Thursday, October 31, 2002

Pay A Small Child To Spit In Your Face Day!

Best to do this one with the child's mother watching. You can't have mommy ask little Kevin where he got that thirty five dollars and let him tell the story of the man or lady who appeared out of the shadows of the bus shelter sounding a death rattle with every breath, trying to even out his or her voice so as not to scare the boy away, or worse, make him cry, before he or she got to feel the wonderful splash of hot innocence staining the face of failure with profanity in its purest and most powerful form. The spit of a child. Mommy might not understand if you don't ask her directly and you will be arrested for soliciting a child or at least beaten to death by the child's uncle.

And pick a kid from an impoverished neighborhood. If the mom can reconcile the fact that either her little baby perform this wholly non-sexual, albeit odd, service, or her little baby get made fun of for wearing shoes donated by the church, then it all should work out. Though she'll most likely jack up the price. And she still might have the child's uncle beat you to death. But you won't feel anything but the stain of that spit streaming down the left hand crevice where your nose meets your face anyway. If it's cold enough, the spit might freeze there. Either way, as spit dries on skin it gets really, really heavy. You've loved, no?

Happy Pay A Small Child To Spit In Your Face Day!

Wednesday, October 30, 2002

Ken Landerbee, Retired Food Services Administrator Day!

Ken Landerbee spent thirty three years as the Food Services Administrator for a larger-than-most arts and applied sciences college located in the midwest. The name of the college, presently, will be withheld as it is irrelevant.

Yesterday, Ken's wife, Amy Landerbee, was released from the psychiatric ward of the county hospital that she has called home for the twelve years since checking herself in for observation. The college's excellent health coverage paid the bill. Amy was not a textbook schizophrenic, but by the time she was admitted to the hospital her paranoia seemed to have permanently destroyed the woman Ken married. Ken had never felt such a rush of relief as when he was told he could no longer care for her and must turn her over to professionals. His past twelve years alone have been the happiest since the early years of his marriage to Amy.

Amy has been in their home for 28 hours as of this writing. She has neither spoken nor slept.

Happy Ken Landerbee, Retired Food Services Administrator Day!

Tuesday, October 29, 2002

"Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!" Day!

Today is about the fact that even when it seems like nothing will ever make this life worth living ever again, Baby Jesus snaps his fingers and shouts, "Zam! Waddaya think o' them apples?" And you suddenly find yourself in the midst of simply the most wonderful moment that has to have ever gone down on this big dumb planet.

How wonderful, you ask? Well, let's say you're on a weekend excursion up to New Hampshire to get a look at the changing leaves and you park your car by the side of the road to check out a block of houses known countywide for their front lawn displays of beautiful Autumn color and they even have a contest every year for who flashes the best auburn glow. So you're admiring a few acres of artfully maintained Oak and Maple trees seemingly strategically planted out front of somebody's house. And just as you're complimenting the landowner on his beautiful display, an 89 Honda Civic hatchback slows to a crawl just behind you and the bearded fellow behind the wheel (his young son sitting beside him) cups his hand to his mouth and shouts out the window "Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!!!" before turning just a few houses down into a driveway of yet another home sporting a jaw-dropping display of red and yellow blur. The homeowner you were speaking to gives his forearm an "up yours" slap, then tips his hat to you before trudging back into his front door.

Sound like it might give you the momentum to make it through another day? Then let's head north. I know this chick who's got a car, but she drinks so we'll have to trade off wheel duty. Cool?

Happy "Nice Fuckin' Foliage Asshole!" Day!

Monday, October 28, 2002

When You Finally Get Up To Close The Drapes, You'll Realize That A Classroom Full Of Children Has Been Watching You Cry For The Past Twenty Minutes Day!

When you're finished wiping away your tears, maybe you can get started on all that egg on your face. You knew when you moved in that there was an elementary school with several floors on direct eye level with your bedroom. Hell, you've been able to discern math problems on the chalkboard when the light's been right. So you promised yourself that you would always remember to close the drapes before even the thought of seducing yourself towards self-abuse might enter your mind, and you've been very good about it. Except for that one month.

So why not cover up when you feel a fit a sobs coming on? Crying, for you, is just as erotic as genital masturbation. Or maybe you knew all along they might see. You hoped that when the teacher announced that she had to step out for a moment and everyone should read quietly, a small black boy with a wandering mind would let his eyes bounce around the room until they found their way out the window and across the street and in through another window where someone's head is hunched forward and the shoulders are shaking up and down really fast and jerky.

The little black boy would get up and stand quietly by the window and watch without comment. And the little white girl who has a crush on him would go and stand beside him and ask what he's looking at.

"That man is crying," he would say. The girl would correct him, "That's not a man, that's a lady" she would say rather prissily to go with the prissy little dresses her mother makes her traipse around in. The boy would say, "It looks like a man." Then they would just watch you like they were looking at snowflakes fall. Soon, their classmates would join them by the window, a couple at a time, until nearly every child had gotten up from his seat to watch you bellow out your sobs from your shaking, shivering frame. (One boy would stay in his seat because he had gotten pushed to the ground and kicked in the face just before coming into class and so he himself would be busy crying for most of the class period. The other handful of children who would remain seated are weird.)

When the teacher would return to the class, naturally she'd be ready to freak when she saw all her students out of their seats. But since they would be silent, she'd know there's something good going on outside. So she would stand at the rear of their congregation and search the street outside for smoke. And then she'd see you, and she'd try to make out your face to determine if she knows you.

So, there you go. When you finally turn off the waterworks and you rise to the window to close the drapes, you'll see across the street, framed by the expanse of seven foot tall classroom windows, a display of curious kids' faces, their eyes wide, their mouths shut tight, their teacher standing behind them looking uncertain.

