Thursday, September 30, 2004
You'll barely make it there alive. You'll circle the terminals around twelve times over because you won't have the clarity of mind needed to change lanes. You'll finally pull over in front of the correct terminal and go inside to the baggage carousel.
Your sister will be sitting the edge of an empty carousel, talking into her cell phone. Talking to your mom probably, asking where the hell you are. Stagger to her.
"Hey Eve," you'll say.
"Forget it, he's here," she'll say before clapping her phone shut. "What the hell took you so long?"
"I got…oh you know." You'll pick up one of her bags and it will throw you off balance.
"What the fuck?" she'll ask. "Mom sent you out driving like this?"
"She's a lot worse off than me," you'll say. "You should probably drive home. I'm lucky to have made it here."
Your sister will grab her bag back from you and she'll march through the sliding doors. She'll ask you where the car is, and it won't take long for her to gather that you parked it in a tow away zone and it's presently being torn apart and searched by an explosives team. Your Mom's is a one-car household, so your sister is going to have to pay 78 dollars for a cab ride. This will of your Dad's better be a pretty good fucking read.
Happy Drive Drunk To The Airport Day!
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
You feel pretty awful starting work as a paperboy at the age of 33. But there's no reason why you can't make something completely new of it. And tying a mask around your eyes is a perfect way to do that. This way, when kids on their ay to school see you pushing your shopping cart full of papers and they ask, "You're the paperboy?!"
You can respond, "I am The Masked Paperboy! Every morning I shall bring the news to my fellow townsfolk, anonymously feeding people's hearts and minds with objective facts."
"Do you write what's in the paper?" the kids will ask.
The kids will walk away giggling. One will say, "I didn't know Donny's brother was retarded."
You're Donny's brother.
Happy Tie A Mask Around Your Eyes Day!
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
I feel a chill every time you look at me, she says.
You ask if it has to do with the way in which you look at her. The way you let your eyes crawl up and down her body, starting at the hem of her dress, and climbing up over her hips and around her ass and quick around over her belly slithering to both breasts and then tiptoeing real slow along her neck, and waiting there, on her neck.
She says, "No I dig that."
It's your eyes. They cast a spell of cold on any world they blink at. "When I look in your eyes I remember that I'm gonna die, and so will my Dad and my Mom."
"Must make you feel like there's no time to waste," you're wise to say.
"It makes me want to bring about a birth. Nothing can get me on my back faster than a death knell."
Make your move, Jack Frost.
Happy Your Wintry Eyes Day!
Monday, September 27, 2004
You know the danger of it. You know that every spell you cast into the world forces the natural continuum to contract and right itself, sometimes quite dramatically. "Casting the spell that brushes a hair into place can make nature reply with an earthquake," is what you were taught. You were taught to fear your power.
But you can’t help it. You have to turn Mallory Hoberman’s lips into a pair of fanged, screeching worms. The next time she tries to give your boyfriend head underneath a set of bleachers she won’t find him quite so complicit. Turn her lips into a pair of fanged, screeching worms. Clearly yours won’t be the first spell cast this year, based on all the hurricanes. Now go buy some eye of newt and wash your pestle.
Happy You’ve Been Trying Not To Use Your Witchcraft Day!
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Tell her if it makes her smile, it's done.
"Steal that for me," she'll say. You'll pocket the peppermint patty and halfway down the block you'll place it on her tongue. Her smile will bob back and forth like a rowboat on rough seas as she chews her candy.
"Dance there," she'll say. You'll get up from your table and do the running man in the center of the patio. All of the brunchers will laugh. But you won't notice. Your eyes will be trained on your girlfriend's mouth, pink stretched wide over white.
"Kill my Dad," she'll say. You'll leap from the couch and slam his head into the living room floor over and over again until you hear a crack. She'll get up and kick his stilled ribs. You'll smear the blood from your eyelids but she won't be smiling.
"Where's my smile?" you'll ask. "Come on."
She'll cry. You'll understand. But all the same, you did have a deal.
She'll cry into the palms of her hands and you'll rub her back instead of accusing her of welching.
Happy Do It All For Your Girlfriend's Smile Day!
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Dear Brown-Haired Waitress,
Please do not throw this away. I am rich.
"If you are rich," you might think. "Why are you so unconfident that you have to send a secret admirer letter?'
