So how was everybody’s Valentine’s Day? Did you get your requisite amount of romance / nooky / violent-but-consensual buttsex this weekend? Or did you do the typical emo singles thing where you rage against the machine and say “FUCK THIS BULLSHIT GREETING CARD HOLIDAY AND EVERY GODDAMN LOVEY-DOVEY COUPLE ON THE MOTHERFUCKING PLANET… WITH A POCKET FULL OF SHELLS!!”? If you’re anything like me, you were casually indifferent about the day and took it as just another Saturday in which to hit the streets, get my ass to the city, and have a little fun with whomever was down for whatever. I’m single myself and still had a great time out with friends like I do every weekend. But I’ve been single for awhile now. I’m used to it. I know how to have a good time and not stress myself out with a painfully obvious need for attention and love from any one specific lady with regular frequency. Why order the same old Saran-wrapped fish sandwich everyday when there’s a whole buffet to get drunk with and have quick and dirty drunken sex in the little alley deadend behind Riot Room?
Ok, so that metaphor fell apart and the saran-wrapped fish thing is kind of twisted. It’s still true though.
It’s the the recently single folks I sympathize with the most on the dreaded V.D. though. For starters, it’s more than likely that you and your significant other recently called it quits because that shit just does seem to happen more around holidays – this one in particular. If you’re anything like me and very brick (or brickhouse)-like in shape, you were probably dumped like the sack of bricks you’re shaped like. It was hard (“That’s not what she said!”) and it sucked (“That’s what she said!”). And you’re probably a dude, because no self-respecting woman would be alone on the Intarwebz at this time of the night with perverts like me milling around. Although if you do happen to be a woman with no self-respect, by all means leave me a comment below and let’s kick it sometime. You could be the sort of woman I’ve been looking for and wish to share homemade romantic dinners with. I’m quite the chef, you know. I make a tasty chowdah.
To get back on point, if you’re anything like me before I discovered The Secret To Being The Chad (which amounts to not much more than just not giving a fuck about anything in particular), I’m guessing that you’re a sad, lonely sack of shit that, as my personal investigations have revealed, can’t stop choking the chicken, or as we like to call it in the biz, “jacking off.” Well sir and/or very unattractive madam, it’s time to dry those weepy eyes because they make you look fat and clean your hand-of-choice on the nearest throw pillow or hanging curtain, because my words of inspiration and introspection are, as always, going to cheer up the living fuck out of you!
I can’t believe this whole Cupid concept isn’t seen asat least a little “To Catch A Predator”-worthy these days.
On my average weekends out at bars, parties, strip clubs, and metal shows, it’s not uncommon for there to be plenty of taken friends around me at the kind of places I frequent, especially if we have appointments at the same methadone treatment center or attend the same alcoholics anonymous meetings (strictly court-ordered, we all drunkenly insist to each other). Every once in awhile someone approaches me to proffer assistance in the intervention of the potential mummification of my genitals by introducing me to their hot single friends. I’m not sure if it’s because they love to play Cupid – the lovable chubby little matchmaking angel of lore with his cute little Red Bull-fueled wings and his quiver all a’quiver with arrows of love and his bow at the ready like a fat, winged, naked, infant Green Arrow who aims to target the single hearts of us poor companionship-deprived assholes – or if the sad truth is that my friends can barely tolerate what they perceive as my quiet single desperation as it is, and they haven’t even seen the true primal misery I so desperately hide from them.
“Shot through the heart and you’re to blame.Baby, you give love a bad name!”
But I tend to deliberately sidestep and avoid the awkwardness and pressures of being fixed up. I find it’s better for me and the people I know that I don’t attempt to fondle anyone they know (a rule I break often anyway, but that’s what rules are for – to get drunk and break). This way it’s easier to pretend that no one is aware of all the weird kinky shit that I’m REALLY into. You know how it goes – first you start dating your friends’ friends. Next thing you know there’s naked photos of each other spreading on the Internet, angry Myspace messages and Facebook de-friendings as mutual friends have to choose sides. It’s only a matter of time before everybody finds out what you like to do with that oversized “flashlight” you hide so poorly in your top dresser or the full-body bondage gear hanging in the back of the closet.
Do you get the feeling that the guy who invented thisdid it by shaping Silly Putty on a flashlight one day in his
quest to create new and exciting holes to fuck?
Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate the backup from friends trying to foster my happiness and hook me up with people they also like. As clueless as I am sometimes, I haven’t failed to notice my friends practically screaming “LET ME HELP YOU GET YOUR DICK WET!!!”
I’d love to tell you my Valentine’s Day involved a romantic blind date and everything went smoothly (including my well-lubricated dick, seeing as how I’m the greatest lover every women who knows me will never admit to having) – a tale of seduction and debauchery not seen in humankind since the Marquis de Sade discovered double-sided dildos. The truth is that last weekend’s VD night was a good time in which I took three lovely ladies to a lingerie show, saw mah sweetbutt Lissa, went to Buzzard Beach and Riot Room and met someone new who I found was a hell of a lot more fun to be around than the usual two-faced psychobitches that I usually gravitate toward and that a good time was had by all…. but that shit’s just boring to read about, right? You can see the pics of that night in my latest photo album anyway. You want to hear about sixteen-year old alcoholic sluts in Chinese buffets and how I talk about getting back in the game with various mixed sports metaphors. You want to hear more about my attempts to meet and/or randomly fuck women hidden behind Craigslist abbreviations so unintelligible that I need the Rosetta Stone to figure out just what they plan on doing with my cock, don’t you?
Oh… I haven’t talked about last one that yet, have I?
Don’t worry… I will.
And by the way, congratulations on surviving another Valentine’s Day.
Slainte’.
The Chad
Currently listening: 
