Congratulations on Finding the Diamonds!

You and your wife are one of those married pairs of supertheives who channeled all the spite and sexual tension in their marriage into professional burglary, and so far its been working great.

Over the last five years the two of you have been stealing absurd amounts of money, jewels, and ancient artifacts while narrowly avoiding capture by authority figures the world over. Since you both had well-paying jobs before hand and both have this bullshitty quasi-Buddhist philosophy about life you end up giving most of this money away, but the simple act of charity makes you both so hot that just can’t keep away from one another.

It’s easily the most interesting couples therapy any of us have ever seen and it seems to work really, really well. You’re like a pair of college sophomores the way you’ve been going at it. But you’re in for a snag.

You pulled a big job last week, one where you stole a huge number of blood diamonds from a DeBeers down at your local mall. It went off without a hitch until the two of you sat down and started discussing what to do with your most recent acquisition. Your wife wanted to put it all into the Darfur genocide, but you thought AIDS awareness and prevention programs would be a more proactive use.

Its thrown a big wrench into the old sex-machine, and neither of you are willing to give ground. You’re both the sort of arrogant twats who believe that their opinions are correct and barely listen to what the other person is saying. This is actually what drew you together in the first place, and what strained your marriage previously.

After a week of discussion you’ll check the hiding spot in the freezer, but the diamonds will be gone. You’ll strip out the freezer’s entire contents of Breyer’s and Lean Cuisine, but all for naught. They’ll be nowhere to be found.

In a panic you’ll accuse your wife of having taken all of them for her flash in the pan cause that she barely knew about before Leonardo DiCaprio wouldn’t shut his chiseled, gorgeous face about it.

She’ll fire back that you probably just spent it all on your homo-charity, maybe with a slice left over for some gay sex with male prostitutes. She was never very creative with insults, and she won’t even hear you when you tell her that the majority of AIDS sufferers are heterosexual.

It’ll get more and more heated, with each of you throwing shit at the other until your wife finally blurts out that she cheated on you with Craig, your friend from IT who used to stop by your house to “fix the internet.” In a fit of rage, you’ll tell her you slept with her sister, Rebecca Romijn. You both know that it was years ago, but you’ll still want to tear out each other’s throats.

You’ll wander around the house in a rage until you remember that you stashed a gun long ago in the back of the toilet. You’ll formulate an ill-conceived plan to murder your wife and kill yourself to show your affection, but when you check the back of the toilet you’ll lose track of the plan completely.

There in the back of the toilet, perfectly sealed, will be a shit load of diamonds. Enough to buy a small country, if you were so inclined. As you stare at them dumbfounded you’ll vaguely recall an Ambien induced episode of unconscious activity where you moved your stash and masturbated into a glass and drank it. You’ll feel mighty foolish about the whole thing.

Find your wife and apologize to her. Tell her you want to split the money between charities, so that it can do as much good as possible. That’ll make her forget all about your sister and ride your dick until she ruins that eco-friendly Ikea couch. Also, it's considerably less retarded than both your previous plans.

Finally, get the fuck off Ambien. It works fine for some people, but you’re not one of them. You can afford real therapy. Oh, and congratulations on finding the diamonds. We’ll be writing you another congratulations story in nine months if you catch our drift.

We just winked.

Congratulations on Your Visit to Build-A-Bear!

It will be a rousing success. You’ll create a pirate theme bear named “Brownbeard the Un-bear-able.” You will dictate an elaborate backstory for him, a thrilling anachronistic tale of rape, pillage, and robots. You’ll be much prouder of yourself than you should be.

Your wife will create a teddy bear with a bow on its head named “Princess Adorabear.” It will, as the name implies, be adorable.

She’ll also realize that marrying you was a mistake. So that’s sort of rough. But congratulations on the bear. Its pretty cute as long as you don’t talk about it for too long.

Congratulations on Trying Gay Sex!

This one is a bit odd. We want to keep it as open ended as possible for y’all, but you really do need to make this one come true. So ladies, fellas, come on. Work with us here.

Today (or maybe tomorrow; we lost our day planner) you’re going to wake up and you’re going to want to put your best friend of the same sex’s genitals in your mouth and hold them there until the swelling goes down. It won’t feel forbidden or awkward in your mind. It’ll just feel right.

And it’ll be an awesome idea (you’ve been suppressing these feelings for a long time and you look like absolute ass as a result) and make you feel rockin’, but if you play it wrong you’ll end up alienating one of your best friends since childhood, and a potential source of ass if you really dig the way their genitals taste (there’s a 75% chance you will, so listen up y’all!) so we’re here to drop some knowledge on just how to play this.

First of all, don’t get all faggy about it. You’re going to get your gay on, but that doesn’t mean you have to be all “don’t you love Rent?!” about it. Play it cool. Don’t be weird about it. Just be up front and say “I want to suck a dick/eat some pussy today. You down?” Trust me, they’ll be out of their pants before they can say “Oh Fuck Yeah!”

Next up, do a good job. This is your first time, so a little clumsiness is acceptable, but they’ve got the same tackle you do down there, so you should basically know what to do to it, assuming you’re not retarded. If you are retarded, odds are your friend either knows and accepts this or is retarded too, so they’ll be pretty cool with your fumbling and the way you occasionally shout “fried rice” since you can’t stop thinking about Chinese food whenever you perform oral sex.

If you’re not retarded, ask question for the first minute or two until you get your rhythm down and then see where this shit goes. Our Future Experts are showing a 57% chance that this will become a regular event if you just let yourself go with it, and even if it doesn’t it’ll be a fond/hilarious memory if you play your cards right. So keep an open mind, remember eye contact and conversation and, above all else, enjoy yourself.

Oh, and don’t enter someone’s anus without their permission or you’ll lose your best friend and get a rare strain of hepatitis. Today (or tomorrow) only on this one. Just be considerate is all we’re saying.

And congratulations on trying gay sex. It’s pretty much what you expected, right?

Congratulations On Freeing Yourself From the Handcuffs!

Good job. That was step one. Now you’re no longer bound to that pipe there. The guard is coming back in roughly one to three minutes, so you’ve got to move quickly and quietly.

Move behind the door on the side with the hinges and hold the handcuff so that the pointed part that fits into the rest of it is pointing out from your hand like a car key or a shiv.

What’s a shiv? Its sort of an improvised stabbing weapon, usually crafted from a file. Yeah, that’s the idea.

So this part is going to be unpleasant. You’re going to want to shove it into the side of his neck and pull outward, hooking his windpipe and essentially decapitating him. He’s going to bleed a lot (imagine those old Gushers gummies – its that sort of deal) but he should only make a big gasping and gurgling sound since you’ll get his voicebox there if you do it right.

If you fuck up, don’t panic. Just try to ram it into his eye. Its not as easy, but its still effective.

Its also super gross, so just bear that in mind. Blood is one thing, but you’ll be getting a mess of viscous fluid all over your clothes if you do that one.

Stop crying. You wanted to save your beanie baby collection, and this is how you’ve got to do it.

Now you’ve got thirty minutes before that Columbian drug dealer calls the shipping company to schedule the pickup for your newly cocaine filled beanie babies, so you’ve got to keep your wits about you and do this just right. Its a lot to ask of any 11 year old girl, but I know you’ve got it in you. Think of those beady eyes and stitched smiles and find that strength within you.

Just a few seconds now.

You know what to do.

Oh, and congratulations on freeing yourself from the handcuffs. One step at a time. You’re going to do this.

Congratulations! It's Neither Boy Nor Girl!