A ha. Well-played. But, I must confess, I do not normally lack confidence. In fact, if you knew who I was, you would have noticed that when I dine at Duck Confederacy, my companion is usually a woman of stunning physical beauty. Though they are rarely as stunning in conversation.
Which is why I tend to beam when you approach my table. I relish when the time comes to hear you tell me your specials for the day. I think I have ordered every dish you've ever recommended (you're beginning to guess who I might be, I'm sure) and they are always delicious. You have a marvelously discerning palate. A woman who truly appreciates food might be the sexiest of all women.
So yes, my money does afford me the acquaintance of "beautiful" women. But it is when I meet a woman who is not only physically beautiful, but is also a uniquely intriguing person, that I grow nervous. I can tell my money would mean nothing to you. And therefore I would be reliant upon the strength of my personality to carry you past the initial disgust of my "lobster arm."
Now, perhaps you have positively identified me in your memory. Yes, I am the well-dressed gentleman with the arm that appears to end in a soft, useless "claw." It's a disfigurement I've worn since birth, and I can say that it's only forced me to try harder and harder to be the greatest man I know.
While I would never insult you to presume that you would care about my wealth, I do ask that you take my financial success as evidence that I am much more than my disgusting little claw. I am a man of conviction and drive. I have been told my charm is the key to much of my success. And some have said that my disfigurement has even added to my beauty, after they've gotten to know me of course. I am not your everyday man.
I have an 8:30 reservation tomorrow evening. I have requested that I be seated in your station. I will ask for your recommendation and I will order it. If you assent to meeting me for a drink after your shift, add a garnish of razor-sliced beets to my plate, and I will return to pick you up a half-hour after closing. If you do not add the garnish to my plate, I will not order dessert. I will pay my bill, tipping generously, and I will never dine at Duck Confederacy again.
Until dinner, then.
Happy Send A Secret Admirer Letter To The Brunette Waitress At Duck Confederacy Day!
Friday, September 24, 2004
It’s almost like the thump of your limp disembodied appendage to the floor of the car hit a switch and sent the elevator back into action.
"That’s always the way," you say to yourself as you wrap your tourniquet tight around your calf.
Don’t worry. Your heroic tale will be an inspiration to people who have been trapped in a stopped elevator for upwards of 40 minutes everywhere. Not all of us would have had the gumption to take that first bite into the ankle. We’d think, "Maybe the fire department will turn up before chewing off my own foot becomes necessary." We'd ask ourselves, "Will chewing off my own foot help this situation in any way shape or form? After all, it’s not like my foot is stuck or anything."
Ultimately, it comes down to what kind of person you are. Are you the sort of person who will wait patiently for help to arrive, perhaps taking out a crossword puzzle to pass the time if one is handy? Or are you the type of person who will chew off his own foot at the ankle?
Today, you’ve answered that question loud and clear. Now hop along, Cassidy!
Happy Just As You Finish Chewing Your Foot Off At The Ankle, The Elevator Starts To Work Again Day!
Thursday, September 23, 2004
He might not look to be endowed with anything beyond a doomed sense of his own self. As he squirrels himself awake at the early hour of 10:30, he whispers aloud, "What the hell is wrong with me?"
His first words spoken to the morning sun.
Yes, it may not look like he will soon be the one we all look to for hope, the one we pray to as we huddle in the corners of our homes, covering our children’s ears as the fists pounding against our front doors rattle the windows in their frames. He might just look like another loser with a drinking problem and a pregnant girlfriend who isn’t a hundred percent on the whole abortion thing just yet, even though she’s already 8 weeks along. When you look at him, you might not be able to see beyond the unemployment compensation fraud. When you look at him, you might just be glad you don’t have to know what his bedroom smells like.
Yet it shall come to pass. A sequence of events, which will not be elaborated upon here or ever, will take this not very young man to the height of human possibility for bravery and compassion, and in the early years of a soon-to-be reborn America, his name will be spoken with reverence. And his ways will be taught to every child who can be held still long enough to listen.
He might be absently scratching his ass underneath his boxer shorts right now, and it might appear that he’ll never stop. Just you wait.
Happy Meet Your Hero Day!
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
It's big enough. Seems to have been well maintained. You really like the bathtub. The only thing is the window.
"Why are those five bricks there?" you ask the landlord.
"I'll tell you this once then I'll go downstairs," the landlord says. "You want the apartment after I tell you, you come down and knock on my door. You don't want it, you walk out the building and good luck to you. But what I'm about to tell you is non-negotiable."
