Valentine’s Day, as we all know and dread, is a day to celebrate the great rollercoaster… of love. (Rollercoaster! Ah woo woo woo!)
In the great American tradition, you can be a part of this joyous occasion by doing the following: Find an ATM. Withdraw double what you’d normally spend on a night out with your husband/boyfriend/booty call. Now show that fat wad of cash to the person you love (or like, or enjoy sex with enough to call at 2:00 am). Got it? Cool. Now locate your nearest toilet, drop it in there, and flush.
Oh, I’m sorry! Is that dreadfully un-romantic? Maybe a tad on the jaded, cynical side? Have you seen what passes for romance lately? I love me some bling. I’m a girl it’s just part and partial to having a vagina. I also love flowers, but dammit, I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend more than $12 for my 3 bundles from the floral department at the grocery store unless it’s for my garden. Candy? No thanks, I’ll make my own. Even dinner out on V-day has become a sham. Your favorite restaurant has dumped all your favorites from the menu in favor of a special V-day menu of boring crap with no flavor, just to cycle as many love-struck fools through the restaurant as possible without triggering a murderous psychotic break from the kitchen and wait staff.
By and large, I’m all about the useful gifts. If Ken were to get me a new Dyson, I’d lose my clothes faster than he could blink, vacuum the carpet, ravish him on the carpet, and then vacuum up our mess. If he got my kitchen knives sharpened for me, I’d carve him a nude model of myself entirely out of a chateaubriand. If I came home one day to find that he’d replaced my reading chair with the $800 La-Z-Boy recliner I’ve been pining for this past year, I would let him make the first stain on it with me.
But the American public doesn’t do useful gifts for Valentine’s Day, and I feel like that completely violates the spirit of a holiday where the entire point is to give your love their heart’s desire. Don’t deny bitch – you’d love that diamond journey pendant, but you’d absolutely swoon if you got monthly maid service for a year. But until people start being honest about their expectations for this faux-holiday, you’re going to be saddled with the status quo year after year. In case you’re still on the hunt for the perfect Valentine’s gift for the object of your affection/mutual masturbatory satisfaction, let me give you a run down of “popular” gifts.
This year’s hot ticket is yet another obvious ploy by jewelry companies to part you from your money using trinkets of whimsy and playfulness. And I’m sorry to say that it seems to be working. Charm bracelets are the new big thing in adult jewelry.
Um, okay. Great! Maybe you can get the charms to spell out “I’m an unoriginal jizz snorcher and can’t pick out a decent gift!” Seriously, in the time you’ve been together, have you ever seen her wear a charm bracelet? No, you have not. Because only 10-year-old girls still wear charm bracelets.
Can this be the year that we stop this shit? Let’s be honest – even if you’re shelling out $100 on the “premium” box of See’s chocolates, that chocolate is still swill in terms of overall quality. Given that most women are perpetually on a diet, or at least suffer incredible amounts of self-inflicted guilt over their chocolate obsession, why are we still wooed by faux chocolate crap? And if your lady is a V-day Chocolate fiend, you owe it to her to get her something good. My recommendation on that front? Pischinger Finest Bitter Dark Chocolate, and a bottle of Mont-Olivet Chateau Neuf-du-Pape.
God, consumers really are sheep, aren’t they? For starters, roses are not a gift. They are a warm up. Either you’re building to something great, or you’re trying to warm her up to the idea of letting your sleep in your own bed again, but they are not a final destination. Next, are you high? You’re going to drop $60 on a dozen roses that cost $10 at the grocery store (and grocer’s flowers are usually in better shape), and absolutely won’t be alive in 2 weeks when the pee stick reads positive? There’s only one reason that anyone should spend $60 on flowers – you bought all the seeds, soil, and pots that she needs to start her summer garden.
Or maybe your significant other is also about the useful gifts. Then let me be clear – this next batch of crap doesn’t qualify either.
WTF is this thing? You need some extra whimsy in your meals, so you give your food a slide? You can’t figure out how to eat your soup fast enough to keep the crackers from getting soggy? Please kill yourself. Preferably by drowning in this bowl.
Kymera Wand Remote Control
We are a society made dumber by Harry Potter. If you are so hopelessly beyond figuring out a normal remote control and you honestly believe it would be easier to teach a wooden stick 99 commands for flipping between Dr. Phil, Maury, and Hoarders, then you need the kind of help that can only come from a house with rubber rooms and electro-shock therapy.
This is the kind of gift that you give yourself. If your gift to yourself is ensuring a swift, yet endlessly painful end to your relationship. And if you find yourself in a relationship with someone who would get endless hours of enjoyment from this kind of thing, you might the kind of person who gets off on pain.
Gun Alarm Clock
It’s 6:00 am. The alarm starts chiming whatever obnoxious beeping you select and the target pops up, daring you to hit that snooze button. But you’ve just been rattled out of a dream where a bevy of half-naked Swedes were about to become fully naked and fully devote their attention to your every whim. You swing for the alarm clock, hoping to get the snooze button before the dream completely slips from your subconscious. But there is no snooze button. There’s just a little plastic gun that you knocked on the floor in your flailing attempt to get back to the Swedes.
Now the alarm is blaring, you’re wide-awake, and all hopes of getting that oily, full body rub down from Hotty McHotHot have been obliterated. You locate the little plastic gun halfway under the bed, pick up the alarm clock and toss it out the window, giving the newspaper delivery guy a concussion in the process. Then you use the little plastic gun to beat your significant other to a bloody pulp. Now you’re in prison for aggravated assault on your SO and the paperboy, being rubbed down in the shower by a violent inmate on powerful anti-psychotics who’s taken quite a shine to you.
For the love of love – don’t kill your loved ones with cheap plastic toys this Valentine’s Day. Put some thought into your gift and give as you’d like to be given.