Significant Objects (Day)

Am taking a brief break from Girls Are Pretty so that I can take some time to roll up into a ball and panic. But you can find a story by me, and an object, here. Read about and bid on my Chrome Turtle, and you'll get a turtle and a story, and all the money will go to charity (826 National). Would make a nice present for a Girls Are Pretty fan.

Go check it out, and happy holidays.

Prisoners Of Love, The Movie Day!

Your favorite movie is Prisoners of Love, The Movie. It takes place in a dystopian future where people are no longer allowed to love each other, but two people who can't help themselves fall in love anyway, so they're thrown into a prison full of other people who can't help but love each other. All of these people whose love can't be destroyed by an evil government are locked away in the same prison, trying to keep their love alive any way they can. They decide if they all love each other with all of their being, they will create a love so strong that it will topple the government so one night they all gather in the prison shower and begin loving each other and you don't know what happens next because it's porn and you only saw the first eight minutes.

Happy Prisoners Of Love, The Movie Day!

Guitar Lessons For Women Day!

You worked all night on your flyer. It's got a picture of you smiling and holding a guitar. Underneath that is your headline.

"Guitar Lessons For Women."

Then comes the hard sell. "I will teach you how to play guitar in eight weeks, all in the privacy of your own home. Women only."

You're excited for your new business venture. You've looked around at the other flyers posted in the chinese takeout places and laundromats, and as far as you can tell yours is the first in-home guitar school that is specifically for females. You are certain that there are a lot of women out there who will be excited that there's finally a guitar teacher for them, a guitar teacher who will not just teach women guitar, but who will refuse to teach men the guitar.

As your flyer says, "If you're a woman and you want to learn the guitar, I'm ready to come over to your house. I will not teach mean guitar, nor will I give a woman a lesson if there is a man in the house. Absolutely private lessons guaranteed. No one else has to even know I'm there in your house."

All the baristas at the coffee shop who said your flyer is too creepy to post there, and the receptionist at the dance studio who said your flyer is too creepy to post there, and those first three copy shops who refused to xerox your flyers because they didn't want to get involved in the investigation that's sure to come, they're all just jealous that they didn't think of your idea first. This is the best business concept you've had since you opened your "Boys Under !2 Only Sauna."

Happy Guitar Lessons For Women Day!

Lantern Day!

Light your Pier One Imports decorative lantern and you will open a window through time to a place where wives sold themselves for money and husbands were fine with it, even proud. In the time before electricity, sex ruled the land and a husband whose wife didn't sell herself for money was considered miserly.

"Will all this descriptive stuff on the back of the tag really happen if I light this lantern?" you ask the Pier One Imports sales associate, who will shrug without looking up from her copy of People.

Your Pier One Imports decorative lantern will also light your way to a time when children over the age of six were forced to dig sewers. Many died there. They died heroes of sewage development.

"Do you have any lanterns that don't do this stuff?" you ask the Pier One Imports sales associate, who will go on her break.

The flame of your Pier One Imports decorative lantern will always flicker in the direction of the eldest virgin in the room, just like in the olden days, and if you look directly into the flame, you will see the faces of all of your deceased relatives who were sent to hell when they died. Cover all mirrors before lighting your Pier One Imports decorative lantern or else the walls of your home will scream with the anguish of sled dogs cut loose and left to perish alone when they grew too tired to cross the arctic.

"I seem to be having trouble letting go of this lantern. It's fused itself to the skin of my palm," you'll say to another sales associate who may or may not be there.

You are your Pier One Imports decorative lantern and your Pier One Imports decorative lantern is you. Burn always.

Happy Lantern Day!

Turn Your Book Club Into An Anti-Government Militia Day!

Try and look distracted while your fellow club-goers are fighting it out over whether Lawrence or Ramsey is the better catch. When someone finally asks you what you think, throw your book down so that it shatters the glass top of the Noguchi knockoff coffee table and shout, "You all just wanna sit here and talk about chapter 9 of 'The Post Birthday World?' We are in the final chapter of the Post-America world people! And I am not just gonna sit here and find out what's in the epilogue while they tax us for every breath we expel! Who's with me?"

The other book clubbers will stare at you in silence. Then that week's host will get up and pull on a margarita glass in the sideboard, which will make the sidebar spin out to reveal a hidden weapons cache.

"Let's get to the woods," your book club host will say. "America still lives in the trees."

The rest of you will jump from your chairs and cheer. Then you'll each grab a weapon, pick up your kids from soccer, and then rendezvous at the compound in the north.

Happy Turn Your Book Club Into An Anti-Government Militia Day!

Your Strength Is In Your Nosehair Day!

You're like Samson, except disgusting. All of your strength and endurance is tied into the length of the hair that grows out of your nostrils. When you trim your nosehair, you find you can barely lift a glass of water without getting winded. But when you let it grow, you can lift couches over your head without taking a breath.

"I like that you're really strong," your girlfriend is going to tell you today. "But I hate that when I kiss you I often catch one of your nosehairs on my tongue and then I have to stop kissing you so that I can throw up for like an hour."

"I'm sorry," tell her. "But if I trim my nosehairs I will be vulnerable."

Your girlfriend will complain that you work in accounting and you don't need to be so strong. Tell her that advancing hordes only remain at bay because they know you're presently invulnerable.

"Break up with me if you ha--" You'll say, but she'll have already left screaming because she'll have spotted a some ants ascending the vine of your nosehair towards your chin and it will have shaken her to her core. GUESS WHO'S SINGLE AGAIN!!!

Happy Your Strength Is In Your Nosehair Day!

The Waste Of Society Day!

Society as a whole got together last night and elected one person to be THE Waste. The biggest waste of potential, of effort, and of space in all of western culture. That person's name is Leon Blatz. You came in second.

"I will murder Leon Blatz if it is the last thing I ever do," you say out loud to your homemade egg sandwich (scrambled eggs on untoasted wheat bread).

As runner up Waste of Society, you win new storm windows.

"I will accept my award of new storm windows and I will leave my storm windows in a pile on the floor, uninstalled for the rest of my days, while I pursue Leon Blatz to the ends of the earth. His life will be mine," you say out loud to the couch pillow.

As runner up Waste of Society, you also will receive a phone call from Thandie Newton, but she will have dialed the wrong number.

"I'll take it," you say to a six year old empty soda bottle sitting on one of your bookshelves.

Also, as runner up Waste of Society, your life is in danger as Leon Blatz knows he must defend his crown with blood and he has taken an offensive stance against you. Specifically, there is a rifle sight trained on your head as you talk to the items in your home about what you plan to do to Leon Blatz. The trigger will be pulled presently, and your conversation will end, and Leon Blatz will move on to the third runner up, and then the fourth, and then the fifth, until he has wiped out the entire human race, truly earning the title "Waste of Society" (HOLY SHIT THAT WORKED OUT GREAT!).

Happy The Waste Of Society Day!

Heart Donation Day!

Your wife needs a new heart and only yours will work out.

"I'll do it," you tell the doctor.

"Sweet!" your wife shouts.

The doctor will tell you that if you donate your heart, you'll die. You and your wife just stare at the doctor.

"Uh huh," you say.

"What's taking so long?" your wife shouts.

The doctor says he just has to scrub in.

"It's been a great 22 years," you tell your wife.

"Yup," your wife says. "Pretty sweet."

You high five. You make one last inside joke about that Seinfeld episode you both like, then you lay down and have your heart surgically removed and reinstalled in your wife's body and that's the end.

Happy Heart Donation Day!

Sectional Couch Day!

You sit here and she sits there.

"Weapons?" she asks.

"Sure," you say. You reach under your cushions for a hunting knife and some throwing stars. She reaches under hers and pulls out two handguns, different ones, you don't know what they're called, but one looks like the kind Riggs would carry and the other would look good in Murtaugh's hand.

"Clothed or naked?" you ask.

"Tops and bottoms?" she asks.

You take off your bottoms. She takes off her top.

"Okay, let's do this," you say.

She takes a deep breath. "I feel scattered."

"I feel heavy," you say. "Like everything inside me is made of wet cement."

She laughs. "Can I write the Van Halen VH on your insides with a stick?"

You don't laugh. You throw one of your stars and she dodges it.

"I hate November. Always have," she says. "More so since you."

You tell her she's just scared of getting older. She shoots the Murtaugh gun and the bullet slices the skin of your left bicep.

Suggest a compromise.

"Let's both get on buses going in opposite directions. First one to jump off the moving bus to sprint after the other person's bus apologizing for everything and begging for a second chance loses," you say.

"Deal," she says. "You're gonna go down in flames."

You tell her you're well aware of that. Then you put on your tops and bottoms and go to the bus station.

Happy Sectional Couch Day!

Deli Racist Day!

Today you're the deli racist. You're the guy in the corner deli who is openly raving about how much you hate the race of everyone who walks in the store. If you see an Asian person walk in, march up and down the aisle barking about how the Asians are walking on thin ice with you and they better watch it. If you see a black person walk in, march up and down the aisle barking about how the blacks are gonna get what's coming to them one day and you're gonna see to it. If you see a Hispanic person, march up and down the aisle talking about how Mexicans better not climb that wall cause you'll be waiting on the other side.

The customers will ask the deli owner why he keeps you there and the deli owner will explain that you ward off pests. That's when you'll see a mouse crawling out from under the soda fridge and you'll stop in your racist rant and drop to the floor to catch its tail in your teeth. Spend the rest of the day playing with the mouse until it's dead. Then expound a little bit on the Arabs.

Happy Deli Racist Day!

Pictures From Your Mom's And Dad's Wedding Day!

If you look closely at the photos of your Mom's and Dad's wedding, you can see the dark, monstrous face of someone standing in the background.

"That's Satan," your Mom says.

"Yeah he was there," your Dad says.

You ask them why Satan was at their wedding.

"Your mother summoned him," your Dad says.

"It was before I met your father," your Mom says. "I was just a kid. I gradually grew out of all that but we were still in touch on occasion. When it came time to send out invites, it would have been rude not to invite him."

You say that it kind of looks like there's a dark, angry spirit hovering over their nuptials.

