Be An Airline Pilot Who Can’t Stop Thinking He Should Have Married Laraine Day!

Today you’re an airline pilot who can’t stop thinking you should have married Laraine, the woman you dated for two years just after college. Before every flight, you check the passenger manifest to see if there’s anyone named Laraine on board. Even if the last name isn’t the same, you assume maybe she remarried, so you walk through the cabin to see if it’s her. It never is. Then when you deliver your address to the cabin, you close with “If anyone on this plane is friends or colleagues with Laraine Mancini, please tell her Jeff feels like he made a big mistake when he decided to take that job in Atlanta instead of staying with her in Chicago. Tell her if she’s still single, he’d like a second chance.”

No one’s ever claimed to have heard of Laraine Mancini, until today. A man is going to be brought into your cockpit and tell you that he is Laraine.

“Or I used to be,” he’ll say.

“You got a sex change?” you’ll ask. “It was really good!”

“Yeah,” he’ll say. “But really, you shouldn’t feel like you have anything to regret. It would never have worked out with us. I wasn’t who I was meant to be. It took me many years to find that out.”

“I’m shocked,” you’ll say. “But I’m glad you found yourself. Do you still ski?”

He’ll say, “Not as much as I’d like. I’d better get back to my seat. Please, move on. Make the best life you can make for yourself.”

He’ll kiss you gently on your cheek. Tell him thank you for coming up and speaking to you. You’ll know he isn’t Laraine since Laraine’s father died in a skiing accident and she’s found skiing to be horrific ever since. You know he’s just some dude on your plane who went out of his way to help you move on, and maybe knowing your passengers care enough to do something like that for you is enough for you to finally forget about Laraine. Laraine may be gone forever, but your passengers are always right there for you, ready to go wherever you’re taking them.

Happy Be An Airline Pilot Who Can’t Stop Thinking He Should Have Married Laraine Day!

National Heartbreak Day!

You run a website called National Heartbreak. It’s basically an electronic classifieds section that announces to its subscribers when a love has died. People go on National Heartbreak to announce their breakups, their divorces, their long-standing secret crushes that were confessed and found to be unrequited. You take their listings and post them on National Heartbreak, letting the entire nationwide subscriber base mourn the lost love alongside the heartbroken. It’s an obituary page for the heart, and it’s made you a very rich man.

Unfortunately, the site’s success has required more and more of your undivided attention, which is why today you’re going to be taken aback when you see your own name in a listing. Your wife has had enough and she paid her $37 to let the nation know that the boundless love she once felt for you has officially run its course. After you’re done scrolling through the condolences in her comments section, maybe clock out early to go home and talk through logistics of who gets the dog.

Happy National Heartbreak Day!

Your Husband Was A Kidnapper For The Last Twenty-Five Years Day!

You were just really scared to go down the basement, so you were more than happy that he would volunteer to go down there whenever something needed fetching. It’s not that you were trying not to find out that there was a steady parade of kidnap victims bound and gagged down there. You just really never had any reason to go down and find them.

“Everyone thinks I’m stupid,” you’ll tell him through the glass on visiting day. “They all think I’m just this gullible idiot who can’t even discover a string of kidnappings when their victims are right under my feet.”

“Maybe you didn’t want to know.”

Your husband will point out all the luxuries that his kidnappings have provided you over the years. His ransoms have paid for your vacations together, your new cars every few years, your spa treatments and your wardrobe.

“Maybe you knew if you went down the basement, it would all go away,” he’ll say.

Tell him you absolutely had no idea that his income was derived solely from ransom. If it hadn’t been printed in the paper, you would never have known that since 1986 he has kept 32 known victims of abduction down there.

“I never had the slightest inkling!” you’ll insist.

“Okay,” he’ll say, exasperated. “I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here. If you didn’t have a clue, then yeah, you look like kind of an idiot. I mean a few of those folks were real screamers. The gag can’t perform miracles.”

You’ll recall a few moments when you heard strange noises from down there.

“I thought it was the wishing machine going off balance.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” your husband we’ll say. He’ll slam his phone down and ask the guard to return him to his cell.

Before you get up, the woman in the booth next to yours will say, “Miss, before you leave, don’t forget to check the inside of your pocketbook. You never know how many ransomed human beings might have been stashed in there when you weren’t looking.”

At that everyone in the visiting area will burst out in laughter, and you’ll run from the prison in tears.

Happy Your Husband Was A Kidnapper For The Last Twenty-Five Years Day!

Be A Temperamental Florist Who Gets That She Goes Overboard Sometimes Day!

When someone asks if you have a good assortment for funerals, say, “Jesus what do you think? I’m a florist for God’s sake. If people stopped dying I’d be out of business.” Then stop snipping stems, take a breath, and say, “Sorry. You’re bereaved, and I should watch my tongue. I just go overboard sometimes.” Then gesture to all the flowers as if they were a bunch of hyperactive children you have to deal with.

