You’re The Only One Alive Day!

Today you’re going to be sitting around in a library reading some microfiche when you come upon an article with the headline, “Nuclear Assault Wipes Out Human Race.”

Um, okay, you think, looking around at everybody in the library and thinking that article got it wrong. Sure, there was a nuclear assault a few years back and the country is pretty much a burned out husk of what it used to be, but there are people everywhere!

But then you look closer, and you realize that all those people just kind of float around shrieking. None of them ever really engage you except to get you to try and resolve stuff for them, which you never do because you’ve learned that once you give an inch with that they want more.

Hold the phone, you think. Something’s not right here.

You get up from the microfiche and go to the librarian. She doesn’t acknowledge you, so you poke her in the eye. Your finger goes right into her head, like you pushed through some mist.

You run up to the other library patrons and poke them. Nothing. No physical substance to them whatsoever.

Oh my God, you think. Everyone on the planet but me has been dead the whole time!

Celebrate being the only one alive by going into the homes of the dead and taking their stuff.

Happy You’re The Only One Alive Day!

Department Of Murdercrimes Day!

It’s another day in the Department of Murdercrimes. 75 new murdercrimes just this morning. You still haven’t closed the 112 from yesterday. And word is there’s going to be another 83 murdercrimes committed tonight that you’ll have to solve tomorrow.

“If we know that murdercrimes are going to be committed tonight, can’t we hire counselors to go and talk the people out of it? Reason with them?” you ask your sergeant.

“Bleeding heart!” the sergeant says to you. Then all the other detectives laugh at you.

It’s time to make a change.

“I want to be transferred to litterbugs,” you say.

“You think busting people for tossing food wrappers out their car windows is going to be any easier?” your sergeant asks. “You spend every day looking at garbage and crying.”

“Better food wrappers than bodies,” you say.

A month into working the Department of Litterbugs you get so angry at a guy who drops a napkin on the sidewalk that you beat him to death with your nightstick. You go to jail, where all the people who you put away when you were in Murdercrimes are waiting for you to tell you you were right to arrest them. They were monsters and you did the city a service.

“I really did do something good in the Department of Murdercrimes, didn’t I?” you think as you lie in your prison cot, receiving a foot rub from your cellmate.

Happy Department Of Murdercrimes Day!

Cross-Eyed Danielle Day!

You want to marry Cross-Eyed Danielle, but Cross-Eyed Danielle is going to jail for a billion-dollar fraud after cooking the books at her investment firm to hide losses and keep the stock price at a record high. She awarded herself yearly bonuses in the tens of millions, and the public wants to see her locked up and left to rot.

At her sentencing, when the judge asks anyone in the courtroom if they have anything they’d like to say, which happens all the time, you stand up and tell the judge, “I love Cross-Eyed Danielle, your honor. And if you let her off without a prison sentence, I will marry her.”

The judge will say, “It’s the law that convicted felons can avoid prison if they have have someone to marry them. Cross-Eyed Danielle, do you accept this man’s proposal of marriage?”

Cross-Eyed Danielle looks you up and down.

“I guess,” she says.

“Then I have no choice but to let you off the hook,” the judge says.

You and Cross-Eyed Danielle have a moderately happy marriage, despite all the people throwing bricks through your windows and spray painting your house with accusations of Cross-Eyed Danielle having bankrupted their pensions. And she often gets angry that she had to marry you just to stay out of jail, seeing as you’re so much less intelligent and successful than her, and she’s earned (and stolen) millions as a banker when you’ve never earned more than $30K a year.

“But my eyes work,” you always remind her.

She concedes this. “Your eyes do work,” she says. “I guess that evens things out.”

Happy Cross-Eyed Danielle Day!

Remove Your Air Conditioner Day!

It’s that time of year. Time to kick your air conditioner until it falls out of your apartment window and crashes on the sidewalk below. Whomever it kills, you have to raise their children like they were your own. If they don’t have any children, you have to empty out their refrigerator so their home can be sold or vacated for the next tenant. This is one of the Rules Of Autumn.

Happy Remove Your Air Conditioner Day!

Your Mom And Dad Had Sex Last Night Day!