"Yeah. Because Satan was at our wedding," your Dad says. "Hello? You in there?"

"You'll see," your Mom says. "When you get married you'll have to invite people you don't want to invite."

You make a vow right then and there to begin cutting off ties with Steve the Malevolent Angel Whose Arrival Portends The Coming Judgment of Man. He'd bring a date and you know EXACTLY how that would play out.

Happy Pictures From Your Mom's And Dad's Wedding Day!

The Bikini Car Wash Is Going To Be Shut Down Day!

There's a greedy, evil developer who wants to build a giant strip mall in town and they're going to try and shut down the Bikini Car Wash that's been dispatching bikini clad girls to wash the town's cars for the past three decades. If the Bikini Car Wash doesn't raise ten thousand dollars over the next week, they'll be done for.

"But how do we raise money to save a Bikini Car Wash?" wonders Mama Fredricks, the owner of the car wash. "It's not like we can just hold a bikini car wash. That's just our daily grind."

"The town usually comes to us to raise money for the about-to-be-shut-down orphanages and recreation centers," says Frida, the hottest girl at the car wash. "Maybe it's about time the town paid us back."

"What could this town possibly have to offer that could make people empty their pockets the way they do for a bikini car wash?" wonders Leona, the fifth hottest girl at the bikini car wash.

That's when it hits them all at once. They all throw silk robes over their bikinis and they run to the women's prison to ask the warden if she'll force the inmates to put on a sex show for which they'll sell tickets.

Happy The Bikini Car Wash Is Going To Be Shut Down Day!

Hate The Show "Psych" Day!

There's a show called Psych on TV and you've never seen it, but today's the day you're going to begin hating it.

"What's it about?" you ask.

Psychic cops maybe? Or cops hunting psychics and rounding them up because they can't be trusted? People just messing around with each other who then shout "Psych!" Maybe?

"What do I get if I hate it?" you ask.

One million dollars.

"Really?!" you ask.

Psych!

"Holy crap. I hate you right now," you say.

No, you hate the show "Psych."

"No I don't," you say. "I hate you. I hope you lose a family member today. One of the ones you like seeing over the holidays."

Don't say that.

"Just did," you say.

Look, this was supposed to be about the show "Psych."

"You made it about you by being the worst entity in existence. Get set on fire," you say.

So are you going to watch the show "Psych" just to spite me?

"Every episode. I'm going to rent the DVDs to catch up on the plotlines. Just to make you feel like you failed at something."

What if I told you I'm on the marketing team for the show "Psych?"

"Oh shit are you serious?"

Psych?

"I have no idea whether to watch Psych or not now," you say. "My life has come to a halt."

Because of the show "Psych." Told you it was worth hating.

(You don't say anything because you have lost your will.)

Happy Hate The Show "Psych" Day!

Your New Sweater Pillow Makes You Dream About Things Wearing Clothes That Shouldn't Day!

You bought a brand new, soft, supercomfy sweater pillow from West Elm. It's a big puffy down pillow covered in the kind of fabric normally reserved for cableknit sweaters. You love to nap on it, except whenever you do you start dreaming about mailboxes wearing dresses, refrigerators dressed up in tuxedos, cartons of eggs that are sold wearing little pairs of jeans, a car with a giant bowler hat on its roof, and trees wearing sexy leather miniskirts which is especially unsettling as it makes you dream of having sex with trees. These dreams are weird but your dreams are always weird and your new sweater pillow is too important so deal.

Happy Your New Sweater Pillow Makes You Dream About Things Wearing Clothes That Shouldn't Day!

Tara's Home Day!

Tara's home. It's 8 AM and she wants to come in.

"Come on Jeff! Open the door!"

"Not again Tara! That was the last time!"

Every night your neighbor Tara leaves the house to go out and get her drink on and maybe a few dudes, and every morning she shows up home again demanding that her boyfriend buzz her in. She stopped carrying keys because she always loses them.

"Jeff! It's cold!"

"I can't Tara! I owe it to myself to not let you in!"

You threw away your alarm clock a long time ago. A few months after moving into your new place you learned you can always count on Tara's shrill, newly sober voice and Jeff's weak-kneed heartbreak would be there every morning at 8 AM to shake you awake and send you to the shower. Occasionally you push the snooze button and wait for Tara to walk down to the corner deli to buy a loose cigarette, then come back and put the icing on the cake.

"Jeff! I love you! Please don't do this!"

"I swear to God Tara, this is the last time."

Buzzzzzzz!

Good morning!

Happy Tara's Home Day!

Elder Army Day!

You and the other women in your nursing home are sick of sitting around all day doing nothing.

"Let's form an army," say to them.

"What?" one will ask.

"An army," you'll repeat, louder into her good ear.

All of the other residents will look at each other for arguments against, then they'll all shrug and nod.

"Which one of your sons can get us weapons?" ask them.

Four of the women will raise their hands. Their sons are all members of domestic terrorist groups who are worried about health care reform.

"Who will be the target of our first assault?" one of the residents will ask.

Spin the rocking recliner in which you're seated slowly on its base so that you're facing all of them in such a position that the buzzing florescents above light your face in the most sinister manner.

Tell them, "Whoever gets in our way."

When an orderly shows up to give you all medication, strangle him to death with your catheter and flee.

Happy Elder Army Day!

Airplane Stripper Day!

You're an airplane stripper on a wealthy industrial titan's private jet and today the wealthy industrial titan seems distracted.

"Don't like what you see, Jeff?" you ask.

"Alice, how long have we known each other," Jeff says.

"Eleven days," you say.

"Eleven days," he repeats. "Then you're the only one I can trust."

He asks you to put your clothes back on and sit down next to him. Then he shows you a spreadsheet he's created listing the names of people who worked at the World Trade Center who called in sick on 9-11, and showing how many of them are descended from Masons.

"You've cracked it wide open," you say, convincingly.

"I've burned this to a disc for you to keep. If anything should happen to me, make sure this gets out."

"Of course," you say.

After the plane lands you'll tell your Plane Stripping agency you don't want to dance on Jeff's plane anymore. A few days later, Jeff will be killed by the Masons and you'll find out that he left you his entire fortune in his will, with a note that reads, "You'll need every dime of this money because you're going to be on the run for the rest of your life. GO NOW!"

You'll get on Jeff's plane, yours now, and you'll introduce yourself to the stripper already dancing for you. She'll tell you her name's Judith and you'll tell her to take a seat because the two of you have a lot of ground to cover if the truth is ever going to get out.

Happy Airplane Stripper Day!

Tell A Kid He Should Be Thankful For What He's Got Day!

Walking down the street today you'll see a little boy staring into the window of a toy store, pointing at a train set and crying. You'll overhear his father say, "No, it's too expensive." The little boy will say, "I hate you! I hate you!" The father will say, "I'm going over to look in that men's clothing store window. You just stay here and cry." Then the father will walk two stores down to stare into his own window.

Walk up to the boy and say, "You shouldn't say that to your Dad."

"But I want the train," the boy will say.

"Trains aren't everything," tell him.

"But I want it," the boy will say.

"You should be thankful you have a father who's willing to not buy you trains," tell him.

"Oh I'm sorry," the boy will say. "Your dad is dead?"

"No," tell him. "Or, maybe he is. He sold me. So I don't really know who he is."

"Fathers can sell their kids?" the boy will ask.

Nod yes.

The boy will run to his father, wrap his arms around his father's legs and beg him not to sell him. The father will ask who told the boy that kids can be sold and the boy will point towards you so you'd better be gone by then.

Happy Tell A Kid He Should Be Thankful For What He's Got Day!

You Got Bit By The Love Raccoon Day!

Cleaning out your garage last night, you disturbed a raccoon that was apparently living behind some empty paint cans. It jumped out at you, scratched at your cheeks and bit you several times on the forehead. When you came out of your garage, a woman pulled over in front of your house holding a map. She wanted directions to a local college. You fell in love with her instantly.

You got bit by The Love Raccoon.

"The what?" you'll ask your doctor.

"Love raccoon," he'll repeat. "Very dangerous and likely rabid. Their saliva makes people fall in love almost instantly. It also makes them foam at the mouth and turn extremely feverish. I'd better give you about 50 shots."

"But I've never been in love," you'll say.

"Well if I don't give you these shots you're gonna turn into a drooling mad fool."

"Is it worth it?" you'll ask.

The doctor will let his mind drift to the day he met his wife Ellen, when she stepped off of that ferry in the warm summer breeze, looking like an angel sent only to make him realize just how beautiful God's creation can be.

"Doc, is it worth it?" you'll ask.

He'll smile. "It is."

You'll shake his hand. Then you'll double over and begin throwing up.

"That's gonna last for the next week or so. Then you'll break out in hives and go blind sometimes. If your throat constricts, give someone a piece of paper telling them to call me. Now go after her!"

You'll run out of the examination room and pass out in a puddle of your own sweat on the waiting room floor.

Happy You Got Bit By The Love Raccoon Day!

Stumbling Into An Elementary School Cafeteria Day!

Your three-day bender is about to come to a close. All of your friends have either gotten thrown in jail, beaten up by bouncers, or they've gone sober. You're alone. You're cold. You want something to eat.

I smell...tater tots, you think.

You follow the scent to a large non-descript building that looks kind of familiar, and you shove your way through the double doors into an elementary school cafeteria.

Shit, you think. That line is huge.

The line of kids will stretch thirty lengths, but one glimpse towards the yellow-lit heat trays and you'll see crispy brown tater tots numbering in the hundreds, piled high and glistening.

You'll limp to the back of the line (you sprained your ankle crawling under a fence a day or two ago). The kids will giggle at the grown man joining them for lunchtime. You'll try to control your temper.

"He looks like somebody's dad," one kid will say and everyone will laugh.

"He's acting like my dad when he comes home from watching football," another kid will say, to less laughter.

You'll make it to the front of the line and you'll order five orders of tater tots. It will cost you $7.50. After discarding the piles of "ButtBucks" you got from a local strip club, you'll find the appropriate legal tender and pay.

