Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Doris Is Back Day!

Doris is back.

“You give up on Stan?”

Doris says Stan never got his mail order pants business off the ground. He ended up being nothing but a Colorado party boy. She thought he was her ticket to the big time, but she discovered how much she missed her small time life with you.

“So I’m just s’posed to take you back in? After running off on me with another man like that, no word for over a year? I’m just supposed to open the  door and make you a cup of coffee?”

Doris says yeah.

“Come on in then,” you say.

Happy Doris Is Back Day!

Monday, September 08, 2014

For Love Day!

“She’s worried about me,” you tell your coach. “I have to quit the team.”

Your coach tells you that in all the years he’s coached high school football, he’s never seen a quarterback like you.

“But I’ve also never seen another girl like Marie,” he adds.

Marie was your coach’s high school girlfriend. She also wanted him to quit the team, but he loved the game too much.

“I thought if she really loved me she’d let me do what I’m good at,” the coach says. “So I gave her up for the game. Now I realize that life is finite, and if you get your arms around love, you hug it to your chest and run it to the endzone.”

“The endzone is death right?” you ask. “Like, hang onto love until the end.”

“Bingo,” your coach says. “This game sucks and is stupid. Your love for that girl is rare and to be treasured. If you don’t quit this team, I’ll reveal some grading scandals involving players coasting by without learning how to read just so the entire team will be dissolved at this school to make sure you don’t have a team to play on.”

Since you’re one of the players who doesn’t know how to read, the embarrassment of that being all over the papers is just another reason to quit the team and be with your girlfriend.

“Thanks, Coach,” you say.

“SHUT UP AND LOVE!!!” your football coach screams in your face.

Happy For Love Day!

Tuesday, August 05, 2014

Explain To Your Mail Carrier What Love Is Day!

Today you’re going to bump into your mail carrier just as she finishes loading up the boxes in the lobby of your building.

“Hey there,” she says. “Long as I have you for a sec, what’s love?”

“Hang on,” you say.

You open your mailbox and pull out this week’s letters marked return to sender. Six new ones.

“This is love,” you say, letting her hold the unopened letters, each one containing several dozen instances of the words “please” and “forgive.”

“All this time,” the mail carrier says, “I’ve been lugging love around in my sack and I didn’t even know it.”

“Wanna get drunk?” you ask.

You and your mail carrier get drunk and take turns opening people’s mail and reading the letters out loud in high-pitched girly voices. Looks like you have a new friend.

Happy Explain To Your Mail Carrier What Love Is Day!

Monday, August 04, 2014

Rich And Mean Day!

“Why aren’t your clothes fantastic?” the rich people ask. They’ve invited you to stop waiting on them and sit down for a while. Your manager told you to do whatever they say.

“I can’t afford to look fantastic,” you explain. “I can only afford to look cute.”

They ask what you expect to do with your life if the best you can hope for is cute.

“I just want to be happy,” you say.

They stare at you, unsure how you expect that to happen if you have to settle for cute.

“We aren’t making ourselves clear,” says the man in the suit that billows around him with the breeze. “Everything is ours. Everything we want. Comparatively, you have nothing. This sickens us.”

You wait for more, for them to ask a question.

“It’s disgusting,” his sister, whose skin looks like an ocean at sunset, adds.

“It upsets me to be in your presence,” the billowy suited man says.

You ask them why they’re telling you all this. You’re handed a brochure.

“It’s an underground city that’s being built for you and others in your situation,” you’re told. “Every basic need will be provided for you, and nothing more. We’re using our own funds to pay for its construction so that you can finally leave the surface of the earth.”

You look through the brochure. The bedrooms are slightly bigger than the one you sleep in right now.

“No sunlight?” you ask.

They shrug. “Sunlight is free, currently. But rent isn’t. Would you rather have free sunlight or free rent?”

The youngest, thinnest, and most beautiful of them leans forward, her dress collar hanging open for you to see the entire stretch of her flawless body. She takes your hand and says, “We just want you all to go into a hole and stay there. And we dug a very nice hole for you.”

There’s a date on the brochure. Six months from today.

“That’s the deadline,” the man in the billowy suit says. “Up until then, it’s voluntary.”

You fold the brochure into your apron and you get up from the table to go back to work.

“You’re welcome,” the beautiful girl says as she pours wine into a napkin and scrubs at the hand that touched yours.

Happy Rich And Mean Day!

Saturday, August 02, 2014

Fancy Artist Loft Party Day!

