She Attended The Orgy Without You Day!

You found the cocktail napkin in her pants pocket when you were looking for some money to pay a delivery person. Modern Loving House. She went.

“You told me you didn’t want to go,” say to her.

“I didn’t,” she’ll say. “Then I changed my mind.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

Run from the house in tears and don’t come home for a couple of days. You can spend time at the second apartment where your presently housing a girlfriend. Your wife knows about Shannon.

After you’ve cooled off, return home and your wife will sit you down and explain with a hand on your knee.

“You’re a showboat,” she’ll say. “When we attend an orgy, all eyes are always on you, as you fuck in wild positions with the precision of an acrobat. Look, he’s doing the Grungy Martindale. The Upside Down Chinese Fire Drill. The Jo Polniaczek. I’m always shunted off to the sidelines by the crudité. Even while getting drilled I get asked what it’s like to be married to such a sexual artist. I just wanted to experience an orgy on my own. I just wanted–”

“To not have your sexual partnering ignored in the looming shadow of my own,” say. “I never knew how my erotic virtuosity affected you.”

“It’s not that I’m not proud,” she’ll say.

“I’m not proud,” tell her. “I’m not proud that I made you feel this way.”

Call the RSVP lines of your next three scheduled orgies and tell them you won’t be able to make it, but your wife will still attend. Return to her, kiss her forehead, and tell her, “It’s time for you to shine.”

Happy She Attended The Orgy Without You Day!

Whisking You Away From A Terrible Mistake Day!

He’ll spot you at the table with your hand clasped in the hand of the guy who’s wrong for you, the one with the curly dirty blonde hair and a fat wealthy face. He’ll see the surrounding family, soon-to-be in-laws, a joyless, undermining lot all of whom claim to be Christian folk but who only care about property and vodka and what kind of promotions the neighbors’ kids are getting.

“Let’s go,” he’ll say to you, suddenly standing beside your chair.

“You think so?” you’ll ask.

“Look around,” he’ll say. “You know you don’t belong with them. They only want you because you’re beautiful, because you’ll look good in the family photos, off to the left, unsmiling. Just like his mother.”

“Who is this?” the mother-in-law to be will ask.

“Let’s go,” he’ll say again.

Your fiance will stand up to him and say, “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to pull–”

He’ll pepper spray your fiance. Then he’ll go around the table and pepper spray everyone in your fiance’s family, including his grandmother. They’ll fall to the floor crying and clawing at their faces while he whisks you away to the sidewalk. Ask him why he pepper sprayed everyone at the table and he’ll tell you no one’s chasing after you are they, so it must have been a good idea.

“Go find another mistake to make,” he’ll say. “Be careful though, I might not be around for the next one.”

Ask him if he’d like to be your next mistake and he’ll wave his wedding ring at you. Ask him why he saved you from marrying the wrong guy if he’s already married and has no interest in you himself and he’ll say he has an interest in doing the right thing.

“I saw a beautiful girl sitting at the wrong table,” he’ll say. “I escorted her away from it. Just being a good citizen.”

Just then lightning will crack in the sky and he’ll shout, “Fuck I hate the fuckin’ rain!” Then he’ll run for shelter, leaving you there, soaked.

Happy Whisking You Away From A Terrible Mistake Day!

Rehabilitate Day!

Today’s your first day as a free man after being in jail for two days. The first thing you should do is go back to your hometown to see how things have changed while you were inside. You’ll discover that a parking meter that was broken before you left has been repaired now.

“Guess time doesn’t stop just because a man makes a mistake,” you’ll say out loud to the parking meter.

You’ll also find that Rise of the Planet of the Apes has left the multiplex, having been replaced by The Debt.

“So much is lost!” you’ll sob, falling to your knees, wishing to Christ you could go back in time 48 hours and not get drunk and take a leak on the front window of that Mailboxes Etc. But no matter how loudly you lament, time stubbornly pushes forward.

Happy Rehabilitate Day!

Make Sure There Isn’t Any Jagged Shrapnel Impaled In Your Bodies Before Trying To Make Love Day!

Having run from exploding glass and storms of debris, there’s a good chance that one of you has some shard of metal or a hunk of asbestos jutting into your skin, poisoning your blood stream and causing the kind of discomfort that makes it hard to focus on romance. It’s important as the last surviving man and woman on earth that the two of you begin to reproduce as soon as possible, but you’re first going to have to inspect your bodies to make sure you’re free of any gaping wounds or shrapnel. Before you start entering each other, make sure that all foreign objects find their exit.

There are some clean rags and rubbing alcohol on the shelf in the rear of the bunker. After dislodging all jagged relics of the society that once stood proudly as towering evidence of all that man can do from your legs, arms, and midsections, pour on the rubbing alcohol to fight infection. You’re made of strong stuff, no doubt, if you were able to survive not only the man-made fires but the ones that seemed to rain down from God’s hand, so as long as you aren’t losing a lot of blood you’re probably going to be fine. Wrap any wounds and give them time to heal. As soon as you both have your strength back, start having intercourse to respawn the human race for the second dawn of mankind.

Happy Make Sure There Isn’t Any Jagged Shrapnel Impaled In Your Bodies Before Trying To Make Love Day!

Met Him By The Trash Cans At The Burger King Day!

You were waiting for your whopper when he sidled up next to you and said, “I’m dangerous. Let me tell you some stories. After you finish eating your burger of course.”

He had a growl you couldn’t say no to. You took the whopper to go and ate it in his passenger seat while he talked about having been in the CIA. It didn’t matter if it was true or not. When you lead as dull a life as you lead, you’re grateful for some lies as long as they’re interesting. When he pulled over you got out and made love behind a tree. Some hikers averted their eyes.

He went back to the car first while you dressed. You heard gunshots. When you returned to the car he was splayed over the trunk and bleeding from five wounds. A helicopter flew away from a cliff above you. You walked the ten miles home, your head full of state secrets that could get you killed if anyone ever knew you possessed them. Your womb full of his child.

Happy Met Him By The Trash Cans At The Burger King Day!

Husband Eyes Day!

You provide a voluntary eye transplant service wherein people who want to see the world through someone else’s eyes can have them transplanted into their own skull for an exorbitant fee. Business was slow for a while because you could only do the operation for people who received eyes via a last will and testament. But after a long fight and pulling a lot of strings, you got a meeting with the organization handling the organs donated by people who select it on their driver’s licenses. You convinced them to allow bereaved spouses and children the chance to get the eyes of the deceased if they then donated their own eyes in turn, assuming that all the eyes in question are functioning. No one could challenge your argument, and now you’re making a lot of money off of bereaved women who want “Husband Eyes.”

Today you’re going to have a consult with a woman who has the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen. She’ll show you her dead husband’s eyes in an igloo cooler. You feel like replacing her eyes with her husband’s would be the equivalent of slashing a Klimt canvas in a museum. You’ll tell her you can’t cut out her eyes because you just fell in love with them, and her. She’ll tell you she’s still deep in mourning for her husband, to the point that she is walking around with his eyes in a fucking igloo cooler, and that you’re being very inappropriate. She’ll tell you she doesn’t want the surgery anymore and she thinks she should be refunded her co-pay for the consult. You’ll say co-pays are nonrefundable. She’ll argue, but you won’t budge.

“Keep your goddamn eyes then,” you’ll say. “But I keep the fucking co-pay. I’ll keep it in my hands and you can come get it back on the day I die by reaching into my open-casket coffin at my wake and ripping it from my right palm, where I’ll have had the undertaker sew to the skin.”

Happy Husband Eyes Day!