Well, it’s been a pretty good seven months followed by an awkward five as you’ve awaited the birth of your first child with your wife. It was going to be such a joyous occasion, but you made a promise all those years ago that secured your success in the business world (you’re the leading salesman of cat furniture in New England) and now its coming back to you. Something terrible has been growing within your wife’s womb.

The first strange ultrasound will come at seven months, when most religious people who aren’t total fags agree the soul begins to develop. The child will lose all primary sex characteristics within a day and begin to take on a dark, murky countenance on the ultrasounds. Until this point it was going to be a girl. You were going to name it Molly.

After the change you’ve had some trouble coming up with names. A wordless scream expressing otherworldly dominion keeps haunting your dreams and you sort of want to use that, but you’re not sure how to spell it and it might push your already strained relationship with your wife to the breaking point, so lately you’ve considered something fairly safe like Pat or Bobby.

Your wife won’t respond to these names. She’ll simply lay in bed with her eyes wide open, tears welling in them as she imagines the monster growing inside her. She’ll be possessed of an otherworldly strength, though, which will be cool. You’ll first notice it when she shoulder butts a car into a parking space. It’ll be the one upside of the whole process.

When the birth finally comes she’ll need every ounce of that freakish strength to deal with the hellish labor pains that wrack her body. Agony will be her world for six days and six nights. It will puzzle her OBGYN, as well as the two other doctors he brings in for advice and the priest you brought in “just in case,” a young British man named John Constantine. None of them will have a clue what’s going on until her womb bursts open and a shadowy figure not of this world emerges.

It will stride out, unfolding as it does so. Tendrils of darkness will surround the hellspawn as it enters this world, smiling grimly as it takes in its future dominion. As it looks at you with its eyeless, black skull it will stare through you into its very soul and issue its chilling first word.

“Father.”

It’ll be sort of adorable, to be honest. It will also be incredibly disturbing, since it will speak like a mix between a fully grown woman and a shrieking hellbeast. One of the doctors will lose consciousness, and the priest’s fingers will go white gripping his cross.

It will be the start of a brief and horrible life that will shatter the world. You’ll survive, but most people will agree that you really wish you hadn’t. You’d let us know, but you’ll long since have lost the capacity for communication thanks to your “child.”

So congratulations! It’s neither boy nor girl! Name it Terry and invest in holy water. Otherwise it’ll be really hard to establish boundaries for the little tyke.

Congratulations on Passing the Test!

Right now you’re in jail awaiting execution, but things will turn around for you soon. Tomorrow you’ll be loosed into a gargantuan maze inhabited by a huge creature of nightmare spawned from the unholy union of man and bull.

After days and days wandering this maze, one step ahead of the hideous monstrosity nipping at your heels, you’ll find yourself exhausted, cornered, and bereft of any hope. When this happens you’ll turn on your heel and finally face the beast that’s been pursing you.

It will be smaller than you expected, but still pretty big. We’re talking around eight and a half feet and half a ton of mostly muscle and horns staring down at you. It’ll scare you something fierce, but then you’ll remember the PCP laced joint you hid in your shoe when you were captured by that narc king and his square guards.

You’ll light the joint off your ever trustworthy Zippo™ lighter and smoke the living shit out of it. The PCP will course through your veins and you’ll go apeshit on the minotaur, ripping its horns off and ramming them into its eyes. We hate to mix our Greek myths, but it’ll be very Oedipal.

After you kill him you’ll tear open his corpse with your bare hands and wear it like a coat around you. You’ll occasionally take it off to feast on the putrid flesh still hanging off his bones. Garbed in this fashion you’ll wander back out of the maze, dazed and coming down from the angel dust. No one will mess with you, since you’ll be draped in a monster corpse and you’ll look like you’ve been high as shit for the last few days. When you get to the bus you’ll have a seat all to yourself, which will be nice since you’ve had a rough week.

Later you’ll remember you were supposed to get the king’s daughter on the way out, but you’ll be too tapped to do anything about it. She’ll curse you and your dad, who’s always been a repressed homosexual by the way, will shoot himself in the mouth in a few days in a fit of rage and guilt over his lie of a life.

But everything else is pretty much going to be aces for you over the next couple of weeks, so try to enjoy the ride and don’t be too bummed about your gay dad’s suicide. Oh, and don’t spend all of your inheritance on ways to get high the way you plan to. Its really not a very good idea.

And congratulations on passing the test. PCP really is a miracle drug, isn’t it?

Congratulations on Finding Her Clitoris!

It was right above her vagina.

This really shouldn't have been that difficult. Strongly consider glasses.

Congratulations on Swallowing The Condom!

Its been one crazy Tijuana vacation, full of hookers and prison cells and at least one spirited rape session. And it wouldn’t be complete if you didn’t swallow a condom filled with drug product (in this case, illegal Skittles) and drive across the border as it works its way through your colon. Just be careful to make sure it doesn’t rupture, or you’ll die terribly as a rainbow bursts out of your chest. It happened to the last mule Javier hired, it could happen to you.

And congratulations on swallowing the condom. That’s the hardest part. I mean, aside from passing it.

Congratulations on Awakening the Destroyer of Worlds!

Congratulations! Today you’re going to break the already strained membrane between worlds and permit entrance to a being of unimaginable horror which has been straining at its walls for centuries, a being whose very name would shatter the minds of all who hear it, a being we’ll simple call It.

You’ve been working on summoning It ever since you dropped out of grad school when you realized studio art just wasn’t your thing. You needed something to fill your days, and It just seemed like a good choice.

It promised you wealth, power and eternal life in exchange for your aid and, like a dope, you gobbled it up before you even though to ask what good wealth would do in a world where madness was the only valid currency.

Since then you’ve spent oodles and oodles of your parents money (you’re a bored heiress) collecting occult books and exploring deadly and ancient ruins. You’ve seen parts of the world many would simply be unable to comprehend and your concept of reality has shifted dramatically. It would be impossible to describe the things you’ve seen and experienced without testing the sanity of our readership, so they’ll have to trust us: shit has been wild over the last five years.

On December 23rd, 2008 on an uncharted, nameless island in the South Pacific, you’ll find an ancient temple teeming with traps. After a long, death defying journey which kills most of your party (by “party,” we mean “archaeological field trip from the University of Wisconsin”) you, your lover, and a single virginal doctoral candidate will arrive at a twisted black altar. You and your lover will strap the doctoral candidate to the altar and take turns deflowering him while bleeding him out. When he finally dies he’ll ejaculate, and from that seed will spawn a gateway to another world.

Its terrible form will breach our world through this gateway, and one of its shapeless, horrible tentacles will wrap itself around your body. Your lover will take off running and you’ll be left, gibbering and mad, in Its embrace.

You’ll get all the power you were promised (It is a horrible inter-dimensional being of its word) but your mind will be a smoking ruin of eldritch knowledge, and it’ll be a good long while before you can process it. But, assuming your lover doesn’t get back to civilization and banish It with the help of some academics at Suny-Binghamton, you should be well taken care of until then, with a place of honor at the side of the nameless horror you just handed our planet to.

So congratulations on awakening the destroyer of worlds. I mean, you’re 31 now. It's about time you did something with your life.

Congratulations on Meeting Your Estranged Mother!

“Oh christ, it’s you.”

Those will be the first words out of her mouth when she first sees you. She was a surrogate womb for a wealthy pair of doctors from New Hampshire. She endured the horrors of being cared for constantly by the lonely couple all for the promise of never having to work again. And you had to show up on her doorstep and ruin it all.

