Friday, December 31, 2004
You got set up with a guy with no arms. He has two legs and can walk around fine, but he holds stuff with this mechanical claw that's strapped around his torso and sticks out from the center of his chest. He operates the arm with deep inhalations and exhalations, causing his chest to drastically expand and retract. Therefore, during dinner or a game of checkers he is constantly panting and gasping. Luckily, you can't hear his breathing over the constant whirring of the motors contained within the mechanical claw.
On his way into the Japanese restaurant he stubbed his sandaled foot on a large ceramic vase near the entranceway. He swore up and down and started berating a hostess. His rage was unjustified and aimless, like your father's, and so you fell in love. Additionally, before he lost his arms he was a hitter. Now that he only has the mechanical arm, he's still a hitter. Trouble is, the torque on that arm's hydraulics can take off a head at the neck. Don't move in right away.
Happy Matchmaker Day!
Thursday, December 30, 2004
You spent it remembering an hour on March 18th, 2004, when she fell asleep in the passenger seat. When she'd fall asleep you'd watch her mouth drop open from her face shut tight, it made you happy to know she could fall asleep in your presence.
"You're not afraid I'm going to steal your stuff or anything," you explained.
"That's no reason to videotape me at night."
You destroyed the tapes, and it turned out to be a great idea because it made you cherish all the more those moments when you caught her napping. Moments like the 60 or so she spent blissfully asleep in the passenger seat of your Honda on March 18th, 2004. You nearly veered off the road a couple of times you were watching her so intently. You thought you could actually see her dreams by the expression on her face. She looked concerned, a little overburdened, like she'd been told to fill a thousand pickle jars with her pee or her sisters would be sent to war. But then again, you might be the only one who has that dream.
By September, 2004, all you had left of her were the memories. You focused tight on that hour on March 18th and you exhausted it. Until you could no longer remember which parts of it were fact and which were fabrications added in the process of recalling a memory.
Today, you remember September, and you're able to shudder and feel a little better off. What have you learned from all of this.
"Don't destroy videotapes?"
Happy Most Of September, 2004 Day!
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
"Do you always do that?" you ask. Her breasts are smaller than yours, you notice.
"Zip it," she says. She starts to get dressed. "My mom's gonna be picking me up soon."
"You could stay for dinner," you say.
"One word of this to my Mom, the kids at school, anybody, and I swear to God I'll kill you dead."
You reach out to put your hand on her hair, but think better of it. "Is that why you transferred to our school? Did you—"
"Dykes get real possessive real fast," she says. Is that what you are? A Dyke? "If you don't slice some blood from their palms right off the bat, they grab at every piece of you they can reach."
She picks up the baby blanket that you still sleep with and gently wraps it around your neck. She's looking in your eyes as she pulls it tighter and tighter. You don't gasp for air. You don't blink. You feel like you have to keep your face as hard as stone if you ever want her to come back to your room. Just hold her stare. Don't feel anything.
"I wanna tear this town to pieces," she says. "Wanna come with?"
You shrug. She loosens the blanket. Her mom honks her horn from the driveway. You just signed on to a lesbolescent life o' crime little girl.
Happy She Shouts "Glory Be To God" When She Comes Day!
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Most people who saw her thought she was just another Vegas showgirl who'd keep paying the bills until her knee gave out on her. But Justine knew something they didn't know.
"I know how to pick combination safes," she told the only man she ever loved.
"It's a rare talent. Never use it," Keith told her. "Promise me you'll never use it. As long as we both shall live?"
"As long as we both shall live," Justine promised.
Keith ended up not living all that long. Another four months to be exact. Keith's death sentence had been signed long before he walked into Justine's life. About a hundred grand in the hole, hooking up with a safecracker should have been the answer to his prayers.
"I might be a gamblin' junky," said Keith. "But I'm a gentleman. And a gentleman doesn't bring his girl in on a score just so's he can even his debts."
Eventually, Keith's debts came due. The night Justine walked out of the dressing room and found no one waiting for her outside, she knew he'd been killed. The only happiness she'd ever known had been ripped out of her arms, and she wanted revenge.
A hit on your average nobody will cost around $25,000 if you expect it to come off without a hitch. A hit on the kind of guys Justine wanted dead, the guys Keith owed his money to, you're talking a hundred grand a head, minimum. A showgirl doesn't make that kind of money. To get that kind of money, you'd have to crack a safe.
A lot of safes as it turned out. Justine put the word out that she was ready to come on board with any crew who had a line on the right score. She was glad to say goodbye to the showgirl life. Her knees were even more glad. And she took to a life of crime like a bee to honey.
This morning, at around 4 AM, she'd just cracked open the safe that would give her the last 50 grand necessary to put out her contracts. But she never even got to hold the money. It was dumb luck, but the crew who brought her the score just happened to have been put together by Horst Murinven, the loan shark Justine believed to have pulled the trigger on her Keith. When Murinven's crew told him about the kickline girl safecracker who could make the score happen, he checked her out and discovered her link to Keith. A few more questions around town and he knew she was looking for a killer for pay.
Murinven knew she was coming his way. And he also knew how much money was in that safe. He told his crew to bring guns for a change. He told them to wait for her to pull the door of the safe open wide. And he told them they'd each get an extra ten grand if they put a bullet in her head before she could turn around. That's why the kickline girl is dead.
Happy The Kickline Girl Is Dead Day!
Monday, December 27, 2004
You phone for help. You phone Steve.
"She's dead and she's on top of me."
Steve tells you to try and shove her off of you, asks you how she died.
"Cancer," you say. " This is really difficult. She won't budge."
Steve asks you where you are.
"I'm not sure. It looks like a warehouse."
Steve asks if anyone else is there.
"Look, I don't have time for 20 questions. I'm really broken up over the death of my girlfriend. And I just need someone to get her off of me."
Steve says he understands, but he can't send help unless he knows where you are.
"Makes sense to me. Sorry I lost it there for a second. Bad day."
Steve doesn't say anything.
"Dead girlfriend and all," you continue. "On top of me and everything," you add. "Shortening my breath, cutting off the blood to my brain," you clinch the deal.
"Okay," Steve says. "I'll devote my every waking breath to freeing you from the weight of your dead girlfriend."
"You're the best," you say.
"Smoking hurts us all," Steve says and hangs up.
You wait, occasionally putting a kiss to your dead girlfriend's earlobe. With every kiss, she's just a little bit colder.
Happy Trapped Underneath Your Girlfriend Day!
Friday, December 24, 2004
It's all coming apart at the seams for Prettygirl. One morning, about four years ago, she woke up feeling like things were going to be getting worse from then on. She tried to ignore it throughout constant narcotics abuse, which was really really fun and gave her some good ideas for children's books she plans to write and illustrate one day, but they didn't help her to pretend that life works on some level. At one point, she took the advice of a grandmother and tried to give and receive love. Pure chicanery.
So now, Prettygirl's going into the woods in the hopes that watching frogs hump will put some blood back in her veins. If she doesn't start to perk up in a couple of days, she'll take off all of her clothes (Prettygirl's got a nice bod still, and whenever's she's naked it's a good thing), lay down on the frozen dirt and let the cold have her last breaths (which she'll be able to see, cause it'll be cold). If she finds, as the long-haired poets might say, "Something to believe in," she'll be back with more horseshit for you all to obey thoughtlessly. Either way, she's putting some days up in advance since she doesn't expect to make it to a Kinko's anytime soon. Scroll down to read today's today. Don't read tomorrow's until tomorrow or you'll grow one of those 115 pound tumors in your stomach that you'll assume is just the result of you being a big fat pig.
These might be the last ever. Make them count.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Scold Your Pets For Not Being Romantic Enough Day!
Tell Wiffles that she never tries to surprise you. That she takes you for granted. Tell her that it would be nice if you could just come home one day to find that Wiffles had done something, perhaps arranged her poo to look like your face or whatever, just to let you know that you're still special. Wiffles will just kind of walk away because she doesn't speak English. When she does, weep.
Happy Scold Your Pets For Not Being Romantic Enough Day!
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Get Up From The Table And Go Day!
Tonight, your lover will tell the truth. He'll tell you what he's been so afraid to say for such a long time. He'll tell you that far more frightening than the potential retribution from various foreign governments, is the possibility that you might think less of him.
React thusly: Get up from the table and go out to the street. Run down the street in your bare feet with no idea where to go, who to go to. He'll catch up to you in the car after a few blocks. You'll get in and you two will come up with a plan. You'll say to him, "I'm involved now. I'm in just as much danger as you. Thanks a lot jerkface."
Happy Get Up From The Table And Go Day!
Friday, December 24, 2004
Covet Children At A Playground Day!
You're childless and empty. Worthless, in the eyes of the world and your Lord. Your lack of children is proof that you remain unloved and unlovable. Go to the playground and look at all the beautiful children at play. As you watch them, whisper aloud a both ends of a conversation you imagine you're having with your own little boy or girl. It's fun to pretend at 38.
Happy Covet Children At A Playground Day!
Thursday, December 23, 2004
It's been two days since Rex has disappeared. It's time to go to the town dogcatcher and make a threat.
"You find my dog you do one of two things. Bring him back to me, or leave him be."
The Dogcatcher won't turn to you when he speaks from his leather seat.
"I'll do as my occupation dictates I do," the Dogcatcher will say.
Go to the arm of his chair and squat down so your mouth is at his ear. "Place my dog in danger," say, "And I will bring you pain in kind."
The Dogcatcher will scoff. "Can't feel pain," he'll say.
