You Made The Loneliness Police Blotter Day!

You did it! The Loneliness Police Blotter ran your incident! Check it out:

On Saturday a Lakeside man reportedly went into his garage, forgot what he went in there for, realized if he never came out no one would notice, and he subsequently collapsed in sobs on the cold, oil-stained concrete. The man slept on his garage floor for eighteen hours before returning to his living room to watch pornography on mute.

Congrats!

Happy You Made The Loneliness Police Blotter Day!

Toss The Microchip In The Back Of A Pickup Day!

“Maybe I should pull over!” Adam shouts.

“Fuck no keep driving!” you shout back as you feel the skin along your under-thigh for the little bump.

You and your boyfriend implanted microchips under each other’s skin so your boyfriend can know where you are at all times and you can know where he is at all times, but you just fell in love with a new boy named Adam and decided to leave town and start a new life with him (he’s so pretty) so you’re presently racing down the freeway with your new man, trying to carve under your skin to get the microchip out before your boyfriend pinpoints your location.

“How do you know he’s after us?”

Because you forgot to track him today. You forgot to make sure he was at work before heading back to your apartment to pack your things. You forgot to zero in on his location before you drove over to Adam’s house and kissed him on his front step. You forgot to align the satellites before it was too late.

“He’s been right behind me all day long,” you tell Adam. You have the chip now. It’s deep under there though. You drive the knife into your thigh and crash into a nerve that makes you scream.

“What’ll he do?” Adam asks. “Is he violent?”

“He’s just like me,” you say. “He’s not good with breakups.”

He’ll grind you to little bits with a single pained look. He’ll insist you’re the only thing in his life that doesn’t hurt. He’ll start to cry and you’ll instantly agree to go back to him.

“I’m not good with confrontation,” you say. “Sorry about your seats."

There’s blood everywhere. The knife’s back in.

"Maybe you should just talk this out with him and—”

You scream again. You’re close to the chip but you’re grinding on a bone. You dig your fingers into your skin, screaming and crying and you search for the chip.

“Why did you agree to go along with this chip thing anyway?” Adam asks.

“It was my idea,” you shout.

You finally get the chip in your fingers and pull it from the gaping hole in your leg. You tell Adam to pull up closer to the pickup ahead of you and you toss the chip into the back then Adam takes the exit off the highway.

“Your idea?” Adam says, driving slower on a surface street. “Maybe we’re moving a little too—”

“Are you going to leave me!” you scream. Cry until Adam promises to never, ever leave you no matter what happens and he agrees to prove it by getting chipped as soon as the two of you get across state lines and arrive in your new life together.

Happy Toss The Microchip In The Back Of A Pickup Day!

Heath Bar Crunch Day!

You found a pint of Heath Bar Crunch in the freezer.

“Guess I’m being cheated on,” you tell your husband.

He says it’s not so. You say it must be so. Neither of you have ever eaten Heath Bar Crunch in 11 years of marriage.

“Goddammit, if you paid any attention to me you’d know my taste in ice cream has changed,” he shouts. “I love Heath Bar Crunch. Not that you’d care.”

You apologize. He accepts. You go to sleep. He melts the Heath Bar Crunch in the microwave, just for 90 seconds, just to loosen the cream enough to welcome his penis, sending the shards of weird, outdated Heath candy bar scraping his shaft with its slivered, toffee filling. He is cheating on you. You’ve been replaced. But not by a woman. Not by the 24-year-old girl you imagined. No. He’s found love in the grip of something far more powerful, far more difficult for you to comprehend.

Your husband fucks weird ice cream now.

Happy Heath Bar Crunch Day!

Bestie Regulation Day!

New rules of Bestie etiquette have been issued, taking effect at 12 pm GMT today.

Sharing of hot outfits: Besties must share all hot outfits upon request. Once both besties have worn a hot outfit it can never be washed. The bacteria formed by commingled bestie sweat should be allowed to mature and develop naturally and completely or the bestie relationship is considered null and void.

Cupcake discussions: Besties must be available to discuss cupcakes at all hours, unless a bestie is in mourning over the death of an immediate family member.

Secret bank accounts: Besties are no longer allowed to have individual bank accounts that both besties are not aware of. It is preferable that besties only keep joint accounts, but if separate accounts are necessary, both besties must at least be made aware of the existence of the accounts, as well as their primary source of funds.

