After being rushed to the emergency room with a massive facial gunshot wound, you are consoled by a nurse who tells you that childbirth is worse.
An old euphemism will come in handy this week when your roommate ingests too much acid, causing him to sit in the living room and throw his shit into an electric fan.
Your period of intense mourning for a recently departed loved one continues this week. Next time, remember to over-insure and kill someone you do not like.
A brush with greatness goes sour when you spend an evening drinking tea with literary giant Ernest Hemingway’s putrefied corpse.
The ghosts of several great athletes will appear in a vision and send you on a quest: You must spend the rest of your life searching the world for a better-tasting light beer.
Your excessive greed and horrible small-mindedness are revealed when you slaughter your magic pet goose that lays dimes.
You will be beaten to death by an angry mob of 35- to 50-year-old, middle-class white people when they overhear you declaring your undying hatred of the Beatles.
Your decision to save a few dollars by packing a lunch for work every day is met with widespread scorn by your co-workers. However, they must laugh at you in secret, as you are Bill Gates.
Your recent money troubles will be a thing of the past when you realize that, coma or no coma, people will pay to have sex with your grandma.
An elite council of intellectuals and great thinkers chooses you from among thousands of applicants to tell Woody Allen to shut up.
Your deep, personal belief in the universal order of things is shaken by an incorrect fortune-cookie prediction.
Your witty barroom telling of an old joke about an insomniac, a dyslexic and an agnostic will be met with a long, leaden silence.