"Dad?" you'll hear. You'll turn around and there will be your son, staring up at you. It's his school.

"Hey," you'll say. "Came here to...uh...have lunch with you."

Your son's face will light up. You haven't been allowed to see him until the legal proceedings were finalized and your restraint order was lifted. He considers this a special treat.

While all the other kids laugh, you and your son sit at a table by yourselves. He tells you how he's doing at school while you eat your tater tots. Only after your third tray of tots will you realize your son hasn't ordered any food.

"Eat up," you'll say, shoving one of the trays of tots in his direction. He'll smile and begin devouring the delicious potato morsels. Then you'll continue talking and laughing together until the vice principal arrives with a security guard to ask you to leave quietly.

Happy Stumbling Into An Elementary School Cafeteria Day!

You And Your Husband Want To Marry Other People Day!

You've been married for a month already and frankly, the fact that you don't have any weddings planned is making the future look less than awesome.

"Let's marry other people," your husband will say.

"That's classic!" you'll reply.

You and your husband will go out to the bars and woo prospective second spouses until you each find that extra-special second someone who won't ask too many questions. You'll drink enough to get engaged then you'll each meet your second fiance's parents and start planning the big day.

"Isn't this fun?" you'll whisper when you call your husband in the middle of the night.

"We should just keep getting married to people for the rest of our lives," he'll whisper back. "Oops, I think Cheryl's waking up! Make sure you get your ceremony videotaped. I wanna see it."

After you both get married to other people you'll break the news that you only did it for the wedding, and once everyone stops yelling at you and breaking your faces, you and your husband will reunite and tell each other all about your respective weddings.

"We had shrimp," your husband will say.

"We had a caviar station," you'll say.

Then you'll tell your husband that he needs to get a better job because you spent a good hunk of your savings on your wedding.

"My parents weren't going to pay for another one," you'll explain.

"That's fine. On your weddings days, everything should be perfect," your husband will say. Then you'll hug him and the two of you will go to the bedroom and do to each other all the stuff you each learned on your wedding nights with that bride and groom who are presently crying their eyes out someplace. You two should introduce them, maybe they'd hit it off.

Happy You And Your Husband Want To Marry Other People Day!

Save Your Family Day!

Today some crazy people with guns who wear masks that don't have any eyeholes are going to come into your house and announce, "We're going to rape and kill all of you right here in the middle of dinner. It's what we do for fun. Who's first?"

Everyone in your family will say, "Aw man! I wanted to finish dinner." Then they'll accept their fates and they'll form a single file line.

Everyone except you.

"I don't think so you guys," you'll say.

The masked rapists/killers will all laugh.

"But you're only seven!"

"Yup," you'll say. "But I'm REAL unstable."

That's when you'll light the firecrackers you had been planning to shove up the cat's butt and you'll throw them at the rapists/killers who will fire their weapons in the air in the confusion.

Then you'll take the lighter fluid you had been planning to drench the dog with and you'll spray it all over the rapists/killers masks, and you'll light the masks on fire just like you had been planning to do with the dog and your sister's gerbil if you had enough lighter fluid which you probably would have.

The rapists/killers will fall to the ground trying to get their burning masks off but soon they'll all just pass out with their eyes ruined forever. Just to add insult to injury, you'll take some of the live ants you keep in your pants pocket and you'll shove them up the rapists/killers masks to feed on their charred faces.

Your family will be so happy that you saved them, then they'll be upset when they realize you've crapped on one of the rapists/killers and now you're playing with the crap, kind of exploring it with your hands and murmuring something, a little story that's playing out in your head.

Your family will forever be grateful to, and terrified of, you. You'll have your first inpatient stay at a mental hospital before you turn twelve.

Happy Save Your Family Day!

She's Leaving You* Day!

Your girlfriend is walking out on you today.

"I've fallen in love with something."

"Something?" you'll say.

She'll nod.

"Not a person?"

"No. God no."

"Then...what?"

She'll shake her head. "I can't. It's so..."

"Embarrassing?"

"New. I'm afraid of jinxing it."

You'll put your hand on hers. "I don't want you to pass up real love. No one should. If it will make you happy, you should leave me for this...soft object?"

She'll shake her head.

"Shiny item that is larger than a breadbox?"

She'll shake her head.

"Um...taxidermied--"

"God no."

"Is it a purse?"

"Look, I gotta go."

As she's leaving you'll shout at her back, "Just tell me!"

She'll slam the door behind her. Six months from now you'll see her at brunch sitting across the table from a bucket of rags, looking happier than she ever was with you.

She's Leaving You* Day!



*for a bucket of rags

You Want To Lick His Digital Watch Day!

He's got a digital watch on his wrist and you wanna know how it tastes. You've been watching him all afternoon, sitting at his desk trying to make it through this defensive driving class without falling asleep, and you can't help but stare at the jet black plastic band wrapped around his snow white wrist. You want to slip your tongue underneath that band and have him tighten it, restraining your tongue against his skin, making a permanent imprint of the little rectangles of the band on the top of your tongue, and the hairs of his wrist on the bottom of your tongue.

"Are you looking at my fucking watch Grandma?" he's shouting. You can't hear him. You're mesmerized.

"Please stop looking at his watch ma'am. You're far too old to be behaving like this," the defensive driving teacher is saying now. Not that you can hear anything but the occasional beep emitted by his watch when another quarter-hour passes.

"I think she might be touching herself," the guy behind you is saying, as if any words that came out of his mouth mattered in your universe.

"No wait. I think she's setting something on fire!" someone sitting next to you is shouting.

In the chaos of everyone running from the blaze you've set, grab your digital watch wearing Adonis and slam his head against the wall three times hard, knocking him unconscious. Then lock the door and hold him in your arms and check the time on his digital watch just before the roof caves in on top of the two of you. That is the time of your death as an unlicensed driver in love.

Happy You Want To Lick His Digital Watch Day!

Don't Commit A Felony Day!

Apologies for all those whose big bank heist or matricide was planned for today. It sucks when you have something on your schedule for weeks in advance and then something comes along at the last minute and you're forced to cancel. Unfortunately though, today's Don't Commit a Felony Day. So if you were planning to steal a car, shoot a liquor store owner in the face, or set a hospital on fire, it will have to wait until tomorrow.

Please consult your local criminal code to determine what constitutes a felony in your state. Remember, anal is legal in Texas now, so you're cool.

Happy Don't Commit A Felony Day!

Maxed Out Credit Cards Guy Day!

Today you're maxed out credit cards guy. You're going to go from store to store, ringing up hundreds of dollars of items, then you'll hand over one of your maxed out credit cards for payment and wait for the big reveal.

"Try it again!" you'll shout.

The cashier will tell you the card is simply not being accepted. So you'll give her another.

"I'm sorry sir but that one is also being declined."

Say this is ridiculous and give her your next card, telling her, "I never use this one so it has to work."

That one won't work, as you know, and you'll give her the next one to try, which also won't work, as you know.

After she's tried all 50 of the maxed out credit cards in your wallet, sit in the middle of the floor with your head in your hands and weep. After about twenty minutes, get up and go across the street to repeat the whole process with that store's cashier.

Happy Maxed Out Credit Cards Guy Day!

Your Rescue From A Basement After Many Many Years, Sponsored By Wendy's Day!

Today you're going to be freed from the basement where you've been held captive for several years. The darkness and silence has turned you mad, and you'll have trouble grasping onto your sense of self. The emptiness of the basement robbed you of your ability to distinguish your own personhood from the surrounding environment, and so when people ask you questions you don't know that you're being addressed. Other people's voice are indistinguishable from your own thoughts. Physical pain inflicted on your body is understood as "the way the world is now." You have no idea that you exist.

"Bet you're ready for a tasty Baconator," a man in a suit will say as he holds a large burger covered in bacon in front of your face.

"This man is from Wendy's," the policeman will say. "They sponsored your rescue. Take a bite of that hamburger while the camera is filming you, then we'll take you to the hospital."

You'll howl wordlessly.

"Just put the Baconator in your mouth and your rape kit's paid for," the man from Wendy's will say.

You'll jerk one of your arms in the air, with no intent.

"We fought tooth and nail to win the chance to sponsor this rescue," the man from Wendy's will whisper in your ear. "The whole world's waiting to see you freed and rejoin society. Just bite into the Baconator and give a thumbs up."

You'll open your mouth to bite him in the face, but he knows how these rescues usually go down, and he'll take that split-second opportunity to shove the burger in your mouth and then work your jaw to chew.

The burger will taste delicious. This is the way the world is now. It's bacon-y.

After the man from Wendy's forces one of your thumbs into the air, you'll be rushed to the hospital where the unimaginable truth of your horrific 3-year ordeal will finally be revealed, sponsored by Wendy's.

Happy Your Rescue From A Basement After Many Many Years, Sponsored By Wendy's Day!

No Karate Class Day!

When you go back to pick up little Susan and Jesse from Karate class, you'll find all the kids sitting still on the mats, just as you left them. Except they'll all be looking down into their laps, the expressions on their faces far too morose for children so young.

"Where's Sensei?" you'll ask.

Susan will look up at you, her eyes puffy, and she'll shake her head slowly.

"Jesse?" you'll ask.

Jesse will get up and stand by you. "We told him not to go and confront them," he'll say. "We told him it was a fool's errand. But he refused to back down."

"You're a damn mule!" one of the other kids will shout at the sky.

"What did you have to prove? Why couldn't you have just let it go?" another little girl will shout, pounding her fist into the mat beneath her.

After some seconds of silence, Jesse will try and explain.

"It's a battle that's lasted centuries, spanning back to a cow stolen from Sensei's great great great grandfather's land in Okinawa. Two families, pitted together for life. Apparently, the descendant of one of those families opened an Arby's over in Eastville. Sensei said he had to honor the blood flowing through his veins and settle this once and for all."

"And he didn't come back," Susan said.

You take both your kids' hands and say, "I'm sure he's okay." Then you lead them out to the car, mentally calculating the number of classes you've already paid for and the refund you should be due if the Sensei died for his ancestral feud. At least around $170 for Pete's sake.

