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Valentines day - the myth of Penelope and Paul

Shane O'Rielly would prefer to be knee-deep in boobs and blankets on Valentines Day instead of fulfilling his annual stalker fantasies

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by Shane O'Reilly, Editor, Dublin for outsideleft.com
originally published: February, 2006
She knows. You know she knows and she knows you know she knows
by Shane O'Reilly, Editor, Dublin for outsideleft.com
originally published: February, 2006
She knows. You know she knows and she knows you know she knows

So it's got to be Valentines day as my favourite commercialised day EVER. Yep, it beats Christmas and Halloween. Definitely. It's great. I never get anything, no card, nothing. Even when I was going out with someone, still nothing. I don't need gushy sentiment and all that love junk. I'm a man. I'm cool with it all. I'm a man.

Many, many years ago, a very happy couple, lets call them Penelope and Paul, wished to share their love properly with others like themselves and a tiny mean streak in them also wished to have a shot at the lonely losers too, basically killing two birds with one stone then. They wondered long and hard how they could do this properly. Then suddenly an idea came to them and they took to the skies (they, eh, had a plane? I don't know...), carefully dropping thousands of notices embroidered with their thought out suggestion. This being of course that February the fourteenth should be happy love day and in some strange sense of competition amongst the couples of this world, it was accepted and taken into our lives, to be acknowledged on a yearly basis.

Penelope and Paul, this adam and eve like duo, were glorious - him the gym-jock kind of guy with the bedlike prowess of a gigantic cheetah and her, the petite porn star type, armed with a bust and curves set to stun. The merest gyration of her body made men wet. On this great day, they ascended to the bedroom whereby a rally of Olympian-like sexcapades took place. Taking a quick breather, the couple took time to laugh at all the miserable singles flagging about crying and tossing off on 'their' day, their laughs cracking the skies.

As you would expect, someone, somewhere took this opportunity to cash-in. Fair play. Cards are great, I hear. Ah, I got one from a friend before but its all 'LUV' not 'LOVE'. Just not the same. I made a pact this year with a mate of mine that we'd send each other a card. Again. My hopes lie on her... Ohh, fingers crossed. Should be nice though. Bit of a charity case really but yeah, should be nice all the same. It's just a pity it does not come with a guarantee of sex for the day. Life can never be perfect can it? But then if it was, I wouldn't be creating these sad charity case scenarios for myself. I'd be knee deep in boobs and blankets and...

Right then - best option? Make a card. Don't buy one. Take this day to write a very filthy poem, signing the card with the obligatory '?' and post it (in a post-box outside of your general are code. Some of these fathers are scary when they find their daughters cards. So ridiculous, like this one time...). Post it to that one special girl you've been having very very lewd thoughts about for years (what is it now Shane, six years?) and really enjoy seeing her face change next time down at the local supermarket. She knows. You know she knows and she knows you know she knows. Not much proof though. Give her a big wave.

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Shane O'Reilly
Editor, Dublin

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