“Well, shit. What do you want?”

You’ll be astounded at just how fat she is. Since the childbirth she must have really let herself go. When your adoptive parents told you about her they said she was a very beautiful woman, but, even without the burns, you don’t think your mother could’ve ever been described as “beautiful.” She’ll be wearing a mumu, and she’ll always be holding a lit cigarette in her hand. The whole thing will be really unsettling.

“I just wanted to meet you, mom.”

She’ll snort. She’s gotten school pictures of you for the last seventeen years, copies of report cards and photos of you with trophies. But all she’s ever felt looking at you is a jealousy that you’ve got the sort of childhood she never did and a pang that you ruined her vagina and never gave her anything back, aside from a $45,000 hush money payment. When you tell her this, tears welling in your eyes, she’ll frown.

“I ehnt your mother,” she’ll say, “I just birthed ya. Those yuppie folks what you done run away from, they’s your real family.”

Then she’ll spit on the floor and sit down on her stained and burned armchair to watch Judge Joe Brown. You’ll want to cry, but you can already tell that if you start weeping now genetics will kick in and she’ll beat you with an iron until you lose consciousness. You’ll bite your lip and look her in the eye, but her focus will be set on the TV. You can already tell this was a mistake, but you have to go through with it.

“Do you ever regret it?”

She’ll turn off the TV and put in a mouthful of fresh chaw before she looks just to the side of you, considering. You have no way of knowing what her life has been over the last few years, no means of knowing just what she’s endured since you emerged from her and she cut herself loose from your foster parents and the idyllic suburban life they let her witness briefly, but it obviously has not been kind to her. After a solid minute of staring at the wood paneling she’ll shake her head, the folds of her fat dislodging a few cheetoes as she does so.

“Not really. Just wish my pussy hadn’t been so stretched. Now get the fuck out and let me watch my stories before I call the police.”

She’ll say police “poe-lease,” and you’ll know she means it. She’s done it before to her other surrogate children when they wouldn’t stop crying and fawning over her. You won’t give her that satisfaction. You’ll turn on your heel and walk out the door and start walking in the general direction of New Hampshire, thumb outstretched.

In a few miles, you’ll be picked up by a Subaru driven by two nineteen year old girls. This is how you’ll lose your virginity.

Sorry the meeting didn’t go so well, but it wasn’t all bad. You got a little play, you found out that your life is going much, much better than it could’ve been and you found out that your foster parents really must love you if they put up with that fat bitch for nine months. Those fifteen minutes were all you could bear.

So congratulations on meeting your estranged mother. Pack some condoms for the trip.

Congratulations on Reaching the Top!

Today, after six weeks traversing the deadly slopes of the Himalayas, rife with human feces and danger, you and your wife will finally reach the summit of Mount Everest. You will, quite literally, have reached the top...of the planet!

You started this expedition as a weak kneed attempt to save your marriage. You’d been trying to explore new ground in more clichéd ways, like by dressing up in costumes or bringing in a black dude, things like that, and none of them were working.

So you, jokingly, suggested that you would climb the highest mountain together to revive your love. Your wife took you seriously, and after six months of training you were off to Nepal to take on the greatest natural challenge in the world.

At first you felt bitter towards your wife for making you drag her up the side of the most dangerous peak on earth. But as time wore by you saw in her a quiet strength you had forgotten. Her beauty as she worked out a handhold with a pick, the glisten of her frozen eyebrows, her excited pants as she nestled next to you for warmth, they all made you realize how little you knew this wonderful woman you’d married.

Unfortunately, when you reach the top the first thing she’ll do is slide her hands down the front of the sherpa’s pants. Then they’ll do it, right there in front of you, in five minutes flat. The sherpa, Jacob, has been seeing your wife intermittently over the last ten years, and this was pretty much just an excuse to get more time with her.

Luckily, by the time you get to the peak someone will have built a bar up there called “H-2-No.” and you’ll be able to run inside and get super wasted super quick thanks to partial oxygen deprivation.

Later you’ll tumble down the mountain to your death after announcing your intention to separate from your wife. She’ll die knowing only your resentment, and none of your newfound feelings of affection for her.

Talk to her while she’s going up the mountain and let her know how you feel. It might not change anything, but it’ll make her less of a bitch when they find out you’re dead. And no one likes a bitter widow.

Congratulations on Being Elected!

Sorry, this one is a little late. We were going to release it back in October, but then Toby in accounting got super wasted and we had to spend a few months dealing with his “problems.” But now we’re finally done with that (Toby isn’t better, he just died because he hung himself while masturbating) and ready to offer up this very special Sexy Results Forecast.

Everyone who isn’t named Barack Obama, please disregard the following.

Is that all of them? Good. Come here. Sit down.

Coffee? Tea? Scone? They’re some sort of berry.

So, let’s get to the point. On November 4th, 2008, you’re going to be elected to the office of President of the United States. You’ll be the first African American citizen elected to this office in the history of the nation. You will, however, continue a lengthy tradition dating back to Taft of presidents without facial hair. Win some lose some, right?

Wait, what? You already knew? Oh. Oh, okay. I see how it is. No, you’re very busy.

That’s alright. Well, congratulations anyhow. Its a big historical event, you know? Oh, and watch your back. There are a lot of crazy rednecks in this country, and we’d hate to lose you.

Congratulations on Finally Seeing In The Cut!

You’ve wanted to see Meg Ryan’s tits for a while, and since you’re neither charming, handsome or famous, the best you could do was renting In The Cut. You tried When Harry Met Sally, but there was nothing in the TNT version you watched. It was funny, and everything, but no tits.

For most people, especially since the advent of Netflix, renting In The Cut would be no problem. But you live in Montana, near the Idaho border, and the woman who owns your local video rental store refuses to carry Meg Ryan films on the grounds that she promotes the gay Jewish conspiracy. When you try to tell her Meg Ryan is neither Jewish nor homosexual she usually picks up her shotgun from behind the counter and chases you out of the store.

Well, last week the Internet finally reached your town (which is why you can get this important news in time!) and you were on it faster than you could say “Holy shit titties.” But you didn’t want to spoil the tits for yourself, so you skipped Mr. Skin and opened up your new Netflix account. In The Cut was at the head of your queue, followed by the first season of Battlestar Gallactica.

Those three to five days waiting for that disk to arrive will have been the longest of your life, which is sort of sad, but when that little red envelope shows up on your doorstep you’ll be so excited you’ll almost wet yourself. You’ll hurry back to your home with the mail under your arm.

However, as you re-enter your house from the mile long walk from your mailbox you’ll be violently struck with a heavy blunt object of indeterminate origin. As you lose consciousness your last thoughts will be a silent prayer that whoever has assaulted you doesn’t steal your TV, DVD player, or your newfound copy of In The Cut.

When you come to a man in a black ski mask will be sitting in front of you. He’ll look a little bit like Craig from the job you had before you made it big on the dot-com boom.

“Craig?” You’ll say, squinting at him.

He’ll hit you with a toaster. “Shut the fuck up!”

It’ll hurt a lot, and you’ll taste blood, but you’ll assume you guessed right, so you’ll keep talking. You always liked Craig, and if he’s shown up at your house and attacked and bound you you’d like to know why.

“So, what’s up man? I haven’t seen you in-“

He’ll cut you off by striking you again with the toaster. This time spots will float in front of your eyes, but it’ll hurt a little less.

“My name isn’t fucking Craig!” he’ll shriek at you, spittle landing on your face.

“Oh,” you’ll say, disappointed.