As you pull out of the parking lot you see smoke on the horizon.

"The Arbys," Susan and Jesse will sing in unison. They'll have hope in their voices. Perhaps their Sensei was triumphant after all.

Happy No Karate Class Day!

Misquote That Movie "Tobey Maguire" Day!

Today you should misquote that Tom Cruise movie about the talent agent who wants to see money. So when you see someone with money, shout at them "Let me see your money!" When you love someone and you want them to know it, say to them, "I wasn't done, but thanks to you, I'm all set. Ding!" And if you just want someone to shut up, say, "I was sick of you when we first met." Finally, when you want someone to help you help them, say, "Hey, you need help. I need help. Let's go find someone to help us, but let's carpool." Jonathan Kenicky is still alive, BTW.

Happy Misquote That Movie "Tobey Maguire" Day!

Grocery Shopping All By Your Lonesome Day!

Get past the pears with your eyes closed. She liked pears. Ate one every day.

She hated cereal and she hated the sound of you eating it. Now when you eat it, it's deafening. You can see what she meant. Skip the cereal and switch to toast.

Don't buy any milk. Milk was her thing. In her coffee. You don't need it anymore. Before she moved in the only milk you ever had in your fridge was sour. You'd buy it and forget you had it until it started to stink. You have to prove that her leaving won't make your fridge stink. If she wanted to go, fine. She'd better not think that now that she's gone your fridge is going to stink again, because it's not. Your fridge will smell just fine.

No eggs either. Long story. Long funny story. You two laughed like idiots that morning.

You're out of light bulbs which is fine because two are burned out and you'd like to wait for the other two to go so that you won't have to see your life without her. You're out of paper towels but it doesn't matter because cleaning up will only get rid of the evidence that she was a part of your life and you want to hang onto every speck of her dirt and dust. You're out of salt.

You actually ran out of salt. The tub with the girl with the umbrella that you bought ten years ago, the one that survived two moves, is empty. Is that why she left? When the salt runs out, it's time to reevaluate things, see where you're at, whether you should stay or go to grad school in Richmond.

"You can cut in front of me," the woman with two carts full of meats and cookies says. "If all you have is that one microwave burrito and those three six packs of Magic Hat."

Happy Grocery Shopping All By Your Lonesome Day!

Your Video Masturbation Subscription List Is Bored Day!

Back in '67 you started a subscription-based club for people who wanted to receive a drawing of you masturbating once every month. You promised that the drawing was a true representation of one of your masturbation sessions that took place during the month prior (or an amalgam of several, if you felt there was too much going on that month to limit it to one position/setting).

In the 1980's, with the rise of the VCR, your subscribers demanded videotape and you conceded. You saw a big dropoff in subscriptions since you were pushing 40 by that time and the camera doesn't lie.

Now with the rise of the internet, you distribute your videos online. You still stick to the once a month schedule, but that doesn't make it easier on you. Since you're in your sixties now, you often have to schedule several shoot days before you finally get a take that doesn't end with you letting go of your flacid member and throwing your hands up, saying into the camera, "Maybe next time."

Your subscriber base (now down to just four people, one of them being your ex-wife (long story)) have been complaining that they've been seeing the same man masturbate for decades now and they feel like they should know more about him. So today you're going to tape yourself masturbating with one hand while showing off your baseball card collection with the other.

You won't get too in depth about the collection, since you really need to concentrate to masturbate. You're just going to flip the pages of your card binder, then wave your hand a little, as if you were a game show girl showing off the next prize. You hope that shuts everyone up, because you really don't want to have to masturbate while telling the camera about the first time you saw a dead body when you were seven.

Happy Your Video Masturbation Subscription List Is Bored Day!

He Controls The Rain Day!

"I control the rain," he said.

You had no reason not to believe him.

"So when you're on an elevator and someone asks if you ordered all this rain you say yes?"

"I try to keep it a secret in order to keep from being abducted by governments."

You were smitten.

"He controls the rain," you said.

"What's that pay?" your Dad asked.

You forwarded this question to him.

"It pays nothing. It's simply a power with which I have been cursed. Every once in a while I must keep the water levels at a manageable mark and so I have no choice but to ruin people's hair and outfits," he said.

"I like the rain," your Dad said. "So you have my blessing. Tell him he kind of overdid this year though. Except for in the southwest."

"Oh I don't control the rain in the Southwest region. That's this guy Max's turf. I'm strictly mid-Atlantic," he says. But you already knew that.

"So we can get married?" he asks.

You nod and cry. He touches one of your tears.

"I wish I could control the rain that falls from your eyes," he says. "I would institute of a drought that would last for decades."

You almost tell him that Max, the guy who controls the Southwest rainfall and who you actually dated for a while, was able to keep you from crying for months on end. He used kindness. But you don't want him to be threatened.

"Can you make it sunny on our wedding day?" you ask.

He tells you not to ask him about work, then you kiss, even though you didn't like his answer.

Happy He Controls The Rain Day!

Too High To Play Lotto Day!

You only had one thing on your to-do list today but you got too high to do it. You were going to play your Mom's lotto numbers then bring the tickets over to her house, but you started panicking that since the lotto is run by the government you'd be added to some kind of list for special observation and eventually, when the other shoe falls, you'd be shipped off to help build the undersea cities once the solid ground becomes uninhabitable. Anyway, your Mom's numbers will come up today and she would have won 5200 dollars had you not gotten too high to play them. She won't say anything about it though. Since you didn't give her her tickets, she'll know you either forgot or "those cigarettes" got in your way again. Your visits are important to her and she doesn't want to spend them fighting over money.

Happy Too High To Play Lotto Day!

You Think The Birds Are All Hi-Tech Cameras That Are Trying To Catch Sight Of You Naked Day!

You are pretty sure that Mrs. Lewis, the 81-year-old lady who lives down the block, has a thing for you. You're also pretty sure that Mrs. Lewis is a wealthy criminal mastermind with the power to build thousands of tiny cameras disguised as birds and scatter them around the trees outside your windows, solely to catch an occasional glimpse of you in the nude.

Everything changed between you and Mrs. Lewis back in 1981 when she wandered over to your stoop one Saturday afternoon and offered you a glass of lemonade.

"I'm a widower," you told her, "but my deceased beloved still has my heart."

Mrs. Lewis went back to her apartment and, you're certain, began plotting ways to glimpse you out of your shirts. She spent the next decade, you're certain, designing the prototype for her bird cameras, and began distributing them in the years that followed.

You're staring at thirty of her cameras right now. You're drawing on a large piece of posterboard. You're making a sign. It reads, "Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee Mrs. Lewis? It's been a long, lonely summer, and I'd prefer that the autumn not follow suit."

You hold the sign up to the bird cameras for a full minute, more than long enough for Mrs. Lewis to read it. Then you put the sign down and you wait to hear her knock on your door. If she doesn't knock, you'll have your answer.

Happy You Think The Birds Are All Hi-Tech Cameras That Are Trying To Catch Sight Of You Naked Day!

Airplane Dance Number Day!

You're on a plane with 83 people who coordinated a dance number to be performed on the plane so that they can get big numbers on Youtube and then get their shit played on a loop on Fox and Friends or some shit like that. You're the only one who doesn't know the moves and they're afraid you're going to ruin everything.

"You have to learn the steps," one of them, named Dusty, is telling you.

"But I'm playing in-flight trivia on my seat-back TV and winning big," you say.

"Who's playing in-flight trivia with this guy!" Dusty shouts. Then the passengers playing in-flight trivia argue that they're just trying to kill some time while you get convinced to learn the dance number. They point out that in-flight trivia really makes the time fly by, but Dusty counters that they all spent over $400 to be on this flight just to do the dance number and the dance number is what they're gonna do. The ones playing in-flight trivia say "fair enough" and they stop playing.

"Fuck!" you say. "I was killing it."

"Just learn the dance number and as soon as we get it on video, you can go back to watching the Office or whatever," Dusty says.

"But I can't dance," you say. "And this sounds gay as balls."

"Of course it's gay as balls," Dusty says. "You think a youtube clip can get played on TV if it isn't gay as balls? You see that one of those stocky people dancing down the aisle at that wedding?"

You concede Dusty's point.

"I really can't dance," you say.

Dusty tries to think of what to do to keep you from ruining everything.

"I got it," Dusty says. Then he beats you over the head until you're unconscious and stuffs you into the lavatory. They conduct their number while you're unconscious in there, but some turbulence knocks you off balance and you end up falling on your neck in a way that constricts the blood-flow to your head and you die in there. The tape of the dance number gets played on all the networks, day and night, to show what the rest of the passengers were doing while a man died in the airplane bathroom. The chyrons on the nightly news will read "Dance Of Death Flight" because no one at the studio could agree on what the chyrons should read so someone just typed something and shouted, "No more arguing!"

Happy Airplane Dance Number Day!

You're a Terrible Developer of Timewasting Websites Day!

You've been trying to come up with a hit, viral timewasting website for a while now, but all of your ideas are horrible. Your latest takes the cake, "Tree or Child Killed By A Stray Bullet dot com." It's one of those constantly refreshing sites where people click quiz after quiz. A name appears, and visitors have to click on whether they think the name is the name of a tree or a child who was killed by a stray bullet. So the screen either says something like "Maple" (clearly, a tree) or something along the lines of "Amber Rae Peterson" (I'm guessing child killed by stray bullet). How is that a challenge?

It's common knowledge that you hate criticism and you're going to read this and shout, "But I'm just trying to get my wife to come back!" This won't work. Write her a letter.

Happy You're a Terrible Developer of Timewasting Websites Day!

Pay The Kid To Sauce Your Lemonade Day!

You threw one too many punches, kissed one too many dames when they weren't looking, threw up one too many times on the pool table right after the felt got changed, and so you finally got thrown out of Murray's for good.

Nowhere else to drink in this neighborhood. What's your day gonna be like with no bar to belly up to? Who's gonna pour your sauce and ask you what's what?

Wait a minute. That yellow-headed kid on the corner selling lemonade to pay for his mom's prescriptions. He's looking for customers!

