Your dad ran a moving company and he was killed by a couch. It was being raised up to the third floor to try and get it through the window of an apartment because it couldn’t fit through the door. The cord snapped and the couch dropped right on your dad’s head, snapping his neck.
“He left the business to me,” you’re telling a customer. “And I’ve built it into a small local empire. I did it with hatred in my heart.”
The logo on your trucks reads “Your Furniture Killed My Daddy, And I Will Never Let Your Furniture Get The Upper Hand Again.” As Couch Maureen, you promise that you will be in control at every point in the move. No one will ever see you or your team members hesitating or guessing at an angle or a width for getting a couch or an armoire through a doorway. You’re always ten steps ahead of your furniture. You’ve already carried their couch up the steps and around the corners and through the vestibule and into the living room before your customers have even finished packing.
“It’s about not letting the furniture get the jump on me,” you’re telling your customer. “Like my dad did.”
You turn to the portrait of your father.
“You were sloppy daddy,” you say.
The customers are getting uncomfortable.
“SLOPPY!” you scream. “YOU WERE SLOPPY DADDY!”
You’re crying now. Spit is coming out of your mouth as you scream.
“HOW COULD YOU, DADDY! HOW COULD YOU LET A COUCH TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME?! HOW? DID YOU WANT IT TO TAKE YOU AWAY? DID YOU NOT WANT TO BE WITH ME AND MOMMY ANY MORE?”
The customers are moved to tears with you. You barely even know they’re there anymore.
“WHYYYYYYY DADDY? WHYYYYYY?”
Getting a grip on yourself you turn back to the customers and slam your fist on their moving contract.
“As God is my witness,” you growl. “I will tame your furniture. I will be its master during the entire course of your move. Your furniture wants to be damaged to prove that it cannot be subjugated to human will. I will make very clear to your furniture that on this matter, it is very mistaken.”
Your customers sign their contract, and then the three of you hug and cry together.
“Fuck your furniture,” you say, waving goodbye as they leave. “Fuck it straight to hell.”
They wave back as they step through the door, confident that their move is in good hands.
Happy They Call You Couch Maureen Day!
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Friday, May 09, 2014
Tanning Bed Day!
You’re unlocking the door to your apartment, thinking, “Maybe she’ll be different. Maybe she’ll see there’s still some potential in me.”
You kiss her once more before you push the door open.
“I’m really glad we met tonight,” you say, hoping to win her over before the big letdown.
“Me too,” she says.
You lead her inside your one-room studio, trying to get her into the kitchen before she looks around. Trying to get one more drink in her before she starts asking questions.
“How about a cocktail?” you say, walking backwards, trying to hold her eyes.
She looks in the corner.
“Is that a tanning bed?” she asks.
Here we go.
“It is,” you say, surrendering to the way things always play out. “But it’s more than that. It’s the last remnant of a dream.”
You tell her that you used to run a tanning salon and it was very profitable but your ex-wife was stealing from the company and one day she emptied the bank account and ran off with one of your best customers.
“I don’t blame her,” you say. “He had one hell of a shade.”
You had to liquidate the company, and sell all your furniture, making a point of keeping just one last tanning bed as a memory of what you had, and what you lost.
“I sleep on it,” you say. “And we’ll have to have sex on it if you still want to do that. Unless you wanted to have sex on the floor. Or like, against a wall or something.”
She hesitates, staring at the tanning bed.
“But I guess you probably don’t want to do that anymore,” you say. “They usually don’t.”
She walks across the room and takes your hand.
“Let’s go,” she says.
“Where?” you ask.
“Come with me,” she says.
You get in her car and she drives you across town to her apartment.
“I didn’t want you to see this,” she says, unlocking her door.
Inside the small studio apartment is nothing but a massage table with a blanket and a pillow, some tear-stained tissues crumpled up on the floor around it.
“We called it Couple’s Massage,” she said. “My husband and I worked together, massaging couples on side-by-side tables. He eventually entered a polyamorous relationship with a husband and wife we massaged regularly. I tried to keep up the business but all our clients were couples. It was too much for one person. I got carpal tunnel and sold everything. Except my table.”
You make love on that table. Then you go back to your apartment and make love on your tanning bed. In a few months you open Deep Tan Deep Tissue, the only tanning salon slash massage parlor in town. People will come knowing that they’ll get a tan and a massage as deep and transformative as the love you found the night when you were both at your lowest.
Happy Tanning Bed Day!
