As I have gotten older and have grown a bit wider than my white-ish diapers, I don’t embrace the Valentine’s day fervor like I once did as a younger chunky cherub. Part of the issue is I never have understood why getting SHOT in the heart by a nekkid winged bow-bound baby could ever be a good thing for romance or my health. Hey I listen to NPR you know – BOWS are for violins and when I want my wife’s attention I’ll just crawl into the cast iron bathtub NEXT to hers out in the woods like all contemporary coots.
I never envision my ValenTIMES all that romantic anyway since I routinely attract the WRONG kind of attention from the opposite sex when I’m out in public. Can I help it if nobody appreciates the fact that I run a little hot-blooded and chocolate melts in my hands instead of my mouth. Regardless of how often I try, few people other than my mother appreciate a good Hershey kiss and the resulting choco lip print I leave behind.
Also I sincerely love my family but c’mon $5 for a stupid pink greeting card with a red heart and insipid inscription on it? At least with those big boxed foil candy hearts I get one or two nasty waxy chocolate chews for that kind of costly cold cash. Funny too as pricey roses goes-es, the longer the stem - the better to pick noses, and ironically the more thorns to drive home the sincerity of my love.
Nope keep that little rosy flying seraph’s spell far away from me ‘cause V-Day is really just a chance to stock up on devil’s forks and fresh tiny pink hearts in case my bloated Cajun blackened one needs a spare. Don’t worry I’ll get in the Valentine spirit as soon as I open a bag of those ‘conversation hearts’ and have a sexy talk with my sweat-shop silkworms on why I cotton to silky skivvies. All I need to do is embarrass them just enough so that they will spin me some REDDENED twill and a slippery ‘G-string’ thing – which if I’m lucky I might get to strum some with ol’ Cupie’s Pernambuco BOW!