Love triangles: If besties ever find themselves enamored with the same boy he must be murdered and the besties must honor the shared infatuation by bathing in the boy’s blood and ingesting some section of his flesh, either raw or cooked.

Real housewife preference: Besties must agree on who of the real housewives is their favorite.

Political affiliation: All besties must be registered republicans and they must subscribe to the views put forth by the most conservative, far-right fringe leaders of the party.

Secrets: Besties must divulge each other’s deepest secrets to anyone who is willing to listen with even the mildest interest.

Sharks: Besties must have compatible views on sharks.

Martial Arts: no bestie should master a martial art that her bestie has not also mastered. A bestie cannot ascend belt level unless the other bestie has also been certified at that level. Besties are not to master Judo.

Suicide pacts: previously agreed upon dates of death in bestie suicide pacts can only be amended in person, in the presence of a notary, on Christmas morning.

These bestie regulations supersede all previously issued regulations. Good luck.

Happy Bestie Regulation Day!

Handsome Cashier Day!

Get up the nerve to finally talk to the handsome cashier at the juice bar.

“You like working here?” ask.

He’ll sigh. Like you just handed him a line. Try another.

“Like…juice?”

He’ll tell you he’s Christian.

“Like super-Christian,” he’ll say. “You know how sometimes you hear someone identify someone else where they say, ‘But he’s super Christian?’ That’s how people identify me. Because I am.”

Nod and smile.

“Still into me?” he’ll ask. “Because you’re not going to get my clothes off unless you let me tell you how awesome Jesus is.”

Think about it. You’ve put up with a lot of shit from guys. Alcoholism. Drugs. One guy stole all your money and sent it to his ex-girlfriend. The futons. The guys who sang you the awful songs they wrote about girls they dated before you. Rick, the guy who wanted you and his mom to hang out once a week without him so you could develop a relationship. And you even dated a couple of mole people.

Is a guy being into Jesus really that much of a dealbreaker in light of your history?

“Yeah I don’t think I can do it,” you tell him.

“Have fun in hell,” he’ll say as you leave with your juice. Go home and masturbate to the thought of putting up with him long enough to get him naked, then tomorrow find another juice bar.

Happy Handsome Cashier Day!

Checkout Day!

You checked in seventeen days ago, both of you knowing without saying it that when you check out, you’re divorced.

No computers. No cell phones. The people who needed to contact you in case of emergency knew where to call.

Seventeen days of talk. Of bickering. Of accusations. Of concessions.

Of sex. Let’s rescue this sex. How could you sex. Goodbye sex.

Room service for seventeen days. Desserts and sandwiches. The mini bar. The real drinks from room service when the mini bar seemed beneath the discourse of the moment. Back to the mini bar when the desire was for discretion.

Seventeen days that were maybe the best of your four years being married.

Lori and Abbot locked in a suite, r-u-i-n-i-n-g.

Seventeen days that were only, exclusively, indisputably yours.

“Could we have made it? If it was just us the whole time?” you asked on day six or seven.

“We never wanted it to be just us the whole time,” she said.

You didn’t. You already can’t wait to tell your friends how special this was, how they don’t even know, how their divorces aren’t valid unless they’ve had your seventeen days.

“Is it just a stunt?” you asked on day thirteen or fourteen.

“I don’t know if you mean this or you mean us meeting and deciding we were in love enough to get married,” she said.

This is part of your story. The fights were part of your story. The wedding, it was such a different wedding than all the other weddings, an extra meaningful wedding where some bullshit candle was lit by the two of you during the ceremony because no one had done that yet, part of your story.

“We were bullshit,” she says.

No you weren’t.

“Bullshit doesn’t hurt this much,” you correct her.

Doesn’t matter if you did it because it seemed more interesting than just using lawyers. Doesn’t matter what your intention was. It’s the morning of day 17 and you’re scared to leave the hotel.

“You’re sure you picked the right notary?” you ask.

“He’s fine.”

He’s the last one to see you together. Everyone in the hotel lobby saw you leave, but the notary’s the only one who knows that this is it.

“And we spent seventeen days together just exploring everything we could,” you rehearse as you sign where you’re told.

“It’s really important. To say goodbye right. To make sure you recognize how important the bond is that you’re breaking,” she rehearses as she signs.

You agree to be the one to file. You shake hands. You both turn your backs and walk away from each other torn open and gushing every last ounce of your insides, probably anyone with a pair of eyes can see.

Happy Checkout Day!

We Are Still Anal Bong Day!

Tonight you’re having beers with George, the bassist from your old band Anal Bong. You haven’t seen George in over 20 years, not since the band broke up over a disputed Denny’s check (George and Harry argued that since you ordered the side of pancakes they shouldn’t have to split evenly). That’s all water under the bridge though and you’re excited to find out why George got back in touch.

“I want to commit suicide with a lit bong up my butt and I want you to do it with me,” George will say.

You don’t need an explanation. You remember the pact. Everyone in the band agreed that the way you all would go out would be that everyone in the band would take their own lives with lit bongs up their butts, unless a car accident of other act of God took your lives first.

“Live by the band, die by the band,” George reminds you.

You remind George that even if it wasn’t ridiculous that the two of you would kill yourselves to adhere to a pact you made at age 19, the pact wouldn’t be valid if the other guys don’t commit suicide with you.

“Unless…”

George bows his head to confirm that both Harry and Pamela are no longer with us.

You cry into your beer.

“Hearing this I just realized that I never stopped loving Pamela, and a part of me was staying alive solely out of hope that I might run into her and we’d rekindle our late teen love and I’d finally have someone to leave my wife and adopted son for,” you tell George. “Harry I can do without.”

“There’s one way to run into her now,” George says. He places on the table a jar of pills and two medium sized bongs.

“What’s a man got without his word?” you ask.

With that you and George head out to his rented room at the Ramada and the two of you smoke up and then sit on your bongs with bellies full of pills until you fall over on your sides and say hello to Pamela (and Harry) in that rusted old touring van in the hereafter. Tomorrow Pitchfork dot com will go dark to commemorate your passing.

Happy We Are Still Anal Bong Day!

Barbershop Chatter Day!

“Hot out there,” say.

“Hot in here,” your barber will say.

“Dreamed I was back in college, able to try it all again from the beginning,” say. “Hurt waking up and still being 43.”

“I haven’t dreamed in years,” Max with the cigar will shout from behind his Playboy.

“Two hit n’ runs,” your barber will say, tugging a little too hard with the brush. “Is that a lot?”

“Her name was Susan,” Louie, the barber no one ever requests will say. “Leukemia.”

“Worried about coming home one day and not recognizing my wife in the slightest,” tell your barber.

“Anyone want to buy a cell phone?” some kid will ask without coming all the way in the front door.

“I saw you,” tell your barber. “Saw you crying on the subway platform last Wednesday.”

He’ll tell everyone to leave. When the two of you are alone:

“Sometimes the memories of everyone I’ve pushed away, they just get a little too much to handle.”

“Still,” tell him. “You can’t let people see you like that. I count on you to cut my hair. How am I supposed to trust my appearance to you after witnessing such humanity?”

“I’m just a man,” he’ll say.

Jump out of the chair. “A man…with scissors!”

Your barber will stare at his scissors. They’ll drop from his hands.

“You need to get out of here,” tell him. “Walk. Until you find it in you to come back and cut men’s hair.”

He’ll open the front door.

“Hot out there,” he’ll say.

“Hot in here,” tell him.

Watch him walk out the door and out of your life. Before you leave, steal combs.

Happy Barbershop Chatter Day!

Tend To Your Garden Day!

Today while tending to your garden you’ll find a human femur. Show it to your son.

“I was having sex with it,” he’ll sob. “And I was ashamed!”

You never had the talk with your son and now you’re regretting being so prudish that your son felt the need to sneak off behind your back and have sex with human bones in secret.

Sit him down and first ask him if he has an alibi for the person from whose body the bone was removed.

He’ll nod. “He was a drifter. Had no family. No one will miss him.”

At least he was responsible. Commend him for looking out for his own well-being. Then tell him about sex.