Happy Be A Temperamental Florist Who Gets That She Goes Overboard Sometimes Day!

How The Mechanic Lost His Left Hand Day!

A sign is posted in the waiting room of the garage that reads as follows:

How the Mechanic Lost His Left Hand

The mechanic lost his left hand to try and frighten a woman he loved into not walking out on him. She had threatened to walk out on him before, but normally when he’d burst into tears and promise to drink less and work more she’d go along with it. This time she’d had enough, so in a panic, the mechanic turned on the blender and threatened to maim himself if she left. She dared him to go through with it, so he did. It took all of his fingers and most of the meat of his palm off. She ended up staying and drove him to the hospital, but then she left anyway six months later. The mechanic did not lose his hand while fixing a car. He’s a good mechanic and your car is in good hands.

When the mechanic comes out to tell you about his car, try not to look at his hook. He’ll notice you looking away and he’ll say, “I put that sign up a long time ago. She and I are on good terms now. She remarried and so have I.”

Let him see you cry, it’s okay. Let him see you cry, because as the bottom of the sign says, you’ll get 10% off if you cry for the love he lost and learned from.

Happy How The Mechanic Lost His Left Hand Day!

Be A More Depressed, Less Hairy You Day!

Today you got word of a new prescription drug that makes you more depressed but less hairy. You decided getting rid of all your dark brown arm-fuzz was worth the yawning chasm of misery you’d be throwing yourself into, so you ran out to your doc and demanded the pill immediately.

After three months on the pills, all your body hair will almost magically disappear, turning you into a smooth, sleek, pretty creature who can barely summon the energy to get out of bed in the morning. You’ll get a thrill out of moving your hand over your own skin, sliding it like an ice cube across a counter-top, and when you finally do get out of bed you’ll spend every minute bloated with dread at the thought of somehow finding a way to climb under the covers to get back into bed again. Your boyfriend says he loves it too, though you can’t understand how he could possibly find anything to love about you. You can’t understand how anyone could ever love anything. How?

After about a year you’ll stop taking the pills, not because you’ll be sick of being depressed, but because hairy will be in again.

Happy Be A More Depressed, Less Hairy You Day!

Part It Down The Middle Day!

Part your hair down the middle today for the very first time in your life and you’ll walk outside to find a Mercedes in your driveway instead of a Hyundai. Drive it to work where you’ll find you’re the President of the company instead of a middle-management toadie. Check your bank account and instead of a negative balance there will be a very positive one, like seven figures positive. Check your response to alcohol and discover it to be moderate and controllable. Check your demeanor at parties and find it to be gregarious. Ingest dairy and discover that you appear to be tolerant. You’ve disrupted the order of things. You’ve changed the part of your hair at age 46 and really turned things around for yourself while triggering a ripple effect that will engulf the planet in pestilence and rogue waves within as little as three months time. Why couldn’t you have just been happy with the way things were?

Happy Part It Down The Middle Day!

She Found Out You’re One Of Those Guys Who Throws A Ball Around The Office At Work Day!

You came home and half the closet was empty, nothing but bare hangers swinging on the rod. Her drawers had been ransacked. Her suitcases were gone. She clearly either took off in a hurry or someone made it look like she did. Part of you wants to call the police to report an abduction, but you’re worried that she simply found out that you’ve been cheating on her. Read the note she left on the fridge:

Cameron,

I’m sorry but I can’t do this anymore. It’s not because I don’t love you, I do. Or at least I did. It’s not because I’m scared of getting too committed. It’s not even because I found out that you cheat on me sometimes. I’ve known that for close to a year now and it’s something I think I can live with. What happened was today I was bored and I found myself perusing your work website, and I checked out the “Staff” link to see if there were any photos of you. I found one. Such a nightmarish one. One of you in your desk chair with your shirt sleeves rolled up, tossing a Nerf football to one of your co-workers. The caption read “Blowing off some of that 4 PM steam.”

I hope you’ll understand that I had to go. This isn’t the kind of image that one can sweep under the rug. Had I walked in on you cheating on me with one of my relatives, or murdering a small animal, or shaking hands with Karl Rove and then stuffing some bills into your pocket that he clearly slipped you during the handshake, I might be able to chalk it off as “just one of those things.” But not this. Had you told me when we meant that you were one of those guys who throws a ball around the office at work, I could have saved us both a lot of time by ending it immediately. At least I found out before we got married.

I hope you have a nice life and you won’t come looking for me. You should really stop throwing a football around the office by the way. It makes you look like you love, and I mean like really cherish, rape.

Best,

Lucille.

Happy She Found Out You’re One Of Those Guys Who Throws A Ball Around The Office At Work Day!

Kill The Boy Day!

