still counts, but everyone will know that the answer is yes. If he doesn’t call, no matter the excuse (and there’s always an excuse) you’re sunk.
Happy Wait For Him To Call Day!
Today, your net worth is dependent on whether or not he calls. Tell your friends.
“Wow,” all of your friends will say in unison, even the ones who are out of town. “So today’s the big day.”
“Yup,” say. “Today I find out if I’m pretty.”
“Smart too,” your friends will say. “And don’t forget resourceful. And funny.”
One of your friends will tell you that he always thought you were all those things.
Tell him, “Well, I guess today we’ll find out if you were right or wrong.”
Secretly, your friend will hope that he was wrong because he wants to see you get cut down to size.
Say to your friends, “Let’s all join hands.”
You and your friends will join hands and stare silently at the phone, waiting to find out whether you’re pretty or ugly, engaging or dull, sweet-smelling or malodorous.
One of your friends will say, “He hasn’t called yet.”
Another will say, “I bet he does.”
Though no one will give it voice, you and every one of your friends at that exact second will worry that he got trapped under something or that he got shot in the hands and can’t dial. Everyone will want to ask whether it still counts, but everyone will know that the answer is yes. If he doesn’t call, no matter the excuse (and there’s always an excuse) you’re sunk.
Happy Wait For Him To Call Day!
Friday, June 17, 2005
Bank Robbery Day
Bank Robbery Day!
Shoot some rounds into the ceiling and when everyone stops screaming, say, "I'm only doing this because my daughter needs medicine."
Everyone will say, "Awww." Someone might ask what disease your daughter has. Don't say, "Crabs."
The bank manager will reach to push the "We're being held up" button but a customer will grab his hand. "Do you want his little girl to die?" the customer will ask.
The bank manager will say he was only doing his job. Tell him, "So am I." Then shoot his chest until it's gone. The customers will cheer a little, except for those customers gathered around the woman who's delivering her baby.
Fill your duffle bag with enough cash to buy a lot of new cars. Then make your way to the door. On your way out, pause to wave hello to the just-delivered baby. The new mother will ask, "Would you like to hold her?" Tell the mother, "No, but I do want to send her to college." Then drop a pile of thousand dollar bills on the baby, careful not to dent its head.
Happy Bank Robbery Day!
Shoot some rounds into the ceiling and when everyone stops screaming, say, "I'm only doing this because my daughter needs medicine."
Everyone will say, "Awww." Someone might ask what disease your daughter has. Don't say, "Crabs."
The bank manager will reach to push the "We're being held up" button but a customer will grab his hand. "Do you want his little girl to die?" the customer will ask.
The bank manager will say he was only doing his job. Tell him, "So am I." Then shoot his chest until it's gone. The customers will cheer a little, except for those customers gathered around the woman who's delivering her baby.
Fill your duffle bag with enough cash to buy a lot of new cars. Then make your way to the door. On your way out, pause to wave hello to the just-delivered baby. The new mother will ask, "Would you like to hold her?" Tell the mother, "No, but I do want to send her to college." Then drop a pile of thousand dollar bills on the baby, careful not to dent its head.
Happy Bank Robbery Day!
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Plant A Garden With Your Husband Day
Plant A Garden With Your Husband Day!
Six days ago you spotted your husband mooning across a lunch table at a coworker of his. You went to his table and stood quietly to the right of his martini. He untangled his hand from his coworker's and hung his mouth down low. He hasn't been home since.
Today he'll wander into the yard when your knees are damp in the soil of the begonia bed. After six days away without so much as a phone call, the first thing he'll say to you is, "You have a weapon."
Continue driving your spade into the dirt. Before he says a word, tell him about your two infidelities.
"Wow," he'll say.
Tell him when so many people come knocking you gotta open up sometime.
"Marci was the only time for me," he'll say.
"If it's over," say, "muddy your pants in this dirt and plant some begonias with me. It'll be symbolic of you and me choosing to carry our marriage into another season."
He'll kneel beside you. "What can I tell you to make this okay?"
Ask him to lie to you.
"I've been embezzling millions from the firm to provide you with the life you deserve," he'll say. "Marci had proof and threatened to expose me if I didn't sex with her thrice weekly. It was so awful, but I did it for you."
Pat his hand, already caked in mud. Say, "I know sweetie. It's all over now. It's gonna be all better now."
He'll tell you that he contracted someone from his dark past to have her eliminated. You'll go upstairs and have 13-years-married-with-a-recently-forgiven-infidelity sex.
Happy Plant A Garden With Your Husband Day!
Six days ago you spotted your husband mooning across a lunch table at a coworker of his. You went to his table and stood quietly to the right of his martini. He untangled his hand from his coworker's and hung his mouth down low. He hasn't been home since.
Today he'll wander into the yard when your knees are damp in the soil of the begonia bed. After six days away without so much as a phone call, the first thing he'll say to you is, "You have a weapon."
Continue driving your spade into the dirt. Before he says a word, tell him about your two infidelities.
"Wow," he'll say.
Tell him when so many people come knocking you gotta open up sometime.
"Marci was the only time for me," he'll say.
"If it's over," say, "muddy your pants in this dirt and plant some begonias with me. It'll be symbolic of you and me choosing to carry our marriage into another season."
He'll kneel beside you. "What can I tell you to make this okay?"
Ask him to lie to you.
