Friday, February 19, 2010

Valentine's Day is For...

Well, it's that time of year again, friends... the time of year when guys are subjected to buying roses, and chocolates, and maybe even fancy jewelry and/or sexy kinky undergarments for their special significant one and only's. Of course, it's not because they want to (half the time anyways) it's because they simply need to... to make up for the other three hundred so and so days a year that they're just the typical asshole (that's not counting the Super Bowl, of course--- since that's a gimme!)

Now don't get me wrong fellas! I'm not ranking on you all, it's quite the opposite, really. I'm actually relishing the fact that I'm an asshole. It's the one true testament to the very fiber of my being that I have left these days. It's the only true thing that tends to set me apart from the rest of this foolish human race at times, who are under the stupidest preconceived notion (that was most likely established sometime during the dark ages) that by giving candy and flowers to their significant other(s) will actually help to do wonders to boost their relationships and all that jazz. Hey man, the only thing this bon bon will boost is my heart rate, for I have enough cholesterol blockage as it is, ya dig?!?

Why is it that we even have this one special day of the year set aside simply to proclaim our love and affection for one another? What makes it so special? I'll tell you what... it's got to be those specially packaged sugar coated milk 'n cherry'd nuggated sales at the local drugstores that make it all that special, isn't it? Yes, that's right. I think we're on to something here, dear Watson! It's really just a clever marketing ploy brought on by the corporate elite (i.e. big business) to screw us out of our perfectly meaningful relationships by sending us into unwanted guilt trips and inevitable harangues brought on by our lovely mistresses when they scream at us for not bringing home that special holiday dark Dutch mocha chino flavored double dipped chocolate chip rocky road vanilla fudge with a side of cherry holiday flavored Häagen-Dazs that they all know and love. And all the while you're thinking... how is it that the thinner my wallet gets, the plumper my lover becomes?!? There has to be some equation I'm missing here, folks. Care to fill me in, please?

How Kisses Are Made Image
Special thanks to Joe Cool Public
(AKA: prodigiously anonymous that is... for this image)

Actually, hold that thought. For there's always the other alternative. The gift of a nicely petaled rose! One that's guaranteed not to wither and die, or your money back! Some of them are as plastic as the facial expression you're most likely going to be receiving from your loved one, so please do try to not look directly at the vase, for you might get a case of temporary blindness brought on by sheer manic confusion that there really is no predefined medical terminology for. It's something like... "Oh, shucks! I know you like flowers, gosh!" Fucking goofy shit, to say the least! And then there's the protocol. Which type of flower is it that I should send? Should it be white to signify our everlasting friendship without hinting at anything sexual or (instinctual, for that matter?). What if years on down the road, when this cherk* realizes that the guy she's with isn't really worth the wait decides to get hitched with little ole' me? Should I try to send her a dozen white roses minus one that I'll substitute for a red rose? What will she think of that then? Is it like a symbolic representation à la the likes of a yin yang symbol? Maybe, just maybe, I ought to consider sending her some pink roses. But then, I wouldn't want her to think that even though the sentiment is there, my love would be weak, and not as strong as say completely crimson red roses. Maybe I should just send her black withered roses with a bunch of thorns in them to signify the true and awfully inevitable future that we'll have together... one that's filled with traces of gray and sagging waddles of flesh just parading around in our worn out underwear while we're getting busy trying to rekindle our passion for one another and our deadbeat kid that hasn't moved out of the house yet while still well into his thirties is still sleeping in the room next door! God, where the fuck did we go wrong?!?