I'd at least wave goodbye, or I mean hello. Or something.

Sunday, October 27, 2002

It's Help Your Elderly Neighbor Pull Her Husband's Head From Inside The Oven Before The Ambulance Arrives So She Can Try To Keep His Suicide A Secret From Her Children Sunday!

Remember "Help The Aged Widow In The Apartment Downstairs With Her Groceries Thursday"? This is kind of like that one, in that it's another old lady making you get off the fucking couch. Except when you're through with this one you might be so bewildered by the sudden turn your day has taken that you'll develop a drinking problem and disappear for a while.

So, naturally, the elderly neighbor in question speaks very little English so in the last seven years of you two sharing an apartment building, your conversation has consisted of bright smiles and nods and the occasional wave hello from the sidewalk. The husband you never ackowledged. He always walked with his eyes to the ground.

When you open your door, her face will be gray as ashes. When she looks up at you, you'll feel like you both always knew she would one day have to ask you for your help in this matter. You won't know what's happened as yet, but you'll nod in assurance that you're not gonna fuck this up. She'll turn her back to you and you won't see her eyes again until her husband is lying on her living room floor, where he will appear to have fallen, quite peacefully and readily, to his death.

You'll follow her into her apartment and the lifetime of photographs and decoration on the walls will be so dense that when you arrive in the kitchen you won't even realize what you're supposed to be looking at until you look at the ground and you see the soles of a man's shoes.

Your first thought will be a memory of when you were in a high school English class and you finally found out that when people put their heads in ovens, they mean to die from the gas inhalation, and not by baking the flesh from their skulls. The air will be thick with gas and you'll first check that a window has been opened and the gas has been turned off, then you'll pick up the phone and begin to dial 911. Your freshly widowed neighbor's hand will press down on the cradle of the phone and disconnect you. Then she will get her arm underneath her husband's left shoulder and begin to pull. You'll understand, then, and you'll get your arm underneath his right shoulder and you'll heft him up from the oven rack, unfortunately giving his head a crack upon the roof of the oven which neither of you will acknowledge. Another tug and you'll note how thick his brown cardigan is, probably warmer than your down winter jacket. Before the next heft, you'll place your hand on her shoulder and she'll leave you to it. You'll get him by both shoulders and slowly pull his torso from atop the open oven door. You'll be as gentle and as graceful as if you feared his limbs might rip from his body should the stride of a tug be broken.

You'll lay him out on the kitchen floor, on his back. The look on his face will not be a sad one. You'll try to find sadness there, but the closest you'll come to discerning an expression on his face will be the vague squint to his eyes. You'll look up at the doorway in time to see your neighbor walk into the living room. You'll get your grip under the shoulders and you'll drag her husband to her.

In the living room, you'll lay him out beside a curio. You'll feel terrible when you do it, but you'll lift one arm up over his head and leave the other by his side because that's what chalk outlines always look like on television. Your neighbor will open one door of the curio and slap a shelf of trinkets and children's photographs to the floor, falling atop her husband. She won't be angry. She'll be painting the picture she'd like a policeman to see. Feeling clever, you'll remove anything that fell atop his body and you'll roll him over a bit so you can put some of the trinkets under his back on the assumption that if he fell there by the curio, the items he grabbed and slapped at might reach the floor before him. Later, you'll wonder if this was a correct assumption.

You'll both stand above him. You'll look over at your neighbor and at first you'll think she's looking at her husband in mourning. Then she'll bend over to move a small porcelain figurine of a puppy closer to his outstretched hand. Then she'll look up at you and show you her eyes. They'll ask for your approval. You'll nod. She'll return your nod and go into the kitchen where she'll pick up a newspaper from the kitchen table and begin fanning the air out the window.

When you return to your apartment, you'll light a cigarette and stand by your window. You'll have a secret that you're going to keep from a family you're never going to meet. You'll stand staring out your window for the hour it takes an ambulance to pull up outside your front door. Then you'll go into your bedroom and lay down for a while.

Happy Help Your Elderly Neighbor Pull Her Husband's Head From Inside The Oven Before The Ambulance Arrives So She Can Try To Keep His Suicide A Secret From Her Children Sunday.

Saturday, October 26, 2002

Catch The Afternoon On Super 8 Day!

When you're not lying in your futon farting around listening to CDs and occasionally saying hey to the people you really love who for some reason keep walking past your bedroom door even though they don't live there but for some reason they're all there to say hey and smile and then look for something to eat, you envision it. Whether you're in an office sitting at a strange person's desk or you're at a bar with the people you really love but whose company you're not enjoying, you'll let your mind wander back to your tiny little bedroom and you'll think, "wouldn't that rule?"

But then you run home to your apartment and you lie down on your futon and you immediately realize the lighting's all wrong, all your CDs suck, and the only other person in your apartment is your shitdick roommate who won't pay the fucking broadband bill. There's debris all over your futon and it's sticking to your legs and you're bored out of your mind and you begin to think all those romantic visions of how you'd like to waste your time will never come true.

You're right. But that doesn't mean you have to masturbate again. Why not take that romantic afternoon of life lived right and get it down on Super 8? The lighting's always right on Super 8, but you can manipulate it if you want to make it even better. And you can cast people to portray those friends you love, but with better smiles and less puzzling bosoms. Hell, cast someone to play you too. You're no "Attractive Person" yourself, ya know. And how 'bout we location scout for a better bedroom, yeah? Gimme your credit card.

It'll be a lot of hard work and aggravation, but when you're all done you'll be able to come home to that life that's getting it all wrong and just dim the lights and flick the switch on the projector and click clacking away on the wall before you will be the life you should be leading but for some reason nothing's ever pretty.

