I hate Valentine’s Day.
Not because “you should show the person you love them 365 days a year, not just one…”
Shut the hell up.
That bandwagon smells like Lady Gaga’s rotting meat dress and there’s not even a cash bar on board.
I suppose post-college, said holiday began to grow a special place in my liver.
(This turned awry when I every holiday began to participate: “Shit, gotta run to the liquor store. It’s Flag Day.”)
Valentine’s Day, however, has always been my queen of spades.
That bitch and her dirty parlor games. She sneaks up from behind and drops a couple of unlucky thirteens. (Hearts, laymen. She’s a dire 26 points in the red).
Next thing you know, money’s missing off of the dresser and your daughter’s knocked up. I’ve seen it a hundred times.
(Wait. That’s from “Tommy Boy.”)
Perhaps said aversion comes from being single many a Valentine’s Day.
Eh. That didn’t really bother me. Wearing red and getting tanked never ruffled my feathers.
Maybe it was riding bitch in the bandwagon to anti-Valentine’s Day parties and watching dudes prowl the bar in attempts to couple their bolts into the right nut.
Eh. Again, wearing red and getting tanked never got my granny panties in a bunch.
Here’s the real reason:
While half of the asshole population — wearing pink and red whorefits — is lined up outside overcrowded and overpriced sushi joints (you know that’s where she wants to go), the other lot of you are drunkenly hugging soiled genitals in a bar alley, hoping you’re not mixing toxic juices.
Too late. You both already have syphilis.
Plus, you’re littering my dive bar in lingerie and pink popped collars. Lingerie? Why not? It’s a holiday. You would.
We need to space this crimson tide throughout the year.
And Jeanine, a word (or two)?
Those chalky heart candies taste like Willy Wonka’s ass. Talk about cottonmouth when you’re stoned. Not that I would know. Nor would I know what Wonka’s ass tastes like. Your boyfriend told me last night.
(However, the ones that read “fax me” can stick around. It’s just so beautifully… oh forget it. Go Google image “fax machine,” children. Learn about our ancient technology.)
Now if you’ll please excuse me. Tomorrow is Susan B. Anthony Day and I’m out of whiskey.
I’ll meet you, Ms. Fritz at the bottom of the liquor bottle.