And if snacks and scented roses aren't your trip, there's always a nice perfume or a stuffed animal to make her nod and sigh... if not slap you in the face for not getting her the one with the bow, that is! Yes, what better way is there to say I love you than with the sweet smell of a designer fragrance that'll most likely give your significant other a hardy case of skin rash! After all, nothing says I love you like the color red, right? And what's with this official holiday mascot of ours, anyways?!? What? Couldn't cut it as baby new year, so you just had to take up archery lessons and join the supernatural aviation squad there, fella? Yes, I'm talking to you Cupid! Which rhymes with stupid... anybody get that? You may want to jot this down in case you're planning on writing a poetic verse or two in the King's English, or should I say what's left of it? Yes, that's right folks... how many times do women have to be subjected to the laconic ramblings of the typical jock off who can't even speak a word that has more than three syllables in it at any particular gathering, but is awfully fluent in dumb fuck who professes his love by writing:

Babe, I'm a' luv you like dat
as a matta of fact
If I can't git you to spread
I'm gonna hit ya phat back!

Ain't that just the sweetest little modern day urban limerick of a haiku you've ever seen? And still I wonder how these guys like these managed to marry the girls next door who at one point may have been our childhood sweethearts. Did anyone say bitter? Moi? No... I'm just a cynical misanthropic evil genius in the era of ramped inbred retardation. And as I'm pushing thirty and well on my way downhill I'm beginning to realize that I'll eventually have no other choice but to consider lowering my standards to carry on an insightful conversation involving lip liner, nail polish, or just about any other type of facial cosmetic (not counting my love juice, of course) with a sexy looking woman, or settle for the most insightful and intellectually stimulating conversation with the ugliest, barren, and possibly even gender bending gal that no one would want to even prod with a stolen reproductive appendage! Maybe she was a leper in a past life, who knows?!? Either way, karma is a bitch, and she's back in heat every time this time of season hits and I find myself wondering why I haven't found the right one... or maybe even the wrong one, just to have a good time with! There are no two ways about anything anymore, all sales are final, all bets are off, and there's no middle of the road to anything at all. You're born alone, and you'll die alone! That's as much as I can say for any type of "meaningful" relationship.

It's all a mirage and nothing more. I say if you're going to con us into loving one another by making a special day for friends and lovers, and even friends who want to be lovers, then you should probably design a day for the lonely hearted singles out there as well, okay? Let's start with the gift of choice. Let's see... what would be great for a lonely person. A vibrator? Nah... that's too obvious. Yet another gimme, to say the least. Just don't give it to me, all right? You sick fuck! LOL...smiley face! Or how about a drink? Yeah, that's a start. A drink. You ever notice that the invention of wheat and barley is the greatest one of them all, when it comes to breaking the ice with someone? How do you think that term got started anyways?!? Break the ice by pouring me a beer, honey...okay? No one ever buys me a drink, and yet if they did should I turn them down if I don't immediately like them? Hell, they could be the greatest person to ever walk the face of the earth. Except, they really don't meet my standards. After all, I'm at a bar here... so could you really blame me for thinking this way?

And next comes the day to celebrate it on. Well, we already included the bar into our scenario, so let's try to keep that theme going. Maybe we'll have a sing-a-long gimmick to peruse our profession to one another in form of a song. I believe it's called karaoke! And they do have that at the bar, don't they? Hey, wait a minute! I think we're onto something here. Yes, that's it! Drinks for everybody on the house! No... that'll most likely render my wallet rather futile. So since we can't have the well run dry this early in the game, why not have the ladies get their drinks for free, or maybe even half price off just so we men can't complain too much if they turn us down after we've made the highly expected social faux pas of a friendly proposal be offering to order them a drink in advance, that is; way before they're not inebriated enough to realize just how much of a pathetic fool you really are. So maybe that's why the birthrate in this country is at an all time high level of unplanned for pregnancies and all that jazz! But far be it from me to drop a government statistic down on your ass, since it's all bullshit really. Come to think about it, even a census worker can have a bad enough day in which he or she will choose to not come in to work at all, or simply pass the buck if they do show up at all. So there's no accuracy... that's just an illusion, and get that straight!