You'll stay by his side, not sure of what he said.
"Just get out of here."
Stand, but don't go.
"GET OUT OF HERE! NOW! GO NOW!"
The Dogcatcher will fly into a rage without even getting to his feet. He'll just bark at you from the sink of his chair until you go.
On your drive home you'll remember that the Dogcatcher is addicted to heroin and it must have been time for his fix. He flew into a panic because you were in the house when he was ready to shoot up. No one's been in his house in 8 months. He didn't know how else to handle it. He just knew he had to be rid of you in order to administer to his self.
Happy Dogcatcher Day!
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Today, you are going to sit down with the Ku Klux Klan and go over some concepts.
"Presently," say, "The public sees the Klan as a terrorist organization. An instrument of hate."
Their hoods will rustle, indicating that they're nodding in agreement.
"To up your membership, you need to promote the deep social element of your club."
They turn to each other, then back to you. Get your artwork ready.
"Friendship. Teamwork. Playdates for your children. Gentlemen, it's time for a name-change."
They're on the edge of their seats.
"Say goodbye to the Ku Klux Klan." Show them the mock-up of families of hooded Klan members cheering on a sack race in a public park; smoke billowing from a barbecue in the background. "Say hello to the Ku Klux Community?."
They don't need to take off their hoods to let you know that you just hit one out of the park.
Happy The Ku Klux Klan Day!
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Say, "I love you roundhouse."
Roundhouse will say, "I love you too."
A gang of drug addicts will come down the alley towards you, hooting and hollering.
"Not now," says Roundhouse.
Smile at her. "Do what you were brought here to do."
Roundhouse meets the gang halfway down the alley and kills them all with kicks.
"Go Roundhouse!" you shout. Your girlfriend was trained in a government lab to murder troublemakers. You have to share her with an entire crimewave. Some guys wouldn't be able to handle having a girlfriend with such a consuming career. But you were raised correctly.
Happy Roundhouse Day!
Monday, December 20, 2004
Say, "Who cut the cheese?"
Repeat, "Who cut the cheese?"
Pick up the child with the messiest hands. Say into his face, "Did you cut the cheese?"
The child will not confess.
Bring the children into the milk room in pairs, making sure not to pair up any children who are often seen playing together. A method known as Chatham's Uncomfortable Contract. Two people with no history, no shorthand for communication, no basis of knowing how the other will react to a situation, they get thrown together and they rush each other to a compromised position with the interrogator, neither wanting to give the other the chance to shift suspicion with an accusation.
Wear them down.
Shout into the first child's face: "Did you cut the cheese? No? Are you accusing him then? No? Then it must have been you!"
This is the Morrissey Axiom of interrogation. Pose no question that offers safe exit from the interrogation room. The suspect should be as damned in denying the crime as he is in confessing the crime.
"You two want me to believe neither one of ya's never puffed but the rosiest perfumes out between those cheeks, that it?" say. "Then you better tell me who done it, if you're so sure."
This is Handel's "Bottom Line." The suspects have been ground so far down they don't see any options open. There is no such thing as truth at this level. They gave up hope on the truth setting them free a dozen hours ago. The only hope they have for ever being let go is to tell the interrogator exactly what he wants to hear. At this point, you should be waiting out in the playroom, watching the other children fake their way through naptime, giving the two in the milk room a chance to formulate a cohesive story.
When you go back into the milk room, those two kids are going to tell you who stunk a fart into the day care center.
Happy Who Cut The Cheese Day!
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Today you're gonna get hit by a car and everyone is gonna come to your hospital room and be nice to you for a change. Additionally, Brad, who broke up with you because you weren't pretty enough, is going to come to your hospital bed and beg you to take him back. You'll refuse him and he'll kill himself.
Your brush with death will also open your brother Michael's eyes to the damage he's inflicting on himself with his drug abuse. He'll stop abusing drugs and he'll get rich. Also, your mom's cancer will go away because God will think it's too cruel for so much sadness to get crammed into one family. And God will also give your family a new car.
Finally, you'll be visited by President George W Bush. He'll ask you to hang in there and he'll promise to make laws that make the roads safer for beautiful girls like you.
Happy Get Hit By A Car Day!
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Hello, Country With A Space Program. Today is the day to launch your rocket.
You're welcome for the reminder. Now go explore outer space.
Happy Launch The Rocket Day!
Friday, December 17, 2004
It reads, YOU ARE AN ARMY OF ONE.
This is in reference to your efforts to make friends by building a tree house and inviting children at school to join what you called "The Lanfair Avenue Army," Lanfair avenue being the street where you live.
All of the kids politely declined, some of them were downright cordial about it. But now, perhaps under cover of night, they have struck and made plain what was screaming through your head every time you looked up at that airborne shack built from wood leftover from your father's half-completed sundeck.
you have no friends
Not such a big deal. Once construction halted on the sundeck you knew your father would be moving you and your mother again. It's San Diego in 4 more months. Perhaps San Diego will be the burgh that will finally offer you a little bit of company.
Happy Treehouse Graffiti Day!
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Landscaper Wars is a very violent video game that has been putting horrible ideas into your son's eleven year old head. Today, he will let a girl know that he likes her by opening up the back of her neck with a trovel. You should have paid more attention to what sort of games your son was playing. You were too busy online dating, too busy trying to find him a new Dad you never found the time to be a Mom.
Happy Landscaper Wars Day
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Your girlfriend is convinced that there are monsters under her bed and she wants you to sleep over her house to make her feel safe. You want her to sleep soundly, but you're both only sixteen and you don't want to have sex until you at least are out of high school. Spending the night in her room might compromise that plan.
You ask your girlfriend, "We're still on the same page right?"
"About what?" she says.
She says, "I don't want to fuck. I just want you to sleep in my room. The monsters, you know."
You say, "I know and I want to be there to protect you. I'm just afraid of fucking you."
"You don't think you can sleep over without fucking me?" she says.
"No," you say. "Not just me. Us. I'm afraid if we're in your bedroom all night long in our pajamas like that, we're just going to lose control and fuck like crazy. And I wanna go to college."
She says, "Please. The monsters."
You hold her eyes with yours, seeking out some truth. "Okay," you say. "But if we all of a sudden fuck…"
"Yeah?" she says.
You break out in a smile, "Don't say I didn't warn ya' is all."
She smiles and the two of you hug. Later tonight, you're torn apart at the sternum by monsters.
Happy Monster Day!
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
You love George, but George isn't gay. Yet, you see so few prospects for a gay man in your town that the most aggressive effort you're going to make towards securing romance is having George come up and water your plants while you're away at an adhesives seminar (you purchase glue for a bottling plant) and letting George find evidence of your love through his own curious volition.
First, you'll leave out a pile of photos on the kitchen table. George will recognize the people in the photo on the top of the pile, and he'll sift through to see if he can recognize the event where the photos were taken. Somewhere in the middle of the pile will be a lovingly framed photo of George he won't remember having been taken. The photo will give the impression that the photographer spent the evening in silence, content to drink in George's profile from across the table.
Next, a piece of scrap paper full of phone numbers. Somewhere in the middle of the mass of scrawl will be the lines, "Hey George, wanna go check out that new Nicole Kidman movie about her dead boyfriend coming back as a little kid? No big deal, I was just looking for someone to go with and…" George won't be able to see this as anything but a script, though he'll try to ignore it. He'll know you had scripted out how you should casually ask him on a date. He'll also remember the phone call when you asked him to come see that movie with you. It came out differently than what was scripted.
Finally, leave scattered around some surveillance photos of George and his girlfriend walking hand in hand, his girlfriend's eyes having been blacked out with a Sharpie.
George might be creeped out, but if you come home and your plants aren't dead, that means he cares for you too.
Happy Water My Plants While I'm Away Day!
Monday, December 13, 2004
Your boyfriend's in Iraq, and you've been faithful ever since he left. Before he left is another story.
"I won't betray this man when he's living a life surrounded by the promise of death at every turn," you tell Stephen.
"You'll betray your heart then," says Stephen.
"So be it," you say. "Don't come to the diner anymore."
Stephen has been good about staying away. Before Charles got shipped out, Stephen kept a nightly appointment parked in the parking lot across the street, waiting for your shift to end. You'd get into your car and follow him either to someplace scenic where you'd get out of your car and climb into his big backseat, or to a hotel with a parking lot away from the street.
Things got more intense with Stephen, and you had plans to tell Charles about him. You had plans to leave Charles, but the Army Reserves had other plans.
"I won't touch you while he's away," you told Stephen the night after Charles went away. "I can't risk coming home from a night with you to get a phone call saying my Charles got hurt."
"Now he's your Charles?" Stephen asks. "You'll give up your own happiness just to keep him from being made the fool."
"I've given up worse," you said. You were referring to the baby you'd aborted that morning. It could have been Charles'. But it was far more likely Stephen's. You couldn't risk it.
But you were seen coming out of the clinic. Not by anyone who knows Charles. But by Stephen's Daddy. They barely talk. But it wouldn't take too many words to say what he saw.
Happy Love And War Day!
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Every morning, the goal is to open your eyes before your brother. You can't use any alarms or wake up calls. Just the strategy you take down into your unconsciousness with you.
It doesn't count if you wake up before 7. You're allowed to wake up before 7 if you want and wait for the clock to click past 6:59. But you can't make a move before 7. This has often led to the two of you waking at around 6:45 and then just coiling in your spots on the bed for fifteen minutes, waiting to pounce on each other.