After a few minutes of him pacing and swearing at you, he’ll calm down enough to explain his plan.

As it turns out he sees himself as the one true Meg Ryan fan. He’s heard tales of your quest to see In The Cut (you really talk about it too much) and he thinks you’re trying to challenge his position as top fan. When you try to explain that you aren’t he’ll beat you some more with a toaster.

As such he has concocted an elaborate scheme to kill you in an ironic fashion, a la the Saw films. He has stripped you naked and attached a mechanism to your penis which will sever it if it becomes aroused. Given the intensely psychosexual nature of In The Cut, he believes there is no way you, who has to be as unnaturally attracted to Meg Ryan as he is, won’t be undone by your own boner. After it cuts off your dick the machine will slowly choke you until the film ends or you die.

He’ll laugh after he tells you this, then let you know the only way you can survive. If you aren’t aroused at all for the entire one hundred and nineteen minutes, including credits, you’ll be released unharmed. With these words he’ll leave your house, politely locking and closing the door behind him as he goes.

Suffice it to say, it’ll be really tough not to get wood after being told you can’t. You’ll think of little else, which will start to make you a little hard in the first place, but once In The Cut starts you’ll be all clear.

It turns out that movie is a real boner killer for you. You’ll now understand the irony of the would-be serial killer’s thought process, given the subject matter of the film. If you weren’t strapped to a chair with a razor blade a few inches from your dick you would laugh about it.

Things being what they are, you’ll just focus every last ounce of energy into not being aroused for around an hour. During the topless scene you’ll break out into a cold sweat but Mark Rufallo will really ruin it for you, so no worries. After that you’ll just be too tired to get hard for the rest of the film.

When its all over you’ll be released from your bonds and proceed into your kitchen to make some pasta. Then you’ll carefully dismantle the remains of the booby trap and put In The Cut in its return envelope, vaguely disappointed by the whole experience.

Oh, and also you’ll now be able to make yourself last long during sex by thinking of Meg Ryan’s tits. So that’s a pretty cool trick. Congratulations on finally seeing In The Cut, winner. Enjoy Battlestar Gallactica when it arrives, and consider moving to somewhere less remote and culturally oppressive.

Congratulations on Losing Five Dollars!

It will all start on the bus.

You ride this bus to work every day. It is an ordinary bus, the 87, running from Arlington Heights into Harvard Square. You and hundreds of other people use it each day to get to and from work. Some people, who may or may not be sexually active teens, even use it to get to and from school.

And today you’re going to lose five dollars on it.

You’ll lose it when a pretty girl in a sweatshirt walks up to you and says “Bet I can’t guess your birthday.”

You’ll pretend you didn’t hear her. Even though she’s cute, its Boston and social morays dictate that you ignore people on busses, even if you think they’re above a seven. But when she taps you on your shoulder you’ll turn around and, conventions be damned, you’ll want to hang on her every word.

“Five bucks says I know your birthday,” she’ll say, grinning playfully.

You’ll look her up and down, but you won’t recognize her. She’ll be prettier than you thought she was at first, like what you’ve always imagined your wife would look like, so you’ll immediately want to keep her talking to you. Five dollars seems like a small price to pay for it.

“You’re on,” you’ll say, opening up your wallet and producing the five dollar bill you’d been planning on cramming into a stripper’s crotch that evening. You’ll hold it in the air and her smile will get real sly all of a sudden. She’ll pull out a piece of paper, lean next to your ear, and whisper into it.

She’ll whisper your birthday. What’s more, she’ll whisper the hour, accurate to the minute you emerged from your mother’s vagina. You’ll be pretty surprised, and by the time you’ve got your wits back the five will be out of your hand, the note will be out of hers, and she’ll be off the bus.

It’ll be an odd experience, one you’ll still be processing when you step off the T and into the office at your low level government job in a passport control office in downtown Boston. When you sit down at your desk you’ll fish around in your pockets and find the note again. When you unfold it it’ll have a few words, written in a scrawl: Charlie’s, 6:30 PM, tonight.

It’ll pique your curiosity, and rightly so. The cute girl who handed it to you was, for all you know, psychic. And it sounds like she wants to see you again. You’ve never gotten a handjob from a psychic chick before, and it could be super hot (telekinesis anyone?).

You’ll cut out of work fifteen minutes early and still show up at Charlie’s a few minutes late, but there will be no sign of the girl. You’ll sigh and look at the note again before you saddle up to the bar to order yourself a drink.

Halfway through your watery beer a young woman will walk up and sit next to you. She’ll give you a look of vague recognition before she looks at a note, similar to yours. She’ll look a little familiar to you, too. Like you went to high school with her or something. The note will seal it, and you’ll speak up to her.

“Where did you get that note?” you’ll ask.

She’ll look at you like you’re crazy. “Why do you ask?”

You’ll pull out your matching note from the bus and her eyes will get a little wide. You’ll trade stories, and it’ll sound really similar. Same girl, same trick, same everything. This girl’s name will be Samantha. She’ll be pretty, but not in a way you’d notice right away. You’ll wonder if she’s gay, but after you each finish a round she’ll ask you to buy her a drink, and you’ll know what she means.

If you do it, the girl who gave you the note will walk away, wearing a fake beard. She was in the corner the whole time, watching you, making sure it all went off without a hitch. We can’t say how things will go with Samantha, but its worth a shot. And a great meet-cute story, to boot.

If you don’t buy her the drink she’ll smile, nod, stand up and leave. The girl who left you the note will follow right behind her, out the door and into the unknown. We can only assume that she caught Samantha as she left and took her home (Samantha was totally bi). Four beers later that night you’ll ride home alone and go to bed alone. You’ll awake when a coven of witches haul you out of your bed to use your body to summon a demon. You’ll die when your torso is pierced by Bael’rog’s barbed phallus.

We’ll let you figure out how it all fits together. We all just think you should buy her the drink, though. She’s pretty cute. And what could go wrong?

Either way, congratulations on losing five dollars.

Congratulations on Wearing a Condom!

Unlike most of our “articles,” this one really isn’t about terrible or enlightening things happening to you. You made a great call today. Wearing a condom is a great way to prevent VD. Also, you really shouldn’t have a kid. Ever, if possible. If you bred, your spawn would resemble you in some way, and one of you is way more than enough.

In fact, we’ve been planning an intervention/dismemberment to cut down on the retarded number of high fives and awkward thumbs up you’ve been handing out like so much herpes (which you avoided through the use of a condom, GOOD JOB!). Bridgette was going to bring the hacksaw and the staff here were going to bring the rope and we were going to tie you to a chair and talk long and hard about some problems we had.

After last night, though, Bridgette decided it would be too awkward. She normally doesn’t have issues removing body parts from men after she sleeps with them. But I guess she felt bad for you, so we’re working on finding another “cold blooded dame,” as you’d say, who’s willing to lop off your body parts. But your penchant for thoroughly retarded behavior aside, it was also a good idea because Bridgette, lovely girl she is, had the siph. So you dodged a bullet there.

We just wanted to offer this affirmation for your wise choice. Although if you could be a little less intolerable, especially at parties, it’d be really nice.

Really nice.

Congratulations on Your Improper Flare Gun Usage!

You thought that “discount yacht tour” you found on Craigslist was too good to be true and sure enough you were right. The “tour guide,” Shep Charleson, is actually a crazed serial killer who mentally breaks his victims through a torturous sea voyage from which there is no escape before he finally ends their wretched lives.