Happy Catch The Afternoon On Super 8 Day!

Friday, October 25, 2002

Walk The Streets For As Long As It Takes For A Cab To Pull Up Beside You And Release A Passenger Who Stands In Front Of You For A Second To Look Into Your Face And Then Wrap A Pair Of Arms Around You And Take You To A Bedroom And Tuck You In For The Best Night's Sleep You've Had Since You Were A Baby Day!

Wear some layers because even though you can't feel anything anymore, you haven't been eating well lately and your body is ripe for catching a cold, especially with the drizzle that's brewing in those clouds up above. That coat sewn from white flags won't keep you warm enough on its own. The rain will be good for you though, I mean for the imagery. You need to walk with a bit of a hunch to your shoulders to make someone you haven't seen in five years shout "pull over!" from the backseat of a cab. And don't worry about offering any warnings against anybody getting mixed up with bad ideas like you. Tonight is about rescue. Tomorrow you can talk it all out over brunch, if you don't steal everything you can carry and climb out the window before sunrise. There's gonna be a really good brunch place nearby tomorrow so you should think about sticking around. Citysearch voted it "Best Sunday Morning Nosh!"

Thursday, October 24, 2002

If You Can't Figure Out What To Eat, You Should Go Back To Bed And Swear Aloud Day!

You think just because you plunk the down the seven bucks at the Hometown Buffet that you're somehow magically going to be suddenly decisive? You aren't even sure if you're hungry. Sure, you feel sort of weak and you have a headache and whoah! everything just went gray there for a second, but what does that have to do with your stomach? You might just be a little tired still. Yeah, you've been in bed for 88 hours but you haven't actually slept in 60. Go give it another shot. But try counting your swears as you mutter them into the pillow clenched in your fists. It'll be like counting sheep. And if you want you could even close your eyes and envision a pack of the word "Cocksuck" one by one jumping over a wooden fence in slow motion. I bet that'll knock you out in no time, yo.

Whatever you do, don't go outside to look for food. You might run into one of your friends.

Happy If You Can't Figure Out What To Eat, You Should Go Back To Bed And Swear Aloud Day!

Wednesday, October 23, 2002

If The Coffee Shop Waitress Touches Your Palm When She Gives You Your Change, She Totally Wants It Day!

It's just common knowledge. There is a provocative manner of giving a man his change just as surely as there is a chaste one. A lady of virtue whose heart belongs to another would do her best to draw the man's hand open flat with its palm to the sky so that she might allow her hand to hover no less than three inches above his, in perfect position to drop the change into his hand without so much as an exchange of body heat. And then she might choose to squat low behind the counter and recite the Lord's prayer and perhaps cut into herself with pens.

And then there is the whore. She with her skirt sewn of various different thrift-store purchased college letterman sweaters and her hair mussed into just the state of frenzy to imply a love for, as well as a distrust of, emo music. She with her belly button naked as a bikini clad three year old's and her long-john top rising higher up her torso with every reach for the shelf supporting the pint-sized cappucino mugs. Such a woman has no qualms about allowing her fingers to graze and slither along the sweat laden palms of any boy who might be game for such a dalliance (and such boys are plentiful, I assure you). She could allow the change to drop from her grasp or even leave the change on the counter and pull herself out of reach before her customer's hand might have the chance to brush against her own when he oh so innocently reaches to retrieve his change.

"Reaches to retrieve his change" indeed!

A tramp who would be refused audience by Jesus himself, it's as if she doesn't even realize she's doing it. She'll just drop her hand into your own and let her fingers scrabble about in the flesh for as long as it takes to open her fingers and release the difference of price and cash tendered. She sometimes does it without even making eye contact. Perhaps she prefers it so. Perhaps she finds it painful to look anyone in the eye, for fear she might see a reflection of herself there, in her fallen state of moral disrepair. Such a woman might seem to not care for conventional moral code or precautionary measures to avoid transmission of communicable disease, but rest assured, she is aware of the letter emblazoned on her bosom and she would give her life to have it sewn over, perhaps from the fabric of another thrift-store bought college letterman sweater. If you meet such a woman, pity her. And if when you pay for your cup of tea you feel the heat of her fingertips against your palm, you're totally gonna get laid.

Happy If The Coffee Shop Waitress Touches Your Palm When She Gives You Your Change, She Totally Wants It Day!

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

My Love Of Booze Just Called Your Love For Your Children A Homo Day!

Just walk away. My love of booze has been drinking and is looking for a fight. Think of your children. My love of booze is holding a pool cue. Do you want your children to have to grow up without the love they receive from you just because your love for them couldn't be a man and walk away from a bar fight?

But then again, if your body dies, I would think your love for your children would live on after you. Your spouse has a good job. G'head and scrap.

But promise me this. If your love for your children has my love of booze with its head bent against the corner of the bar and a broken beer bottle pressed so hard into the flesh of my love of booze's throat that one little sneeze would shave my love of booze's head clean from the shoulders, do not, I repeat, do not be merciful. Off that fucker and get the hell outta there.

Happy My Love Of Booze Just Called Your Love For Your Children A Homo Day! I can't wait until Christmastime.

Sunday, October 20, 2002

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Just A Little More Time. Oh Dear God For Just A Little More Time" Sunday And Monday!

If anything, it's getting worse not better. Scroll down for today's. You can read tomorrow's today if you want. I really don't care what happens to you.

Monday, October 21, 2002

A Little Pain In The Eyes Is The Best You Can Hope For Day!

