Barista Sex Day!

The barista who wears the blue kerchief around his neck finds the barista with her bra cups visible through the wide ripped sleeves of her tank top attractive.

“Everybody!” Kerchiefed Barista shouts at the customers. “If you need a refill you’d better get it now.”

“We’re going to have sex on the piled up sacks of beans!” shouts Visible Bra Cup Barista.

A small line of dour-faced customers forms for refills while Kerchiefed Barista and Visible Bra Cup Barista dispense coffee, both of them visibly aroused despite the angry looks they give to the customers who don’t tip because they think dispensing a refill is somehow not as tip-worthy as dispensing the initial cup, even though it takes the exact same amount of fucking work.

“Assholes,” Kerchiefed Barista says to Visible Bra Cup Barista.

“Total assholes,” Visible Bra Cup Barista concurs.

Kerchiefed Barista helps Visible Bra Cup Barista climb up on top of the sacks of beans. They press their sour, pursed lips together in a kiss. It hurts, since both of them have extremely chapped lips. Kerchiefed Barista pulls off his shirt but he refuses to untie his kerchief. Visible Bra Cup Barista feels the same way about her bra. She gladly tosses her tank top to the floor but her lightning blue bra remains fastened. They both unpeel their skin-tight jeans to reveal neither of them were wearing any underwear. Kerchiefed Barista writhes his pale, bony lower body against the yellowish legs and razor hipped pelvis of Visible Bra Cup Barista. It’s clear that Kerchiefed Barista is inside of Visible Bra Cup Barista when their facial expressions change from irritated to distant to a little sad.

“Hey the wi-fi’s out!” a customer shouts from his table.

“Yeah, for me too,” another customer shouts.

“Shut the fuck up!” Kerchiefed Barista shouts back, still thrusting.

“Just reset the router!” a third customer joins in.

“Not now!” Visible Bra Cup Barista responds.

“Reset the goddamned router!” the first customer says, getting out of his seat.

“In a minute!” Kerchiefed Barista says, writhing with a steady rhythm.

“You know you can pull out then go back in again, right?” a customer counsels.

“Just give us a minute!” Visible Bra Cup Barista shouts. “Christ!”

The customers are out of their seats now, gathering around the sacks of beans, demanding that the baristas stop having sex and reset the router.

“Back away!” Kerchiefed Barista says.

The customers continue to gather around the sacks of beans. The people in the back start to shove forward, knocking into the sacks.

“They’re gonna give way!” a customer shouts.

The sacks of beans start to tilt forward with the baristas having sex on top, thrusting and writhing, trying to finish before the inevitable comes to pass. The sacks go completely off balance, the customers screaming as the mountain of beans begins its tumble. The baristas don’t stop even as the sacks fall from underneath them, 50 pounds at a time, customers climbing over each other to get away, but they’re too late. Dozens are killed in the avalanche, including both baristas, still making love, still shouting at the customers who won’t stop bothering them. The baristas die while joined together in erotic passion, a mess of scattered coffee beans and wi-fi craving corpses for their bed. After the dead are cleared out and mourned, the coffee shop closes down and a few months later reopens as a gelato place.

Happy Barista Sex Day!

Old Man’s Cabin Day!

Today while hiking you’ll stumble upon an old man’s cabin.

“You’re the first person I seen in thirty years,” he’ll say.

“Do you have any wisdom?” you’ll ask.

“Yeah,” he’ll say. “Don’t run off into the woods and expect to live alone without being bothered by any people, because eventually, whether it be in thirty days or thirty years, some asshole in a Land’s End outfit will show up asking if you have any wisdom like you’re some kind of convenience store that sells insight into human experience. Do you see a sign outside that says, ‘Come in and ask an old guy to say something smart?’ Nice pants, by the way. Great to see in my time away men are less afraid of looking feminine. And that shirt. Looks like a handkerchief fucked Paul Bunyan.”

The old man will then continue to make fun of your clothes until you leave.

Happy Old Man’s Cabin Day!

You’re A Dog That Paints Portraits Of Cats Day!

Why cats?

“Why not cats?” is your answer. “Is a cat not made up of blood and tissue, organs and sinew, claws and fangs and fur, just like dogs?”

Today you’re painting a Siamese. The cat is holding still, staring off at a bird on a branch just out your window.

“I think portraits require an outsider’s eye,” you explain to the girl from Artforum. “I see beauty in what one of their own might find commonplace. I can also spot the fleas.”

But what of the hissing?

“It takes some time,” you say. “Usually about three hours of hissing before they finally get tired and give me something unguarded. But that just gives me a special vantage point. I see them go from fury and defensiveness to surrender. I see the whole cat.”

Are there any you just can’t work with?

“On occasion, the cat gets too aggressive, and I can’t help but bark in response,” you say, somewhat ashamed. “It turns into a standoff, and there just isn’t any work getting done at that point. One or two times a cat has chased me out of my own studio and left me afraid to come back for weeks. But it’s worth it for doing what I love.”