The artist is angry and he’s spitting champagne on his guests and they love it. His wife is enchanting people with conversation. The ceilings are 20 feet above the tops of the guests’ heads, looking down on their bald spots and dandruff-dusted parts with disgust. The paintings on the walls are the size of trucks and they don’t mean a thing. The artist assistants are starving but drunk, one is crying, the other just jumped out the window, the third is calling her dad. The gallery owner has a one-way plane ticket to Berlin in his jacket pocket and no one knows this party and the city it’s in is already dead, Berlin is where it’s at. The ceilings rise higher, 45 feet now, getting further away from the freshly-dyed roots. You’re excited about the open bar and you stuff some cheese in your pocket for the train ride later because you’re new here, shocked to have even been invited. The artist is down to his torn underwear and he just grabbed the ass of a 66-year-old billionaire heiress and lover of dogs. 55 feet now, the loft upstairs obliterated. One of the artist assistants has a knife, but the other is talking her out of it. A 75-foot ceiling. The artist sees you. He sees something in you. Himself? He’s cross-legged on the ground in his underwear, waving you over. 110 feet. The knife clatters to the ground and the artist’s wife is making love to the gallery owner on the artist’s bed. The assistant who gave up on the idea of the knife absently watches them fuck when she isn’t checking her phone. “I admire your work,” you tell the artist. 200 feet. “You’re the one,” the artist says. It’s time for him to tumble out of fashion. Time to take someone under his wing, resent their youth, corrupt them so they have it just as bad as he does when they get the 300-foot ceiling. 345 feet now. “You’re the one,” he says. You glow and you stammer and the ceiling crosses the 500-foot mark, crashing into the bottom of a local news station’s traffic helicopter. The assistant climbs into bed with them. The artist throws on a pair of sweatpants, grabs your hand and drags you onto the elevator, presses down. You both get out seconds before the ceiling shatters bringing the party to an end.

Happy Fancy Artist Loft Party Day!

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Bunkbeds Day!

It’s your first visit to your daughter’s new house with her new husband and no dad could be happier than you. They take you from room to room. The living room, the kitchen, the spare room that they say with a giggle will one day be a nursery. Then they show you their bedroom.

“Thought the other room was going to be the nursery,” you say.

They both nod. That’s right.

“So what’s with the bunk beds?” you ask.

They look thrown. “You mean our sleep tower?” your son-in-law says.

You look at the bunk beds again.

“Sleep tower?” you repeat. “What the hell are you kids into?”

Your daughter laughs. “I get the top. Jarrett likes the bottom.”

“My knees,” your son-in-law explains.

You walk out of the bedroom, shaken to your core, and you sit down to a long, polite, silent dinner.

After, your daughter follows you out to your car.

“Jesus, honey,” you say. “What the hell is that all about?”

She nods sadly. “I know how it looks, Daddy,” she says. “It’s just what he prefers.”

You shake your head. “What about what you prefer?”

Tears form in her eyes. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with his knees either, do you? He says when they’re better I can have the bottom, but he’s lying isn’t he? I want the bottom, Daddy! I was supposed to marry someone who’d treat me like a princess and let me have whichever bunk I wanted! But he’s just another liar out to get whatever he wants!”

She cries into your chest. You pat the back of her head, coming to grips with the knowledge that your daughter is a grown woman who digs bunk beds. You conclude that you were a not-very-good father, and you vow to visit your daughter’s home as infrequently as possible.

Happy Bunkbeds Day!

Monday, July 28, 2014

Sand In The Suitcase Day!

Your mom’s on her bedroom floor rubbing her body in sand. Sand that shook into her suitcase from the swimsuit she wore on the beach in Tulum, two winters ago when she was there for a work retreat and she went for a walk with Alfonse, the spa director of the eco-resort. Alfonse promised her he’d show her the exact perfect spot on the beach to see the moon over the cliff, and he came through. The spot was on her back, underneath Alfonse, her pleasure causing her to howl loud enough she feared she’d scare the moon away. That sand in her suitcase hugged hers and Alfonse’s bodies and she’s rubbing it all over her skin, feeling his touch once more. If the sand from that beach can be in the bedroom she shares with her husband, years later, Alfonse can be there as well. Space and time allow for so much more than we know. You mom is there again. She’s there on that beach having the most wonderful sex of her life again.

“She’s doing the sand thing again,” you tell your dad.

“Ah Christ, every damn trip,” your dad says before marching upstairs to yell at his wife.

“Dammit Doreen! You can’t bring him back! Let a fling be a fling so we can not miss our plane for once!”

Happy Sand In The Suitcase Day!

Friday, July 25, 2014

Open House Day!

Today at the open house, you think you’ve found the perfect place. Beautiful yard, great kitchen, and lots of storage space. You’re pretty sure you’re going to take it until you notice the photos on the tables are all photos of you, surrounded by a husband and two kids you’ve never met before.

“Is this some kind of prank?” you ask.

The realtor looks more closely at the photos.

“Oh, this happens sometimes,” she says.

“What does?” you ask.

The realtor explains that some houses skip ahead.

“The house knows what your life is going to be, who you’re going to marry, what kind of family you’re going to raise here,” she says. “It knows so well that it thinks you’ve already lived here.”

“Lived?” you ask.

“Well, it’s up for sale. So you’re selling it. One day.”

You ask the realtor if you’re going to get a good price. She says she doubts it. You seem to want to sell in a hurry. Things aren’t going so well with your husband.

“I’m not even dating anybody,” you say. “How is it the house thinks I’ve been living here with a husband and kids, and I’m already moving on to a new chapter in my life?”

The realtor says she can’t answer that, but you should get a move on before the house realizes you’re there before you’ve ever been there. Just then the house starts screaming.

Happy Open House Day!

Thursday, July 24, 2014

End Your First Date About To Be Crushed To Death In A Trash Compactor Day!

Say to him over the loud grinding of the gears, “Even if we die right now, I really had a good time with you tonight.”

He’ll say, “Yeah. Though the wild turn of events over the course of the evening lead to us being stuck here, about to be turned into nothing but splotches of liquefied organs, this was the best date I ever had.”