Nowadays though, it's gotten so routine that you both sometimes sleep as late as 8 AM before one you wakes up and pins the other to the mattress. You're both really busy too, so it's rare that a real match comes about. Usually, the one who wakes up late just lets himself get pinned so he can get into the shower first (the one who gets pinned always gets to shower first). Maybe once a month, you'll both put up a good fight, but both of you would say it's just for old time's sake.
Anyway, today when you woke up, you saw that the clock said 7:12. You flipped over to the other side of the bed and pinned a long swath of empty air to the mattress. Your brother never came home last night. And he's still not home.
He fell in love. (he's thirty-six, you're thirty-eight.)
Happy Wake N' Wrestle Day!
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Then light your cigarette. Then toss the lit matchbook to the trail of gasoline. That shed full of dogs will burst into a fireball in seconds. That'll teach your ex-husband to steal your idea to open up an obedience school for extra Christmas money. Now get outta town. A NEW LIFE IS JUST OFF STARBOARD!
Happy Light The Whole Matchbook Day!
Friday, December 10, 2004
Today, the Freezerburn Gang is going to have a meeting at which the topic of a name-change for the gang will again be discussed, ultimately leading to a split vote.
Next, the Freezerburn Gang will happen to listen in on a neighborhood Mad Scientist's vocal detailing of his plan to taint the local bars' beer taps with a serum that makes people who drink it speak the worst thought in their heads, no matter how much they want to keep that thought to themselves. The Freezerburn Gang will stop the Mad Scientist's plan, but not before he manages to infiltrate one bar and gradually poison its patrons with his Dark-Truth Serum. It is an uncomfortably hysterical scene that ensues when the patrons start speaking the recesses of their minds. Thankfully, the Freezerburn Gang stops the spread of the Serum before it can threaten to tear a neighborhood to shreds with honesty.
Happy The Freezerburn Gang Day!
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Mid-day on a beautiful, unseasonably warm afternoon when everyone has rushed out to the park to get a taste of sunshine. Stomp from the entrance to the park straight to the center where the statue of an "important" historical figure casts its silhouette. March right up to that statue and spit at its base. Scream once, "FRAUD!"
Once all the babies and their nannies have turned to enjoy you, shout, "Your legacy is a lie! It's all falling apart!"
Then stomp away to find a nice cheeseburger someplace.
Happy Spit On A Statue Day!
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
The son of a bitch pushes his way through the line and hops into the empty tail seat of a log flume, startling the family in the seats ahead of him when he flashes his gun. The son of a bitch is confused when he points the gun at the father, sitting in the front seat of the log, and says, "Drive."
You shove your way through the gate, flash your badge, and race to an empty log. As your log pulls ahead to begin its descent, you already see the son of a bitch drop out of site into the flume.
Luckily, your log takes a different track than his and you catch up to him quickly. He starts shooting wildly at you, but you have to be more careful. There are citizens in his log. Just you in yours. You do your best to keep low.
There's actually quite a lot of ducking and hiding. Since the log flume is a pretty slow, calm ride up until the final descent, the shootout is about as simple as if the two of you were walking on opposite sides of a narrow street at an even pace. Before you reach that final descent, you both manage to inflict fatal wounds upon each other.
The big splash at the end of the ride washes the blood from the wounds so that when your logs come to a stop, you both look quite peacefully asleep. The family that shared the son of a bitch's log races away in a panic. Everyone stares at your bodies. And then the blood starts to seep out from your wounds again, and the screaming erupts from the crowd.
Happy Shootout On The Log Flume Day!
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
He's screaming, "But without you I have nothing left."
Say, "I want a boy who'll bring something to the table."
He'll wiggle around and writhe like a worm cut in two. "I thought you saw my potential."
Say, "I don't gamble."
He'll pound his forehead into the fake wood tile. He'll spit up. "You're probably the last person who would have me."
Say, "If I thought I was that pathetic I'd kill myself before Frazier." Turn on the TV and begin watching Frazier.
He'll get up on his knees and slam his fists into his eyes. "I never want to see anything again."
Say, "'Kay." Chuckle at the dialogue on Frazier.
He'll walk to the end of the living room, sprint across the floor and fling himself against the opposite wall. He'll say, "I don't want my bones to work."
Say, "'Don't fuck up my shit."
He'll go into the kitchen and start searching under the sink for something poisonous to drink. He'll say, "I'm going to die here, at your feet. I'll be the fatal vicitim of your cruelty."
Get up and leave. Sleep over at your new boyfriend's house.
Happy Broken Boy On Your Bedroom Floor Day!
Monday, December 06, 2004
Me: Poor, but wizened from the struggle.
You: Rich, marrying the one your parents chose for you.
We: Find an ease together that doesn't come easy. You: lament that your father demands you marry the daughter of the chairman of the board of the company your father plans to merge with. Me: wish you weren't rich so my father might trust you, so I could trust you in turn.
You: Stand up to your father, for a night at least. Me: stand on my waitress' ankles for twelve hours a day, paying bills is what I understand. We: marvel at the irony of the rich man held captive, the poor woman free.
Me: Shake my head and kick myself when you don't show up when you said you would. You: Limit your rebellion against your father to not smiling at the engagement party, but you make the toast you wrote before you met me. We: Go back to our separate lives, our respective worlds without hope that anyone's going to come along and throw us a life preserver.
We: go out separately for walks where we used to walk, but never bump into each other now matter how much we hope we might. Me: find out it's your wedding day on the society pages of the paper. You: throw society on its ear when you walk out of your wedding and knock on my door.
Happy Online Date Right Day!
Sunday, December 05, 2004
One of the hostage-takers is sweet on you. Was, I mean. The dead one. Clay. You could tell by the way he kept asking you if you needed another can of Country Time from the soda machine they shot open. Clay had grand plans in his head. He imagined taking you as his very last hostage when he'd board the plane to Bermuda. In his fantasy, you'd come to see he's an all right guy. Sweet even, just trying to get what's his.
His partner, Luther, is about to blow. He's going to start tossing bodies out the window to avenge that sniper bullet that went through Clay's voicebox. I suggest that you go and cry beside Clay's body to appear to ally yourself to Luther's side of the situation. Say "it's not fair" and the like.
Happy You're The Prettiest Hostage Day!
Saturday, December 04, 2004
You're on crutches and you live on the top floor a five-floor walkup in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. It takes you sixteen minutes to climb those stairs. When you open your apartment door, your roommate turns around with the knob that turns on the microwave in her hand.
"This is broken," she says.
She tosses the knob in the trash can and goes into her bedroom to speak to her boyfriend in Polish. You stare at the trash can, then at the freezer. You want to lie down and never get up again, but you need Vodka first. You postpone stretching out on your futon long enough to cut a lime and halfway fill a glass with ice cubes and some tonic. You fill the rest of the glass with vodka. You take both crutches in your right hand, the glass in your left, and you hop into your room, where you fall on your futon without spilling a drop.
After two more journeys into the kitchen for refills, you're nearly blind, and your mother calls you. She asks about your foot and you try to keep your words from crowding each other, but you realize you're going to have to throw up within a minute's time. You do your best to pull yourself to your crutches while scuttling the conversation to a conclusion. But you fall and drop the phone on the floor.
"Hello," she says when you get the phone to your ear.
"My roommate wants the phone," you say.
"Oh," your mother says. "Okay honey well then…"
"Love you Mom," you say and hang up. You're back up on the crutches flinging yourself to the bathroom. The laws of physics get you to the toilet. It all works out.
Several hours later, you realize your roommate must have left before you threw up, because you find yourself sprawled across the kitchen floor with your feet across the threshold to the bathroom and your head in the kitty litter. You pull yourself up, reach into the bathroom, and tug the knob on the toilet to flush your vomit down the drain. The knob, of course, comes off in your hand. You toss it into the garbage and crawl back to your bedroom for some more sleep.
Happy Broke Your Foot Day!
Friday, December 03, 2004
Tonight, when you walk past your neighborhood middle school, you will hear loud Top 40 music pumping from its open doors. Just inside the doors you will see bunches of children dressed nicely. You will realize they are attending a school dance.
You'll pause in your walk, watching the kids awkwardly flirt and tease each other. Your mind will drift back to your own middle school dance. You'll remember a kiss you stole on the dance floor. A sip of alcohol in the boys' room. But most of all, you'll remember coming home and finding your minister father waiting up for you so that he can admonish you for whatever sins of the flesh he assumed you had committed that night.
You slept on your belly that night, the lashings of his horsehair whip too fresh on your back. You were pulled out of school not long after that and forced to help your father build a new church (he died before that church heard him give a single sermon). Listening to the sound of that dance tonight will make you think it's about time you got your GED.
Happy Middle School Dance Day!
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Jim and Gracie were cuddling together on Gracie's couch at 3:30 PM today. They were cuddling underneath an afghan Gracie's Grandmom made.
"Cuddling's awesome," said Jim.
Gracie agreed. "I feel like if we were to cuddle hard enough, I'd develop x-ray vision."
"Like a secret power sitting dormant inside of you," Jim said. "Pulled to the surface through the strength of our cuddling."
"Right," Gracie said. "Cuddle me a little harder and I'll be able to fly to work tomorrow."
Jim said, "I bet if you cuddle me strong enough…"
"Yeah?" Gracie said.
"And with enough focus and intensity…"
"Yeah?" she was smiling.
"I'd develop the power to get my ex-girlfriend back."
Gracie stopped cuddling Jim.
"Did I say that?" Jim asked. "I don't know why I said that."
