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Valentines Day, The CFC Mafia and Why You’re A Dick

So it’s nearly Valentines Day again. For us Earth residents that means an imminent onslaught of red plasticy shit for sale at seemingly every store in the city. They literally have it spilling out into the street and hanging from the front rafters of their shops, you’ll be tripping over love hearts on your way to work and spilling coffee all over yourself. Or maybe thats just me.

Yes, on retrospect, it is probably just me. Anyway, moving on.

It might just be that I’m a cheap bastard but it seems to me that these special occasions are melding into one big clusterfuck designed to rape and pillage my wallet. I swear to God it was Thanksgiving only a minute ago, then Christmas, New Years and now bloody Valentines Day soon it will be Chinese New Year then fucking Easter. The cycle seems to reset every year after the summer and I think it’s all an epic hoax by people who grow flowers, print cards an sell decorative chocolates. I think they all live in fear that one day we’ll all realise we don’t need lame-ass-cards, dead plant ovaries and asthetically appealling bits of chocolate that ultimately make us fat and miserable. They worry that we’ll realize that we’ve all been had. Well I realized this already and I’m all set to pull together a pitchfork wielding posse and wreak havoc.

Or I would be if I was less lazy and a hell of a lot more organized. As it is I think I’ll just write about it as I can drink coffee while I write and writing only involves the movement of fingers. I seem to have lost my train of thought….Ah yes! Valentines Day! In an impressive twist of irony women will be the first to complain about the over-commercialsied nature of Valentines Day, however if the man in their life doesn’t tow the corporate line on the day buy blowing the GDP of a small African nation on flowers, chocolate, jewellry, dinner, champagne, cards and an intellectually offensive romantic comedy he will be branded an uncaring asshole by the aforementioned woman who spent the past week complaining about the bastardization of St Valentine.

So who was the Saint Valentine and why do I spend my life in fear of missing the day we use to commemorate him? Why am I so willing to spend all my precious, precious beer tokens on colourful dead bits of foliage and over priced set dinners? I had no idea who he was so I went to check Wikipedia and do you know what I discovered? NO ONE KNOWS WHO THE FUCK HE WAS. No one! This is what they say about him “Of the Saint Valentine whose feast is on February 14, nothing is known except his name and that he was buried at the Via Flaminia north of Rome on February 14.” He is, for all intents and purposes, a dead Italian who was canonized for reasons unknown. I mean for Gods sake. I feel that this gives merit to my conspiracy theory regarding V Day. The powerful CFC ( Cards, Flowers, Chocolates ) mafia just chose a saint who no one knew anything about and then set about manipulating the feeble minds of our lady friends to a stunningly successful degree.

V Day is now a multi billion dollar industry, even our Chinese brothers have been sucked into the scam. I see the poor bastards being led along the streets of Soho every February 14th by their biological-fashion-faux-pas-on-legs, or girlfriend if you prefer the official title, being emotionally blackmailed into celebrating a day that they know even less about than I do. And the Chinese have really gone in for V Day in a big fucking way. I mean they get huge bouquets, massive bloody things, not to mention a box of chocolates that would pop you directly into a diabetic coma if you ate them in one go, then there’s the card and they usually have some sort of giant freaky-ass-shit-looking stuffed animal with a red heart stitched to the front of it. The woman carries none of these items. The man seems to both purchase them and carry them around all night feeling and looking like a pussy whipped little bitch with a wallet that goes through an impressive feat of weight loss as the night drags on.

I’ve noticed men tend to avoid eye contact on V Day, it’s the same basic feeling as being at the urinal or in a gym locker room. Everyone knows why you’re there but you still don’t want to catch an eye full of dick. Except on Valentines Day the dick isn’t your penis, the dick is you.

Us men all like to make believe that we wear the pants in our relationships, when we are at the pub with the boys we’re all cocky saying stupid shit like “Told the Mrs I was our for a few beers tonight, she didn’t like it but I told her to deal with it”. As if you would really say that. You’d get your ass handed to you and you know it, the conversation was more along the lines of you saying “pleeeeeeeease” until she gave in but assigned you an 11pm curfew and then took your wallet off you before giving you a few dollars spending money and the apartment key on a little string around your neck so you don’t lose the fucking thing for the thousandth time.

You see the reason we all have to do the V Day thing is simple. Women rule the fucking world. You think Barack Obama runs the world? Bullshit, he doesn’t Michelle Obama runs this planet and you can bet your ass Mr Obama is going to be bringing home the whole V Day assortment. The CFC Mafia have their hands in his pockets just as deeply as they do ours. Not that that’s any consolation. I’ll still be trundling along the street this Valentines Day, carrying flowers, chocolates and a card. Don’t make eye contact if you see me, I’ll be shuffling along quietly looking down at my feet trying not to feel like a complete dick.