You kiss her once more before you push the door open.
“I’m really glad we met tonight,” you say, hoping to win her over before the big letdown.
“Me too,” she says.
You lead her inside your one-room studio, trying to get her into the kitchen before she looks around. Trying to get one more drink in her before she starts asking questions.
“How about a cocktail?” you say, walking backwards, trying to hold her eyes.
She looks in the corner.
“Is that a tanning bed?” she asks.
Here we go.
“It is,” you say, surrendering to the way things always play out. “But it’s more than that. It’s the last remnant of a dream.”
You tell her that you used to run a tanning salon and it was very profitable but your ex-wife was stealing from the company and one day she emptied the bank account and ran off with one of your best customers.
“I don’t blame her,” you say. “He had one hell of a shade.”
You had to liquidate the company, and sell all your furniture, making a point of keeping just one last tanning bed as a memory of what you had, and what you lost.
“I sleep on it,” you say. “And we’ll have to have sex on it if you still want to do that. Unless you wanted to have sex on the floor. Or like, against a wall or something.”
She hesitates, staring at the tanning bed.
“But I guess you probably don’t want to do that anymore,” you say. “They usually don’t.”
She walks across the room and takes your hand.
“Let’s go,” she says.
“Where?” you ask.
“Come with me,” she says.
You get in her car and she drives you across town to her apartment.
“I didn’t want you to see this,” she says, unlocking her door.
Inside the small studio apartment is nothing but a massage table with a blanket and a pillow, some tear-stained tissues crumpled up on the floor around it.
“We called it Couple’s Massage,” she said. “My husband and I worked together, massaging couples on side-by-side tables. He eventually entered a polyamorous relationship with a husband and wife we massaged regularly. I tried to keep up the business but all our clients were couples. It was too much for one person. I got carpal tunnel and sold everything. Except my table.”
You make love on that table. Then you go back to your apartment and make love on your tanning bed. In a few months you open Deep Tan Deep Tissue, the only tanning salon slash massage parlor in town. People will come knowing that they’ll get a tan and a massage as deep and transformative as the love you found the night when you were both at your lowest.
Happy Tanning Bed Day!
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
The Last Prom Day!
Your school is the first doomsday school in the nation and your curriculum is built on the belief that the world is going to be destroyed within four months’ time, so you being president of the prom committee puts a lot of pressure on you since this will be the last prom ever.
“All in favor of ‘Time Of My Life’,” you say, asking for a show of hands. You’re trying to settle on a prom theme and theme song, and it’s been tough to get a quorum.
Only about six hands are raised.
“Okay, far from a majority,” you say. “All in favor of ‘We Are Young.’ Show of hands.”
Hardly anyone raises their hand.
The doors to the study quarters open and a girl with a guitar stands in the entrance. It’s Betty. The new girl. You saw her in the office on her first day last week and you’ve been wondering if she might end up in one of your classes. She’s walking down the aisle now in between the rows of chairs, and you can’t take your eyes off of her.
“I have a song,” she says.
You look out to the rest of the committee members. They shrug.
“Be my guest,” you say.
She pulls a chair from one of the rows and sits down with the guitar on her knee. She strums something slow and sleepy, but her voice is wide awake.
We won’t be growing old
No time to waste on that
Got only a few minutes to spare
So don’t say anything that ain’t worth saying
Don’t do anything that ain’t worth doing
Don’t kiss anyone ain’t worth kissing
And everyone here’s worth a kiss
.
So let’s show them all
We used to be the future
But there’s no future
There’s no future anymore
.
So let’s show them all
What we could have been
Show every single one of them
What we would have been
.
[She screams this line]
What we should have been
.
[quiet again]
We won’t be growing old
But we will grow as old as old can be
Let’s grow old together
Let’s grow old and die together
Let’s grow old and die.
.
No one’s sure she stopped playing for a few seconds. The room’s still. It’s pin-drop silent. Then the applause starts rolling through the rows. The new girl smiles and you’re in love in an instant. After a quick, unanimous vote, ‘Let’s Grow Old And Die’ is officially chosen as the theme for the very last prom in the world.
Happy The Last Prom Day!
“All in favor of ‘Time Of My Life’,” you say, asking for a show of hands. You’re trying to settle on a prom theme and theme song, and it’s been tough to get a quorum.
Only about six hands are raised.
“Okay, far from a majority,” you say. “All in favor of ‘We Are Young.’ Show of hands.”
Hardly anyone raises their hand.
