Put that thing away, lady

Oh, I see. Martin Luther King Jr. Day just ended, so you think it’s okay to put up Valentine’s Day decorations. You think it’s okay to play Lionel Richie songs that are NOT titled “Dancing on the Ceiling.” Well, it’s not okay and you’re a filthy bastard.

Valentine’s Day is the most depressing day of the year. A day celebrating the horrid, psyche-destroying emotion of love? Why not make a holiday celebrating the Holocaust while you’re at it? Or a holiday celebrating some drunk in Superior, WI, getting his fortieth DUI. Hey everyone, it’s Herb day! Let’s put up some decorations highlighting the time Herb ran over those kids. Aw, look at how cute that is! I know, right? I got it on sale at Walgreens!

For men, Valentine’s Day is the worst. It’s mainly a tedious reminder that ladies want things. You’d think a firm handshake before leaving for work each morning would suffice as a token of our affection, but it’s not. Ladies want a hug. They want chocolates and flowers. They want a card with a handwritten message inside. Handwritten! It’s preposterous.

Hey ladies, remember when you spent 40 minutes complaining about some other woman at work that you don’t like because she blinked at you weird one day or something? Remember how we listened patiently and didn’t tell you to shut up or quit whining? THAT’S love. That’s like ninety boxes of chocolates.

There’s no equivalent Valentine’s Day holiday for men. There’s no day where ladies are required to give us less affection. There’s no holiday where men are allowed to pee all over the toilet seat and are given sex without some kind of favor attached to it. Father’s Day is the closest thing we have, and you have to poop out a kid to qualify for that. No deal, boss. No deal.

Hey! Put down those heart decorations! This is a home, damn it! I have to live here. I have to eat here. I’m not sure how many meals I’ll be able to keep down if you put that half-naked Cupid decoration on the wall. What is Cupid anyway? Some sort of reverse pedophile? A naked baby who goes around instigating boners in strangers. You want to tape a picture of that thing to the wall? Sicko.

I’ve only had one good Valentine’s Day, and that was in the second grade when my homeroom teacher left the candy bowl unsupervised at lunch and I stole all of it. I felt ill for three days, but it was worth it. I felt loved, and my heart grew three sizes larger when another kid who only took three pieces of candy got blamed for it. Ever since then, Valentine’s Day has been nothing but boring, overpriced dinners and terrible movies starring Bradley Cooper.

The only saving grace of Valentine’s Day is that five out of seven years, it falls on a weekday. So at least in those years I can hide at work all day. I like hiding from pretend holidays at work. My co-workers usually bring free candy, and I don’t have to take them anywhere or talk to them in return.

I know what a lot of you ladies are saying right now. “Sure, you have to take us out to dinner and a movie, and show us you love us, but at the end of the night you get to have sex.” I don’t mean to be rude, ladies, but that’s a hell of a long walk just to get laid. $75 minimum for the dinner, $50 for the movie and popcorn. $20 for a box of fancy candy, $30 for flowers, $5 for a card. Probably $20 for parking and $10 worth of gas. At the end of the night, unless I’m able to trick you into doing something free like “going for a romantic walk,” I’ll be lucky to get out of it for less than $300. You may be a girlfriend, but you cost the same as a damn hooker.

And hookers don’t mind using their mouth.

Since I’m single right now (hard to believe, I know), I’m going to dress up in a tuxedo and take MYSELF out for a nice Valentine’s Day dinner. It will be romantic and candlelit, with Lionel Richie music playing softly in the background as the waiter repeatedly asks me when my dining companion will be arriving. I’ll ignore him and continue getting drunk and talking to myself. Then I’ll excuse myself and climb out the bathroom window before the bill comes.

That would be a pretty perfect Valentine’s Day dinner with a woman as well. Eat something expensive, get wasted, and then climb out the bathroom window together as fugitives. Any takers? If so, please send a photo of you that doesn’t include children or a goddamn cat to

Paul Ryan’s Newspaper Sluts
P.O. Box 16122
Duluth, Minnesota 55816

I eagerly await your applications and various attempts at bribery.