Don’t just break up with the boy, end his life. Stick a knife in his voicebox and be sure he’ll never use it to call you in the middle of the night and trick you into sneaking away with him for another long weekend of forgetting all about the life you’re trying to make for yourself. You’re a professional lady, career-minded and a smart-dresser, and you don’t need a lowlife popping by and convincing you that 72 hours in his arms is more important than the rest of your 72 or so years on this earth.  Cut off his hands and throw them in the river so he can never use them to brush your hair away from your forehead again. Slice out his eyes and crush them under your business heels; they’ve hypnotized their last unwitting victim into getting naked at the slightest hint of a wink. Let him keep his penis because you’re not some kind of monster, but set his hair on fire, sand down his lips with a power sander and carve into his chest and stomach to rip out the muscles filling his pecs and abs with so much rock-hard steel. Once he’s in pieces and the pieces are nothing but slippery, ruddy mud, spend an evening remembering the good times. You’re not likely to find someone who so makes it happen for you again, not likely to find another Derrick again.

Happy Kill The Boy Day!

Dad’s Affair Day!

Leave your dad alone today. He’s sad because the woman he used to cheat on your mom with died. She was diagnosed two years ago. She called him last Spring and asked him if she could see him once more before she dies, but your dad refused. Even your mom said it’d be cool if he went and saw her. After all, they had a nine-year affair. Your dad was a big part of this woman’s life and she should get the chance to say goodbye, was your mom’s reasoning. But the revelation of the affair caused such a rift in their marriage that your dad just didn’t want to have any contact with her. Didn’t want to risk opening old wounds. Now she’s dead and not only is your dad in mourning, but your mom thinks less of him than ever, letting that woman die without saying goodbye like that. She’s not proud of the man she married today.

Happy Dad’s Affair Day!

Stop Her Day!

She’s about to choose something besides spending the rest of her life with you because she wants to be practical so race to the airport or death cult orientation or whatever and tell her she’s making a mistake. She’ll decide you’re right and she should be with you because you made her laugh once. Within two weeks of the two of you being a couple start acting really cold toward her. When she asks if you regret winning her back tell her no but continue to be cold and curt. You’ll never say it out loud but deep down you’ll know that you only fought to get her back because you didn’t want anyone else to have her. Now that she’s yours, you don’t remember why you wanted her so badly. In 18 months she’ll leave you for someone else. Play the victim.

Happy Stop Her Day!

Psychosexual Thriller Day!

Meet someone who may or may not be a killer but you don’t care because sex. When more bodies start popping up, get worried but also confused because is the sex getting better? Start to wonder if you’re the next body that’s going to be killed, or maybe you’ve been the one killing the bodies all along, though it really doesn’t matter either way because wow this sex is just really something. When you decide that maybe it’s time for you two to take a break, find yourself staring at your own reflection stretched along the broad side of a kitchen knife. Aroused but fighting it, manage to wriggle away but just barely, then at just the right moment get the upper hand. You’ll find yourself on top, in a position you two know very well except never before with a knife in the mix and does that make it hotter (yes)? You’ll be about to toss the knife away and leave it to the police when one last threatening gesture makes you bring the knife down in self-defense. Blood everywhere and no more sex but you discovered scary things about yourself so hooray for learning!

Happy Psychosexual Thriller Day!

Ski Weekend Day!

You’re really excited to have been invited to go on a ski weekend with your friends Jeff, Sally, Maurice and Paula because you’re pretty sure that ski weekends involve everyone gathered around in a cabin exposing their deep emotional core to each other just like in the Alan Alda movie The Four Seasons.

“Awwwww God sometimes I wonder if I ever felt a single thing,” you’ll scream as soon as you get inside the cabin, just before placing your suitcase on the ground.

“Jesus,” Jeff will say.

“Dude, are you all right?” Maurice will ask, hovering over you as you lay on your back with your legs up in the air like a baby.

“I need to be swaddled! I need to be swaddled in your friendship!”

Maurice and Paula will try to drag you up from the ground. Don’t let them.

“Swaddle me! People have given their love to me and I’ve rejected it. I just want to accept for once. Swaddle me in your emotional warmth!”

They’ll all go to the closet to take off their coats and discuss what to do.

Stand up and scream at the top of your lungs, “I HAVE NEEEEEEDS!!!”

Sally will come to you and she’ll hug you gently. Then she’ll ask if maybe this can wait until later in the evening.

“Alda didn’t pull this kind of crap until late Act 2 of Four Seasons. Think we can at least get some dinner in us first?”

Apologize and explain that you’ve never been on a ski weekend before, and tell them that you’re just so excited and oh God you’re going to let it fly again.

“NEEEEEEEEEEEDS!!!!!!”

Happy Ski Weekend Day!

Crossing Guard Who Can Tell When You’re Going To Die Day!