Your mom said to your dad, “I want to fuck, like we did when we created our babies.”

Your dad said to your mom, “Creating our babies was the best thing we ever did, so yeah, let’s fuck. We’ll fuck in honor of the babies we created.”

To celebrate you and your siblings, your mom took off her shirt and bra and showed her breasts to your dad, caressing her nipples with her fingers, and she said, “I fed our children with these bad boys. Aren’t they beautiful?”

Your dad held your mom’s breasts and kissed her nipples and said, “Now I have some idea of what our children experienced when they suckled upon your breasts to magically receive nourishing milk. Aw yeah.”

Your dad took off his shirt and said, “Remember those pictures of me at the beach holding our children as babies? When I held our beautiful babies to my shirtless torso?”

Still half-naked, they pulled down some photo albums to look at those photos. “Oh fuck, oh yeah,” they said to each other, marveling at the wonderful human beings (you guys!) they created as an expression of their love. It was a great day at the beach with the babies.

“I want to see your cock,” your mom said to your dad. “Show me the cock that expelled the seed from which our babies sprouted. Aw yeah.” She was breathing heavy at this point, remembering your dad’s cock and how instrumental it was to her becoming a mother, what a big part it played in bringing about your existence.

Your dad showed your mom his cock and she said, “Aw yeah.” She took it in her hand and guided it into her mouth, then pulled it out and said, “Aw yeah. I did this the night we created Jennifer.” Then she put it back into her mouth.

Jennifer’s your sister.

“Now show me your pussy,” you dad said to your mom. “Show me the place from whence our babies came.”

Your mom took off her pants and underwear and showed your dad her pussy. Your dad licked your mom’s pussy vigorously, occasionally taking breaks to say, “There’s no greater place on this earth, because this is the place from whence our babies came.”

Then your mom started shouting the names of you and your siblings while your dad brought her to orgasm. She needs to come orally because vaginally doesn’t work for your mom.

“Put your cock inside my pussy,” your mom said next. “Aw shit yeah.”

“Just like we did when we made our babies,” your dad said to your mom, putting his cock in your mom’s pussy. “Aw holy shit.”

“It felt just like this,” your mom said to your dad. “Yeah.”

“Stick your finger in my asshole,” your dad said. “Like you did the night we made Brian.”

Brian’s your brother.

“I don’t think we were doing that yet when we made Brian,” your mom said. “We didn’t get into ass-play until around the time we made Peter.”

Peter’s your other brother.

“You’re right!” your dad said, your mom’s finger deep in his asshole now. “Aw shit, you’re so right!”

“Aw yeah,” your mom said to your dad, losing herself in the act of intercourse. “This was the activity! It’s forever sacred because of how much we love our babies!”

As your dad came inside your mom, they shouted in unison the names of you and your siblings with every thrust. They were ecstatic, clawing at the sheets, writhing together, one inside the other, in exquisite celebration of the activity that brought you and your siblings into being. In every phase of the act, from undressing to oral to intercourse, they never stopped thinking about you and your siblings.

Once they were finished, your dad pulled out of your mom and said, “That’s how we made our babies.”

“Aw fuck yeah,” your mom said. “Aw. Fuck yeah.”

Then they went downstairs and spent the rest of the evening wondering why you haven’t called lately.

Happy Your Mom And Dad Had Sex Last Night Day!

You Love Betty But Betty Loves Guns Day!

You can tell when you kiss her that she’s thinking about her guns. When she puts her hands on you, she’s remembering how long ago it was that she last held a Glock in her hand, wondering how many more hours she will have to wait until she gets to hold that Glock again. Nothing she’s ever felt with you can compare to the kick of a round exploding out of that chamber.

“But I still want to be with you,” she says.

“I’ll just never compare to your guns.”

She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t need to. She thinks it’s not worth confirming. Like needing to say, Yes, the ocean will never be where the sky is.

“You’re my favorite thing in the world to protect with my guns,” she says, being sweet. “My love for my guns is stronger because I know they could come in handy keeping you safe one day. That counts for something right?”

It does. Part of loving someone is the way they make you love other parts of your life even more. You might wish she would love you more than her guns, but it might be enough that you make her love her guns even more. It’s going to have to be enough if you want to keep hanging around.

