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What's Wrong with Nice Guys?

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Under the auspices of the Centre for the Study of What the Fuck is Wrong With You People (TM), comes:


On the Friday before Valentine's Day, I read the Valentines in the Daily Bruin.

For those of you for whom Westwood, Los Angeles, remains a bubblegum pink speck on the horizon of the mind's longing, the Daily Bruin is UCLA's student newspaper. An example: on an infamous day, in the front page features line, a subeditor summarised the topic of a women's studies student's column as "Viewpoint: Women have feelings."1

Oh boy.

Of course the question this prompts is, what was I doing reading the Valentine's section? Far be the notion from me that with a low courseload, an absentee roommate, a strained masturbating hand and no INS work permit, I may have less to do at the moment than is strictly ideal.

But I digress.

I was reading the early Valentines in the Daily Bruin, and I got more and more sucked in. It was just so . . . ack!

People who think their partner makes their life meaningful if it otherwise isn't. People who think they are their partner. People who think they are half of one.

People who call each other "Cookie Monster" and "Cookie Monster's Cookie."

My persistence with this was terrifying me. I just kept reading.

I think this is why: it was voyeurism at the scene of an intellectual car wreck. It was gazing at the twisted limbs, at the pump and spurt of the severed arterial fount, and then running my hands over my own smooth skin, intact. The delicious awe of the carnage.

And so, for your delectation:


The Hallmark Holiday:
Hallooing into the significance-void.


Happy Valentine's Day!
Love, Bode.

And this was a big one, too. 3"x2". Dear Laura, IOU: meaning. Love, Bode.



Dear Beckie,
You deserve this!!
Happy Valentine's Day.
Love, Production.

Proof positive that porn stars ought to be paid more.


I couldn't think of a clever way to tell you I love you,
so I'll just say Happy Valentine's Day.
Love, Mark.

Well, obviously not, Mark.


Not only are you my sweetheart,
you're also my best friend.
Love Marline.

Blah, blah . . . BLAH!

Dear Christian, not only is this a cliche . . .


You people scare me: Scenes from the trailer park.

America Online ought to be more careful with those electric anal probes! Know what I mean?!!!


I've moved the line breaks for emphasis, but still . . .

Dearest Daniel -
I have enjoyed every minute of the past 2 1/2 yrs with you!
You are an incredible person!
I look forward to spending the rest of my life with you!
Thank you for filling my heart with love and joy!
Happy V-day!
I luv you!!!

Do not attempt to recite unless you just finished the cheap champagne by yourself on the ninth floor balcony, and your lover is still down on the street trying to pay off a traffic cop:


[time passes . . .]


[throws bottle off balcony.]

2. There was one with nine-letter acronyms and double exclamation points and "you" spelt "u," but I passed it up in favour of the precious:

Dearest Michelle,
I know U know it,
U know U should
know it. "I love u!!"
Now U know it.
Love Darren.

"U suck!!" is tempting, but I think I'll just leave this one alone. It's got be a recessive gene anyway.

3. The following is addressed to a cheap white carbohydrate bun.

To my Coupon Girl,
Happy Valentine's Day
and you are my special girl!!
-Hot Dog.

Pure class.

4. But now for the truly terrifying.

Dearest E.K.:
You mean everything to me.
I can hardly wait to get my tattoo.
I love you!
Love, Becky.


5. This goes in the "trailer park" section because I can only hope against hope that it is addressed to a pet. A small fluffy rabbit, perhaps.

Happy V-day! Just wanted to profess my love to my baby.
I love you cutie, XOXOXO. Yvette.

Please be a guinea pig. Please.

Please don't be a man. Please don't be an actual baby. Please.


Dear Queen of Winter Breaks,
Thanks for trying it for "Just One Day!"
Love, Skinny Butt.

Dear One Night Stand,
I know where you live.

Section C

Happy hookers: Just a little raunchy.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

In principle.

1. I'm pretty sure I'm reading this the way it's supposed to be read. If I'm not, boy is the water cooler conversation in Kelli and Maria's office on Monday going to be tense.

Kelli & Maria --
Happy Valentine's Day &
Happy Hookin'!
All my love, the Head Wench.



Have a great V-day! Don't embarrass
yourself with rubber duckie!
Love, Beckie.

Yeah, try it out on "low" first, until you get the hang of it . . . *mrrowl*

I like it.

