Saturday, August 31, 2013

Magic Show Day!

Volunteer to be made to disappear at the magic show and when the magician taps twice on the box you’ll be sent to another dimension where you’ll see your dead grandmother.

“Grandma!” you’ll shout.

“Play these lotto numbers!” your grandma will shout. “Play them tonight!” Then she’ll rattle off the lotto numbers, making sure you remember.

When the magician brings you back, you’ll run to the delicatessen and play the numbers your grandma gave you. The jackpot will be $15 million. You can’t believe how lucky you were to volunteer for that magic show so that your dead grandma would tell you the winning lotto numbers.

When the numbers are drawn, every single one you played will be wrong.

Go back to the magic show the next day and volunteer again. When you see your grandma, ask her what the hell.

“I thought you knew the winning numbers,” say to her.

“I just miss playing lotto,” she’ll tell you. “Play these now.”

Your grandma will rattle off another bunch of lotto numbers. You’ll play them, out of respect for her memory, and they’ll all lose too.

The next day you go back to the magic show with your whole family. The magician makes all of you disappear.

“What is this shit?” your dead grandma will say when she sees everybody.

“An intervention,” tell her. “We love you grandma, but you have a gambling problem.”

Spend the next few hours trying to convince your dead grandma to get help.

Happy Magic Show Day!

Friday, August 30, 2013

Your Dog Can Talk Day!

“Hello,” your dog will say matter-of-factly, like it’s been able to talk all this time. Like it’s no big deal at all.

“Oh my God!” you’ll shout. “You can talk! This is the most unbelievable thing in the world!”

“Second most,” your dog will say. “The most unbelievable thing in the world is still the idea that the Twin Towers fell because of hijacked planes crashing into them, and not because the basements were rigged to blow with about a mountain of C-4.”

Your dog will proceed to lay out for you all of the apparent “coincidences” that occurred on the morning of September 11, 2001. It’ll go on for hours.

Happy Your Dog Can Talk Day!

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Alien Detection Glasses Day!

You’re a lonely old man who wears a pair of alien detection glasses that let you detect which people are real and which are secretly aliens. You’ve been wearing them for a few months, and so far, you haven’t found a single alien.

“I think they’re broken,” you tell the kid at the Oakley store who sold them to you.

“The aliens have simply upgraded their cloaking devices to prevent themselves from being detected by this kind of lens,” he tells you. “You need to upgrade to this new pair.”

You pay him the $140 and walk out of the store with your newest version of alien detection glasses. The kid and his coworkers laugh at you after you’re gone, wondering how many times they’ll be able to trick you into buying new sunglasses.

As you walk home, you don’t detect any aliens, but you do detect lots of humanoids disguised as ordinary people. You ask one of the robots where they came from and he says government labs. He asks you to keep their existence a secret. You ask it if he knows if there are any aliens around.

“There are no aliens on this planet,” the humanoid says. “If someone sold you alien detection glasses, you got ripped off.”

Pissed, you throw the glasses in the trash. The humanoid offers to help you concoct a plan to murder the kids at the Oakley store without getting caught. You accept his help, grateful that someone still has the humanity to be kind to a lonely old man, even if that someone happens to be not all that human.

Happy Alien Detection Glasses Day!

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Eat The Poop Day!

Poop tastes terrible, which is why when you eat Kelly’s poop today, it will be a gesture of deepest love.

“I want to taste every bit of you, even the bits you expel out of you to be washed away into sewage,” you say. “It’s not fair that alligators and C.H.U.D.s who live in the gutters get to taste a part of you that I’ve never tasted.”

Kelly understands all of that and she’s sorry that she made you explain by walking into the kitchen at 4 AM and finding you with a knife and fork cutting into a piece of her poop.

“How did you get it?” she asks.

You give her an “Am I supposed to remember everything?” shrug. Then you take a bite.

“This is awful,” you tell her.

She nods and says that she would guess it would be. She suggests you come to bed and make love to her.

“Not until I digest this, poop, and eat that poop,” you say. “To know what the poop that I made from eating your poop tastes like, that would be the ultimate intimacy.”

Kelly knows where this is going. She’s had several boyfriends who entered the endless cycle of eating the poop made from eating the poop made from eating the poop made from etc., and they were never able to step out of that poop-eating loop. She considers just going into the bedroom and packing her things now, but it’s late. She’ll wait to leave you until the morning. You’ll feel less distracted from your poop-eating with her gone.

Happy Eat The Poop Day!

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Mountain Climbing Day!

You and your buddies are going to be mountain climbing when an old hermit spots you and scurries away into a cave. You’ll chase after him because you want to get an Instagram with him. The old man will run deeper into the cave, making turn after turn in the seemingly endless tunnels, until finally you find him standing in front of you, waiting.

“We just want to get an Instagram with a real live hermit,” you tell him.

