Monday, January 30, 2006
Happy Valentine's Gay
Here we are again. It’s February. It’s time for chocolates. It’s time for potpourri scented teddy bears. It’s time for diaper wearing babies to go around shooting people with arrows that make them fall in love. Awwww. Isn’t that sweet. Except for one thing. When you shoot an arrow into someone, there’s a very good chance that THEY’RE GOING TO DIE. And if they happen to make it to a hospital in time, they’re still likely to have a very bad month. “Oooo look, I’ve got a love arrow in me. And gangrene. Thanks a lot asshole.”
Face it people. Valentine’s Day is gay. See it even rhymes. You think that’s a coincidence? Now I know I’m not the first one to complain that Valentine’s Gay is nothing more than a Hallmark holiday. But the real reason I hate Valentine’s Gay is that it has turned into a giant bribe between two people. Valentine’s gay is a GIRLY GIRL holiday. Guys don’t like this crap. They only pretend to like it, because what they really like is fucking. And ever since this stupid holiday was marketed, the recipe for fucking on and after the 14th has been buying crappy chocolate and pink cards with nauseating text. Guys also enjoy when we do things like cook, and not bitch. And since it’s pretty hard for most of us to cook a proper meal and bitch at the same time, they buy us dinner, chocolate and pretend to like this fucking holiday. And if they don’t, we withhold sex. This isn’t love, people. It’s cleverly masked mutual hatred.
And if he actually likes Valentine’s Gay, sorry, babe. Your man is a homosexual ticking time bomb. It may not be till you guys get married and have two kids, but sooner or later you’re gonna come home to find him plugging away at the sweet cheeks of your “eclectic, artistic” neighbor.
To help illustrate Valentine’s gayness, I’d like to get a little help from Hallmark. Here are a few examples of cards that the in-the-closet gay homosexual ticking time bombs will be presenting to their sex withholding bitchy girlfriends on the 14th.
“You and I are connected in a way that goes beyond romance, beyond friendship, beyond what we've ever had before...We're soul mates. I can't explain it. I just feel it.”
Yeah, maybe you can’t fucking explain it because you’re not smart enough to see how stupid you’re acting. Oooo baby, me wub you. Wub make me feel good inside. Wub make me feel not so much like retard. Wub make me forget dat my bus short.
“I look into your eyes and I see the sparkle and warmth that first made me fall in love with you. I hear your voice and the sound soothes and comforts me as it always has. I feel your touch and I am complete. You fill my senses with all that is you”
Yeah. That really gets me in the mood. So does the vomit I just got all over those satin sheets. Oops.
I’m sure some of you are probably pitying me. “Oh this poor girl got her heart broken by some asshole, and she’s too hurt to see how precious love can be.” Well, sorry to throw you off, but this isn’t the ranting of some jaded broken hearted girl who has to keep wiping away the tears so she can see what she’s typing. I’ve got the Rican. I’m happy. That’s enough. And we don’t need to prolong sex by exchanging scripted nonsense by wannabe writers who probably dabble in spoken word and listen to Savage Garden. (Plus, cards in the bed puts us at higher risk to paper cuts in places I’d rather avoid being sliced.) My happiness has simply provided me with enough clarity to realize that Valentines Day is gay.
That, and when your freelance job doesn’t provide you with health insurance, avoiding contact with flying arrows is always a sound financial decision.