Have a nice day. Like that's possible
02/09/2001
Strauss Home / Humor Channel / Bullz-Eye Home
It's back.
D-Day For Daddy's. Armageddon for Men. Hell: The Holiday.
Yes, it's that lovely time of year when every man on earth looks at the calendar and utters the only thing that can come to mind at a time like this.
"Shit."
Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day, boys.
It's OK, though. Stick with me and I'll have you out of this in no time flat. You see, I learned a long time ago what the worst thing about February 14th is.
Everything.
To start with, you have to act romantic. Emphasis on "act." Guys, by their very definition, are not romantic. We're pigs. I mean, look at a pig. Pigs choose to live in dirt. If given the choice, men would always choose to live in close proximity to beef jerky. Pigs are big and fat and they don't care what they look like. Sound like anyone you saw in the mirror this morning? Pigs squeal. We shout at football players on TV.
Pigs do not bring home flowers. Men also do not bring home flowers. Unless the calendar says they have to.
True Fact #1: The only time men ever act (there's that word again) romantic is when men are trying to get into women's pants.
So if you're already in a relationship, and your name isn't A.C. Green, chances are you're already getting what you want. So what's the point of Valentine's Day?
There isn't one. If anything, it's nothing more than a deterrent to sex.
True Fact #2: On February 14th, you're going to have to walk in the house with something good to keep getting the good you've been getting. But if you don't have a gift that meets the required minimum standards, you my friend, are about to be denied what you were getting free of charge just one day earlier.
The other bad thing is that you have to plan for it. Personally, I'm a really bad planner. Other than knowing that I have to go to work everyday, the only thing I'm good at planning is, "Hey, whose house is poker at next month?"
And even if you do plan, you still get screwed. And not in a good way. Guarantee you'll wind up paying 30 bucks for a dozen roses that you could buy for $9.95 the next day. Now you would think that you could appeal to their feminine sensibilities by rationalizing how much $$$ you could save. Hah. There isn't a woman on earth who, when asked what she got the day after Valentine's Day, would like to say, "Well, I'm not sure. But he told me he's going to bring me something home really nice tonight…at half the price!"
Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day, boys.
I'm sure you all realize too, the gift isn't really for her, anyway. It's for her co-workers, her friends. And her mom.
This gift is about bragging rights. It's female testosterone. It's a trophy to be held high for all to see.
"Hey losers, look at what my big man got me!"
All this just to not be in the shithouse. Which you never would have been in if this day didn't exist in the first place.
Thanks, Mr. Valentine's Day inventor. Asshole.
Relax gentlemen, I have good news. For the first time in the history of recorded history, I have a way out. An escape route so deviously simple, yet so brilliant that it not only allows you to escape the fear and loathing associated with the most horrific day of the year, it also allows you to walk away smelling like a rose.
The $9.95 variety, I might add.
Here's what you do: Two days before Valentine's Day, stop at the grocery store and bring home one of those cheap little bouquets. Of course, everyone in line is going to think, "Wonder what he did wrong?"
Little do they know you're doing everything right.
Walk in the house, give her a kiss and hand them to her. After the EMS guys resuscitate her, sit down, look her dead straight in the eye and deliver the following soliloquy:
"Sweetheart, I just wanted you to know how much I love you. I know Valentine's Day is only a couple of days away, but I don't need someone to tell me when I should care for you.
"Those other guys may need a calendar to remind themselves to express their feelings on one day out of three hundred and sixty-five, but to me, it's not about jewelry and candy and expensive dinners or any of that irrelevant crap. It's about the two of us and what we have every single day of the year."
After she nails you right there in the kitchen, pull up your pants and remind her to put the flowers in water. Then walk away smiling, knowing that starting now, in your castle, February 14th is no different than October 11th. Or June 1st. Or September 19th.
From this day forward, the only thing February 14th means is that the NCAA Tournament is just a couple of weeks away.
There is one important factor to remember with this plan, however: Every few weeks you've gotta come home with another bunch of flowers. Naturally, they have to give the appearance of spontaneity. Which is why I recommend every 32 days. Like clockwork.
So now, instead of her talking to her friends on February 15th about one stinkin' expensive gift, she can babble ALL YEAR LONG and say, "Y'know, he brought me some flowers last night…just because!"
In advance, you're welcome.
Now if I could only figure out a way to get rid of that birthday and anniversary thing. Man, would we be set or what?
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