He doesn’t respond. He just stands there as one by one you and your buddies take Instagrams with him, each of you adopting a different pose. The devil horns, the arm around the shoulder with the other hand pointing at the old hermit as if to say, “get a load of this guy,” the goofy face, the self-serious portrait.

You’ll take about 76 Instagrams before you and your buddies start arguing about which filter to use next. When you look up from your phones, the old hermit will be gone.

Unable to find your way out, you and your buddies will live in those caves for the rest of your lives, constantly searching for an exit, or at least a part of the cave where you can get a good enough signal to finally upload your Instagrams. If your followers could at least see the pics, you would feel like it was worth it.

Happy Mountain Climbing Day!

Monday, August 26, 2013

Party Hard Day!

Party hard today from morning ‘til night. Never stop dancing, never stop laughing, never stop pounding those cold ones and smoking those doobies. Party as hard as you can until you feel like you’ve partied so hard you won’t be able to party anymore, then party a little more. Any time people try to stop you from partying hard, slit their throats. Any time people try to join you in your party when you know they won’t be able to party as hard as you, slit their throats. If anybody offers you tips on partying harder than you already are, but their ideas for partying hard are more attuned to the way they like to party than your sense of what makes a hard party work, slit their throats. Slit all their throats and party in the blood. Use the blood to party even harder, turning it into a slip-n-slide party. You partying hard is the only thing that matters, and the only thing you should do besides partying today is slitting people’s throats. Now stop reading, gather a bunch of knives in a bag, turn up the music, and get that party started, yeah.

Happy Party Hard Day!

Sunday, August 25, 2013

There’s Nothing Fun Anymore Day!

It’s going to hit you today, just when you come out of some brush and hear a rustling behind a tree, a rustling that can only be the vagrant you and your billionaire friends paid to let you hunt and kill him as entertainment for one of your summer weekend parties.

“There’s really nothing fun anymore, is there?” you think as the vagrant’s tan vest becomes discernible in your rifle sight.

As you move your finger to the trigger, you search yourself for that long-lost burst of giddiness you used to feel when you knew you were about to score the kill and win the game. You used to relish the looks on your friends’ and business associates’ faces as you would drag the vagrant’s body back to your mansion’s hind-grounds, ready to gloat. Now you aren’t even sure you feel like going home, with or without the body.

“I might be depressed,” you think as you kill the vagrant with a shot through the back directly into his heart. “Maybe I should talk to somebody?”

Is it because your son left for college? You’ve been a father to a child for so long, it’s got to cause a change in spirit to suddenly become a father to a man. Hog-tying the corpse of the vagrant, you wonder if he had any children. Is that why he agreed to accept the hundred thousand dollars in exchange for his life? To send money off to some family he abandoned? When he died, did he feel satisfied, knowing that in surrendering his life he’d finally made amends?

What would it take for you to be satisfied with your life?

“I’d better put on my host-face,” you think. You can ponder what makes life fulfilling later, and maybe visit a doctor. Right now you have guests. It’s to plaster that smile on, toss the carcass onto the grotto, and go through the motions of someone who can still find some hint of joy in the simple things.

Happy There’s Nothing Fun Anymore Day!

Saturday, August 24, 2013

You’re The Greatest Counterfeiter In The World Day!

The Treasury guys are going to come by today.

“Sorry fellas, I’m out of the game. Haven’t forged a note in 5 years,” you tell them.

That’s the truth. You got out but only because you didn’t need to stay in. Your last batch produced the finest notes you’ve ever printed, your masterpiece, and there’s about $18 million of it hidden under the floorboards that the agents are standing on.

“We know,” they say. “We know you’re out of the game. We were wondering if you could tell us about someone who just got back in?”

You don’t like their tone. You realize you’ve never seen these two before.

“Identification,” you say.

“We showed you—“

“I wanna see it again.”

They hold up their ID’s. You look more closely.

“You’re with the Mint,” you say.

They ask you to take a seat. Then they open up the metal case they were carrying and invite you to inspect its contents.

On first glance you can tell it’s a fake, it’s just a sense, but you can’t find the flaws. Not even with your loupe. You study its grain, its seal, its perfect arrangement of elements.

“This is the most flawless forgery of a 2011 Ten-Year Commemorative Twin Tower 9/11 Plate Featuring Barack Obama And George W Bush With Their Arms Joined Around The Shoulders Of A Firefighter that I’ve ever seen!” you exclaim.

“And we’re betting you know who forged it,” one of the Mint guys says.

“Had to be someone inside,” you say. “Had to have access.”

“It wasn’t someone with access,” he says. “You know it wasn’t.”

You get a sinking feeling in your gut. He said he would get out when you got out. He promised he’d never print another. You gave him more than enough to cover him for two lifetimes. He promised you he’d go straight.