You slap a buck on his cardboard counter top and you say, "Pour."

He does. You sip. Then spit.

"Weak," you say.

"I can add more sugar," the kid says.

"Nah, nah. Wait a minute," you say. You slap a five on the counter. "Sauce it."

The kid just stares at you.

"Ain't got no sauce? Hang on."

You head to the corner and buy the best pint of vodka five dollars will allow.

"Here you go," you tell the kid. "Pour me another, but fill the cup with that halfway."

The kid says, "I don't know."

"Look son," you say. "I need a bar and I need a bartender or else I'm just a ship at sea. You're gonna have to take the job. You'll learn quick you sauce a guy like me, he'll keep giving you his money till you throw him out, and you will throw him out. Trust me."

You slap two bucks on the counter. The kid pours. You drink.

"Gimme that stool. Ain't sitting on the grass. Bartender works on his feet anyway."

The kid gives you his stool and you sit.

"Hope it don't rain," you say to the kid.

The kid says, "Not likely to I reckon."

Then you spend the next ten hours silently staring at the hedge just past his shoulder, trying to think back to 1973 and remember Gina's hips.

Happy Pay The Kid To Sauce Your Lemonade Day!

Gambling Husband Day!

You're going to have to defend your husband against another close-minded jerk again today. Apparently he stole your teenage babysitter's credit card and used it to gamble online. He ended up charging several thousand dollars in losses onto her card.

"He's a maniac," your babysitter will say.

Slap her in the face.

"My husband is not a maniac. He's a gambler."

"But, he lost all my money."

Slap her in the face again.

"Would you have been complaining if he'd won?" ask her.

"Why'd you slap me in the face? I was just stating a fact."

Put your teenage babysitter in a headlock and drag her around the room while shouting, "You're just jealous because I found a man who's willing to take chances!"

Then throw her through the bay window. She'll run off and call the police.

Happy Gambling Husband Day!

You Owe A Doctor $87,432 Day!

You've never even been in to see this doctor, but he started sending you bills anyway. They totaled $87,432 and they cover routine blood tests and other preventative health screenings.

"But I don't know who you are and haven't seen a doctor in years," you tell the doctor when you call.

"Must have been a billing screwup," the doctor says.

"So do I have to pay it?" you ask.

"Of course," the doctor says. "You got a bill didn't you?"

"But you just said it was a screwup," you say.

The doctor sighs. "Look, I don't know how this billing system works, and I would never presume to know. The billing system has a plan for us that we could never comprehend. What I think is a screwup is probably a part of a grand tapestry of billing that goes back for years and years, and will keep going into the future, until the billing system decides the time is right to reveal itself to a cowering mankind."

You realize that this doctor might be making sense. If you getting billed $87,432 for health services you never sought is part of a larger plan, that means your life isn't just a meaningless assemblage of humiliating moments that will end as randomly as it began.

If the billing system has decided you owe $87,432, choosing not to pay it would be tantamount to choosing to have never existed at all.

"Will you take a check?" you ask the doctor.

The doctor says, "However the bill says to do it, do that. Trying to pay any other way would only anger the billing system."

You hang up and read the bill. It says payment must be made in offspring (either two boys or three and a half girls).

Happy You Owe A Doctor $87,432 Day!

Goodbye The Gardener Day!

The gardener doesn't want to have sex with you anymore.

"But I bought all these new contraptions," you'll say.

"I met someone else," he'll say. "She's married and dissatisfied as well. She lives in the mansion three houses down. She really gets me."

"Is this because of that one time when I told you that if you didn't sleep with me I'd accuse you of stealing and have you arrested?"

The gardener will say, "It's not that. I hear that line every day."

He'll come and kneel by your daybed where you like to drink in the afternoon.

"People change," he'll say. "They grow. It's what makes life worth living. Sure there's loss, but only to make room for more gain."

You'll throw your pitcher of mimosa at his head but he'll duck. Then he'll run out the front door, not even looking over his shoulder for one last glance at the beauty you gave to him. You'll go upstairs, put on some makeup, then you'll go out back to show your naked breasts to the pool cleaner, just to get his input.

Happy Goodbye The Gardener Day!

Long Drive Just To Find Out If A Friend Is Alive Or Not Day!

You're stuck in traffic on some such highway headed north to Dean's house on the ugliest hill in Vermont. Dean was in that group of your friends who dropped out of your life when they turned 35. Dean was at least good enough to go and hole up in the middle of nowhere. The others just went about their lives, not changing a thing except for eliminating you from their immediate social circle.

Dean left town in a scary way. He started getting quieter and quieter, showing up less and less, then right at the point when people started filling conversation gaps with the "I'm worried about Dean" icebreaker, Dean sends out an email inviting everyone to come by his place cause he's giving away a lot of stuff. A week later he was gone.

The traffic's moving a little better now and you wonder if you're really worried about Dean or if you're just bored. You sent your first email to him a month ago without a reply, then you started sending him another every couple of days, demanding he reply.

Earlier this week, you wrote that if he doesn't write back, you're coming up to that shack of his and busting down the door. He didn't write back. Here you are on this stupid road. The leaves haven't even turned yet.

If Dean's dead, you're not sure what you're supposed to do. Did you drive all this way just to be the one who finds his body, dials 911, then drives back home? It's not like you're going to make the funeral arrangements.

His silence has lasted a month now. Were you thinking he's just been sitting on the floor, staring at your emails on his screen, rocking back and forth for weeks and weeks hoping you'll bust through the door and cheer him up?

What scares you the most is maybe you're only making this heroic, worried drive because you didn't go anywhere this summer and you wanted to take a trip. You're worried that you didn't want to save your friend so much as you wanted to get the weekday rate on a Zipcar. Before pulling out of town you considered stopping at the Apple store to get a car adapter for your iPod, but you knew you wouldn't have been able to live with yourself if you had stopped for the adapter and then shown up to find Dean freshly deceased.

"Had I only arrived five minutes sooner..."

Whatever the reason you took the trip, you're here now, here at Dean's. You've just turned off the engine. The light's on in the living room, but you can't see him. That light doesn't need to be on, the sun's shining bright through his many windows. You instantly decide it's been left on for days and nights and Dean really did pack it in.

You escape from your seatbelt and roll out of the car. You drop your keys in the dirt driveway and scrabble around for them. When you stand back up, Dean's standing in his open doorway. He's been waiting for you.

"I was gonna reply, but you said you'd come up if I didn't reply, so I didn't reply."

Dean's excited to have a houseguest. He has lunch ready.

Happy Long Drive Just To Find Out If A Friend Is Alive Or Not Day!

Last Call Day!

You and that guy are the last ones in the bar.

“Guess you’re it,” you say.

“Anything you need to know in advance?” he asks.

You shake your head mournfully. He helps you off your stool and leads you to the door.

“What if we end up together?” he says, while hailing a cab. “What if we get married and spend the rest of our lives together. All because we forgot to leave the bar earlier tonight.”

“I don’t think I’d be so great to grow old with,” you say.

“Me neither,” he says. You’re in the cab now. “That’s what I mean. Our fates could have already been decided by my decision to order that one last one a half hour ago, and your decision to wait for your songs to come on the jukebox.”

“That’s weird,” you say, pulling him into a kiss. You take a breath and say, “It’s hard to imagine that I might be marrying you someday. I mean, I feel nothing.” You kiss him again, just to prove that last statement to yourself. You're in your apartment now.

“Think if you make it out of this one without us getting tied down you’ll start drinking less?” he asks you. You’re having sex now.

“Doubt it,” you say. You’re coming now. “I can make all the empty promises I want but I know myself. I don’t know what’ll make me stop drinking, but it certainly won’t be when things work out the way I’m hoping they will. It’ll probably be more like if I get thrown in jail or something. I wonder about that a lot. You don’t get to drink in jail, do you? I mean, you can probably sneak the occasional bottle in, but that’s probably rare. How do they do it?” You’re done coming now.

“Well, whatever happens, you have a real nice place,” he says. He’s getting dressed and leaving now.

“I’ll call you,” you say. He’s gone now.

Only time will tell if you call him or not, like you said you would. If you do and this thing really does work out, at least you have this great “how we met” story to tell your grandkids one day.

Happy Last Call Day!

Your Daughter Might Be Dating a Relocated Witness Day!

Your daughter is dating a boring guy named Ben Jamison who says that he is in “accounts.” But your daughter says that the only reason he seems so boring is because he was in the witness relocation program and people are still after him.

“He told you that?” you ask your daughter.

“Of course not. He’d be killed,” your daughter says.

According to your daughter, there’s no way she could feel what she feels for Ben if he didn’t have some secret past that he’s trying to keep hidden, which is why he has to present himself as the least interesting person she’s ever met.

“Are you sure you’re not just inventing this secret past for him in order for you to settle for this guy?” you ask your daughter.

Your daughter says, “Watch this.”

She claps a book shut hard so that it sounds like a gunshot. In the living room, Ben immediately drops to the floor, whips a pistol out of his boot and fires twelve rounds through the bay window.

“I’ll never doubt you again,” you tell your daughter. “You got yourself a real livewire there.”

“Thanks Daddy,” she’ll beam up at you.

Happy Your Daughter Might Be Dating a Relocated Witness Day!

Treasure Rehab Day!

You’ve discovered a map that indicates there is an ancient treasure hidden deep underground on a hill in California. Turns out they built a rehab center on top of it, and the only way to get to that treasure is to admit yourself into rehab.

While you bide your time, inspecting the grounds and waiting for the right moment to bust through the basement, you’re going to have to attend the group therapy sessions where you’ll learn quite a lot about yourself. For example, the reason you turned to a life of crime is because your father favored your older brother who died on his Prom Night. And the reason you keep having to steal money to buy more cocaine is because you keep running out of cocaine because you’re addicted to cocaine.

When you finally find the treasure you’ll discover that it’s cursed and you’ll be killed and turned into a ghost forced to haunt the rehab center and that’s how you’ll become “The Ghost Of Shimmering Lake Rehabilitation and Rejuvenation Retreats (We Now Take Discover).”

Happy Treasure Rehab Day!

