Happy ‘Valentine’s Day’ everybody!   In honor of this holiday, may I express my befuddled amazement at the fact that “Romance” hasn’t yet been outed as the cheap street crack that it is.

Because, let’s face it, romance is essentially crack cocaine for chicks. And much like crack, It creates an addiction that makes living simply day to day virtually unbearable. Watch any lonely woman on a Friday night desperately browsing the shelves of a video store; she may as well be saying to the cashier: “Hey, baby, I’ll suck your dick for a Twilight DVD….I WILL SUCK YOUR DICK!!!”

It always amazes me how women fall hook, line, and sinker for the whole notion of “Romance.” It’s like Charlie Brown and his sisyphean challenge of trying to kick that fucking football. He (as well as the viewing audience) strongly suspects that Lucy is going to pull the pigskin away, but the “blockhead” charges full steam ahead in his awful brown shoes, visions of glorious victory dancing inside his stupid, bald cranium.

Inevitably, Lucy snatches the ball and Charlie Brown sails through the air. His line lips shake and vibrate as he lets forth a blood-curdling scream of existential pain and disappointment until he crashes to earth with a brutal and onomatopoeic “THUNK!”

Much like Charlie Brown keeps trusting that Lucy won’t be a fucking bitch, millions of women congregate every monday to watch “The Bachelor” with hope in their hearts, although the sad reality is that — after 13 seasons — NONE of the Bachelors are currently married to any of the women they chose as the “the ONE.”

Partially because the whole conceit of “the ONE” person that can make you happy is Trigger-Palin-retarded!  My mom has been happily married for 40 years and she told me, “Relationships are WORK, not soul-mates and sparkly vampires. Love is when you can take a Clorox Bleach Pen to your man’s tighty-whities and erase a skidmark without batting an eyelash.” Amen, mom, amen.

Still, almost every woman in the history of foreverness has uttered the ubiquitous phrase “I think he just might be the one.” Although that sentence is at once a modern and progressively strong expression of woman’s ability to choose, it is also completely fucking TPR (i.e., Trigger-Palin-Retarded).

Concepts like “THE ONE” don’t actually mean anything substantive; well, other than whatever unicorn-laden-Narnia-like world they conjure up in the romantic’s mind. The phrase is an expression of science fiction and nothing else.

A woman, upon having intense eye contact with some hunky new prospect, might actually think: “I hope he’s the one!” Unbeknownst to her, that same prospect is probably thinking, “I hope she swallows!”

When men use the phrase “the ONE” regarding women, it usually goes something like, “She’s the ONE woman I worry might say something to my wife…” OR “Wow, you know, I think she just might be the ONNNNE MINUTE — WHO’S THAT BITCH THAT JUST WALKED IN THE ROOM?!”

Through some strange cosmic tear in the space-time continuum, this overarching cognitive dissonance doesn’t stop hordes of women from weekly making popcorn and snuggling and imagining themselves getting handed the final rose at the ceremony. And for some bizarre reason, they look at shows like “The Bachelor” as viable paradigms for what love is and can’t believe it when their own relationships fail miserably.

“He was sooo amazing in the beginning!”

Yeah, well, that’s because he was FAKING it, sweetheart.

Look, ladies, it crushed us as well when we learned that you faked orgasms. You fake coming, we fake carats. We both do it for the sole purpose of making the other person feel better, but both sexes are equally counterproductive and TPR in this regard.

Now this is all not to say that, as a guy, you should pin your girlfriend down and fart on her face to quell any and all sense of romance. You don’t need to purposely and violently squash any idea she might have that you’re a romantic character in a Nicolas Sparks novel, but you also don’t need to pretend that you like Walt Whitman and glittery Cullens in order to maintain a relationship with her.

And you definitely don’t need to take her to some epicene movie like “Valentine’s Day,” particularly when you could be supporting your country by masturbating to the Olympic female mogul skiiers. God Bless America…. and Canada too…. and, oooooh, some of the Ukrainians….

Here’s the great PARADOX of the female obsession with romance: as much as women believe in romance and worship at the chintzy-smelling altar of all things fairy tale and epic, they actually have a greater capacity for real love than we silly men will ever have. They are compassionate and take care of us in ways that we can barely appreciate and rarely reciprocate. For as long as their entire lifetime, they can file away their swashbuckling image of you and, most of the time, completely accept you for the schleppy fuck-up that you actually turned out to be.

As my mom said, women have the type of compassion and love where they can pick up their lovers’ ratty underpants and erase skidmarks and STILL think he’s “THE ONE.” Although men aren’t ‘romantic’ at all, do you think they have the capacity to love like that … at all?

Men are much more prone to say something akin to the following: “I loved her sooo much…. But then she FARTED in front of me! I mean, what the hell is that?!!! I didn’t hear her fart or anything but I could smell it, and, even though I was farting around the same time, I knew she farted because it had a completely different odor. It was disgusting! It was just SUCH a turn-off that I had to immediately break up with her by email.”

In truth, we GUYS are the hopeless romantics. We are the ones who can’t imagine our ladies being anything but perfect and angelic, while at the same time we deride them for their sappy movies, books and “foolish” ideas about love and romance. Guys, let’s be honest, we kind of suck and we’re kind of hypocrites regarding this.

So, for Valentine’s Day, if you see your girl getting all twitterpated by concepts like love and trust and ‘HE WENT TO JARED’S,” just give her a break. She’s still gonna take care of you. She will always have the magic ability to juggle the Clorox Bleach Pen and the Edward obsession.

But, ladies, I hope that this day at least is sans skidmarks.

As for what happens tonight, well to each their own….

This entry was posted on Sunday, February 14th, 2010 at 8:44 am and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.