The doors to the study quarters open and a girl with a guitar stands in the entrance. It’s Betty. The new girl. You saw her in the office on her first day last week and you’ve been wondering if she might end up in one of your classes. She’s walking down the aisle now in between the rows of chairs, and you can’t take your eyes off of her.
“I have a song,” she says.
You look out to the rest of the committee members. They shrug.
“Be my guest,” you say.
She pulls a chair from one of the rows and sits down with the guitar on her knee. She strums something slow and sleepy, but her voice is wide awake.
We won’t be growing old
No time to waste on that
Got only a few minutes to spare
So don’t say anything that ain’t worth saying
Don’t do anything that ain’t worth doing
Don’t kiss anyone ain’t worth kissing
And everyone here’s worth a kiss
.
So let’s show them all
We used to be the future
But there’s no future
There’s no future anymore
.
So let’s show them all
What we could have been
Show every single one of them
What we would have been
.
[She screams this line]
What we should have been
.
[quiet again]
We won’t be growing old
But we will grow as old as old can be
Let’s grow old together
Let’s grow old and die together
Let’s grow old and die.
.
No one’s sure she stopped playing for a few seconds. The room’s still. It’s pin-drop silent. Then the applause starts rolling through the rows. The new girl smiles and you’re in love in an instant. After a quick, unanimous vote, ‘Let’s Grow Old And Die’ is officially chosen as the theme for the very last prom in the world.
Happy The Last Prom Day!
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
On Vacation With Your Girlfriend’s Parents Day!
You and your girlfriend’s mom and dad are out in the rowboat in the middle of the night looking at the moon when your girlfriend walks out to the edge of the lake and starts calling for you.
“The cabin’s scary when I’m all alone!” she shouts.
You and your girlfriend’s parents laugh at what a fraidy-cat your girlfriend is.
“We’ll be in in a minute!” you shout.
“Just try and get back to sleep,” her mom shouts.
Your girlfriend hears a noise coming from the woods. She asks if you guys heard it.
“She always craved attention,” her dad tells you.
Your girlfriend shouts that the noise is getting louder.
“You guys, just come back to shore!” she pleads.
You don’t want to go. You’ve had the most delightful night with your girlfriend’s parents, rowing about the lake and enjoying the silence together. You love your girlfriend, but you know you’ll rarely get to enjoy time alone with her parents like this, and you don’t want it to end.
When you finally return to shore you find your girlfriend kissing another boy. You pull him away from her and fistfight. You win.
At the end of the fistfight the boy says that he was bored because his parents went on a moonlight hike with his girlfriend, leaving him all alone.
“It’s vacation code, bro,” he tells you. “If you go off with your babe’s parents, she gets a free pass. Don’t you know about vacation code?”
You didn’t know about vacation code.
“My parents were poor, all right?” you shout. “You happy? You happy you made me say it?”
Everyone feels bad for you and the rest of the vacation is ruined because your girlfriend’s parents just worry that you’re going to steal stuff now that they know you’re poor.
Happy On Vacation With Your Girlfriend’s Parents Day!
“The cabin’s scary when I’m all alone!” she shouts.
You and your girlfriend’s parents laugh at what a fraidy-cat your girlfriend is.
“We’ll be in in a minute!” you shout.
“Just try and get back to sleep,” her mom shouts.
Your girlfriend hears a noise coming from the woods. She asks if you guys heard it.
“She always craved attention,” her dad tells you.
Your girlfriend shouts that the noise is getting louder.
“You guys, just come back to shore!” she pleads.
You don’t want to go. You’ve had the most delightful night with your girlfriend’s parents, rowing about the lake and enjoying the silence together. You love your girlfriend, but you know you’ll rarely get to enjoy time alone with her parents like this, and you don’t want it to end.
When you finally return to shore you find your girlfriend kissing another boy. You pull him away from her and fistfight. You win.
At the end of the fistfight the boy says that he was bored because his parents went on a moonlight hike with his girlfriend, leaving him all alone.
“It’s vacation code, bro,” he tells you. “If you go off with your babe’s parents, she gets a free pass. Don’t you know about vacation code?”
You didn’t know about vacation code.
“My parents were poor, all right?” you shout. “You happy? You happy you made me say it?”
Everyone feels bad for you and the rest of the vacation is ruined because your girlfriend’s parents just worry that you’re going to steal stuff now that they know you’re poor.
Happy On Vacation With Your Girlfriend’s Parents Day!
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