Gracie stood and faced Jim on the couch. "You said it because while you were cuddling up against me you were wishing I was your ex-girlfriend."
"No way," said Jim.
Gracie used her X-ray vision to find a picture of Jim's ex-girlfriend in the wallet he had in his pants pocket.
"She's pretty," Gracie said.
"How do you…?" Jim looked down at his pocket and knew what she had found.
"I'm sorry Gracie," Jim said. "I thought I was ready to date by now."
Gracie sighed. "Maybe I cuddled you hard enough that you developed the ability to teleport your ass out of my sight forever."
Jim gave it a shot, and the next thing he knew he was sitting at an outdoor café in Brussels.
Happy Cuddle Day!
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Your crown of thorns makes you look like a fat pig. The blood from your scalp forms streams in the creases of fat on your neck. Some people look good in a crown of thorns. Those people are not 60 pounds overweight. Take off the crown of thorns and hide yourself someplace damp until you’re not so unsightly.
Happy Crown Of Thorns Day!
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
It's gray. That's what color everyone is when you come home from the courthouse after your girlfriend took the stand. They buried her up there.
"I just know she didn't do it," you tell your gray Dad.
Your gray Dad shakes his head and says, "Poor little guy. It'll be all right."
You look over at your mom shaking her head in the corner, her eyebrows up high. Man, is she gray.
"How's about I make you some dinner. Whatever you want," she says.
"I can't eat," you say. "But I guess I better, if I don't want to become as gray as all of you."
Just then your little brother comes running through the room. "Mike's in love with an enemy combatant! Mike's in love with an enemy combatant!" he sings. He casts a very healthy pink and beige light.
"Shut uuuup!" you say.
"Don't listen to him," your father says to you. "Wanna rent a movie?"
At Blockbuster, you watch the kid behind the counter to see if he notices how gray your Dad looks. He doesn't, which means the color of sympathy is in the eye of the person on the receiving end of said sympathy.
Happy The Color Of Sympathy Day!
Monday, November 29, 2004
He used to go out there because he loved the speed. Today, he's going out there because he's got something to prove.
"Prove that you love me and stay home today," you plead.
"You keep me in this house you won't have a man by your side. Race or not, the man I could be is gonna walk out that door today. He races, he'll come back. He chickens out, he's gone forever."
You place your hands on his shoulders. You know you can't change his mind. "I'm afraid you're going to die. Just like…"
He takes your hand off of his shoulders. "I'm not here so's you can have your Daddy back."
He pushes through the screen door and goes out to his Camaro. The engine rumbles to life. You hear his voice shout over the growling of the car. You go to the screen door.
"Baby!" he's shouting.
You step out on the front porch.
"Your old man could never handle the turns like I can," he shouts.
You nod. It's true, even your Daddy would admit to that. But your Daddy never raced for anything more than the sum total of the prize money. He was too far in debt to worry over pride.
Happy Your Boyfriend Is A Car Racer Day!
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Today, you and your big sister Joan are going out in the most seaworthy of vessels to hunt down the legendary treasure of Queen Violeta. Your big sister Joan can be really bossy, which is why she's going to be captain and you're going to be first mate.
"I'm older than you," Joan said, when she suggested that she be the captain.
"You're not Mom and Dad," you replied.
"I know. But when Mom and Dad aren't around, I'm in charge, so I should give the orders when we're out at sea."
You couldn't argue with this.
Off you go with the breath of God sending you speeding after the end of the world like there was a bounty on its head. By January, Joan will die of scurvy and you'll be alone and sad.
Happy You And Your Big Sister, Out On The High Seas Day!
Saturday, November 27, 2004
You didn't suspect a thing. You simply brought it in to the jeweler to have it cleaned.
"Are you in trouble? I mean financially?"
He says, "Not financially, no."
You're icing his birthday cake. Your back is to him. You don't want him to see the tears welling in your eyes. It would ruin his birthday.
"I want to know only two things," you say. "Why did you sell it? And can we get it back? If you answer those two questions, I'll never ask another."
He doesn't speak right away. The only sound to break the silence is his footsteps to the spot just behind you. In twelve years together this is the first time you've ever felt unsafe in his presence.
He says, "Did it ever occur to you that there was nothing to sell? That the ring that I bought you was a fake?"
You don't gasp. Your tears pull back behind your eyes and the stinging back there comes to a stop. You place the icing spatula in the sink and calmly walk out the front door.
When he follows you outside you're already in the street.
"Stay there on the steps," you shout to him. "If you come any closer this entire neighborhood will hear me scream."
"Honey, come on…" he says.
"Who are you?"
He lifts his arms from his sides and starts to approach you.
"Who am I?" he says. "I'm your husband. Now come inside."
"My husband didn't buy me that ring," you say. "It was my grandmother's."
His arms drop to his sides again. He takes a few more steps.
"Don't come any closer," you say.
He pulls the very realistic mask from his head and says, "Your husband is still alive. But he won't be for long. If you ever want to see him again you're going to have to trust me."
Happy The Diamond Is A Fake Day!
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Fans of this site do not need to be reminded that Prettygirl actually sprung from the abdomen of her far more brilliant sister, Minxy. Minxy had great plans for herself. She planned to be the one who would engulf the planet in a storm of fire, once she got a handle on the whole wrangling the servants of hell in service to her whims thing. But Prettygirl's father felt that Minxy was not quite pretty enough, and so he pulled from her side yours truly. This of course killed Minxy, but she lived just long enough to look down into her new sister's eyes and whisper, "He's the cunt. Devote your life to his destruction."
So, yes, Prettygirl's back on her Daddy's trail. Satellite photos place him in a post office in Sao Paulo. She needs today and tomorrow to take him apart at the eyes. So today and tomorrow are going up today. Scroll down and read today's today, then read tomorrow's tomorrow. As you know, reading tomorrow's today shall curse you to forever stink like yesterday.
Friday, November 26, 2004
Marshmallows Roasting In The Fireplace Day!
You've been waiting by the fireplace for an hour to roast some marshmallows, like Mom said you could after dinner. But then Mom starting fighting with Brad, her new boyfriend. They're screaming in her bedroom and sometimes it sounds like something as heavy as a human just fell on the floor. In a minute, Brad's going to come out to the fireplace and throw a bag of marshmallows at your head. He'll say, "Have fun you little shit." Then, from behind your mother's bedroom door you'll hear him shout at your mother, "There, he's toasting his fucking marshmallows. Now if you want someone to sit with him maybe you should call his fucking Dad over here so I can go the fuck back to Metropark."
Maybe she should.
Happy Marshmallows Roasting In The Fireplace Day!
Thursday, November 25, 2004
The Inside Of Your Gloves Smells Like Andrea Day!
Andrea broke up with you at the end of last winter and she must have been the one to wear those gloves last, because your hands smell like her hands.
"I guess everyone I touch will feel the shiver of ice-cold derision course through their veins until I find some anti-bacterial soap," you think.
You're still a little bitter and you shouldn't date yet.
Happy The Inside Of Your Gloves Smells Like Andrea Day!
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Jeff and Cara like to burn each other. Jeff doesn't enjoy sex with Cara unless Cara first drips scalding hot water from a kettle that's recently sounded its whistle. Cara doesn't enjoy sex with Jeff unless Jeff binds her wrist to a steaming radiator, the bounds kept loose so that she can try to pull away from the hot steel, but will be scuttled against it again and again as Jeff's methods broaden during the lovemaking.
Today at 7 PM, Jeff and Cara will win a 90 Million dollar lottery. You have until 7 PM to establish a friendship with them. You loathe people like Jeff and Cara, people who think they're interesting just because they need to be set on fire before they come, and understandably so. But if you get into Jeff and Cara's inner circle, they might pay for your father's medicine. He'll die without them.
Happy Hot Pain Day!
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
To celebrate her 90th day of no chocolate tomorrow, you got your wife an adorable little puppy. You hid him in the garage with a bowl of food and some water. She'd never step foot in that garage unless it was to tell you to stop messing with the birdhouse and come into dinner.
That used to be the case. But lately she's been visiting that garage a lot more often. That's where she goes to get her secret fix of a delicious Hershey's Kiss or two, or perhaps a full-on Toblerone if things get really rough. She knows how much her new diet means to you and she doesn't want to disappoint you. So she's keeping it a secret, weaning herself off until the candy is gone for good, which she thinks will totally happen in just a week or two. What's it matter if she's a little deceptive to keep you happy? She'll be off candy soon enough anyway. No big deal.
But today it's going to be a big deal of hilarious proportions. She'll go into the garage for a Butterfinger. Little Cupcake will start barking up a storm. You'll come out to quiet the dog, but you'll find your dear sweet wife out there. And the whole ridiculous house of cards will come crashing down around you!
OR! Cupcake will eat all your wife's candy and she'll fly into a rage and slam the dog's body against the workbench until he's ripped open at his little puppy sternum. That's not as hilarious, but your wife's got a mean streak that you've always tried to ignore.
Happy You're Going To Hide The Puppy Where She Hides Her Candy Bars Day!
Monday, November 22, 2004
Tell your kids, "I'm gonna go buy seventeen lotto tickets. Each one's gonna have one of your birthdates in the numbers. Whichever of your birthdates shows up on the winning ticket, that's the kid I'll take with me when I leave tonight forever."
The seventeen children say, "But what if none of the tickets win." All seventeen of them say that at once. That's what conversations are like in your house. You against seventeen, every damn word.
In answer, just smile and shrug. Then take off and spend the seventeen dollars on a bus ticket. Your seventeen kids'll spend all day praying that it's their birthday that pops up when the numbers are drawn, and you'll be long gone.