The reason the crossing guard cries every time you cross the street is because you’re going to die before you turn 26 and she knows it. She gets visions of when and how people are going to die when they step into her cross-walk. Something about surrendering your safety into her hands gives her a window into your future to the moment when not even she can protect you. She knows you’re going to die when you fall in the shower of a hotel room in Chicago where you’ll be staying for business. You’ll be found by a maid.

Today when you see her, tell her, “It’s not your fault. Fate is fate.”

She’ll wheel around on you and hiss, “But what if it wasn’t your fate until I saw it? What if my seeing it is what caused it? What if I’m taking years off the people I’m supposed to be protecting?”

You won’t know how to comfort her, which is too bad because she’ll just then jump in front of a bus whose driver won’t know to stop because she won’t have held up the sign telling him to stop. She didn’t want to go on living with the possibility that she was shortening the lives she was supposed to be guarding. If you’re thinking that this isn’t your fault, just know that she never would have felt so distraught if people like you, who are fated to die an early death, didn’t go crossing in her crosswalk forcing her to wrestle with the implications of her seeing your moment of passing. Way to make the crossing guard kill herself, clumsy.

Happy Crossing Guard Who Can Tell When You’re Going To Die Day!

Looks Like They Found Your Papier-Mâché Sculptures Of The Family Next Door Day!

When you pull onto your block you’ll see two police cars waiting outside your house. Your front door will be open and Kevin, your next-door neighbor, will be standing on your lawn, pointing at your house, irate.

Looks like they found your papier-mâché sculptures of the family next door.

Drive slow and savor these final few seconds of peace before you have to get out of your car and begin trying to explain yourself. You’ll have to detail to them who you were when you lived in Russia, how you were celebrated for your shocking papier-mâché representations of the life you and your fellow countrymen were living, how it became a common occurrence to spot yourself on the cover of a magazine for an interview you would have forgotten having given.

But after moving to America, you found yourself completely uninspired. Nothing about the suburban landscapes in which you passed your days seemed worthy of your artistic interpretation. Until Kevin and Mary and Lewis, Pamela and little Georgette Tohlmacher. moved in next door. Suddenly you couldn’t sculpt quickly enough. That family demanded your eye, your passion, and your skill. That family has inspired you to stay awake for 72 hours at a time, panicked that you might die or the world might end before you manage to channel your vision of the Tohlmacher family’s essence onto the chicken wire.

You know it will be difficult to explain to a man just trying to give his wife and children a good life why the house next door to his is filled to a room with dozens of sculptures of his flesh and blood. Especially difficult to explain will be the nudes. Though you used as your source only your imagination (except for the weekends in the summer when Kevin mowed his lawn shirtless), you are certain they won’t be very appreciative of the artist’s need to let his muse guide him where it will.

You’re at the house now. Time to get out of your car and make an appearance at your latest exhibition.

Happy Looks Like They Found Your Papier-Mâché Sculptures Of The Family Next Door Day!

Mary Jane Day!

You and your friends like to smoke Mary Jane. At first it was just to be cool, then you started to get addicted. One thing led to another, and now you’re running a human trafficking ring solely to get your next fix.

“I used to dream of growing up to become a great man. Instead I became a guy who forces innocent women into prostitution.”

Take another hit of Mary Jane, then try to bargain the Russian down to $12,000 per girl.

“Thirteen,” the Russian will say. “You wouldn’t be so short on money if you didn’t smoke so much Mary Jane.”

“If I didn’t smoke so much Mary Jane I wouldn’t be involved in this game at all. I would have been the president of the United States.”

You’ll start to cry, but the Russian won’t blink an eye. He’ll just take your money and load the girls onto your truck while you sob. He’s used to people crying while he does business with them, because he does a lot of business with people who smoke a lot of Mary Jane.

“It inspires sudden attacks of crippling regret in the people who smoke it,” the Russian will say to you as he pats you on the shoulder. “You should quit.”

You’ll be stunned that he could be so stupid. “No one can quit Mary Jane. One puff and you’re addicted for life. The only way I could ever quit is—”

The Russian will give you a look that says, “Yes, that’s what I mean. You should kill yourself. That’s what I mean by quit.”

“It is the only way to get out from under the weight of addiction to Mary Jane.”

Tonight, after the girls you bought are all safely chained up in a basement, you’ll finally, and for eternity, kick the habit.

Happy Mary Jane Day!

Travel Across The Country With Someone You Would Never In A Million Years Travel Across The Country With Day!