Your Son Ain't Gonna Be Born In No Women's Prison Day!

You and your wife are notorious thieves wanted in more states than there are stars on the flag, which is tough to do. After your most recent heist, your wife got nabbed by the cops and sent upriver. A pretty inconvenient wrinkle under any circumstances, but especially so right now, because your wife is seven months pregnant with your first child, a son.

"No way is my baby boy gonna be born in no women's prison," you tell the rest of your crew.

"But They know you'll try and bust her out," your demolitions expert says. "They're holdin' her just to make you come for her. They'll be waitin' boss."

"Then we better not make em wait too long," you say.

Happy Your Son Ain't Gonna Be Born In No Women's Prison Day!

Death Race For A Boy Day!

You like a boy named Craig in your school, but so do five other girls. Rather then spend all year fighting over him, you've agreed to a death race. You and the five other girls are going to drive your parents' cars through an industrial area littered with explosives and booby traps. Whoever is still alive at the end gets to date Craig (and live beyond age 17).

You can rest easy knowing that at the end of the race, you're going to come out the winner (your decision to arm your car with paint guns was genius, allowing you to blind the other teenage girls' windshields, sending them to crash at high speeds to their deaths). Though you'll come out of the race alive, a spike that gets lodged in your leg will spread an infection that forces doctors to amputate. Craig doesn't like the disabled, so he'll refuse to date you.

"Forget him," your father will say. "Don't let some boy decide whether you have value or not. The important thing is that you gave it your all, and you came out on top. See what happens when you apply yourself?"

Your mother will add, "I am so proud of you sweetie. I wouldn't trade you for any one of those girls you killed."

You'll thank your parents and ask them to leave you alone in your room. You'll wait for sleep to come, wondering why boys have to be such jerks.

Happy Death Race For A Boy Day!

Leafblower Killer Day!

You want to go down in history as the Leafblower Killer and today's your first kill. You find a neighbor in his yard and you sneak up from behind. When he turns around, you turn on your leafblower and aim it straight at his head. Unfortunately, the gust isn't strong enough to blow his head off. It just puts his glasses out of place and makes him annoyed. So you take the heavy base of the leafblower and bludgeon him to death with it.

That worked, even though it didn't quite go as planned. You'll still be able to be called the Leafblower Killer, but you'll just have to go around hitting people over the head with your leafblower. Your shoulder will be stiff, but hey, that's murder.

Happy Leafblower Killer Day!

Train Tracks Day!

You're nine so it's time to go fuck around near some fuckin' train tracks. Hang out with some homeless guys maybe? Poke a dead opossum with a stick or something. Set fire to a stray cat maybe? Poke a dead homeless guy with a stick or something. Pee up in the air and get a little bit on you maybe? Meet a girl who's looking for food for her sick dad or something. Help escaped convicts get their ankle shackles off maybe? Find a trash bag full of porno mags or something. You're nine. There's train tracks. They were built solely for you to fuck around on. It was only after several years of nine-year-olds fucking around on train tracks that someone realized those tracks could also be used for trains to ride on. The nine-year-olds were against it at first but once the trains started rolling on those rails they found that a lot of stuff falls off of trains that nine-year-olds find very fuck-around-withable. Anyway, those tracks are waiting, nine-year-old. Have a fun and disgusting and extremely dangerous time.

Happy Train Tracks Day!

Wargames Peterson Day!

Your parents named you Wargames Peterson because they loved the movie WarGames and they wanted you to embody the sense of light-hearted terror they felt while watching the 80's techno-thriller. It's annoying, though, because every time you tell someone your name they immediately start speaking in the Joshua voice and asking, "Shall we play a...game?" Or worse, they'll want to tell you how much they loved the movie, as if you had anything to do with it.

"My parents were just real into it," you tell them.

"But you must have loved it too, right? Everyone loves WarGames."

You never admit this to them, but you still haven't seen the movie. You're so pissed at your parents for giving you this crappy name that you've kept yourself from seeing it just to spite them. You're so sick of it all that today you're going down to city hall to legally have your name changed to Lawrence.

The clerk will read your name-change application form, then he'll look up at you and ask, "Now why would you want to go and do a thing like this?"

"I just want a normal name," you'll say.

"But anyone can be Lawrence," the clerk will say. "You're Wargames!"

The clerk will then tell you the story about how his parents named him Adelelmo, which means noble protector in German. He always hated the name and he decided to change it to Felix. Then his father explained to him that his Great Great Great Grandfather named his child Adelelmo but the boy was murdered as a teen when he protected his mother from invading hordes, and since then there's been an Adelelmo in every generation of his family to keep that ancestral child's brave spirit alive. The clerk told his father he didn't give a shit and he went ahead and changed his name to Felix.

"But I wouldn't have done it if my Great Great Great Grandfather had named his kid Wargames. Great movie. Shall we play a...game?"

You'll say to the clerk, "You know, I've never seen it."

The clerk will be shocked. "Then you don't even know what your namesake is. You can't take this step without at least learning what you're named for."

The clerk will invite you over to his place to watch WarGames. You'll only make it a half-hour into the movie before the clerk makes a pass at you and you split. You'll end up keeping the name, but only because you're afraid to see the clerk again.

Happy Wargames Peterson Day!

Stop Drunk Texting Your Priest Day!

Hey fther, just thru up in a cab. Dont tell jeesus! Shhhhhhh

Not cool. Your priest gave you his cell phone number back when your parents were getting a divorce and he wanted you to feel like you could call him anytime you needed some support through that trying time. Yes, it was a mistake on his part. He was new to the Parish and just out of the seminary and he was maybe trying a little too hard to be "the cool Priest." But this is no way to pay him back.

Hey father. Lotta wasted chicks at this party. Gonna try for a 2fer 2night. Jealous?

He doesn't need this. Sure, maybe you never needed his help. Maybe you're feeling a little wild now that you're twenty and out on your own. Maybe you think you'll never need the kind of help your Priest has to offer.

Hey Father. Beating off. Right fuckin now. sinsinsinsinsinsinsinsinsinSINSINSINSINSIN!!!

Have you ever asked yourself why you always feel the need to text your Priest when you're drunk? Do you ever think that maybe, when you're texting all these horrible things what you really want to text is...

Father? I need to talk to somebody.

Lucky for you, he'll still be there when you need him.

Happy Stop Drunk Texting Your Priest Day!

You Left Your Heart At The Topahanga Campground Port-A-Potty Day!

Today riding home in the passenger seat while your husband curses the traffic from behind the wheel, all you can do is remember that hand on your lower back, that breath in your ear, that stench of sanitizer and feces.

"Beautiful night," he said when he saw you.

"Yes it is."

You'd already been waiting for five minutes for the person inside the Port-a-Potty to come out and you really had to go. You tried not to dance while talking to him.

"Here with your family?"

"My husband and son," you nodded.

"My wife and daughter," he said with a little bow of his head.

"I guess we're both on the same page," you said, almost immediately regretting it. What did you mean by that?

"My dad used to take me here when I was a kid," he said. "Weird that I would take my daughter here too. I don't remember ever liking these trips."

You heard a noise hoping the Port-a-Potty door was opening but you were let down.

"It's hard to break tradition," you said. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to do anything that I haven't already done a hundred times before."

"You just have to decide what you want to do and do it," he said.

His two top shirt buttons were open. You saw his chest. It glowed in the lamplight. The Port-a-Potty door opened and you ran inside and locked the door behind you.

While peeing, you could only think about him out there, waiting, listening. What had he thought when you said "we're on the same page." You didn't mean anything untoward. Did you? And that line about new experiences. Good God, your husband was in a tent only two hundred feet away.

So it had to happen fast.

Your pants pulled up but left unbuttoned, you flung the door of the Port-a-Potty open, grabbed him by his open shirt collar and yanked him inside with you.

It was a matter of minutes. He lifted you up above him, bending your head awkwardly against the curved plastic ceiling so that your neck still hurts this morning. You worried about the surfaces your hand might touch so you made sure to keep them on his body.

You kissed, you grappled, you negotiated the space around you and the space inside you with a man whose name you didn't catch. You were ravished and you ravished, all the while with your sneakered foot resting on the toilet paper roll for balance. When the minutes had ended you left the Port-a-Potty first. You said goodbye only with a "wait thirty seconds after I leave." Then you returned to your tent and hid yourself inside your sleeping bag.

Last summer and the nine summers before that, you'd spend the drive home wondering if you remembered to clean up your campsite. Driving home today you wonder if your footprint was visible on that toilet paper this morning in the Topahanga Campground Port-A-Potty. So nice to have a new place for your thoughts to go, no matter how bad it smells.

Happy You Left Your Heart At The Topahanga Campground Port-A-Potty Day!

Asshole Love Triangle Day!

You are in love with Jenny but Jenny isn't sure if she's ready to commit to you, so you're dating Sheila who really wants you, but Sheila can tell how you feel for Jenny. Meanwhile, Sheila and Jenny kind of find each other attractive, but they hate each other because of all the confusion over where your heart lies.

If it all sounds like a confusing, frustrating, super-compelling mess of a love triangle, it isn't. That's because all three of you are assholes and no one really cares who assholes end up with. You could torture each other all you want but it doesn't really matter. Even though you might think it's love that's making you crazy, everyone knows that asshole love isn't real. Anything that goes on inside the heart or mind of an asshole is just asshole bullshit that sucks.

So stop freaking out over whether you should be with Jenny or Sheila. Nothing you feel is real or valid. When the world would be better off if you didn't exist, you blurting out the wrong name during sex really doesn't count as a big event in the scheme of things. Additionally, if you all kill each other in a jealous rage, cool.

Happy Asshole Love Triangle Day!

Slip A Tylenol In Your Date's Drink Day!

Tonight's your big date with Roxy. If you wanna make it go REALLY well (wink wink) when she's not looking slip a Tylenol into her Diet Pepsi. As the Tylenol starts to take hold, any mild pain or inflammation she might feel will be slightly alleviated.

"I'm not sure why," she'll say with a smile. "But being around you makes my joints feel a little less achy. Only a little, but I definitely feel it."