The fun part is, if one of their birthdates do show up in the winning numbers, that kid will spend his life thinking that you won the lotto on his birthdate, but welched on your promise to take him with you. He'll probably spend his late teens and twenties tracking you down. And when he finds you he'll find that you never even bought a ticket. He probably won't kill you, but by then he will have amassed his own wealth. You'll of course con your way into his graces and he'll take you in. What he has planned for you, however, is a truly diabolical act of vengeance. Whether he follows through on his plan depends on whether or not he's his Daddy's little boy.
Happy You Have Seventeen Dollars And Seventeen Kids Day!
Sunday, November 21, 2004
They heard you slow dancing.
"He's been alone for so long," Jack said to Wendy. "Can he really be slow dancing up there?"
They let their dinner get cold on the table as they sat in silence, scrunching their eyebrows to discern the unmistakable sound of two pairs of feet gently shuffling around the floor at the urging of Nina Simone.
"All things must come to a head," said Wendy.
They raised their wine in a toast to your night on the dance floor. It will be a week before they ride the elevator with you and the thirteen year-old cousin who was assigned to you as your ward according to the last will and testament of your long-lost uncle. You hadn't been getting along until she confided that she had a mixer coming up at school and she'd never learned how to dance, you'll explain to Jack. What you won't go into is the fact that the will also bestows upon you thirty million dollars if you can prove at the end of six months that you would be a good caregiver for your cousin, which means you should stop freebasing. But it's hard to stop freebasing.
Happy Heard You Through The Ceiling Day!
Saturday, November 20, 2004
She was near you at the dinner party when you took out your Altoids, so you offered her one. She flitted her fingers around in the case to get a grip on a couple and then she walked away. You wouldn't speak to her again for the rest of the evening. But you would notice later that many of your mints were smudged black with some sort of soot.
"I gave you an Altoid," you said to her when you met her again four months later. You were at a gallery opening for a friend you didn't like. "At Kathy's Autumn dinner."
"I think I remember that, yes," she said.
"You had dirty hands," you said. "You smudged all of my Altoids with something black."
She laughed. "Oh I'm sorry. I had helped Kathy open the flue to her fireplace as people were arriving. I guess I never got a chance to wash them. I wonder how many hands I shook."
"I had to throw out the Altoids," you said.
She said, "My, you do hold a grudge don't you?"
"I just didn't know what it was," you said.
"Well, I do apologize for my filthy hands," she said. "Now I'd better go and save my boyfriend from that filthy girl he's talking to."
At that she walked across the gallery to a man you didn't know, but who looked like he had some money.
Today you're at work. It's Saturday, but it's overtime. She's outside at the Starbucks in front of the public library where you get your coffee. She's alone, and she's unhappy.
Say, "Dirty hands!"
Join her, ditch work, take her to a movie. Her hands are washed clean of that rich guy you saw her with at the gallery (he left her for someone dim). Invite her to a movie and I promise you'll be leaving your girlfriend for her by Christmas.
Happy She Had Dirty Hands Day!
Friday, November 19, 2004
Washed up movie stars just love a strong young man like you who'll help out around the house and maybe help them woo back a former spouse.
"But what do I get out of it?" you ask. Fuck you.
Now go on up to Blanche Desdemona's estate and tell her you're here in reference to the Live-In Fireplace Attendant Wanted ad that you saw on Craigs List. The mantle above the fireplace is crawling with photos of her ex-husband, the Macedonian tycoon Nikolai Vortenskiy. Recognize him to her and the job is yours. By the way, she's an ether addict.
Happy Washed Up Movie Stars Day!
Thursday, November 18, 2004
But you're in his bed.
"I'd better break up with my girlfriend now," he says.
You drink the coffee he gave you while he calls his girlfriend and tells her it's over.
"That's all over with," he says. "Your place or mine?"
He moves into your place. Things go very well and he invents something essential to the American kitchen.
"We have so much money," he says.
"Let's kill our enemies," you suggest.
With your enemies gone, the next few years feel like heaven. Then you both grow bored.
"He's not your boyfriend," you say. The naked girl in your bed is quite attractive.
"We had a good run though," he says from the bed.
"Gimme 20 million," you say.
He says, "Done." You're rich and you're single again. Rowrrr!
Happy You're Not His Girlfriend Day!
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
He's been on that train a thousand times before. And he promised his mother you'd be coming home with him for Thanksgiving, that you'd help him endure the stench of rotting flesh billowing up from the seats, the mothers beating their children half to death, the businessmen screaming jovial obscenities back and forth across the car in between sips from their Miller Lite King Kans.
"I'm sorry," you tell him. "I don't like you enough to meet your mother."
Look at his face for God's sake. That's the face of a man about to have a family of nine crushing in around him. He can already feel the gum on his shoes, the soda spilled seeping through the seat of his pants, the punch to his eyes he'll receive from an unattended toddler.
"I just don't feel like we talk enough," you say.
But what about the ticket-takers? He's scared of the ticket-takers. They slap at his feet when he puts them on the seats. One of them even called him Mary once.
"There's no real spark is all," you say. "I don't know if there ever was."
But sometimes people on the train bring their Roy Rogers chicken meals with the processed stench fills up the car like a fog rolling in.
"Have a nice Thanksgiving," you say. You notice how the blood drains away from his face. It's not your fault. He's just remembering what it's like to share a three-seater with a dry-humping teenaged couple. He's feeling a little tender in the stomach.
Happy Don't Make Him Take The Commuter Train Alone Day!
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
You’re an only child flying home to spend Thanksgiving with your Dad, the first since your mom died.
"About five years ago, I became aware of the fact that I would one day see my parents go," you tell the guy sitting next to you. "And honestly, I used to pray my dad would go first."
"You're a horrible person" the stranger says.
You change your seat to tell a girl in her twenties about how you had so many questions you were hoping to ask your mom once your Dad was gone, and now you'll die with those questions unanswered.
"You should have thought to ask before she went," the girl says.
When the flight attendants bring you up to the cockpit, you tell the pilots that you don't think fathers can really have much bearing on a daughter's life.
The pilot says, "I'd like to crash this entire plane just to take you out."
By the time you touch down at O'Hare, every passenger on the plane is in agreement that you suck. Your father is waiting for you at the gate. Be a good daughter.
Happy Airplanes Day!
Monday, November 15, 2004
Rich kid, 3 o'clock.
That's what your friend Marci said to you at the New Year's party last year when George walked through the door. You had told Marci that you were sick of working hard to make end's meet and you were ready to date a guy who would spend a lot of money on you. Enter Fat George.
That's only his nickname. Granted, he's a pretty big guy and doesn't do too much to keep himself fit. He's certainly not your usual body type. But he has a lot of money and he's generous with it.
You're probably wondering why today is about you and George. After all, you've been together for almost 11 months already. It was four months ago when you were shocked to discover that you loved him more than anyone you've ever been with. What's new about today?
Today's the day you're going to go back to the restaurant. George met someone else. Someone as rich as he is. It's not that he was looking for someone as rich as he is. But their similar Rich Kid backgrounds made George think they had an immediate connection that he never had with you. He's been telling himself this past month that he always feels like he has to translate stuff to you. Whereas this girl gets everything right away.
He's wrong about this girl. He's going to be bored witless by Easter. But he is going to end it with you today I'm afraid. The good news is he's going to ask you back next Summer. The somewhat bad news is you'll say no. You'll be with someone else by then. Someone poor, and you won't feel like a good person ending it with Mr. Broke-Ass to go back to Mr. Want-An-Ipod?. But you will consider it. Man will you wrestle with that one.
Happy He Lives Off Of An Allowance Day!
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Her name's Bobbi. You heard her co-workers call her that on your twentieth over-long visit. In all the mall, there's no one sweeter than TCBY Bobbi.
She looks good with you. Part of the wall at TCBY is mirrored, allowing you to get an image of your head next to Bobbi's behind the counter. Yours is always a lot bigger of course, but you can tell you complement each other. Your hair looks good with her eyes.
You're not sure if she likes girls though. You've waited till closing and the only boy who ever visits her looks like he's gotta be gay because he wears a bandana tied around his neck. Even if she isn't queer herself, she might inexperienced enough to give a girl a shot.
You've spoken to her, and you definitely felt something on her end. It'll all be made clear tonight. You parked your car with its nose facing hers, and you tucked a red rose underneath her windshield wiper. When she finds the rose, she'll look around to see if the admirer is still around, and she'll spot you behind the wheel of your Nissan. You'll wave to her and smile. It's going to be a big mistake.
Happy She's The Pretty One At The TCBY Day!
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Today, will be the first day of your new life as an Incontinent American. You're gonna pee in your pants in front of the gladiolas at the flower show down at the Civic Center. On the ride home, your boyfriend will laugh it off, and you'll laugh with him, pretending it's just a silly girl thing. But you'll know it wasn't that. You'll know that you lost all control, as if the possibility of control over your bladder was never there in the first place.
Your doctor will put you on one of those medications they're advertising for women in their 30's to 40's who demand that tour buses pull over so they can run to a ladies room. But he'll also recommend you to a therapist. The very possibility that this could be rooted in something mental or emotional is going to send you into a deep depression for a few weeks.
Soon, your boyfriend's going to leave you and you're going to find the strength to soldier on with pee all over your thighs. By next Spring, you'll be a different person. A stronger person. And that's when you'll have the therapy session wherein you summon the repressed memory of walking in on your father making love to a strange woman when you were five and he and your mother were temporarily separated. You'll pee when you remember it. And while getting a grasp on that memory will give your incontinence some origin, you're still gonna wear a diaper until you die when you're 80.