You finish the painting of the Siamese. It’s a chaos of paint, globs of color strewn around the canvas randomly, and it’s just horrible.

Happy You’re A Dog That Paints Portraits Of Cats Day!

Carjacking Gone Right Day!

Today at a stoplight you’re going to be accosted by a man with a gun. He’ll tap his gun on your car window and tell you to get out.

“Wait,” you’ll say. “Maybe we’re heading in the same direction.”

You tell him where you’re headed and it turns out he is headed that way so you agree to carpool.

“But tomorrow,” he says when he gets out of the car. “If you’re not going my way, this car’s mine. Or else you die.”

You end up carpooling every day for the next six years, and he threatens your life every time you drop him off. But during the ride he’s quite pleasant and has lots of stories about his family and his time working on the back of a bread truck.

The only reason you’ll stop carpooling is because you’re going to get transferred to another office that’s not on his way, so he’ll point the gun at you and make you give him your car.

“It’s been really nice, these six years,” he’ll say, still pointing the gun at you as you stand in the street with your hands up.

“You take care of yourself,” you’ll say to your carjacker.

“You too,” he’ll say. Then he’ll drive away, tossing all of your stuff out of the car as he speeds off into the distance.

Happy Carjacking Gone Right Day!

Magic Cop Day!

You’re Las Vegas’s greatest magician but you’re also a police detective and you use magic to investigate crimes. Today you’re going to go down to the morgue and investigate a murder by sawing the body in half.

“Nope,” you’ll say, investigating the inside of the victim’s torso. “No clues.”

When you put the body back together seamlessly, the coroner will say, “Wow, you really are magic!”

You’ll pull a really long handkerchief out of your sleeve to confirm it.

“So do you know who did it?”

“Not yet,” you say. “But do you have the victim’s clothing?”

The coroner hands you an evidence bag containing everything the victim was wearing. You pull out the victim’s hat and reach inside it. You pull a live rabbit out of it.

“Wow!” the coroner will say. “So was the killer someone who lived in nature? Or a pet store owner?”

You shrug.

“Does your magic help you solve crimes in any way?” the coroner asks. “Like, at all? Is it even relevant?”

With a snap of your fingers you disappear before he has the chance to ask the question again.

Happy Magic Cop Day!

Sex Jail Day!

It’s a dystopian future in which hot people are arrested and sentenced to sex jail where they are forced to have sex with other hot people for years and years and the less attractive populace watches it all on camera.

It’s brought the crime rate down to 0% because everyone would rather just stay home and watch all the attractive people have sex for them than go out to commit murder or rob banks. Also, with all the attractive people in sex jail, no one is really trying to show off so they don’t need a lot of money or anything.

“This is America,” you tell your friends over chat while you’re all masturbating to the sex jail feed in your respective homes. “It’s not fair that these people don’t get to have the same freedoms as you and me just because they’re really good looking.”

“We should break them out of sex jail,” one of your friends suggests. “Then they’ll show their gratitude by having sex with us.”

You and four of your friends devise a plan to bust into sex jail and set all the hot people free. You blast a giant hole into the side of the jail and direct the hot people to freedom.

At the hole, they peer outside, frightened.

“We don’t know about this,” one hot guy says. He’s devastatingly hot.

“Yeah,” a stunning brunette agrees, peering outside. “We’re kind of feeling like the world finally gets it.”

“No one asks us to contribute or anything,” a hulking dude with pecs for days says. “It’s finally like, America understands. We’re hot. So watch us fuck, then go do your stock markets and stuff, but don’t make us talk to you okay?”

“So you like it in here?” you ask the hot people.

They all look grossed out that you spoke to them.

“We’re going to go back inside and have sex with each other,” the brunette says, her bosom heaving.

As they walk back into the jail, you can’t take your eyes off them, which is why you don’t see the guards before they start shooting at you.

Happy Sex Jail Day!

Maureen Day!

To prove you’re the man for Maureen, you’re going to jump a motorcycle across a gorge.

“What if you die?” a news reporter asks.

The jump is to prove you deserve Maureen, that the love you feel is true and that you are the man for her. If you don’t make it across the gorge, that means your love is false, that Maureen is meant to be with someone else.

“And I’d rather be dead at the bottom of that gorge than live in a world where Maureen is meant to be with another man,” you say.

The news reporter asks you to tell him what it is about Maureen that inspired you to buy this motorcycle this morning, learn how to turn on the ignition, and then declare that you’re going to jump it over a gorge as an expression of your heart’s desire.

“She’s the prettiest waitress I ever saw,” you tell him. “When I saw her last night, carrying a tray of drinks to my table, I knew she was the one.”

The news reporter asks if you’re drunk right now.

“Very,” you say.

Just then you see Maureen in the crowd. You run to her.

“Maureen,” you shout. “You made it!”

“Marina,” she corrects you.

You’re terrible with names.