Like someone threw a penny at your face, trying to land it in your open mouth (you were playing along), but nailed you in the right eye. Then tried again and got the left one. Then you opened a bottle of carbonated picante sauce and it sprayed all over the place. Including in your eyes. The resulting stinging, throbbing feeling is about as good as it's gonna get for you today. Someone walked out on you in the middle of the night and you don't even know it yet. Hold onto a pillow.

Sunday, October 20, 2002

Just A Little Further Day!

Feel like the indomitable strength of death itself is holding you back by your ankles but if you don't take another step some children will be tricked into drinking pee? That's because you're weak and very selfish. Just a little further and you'll be back in bed, moaning about how you never get rewarded for giving absolutely nothing back to the world. You're a terrible person.

Friday, October 18, 2002

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Two Days Go Up At Once Just In Case Shit Gets Fucked Up Tomorrow, You Understand" Friday And Saturday!

Today's Friday right? Jesus Christ, Tecate has no aftereffect whatsoever, beyond the whole "Can't remember where those scratches on my face and neck came from" thing. Anyway, as many of you know, Prettygirl leads a very dangerous lifestyle filled with psychosexual misadventures as well as heartwarming moments of "Fagging Out Big Time, Yo." This weekend is looking thick with jailtime, so you're getting both today and tomorrow today. As usual, scroll down to read today's today. If you read tomorrow's before tomorrow, you're going to die.

Saturday, October 19, 2002

At The Car Wash Day!

Go to that really big car wash with two lanes so that you can ride alongside another car during your wash. Make sure that all morning you've been feeling like things are about to come full circle. Like a chest you found in an attic is about to be opened to reveal a photograph of your mother in the arms of a strange man, the date on the back indicating the embrace to have taken place 11 months before you were born.

If you go in with this mindset, you're going to be disappointed. All that's going to happen during the car wash is you're going to look to your left and, through the suds and sheets of water, you'll be certain the person behind the wheel of the adjacent car is someone you used to date but never really dug or someone you kind of knew in high school you think. Your lane in the wash will stall for a few minutes, allowing that car to pull out and get dried and vacuumed and pull away just a second before you have the chance to verify whether the driver is who you think it is. You won't really care though.

Happy At The Car Wash Day!

Friday, October 18, 2002

Wear A Shirt You Never Ever Wear So That The Next Time You Wear It Everything That Went Down Today Will Come Flooding Back In A Gush Of Intoxicating Nostalgic Bliss, Unless You Just Got Raped Day!

To give you an idea of how it'll feel, put on that 14 year old Gap shirt that's kind of too small and rides up over your belly so you can only wear it amongst people who are close enough friends to understand how much you dig showing off your belly. I bet even before you look at yourself in the mirror, just by smelling the fabric you can't help but plop yourself right back into that Sunday night when you decided you wanted a drink so you made one phone call to one of your closer friends who happened to be on the other line with another friend you can tolerate and they were looking for something to do and so you all decided nothing sounded better than going to that one bar where the bartenders start buying back after two pints especially if it looks like everyone in your party is attractive. And then just by chance, a few cell phones were dialed and one or two folks happened to be in the area and one or two others were thinking of heading home but decided on a quick pop before making the trek and before you knew it about twelve people you'd take a bullet for were crowding into your booth and recounting stories of the first time a funeral made them cry and naturally you made out with someone you'd known for over nine years.

Now look at yourself in the mirror and I dare you to try not to undulate. Can't do it can you? You're already in the midst of a day you're going to look back on with wonder the next time you dig out that shirt and start dancing all alone in a bedroom. Today will be remembered so make sure today is a day you'd like to one day remember. I'm not saying go hold hands on a park bench or do whip-its or something. Just don't be cunty.

Note: If you just got raped, put on something that you'd wear any old time but make sure it's not a shirt that makes you look way hot since you're probably going to throw it out so you don't have anything to remember today by. Chances are you'll be wearing a paper gown all day anyway, depending on how up to date a rape kit your local hospital's got going on, so today probably won't apply to you at all anyway.

Happy Wear A Shirt You Never Ever Wear So That The Next Time You Wear It Everything That Went Down Today Will Come Flooding Back In An Gush Of Intoxicating Nostalgic Bliss, Unless You Just Got Raped Day!

Thursday, October 17, 2002

Baby Lemme Smuggle Your Heart Out Of A Country That's About To Close Its Borders And Get Way Genocidal All Over Hearts That Look As Little Honey Pretty Face As That Heart Of Yours, Aw Yeah Day!

I know a guy who transports port-a-potties for a fairground near the border. The local constable thinks it's kind of funny to have him cross the border to empty out the port-a-potties, dumping the shit on the Godless infidels next door, so when there are port-a-potties that need emptying, he basically has the golden visa.

The next opportunity will be the night of the Fragenshpleisch Festival, when all and sundry will be as drunk as a European Border Guard on a night so close to the end of the world as we know it when they should be sober as judges because people of conscience are going to be trying to smuggle pouty frowny diddly legged hearts like yours in the splashing waste of port-a-potties over the border. There will be a moment when the truck appears to have been cleared and my friend will look in the rear view mirror and see the guard suddenly notice something about the truck and all of a sudden run to the truck shouting "Mop nop!" or some European word that mans "wait." And your slinky little bashful heartyhearty will be so frightened that it will gasp in a big heaping glob of European Festival Goer Piss-N-Shit, but it will turn out the guard just wanted to ask where my friend got the "Ass, Gas, Or Grass" bumper sticker.

So anyway, once over the border, I'm afraid all my friend can do is overturn the port-a-potty and let your heart seep out into the swamp of excrement polluting the beautiful soil of freedom of that neighboring nation. Then, I don't know, I guess someone should go get it. You know I love you baby.