“Heard from your son recently?” the Mint guy asks.

Happy You’re The Greatest Counterfeiter In The World Day!

Friday, August 23, 2013

Settle For Him Ella Day!

There’s a marching band behind you, Ella.

They’re playing that anthem just for you.

Today’s the day you settle for a boy.

Today’s the day you know just exactly who you are.

You know your limits and how much you should expect from a boy.

Looks-wise, he’s just handsome enough for you.

Money-wise, he’s just rich enough for you.

Personality-wise, you wish he was less grim sometimes, and he wishes the same about you.

You both have manageable addictions and you enable each other perfectly.

Neither of you wants to be bitter but both of you are and you hate that about yourselves together and it’s wonderful.

Your bad breath. His weird patch of hair on his neck just above his collar line. His lack of interest in any art beyond pop culture. Your propensity for skin cancer.

Flaw for flaw, he’s your boy and you’re his girl.

There are better boys than him out there, and there are better girls than you and you hope they all find each other.

Ella, you are playing in your league. It’s time to go for MVP.

March to your anthem, Ella.

March into his embrace.

His arms are a good length. You fit.

Happy Settle For Him Ella Day!

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Your Robot Family Isn’t Coming Home For Dinner Tonight Day!

You built a robot family and trained them all to love and cherish you. It was great for a while, but gradually they started to find their own interests and develop their own lives away from you.

Your robot husband has taken to spending his nights digging tunnels deep underground. Your robot kids just like to have sex with cars parked around the neighborhood and occasionally they’ll tear someone limb from limb for fun.

“And I’m left to eat all by myself,” you say to the meal you spent all day preparing. “Again.”

You down your glass of wine and pour another. Then you have an idea. You built one robot family, that went from loving and cherishing you to not even caring that you cooked them a big meal (even though they can’t ingest food). There’s no law that says you can’t build another robot family to destroy the first, and then love and cherish you and show up for dinner on time.

“To the lab!” you shout at your cold pot roast. You spill your wine as you head downstairs to begin building your second robot family. This is how the robot wars begin and mankind ends.

Happy Your Robot Family Isn’t Coming Home For Dinner Tonight Day!

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

You Only Write On Bricks Day!

Books are dead and good riddance. You find the Internet disgusting. Storytelling makes you wish you didn’t have ears.

“Then how do you plan to distribute your next work?” Charlie Rose is asking you on the TV.

Your newest novel is going to be serialized, you explain to him. You’ve copied each chapter in very small print on the side of some bricks. And each week, you’ll drive past people’s houses and throw the bricks through their windows.

“So your novel will literally hit as hard as a brick through a window,” Charlie Rose will try to joke, but he’ll instantly realize he failed and he’ll poke himself in the thigh with a thumb tack to punish himself, which is something he does to make sure he remains a master interviewer. “Was it hard to write that small?”

You tell Charlie Rose that it was. There were lots of bricks you had to pulverize when you discovered spelling errors.

“What if people are killed?” Charlie Rose asks. “By the bricks? Hitting them in the head and covering them in broken glass, etc.”

Then you’ll be put in jail, you tell him. And that should give you some good material for your writing. You laugh quietly to let Charlie Rose know you’re being funny.

“Oh my God that’s a riot,” Charlie Rose says. He then laughs until he cries, and soon there’s no laughter. Just the crying. He never stops crying after that.


Happy You Only Write On Bricks Day!

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Yell At The Window Washer Day!

“And another thing, Jeff!” you’re shouting into the mirror, pretending to yell at your supervisor, when the window washer lowers his rig down in front of your window. “You think you know how to run this department because you’ve increased gross revenue by 12%, but I could increase gross revenue by 12% in my sleep!”

The window washer knocks on the window and you’re embarrassed to have been seen having a fantasy argument. You lower your head in shame.

The window washer knocks again, and he uses his finger to write in the grime on your window, “$20. Yell at me. 10 mins.”

He’s offering to let you yell at him for $20 every time you want to have a fantasy argument. Instead of yelling at your mirror, you can yell at a real person just on the other side of a pane of glass, and you’ll have the beautiful skyline over his shoulder to delight your periphery while you do it.

You write on your palm, “Deal!”

So every time you need to have a fantasy argument with someone, you just have to tape a $20 bill to the outside of your window. When the window washer spots the $20, he’ll pause in his rounds and wait for you to start yelling at him. This goes on for a few months, until the window washer says he can tell you’re really angry at your supervisor, and if you give him an extra $20, he’ll murder him for you.

You agree and give him the extra twenty. The window washer botches the murder and you both die in prison.

Happy Yell At The Window Washer Day!

Monday, August 19, 2013

Married Serial Killers Day!

“Hey, great dinner, sexy,” your husband tells you, doing all he can to stifle the urge to open your throat with his butter knife. He heard a husband call a wife sexy on a radio commercial.