"Guess we're hitting it off," you'll say.

Roxy will put her hand on yours. Take it away, then place your hand on hers.

"I have the upper hand," you'll say.

Roxy won't know what you mean. You'll mean that of the two of you, you're the only one at the table who knows that Roxy just ingested a Tylenol.

Happy Slip A Tylenol In Your Date's Drink Day!

Topless Tim and Pantsless Paul Day!

Topless Tim and Pantsless Paul are coming over to break the news to you that the kid you were mentoring through Big Brothers just got sent to jail for gun possession.

"But I thought I was getting through to him!" you'll shout.

Topless Tim will reach out to give you a hug and say, "You did all you could." But you'll push Topless Tim away and shout, "Can you just put on one of my shirts before you do that?"

Topless Tim will assume you're just taking your frustration out on him. Pantless Paul will say, "You gave that kid a lot. But he was already headed down this road. You couldn't have stopped him."

Pantless Paul will sit beside you on your bed and rub your back. You'll shove him off.

"Your buttcrack is on my comforter! Get off."

You'll get up and go to your dresser and pull out a clean pair of white briefs.

"Put these on. Please!"

Pantsless Paul will look at the underwear and shout, "Look, I know you're upset but that's no reason to try and tell us how to live our lives!"

"I just want you to put on pants while you're around me!" you'll say.

You'll look down and see that Pantsless Paul's scrotum has gone taut and he is semi-erect.

"Do you have to pee?"

Pantsless Paul will say, "I don't know."

Topless Tim will then yank you into a strong bearhug and he will be damp because your apartment is too warm. He'll slide and slither his torso against yours, trying to hold you tight against the grief you feel. But only be able to pay attention to the breadcrumb you saw in his chest hair before he hugged you, knowing that that breadcrumb is probably now stuck in your chest hair.

"Can you just put a shirt on!" you'll shout as you shove Topless Tim away.

Pantsless Paul will say, "You have a lot of advice to give for a guy whose Big Brother mentee just got sent to prison."

You'll demand that Topless Tim and Pantsless Paul leave you alone. After they're gone you'll pick the breadcrumb from your chest hair and wonder why good kids make bad mistakes.

Happy Topless Tim and Pantsless Paul Day!

Elephants! Day!

You are very excited to see the new disaster movie called Elephants! in which the world’s elephants rise up and start stomping on people. You’ve been excited to see it ever since you read the movie’s tagline. “This summer, we’re gonna find out what happens when the world’s elephants decide start throwing their weight around.”

When you arrive at the theater you’re surprised to find that there isn’t a line of people camping out to see it. You sniff some glue, then you buy your ticket and head inside. Once inside the auditorium you discover that for the first time ever in your movie-going life you’re the only one in the theater.

After waiting a few minutes, instead of the lights going down they get brighter. That’s when all of your friends and family file in and tell you that there’s no such thing as a movie called Elephants! This is just your intervention. You’ve been sniffing so much glue that the only way to get you to show up someplace is to make you believe that a summer movie about murdering elephants is in theaters, waiting to appeal to your deteriorated brain.

“But I saw commercials for it on TV,” you say.

Your rich brother Mark raises his hand and says, “Guilty.”

“But Matthew McConaughey was interviewed by Byron Allen about what it was like to live with elephants for three months,” you say.

That’s when you see Matthew McConaughey laying down on the floor behind everybody.

“Sorry bro,” he says. “Your folks wrote me a letter saying you were a real fan. Hope you get better.”

You protest some more but eventually your family just gathers around you and tells you all the ways in which you suck. You pretend to listen, but all the while you’re trying to envision in your head how the movie Elephants! would have played out if it existed.

Happy Elephants! Day!

Teenagers Not Gonna Turn Their Backs On Love Day!

You're stopped at a stoplight when you glance toward the high school campus and see them walking toward each other across the football field. Jeff's been showing up to summer football practice. He thinks they're gonna have a real good year. Mary's teaching SAT prep to sophomores. She's got early admission to Penn but she's planning to make her last year count.

They wave when they're ten feet away from each other. They stop and put their hands in their pockets when they're four feet apart, like they're signaling that they don't wanna fight. They smile and nod their heads a lot when they talk. You can't hear them. But you have an idea what they're saying.

Did you have a good summer?

How's the team?

Ready for senior year?

Guess you'll be real busy...

Guess I'd better get back...

Look beyond Jeff and Mary and you'll see the audience has grown. Students scattered all around the campus have stopped where they are to watch Jeff and Mary talk for the first time since their blowout fight last June. They're divided between students who want Mary to take a swing at Jeff, and students who want Jeff to take Mary in his arms and give her a kiss that lasts till graduation day.

Your light has changed but you're not moving, and no one is honking. The whole intersection is waiting to see this play out.

Jeff shrugs. Mary shrugs and smiles. She reaches out a hand and brushes Jeff's shoulder lightly. Jeff lifts his hand in a little wave. And they turn away, backtracking across the field, like two generals returning to their armies.

Ten paces and Jeff stops. Mary gets five paces further than Jeff then she falls to her knees on the field, her hands over her face. Jeff finally turns and sees what we all see, sees Mary on the ground.

Jeff starts running.

He reaches Mary and pulls her up from the ground and she cries into his chest, his shoulder, his cheek, and then they're kissing. They're kissing an apology, an explanation, a declaration that they've been dying every summer day. They're kissing like they used to. And the whole world starts again.

Happy Teenagers Not Gonna Turn Their Backs On Love Day!

You're Tom Sizemore Day!

Today when you go to your local diner to get breakfast you're going to swear while you eat even though you're alone because you're Tom Sizemore. A child will be seated at the table next to you and you'll apologize to the child's mother for swearing. Then you'll get angry that you had to apologize to anybody and you'll throw your plate at the window and stalk out like a fast moving Frankenstein because you're Tom Sizemore.

Outside the diner, you'll pick up a newspaper box and throw it into the street. Then you'll run over to the box and check inside it to see if there's any toast or toys inside. Pissed off that the box is only holding newspapers, you'll sit in the middle of the street and sob at clouds.

A woman will shake you awake and you'll know by the light in the sky that you've been asleep in the middle of the street for several hours. "You're Tom Sizemore," she'll say.

She'll leave without waiting for you to confirm her accusation. You'll get up and run headfirst into a wall and fall down on your rear end. You'll get up and run headfirst into the wall again, not so hard this time though. You'll stay on your feet.

"Tom Sizemore has his wits about him now," you'll say to yourself. You'll spot a woman going into labor so you'll deliver her baby. Then you'll climb a fence and fall thirty feet into a construction pit. You'll live, but you won't wake up again until the next morning when you're not Tom Sizemore anymore.

Happy You're Tom Sizemore Day!

Run Through a Field of Tall Grass Holding Hands Like a Couple of Dickheads Day!

When you and someone you love come upon a field of tall grass, you should clasp hands and then take off running through the tall grass like a couple of dickheads. Make sure to wear big stupid smiles on your faces like you've figured out a way to pretend that everything isn't diseased. Keep running past the guy lying face down in a suit and tie. Keep running past the overweight child who just got beaten up by bullies and left there to bleed. Keep running past the acres of tall grass where those new condos are going up soon. If you can manage it, let your smiles hang low and open enough that you start to drool a little. That way people can look at you and think, "Are they high or just dickheads?" When you're done running one of you should tackle the other and then you should roll around in the tall grass, laughing like fuckwads.

Happy Run Through a Field of Tall Grass Holding Hands Like a Couple of Dickheads Day!

Papergirl Day!

You’re a ten-year-old girl who delivers newspapers, and that has nothing to do with the fact that you’re a lesbian.

“At least I think I’m a lesbian,” you tell your customers when they ask. “I’m only ten. But it’s looking like that’s the way I’m headed.”

Still, you didn’t take the job as some kind of political statement. Yes, delivering papers is traditionally a boy’s job. But there’s no reason for it to be. All you need is a stolen supermarket shopping cart and a throwing arm.

“I just like getting the word out to people,” you say. “I like knowing that my neighborhood gets their morning news directly from my fingertips. It makes me feel important.”

But your customers won’t let up. It’s gotten so that they won’t even pay you on collections day until you’ve convinced them that you didn’t take the job just because you know you’re going to be a lesbian when you grow up.

“Who I decide to kiss when I want to start kissing folks has no bearing on what I do to make some extra scratch so I can buy my GI Joes,” you like to tell them. That always seems to shut them up.

Happy Papergirl Day!

Learn To Surf Day!

You’ve wanted to learn to surf your whole life but you’ve been afraid to try it because in movies whenever someone tries to learn to surf all of the long-time surfers just try to stab him with switchblades they keep taped to the bottom of their boards. But you aren’t going to let them scare you.

You’ll swim out on your board (it’s got a yin-yang symbol on it, which you figured people would think is pretty cool). The other surfers will ignore you at first. You’ll do your best to stay out of their way. You’ll wait for a wave. You’ll wait and you’ll wait and you’ll wait while all the waves rise and break in the area where all of the other surfers are.

You’ll want to go over to their area, but you’ll know it will only cause trouble so you’ll just stay where you are.

After about an hour of waiting, your wave arrives.

“That’s my wave,” one of the other surfers shouts. He’s so far away it would take him five minutes to swim to where you are. This wave is twenty seconds away. There’s no way he could ride it. It’s yours.

“Ride that wave and you die,” the surfer shouts.

You look at him. Then you look back at the growing wave.

“No joke. Ride that wave and you die.”

The surfers, a dozen of them, reach under their boards and grab the sawed-off shotguns they keep duct-taped there in plastic bread bags so they don’t get wet. Twelve guns, still wrapped in plastic, are aimed straight at you. These guys really don’t like novice surfers.

You consider swimming into shore and saving your ass, but that’s the way you’ve lived your whole life.

With twelve guns ready to fire on you, you hop up on your board and you ride your wave with grace, with dignity, with experience far beyond your skill level. The surfers just watch, their guns still ready to fire, but no one pulling the trigger. Out of respect for the waves, they let you ride into shore.

