Maybe not a daily one, but cranking one out is certainly a ritual for me. I do it pretty much whenever I'm in a predicament or face an obstacle. Things just seem to sort themselves out after giving myself a low five. Like when my last girlfriend told me she was pregnant. My initial reaction was to grab a clothes iron and queue up some yacht rock on my Zune, as is tradition. After that, I proceeded "take my ferret out for a walk" if you know what I mean (I mean I jerked off). In hindsight, I may have had the cord to my iron too tight around my neck on that occasion. The last thing I remember before losing consciousness were the gossamer tones of Michael MacDonald's "Sweet Freedom" in my ear holes. When I eventually did wake up, it was two days later. My mouth was parched and my ass was chapped (I really need to teach Mister Mistoffelees about personal boundaries and also about rimjob etiquette with an emphasis on consensuallity). Yes, I was still pantless, ass well. Also, there was a jug of tetrachloroethylene and a coat hangar beside me. But you want to know what I did not wake up to? A pregnant girlfriend. Let's just say I "took care" of the problem, if you catch my meaning. By that, I mean I told her I wanted to start a dry cleaning empire so I could have something to pass on to my unborn child. Well, something other than a propensity for genital microsomia and a copy of the City of Angels soundtrack autographed by Dennis Franz. To demonstrate my resolve in this new venture, I broke into the nearest dry cleaner, stole a coat hangar and a jug of tetrachloroethylene, then presented them to my girlfriend's fetus, or at least where I thought that fetus might be. Spoiler alert: it was not anywhere near her butt. Needless to say, she did not warm to my newfound entrepreneurial spirit. Ended up leaving me the next day. Said she wanted me to have no part in our child's life. I was disappointed at first. Who wouldn't be? But then I thought about how much care kids require, both physically and financially. With that kind of responsibility, I couldn't do things like - and this is just the first thing to pop into my head - travel to the United Kingdom in order to kidnap a Scottish yak, bring the thing back home, breed it with a local moose, then corner the North American market on a yak/moose sausage hybrid. Like I said, though, a good tugger brings the stars back into alignment.