Justin and Charnice started referring to themselves as the Cinnamon Mafia today and they won’t tell you why.
“Is it because…you guys have access to really good baked goods?”
Justin and Charnice laugh and tell you that what you don’t know could fill the Staples Center.
“Is it because…you’re engaged in various prostitution and gambling enterprises and…you like sweets?”
Justin and Charnice laugh and tell you that you might as well have just stepped off the bus from Idaho.
“Does it have to do with butt sex?”
They say no.
“It doesn’t mean anything, does it.”
Justin and Charnice then show you the scabs where they sliced their thumbs open to take a blood oath.
“Oh my god you guys really are in a mafia,” you’ll say.
“A Cinnamon Mafia,” they’ll correct you.
“Yeah but what the fuck is that?” you’ll ask.
Justin and Charnice tell you you’re a little boy and that you should go home to Mama. That pisses you off, so you drive back to the town where you grew up and ask the boys you used to mess with on the street if they want to start a mafia with you.
“I want to call it The Taffeta Mafia,” you’ll say. Surprisingly, they’ll all shrug and say why not. You’ll tell them that the first order of business is to go and kidnap the captains (and sole members) of the Cinnamon Mafia and torture them until they explain why they called themselves that.
“Second order of business,” you’ll say, “Is gabagool!”
All of your Taffeta Mafia soldiers will jump up and shout, “Gabagool!” Then they’ll go and put knives to your friends’ genitals for a while.
Happy The Cinnamon Mafia Day!
Justin and Charnice started referring to themselves as the Cinnamon Mafia today and they won’t tell you why.
On a sentimental whim, you’ll go into his room tonight to tuck him into his covers long after he’s fallen asleep. He may be fifteen, but he’s not so big that you don’t tear up a little when you see him sprawled on his belly, just like he’s slept since he was a toddler.
When you pull the covers back a bit you’ll see that tattoo. It’s definitely real (you can see that part of it is still scabbed) and it’s definitely racist. Racist enough to get his ass kicked in certain neighborhoods. It’s not often that a father gets to blink his eyes just once and see all the limitations that are suddenly placed in his son’s way, but when you see how high up on his neck the tattoo has been drawn, it’s clear that he can remove “prized civil rights attorney” from his dream resume.
You’ll bail on tucking him in, allowing his covers to slide down his back. Let him catch cold. At least he won’t have to go into school and then come home with a letter from the principal demanding that you come in for another talk. You’ll go back into the living room and sit in your chair and wonder what the hell it was that you did wrong?
“Was it because I spent most of his childhood in prison after being charged with a racially motivated hate crime that involved ‘curbing?’” you’ll wonder to yourself. You’ll think about it a little longer before concluding that any mistakes your son makes are entirely the fault of his mom and what a jerkface she was before she joined the Church of Christ.
Happy Your Son Just Got His First Tattoo, And It’s Really Racist Day!
You’re pretty shy around women, which is why you’re still a virgin at 34. You’ve pretty much been counting on the fact that one day a woman’s car is going to break down outside your house and she’ll need a place to stay for the night and inevitably, because you’re both alone in your house, the two of you will do it. It hasn’t happened yet but you’re pretty confident that at some point in the next few years at least one woman’s car will have to break down outside. Just in case, you keep the lights on in your living room all night long so it looks like someone’s home, and you also spend a lot of time sitting by the window staring out at the street.
Tonight a car is going to sputter to a stop right outside and a beautiful woman will get out and walk toward your house. But at the last minute, she’ll end up knocking on your neighbor’s door to ask for help. He’ll invite her in and you’ll hear the two of them doing it through the wall. You will be sad.
They’ll live together for several years until he starts doing drugs and inviting dangerous people over to their house and she comes running next door to you for a place to crash for a while. Your neighbor will come by looking for her (he needs money) and you’ll tell him to go away, so he’ll come back with all of his drug addict friends. You’re going to have to fight and kill them all if you want to finally be alone in your apartment with the woman whose car broke down right outside (which can only mean sex, even if her car broke down three years ago, she’ll see it as the funny way that fate works and she’ll want to do it just to have the story to tell about how fate works in funny ways and you never know).