“You got a lotta guts,” one of the surfers, the one who first threatened you, says. “We surfers have a saying: ‘Live to surf. Surf to live.’ You clearly understand that it’s better to die this morning on a wave than live another fifty years on a stretch of carpet.”

The surfer hands you a sawed-off shotgun, a Stroehmann bread bag and some duct tape.

“If you want to really surf, you’re gonna need these. Now let’s go catch some waves."

You and your new surfer friends run out into the water. You still feel the need to prove yourself, so the first time you see some novice surfers try to catch a wave, you shoot them both dead without even giving them a warning. They’ll be a teenage couple, a boy and a girl, just a couple of kids who picked the wrong beach.

Happy Learn To Surf Day!

Blankets Day!

Today’s the day for everyone across the nation to stay wrapped up in blankets, at least three. The blankets should be wrapped tightly enough that no one will be able to walk. That way, no one can go outside. Make sure you keep the blankets away from your mouth so you can still breathe, drink bourbon, and scream at God.

Happy Blankets Day!

You Are The Last Person On The Planet Who Doesn’t Know Jon Hamm Personally Day!

He’s had drinks with your closest friends on nights when you had work to do. He’s gone on a tubing trip with people at the office because one of them used to be his roommate. Even your parents love to tell the story about the time they broke down by the side of the road and Jon Hamm pulled over to see what he could do.

But you. Somehow you’re the only person you know who has managed to make it through his life without having had a personal interaction with actor Jon Hamm.

You’re so sick of it that tonight at a party you’re going to just make up a story about the time you and Jon Hamm went out for sushi together.

“But Jon Hamm hates sushi. Everyone knows this,” someone will say.

The party will go silent. Suddenly all of their eyes will roll up into their heads and they’ll all point at you and shriek. You’ll be abducted for experiments.

Happy You Are The Last Person On The Planet Who Doesn’t Know Jon Hamm Personally Day!

You Are The Nation’s Number One Star Of Antacid Commercials Day!

You topped the heap several years ago and you never looked down. It’s become the accepted reality of the industry that whichever antacid company can get you to endorse their product, that company will have the top-selling antacid on the shelves. It was rumored that in 2003 two competing antacid companies forged a secret pact to “share” you, having you appear in spots for one antacid for nine months and then switching to the other antacid’s spots for the next nine, just to be sure that a lesser antacid wouldn’t get the chance to steal you and build their market share.

You’ve been asked many times why you won’t make the jump into films or television. You evade this question, since your honest answer is not the kind of thing that belongs in the sort of trade magazines that interview you.

“Because films and television won’t help me destroy my father.”

Your father is the founder of the number five antacid company in the world. It used to be number one, until you started appearing in commercials for his competitors. Year after year you’ve delighted in watching his product’s sales tumble further and further. You only wish you could be there in his living room when your face appears on the TV commanding American viewers to join you in buying your father’s competitors’ products and help make your father a laughing stock. You have a gift, and you’ve devoted all of your energies toward honing that gift and using it to ruin the man who brought you into this world.

You and your father haven’t spoken in fifteen years. He’s never tried to confront you about your commercial acting. Not until today.

“You’ve made quite a career for yourself,” he’ll say to you from behind his desk in his far-too-air conditioned office.

“It’s good to have a goal,” you’ll say.

Your father will pick up a pen, stare at it like he had notes for his end of the conversation written on it, then he’ll put it down and say:

“What if I were to apologize to your mother? Would that make you stop?”

Apologize?

“You’d better hurry,” you’ll say. “Her last appeal was rejected. She’s going to be executed Friday evening.”

Your father’s face will go pale. His features will clench and he’ll clutch his chest.

“Do you need an antacid?” you’ll ask.

Happy You Are The Nation’s Number One Star Of Antacid Commercials Day!

Tell Your Dad He’s Gonna Miss Everything Day!

Your dad has been so focused on his career that he’s going to miss out on your entire childhood. You know how upset he’ll be if that happens, so it’s time to go confront him at his job and let him know what’s really important.

“How old am I Dad?” you’ll ask.

He’ll say, “I don’t know. Six? Look I’m really busy.”

“I’m eight,” you’ll say.

“Congrats,” your dad will say. “How about we talk about this when I get home.”

Tell your Dad that he always comes home too late for the two of you to talk. He’s never there to tuck you in. Never there to ask you what you learned today. He works so hard that he’s just never there for you at all.

“If you don’t try and become less focused on work, before you know it I’ll be eighteen and moving out of the house and you won’t have a clue how you missed it all.”

Your Dad will start to cry. Then he’ll realize what’s really important and he’ll throw down his apron and tell his boss, “My son needs me! I quit.”

His boss will shout, “You’ll never bus tables at a Denny’s again!”

Your Dad will lift you up into his arms and carry you outside.

“Wanna go play catch?” he’ll ask. “I have a few hours before I have to go to my second job as a night watchman. I kind of need to keep that one if we want to try and pay the back rent on our apartment.”

Tell him you realize that true change might take a while, and if he wants to continue to pursue his career for a little while longer, that’s fine. “But remember,” say to him. “Every hour you’re at work is an hour that your son doesn’t have a father. So try not to be so selfish.”

Happy Tell Your Dad He’s Gonna Miss Everything Day!

How To Wipe Your Ass Day!

Stop crying. You'll never get off of the toilet and on the train to the funeral if you don't stop crying and wipe your ass.

Is there toilet paper on the roll or is it on the shelf? If there's none on the roll, you'll have to stand up from the toilet and walk to the shelf where the extra toilet paper is with your buttocks clenched to be sure nothing falls off of you. Nothing ever does when you go through this process, but it's still terrifying. Even though the shelf is only a few steps away. The terror of loosing a remnant of filth onto the floor makes this walk comparable to crossing a rickety rope bridge that's about to give under your weight. You can do it. (Make a note to store your extra toilet paper closer to your toilet and never do it.)

Unroll a foot and a half of toilet paper and ball it up in your hand. If the sink is next to the toilet, wet the ball under running water. You'll get cleaner this way. If you've been wiping your butt without wet toilet paper all your life, start using wet toilet paper. You've been doing it incorrectly and you might die.

Wipe once with the wet toilet paper and let it drop into the bowl.

Unroll another foot from the roll, ball it up, and use this to wipe yourself dry.

Now you're clean and ready to get on the train to go to the funeral. You can cry on the train, but set aside some time to work on what you're going to say to people at the funeral to let them know that you're feeling the right things.

Happy How To Wipe Your Ass Day!

Inside The Touring Band’s Van Day!

You love your favorite band so much and you wish you could find out what goes on inside their touring van. Tonight after the show you’re going to find out.

The van will be sitting right there in the parking lot. The band will be inside and you’ll hear them hooting and hollering since the rear door will be cracked open.

You’ll get closer. Then you’ll lean your ear near the door and give a listen.

“You sang well,” someone in the band will say, probably to the lead singer.

“Thank you. You played guitar well,” the singer will say, probably to the guitarist.

“Thank you. I think we can all agree Rodney played his bass perfectly tonight.”

Rodney’s the bass player. You’re starting to get disappointed.

“What about me?” You’ll assume that’s the drummer.

“Best drumming ever!” the others will shout.

Then there’ll be an awkward silence that will last for what seems like an eternity. Finally, one of them (the guitarist you think) will say, “Why are we so guarded around each other?”

No one will answer. Two girls will shove you out of the way to climb in the van but the band will shout, “No girls allowed. Boys only!” and slam the doors shut.

You’ll walk home, wondering why people can’t just say what’s in their hearts. In the end you’ll realize, that’s just rock n’ roll.

Happy Inside The Touring Band’s Van Day!

Remember The Rubdown Your Babysitter Gave You Day!

You were eleven. She was twenty and early in her matriculation at massage school. At eleven, you weren’t much in need of massage. When she asked you if she could practice on you, you said okay.

“Change into your bathing suit,” she said.

You went upstairs and got out of your clothes fast. You hurried into your bathing suit, fumbling with the drawstring and pulling it way too tight so that it would leave a red mark later.

You walked out of your room to the top of the steps and you saw your babysitter in the living room, waiting for you. She’d laid a bed sheet over the couch and was staring up at you in your suit like she was waiting for you to dive off the steps.

“Ready?” she asked.

Without speaking you went down the steps and lay down on your back, like you did at the doctor.

“Turn over on your belly,” your babysitter said. You did as you were told.

Then your babysitter drenched her hands in warm oil and began to rub your eleven-year-old muscles. She rubbed your shoulders. Your neck. The middle of your back. Your thighs. Your calves. Then back on up.

It hurt. Especially around the shoulders and calves. You just didn’t have anything in need of kneading at that age. But you wouldn’t have stopped her for the world. The rubdown made you tenser, in fact, trying to hold still. Trying not to flinch in pain or when you were tickled for fear of any reaction from you making her stop. So you went stiff as a board, hoping to make your babysitter rubdown last as long as you could. Hoping to spend the whole evening under her methodical, mechanical, studied touch. She spread her palms across your flesh and leaned her pelvis against your side like her very future was dependent on how she touched your skin that night.

You didn’t understand what you were supposed to be feeling, but you knew this was a lucky break. It was something you kept quiet about. It was something you don’t tell your parents about, and you weren’t even sure if you were supposed to tell your friends about it. It might have gotten you made fun of, you had no way of knowing. All you knew was to lie still and let this twenty year old girl touch you until she was done.

When she was done, she rubbed you with a towel and told you to go take a bath and get ready for bed. You’re not sure if your parents ever found out. All you know is she stopped babysitting for you soon after. Maybe she finished massage school and didn’t need the money anymore. Or maybe you just got big enough that you were able to stay home alone. Regardless of what became of your babysitter, you know that all of your massages have been letdowns ever since.

“And that’s why I don’t go to massage parlors,” you tell your friends over beers. “That and the whole human trafficking thing. Most of those girls have been kidnapped.”

Then you and your friends drink your beers silently, all of you basking in the vision of a twenty-year-old girl helping an eleven-year-old boy relax.

Happy Remember The Rubdown Your Babysitter Gave You Day!