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!
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Tell her, "Meet James."
That's the cue for that guy, James, to come into the bedroom and sit down in the corner.
"James is gonna tell us what to do tonight."
Your wife will look to James and say, "Hello." James will say, "Yup." Then he'll shrug for no apparent reason.
Climb under the covers and untie the drawstring on your wife's pajama pants. She'll ask, "Who is he?"
Look at James, to see if he's paying attention. He really isn't. Say to your wife, "He's just a guy I know from the driving range. But I think I met him someplace else." Pull her panties down. You'll get up on your knees so that your wife can take your penis into her mouth, which is how things usually start. Then you'll remember that you're getting ahead of yourself.
"Sorry, James," say. "I forgot that you're supposed to be calling the shots tonight. What's your poison?"
"That looked fine," James will say.
You'll pretty much run through the motions like you normally do. James will sign off on just about everything you wanna do. He won't invest too much of himself, spending most of the encounter on his cell phone. He'll only throw down a veto when you hoist your wife onto all fours and begin eating her pussy.
"Hang on," James will say into his cell phone. Then to you, "Not that. I hate that."
You'll both hold still for a second. Your wife will look back over her shoulder at you, then she'll say to James, "Aye aye." So you'll pull back onto your knees and enter your wife, who will still be on all fours. You'll look to James before thrusting ahead, and James will just offer a silent thumbs up so as not to interrupt his phone call.
The encounter will come to a close when James gets into a fight with whom you assume to be his boyfriend on his cell phone, and he stomps out into the living room so he can yell into his cell phone with abandon. Not long after that, you'll hear the front door slam and the sound of James' car peeling out of the driveway.
Happy Introduce Some Novelty Into The Bedroom Day!
Friday, October 15, 2004
"She put her hand into the thresher," you say. "That was that."
Captain Gleason pours his brandy. He knows by now not to ask you if you'd like a glass. And tonight, he's not even going to crack a joke about it. He won't be laughing with you anymore.
"I appreciate you coming all the way up here to tell me in person," says Captain Gleason.
"You put a lot of money behind her," you say.
"Behind you both," he says, loud, like a door-slam. "She played the tournaments. You were her manager. I trusted my investment in you both."
Captain Gleason is standing by the window, staring out at the trees bending their backs with the wind. His back is to you. He probably learned a long time ago that this is how to stand in the company of someone whose life is in his hands.
"That storm won't let you go home tonight," he says. "Dalton will fix a room for you. You'll stay here tonight."
"I'll be living through the night then?" You asked it before thinking twice.
"Of course," says Captain Gleason. "How else will you help me find that miserable whore of a pool shark?"
Happy Stormy Day!
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Your band is terrible and it's not going to go anywhere. Quit. Here's how:
First, tell the band's leader that you hate him and if you don't quit now you're going to hold him up against a well, aim your dick up at his face and piss into his nostrils.
Second, tell the bass player that he might be the least talented musician you've ever met, and he deserves to have his nostrils pissed in.
Next, tell the drummer you've been sleeping with his girlfriend, and you're in love with her. "She likes it when I piss in her nostrils." Shrug in a "the heart wants what it wants" kind of way.
Fourth, get into a small struggle with the lead guitarist, fall to the ground and cry.
Fifth, leave in tears. The kind of middle-school fight-shock tears that bellow out of you and really have nothing to do with physical pain.
Finally, go home and let your new girlfriend care for you, then piss in her nostrils. Don't tell her that you quit the band, because she only dates boys in bands.
Happy Quit Your Band Day!
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
There's only one movie theater in Teen Sex Fun Town, and from February of 1991 to April of 1993, it showed Cinema Paradiso.
60% of the able-bodied workforce in Teen Sex Fun Town are on the unemployment rolls.
Hep C cases have skyrocketed 30% since one year ago today in Teen Sex Fun Town.
It's been going downhill for years, but there's always further to fall.
"Did you hear about the landmines?" you ask your lover Jane, age seventeen.
"Landmines?" asks Jane. Her foot nuzzles your ankle.
"Mayor Skokie is going to plant active landmines in the sidewalks," you say.
"Why?" she asks.
"Skokie's in the pockets of the Velcro wallet factory. The Velcro wallet factory employs family men. They want to clean this town free of teen sex fun. They want us to die."