“Also, that jukebox must have been cranked up to the max,” you explain. “Anyway, when I jump to the other side of that gorge, that means we’re meant to be together.”

“You live in a house?” she asks.

You tell her you rent.

“Good enough,” she says. “The jump’s not necessary. You can have me.”

“No,” you say. “You’ll see. This jump will prove we’re more than just settling for each other. This jump will prove we’re destined for each other.”

After asking the sign painters to change the banner from “Jump For Maureen” to “Jump For Marina,” you hop on the bike, give the thumbs up to the news cameras, speed over the lip of the gorge and plummet quickly to the distant bottom. Marina watches with a frown as they hose you off of the rocks.

Happy Maureen Day!

This Is Why You Can’t Have Not-On-Fire Things Day!

Just when you had your apartment decorated exactly the way you like, you have to go and set everything on fire because she’s gone.

“She sat on the couch,” you tell your friend, Jedd, who was cool enough to pick you up some kerosene and chicken soup (you have a cold). “She slept on the bed. She used to look in that mirror. She gave me that ottoman.”

“She gave you an ottoman?” Jedd asks.

“Yeah, she gave me an ottoman,” you answer. “She never put her things in the dresser. That’s gotta go too.”

“But she never put her things in it,” Jedd says.

“Yeah, so every time I look at it I have to remember how I offered her a drawer in my dresser and she’d just scrunch up her nose as if I was being cute, but she never left so much as a pair of socks. Splash some on the dresser. And this ice cube tray.”

Jedd obliges, dousing the dresser and ice cube tray in kerosene.

“She loved ice,” you tell him.

“You’re too sentimental,” Jedd says, covering all your possessions in kerosene.

“Just hurry,” tell him. “I have to light the match before Mrs. Wallingford smells the kerosene and realizes I’ve been dumped again and tries to set me up with her daughter.”

Jedd says that you need to wall off your heart more, that you shouldn’t have to set everything you own on fire every time someone breaks up with you. Love doesn’t have to be like that.

“Shut up, Jedd,” you say. Then you light the match.

Happy This Is Why You Can’t Have Not-On-Fire Things Day!

Don’t Date Professors Day!

You’re a college guy who’s always been attracted to older women, so you want to date your Native American Studies professor.

“Can I take you to a movie?” you ask her.

“No,” your professor will say. “Go outside and wait by my car. I’ll take you to my house for sex.”

Your professor will be a knowledgeable lover with lots of experience to impart to you. When the sex is over you’ll ask her if it was good for her.

“I like your young body,” she’ll say. “If you want to keep having sex with me you have to kill the head of the Native American Studies department. I want his seat.”

You kill the head of the Native American Studies department, but the professor refuses to have sex with you again.

“You think I’d have sex with a murderer?” she asks you.

Just then the police burst in and charge you with murder. You spend decades in prison. When you get out you give talks to graduating high school students warning them not to have sex with their professors in college.

“They don’t keep their word,” you’ll tell the kids. If you can keep just one from going to jail for a murder they committed in exchange for a reneged promise of more sex, it will have all been worth it.

Happy Don’t Date Professors Day!

Sad Girl Town Day!

You just pulled in to Sad Girl Town, population 2,376 sad girls.

After checking into a motel, you go to the café to get a bite to eat, but the girl behind the counter looks like she’s really having a bad time.

“Have you been crying?” you ask.

The girl nods.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

She shakes her head.

“I’ll get the crumb cake then.”

You sit down next to a girl who’s staring out the window, looking like her heart is being broken by what she sees, even though there’s no one there. Maybe that’s the problem. The person she wants to see isn’t there.

“Is the reason you look so sad while you stare out that window because you want to see someone out there who is never there?” you ask her.

She nods.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

She shakes her head.

When you leave the café you almost trip over a girl sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, sobbing into her hands.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask.

She shakes her head.

As you walk through town you start to get the sense that the sad girls are following you. You turn around and see a handful of girls walking behind you, sniffling and fixing their eyeliner. Then you walk for half of a block and turn around again and find even more sad girls behind you.

Before long there will be hundreds of sad girls following you. Their sobs will be deafening.

“Is there anything I can do to help!” you shout.

They all shake their heads no, creating a palpable breeze.

That night you have trouble sleeping with all the sad girls wandering around the parking lot of your motel, crying and sniffling, shuffling about in deepest woe. You lock the door when you hear them scratching at it, but they come crashing through the window, a pile of them on the floor of your room, sobbing and bleeding from the broken glass.

You run to the bathroom, trying to shut the door behind you but the sad girls block it from shutting. They push into the tiny bathroom, still sobbing, while you cower in the corner of the bathtub.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask one last time before they shake their heads no and reach their arms out, grabbing at you.

Happy Sad Girl Town Day!

Pumpkin Patch Day!

The pumpkin patch makes adults do things they wouldn’t normally do, which is why your Dad is laying down in a pile of pumpkins and making out with some other kids’ mom.

