More Wrestling Dialogue/ Don't Shit Your Pants

If you haven't already, read the previous post before this one, as this might not make a lot of sense otherwise. Well, it probably won't make a lot of sense anyway. I really enjoy recounting these exchanges.

Peter: “For someone who says they don’t follow wrestling, you sure seem to know a lot”.

Me: “Nah, you just pick this stuff up. Hey look, some Irish guy is throwing around a midget. Finlay, eh? He’s beating some guy with a shalaleigh!?”

Peter: “Midgets are funny”.

Me: “Midgets are funny. Remember when Doink and Jerry “The King” Lawlor had a rivalry going on? Those were some good midget fights man. Doink and Lawlor were having a match when Doink’s sidekick midget, Dink, came out and started causing all sorts of shit. Lawlor didn’t much like that, so next time he decided to have a little bit of insurance himself. They ended up getting three midgets each. Doink had Dink and...hmmmmm...well I can’t remember. Let’s go with Pink and Stink...*chuckle chuckle*

Peter: “Heh heh, good one mate.”

Me: “Heh, yeah. Lawlor had Cheesy, Sleazy, and Greasy. When all was said and done there was a huge midget brawl. Midgets were flying all over the place. I’m pretty sure everyone got hurt. It’s not important who won. The point is....uh....

Peter: “Midgets are funny”.

Me: “Exactly”.

Also, here is a link to my vote for "Game of the Year".

Are you the shit king? I am.

Schlobberknocker!!!!

The days are winding down now. The next few days are going to be a blur (when I decide to get out of bed anyway) as I jazz around town snapping last minute photos, picking up some gifts I’ve had my eye on, and desperately trying to bribe Emmer’s Military Supply to sell me part of the official police (‘Pulis’) uniform. The shirt is ugly as shit, and I think I want it more because the clerk said I couldn’t have it, but I’m not giving up. My lifelong dream of being a ‘Crooked Filipino Sergeant’ for Halloween will become a reality.

In other news Andrew and I presented our preliminary report findings to university members in the Aborlan WPU campus yesterday. We were told a van would be waiting for us at the WPU Santa Monica gate at 7:00 am, so I got up at 6:00 am to shower and dress. A few students from WPU were also presenting their papers, but everyone was speaking in Tagalog, so we never really got the chance to introduce ourselves or talk to anyone. It was a pretty uneventful trip overall, however one thing of note happened:

On the way to Aborlan (about a 1.5 hour drive from Santa Monica) the driver popped in a Bon Jovi cassette (yes a cassette) that had all of their most popular stuff on it. The van was deathly silent except for the wince inducing squawkings of Jon Bomb Jovi. Then “I’ll Be There for You” began and three of the four Filipino students began squawking right along. I was sandwiched in the middle, dressed to kill, with a crooning student to my left, Andrew falling asleep on me to my right, and two students crooning in the back. I sat there thinking about how this must look to anyone outside and realized that, except for the white guy in the suit, it would have been pretty typical. After I figured this out I didn’t give it much thought when the exact same thing happened on the way home a few hours later.

In other other news, I’ve come to accept that I’m a closet wrestling fan. The comedy channel here is Jack TV and, for whatever reason, they constantly play WWE wrestling. They play vintage WWF matches, WWE RAW, WWE SmackDown, ECW, and TNA. Peter loves watching it, so whenever he’s in the room, which is 90% of the time, if wrestling is on we are watching it. He’s not a huge diehard fan, but apparently I am. I can better express my meaning through paraphrased dialogue and hyperbole:

Peter: “Hey mate! Wrestling’s on. Wanna wotch it?”

Me: “Uhm, yeah sure”.

Peter: “Oi! Do you watch wrestling in Newfinland?”

Me: “Nah, not really. I mean, I watched it when I was a kid, but I was never a diehard fan or anything”.

Peter: “Vegemite.”

Me: “Uh huh”.

*Some old match with Hulk Hogan, ‘Superfly’ Jimmy Snooka, Mr. T (?), some other dirtbags, and special guest referee, Muhammad Ali begins. I couldn’t make this up.*

Me: “Why the hell is Mr. T wrestling Hulk Hogan? Is that Muhammad Ali as a referee? This is insane”.