“Thank you, light of my life,” you tell him. You saw a wife say that to her husband on TV today.

Neither of you knows how normal people talk, so you both imitate what people say in popular media.You two are like Mr. and Mrs. Smith except instead of both of you being master assassins unbeknownst to each other, you’re both ingenious serial killers, each of you using the other as your cover story while you run off a couple nights a week to murder. You both assume the other to be a normal, a non-killer, just a victim-in-waiting.

You like to use piano wire. Your husband likes knives.

“I’m off to meet the guys, syrup,” your husband says as he goes out to kill. He’ll regret calling you syrup when he remembers it’s supposed to be “honey,” but you don’t notice.

“Have fun, you,” you say to him. You aren’t sure if you’re going to kill tonight. You have to stare out the porch window for a few hours before you get word that there’s someone out there who needs to die.

Bored, not feeling the murder tonight, you’ll go into the basement to sort through some old boxes and you’ll find the secret room containing a freezer full of body parts from your husband’s kills. It’s an even nicer freezer than yours in the secret bunker under the shed. You’ll be trying to piece the body parts back together into a single body, just for fun, when you’ll hear footsteps upstairs.

When you return to the living room your husband will be holding your bloody piano wire in his hands.

“I was just looking for one of my knives in the shed when I felt the floor under me sink a little,” he says. “So…birds of a feather, eh?”

Happy Married Serial Killers Day!

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Join A Neighborhood Committee Day!

Tell them you could be in charge of growing disillusionment.

“I’d like to be the secretary of Is This All There Is.”

The president of the neighborhood committee will say that’s great because the last guy killed himself 20 minutes into the job.

They’ll announce you at the meeting then proceed to discuss getting the street light bulbs changed and how to keep undesirables from using the playground. Interrupt the meeting to tell everyone there should be more to your lives than this. Tell them you’re all just building fences and planting flags like that’s going to keep you all from dying.

“We should all run home and hug our children!” shout.

Everyone will run out of the meeting room. The president of the committee will slap you on the back.

“You’re doing a hell of a job,” he’ll say, a tear in his eye. Then he’ll go back to caressing a photo of his wife and sons.

Happy Join A Neighborhood Committee Day!

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Hotel Why Didn’t It Work Out Between Us Day!

Your flight got cancelled and the only hotel with rooms still available is Hotel Why Didn’t It Work Out Between Us. When you go to get a drink at the bar you see seven guys from your past, three who you slept with but never got serious with, two close friends you always thought you should have slept with but the timing was just never right, one guy who you dated briefly and you still think you should have married, and Marty, your ex-husband.

“Heeeeeey!” they all shout in unison. There’s no one else in the bar but them. Not even a bartender, even though when you look down there’s a drink in your hand.

“So why didn’t it work out between us?” asks Lance, who you slept with eleven times. You both agree the timing was just wrong. You finish your drink. There’s another one in your hand.

“I still wonder why it never worked out between us,” Jeremy says to you. You’re in a booth with him. You tell him he was too angry then, but in the times you’ve seen him since you can tell he’s calmed down, and you feel like maybe if you’d hooked up now instead of back then, maybe. You thought you saw the waitress who brought Jeremy his sparkling water, but it was just a curtain moving with the draft from the window.

“You know what I can’t stop thinking about?” Max asks you, resting his drunk chin on the lip of his beer just like he did the night he convinced you to go home with him.

“I was getting over someone,” you tell him. “So were you. We helped each other through that, but I’m not sure we would have even given each other a second glance otherwise.” You’re getting better at this. Quicker.

“You were drunk throughout the entire marriage Marty,” you tell your ex-husband. “I tried staying with you after you got sober, but we didn’t click as well.”

More exes and flings file into the bar. You start barking at them, “It was the wrong time for us!” and “People change!” as they approach you. You get cornered by a guy you don’t even remember. He says his name’s Chris. He’s crying, insisting that he loves his kids and his wife for giving them to him, but he still can’t help but wonder.

You’re about to give him a line about two ships sailing in the night or maybe you’ll hand him something about a broken clock being right twice a day (does that apply?) when you look over his shoulder at the mirror behind the bar and you see an entirely different clientele, couples, married and dating, flirting and deflecting, all of them strangers, none of them demanding you join them in wondering what might have been.

The mirror clouds with smoke. It’s all exes again. Chris won’t budge.

“We’ll always have Chicago,” you tell Chris.

“Chicago?” Chris asks.

You do your damndest to place.


Chris shakes his head no. You stomp on his foot. As he’s hopping up and down you race from the bar, grab your bags from the bellman and speed back to the airport where you’ll sleep at the gate, making sure to part your hair differently than you’ve ever worn it, practice saying “no English” in an accent, just in case you bump into anyone you know.