You and Jane have sex.
Happy Teen Sex Fun Town Day!
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
When you brought your cat into the Vet's office, you didn't expect that he would have to be put down. And you certainly didn't expect to make love to the veterinarian who administered the fatal shot. But she had just been hired at the office, and yours was the very first animal she had to euthanize. She needed to be held at the moment. She needed to pull another body inside of her to forget about her own. And you, in your grief, you just needed to be cared for.
You helped each other through it. Don't feel guilty. And don't confess the infidelity to your spouses.
Happy You Leaned On Each Other In That Moment Day!
Monday, October 11, 2004
You and Sarah decided around fourteen months ago that before you decided to have a baby together, it might be a good idea to try to take care of a "pretend" baby, like you did in high school. But instead of caring for a sack of flour, you chose the inflatable "Bumble Bee" swimming pool toy, because it's lighter.
The exercise went downhill once Sarah developed an addiction to Percoset. You've cared for her through these months, you've been washing the bedsheets regularly. About a month ago, though, you decided you and Sarah were done for. You're tired of trying to get her to eat.
Cleaning out the space between the couch and the endtable, you find your "baby," the Bumble Bee toy. It's semi-deflated and it's still smiling. Pull the cork on the air valve. Once it's completed empty of air, it will still be smiling. Stash the deflated baby underneath the sink.
Happy Deflate The Baby Day!
Sunday, October 10, 2004
You tell Michelle you know Karen's there. You tell Michelle if she doesn't put Karen on the phone, you're coming over there. You tell Michelle she should keep her little dyke nose out his relationship.
"I'll put my little dyke nose wherever I like," Michelle says.
"I know where you'd like to put it," you say.
Michelle breathes deep. The phone goes muffled. You think you can make out another voice in the background.
"Karen's not here," Michelle says. "But if you like, you can give me a message for her. And if I hear from her, I'll pass it along."
This fills you with such a fury you think you might jam your phone through the screen of your computer monitor. But you have to make the message count. Unfortunately, your supervisor is standing at your cubicle, his eyebrows raised in demand that you put your call on hold. You beg for one more moment with an index finger in the air. He doesn't leave.
"Tell her," you say to Michelle, casting an eye back to the impatient fellow leaning inside your cubicle wearing a tee shirt that reads, 'One Brand, One Vision.' "Tell her I'm sorry."
Michelle sighs. Even she knows how little that'll do. But you can't keep your girlfriend from leaving town with middle-management waiting to give you an FYI.
"I gotta go," you hang up and turn to Phil.
"Picture time," Phil says. "Get your shirt on."
Phil's face sags. This is what he was afraid of. You look at the letters on his shirt, unable to translate meaning of the symbols in your mind.
"It's brand rollout day," Phil says. He is so disappointed in you. "Every department's taking a group photo in their shirts. For the website."
"I forgot all about it Phil. Sorry man."
"You can't be in the group photo then," Phil says.
You affect some regret with your posture. At least you hope that you do.
Phil walks off allowing an exhausted sigh to trail behind him. You pick up the phone and dial Michelle's.
Happy Phone Call Made On Tee Shirt Day!
Saturday, October 09, 2004
In the summer, you mow her lawn. In the fall, you rake her leaves. In the winter, you shovel her walk. In the spring, you pick one daisy from the garden by the walk and you offer it to her.
It's the last year of high school. Rich girl Jenny's going off to college soon. Her father's money is going to send her far away. Your father's absence and your mother's unemployment will bring you to her front yard once again to rake her leaves, and to shovel her walk. And she'll offer you hope as she likes to do, in the form of a cup of hot cocoa walked out into the yard by Jenny personally. She'll be kind to you when it's clear you're only in her presence to earn her father's money.
"Going to the dance?" you'll ask, if there's a dance on the calendar.
"Of course," she'll say. Knowing full well your attendance at the dance isn't such a foregone conclusion.
It's in the spring, when nature takes care of itself just fine, when your presence at her door cannot be misconstrued. For three seasons she's flattered by the unspoken knowledge that you're sweating in her front lawn only to be near her, and perhaps share a word with her. But in the spring, you show up again, with a flower in your hand, and you force her to send you away until the sun's too hot and the grass grows too high.