He didn't buy real estate so that he could make a lot of money, he says. He did it so that he could play with the people who want to live in his building.
"For instance, the man in 2R, name of Kuperman," he says. "He lives in my farts. I fart into his shower air vent. Once every day."
He goes on to talk about how he installed central air into 3B. "Mrs. Louis' world is controlled by me. Every morning, I decide how hot or cold her apartment will be, based on my mood. She hates me."
"And you," he says. "You live here, I'll be burying you alive. One brick at a time. Those five bricks there took me about nine months to put up. I can't tell you how often I'll add to the bricks. But I fully intend to cover that window with bricks and bury you alive in your apartment. Those are the terms. Goodbye."
You stare out the window for a little while. The bricks really aren't that large. A few tests of the water pressure later and you're downstairs signing a lease.
Happy Studio Apartment With One Small Window Day!
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
You, being a wealthy society type, want your son to marry the daughter of the partner in a competing firm in order to ally the firm with yours and therefore bind the two Wall Street behemoths into an unstoppable financial titan.
Your son is in love with a girl he met at the dog run. You've just ordered him to cut off all ties with her and prepare to marry well. The following is the last you will hear from your son until the day his mother dies (you'll be a suspect) 26 years from now:
You might think I'm doing this just to spite you. To tell you the truth, I don't know whether you're right or wrong. I hate you so much it's possible that I would alter the course of my life just to hurt you a little tiny bit. But know this, I will never take anything you have to give. And I will do all I can to live my life the way you would not. I will not become you. I'll die before I resemble you in the slightest. You won't see me again.
Then he'll leave. Everyone at the New York Stock Exchange is gonna laugh at you when they find out you drove your only son away.
Happy Your Son Is In Love Day!
Monday, September 20, 2004
When I woke up from my 25 year coma, the first thing I did was I went out searching for my wife and daughter. I was told that they ran off because their lives halted to a standstill when I went under, and in order to go on living they had to pretend that I was dead. They've since heard that I'm alive and I'm conscious. My wife refuses to see me, and my daughter refuses to believe that I'm anything but dead.
"I don't care if you say you're alive," she wrote to me. "When I left your bedside I left you for dead. Therefore, you're dead."
Additionally, when I went into my coma, M*A*S*H was on TV. It's not anymore.
Happy Statement From A Man Who Just Woke Up From A 25 Year Coma Day!
Sunday, September 19, 2004
You don't know that you can make it through an entire dinner without stabbing yourself in the back of your hand with a fork he's just so gosh darn delicious.
"So you're unemployed?"
"Mmm," he says, his mouth overflowing with baked ziti. "Hopin' to stay that way too. 'Cept I don't have any money."
You place your hand over his, which nearly makes you break into song, and you say, "I'll get this then."
He smiles, like you just made a joke. He assumed you'd be paying for dinner from the get-go.
"You got a nice body," he says. Hooray! your heart shouts into your veins. He does like me, he does like me!
"Thank you," you say with a shy smile.
"You don't look like my ex-girlfriend at all," he says. "For the first six months after the breakup I only messed around with girls who looked like her. Now I'm trying to go the opposite route."
"Has it been working out so far?" you ask with some play in your eyes.
He shrugs. "I don't care."
"I don't normally behave this way," you say. "But when you finish eating your entrée, would you mind terribly if we went straight back to my place?"
"To fuck?" he asks. There's a chunk of sausage on his chin.
"Yes," you say. "I swear this isn't the way I am all the time. There's just something about you that makes me want to skip over all the usual games."
His mouth wide open, he chews his ziti, then says, "I wanna stop at a bar first. I wanna get some beers in me first."
You smile and nod. "That's fine. I can wait." Then you lean in with a naughty whisper. "But not for too long."
"Look, get off my back!" he shouts. Some tomato sauce hits you in the eye.
"I'm sorry," you say. "Take your time."
For the rest of the evening, you try to only speak when spoken to.
Happy He Can Reduce You To Tears With Just A Shiver Of His Curly Hair Day!
Saturday, September 18, 2004
Give it to him on one of his last few birthdays before he dies, when he's old enough that the little he'll have accomplished can be estimated to be the height of what he can hope to accomplish before he dies.
You probably won't have a lot of money for something full of gold and rubies, thanks to Mr. Play-It-Safe having missed out on a total of nine big investment paydays. But you'll be able to get maybe a nice dirty white gold piece, or an ivory and fake emerald little number that he can be held still with some bobby pins.