You kiss for the first time. It’s such a powerful kiss, you both suddenly know that this isn’t how it can end. Something so right can’t reach such a premature and gross conclusion. This could be the love of both your lives. That kiss proved it. And that kiss gives you the strength to try and get out of this to see where this love takes you.

“We have to try!” you shout.

“I agree,” he says. “We can’t just—“

Some of the garbage gives way underneath him and he’s dragged under the compactor wall. You mourn the love of your life for a few endless seconds before the walls close in and take away the pain of your loss.

Happy End Your First Date About To Be Crushed To Death In A Trash Compactor Day!

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Your Old Friend Alice’s Funeral Day!

You’re 70 and your friend Alice was 70 when she died and you used to be best pals. You showed up wondering what happened to you two, then you find out when her family tells you they don’t want you to speak at the funeral because they felt like she put more value in her friendship with you than in her relationship with her husband and kids.

“That why she moved away and stopped taking my calls?” you ask her daughters.

They nod. “We told our mom that unless she cut ties with you we would stop loving her. We told her she had to sacrifice a cherished friendship in order to keep us as daughters.”

“You’re shitty daughters,” you tell them.

They shrug. “Deal with it. You’re not speaking at that funeral.”

You keep quiet at the service but at the burial a plane flies by with a banner tailing behind it that reads, “Alice is dead, and she loved her best friend more than her own horrible kids. I loved you back just as much, Alice. Sorry your kids sucked. Sorry and Goodbye. Catch Jason Mraz at Foxwoods Thur-Mon.”

You got a discount by tacking on an ad that the pilot already got paid to run. Doesn’t matter, the kids are looking up at the sky and crying as you walk away from Alice’s grave, knowing full well you had a friend for life.

Happy Your Old Friend Alice’s Funeral Day!

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Pam Can’t Drink Day!

You ended it with Pam because she can’t drink.

“It’s because I have to take all this medication for anxiety,” she said. “Alcohol contraindicates.”

That’s all well and good but you told Pam from the get-go that she better be able to keep up with you or you’d be hightailing it to someone who could. Someone like Martha.

“Let’s get started,” Martha likes to say at around 4:30 PM when she pulls the top from the bottle of gin. “Don’t dawdle.”

Martha drinks way better than Pam, and the two of you have a lot of fun getting plastered each night and then spending the next morning helping each other piece together why you have so many bruises on your bodies. But you can’t get over the feeling that maybe you should have found some way to make it work with Pam. No matter how well you and Martha drink together, she’s no Pam.

“Why are you Googling herbal remedies for anxiety?” Martha asks one drunken night after going through your search history. “It’s that Pam, isn’t it? You’re looking for a way to get her to take different meds so she can drink with you.”

You try to lie but Martha’s too blitzed to listen. She throws your laptop at your head, knocking you unconscious. Martha runs to your aid but she slips and cracks her head open on the floor.

When you wake up, the police are hovering over you, having been called by the neighbors. With Martha dead and signs of a domestic dispute all over the apartment, no one buys that Martha did all the disputing. You’re jailed for manslaughter, sentenced to six years of longing for the one that got away because you never thought to convince her to try herbal anxiety remedies that wouldn’t have been contraindicated by alcohol.

Happy Pam Can’t Drink Day!

Monday, July 21, 2014

You Know Anyone Your Mom Might Hit It Off With Day!

Your mom writes love songs but her career’s been in a slump ever since she fell out of love with your dad. House payments need to be made and you’re going to have to go to college somehow.

“Any of those teachers at your school single?” your dad asks you. “Anyone you think your mom might hit it off with?”

You tell your dad you don’t feel comfortable being put in this position. That you think your mom should cheat on him of her own volition, that it should happen naturally.

“Yeah, yeah,” your dad says. “But love sometimes needs a nudge. She wrote dozens of songs about me, but I ain’t doing it for her anymore, and they’re about to cut off our electric.”

On Parent-Teacher night you make sure to introduce your mom to your social studies teacher, Mr. Lawson.

“You two both enjoy things,” you say to them, trying to get some kind of connection to happen.

“Hello,” Mr. Lawson says.

“I hope I never hear you say goodbye,” your mom says. Then she rifles through her bag for a notebook.

Meanwhile, your dad is at home sitting on the back step of the house, staring at a tree he and your mom planted when they first moved in. That tree never stopped growing. Maybe if he tends to his marriage the way he did that tree, your mom will find it in her heart to love him again. He makes a silent promise to try as soon as she gets home, not knowing it’s already too late. She’s found a new song.

Happy You Know Anyone Your Mom Might Hit It Off With Day!

Sunday, July 20, 2014

True Romance Day!


You ask to be excused from the table and your dad grunts so you head upstairs where your duffle bag is packed and you flash your flashlight three times out the window. He responds with three flashes from a flashlight of his own.


You board the bus and you kiss for three hundred miles until someone complains to the driver who comes back to ask the two of you to stop kissing. You hold off for fifteen miles before the other passengers complain that your kisses were the only thing keeping them going on this bus ride.

“It’s nice to be around people who are hopeful!” a man with an open face wound shouts.

“The sound of their lips keeps me from hearing the echoes if what my sister said to me when we last saw each other in ’83,” a lady trying to pick the lock on a handcuff concurs.

“Lift the ban!” the other passengers shout. “Lift the ban!”

“Fine.” The bus driver buckles. “Ban lifted.” So you kiss for the next 1100 miles and everyone on the bus is grateful.