"I've been embezzling millions from the firm to provide you with the life you deserve," he'll say. "Marci had proof and threatened to expose me if I didn't sex with her thrice weekly. It was so awful, but I did it for you."
Pat his hand, already caked in mud. Say, "I know sweetie. It's all over now. It's gonna be all better now."
He'll tell you that he contracted someone from his dark past to have her eliminated. You'll go upstairs and have 13-years-married-with-a-recently-forgiven-infidelity sex.
Happy Plant A Garden With Your Husband Day!
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Be The Over-Achieving Intern Who Uncovers A Massive Corporate Fraud Day
Be The Over-Achieving Intern Who Uncovers A Massive Corporate Fraud Day!
Today, you're going to discover that the Files Clerk who collects funds for the kitchen snacks has been skimming 30% off the top for herself. Report her. She'll have to be fired because, though it just amounts to around eleven or twelve dollars a month, it's theft. The Files Clerk is 61 years old and she's raising her grandson because her daughter was murdered by her husband nine years ago.
No one will be happy about this. You'll get a begrudging pat on the back, but word will quietly spread through the floor that you ruined somebody they all kind of liked, even though she was taking home cash earmarked for Stella D'oro Breadsticks. No one will speak kindly to you for the rest of the summer. One morning, just before you go back to school in the fall, one of your angrier supervisors will tell you to think about human beings first and about getting a leg up second. A few years from now, when you inquire for a recommendation, your calls will be avoided.
Happy Be The Over-Achieving Intern Who Uncovers A Massive Corporate Fraud Day!
Today, you're going to discover that the Files Clerk who collects funds for the kitchen snacks has been skimming 30% off the top for herself. Report her. She'll have to be fired because, though it just amounts to around eleven or twelve dollars a month, it's theft. The Files Clerk is 61 years old and she's raising her grandson because her daughter was murdered by her husband nine years ago.
No one will be happy about this. You'll get a begrudging pat on the back, but word will quietly spread through the floor that you ruined somebody they all kind of liked, even though she was taking home cash earmarked for Stella D'oro Breadsticks. No one will speak kindly to you for the rest of the summer. One morning, just before you go back to school in the fall, one of your angrier supervisors will tell you to think about human beings first and about getting a leg up second. A few years from now, when you inquire for a recommendation, your calls will be avoided.
Happy Be The Over-Achieving Intern Who Uncovers A Massive Corporate Fraud Day!
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
You're Going To Have To Tell Her About Your Days In Gay Porn Day
You're Going To Have To Tell Her About Your Days In Gay Porn Day!
You and your girlfriend were taken hostage by Enemies Of America® and for twelve days now they've been torturing the both of you to try to get you to tell them American Secrets™. You've held up okay, strong with the faith in your country's military, but you're afraid your girlfriend might not live long enough to see a rescue.
"Just tell them what they want to hear," you've been begging her through the wall separating your cells.
"Never," she always rasps. She just loves America too much.
You know you've got a concussion so you've been trying to stay awake. You have to assume she's in the same danger, so for two days straight you've been trying to keep her awake with conversation through the wall.
You've been scrambling for topics to keep her interested, confessing to everything from cheating on your AP Biology test to being relieved when your brother finally pulled off a suicide attempt. But you can tell she's been fading. You're going to have to get into the big one.
"Look," tell her. "There's something I have to tell you that I hoped you'd never find out."
You won't hear anything for a second. Then, barely, "I'm listening."
Say, "I'm not proud of this."
Her voice will be a little louder, "Go on."
Go on. "When I got out of college," say. "I fell in with kind of a weird crowd. I'm afraid I ended up spending a few years as the world's highest-paid star of gay pornography."
She won't say anything.
Ask her, "How does that sit with you."
You'll hear some shuffling on the other side of the wall. "Tell me everything," she'll say.
Her heart may be breaking, but at least it's still beating. You're keeping her alive.
"It all started the summer I worked at Borders Books," say to her. "On a lunch break my manager dared me to see how much of a pocket dictionary I could fit in my mouth…"
Happy You're Going To Have To Tell Her About Your Days In Gay Porn Day!
You and your girlfriend were taken hostage by Enemies Of America® and for twelve days now they've been torturing the both of you to try to get you to tell them American Secrets™. You've held up okay, strong with the faith in your country's military, but you're afraid your girlfriend might not live long enough to see a rescue.
"Just tell them what they want to hear," you've been begging her through the wall separating your cells.
"Never," she always rasps. She just loves America too much.
You know you've got a concussion so you've been trying to stay awake. You have to assume she's in the same danger, so for two days straight you've been trying to keep her awake with conversation through the wall.
You've been scrambling for topics to keep her interested, confessing to everything from cheating on your AP Biology test to being relieved when your brother finally pulled off a suicide attempt. But you can tell she's been fading. You're going to have to get into the big one.
"Look," tell her. "There's something I have to tell you that I hoped you'd never find out."
You won't hear anything for a second. Then, barely, "I'm listening."
Say, "I'm not proud of this."
Her voice will be a little louder, "Go on."
Go on. "When I got out of college," say. "I fell in with kind of a weird crowd. I'm afraid I ended up spending a few years as the world's highest-paid star of gay pornography."
She won't say anything.
Ask her, "How does that sit with you."
You'll hear some shuffling on the other side of the wall. "Tell me everything," she'll say.
Her heart may be breaking, but at least it's still beating. You're keeping her alive.