Peter: “It’s classic mate!”

Me: “Nah, classic was when Jake "The Snake" Roberts had his snake murdered in the ring by Earthquake”.

Peter: “Huh?”

Me: “Yeah man, it was crazy. Well, it would have been if there was an actual snake in the bag when Earthquake sat his fat ass on it, which there wasn’t, but I’m getting off-base. Earthquake was this huge wrestler who had a feud with Jake the Snake. Jake used to pull out this bag with a snake in it as some retarded finishing move. I guess the snake would inject venom and kill his opponents or something, I dunno. Anyway, earthquake had enough of Jake’s shit and after beating the crap out of him he took the bag with the snake in it, danced around the ring a little bit, and did a big fat elbow-drop to the bag, presumably destroying the snake and Jake’s psyche.”

Peter: “Who’s Earthquake? Also, dijiridoo”.

Me: “Earthquake was originally made out to look like an audience member. Dino Bravo, wanting to show everyone how strong he was, decided to do a push up with the fat ass on his back. Next week, bam, Earthquake came out in his gigantic one piece wrestling suit”.

Peter: “Roight”.

Monster

The weeks rolled on and we began to watch more and more wrestling. I would always contend that I wasn’t a wrestling fan and then educate him on 15 years of WWF history.

Peter: “Shit, Triple H is fawking huge”.

Me: “He wasn’t always that big. He started off as Hunter Hearst Hemsly and his shtick was that he was some prissy noble or duke or some shit. He was normal looking back then. I think he had China as his manager/bodyguard. She has a penis now”.

Peter: “Oi?”

Me “Yes man. See....holy shit look! Shawn Michaels! I thought he broke his goddamn neck years ago. Wow, he’s huge too”.

Peter: “I thought you never wotched wrestling?”

Me: “I didn’t. Shawn Michaels used to be a part of the tag-team group ‘The Rockers’. The other dude was Marty Genetti. I remember they had a huge falling out. I think Michaels kicked Genettit through a plate glass window on Brutus ‘The Barber’ Beefcake’s show. Also, 'Sexy Boy' is the best intro music ever”.

Peter: “I’m not even going to ask what that means”.

Me: “Yeah, you shouldn’t”.

Peter: “Well, I’m off to feed the dingos with Paul Hogan”.

Me: “Keep it real”.

I think this picture sums up why they were called 'The Rockers'

So, I think that sums it just about up. I’m a closet wrestling fan. This makes me stoked, as Jordan, Davis, myself, and others have planned some drunken wrestling PPV nights.

Another reason on my medium-sized list of reasons I can't wait to come home.

NOTE: I need a proofreader. I edited this post at least six [ed. make that seven] times now. I'm accepting resumes.

4 Realz

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm sort of a nerd. And by 'sort of' I mean 'complete and utter'. I'm not a socially inept nerd, but don't let that fool you. I'm straight up geek to the core. But fuck it. 'Geek' is the new 'cool' and 'cool' is the new 'blasé'. As such, this five month hiatus away from most mass media has been killer. The lack of movies has been the easiest to swallow, but I definitely miss going to the theater. Nothing beats spending $20 on nachos and coke. My musical cravings have been mostly satisfied thanks to iTunes and Mastercard. Well, they were until my iPod decided to brick itself. Some would say "the fun machine took a shit and died". I would say I agree. Apple's getting a phone call.

However, the biggest media craving that cannot be satisfied is my love of video games. More specifically, I miss Rock Band. The fact that I'm devoting an entire post should tell you something since I usually talk about interesting experiences, questionable foods, giddy homosexuals and the occasional suicidal child. For those of you that aren't familiar with Rock Band allow me to elaborate. Rock Band is a video game that simulates the experience of playing in a ..... rock band. The game supports up to four players, each playing a different instrument: guitar, bass, drums, and vocals. If the player is playing the guitar or bass part, colored notes travel down the screen and the player responds by holding down the corresponding color on the neck of the guitar peripheral and strumming the strum bar. If the player is drumming, he or she must simply strike the drum pad of corresponding color and use the foot peddle to play straight bass notes. Singers sing. It sounds pretty straightforward, and is, but can get very complicated on the 'expert' setting. Playing the guitar and bass portions are a pretty exaggerated fascimile of actual guitar, but the drum portion is actually fairly similar to the motions a real drummer would go through.