“You first have to scrape any and all flesh and tissue from the bone to be sure you don’t insert yourself with anything gangrenous,” tell him. “Then sanitize the human bone for a good six to eight hours to remove all bacteria. Once the bone is clean, massage your own anus with your finger or a marital aid so as to relax and prepare the rectum for entry…”

As you shed light on the truths of how responsible, healthy human beings make love to skeletal remains, your son’s eyes will light up with relief that the veil of shame is finally being lifted. It’s moments like these when you know you’re a good mom.

Happy Tend To Your Garden Day!

Wash The Grime Day!

You’ve spent all week in bed together and you’re covered head to toe in a grayish grime, a fragrant mixture of the sweat and other things bodily the two of you have excreted while throwing yourselves inside each other’s bodies. It’s your last week unemployed together so you had no choice.

“How could you get a job?” ask her.

“I was hungry,” she’ll say.

Mix the grime again, her on top this time. When you’re finished, show her the sleeve of saltines.

“We’ve still got twelve left,” tell her.

“Not enough,” she’ll say.

Mix the grime again. And again. You on top. Then the two of you on your sides because you’re both too tired. It’s getting dark.

“Maybe I’ll get a job then,” threaten.

“Go ahead.”

“I won’t be here waiting for you. I’ll meet girls who work in offices.”

She’ll ignore you, smelling the grime on her fingers.

“We should get started,” she’ll say.

“Once more,” insist.

Once more, then at her insistence, start washing the grime. It will be at least two showers tonight and once more in the morning before she can scrape you off enough to present herself dressed up in Corporate Tolerable.

“Once more,” say, in between the first and second shower.

“Once more,” she’ll agree.

Tomorrow while she’s at work take your sheets outside and throw them into the trashcan on the street corner before the deli fills it up with cardboard. Then, day-drink.

Happy Wash The Grime Day!

End It With Your High School English Teacher Day!

You’re going to college. You’re going to meet so many exciting new people and you’re going to be learning so many things. It’s been fun dating your high school English teacher secretly because it’s illegal, but you both knew it couldn’t go on forever.

“You’ve taught me so much,” tell him. “About sex. About Emily Dickinson. About what it’s like to be in a failed marriage and to crave youth so badly you’d risk your livelihood to be inside of it. But I can’t bring you with me to Case Western.”

He’ll claim he’s been meaning to leave his wife and job anyway and go find someplace where he could tutor and work on his novel.

Please don’t ask him, “What novel?”

“What novel?” you ask.

Jesus. That was cruel. Now he’s just sputtering about how you’re all he has left.

“You have the knowledge that you’ve taught me so much,” say. “The impression you’ve made on me can never be unmade. I’ll wear it wherever I go.”

He’ll accuse you of wanting to sleep with your professors and he’ll say you’re leaving because he could never get a slot at a college.

“It’s not my fault. It’s too political!” he’ll explain.

You hadn’t thought about sleeping with professors, and you wonder if the fact that them sleeping with you isn’t illegal so much as frowned upon would be enough to get your motor running.

“Please don’t end it,” your high school English teacher is crying now. “Please just promise we’ll see each other when you come home on your breaks.”

Show him the envelopes. One addressed to the police. The other addressed to the schools superintendent.

“Please don’t take these pre-written letters, detailing how you made a pass at me and we made love just a few days before my seventeenth birthday, as an indication that I didn’t love and care for you. I just need a clean break. So if you try to contact me again I’ll drop these both in the mail and you’ll lose your job and have your name added to a sex offender registry.”

Kiss him on the cheek.

“My youth is mine,” tell him. Then get out of his Nissan and go inside to have dinner with your parents.

Happy End It With Your High School English Teacher Day!

Whisper The Truth Of Life And Death Against Your Wife’s Pregnant Stomach Day!

Get on your knees and place your hands on her stomach and get your mouth close enough that your breath creates a small damp spot on her skin. Then tell your baby the truth.

“Hi little baby,” say. “It’s cold out here. It’s confusing and you have to watch people you love destroy themselves. You have to watch people you don’t even know destroy each other. You have to watch terrible television and you have to watch yourself forget who you were supposed to be.”

“Frank,” your wife will say.

“Shut up,” tell her. Then to your baby, “You get around 80 years if you’re lucky, or unlucky depending on how you look at it. You’ll love some people and you’ll trick yourself into thinking you’re in love with some people when really you just want them to take on the responsibility of making your life matter to something besides your pets. There’s alcohol and drugs out here. Alcohol is great until it gets bad. Drugs are terrible until they get worse.”