"It all started the summer I worked at Borders Books," say to her. "On a lunch break my manager dared me to see how much of a pocket dictionary I could fit in my mouth…"
Happy You're Going To Have To Tell Her About Your Days In Gay Porn Day!
Monday, June 13, 2005
Get Loved Day
Get Loved Day!
I know this is impossible, but by the end of tonight you have to have been loved. That doesn't mean you have to have been made love to or squished to death by a Love-Beast (Icelandic readers only), but your existence has to have inspired love in someone.
Your Mom counts. I know that doesn't help. Your Dad counts too, but I know that made you laugh really hard. Your pets, however, do not count. This is simply because it is the opinion of this website that your pets do not love you. Yes, we know what you believe as regards your pets and frankly, we're disgusted. Your pets are animals. You're just a fling to them.
Any human counts, excluding exes with whom you broke up over one year ago (just hanging on to whatever they think they had) and Grandmoms (loving you keeps her from howling into the dark silence of her Home late at night). But again, Moms count.
Here's the thing, if you aren't loved by midnight, some people will come for you. They'll take you to a place where people like you are put to use. IT'S NOT A ROCK QUARRY! That's a rumor. Suffice to say, you'll finally be able to serve your fellow man via the one resource you still have to offer, that being your ability to work.
Midnight tonight. I'd suggest, if by dinner you don’t see any eyes glinting in your direction, you run. You just run.
Happy Get Loved Day!
I know this is impossible, but by the end of tonight you have to have been loved. That doesn't mean you have to have been made love to or squished to death by a Love-Beast (Icelandic readers only), but your existence has to have inspired love in someone.
Your Mom counts. I know that doesn't help. Your Dad counts too, but I know that made you laugh really hard. Your pets, however, do not count. This is simply because it is the opinion of this website that your pets do not love you. Yes, we know what you believe as regards your pets and frankly, we're disgusted. Your pets are animals. You're just a fling to them.
Any human counts, excluding exes with whom you broke up over one year ago (just hanging on to whatever they think they had) and Grandmoms (loving you keeps her from howling into the dark silence of her Home late at night). But again, Moms count.
Here's the thing, if you aren't loved by midnight, some people will come for you. They'll take you to a place where people like you are put to use. IT'S NOT A ROCK QUARRY! That's a rumor. Suffice to say, you'll finally be able to serve your fellow man via the one resource you still have to offer, that being your ability to work.
Midnight tonight. I'd suggest, if by dinner you don’t see any eyes glinting in your direction, you run. You just run.
Happy Get Loved Day!
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Break The Blue Wall Of Silence Day
Break The Blue Wall Of Silence Day!
You became a cop to help people, not to sell drugs to little kids. It may put your life on danger, but you have to get up on that stand and tell the truth.
"We sold drugs to little kids," say.
"How little?" the DA will ask.
Say, "About three feet. Maybe three-six. We ran a stand on the corner of Washington and 80th. Lotta little kids over there who like to party."
The courtroom will gasp. The judge will threaten the courtroom with clearance.
The DA will ask, "Why little kids?"
Say, "Dunno."
The DA will ask, "How high up did this conspiracy go?"
Say, "Well, is the mayor's office high enough for you?"
No one will gasp. Sit back down.
The DA will ask, "Why are you here today?"
Say, "I wanted to break the blue wall of silence."
The courtroom, the DA, and the judge will applaud. Your wife will cry. After the trial, when you go to the bathroom, you'll be shot in both eyes.
Happy Break The Blue Wall Of Silence Day!
You became a cop to help people, not to sell drugs to little kids. It may put your life on danger, but you have to get up on that stand and tell the truth.
"We sold drugs to little kids," say.
"How little?" the DA will ask.
Say, "About three feet. Maybe three-six. We ran a stand on the corner of Washington and 80th. Lotta little kids over there who like to party."
The courtroom will gasp. The judge will threaten the courtroom with clearance.
The DA will ask, "Why little kids?"
Say, "Dunno."
The DA will ask, "How high up did this conspiracy go?"
Say, "Well, is the mayor's office high enough for you?"
No one will gasp. Sit back down.
The DA will ask, "Why are you here today?"
Say, "I wanted to break the blue wall of silence."
The courtroom, the DA, and the judge will applaud. Your wife will cry. After the trial, when you go to the bathroom, you'll be shot in both eyes.
Happy Break The Blue Wall Of Silence Day!
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Surgery In A Hurry Day
Surgery In A Hurry Day!
Your Dad got knifed in the yard again. Your Mom's gonna have to sew him back up. She needs you to pour his whiskey when he needs it. You're eight and you're scared but if your Dad doesn't get enough whiskey to keep from screaming, your Mom will screw up the surgery and he'll die there in your kitchen.
Don't be scared. By the way, since your Mom's not a doctor, she's going to screw up anyway. They'll go to the hospital tomorrow though. Cheapskates.
Happy Surgery In A Hurry Day!
Your Dad got knifed in the yard again. Your Mom's gonna have to sew him back up. She needs you to pour his whiskey when he needs it. You're eight and you're scared but if your Dad doesn't get enough whiskey to keep from screaming, your Mom will screw up the surgery and he'll die there in your kitchen.
Don't be scared. By the way, since your Mom's not a doctor, she's going to screw up anyway. They'll go to the hospital tomorrow though. Cheapskates.
Happy Surgery In A Hurry Day!
Friday, June 10, 2005
Death March Day
Death March Day!