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Great Expectations

The current altitude record for an air breathing jet propelled aircraft was set by the famous SR-71 Blackbird in 1976 at a height of 85,069ft. In a staggering statistical coincidence it is the exact same height at which the romantic comedy cinema genre has placed the expectations of women below the age of 45. It’s left them desiring a Richard-Gere-standing-through-the-white-limousines-sunroof-with-the-flowers-moment and being in a state of perpetual disappointment with the poor chump they are dating who still thinks that Pretty Woman is just an old Roy Orbison song. These same Rom-Coms usually feature Matthew McConaughey, Richard Gere or Hugh Grant in a flimsily scripted, soullessly acted cinematic travesty which, if Orson Welles hadn’t been cremated, would have him rolling in his grave.

“Deceiving others. That is what the world calls romance.” Oscar Wilde said that many years before the inception of Hollywood and thus it is impossible he was describing romantic comedies, this most dastardly of genres, although on retrospect he did pen The Importance of Being Ernest which, although a masterpiece by any yard stick, may have been indirectly responsible for the yearly summertime onslaught of syrupy cinema trash and the ensuing line of unfortunate young men being led by their hand with their heads hung low into a large, cold, darkened theatres the world over to be be reminded for 100 minutes or so, of their own significant insufficiencies in the romantic arena. If they are amoungst those unfortunate enough to be dragged into the latest McConaughey stinker they’ll also be reminded of their glaring physical short-comings at the hands of his impossible and invariably denuded torso.

My theory on the future demise of humankind centres around the damage done to the collective mental faculties of our societies young women at the hands of these celluloid brain-washers. You see, I think we’ll slowly begin to see that the most successfully reproducing males in our society are not the cleverest or most genetically perfect but the males most capable of emulating the drivel that emanates from the mouth of Hugh Grant. We will end as a society of morons with flip-floppy hair, big white smiles, sparkly eyes and empty heads. A society in decline, until we end up without the minds necessary to maintain and advance our technological civilisation. Thus stripped of our greatest resource, our intelligence, we will slip back into the caves of the world as the world we built crumbles around us. The dolphins will be smarter than us within just a few short generations and will take over the Earth, proving once and for all that opposable thumbs are a totally unnecessary luxury. Global warming will be reversed by the now dominant dolphins. Humans will be studied intently by porpoises and they will marvel at our ability to rub sticks together and make fire.

We are doomed. All because you let your girlfriend pick Runaway Bride at blockbuster for movie-night instead of Die Hard 2. That one mistake was the flutter of the butterflies wing that triggered the downfall of mankind. Hope the popcorn was tasty chump.

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A Brief History of Dating

The 1950′s in the western world was a gloriously simple time to date women. Initially there was the courtship, if that pootles along well you pop the question get married and after a few years you’re old and you die. So far as I can tell, in this modern age, you need a degree in something akin in complexity to the string theory element of quantum mechanics in order to comprehend the dating world. The sequence of events that seems to constitute modern dating goes like this. First you’re “hooking up” then you’re “friends with benefits” then “seeing each other” then “going exclusive” then “dating” then you’re “a couple” who-get-invited-to-everything-together-as-a-single-entity then of course your “pretty much engaged” then you actually are “engaged” then your “pretty much married” and then you’re “married” then one day you’re arguing about a sock on the bedroom floor for 3 and a half damn hours, then you’re separated, pretty much divorced, divorced and then you meet a woman in a café and before you know it you’re back at square one.

Performing brain surgery on a conscious, irate and caffeinated hummingbird would be simpler than that.

How did we get from the 50’s dating template to the present day? I’ve decided to blame the 60’s. The generation of free love spawned a diabolical shift in the way we interact romantically and the human need to categorise has left us mired in an impossible swathe of verbs with which we choose from to describe the state of our romantic endeavours. How do we get back to those simpler times and if we could go back, would we want to? I don’t think we would. As humans we are drawn to complexity, just take a look a the development of the modern microchip, the six wheeled robotic explorers on Mars and the clasp mechanism on women’s bras. Its all so stunningly complex and yet we love it, in fact we are all feverishly adding to the complexity as fast as we can. The intricacies of contemporary courting are many and they leave us either knowing exactly where we stand with a prospective future mate or with absolutely no clue what the hell is going on, either way we are way more free today than we ever have been and I think that that is the clincher. Freedom.

You see, we are freedom loving little creatures and getting hitched at 19 such as was common back in the old days, is hugely restrictive if at a later date, when you’re a real grown up, you decide that you like another lady (or gentleman) more than the person you chose as a life partner when you were too young to legally drink in that large corn producing nation just above Mexico. In reality if you are too young to drink the good stuff you have absolutely no business deciding anything, certainly not life-partnery-stuff. I firmly believe that all the best engagements were made whilst blind drunk, in your thirties and under the soused impression that the object of your proposition is far prettier, cleverer, funnier and more sexually appealing than the cold light of morning will show. I have no scientific or statistical basis for believing any of this stuff, but if Tom Cruise is allowed to go around believing that aliens populated the Earth via hydrogen bombs and volcanoes, I will go ahead and believe whatever I damned well please.

So now if you’ll excuse me I am going to head out for a drink and try, rather valiantly I feel, to avoid stages 5-10 of the courting rituals in our brave new world.

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