“Daddy stop!” you’ll shout, tugging at your dad’s arm to pull his hand off the woman’s breast.

“Mommy, that’s not daddy!” the other kids will shout, yanking on and hitting her shoulder to get her to remove her hand from your dad’s pants.

Eventually, your dad and the other kids’ mom will growl, “GET AWAY!” You’ll look in their eyes and see only darkness, so you and the other kids will run to the hayride truck and let it drive you away from your fornicating father.

When the hayride truck returns, your dad will be waiting, his clothes a little rumpled, a big smile on his face.

“Was wondering where you went off to,” he’ll say like nothing happened. The other kids’ mom will be waiting as well, seemingly unaware of the wanton behavior she exhibited in the pumpkin patch.

You’ll all go home and you won’t say anything to your mom about what your dad did. It will seem to be ancient history until you spot the woman from the pumpkin patch six months from now in a grocery store, her stomach big with child. You won’t have any way of knowing if it’s your dad’s, so you won’t bring it up.

On the night she goes into labor, your dad will get up from the dining table as if in a trance and he’ll run from the house, sprinting in his bare feet. He’ll find the woman in a creek bed, ready to deliver her child. The baby she delivers will be a vessel for demonic power and it will enslave the human race to the whim of Satan. All because you nagged your dad to take you to get a pumpkin for Halloween.

Happy Pumpkin Patch Day!

Santa Claus Day!

Today you’re going to go downstairs to find Santa Claus in your living room, holding his trusty sack.

“Santa?” you’ll say. “It’s not Christmas.”

“So?” Santa will ask. He’ll pull a bat out of his bag and wave it at you.

“So I don’t like you being here when it’s not Christmas,” you’ll say, picking up the fireplace poker.

Santa will swing the bat at your head and miss. You’ll land the fireplace poker right in his skull. He’ll drop to his knees and blood will pour from his mouth onto his beard. You’ll tug the poker out of his skull and just to be sure you’ll bring it down again, even harder this time. The life will go out of his eyes.

When your wife and kids wake up they’ll be angry that you killed Santa, but you’ll explain that it was kill or be killed.

“We never speak of this,” you’ll say to them. “When no one gets any presents this Christmas, you make like you’re just as surprised as everyone else.”

Your wife and kids agree. Then you drag Santa down into the basement to hack his body apart. You’ll bury him out in the mud fields near the bottling plant.

Happy Santa Claus Day!

Party King Day!

You are the Party King. While you sit in the comfiest chair at the party, feasting on pigs in blankets, mini puff pastries, and microbrews, the rest of the guests at the party are forced to get by on scraps.

“There’s been talk of the guests conspiring to commit regicide,” the host of tonight’s birthday party will tell you as you lounge in your chair pouring a large bowl of Fritos down your throat.

“Let them eat cake,” you’ll say.

“Really?” the host will ask, excited that his guests will be allowed to eat the birthday cake his wife cooked for him.

“Figure of speech,” tell the host. “Tell them if they wish to attend a party, they must submit to the whim of their king.”

Just then two of the guests will grab fondue forks and stab you fifty times in the chest and stomach. The death of the Party King will launch a party revolution as various revelers lay claim to your throne. Parties will take to the battlefield as anniversary gatherings lay siege upon birthday parties and retirement parties will attempt to overtake December holiday open houses. Thousands will die. Event halls will become awash in a sea of blood before finally one man ascends to be recognized across the land as the new and rightful Party King. His name’s Lance and he’s a really good dancer.

Happy Party King Day!

The Auto Mechanic’s Naked Lady Army Day!

You’re an auto mechanic and like most auto mechanics your garage walls are covered in pornography. You’ve pinned up dozens of photos of naked women over the years, and staring at them has really helped you fill the hours during those long workdays. In recent years your life has gotten a little lonelier than you’d like. Friends have moved away, family has either passed on or relocated, your shop has shrunk its operations so that you don’t even have a staff anymore. It’s just you. And your naked ladies.

“I wish you were real,” you’ll say tonight, with your hands on the photographs.

“Done,” you’ll hear a woman’s voice say behind you. You’ll turn around and find dozens of beautiful naked ladies, all the girls in the pictures come to vibrant life.

“Oh my god,” you’ll say. “You’re real! Can I have sex with all of you?”

“Anything you want,” the one with the live boa constrictor around her neck and draped over her breasts will say.

You’ll have sex with all the naked ladies for a few weeks, then the one with the roller skates and hardhat on will say, “What else can we do for you? We are all-powerful.”

“I hate Iowa!” you’ll say.

Your naked lady army will travel two states over to Iowa and immediately lay waste to everything in their path. Within a few days, the entire state will be in ruins.

“Wow!” you’ll say, marveling at all the bodies of the people your naked lady army just killed. “Can we have sex some more?”

You’ll have sex with all the naked ladies for another couple weeks, then you’ll tell them to destroy Minnesota. Then New York. Then they’ll take you to Paris because you’ve always wanted to see it, but you won’t like it so they’ll destroy it. It will look like your naked lady army is going to destroy the whole world until a secretary accidentally brings to life the models in her Shirtless Firefighters Holding Kittens calendar. The shirtless firefighters and their vicious indestructible kittens will go to war with the naked lady army and they’ll end up saving the world. You’ll be executed, which will be fine because you got to have sex with all those naked ladies so you’re all good life-wise.

Happy The Auto Mechanic’s Naked Lady Army Day!

The Real Louise Day!

You’ve been cubicle-mates with a woman named Louise for the past 12 years. Your relationship has been polite, not too personal. You’ve shared some gossip, occasionally you’ve gotten irritated with her, but for the most part she’s just been Louise, the coworker who sits at the adjacent desk.

Today you’re going to find out it’s all been lies.

You’ll know something’s wrong when you hear some noise at the reception area. Someone’s shouting out there. You’ll see Louise tense up. She’ll stand up from her chair to peer over the cubicle wall.

Just then a chair from the lobby will crash through the glass door and a woman will burst onto the floor. She’ll be bedraggled, covered in dirt and dust, but she’ll look exactly like Louise. And she’ll march right to your cubicle.

“Hey Louise,” you’ll say to your cubicle mate. “She looks just like you!”

Louise will open her mouth and a whirring, high-pitched grinding sound will come out. It won’t quite be a scream, but it will be unpleasant, like when something gets caught in an engine.

The bedraggled woman will arrive at your cubicle. She’ll shout, “I’m the real Louise!” Then she’ll grab a three-hole-punch on your desk and start bashing it into your cubicle mate’s head.

Instead of bleeding and falling unconscious, your cubicle-mate will start twitching and fluttering. The skin will peel from her head to reveal a metal casing underneath. Eventually, the metal will crack and an intricate circuitry of cables and microchips will be exposed. All the while, your cubicle-mate will release noises that sound more like they should come out of a piece of factory equipment than a human.

When your cubicle-mate is finally still, the bedraggled woman will reveal that the Louise you thought was your cubicle-mate was a robot that abducted the real Louise about six years ago. The robot adopted her appearance, and then kept her hostage while the robot lived out her life, until the real Louise finally escaped. The real Louise has no idea what the robot’s goal was in all of this.

“But you’re free now,” you’ll say after they drag the robot away to the garbage. “What are you going to do?”

“Finish these spreadsheets I guess,” the real Louise will say, noting that robot Louise was halfway through a project when she was destroyed.

The real Louise will sink herself into her workload and she’ll finish out the day without any further incident. On Friday your office will throw her a welcome back party.

Happy The Real Louise Day!

You’re A Dancer Day!

Don’t tell him so. Show him. Dance. Dance around your apartment with complete and utter surrender to the movement. Your body is your mind. Show him your thoughts are flourishes. Your feelings are leaps. You brood with your toes. You cry with a single cock of the chin. You’re a dancer. Dance for him.

“What the hell?” he’ll say when you finish. “You broke all of the lamps. You’re a terrible dancer.”

Now he knows. He knows you’re a dancer.

“You’re a really terrible dancer!” he’ll say again. “The worst dancer ever. You’re bleeding even.”

It’s clear to him. He saw it and can’t deny it. You’re a dancer.

“The absolute worst dancer I’ve ever seen,” he’ll go on, confirming and reiterating that you’re a dancer, and you dance. “Ever. Ever ever. Ever ever ever! You are the worst dancer in the history of dance.”

You are a part of the history of dance. He knows it. For he knows that you are a dancer.

“She’s the worst!” he’ll shout, yelling at this blogpost. “The worst!”

But you are a dancer. He admitted it himself, despite his criticism. You’re a dancer.

Happy You’re A Dancer Day!

Prank Video Day!

Make a prank video where you go up to girls and ask them to marry you. If they say no, that will be awesome for the prank video because the prank is that you asked. I mean, who does that? Who asks strange girls to marry them? Classic prank!

If a girl says yes, marry her. Then just stay married to her. Classic prank! Continue to love and support her through the good times and bad. She’ll never see it coming! Have two kids with her, a boy and a girl, and discover all the realms of emotion you never even knew existed. It’ll be hilarious. When you find out she’s been unfaithful, agree to work through it with her, because you don’t want to throw away all the years you’ve shared over one indiscretion and because it’ll be classic.

After the kids are grown and out of the house, it’ll be great for the prank if you and the girl start to find a new level of maturity and closeness in your love for each other. Travel together, fulfill some life-long dreams, cross a few things off the bucket list. If she dies before you, try to go it alone but it would be hilarious if you died within the year because she was really the only thing that made life worth living for you.

Try to keep it under two minutes.

Happy Prank Video Day!

Find Out That You’re Indestructible, Except For One Fatal Flaw Day!

Today while waiting for the subway you’re going to accidentally drop your phone on the tracks. You’ll climb down to get it, and just then the train will arrive. Unable to climb back up in time, you’ll stand on the tracks and think of your family as the train takes you.

When the train makes impact, the sound will be deafening. Wreckage, metal on metal, screams from all directions.

When you open your eyes you’ll realize that you haven’t moved an inch, but the train crumpled in on itself, killing hundreds, maiming more.

As the smoke clears and the screams swirl all around you you’ll look down at yourself and say, “Hey, wow! I’m indestructible!”

A first responder will hear you and say, “Yeah, big congrats! Maybe you can use your power to help us carry some of these bodies out, jerkface!”

Upon hearing “jerkface,” you’ll fall to the ground, weak and utterly defenseless. You’re indestructible except for one fatal flaw: name-calling.

Happy Find Out That You’re Indestructible, Except For One Fatal Flaw Day!

Classroom Fistfight Day!

Some boys are having a classroom fistfight and you can’t decide which one you’re falling for. The boy who’s winning is really strong, but the boy who’s losing is really smart. If you go for the strong boy, he might marry you and protect you from physical harm should society crumble due to environmental changes or economic collapse. If you go for the smart boy he might be able to get a good job and earn enough money to put you in the higher echelon of people who might be granted entrance into an underground bunker where important scientists and thinkers are kept safe for future generations. If you go for the strong boy he might look back on his years in high school playing sports as the best years of his life, which means he’ll be bitter and you won’t have a happy home. If you go for the smart boy he might value the intellect more than emotion which means your marriage will be passionless. If you—Oops, the strong boy fell and cracked his head open on the corner of the desk and he’s dead. The smart boy is running, trying to get off-campus before the cops come. Looks like you’re date-less again, loser.

Happy Classroom Fistfight Day!

Get Lost Day!

Make a wrong turn off the turnpike and you’ll find yourself in the middle of some unknown backwater town.

“I’m lost,” tell the first man you see.

“You can take that house over there,” he says, pointing to an empty two-story house.

Move into the house and then explore the town a bit, telling everyone you meet that you’re lost. They’ll all say that they can’t help you with directions, and one woman will fall in love with you and move out of her house and into yours.

“I left the turnpike 11 years ago,” she’ll tell you in bed later. “Been here ever since.”

“I only just got here,” you’ll say.

“Your old life will fade away soon,” she’ll say.

Over the years you’ll make friends with the townsfolk. You’ll quickly learn that they don’t like people to talk about the lives they left behind when they made the wrong turn. Better conversation starters are, “Where is this place, anyway?” and “Starting to get used to things around here?”

It’s not such a bad life. It’s a town like any other. Sure, any time a news helicopter flies over head you all rush out into the street waving your arms at it. But other than that, it’s an okay place to spend the remainder of a lifetime.

Happy Get Lost Day!

Quit Drinking Day!

You and your three buddies are starting to think it’s time to quit drinking.

“What should we do with the time we used to spend drinking?” one of your buddies asks.

“Help the poor I guess,” you say.

You start helping the poor every night, staying out all night long helping them find food and shelter and healthcare and whatnot.

“This isn’t as fun as drinking,” one of your buddies says. “And I can remember everything the next day, even though I wish I couldn’t.”

“Let’s try helping the rich,” you say.

You and your buddies go out at night and stay out until dawn helping the rich find exciting new restaurants and underground sex clubs where they can watch beautiful prostitutes engage in unimaginable acts.

“I still dug drinking more than this,” one of your buddies says.

“Should we help the middle class?” you suggest.

You stay out all night helping the middle class deal with things like property taxes, local crime, and how best to invest so that they might have something to retire on one day.

“This is worst of all,” one of your buddies says.

“We tried,” you say.

You and your buddies go out drinking, just like you used to. You help no one. No one.

Happy Quit Drinking Day!

Kill Your Mutual Friends Day!

You and your husband are getting a divorce, but you don’t want to be one of those couples that splits up their friends after a divorce. You have so many mutual friends, you don’t see why it has to be that you get to keep some while your husband keeps the others. You’d hate to think about your husband hanging out with all your friends without you, and you doubt you’d be able to enjoy the friendships you keep, knowing they’ve chosen to ostracize your husband.

“So that’s why we need this list of people taken care of,” you explain to the hit man.

“There’s like thirty names on this list,” the hit man says.

You and your husband nod. “We were really popular,” you say.

“One of those couples who’s always expected to throw the New Year’s get-together,” your husband adds.

“This is gonna cost a lot of money,” the hit man says.

“We don’t care how much it costs,” your husband says. “You can’t put a price on friendship.”

You give the hit man a down payment of $100,000, and he agrees to kill the first six of your friends (you went alphabetical, and that gets you all the way to the D’s) within the week. At this rate, your entire social circle should be dead by the time your divorce is finalized, making it easy for you both to move on into your new lives, ready to establish new and exciting friendships.