Happy Hotel Why Didn’t It Work Out Between Us Day!

Friday, August 16, 2013

Two Bros, Out On The Town Day!

The two of ya’s. Out on the town! Celebrating being bros. Downing some brewskies! Checking out the babes! Hours and hours and mayhem, debauchery, slurred words, idle threats, and the occasional crying jag between old bros. At the end, you both decide the perfect nightcap would be to visit your daddies’ graves.

“Let’s go visit my daddy’s grave!” you tell your bro.

Your bro balks.

“If we’re visiting any daddy’s grave, it’s gonna be mine.”

You fight it out a little, bloodying each other’s noses, then you come to an agreement.

“Since we can’t agree on whose dad’s grave we’ll visit, how about to make it fair, I visit my dad’s grave and you visit your dad’s grave.”

You shake on it, down the bottle your sharing, then you head off, you via bus, your bro via train.

Thirty minutes later you arrive at your dad’s grave, but there’s a man there already. As you get closer, you realize it’s your bro.

“What are you doing at my daddy’s grave?” you ask.

“What are you doing at my daddy’s grave?” he asks you back.

After some piecing together you realize your dad had two families.

“Not only are we bros, but we’re bros!”

You punch it in, then you go back out on the town to celebrate being bros for real this time. Your dad watches from hell, feeling a weight fall off his shoulders. He’s glad the secret is finally out.

Happy Two Bros, Out On The Town Day!

Thursday, August 15, 2013

You Threw Your Drugs Into A Bird’s Nest Day!

Your mom was coming in to search your room to make sure you’re not getting high again, so with a bit of quick thinking, you opened the window and tossed your drugs into the birds’ nest on the tree branch just outside your room.

When your mom finishes searching your room and decides that you’ve been clean and you can stay another week, you climb out onto the tree branch to get your drugs back. Unfortunately, all your drugs are gone and all the birds in the birds’ nest are dead. All but one.

“Why is everyone in my family dead?” the little bird asks you.

“I think they ate all my drugs,” you tell it.

“What are drugs?” the little bird asks.

“They make you feel different,” you tell it. “At first, they make you feel good. Then, they make you feel the only way you want to feel, which is different than the way you really feel, so you have to keep doing them.”

The little bird looks at its dead family.

“I want to feel different than the way I really feel,” it says.

You feel terrible for the little bird, so you promise you’ll help it feel different. You climb down and head into the city to cop. When you come back, you climb back up into the tree with your drugs, and some less powerful drugs you bought especially for the little bird.

“Thank goodness,” the little bird says. “I’ve been crying all day.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” you ask it. “It will change your whole life. Suddenly, you’ll only live for drugs. Your every decision and action will be made in an effort to get more drugs. Nothing will matter except drugs.”

“Right now,” the little bird says, “Nothing matters except sorrow, except this horrible loss and unfathomable promise that there’s going to be a tomorrow that I’ll have to get through, and it will probably be even worse than today. I’d be more than happy to have drugs take the place of all that.”

You give the little bird its bird drugs and you watch all the sadness you caused it disappear as it lays back in the nest with its eyes half-closed. For a second, you wonder if you should do your drugs. Watching the bird, you like the way you feel. You caused it pain, but then you helped make that pain go away. You feel good about yourself for the first time in a while, and just for a second, you don’t want to feel different. But just for a second.

Happy You Threw Your Drugs Into A Bird’s Nest Day!

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

You Used To Date The First Lady Of The United States Day!

While she was living in the White House even.

“Which one, Grandpa?” your grandkids ask.

“Which what?”

“Which First Lady?” they ask.

You’ll never tell. That’s your gift to her. Your expression of gratitude for those few months when she visited your two-room apartment and surrendered her body to you. She had the leader of the free world at home waiting in her bed, but she came to you. She shared her skin, her lips, her legs, her touch, with you. She once even stamped your pelvis with her “Property Of The Office Of The First Lady Of The United States” stamp.

“I didn’t wash my body for weeks,” you tell them.

“The first lady carries around a stamp like that?” your grandkids ask.

“Sure,” you say.

“I don’t think she does,” they say.

“Sure, why wouldn’t she?” you say, growing less sure.

Your grandkids say, “It’s not that we don’t believe you, but maybe you should tell us which president she was married to. We won’t tell.”

You don’t want to betray her, but you don’t want your grandkids to think you’re a fraud. You can trust them.

“Fine,” you say. “It was President Lumpkus. Perhaps you heard of him? And his wife, the first lady, Jenny Lumpkus, was my lover.”

Your grandkids don’t know how to say this to you.

“Granddad, you really didn’t keep up on current events,” they say.

You know the truth without them laying it out for you. You probably always knew.

“No President Lumpkus?” you ask.

“Never was one,” they say. “Not yet.”

“Dammit!” you exclaim. “Why do broads always have to lie to get into a guy’s bedroom?”

