I was hoping to blissfully ignore the world’s lamest holiday this year, but the couple sitting across from me at the Clear Conscience Cafe right now are making that impossible. They’ve been snoogling on the couch for the past half hour, kissing each other’s hair and wrapping legs over legs. And the real coup came when the girl grabbed her boy’s coffee mug and poured it into his mouth for him.

If there is ever a point in time when I see fit to feed another person coffee (unless both of their arms are broken or they are The Human Torso), please find me, throw me in a sack, and throw that sack off a cliff.

I just don’t get it. I don’t get it. There should be a holiday where couples give single people presents as thanks for putting up with their ootsyness and marrying and sofa-picking-out all year.

As for me, I plan to spend my Valentine’s night spitting black bile into a flaming cauldron, mixing that up with frog spawn and battery acid, then pouring the whole batch at random out of my apartment window. And cackling. Did I mention cackling?

Listening to: “Kalamazoo” – Ben Folds

Let’s just call a spade a spade here, huh? Or in this case, let’s not call it a spade if it’s not a spade. So here’s your lesson for the day: NOT CAMPING does not equal CAMPING.

According to the ever-incisive, journalistically daring, in-no-way-lame Boston Globe’s latest trend-wank piece, the glamping craze is sweeping the country like a plague of boils. Yes, glamping–“glamorous camping.” The latest insipid portmanteau to worm its way into the lexicon, possibly even worse than such botulism-inducing “words” as staycation, infotainment, and Newgrass.

The idea of glamping is that you go camping and experience the great outdoors, except without actually camping or experiencing the great outdoors. Not uncommon are “camping butlers,” WiFi stations, and s’more delivery services. Cause you know, s’mores are incredibly difficult to make oneself:

“Lori Karger of Weston may be the ultimate luxury camper. In April she and her husband, Stewart, spent a night in a two-story air-conditioned, beautifully appointed treehouse at the year-old Winvian resort in Litchfield Hills, Conn. Winvian sits on a private 113-acre estate with a a Frenchtrained chef and 18 themed cottages designed by different architects. Several of the cottages evoke the fantasy of being on a wilderness camping trip.

These include a $1,700-per-night “camping cottage” with trees painted on the walls and a ceiling painted like a night sky, and the $1,950-per-night “charter oak cottage,” with an actual charter oak poking up in the living room. All cottages, including the treehouse, have fireplaces, jacuzzi bathtubs, Italian linens, espresso coffee systems, radiant floor heating, and pop-up plasma TVs.”

THAT’S NOT CAMPING, you flaming, flaming bags of douche. That’s a fucking luxury hotel room with a fucking tree in it.

So apparently, now journalism = making incredibly painfully obvious statements and calling it news.

On page 2 of the Herald today:

“ABC Family’s new drama “The Secret Life of The American Teenager” (premiering tonight at 8pm) suggests sex is on the brain of the average adolescent.”

Wait, wait, wait… what? Teenagers are horny? They think about sex? NO WAY. No way. That’s… groundbreaking, that’s Pulitzer-worthy.

JEEESSUUUSSS FUUUUUUCKING CHRIIIIIIST! You might as well say, “A new study shows that life can often end in death.”