Before you jump to conclusions, and decide that the following post is merely the result of embittered singledom, let me assure you: Even when I have a boyfriend, I hate Valentine’s Day. It is so, so gay, and not in the super-fun 1920s slang way, nor in the “I enjoy the sex with people whose parts resemble my own” way, but rather in the way of snotnosed third graders harrassing each other during four-square. So. Gay.
Valentine’s Day exists to make you feel bad. Do you have a partner? No? Then you’re a loser. Got a partner? Great! What did you get him or her? Really. Hmmm. No, I’m sure they’ll like it. No, no, I wasn’t saying that at all. It’s just that one generally sends fruit baskets to those in mourning, but I understand that jewelry might give the wrong impression, and that underwear is too forward, and that chocolate is fattening and so on. Hand-puppets, maybe. Have you considered those? Because I have this friend who makes puppets, chiefly of people fucking. She’s a lot of fun, my puppet-making friend.
Anyway. Do you know the origins of Valentine’s Day? Let me clue you in. Valentine’s Day is named for the Christian martyr St. Valentine, who was (allegedly) beheaded on that date in or around the year 270. That was a fucking long time ago, but it took Hallmark, etc., a couple thousand years to catch on to the merchandizing opportunities inherent in the beheading of martyrs, and so in the year muhfahfah we got special greeting cards and chocolates and small wheelbarrow full of guilt, loneliness and expectation. On the whole, the beheading only looks half-bad.
Oh, I nearly forgot to mention: St. Valentine was beaten with clubs before his beheading. I don’t know whether that was a planned prelude to his execution, or whether they were trying to beat him to death and it didn’t work, so they decided, fine, just cut his damn head off, but anyway, it was a really bad day for our pal, OK?
But it’s probably not fair to blame Valentine’s Day on the greeting card companies. (And even if it wasn’t, I like to be original in my cheap observational humor, so bear with me.) And anyway, according to my brief and thoroughly unscientific Internet research, the association of Valentine’s Day with love and sex and all that good stuff is probably Chaucer’s fault: “Valentine’s day, when every fowl doth choose his mate.”
That naughty Chaucer. First fart jokes and now this. Is there any end to this man’s gifts to Western society?