In short, I miss the (pardon the language) fucking shit out of drumming in a fake rock band. Is this the only reason I'm a huge nerd? No.

Does it help? Absolutely.

Do I care? Not even a little.

I mean, it's the perfect goddamn game. It mixes my love of video games with my love of music. I'm not fighting level fifteen super cobras in World of Wizards. I'm melting faces and winning the hearts of millions of (imaginary) fans. What could be more fun? I don't think one person has ever not fantasied about playing in a rock band or at least being a singer. If you say you haven't I'm going to go ahead and call you liar. So let's leave it there.

Before I left I was getting to be quite the little drummer boy. Having no previous experience in drums makes me feel proud when I crank out a 5-star performance of Metallica's "Enter Sandman". To put it in perspective allow me to show you a video of what I plan to be able to do in a few weeks.



Epic.

Yup, sirs and madams, in a few short weeks I'll be home and melting imaginary faces with my real buddies and getting real drunk on real beer.

Fucking stoked?

For real.

Che: Part II

Whenever I am in the same room as Che my blood pressure dramatically increases. I’m still a huge fan of the little rascal, but she’s ridiculously accident prone and is constantly falling down and beating herself up. For example, during Tems’ funeral she broke free and ran down the church aisle and out through the door, swerving and swaying like a tiny lunatic drunk. Mom bolted after her. They returned about five minutes later with considerably more facial bruising that before. In her continuing quest to outrun herself she succeeded and took a nasty tumble in the church parking lot. She scraped her face below her eye, above her eyebrow, and part of her chest. In short, she’s a menace to herself.

Today I decided to eat the rest of the pineapple I bought a few days ago. On the way to the third floor I heard the familiar “Baahhbb!”, baby for “Yo”. Che came running from her mother’s lap and gave me the universal pick-me-up motion. I refused:

“Che, I can’t help but notice that you’re a pretty terrible walker. I mean, look at your face. I think it’s high time you read the operator’s manual for those legs. Tell you what though, I’ll give you a hand.”

“Bahh Gabbo.”

“Don’t mention it.”

So, with that being said, she walked me to the third floor with one unbelievably small paw wrapped around my index finger. After I chopped up way too much pineapple for one person, and after Che finished covertly stealing someone’s boiled rice (grain by grain) I washed the knife and she put the lid back on the pot, a few guilty grains still stuck to her corner of her mouth. I didn’t trust her walking down the stairs so I picked her up and balanced her in one arm while I cradled my plate of pineapple in the other. When we got to the bottom I ate my pineapple while Che finished her face rice.

The biggest blood pressure spike came later that afternoon while Peter and I were watching The Simpsons. Che was running around the house, trying to scale the stairs to the third floor. She made her way to the middle landing before anyone had noticed where she was. It was then I looked up and saw that the middle landing window was wide open and at the perfect level for a shaky baby to take a fatal tumble through. I just gaped, wide-eyed as she walked around, not knowing what to say or do. Luckily mom noticed her and ran to close the window and scoop up her child. Now, whenever I’m in that room I’m going to be constantly looking in that direction for suicidal babies. Thanks a lot Che!

On a brighter note, today Che learned how to dance. Some Christina Aguilera video came on TV and I started absently tapping my foot. Che decided that tapping a foot was for people who didn't have any style and proceeded to dance:

Christina spouted nonsense (Some days I'm a super bitch. Up to my old tricks. But it won't last forever") and Che stomped around the house like a miniature rhino. It was adorable.

I said it before and I'll say it again:

I'm really going to miss that kid.

I'm So Mad I Could Kick You Right In The Chest....Right In The Chest.