“Maybe I should get a hobby too,” you suggest.

She yanks her Luger 9mm from her ankle holster and points it at your face.

“Never call my gun-collecting a hobby ever again, pig,” she says.

You nod cautiously, your eyes never leaving the barrel. This might not work out, but you should probably let Betty be the one to end it.

Happy You Love Betty But Betty Loves Guns Day!

Your Mom’s Dying Wish Day!

She wants you and your Dad to pretend to be the family she wishes she had.

“I was never into you two,” she says.

You look to your dad. He shrugs.

“What kind of family do you wish you had?”

“You pretend to be smart and attractive and successful,” she says to you.

You try to keep your eyebrows raised and suck in your cheeks since you think you look better that way. And you say things like “portfolio” since that’s what successful people say.

Your mom says to your dad, “And you pretend to be your friend Steve.”

Your dad looks at you and shrugs and starts talking about motorcycles. Steve died on a motorcycle twelve years ago.

“Portfolio,” you whisper in your mom’s ear as she takes her last breath. “Portfolio.”

Happy Your Mom’s Dying Wish Day!

Jail Friends Day!

You’re in jail (manslaughter). Get ready to make the best, most loyal, and closest friends you’ll ever know in your entire life!

Happy Jail Friends Day!

Become A Cop Day!

“You think I like doing this?” the cop says to you. “You think I like bringing kids in here, kids as young as you, and sending them off to jail for something as harmless as stealing a bicycle? This isn’t what I wanted to do. I wanted to protect, not be some kind of disciplinarian. It’s like I have to be a mean babysitter to do my job. Like my job is just to ruin people’s lives. Kids’ lives. Kids like you. For Christ’s sake you’re only nine years old and because you stole a bike, you might have to go to juvie and get prepped for a whole life of institutionalization. This is why I became a cop? No, it’s not. It’s not why I became a cop.”

The chief walks in. “You gonna book that kid or what?”

“Nope,” the cop says. “I’m adopting him.”

The cop adopts you. A bunch of years later he gets killed by one of his fellow officers for not being corrupt enough. You join the force to track down his killer and exact vengeance. It brings down several dozen officers and the commissioner, and turns the entire city into a national disgrace.

Happy Become A Cop Day!

Cold Case Day!

You’re a cop working on a cold case and you just put the pieces together and realized who the murderer was.

“Why’d you have to go snooping around?” a voice says behind you. You turn around. It’s your wife.

“Is that why you married me? To keep an eye on me in case I get too close to the truth?” you ask.

Your wife says yes. Then she shoots you.

Before you die, you start laughing very hard. Your wife asks what’s so funny.

“You’ll find out,” you say.

When the cable bill arrives with all the movies you watched the weekend before you died, your wife will be stunned.

“He truly did have the last laugh,” she says as she writes a check for an additional $14.96.

Happy Cold Case Day!

Black Cat Day!

Your black cat got out again.

“What havoc have you caused!” you shout at it.

Your black cat (his name’s Rocco) meows.

“How many have walked in your path?” you ask Rocco. “What if someone was on his way to a wedding and your bad luck changed the fate of his marriage? Irrevocably?”

Rocco meows. You hear a loud blast outside. You go to the window and see a large mushroom cloud on the horizon.

“Now you’ve done it!” you shout at Rocco. “You crossed the path of one of those guys who turns the keys in a nuclear launch site, didn’t you?”

Rocco meows. The world burns.

Happy Black Cat Day!

Don’t Sell Your Amplifier Day!

The guy who answered your Craigslist ad is in the garage checking out the amp.

“Looks primo,” he says. “Good condition.”

“Just keep your voice down,” tell him.

“What for?” he asks.

The garage door swings open. Your eleven-year-old son comes in.

“What the hell is going on here?” he asks.

You grab the guy’s money out of his hand and shove the amp toward him.

“Just go,” you say.

“Go? With the amp? What the hell are you doing, Dad?”

Go to your boy. “You need school supplies! You need clothes! We need this money. I have to let go of the dream!”

Your son grabs your shoulders. “You’re the best guitarist I’ve ever heard. I’d quit school before I let you quit playing that axe.”

“I can’t let you do that,” tell him.

Your son takes the cash out of your hand, walks it to the guy and holds it out to him.

“We’ve decided not to sell,” your son says.

The guy puts the amp down.

“No!” you shout. “This has to happen.”

“Get the hell out of here,” your son says to the guy. The guy runs off.

Your son turns around to you. “You can’t make me learn at the cost of you giving up your gift,” your son says. “I promise you, I won’t even let myself learn to read if you quit.”

“Wait,” you say. “You’re eleven. You don’t know how to read yet?”

“Why read when I can rock?” your son says. “Now play some Quiet Riot.”

You do as your son says. You shred the guitar with everything you have in you. If this is what your son wants from you, if this is more important to him than learning to read or gaining a grasp of basic math, you might as well let him have it.

Happy Don’t Sell Your Amplifier Day!

Meet Your Builder Day!

You’re a robot. Been one since the beginning, not that you’d know. Your builder is in your living room, explaining it all for you.

“Don’t thank me,” he says. “For your existence I mean. But you do owe it all to me.”

“If I’m a robot, why am I an alcoholic?”

“Because I am,” he says. “Wanted to see if I could build a bot to drink with me.”

“So my whole life, even my alcoholism. It’s all been programming?”

“Yup,” he says. “Wanna go drinking?”

“No!” you say.

Your builder takes out a remote control and pushes a button.

“Yes!” you say.

Happy Meet Your Builder Day!

Cooking Show Day!

Look in the camera and say, “Today we’re cooking my friend Lance.”

Then wheel Lance’s body out onto the stage and cut a hunk of meat from his midsection. Drop it into the pan and add some butter and paprika. The police will be on their way.

“Lance and I had a falling out,” tell the audience. “So I decided I no longer needed him as my friend. Now I’m going to eat him. So is my guest today, Channing Tatum.”

When Channing Tatum comes to the kitchen island, ask him about his next movie.

“I can’t think about my next movie,” Channing Tatum will say. “You’re mad.”

Stab Channing Tatum to death and slice a hunk of his buttocks off, then drop it in the pan.

“You at home won’t be able to find Channing Tatum or my friend Lance in your kitchen, but you can probably find some ingredients that will come close enough. Maybe an uncle you’ve had enough of?”

Take a bite of the seared flesh of your friend Lance and Channing Tatum, then tell the audience, “It’s not very consistent. My friend Lance’s meat is way more gummy than Channing Tatum’s.” Then the police will come in and shoot you, making yours the most famous cooking show since Julia Child microwaved that live raccoon.

Happy Cooking Show Day!

Special Delivery Instructions Day!

In the special delivery instructions field for the Banh Mi sandwich you’re delivering, the woman wrote, “Deliver me from this awful marriage to a man who gave up on himself years before I gave up on him.”

When you arrive at the house, the husband will answer.

“It’s over, guy,” tell him. “You both know it.”

Hand him the sandwich. He’ll point to your car. “You got enough gas in that thing to get me to the bus station?”

Tell him yes. He’ll hand the sandwich to his wife, hug her goodbye, apologize for the years of her life he wasted, then he’ll get in your car with you.

“You want the radio or…”

“I just want it to be quiet,” the husband will say.

You’ll make a couple of deliveries on the way. At the third one, the husband will say, “I knew a girl who used to live over here. Always wondered if she was the one I was supposed to end up with.”

“Maybe she still lives over here,” you’ll say.

You’ll knock on the door while the husband waits at the end of the walkway. When the door opens, he’ll see the woman in the light of her foyer and shout, “Carol?“

She’ll drop her sandwich and run out to hug the husband. He’ll tell her he’s recently single and she’ll say it’s about time and invite him in. They’ll give you a ten dollar tip, and it’ll just be another perfect night where the deliveryman made everything turn out okay.

Happy Special Delivery Instructions Day!

Remember Drinks At Murray’s Day!

It was a simpler time. You were happier then. You knew how to have fun. When you’d pop downtown for after-work drinks at Murray’s, it seemed like everyone from the bartender to the college kids by the jukebox were waiting for you.