Whether it’s because the airport got snowed in or you got robbed and don’t have any ID or credit cards or just because you have trauma induced amnesia after being in one of those New York City elevators when it ate somebody, today you’re going to travel across the country with someone you would never in a million years travel across the country with. Here are your options:

The man who pushed the button on your father’s lethal injection: you’ll recognize him when he steals your cab, but you won’t be able to remember from where at first. Then it’ll come to you. You were eight and your father was strapped into the lethal injection machine and this is the guy who pushed the button. You remember his blank look directly into your eyes when your father (he murdered his boss) finally went still. Now he’s offering to share that cab he stole, and you do need to get going in a hurry…

The 50-year-old woman who has been bullying your daughter on Facebook: She’s clearly unhinged. She randomly picked your daughter as the target of an endless series of hateful Facebook wall posts, encouraging your daughter to commit suicide because according to her, your daughter would be doing everyone a favor by dying. You’ve involved the police and you’ve even appeared on television to discuss whether your high-profile civil lawsuit against her is viable. But right now she managed to flag down a fruit truck and there’s room for one more in the flatbed…

A man who looks exactly like you and, impossibly, is you: He’s you. But you’re staring at him and he’s physically occupying space right next to you outside of your body. But he’s you. There’s no need to even ask questions. There are duplicates for all of us and you’ve met yours. Now to decide whether wrapping your arms around his waist and riding all the way to California on the back of his motorcycle will cause the tapestry of commonly accepted reality to unravel…

Happy Travel Across The Country With Someone You Would Never In A Million Years Travel Across The Country With Day!

Plants And Rags Day!

Everything’s in boxes on a truck but you want to leave some evidence behind. She bought the ficus tree, the one you let die after she left. It looks like a stripped bicycle chained to a sidewalk signpost for five seasons, all spokes, rust brown and weaker than wind, filling the corner of the apartment with ruin.

Leave it for the new tenants to find so they can register a complaint with the landlord. “You said the apartment would be clean and ready for our move-in date but there is a corpse in the corner, a body left to rot.” Let them know that this is hallowed ground, a battlefield where a brave boy and girl fought for a love they once believed in, fought way beyond the point when the war was over.

Let them complain. Let them call the landlord to come and clean up the body. Someone needs to know that something died within these walls. Your love was too big, its destruction too important to be swept under the rug. There should be an inquiry. The people need to know.

Happy Plants And Rags Day!

Kevin And Lucy Day!

Today everyone named Kevin was meant to be with someone named Lucy, but the Kevins all chose to marry someone named Sabrina instead, just because the Sabrinas had fun underpants.

Everyone named Lucy sometimes think about everyone named Kevin, and they want to kill all the Sabrinas.

Everyone named Lucy will take a glance down at their own underpants, and they’ll see it fraying at the waist-line, and the elastic around the thighs will be a little looser than when they bought them.

Everyone named Lucy will say, “That’s it!” Then everyone named Lucy will rush out to an underpants store and buy new pairs of very sexy underpants that are nothing but fun.

When they get home, everyone named Lucy will gather all their old underpants into a brown paper bag and get ready to incinerate them. Staring into the bag, everyone named Lucy will realize that buying new underpants isn’t the solution.

“New underpants fray,” everyone named Lucy will whisper into their bags of old underpants. “Mine always do. Sabrina’s surely did too.”

Everyone named Lucy will realize that everyone named Kevin probably watched the underpants worn by everyone named Sabrina turn to so much ratty ruined rags within months of getting married.

“Now he’s stuck with her,” everyone named Lucy will say.

The Lucys will feel sorry for the Kevins. The Lucys will feel sorry for the Sabrinas too. The Lucys will try to feel sorry for themselves, but they’ll be too overwhelmed with sadness for the Kevins and the Sabrinas.

“He just wanted to marry someone with fun underwear, and she just wanted someone to find a reason to marry her,” all the Lucys in the world will say. If you’re outside and it’s windy, you’ll probably hear some of them.

Happy Kevin And Lucy Day!

That Was Your Last Relationship Day!

You’re only 36 but the 14-month romantic relationship you ended yesterday is going to be the last one you’ll ever be party to. While you are feeling optimistic about playing the field and finding “the one,” you shouldn’t. You’ll date many people and you’ll often be the one who decides it’s not right. Either owing to your confidence in yourself or your constantly finding others lacking in the ability to give you the kind of approval you craved but never received from your parents, you’ll spend he rest of your healthy years dating cautiously, having increasingly less frequent random sexual encounters, or enduring months at a time completely alone. You won’t realize the relationship you ended yesterday will be your last until you’re in your mid-50’s.

Happy That Was Your Last Relationship Day!

Storage Wars Day!

You went on that show Storage Wars and you bid on the stuff in one of the lockers and won. You brought home all the porcelain knick knacks, bed linens, jewelry, and old Life magazines that could fit into an 8X10 foot space.

“Which is why I’m going to kill your wife and daughters if I don’t get it back in 6 hours,” the man who was behind on his rent on that storage locker is telling you as he waves a knife in front of your face.