You and your buddies were on vacation in a small Southeast Asian country that was recently shaken up by a coup. You tried to get out, but the prostitutes you'd solicited the night prior slowed you down. Soldiers raided all of the hotels and quickly rounded you up into camps. Your photos have been pasted all over the American newspapers, but as far as you know, America isn't coming.
Today you and your buddies are going to be taken on a death march. A death march is exactly what it sounds like. You're going to march until you're dead. When you fall, they'll prop you back up and try to make you keep marching. When it's clear you can't march anymore, they'll leave you there to die.
"At least we're gonna be able to go out together," you'll say to one of your buddies this morning before sunrise.
"That's true. I always loved you guys," one of your buddies will respond.
Your other buddy will say, "You wanna just roll over and die for them? Fuck that. We're busting out of here. Before they come for us. Let's do it now!"
You and your other buddy will say, "Yeah!"
A soldier will walk in and say, "Time for the death march guys."
You and all your buddies will say, "Fuck!"
The soldier will say, "Sorry. I know it sucks. But y'know."
The buddy who came up with the idea of escaping will say, "They're just too good."
You'll tell your buddies you always wanted to touch them. On the march, they'll ridicule you until they start to die.
Happy Death March Day!
You and your buddies were on vacation in a small Southeast Asian country that was recently shaken up by a coup. You tried to get out, but the prostitutes you'd solicited the night prior slowed you down. Soldiers raided all of the hotels and quickly rounded you up into camps. Your photos have been pasted all over the American newspapers, but as far as you know, America isn't coming.
Today you and your buddies are going to be taken on a death march. A death march is exactly what it sounds like. You're going to march until you're dead. When you fall, they'll prop you back up and try to make you keep marching. When it's clear you can't march anymore, they'll leave you there to die.
"At least we're gonna be able to go out together," you'll say to one of your buddies this morning before sunrise.
"That's true. I always loved you guys," one of your buddies will respond.
Your other buddy will say, "You wanna just roll over and die for them? Fuck that. We're busting out of here. Before they come for us. Let's do it now!"
You and your other buddy will say, "Yeah!"
A soldier will walk in and say, "Time for the death march guys."
You and all your buddies will say, "Fuck!"
The soldier will say, "Sorry. I know it sucks. But y'know."
The buddy who came up with the idea of escaping will say, "They're just too good."
You'll tell your buddies you always wanted to touch them. On the march, they'll ridicule you until they start to die.
Happy Death March Day!
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Houseguest Day
Houseguest Day!
Write a note.
"By the time you read this, I will be gone. Don't try to follow me. Leaving is the right thing to do. To sleep in your guest bedroom is to spite this home. There is too much love here, and there is too much darkness inside of me. My presence mocks your happiness. I cannot help but wish you ill. Deep down, I neither like nor respect either of you. I've taken some of your more expensive electronics to sell along my travels. I hope you'll understand."
Put the note on the fridge, then go up to bed. Make sure to wake up tomorrow when you hear some pots and pans banging in the kitchen. Head down there and when they're both hovering over the note in disbelief, say, "What smells so good?"
They'll show you the note. Say, "Did I write that? Oh my God I'm sleepwalking again. I can't be left alone guys, can I stay here for a while?"
They'll reluctantly agree because they're good people. Now you'll have a place to crash for a while, and you'll get to have fun writing progressively more horrible things about your friends that they'll be forced to read and generously dismiss every single morning. You need to find work.
Happy Houseguest Day!
Write a note.
"By the time you read this, I will be gone. Don't try to follow me. Leaving is the right thing to do. To sleep in your guest bedroom is to spite this home. There is too much love here, and there is too much darkness inside of me. My presence mocks your happiness. I cannot help but wish you ill. Deep down, I neither like nor respect either of you. I've taken some of your more expensive electronics to sell along my travels. I hope you'll understand."
Put the note on the fridge, then go up to bed. Make sure to wake up tomorrow when you hear some pots and pans banging in the kitchen. Head down there and when they're both hovering over the note in disbelief, say, "What smells so good?"
They'll show you the note. Say, "Did I write that? Oh my God I'm sleepwalking again. I can't be left alone guys, can I stay here for a while?"
They'll reluctantly agree because they're good people. Now you'll have a place to crash for a while, and you'll get to have fun writing progressively more horrible things about your friends that they'll be forced to read and generously dismiss every single morning. You need to find work.
Happy Houseguest Day!
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Pansy Rumble Day
Pansy Rumble Day!
For weeks now, the whole town has been papered with beautifully designed, four-color posters advertising tonight's Pansy rumble. "Come See Your Town's Skinniest, Weakest Pansies Like You've Never Seen Them Before," read the posters. "It's The Pansy Rumble! Pansies From Grades Six Through Eight Will Fight Until Only The Triumphant Are Left Standing. At The Baseball Field. First Rain Of The Summertime."
The weatherman made it clear that there's going to be a storm tonight. So everyone is going to be heading over to the Baseball Field to find out what a Pansy Rumble looks like. The bleachers will be full, and many people will sit on the hoods of their cars and watch from the parking lot. Two gangs of pre-pubescent pansies will face each other from either end of the outfield, holding their palms up to the sky waiting to feel a rain drop.
