Tuesday, February 12, 2013

The Love Muscle Striketh

When I was a younger man and actually believed in ridiculous things like basic human decency, humility, and love, people called me gullible. Now that I’m older I can dust off the ash and dandruff the LifeMonster vomited all over me and say through Clint Eastwood-like clenched teeth that everything we’re taught about romance and love is bullshit.

We’ve all heard Valentine’s Day is a holiday created by greeting card companies and confectioners to sell cards and chocolate. It’s the most pussy-whipped, superficial and ill-conceived holiday in the calendar next to Groundhog Day and Arbor Day. In fact, I’d rather plant a tree and watch a groundhog than participate in the inane rantings of a bad couple who stay together because it’s Feb. 14.

Before you say such a negative attitude is cynical and the people who are grumpy around Valentine’s Day are alone, I have to say two things:

1    1. The name of this blog is the Angry Reporter. I work in rage and frustration the way Picasso worked in paint or Bill Clinton worked in pussy. You should know what you’re getting into when you read my screeds o’ fury. And,

2    2. Fuck you.
     Valentine’s Day suggests – nay, forces everyone, like a tinpot dictator issuing decrees through a bullhorn – to be happily in love and romance the shit out of each other:
      “All couples will meet in the town square and sweethearts will hold hands! If hands are not held, the firing squads will pick you off one by one! Love! Love! LOVE!!!!”
      I’ve been in a serious relationship for over two years, and each year my girlfriend wants us to do something for Valentine’s Day. This usually translates to us going out to some overpriced restaurant, which is more excruciating and horrible than being raped by Bigfoot and Gary Busey in a truckstop bathroom.
     Valentine’s Day insists you reward your beloved with romantic trinkets like chocolates and roses and buy them steak and lobster. If you don’t do these things, you’re a horrible boyfriend and secretly desire to see your girlfriend murdered by Al Qaeda.
      I treat Valentine’s Day like I do anything antiquated; a sad remnant of a simpler time when a hastily-made valentine, decorated with lace and intricately-cut paper, contained the dreamy musings of a lovestruck bachelor who only wanted the schoolmarm to see through his awkward country ways. 
      As a holiday, Valentine’s Day is a clunky throwback, a nonsensical charade which has no baring on modernity. It’s the 21st century, Skippy! If your woman doesn’t know you love her because you bought her a diamond tiara and Cuisinart juicer for Christmas, she’s a cluless harpy and unworthy of your attention.  Fortunately, my girlfriend doesn’t need decorative baubles from me to know I love her.  
     Romance is a really stupid thing. When you’re young, in love is where you want to be. As you age, you just want someone who understands you. I guess that’s what love really is. It doesn’t have anything to do with chubby-cheeked cherubs with a bow and arrow, or boxes of candy or expensive flowers. Love is that feeling you get at night when both of you are watching that home improvement show on HGTV and your hands drift toward each other and fingers briefly intertwine and she looks at you and smiles and without saying a word, you change the channel because HGTV is complete crap and anyone who habitually watches is a braindead chinchilla. 
     The point is, you don’t need some goofy holiday to celebrate your love. You should be doing that every day, with displays of affection. Tell the person you appreciate them. Say how much they mean to you.
      Later, when you’re giving her epically orgasmic, sweaty, eyes-crossed, toe-curling, screaming-to-the gods sex, you’ll thank me for saving you a dinner reservation and not buying into the Valentine’s Day scam. 

No comments: