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You’re Really Good At Getting Women Golfers To Mail You Their Golf Caps Day!

They respect your honesty. While others would go on and on about being a big fan who just wants something personal from their favorite golfer, you make clear that you don’t even like golf.

“I just like the way the cap makes your skull so perfectly ovoid. I like watching your sweat leak out from under the rim. And I like masturbating into the cap, mixing your sweat with my semen, and then rubbing the mixture on my torso, leaving it to dry while I watch television (not golf).”

Today you’re going to receive a gray Top Flite cap worn by Jenna Daniels. She’ll include a note that reads, “Get Messy! Jenna Daniels.” 

After you go to pedia to remind yourself who Jenna Daniels is, you’ll finish the soup you were eating and then retire to your garage to sit in the backseat of your Datsun (it’s where it has to happen for you) and masturbate into her sweat-stained cap. It’ll be just okay, and when you’re done coating yourself you’ll toss her cap into the trash and spend your evening drying in front of a Sons Of Anarchy marathon you Netflixed.

Happy You’re Really Good At Getting Women Golfers To Mail You Their Golf Caps Day!

You Once Had Sex In An Abandoned Refrigerator Day!

You had to keep your sex hidden from your families and friends because it was interracial sex and back then no one would approve so you found a refrigerator and crawled inside. The people who had thrown out the refrigerator hadn’t taken the door off its hinges, which was irresponsible and dangerous but lucky for you since the door provided privacy. You pulled it shut, making sure to prop the latch so it didn’t lock, and then you proceeded to have an afternoon of ribald, interracial, inside-a-refrigerator sex. It was magical, forbidden, and cramped. The passion unfortunately got the better of you because upon finishing, when you went to open the door, you discovered the latch had slipped shut and you were locked in.

“We’ll die in here,” you said.

“Because the world wouldn’t let us love,” he said.

You decided that if you were going to die, you might as well die having all the sex you’ll never be able to have again. So you used the remaining oxygen and what little space you had at your disposal to have interracial sex in as many positions as you could bend yourselves into. When neither of you had another orgasm left to enjoy and the last of the oxygen was almost gone, some delinquent kids who were setting cats on fire in the area wandered by and pulled the refrigerator door open. They then laughed and hit you with sticks while you scurried out of the fridge and back into your clothes. 

You never saw each other again. The connection you made in that refrigerator, pretzeled together in the throes of death, was too strong, the intimacy too deep. You knew if you continued your relationship together you’d just race to the nearest abandoned refrigerator to try and recapture that feeling, risking your lives all over again. So you parted ways, for your own safety.

“And that’s why you should always take the doors off refrigerators before you throw them away,” you conclude at the end of your seventeen-minute TEDTalk, Sex, Racial Politics, and the Looming Threat of Discarded Appliances.

Happy You Once Had Sex In An Abandoned Refrigerator Day!

Back For Hannah Day!

You told her you’d come right back for her once you were settled in the big city and you had a place for you and her to stay. That was seventeen years ago.

“So you just think you can waltz right back in here and throw all your rotten money around and all those years will disappear?” Hannah will ask.

Hannah’s bouncing a four-year-old on her knee. Her seven and nine-year-old are tugging at the hem of her dress.

Tell her you know it was wrong of you to wait this long. But you fell into a bad crowd in New York City.

“Performance art was still kind of big when I got into town,” explain. “Lots of onstage nudity, lots of dance studies, lots of poems rattled off in poetry slam cadence.”

You didn’t want Hannah to see how you’d fallen prey to them. You didn’t want her to be corrupted by their questionable artistic focus the way you had been.

“The shows were just insufferable,” tell her.

“Did you do stuff with your penis onstage then?” Hannah will ask.

“I’m not proud to say that I did,” tell her. “Penis puppetry, glow-in-the-dark light sabering, and I did one entire solo show where I delivered a 45 minute scolding to my naked junk. Won an Obie for that one.”

And now that you’re big and famous, a monologist who’s crossed over into supporting roles in films, she’s just supposed to pick up and follow you to the city? What’s to stop you from veering off again into some new scene like Storytelling?

“I can’t promise anything,” tell her.

Hannah will tell you how her husband Johnny nursed her back from heartbreak after you never returned for her. He convinced her to accept his love even if she couldn’t love him back, and he filled her with the children you never gave her. And now that things are convenient for you to come back for her, she’s just supposed to toss him aside?

“Pretty much,” tell her. Then show her the apartment you bought for you and her and her kids with all your rotten money.

“Let me just write him a note,” Hannah will say, before packing a few things from her ramshackle home and following you back to the big time.

Happy Back For Hannah Day!

Lose Everything Day!

Whether it’s in a high stakes poker game, a mudslide, or a gaslight situation where for some reason everyone you love and all of your colleagues pretend they’ve never met you before, today’s the day you lose everything and start over from scratch. Maybe you could finally be a fireman like you’ve always wanted? Or one of those guys who rubs the new billboards over the old ones? Just whatever you do, don’t gravitate right back into your career as a child psychologist because puke!

Happy Lose Everything Day!

You Have Four And A Half Hours Until You Reach Your Destination Day!

He’ll say, “This is going to sound weird but—” and you’ll cut him off and say, “I was thinking the same thing.” He’ll say, “So you remember?” Say, “I think we’re even in the same row.”

It was a flight from New York to Los Angeles. It was around ten years ago. And you never forgot him.

“I never forgot you, you know,” he’ll say.

Tell him on that flight you were on your way to move in with your boyfriend, now husband, following him for his job, and you remember he was moving closer to his new wife’s parents who had fallen ill.

“They’ve since died,” he’ll say.

“I remember all of it,” tell him. “Because whenever I’m feeling unsure about things I remember how well you and I got along, how I felt sitting next to you.”

You remember his smell. You remember your forearm against his on the armrest. You remember his Leon Uris book.

He’ll say that sometimes he sees your face when he makes love to his wife. You’ll say you once drove to the airport, just to think, but also to watch the people walking out of arrivals, just to see.

“And now we’re on a plane together again ten years on,” say.

“I don’t believe in signs,” he’ll say. “But if I did, I’d assume this was one.”

“I’m dying,” tell him.

You are. You have four months. And this is cruel because putting you back in this seat next to him it’s like you’re being given proof that you haven’t lived the life you wanted, that you should never have said goodbye when the plane landed that day.

“It’s rotten,” he’ll say. “We could—”

“I have a daughter,” tell him. “I could be selfish and leave my husband to cram as much of you into my last four months as possible, but I couldn’t do that to my little girl.”

“Then what do we have?” he’ll ask.

“We have four and a half hours until we reach our destination…” the Captain will say over the loudspeaker.

Happy You Have Four And A Half Hours Until You Reach Your Destination Day!

You Miss Larry Day!