Happy Valentines Day, Deer

Yes, I procrastinate, and no, I don't not know how to spell dear.

I don't know who Saint Valentine was, but if he doesn't spin in his grave every February 14, as hordes of lovers seek some way to show off loves that should be plain, then I don't like the guy. The holiday I despise, and not just because I am getting old and cranky. It's the contrived, forced nature of it, the Hallmark copyright, the inverse relationship of its importance relative to the security of a relationship.

Society (and by that, I mean the sellers and consumers, which is about as far as our national society extends these days) may feel differently. Women are presented as the biggest fans, although most women I know would appreciate flowers, chocolate, and a nice evening out on the other 364 days a year as well. Some only get it on V-Day, which is sad. Men tend to fall into three groups: the mind-constrained lemmings who appear to enjoy it (or at least don't mind taking part), the begrudging participants aiming to please the one they've loved for a while (or in some cases, just trying not to piss her off, deny her her due), and the hunters who use the tried and true bait in their snares.

Not that I'm cynical.

I did come across a heart warming valentines day story this year. A wildlife biologist dropped by my cubicle to ask if he could borrow my work truck, which has the V-8, 4WD and winch favored for fieldwork on muddy back roads. "We're gonna go out and spotlight some deer, shoot them with tranq darts, and when they drop we'll put in the vaginal inserts." I didn't ask why, or why it had to be on this day when so many guys are thinking about dear vaginas but pretending to care only about pure romance.

I just hope they have the decency to lay a flower in front of the doe so when she awakes, she won't feel so used, and can enjoy a tender snack.