Try as we might, Andrew and I cannot get the tourism businesses to complete and return our surveys. The whole project is based around the information gathered from these surveys, so their completion is quite important. To make matters worse, yesterday, in the span of thirty seconds, Andrew received a text message from our supervisor indicating that we were to present our findings on the 24^th of February and I received a phone call from Jimmy telling me the same. We went to Honda Bay earlier today to pick up thirteen of the thirty-something surveys and were informed to come back on Saturday. I suspect this means a Saturday, not this Saturday. I also suspect the surveys would be as easily collected if they were on the moon. In short, we are in quite the pickle.

Pickle or not, a few other interesting things have happened around the house over the past few days. I’ll outline three in no particular order:

1) I attended my first Filipino wake. Sadly, the co-owner of Aniceto’s Pension, Tems, died last week. He had a stroke sometime after midnight and was rushed to the hospital but unfortunately nothing could be done. He had suffered massive brain damage from the stroke and died a few days later. Tems was a really great guy. He was always laughing and joking around. He didn’t speak great English, but he always tried to help you out with a problem in any way he could. I had my first drink of Filipino brandy with Tems and another house guest a few weeks after I arrived. The same night I tried my first Filipino delicacy, tamilok (A coconut tree woodworm). The tamilok was terrible but the company was great. My deepest condolences go out to his wife Tess and the rest of his family.

2) I had my first real gigantic drunk on the roof of Aniceto’s. Three Austrians, a Swede, and a Filipino were all having a huge meal and drinking session on the roof. I was talking to a friend on the second floor as they passed by and they invited me to join them. I obliged and it turned out to be a complete disaster. Don’t get me wrong, the company was great. They were genuinely a great bunch of interesting and funny people, but they broke out the Tanduay and ruined my tomorrow. I’m not much of a hard liquor drinker, and probably should stick to beer, but I think the real problem was the method of consumption. We were drinking the rum “Filipino style”, which basically means from a communal mug with chasers of mango juice. I’m used to drinking beer in pretty big mouthfuls. When I do drink liquor it’s either as a shot or in a very weakly mixed drink, not straight from a huge glass. The rum was deceptively smooth and easy to drink, so much that a chaser wasn’t even really necessary. Add big mouthfuls of rum to easy drinkability and you get a gigantic fucking mess. After the fourth bottle (around 1:00 am) I volunteered to get more. Being, 1:00 am, nothing was open, so I decided to approach a bunch of strangers squatting and drinking in the street near the aptly named Squatter’s Village. I figured (correctly) that if these people had booze they could get me booze. I struck up an awkward conversation and got to the nitty-gritty pretty damn quick. After a price was arranged, one of the guys ran into his house and came out five minutes later with two more bottles of Tanduay. I gave him a celebratory high five and was on my way. I got back to the party feeling very pleased with myself. This was the last time I would feel pleased for 36 hours. I woke up the next day and realized some seriously bad shit had gone down in my room the night before. I’m not going to get into the details on this blog, but let me just say that my first trip of the day (6:00 pm that night) was to Lian’s Laundry with a bag of sheets and towels. The shower needed to be thoroughly cleaned and my knee was swollen and purple, probably (definitely) from falling down. Also, one of the Austrians said that on the way into my room I fell into my door and couldn’t find the knob for a few minutes. I’ll have to take his word for that.

Two bottles of poison and a bottle of Coke

3) As I said, the next day was absolute torture. There was one bright point that turned out to be a complete tease though. Later that night, I tested my luck at keeping some food down and failed miserably. I decided to head home from ChowKing and get some more sleep. When I hopped in the back of the tricycle there was a guy riding on the back of the bike with the driver. He kept looking at me and finally asked if my name was Steve. I said no. He asked did I remember him. I said no. He asked if my name was Steve again. I said no. He said his name was Adonis and suddenly I remembered him. He was the guy who drove me home the night I left my vintage Whaler’s hat in the tricycle!

Holy shit!

I told him I remembered him and brought up the subject of the hat. He told me that yes he remembered the hat and yes he still had it.

Holy shit!!

He said he would drop it by tomorrow after work.

Holy shit!!!

The driver pulled up to Aniceto’s, I paid the fare, I said goodbye to Adonis, thanked him profusely, and thought about hugging and kissing him. I went to bed feeling great, the sins of last night washed away in a wave of pure joy.