Happy Flower Show Day!
Friday, November 12, 2004
When Jean and his sister motioned for you to join them at the café, you were hoping only to be sucked into a very European, very erotic triangle of incest of jealousy. By dinnertime, they'd shown you every secret Austria had to offer. At dinner, you looked in the mirror behind the table and noticed just how much you resembled Cataline, his sister. By midnight, the three of you were drunk in their room at the hostel. You fully expected to have all six of your legs wrapped up tight and naked within the hour, but then Cataline ran off for more wine, never to return, and Jean put his lips on yours. You made love, and fell asleep.
And now, here you are, alone in Jean and Cataline's room, and someone's pounding on the door. That's the day attendant at the hostel, demanding that the room be vacated for the next tenant. You don't know it yet, but Cataline has your passport and she's on her way to the border. You'll never see Cataline again, but you'll see Jean. You'll see him within 18 hours in fact. Answer the door and get this shit going.
Happy That Belgian You Did It With Stole Your Passport Day!
Thursday, November 11, 2004
To play Blood Solitaire, open up your left wrist then deal the cards. The object behind Blood Solitaire is to try to get all of your cards face up on the table before you die or there's so much blood on the table that you can't make out the suits anymore. It's rare that anyone gets through a single run through the deck without falling unconscious or changing his mind about dying and running from the table to fashion a tourniquet out of washcloths. Blood Solitaire is a horrible game. Play to win.
Happy Blood Solitaire Day!
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Four guys in a truck are chasing after a drizzle they tracked headed south-southwest.
"Catch that motherfucker and hold it to the ground by the neck underneath the truck tires!" screams Cole. Cole's always the first one out of the truck, but he makes everyone else nervous with his bravado. The equipment belongs to the university, and Cole doesn't always think it's necessary to keep the equipment secure.
"Without that equipment, Cole," Mason will say, "We might as well sit by our bedroom windows and watch puddles form in the driveway."
Cole will just spit to the ground at that. A mixture of chewing tobacco and blood (Cole's dying from the inside fast). "Ain't no regulations when you're staring down the barrel of a sunshower," he'll say.
According to their calculations, the drizzle should be just a half mile ahead. They slow the car. Just to the right, about ten yards away, they see a cow just standing there.
"Hold," Mason says. They drift ahead. Howard behind the wheel keeps his foot ready to brake.
A drip appears on the windshield.
"There," whispers Mason. The car comes to a stop. Everyone holds their breath. They scan the glass of the windshield until, smack dab in the middle of the driver's view, another drop appears.
"Everybody out!" shouts Cole.
The Rainstorm Chasers pile out of the truck and race to the back, snatching up their assault rifles and grenade launchers and just as quickly taking formation shoulder to shoulder in front of their truck. They lift their weapons in front of them and aim at the sky. Cole mutters, "This is for Tommy." And then the Rainstorm Chasers open fire, unleashing a gray fog of artillery directly into the middle of the drizzle.
Happy Rainstorm Chasers Day!
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
You should date a wizard for several reasons. Number one, you've always wondered what it would be like to date someone who looks more fabulous than you. The right wizard, the one who is still on his way up and isn't burnt out on weed, will wear only the finest in bedazzled velvet cloaks. Secondly, a wizard can make you rich simply by burning a hole through a live frog with some matches. Thirdly, wizards eat the puss.
A wizard's gonna call you tonight and ask you to go see The Grudge with him. Say hell yes.
Happy Date A Wizard Day!
Monday, November 08, 2004
Are you coworkers or are you human beings? You've shared this cubicle for three and a half years already, and yet you've never touched. Every morning the two of you come inside with the skin hanging just a little further from your skulls. Yet you avert your eyes, you turn your backs, you pull headphones over your ears and you bend your spines to your desktops.
This morning is cold. It is lonely and mean. You share nearly of third of your lives together. If you try to dispel with warmth from that third, you will both die more quickly.
Take each other. When you arrive in the morning, pull each other into the less visible corner of your cubicle and huddle into each other's deepest crook and shiver and weep and love. "My brother," whisper. "We are both here and we are both dying men. Let's do what we can."
Say, "Let's do what we can."
Happy Hold Each Other Tight Against The Cold Morning Day!
Sunday, November 07, 2004
It's small, dark gray with a black spot just above its tale. You don't feed it or take care of it, but you make no effort to kill it. It shares your space. Sometimes, you pretend it's a roommate.
You once pulled the trash bag from the can to find several holes in the bag that nearly caused it to split open wide. The next morning, you left a note on the kitchen table.
"Could we all PLEASE try to not eat through the trash bag? There was a BIG hole in it when I went to take the bag to the dumpster tonight. Thx!"
Another time, when you were crying because a girl you liked thought you were disgusting, you looked across the room and saw the mouse sitting in the middle of a dirty dinner dish, staring at you. It held still for over a minute, then ran off. You felt he was there for you that night.
Of course, when he ate through the cable of your hair dryer and you got such a bad shock you passed out, you were pretty pissed. But it was nothing another note couldn't solve.
"I almost died this morning. Don't eat my wires."
For richer or poorer, you live with a mouse. And starting tonight, it's gonna start telling you to do stuff.
Happy You Live With A Mouse Day!
Saturday, November 06, 2004
Your parents' Carnival Cruise ship is going down in the middle of the Pacific right now. It's about to sink vertically like a dagger in a dead man's chest. Everyone is climbing to the top end because they all saw Titanic. There's not enough room for everybody though, so they're all just beating the shit out of each other and throwing each other into the—
It just went under. Maybe your parents made it. They had a good time though, up until tonight. A Carnival good time. Hope they make it.
Happy Carnival Cruise Catastrophe Day!
Friday, November 05, 2004
From today onward, the song "Send In The Clowns" is now "Send In Two Clowns." And it's about how it's about time they sent in exactly two clowns. The song will not specify whether the two clowns work together, or whether they just ignore each other. It will just demand that two clowns be sent in.
Anyone for whom "Send In The Clowns" was an important song can go off someplace and fuck themselves. It's "Send In Two Clowns" now. The song "Send In The Clowns" never existed as far as you're concerned.
Happy Send In Two Clowns Day!
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Bury that prick.
Even though he split town to sink most of the inheritance your father left behind into a chain of roller rinks that of course sank fast and tragic. Even though you were the one to carry your mother from bedroom to bathroom ten to twenty times a night during her heavy chemo. Even though he once went six months without a phone call before he showed up on the doorstep asking for money, he's still your Mom's favorite.
And guess where 90% of his minimum pledge plateau came from. That's right.
"But sweetie, I know you don't need my help," your mother told you. "I know I can count on you to raise so much money you'd never even ask me for a dime."
It's gotten to be more than you can handle when she goes on and on about how proud she is to have both her boys running for her cure. You don't address it anymore. The one time you inquired into his intentions, both he and your mom furrowed their brows across the dinner table asking, "Why do you have to be so competitive?"
He can do whatever he likes whenever he wants and she'll still welcome him home. He can fail and fail and fail, dragging the family finances down with him, and she'll still be "so proud of him for trying." And no matter how hard you try to make her happy, no matter how much of yourself you hand over in service to her dying wishes, she'll still spend most of the day re-reading his last letter out loud into the living room.
Let him run. Let him put on whatever charade he has to concoct in order to keep her purse strings untied. If he shows up on marathon day, it'll be a miracle. And a bloodbath.
Because if he shows up on marathon day, he will be beaten. Nothing else matters anymore. The both of you can finish at the very back of the pack, but he will not finish before you. You'll take a pipe to his kneecaps if it must be done, but your brother will lose the race for the cure.
Happy Run A Breast Cancer Marathon Against Your Prodigal Older Brother Day!
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
You're not a death row inmate. You're not even a prisoner of war undergoing interrogation. And neither were you involved in the theft of some drugs from a drug kingpin huge enough to use electrocution to torture people into telling him where his stolen drugs are.
No, you're just another kid trying to hold down a job and find a pretty face to lick when it gets cold outside. Today, just before you get electrocuted to death, you'll have a half-finished not-trying-to-get-back-together-just-wondering-how-you're-doing letter in your bag and you'll be looking forward to going home and finishing that letter with a little help from the eight beers waiting for you in the fridge. You can't be told exactly when, where and how you die of electrocution because if you knew, you'd necessarily avoid your death, thereby altering the natural course of things and sending us all back to the ice age. It could happen when you push a walk signal button at a crosswalk, one of those buttons that probably don't even work. Or, it could happen when you get into a street-fight with a wizard. Either way, Lovesick, you're fried.
Happy Today You're Going To Get Electrocuted To Death Day!
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
You're not the man you hoped you'd be. You've made your money from neighborhood gentrification. But at least you can say you're not just sitting back and letting the cash from a property pile up. You're the point man. You're the guy who goes out door to door, establishing long-term relationships over the course of three to six months, convincing homeowners to so sell to the venture groups you represent. You talk people into leaving their homes.
You're trying to be the happiest woman you can be. But juggling a full-time job, a full-time courseload at City College, and a nine-year old daughter makes you feel like you're one mis-stroke away from drowning. You have a home though. Not long after your ex abandoned the two of you, his mother died and with no will and no son around, you kept her home. The ex of course returned and you took him to court and you were awarded the home fair and square. And now some man wearing a suit he bought off the rack is asking you to sell.