3. I almost liked this one, until I saw his name was Bob. Probably cultural, but men named Bob . . . whahahaha! Then again, I may be getting used to it. I feared I was losing my Australian soul the other day, when I didn't laugh at a guy named Randy (surely, Americans, if you're going to have Chip, Chuck, Randy and Bob, you also have to have Hanky, Spanky, Ruckus and Flop . . . ). But the valentine already:

WANTED: A beautiful half-Honduran,
half-Nicaraguan female biology major
to assist blonde-hair, blue-eyed
Electrical Engineering major in
conducting life science experiments.
Will you be my valentine, Karen?
Love, Bob.

Of course the issue is not that his name is Bob (hah! -sorry, can't help it), but the glee with which the racial difference is related. Um, Bob . . . get a clue. The fact that she's half-Honduran, half-Nicaraguan does not preclude her being boring, obnoxious or butt-ugly. If she's not any of those things, well . . . think about it.

I have always wanted to be an exotic piece of ass for a man named Bob. When I was born a white girl, however, this desire was cruelly thwarted, and I have been bitter and frigid ever since.

4. This is accompanied by a photo of Pam and Manuel, in which Pam's bare thigh features prominently.

My sweets,
I am so in love with you. Pam,
you are the sexiest woman I know.
You are the love of my life and I
love you with all my heart.
Forever yours, Manuel.

Nice thigh, Pam; and Manuel, it's great that you think Pam is sexy, but what does the word "trophy" mean to you?

Section D


Warning: contains poetry. So to speak, anyway.

1. Pure tripe.

Dear Geraldine,
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Love is rare,
And I give mine to you.
Love always, A. K.

I'm speechless.

Okay, I've recovered already.

I demand a defence of the "rare" claim in light of the pages full of dinky pink hearts and gunnable-downable cherubs in front of me, and in light of the utter hackneyed mediocrity of this particular thimbleful of froth. Something that is rare does not spawn a whole genre of stock trash things-to-say which allow morons like you not to think, A.K.


I'm empty without my other half.
LOVE YOU hunney buns.

I perceive the void, Gabe.


To Joo Bear-
You make Valentine's Day bearable.
Happy Valentine's to my pudding.
Love, Sarah. P.S. I promise.


Die, pudding, die!! Ra ra ra!! *does a star-jump, flashes spankies*


To Mikhaila,
You are the love of my life and passion in my heart.
May our lives and souls continue to intertwine
while our love grows. Till infinity, Baby,


That does it. Perishing in hellfire is definitely the easy way out.

Step one . . . sodomy. Hmm.

5. How cute, they have matching diminuatives.

Of all the love poems ever written,
none is more beautiful than the one
you have written in my heart. I love you.
Happy Valentine's Day to my better half, Eddie.
From Hannie

The other half had better be a lot better.

At least she didn't try to transcribe the said intra-cardiac tract. Small mercies.

Then again, it might have required a potentially fatal chest cavity incision to get to.


6. Speaking of :

I love you more than clouds love the sky,
more than birds love to fly,
more than the wind loves to run,
and more than the trees love the sun.

Mercy. Even the wind runs when it hears him coming.

I don't date pre-schoolers or the bed-ridden myself.

I'm just a big ole meany about mental age.


To the most wonderful boyfriend
I love you more than anything! The sweetness
of your lips is all I wish for on
Valentine's and forever more. Te amo!
Love, Cathy.


Blech and shmuck and blurk and shnack and GLARRRR.


I'm too traumatised to even start.


Thank you for being a part of
my life this Valentine's Day.
I wuv woo very much!

Dear Karen,

I keep trying to un-potty train myself, but damn that diaper-rash gets to me.

You know, I just keep on returning to self-determining adulthood the moment I take my eyes off myself for a second. I've had to take time out in the corner three times today already. One time I accidentally nearly got up and paid the phone bill.

I'm really sorry, I'm going to have to try harder. It's just that you're not always there to withhold popsicles.

Love From Definitely a Baby Boomer's Child.

PS. My pee-wee hurts.


I'm going to end this here, not because there isn't more material (lordy!), but because there's only so much I can take at once. I just start feeling like randoming stabbing myself with nails after a while.

On the topic of "What the fuck is wrong with these people?" submissions are invited.

(1. How hard do you have to hit them first? -BJR)

Copyright© BJR. & Heartless Bitches International (heartless-bitches.com) 1999
Copying or reproduction (in whole or in part) on any medium (such as in print or on the web) is expressly forbidden without written permission from HBI

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