“So why’d you stop going?” your grandkids ask.

“Nothing as sweet as drinks at Murray’s can last forever,” you tell them.

It might just be the inevitable decline of adulthood, but there comes that sad day when you discover you don’t belong at your favorite bar anymore. For you, the day was obvious.

“After I took a swing at one of the darts players they strung me up on the wall and made me a human dartboard for a couple hours. When I was finally free I called my second ex-wife and just kind of screamed until the bouncer hung up the phone. Then I went to the bar and cried until I vomited all over the cash register. So they told me I couldn’t come back again.”

“And that’s when you knew you couldn’t go back to Murray’s anymore?” your grandkids ask.

“Nope,” you say. “I put on a fake mustache and tried to get in the next night but they spotted me. Then I tried dressing up like a lady. Then I sent in a hypnotist to try and hypnotize everyone into forgetting they knew me. That didn’t work. Finally, I just tried to bum rush the bouncer and he threw me in front of a moving truck.”

And that’s when you knew, at least during your next 18 months of physical therapy, that the only thing left of drinks at Murray’s was your memories.

“So when you could walk again, you knew it was time to stop going to Murray’s?” your grandchildren will ask.

“Nope,” you’ll say. “I tried going back but the bouncer threw me in front of another truck.”

And when you finished physical therapy after that truck accident, the writing was on the wall.

“On the wall of Murray’s, someone had painted a very life-like portrait of my face, with my name and age and everything, and a warning that if anyone sees me coming into the bar, I should be ejected with as much violence as possible.”

“And that’s when you knew, grandpa?” your grandkids will ask. “That’s when you knew it was time?”

“Nope. I went in and they beat the shit out of me. Put me in a seven year coma.”

And when you finally woke up from that coma, it was finally time to say goodbye to Murray’s.

“I went back but it had burned down,” you tell your grandkids.

“And that’s when you knew?” your grandkids will ask.

“Nope,” you’ll say. “I had a bottle with me so I drank it in the vacant lot. But the old bouncer happened to be walking past and he came over and beat the shit out of me.”

That final ass-kicking gave you such a horrible brain injury that you lost all sense of direction.

“I just kind of wander around the city looking for the vacant lot where Murray’s used to be,” you tell them. “But I never find it. Because there comes a time when you just have to say goodbye to your favorite bar.”

“Because you can’t find it,” your grandkids will say,

“Yup.”

Happy Remember Drinks At Murray’s Day!

Fun Soda Day!

Your kid came home from school with a note today.

“Dear Mrs. Palmer. 

You should know that Stanley told the class today that his father drinks ‘Fun Soda,’ a soda that makes his father feel like he’s having fun without ever having to get off of his couch. He said that ‘Fun Soda’ sometimes makes his father angry, but most of the time he just seems goofy and kind of stupid, and that he often falls asleep midway through his fifth glass of ‘Fun Soda,’ and the glass will usually fall from his hand and roll across the floor, spilling the ‘Fun Soda’ everywhere.

While I’m sure you don’t want such stories about your husband’s drinking being spread, I would also appreciate Stanley keeping such things to himself as now the other kids are all clamoring for a can of ‘Fun Soda’ and I’m worried it will lead to experimentation.”

Take off your lab gear and go upstairs to discipline Stanley.

“We are months away from getting the patent on this soda,” tell him. “If you go blabbing, this could all go kaput!”

Stanley will apologize. Just then you’ll hear a noise from the lab. You’ll run downstairs and find the basement window shattered, a vial of the Fun Soda formula missing. You’ll look out the broken window and see someone speeding away in a Coca Cola truck.

“Goddammit!” you’ll shout. “Stanley, you ruined our big break!”

Stanley will run away from home.

Happy Fun Soda Day!

The Sex You Should’ve Had Day!

Make A Wish has a program for adults and they really came through for you by flying in all the guys you could have slept with but you passed for whatever reason and you’ve spent your life wishing you’d gone ahead and done it.

They’re all lined up and one by one they walk past your bed and say, “I regret it too.”

They all look awful and old. One or two are sobbing. The Make A Wish person will drag them out of there.

The rest of them show you photos of their wives and point out how they don’t measure up to you. You only get to the ninth guy’s picture before you die.