When he asks what it's supposed to mean, say, "You are my king. This is your kingdom and I am you subject. I shall do your bidding."
This dimly lit, two-bedroom ranch-style home is your kingdom. And this decidedly elderly woman, who's been pretty kind these past few decades, is prepared to obey you.
He'll raise his eyebrows and chuckle, getting the joke, and enjoying it too. "An espresso, knave," he'll say. "And there'd best be a head atop it or I'll have to make do with yours."
Bow with faux-modesty and then retreat to the kitchen to make him an espresso with the machine his daughter gave him as a gift earlier that evening at dinner. He'll sit in front of the TV with his crown on his head and he'll wait.
Happy Buy Your Husband A Crown Day!
Friday, September 17, 2004
My Love Is Squared Day!
"Let’s say that yesterday I loved you to a certain degree. Well, in the last 24 hours, I’ve squared it. Today, I love you times my love for you."
"Your love is squared?" say. You’re lying naked in bed, on your backs, side by side, your fingertips grazing in his pubis. You had sex 70 minutes ago and there’s some semen under you.
"Yeah, my love is squared."
You feel guilty. You love him, but if your love for him is growing at all, it’s not growing very rapidly. You could safely say that you love him maybe 7% more than you did yesterday.
"You’re loving me too fast," say.
"I can’t stop."
Don’t say anything else. Think on it a while. If you say the wrong thing, you two might break up.
Happy My Love Is Squared Day!
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Please, he's saying, please he needs you and he loves you.
"I'm definitely leaving her," he's saying. "I don't even want to lay my eyes on her again."
Please I need you and let me come over, he's saying.
"I can't," you're saying. "You won't leave. I know you won't leave."
I have no choice is what he's saying. If you'd heard the way she talked to me tonight is the thing he's trying to drive home. You'd know it's already dead. If you'd been there, when they fought, you'd know there's nothing left.
"Please," he's saying.
"I want to be with you," is what you're going on about. "But not until you leave her. For good."
He's saying this is for good baby.
"No, you have to leave her first." You just put your foot down.
Now he's really crying. "My God I've left. I'm out on the street. I'm calling you from the street."
You wanna ask him, did you really leave.
"Did you really leave?" you ask him.
You don't wanna ask him if he left because it was the end of a fight or if he left because people who decide they're going to divorce leave.
He's saying yes he left. You both knew from the beginning that he was gonna come over. Everyone did. No reason to go on with it all. The end.
Happy Phone Call From A Sobbing Married Man Day!
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
"Fuck my artistic integrity," you'll tell your wife. "I'm gonna make me some dollars."
She won't say it out loud, but she'll regret having married you.
"What?" you'll say. "Why should everyone else get rich while I starve on the ground floor trying to wrest my vision from the recesses of my soul?"
She'll shrug. She'll go about cutting coupons.
"You telling me you like this life?"
Take her scissors away from her.
"I'm doing it so I can provide for you baby," you'll say.
"I never wanted my husband to be my provider," she'll say. "I want him to be my hero."
She'll go about cutting coupons, and you'll go back to your workshop (you carve vaginas out of soap. It's your "statement").
Happy Cash In Day!
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Your magic bath-rug is like a magic carpet in that, um, it's got powers. But a magic carpet basically just lets you fly around on it. Your magic bath-rug inspires love between any two people who step on it at the same time, no matter who they might be. Which is why you found your five-year old son and four-year old daughter climbing up onto the windowsill last night. They stood on the carpet together, getting ready to climb into the tub for their shared bath, when they suddenly knew they were in love, and that theirs was a love that dare not speak its name (being as they're brother and sister). So they decided to end it all, just as you or I would. But you interrupted them and ordered them to stop playing around and take their bath. They thank you for it. They relished every moment of that bath, knowing that before long they would have to make another attempt on their lives. But over the course of that bath, as they took turns squeezing the sponge to send torrents of water cascading down each other's backs, the world was theirs. But they know the illusion cannot last. They're going to try again. Keep an eye on them.
Happy Bed Bath And Beyond Day!
Monday, September 13, 2004
She keeps her curly hair long and pinned down over the right side of her head with a barrette. There's a bald spot on that side of her head. That's where her skull got cracked.
She gets headaches. That date she cancelled on you, your second, she had a headache then. Her headaches can make her throw up.