You’ve been on a boat with this cackling mad man for several weeks, living in fear as he viciously beats and rapes you and your wife on an alternating schedule while the other looks on horrified. Life has become a hollow shell for you, and if it wasn’t for your wife and your love for her you would’ve ended it long ago. But today the nightmare will finally be over!

Today as you simply weep softly instead of struggling when he enters you, he’ll decide you’ve been broken. After a ho-hum session of anal rape (he doesn’t really get into it without the power dynamic) he’ll decide that he could use some help crewing the ship. He’ll give you a line and tell you to unfurl the jib. Big mistake on his part. Good job, Tricky Dick (your given name is Richard).

After a brief struggle you’ll wrap his neck in the line and strangle him with the rope, leaving his body trailing as the jib luffs pathetically in the too-light wind. Overjoyed, you’ll head down below and free your wife from her bonds.

After that you’ll search through the supplies together, trying to find some means of signaling for rescue. He’s a smart serial killer (he’s been running these “tours” for almost twelve years now, just as his ad said, without being caught) so there won’t be a radio or anything straightforward like that. But he was smart enough to be ready in case he needed help, so after a lengthy search you’ll at last find a flare gun, as well as a single flare.

You’ll be so happy it’ll be impossible to stop yourself from playing with the gun. You know you should, but it is such a happy day. You won’t think anything could go wrong.

You will be, just as you were when planning this trip, tragically mistaken.

You’re going to shoot yourself in the head with the flare gun. You’ll think you were doing some cutesie routine about how you wanted to end it all and then bam. A flare will shoot with impressive force into your skull, turning you into a human roman candle.

From a purely objective perspective it will be pretty awesome, but your wife is going to flip shit. Eventually, she’ll get over it though, and after she’s rescued she’ll marry that doctor she’s been cheating on you with once every other week. They’ll be very happy and she’ll slowly come to recover from her horrible experience with his assistance.

After a year of beautiful marriage she’ll realize that he was always the one, and marrying you right out of high school was a mistake, just like her mother always said. So things are really looking up for her, at least.

So congratulations on your improper flare gun usage. It was pretty awesome, the way you killed that dude with a line. You even had a witty line when you did it, something like “Time for me to hang you out to dry” or “Yo ho ho and a bottle of dead.” We lost track of what it was exactly. But in the end your inability to tell between genuine laughter and awkward chuckles at your off-putting jokes will kill you, just like that gypsy told you it would.

Hoist the dead sail! That was it. Fucking classic.

Congratulations on Embarassing Yourself!

Tonight you’re going to lose your virginity. It’s been a long time coming (you’re twenty seven) and you’re not going to have a clue what you’re doing. It would be hilarious if you were a nicer guy, but the reason you haven’t been laid yet is because you’re a douche bag who takes himself too seriously.

You’re going to come before you even get inside when you accidentally try to fuck her bellybutton. Its going to be hilarious, and when you finally do get it right you’ll be done in under a minute and it will have been intensely awkward for her, as if you were fucking a “real doll” instead of a person.

When you “finish” she’ll ask if that was it, and you’ll look at her like you had no idea that this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She’ll proceed to pull out a dildo and ask you to finish what you started.

After like twenty minutes of what could best be charitably be described as “fumbling” and more accurately described as “ill-informed probing” she’ll say “I came” in a normal tone of voice. Then you’ll lay in bed next to her grinning and giving yourself the double thumbs up for twenty minutes until she asks you to leave.

She’ll have a kid in about nine months. It will be a boy, born out of wedlock. She’ll marry another dude who knows how it all works down there instead of you, and he’ll actually be a much better dad than you’d be anyhow (he’s super nice and likes kids, and also doesn’t quote The Goonies at inopportune moments. That “Baby Ruth” bit really just made the sex that much more awkward).

Buy some blue shit and take a sex class, and talk to your failure of a father to figure out how you can be a positive part of your kid’s life. And congratulations on embarrassing yourself. I hope one day you grow enough as a person to laugh at this with all of us.

Congratulations on Establishing New Precedents Regarding Grounds for Divorce!

Thanks to you we now have new ways to define failure and fault in relationships. There are a lot of them (your wife was Catholic and she put up with way too much) so we’re going to list a few of the more work-safe items from your docket in bullet points.

- Repeated and creative abuse of animals, both sexually and platonically

- Excessive use of air horn in bedroom

- Refusal to stop talking about Elijah Wood

- Gross overuse of the term “spunk”

- Wolverines (self-explanatory)

- Insistence on role playing scenes from the film Red Dawn without clear character boundaries

- Felony arson

- Severely unpleasant odor wafting from your genitals

- You slept with her sister

They’re not all completely new, but you definitely set new ground in all of them. Now get out there and hit the clubs again. Here’s a pick-up line you can use:

“Hey. Ever do it with a court precedent?”

Its not very good, but you’re a terrible husband and a sub-par lover so you don’t really deserve any tail.

And congratulations on becoming a benchmark of what it means to fail. It will be your single greatest contribution to society.

Congratulations On Surviving the Smoked Turkey Bomb!

Jim and Mary stood side by side on the tile floor, the fluorescent lights turning them both a sickly yellow white. She investigated the filthy grout for signs of life as he surveyed the menu, trying to determine which item was least likely to give him food poisoning. By the time they arrived he had it down to the Italian Special and the controversial Smoked Turkey Bomb, blamed for the death of at least four local elderly citizens of moderate to severe obesity. This was, for a Quizno’s sandwich, a fairly low health risk.

When they finally reached the front of the line Mary spoke first.

“Honey Mustard Chicken sub,” she said nonchalantly. Jim’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Honey?” he said, his hand ever so lightly touching her arm.

“Don’t worry,” she replied, taking his hand in hers and kissing the back of it.

Puzzled he nodded and ordered the Smoked Turkey Bomb, deciding today was the day to take risks. They waited in silence, watching their sandwiches traverse the oven with a painful lack of urgency. When all was done they sat at the least wobbly table across from one another. Jim smiled at Mary, but Mary could not have noticed, eyes on her sandwich, mouth petulant. Jim would’ve given anything to know her thoughts.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he said, hoping to lowball her.

Mary shook her head, seeming to notice him for the first time. “Oh, sorry honey. Its nothing.”

“You’re sure?” Jim said, shifting in his seat as he felt his checkbook in his back pocket into his tailbone.

“Yep.”

They unwrapped their sandwiches. Mary held hers up in a salute.

“Here’s to us,” she said, taking a big bite. She took another and another, devouring the sandwich mouthful by mouthful until the span of table in front of her was nothing more than a ruin of crumbs, stains and the discarded carapace of the hoagie. Then she started to cry.

It was subtle at first but it grew like a storm, a few sniffles turning to hushed chokes. In under a minute she was gasping and holding her face in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asked concerned, putting down his sandwich to devote his full attention to the sniffling, smoldering woman he loved.

She shook her head and planted both hands on the tabletop as if to hold herself up but when Jim reached out she drew them back, collapsing in on herself with them. Her eyes were starting to rim red and sobs had begun hiccoughing out of her uncontrollable. Between them she half formed words.

“I’m…” she started before she clucked out of language, “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Jim grabbed her hands across the table and held her fast. This time she offered no resistance, slacking into his awkward grip.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, staring her in the eyes. She could only keep his stare for a few seconds before she had to look down again. She sniffled and prepared to deliver her speech staring at the ruins of her sandwich.

“You’re a sweet guy, and I could never break up with you. I’ve always known that. But this just isn’t working.”

Jim’s face took on a blank look. “What do you mean its not working?”