That was the last time I would ever see that lying bastard. He should be ashamed of himself. If he’s unlucky enough to run into me in the next few weeks I’m going to kick him in the chest and steal his hat, or shoes. Or maybe his sweater, I haven’t decided.

Rest assured: Adonis will get his.

An Inqueery.

It’s almost that time folks. In about twenty days I leave Palawan. First I need to take a short plane ride to Manila and over-night there. The next day I’ll get on a series of airplanes, including a 15.5 hour monster from Hong Kong to Toronto, and, barring crappy weather delays, will arrive in St. John’s sometime around midnight on March 2^nd. But before I wave goodbye to this island (in all practicality for good) I feel I need to discuss a subject that I’ve briefly touched upon: gays and lady-boys.

In an earlier blog entry I mentioned an experience I had with Andrew, his lady-friend, and her lady-boy friend. I’m not going to go into detail because I already thoroughly explained that situation. However, this was at the start of my stay in Palawan, before I knew the extent to which the Velvet Mafia had a stranglehold on this nation. What was then a humorous and uncomfortable experience has become a long, drawn-out unfunny joke. If there is a God (and there’s not), He’s testing* my heterosexuality via a daily gauntlet of homosexual smiles, stares, and cat-calls.

Enough is enough Man.

Seriously though, who wouldn't want this?

Before I start in on a rant I have three points to explain:

1) Filipino’s use the word ‘gay’ as a noun and not as an adjective. For instance, if man walked by wearing a ruby-studded speedo, sporting a Final Fantasy haircut I would say, “Wow, that guy is gay!” while a Filipino would say, “Wow, that guy is a gay!” I mention this to avoid confusion, as I am probably going to interchange the noun and adjective forms of the word throughout this post.

2) Gay’s take two distinct forms: A) The classic ‘gay’ gay, and B) the ‘lady-boy’ gay. The classic gay is your standard, original recipe homosexual. You are likely to see these walking down any street in St. John’s**. The ‘lady-boy’ gay probably needs no introduction. As the title suggests, he prefers to dress in women’s clothing and act in exaggerated facsimile of femininity. Think ten thousand brown Marilyn Monroes breathily singing “Happy Birthday Mr. President” in broken English and you’re on the right track. Peter refers to ‘lady-boys’ as ‘Billy-boys’ or ‘fakkin Billy-bois’.

3) I am not homophobic. Please do not take this rant as an admission of homophobia or prejudice. Most of my best friend’s are gay, probably.

So, let’s start the ball rolling here.

The Philippines is a nation of homosexuals. There, I said it. I’m not trying to be rude, or funny, or make broad generalizations (by making broad generalizations), but this is the truth. One of the first things I noticed when I arrived in the Philippines was the astounding number of children running around. One of the second things I noticed (seconds later) was the astounding number of pregnant women. The third thing I noticed? The absolutely astonishing number of homosexuals floating and mincing through the streets. After a few months of field study and observation I’ve determined that approximately thirty to fifty percent of the male population are gay. I have no reliable lesbian number yet, but have people working on it. With at least three homosexuals for every ten men, I can’t help but wonder how 90 million people ended up inhabiting these islands. I figure the remaining men must be working overtime to keep the ladies pregnant. This fact (I’m going to call it a fact anyway) segues neatly into my next point: acceptance.

Gayopolis

I believe that Canada, as a nation, is relatively accepting. That is, we have a high tolerance of other races, cultures, religions, ways of life, and sexual preferences. Well, except the French. Having said that, I do not believe that, as a nation, we are ready to have ‘lady-boys’ selling us electronics, refinancing our homes or even serving us Big Macs. The Philippines is ready and has fully embraced this “third sex”. ‘Lady-boys’ are widely seen as just another group of people and not as ‘freaks’ or ‘weirdos’. Why is the Philippines so acceptant (admirably so) of ‘lady-boys’? My theory is that the ‘lady-boys’ (and other gays) just leave more women for the heterosexual males. For a nation as notoriously horny as the Philippines, this is a godsend. ‘Lady-boys’ significantly increase the average Joe’s chances of getting laid and, as such, are rewarded through complete social acceptance and a total lack of physical or verbal assaults. We could learn a lot from these people.

