Love means never having to say
"restraining order"

By George Harris
Who, despite the rumors, is not currently involved with a ferret

We are fast approaching that commercial holiday of l'amour, loosely based on some supposed saint we would never have known of otherwise, except he was probably in reality the first person in prison to send a bouquet of daisies to a cellmate after some soap-on-a-rope incident in the shower. And in turn, our homophobic society has altered the story, and given it a special day in the middle of nowhere (Feb. 14?), and Just Cards gets a little fatter.

None of this is important. I'm here to help all potential glassy-eyed weenies out there keep from making a monumental mistake. You've heard about it, you've read about it, and some have paid for it. True love, mature love, real love, everlasting love, it goes by many names, but one very important fact remains - it doesn't exist. Thaes right, nipplehead! I'm the only one who's found it (that's in case my wife is reading this, so I don't end up with raw fiberglass and Comet in the rinse cycle the next time she does laundry).

Mature love and temporary infatuation, the latter being what most relationships consist of, are exactly the same for the first 29 days. Every last body part capable of becoming engorged with blood does so with a simple "hi" from the object of desire. I've seen couples spontaneously explode when asking each other for the time. So how do you tell the difference? I have at great personal expense devised a chart to help you determine if you will end up dirt napping with your beloved, or end up using your answering machine to screen calls from Captain "Is It In Yet"? These are a few phrases to look out for on Day 29.

Phrase Real love Temporary infatuation
I love you. I love you. You owe me an orgasm and this looks like the only way I'm going to get it.
Are you really going to wear that shirt? You're colorblind, aren't you? You're getting on my nerves, and I'm trying to get you pissed off enough to break up with me first.
I'll be home in 10 minutes. I'll be home in an hour. Someone in this bar has bigger breasts than you, and with any luck, I won't be home until May.
I'd die for you. I'd pack your severed limbs in ice and drive you to the hospital if you were injured in a horrible accident. I'm dumping you.
We're soul mates. Your penis is just big enough. Your penis is barely big enough.
When we make love, the earth moves. (Or: Fireworks explode, I see God, I don't get violently ill.) I think that was an orgasm. You really need to paint your ceiling.
I hope this helps. But as you already know, if you don't mind when he opens his freshly soiled hanky in church, looks at it, and raises his eyebrows approvingly, or if you've entered the bathroom after she's finished and realized that flipping a simple poop-fan switch is just too much trouble for her, and you've decided this person is worth it anyway, you're hooked. At least you won't be polluting the dating pool anymore.