Random Memorandum™ to Cupid, Roman god of Desire, Love Everlasting and Anonymous, Unsafe Sex™: Valentine’s Day notwithstanding, your angel wings and quiver of heart-shaped arrows have overstayed their welcome and overshot the bloody target. This being the 20th century — or thereabouts — there are all manner of methods to land a mate other than you spearing a prey with a pheromone-tipped barb. Consider the legion of Twitternet™ match-fakers like that cock knocker at E-Harmony®, who takes lovelorn sad sacks and pairs them up according to a mystical, mathematical algorithm — or possibly just their zip codes — and before you’re know it, they’re ordering the house wine, the 2 entrees for $22.22 and waging mutual, hand-to-genitalia combat under the table in plain sight of a middle-school soccer team descending upon an onion blossom. Then there are the she-devils at It’s Just Lunch™ — I assure you, it isn’t — who pair up the generic, ill-fitting business-suited types, who'll soon populate the suburbs with their wretched offspring. And let’s not forget the religulous ‘round the globe, those in the cloth headgear or bedazzled foreheads, for instance, whose unions — bless them — are pre-ordained according to Ali Baba or something. No call for your services there, oh winged one. True, Cupid, your cherubbed rear is a familiar sight in the greeting card aisles in early February, as there are still a few lonely dopes seeking your assistance in winning the affections of lonelier, dopier dopes; but other than that, the archers in the Olympic games do better hashtag business than you. ‘Tis time you covered your bare necessities and went back to Mount Olympus for reassignment. Besides, Victoria’s Secretive™ gals are far more fetching in the winged-creature department than you, sir. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.Monday, February 14
Rhymes with Stupid
Random Memorandum™ to Cupid, Roman god of Desire, Love Everlasting and Anonymous, Unsafe Sex™: Valentine’s Day notwithstanding, your angel wings and quiver of heart-shaped arrows have overstayed their welcome and overshot the bloody target. This being the 20th century — or thereabouts — there are all manner of methods to land a mate other than you spearing a prey with a pheromone-tipped barb. Consider the legion of Twitternet™ match-fakers like that cock knocker at E-Harmony®, who takes lovelorn sad sacks and pairs them up according to a mystical, mathematical algorithm — or possibly just their zip codes — and before you’re know it, they’re ordering the house wine, the 2 entrees for $22.22 and waging mutual, hand-to-genitalia combat under the table in plain sight of a middle-school soccer team descending upon an onion blossom. Then there are the she-devils at It’s Just Lunch™ — I assure you, it isn’t — who pair up the generic, ill-fitting business-suited types, who'll soon populate the suburbs with their wretched offspring. And let’s not forget the religulous ‘round the globe, those in the cloth headgear or bedazzled foreheads, for instance, whose unions — bless them — are pre-ordained according to Ali Baba or something. No call for your services there, oh winged one. True, Cupid, your cherubbed rear is a familiar sight in the greeting card aisles in early February, as there are still a few lonely dopes seeking your assistance in winning the affections of lonelier, dopier dopes; but other than that, the archers in the Olympic games do better hashtag business than you. ‘Tis time you covered your bare necessities and went back to Mount Olympus for reassignment. Besides, Victoria’s Secretive™ gals are far more fetching in the winged-creature department than you, sir. Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.