Mary didn’t seem to notice. “Still, I couldn’t bring myself to call it off, and I couldn’t stay true. I’m so sorry. You deserved so much better, so I decided this was the best way to end it.” She looked up at him at long last from across the table, staring in to his eyes with pure agony. “I’m allergic to mustard seeds.”

Slowly it all came together. Her overall pickiness at picnics, her dislike of Grey Poupon jokes, her insistence on non-traditional dips for her chicken fingers. How could he have been so blind?

“It seemed like the best way to do this. I want to die in your arms.” Mary planted herself across the table onto Jim’s chest, crushing the remaining half of his Smoked Turkey Bomb. Her took her head in his hands and stroked her hair, tears welling in his eyes. “It won’t be long now,” she promised.

Jim took a long deep breath into her head, trying to take as much of her as he could with him; the feel of her against him weighing down his body, the scent of her hair filling his lungs. They stayed that way, locked in this awkward embrace as vinaigrette dressing seeped into their clothing for what seemed like an eternity. In truth, it was closer to four and a half minutes. At long last, Mary rose from against his chest. She stared at him, then glanced around.

“Hey,” she shouted at a Quizno’s employee, barely conscious, cleaning a table across the restaurant.

“Huh?” he replied, wiping his nose on his sleeve and spitting on the floor before leaning on his mop.

“Is there any real mustard in the honey mustard sauce?”

The employee guffawed. “Hell no. Where the fuck you think you are, lady?” He took a moment to wipe his copious exposed crack with his hand, then sniffed it before returning to his task.

“Shit.” Mary bit her lip, avoiding Jim’s eyes. He had held back the tears when she had lain in his arms, but it was becoming more of a struggle for him. “I didn’t plan this,” she explained.

“So…” Jim said, still trying to hold on to her. She pushed him off her and stood up. “What now?” he managed, voice beginning to choke.

“Fuck.” She ran her hands through her hair. “I’m sorry, Jim. Its not working. I slept with your best friend.”

“Jerry?” Jim said, his voice breaking with the effort.

“And Jake. Christ, my shirt. Fucking Quiznos.” Mary tore off her top. “Good luck. You’re a great guy. I’m sure you’ll find somebody.”

Tears were flowing freely from Jim’s eyes now. “You’re leaving me?” he asked, pained. “Like this?”

But Mary didn’t hear him. She had already strode across the room to the Quizno’s employee, who was now sniffing his finger intently. She grabbed him by his apron and pulled him towards her. “Doing anything, stud?” she asked, voice thick with desire. He shook his head blankly, and she dragged him out the door, leaving the mop to tumble to the floor, unmanned.

Jim still sat at the table sobbing, his tears mixing with his crushed and discarded sandwich, diluting the stains on his sweatshirt. He gasped and looked at the hideous lights, as if they could offer him some sort of explanation for what had passed, but nothing came.

By the time Kristen Bell arrived and placed her hands on his back, he might as well have been a thousand miles away, in Omaha with his father, listening to the man list off the reasons he’d left him as a child.

But Kristen Bell began to speak with the voice of an angel. She wiped away a single tear and bent close to him before she whispered to him.

“Congratulations on surviving the Smoked Turkey Bomb. You did good. You did real good.”

She gave his hand a final squeeze, then turned on her heel. Those were the rules. That was how it had to be.

Congratulations on Becominng a Post-Apocalyptic Raider-Baron!

Ever since the Great Harrowing, when ninety percent of the earth’s population was destroyed by a virulent and horrible plague, you’ve been sort of bummed out. You lost a lot that day: your girlfriend, your low paying job in the mailroom of a small, rapidly collapsing law firm, and, just like everyone else, your ready access to fossil fuels.

It was tough for a while there, but you’ve occupied yourself by slowly rising to power through feats of terrible violence and physical endurance. You’ve been building an army around yourself, and pretty soon it’ll all come to fruition.

After almost ten years of hard work carving out a small empire using firearms and basic tools you’ve finally acquired enough slave labor and resources to create both a new means of transportation and a way to spread your oppressive influence over the land. You’re going to build an airship!

No more will your reign be limited to a twenty mile region outside of a fortified Safeway in the downtown Seattle area. Your empire will rapidly expand to encompass large portions of the upper Northwest.

You’ll fantasize about using this power to try and reform the glory of the United States, but all you’ll really do is take a few more wives and gain a lot of weight. Which is too bad, because if you’d stuck to your guns on this one you really would’ve done it. You would’ve been immortalized in folk songs, and society would’ve come back together thanks largely to your efforts.

But instead you’re going to be murdered by one of your wives in your sleep (you murdered her husband and took her for your wife – it was a bad decision). She'll hold a pillow over your face while you struggle to breathe and push her off thanks to your debilitating obesity.

In case you’re curious, she’ll take up your crown when she holds up your decapitated head in front of your guards, and eventually she’ll fulfill your dream of reconstituting the United States, in this case with a more liberal, lady-friendly leaning. It’ll be called the Empire of Scott, named for her deceased husband.

But for about four years there you’ll be riding through the air, taking what you want and giving nothing back. It’ll be one hell of a life journey.

Congratulations on Winning the Tournament!

Congratulations! The tournament is coming up and you’re going to claim victory! The tournament, of course, is the culmination of a series of eating contests. You’ll be competing up against a whole bunch of really fat people as well as Takeru Kobayashi, and it’s going to be pretty intense.

You’ll have twenty minutes to eat as many hot dogs and buns as you can, and it’ll be pornographic to watch you. Like a human vacuum cleaner you’ll ravenously devour substandard meat and bread, giving even Kobayashi-sama pause. Your only real competition will be a 420 pound man named Jack Schlaziski. He will be wearing a “World’s Greatest Dad” t-shirt and will be sweating profusely. You’ll swear he was on death’s door.

You’ll be burying him at first, but then you’ll catch sight of your ex-girlfriend in the crowd and you’ll slow down when your eyes meet hers.

The two of you broke up two nights ago and your desire to prove yourself to her has been fueling your eating contest performance tonight. But here she is tonight, beaming with pride as you devour piles and piles of junk food. Seeing her your strength will begin to flag.
Jack Schlaziski will immediately detect this weakness. Like all fat people he possesses a heighten sense of empathy for all living creatures which allows him to perceive subtle emotional changes in those around him.

“She doesn’t really love you,” he’ll mutter, mouth occluded by hot dogs, hoping to crush your morale and take the victory from you in a landslide comeback.

But Jack’s never been very good with people, or at applying his gift in general life, so his attempt at crushing you will simply drive you to excel. You’ll redouble your efforts and as you cram hot dogs down your throat even Jack will stop eating, and a hush will fall over the crowd. The only sound will be your mouth gulping as you swallow huge chunks of semi-rancid meat.

When the buzzer sounds you’ll be breathing heavily, disoriented from your hot dog eating fervor. Your eyes will glaze a little, and you’ll feel sick, but your victory will be intact. You’ll have eaten over two hundred hot dogs in twenty minutes.

Takeru Kobayashi, your idol, will begin a slow clap in your honor, and the entire state fair will join in on it. He will place his hand on your shoulder and whisper something in your ear in Japanese. You don’t speak Japanese, but you’ll assume it was a compliment.

Still disoriented, this human contact will make you throw up in your own mouth a little. You’ll sit upright in your chair, swaying slightly with the effort of remaining conscious, until your ex-soon-to-be-not-so-ex-girlfriend runs up and plants one right on your mouth. You’ll throw up for reals when she does, but it’ll be okay. She knows how much you love her, and she’ll forgive you.