Don't fight it. You'd be as much a fool as if you were to try to fight the passage of the seasons over time. Jenny's a rich girl and you're a poor boy. And the world keeps spinning along.
Happy Lawncare For Love Day!
Friday, October 08, 2004
Yours is not a new story. You were supposed to marry Lance. But Lance all of a sudden pulled a switcheroo and decided he doesn't think you two should marry after all. You're devastated and you plan to kill yourself. But who's gonna care?
America, if you do it right. Look around your house and check out what materials you have at your disposal to make this the most buzz-worthy suicide that's ever hit the headlines. I'll save you some time. Look out at your front yard.
That's right. The well. Throw yourself in it.
The key here, though, is to not die right away. People who don't survive a fall down a well don't get much airtime. But people who hit the bottom and live, albeit with a plethora of broken bones that prevent any effort to escape, those are the people who can steal airtime from the playoffs.
So go on and take a swim in your drinking water. Pretty soon, the rescue workers and media are gonna show, and they're gonna ask you why so glum? Tell them about Lance, and you can bet your ass they're gonna drag him down to get him on video shouting down into the water underground at you. Make sure to offer some soundbites like, "My heart hurts so much I might just hold my head under this shallow collection of springwater and wait to die." And, "Men lie."
Lance, of course, is gonna have to admit that he's queer. And you're gonna have to deal with the fact that you attract men trying to hide from their true selves, and you accept their false love as your lot in life. But you'll be shivering at the bottom of a well when you do. Have fun in America's prayers!
Happy Throw Yourself Into The Well Day!
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Chicks with guns is pretty awesome all around. Two chicks with guns in holsters who want to settle something once and for all walking away from each other for fifty paces, that’s too good to be true.
Melanie and Josephine both like George. Melanie liked, and slept with, him first. But the minute Melanie went out of town, Josephine hit that. When Melanie found out, she and Josephine asked George which girl was for him. George said, "I don't care." So Josephine and Melanie agreed to resolve the situation by shooting at each other according to the dictates of the Duel, a traditional dispute-resolution structure that has been in use at their high school since the 1980's.
Neither Melanie nor Josephine has ever fired, or held, a handgun. Being as they are each using five-chamber revolvers, and they will be firing from a distance of fifty paces, it will be a miracle if one of them manages to hit her target before she runs out of ammunition or the gun malfunctions. If by chance one of them does hit her target, the other could either be wounded or die, and George will go to the girl still standing. If neither of the girls hits her target, they will abandon their firearms to engage in a Catfight, a traditional dispute-resolution structure that has been in use at their high school since 1891, when Clementine Bartholomew caught her promised Mortimer Rothschild getting a handjob from Jezebel Smead behind the Homecoming Butter Churn.
Happy Gunfight Day!
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Here are the top-selling patterns from your line:
1. Vaginas And Some Rainbows
2. Locker Combinations To Famous People's Gym Lockers, And Some Santa Clauses
3. Leonardo Dicaprio In Racecars And The Word "Baby"
4. Christmas Trees And Sandwiches
5. A Chart Of Presently Legal Assault Weaponry
Today you unveil the Your Dead Sons And Some Fire Engines line. It's misguided, but you miss your dead son so much you have no choice but to watercolor him all over your Gift Wrap. As usual, fans of your designs have already pre-ordered 7,000 rolls without even a preview. You're rich and really crazy.
Happy You Are A Designer Of Gift Wrap Day!
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
We go under blankets to play Naked Monster Killer.
"Are you the Monster who has been terrorizing the villagers?" I ask.
"I am that Monster," she growls. "I am misunderstood."
"Help me to understand you then."
We go under blankets to play Naked War Crimes Tribunal.
"Are you the leader of the country who has exacted genocide upon the lands?" I ask.
"I am that leader," she says, using a non-descript accent (kinda Russian). "I only killed those who posed a threat."
"Explain to me how an entire race of people, including its women and its young children, could constitute a threat to you."
We go under blankets to play Naked Bereaved Granddaughter Being Consoled.
"Are you the granddaughter whose grandfather has recently died?" I ask.
"I am that granddaughter," she sobs. "He was pretty awesome."
"Tell me some happy memories about him."
We fuck. (there's nothing wrong with that)
Happy Under Blankets Day!