When the lightning cracks, the leader of one gang of Pansies (The Westsdie Gollums) will shout, "What do we find cool and refreshing?!" And everyone in his gang will respond, "Pansy blood!" And the leader of the other gang of Pansies (The Gramercy Dungeonmasters) will shout, "Are you Pansies or are you [inaudible]?" A burst of thunder will muffle the last part of his question and his gang won't respond. Both gangs will then let forth an angry roar and run towards each other. When there is only about twenty feet between them, all of the pansies will pull handguns from the waistbands of their pants and fire into the thick of the gang attacking them. 90% of both gangs will be killed. Those who live will run from the field, some with wounds. The audience will at first scatter, then the ones who had relatives taking part in the rumble will go into the piles of dead to see if maybe, just maybe, their son or daughter is still alive. A few audience members will be shot by stray gunfire, so if you go, stand in the back behind someone's big Dad.
Happy Pansy Rumble Day!
For weeks now, the whole town has been papered with beautifully designed, four-color posters advertising tonight's Pansy rumble. "Come See Your Town's Skinniest, Weakest Pansies Like You've Never Seen Them Before," read the posters. "It's The Pansy Rumble! Pansies From Grades Six Through Eight Will Fight Until Only The Triumphant Are Left Standing. At The Baseball Field. First Rain Of The Summertime."
The weatherman made it clear that there's going to be a storm tonight. So everyone is going to be heading over to the Baseball Field to find out what a Pansy Rumble looks like. The bleachers will be full, and many people will sit on the hoods of their cars and watch from the parking lot. Two gangs of pre-pubescent pansies will face each other from either end of the outfield, holding their palms up to the sky waiting to feel a rain drop.
When the lightning cracks, the leader of one gang of Pansies (The Westsdie Gollums) will shout, "What do we find cool and refreshing?!" And everyone in his gang will respond, "Pansy blood!" And the leader of the other gang of Pansies (The Gramercy Dungeonmasters) will shout, "Are you Pansies or are you [inaudible]?" A burst of thunder will muffle the last part of his question and his gang won't respond. Both gangs will then let forth an angry roar and run towards each other. When there is only about twenty feet between them, all of the pansies will pull handguns from the waistbands of their pants and fire into the thick of the gang attacking them. 90% of both gangs will be killed. Those who live will run from the field, some with wounds. The audience will at first scatter, then the ones who had relatives taking part in the rumble will go into the piles of dead to see if maybe, just maybe, their son or daughter is still alive. A few audience members will be shot by stray gunfire, so if you go, stand in the back behind someone's big Dad.
Happy Pansy Rumble Day!
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
The Jesus Christ Of Partying Day
The Jesus Christ Of Partying Day!
They call him that because after every party he doesn't wake up for three whole days.
"Does that ever scare you?" ask him.
"It terrifies me," he'll say. "Not because I'm afraid I'm sick or that I'm going to die. But when I think of all the time I'm losing to my insatiable need for sleep following a fun party, it's like I'm putting myself in prison every Friday night at 4 AM."
Suggest that maybe he should party less.
He'll say, "But parties are fun."
Say, "So are museums."
He'll disagree. Then he'll pass out. While he may not always be there for you in a lot of ways, it is nice to be able to just wander in every six to eight hours and cuddle with him without worrying about him waking up and demanding sex.
Happy The Jesus Christ Of Partying Day!
They call him that because after every party he doesn't wake up for three whole days.
"Does that ever scare you?" ask him.
"It terrifies me," he'll say. "Not because I'm afraid I'm sick or that I'm going to die. But when I think of all the time I'm losing to my insatiable need for sleep following a fun party, it's like I'm putting myself in prison every Friday night at 4 AM."
Suggest that maybe he should party less.
He'll say, "But parties are fun."
Say, "So are museums."
He'll disagree. Then he'll pass out. While he may not always be there for you in a lot of ways, it is nice to be able to just wander in every six to eight hours and cuddle with him without worrying about him waking up and demanding sex.
Happy The Jesus Christ Of Partying Day!
Monday, June 06, 2005
Your Father's Going To Come Into Your Bar Tonight. He'll Have Blood On His Shirt Day
Your Father's Going To Come Into Your Bar Tonight. He'll Have Blood On His Shirt Day!
You'll come in to close the place up early. You've been doing that a lot lately. It's not even that there is any new competition in town pulling your customers away. The place is just in a slump.
If you stuck around for a year or two, you would probably see things pick back up. Towns like this one don't let their bars shutter. But you don't think in terms of years. You never intended to die in Texas.
"A guy finished The Heart Of The Lone Star State tonight," your bar-back will tell you.
The Heart Of The Lone Star State is a five pound slab of shitty steak. You got a bunch of them with the last meat order that came in right before you switched suppliers. You instituted that half-assed promotion to try and get rid of it. Anyone who finishes The Heart Of The Lone Star State drinks for free.
"How much booze did he hit me for?" you'll ask.
"Nothing," he'll say. "He didn't even seem to enjoy eating the steak. Just finished it like he had a job to do, then waited for me to take his Polaroid. Then he was gone."
The bar-back will point to the Polaroid on the bulletin board behind the bar. "Check out the steak sauce all over his shirt," he'll say.
When he points to the Polaroid, you'll be all the way across the bar sitting in a booth counting out that night's bank from the drawer. Something will pull you out of your seat and send you over to take a look at that Polaroid.
"What in the hell are you doing still alive?" you'll ask your father's frozen smile. Just then the window will shatter and the barback will take a bullet in the shoulder.
"Out back!" you'll shout when he falls into your arms. You'll drag him through the office out the back door and into your car. You'll peel away, watching in the rear view mirror as the flames quickly engulf your bar.