"I fought for this home," you say. "My daughter has a home. Why would I give that up for money."
"If you invite me in," he said.
You invited him in and like everyone else on the block, he's paid you a visit twice a week on weeknights and once every Sunday afternoon. Unlike everyone else on the block, you two have been having the most wonderful sex ever since that third visit, when you stood up to throw him out, and he placed his hand on the mane of your hair draped in between your shoulderblades.
"I'm under contract to convince you and your neighbors to sell your property," you say.
"I'm going to do everything I can to hang on to my home," she said.
And then you roll around inside each other. And when you say goodbye each day, you go back to your canvassing to get signatures on contracts, and you bring cakes to your neighbors to sit them down and beg them not to sell.
Happy Gentrify My Heart Day!
Monday, November 01, 2004
It's deep autumn and you don't have a boyfriend anymore. He broke up with you after the Halloween bonfire, saying, "Let's be honest with each other. Before Christmastime, ya know? I mean, what if we bought each other gifts and all."
The deck chair is wet through your jeans. The sky is steel gray. It's cold enough out that it hurts to cry, but you came out here to the pool turned brown with a layer of leaves so you could be alone and let it all out. You didn't count on your Dad finally getting around to summoning the pool guy to gather up the leaves and seal up for the winter.
"Why your Daddy bring me out so late?" he asks you from the foot of your chair. Your face was in between your bents knees and you didn't see him coming. His name's Clarke and he's got a dark gray-white pallor, like his whole body is covered in five o'clock shadow.
"He couldn't afford it until now," you say. You sniffle. You don't hide from Clarke that you've been crying. He got to interrupt you several times last summer, when you would be straddling and kissing your boyfriend in that deckchair, the two of you dripping in your bathing suits. Now he can suffer the repercussions. The tears when the boy's all gone.
"I better get started before I end up shoveling snow outta there," Clarke says. "You go turn on the pump."
You furrow your brow. "That's your job, right Clarke?"
He didn't hear you. "I'll get my net outta the van."
Clarke leaves, and you shrug and do as he said, turning on the pump before returning to your chair by the pool. Clarke comes back and tosses three metal rods at you, one with a net on the end. "Put that together for me?" he says. Then he goes to the rolled up pool cover and starts untying the rope holding it tight.
You get his far-reaching net into one piece and hand it to him. Then you stand by his side as he fishes bunches of leaves from the water. When he steps along the edge, you follow.
"My daughter's two years older than you," he says from silence. "Can I ask you something?"
You nod, but his eyes are on the pool. He takes your silence as assent.
"Why are you all so miserable?"
You laugh in spite of yourself. "It's not our fault," you say.
"The world's so bad to the teenage girls?" Clarke says.
"Maybe the teenage girls were just hoping for something better," you say.
Clarke hands you the net. "Grab those leaves into that pile by the side over there. I'm gonna use your bathroom."
Clarke goes into your house and leaves you floating the net just under the water's chilly surface, grabbing up leaves like schools of fish. You like what you said to Clarke. None of this is your fault. You've just been let down again.
Happy Pool Cleaner Day!
Sunday, October 31, 2004
"Buy you a drink," you'll ask. The stool beside her is empty.
"Take a seat," she'll say.
You order two gin and tonics. "One with a straw," you say.
"You're very considerate," she'll smile.
"I gotta ask," you'll say.
"I hurt someone once. More than I ever thought I could hurt anybody. He put his heart in my hands."
"You got gotta learn to forgive yourself," you say. You clink your glass against hers and sip.
"Where were you when I was grinding through my wrist with a hacksaw?" she'll ask.
Look deep into her eyes. "If I had been there," say, "We'd be shaking on it right now."
Look'a dat smile!
Happy The Girl Without Any Hands Day!
Saturday, October 30, 2004
You'll marry in The Killing Hills. The view is divine.
You'll honeymoon on Rape Island. The daiquiris are to die for.
You'll summer at Cape Cancer. Where a moonlit nightswim can bring a heart back to God.
You'll live in Get Stabbed In The Face Every Time You Come Home Cove. If you lived there, you'd be home by now (if you were there).
You'll work at the law firm of Deceive, Shove, and Spitalot, where men become rich.
You'll die in a car.
Happy The Killing Hills Day! Your son will go to the University of Snot.
Friday, October 29, 2004
You’re forty and you’re married. You’re bored and you dig teens. You gotta a bagboy tripping over himself to help you load the trunk every time you hit the safeway. And you know that one day, not today because you’re taking the girls to Jazz Dance, but one day he’s gonna load the trunk and your gonna load him into the bag seat and then he’s gonna euphemism for ass sex.
And how safe is that, Mom? You deserve your kicks as much as anyone else. No one’s denying you that. Your husband gets to "stretch his legs" with every little brunette 23-and-new-to-the-firm who’s still standing at Friday night cocktails. But your choice is limited to bagboys, paperboys, pizza delivery boys, and Keith, your husband’s best friend since college.
And while most of these delectable side-dishes haven’t had the kind of experience that would place them at risk for sperm cancer, they also haven’t had the kind of experience that would teach them to take care. And how can you be sure of how much they’re getting around, anyway? If you’re inviting them home, how many others must be?
I’m afraid that you should be as careful around these boys as if you would be with someone you picked up outside a meth clinic. Why should your extra-marital fun be spoiled by a fatal or disfiguring STD. Get those little kids tested and read the results yourself. In fact, you can drive them to the clinic and get it done before you head home with the whippersnapper. A sixteen year old won’t mind the extra errand. It’ll take a couple hours extra, but really he’ll be fine with it.
The thing you have to be careful of is if he tests positive. Then you’ve got a sixteen year old boy in your car who just found out he’s gonna have to down a 25-pill drug cocktail every day if he wants to live long enough to drink legal. Suddenly, your naughty after-school statutory rape will turn into a motherly there-there (he’ll gonna cry into your breasts like your daughters do, except just five minutes prior you’d have been planning on fucking him). And the worst part is you’re not gonna be able to take him all the way home because you won’t wanna be seen behind the wheel. So this kid will have just heard what he thinks is a death sentence and a few blocks away from his house you’re gonna drop him off and tell him to start walking. Hot!
This isn’t a scare tactic. We’re all rooting for you to make this shit happen. But we also don’t want you to come away from this attempt feeling lower than you ever did. We’re just looking out for you and we want your sex with a boy young enough to be your daughter’s prom date to be the best that it can possibly be. Now hit the schoolyards!
But Has That Bag Boy Been Tested? Day!
Thursday, October 28, 2004
The green one. It's an Indian wraparound thing. It'll fit around his hips.
"What do I wear up top?"
The yellow triangle halter that ties around the back and neck.
He looks awful.
He's really what? He's really smiling at you for one. A really goofy smile.
Wow, he is at that. Ask him if he likes it.
"I feel good in your clothes."
Lift up the skirt and play with him. Use your left hand to untie the halter from him. He wants to have sex with you fast and while wearing your clothes. You can deal with him wearing the skirt, but not the halter. His stomach hangs out from underneath it and he's got too much weight on him. For some reason, you imagined him with a little boy's body when you agreed to this. But he's got a well-fed man's body, and his well-fed man-breasts filling in the too-small cups of your halter is really terrifying. Get it off him before he gets inside you.
Happy Dress Him Up In Your Love Day!
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Halloween Story Day!
Halloween was extra fun when my Daddy took me around the neighborhood, because my Daddy was a thief and he'd use the opportunity to case people's houses and decide what to steal. I'd say trick or treat and be all cute and all, and my Daddy would ask to use the bathroom, then I was supposed to put on a little show to keep the homeowner occupied while my Daddy scoped out the Betamax and jewelry situation.
I'd have to say that those shows I put on laid the groundwork for my future life in the theater. One year my Daddy would secure me a bumble-bee costume, and the night before Halloween I'd be up till the wee hours writing little bumblebee playlets to perform that were long enough to give my Daddy enough time to decide what he wanted to steal, and engaging enough to keep the homeowners from going upstairs and finding my daddy rifling through a Hope Chest. As soon as he'd head upstairs I'd shout, "Ladies and Gentlemen I give you, The Bumblebee's Quest For Love" and then I'd perform a quick tableau about a Bumblebee who always ended up stinging the ones he loved and making them die. It was sad.
Another year, I was Luke Skywalker. So I performed "The Story Of The Pregnant Lady About To Give Birth In the Stalled Elevator," and then I'd demonstrate Luke Skywalker using the force to help deliver a baby. That was the year that Daddy punched a homeowner in one of the houses. While I was performing my playlet, the man of the house heard a noise upstairs and went up to see what my Daddy was up to. When he got upstairs, my Daddy was taking pictures off the wall looking for a safe. They fought, and my Daddy won because my Daddy was strong. So strong that that man had to go to the hospital for a long time.
My Daddy came running downstairs and he grabbed my hand and dragged me to the curb.
"I'm sorry Daddy," I said as we ran home. "I'm sorry my play wasn't entertaining enough to keep that man distracted."
"Your play was top notch," my Daddy told me as he helped me climb over a neighbor's hedge. "These bumblefuck suburbanites wouldn't know good theater if it crawled up and bit them on their patio seats."
When we got home, my Daddy told me to go inside and tell my Mommy that he wasn't going to be home for a while. "Tell her she’s been real cool. Reeeal cool," he stressed. Then he lifted my chin and said, "You were a great Luke Skywalker tonight kiddo."
