Valentine's Day Is a Punch to the Gunt

Photo from 106.1 KISSFM Evansville's blog.

I know I’m not bouncin’ any groundbreaking balls here, but let me tell you, Valentine’s Day is for sackless suckers and lamebrain dames. Some folkers argue that all these so-called holidays are just arbitrary days designated to stimulate the economy (and “it’s fun for the kids!”). I think humanity would be better off with random acts of kindness and truly surprising gift-giving glory on special days when the philanthropic mood strikes. Instead, it’s like, “Yo, motherfucker… Valentine’s Day is coming up, you better not make me look stupid. Buy me some fly shit, take me out, and then fuck me proper so I can brag to my friends while cradling my stretched, swollen pussy.” Never mind that some of us take our girls out all the time, buy them things, and bone them like champs on the frequent—it’s all out the window when February 14 comes around.

Girls love a lot of nonsense, like drinking out of wine glasses. What the fuck’s that for? You can just drink cheap wine out the bottle and it tastes lovely as virginal blood. Girls also fall for sucker shit like soap operas, shopping networks, fast cars, and dudes who mostly hang out in jail, so of course they’re going to gobble up Valentine’s propaganda like the hungry, hungry cock-sludge-snarfing gargoyles they are. I don’t blame them. If I was cursed with a stinky pussy between my legs, I’d be selling that snap-trap to the highest bidders. I can almost guarantee I’d be stripping and selectively servicing any number of sugar daddies all while playing some naïve money-making momma’s boy—crashing at his crib, enjoying his lavish lifestyle, and sliming shamelessly behind his back. So of course, I’d take advantage of a day like this. I’d probably demand a fuckin’ face-lift with a side dish of fake tits. I’d probably even really go nuts to see how far I could break him down like “Listen, chimp-dick, you’re going to order me up a herd of mandingos like the ones I saw on Real Sex 17, and watch them gang bang the shit out of me of all over your bedroom rug. If not, I’m leaving you for your boss.” If I had juicy tits I’d be a real loose bitch. Any assets I got, I’m pimpin’ out.

What makes this shitty holiday even shittier is that February 14 surely creates much more misery than bliss. I’m positive far more than half of the world’s population is not in a happy relationship. Some people are just pissed off that they don’t have anyone ’cause, unfortunately, they’re hideous and crippled with unrepentant fast-food farts. These poor folkers have to see all this bull-pucky in the media about how it’s a day for lovers when most of them don’t have lovers. Then you got the poor broads who get beat up or treated like human dogs by alcoholic, pseudorapist boyfriends and get their hopes up for this day of love only to wake up to the harsh reality that he’s probably going to get absurdly drunk, gunt punch her, shit on himself, and then wipe his fetid feces on her face while she sobs herself to sleep. Just like a usual day.

Personally, I’ve had some fun V-Days, but I have good days all the time with the girl. I don’t need to be told what to do. I do what I want. Fuck this stupid day… It gets me mad ’cause I can’t win. It’s not worth the fight. If I tell my baby that she ain’t gettin’ shit and that I’ll serve her a slice of heaven at a time and place of my choosing, then I’m going to start a battle not worth going to war for. Some jackasses blame this holiday on Hallmark, but that’s silly. Once this idea got planted in some pussy-whippin’, hard-body-wieldin’ sexy broads’ brains, it was over for the hole-hungry men. Give ’em an inch and they’ll want to take a seven-inch stack straight out your pocket.

It’s a dangerous holiday. Feelings are going to get hurt and there’s not much we can do about it. As a flawed race of half retards we don’t need this pressure. We’d be better served with a day that was designed to allow us all to fuck a stranger for free and then bounce—almost like utilizing the famed gay invention, the Glory Hole. We could call it St. Silently Slay-a-Slag Day—that’s romantic in its own way.

Bert Burykill is the pseudonym of our prison correspondent, who has spent time in a number of prisons in New York State. He tweets here. 

Previously: Incorrect Officers