A typical Filipino street

But another question needs to be addressed: Puerto Princesa is a fairly small city with a moderate population comparable to the St. John’s CMA, so why are there so many more gays and ‘lady-boys’ here than in St. Johns?

The short, reasonable answer: I have absolutely no idea whatsoever.

The better answer: Pollution.

The difference between Puerto and St. John’s (besides the other thousand differences) is pollution. For a small city Puerto is very polluted. The pollution is mainly of the air variety and is primarily caused by the hundreds of tricycles that act as the city’s main transportation network. They clog the streets, spewing noxious gasses and ear-splitting noises from dusk until dawn. I’m no geneticist, but in my expert opinion I think all the smoke is affecting the pregnant women and prenatally scrambling the “man” gene while simultaneously activating the “poof” gene. The result is an inordinately high number of ‘gay-births’. It’s either the pollution or Muslims. I haven’t decided.

With a page and a half of background information and theory out of the way, maybe I should get to the crux of my post, which is as follows: I am a beacon of white, pasty light to the gays of Puerto Princesa.

I really have no idea why I get so much goddamn attention. I don’t think I act feminine or provide any signals to incite interest, but something is definitely going on. Daily I am approached by strange men on the streets asking me where I’m from, where I’m going, and what my number is. A creepy old guy cornered me in the living room a few months ago and told me I was *ahem* “cute”. A group of ‘lady-boys’ who live on the street up from mine (Roxas Street) regularly wave and smile at me (last week one waved, one smiled, one blew a kiss, and the fourth sang Single Ladies). It is unsettling.

Puerto Princesa City Council meeting

A few days ago I was walking around the city distributing the survey Andrew and I have been working on to various tourism operations. I arrived at a place (StarMiles Tours I believe) and couldn’t open the door. The sign said Open but the door wouldn’t budge. I started to walk away when an arm appeared out of nowhere and jiggled the door in just the right way. The door popped open and, as I turned to thank the stranger, immediately regretted waking up that morning. A powerfully gay guy was standing there, a big stupid smile spread across his face. His left arm was slightly raised, hand completely limp, while the other was crooked against his waist, the back of his hand nestled into the groove of his hip with his finger spread out like a fan. He looked like a very gay teapot. To make a long story short, I talked to the woman behind the counter about why I was there and what I was doing, taking special precaution not to engage in any eye contact with anyone. I got the hell out of there as quick as I could, and in my haste completely forgot that I had written my name and number across the back of every survey in case anyone had questions or needed clarification.

To date I have received thirteen text messages from this man, the most recent being:

“its betr n0t 2 meET d perS0n & kn0w dEM. Bc0z, its easier 2 let go wen d oNLY thng u kn0w is just their name.” L

Jesus Christ.

Keep in mind that this garbled, cryptic nonsense is from a guy I met for three minutes and - except thanking him for opening the door - have never spoken. So then why all the attention? Could I be *gasp* too sexy??

Sadly, I don’t think this is the case. I believe there is an altogether less mysterious answer: I am young, I am white, and I usually walk everywhere alone. That is it. Foreigners get a lot of attention anyway (I have five year olds staring me down in the streets) and being white is somewhat of a curiosity for everyone. In general, I receive an overwhelming amount of attention from pretty much every group of people you can possibly think of as well as the gay community. Also, gays are men, and men are naturally more aggressive than women, so I am probably just focusing on all the unwanted attention a little too much because it is right in my face. In any case, I still don’t think this excuses the thirteen goddamn text messages I received from, well, whoever the hell he was. That might be cultural or he may just be retarded. I haven’t decided yet.

Well, I’ll be back home pretty soon, where it’s too cold to be gay. And, I honestly cannot wait. The Philippines has been fun, but six months is more than enough. I don’t think I have the stones to be a world traveler, and I am perfectly OK with that. I have a cozy rut carved out in St. John’s and will be quite happy to resume chiseling it even deeper when I get back. Before I know it I’ll be boarding the plane from Manila to Hong Kong, waving goodbye to the Philippines forever.