Happy Kill Your Mutual Friends Day!

You’re The Fixer Day!

When someone needs stuff done, you’re the guy they call.

Need a guy killed? You’re the guy they call.

Need a guy beaten up? You’re the guy they call.

Need a guy talked down to? You’re the guy they call.

Need a guy to feel special because it’s his birthday and he’s had a rough year? You’re the guy they call.

Just need to talk? Just about life or whatever? Just need someone to talk to to feel less alone in this world? You’re the guy they call.

House on fire and need someone to call the fire department? You’re the guy they call.

Need a sink fixed? You’re the guy they call to put pressure on the super to fix it.

Today the President of the United States is going to call you.

“I need the country to be better,” he’ll say.

“On it,” you’ll tell him. Then you’ll start your day, going to American after American, threatening them one by one into making their little part of the country better. By lunchtime you’ll have threatened everyone on the East coast. By dinner, you’ll have promised, in so many words, violent retribution against everyone in the Midwest should they fail to make this country great.

Tonight you’ll be in Oregon, threatening a family of five when the dad will say, “Don’t you realize you’ve been set up?”

The President’s trying to fix the fixer! The fix is in! Fix this!

Happy You’re The Fixer Day!

Be The First Volunteer Day!

The government just announced that they want to start one of those programs where humans are put in comas in little pods scattered across a giant wall and they’re used as an energy source or something and they need volunteers.

“Meeeeeeee!” you shout.

Everyone turns their heads to look at you.

“You know he means like in The Matrix, right?” a friend says.

“I know!” you shout. “Amazing right? Finally!”

“Amazing?” your friend says. “Are you crazy?”

You’re starting to think The Matrix wasn’t a horror movie about a bunch of people who were finally getting enough sleep until some asshole rebels came and started waking them up.

“This could be the end of civilization,” your friend insists.

“So this is our last chance to get some sleep!” you say, jumping out of your chair and raising your hand higher.

Before you can ask if you can bring your pillow from home, agents seize you, drag you into a medical facility, and numb your medulla with a needle jabbed up under your skull. As your functions begin shutting down you feel like you might finally get a good eight hours for the first time in forever.

Happy Be The First Volunteer Day!

Hold On To Jeff Day!

Jeff, your coworker, just fell out the window while reenacting a scene from a Vin Diesel movie he watched on demand last night, and you grabbed his hand just in time. He’s dangling twelve stories above the sidewalk and the only thing keeping him alive is you.

“Hold on to him,” someone whispers in your ear, which is weird because you’re alone in the room.

“Who is that?” you ask the empty room.

“A ghost,” the voice says. “I haunt this conference room.”

You ask the ghost if she’s Jeff’s guardian angel.

“Kind of,” she says. “I do what I can to keep Jeff from dying, but only because no one wants to have to deal with him in the afterlife. Jeff’s an a-hole.”

You’re stunned. “I know, right?”

“Who are you talking to?” Jeff shouts from outside.

“Shut up!” you and the ghost shout, though he only hears you.

“Just keep him alive for a few more years,” the ghost says. “It might suck having to work with him, but imagine knowing you’re going to deal with his shit for an eternity.”

You tell the ghost you’ll do what you can. Down below you see the fire department setting up a net.

“You owe me when I die, though!” You tell the ghost.

“You bet,” the ghost says.

You hold onto Jeff just long enough to let him drop safely into the net assembled below. When you see Jeff later he calls you a homo for holding his hand so long, then he invites everyone in the office to go out for shots to celebrate him being still alive. No one responds to the invite.

Happy Hold On To Jeff Day!

Order Some Sex Online Day!

Click the boxes for the hair, eyes, and body fat that you want, all to your liking. You can pick your style of sex (gentle, rough, furtive, giggly, or Sicilian), and how much sex you want (short, long, extra-long, or weekend getaway). Click confirm and you can watch the sex tracker as it shows you where in the process of preparation and delivery your sex is at any given time (ranges from “We are waiting for him/her to be let out on bail” to “Your sex is in the van on the way to your house”). Try not to masturbate to the tracker. A lot of people masturbate to the tracker and finish before the sex arrives, and they get angry when they still have to pay for the sex even though they don’t want it anymore. There are websites that allow you to masturbate to other people’s sex trackers, in case you enjoy just watching imminent sex travel across a city. When your sex arrives, check him or her to make sure all your fixins are there and that he or she is still warm. The van driver will wait 45 seconds after delivery for you to send the sex back (having masturbated to the tracker is not refundable cause for sending sex back). Enjoy your sex and remember, once you close your front door we provide no guarantees for your safety/against you falling in love.

Order Some Sex Online Day!

Don’t Tell Him Where You Hide Your Money Day!

Tell him what you used to want to be when you were a little girl, tell him the places you have to see before you die, tell him the things that scare you most out of everything in this world, but don’t tell him where you hide your money.