Happy The Sex You Should’ve Had Day!

Stare At Him Sleeping While Thinking About Leaving Day!

This is your favorite time of day. A little before 7. Just before his alarm goes off. You wake up and lean on your elbow and you watch him sleeping, and you imagine him opening his eyes and you’re not there.

You imagine your stuff’s in a bag that you packed in the middle of the night that you’re wheeling to an airport or a train station or a rental car place and the only thing he’ll have left of you is the note.

You wrote the note. You’ve written numerous drafts. Two summers ago it was how you killed time during insomnia. You’d open up the word file and revise your goodbye note to your boyfriend until you felt sleepy enough to go in and curl up next to him again. You haven’t rewritten it in a while. It’s pretty much perfect, as far as you can remember. Though if you really were ever going to use it you might do a quick revision to update some of the references.

Anyway, that’s what you imagine he’d find. Just a note. Then he’d call your cell and you wouldn’t answer for at least a few days, if ever. Just before 7 when his eyes haven’t opened yet, the possibility is still there. You could still do what needs to be done to make it so all he opens his eyes to is a note from you.

But not today.

In a few minutes his alarm’s going to go off and he’s going to open his eyes and find you staring at him, just like he has so many mornings before.

“What are you looking at?” he’ll ask.

“A sleepyhead,” you’ll say.

Then you’ll both get up and start another day together.

Happy Stare At Him Sleeping While Thinking About Leaving Day!

Demonic Possession Day!

Your brother has been possessed by a demon. “I can’t take care of this,” you tell your mom. “I’m busy. I can’t fly out to California right now. Besides, his tiny apartment has nowhere for me to stay.” “Well your father and I have a trip planned,” she says. “We’re not going to cancel just to hold a priest’s hand while he conducts an exorcism.” You ask if your brother can just leave a key for the priest to let himself in and do the exorcism. “He’s possessed by a demon! He’s not going to put a key under the mat for a priest.” You get a hold of your brother’s landlord (you’ve paid his back rent on more than one occasion) and ask him if he can go and unlock your brother’s door so a priest can get inside. “If this exorcism sucks the building into the ground or anything, your brother will be held liable,” the landlord says. You say fine. The landlord asks when you plan to come out. “I can’t make it,” you tell him. The landlord doesn’t say anything. You hear the judgment in his silence, so you hang up quickly. You spend the next few days worrying about your brother, then you forget all about it and you don’t bother to check and see if the exorcism went okay. When he shows up for Thanksgiving, he’ll seem fine. None of you will ask about the demon since you’ll all be busy counting how many beers he drinks to see if he’s going to cause another scene like Thanksgiving of ’08. Happy Demonic Possession Day!

Sustainable Kill House Day!

It’s one thing to have a floor covered in the bloody footprints of victims trying to escape. It’s another to leave your own giant carbon footprint on the planet.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” your father will say while sucking meat off of a human femur. “You just connected footprint to footprint, but the two don’t have anything to do with each other.”

“Solar!” you shout, trying to change the subject. “Do you know with three solar panels we could power the entire conveyor-belt-into-circular-saw contraption downstairs without any need for electricity?”

Your brothers will take a break from masturbating into women’s handbags to consider this.

“And why aren’t we composting?” you ask. “The nutrients in all the human hair we throw away could feed a nice tomato plant.”

“Separate out the cans?” one of your brothers offers.

“That’s right!” you say. “We’re the only house on this block that doesn’t recycle!”

“More are coming!” the ghost of your grandmother will say via the rabbit skull on the altar. “They must die!”

“Okay we’ll table this for now,” you’ll say, gathering your scythe to go and murder some unsuspecting youths. “But seriously guys, it’s 2013. It’s time to prove that a kill house doesn’t have to kill the environment.”

Happy Sustainable Kill House Day!

Become Less Materialistic Day!

Today’s the day to stop being so obsessed with material possessions.

“I have had enough of caring more about what I buy than who I am!” you shout while setting fire to your 50 inch plasma screen TV.

“Our house!” your wife will shout as the fire spreads.