You sold all of his stuff already. He says it’s okay, he doesn’t want the Life magazines or the bed linens. But among the knick knacks, there was apparently a set of racist salt and pepper shakers that he considers very valuable. Also, among the jewelry, there was an amulet.

“It’s the middle of the night,” you’re telling him. Your wife grunts from behind the duct tape over her mouth.

“Guess you’ll have to break in,” the man whose stuff you won on TV will say.

Later, after your high-octane treasure hunt is completed and you discover that the salt-shakers were composed of a crystallized synthetic drug and the amulet contained a key to a safe-deposit box full of diamonds, you’ll reread your contract for your appearance on Storage Wars and, sure enough, there will be a term that explicitly releases them from liability should the former owner of the stuff you win comes to your home and makes an attempt on your life. Also, they’re completely protected if the stuff you win is haunted or if it causes the spread of a dormant yet deadly virus for which there is no known vaccine.

“Well that show just lost a viewer,” you’ll say after removing the duct tape from your wife’s and daughters’ mouths and holding them to your chest to try and quiet their cries.

Happy Storage Wars Day!

Wash Your Slut Body Day!

All that casual sex to make you feel better about yourself starts to leave a residue, so you need to wash your slut body at least once a week. Today’s the day to recline in a hot tub and apply bath lotion to every patch of your skin that’s come in contact with another human being’s mouth, genitals or cash. Girls, make sure to get under the knees and the back of the neck. Boys, make sure to get the armpits and inside the nostrils. Soak and luxuriate your slut body for hours and hours. You’ve worked hard to get it this disgusting. Enjoy the cleanup because you’ve earned it, hussy.

Happy Wash Your Slut Body Day!

Ask Her New Husband Day!

Short on cash? Got an ex-wife with a new husband? Meet with him and ask him for some money.

Don’t just launch into it though. When you sit down, start off by asking if your ex-wife is well and if he’s taking care of her. He’ll say of course he is because he’s not you in that he cares about others.

Tell him you have a business prospect that could really turn into something big and since you care so much about your ex-wife you decided to ask her new husband if he wants to get in on this while he has the chance. He’ll say, “You drank your way out of another job and you need rent money.”

Say, “Isn’t it enough that you have my woman. Now you want to make me beg?”

He still won’t have taken out his checkbook yet, so here’s where you cry.

He needs to see it. He needs to see you cry with snot and everything. Then he’ll sigh and pull the checkbook from his pocket. Though it’s a lot of steps to go through, he really does want to give you that money. Being the second husband is a tough gig. No matter how awful you were, you were still there first. She once said in front of everyone that she would love you forever and it bothers him. He needs near constant reassurance that he’s better than you, and there’s no better way to get that than to give you a handout while you’re sobbing.

Make this money last. You’ll get maybe two more chances at payoffs from him, and the last one will be a big one. But after that he’ll cut you off. Unfortunately, that’s part of it. Refusing you money “for your own good” will be even more satisfying than giving you money like he’s ladling out soup for you at a shelter. So maybe try and sketch out a budget for yours– Whoops you already spent it all on cocaine.

Happy Ask Her New Husband Day!

Assface Day!

He tells you not to call him Assface because that’s what his wife calls him.

“It’s kind of an inside joke,” he says. “Like she doesn’t really think I’m an assface. She just called me that once while we were doing it. ‘Keep it comin’ Assface!’ Like that’s the last thing your wife would ever say to you while you’re making love. It was really funny at the time.”

Ask him why he’s sleeping with prostitutes if he thinks she’s so funny.

“The joke’s gotten a little old I guess,” he’ll say.

You’ll have sex with him for twelve minutes, then he’ll return to see you every week for the next three years until one day he says it’s time to stop.

“I thought the whole me having sex with a prostitute thing was kind of a gag. Like it was the last thing a guy like me would ever do. When we were having sex it was like there were quotation marks around the whole act. Like if anyone saw me with you they’d never think I was actually with you, you know?”

He’ll sit on the edge of your bed, his shoulders slumped.

“But this week I realized that if I’m having sex with a prostitute, then I’m exactly the kind of guy who’d have sex with a prostitute. And if my wife calls me assface, then she’s totally the kind of woman who would call her husband assface, because that’s what she thinks of me.”

He’ll take your hands and say, “I only want to be true. Say something true to me.”

Tell him, “You were my least favorite client, Assface. Even though I’m a prostitute and I only see the kind of guys who would sleep with prostitutes, I used to worry about my other clients seeing me with you and thinking less of me.”

He’ll say thank you. You gave him the first genuine moment he’s experienced in years.

Happy Assface Day!

Your Roommates Found Out About Your Secret Roommate Situation Day!

“How long has this been going on?” Eric will ask when you wake up in your tee shirt and boxers and you enter the part of the living room not occupied by Hillary’s futon.