Time to get lucky. Now kill all those drug addicts!
Happy Lose Your Virginity Day!
That’s what you get for sitting still for too long. Lazy people are always at risk of drawing thousands of Japanese Beetles to gather on their skin and on top of and underneath their clothes because lazy people are too busy concentrating on the sweet little dreams in their heads, dreams of when they loved and when they might love again, dreams of one day finding a reason to make a special afternoon in a park for themselves, dreams of driving fast in a pretty car with one hand on a bare thigh that isn’t theirs (for goddamn once!). They dream and dream and dream and sometimes they even consider making a plan before they go back to dreaming and it takes up so much of their goddamn time that Japanese Beetles can spend an entire afternoon swarming around them before the lazy people finally turn on the news or check a website or get a phone call that tells them, “Holy shit you’re covered in Japanese Beetles! You have to move out!”
Happy You’re Covered In Japanese Beetles Day!
Today you’re going to tell your Dad that you’re getting married and he, being the over-protective son of a bitch that he can’t help being, will ask what your fiancé does for a living.
“She’s an explosives expert,” you’ll say.
Your fiancé will hear you from the other room and she’ll wander into the kitchen with a big grin on her face. “Well, I wouldn’t say expert, but I’m pretty frigging good.”
Your fiancé will grab you by your ass and pull you in for a kiss. Your father will watch.
“Who do you work for?” your father will ask because he’s apparently the fucking Gestapo all of a sudden.
“Whoever pays the most,” your fiancé will say.
Your father will drag you into the other room. “I didn’t raise my son to marry a mercenary,” he’ll say.
“You didn’t raise me, period,” you’ll say.
Your fiancé will stand too close to the stove and the stray gunpowder on her sweater will ignite. She’ll run screaming.
“This what you want?” your father will ask you. “You want a wife who’s constantly on fire?”
“Better than a wife that’s always ice cold,” you’ll say.
Your father will slap you and tell you not to talk about your mother like that. You’ll run out the front door, crying. You’ll forget that your fiancé is still on fire in the kitchen. You won’t remember until you’ve run all the way to the train station the way you used to when you threatened to run away from home as a teenager.
Things were simpler then, back when you could pretend to run away from home without having to worry about the fact that your fiancé just exploded. Why do we have to grow up?
Happy She’s An Explosives Expert Day!
Just keep telling yourself that and maybe you’ll get to sleep tonight. Maybe you can forget all about the fact that you got bitten by some guy who you don’t remember how you know but he was in your email address book so now you’re friends and he had to go and turn out to be a goddamn fucking Facebook zombie and of course he ran straight over and bit you.
“FACEBOOK ZOMBIES AREN’T REAL!” you shout at the ceiling. “It’s just a web thing. That’s all.”
Just in case, you open your bedroom window and put your cat out on the fire escape so she can make a run for it if you get bloodthirsty. Your cat immediately runs up the steps to the roof like an idiot. Like you won’t immediately go up there and eat her should you become bloodthirsty. Fucking stupid cat.
“I’M NOT A ZOMBIE!” you shout into the darkness. Your roommate leans into your room to tell you to keep quiet. Just in case the zombies on Facebook are real and he got bitten, you’d better drive an axe into his neck and take his head off.
As the blood spurts into the air and the blade of your axe gets stuck in your roommate’s clavicle, you can’t help but wonder what the fuck was so bad about Friendster anyway.
Happy Those Vampires And Zombies On Facebook Aren’t Real Day!