Happy Baby Lemme Smuggle Your Heart Out Of A Country That's About To Close Its Borders And Get Way Genocidal All Over Hearts That Look As Little Honey Pretty Face As That Heart Of Yours, Aw Yeah Day!

Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Try To Program Yourself To Dream About Fucking Someone With Your Underwear Off Day!

There are books about programming yourself to dream about certain things. You should buy one because everyone's real skeeved by the way your sex dreams always play out. Whether we're in the dream, reminding you to show up for soccer practice tomorrow or you're off the team, or whether we just bump into you in the few hours after you've awoken from the dream and we can see on your face that you've yet to shower away the psychic residue of having dreamed about fucking somebody without bothering to remove your underwear. Yeah, panties, especially the really tired ones you're always wearing in your naughty dreams, can quite comfortably endure the crotch being slid just to the right. And your dream labia seems to have been equipped with a kind of hook and eye situation that keeps your panties from sliding out of place. And briefs and boxers come right out of the box with a gap in the front.

All this is very true and it doesn't make intercourse with your underwear still on any less unsettling. And what's with the bulky sweatshirts and unfastened brassieres? We're all so terrified of you right now because we've just never met anyone who so clearly could've starred in an all-blood relative Bukkake video you've been molested so many times. And as long as you're going to try this dream programming thing, ixnay on the Subway sandwiches and the belly punches, dig? Sex is supposed to be about trust and fluids.

Happy Try To Program Yourself To Dream About Fucking Someone With Your Underwear Off Day!

Tuesday, October 15, 2002

Maybe You Should Call And Get His/Her Roommate To Knock On His/Her Door Day!

You've gotten used to those calls. But you're also getting kind of sick to death of them aren't you. A whole lot of "You never liked him or her did you I could tell and you thought it was time for us to split up and I did too and that's why tomorrow I'm going to stop drinking/smoking/believing in Jesus Christ and I'm finally going to start using those paints I bought last year and I really appreciate you listening to me because sometimes I think if I didn't have you to talk to I'd end up opening my throat with this straight razor I bought on the way home from work today blahblahfuckingblah!!! How much are you supposed to put up with?

But last night it was a little different. Less hysterics, more "Just callin'...I don't see what's up." Like someone who'd run out of ideas and was hoping you might be able to come up with something. And when he/she said goodbye and you said "Talk to you tomorrow," all you heard was a click. Then you unpaused your Playstation 2 and first-person-shootered the whole conversation out of your mind. Until now.

What I'm saying, and I'm sure it'll only subject you to another tirade of "When will the feelings of rejection and worthlessness go away and why do I always get thrown into the garbage for someone of a different gender than me and I've tried dating both men and women to avoid this happening again but it's always the same blahblahfuckingblah!!!", but what I'm saying is maybe you should call and get his/her roommate to knock on his/her door. And I know his/her roommate's a cock and you hate having to talk to him because he only wants to talk about the Sopranos, but maybe you should call and get his/her roommate to knock on his/her door. Because today's Maybe You Should Call And Get His/Her Roommate To Knock On His/Her Door Day! Also, your friend might have committed suicide and if so it's your fault.

Monday, October 14, 2002

Lay Down And Pee Day!

Kids getting on your case because you still haven't come through on the promise of two new puppies that you made when you kidnapped them from their mother three weeks ago because you knew she'd win custody of them in court once she brought up your two years of unemployment and your huffing addiction? And every night you can hear them whispering in the living room, no doubt conspiring to split on their own, but not before you come home from handing out coupons at the strip mall parking lot so they can steal whatever cash you manage to bring home that day as if you'd ever bring home any cash.

Fuck it. Just find yourself a nice, highly visible brick wall, lay down right up against it on your belly, and go 'head and pee. Let it all bubble up in the pockets of your pants before seeping out onto the sidewalk and forming a stream off into the street. It'll feel nice and warm and soothing at first. Then it'll get cold and people will stare. Many people will laugh quietly with each other because you will look funny. A do-gooder will call an ambulance because she will worry that you're dead but will find you too dirty to shake awake herself. Then the police will come and this whole thing will soon be over. This will soon be over.

Happy Lay Down And Pee Day!

Sunday, October 13, 2002

Five Ways That Pout Of Yours Is Worth More Than Money Day!

5. It's illegal for the judge to wipe the slate clean of those 673 dollars in parking tickets in exchange for money in his pocket. But he'll do it if you scrunch up your chin and give him those "I'm cold and I'm hungry" eyes.

4. When you tell your Dad you crashed his car into a pole at the Jack in the Box drivethru and you say, "But don't get all heated up. I'll pay you back for the repairs over time. Are we out of Scotch?" he's still gonna beat you with some plyers. But if you just say sorry Daddy and scrunch up your chin and give him those "Sometimes I worry that there's bad people in the world will you protect me from them and give me maybe some Scotch?" eyes, he'll just ask if you're okay and if you were drinking. Lie.

3. When you beg your husband of twenty three years to stop it with the Zippo lighters during sex and you offer him cash in it's stead, he might think you're trying to belittle him for his wacky little quirk and retreat to a shell of self-pity or to a whorehouse for the next few years of your marriage. But not if you scrunch up your chin and give him those "I used to like to wear halter tops but I can't anymore because of all the scar tissue" eyes.

2. Two words: "ANOTHER COOKIE."

1. If you tell someone you're in love with him or her, they'll say "You couldn't pay me enough to love you back." Offer fifty dollars and they'll say sixty. But if you scrunch up your chin and give him or her those "I'll kill myself if you don't do what I want" eyes, he or she will say, "All right. Fifty five you beautiful little fool!"

Um, see?

Saturday, October 12, 2002

Hysterical Blindness Is Still Hysterical Day!