Eric and Paul will be seated on the couch, behind the coffee table where a display of surveillance photos will be laid out, showing you in a different living room, in a different tee shirt and boxers, chatting over breakfast with a whole different set of roommates.

“You spied on me?” say to Eric.

“No,” Paul will say. “The private detective we hired spied on you. And the moment you get caught living a lie is not the moment for you to act violated.”

Tell them that you didn’t want it to happen. It’s not that there was something lacking in your roommate situation here.

“After I found this room, friends kept forwarding me Craigslist ads. They were really appealing, not better than this place. Just…different. New. Full of possibility. I figured I’d answer one. I thought hey, I can look, I just can’t lease.”

“But you didn’t just look,” Hillary will say. “Did you.”

Get up from the recliner and stand in the corner by the handwritten note reminding everyone that the TV has to be turned off by 1 AM so Hillary can sleep.

“The lies started immediately,” tell them. “And they just kept multiplying. At first I lied just to not seem like who I was, a whacko who goes looking for roommate situations when he already has one. I made up this whole story about how I had just moved into town and was hoping to make it as a DJ.”

“You’re in dental school,” Eric will say.

“I know I am!” you’ll shout. “And you know I am too. And maybe that’s why I did it. When I’m here I’m just a boring old dental student, living with a painter and an actress, and a web designer, you all have amazing, fun lives and I’m just the stiff. But when I’m there, I’m DJ Riboflavin. I throw parties and I come home at all hours with ribald tales to tell. And they’re the ones who want to hear my stories for a change.”

“Made-up stories,” Paul will interject.

“But at least they want to hear them.”

“We want to hear your stories,” Hillary will say.

“No you don’t. And why would you. It’s dental school.”

Your roommates will promise to pay more of an interest in you and your struggles at school, if you promise to move out of the other roommate share.

“I can’t,” say. “Not for another seven months. I’m on a lease. It’s not fair that they should have to suffer because I’m dishonest. Just like it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

Hillary, Eric and Paul will say that they understand, and they’re just glad the air is clear and they can trust you now. You’ll feel bad, but also a little excited. How did you pull it off? They found out you’re a liar, but you made them think you’ve only been lying to other people and they bought it. They still believe you’re in dental school. They believe you only presently occupy rooms in two apartment shares. And no one you live with anywhere has the slightest idea that you’re actually a practicing tax attorney who lives in a house in the suburbs with a wife, two wonderful children, and a Corgi mix.

“I’m almost at the point where even I don’t know who I am anymore,” you’ll say into the mirror when you get back into your room. “Almost. With every lie I tell I’m a little closer to the dream.”

Happy Your Roommates Found Out About Your Secret Roommate Situation Day!

You Fax Dicks Day!

“Am I afraid of offices moving everything to email and digitized documents?” you say into the Burger King bathroom mirror while pretending to be interviewed by Craig Ferguson. “Of course I am. But you can’t fight progress.”

You faxed your first dick back in 1993, to the office of a collection agency based in Cincinnati. That first one was done in anger, after they told you they were coming after the $567 you owed Discover. But once you saw the “Fax Successful” confirmation, you were hooked.

“I don’t just fax pictures of my own dick,” you continue into the mirror. “Sometimes I’ll go on the internet at the library and print out photos of white dicks. White dicks are really weird looking, but I guess that’s subjective.”

Not only are offices eliminating their fax machines, but it’s getting harder for you to find a Kinko’s that will let you send the fax on your own.

“It’s a privacy invasion to keep your fax machine behind the counter, in my opinion. It’s like if the Post Office required you to hand the clerk your documents so that they could stuff them in the envelope themselves.”

Once fax machines are eliminated completely, you doubt you’ll move on to emailing dicks.

“It’s not the same,” you tell the mirror. “Sure I could find a general company email address, but only one person sifts through those and it’ll be deleted immediately. But a fax machine, sitting in the middle of the office floor, waiting for anyone to pass by and browse through the incoming documents. Let’s see, did my report from Glenn come in yet? No, no, not mine, whoah someone faxed us a dick! There’s the magic.”

So what will you do when it’s all over?

“My wife jokes that I’ll go crazy without being able to fax dicks,” you tell the mirror. “But I’m getting on in years. Can’t go on doing the same thing forever. I’ll probably just take to gardening or something peaceful like that. I like activities that let you feel the earth.”

The Burger King manager pounding on the bathroom door tells you that it’s about time for you to get to Kinko’s and fax off some dicks before sundown.

Happy You Fax Dicks Day!

Be The Gun Store Knifer Day!

Go into the gun store and hide in dark corners with your knife at the ready. When someone comes around the corner and within your reach, murder them silently with your knife. Then move to another part of the store and wait to knife other customers. Don’t stop until you’ve knifed about 30 gun store customers. No one will be able to believe someone would be able to kill so many people with a knife in a place where there are so many guns, which will illustrate your gun control thesis, “Guns don’t kill people…which is why they shouldn’t be sold. They don’t even work!”