Another thing that should be gotten straight is the notion I'm trying to impress upon you all; would be lovers and single folk alike. It doesn't matter. We don't need a holiday (or the corporate semblance of one) to lull us into believing that a day like Valentine's is a special day. What's so special about it? Oh, I forgot... this time you're planning to rub my the magic lamp with both hands while you do your impression of a street sweeper on a massive slab of a boulder this time, right honey? Nice! In the meantime, one need not look too far to notice some strange imagery going around to define this particular holiday. Such as the winged creature that I mentioned earlier. Question: Why is he always blonde and blue eyed? Is there some kind of Aryan notion going on here or something? I mean, think about it for a second, gang! Okay? The final solution may still be in the works here, without us not even getting wind of it. Maybe, just maybe they're dumping the sterilizing chemical formulas into our delicious sweets! Dear oh dear! No wonder the kid turned out to have an IQ the size of a rodent! The rabbit died on the installment plan, my dear! The last bit of love advice you would want to hear is from a dumb winged angel who thinks he's at the local archery range whom is just making his quota for the day; pitting lover against lover until they're both wondering where all the fun in their lives went to? Try the bar, I hear the drinks are free on karoake night!

Besides, we don't need a specific day of the year to be set aside for thinly veiled apologies dressed up in the form of something "sweet" or "romantic". Personally, when I think of sweet, I'm immediately reminded of cavities. And the word romantic only seems to conjure up some very lovely images of people getting mauled to death by lions at the Colosseum in ancient Rome. Who really needs this stupid tradition anyways? If you want to see people feel any sense of guilt or remorse for behaving like an idiot the rest of the three hundred and sixty-four days of the year (sometimes three hundred and sixty-five if you're counting leap years... smarty pants!) all you have to do is turn on the television and watch some political fool in a scandal, or even better... watch some jock off talk his way out of a paper bag on live and nationally syndicated television. Can you even begin to imagine that with all the catastrophes that are going on in the world, in this day and age, right at this very time (i.e. Haiti, Iraq, Afghanistan, etc.) that we'd actually care to hear about what somebody like Tiger Woods has to say for his sexual indiscretions? Who cares?!? He's an athlete... sport fucking his number one (and mostly number sixty-nine, for the most part...) fans just comes with the trade (no pun intended). Hey, just as long as he doesn't do his Mean Joe Greene imitation by throwing his love juice soaked jersey in my face, we're all cool, okay? That sorta reminds me of a presidential intern that we all knew and loved by the name of Monica something or other. Hey... there's a thought! Why not help to reconstruct and resurrect the clean cut image of the fallen Woods (no pun intended) by giving him a reality show? Celebrity sex rehab, starring the aforementioned Woods, of course, Marv Albert, Monica Lewinski, and David Duchovny. Hey, just a thought...

Bear in mind that I use Tiger Woods as a perfect textbook case example, not 'cause it's the most recent scandal to shock our system, but because it clearly illustrates just how carried away we can let ourselves get in light of something that we put high on a pedestal. Sound familiar? Try to buy some more of those heart shaped spicy chewables next time, (you know the ones with all those imperative sayings?) for she still needs to delve into her diabetic coma, okay? Well, that's just a thought... and furthermore, I just want to add: Down with all these fake plastic roses and clever little preludes to full blown diabetes coming in the form of death by chocolate already! And this is why Valentine's Day is (strictly speaking, for all intensive purposes) for nothing but a bunch of yuppie saps! So to you all I say aloha, and enjoy those new cavities of yours that are just waiting to hear from a dentist's own drill!

Bite Me Candy Image
Again, a very special thanks to Joe Cool Public
(this time appearing in the form of Google images)

This has been P.S. Elliott, alias known as Dr. Gonzo XXVII, (also very proud---but not excessively to the point of utter hubris; to be single without being tied down to any long term commitments and/or engagements for that matter!) reporting for the disassociated blog that is The Gnoyze Guitar Mods & More Web Blog.

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