Yeah, for you it's terrifying, to all of a sudden lose your vision while crossing streets or when you're in the middle of a big money hand of online blackjack. But the rest of us know your vision will come back as soon as you stop wishing you weren't gay anymore. If you don't wanna be gay anymore, you're gonna have to put in a little effort. Try drinking alcohol or paying someone to hold your head under a bathtub full of water until you're not gay anymore. Or at least marry someone of the opposite sex and have lots of children so you'll be financially obligated to live the life of a heterosexual until it starts to take. Your visual world will stop going blank as soon as you love yourself for who you're trying to be, not who you wish you could be but just can't seem to find the time to put in the necessary man-hours (pun way fucking intended) to make it happen.

Happy Hysterical Blindness Is Still Hysterical Day!

(editor's note: dear lord this is getting tiresome.)

Friday, October 11, 2002

Prescription Ointment Day!

Everything about the term "Prescription Ointment" is cause for celebration. Even "Ointment" just on it's own makes people wanna go to a backyard party on a nice fall jacket evening. In honor of Prescription Ointment Day ya'll should hold off on that trial separation for the sake of your kids. Also, if for the past few months you've seen a hungry cat wandering around the neighborhood and it looks just like a cat in one of those Missing Cat posters and it even answers to the name on the poster ("Heeere Missing Cat!") then go ahead and call the number on the poster and tell that cat owner to stop wringing those hands, Mittens lives still! Do it for Prescription Ointment Day!

And don't forget to apply your prescription ointment to your hideously disfigured skin. Did you commit a crime against Jesus to earn such a beastly mark?

Thursday, October 10, 2002

Empty The Biggest Room In Your House Of All Furniture And Decoration, Then You And Your Mate Strip Naked And Sit With Your Backs Up Against Opposing Walls And Scowl At Each Other Day!

Sorry, this one's only for couples who've lived together for three years or longer. Not that those who've lived together for less than three years blow. It's just that for today you do not matter and neither does your intimacy. Wait outside. There's a truck that sells tacos outside.

Now then. For those who've stayed, I hope you've found the room you wish to use and I hope it has white walls and wood floors and two windows in one of the longer walls that pour in the soft gray light of the late afternoon autumn dim. Remove all furniture and window dressing, pictures and paintings and extension cords. Make it look the way it looked when you first saw the place and decided to call it home. Then strip.

Don't sweep the floor. When you sit, you want to feel the dirt and debris that gathers against baseboards attach itself to the skin of your ass and thighs. Even though you've never done this before, I'm sure you both chose the wall you want to sit against without any discussion.

Now just sprawl your legs out in front of you and curve your back up in a slouch so that there's enough room between you and the wall for a cat to squiggle behind each of you. The thing about this posture is no matter how much you exercise, your bellies are still going to fold in on themselves and you will look fat.

Let all muscles go loose, not with peace of mind, but with exhaustion. Like atrophy can be effortful. Now look at each other. You know that body. You know those creases of skin and those breasts and those toes and legs and testicles. You've pressed your lips against every inch. You've felt each other's goosebumps in your daydreams. That body is yours because you say so.

Now let a scowl bloom from your lips. For whatever reason, just put it there and let it settle there. Look at that face way over there across the room. There's a scowl on that face that belongs to you. It's not a bad thing. You're simply glaring at each other because sometimes faces fall ugly.

Hold it there. Just there. Keep it just there. After about fourteen hours, put on your clothes and go find food.

Happy Empty The Biggest Room In Your House Of All Furniture And Decoration, Then You And Your Mate Strip Naked And Sit With Your Backs Up Against Opposing Walls And Scowl At Each Other Day!

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

One More Drink And You Might Finally Deaden That Lobe Of Your Brain That Doesn't Forget A Pretty Face Day!

Gimme the keys, you're in no shape to drive. Yeah, I seen you drink and drive and you do it like a pro, without barely squinting an eyelid shut. It's not that. You just can't see street signs no more cause you can't get that goddamn face offa your mind.

I say grab that lady bartender and get her to pour you one more glass of Jameson. Your left cheek is kind of hanging off your face so I think a good majority of your brain tissue's been pretty damn well soaked hangdog with devilishly sedative drinkydrink. But you're still smiling like a 19 year old retard who just learned how to masturbate so you clearly have yet to train your sites on that lobe of your brain that lets you remember a pretty face. I think this next one might be the one.

Also, the bartender's looking like she's in the mood for a buyback. Don't fuck this up!

If you down that glass and you still feel like everything's fancy with a kickass soundtrack just because somewhere in a room someplace those eyes are sitting just above that nose poking out overtop that goddamn mouth, order one more. I bet that's the one.

Happy One More Drink And You Might Finally Deaden That Lobe Of Your Brain That Doesn't Forget A Pretty Face Day!

Tuesday, October 08, 2002

Take A Bath, But Make A Big Production Out Of It Day!

You called in sick. Good. But I hope you made it sound like you might have a bitch of a stomach flu coming on because the kind of bath we're talking about might keep going till Thursday if no one gets too shitty.

That's probably the most important thing, that you invite the right kind of people over. For example, one of your friends just fell in love and another one of your friends just had a death in the family. Don't invite either of these assholes because they won't get high. If they got high, they might bliss out for a little while and that would prevent them from talking on and on and motherfucking on about Little Miss/Mr. Wonderful or Dear Departed Teenage Sister, respectively. You can see it on their faces every time they walk into a room. They both have a two part agenda.

Part One: Find the whiskey.