The barback will be bleeding and howling in the back seat. "Who was that? Was that the guy in the Polaroid?" he'll shout.
"Yeah," you'll say. "That was my Dad. He's been pretty pissed at me ever since me and my Mom left him to drown in a lake. Fucker's supposed to be dead." Then you'll explain to him that you're going to have to roll him out of the moving car at the Emergency Room's entrance because your Dad probably has you in his rifle site as you speak and you can't risk slowing down.
Happy Your Father's Going To Come Into Your Bar Tonight. He'll Have Blood On His Shirt Day!
You'll come in to close the place up early. You've been doing that a lot lately. It's not even that there is any new competition in town pulling your customers away. The place is just in a slump.
If you stuck around for a year or two, you would probably see things pick back up. Towns like this one don't let their bars shutter. But you don't think in terms of years. You never intended to die in Texas.
"A guy finished The Heart Of The Lone Star State tonight," your bar-back will tell you.
The Heart Of The Lone Star State is a five pound slab of shitty steak. You got a bunch of them with the last meat order that came in right before you switched suppliers. You instituted that half-assed promotion to try and get rid of it. Anyone who finishes The Heart Of The Lone Star State drinks for free.
"How much booze did he hit me for?" you'll ask.
"Nothing," he'll say. "He didn't even seem to enjoy eating the steak. Just finished it like he had a job to do, then waited for me to take his Polaroid. Then he was gone."
The bar-back will point to the Polaroid on the bulletin board behind the bar. "Check out the steak sauce all over his shirt," he'll say.
When he points to the Polaroid, you'll be all the way across the bar sitting in a booth counting out that night's bank from the drawer. Something will pull you out of your seat and send you over to take a look at that Polaroid.
"What in the hell are you doing still alive?" you'll ask your father's frozen smile. Just then the window will shatter and the barback will take a bullet in the shoulder.
"Out back!" you'll shout when he falls into your arms. You'll drag him through the office out the back door and into your car. You'll peel away, watching in the rear view mirror as the flames quickly engulf your bar.
The barback will be bleeding and howling in the back seat. "Who was that? Was that the guy in the Polaroid?" he'll shout.
"Yeah," you'll say. "That was my Dad. He's been pretty pissed at me ever since me and my Mom left him to drown in a lake. Fucker's supposed to be dead." Then you'll explain to him that you're going to have to roll him out of the moving car at the Emergency Room's entrance because your Dad probably has you in his rifle site as you speak and you can't risk slowing down.
Happy Your Father's Going To Come Into Your Bar Tonight. He'll Have Blood On His Shirt Day!
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Arrow Through Your Back Day
Arrow Through Your Back Day!
This morning you'll wake up to find an arrow sticking out of your chest (you'll wake up on your side). You won't have lost a lot of blood. Just enough to form a neat round cake on your nightshirt.
You'll try to roll over to check on your girlfriend, but that will make the arrow tear at your skin. So you'll get out of bed and look at her. She'll still be asleep.
In the bathroom, you'll get a good look at the arrowhead under the light. You'll check for markings that might indicate who shot it. You'll find only file-marks where the markings might have been.
Your girlfriend will wake up when you grind the beans for coffee.
"Oh my God!" she'll shout when she sees the arrow poking out from both sides of your torso. You try to find something false in her shock.
"Pretty freaky huh? Someone must have shot it while I was asleep," you'll say.
"Who could have done it?"
You won't answer. You'll put the Netflix DVDs into their envelopes to be dropped in the mail later today.
You girlfriend will ask again, "Who do you think is responsible?"
"Who was here?" you'll ask.
Her face will turn sour, the way she looks at you when you've had too much to drink at a get-together.
"I was asleep last night," she'll say.
"So was I," you'll reply. "I guess we both slept so deeply that someone was able to break in here with their bow and arrow and shoot me through the sternum without either of us being disturbed."
"This is bullshit," she'll say. "Fuck you."
Say to her, "I'm gonna take a shower. If you remember anything you heard or saw last night, tell me when I get out."
Go into the bathroom and turn on the water, then lean your ear against the door. You'll hear her talking to someone on her cell. Rip your nightshirt off from around the arrow and wash up under the water. When you're finished, go out there and apologize and ask her if she'll go to the hospital with you. When she goes into the bathroom to shower, check the outgoing calls on her phone. I think you'll find a surprise there (she'll have called City Hall).
Happy Arrow Through Your Back Day!
This morning you'll wake up to find an arrow sticking out of your chest (you'll wake up on your side). You won't have lost a lot of blood. Just enough to form a neat round cake on your nightshirt.
You'll try to roll over to check on your girlfriend, but that will make the arrow tear at your skin. So you'll get out of bed and look at her. She'll still be asleep.
In the bathroom, you'll get a good look at the arrowhead under the light. You'll check for markings that might indicate who shot it. You'll find only file-marks where the markings might have been.
Your girlfriend will wake up when you grind the beans for coffee.
"Oh my God!" she'll shout when she sees the arrow poking out from both sides of your torso. You try to find something false in her shock.
"Pretty freaky huh? Someone must have shot it while I was asleep," you'll say.
"Who could have done it?"
You won't answer. You'll put the Netflix DVDs into their envelopes to be dropped in the mail later today.
You girlfriend will ask again, "Who do you think is responsible?"
"Who was here?" you'll ask.
Her face will turn sour, the way she looks at you when you've had too much to drink at a get-together.
