Sex Without Hats Day!

You're tired of always having sex with your wife while wearing funny hats. SAY SOMETHING!

'Honey, I hate always having to wear a funny hat while I pound you. Especially the one with the fake dreadlocks coming out of the back. It leaves fibers all over my back hair. And the oversized ship captain's hat with a picture of Cap'n Crunch above the brim, the one that makes that crunching noise when I tilt my head back, that one's out of batteries and I hate it.'

Your wife will say, 'You don't find me attractive anymore.'

Say, 'That's not true.' But you'll worry that that's the real issue here. I'm sorry I opened up this can of worms.

Happy Sex Without Hats Day!

Accept That Challenge Day!

Your nemesis just hijacked a satellite feed so that he could control the television airwaves and broadcast a public message to you. He came on the TV screen, apologized for the interruption, then challenged you to drink a bottle of his pee.

'It's only 20 ounces,' he said, holding up a soda bottle full of the dark yellow urine, 'And it's fresh. Also, I've been eating lots of mangos.'

Your nemesis says that you could choose to refuse to drink it in front of the whole world if you like, 'But then what would your precious human race think of you?'

Immediately after your nemesis signed off with a giggly little, 'And we now return to your regularly scheduled program,' people all over the world started kind of praying to you. 'Drink the pee,' they pleaded from their living rooms. 'Don't let him win!'

You really don't like pee, but there's more at stake here than what you like or don't like. If you don't accept his challenge and beat him at this game, he'll be able to tell everyone all over the world that he peed in a bottle and you were too scared to drink it. You'll be ruined and the world will be his to manipulate to whatever doom he wishes. DRINK.

Happy Accept That Challenge Day!

You Ate All Your Daughter's Chocodiles Day!

Last night you started feeling kind of horrible about being recently divorced so you ate all your daughter's Chocodiles within about a fourteen-minute window. It was a whirlwind of gluttony and emotional compensation via binge eating. Immediately afterwards, you felt absolutely fantastic. But then the sugar rush hit and you don't really remember having gotten yourself to bed.

You're going to have to tell your daughter what you did. Even though she's seven and she doesn't have a penny to her name, she still thinks of the Chocodiles as hers. Just be upfront about it. She's capable of understanding a whole lot more than you think.

'I wanted to talk to you about what happened to your Chocodiles,' tell her.

'What do you know about my Chocodiles?' she'll ask.

Tell her, 'I ate them all. Last night.'

Your daughter will say, 'But they were mine.'

Say, 'I know. I needed them though. They made me feel better.'

Your daughter will say, 'Were you feeling bad Mommy?'

Explain to her that being recently divorced hurts really bad. And having to go back to work for the first time in eight years is scary as hell. Last night you needed something to make you feel better, and eating all of her Chocodiles really fast did the trick.

Your daughter will ask, 'So why didn't you just buy me some more Chocodiles and I'd never even have to find out about this.'

Tell your daughter that times are tough and everyone's got to pitch in. Occasionally, she's going to have to go without Chocodiles if Mommy needs to eat them all really fast in order to stop crying.

Your daughter will ask, 'The next time I feel really bad, like when I skin my knee, or the other girls throw rocks at my face because they think I'm dirty, can I make it all better by eating a box of Chocodiles really fast?'

Tell her you don't see why not. When she leaves the kitchen, grab her sherbert out of the freezer and make a run for it up to your bedroom.

Happy You Ate All Your Daughter's Chocodiles Day!

Win Eight Bucks Day!

When you and Lionel Babbit were eleven years old, you bet him eight dollars that you would die without having ever loved or been loved romantically. You're now sixty-one and you've lived a quiet and loveless life. If you have taken care to include in your will the details of the wager and the charity that you'd like Lionel Babbit to donate the eight dollars to in your name, end it all tonight. After Lionel is presented with the terms of the will, he will most likely challenge it temporarily so that he may hire a private investigator to locate everyone who has ever been close to you and conduct interviews with them to determine the depth of their relationships with you. But after a year or so when everyone in your life has been interviewed, it will become irrefutable to Lionel that yours was a cold and empty existence, and being a gentleman, he will honor his wager and make a donation in your name of eight U.S. dollars to Planned Parenthood of America.

Happy Win Eight Bucks Day!

Underwear Party Day!

Because your Makeout Parties always seem to cause more heartbreak than hot husband-on-wife action, you've been holding weekly underwear parties for two and a half years now. It's the one appointment that everyone in the neighborhood wants to keep. Whenever a new couple moves in, they're invited to the underwear party with the promise of meeting everyone in the neighborhood 'because that's where you're guaranteed to find them.' It's served as a kind of informal town council meeting hall where everyone can discuss issues that are facing the neighborhood, such as the promise of a nearby Home Depot, or drainage concerns. But more than anything, it's the place to share some gossip. If someone's husband gets dragged away by the cops in the middle of the night for a domestic disturbance complaint, or if someone's wife checked herself into a hospital again, on Monday night everyone in the neighborhood is gonna come to your living room, strip down to their underwear, and dish.

Tonight's Underwear Party is going to be the first one since word spread around the neighborhood that the Randolph kid brought a gun to school and shot another kid in the hip (no one knows the other kid). The Randolphs won't show up, which will give everyone else the opportunity to stir up each other's emotions until they're all just an angry mob (albeit in their underwear).

Keith Martin, in a wife-beater tee and white fruit of the loom briefs, will shout at the rest of you, 'That kid put my kid in danger and as far as I'm concerned it's the parents fault. What were Matt and Wendy thinking keeping a gun in the house?'

Leslie Josephs will stand up and say, 'This all just makes me feel so helpless. What can I do to protect my son if another child can bring a gun to his school and start shooting. I mean in his school!' Leslie will be wearing her light blue string hipped bikini panties and matching underwire bra. There will be an onion dip stain on her bra's left cup.