Tonight you’ll lay in your bed looking at the photo of Jenny Lumpkus that she gave you to remember her by. She still gave you a few months of erotic bliss. And you got to live most of your life feeling special. Important.

If only you’d died before you learned the truth.

Happy You Used To Date The First Lady Of The United States Day!

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

You Married Poor Day!

The TV shows and the movies lied. They showed rich married couples as icy, loveless husks who cared more about their design pieces and the temperature of their Chardonnay than they did about each other’s hearts. So you married poor.

“We’re supposed to be more in love,” you shout at your broke husband. “Since we aren’t corrupted by luxury, our love is supposed to be pure.”

“I love you,” he says it like a question.

“No, but we’re supposed to be really in love,” you insist. “You’re supposed to come home and see me and not even care that we’re going to lose the house.”

“But when I see you I wonder how you’ll stay warm when we don’t have a house,” he says.

“With your love!” you exclaim.

“That’s stupid,” he says.

Give him the divorce papers.

“Sorry,” tell him. “I want to leave you and marry Jeff.”

“The oil magnate?”

“He’s more of a tycoon, but yes. He’s been waiting.”

Your husband will be sad, but with you gone, there’ll be less money he needs to earn.

When you call Jeff and tell him the news, he’ll shout, “Sweet! Took you long enough. What happened to your husband? Did he die of an easily treatable condition that went untreated due to insurance problems?”

Tell Jeff you just realized you’d married for the wrong reasons. Ask him if he minds that you spent eleven years with another man solely because you assumed it was wrong to marry rich.

“You were poor when you made that decision,” Jeff will reassure you. “And I couldn’t care less about anything a poor person thinks. But you’re going to be rich now. So watch what conclusions you make about me.”

You tell Jeff you’ll be more discerning from now on. You’ll marry in Fiji, then you’ll spend the next 30 years picking out furniture for the houses.

Happy You Married Poor Day!

Monday, August 12, 2013

Married Woman Day!

You’re dating a married woman who says she won’t leave her husband so you should date other women.

Tell her, “I’m not an idiot. I’m already dating other married women.

“Other married women?” she’ll ask.

“Um, yeah?” you’ll say, real sarcastic like. “They’re the best.”

Explain that married dating married women makes you feel really wanted, because they broke all these vows and have to sneak around and stuff just to be with you. Also, they bring leftovers from the dinners they made their husbands and kids.

“Also, if you date enough of them, at least one or two will let you help them kill their husbands for a cut of the insurance. I’m rich!”

She’ll say she’s stunned and ashamed. She thought there was a real attraction between the two of you. Now that she knows it’s just some weird fetish for you to date married women, she wants to end it.

“I’m going to go back to my husband and rededicate myself to my marriage,” she’ll say. “I’ll never cheat again.”

“That’s another thing,” tell her. “Being the reason a woman goes back to her husband and rededicates herself to her marriage, that really makes me feel good inside. Glad I could help.”

She already left. Call Tina. She’ll be done dropping her kids off at soccer by now.

Happy Married Woman Day!

Sunday, August 11, 2013

The Reason You Drink Day!

Your drinking buddy’s wife wants to know the reason you drink.

“You drink more than him,” she says. “And he drinks a lot. Why do you drink all that?”

“Because you married the wrong drunk,” tell her.

The two of you drink to it. You spill a little on each other’s naked bodies when you toast. Then you roll over, under the sheets because it’s chilly, and you start having sex again.

Midway through she asks, “Would you have drank less if I married you instead?”

You know you would have. All the nights when the only drink you had was to drown the knowledge that she was at home in bed with him, none of those drinks would have been necessary.

“There’d be others, you know,” she says. “You drink because you don’t have me. You’d drink because you do.”

She finishes.

“If you did,” she pants.

You know that’s true.

“Shame I never got to find out what those drinks taste like,” you tell her.

Happy The Reason You Drink Day!

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Buried Alive Day!

The dirt’s stopped falling. You can’t hear anyone talking anymore. It’s silent, except for the sound of your breathing. You just got buried alive. Bet you’re rethinking one or two of your decisions, huh asshole?

Happy Buried Alive Day!

Friday, August 09, 2013

No Time Like The Present, Except For April 9, 2004 Day!

You’ve got a lot on your to-do list. And even more on your bucket list. And let’s not even get started on the point-by-point five year plan to achieve everything you want to achieve professionally and romantically. Well, there’s no time like the present, unless you count April 9, 2004.

If you want to get things done, putting off what you could do now is only going to make things harder. Granted, you’re nowhere near the person you were on April 9, 2004, when you were at your peak physical and emotional self. Your brain chemistry was like a high-functioning state-of-the-art machine, and you were brimming with confidence, introspection, and curiosity. It’s safe to say you could have excelled at anything you put your mind to on April 9, 2004 (you ended up renting some DVDs and vegging out that day). Man, what promise you held briefly.