Ten miles from your destination you pull out your guns and rob everyone on the bus. Someone tries to be a hero so you shoot him in the heart.


Hiding up in the mountains wears on you after twenty-six months. You try to remember the day you met, just another gray November day of senior year turned suddenly to the brightest springtime morn when you saw his face.

“He’s a transfer,” your best friend whispered into your ear when she spotted you drooling.

But a cold mountain wind blows and the memory scatters with the gust. He comes back to the cabin with not enough meat. You can feel the baby kick.


The three of you head down the other side of the mountain, to a valley town in a whole other state and no one looks at you twice when you enroll to get your GED. You’ll make a life for your baby, a better one than you made for yourself.


You’re driving home from school when you spot the flashing lights of three squad cars forming a roadblock at the end of your street. You stop in time to see him run down in the middle of the road, pinned to the concrete with the knees of police. They lift him up and you think he can see you. The rest of your life you’ll hope he could see the two of you, that he could see you mouth the word “goodbye.”


You tuck her in and you pretend you’re reading a storybook as you tell her the tale of the boy and the girl who ran off to find out what their love might do to the world. And when she asks if it did anything bad you say yes. And when she asks if it did anything good you kiss her on the forehead and you say yes.

Happy True Romance Day!

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

They Call You Couch Maureen Day!

Your dad ran a moving company and he was killed by a couch. It was being raised up to the third floor to try and get it through the window of an apartment because it couldn’t fit through the door. The cord snapped and the couch dropped right on your dad’s head, snapping his neck.

“He left the business to me,” you’re telling a customer. “And I’ve built it into a small local empire. I did it with hatred in my heart.”

The logo on your trucks reads “Your Furniture Killed My Daddy, And I Will Never Let Your Furniture Get The Upper Hand Again.” As Couch Maureen, you promise that you will be in control at every point in the move. No one will ever see you or your team members hesitating or guessing at an angle or a width for getting a couch or an armoire through a doorway. You’re always ten steps ahead of your furniture. You’ve already carried their couch up the steps and around the corners and through the vestibule and into the living room before your customers have even finished packing.

“It’s about not letting the furniture get the jump on me,” you’re telling your customer. “Like my dad did.”

You turn to the portrait of your father.

“You were sloppy daddy,” you say.

The customers are getting uncomfortable.


You’re crying now. Spit is coming out of your mouth as you scream.


The customers are moved to tears with you. You barely even know they’re there anymore.


Getting a grip on yourself you turn back to the customers and slam your fist on their moving contract.

“As God is my witness,” you growl. “I will tame your furniture. I will be its master during the entire course of your move. Your furniture wants to be damaged to prove that it cannot be subjugated to human will. I will make very clear to your furniture that on this matter, it is very mistaken.”

Your customers sign their contract, and then the three of you hug and cry together.

“Fuck your furniture,” you say, waving goodbye as they leave. “Fuck it straight to hell.”

They wave back as they step through the door, confident that their move is in good hands.

Happy They Call You Couch Maureen Day!

Friday, May 09, 2014

Tanning Bed Day!

You’re unlocking the door to your apartment, thinking, “Maybe she’ll be different. Maybe she’ll see there’s still some potential in me.”

You kiss her once more before you push the door open.

“I’m really glad we met tonight,” you say, hoping to win her over before the big letdown.

“Me too,” she says.

You lead her inside your one-room studio, trying to get her into the kitchen before she looks around. Trying to get one more drink in her before she starts asking questions.

“How about a cocktail?” you say, walking backwards, trying to hold her eyes.

She looks in the corner.

“Is that a tanning bed?” she asks.

Here we go.

“It is,” you say, surrendering to the way things always play out. “But it’s more than that. It’s the last remnant of a dream.”

You tell her that you used to run a tanning salon and it was very profitable but your ex-wife was stealing from the company and one day she emptied the bank account and ran off with one of your best customers.

“I don’t blame her,” you say. “He had one hell of a shade.”

You had to liquidate the company, and sell all your furniture, making a point of keeping just one last tanning bed as a memory of what you had, and what you lost.

“I sleep on it,” you say. “And we’ll have to have sex on it if you still want to do that. Unless you wanted to have sex on the floor. Or like, against a wall or something.”

She hesitates, staring at the tanning bed.

“But I guess you probably don’t want to do that anymore,” you say. “They usually don’t.”

She walks across the room and takes your hand.

“Let’s go,” she says.

“Where?” you ask.

“Come with me,” she says.

You get in her car and she drives you across town to her apartment.

“I didn’t want you to see this,” she says, unlocking her door.

Inside the small studio apartment is nothing but a massage table with a blanket and a pillow, some tear-stained tissues crumpled up on the floor around it.

“We called it Couple’s Massage,” she said. “My husband and I worked together, massaging couples on side-by-side tables. He eventually entered a polyamorous relationship with a husband and wife we massaged regularly. I tried to keep up the business but all our clients were couples. It was too much for one person. I got carpal tunnel and sold everything. Except my table.”

You make love on that table. Then you go back to your apartment and make love on your tanning bed. In a few months you open Deep Tan Deep Tissue, the only tanning salon slash massage parlor in town. People will come knowing that they’ll get a tan and a massage as deep and transformative as the love you found the night when you were both at your lowest.

Happy Tanning Bed Day!

Wednesday, May 07, 2014

The Last Prom Day!