In no top and a pair of Philadelphia Eagles boxer shorts, Nicolas Horowitz will say in a very calm voice, 'There is more and more that we can't control nowadays. We just have to be more aggressive in the areas where we still have control.'

Richard Coleman, in a pair of Calvin Klein boxer-briefs that hug his toned calves, will snort at Nicolas, 'You mean stricter bedtimes? No ice cream until homework's done? A kid was shot you clown!' Richard Coleman's boxer-briefs will be tight enough to reveal his burgeoning soft-on.

Anna Horowitz will stand up in her black negligee and say to her husband, 'He's right Nick. We can't just try to be good parents and keep hoping every other parent will do the same.'

The recently divorced Michelle Farnham, formerly Michelle Holtsman, will wave her vodka gimlet in the air, spilling some on her fire engine red thong and red see-through bra, and she'll bellow, 'Maybe we oughta tell it to those Randolphs instead of yapping about it to each other all night?'

'Easy for you to say,' Keith Martin will tell her. 'Rob's raising your Janeane. What do you have to worry about?'

At every underwear party since Rob and Michelle's divorce, someone has had to be cruel to quiet Michelle down after she's had too many drinks.

'She's got a point,' Colleen DeVinney will say. Colleen will be wearing her nursing bra, her little Deborah feeding while she speaks. 'I think we should discuss this with the Randolphs.'

Richard Coleman will shout, 'Let's do it. Let's go over there right now and ask them what the hell they think they're doing with that kid.'

And so your Underwear Party will come to a close when all of your guests form an angry mob and march through the streets of your neighborhood. Luckily, they'll have forgotten to put on any clothes over their underwear, so they'll be stopped after only a couple of blocks by a squad car. The policemen will give them all tickets for neighborhood-wide indecent exposure.

Happy Underwear Party Day!

The Couple That's Impaled Together Day!

Today you are a homicide detective and you'll be called to the apartment of Dougie and Dani Deitler, who will have been discovered to have been impaled by a large pipe that slipped loose from the scaffold across the street and sailed into their window to pin them both, Doug atop Wendy, to the bed where they loved, straight through both their hearts.

'Don't know why they called you Lieutenant,' the flatfoot will say. 'Just a dumb accident.'

You'll examine the shattered window for the entry point of the pipe. You'll check the paint on the pipe for any distinguishing markings. And then you'll look around for some slippers.

'She's on the wrong side of the bed,' you'll tell the flatfoot.

'Lieutenant?'

You'll point to the nightstand nearest the flatfoot, who is on the side of the bed where the two bodies are pinned, Dani on her back. Underneath that nightstand is a pair of men's slippers. Dougie's.

'The girl's are over here,' you'll tell him.

'What was she doing on the wrong side of the bed?' the flatfoot will ask.

Ask the flatfoot if he's ever been in love.

'I ain't a fag,' he'll say.

Tell him you've been in love and being a fag ain't had nothing to do with it. 'Comes a point in every true love kind of situation where both parties decide that their love for each other is so all-consuming and crippling that they can't bare to be forced from their bed again to go outside and earn money or attend continuing education classes. For most couples, the moment passes and they put on their shoes and begin their commutes. Others take action.'

The flatfoot will move to the window and study the construction site across the street, searching for where Dougie's access would have been.

'So why would he go to the trouble to rig a pipe to come loose and sail across the street?' the flatfoot will ask. 'Why not just take a bunch of pills together?'

'Look around you,' say. 'These two got parents. People who care for them. More comforting for them if it can look like a tragic accident than that these two chose to end it all. So Dougie climbed up across the street and loosened some pipe so that when the first hardhat started rattling away up there the following morning, it would send that thing flying like a javenlin straight for their window. Dougie threw himself on top of Dani, or perhaps they were making love, waiting for the blow, and they died the way they lived, with their hearts bleeding into each other.'

'You sure are one hell of a detective, chief,' the flatfoot will tell you.

'I sure am,' tell the flatfoot. You and the flatfoot will pull a blanket up over Dougie and Dani and make your way back to the station to put a dent in that goddamn paperwork.

Across the street, high atop the construction site, a lonely hardhat will watch you and your flatfoot as you close the case. He'll search for some hint of relief in his belly, but all he'll want to do is throw up. He knew he had to do it. That building is scheduled for completion in another eighteen months. He could not go on watching that beautiful couple celebrate the fact that they've found each other for even one more day, let alone another eighteen months. So he waited for when they began their morning lovemaking, when Dani slid towards Dougie and Dougie climbed atop her body, and he set loose the pipe. He's only glad that they died with their hearts pinned together, the way they'd certainly hoped to die. And he's glad that he's probably not going to get caught because he needs this job. If he's going to keep active on the dating scene, searching for the Dani to his Dougie who will finally lift him from this loneliness, he's going to need a steady paycheck so he can pay for drinks and movie tickets.

Happy The Couple That's Impaled Together Day!

You Are Blind But You Heard A Murder Day!

Today you are blind but you were in a parking garage when you heard a woman scream and then fall to the ground after what sounded like a dull thud. You are the only one who was there, so the police will seek your help. Explain to them that you are blind and ultimately useless, unless it's helpful to them that the woman screamed the word 'No' before she died.

The detective (who sounds world-weary but intuitive) will say, 'It is rather helpful, considering that the woman who was murdered was mute.'

You'll gasp, 'But that means!'

'There was another woman in that garage,' the detective will say. 'And she's still alive. Good work, Darkness.' The Detective calls you Darkness, which is fun because you've never had a nickname since you're blind.

Shout, 'Lets go find her! I'll drive.'

The detective will let you drive and you'll crash into the side of a building.

Happy You Are Blind But You Heard A Murder Day!

Funny Cubicle Pranks Day!

The last time you took a leave of absence from work, your coworkers decorated your cubicle by covering it in dot matrix printer paper. It was hilarious. Today's the day to dish out some payback.