"39 feet," as she tells it. "They measured it. From the guardrail to where I landed, I flew 39 feet and landed smack on my head."
She says that she's lucky that he skull cracked. It was either that or her spine, and there's a better chance you're gonna be able to pull yourself out of a chair if you're skull's cracked. The only thing is, when you get out of the chair you might not remember why you did it, and you'll just end up sitting back down again.
"That don't sound like all that bad a fate," you tell her. Your index finger is sliding around on her bald spot, noting the crests and canyons of skull introducing themselves from just below that smooth patch of flesh.
"Not if you got a comfortable place to sit I suppose." Her hands are clasped up by her cheek. She's thinking about something else.
Happy She Used To Ride A Motorcycle Day!
Sunday, September 12, 2004
...And she was a good cat. Happy to share my home and provide me with her company. Something I needed desperately after Frank ran off. I'm childless, as most of you know, and I don't wish my fate on any woman alive...
Happy An Excerpt From A Eulogy For Mitten Day!
Saturday, September 11, 2004
The winners, of course, are having sex with each other (all nine of them) inside a glass chamber full of money. Occasionally, they'll ring a bell, at which time an unattractive person will be brought to stand before the wall of the glass chamber and the winners will stop having sex long enough to watch the unattractive person be shot in the back of the head. The unattractive people who sign on to be murdered before the eyes of the fornicating winners are the sort of unattractive people who don't feel very "needed" by their adult children, and they are more than happy to give up their lives in exchange for sharing a moment of private company, albeit from behind a glass dividing wall, with the winners.
"Does it bother you," asks Jamie, winner of The Prize, "that we can no longer be excited by something as carnal as group sex without the addition of a human volunteering to be slaughtered for our entertainment?"
Mark, winner of The Award, shrugs his shoulders. "I don't let it get to me. It's a scary thought, true. I mean, what about when we no longer get a charge from these murders? What will we resort to next?"
Linda, winner of The Medal, scoffs at the lot of them. "We'll do whatever we like," she says. "And no one will object to it. The very fact that we desire it makes it right. The outside world feels this is so, why shouldn't we?"
Martin, winner of The Trophy, stops caressing his genitals so that he might look again at the unattractive woman lying dead at the foot of their chamber, her very human blood seeping out from her wound to from a very expansive puddle on the floor. Martin feels a little sick now, but he'll continue to have sex with his fellow winners once they resume.
Happy The Winners Day!
Friday, September 10, 2004
In all your years on the job, you ain't never seen anything like this.
"The assailant used a stencil," you tell the flatfoot with a notebook.
"He a fruit, Detective?"
You take in a lot of air, let out a long, low hiss of disgust. "Most definitely," you say. "I'd stake my badge on it."
"Takes one to know one!" you expect someone to shout into the silence that follows. A part of you would welcome it. The part that's still in love with the seventeen-year old Puerto Rican boy you sent to maximum security 28 years ago. The part that's doing all it can to substitute love of your work for the love you only gave once to Julio. In the backseat of your police issue, by the side of route 40, you lied and said you'd let him go if he does this one thing, just this one thing. He knew the game, he'd played it before, so many times that when it was all over and you smacked his head up against the cage behind the front seat he didn't even seem surprised. He knew he was going to jail the whole time, but he played the game anyhow.
"He loved me," you think, every night just before passing out in your chair. "Julio knows what I am."
He's the only one.
Happy A Houndstooth Check Blood Pattern Day!
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Today, burglars all over the nation are postponing that one last score so that they can head into the park for a nice, friendly, here-comes-autumn picnic. Burglars don't find time to get together as often as they'd like. It's hard to take them off the job. Even today, they're not gonna take off the ski-masks. At least not at first.
At first it'll just be the same as always. Everyone crowds around the burglar who brought a velvet cloth full of diamonds. They'll ooh and aah while he says, "Isn't that a great diamond? I'm a hell of a burglar." But eventually, the sun will send them all to the blanket, peering up at the blue sky, wiping their minds clean of safe-cracking shortcuts and generic chloroform price hikes. Soon, one of them will whip out a Frisbee, and they'll be running this way and that like a bunch of little kids on the first day of spring (albeit in ski masks).
The picnic on Burglars Day never goes sour. Everyone leaves happier than they came, and full of just a little bit more cold fried chicken. Last year, one of the female burglars hit it off with one of the male burglars and they went for a walk. This year, they're coming back wearing wedding rings they stole for each other.