Your school is the first doomsday school in the nation and your curriculum is built on the belief that the world is going to be destroyed within four months’ time, so you being president of the prom committee puts a lot of pressure on you since this will be the last prom ever.

“All in favor of ‘Time Of My Life’,” you say, asking for a show of hands. You’re trying to settle on a prom theme and theme song, and it’s been tough to get a quorum.

Only about six hands are raised.

“Okay, far from a majority,” you say. “All in favor of ‘We Are Young.’ Show of hands.”

Hardly anyone raises their hand.

The doors to the study quarters open and a girl with a guitar stands in the entrance. It’s Betty. The new girl. You saw her in the office on her first day last week and you’ve been wondering if she might end up in one of your classes. She’s walking down the aisle now in between the rows of chairs, and you can’t take your eyes off of her.

“I have a song,” she says.

You look out to the rest of the committee members. They shrug.

“Be my guest,” you say.

She pulls a chair from one of the rows and sits down with the guitar on her knee. She strums something slow and sleepy, but her voice is wide awake.

We won’t be growing old

No time to waste on that

Got only a few minutes to spare

So don’t say anything that ain’t worth saying

Don’t do anything that ain’t worth doing

Don’t kiss anyone ain’t worth kissing

And everyone here’s worth a kiss


So let’s show them all

We used to be the future

But there’s no future

There’s no future anymore


So let’s show them all

What we could have been

Show every single one of them

What we would have been


[She screams this line]

What we should have been


[quiet again]

We won’t be growing old

But we will grow as old as old can be

Let’s grow old together

Let’s grow old and die together

Let’s grow old and die.


No one’s sure she stopped playing for a few seconds. The room’s still. It’s pin-drop silent. Then the applause starts rolling through the rows. The new girl smiles and you’re in love in an instant. After a quick, unanimous vote, ‘Let’s Grow Old And Die’ is officially chosen as the theme for the very last prom in the world.

Happy The Last Prom Day!

Tuesday, May 06, 2014

On Vacation With Your Girlfriend’s Parents Day!

You and your girlfriend’s mom and dad are out in the rowboat in the middle of the night looking at the moon when your girlfriend walks out to the edge of the lake and starts calling for you.

“The cabin’s scary when I’m all alone!” she shouts.

You and your girlfriend’s parents laugh at what a fraidy-cat your girlfriend is.

“We’ll be in in a minute!” you shout.

“Just try and get back to sleep,” her mom shouts.

Your girlfriend hears a noise coming from the woods. She asks if you guys heard it.

“She always craved attention,” her dad tells you.

Your girlfriend shouts that the noise is getting louder.

“You guys, just come back to shore!” she pleads.

You don’t want to go. You’ve had the most delightful night with your girlfriend’s parents, rowing about the lake and enjoying the silence together. You love your girlfriend, but you know you’ll rarely get to enjoy time alone with her parents like this, and you don’t want it to end.

When you finally return to shore you find your girlfriend kissing another boy. You pull him away from her and fistfight. You win.

At the end of the fistfight the boy says that he was bored because his parents went on a moonlight hike with his girlfriend, leaving him all alone.

“It’s vacation code, bro,” he tells you. “If you go off with your babe’s parents, she gets a free pass. Don’t you know about vacation code?”

You didn’t know about vacation code.

“My parents were poor, all right?” you shout. “You happy? You happy you made me say it?”

Everyone feels bad for you and the rest of the vacation is ruined because your girlfriend’s parents just worry that you’re going to steal stuff now that they know you’re poor.

Happy On Vacation With Your Girlfriend’s Parents Day!

Tuesday, April 08, 2014

Doghouse Day!

“Guess I’m still in the doghouse with your mom.”

“You’re not in the doghouse!” your girlfriend’s daughter says.

“Oh I sure am,” you tell her. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a grown-up thing.”

“You’re not in the doghouse! My mom left you two years ago. She left both of us.”

“She’s just taking some time to blow off steam,” you explain. “It’s a grown- up thing. Hope when she gets back I’ll get out of the doghouse.”

“You’re not in the doghouse,” she says. “And I am a grown-up. I turned 18 three months ago and I got a lawyer that says I can evict you from my mom’s house.”

She hands you papers.

“But you’re all I have left of your mom,” tell her. “And I’m all you have left of her.”

“Move on,” she says. “I have.”

You fold up the papers and pack your things.

Happy Doghouse Day!

Monday, April 07, 2014

The Fuck Happy World Of Brad Day!

You’re the main character in a porno movie called The Fuck Happy World Of Brad. That’s why you feel so fuck happy and you keep having sex during what should be routine situations. Like when you bump into your neighbor by the mailboxes and the two of you have sex in the lobby and the doorman joins in. Or when you’re bartending and that woman comes in looking for a job and you tell her you’ll put in a good word so the two of you have sex.

“I just want to go back to my day,” you think while having sex. “I want to just be.”

You don’t know you’re a character in a porno so to you this is madness. If you were told you were a character in a porno you might experience a brief moment of relief (porn ends) but then someone else would push play and you’d get back to it. There is no escape. There is no end. The Fuck Happy World Of Brad is both finite and eternal, and it is all you’ll never know.

Happy The Fuck Happy World Of Brad Day!

Sunday, April 06, 2014

Domino Doreen Day!

