Crystal Baws: Valentine's Horoscope Special
Valentine's Day. And you don't have a date! Don't worry, once the zombie apocalypse comes you'll be able to have the date of your dreams. Next year you can Taser yourself a real catch with cute dimples in its rage-filled cheeks, tie it to your bed and commence a real coital classic, until its rotting genitals are pulped by your passion into an orgiastic mince. Just don't try oral, whatever you do.
Despite your best efforts it still doesn't take this relationship seriously. Maybe if you stop lowering lotion down to it in a basket it might warm to you a bit more. Try lowering it some flowers instead.
An appropriately romantic way to hammer a full stop on Valentine's Day is with some hydraulically-themed tasks between two people who love each other very much. Truly, is there a better way to express love than with an orchestra of liquid noises?
Your current lover is not The One. Your true Soul Mate lives on a stretch of the Xingu River, wears war paint, eats human flesh, has a lip plate and has no intention whatsoever of ever looking for you.
Your fingers smell like a mixture of sour milk and blood. You pick wiry hair out of your teeth with a red right hand, observe a tide mark that goes all the way up to your wrist. You can taste raw meat. What were you doing last night?
Lonely? Draw a face on a pillow, close your eyes and get gymnastic on that pillow's ass.
One hellish flesh-berg of a night you'll endure riding the waves of obscenity and rolling in the shores of a blubbery ebb-tide until dawn, until your morale drowns in the ultimate nightmare your reality becomes. Purple tracksuits are unlucky.
Do you have all the stuff you need for your big date? 9ft of rubber hose? Shipping container? Steel-mesh holding cube? Old dental chair? And plenty of Cillit Bang to clean up what the plastic sheeting doesn't catch? Great! The date's on then.
Just ignore the judgemental tone of David Attenborough's commentary in your head as you make love.
The first flashback you have when you wake up in that skip is of faces laughing, of someone spiking your drink with bull Viagra. Memories flood back as if a sewage pipe's burst in your skull. Try not to cry as you remember yourself first fucking a tree, then a wheelie bin and finally as an encore, a flapping, screeching duck in Kelvingrove Park as dogs barked and parents shielded their childrens' eyes.
Look on the bright side, there's plenty more organic lifeforms in the sea.
'Tis the season to warm up the rack as unfulfilled politicians, lawyers and media executives beat a path to the door of your dungeon. They come a-begging to lick your boot heel, be ball-gagged, cheese grated and Abu Ghraibed. Think of all the money as you flick the ash from your cigar into the mouth of that nappy-wearing judge who addresses you as “mein Commandant”. And remember, once you've prostate-milked your final MSP you can go home, snuggle under your duvet with a hot mug of cocoa and a copy of OK!