You'll have to excuse me for the late post. It is, after
all, the second-most romantic day of the year (after West Wing season
premiere night), and I am a man of extreme passions.
As you would expect, I started the evening off with an appropriately expensive
bottle of champagne, the kind that P-Diddy only brings out for Cribs and
the more upscale club shootings. I lopped off the top of the bottle with
a katana I happened to have lying around, and poured the bubbly into goblets
that were twenty feet away by employing a special geyser technique I'd learned
from a blind violinist in Panama. All without spilling a drop.
I then prepared the kind of meal every girl dreams about having, the kind of meal you only read about in weblogs. There was a great deal of sautéing involved. Chiffonading , even. It was a pretty big deal. You would have been impressed.
After dinner, I lit a few candles, and while we gorged ourselves on hand-dipped, chocolate-covered strawberries, I ignited her passion with an electrifying reading of New York v. US. Our love is like the air around us, baby. The air around us. Naturally, she was moved to tears.
The champagne bottles empty, the strawberries gone, and the erotic words of Sandra Day still ringing in our ears, I turned to my lover and said, simply: “Oh, fuck. I have only 29 minutes left to post before the night is over.”
Now, some might characterize what happened to me next as me “getting slapped in the face.” But I like to think of it as me “getting slapped in the face . . . sexily.”
Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone. Let love rule.