Doreen is making your pizza. It says so on the tracker. It says your pizza is being made, and for the seven minutes it takes before it says your pizza is out for delivery, you can stare at your computer screen and envision your best friend Doreen making you dinner. She’s applying the toppings and fluffing the crust and putting it in the oven with care.

“You put in the order yet?” Sam asks. Sam’s your boyfriend. He used to go out with Doreen.

You don’t answer Sam. You just watch the pizza tracker. You ordered the pizza with a fake name so Doreen wouldn’t know it’s you she’s cooking for. She doesn’t know where you and Sam moved to (he had to move out of his apartment with Doreen) so she won’t recognize the address either. She has no idea she’s making a dinner for her former best friend. She has no idea how much her former best friend is savoring watching the little bar on the tracker. Doreen has no idea how much you miss her.

Your pizza is out for delivery.

You go downstairs with Sam and wait for it to arrive, trying to focus on you and him, trying to convince yourself he was worth it. But it’s no use. All you can do is listen for the car outside, search the air for the scent of pepperoni, anticipate the moment when a little bit of your best friend is delivered back into your life.

Happy Domino Doreen Day!

Saturday, April 05, 2014

You Don’t Really Care About The Environment Day!

You don’t really care about the environment but you tell people you do because you want people to think you’re cool.

“No way would I ever litter,” you tell people at coke parties and while trying to get into clubs. “CFCs piss me off. Damn straight.”

At work when the cool guy at work who wears his tie as a bandana during happy hour tells you that you should turn off your monitor when you leave for the day to conserve electricity, you say, “You’re damn skippy I should!” Though you really couldn’t give a crap.

Problem is, you’ve fallen in love with a girl. And you’re afraid that if you let on that you don’t really care about the environment as much as you’ve pretended to during the courtship, the relationship will end.

“What do I do?” you ask your butch best friend, Slats.

“Be honest!” Slats will say. Slats is your best friend but she secretly loves you and she hopes being honest will end it with this dumb, rich, environmentalist girl you’ve been seeing. “If she can’t handle the real you, she doesn’t deserve to be with you. Now practice kissing on me so you won’t blow it when you kiss her later tonight.”

You practice kissing on Slats, then you go out on your date with your girlfriend. Midway through dinner you tell her you don’t really care about the environment.

“That’s really upsetting,” she says. “I don’t think we can go on.”

“But Slats told me to be honest!”

Your girlfriend says, “I think Slats is the one you should really be with.”

You leave the restaurant and run out into the street and you find Slats walking down the middle of the street with tears in her eyes.

“When we were practicing kissing together earlier,” you tell her. “It shouldn’t have been practice. It should have been just kissing.”

You and Slats kiss.

“You’re the only one who’s cool with me not giving a shit about Global Warming and all that other crap,” tell her.

“I am,” she’ll say. Then she’ll kiss you some more. Then the two of you will go home, have sex, and not recycle stuff.

Happy You Don’t Really Care About The Environment Day!

Friday, February 14, 2014

The Boyfriend Flute Day!

Jenna found a magic flute in the woods while walking home alone from marching band practice. She took it home and played it in her bedroom, and discovered it played a song unlike any she’d ever heard before. After playing for a few minutes, she looked out her window and saw all the boyfriends from her school standing on her lawn, their eyes rolled back in their heads, swaying to the music, waiting for more, waiting forever if they had to.

There was Kevin, Lisa’s boyfriend of six months who held Lisa’s hand on the way to school every day.

There was Max, Pamela’s boyfriend of two years. They were doing it. Everyone knew.

There was Terance, Reena’s boyfriend who had a car.

Jenna never had a boyfriend, so she was pretty stoked to have all of them at once all of a sudden. She played louder, called more boyfriends to her house, until they spilled off of her lawn and onto the street.

That first night, Jenna played her flute until well after midnight. The boyfriends had been standing for hours, growing tired but unable to leave. They started falling into standing clumps together, sleeping against each other’s weight, trying to continue to sway while nodding off. Jenna eventually lay down for bed, but she left her flute on the windowsill to let the breeze carry a steady, quiet note out onto the lawn for the boyfriends to cling to.

Jenna woke up the next morning to a crash of breaking glass, a rock through her window. She dove to the floor, worried the boyfriends had grown violent. When she peered out over her windowsill, she discovered it wasn’t the boyfriends who were turning hostile.

The girlfriends were outside.

They were tugging on their boyfriends’ arms, trying to drag them away, but the boyfriends wouldn’t budge. The girlfriends were crying, pleading with their boyfriends to take them to the movies or out behind some bleachers, but it’s like the boyfriends couldn’t even hear them. All they could hear was the sound of Jenna’s flute, still carrying a fragile tune on the early morning wind.

“Give us back our boyfriends you bitch!” one of the girlfriends shouted. It was Kara, who used to be friends with Jenna back in middle school. Kara was Oliver’s girlfriend, and Oliver was hugging one of the trees on Jenna’s lawn, licking its bark.

“Go get your own boyfriend!” screamed Nandanee, another girlfriend who had come to retrieve her boyfriend, Josh, who had stripped down to his underwear and was grabbing at the sky above his head, trying to reach out and grasp the notes from the flute.

“I didn’t tell them to come here!” Jenna shouted back. “They came on their own! If something as simple as a flute song can come between you and your boyfriends, maybe that calls into question the depth of your relationships with them!”

