Cupid And His Shitty Dick

For one human being to love another that is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks; the ultimate, the last test and proof; the work for which all other work is but preparation.- Rainer Maria Rilke

Rilke was an idiot.

For all the lost investments, blown time, money snorted up my nose or sucked through a hot pipe, I have suffered no such monumental loss as that inflicted by romance. And what better day to open up the bitch flood gates than on this Hallmark Holiday known as Valentine's.

Now while many of you are versed in the arts of shit-eating, gangbangs, or quick-stop masturbation, a doubt I could fill a room with those educated fuckers who actually know the origin of this bullshit celebration. Back in the day - like, the Roman day - the feast of Lupercalia was held on the 15th day of February. Why do I give a shit? I hear you ask. Because thanks for those godless faggots, we have to deal with silent obligation to spend cash on cut roses, flimsy cards, extravagant dinners, and frilly condoms. And thanks to capitalistic pigs like you, we've wandered about as far from Lupercalia as Christ has from Christmas. Naked men-children would cover themselves in dog and goat blood before running the streets of Rome, flinging thongs cut from goatskin. Good times! And lucky girl, if you happened to have one of these bloody objects land on your person, you were blessed with fertility! Just what you were hoping for, huh? That way, when you got the shit raped out of you later that night for standing too close to the wineskin, the memory could haunt you for decades to come!

Maybe the game hasn't changed so much, now that I think on it for a sober moment. I mean, the sheer proximity of Valentine's to Mardi Gras this year could have resulted in that sort of Bourbon Street mayhem. And I've seen more than a few bloody thongs in my time, which implied the time between fertility, but I took that as a sign -- a sign to get the sex on without taking a penalty shot at the local Unplug Clinic. In any regard, rather than watch for Cupid's arrow over my shoulder and ramrod yet another credit card to glory, I've opted for a cheaper, tighter way.

Sodomy.

Yes, should you see me out and about later this evening, I'll be the grimacing backpack of a man, hanging for dear life onto the hips of some drunken bear with semen and liquified shit running down the inside of his thighs. Now there's a visual for you! And if you are having doubts about going through with this whole Valentine's day thing yourself, take this into consideration:

• Christina Aguilera is purportedly engaged.
• Mary Kay Letourneau is wedding the elementary school student she raped after she gets out of jail.
• My ex is boarding a plane for New Orleans.
  

So unless you're in the Big Easy waiting for the Bigger Easy to land, your best bet is boy butt on this fancy day.

Dan, you'd better grow eyes in the back of your head, 'cause I'm coming for your Polish ass!