And, to tell you the truth, I won't be the least bit surprised if we fly through a huge rainbow on the way.

Bye Bye Philippines!!

*Testing is a poor word choice. This would imply that I'm having an internal struggle against the cat-calls and smiles. I'm not, but I can't think of a better word.

**Or mulling around Sweetapple's back door. I mean that in every possible context.

Valentine's Day? No Sir, I Don't Like It.

Well, it’s almost that time of year again. That special day where every man says, “See honey, flowers and candy! It shows I still love you! Now let’s hit the sack”. It’s a truly special day. For the first time in as long as I can remember I am going to be single (and in the Philippines) on Valentine’s Day, and this in no way upsets me. I was never one of those ‘to hell with Valentine’s Day’ folks, but I was never a very strong supporter either. I was more of an apathetic participant: forced into a ritual with complete indifference. It didn’t bother me one way or the other that Valentine’s Day forced me to plan a special night for my loved one. But, now as I reflect on Valentine’s Day, (I’m sick of typing that, so I’m calling it V-Day from here on out) and what I am and am not missing out on, I realize that I’m not as apathetic as I once believed. In fact, I now realize that I’m (on some level) completely opposed to it. I realize that I’m not exactly breaking new ground with this topic, but allow me to explain my reasoning.

Google Image Search at its finest. I oppose this.

Valentine’s Day forces you to act in a certain way. Now some of you may be thinking that no one is forced to do anything they don’t want to do, and that those who choose not to participate are free to do so. I feel that this is not completely solid reasoning. It is true that no one is physically forced to participate in V-Day, and to the best of my knowledge, there is no V-Day Mafia to encourage non-believers. But, for those of us who choose not to adhere to laws of V-Day there are repercussions. If your girlfriend (and let’s get real now; I’ve never ever met a guy who gave a flying shit about V-Day) likes the concept of V-Day and expects to celebrate it then you are going to celebrate it. If you don't celebrate then one of two outcomes is likely to happen:

1) Your girlfriend will get mad, possibly calling you selfish and uncaring. You fail.

2) Your girlfriend will say nothing, but will be secretly hurt and disappointed that you wouldn't make a small effort to make her happy. Shame on you.

A third, less likely, outcome might be that your girlfriend doesn't care about V-Day either, and as such, treats the day like any other. In my experience, this is far less likely to happen than the other two outcomes, but should not be completely discredited. I know a few women who don't follow V-Day, although they are in the definite minority.

So, unless your girlfriend is in the third category minority, you have successfully disappointed and hurt your girlfriend. Congratulations, you are officially an asshole. Now, I don't think most people would want to intentionally hurt their girlfriends, so they go along with V-Day just to please them. It makes them happy and that makes you happy. Congratulations again, you have officially been forced into participation.

Boooooooooooooooooo!!

Some of you may be thinking that V-Day is just one day and that I`m probably making too much fuss about one crumby day. This is also not completely solid reasoning. It is true that V-Day is only one day of the year, but if you are doing a good job as a boyfriend then V-Day isn't necessary anyway. The whole point of V-Day is to show that special person that you love/care for them. The whole day is then rendered unnecessary if, as a boyfriend, you aren’t a total bag of shit the rest of the year and are doing things that let your loved one know that you care. If you are in a relationship with a guy who you think is absolutely solid, loves you, and makes you feel special, then ask yourself this question, “Why is Valentine’s Day so important to me?” If your answer is, “Because it’s Valentine’s Day”, I think you need to ask the question again.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter if you do or do not celebrate V-Day. It’s not an important enough holiday to deserve a lot of thought anyway. I’m merely trying to explain why I have come to feel that V-day is a crock of shit. I’ll be the first to admit that I involve myself in holidays, the roots of which I am not a strong follower of (Christmas) or do not understand to the greatest extent (St. Patrick’s Day), so think of my Valentine’s Day rant as an argument against that particular day (and what it currently means) and not of the idea of celebrating other holidays with muddled origins or strained personal connection (which V-Day certainly is).

Happy Valentine’s Day Everybody!!!

Exactly.