You are obsessed with the prowess and dexterity of mountain climbers and you want nothing more than to get access into a famous mountain climber’s tent and let him have his way with you. This means that you have to be pretty good at mountain climbing yourself, seeing as you have to chase a guy up a giant mountain, one that usually only he can climb, and keep pace with him so that you’ll be close by when he finally beds down for the night. You’ve been climbing for years and you’ve really become quite skilled. Learning to climb mountains not only ensures that you’ll stay on your man’s trail, but that maybe after he has sex with you he’ll see that you and he have something to talk about and he’ll let you stay another night.
Today it’s all going to go wrong. You’ll have been chasing after Lazlo Enright up a mountain that no one’s ever climbed before. The way will be treacherous and you’ll find that you’ve gone off his route. In your desperation to find him again you’ll race up the mountain trying to locate his tracks, but there’ll be no sign of him. Before you know it you’ll find yourself at the top of the mountain. No flag, no camp, nothing. You’ll be the first human ever to reach that peak. A few hours later, Enright will come crawling up over the side and he’ll see you there waiting for him. You’ll try to offer yourself to him, but he’ll feel threatened by a woman who can break his mountain climbing records. Way to blow your shot at some ass, genius.
Happy You’re A Mountain Climber Groupie Day!
You live in a time where fascism has swept the globe and, among many horrible side-effects, live theater and dance has been prohibited. This sent lovers of live theater and dance into underground clubs where they could, under penalty of death, continue to enjoy those old shows they used to love. It’s rare that a show reaches its curtain before the death squads come in and murder everyone on stage and in the audience, and the showgirl ranks have been dwindling down until tonight, when you are the very last showgirl.
“That means I’m also the greatest showgirl alive,” you tell your stage manager.
“That’s right kid,” he says. “Now get out there and—“
“Fuck that,” you say. “Think I managed to last all these years just to get shot? I can only hang onto my title if I never dance again. And dance again I never will.”
“But the people need you,” he says.
“The people also need their churches to have not been leveled,” you say. “Everyone should grab what he or she can. I am the greatest showgirl alive, and I always will be.”
You can hear the crowd clapping for you to come out and entertain them but you refuse. They keep clapping until it gets louder and louder and finally they burst into a cheer. Music begins, and they clap to a rhythm. You go out and see what’s going on.
There on the stage is a little girl, one of the audience member’s daughters, still wearing the frock she wore to the theater. She’s dancing like an angel, like the world depends on it, and watching her it is clear that you are neither the last, nor even, the greatest showgirl alive.
“Fuck!” you say. “I was only able to enjoy it for a couple minutes.”
The little girl is suddenly shot dead by soldiers.
“Yes!” you shout. “I’m the greatest showgirl alive again!”
You go home, satisfied that its too late for anyone in the city to put on a show, which means you’re the greatest showgirl alive until at least around 7 PM tomorrow. May there always be roses under your— Whoops, someone just started dancing again.
Happy You Are The Last Showgirl Day!
Your comic strip about a piece of strawberry shortcake that says hilarious things to other desserts is going nationally syndicated today and will appear in over 300 newspapers. Unfortunately, you’ve been telling the story of that piece of cake for the last four years in the local papers that have carried your strip. And the story is at the point where the piece of strawberry shortcake has to die. It’s going to die in a fire set by a child.
The folks who signed you to your syndication deal will not be pleased. They’ll protest that they contracted you for 900 more strips and you’ve just killed the main character with the very first one. Tell them this is what happens to pieces of strawberry shortcake sometimes, and it’s where the story was headed. Now, they needn’t worry because the coming strips will address the community’s reaction to the loss of their beloved piece of strawberry shortcake, and there will of course be a criminal inquiry, and a surprise visitor in the form of a talking can of chick peas.
“I’m telling a story,” you’ll tell them. “You were nice enough to give me a bigger microphone and I appreciate that. But this is the point in the story that we’re at right now, and I can’t drag out what don’t want to be drug.”
Your syndication company will sue you for breach of contract and they’ll take over ownership of the characters and hire a staff to write it, and that’s how Strawberry Shortcake will go on to be one of the most popular comic strips for the next forty years while you die slowly of alcohol poisoning.