My Mommy never did see my Daddy again. He went to jail, and now I'm not allowed to mention him when my mommy's close enough to hear me. But every year around Halloween, I go to the prison and visit my Daddy. In costume and off-book. This year, I'm going dressed as Morphius from the Matrix. And I will be performing the short period piece, "Morphius Tries To Stop The Wright Brothers From Building Their Flying Machine." And just like last year and every year before that, my Daddy will be shouting out to everyone on his side of the plexi-glass partitioned visiting room, "That's my boy!"
Happy Halloween Story Day!
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
He's too famous. He'd be stopped at every checkpoint just for autographs.
"They'll kill her if they find her," he says. "The revolution is days away. She has to get out of the country."
You say, "But you might never see her again."
He finishes applying his makeup. "I'd rather never see her again then have to see her die. Take her away in the back of your truck. Marry her and give her babies. I don't care. Just don't let her die."
"I'll do it," you say. "Tomorrow…"
"Tonight," he says. He pulls on the Dreamcoat (he's playing Joseph). "Every hour lost is an hour closer to her execution."
You nod. You would do anything for this man. He's taken you on as his friend, and he might not have done so if he knew what a fan you are of his. But he knows he can count on you to not ask out loud whether all the noble sacrifice is just a mask over his desire to get out of his relationship. No one wants to be accused of exploiting the revolution for practical convenience.
"She's in my apartment, at least she was when I said goodbye," he says. "If she's not there, find her tonight. Take her to freedom."
With that he takes the stage, and you head to his apartment to, of course, find it empty. She's taken off on her own, and if you don't find her before the militias do, you might never be trusted again.
Happy Drive My Girlfriend Across The Border Day!
Monday, October 25, 2004
You care about your bunkmate. You truly care. It didn't take much to rush onto shore and hunt down a bakery when the submarine pulled into port off of Iceland. But Gerry's gonna think you whipped it up out of thin air.
Surprise him with traditional Navy protocol. First, make sure he's in his underwear in his cot. Next, tie his sheets to the corners of the bunk so he can't run. Then, everyone not at his post should crawl overtop him and squeeze his nuts hard just once. Finally, it's cake time. Walk the cake through the door with the candles lit, holding it up high so Gerry can see it from where he is bound to his top bunk. Though he just got his nuts crushed 28 times, these tears will be tears of joy.
Take a fork and force-feed the entire cake, bite by bite, down Gerry's throat. Before the cake is gone, he'll start to throw up on himself. Untie him from the bed and let him run for the head, but be sure to pull his underwear off of him before he makes it through the door. When he gets on his hands and knees in the head, hold his face in the toilet water and flush repeatedly so that he has to swim in the vomit still pouring forth from his mouth.
Happy Navy Birthday Day!
Sunday, October 24, 2004
If you keep showing up so pretty, Hot Stuff, you're going to lose all your friends because all the guys your friends are hot for are gonna be hot only for you.
"Not my fault," you pout.
Don't matter, Sexiness. Your friends are still gonna blame you for drawing their crush-meat away from them. And you're gonna be shit outta friends, Luscious-Lips. Just don't wear the ass-skirt.
The black skirt that makes your ass go, BLAM!, Adorable Award Winner 29 Years Running, and you can stop pretending like you don't know what I'm talking about.
"Maybe I need to feel pretty right now. Maybe the boy I want is the only one who doesn't want me. Maybe my friends should learn to understand that all the male attention in the world means nothing to me in the face of a slight from my wonderful, wonderful Frank."
Frank hasn't called you, Delicious Nose?
It's been a week not hasn't it, Scruptious Knees.
Did you have sex with him on your date, Fantastic Lashes?
"Yes. On coats. In the bedroom of his friend whose party he took me to. I didn't know anyone at the party, but I did have sex on all their coats."
This is all very said, Mmm-Mmm-Good-Thighs, but your friends will not care a damn if the boys they want to go home with keeping looking over their shoulders at you. Now put on some slacks.
Happy Stop Putting It Out There For Them Day!
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Billy's New Improved Can O' Hearts is just what a girl like you is looking for, Christine. With Can O' Hearts, Christine, you just have to plunk down 89 cents and you'll have 12 full ounces of hearts that you can rip to shreds as quick as you can spin a can opener through the tin.
No more wasting months and months of building false trust between you and a stinky smelly boy. Now, Christine, you can just pour those hearts out on the kitchen table and have your way. Wanna light one on fire? Go nuts, Christine. Wanna crush a few under the spike heel of your pump? Dance the night away Christine. Wanna swat a couple across the living room with the swing of a wiffle ball bat? You're a cold, calculating bitch, Christine.
Canned hearts have never been this good, Christine. Get down to your grocery store and buy Billy's New Improved Can O' Hearts. You're gonna have one fucking A Saturday night Christine you wraith.
Happy Canned Hearts Day!
Friday, October 22, 2004
The backrub train of 1995 stretched from border to border across the state of Delaware, with 739 backs getting deliciously kneaded within the Southeastern tip of Pennsylvania.
"We can cover Delaware," you think. "But our overspill might not hit 739. Atkins has really shrunk folks down."
Is that the organizer of the Rhode Island Hands Across America branch that's telling me "I can't?" Could it be? Could it be the same man who stretched a girl-on-girl oral sex daisy chain around the perimeter of the Grand Canyon in 1979 is calling it quits?
"You're right. 800 backs will be rubbed in Pennsylvania tomorrow morning. We've got the recruitment push, we've got the massage oils. Goddammit, we've got the goods."
There goes the best Guy-Who-Can-Make-A-Lot-Of-People-Do-Shit-In-A-Single-File-Line there ever was.
Happy Backrub Train Day!
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Your son's six. It's time to teach him about Jesus Christ.
Give a knock on his door, then poke your head in. He'll be playing with a Spiderman doll.
"Hey kid," say to him. "Guess what time it is."
"Roundhouse uppercut right to the stuffed hippo that we'll hang from the drop ceiling time?" he'll ask. His name's Greg, your son.
"Nope, that time's come and gone," say.
Greg will shrug, giving up the guessing game. Walk to the side of his bed and look down at his eyes gravely.
Say, "It's Christianity time."
Greg will say, "Aw yeah."
"Were you waiting for this talk?" ask.
"The kids at school have been talking a lot about Jesus Christ," Greg will say. "And I felt left out because I didn't know who he was."
Sit down on the edge of his bed and say, "I'm sorry kid. I've just been so busy at work."
"It made me feel really sad and alone. Not knowing who Jesus Christ was, I mean," Greg will say.
"Well I'm gonna tell you who he was so stop it with the guilt trip," say.
Greg will lean back on his heels and fold his arms in front of him in that adorable "I'm listening" posture. It kind of pisses you off a little, really.
Tell it to him thusly: "Jesus Christ was the nicest person in all of humanity. He could turn water into wine and rocks into money. He could tell the future, and he couldn't die. He's the reason you're here today. Because without him, there wouldn't even be a planet, because he fought off the alien worms."
Then take his hands and place them in front of him, palms together. Say, "This is what it looks like when you believe in Jesus Christ." Then run, he'll never be able to catch you.
Happy Christianity Time Day!
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
The wealthy eccentric who kidnaps middle-aged men and makes them do the dances he wants them to do under penalty of death asks that today you do the Mashed Potato. He is watching.
If you do not know the Mashed Potato, improvise. He might not know what it is either, but once he sees someone doing a dance with confidence, no matter what the moves, he'll believe that that is the dance he requested, and he'll have all of the others dragged from the dance floor and killed.
So you know, in case you were wondering, the wealthy eccentric wears only a pair of boxer shorts in the booth high above from where he watches you dance, and he actually manages to get a lot of work done. He is the sort of wealthy man wherein "work" involves nothing more than moving his investments around all day. The wealthy man spends so much time up there in his chair watching you dance that his butler has to beg him to change his boxer shorts when they grow too fragrant. Now do the mashed potato or you'll never see your daughters again.
Happy Do The Mashed Potato Day!
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
It's what you like to look at and no one should try to judge you for it. Women, usually sitting on bare mattresses, their faces smudged, their bellies distended, their eyes on a fuzzy TV across the room on the floor.
It's not sexual. It just evokes a very specific future in a way that nature scenes and asses on Ferraris can’t seem to manage.
Luckily, you secured the cubicle with an additional wall that is not visible to anyone walking past, so while you have to wheel around in your chair a bit to get a look at that month's destitute mom-to-be, at least you won't be getting any passive-aggressive memos about appropriate personal space decoration like you did last year. By the way, wasn't March heartbreaking?
Happy Poor And Nine Months Pregnant, The Calendar Day!
Monday, October 18, 2004
First, sew guns all over your clothes so that if you need to kill you can just rub your hand over your upper body and drag your finger through some triggers so that at least a few of the guns discharge. You should also hold a gun in each hand so that you can aim them at specific stuff you want dead.
Next, trick a chaste and charitable woman into thinking that there is a very deep well of good underneath your rakish surface, and get her to betray her principles and give completely of herself to you. Then abandon her without mercy, illustrating without a doubt that she was wrong and she had been fooled into soiling her character, that she had loved falsely, and therefore can see no other course of action but to take her own life.
Finally, breathe on people. That shit’s rank, yo.
Happy Be A Killing Machine Day!
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Hard to believe you once had what it takes to carve that in there, huh Mikey?
Nice one, Mikey. But don't you mean:
Too bad you don't have a sharper screwdriver and a couple hours, eh Mikey? By the bye, how are things between you and Pete?
Happy Hearts On A Tree Trunk Day!