"I was asleep last night," she'll say.
"So was I," you'll reply. "I guess we both slept so deeply that someone was able to break in here with their bow and arrow and shoot me through the sternum without either of us being disturbed."
"This is bullshit," she'll say. "Fuck you."
Say to her, "I'm gonna take a shower. If you remember anything you heard or saw last night, tell me when I get out."
Go into the bathroom and turn on the water, then lean your ear against the door. You'll hear her talking to someone on her cell. Rip your nightshirt off from around the arrow and wash up under the water. When you're finished, go out there and apologize and ask her if she'll go to the hospital with you. When she goes into the bathroom to shower, check the outgoing calls on her phone. I think you'll find a surprise there (she'll have called City Hall).
Happy Arrow Through Your Back Day!
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Rafting Disappearance, Day 9 Day
Rafting Disappearance, Day 9 Day!
Today, you and your classmates are going to give up on everyone who disappeared during the Model Congress Year-End Rafting Trip. It's been nine days and only one member of the Congress has been found. That was day six and he was discovered walking naked down the middle of a trucker roadway. He hasn't spoken yet. No one expects him to. He was the Model Comptroller.
There's going to be a gathering tonight. Posters went up on the walls at school yesterday morning, but they said "Memorial" on them. By 3PM they'd all been taken down and replaced with makeshift flyers that said "Gathering." You should go. The girls will huddle together and cry, even though no one was ever really friends with anyone in Model Congress. Model Congressmen and Model Congresswomen moved within their own small circles of driven youth.
The Gathering is going to be on the football field. You don't know much about it, beyond the fact that you're supposed to bring a candle. But afterwards, in the woods behind the football field, you and six other guys are going to do the shrooms that you all chipped in for on Monday. You had all picked tonight to do them, before you knew about the gathering, and you really don't want to reschedule. So you'll go and ponder the absence of your lost classmates for about an hour, then you and your friends will sneak off through the fence to sit on rocks and wig out.
It's going to be the time of your life.
Happy Rafting Disappearance, Day 9 Day!
Today, you and your classmates are going to give up on everyone who disappeared during the Model Congress Year-End Rafting Trip. It's been nine days and only one member of the Congress has been found. That was day six and he was discovered walking naked down the middle of a trucker roadway. He hasn't spoken yet. No one expects him to. He was the Model Comptroller.
There's going to be a gathering tonight. Posters went up on the walls at school yesterday morning, but they said "Memorial" on them. By 3PM they'd all been taken down and replaced with makeshift flyers that said "Gathering." You should go. The girls will huddle together and cry, even though no one was ever really friends with anyone in Model Congress. Model Congressmen and Model Congresswomen moved within their own small circles of driven youth.
The Gathering is going to be on the football field. You don't know much about it, beyond the fact that you're supposed to bring a candle. But afterwards, in the woods behind the football field, you and six other guys are going to do the shrooms that you all chipped in for on Monday. You had all picked tonight to do them, before you knew about the gathering, and you really don't want to reschedule. So you'll go and ponder the absence of your lost classmates for about an hour, then you and your friends will sneak off through the fence to sit on rocks and wig out.
It's going to be the time of your life.
Happy Rafting Disappearance, Day 9 Day!
Friday, June 03, 2005
Apply For A Job At The Ice Cream Factory Day
Apply For A Job At The Ice Cream Factory Day!
The human resources lady will ask you why you want to work at an ice cream factory.
Say, "My current job doesn't give me the freedom to be around ice cream as much as I'd like to be. I'm a United States Senator."
The human resources lady will show you a short movie on how ice cream is made. The movie will show graphic scenes of kittens being killed with a hammer.
"Why do they have to do that to the kittens?" you should ask.
The human resources lady will sit on the corner of her desk and look at you with some condescension. She'll say, "Look this isn't Congress. You might not have the stomach to make ice cream."
Ask her, "Will I have to kill kittens with a hammer?"
"Not unless Kevin calls in sick," the human resources lady will say. "We all pitch in around here."
"Just one thing…" you'll say, but the human resources lady will interrupt you.
"The kittens don't go into the ice cream. We just kill them because our ice cream is so delicious, for every pint we manufacture there has to be a moment of extreme tragedy brought into the world in order to balance out the cosmos. We kill the kittens with hammers in order to keep the universe from balancing itself out by hurting our human babies or the economy."
Say, "The economy. Now that's something I know something about!"
The human resources lady will laugh. "Of course! Because you're a United States Senator."
You'll laugh along with her. Then she'll ask you when you can start.
"Tomorrow!" you'll say. Then you'll ask if you can use her phone to call Capitol Hill and tell Congress to put you on speakerphone so you can tell everyone to fuck off.
Happy Apply For A Job At The Ice Cream Factory Day!
The human resources lady will ask you why you want to work at an ice cream factory.
Say, "My current job doesn't give me the freedom to be around ice cream as much as I'd like to be. I'm a United States Senator."
The human resources lady will show you a short movie on how ice cream is made. The movie will show graphic scenes of kittens being killed with a hammer.
"Why do they have to do that to the kittens?" you should ask.
The human resources lady will sit on the corner of her desk and look at you with some condescension. She'll say, "Look this isn't Congress. You might not have the stomach to make ice cream."
Ask her, "Will I have to kill kittens with a hammer?"
"Not unless Kevin calls in sick," the human resources lady will say. "We all pitch in around here."
"Just one thing…" you'll say, but the human resources lady will interrupt you.