Happy Because That’s What Happens To Pieces Of Strawberry Shortcake Day!
Tired of the Air Force? Today’s the day to get kicked out. You can do this either by jumping off of a roof and breaking your back or dying, or you can plot to steal one of the Air Force’s planes to attack an American city but plot it so poorly that you’ll get caught and hanged. You could also break into the infirmary and swallow a lot of pain pills, enough to kill you. I know most of these suggestions involve dying but seriously the Air Force really doesn’t wanna let go.
Happy Get Out Of The Air Force Day!
Glenn the Glow Worm is a glow worm that is sick of all the lies.
“I’m tired of the bullshit,” Glenn tells you (you’re in a coma in Des Moines and Glenn has been communicating with you telepathically from his home in the soil of Gretna, Nebraska. “It’s time for folks to pay.”
“You’re just a glow worm,” you respond inexplicably. You won’t ever remember talking to Glenn when you wake up, but you’re glad he’s there for you now. “What the fuck are you gonna do? Build a bomb? Please. I have bed sores with more brain power than you.”
“You’ll see,” Glenn responds. “One day soon you’ll all see.”
“Oh fuck you,” you say to the worm with your mind. “I am so fucking sick of you and your angry, ‘I’m going to fuck it all up’ bullshit. When I get out of this coma I’m going to drive out there and piss in the hole you live in.”
“You can’t mean that,” Glenn says.
You and Glenn don’t speak for a few hours. Then Glenn says, “I’m sorry I’m so negative all the time.”
You respond, “I’m sorry I’m so testy. It’s just that the orderly stole my wedding ring yesterday and I can’t do anything about it.”
Glenn starts talking about all he’ll do to the orderly if he ever gets in the same room with him and you laugh good naturedly with your mind.
“Oh Glenn, you’ll never change,” you shine at him. Glenn telepathically tells you he loves you and you tell him you don’t know how to respond to that. You don’t know how you feel.
Happy Glenn The Glow Worm Day!
It’s just like the beginning of one of those Skinemax movies. You were on the phone with Tiana, the phone sex girl you’ve been calling several hours a week ever since you moved into the big city and started feeling lonely. She interrupted the call to say she’d heard a noise. You heard a crash of glass in the background and then lots of screaming. Then nothing.
If this were one of those Skinemax movies, you’d be pulled into the frightening and tantalizing world of professional sex workers, interviewing Tiana’s friends and maybe having sex with them or at least watching them dance at the strip club before interviewing them. It would open your eyes to the truth behind the fantasy, and eventually you’d come face to face with Tiana’s killer!
Since this isn’t a Skinemax movie, all you’re going to do is argue with the phone sex company about your bill because when Tiana was murdered she dropped the phone but it didn’t hang up. The phone sex company will argue that you get charged until you hang up so you should have hung up when you heard that Tiana was involved in a domestic dispute, and you’ll say fair enough.
Happy The Phone Sex Lady Got Killed While You Were On The Phone With Her Day!
You’re really pissed off at him. You came back to town thinking you wanted to get back to the way things were, and you were pretty excited for you and Jerry to get down to business again the way you used to. And then he shows up to meet you and he’s wearing a frigging collar.
“I can’t believe you’d do this to me!” you say to Jerry.
“I had to do something!” Jerry explains. “I was going down the drain man! And the parties weren’t the same with you gone. They stopped being fun and just started getting weird, man. It was like every night I left the house I was afraid I was gonna end up killing somebody.”
“You couldn’t have gone into AA for a little while?”
Jerry shook his head. “AA’s the biggest party in this town man,” he says. “I needed something that would really knock my head against the wall you know. I needed someplace with muscle. So I hit the catholic church.”
You don’t say anything. You just sip your mug of beer.
“I can still drink you know,” Jerry says. “I can drink all day if I want.”
