An Open Letter From St. Valentine to my Readers



Hi, you all. First I want to thank Adrian for giving up his column to me. I don't think he'll be missed, but I appreciate the gesture.

I want to say at once that I am really ticked off by the way you people have messed up my birthday again. So I am going to give you some guidelines for next time.

Let me first get a couple of things straight. I am St. Valentine, I'm not Santa Claus, okay? The only thing we have in common is the Saint thing, and I'm not sure where he got that. I mean, just look at the way he struts about in those black boots. Not to mention that irritating ho- ho-ho. Is that saintly behavior, is that spreading the wisdom of the ages? Of course not, the man is a buffoon.

So don't send me long lists of wishes like he uses. I hate lists. Just limit yourself to one wish: get Henry to kiss me, make Mary fall in love with me, that kind of thing. And give me some details like last name and social security number. There's not much I can do without that.

Now let me give you some background. I've been doing this job for a long time; ever since Geoffrey Chaucer asked me, in fact. I have no idea why he did. Just to see you make fools of yourself I suspect, because that's what's been happening ever since. And that is what I really want to talk about.

It is absolutely unbelievable how you down there can mess things up when you think you're in love. I have done some wild things in my days -- Saints do that you know, read Augustine -- but I have never done anything deep down dumb. But you people do really idiotic things all the time! Let me give you a generic example.

You are Mr. X, forty-five years old, married to this really nice woman for twenty years, with two super kids. Are you happy? No, you aren't, because your wife doesn't understand you. What's to understand? Are you Einstein? Do you talk quantum mechanics at dinner? Wise up, guy, and don't ask me to arrange something with a twenty five year old bimbo, because I won't do it.

Or you are Mrs. X and you fall in love with that poet jock, because you're tired of your husband's football games. You think that poet is hot after your mind? Read Dante and find out what poets are in hell for!

So please, remember: no lists; last name and social security number; no bimbos, and no poets. Just try to have a decent Valentine's day next year.

At Random - Adrian Korpel