"The kittens don't go into the ice cream. We just kill them because our ice cream is so delicious, for every pint we manufacture there has to be a moment of extreme tragedy brought into the world in order to balance out the cosmos. We kill the kittens with hammers in order to keep the universe from balancing itself out by hurting our human babies or the economy."
Say, "The economy. Now that's something I know something about!"
The human resources lady will laugh. "Of course! Because you're a United States Senator."
You'll laugh along with her. Then she'll ask you when you can start.
"Tomorrow!" you'll say. Then you'll ask if you can use her phone to call Capitol Hill and tell Congress to put you on speakerphone so you can tell everyone to fuck off.
Happy Apply For A Job At The Ice Cream Factory Day!
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Jill The Sexy Exterminator Day
Jill The Sexy Exterminator Day!
When Jill The Sexy Exterminator knocks on your door, you'll be trying to drag a drug dealer's corpse into the bathroom so that you can begin sawing him apart in the tub.
"Am I interrupting something?" Jill The Sexy Exterminator will ask coquettishly.
Say, "It's not what you think."
Jill The Sexy Exterminator will shut the door behind her and say, "What I think is that a very handsome man has a dead body to dispose of and he's so frazzled he might not even have time to make love to his exterminator."
Let the drug dealer's body drop to the floor and say, "I'll make time." Then make love to Jill The Sexy Exterminator.
When you're done making love, go back into the bathroom and starting sawing the drug dealer's body apart while Jill The Sexy Exterminator sprays your baseboards and behind the fridge with insecticide.
Happy Jill The Sexy Exterminator Day!
When Jill The Sexy Exterminator knocks on your door, you'll be trying to drag a drug dealer's corpse into the bathroom so that you can begin sawing him apart in the tub.
"Am I interrupting something?" Jill The Sexy Exterminator will ask coquettishly.
Say, "It's not what you think."
Jill The Sexy Exterminator will shut the door behind her and say, "What I think is that a very handsome man has a dead body to dispose of and he's so frazzled he might not even have time to make love to his exterminator."
Let the drug dealer's body drop to the floor and say, "I'll make time." Then make love to Jill The Sexy Exterminator.
When you're done making love, go back into the bathroom and starting sawing the drug dealer's body apart while Jill The Sexy Exterminator sprays your baseboards and behind the fridge with insecticide.
Happy Jill The Sexy Exterminator Day!
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Some Guy's In The Bushes. He's Got A Hammer In His Hand Day
Some Guy's In The Bushes. He's Got A Hammer In His Hand Day!
He doesn't look like anyone you've ever dated, but he definitely looks heartbroken. You're only crashing at this house for a few weeks while you wait for all the craziness to die down back in Portland before you go back for the $9,000 you're owed. Your friend Karen lives here with two other girls, Nina and Lisa. You know everyone Karen's ever dated, so this guy must be after Nina or Lisa.
The hammer comes crashing through the glass and his hand juts through the broken windowpane. The shards of glass slice through his skin like it was all part of the plan.
"Nina and Lisa aren't here," you tell him.
"It's Karen I'm after," he says.
"Really?" you say. "She never told me about you."
"She wouldn't have. She told me I was the one she wanted to keep to herself."
You sit him on the couch and demand to hear everything. His name's Leo and he's a carpenter. Karen had visited his workshop a few times this past spring. One day she said she'd come and never showed, and Leo went out of his mind.
"My business is about to go under. I can't do anything but pursue her. She's breaking me."
"Perhaps you were just a bit of fun for her," you suggest. "If it's not right for both of you, it's not right."
Leo says, "I never thought about it that way."
He apologizes for the window and gets up to leave. Just then you spot Karen outside coming home with her boyfriend. She sees Leo through the broken window and stops in her tracks. To keep Leo from going outside, you grab him and put your tongue down his throat. And thus ends the meet-cute story that you and Leo will one day tell your grandchildren.
Happy Some Guy's In The Bushes. He's Got A Hammer In His Hand Day!
He doesn't look like anyone you've ever dated, but he definitely looks heartbroken. You're only crashing at this house for a few weeks while you wait for all the craziness to die down back in Portland before you go back for the $9,000 you're owed. Your friend Karen lives here with two other girls, Nina and Lisa. You know everyone Karen's ever dated, so this guy must be after Nina or Lisa.
The hammer comes crashing through the glass and his hand juts through the broken windowpane. The shards of glass slice through his skin like it was all part of the plan.
"Nina and Lisa aren't here," you tell him.
"It's Karen I'm after," he says.
"Really?" you say. "She never told me about you."
"She wouldn't have. She told me I was the one she wanted to keep to herself."
You sit him on the couch and demand to hear everything. His name's Leo and he's a carpenter. Karen had visited his workshop a few times this past spring. One day she said she'd come and never showed, and Leo went out of his mind.
"My business is about to go under. I can't do anything but pursue her. She's breaking me."
"Perhaps you were just a bit of fun for her," you suggest. "If it's not right for both of you, it's not right."
Leo says, "I never thought about it that way."
He apologizes for the window and gets up to leave. Just then you spot Karen outside coming home with her boyfriend. She sees Leo through the broken window and stops in her tracks. To keep Leo from going outside, you grab him and put your tongue down his throat. And thus ends the meet-cute story that you and Leo will one day tell your grandchildren.
Happy Some Guy's In The Bushes. He's Got A Hammer In His Hand Day!
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