“Not the same,” you say. A prostitute comes out of the back bathroom and tells you you’re up. You climb off the stool and follow her. Jerry grabs your collar.
“Hey!” he barks gravely. “You better know that when you come back out, I’ll be here waiting. Always.”
“Thank you father,” you say with a sneer. Then you follow the prostitute into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.
Happy Your Old Drinking Buddy Is A Priest Now Day!
“Everything has its place,” explain to him. “And you arrange things according to a certain connection that allows the energies to flow properly throughout the room.”
“Makes sense,” he’ll say.
“If things are rearranged to break the feng shui, very bad things can happen and the apartment can become a terrible place to live.”
“Don’t want that to happen,” he’ll say.
“So we’re gonna have to move the couch against the big wall. The desk is gonna have to slide over here by the window,” say to him. “And you’re gonna have to go up my butt.”
“This goes back centuries,” he’ll say. “Can’t be wrong.”
Your hot roommate will help you to move the couch and the desk and then you’ll both climb on the couch and he’ll go up your butt. The apartment will instantly feel much more livable.
Happy Explain To Your Hot Roommate How Feng Shui Works Day!
Today you should snoop through your wife’s things until you find something shocking, such as a bucket of decaying severed children’s fingers, or some weed.
“Have you been smoking marijuana / murdering children?” you should ask her.
“I want a divorce,” she’ll say. “I kept my love of marijuana / child murder from you because I was afraid you would condemn me. I can see I was right.”
Beg her not to go. Tell her you’ll stand by her no matter how many children she kills / wasted she gets. She’ll tell you it’s too late.
“Our life is a lie.”
At that she’ll go outside and spark up / slit the paperboy’s throat and saw him apart in the yard. You’ll go into your den and turn the TV on loud, cursing yourself for being so nosy.
Happy Find Out Something Shocking About Your Wife Of Thirty Years Day!
Today you and your fellow mountain bikers are going to pull over in a clearing for a water break. Your pronouncements of how “bitchin’” the trail is and how “stoked” you all are to bike ride some more and how “radical” riding bikes is will sound a little more hollow than usual. Finally, you’ll say what none of you have been brave enough to admit.
“Mountin biking sucks because it’s really hard to ride bikes up a mountain unless you’re on like a dirtbike or something, and even then it’s bumpy.”
Everyone will look at each other, wondering if it’s okay to admit it.
“Come on, the only reason we all keep doing this is because we love each other but we’re too scared to say so. Let’s ditch these bikes and screw.”
The other mountain bikers will shout “radical!” and they’ll jump off their bikes and strip from their padding to reveal their beautiful bodies which are all toned to near perfection after all the mountain biking they’ve been doing to bury the sexual tension. The pine needles will blow, but aside from that the mountain biker orgy will be one of your favorite orgies of 2007.
Happy Mountain Biker Orgy Day!
You are the best motorcycle rider in Montreal, but that’s not saying much since French-speaking people have a sucky center of gravity.
“I need to compete where people don’t speak French,” you tell your wife.
“Toronto? You’ll die!” she says.
You throw your chair in a drunken rage (you’re always drunk) and it hits your dog in the head. He dies.
“Mon Dieu!” your wife shouts, cradling the retriever’s head.
“If I don’t compete in Toronto his death will have been for nothing,” you say.
Your wife looks up at you from the floor. “Kick their butts,” she says.
Tomorrow you’ll compete in the Toronto motorcycle competition, where you’ll finish seventeenth.
Happy The Best Motorcycle Rider In Montreal Day!
You wrote to the electric company a couple months back telling them that you’re a drug addict with a baby in the house so you can’t pay your bills anymore but they can’t turn off the electricity because the baby needs to see her dolls. The electric company sent your letter to child services and they came and took your baby away, then the electric company turned off your electricity. Today you’re going to go down to the electric company and tell them to turn the electricity back on or else you’ll have another baby.
“You wouldn’t,” the electric company will say.