The two of you will date for another week and a half until you find her cheating on you with Gazoo from the Flintstones. Yes, he’s real, and he’s made you a cuckold. But congratulations on winning the tournament.

Congratulations on Waking Up!

You’re going to accomplish the biggest thing you’ve done in the last six years this afternoon. You’re going to wake up!

No, you’re not clinically depressed or chronically unemployed, although you are quite unemployed right now. You’ve been in a coma! While so incapacitated your still conscious partner has performed oral sex on you a total of seven times, you’ve seen thirty seven different bouquets of flowers, you’ve had one uncomfortable kiss from a young orderly who was captivated by your beauty. You also saw the movie Maid in Manhattan, and paid about as much attention to it as the rest of the world did when it was out in theaters. But today is going to top it all.

Today your eyes will flutter open and you’ll wake up gasping. It’ll be a disorienting few minutes, since the last time you were conscious you were in a bar fight with a two hundred and thirty pound heavily tattooed man who proceeded to beat you with a pool cue until you lost consciousness.

He would’ve gone easy on you but you were, as he put it, “a dyke,” and “he’d hate to discriminate on how he treated people who slept with his ex-wife depending on sex.” So down you went. Your assailant is currently in prison, although because of his egalitarian statement he was not given additional sentencing based on hate crime legislation. He bears you no ill will (you gave as good as you got and earned his respect) and is up for parole in a week. He’ll send you an ice-cream cake with his prison earnings, simply decorated with the word “Sorry” and for your part you’ll laugh and won’t report his parole violation.

You’ll scream as you realize you’re not in the bar, and try to get out of bed, but you’ll collapse on your now useless legs. The orderly who once kissed you will be at your side in a flash, eyes wide with shock and a touch of fear. You’ll shout your lover’s name as he holds you and tries to comfort you. He’ll call a nurse and she’ll get Grace on the phone and she’ll be in her Subaru Forester faster than you can say “My comatose love has finally awoken!”

Grace has been true to you all these years, thanks largely to her huge heart and your gorgeous eyes, the kind that are too expressive to do justice. Even when they’re closed people can see the beautiful soul hanging out behind them (hence the orderly).

So despite the facial scarring and the new steel plate in your skull you’re totally going to have a bangin’ hot girlie on your arm when you roll out of that hospital in a sweet ass wheelchair, although once she gets you home she’s not going to go easy on you. You’re going to have trouble sitting down for a while, but in a good way.

When you first try to sleep memories of the last six years will crash on you with the force of a riptide and start pushing down on you. Just ride it out. If you lose it you’ll end up in another coma and even though Grace has a big heart, she doesn’t deserve that. She’s got you back. Don’t let her down.

Oh, and congratulations on waking up. It gets easier every day.

Congratulations on Becoming a Successful Song Parody Artist!

Today your music career will start with a bang when you replace the majority of the lyrics to a contemporary pop song with the word “butt” and sing it on a train. You’ll catch the attention of a low level music executive, one who still rides the train and only has one mistress, and he’ll give you some studio time to produce your incisive social commentaries masked as song titles with bodily functions in them.

We can’t really get too deep into the details here, since we partied pretty hard last night and are having a rough day today. We can’t remember much after we were collectively thrown out of a TGI Friday’s, let alone uncover the particulars of your asinine fate, so just do your thing and everything will turn out great.

And congratulations on becoming a successful song parody artist. If you really want to blow everyone’s mind, parody other song parodies. They’ll be all “Daaaaaaamn.”

Congratulations on Framing Wilmer Valderrama!

Good job! At long last Wilmer Valderrama will be behind bars where he belongs. He’ll be there because today you’re going to sell him some cocaine and then shove him into a cop.

As anyone who isn’t a celebrity knows, bumping a peace officer is a good way to get your cavity searched and Wilmer, not being from the hard knock streets like you, will not have known this. He’ll have thought that as a celebrity he could not possibly be arrested for something as silly as possession of a controlled substance in amounts larger than one pound, and certainly not because an officer he had bumped on the street found it wedged inside of his colon. Will he ever be wrong.

But as you know all cops are people whose lives peaked mid high-school, and they want to perpetuate the rules that governed their lives then and enforce them on the world at large. So once Wilmer’s shoulder touches Officer Brady and he’s knocked back a step, his fate is sealed. In a matter of seconds his pants will be off and he’ll be receiving Officer Brady’s unlubricated fist in his most private of areas.

As Officer Brady is up to his wrist in Fez’s rectum you’ll start to get squeamish and wonder if even someone so horrible as Wilmer Valderrama really deserves this. He does, but you’re a nice guy, so you’ll withdraw the cocaine from his discarded pants and shake it in the air.

“Look what I found,” you’ll say.

Officer Brady will rapidly withdraw his ungloved hand, leaving Wilmer collapsed like an abandoned puppet, and proceed to stick his finger into the drug substance and taste it. It’ll be tough not to scream “Ewww, gross,” but remember, this is a cop and you want to get Valderrama in jail. If you criticize the officer’s methods you’re sure to be cavity searched yourself, and then likely imprisoned for being of mixed racial heritage (you’re a black Eskimo).

After a few painfully long seconds he’ll lick his lips and say in his deepest cop voice, “Cocaine.” Then he’ll nod, pick Wilmer up by the scruff of his neck and toss him into the back of his cruiser.

Wilmer Valderrama is going to prison today, and it’s all because of your tireless efforts. Well done. You’ve ensured that we won’t have any more That 70’s Show Reunions to deal with. Although there might be one when he’s released from prison. But you’ve got plans involving Ashton Kutcher that will hopefully put a stop to that.

Congratulations On Getting Over the Well Thing!

Today you will have been trapped in a well for a total of seven days. You’ve eaten your shoes and are beginning to lose hope. Don’t! You’re almost over there, and today you’re going to get over this whole well thing once and for all!

When you wake in the lukewarm water of the well a nine year old deaf boy will be peering down towards you. All you’ll be able to make out is the vague outline of a child, so you’ll cry up to him.

“Hello? Hello?”

Your voice, by this point, will be hoarse. On day one you’ll have occupied yourself by singing “I Wanna Go Home,” thinking it was pretty funny and that you’d be rescued since the well is located in the middle of a thriving metropolis (they’ve paid us handsomely not to say which one) so your voice will still be ruined from that.
When he cups his ear and shake his head you’ll assume its your voice, and not his ears. You’ll raise up your voice and try again.

“Please. Get help.”

He’ll leave, and you’ll be filled with hope. You’ll think he’s finally gone to find you rescue, and begin laughing with joy.

In fact he’s left because he believes that you’re a drug addled thrill seeker who leapt down the well. There is, as he and everyone else in town knows well, a ladder that leads from the bottom of the well to the top and he’ll think that you, being of apparently able body (he has super vision to make up for his ears and he totally saw your bangin’ bod, all the prettier for a week soaking in that well, Hottie McHotterson) just climbed out of the god damn well as any child over the age of three would. He’ll have gone off to sign to his deaf friends about how nice your tits were.

After an hour or so you’ll realize he’s not coming back with help and you’ll be really sad. You’ll weep and flail around and eventually you’ll hit the wall and feel metal. You’ll notice there’s a ladder there and you’ll inch yourself up on to it, weakened by not eating but finally strengthened with the resolve that you might live.

After fifteen minutes of laborious climbing you’ll reach the top and cry tears of joy as you lay in the sunlight, smiling as people walking by you in the street stare.

