(The cat above is named "Freak," a Chicagoland ANTIFA breed. He lets me live here.)
“Buy her diamonds,” demand the commercials on radio, television, and the internet. Cram it, that just ain’t evah gonna happen. I don’t care how much these commercials try to shame me into feeling cheap or unsuccessful, there ain’t gonna be any Valentine’s Diamond. Nor will there be a new Lexus in the driveway, elegantly wrapped in a gigantic heart-shaped red ribbon. Are we crystal clear on that?
Many women, if not most, hate Valentine’s Day. Not having a significant other, or having one who doesn’t deliver a gift, can be painful. Valentine’s Day is nothing but a cruel day of cultural angst. Even if she has a love who has righteously shown up with a dozen roses year after year, eventually she will wonder why her shabby loser hasn’t gifted her a Rolex.
The only guys who enjoy Valentine’s Day are looking to score at least one of the Fifty Shades of Getting Laid. Most guys detest Valentine’s Day. Roses can jump to $100 a dozen in some areas and giving the obligatory heart of chocolates is cliché and considered cheap. When your true love says she doesn’t want anything for Valentine's Day, you guys best know that you had better show up with something and you had better hope your sweetheart did not see that damn Lexus commercial.
The legend says St. Valentine died by execution; I am certain the truth is that it wasn’t just an act of revenge for his womanizing. Once Valentine started giving out the gifts, the little fornicator was doomed; his demise was a futile preemptive attempt to end the madness before it got out of hand; all of the other men knew that if Val's antics caught on, women would expect gifts forever. If Val had only hopped discreetly from bed to bed he would have been allowed to die naturally with that crotch-eating grin on his face, a very worn out but happy old man. Nope, that busy little swinging prick just had to start handing out his flowery business cards; "Roses are red, violets are blue, while your other be away, I'm a be humpin' on you." The horny little proto-hillbilly got exactly what was coming to him. The way I heard it, a short, fat, bald, incontinent hit man named Cupid was commissioned to put an arrow through Valentine’s cheatin’ heart.
We need to find out if the fool who started the "Sweetest Day" nonsense is still around, and if he / she is, we need to paint everything below his / her waist with hot fudge, then stake it to a Texas anthill.
With what little is left of my eternal lust, your Valentine,