“I would,” you’ll reply just before throwing up on your chest.
The people behind the window at the electric company will huddle and try to figure out how to handle this. Finally, one will come back to the window and say, “Who you gonna have the baby with, huh?”
You’ll take out a picture of you and your ex-boyfriend who is deceased but they don’t have any way of knowing that.
“How do we know that guy isn’t deceased?” they’ll ask.
“Guess you’re just gonna have to gamble,” you’ll say.
The electric company will huddle some more, then they’ll come back and offer you two free months of power.
“After that, baby or no, you’re on your own,” they’ll say.
“Pssssh, if I live two months a whole lot people are gonna lose a good bet!”
You and the electric company will laugh then you’ll fall on the ground and go into a coma. Ironically, you won’t come out of the coma until your two months of free electric are up, so you’ll have missed the whole thing. Just goes to show that drugs are no bargain.
Happy You’ve Got A Bone To Pick With The Electric Company Day!
Two years ago your girlfriend got put in jail because she ran someone down with her car and then got scared and drove off. You and she were gonna get married, and you made a vow to her that you would stand by her until she got out. You’ve been visiting her every weekend. It’s been heartbreaking watching her sob through the plexiglass, telling you about indignity after indignity that she’s suffered. It’s been a real drag, and it’s made you wonder if you aren’t throwing your life away on the worst kind of long-distance relationship. That all came to a head when you met Darlene back in August.
“I didn’t want it to happen,” you’ll tell your girlfriend.
“You said forever,” she’ll argue.
“But we’ve grown apart. I’ve continued to live a life of freedom, doing as I please and showering alone. While you have stayed in prison and have gotten into all the stuff that goes on in there. The fights. The cell block searches for contraband.”
“What’s she got that I haven’t got?” she’ll ask.
“Skin that I’m free to touch,” you’ll say.
Your girlfriend won’t argue any further. She’ll know you’re making good points. She’ll wish you the best and go back to her cell block and she’ll make a deal with a white supremacist to have her people on the outside set fire to your house while you and your girlfriend are asleep inside. You and she have grown apart. It’s just a shame you didn’t know by how much.
Happy Break Up With Your Girlfriend Who Is In Jail Day!
You got hit buy a city vehicle a couple years back and you won a huge settlement on account of it was an election year and you lost an arm. Now that you have a lot of excess money and you don’t have to work no more, you’ve been killing time by going out and buying mementos from your youth. You bought the land behind the high school where you and your friends used to have keggers and you opened a bar (the high school was a little pissed). You bought the company that fired your dad and ran it into the ground. Now you’re looking for the sky blue Honda Civic hatchback you lost your virginity in in 1989.
Your quest will lead you to the boy who took your virginity, Nicky No-Nose. He was called that because his nose was almost flat on his face and because his father was a member of the mafia (since deceased in a clamhouse gun battle). You go and ask Nicky No-Nose whether he knows what happened to the hatchback.
“Do yourself a favor, don’t go asking nobody about that hatchback,” he tells you.
But you’re not used to being told no now that you’re rich so you keep asking people about that hatchback. Eventually, you find out that the hatchback was used to pick up the stabbed to smithereens body of someone who didn’t pay his vig and drive it someplace where no one will look. The car and the body were taken to a junkyard and crushed into a cube. The cube’s still there so you buy it for 80 dollars. You bring it home and pay a metals expert to try and stretch it back out, but the body inside makes the cube start to stink when you stretch it out, so you leave it as a cube and occasionally go out and climb atop it with your one arm and you sit and remember the night when you had two arms and you were just sixteen and getting popped for the very first time. You have a good memory of it because you had to lay your back along the pushed forward front seats, which acted as a kind of raised recliner for you, so you could see everything, your whole body underneath a panting Nicky No-Nose. You remember your beautiful right hand caressing his gorgeous skin.
Happy Try And Buy The Honda Civic Hatchback You Lost Your Virginity In Day!