See you at the park, unless you're in jail.
Happy Burglars Day!
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
You know the drill. Get naked and sit Indian Style in the middle of the floor. Lean forward as far as you can. Lean forward so far that it feels like your spines are about to snap. Try to touch noses. Hold it.
On the count of three, shout the first thing that comes into your mind.
She shouted failure. He shouted Evelyn (her name's Doris).
Happy Happy 15th Anniversary You Two Day!
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Lou Rawls told his wife, "She's not gonna bother us anymore."
His wife didn't say anything.
Lou Rawls told her again, "She's not gonna bother us anymore, I said."
His wife nodded at the table. Lou said, "You got nothing to say then?"
His wife just kept looking at the toaster. Lou Rawls went into the living room, rustled his newspaper on his lap, and began his new life, a life undisturbed by an infidelity. But just before it began, he shouted to his wife, "I killed her!"
His wife ran into the living room, saying, "Thanks a lot for protecting me, Douche!"
"What," said Lou Rawls. "You don't wanna know about it? Don't wanna know that it takes a murder to keep this marriage from falling apart?"
"Now I'm an accomplice," she shouted at Lou Rawls. "This is just like you. Far be it from you to suffer in silence to protect me. With you it's all about Look at all the sacrifices I've made for you. As if I should feel guilty just for having accepted your wedding proposal. You never made any sacrifices, just excuses. Every choice you ever made was an excuse to get outta doin' what you really wanted to do."
"Fuck you!" said Lou Rawls. And they fought on and on like that, like they do every night.
Happy Lou Rawls Day!
Monday, September 06, 2004
Last night, your favorite rock band died. They were coming out of church when they spotted a kitten meowing in the second floor window of a burning house. Every member of your favorite rock band – lead singer, lead guitar, bass player, drummer, backup guitar, keyboard player, and the guy who plays the cow bells and the maracas – swung into action. The lead singer and the bass player joined hands to hoist the lead guitarist up onto the trellis, from where he climbed onto the roof adjacent to the awning below the window where the cat was calling out. The drummer and the backup guitarist climbed the moleberry tree that hung over another awning adjacent to that window. Meanwhile, the lead singer, bass player, keyboardist, and the guy who plays the cow bells and maracas headed into the house to try to get up to that room to block the cat from running back into the fire to get away from his rooftop rescuers. Once everyone was either on top of or inside the house, the roof collapsed, killing all but the keyboard player, who died later that night of a heroin overdose while in bed with a handful of fourteen year old groupies, who also died that night, but of natural causes. The cat's fine.
Happy The Rock Band Died Day!
Sunday, September 05, 2004
"The one where the frog asks the scorpion for a lift across the river?"
"Scorpion asks the frog," say.
"Which one am I?" she'll ask.
"Duh," say. "You're the scorpion."
"So," she says, "My suggesting moving in with you is comparable in your mind to you helping me across a river, and my murdering you before we get across, bringing about my own death by drowning."
"Right," say. "Wait, I thought they get across, then she bites him."
"She? Have you always thought that the scorpion was necessarily a female and the frog a male?"
"And they're dating, yeah. But I thought they get across, she kills him, and goes on with her life."
She shakes her head, which sort of turns into a shake of her entire body. "No, I think she bites him midway through, which illustrates the whole 'it's my nature' thing about it."
"That doesn't work as well," say.
"No, not as a parable for dating."
She'll say, "Holy shit."
"What?" say. "I just don't think we're ready." Then go to your guitar lesson.
Happy It's Like The Frog And The Scropion Day!
Saturday, September 04, 2004
So I guess this is it?
You're a big, giant, festering, weak pussy. I fucking dare you to pull that trigger you faggot.
I should've known it would end this way.
It's right there on the bottom shelf of the curio. See for yourself (when she turns her head you'll grab for the gun but the tables won't turn).
I never thought I could find you more attractive until I saw your pretty little eyebrows pop out from around the hammer of that handgun. I'm going to unbutton your blouse now. Don't shoot.
Awwwwwww God! Awwwwwww God I don't wanna die!
Thanks, I love oyster crackers.
His name…is your name. Kandinski. He's your brother Patricia.
Oooooh isn't she just such a scawy wittle gangster girl. Evewybody wun fwom the scawy wittle gangster girl.