After that you’ll go to Subway and get a footlong chicken teriyaki, and it’ll be fucking tasty. Then you’ll go home, finally over your week long well debacle.

The thing to take away from all this is that if you drank less your roommates would actually worry when you went missing for an entire week. Get into a program. And congratulations on getting over the well thing. Kudos.

Congratulations on Finding The Dress She Left!

It’ll be there in the bottom of her dresser when you’re cleaning out her room. This will be the fourth or fifth time you’ve tried; you usually have to stop about halfway through. It’s hard for you to be in there, in the room you both used to sleep in, with all your memories of her. This time, it’ll be even harder.

She’ll have been gone two weeks when you find it. You’ll have been sleeping on the futon for one, after you realized that you just couldn’t still your thoughts wrapped in sheets that still held her scent and a mattress that still had her imprint. You’ll still just be sleeping in a sleeping bag, like a kid at a sleepover party.

Except unlike a kid at a sleepover party you’ll be chain smoking cigarettes and drinking Jack Daniels out of the bottle while you try to stop weeping. But you will be like a kid at a sleepover party in that you’ll sleep in your clothes and won’t change them when you get up the next day, at least most of the time.

When you find the dress tears will well in your eyes without you knowing it. After a moment, you’ll realize what you’re looking at.

It’ll be the floral print dress, the white one with little red roses on it. It’ll be the one she knew was your favorite, the one that she’d sit on your lap in and kiss you and kiss you until she could feel you hard underneath her, and then she’d give you one last innocent kiss and walk into the bedroom and you’d follow.

You’ll sniff the dress to see if it still holds any of her scent, but it’ll just smell like Ikea teak, just like everything else in the dresser.

You’ll consider sending her an email to let her know you found it, maybe an email where you tell her about the hard time you’ve been having. You turn on your computer and open up the mail client and type in her address, but you won’t be able to think of anything to say.

Press send anyway. Give the dress to Goodwill. Let it make someone else happy. Congratulations on finding it. Things are going to get better for you real soon.

Congratulations On Your Recent Acquittal!

Congratulations are in order! Today you’ll be found not guilty on all counts by a federal appellate judge!

As a fully exonerated businessman, your first act will be to hire a prostitute to fellate you in the back of your Mazda Protegé (with the trial you’ve fallen on hard times). This will be a huge mistake, as though you were under indictment for tax fraud, of which you were totally guilty, the feds were still itching to get you on anything they could and, surprise surprise, hooker was a plant.

Now, don’t panic. This can go one of two ways.

The key thing to do is ask her if she’s a cop. She’ll say no. She’s seen the movies too, and she knows she has to tell you if she is, but she’s not a cop. She’s a federal agent, and those fuckers can do whatever they want. So here’s what you do.

After the cop question, ask her what she thinks about the Patriot Act. She’ll launch into a spirited speech about how it finally grants federal investigative bodies the power they need to end the remarkable corruption affecting our world. She’ll talk about how without it scumbags like you would run free, and the United States would become little more than your personal piggybank. Halfway through the speech she’ll know she’s been made, but she’ll be so excited she won’t care.

By now, she’s going to be moist, so all you’ll have to do is lean over and cut her off mid sentence with a kiss and you’ll think her name was Wally West she’ll be on your dick so fast (you have some really weird fantasies, by the way).

Now, this is where you have to make a choice. If you call her the next day you’ll have to risk your marriage with your wife, who you’re already cheating on with your mistress but this will make things a lot harder. Expect to have a really hot three way or a painful separation later this year if you choose this route.

If you don’t call her she’s going to go back to her bosses with the evidence and say you went for it hook line and sinker. Since you never actually paid her for sex she’s just going to get a rape kit and drop some of her own money, cash, into their hands just to see your wham bam thank you ma’am ass burn. And you’re going to end up with a ruined marriage, no chance of a hot three way, and potential rectal damage from your brief stay in county.

Look, this one really isn’t that hard. Just call her. She’s totally hot and even though you’re a repressed homosexual with a bevy of fantasies about DC Silver Age super heroes, it’ll be a fun ride. You might even get a shot at every dude’s fantasy (TWO CHICKS AT ONCE!!!) which would be your fantasy if you hadn’t blocked out your best friend touching your dick as a kid and you loving it.

So just call her. Oh, and congratulations on your recent acquittal. It was sort of a travesty, but hey.

Congratulations on Sleeping With the Mail Clerk Who Has Downes’ Syndrome!

Just to start this off, you’re a terrible person. I thought you should know that.

It all started three months ago, when you found work temping for a small, but high profile, law firm. The firm, run by a young professional named Margaret Samson, is called Samson and Sons. There are no male members of any litigious education, which Margaret finds hilarious. They specialize primarily in civil rights and liberties cases. You were a low-level male employee, brought in to balance out workplace diversity.

After a few weeks, you developed a rapport with the mail clerk, a young woman named Dolly. Dolly isn’t short for anything, and to the best of your knowledge she doesn’t have a last name. Whenever you asked her what it was she simply shouted “french fries,” so its possibly McDonald or Wendy’s or Burger King or whatever. Who knows. The point is that Dolly is profoundly retarded.

She isn’t terribly attractive or charming, but she has a staggeringly large forehead (which is totally your thing) so you’ve found her utterly irresistible. Each time her glazed, dull eyes meet yours when you gather up Ms. Samson’s mail you smile and your heart flutters. This would be adorable if your intentions were honorable and you wanted to offer this young woman a better life. But as we’ve established earlier, you’re a terrible person.

You have no desire to marry Dolly, something you know well in your heart. You simply want to, as you like to tell your friends (none of whom really like you, by the way) , “put that drool to good use.” You want to fuck the retard. If possible you want to bend her over the mail bins and ruin her life by impregnating her with a child she’ll have neither the wherewithal or the financial standing to deal with.

After two months of coy looks and “accidental” hand touches, you’ll finally luck out. Dolly will be working late one night and you’ll have her all to yourself as you help Ms. Samson compile a brief. One thing will lead to another, she’ll have no idea what you’re doing, and you’ll fuck the retarded mail clerk on a conference room table while your boss talks to a client who is currently fighting extradition in Myanmar. The entire affair will last fifteen minutes, including the brief and unsatisfactory foreplay, and will leave Dolly confused and sexually frustrated as you will fail to bring her to orgasm, as you so frequently do.

Dolly will stare at you, puzzled, her face dripping with semen, eyes burning with the question why to which her mouth cannot give appropriate form to.

“Randolf?” she’ll manage. Your name is Scott.

If you weren’t a terrible person, it would be enough to break your heart. Instead you simply throw her underwear at her and tell her you’re going to find some paper towels.

In your absence, Ms. Samson will find Dolly in the conference room where you were supposed to be compiling briefs. She’ll immediately know what transpired and when you attempt to deceive her with stories of a “rape monster” she’ll break your nose with one good, well placed punch. You’ll tumble to the ground, blood streaming from your ruined face, and black out.

To make a long story short you’re going to be convicted of rape in about three months. Then you’ll be going to prison where your life will be brief and horrible as men who have had their worlds stripped from them destroy you physically and mentally in order to feel powerful. Then you’ll be killed in an altercation over your tater tots.

Congratulations on fucking the retarded mail clerk, though. Consider killing yourself.

Hello World.

This is the first post of many on what is to become my budding blog, and is largely just here to be a test example. In the future I'll be posting flash fiction, essays on video games and nerd culture and, who knows, maybe some bad poems. Keep coming back and I hope you find something you enjoy.