It’s not because he’s after your cash. It’s not because you’re the mark in a long con. It’s not because if he knew how much money you had it might change things in your relationship.

It’s because it’s gross.

“Like, really gross,” explain to him.

He starts looking around your apartment.

“You keep it at the bottom of your laundry basket?”

So much grosser than that.

“Your butt?”

Grosser.

“Your cat’s butt?”

Oh God, doesn’t he know how much time your cat spends cleaning her butt? Grosser.

“You have a jar of boogie-snot? And when you open the jar it looks like just boogie-snot, but if you dig just an inch below the boogie-snot you’ll find a wad of money?”

You’re starting to worry that he won’t guess gross enough.

“It’s in the middle of a photo album featuring nothing but photos of you doing things you don’t enjoy to impress others?”

What’s gross about that?

“Compromised character is disgusting.”

Grosser.

“In a bucket of human hair you surreptitiously snip from women you sit near on the bus?”

This isn’t working out.

“In a shoebox full of ear wax?”

It’s not going well.

“Under a bunch of socks full of spit?”

Just go to bed. Make him stop guessing and go to bed.

But neither of you will sleep. Both of you will realize why so many couples fight about money. It’s because they end up trying to guess the gross places where each other is hiding their money wads, and they realize they aren’t grossed out by the same things.

Money changes everything.

Happy  Don’t Tell Him Where You Hide Your Money Day!

Watch The World Burn Day!

Today you’re a member of an alien race that’s just wiped out the planet earth in a single strike, engulfing the world in a thick coating of fire, and your mom is getting on your case big time.

“What are you doing, Trgph?” she’s asking through your bedroom door.

“Watching the world burn,” you tell her.

“Which one?” she asks.

“The blue one,” you tell her. “Or, the one that used to be blue. It’s probably black now.”

“Well it’ll still be burning after you do your homework. Hit the books mister.”

You finish your homework, then you go back to the window. Your mom was right. It’s still burning. It will burn for another few months, in fact. Then it will be gone, except for a few charred remnants that float off into the black.

Happy Watch The World Burn Day!

You Named All Your Cats After Your Friends’ Wives Day!

“That one’s Georgina,” you tell Max, who is married to a woman named Georgina. Max thinks it’s kind of a funny coincidence.

“Georgina poops a lot,” you say, looking Max in the eye when you say it.

“What’s that one’s name?” Harold asks, pointing to the tuxedo sleeping in the corner. Harold is married to a woman named Bridey.

“Bridey,” you tell him.

Harold’s brow furrows.

“And that one?” Paul asks, standing over you, pointing to the gray girl in the corner. “Or let me guess. Constance.”

Paul is married to a woman named Constance.

“No,” you answer.

Paul unclenches his fists.

“Constance is over there on the radiator cover,” you say. “That gray girl is Nandini.”

“Hey!” shouts Ashwin, whose wife is named Nandini.

“You named all your cats after our wives,” Max says. “You adopted four female housecats and gave them our wives’ names.”

You think about it for a second, looking around at the cats, then at your friends.

“Oh my God, I did! That’s funny. I guess I always did like your wives’ names.”

They stare at you. You stare back.

“Why haven’t you ever had a serious relationship with a woman?” Harold asks.

You tell them you haven’t found the right girl, you guess.

“I think it’s more than that,” Max says.

Paul says, “I want you to switch Constance’s name with Nandini’s. The gray cat is way prettier.”

“Wait, we can switch them up?” Harold asks.

They start fighting over which cat should be named after which wife. When you refuse to switch the names, they start hitting you. Max hits you really hard a couple of times, but the other guys pull him off. They start chasing the cats, each of them trying to take the one that’s named after his wife, but the cats either scurry away or claw out of their arms.

Eventually they leave, and you spend the rest of the afternoon napping under the weight of Georgina, Bridey, Constance and Nandini, all of them napping on your stomach and crotch, licking each other clean, loving their new home.

Happy You Named All Your Cats After Your Friends’ Wives Day!

Get Your Dad To Adopt Your Roommate Day!

“Dad,” explain. “Me and my roommate feel so close, it’s like we’re brothers. It’s to the point where we get angry that we’re not brothers, that the world will only officially acknowledge our relationship to the extent that is delineated by the terms of a lease agreement.”

“But what is it you want?” you Dad demands. He gets excited sometimes. “I understand that you want there to be change, that you want the government to acknowledge siblinghood among roommates who feel such a bond adheres, but I can’t change the law!”

Tell him, “Until the laws are changed, there’s another way for us to be brothers. He’ll divorce his parents and you’ll adopt him.”

“Fine!” your Dad will shout.

After the adoption is finalized, your roommate will kill you with a gun. Before he pulls the trigger, he’ll tell you that he really did feel close to you, but he has to take care of himself too. Next he’ll kill your Dad. As your Dad’s adopted son and sole living heir, he’ll be awarded the inheritance entirely.

Happy Get Your Dad To Adopt Your Roommate Day!