For Mary's cubicle, you should hang pictures of Brad Pitt everywhere because she really likes Brad Pitt. Except you should only use full-body shots of Brad Pitt walking so that you can photoshop Mary into the pictures and make it look like she's being trampled under Brad Pitt's shoes. So when it's a picture of Brad Pitt holding Maddox while walking out of Fred Siegel, there on the ground will be Mary contorted under Brad's feet with some blood puddling near her head. Also, smear a little dollop of your ejaculate on her phone receiver. She'll never know, but you will!

Phyllis likes to play Sudoku at her desk during the slower hours, which means she loves numbers. So you should just magic marker the number 4 onto every surface of her desk and cubicle walls, until she'll be able to spend her day feeling like the number 4 is a kind of aggressive insect and there is a horde of them that is about to swarm about her and fill up her lungs and her pants legs. Sudoku lovers know how funny this is. One other funny thing you could do to Phyllis' cube is you could smear a little dollop of your ejaculate on her stapler. Every time you hear that stapler clack shut, you'll start laughing and she won't even know why.

Kevin is the guy who gets the cakes for everyone's birthday, so just cover his cube in pictures of the twin towers falling. A dollop of your ejaculate on his computer mouse would be a nice finishing touch.

Matt is your boss. You think that Matt looks like KD Lang, so you should pay KD Lang to come in early and sit at Matt's desk. When Matt comes in he'll say, 'Hey, you're KD Lang.' Pay KD Lang to say, 'No I'm not. I'm Matt the bossman. Look at me everybody. I'm Matt the boss! Hey you, you're not a good worker. And you, get me those work materials!' If she does it fast, this should only cost you $40,000. But everyone will be laughing so hard that she might go long and tack on another ten grand. Just before KD Lang leaves, have her throw a bowl of your ejaculate at Matt's face. He won't know it's yours, but he will know that it's ejaculate!

Melissa is the one who rounds up everyone's contribution to the office lotto pool when the lotto jackpot exceeds $100 million, so you should leave some of those burlap money sacks with dollar signs on them on her desk. When she reaches into the bags she'll find only little slips of white paper that read, 'I love you but am shy' because you love Melissa but are afraid to tell her. On just one of the notes, write the words, 'I smeared ejaculate on the handle of your coffee cup.' The only way she'll discover your secret is if she goes through each little slip of paper, cherishing every one, and finds that note. If she never finds it, she is unworthy of your love and deserves to unknowingly touch your ejaculate every morning.

For the rest of the cubes: Raccoons! Or, if you can swing it: Raccoons with little buckets of your ejaculate swinging from straps around their necks so that when they attack your coworkers the little buckets spill everywhere!

Happy Funny Cubicle Pranks Day!

Those Whores Down At The Pottery Barn Day!

Your town has become so oversaturated with big box stores and strip mall chain retailers, there isn't a square foot of space that hasn't been paved over and built upon for another mini mall or its adjacent parking lot. When such rapid development takes place, the area's inhabitants are sent wandering out into the open to find a new place to settle. Which is why all the prostitutes who used to congregate underneath the old Leland overpass can now be found on the outdoor furniture level of the Miles Pavilion Pottery Barn. Today you'll go there because you've decided it is time to become a man.

You'll meet Wanda. She'll be sprawled on a Chesapeake Double Chaise, flipping through a catalog while absently rubbing an ointment on the back of her right thigh.

'Teach me the ways of love,' you'll say to Wanda.

'Go talk to my business manager,' Wanda will say without looking up at you. 'She'll give us the warehouse key.'

Wanda will have pointed to a saleswoman in her thirties who will be helping a customer choose an umbrella for his picnic table. You'll wait patiently, pretending to browse the candlestick holders. You'll stare back at Wanda, wondering whether she is the one to lead you into manhood. You won't be too sure.

When an umbrella has been settled upon, the saleswoman will come to you and ask in a very friendly tone if you need any help.

'Wanda sent me to you,' tell her. 'She said that you would give us the key to the warehouse.'

The saleswoman will turn gruff. 'Eighty for a straight lay. And you gotta buy a set of wicker coasters.'

You won't be sure what the saleswoman means. Tell her, 'I want to learn. My father is gone. Will Wanda teach me to love a woman?'

The saleswoman will be impatient. 'She'll teach you everything she knows kid. But the way it is right now, you don't got much choice who your teacher is. I'm giving these hookers a place to work because they're the last of them, and if I were to send them on their way the whole species will have been displaced. So many of them have already entered social work programs to go straight. Wanda is one of the last of them.'

The two of you will look at Wanda, who will have broken out into a sneezing fit on the chaise. 'She's endangered kid. If you pay her to have sex with you today, it's like your money will go to the spotted owl or something. Wal-Mart can drive them out with their sprawling development projects and their private security detail. But you can fight back, and all you have to do is have your first sex with that prostitute.

'Sold,' you'll say. You'll pay the eighty dollars and she'll give you the key to the warehouse, where you and Wanda will have sex on some wet cardboard boxes. Back upstairs, the saleswoman will shove a pack of coasters in your hand.

'How was she kid?' she'll ask.

'She seemed weak,' you'll say.

The saleswoman will nod. 'She doesn't have much time. Her instinct is telling her to leave town to find another overpass to stand underneath, but she's already too weak to make the journey. So she's stuck here in my Pottery Barn, trying to adapt.'

'Did I help her?' you'll ask.

'More than you know,' the saleswoman will say. 'Now go buy those coasters.'

You'll buy the coasters and run home and cry because sex is scary and hookers with no place to stand around are sad.

Happy Those Whores Down At The Pottery Barn Day!

Take The 'Be A Father To Your Child' Pill Day!

Your therapist prescribed you some PatriCan, the only prescription pill on the market that has been approved by the FDA for fathers who don't want to raise their children. You're skeptical, but a few hours after you take your first pill you'll be shocked to find yourself on your own thinking about that baby in your wife's stomach. Normally the only time you consider it is when your wife asks you impending-birth related questions, usually concerning items that need to be purchased. But today, you'll be sitting in your office on your own time wondering whether it will be a boy or a girl. Call your wife.

'Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?' ask her.

'It's going to be a boy. Remember the ultrasound? We've known the sex for two months already.'

You won't be able to speak. A boy. A son! Your son!

'Meet me at home,' say. 'I wanna feel your stomach.'

'Is that pill kicking in?' she'll ask.

'JUST GET THERE!' you'll shout.

At home you'll touch your wife's stomach and for the first time you'll feel more than just a little grossed out. This time, you'll feel a kind of electric charge under your hands. Suddenly, you'll feel a need to defend your wife and your home. You'll want to strike out at the modern world and the threats it can pose to your unborn son.

'So this is what fatherhood is like,' you'll say. 'I feel such a deep love for you and our baby, while at the same time I am furious at everyone and everything outside of this house. I want to run outside and smash in the face of the first person I see, male or female.'

'That might be the pill,' your wife will say. 'I read that PatriCan has some side effects. Rage is one of them.'

'What about seeing blue everywhere?' ask her.

She'll read the vial of pills and nod. 'Yep, ocular coloration.'

You'll take your hands off her belly. 'Well if rage and seeing blue are side effects, what if the love I feel for you and my son is also a side effect?'

Your wife will read the vial again. 'Nope,' she'll say. 'That's the intended effect.'

You'll be relieved, then you'll go into the bathroom to shit some blood (side effect) and apply cream to your eczema (side effect) while coming up with possible names for your son (intended effect) forgetting that you already agreed to name him Larry (your wife's Dad's name).

Happy Take The 'Be A Father To Your Child' Pill Day!

The Sommelier Has A Chiraz That Will Make Your Husband Attractive Day!

You and your husband are hilarious and you love to involve everyone around you in your hilarious repartee. Especially at restaurants. As far as you're concerned, waiters and waitresses simply cannot get enough of you. Like when they show you the dessert menu and you say, 'We'll take two of everything!' Or when they ask if they can start you off with a drink and your husband points to you and says, 'You can start her off with five!' Or when they ask you if you'd like to hear the specials and you say about your husband, 'He deserves nothing special. Nothing!' They never laugh out loud at that one, but they listen attentively and they seem to enjoy it.

Tonight you'll eat at that new French place and when the Sommelier comes by and asks if you have any questions about the wine selection, your husband will ask, 'Do you have a Cabernet that will make her jokes funny?'

You and your husband will laugh hysterically. The Sommelier will think for a second, then he'll say, 'No, not a Cabernet. No.'

You'll jump in with, 'Hey, do you have a Merlot that'll make him tolerable?'

This will crack you and your husband up. The Sommelier will consider your question, then he'll say, 'I'm afraid not, no. But I do have a Chiraz that will make him attractive.'

You and your husband will laugh at that because you love it when the staff joins in. The Sommelier will not laugh with you however. Your laughter will eventually fade, and the Sommelier will be waiting for your decision.

Say, 'We'll try that, yes.'

Your husband will say, 'Honey.'

Tell him it's worth a shot.

The Sommelier will return and pour just a little for you to taste. You'll drink the sip and consider the taste. 'Very nice, thank you,' you'll say. The Sommelier will pour a glass for your husband, then he'll fill your glass and the two of you will drink.

As you drink your glass to the bottom, your husband will suddenly seem very self-assured and a little leaner in the face. He'll grow a little more appealing with every sip you take. All those years of compromise and side-stepping will lift from his demeanor and he'll seem hopeful and direct. Perhaps it will just be a trick of the light, but the roundness of his shoulders will appear to be much more defined, and that vulgar grin will suddenly appear to be a knowing smirk.

When the Sommelier passes you'll grab his shirt and demand, 'Tell me where I can buy this wine.'

He'll give you a card for a wine shop in town that carries it. Later that night you'll go home, you'll throw your husband on the bed, and you'll have him. The next day you'll go to that wine shop and buy yourself three cases of that Chiraz.

Curiously, the wine will not have the effect on you that it had in the restaurant. You'll drink more and more of it, trying to recapture that attraction you felt for your husband, but it just won't come back. He'll remain the same man you've been contentedly married to all these years, except he'll grow a little testy with you because you'll have developed a pretty serious drinking problem after not too long. He'll demand that you stop drinking the Chiraz and accept him for who he is. In a last ditch effort you'll return to the restaurant and confront the Sommelier.

'It's not working,' tell him. 'I'm drinking it every night and every day but he's not getting any more attractive. Why did it work in here and it won't work at home?'

'Is your husband drinking it?' the Sommelier will ask. You'll have been pretty drunk most of the time, but as best you can remember it was pretty much only you who drank the majority of those three cases over the previous month and a half.

'The wine has no effect on you, Madam,' he'll say. 'It is your husband who must drink. The change occurs within his person, not in your perception.'

You'll rush home and start pouring the Chiraz down your husband's throat. He'll protest at first, but once the first few sips go down and he sees how much you're suddenly smitten with him, he'll drink of his own volition. And he'll keep drinking. To keep that sparkle in your eye when you look his way, to keep you hungry for him, he'll drink wine all day and night. He might start missing work and he'll eventually grow very sick, but as long as that wine continues to be bottled he won't stop pouring glass after wonderful glass. If it makes him the man you want him to be, he'll drink himself into his grave.

Happy The Sommelier Has A Chiraz That Will Make Your Husband Attractive Day!

Workman's Comp Day!

When your arm got cut off while on the job at your accounting firm, they gave you the option of either accepting a huge monetary payment or adopting a baby born with three arms so that the two of you could learn from each other. You took the freak baby.

