Strange musings from the bakery: 'VD' is for lovers

By David Baker

February 13, 2008 | Hell is a never-ending diamond pendant commercial.

"Dink-da-dink-da-dink, dink, dink, dink-da-dink-da-dink. Every kiss begins with K."

Well, every kick in your overly sentimental ass begins with K, too.

If I wanted to end it there, that's a pretty honest, concise representation of my feelings about VD -- Valentine's Day, and that's the last time I will utter that unholy combination of syllables in this diatribe on the single most divisive, unnecessary holiday of the year. But, I can't end here, not enough trembling anger spewed out on this page to let my head rest for the evening.

Like most people who aren't hopelessly romantic dweebs, I dread every time the calendar hits Dec. 26, because that signifies the start of VD season. At your local grocer, you find the shelves packed with hearts and stuffed bears -- some with hearts on them -- and pinks and reds and chocolates -- some shaped like heart and others like bears -- and roses and any number of essential VD accessories.

The soundtrack of the world turns to Unchained Melody, Air Supply, Barry White, the absolute worst of The Beatles, some cuts off of the Titanic soundtrack and that Police song, Every Breath You Take, which is really about stalking someone. Romantic, right?

It's all so hard to stomach when your favorite love song is Pantera's This Love -- a song more correctly classified as ultra-violent and anti-sentimental.

But VD used to be fun. It used to be something you'd get excited about. Something the teacher would pass out the class list for. Something to make boxes for. Of course, this is before we were all old enough to realize that love is not about candy hearts with pink writing. No, it's about pain, agony and constant hardship.

Love used to be a shoe box, colorfully decorated. Now it's just a bitch. And VD is the day-long reminder of that sad realization.

Hot damn, that sounds bitter, like I'm all brokenhearted or something. Not true. Single or not, I just hate that the greeting card and candy companies have taken such advantage of the small-minded uber-romantics out there, leaving the normal people to suffer for their mistakes, as well.

To abate the suffering, drinking is always an option, but angrily drinking whiskey usually only fosters more volatile forms of anger.

The only thing I've ever found to work as an antibiotic to cure my VD-related animosity is to actually recreate the fun atmosphere of childhood VD: The colorful boxes. The Disney character VD cards. The hours spent toiling over the right card to give to the right person, to send the right message.

We arranged such a soiree two years ago. Our group of friends all decided to make ridiculous boxes and exchange VD cards.

I had so much fun crafting my box, I totally forgot about my irrational rage about VD. I would describe my box in detail, but there are federal obscenity statutes -- rightly put in place to protect innocent eyes -- that bar me from breaching the subject. All I can legally say is that it was a variable manuscript on the mechanics of sex, adorned with a red, fake-velvet g-string with a metal square, crusted with shiny plastic standing in for diamonds -- purchased at Honk's for $1.

"I'm appalled," one of the girls said when I carted my box out. I was giggling like the town lunatic.

We had a World War II scene, complete with plastic soldiers and fake blood. We had cute, Easter basket-looking things that were a humorous juxtaposition to my blatant disregard for decency.

The actual cards ranged from Hello Kitty to Land Before Time to handmade, construction paper ones -- some more phallic in nature than others. I want so bad to tell you all the details, but I just can't. Something that started out with such an unbridled lack of tact just can't be fully retold in polite terms. If I did, the FBI would be on my ass, and I would, no doubt, get expelled. Sorry.

Maybe that's what VD is all about, not the FBI or getting expelled, but something so rotten and subtly evil at it's core that people can't help but turn into jelly-headed morons.

For some of us, that transformation reveals itself in anatomically correct VD boxes. For others, it's manifested in hundreds of dollars spent on roses, dinner and a new Monster Ballads CD, just to see how many bases that romantic garbage will allow us to steal.

MS
MS