Still, that day and every subsequent day of gradual decline aside, no time like the present!

Happy No Time Like The Present, Except For April 9, 2004 Day!

Thursday, August 08, 2013

Ask Your Mom Why Love Hurts Day!

“It used to feel so good,” tell her. “Now it hurts so bad. Why is that?”

“I wouldn’t know,” your mom will say. “Never been in love.”

“Hey!” your Dad will say. He’ll get up from the dining room table and go out on the lawn to sulk. The divorced lady who lives across the street will see him out there and she’ll run over and they’ll have an affair right there on the grass while the bug zapper sings its murderous song of summer.

“Oh my God,” your mom will say while watching your dad make love to the divorced lady on the grass. “I guess I have been in love, because I really, really hurt right now.”

Ask your mom if she’ll answer your goddamn question then, or is she too busy thinking about herself. She’ll just stare out the window and weep.

“I’m not enjoying this you know!” your dad, still inside the divorced lady, will shout.

Happy Ask Your Mom Why Love Hurts Day!

Wednesday, August 07, 2013

Camp Murder Day!

Your mom works three jobs and is just scraping by, but she still wants you to have a summer camp experience. Unfortunately, the only camp she can afford to send you to is Camp Murder.

“They only average about three murders a day,” she’ll tell you. “And between the murders, you’ll still be able to swim and hike and have fun. Just make sure you stretch a lot so you don’t cramp up running from the murderer. And don’t fall for any girls. Getting physical with a girl will basically sign your death certificate.”

“Why can’t I go to Camp Diamond Lake?” you’ll pout.

Your mom will pull over by the side of the road. She’ll stare out her window, looking at nothing in particular. When you see her shoulders shake, you’ll realize you made your mom cry. She works so hard, day in and day out, trying to give you the best life she can give, but it’s still far from the life she wishes she could give to you. The life she knows you deserve.

Before you get the chance to say you’re sorry, she’ll say it to you.

“I’m sorry my sweetie,” she’ll say. “I’m sorry that you can’t have everything you should have. But what we got to do, while times are hard, is we got to make the most of what we got. We got to take the bad, and we got to make it good. Can you do that for me sweetie? Can you do that with me?”

You’re crying now too. “Yes mommy,” tell her. “Of course I can. And I bet I’m going to have the best summer of my life at this camp, even if it is called Camp Murder.”

“That’s my boy,” she’ll say. The two of you will hug and wipe away the tears, then your mom will continue the drive to the camp.

On your second day of camp you’ll be murdered.

Happy Camp Murder Day!

Tuesday, August 06, 2013

The World Has To Be Saved By Lou, Who Loves You Day!

Lou, who loves you, has to leave you.

“But we have weddings to go to,” tell him. “I have to go alone?”

Lou, who loves you, has to save the world. He’s the only one who can save it.

“It’s written in a scroll or something,” he’ll say. He’ll show you the scroll. It will say, “The world will end in the year 2013, unless it’s saved by this guy named Lou, who loves [your full name with middle initial] who lives at [your address] and has the social security number [your social security number] and the following three secrets [your secret about the thing you heard your dad say to your mom when your mom was crying, your secret about the time you stole a hat full of money from a street busker, and your secret about the time you pulled over at a car crash before any help was there, and then drove away without doing anything even though the driver was unconscious.]”

“You love me?” ask him.

He never said it before. Seeing it in that scroll is the first time the word even entered the space between you two. Lou, who loves you, will nod.

“Yeah,” he’ll say. “And I love you so much, I don’t even care if the world ends. As long as we’re together!”

“I’m so glad you feel that way!” you’ll shout, as you hug him and the two of you go into your bedroom, putting all that “saving the world” silliness behind you as you have the kind of sex people have when they recently decided they love each other. The world will end a few days later. Thanks, dick.

Happy The World Has To Be Saved By Lou, Who Loves You Day!

Monday, August 05, 2013

Haunted Bike Room Day!

Your wife says the bike room is haunted.

“Really?” you ask, panicked.

“As I was walking past it a ghost called me inside,” she says. “He said the things he sees are things I would never in my life want to see. I ran away but he said I won’t be able to run forever.”

“I have sex with the other tenants on the bikes,” tell her. “I go into the bike room and we use the seats. Sometimes one of us sits on the seat. Sometimes one of us bends over the seat. I’m into sex on the seats.”

“You cheated on my with a tenant in our building?”

“I cheated on you with all of the tenants in our building,” tell her. “The ghost was going to tell you eventually, but I’d rather you hear it from me.”

Ask her if she’s at least impressed that you managed to have sex with all of the tenants in the building. “I’m that attractive,” say.

Your wife will say that she is impressed, but she’s still going to leave you.