(Glancing under the recliner from your spot on the floor) So that's where the DVD remote ended up.
Kill me and you'll never get your hands on the antidote.
Nice gun. Who'd you blow for it? Ooooh! Dis!
Happy Today, You'll Say The Following Into The Barrel Of A Gun Day!
Friday, September 03, 2004
There's not much time. Yank that handle down. You'll find out whether it's true that your hand gets sprayed with ink so that authorities can determine who it was that pulled the alarm.
Look at your hand and say, "Well waddaya know."
Your coworkers will be milling absently towards the fire exit. Go to Kara's desk and whisper through the thick of her hair and into her ear, "This isn't a drill. Don't cause a panic, just come with me."
Lead her (by the hand) to a non-designated fire stair, one where it's just the two of you.
"Will this get us to the sidewalk," she'll ask.
Stop on the stairs and say, "Who cares?"
She'll say, "The fire."
Say, "What? Oh, there's no fire. I pulled the alarm. I needed to get you alone so I could present my case for why you should leave your husband and kids and marry me."
She'll lean back against the wall of the stairwell, her arms crossed, and she'll say, "I'm listening."
Breathe deep and lay it on her. "I just think we've got something here. A connection. Am I wrong?"
Kara will take a second to consider your proposal. Say, "Goddammit the suspense is killing me! Yes or no!"
She'll say, "I need some time. I really dig my husband and kids. And I never noticed that connection thing you mentioned. But I have to admit, it was romantic of you to pull a fire alarm just to get me alone."
Get closer to her, and in a soft voice say, "I had no choice but to get you alone. I was too afraid of being laughed at by Dave (the loudmouth temp)." Say this whilst grazing your thumb along the circumference of where you estimate her right areola to be underneath her sweater.
She'll begin to pant. Then she'll push you away, telling you she needs to make a list of the pros and cons.
Happy Pull The Fire Alarm Day!
Thursday, September 02, 2004
It's been six years since your wife let you have sex with her and you're racking your brain for how to get yourself some of that. The problem is, you're so close to your wife that you can't see the forest for the trees. The easiest way into your wife's pants is through your wallet.
Your wife loves money. Actually, loves might be the wrong word. Your wife thinks holding money is as close as you can get to touching the bloody foot of Jesus Christ while he is dying on the cross. Since she was old enough to make her own decisions, every decision she's made has been in effort to acquire more money. It's why she married you. You were loaded and she knew it. When she danced with you that night you met, she could feel in your back that you were the kind of guy who was rich and would stay that way.
When she decided to make you propose to her, she thought, "I think he has enough money."
Using your money is clearly how you can get her to do what you want.
"But how?" you pant. "We share all of my money. Anything I have to give she's already got."
Take it away from her. Empty all of your bank accounts and open new ones. Hide the cars and houses and all of her clothes and food. Lock it all away until she demands it back.
"Not unless," say to her, "you have sex with me."
She'll tell you that as your wife that money is hers just as much as yours. Any court would agree.
"True, but courts take a long time to come to an agreement. You can wait months and months in a courtroom to be awarded the money by a judge. Or you can have it all back today, before dinnertime, just by letting me have sex with you."
She'd be a fool not to go for it. Have fun loverboy!
Happy The Keys To The Kingdom Day!
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
This is warning sign number two that he's addicted to the pot. Warning sign number one was when he was rude to his mother the other night. And warning sign number three is on its way. That's when he'll run through the living room naked, tearing at his own flesh, screaming "GET EM OFF ME! GET EM OFF ME!"
Just so's you can kept an eye out, here are all of the warning signs that your kid's addicted to the pot:
4) You find him in his little sister's room, forcing the barrel of a semi-automatic weapon in between her teeth (she's 9).
5) Large black people on the front step.
6) Unraked leaves.
7) He can levitate.
8) He is dead and there's nothing you can do about it now because you didn't heed the warning signs.
9) He is fathering children left and right.
10) He talks endlessly about how awesome the pot is and how it's the best thing ever.
11) When you ask him if he wants to go play mini golf with you on the weekends he just doesn't seem all that interested.
12) He has withdrawn roughly $78,000 from your bank account.
13) Snot pours out of his nose like water from a spigot.
If your kid exhibits any or all, or hell, even none, of these signs, he's probably addicted to the pot and you should beat him with a ring of keys until he's better.
Happy Your Kid's Piggy Bank Is Empty Day!