Part Two-a: (For the one in love) Find that couple everyone looks up to as the pinnacle of a couple that's gonna make it work and go initiate a conversation about intimacy or meeting cute or whether they felt like shit changed after they moved in together, and then within two minutes of not listening to a word out of the couple's mouth launch into an endless and saccharine mooning little schoolgirl monologue about how it seemed like that special someone might never be found and then lo and behold "I'm a roly-poly pussy baby."

Part Two-b: (For the one who's just experienced a loss) Find that poor bastard who's just now managing to get over the death of someone close that happened over a year ago and claw open those just barely scabbed wounds with a tirade of unbelievably maudlin pleas for some kind of empathy and this laundry list of every emotion that everyone in the world has experienced after the untimely death of a loved one but hey, let's go through them all again because apparently you're some sort of special case aren't you? Some people of the opposite sex think suffering in silence is attractive and dignity is digable. Maybe you should try that coat on for size. We're here to watch someone take a bath you know.

So invite your friends carefully. You've stuck to your diet for over a month now and you've rounded your belly to that just right boyancy where it'll bobble adorably with every shift of the water's surface whenever you lift your arm in and out of the tub to take a hit off the pipe a friend you love is handing to you. Don't waste the effort on people who only wanna talk about their love-turned stomachs and feelings of ultimate futility and helplessness in the face of blank endings.

Before we go on, no candles. And no music either. You're not trying to pretend sex matters and you're not trying to prove to everyone in the room that you're dull as television. Turn off the Enya, Calista. You should choose your lighting carefully, however. Like, if there's two or three light sockets in your fixture, pull a bulb out or add one if you think the bathroom's been too bright lately or too dim. And tell people they're more than welcome to go out to the bedroom and play CDs if they want. The bathroom can only hold like four people (including you) comfortably anyway so the other seven people will have to hang out in the bedroom anyway sometimes.

Food. Go with Mexican. A buffet thing where everyone can build their own tacos.

Nothing will alter the mood of the bath more than the presentation of your genitals. If you normally shave or trim your pubis, you should have been letting it grow out this past month in anticipation of the big day. You want people to just hang out and get high and shoot the shit while you're naked in a tub of warm water right in front of their eyes. And shaved genitals can be distracting to some, disorienting to others. Even if everyone in the room also shaves their genitals, they will still be surprised to learn that you do the same and this will be at the front of their minds. They'll wonder if you decided to shave at the behest of a partner and whether you're worried about how this reflects on your partner's psyche. They'll wonder if you do it just because it's more comfortable. And they might even wonder whether you shaved solely because you knew you'd have an audience today and this might really freak them out. And then there's the people who've always sort of looked down on people who shave their genitals. These people get kind of angry when they encounter a shaven partner because they feel like an assumption as to role-play was made and they think it's inconsiderate to pidgeon-hole the sex act into a Daddy-and-Baby kind of deal. Also, a lot of people think shaving genitals lacks imagination. This is a matter of opinion of course. However, it is a matter of uncontested fact that shaven genitals reflects a severely lacking sense of humor.

If you have a really really big bush though, trim it to a length that isn't hideous. You don't want that shit floating out into the tub like some kind of biblical scourge of water moccasins. Just remember the last time you had sex with someone who was attractive. Go for that length.

Also, if you're pierced, take it out. For the same reason as the shaving. It reflects a flawed personality.

And if you have a blonde pubis, the kind where you can't even see the pubic hair, call the whole thing off. No one should have to look at that kind of hocus pocus.

You're almost ready. But don't forget the most important thing. Everyone's going to be in your bathroom, and they're gonna have hours and maybe even days to focus in on every little spot on the tile. Ajax that shit, Pigpen. We're not in college anymore. Everyone's 43.

Monday, October 07, 2002

Laundry Day

Pure filth. Everytime you open up your eyes onto these streets, you see nothing but disgusting, wretched filth from two feet in front of you to the horizon. It's grotesque. People just walking around without a clue as to how decrepit and rotten and sickening they really are. And they're spreading their sickness with every handshake, every hug, and every kiss.

Sure, you're probably depressed. But luckily, you're also armed. Go out and do some laundry. Because today's Laundry Day!
Sunday, October 06, 2002


Shit! It had to happen sometime. What with this horrifying habit of drinking myself into other people's pants. But sadly, Prettygirl has missed a day for the first time since March twentysomething, 2000andsomething. Know this, the mishap was not for naught. Babies were seated atop barstools, hearts were broken, knives were unsheathed in effort to win a love, and a pool table was dominated for over two and a half hours. Anyway, Sunday October 6th was OH FUCK!!! DAY! The day when shit was supposed to be completely neglected until exactly when it was too late to go back and make amends. Here's hoping you fucked up and I mean fucked up way!

Hope you can't even remember OH FUCK!!! DAY!

(monday's day will be posted, um, later. fuck you all. i hate you. really. i hope you all find out your dad's been fucking your mom all along.)

Saturday, October 05, 2002

If You're In Love With Someone On Death Row, Sucks To Be You Day!

And I thought I've made some bad decisions! Bartender, his/her next one's on me!

Seriously, though, do you ever wonder if maybe you just want to build a melodrama around yourself? I'm not doubting your love. But you have to ask yourself why you're drawn to a rapist/murderer of retarded elderly people who got caught. Isn't it possible that you just never really found your own calling? Your own passion? Your own high school diploma? And so you put off that search for the shores of Lake You by taking on the much more clearly defined task of spearheading your lover's legal defense fund and Nationwide Anti-Capital Punishment Campus Advocacy Group (NACPCAG y'all!). By the way, does that de la Fuckya dude from Rage Against The Machine smell as bad as he looks like he would? What's King Ad Rock really like?

Have you considered getting a real estate license or learning to manufacture meth? What about modeling? Just kidding.

