OK, Cupid. It’s been a long time coming, but the jig is finally up. It’s time for me to clip your wings once and for good. I hear over in Greece you’re the god of erotic love or something. Well, I hate to tell you this, buddy, but this is America, and on this side of the Atlantic you ain’t nothing but a grown man with a bow and arrow over his shoulder and a diaper covering his junk.
Erotic, indeed.
For centuries, flocks of fawning Jacks have anxiously awaited your arrival, thinking that you were some gift from heaven sent to unite them with their Jill. Well I call bullshit, mister, and after this column, so will the rest of the world.
First, let’s talk about that crap sack hanging from your hips. It might have been cute when you were little – you know, waaaaayyyyy back in the days of Greek mythology. News flash, fly boy, it’s the 21st century, and diapers on anything but infants and senior citizens are about as useful as a fishnet condom. It’s time you march your barely clothed ass down to the nearest Abercrombie & Fitch and update that wardrobe. Maybe then you’ll actually get some ladies instead of going around shooting them.
But being nearly nude all the time is only annoying; the rest of your act is positively criminal.
Hiding behind trees and hovering precariously out of view of your targets isn’t playing coy; it’s called stalking, and it’s a felony. You need to get out from behind the bushes or wherever it is you hide nowadays and stop scaring everyone. Some sly-eyed woman will see you and introduce you to a little thing called pepper spray. I know you probably don’t know what that is, but I’ll give you a hint: It’s not for putting on your morning scrambled eggs.
Of course, that’s nothing compared to what you do after you zero in on your lady du jour.
Once you’ve got her in range, it’s time to do the deed and sow the seed of love. You reach back, pull out an arrow from your seemingly limitless quiver, place it on the bowstring and draw it back. Ready, aim……STOP! Don’t you dare let that dart go! By simply having that contraption you are already in possession of a deadly weapon, and without a permit, mind you. That’s felony number two, and you’re looking at some serious time in the least romantic place in the world.
But of course, being a god, you probably won’t listen to reason and will send your spear of lust hurtling toward your target.
Let’s explore what could happen depending on where that arrow lands.
If it misses, you will probably only be charged with third degree assault and criminal mischief.
Certainly not the most intimidating rap sheet, but definitely something that will follow you around if and when you decide to drop the charade and get a real job like the rest of civilized society.
Of course, missing completely also comes with the shame of knowing you had one job to do and you failed, miserably. You’ve let everyone down, from your boss to your mother and back to your father. Speaking of which, who exactly is your father anyway? All the sources I’ve read have only listed possible fathers. Come to find out the god of erotic love is a bastard. Sounds like a whole week of “Montel” to me.
In scenario number two, your arrow hits its intended target, but only in the butt or knee or somewhere else non-life-threatening. Now the assault isn’t attempted anymore, but the homicide is. For those playing at home, we are up to four pretty serious crimes for little Caligula, and we haven’t even reached the final scenario.
Think about what would happen if the arrow were to fly true and reach the unsuspecting young woman’s heart. That, my friends, would be premeditated murder in the first degree and would leave our Huggies-clad pimp in a world of hurt.
Now that you know just how dangerous Cupid can be, it’s time to fight back. It’s time to raise our voices and elect a new spokesman for untapped love into the public’s mind and heart. We need find someone who does all he or she can (without breaking any laws) to make two halves of a heart whole, someone who will stand up and fight to get the Comedy Central-watching, D&D-playing, two-showers-a-week man sitting alone on a Friday night together with his Ben & Jerry’s-siphoning, Coke-bottle-glasses-wearing girl who snorts when she laughs, together in unholy bliss. We need this omnipotent matchmaker to stand up and make himself known.
I nominate Tom Cruise.
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