A REMEMBRANCE OF VALENTINES PAST

IT'S A GIRL THING. WE WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND.

Do Women Care About This Holiday?

I think it's more honoured in the breach, by the distaff side. That's you, Selma. Many women roll their eyes or act nonplussed if you bestow candy, flowers, and a cheap but dreadfully thoughtful card purchased at the last minute at 7/11. Sometimes a guy just wants to take the already-wilting flower(s), the opened box of candy with one piece missing (zen gift), and the damned overwrought Hallmark card, and chuck them all in the dumpster in the alley where, after a romantic fluorescent-lit dinner at one of the BETTER fast food outlets, he was hoping for a quick hummer, maybe.

But no. Even such supreme sacrifices of our hard-earned poker and kino money, even such obviously long and careful planning on the way to pick her up, even the fact that we NOTICED, as we were purchasing some Binaca at the 7/11 to cover the subtle essence of medicinal gin in case we got pulled over, that it was that most-fearsome of all holidays, Saint Valentine's Day... No wonder they named a massacre after it... Where were we? Oh, yeah, we get bupkis, even after all that. Not the slightest pretense of gratitude, enthusiasm, affection, or even randiness, which was all we were ever dreaming of in our tender little masculine hearts.

But GAHFAHBIT, you should FORGET V-Day, or simply shine it on as a boozhy rip-off by the fascist imperialist running dog lackeys of the multinational flower & chocolate & stationery cartels... THEN you find out what this date REALLY means to these freakin' CHICKS! THEN you have to go back to referring to your favorite sex acts by their polite, clinical, Latin names, and very damned carefully, at that.

THEN you have to take that extra effort to ALWAYS remember her goddamned stupid name, picked out from the same goddamned stupid drug-store check-out-line mini-book of baby-names by ten million other dopey-ass Moms of other Heathers, Britneys, Tiffanys, or WHATEVER the fuck her goddamned name is!!! Instead of just "Babe," as Gawd intended. THEN you have to start waltzing around with the freakin' L-word, just to get a decent meal out of her. Or even pizza, without chipping in.

So, guys, do yourselves a favour: Remember thou keep holy thy wife's/ girlfriend's/ current fucks' Day, the Fifteenth of February, every year. That's not so hard to remember, right? There's only twenty-eight days in February, it's the really short month, right? Easy to remember. And then you divide twenty-eight, her menstrual cycle, BTW, which we'll cover on Mother's Day. Gahfahbit. Divide it by two, for the two of you, and you get...

OH SHIT!! God DAMN it! I forgot it again. Just ONE flamin' day late, and you're cooked! Now, what am I going to do with these expensive gifts? I'm out like, seventeen bucks! Oh, well. The bars are full of sad chicks who didn't get nothin' right? Gotta go cruise, I guess, long as I already got the flowers. Eat the candy myself, forgot dinner, too... Bye for now, ladies! And, BTW, how YOU doin', hanh? Nudge-nudge, wink-wink...? Buy me a drink and I''ll follow you anywhere... NO, a goddamned restraining order will NOT be necessary! Sheesh! Is romance DEAD??? Youse broads got no freakin' HEARTS!

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