But seriously, we've all fallen in love with that one from the wrong side of the tracks. But most of us realize the bloom might be off the rose well before our snoogums gets caught stuffing a tennis ball into the mouth of a stripped naked retarded 80 year old to stifle the moans. Just sayin', grow up.

Happy If You're In Love With Someone On Death Row, Sucks To Be You Day!

Friday, October 04, 2002

Phew! Thank God Blue Crush Hasn't Left The Theaters Yet Day!

You made it to another Friday having put off seeing Blue Crush and thankfully there haven't been enough movies released to push it out of your local cineplex. But how long are you gonna wait? Every Thursday at around 7:30 you freak out with a "Oh shit, I still haven't seen it!" Then you run and check to see if it's gonna leave the theater and then when you're assured it'll be there another week you just get drunk or visit your sister in the hospital again. They're called priorities Andy Capp! You want to have kids one day don't you? Well just go see Blue Crush before you regret it for the rest of your life and your kids spend their teenage years wondering why you always go looking for your keys when they're right there in your hand.

Happy Phew! Thank God Blue Crush Hasn't Left The Theaters Yet Day!

Thursday, October 03, 2002

Go Find Yourself A Pickup Game Of King Of The Hill Day!

What were you gonna do? Go down to the gym on your lunchbreak and do thirty minutes on the elliptical machine in the hopes that the sweat in your eyes will blur out the visions of "Messy Suicide" that have been keeping you going all morning? Nothing better for someone who feels like a cog in his or her own life than to get on a machine that sends your legs dancing like a bitch but don't go nowhere. Your ideas are always wrong. It's getting really dull for the four adults and one child employed to watch your every move by the architects of an all-encompassing conspiracy that reaches the highest levels of world power (something about a bauble that glows in the dark and is missing. missiles have been redirected).

If there's one thing Girls Are Pretty is good for it's being right about shit. And Girls Are Pretty has never been righter about anything than it is about the fact that you should go walk through the park until four guys and girls in business casual sitting on a small hill shout out "We need a fifth. You down yo?" You'll suddenly realize you want nothing more in this bitchfuck of an existence than to send a total stranger to the valley of a hill with a slap of your Bostonian shoesole to the neckbone. You thought you played hardcore when you were kids? Now it's a goddamn metaphor for every decision you've made since you were thirty one. Middle-management hoes'll bite straight through ankle cartiledge to send you from all fours to a screaming bellyslide.

It's gonna be a good time I said it's gonna be a good time.

First thing you should do is make sure everyone's on the same page as regards weaponry. "Strapped or clean?" you should ask. If it's strapped, anyone could be packing anything from a swiss army knife to a Tek-9 and it's all fair game. In a strapped bout of King of the Hill, you should sacrifice the first lunge up the hill and instead hop atop your opponents' backs, letting them slide out from underneath you. As that body wriggles out away you should be able to tell where they're packing what. It's about knowing your opponent.

In fact, don't try to take the hill till the fourth king has fallen. This way, pulling the cocksuckers down, you can get an idea of how they defend their crown. Do they use fingernails or teeth? What's their center of gravity? Do they have any shards of broken glass tucked into their socks waiting to open up the palm of your hand. That shit's big with motherfuckers from publishing.

Once you know who you're up against, ball's in your court. Strategy only goes so far. Eventually your just gonna have to bite someone in the twat and drag her down the hill with your goddamn teeth. Can't plan that out. Can't plan on when the shit that makes your blood flow is gonna show its face. But trust me, it's a face a grandma could fall in love with.

The game usually lasts 45 minutes, since everyone needs about seven or eight minutes each way to and from the hill to get back to work before lunch is over.

Happy Go Find Yourself A Pickup Game Of King Of The Hill Day! Fight Club is for faggots who are too scared to fuck.

Wednesday, October 02, 2002

Makeshift Affection Day!

Been a while since you gave a damn about anyone or anything at all in this miserable hellhole of a town? Well then, make it up. Just pick at random an adorable puppy in a window or a dad and say shit like, "I wuv you so much wittle baby puppy because, um, you're so um, small and therefore lovable. Or, I mean, wuvable." Or "I wuv you so much Dad because you...well, that whole paying for college thing. That was way cool and wy wuv woo for it."

See how it fits. Poets will tell you different, but that's why they're all raging alcoholics without a penny to their names and some of them write about race relations (eww!). But love isn't about looking into a pair of eyes and throwing up all over everything you're so happy. Love is about pretending you would care if someone else was being beaten up in the snow, but pretending so hard that you start to actually believe it. And before you know it, you forget you were pretending and you've pretty much tricked yourself into wanting the object of your makeshift affection to never ever ever die ever. Then you ask them to lay down in your bed and you start hoping one of you will become rich enough so that pretend special someone will never have to leave your bed to go to work.

Some people believe there's someone out there for everybody to pretend to give a damn about. It might take a lifetime before you find them, but the cool thing is, if that puppy or that Dad doesn't quite fit the bill, it's legal to euthanize puppies and if your Dad was incontinent, the police will usually look the other way if you smother him with a pillow.

Happy Makeshift Affection Day!

Tuesday, October 01, 2002

Keep Your Mom To Yourself Day!

I have a mom. Take yours home. I appreciate the thought but she's eating everything. Also, I never told you this, but I get freaked out by scars.

No, I won't show you on your mom where the bad man touched me.

I'm glad she brought other dresses but the one she's wearing is just fine. There's no need for her to change.

She's trying to get me to have a staring contest with her again. Make her stop.

Can you just take her back to the bar? My mom's gonna be home any minute and I don't wanna see them start sniffing each other's asses.

Happy Keep Your Mom To Yourself Day!