Steve is sixteen now and you've both taught each other so much. When you're allowed to wander inside your own head, you imagine how wonderful it would be to have all the arms in the world. You envision yourself juggling while shaking hands with new friends and clicking around on a remote at the same time, but then you'll go downstairs and Steve will be crying because none of the shirts he bought at the mall will fit him because they don't have three arm-holes. When you see those tears on his cheeks, you are disgusted with yourself for all your appendage fantasizing.

Steve has come to hate arms. He's often wished that he didn't have any arms at all. In his dreams he is a sleek and elegant fish swimming through the Ocean fast as a missile. And when he wakes up and tries to untangle all of his arms from the sheets, he wants nothing more than to scream curses at God for bestowing this abundance upon him. Then he'll see you at the dinner table, unable to lift your fork to your mouth without first placing your drinking glass down, and he'll remember that the grass on the other side is not always greener.

Today you and your son are going in for surgery. Your son's arm has grown enough for it to be transplanted onto your body. Tonight you'll discover that your new arm has a mind of its own (of course it does!) when you begin to masturbate with it and you realize that your arm wants to masturbate in a way you've never thought was a good idea (lots of finger dervishes along the shaft). You'll assume that this is the way your son likes to masturbate. It's hard for a Dad and his boy to communicate, and it's safe to say you never would have learned about your son's masturbation preferences had your arm not gotten cut off in the first place, leading you to adopt a three-armed son and eventually undergo transplant surgery to have one of his arms attached to your body. One door closes, another one opens.

Happy Workman's Comp Day!

Pregnant Face Day!

Tonight at dinner your son Billy is going to tell you that his Sophomore Formal is coming up but that he's not going because he doesn't want to ask any of the stupid girls in his grade to go with him. Your wife will ask him what about Margaret Ryan, the girl from down the block that Billy used to play with when he was five.

Billy will say, 'You mean Pregnant Face!'

Your wife will flip out on Billy, telling him he shouldn't say mean things like that about people. 'You invite Margaret to that dance. You'd be lucky if she says yes,' your wife will say. You'll think this is a little pushy, but you'll allow it.

'But Mom,' Billy will whine. 'Margaret's always pregnant. She'll probably give birth right there at the dance and everyone will think it's mine!'

Your wife will tell Billy that just because a girl gets pregnant a lot that's no means by which to judge her. 'And since when do you care so much about what other people think anyway? What is it to you whose kid they think is yours?'

Interject to explain to your wife that it could be problematic for a sophomore in high school to be perceived to be a father, especially to a girl who gets pregnant so often she carries the nickname Pregnant Face.

'There was a girl like that in my school when I was growing up,' tell your wife. 'Her name was Winnifred, but we all called her 'Winny With-Child' Pronounced like 'Rothchild.' No one ever wanted to go out on dates with her because of the stigma attached.'

Your wife will ask, 'Then how'd she keep getting pregnant?'

You won't have an answer to that. Your wife will tell you that you are weak and that nothing has changed between the two of you, that she's still going to be gone by the end of the month.

'But that doesn't mean I'll stop raising my son,' she'll shout. 'And you'll not turn him against me.'

You don't want your wife to feel threatened during this precarious time, so after your son runs up to his room to mope, follow him up there and encourage him to take that pregnant girl to the dance to make his mother feel good. Tell him, 'If she delivers at the dance and any gets on your shoes, I'll pay.'

Happy Pregnant Face Day!

Go To The Nurse Day!

You have a three-hour status meeting today, which means three hours of sitting across the conference room table from Nora Dominick, trying to hide your heartbreak behind a look of concern for next quarter's projected revenue.

Your job has a few perks, one of the most valuable of them being an on-site Nurse's Office that employees can visit when they have stomach aches. When the meeting becomes too much for you to bear, simply whisper to your supervisor that your stomach hurts and ask her for permission to go to the Nurse's office.

At the Nurse's Office, the Nurse will lay you down on a pleather examination table secluded by a curtain and she'll take your temperature. The lights will be dim behind that curtain and you'll have the chance to quiet your mind and get some perspective on just what the hell Nora thought you two have been up to these past few months.

When the Nurse reads your thermometer and finds your temperature normal, she'll say, 'Tummy any better?'

Say, 'A little, yes.' You and the Nurse will be startled by the sudden calm in your voice. The Nurse will say, 'Your stomach didn't really hurt now did it?'

Shake your head no. 'Just don't make me go back to that conference room,' you'll plead. 'Can I just stay here and rest a little? My stomach doesn't hurt right now, but if I go back into that meeting, I really will get nauseous.'

The Nurse will ask, 'Do you want to talk about her?' She'll pat your hand and show you her most mothering face.

'The coworker I was cheating on my wife with broke it off with me,' tell her. Try not to cry. 'I thought we were on the same page the whole time. I didn't want to leave my wife and Nora didn't want to leave her husband, so we figured we'd just sneak around for a while.'

'But she changed her mind?' the Nurse will ask.

'She said she couldn't lie to him anymore,' say. You'll roll onto your side and curl up into a ball. 'I thought we really had something. It hurts so much.'

The Nurse will pat your hand. 'It gets better,' she'll say. 'You just have to get promoted. As you climb the ladder and make more money, you'll find that you're the one who's usually doing the dumping and running back to your wife.'

Tell her, 'But I have to see her every day. We're working on the Holtzman account together!'

'You just have to show up every day and show her that she can't keep you from doing what you're here to do,' the Nurse will say. 'Do your job better than anybody out there, and she'll see how little effect she had on you.'

You'll feel a little better. The nurse will give you heating pad and then leave you alone behind your curtain. Hold the heating pad tight and remember the last time you held Nora against you inside the handicapped women's room (single stall, locked door). Cry as much as you can behind that curtain, because once you unplug that heating pad and climb off the table, you've got work to do.

Happy Go To The Nurse Day!

Get Your Face On All The Papers Day!

There are a lot of ways to get your face on all the papers. You just have to decide what you want the caption underneath your face to read. You could have sex with a famous politician if you want the caption to say, 'Scandal!' or 'Senate-Bait!' or 'Hussy!' Just make sure you're not already married to the politician, because no one ever prints a photo with the word 'Wife!' underneath it.

