It’s that time of year again. Mid-February. And some of you gullible apes might be buying into the capitalist wet dream called Valentine’s day. So because we want to appear ‘current’, I’ve been asked to write a beautifully vague “Valentine’s day piece”, just two days before the “holiday” itself. So here it is, a list of things you might want to get your significant other. Or yourself. Or nobody. Here’s a thing: don’t buy any of them, save the money, spend it on food. Close this tab and go back to your corrosive pornography. I’m meant to be writing my dissertation on speciesism in 20th century literature. Would you read that? Course you fucking wouldn’t.
Perfect Valentine’s Day Gifts
A Dozen Red Roses
Because nothing says “I love you” like this ridiculous trope, right? Ha ha.
Actually, nothing says “bored, thoughtless satire” like using the phrase “nothing says “I love you” like…” to deconstruct such a simple act of kindness which, though it’s perhaps unoriginal, would actually be a really nice thing to give to someone. So before you laugh from the comfort of your own isolation why don’t you take a good hard look at yourself.
On anything. People in general don’t read enough, so use this made-up Hallmark holiday to your advantage and encourage your loved one to expand their mind. Go to your local bookstore and literally pick one off the shelf, at random. I’m in the library now, as I write this. I’ll do it. Right now.
Ok, I’m back, with my romantic present – a soon-to-be-gift-wrapped copy of “The Natural History of Alcoholism.” Fuck me, right?
Far from being a stereotypical “lazy” gift, a scarf is actually a really good practical and stylish way of keeping your face warm. And you can use it to tie each other up during your sweaty, nauseating bedroom “sex”.
Before you gleefully thrust a platter of factory-sculptured milk chocolate hearts in the face of your “bae”, just remember that, in order to meet our obscene demands, female cows are forcibly impregnated, have their babies taken away and sold for veal if they are male or milk if they are female, and have their udders sucked so dry that milk regulations allow for a significant percentage of every carton to be made up of pure puss.
This one isn’t satirical, sorry. Milk is fucking rank.
A trip away
Travel broadens the mind, expands horizons etc. Go away. Go anywhere. Go to Dublin or Tunisia, Norway or Indonesia, then Greenland. Then go to Alabama. In fact, if you didn’t close this ridiculous article when I suggested it earlier, do it right now and get on a plane or a boat or a fucking Segway and disappear into my horizon. And don’t come to tell me about it afterwards. I’ll be living my life, writing about Animal Farm.