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!
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