“Oh you mean the house we BOUGHT?” you’ll say. “That’s all you care about. You disgust me.”

Your kids will run out to the lawn clutching their favorite stuffed animals. You’ll rip the stuffed animals from their hands and toss them into the fire.

“Asshole!” your kids will shout in unison. “Such an asshole!”

Happy Become Less Materialistic Day!

Your Alcoholic Dad Day!

Growing up you used to be embarrassed about your dad being an alcoholic. Now that you’re an alcoholic dad yourself, you regret all those times that you refused to bring friends over because you were afraid of them to see your dad. You know how it feels when your kids make a point of hiding you from their friends, and you feel like hell that you made your dad feel the same way. Give him a call and tell him.

“Hello who’s this? What now?” your dad will say.

“Dad,” you’ll say. “It’szzz me. Yer sssshon.” You’re slurring badly.

“Ssssshon? What’szzz wrong now?” he’s slurring badly too.

“Jushhht wannnna say shorrry,” you’ll say. “Shorry fer…shtuff.”

“What shtuff?” he’ll ask.

“Don’t remember,” you’ll say, laughing. “Can’t ‘member why I called.”

Then, almost in sync with each other, you and your dad will both pass out and drop your phones to the ground. Your kids will find it a couple hours later when they come home. They’ll pick up the phone and hear their grandfather snoring on the other end. Then they’ll hang up the phone and go upstairs to cry in their bedrooms.

Happy Your Alcoholic Dad Day!

You And Your Estranged Dad Are On The Same Flight Day!

Awkward!

Late boarding, and you come running onto the plane just before the door’s closed. Panting and sweaty you push your way down the aisle of the crowded cabin, looking for that one last overhead bin that miraculously still has room for your bag. That’s when you look down and see that son of a bitch’s face staring up at you from seat 17 C.

“You never were the most punctual,” he says. “Didn’t get that from me.”

Your mother kicked him out eleven years ago when you were a teenager, and you spent a few years hating her for it. Then you were old enough to understand his philandering ways and you hated yourself for giving her a hard time, which in turn made you hate him so much more.

The guy sitting next to your dad asks if you two know each other and he says, “She’s my daughter.”

“Was,” you mutter, apparently not loud enough to hear because when you take your seat in the next row, the seatmate asks, “You two want to sit together?”

 “God no,” you say.

“It’s going to be a bumpy ride,” your dad says, laughing lightly, trying to bring the seatmate over to his side.

“Family,” the seatmate says, responding to your dad with a chuckle and a shrug.

You lean forward, shove your face in between their headrests and say, “He cheated on my mother with five different women, carried on long-lasting affairs with them, going so far as to put one up in her own apartment, which of course put a strain on our family’s finances so my mother was forced to take a job at a department store.”

You sit back in your seat. Your dad tries to chuckle but the seatmate isn’t having it.

The seatmate glares at your dad, then he shoves his face in between the headrests to address you.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“This is the first time I’ve seen him in years,” you say.

The seatmate looks down at your dad, then back at you.

“We could throw him off the plane,” he says. “I mean, when we’re in the air.”

“Hey!” your dad says.

“That sounds like a plan,” you say.

“Right after they turn off the seatbelts fastened sign?”

“What the hell?” your dad says.

“Wait until we get above Cleveland,” you say. “He always hated Cleveland.”

“Cleveland it is,” your dad’s seatmate says. “What is your name?”

You tell him. Your seatmate, a tall man weighing at least 300 pounds, eventually agrees to switch with your dad’s seatmate.

The two of you spend the rest of the flight talking non-stop. You open up to him, completely. Forcing your lonely, much-sadder-and-older-looking father to learn about the details of your life by eavesdropping on your flirtations with a strange man gives you a delicious, spiteful pleasure. In trying to hurt your father, you happily hand your heart to this stranger, and he happily accepts it.

By the end of the flight, you look into his eyes and you know you’ve already fallen in love. When your father gets up to retrieve his bags, you try to look into his eyes, but he averts them before you can see the hurt you put there.

Happy You And Your Estranged Dad Are On The Same Flight Day!

You’re A Shirt Salesman Day!

But that doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings.

You hear it all day long from your customers.