If you want the caption underneath your face to read 'Jerkoff!' swindle your hometown out of its treasury. If you agree to take your hometown to get an abortion that you'll pay half for, then you don't show up at the appointed time, they'll put your face on all the papers with the caption 'Little Prick' underneath it.

If you want your face on all the papers for doing a good deed, the deed will have to be pretty exciting too. You can't just give lots of money to the poor, because the paper might just run a photo of the poor with the caption 'Today's Your Lucky Day!' or 'This Scum Gets To Eat Tonight!' If you want to get into the papers by doing good, you have to be a fireman or a soldier who is dead in a Iraq and they'll put the word 'Hero!' underneath your picture.

If none of these floats your boat, you could win the lottery but continue to go back to work everyday if you want it to say 'Rich Idiot!' underneath your face. You could kill more than one person, as long as you kill all your victims the same way, like by chopping off their faces and sticking them into each other's pockets, so that each body's pocket will tell detectives who the body to be found next will belong to. When you get caught, the caption would read 'Face-Off Killer!' or 'Pocket Full of Faces Killer!' or 'Caught! (The Face-Off Killer We Mean)'

In short, there are so many ways to get your face on all the papers besides being the grand prize winner of an Orgasm Contest at a sex club, so consider all the options. Those things are rigged anyway.

Happy Get Your Face On All The Papers Day!

Get Pregnant On A Beach Day!

Tonight you should leave the others behind in the garden and escape to the beach for a moonlit walk with your boyfriend. The two of you will find an empty spot where you'll stretch out in the sand, kissing and caressing each other while the waves crash nearby. His face in that moonlight will be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Normally when you fool around, his movements are awkward and unsure. It could be the alcohol or just the moonlight, but tonight as his hands move from your breasts to your face and to your ass and up under your dress, he'll be as graceful as a breeze. When you pull him inside you, it will feel perfect, as necessary as if sex with your boyfriend fulfilled a promise to a dead best friend. It will be the best, most loving sex you've ever had. Afterwards, while you sleep on the beach in each other's arms, the first bits of a baby will begin to take form inside you. You'll wake at dawn and go back to the house.

You won't learn about your pregnancy for another twelve days, so it won't ruin your trip. When you discover that you're pregnant, you'll be swept back to that night on the beach, to the way he touched you. The way he seemed to praise your body. You'll remember how he seemed to strive to give you all of himself, and you'll know that you won't be able to tell him about the pregnancy unless you decide to keep it. He seems like a 'It's my baby too' kind of guy, and nothing ruins a boyfriend more than when he starts saying stuff like 'it's my baby too.' Keep him in the dark if you abort. The deceit might not feel right, but sometimes deceit is necessary if you want your superfun boyfriend to remain superfun.

Happy Get Pregnant On A Beach Day!

Ultimate Nachos Day!

Today there's going to be a problem at your new restaurant, Ultimate Nachos. You designed your restaurant to be the place where people can go to eat the last meal of their lives. All of the dishes at Ultimate Nachos are poisoned with a lethal amount of the barbiturate of the diner's choice. All diners are guaranteed that their last meal will be the best they ever had, and that they will not leave the restaurant alive. Diners are also guaranteed that they will die painlessly, peacefully, and full. To guarantee a peaceful death, diners are given a physical by an on-site physician when they make a reservation. The physical is to determine any allergies to any particular anesthetic, so as to avoid a painful rejection of the poison that is supposed to send the diner to a sleepy grave with a full belly.

Ultimate Nachos makes the restaurant sound casual, but it's anything but. In fact, diners can request any d'cor they choose, with twelve rooms pre-decorated according to popular motifs (French fine dining, seaside cantina, whorehouse snack bar), and a dozen rooms prepped for custom design (most people request a replica of their childhood kitchen table). You decided on the name Ultimate Nachos because you wanted a name that seemed to convey a sense of the infinite. Also, your chef makes the best ultimate nachos that money can buy (he uses real guacamole, not the fake stuff).

Today is going to be a rough day because your new waiter is an idiot and he's going to mix up the plates and kill the wrong person at table five. Diners who want to die often show up with friends and family with whom they want to share their last meal. It's always troubling when a friend of the soon-to-be-deceased orders the same dish as the expiring diner, but you set up a simple and seemingly fool-proof system of avoiding mix-ups: The chef puts a sprig of parsley on the dish that has the poison in it. Easy-peasy!

Unfortunately, your new waiter won't remember whether the parsley equals poison or no poison and he's going to end up killing a terminal cancer patient's healthy young wife. Comp their drinks, but don't buy the meal unless they make a big fuss.

Happy Ultimate Nachos Day!

The Once And Future Tire King Day!

Today your 26-year reign as the Tire King of the five mile auto strip down by the airport will come to an end when assassins sent by the leader of Tire City (4826 West Airport Blvd, 8am ' 7:30 PM, Tues-Sun) will storm your kingdom and saw your head from your neck. They'll leave your body for your subjects (the illegals in the garage) to bury. Your head will return to Tire City and will be impaled upon a tall, steel spike visible from the road, right next to the giant inflating man who looks like he's dancing in the wind.

Yours was a Tire Kingdom ruled with grace and wisdom. History will treat your reign with affection. But no tire throne is eternal. The more beautiful the Tire Kingdom, the more freedom its subjects are given, and the more likely it is that those subjects will rise up and spill the blood of their Tire King. A Tire Kingdom at its most glorious is always at its most vulnerable, as no one would ever wish to take over a Tire Kingdom that is foundering. Too much work.

Your Tire Queen will be given the chance to stay alive, should she choose to sit as Queen beside the new Tire King (Felix Kopitzky, proprietor of Tire City). She will accept his offer, which will send your son Chad (the Tire Prince) into a state of maddening melancholy. He won't murder his new step-father, however. He'll just go to college and do quite poorly, then move back home with his mother and step-father (King Felix) and live on an allowance well into his thirties.