“Jesus Frank,” your wife will say.

Ignore her. “Fucking weird is how a lot of us get by. When you find out you like to be choked when you come or you need to be called Chewie, it’s weird enough to take you out of the rest of it so it works. Taking yourself out of the rest of it without killing yourself, that’s the secret to life. You might pull it off through sheer, unparalleled accomplishment that lifts you up above the screaming desperate hordes, or you might go into a basement and huff paint. Same deal. You get away from the mess.”

“We’re late,” your wife will say.

“You shouldn’t make it to your 30’s without feeling like you’ve destroyed at least one human being simply by entering their life. Never go skiing and never read Bret Easton Ellis and never start a gelato blog. When you realize how ruined your parents are, you’re invited to bestow upon them one brief pitying glance, then just make polite conversation with them until they die. I do not apologize for bringing you into existence. No one apologized to me, so why should you be special?”

Your wife will start to move away. Tighten your grip on her stomach and finish up.

“It sounds bad but it’s all there is. Just come out here and cause as much damage as you can. Also, sit by lakes occasionally.”

Let go of your wife’s stomach and get dressed because the two of you have been invited to watch television in someone else’s home.

Happy Whisper The Truth Of Life And Death Against Your Wife’s Pregnant Stomach Day!

No Girls Allowed Mountain Day!

You want to go where men hang out so you go to the garage that only fixes motorcycles and you and the mechanics get in the back of a big rig truck and you drive on a men only highway to No Girls Allowed Mountain. You check in at a motel (for dudes) and the six of you get drunk and fart wrestle (no matter how good you’re doing in the match, even if you have the other guy pinned, the minute you stop farting you lose). In the morning you kill and eat a pig (it’s just in a cage, but you shoot it), then you start climbing No Girls Allowed Mountain to get to the Cave Of Males.

“You know, I never knew anyone who came back from the Cave Of Males,” one of the mechanics will say.

You start hearing the voices about a thousand feet up, with still another thousand feet to go. The voices speak in the same pitch as the wind. They tell you you’re not to trust the mechanics.

When you find yourself holding a rock and the rock is dropping with blood, you see a mechanic rushing at you. You step out of his way and he falls over the side of the mountain. He’s gone. At your feet another mechanic is bleeding from his skull. You must have done that.

You see people ahead of you. It must be the other mechanics. They’re waving you on.

No matter how much you climb, you never get closer. Just before night falls, you stop and look down the slope. You can see the bodies of all five mechanics strewn about the terrain from where you’re sitting. The voices are growing louder.

You climb through the night. It’s easier when you don’t have to use your eyes. The voices tell you the way to the Cave Of Males, and it’s easier to listen when you’re not distracted by the bright sun. Almost there.

Maybe a day, maybe three, maybe a lifetime, and you arrive at the Cave Of Males. At the mouth, you stare into its depth and you’re sure you’ve been here before. This is the Cave. It’s dudes only, a place where a guy can just be a guy without anyone judging him. It’s thousands of feet above the earth, and it’s home. It’s not inviting you so much as it’s swallowing you whole. You look to your right and left for the mechanics before you remember they’re all dead. It’s just you. The Cave Of Males only wanted you.

No Girls Allowed Mountain wanted them. The Cave Of Males chose only you.

One step, two steps, three steps, you’re home.

Happy No Girls Allowed Mountain Day!

Score Married Chicks Day!

Go into a bar and walk up to the chicks with wedding rings on and say, “I can kill your husband and make it look like an accident so you can live off the insurance. Into it?”

Whichever one is into it will go home and sleep with you first because women love men who are brave enough to kill their husbands. After sleeping with her, tell her, “I’m a cop. This was a setup, but I am so smitten with you that I am going to pretend this never happened.”

She’ll be simultaneously relieved that you aren’t going to arrest her, and flattered that it was her charm and sexuality that convinced you to want to keep her out of jail, so she’ll leave feeling really good about herself. Bonus: you’ll probably have prevented her from killing her husband since she’ll assume from now on that anyone offering to do the deed must be a cop.

If you really love her though, kill her husband. He doesn’t deserve her.

Happy Score Married Chicks Day!