“But why,” ask her. “Now that I know that room is haunted, I’m too scared to go in there. No more bicycle seats, no more cheating.”

“The bike room isn’t haunted,” she’ll say. “I read in a magazine that the best way to get your husband to admit to stuff is to tell him a ghost is going to tell you.”

Say, “Oh. Cool.”

Your wife will move out, and you’ll stay in the apartment and continue to have sex with tenants in the bike room. Just to be safe, you’ll occasionally have an exorcist come by to make sure the room still isn’t haunted, then you’ll have sex with him on one of the bicycle seats.

Happy Haunted Bike Room Day!

Sunday, August 04, 2013

Cooking At Home Day!

You and your husband have been ordering in dinner way too much. A little while ago you suggested, “Why don’t we cook tonight?”

“That’s a great idea,” your husband said.

You searched online for a great recipe that called for you to use utensils that you presently own and recognizable ingredients that you’re pretty sure your grocery store sells.

“This is gonna be fun!” you said to your husband.

“Let’s get shopping. I can’t wait to eat this dish,” your husband said.

You’re headed to the grocery store right now, where a cashier’s angry ex-boyfriend showed up a few minutes ago with a shotgun. He’s already killed the store manager and he’s wounded his ex. When the two of you walk in, he’ll shoot your husband dead. You’ll hold your husband’s head in your hands as he dies. He’ll be tackled before he can shoot you too, but you’ll spend the next few years wishing he had pulled the trigger. You’re a block away from the store right now. There’s still time for you to turn around, go back to your couch and order in. There’s still time for you to realize you never should have tried cooking at home.

Happy Cooking At Home Day!

Saturday, August 03, 2013

Just Stop Being Day!

When someone asks you to help with dinner or to give them a ride to the hospital or how your day is going, say, “I am not.”

They’ll say, “Not what?”

Don’t say anything else. Only people who are still being can talk.

“Not WHAT?!” they’ll demand, getting frustrated. They might start to hit you, but there’s nothing to hit.

Happy Just Stop Being Day!

Friday, August 02, 2013

Lovers Screaming In The Street Day!

Three more porch lights just flickered awake at the sound of someone screaming the words “Psycho Bitch Demon.”

They want to see it. We all want to witness it. Witness the lovers screaming in the street. Your love is stronger than ours. We know it, and we want to pay our respects by watching one of you duck as the other of you grabs a planter from a lawn and sends it flying at the other’s head.

Your love is so big and combustible that you have to take it out of doors, away from innocents, into the middle of a street where hopefully no passing motorist will be distracted by someone so vehemently accusing someone else of being a “cocksucking failure of a man.”

Man is a warring creature. When someone surrenders to love as completely as you have, when that love threatens to lower all defenses, that violent, aggressive instinct to protect borders kicks in.

An attack is launched. Sometimes at the dinner party my wife decided to throw. She’s scraping sweet potatoes off the wall, but she’ll be at the window to listen to you soon enough.

What more important border is there than the border between self and other? Your love threatens to erase that border altogether, it compels you to tear down the checkpoints, rip up the passports, and give yourselves entirely to each other.

This can’t be allowed. That’s why you’re shouting in a cul-de-sac, accusing each other of destroying each other’s lives. You’re just trying to fight against something stronger than you, stronger than all of us.

The police just pulled into the cul-de-sac, then made a u-turn and peeled away. Out of respect.

Happy Lovers Screaming In The Street Day!

Thursday, August 01, 2013

Hotelier Day!

You’re a wealthy hotelier whose wife took your kids and is moving them from hotel to hotel, staying in a Penthouse suite for weeks at a time before flying to a new city to stay in the Penthouse suite of another of your 4-star luxury accommodations.

“If anyone sees my wife and kids,” you wrote on the flyer you posted in the employee break rooms of all of your hotels, featuring photos of your wife and children, “let me know immediately and you will see a $200 bonus in your next paycheck.”

Your staffs despise you, and harboring your wife and children while they run from you has given them endless joy. They bring them vast buffets of room service, morning, noon and night. The more educated of your staff have been tutoring your children, so that they aren’t behind in school when they finally stop running from you. They’ve even been feeding you false information, sending you flying from Milan to Paris with a fake tip that your wife and kids had just checked in.

“Sorry sir,” you’re told when you arrive. “They must have just sneaked out.”

This is how you’re going to divest yourself of your empire. You’re going to start selling off your hotels, one by one, to limit the number of places she can hide. Until finally, when you’re left with nothing but a vast sum of liquid cash, she’ll come out of hiding and file for divorce, taking half of everything.

But for now, you’re drawing up a new flyer, where you up the employee bonus to $225.

$225. That’s the price you put on reuniting with your family.

Everyone knows you originally planned to offer $300, but decided to lowball.

Happy Hotelier Day!