Yes, folks, I'm back again with yet another holiday-oriented update created only to prove that I am still, in fact, updating this hunk of crap. Note first that the graphic at the top depicts the two things that Valentine's Day is truly about: hearts and babies. When combined, these two elements create a level of romance that reaches PowerRangerlike proportions. And, just like those damn Power Rangers, when you're hit with them, sparks will fly. Only they'll be love sparks, not the ones that the pyrotechnics committee rigged all over the spandex suits that everybody wore on that horrible karate demo of a children's program that I used to watch daily.

Speaking of things that like to kick, punch, and do flips for no apparent reason, the heart is a symbol that is the center of Valentine's Day. It plays the role of "the heart" of this holiday that so very efficiently takes advantage of the cutesy stuffed bear industry while simultaneously making single people support whatever company makes Kleenex (the answer is "Kleenex" makes Kleenex). For the tears, you pervs. Oh, and the single people also help out the lubrication industry. For the ... uh ... ok, for the masturbating. You've got me there.

Nothing tastes better than the truth. Not even cake. Ok, maybe cake. And pie.

Regardless of how many single people beat off while silently weeping, Valentine's Day is held together by the heart, as I so implied in the poorly-assembled graphic above. Contrary to popular belief, the heart does not aid the romantic process by magically sending Love Waves to other people's hearts. The heart does not make smaller cartoon hearts come out of the top of your head when you're making a queasy face around a lady or exotic stranger you want to bang. The heart pumps your damn blood. And that's it. Don't be fooled by all of that "Look, I'm a candy heart and I say cute things and I taste delicious" song and dance. That candy heart looks nothing like a real heart. And for the love of banana burritos, why are people so interested in eating inaccurate portrayals of internal organs in the first place? They, do however, taste like hearts would if they were deliciously flavored like mints, oranges, and the color purple.

So while hearts are the cause of this wretched day by pumping our blood, babies are clearly the effect of it. Hearts (the non-candy variety) give us the heartrate necessary for life so people can buy each other crap and then have sex. And what happens after sex? Cigarettes. And what happens after cigarettes? Coughing. And somewhere in there the lady gets pregnant and has a baby. Now, I don't know if you noticed this, but the baby pictured above is actually a plush dinosaur with a baby's face hideously attached to it. So not only does that stuffed child represent how people born in November are made, it's also a swell way to remind everyone that to give gifts you need someone to give them to, which is why only the single people are wished a Happy Friggin' Valentine's Day. And for those of you who appreciate this holiday because it allows you to grow even closer to your snuggle honey bunnykins, I wish you a Happy Fuck Off.

So while you "dating people" who "date" because you aren't "severely antisocial" are off "having sex," I'm going to speak to all of the bachelorettes out there. And you bachelors can listen just because I both pity and relate to your pathetic single-but-looking souls.

I'm listening. No, really.

Now ladies, hear me out here. I am the most eligible man you will ever not meet over the internet. I'm somewhere between 5 and 7 feet tall and I have some hair. Or maybe I don't. I haven't really checked lately. And hoo boy, ladies, you won't be able to speak in anything other than vowel sounds after your jaw hits the ground when you see me lay down the charm like I'll be laying you down later. I'll say something that'll knock your socks right out of your boots or moccasins and you'll be all like "Uh ah oh eh!" which'll be your way of saying "Wow, I'm impressed!" while your chin rests firmly on the ground in sheer awe of my awfully awesome awesomeness. And while you're all hunched over with your fucked up mouth I won't even look down your shirt that much because I'm a gentleman and I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable enough to leave. But my charm and looks aren't what'll make you want me. Not even the duct tape handcuffs I will have attached to your wrists and ankles will fully keep you in my basement dungeo-...er...heart. Here, let me explain it to you in a crude but effective way to woo the bitches.

Ladies, I can do anything you want. I am the ideal boyfriend. You know why? Because I will listen to all of the dumb shit you have to say. You can tell me about your boring day in grueling detail and I will nod my head and avidly listen to every miserable anecdote with feigned interest. Want to tell me about how much you hate math and numbers and stuff? Fine. I positively adore your riveting tales about lipstick and that girl you've hated since middle school because one time she insulted your Hello Kitty backpack. We could talk on the phone for hours and hours and I could just listen to all the feces that just seems to come pouring out of your retarded mouth. You will feel important as long as I feel your bajongas. You see, it's all about give and take. You give me an earful of lady goodledygook and then I take off your pants. This way, everybody wins. So as long as your mouth and legs are open then both of us walk away happy. So start yakkin', bitch, because I care about you.

After proposing all of this seductive rhetoric, or "begging" as you realists like I call it, I'd like to lay down a few rules regarding the ladies that may decide to approach me with propositions for sex or at least mild groping. First, no smokers. Sorry, ladies, I've never been big on chicks who inhale fire, but I appreciate your oral fixation. Why don't you give that up and try something that won't leave your breath smelling like burning farts, like chewing gum or heroin? Secondly, it wouldn't hurt if you were around five feet, ten and a half inches tall, had light brown hair, perfect teeth, and three large jafloobies. I'm not too picky, but I figured I should give you a general idea of what I'm looking for. And lastly, the woman I plan on impregnating can't use the internet. Ever. So if you're reading this, I'm sorry, but I think we should see other people. I'm looking for true love, whereas you obviously want to rub your vaginer-doo all over whoever has the nicest webpage. Sorry, lady, but I don't operate that way.

And now I shall conclude this page with a graphic I made to spread some joy over all of your hearts like soft cream cheese on the bagel of your hearts.

All depicted rape has been lovingly simulated with paid actors and my groin.

Everyone be sure to have a dandy Valentine's Day this year and remember this: there isn't a problem you can't get rid of with a little group of friends I like to call "hostages."