That set the girlfriends off. They were stirred into a rage, tying rags around sticks to light on fire, getting ready to storm Jenna’s house and burn it down.

Jenna grabbed her flute and blew hard and steady, the most beautiful tune she’d played yet. It stirred the boyfriends to vivid life. They threw out their arms, knocking their girlfriends to the ground. They pressed in against the house, creating a boyfriend moat.  The girlfriends climbed up onto the mass of boyfriends, trying to crawl across their shoulders and heads to set fire to Jenna’s house. They might have made it, too, if Jenna’s Dad hadn’t been home.

“Hey, you girls!” Jenna’s Dad yelled from the front porch in his bathrobe. “If your boyfriends like my daughter more than you, you just have to accept that. You’re going through puberty now, a confusing time. You’re all experiencing new emotions and they change every day. One minute you think you’re in love to the end and the next your boyfriend is camped out on a lawn listening to some other girl play a flute.”

The girlfriends were sprawled about the lawn listening to Jenna’s dad, letting the flames on their rags burn out.

“Hormones,” Jenna’s Dad said. “Go on home now. It’s just hormones.”

The girlfriends reluctantly got up from the grass and started home, leaving their boyfriends behind, crying as they made their way down the block. They were ex-girlfriends now.

Excited to have all the boyfriends to herself, Jenna went outside to be their girlfriend. She cozied up to them, one after the other, bending their arms around her shoulder and pulling their faces to hers for kisses. But the boyfriends all seemed uninterested in their new girlfriend. They didn’t want to cuddle or kiss. They couldn’t even whisper sweet things in her ear since they’d been rendered preverbal, only able to make grunts and groans. They only seemed to notice her when she was playing the flute. When she put the flute down, even though all the boyfriends in town were on her lawn, it was like she didn’t have a boyfriend at all.

“You deserve better,” Jenna’s dad shouted from the porch. He’d been watching Jenna, still in his robe, sipping his coffee from his ‘#1 Grill-Master’ mug.

“What if I never find better?” Jenna asked.

“You will,” Jenna’s dad said. “There are a million guys out there who’ll love my Jenna for who she is, not for how mentally debilitating a song she plays on the magic flute she found in the woods.”

Jenna knew her dad was right. She crawled out from underneath the boyfriends she’d piled on top of her and stood with her flute in hand.

“Thanks Daddy!” she said. Then Jenna did what she had to do. She put her flute to her lips and started to lead the boyfriends down the block.

The next day at school, Jenna walked into the cafeteria and you could have heard a pin drop. All the ex-girlfriends were glaring at her. Before they could start cursing at her or throwing food, Jenna said, “Follow me.”

She led them out of the school, through the park, all the way to the cliff’s edge. The girlfriends peered over the edge to find their boyfriends in a pile on the rocks far below, the place where Jenna led them with her magical flute song.

“Why did you do this?” Lisa asked Jenna.

“It was nice having all the boyfriends in town, but I was never their girlfriend,” Jenna said. “I decided it’s probably better for all of us to wait until we find a boyfriend who’s attracted to more than just a pretty song.”

“No but, why didn’t you just destroy the flute and give us back our boyfriends?” Lisa asked. “Instead of leading them all over a cliff to their death?”

Jenna thought about this.

“That was one option I guess,” she said.

Jenna and the girls moved away from the cliff’s edge to get away from the corpse smell rising up from below. They weren’t ex-girlfriends anymore. They were just girls again, all of them hoping to meet a nice boy one day down the line.

Happy The Boyfriend Flute Day!

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Old Cop Young Cop Day!

They’re doing the Old Cop Young Cop routine to try and get you to talk.

Young Cop: Confess, Tough Guy! I know you did it, and I’m gonna put you away. I’ll be doing this city a favor.

Old Cop: Even if we do put him away, there are ten more like him waiting in line. I’ve seen it again and again. After every bad guy, there’s a worse guy.

Young Cop: Don’t listen to him, Tough Guy. If you go to jail it’ll make a difference. It’ll make this city a better place. Confess.

Old Cop: Confess if you want. Go free if you want. It won’t matter. This city gets worse every year. I remember when I thought I could do good, clean up the streets. But blood doesn’t wash off concrete so easily.

Young Cop: Dude, shut up! Look he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Tough Guy. I got a wife and kid at home, and I want to make a better life for them by making sure you’re behind bars.

Old Cop: I could’ve had a wife and kid. I even got engaged once. But she knew I was married to the job. I thought if I didn’t marry her, I could at least do my part to make the city in which she lived a safer place.

Young Cop: See that! He chose the job because putting away scumbags like you is important. Confess!

Old Cop: She was murdered the following year. The killer was never found. If only I’d gone through with the wedding. I could have had one blissful year of love instead of impotently chasing scumbags.

Young Cop: You’re so not helping!

Old Cop: I’m too old to help. Too old to play good guys and bad guys and pretend it’s anything more than a game. No matter how hard I fought crime, they still killed her.

Young Cop: Maybe I can do better! Maybe I can make the city better for my wife and child. Maybe if I get Tough Guy to confess, I can make it so your lover’s death wasn’t for nothing.

Old Cop: It was for nothing.

Old Cop shoots himself.

Young Cop: Now do you see what you’re responsible for? Tough guys like you broke his spirit. His death is on your hands. Can you live with that?