Monday, October 04, 2004
You had it made special by the homosexual artist fellow who lives down the block. He took the photos you gave him and painted the likenesses onto durable plastic cutouts, allowing you to decide which Gypsy Kings should be wearing sunglasses, which should not.
"Black jeans on all of them," you said. "Faded."
"Like hope in the desert," said the homosexual artist fellow.
You smiled. Your baby's mobile was in good hands.
Your wife won't be there with you when you fasten it above the crib and send it on its first spin. She doesn't understand.
"He's a child and shit," she said. "He should be staring at like giraffes and monkeys and shit."
"I had to wait until I was fourteen before I was first introduced to the Gypsy Kings," you said. "My son will have a better life."
You hold the mobile up to the light and stare at those melodic little men bouncing on their strings. You wish you were young enough to sleep underneath a mobile like this one.
"I'd tell you all what happened to me today," you whisper to the little men.
Finally, it's time. Your son is in his crib, kicking at the air and ogling up at you.
"It's for you Nicolas," you say to your boy. "These are good men, all of them. And they'll take care of you."
From the doorway, your wife says, "Your father loves you Nicolas."
You turn to her. And she joins you by your side, kisses your cheek and stares down at her son. "He has a fantasy, Nicolas. Your father's fantasy is only to make you happy."
You squeeze her close, and you reach up and flick the switch on the mobile. The brilliant little men begin to spin as the first precious notes of a music-box Bamboleo begins to play.
"Today, I gave my son a pleasant dream," you whisper to the little men.
Happy Gypsy Kings Mobile Day!
Sunday, October 03, 2004
This year's bake sale is going to be no different than the last five years. No one's going to buy any of your rice crispie treats.
"Folks don't know that I'm not only all about conjuring spells and bone-crumbling potions. Of course I am also a very skilled baker."
True, giving it some thought it would make sense that your sweet confections would be just as effective at tweaking the sweet tooth as your pupil searing poison is at bleaching eyeballs dead white.
"Whatever. Their loss. More treats for me."
You could always threaten people. Perhaps if you told them they must purchase and consume your treats right before your eyes or you'll spike the village well with an odorless impotence potion.
"No way. You'd be surprised at the placebo effect of fear. Someone could bite into my completely harmless yet delicious rice crispy treats and drop dead there on the spot just because their minds have convinced their hearts to stop. No shit. It's how my wife died."
You were married?
"Briefly. She had a sick sister. Her parents came to me for a healing but they had no money. I told them I'd take their other daughter's hand in marriage as payment and they went for it."
Did you two get along.
"As well as you might guess. Anyway, one night I decided to surprise her by having dinner ready for her when she came home. She couldn't refuse me, as my wife. But she did assume that I had decided to poison her. And her fear sent her into a shock that I couldn't rescue her from."
That's a sad story. Yours must be a pretty lonely life.
"I have my surprises."
Happy Medicine Man Day!
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Jeff and Mindy broke up after the big crucifixion.
"We watched the condemned man devolve into just a stretch of skin and bones and more and more strained wails of pain and we didn't say it then but we were both thinking, 'That's our relationship up there on that cross.'" Jeff throws a rock into the lake and you both watch the ripples.
"How'd she take it?" you ask.
Jeff laughs. "It was her idea," he says. "On the subway ride home, she said, 'Our love is in worse shape than that guy who died today, and it didn't even have to steal a car like he did. All our love had to do to get ripped to shreds is be the love thst is ours.'"
Jeff says now that he and Mindy broke up he's gonna stay alone for a while.
"And I don't think I'm going to view any more public crucifixions. They kinda bum me out."
You don't get this last part. You decide he's just depressed.
Happy The Crucifixion Day!
Friday, October 01, 2004
Girls who read books don't have sex with men because they only wish to have sex with women, everybody knows this. But you're still going to try to have sex with your bookreader friend.
"We both read books and we get so excited talking about books to each other I just know she wants me to enter her," is your silly little argument.
How exactly do you plan to go about this "entering" you've suddenly decided is scientifically possible? Are you going to move your face closer and closer to hers as you both grow more and more livid about Joyce Carol Oates until you say, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" And she says, "Do it!" And all of a sudden you're up her?
Please, she'll bite down on her cyanide pill before she lets anything like that happen. They all have one in the valley of their one remaining wisdom tooth you know.
Happy Bookreaders Day!