Happy The Once And Future Tire King Day!

Your Son Is Marrying The Wrong Girl Day!

Today your son is going to announce to you that he's marrying the middle school teacher who had sex with him twenty four times when he was in her seventh grade homeroom class. She finishes her nine-year prison term for statutory rape this month, and he's already rented a place for them to live.

'I only wish Dad was still around to see this,' he'll say. 'Maybe I should track him down.'

Tell him you think it's a bad idea for him to marry a woman who's probably a bit unstable, considering that she likes to have sex with schoolchildren.

'It was love, Mom,' he'll say. 'Age doesn't matter when two people are in love.'

Ask him if she also loved David Patterson.

'She didn't have sex with him,' he'll say. 'The DA got Davey to say that just to make sure she went to jail.'

Mention that Davey's DNA was still inside her. The matter of the DNA always pisses your son off because they found no trace of your son's DNA when Evelyn consented to a culture being taken of her vagina. That means right before she got caught, she ran to Davey for one last night. Your son refuses to accept this.

'You're just jealous because Evelyn has found love and you haven't been with a single man since Dad left,' he'll say.

Stay calm and tell him that you just want what's best for him.

'Or maybe you want me all to yourself?' he'll say, nearly to the point of tears. 'Is that why you say these things? Sorry Mom, but you're too old for me.'

Evelyn's forty-eight. You're fifty-five. Tell your son to get out of the house and to never come back.

Happy Your Son Is Marrying The Wrong Girl Day!

Breakfast With The Hollingsheads Day!

Ever since your name started appearing in the papers in light of the recent discovery of all those people in your basement, invitations to the more desirable supper soirees and yacht club dance parties have been all but non-existent. Just a few weeks ago you were one of the most eligible bachelors on the Parties Where There's An Ice Sculpture circuit. Now, you're practically untouchable.

There is only one couple that can save you from being ostracized outright. You'll have to attend breakfast with the Hollingsheads, the most respected and respectable couple in New York society. If you can get them on your side, everything will be right as rain.

'Everyone assumes I was having sex with the people in my basement. I wasn't,' tell them. Make sure to compliment them on the muffin.

'Well that's a relief,' Mrs. Hollingshead will say. She'll pat your hand.

'Were you making them have sex with each other while you watched then?' Mr. Hollingshead will ask. He'll be tapping at the shell of his single hardboiled egg.

'Why no!' you'll shout.

Mrs. Hollingshead will say to her husband, 'Oh of course he wasn't. Don't be so base, Archibald.'

Mr. Hollingshead will shrug. 'Sorry old boy. It's what's on people's minds.'

Say, 'Of course. I want to answer every question that people might have.'

'Very good,' Mrs. Hollingshead will say. 'Now, if you clearly weren't having sex with them, and you certainly weren't watching them have sex with each other, God forbid.'

'God forbid,' you'll say.

'Were you making them have sex with items around the house then?' she'll ask. 'Wine bottles and rolling pins and the like?'

'Candlesticks,' Mr. Hollingshead will add.

'No!' you'll shout. 'I assure you, my relationship with these people was not sexual in the slightest. If any sex was had in that basement by those people, the couplings were the organic product of the natural attraction that blossomed amongst them, as can only be expected when a group of people are contained in such close quarters.'

Mr. Hollingshead will slam his spoon into the meat of his hard-boiled egg. 'Well speak up then, Man. If they weren't there to satisfy you in some sexual manner or other, why in the world were you keeping them in your basement?'

Explain to the Hollingsheads that your heart is perhaps too big to adapt to such a cramped city. That when indigent people would approach you for aid, throwing change at them was not enough to appease your conscience. You would invariably offer them shelter for the night in your basement. And you would of course be unable to toss them back out in the morning. Soon word spread of the wealthy man whose Park Avenue basement had an open door policy, and before you knew it dozens of homeless had fixed themselves a bed underneath your home.

'Yes but such behavior should be commended,' Mrs. Hollingshead will say. 'Why is the district attorney planning to charge you with 38 counts of kidnapping?'

Explain that it seemed clear to you that you could never let your peers on the New York social scene discover that part of your home was a makeshift homeless shelter. 'So I made the people promise to never leave or enter except at designated times late in the night. And I employed armed guards to enforce their curfew and to keep the homeless from running upstairs and stealing all my stuff.'

The Hollingsheads will lean back in their chairs, seeming to digest your story along with their coffee and buttered toasts. Mr. Hollingshead will slap his table and say, 'There is only one thing to be done. We must invite all of your homeless boarders over for cocktails a week from Friday. Your story is compelling, but the headlines will continue to paint a far less flattering picture. Once everyone sees you in the company of your friends from the basement and they see their gratitude for your generosity, surely you will be welcomed back into the fold.'

Tell the Hollingsheads that you appreciate the offer, but that most of the people who lived in your basement are deranged and would likely slit the throat of anyone who might speak directly to them.

'Hmm,' Mr. Hollingshead will say.

'Hmm,' Mrs. Hollingshead will concur.

You'll wait while your fate is decided, worried that your breakfast might return before the Hollingsheads are able to speak again.

'Well,' Mrs. Hollingshead will finally say. 'Perhaps we should run with the making-them-have-sex-with-stuff-around-the-house scenario. It might not be the truth, but it's a truth our friends will understand. Does that sit well with you Archibald?'

Mr. Hollingshead will say, 'Very well, yes. It's the best thing for everybody.'

Thank the Hollingsheads profusely for giving you your life back. You'll spend the rest of your morning planning the menu for the party that the Hollingsheads will host in your honor a week from Friday, provided you are not incarcerated at the time.

Happy Breakfast With The Hollingsheads Day!

Hitchhikin' For Love Day!