You can’t. You know you can’t. You tell Young Cop the truth. You rigged your cable box to get Cinemax for free. You just wanted to see the hot new Amish country-set crime drama Banshee, may God have mercy on your soul.

Young Cop: Works every time!

Happy Old Cop Young Cop Day!

Thursday, January 09, 2014

Get Fired Day!

Today’s the day to go into your boss’s office and get fired.

“The reason for this meeting today,” tell your boss, “is things at the company are in flux.”

“What?” your boss asks.

“It’s not that I’m not doing good work,” tell him. “It’s that there’s just less work to be done.”

“What’s going on?” he asks. He looks around the room, panicked, searching for someone to offer you a reprieve. Then he looks back at you, waiting for you to deliver the final blow.

“If it were up to you,” tell him. “I’d stay on indefinitely. Unfortunately, it’s not up to you.”

“Who’s it up to?” your boss asks. “Who’s pulling the strings?”

“The men upstairs,” tell him.

“Those bastards!” your boss says. “They don’t know how to keep up with the times. If they’d only have listened to your suggestions.”

“I can’t argue with you there,” you tell your boss. “They’re letting me go so they can hang on to their precious salaries and their archaic idea of how things should work.”

“Can’t I do something?” your boss asks. “I could go to bat for you.”

“We both know any effort on your part to save my job would fall on deaf ears,” explain to your boss.

“Seventeen years though,” your boss says. “You’ve been here seventeen years and this is how they treat you.”

“The world’s upside down, what can I say.” You try and reassure him. “Someone as talented as me though, I’m sure I’ll land on my feet.”

“At your age?” your boss asks. “Middle-aged guy going job hunting? We both know it’ll be a long time before you end up somewhere, and you’ll have to accept something way below what you deserve.”

“You need to think of this as a fresh start for me,” tell your boss.

“Yeah but I’m not the one going through it,” your boss says.

Stand up and extend your hand for him to shake. “I know it’s going to work out for me,” tell him.

Your boss reluctantly shakes your hand.

“It’s not fair,” he says.

“It never is,” you tell him. “Jeffrey here will escort me out.”

Jeffrey the security guard is at the door, holding a box of your things.

“Is this really necessary?” your boss asks.

“I’m afraid it is,” you tell him. “It’s not that they don’t trust me. It’s about liability.”

Your boss searches for something to say.

“If there’s anything I need, I’ll call you,” you assure him.

“I appreciate that,” your boss says.

Jeffrey escorts you down in the elevator, carrying your things to your car. You drive home while your boss sits in his office, wondering what in God’s name you’re going to tell your wife.

Happy Get Fired Day!

Tuesday, January 07, 2014

Your Poetry Kills Day!

The police are at the door.

“Open up, ma’am!” they shout. “It’s over!”

You grab your notebook and start reading:

“Here I sit
By my window
Just a bit
Of caramello”

You can hear the screams outside in the hall. They’re struggling to put on headphones. You keep reading.

“I remember our kiss
Your face in the rain
Now when I think of it
I only feel pain”

The blood is puddling on the hallway floor and seeping under your apartment door. You can still hear some rustling of limbs. Time to finish them off.

“Go west cloud!
Thunder red! Thunder loud!”

One last death rattle and they’re nothing but a pile of bodies in uniforms. You grab the bag, open the window, and climb down the fire escape to avoid ruining your shoes with cop blood. They can come for you, they can try to silence you, but your poetry must be free. It’s not your fault that it causes people to bleed from the ears and die when they hear it. If they want to press charges they can go and arrest your muse.

Happy Your Poetry Kills Day!

Monday, January 06, 2014

God In A Bong Day!

You bought a brand new bong, but you didn’t realize how special it was. When you rub it just the right way, God comes out.

“Holy crap,” you say, staring at the face of God. “How’d that happen.”

“It’s a glitch in the universe,” he says. “Bongs work in such a way that sometimes they suck me out of the heavens and onto your couch. Anyway, want to see some magic?”

“Of course!”

God claps his hands and sends the planet into a thousand years of darkness.

“Suck me back into the bong will ya’?” God says. “Take a big hit.”

You have trouble lighting the bong because fire doesn’t work anymore thanks to God’s trick.

“You mean I’m stuck down here? No way!”

God claps his hands and light and fire and warmth is returned to the world.

“Okay, light that shit and suck me out of this pit,” he says.

You take a big hit and suck God back into your bong and when you free the carb Got seeps out and soars back to heaven.

“Bye God!” you shout.

Your roommates come out of their rooms and ask you who they were talking to. You don’t say. You don’t tell them how close you all came to a world of empty darkness. You don’t want to bum anybody out.

Happy God In A Bong Day!

Sunday, January 05, 2014

Call Your Mother Day!

Ask her how she is.

“Turn yourself in!” she shouts.

Tell her you don’t want to focus on you. You just want to hear about her.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Honey turn yourself in and this can all be over.”

Tell her she always does this. No matter how much you want to really know her, to really see her open up and show herself to you, she never will. She just immediately shifts focus onto you and your report cards and your job interviews and your having been implicated as the ringleader in the biggest bank heist in American history.

“What’s so awful about your life that you want to hide it away in the dark, Ma?” you say.

Your mom tells you that janitor who got burned by the shape charge explosion died yesterday.

“Oh great, now it’s lecture time!”

Happy Call Your Mother Day!