Now go home and try to stop hearing the final last gasps of the people you knifed at the gun store. If you can’t make that happen, use the knife to stab yourself in the ears.

Happy Be The Gun Store Knifer Day!

Neighbor Lady With A Baby Day!

Your new next-door neighbor lady has a baby.

“You fuck someone for that?” ask her.

She’ll look at the baby and say, “Yup.”

You can tell she’s remembering the night she made the baby and thinking about the damp, flawed but seemingly endless expanse of beautiful skin on the man she fucked to get the baby so you give her a minute. You pretend to look at your phone. You pretend to laugh at a text that isn’t there.

“He still in the picture?” ask her.

Your neighbor lady will shake her head no. This is where you offer to be the father-figure to her child.

“Eighty bucks a week,” say. “I’ll teach it street smarts, how to use tools, what dignity is and why it’s important, and shit you can do to keep from paying taxes.”

The neighbor lady will say, “Seventy.”

Shake on it, then as soon as she pays you that week’s fee, hold her baby and let it rest its sleepy head on your rock-hard pectoral muscles.

“Don’t you worry,” say to the neighbor-lady while holding the baby. “You made the right decision. Your baby’s gonna grow up to have a nice life, now.”

Your neighbor-lady will start to cry until you tell her to stop it.

Happy Neighbor Lady With A Baby Day!

Multiracial Cycling Club Day!

You really don’t need to name your bicycling club The Multiracial Cycling Club. Everyone assumes that a bicycling club would allow people of different races to join, but you act like that’s the main feature of your club. Even though you may be proud of how many different cultures and ethnicities are represented by your membership, the name seems weird and it makes people uncomfortable. And change the slogan too. “Because when it comes to riding bikes, it’s all pink inside” doesn’t even make any sense.

Happy Multiracial Cycling Club Day!

Confess Your Drunk Driving Hit And Run To Your Cats Day!

The only way to get this off your conscience is to confess. Unfortunately, if you confess to a human they’ll probably insist that you go to the police or at least cut down on your drinking. Your cats, however, aren’t quite so judgey. It’s a lot to lay on them all at once but it’s time they earned their keep.

“Listen up assholes,” say to them after you’ve gathered them all in the living room and blocked the kitchen door to keep them from getting way. “Your owner did something she regrets, and it’s only fair that you know what it is.”

Take a long sip of your Moscow Mule. This is going to be hard to get out.

“Last year around Easter Sunday. Wait, was it Easter Sunday? Ah fuck it you assholes don’t know what Easter is. Anyway I was tooling around looking for this one bar I remembered used to give away free chicken strips at happy hour. All a sudden this guy just jumps in front of my car out of nowhere. Splat.”

Two of your cats will stare at you with concern. The other four will be fighting over a q-tip they found.

“I stopped. I didn’t just peel away or anything. I went out to see what I could do. But when he rolled over and asked for help, he looked like my Dad. No way was I taking him to the hospital with that face on his skull. So I booked it.”

Down the rest of your Mule, then scratch the head of the cat who jumped on your lap at the end of the story. Your cats forgive you. Maybe it’s time you forgave yourself, even though considering all those details you don’t deserve to be forgiven in the slightest.

Happy Confess Your Drunk Driving Hit And Run To Your Cats Day!

Set All The Women’s Underwear On Fire And Walk Away Slow Day!

You are a janitor at a high-end gym and about a year after getting the job you got the idea to start breaking into women’s lockers and stealing their dirty underwear.

“Dirty rich lady underwear,” you’ll mutter today as the flames rise. “Dirty rich lady underwear casting a goddamn spell.”

At first it was just a goof, kind of like stealing office supplies or sneaking Danish from a catered plate for a meeting you aren’t attending. But soon it became an addiction.

“You took hold of me,” you’ll growl as the lace fringe turns to ash. “Let me think I was in control, but you held all the cards.”

Your home has been overrun with dirty women’s underwear, hundreds of pairs stuffed into desk drawers and kitchen cabinets and old tube TV casings. You slept on it as your bed. You dried yourself with it after your bath. You sat under it like a blanket let it keep you warm while you read your magazines on the papasan chair. You piled it up so that it looked like a person and you’d talk to it about people in your life who betrayed your trust.

“I’m done with ladies’ panties. Time to be all I can be!” you’ll shout at the silk and the cotton and the string-hips and printed briefs. “Life begins at 56.”

The fire will grow too hot to sit near. Get out of your house, turn your back on it and walk away slow as the underwear blaze swallows your home whole. Way to turn over a new leaf on your 56th birthday.

Happy Set All The Women’s Underwear On Fire And Walk Away Slow Day!