“Hey shirt salesman, I’d like to buy a shirt. But don’t talk to me too much because who cares about you.” 

“Listen up Shirty McShirterberger. If I wanted to hear from a guy who spends his life helping people cover up their upper bodies with a bunch of dumb fabric that buttons in the front, I still wouldn’t listen to you because I’d come to my senses just in the nick of time.”

“I am so angry that you’re alive.”

“Why are my customers so mean?” you’ll ask your wife when you get home tonight.

“Shut up,” she’ll mutter absently while binge-watching Falcon Crest on Netflix.

You’ll go upstairs and look in your closet at all the shirts you own. Is it so bad to sell people something that they need to look presentable? Does it make sense for that to inspire such hostility in people? You like shirts. And you’re good at selling them. If the world wants to hate you for that, so be it.

Just then a brick with the words “Shirt-selling Scum” will fly through your window and crack open your skull. Your wife will find your body after three more episodes of Falcon Crest, then she’ll watch two more before phoning an ambulance.

Happy You’re A Shirt Salesman Day!

Space Station Day!

“How long have we been up here?” he asks.

“Fourteen years,” you answer.

“An in that time, we still haven’t learned each other’s—”

“No names,” tell him. “We agreed. It’s hotter that way.”

“But it’s been fourteen years,” he’ll say.

“No names.” You insist. He says fine.

You float to him. He removes his space suit. You remove yours.

“I am so glad you answered my ad,” you say. “Whoever you are.”

“I am too,” he says.

You put on your blindfold. He coats you in baby oil. Just like every day since 1999.

Happy Space Station Day!

Tell Your Husband The Truth Day!

“I only married you because I thought it would make me seem cool,” tell him.

Your husband will demand a divorce because you’re a poser. The court will rule in his favor.

“Being cool is about what’s inside,” the judge will rule. “Marrying someone just because you want to seem awesome, the court finds that that’s lame.”

You’ll split your assets in half then you’ll go back to living alone and unmarried like most lamers do.

Happy Tell Your Husband The Truth Day!

Cry Run Day!

It’s a fenced off part of the park where people can go and cry and they can’t be bothered by couples walking arm in arm, people walking dogs, tourists taking pictures, or students showing their parents around town. It’s just for crying.

The floor is hardened dirt. No grass. Nothing can grow, from the steady flow of salty tears to the soil.

The fence is lined with a tarp, seven feet tall, so that people can’t take photos from outside of the Run and post them on Facebook with captions like “Be thankful for what you have” or “You have to choose to be happy.”

Occasionally people will bump into each other and instinctively pull each other into an embrace, which can sometimes lead to that kind of sad, wet, crying kiss that people do when they’re so emotionally vulnerable that they can’t help but start making out. That’s what’s going to happen to you in a second.

While crying over just how empty and lost you’ve felt ever since you left school you’ll accidentally get in the way of a guy who’s finally letting himself cry for his dead Dad who was kind of a bastard. The two of you will apologize and try to step out of each other’s way but then your arms will reach out and you’ll step into each other’s bodies and your cheeks will touch, mixing the tears there, then you’ll move your faces just an inch and your mouths will be on each other. That’s when you’ll feel the hands on you.

“Let’s go,” the Cry Run attendant will say as he hustles you through the gate. “You got the rest of the park for that.”

He’ll shove you out of the Cry Run and then you’ll find a field, lay down, and continue making out with wet, salty lips.

Happy Cry Run Day!

Three Guys On A Road Trip Day!

Man have you three guys seen America! You’ve had the time of your lives. You’ve grown more over these miles than you’ll ever grow for as long as you live. This road trip has changed you. It’s made you the men you were meant to be, and given you a peek at the kind of lives you want to live.

“I want to go into banking now,” one of you says.

“Me too,” says the other.

“Me three,” says the third. “We’ve seen a lot of people in this country. A lot of different kinds of hardship. A lot of struggle. The only way to avoid that is to go into banking.”

So it’s unanimous! As soon as you get back from the wondrous terrain of America’s expanse, you’ll go into banking! Because the only way to not end up completely fucked in this country is to be the one doing the fucking.

Happy Three Guys On A Road Trip Day!