You're really poor and you've hitchhiked a lot over the years, always hoping to catch that perfect ride. You've had some good ones, like the one time you got picked up by the guy who wasn't a fundamentalist Christian, or the time you got picked up by the lady who couldn't eat bread so she let you eat the rolls from her fast food hamburgers, and she even left some of the pickles on them too. There was also that time you got picked up by that group of high school kids who gave you a ride on the condition that you purchase beer for them, and they let you drink beers with them too, at least for the duration of time it took them to take you where you needed to go. Those high school kids were so cool, and you think they really dug you too.

Those were all great rides, but get ready because today is going to be 'the one.'

You'll be thumbing it on US 1 when a Firebird Trans Am will pull up and a beautiful blonde woman in a short white tennis skirt will be behind the wheel. You'll climb in, and tell her, 'Take me all the way.'

She'll say, 'That's gonna be an awfully long ride. Better settle in.'

You'll drive until dusk, when she suggests that you pull over for the night and get some rest. After some gentlemanly offers to sleep in the car, she'll insist that you share her room.

At first you'll just lie next to her with your hands by your sides, staring at the ceiling. Then she'll turn to you and ask, 'Could you hold me? I want you to.' You'll sleep that night with her in your arms.

The next day and night will follow the same agenda. Drive all day, sleep wrapped up in each other's arms that night. You'll suggest that you make love, but she'll claim that she wants it to be special. 'Tomorrow,' she'll say.

The next day, while driving she'll lift up her skirt to reveal that she's not wearing any underwear, so you'll make love to her while she drives 150 MPH down the highway. A bus full of nuns will see you guys and they'll all start praying. It will be perfect.

That night, you'll make love again in a new motel room, and you'll tell her all about how you saw your brother die when you were nine. 'My Dad blamed me. He wished it had been me.' She'll tell you that she's scared of the ocean.

The next day's drive will be like a ride on a cloud. Every rest stop and every mile marker will seem to have been put there as monuments to your trip together. She'll drive fast while you feed her French fries.

That night you'll get into a fight.

'What are we doing? Are we just gonna go and go and go?' you'll shout.

'Until we reach our destination, yeah!' she'll say. That's just like her.

The next day's ride will be a quiet one. You'll both be aware that you're going to reach your destination by nightfall, and you just don't want the ride to end.

Driving into the sunset, just ten miles from where you want to be, she'll say, 'Look into that sunset. Remember it, okay? And every time you see a sunset like that, you have to remember me okay? Even if it's on your wedding day, you have to remember me, okay?'

You'll stare into the sunset and make a mental note.

When she pulls over, she'll put her hand on your thigh and smile at you. Hand her your phone number.

'In case you ever wanna use it,' say. 'You can, you know.'

She'll say, 'I know.' But it will be clear she doesn't believe you. She won't offer you her number.

As she pulls away, you'll check your watch. Four hours early. Four whole hours.

'That was the greatest driver ever,' you'll think. 'Really fast. And she even gave me something to think about during sunsets.'

You'll never tell anyone about your ride. Partially because you'll want to keep it special. Mostly because you'll be afraid of finding out she was a ghost who picks up hitchhikers and makes them love her. You've ridden with four different ghosts over the years and they all came on pretty strong. You'll want to have meant more to her than just having been the one to fall into her eternally recurring pattern. You'll want her to have been alive. And as long as you never find out she was dead, alive she will stay. As alive as the colors of the sunset.

Happy Hitchhikin' For Love Day!

Late For The Plane Day!

You have a flight at 2:35 PM today but you cheated on your husband last night with a guy who's going to get a little icky when you try to leave for the airport.

"I just can't believe that we shared this night together and now I might never see you again," he'll say from the bed. He called down to the desk last night while you were asleep and asked for a late checkout, apparently knowing how much trouble he has saying goodbye.

You'll stop your packing and ask, "Are you crying?"

"NO!" he'll shout, opening the gates on a torrent of cackling sobs. Last night in the bar he seemed so withdrawn and steely. You had to do most of the work to get him upstairs, just the way you like it. You honestly expected him to sneak out in the middle of the night after. But then he pulled your hair from in front of your face and asked, "Isn't this magical?" You knew then that he'd be hanging around until morning so you pretended to sleep. He must have stroked your hair for forty minutes.

"I went through your purse and looked at your license," he'll say.

"We said no names," tell him. "No contact. One night and we're a memory."

He'll crawl to the edge of the bed and kneel there while he talks. "I know how I feel. I know, based on what's in my heart, based on what blossomed between us last night, that I will do whatever it takes to find you after you walk out that door. I looked at your license to make it easier on me. I was just hastening the inevitable. I will come for you."

Take a pillow to his face and slam him back down on the bed with it, holding the pillow over his mouth and nose but keeping the sides folded up so he can hear you.

"Listen to me my very mushy friend. No one knows I was here last night. I can continue to take your breath without leaving a mark and you will die. Or I can allow you to breathe again, with the promise that if I ever so much as accidentally see your face, either I will kill you or I will pay someone to do it. But if our acquaintance with each other does not end when I walk out that door to catch my plane and fly home to my husband and beautiful baby girl, our next rendezvous will be the day you die. If you can't stay away from me, tell me now and you won't breathe again. Slap the bed twice if you want to live."

His arms will stop flailing long enough to pound the bed in two distinct movements. You'll release the pillow and continue packing while he strains to breathe again. You won't say goodbye when you leave.

At the airport, you'll miss your plane and you'll be forced to wait five hours for the next one. This means you'll be there when he arrives for his plane. He'll see you and try to look away and move faster to his gate, but you'll catch his eye just in time. You can't let him get on that plane, or else you'll have to sneak on with him and kill him either in the air or when he lands. Either way, it would extend your trip at least into tomorrow. You're going to have to follow him to his gate and wait for him to use the bathroom, where you can strangle him and leave his body in a stall. A promise is a promise.

Happy Late For The Plane Day!