Pix by @Tonyfutura
Valentine is that traumatizing time of the year where a group of clueless men bump into each other at Victoria’s Secret, hold hands and pray to bag a last-minute gift to escape a harsh execution by their significant other.
The brutality of the scene on that grey afternoon of Feb 14 would give you an accurate simulation of what happens inside Guantanamo Bay detention camp. Pale overworked men roam around malls shackled to the fears and worries of not finding a proper gift. Their sweaty faces and empty looks portray the silhouette of a dead soul dragging its cadaver from one shop to another in a desperate attempt to escape this Purgatory.
Flower shops host some of the most gruesome episodes around Beirut. A sea of hopeless romantic bulls flood those shops with a single goal in mind; attack anything that holds the color red in it. Seeing that unreasonable spike in demand, the cheap ass flower shop jacks up the prices by 10 folds and changes his name from Takkoush to “Les Petales du Jardin de Versailles”.
You can’t but stop and wonder how did these poor dudes get to this low point in their lives
Normally, when you grow older, you tend to drop holidays from your agenda that you don’t think apply anymore. Easter, Adha, Independence Day, St Maroun, Champions League Final…even your own damn birthday, is scratched off the list after some years, because fuck it, you’re tired of this shit.
Then Karma comes out of the blue and hands you a relationship and a Valentine’s day on top of it. Some of you bright dudes try to escape this day by faking temporary Amnesia caused by a fictitious car accident, but drop the idea due to the heavy SMS bombardment of Valentine’s reminders and promotions. Others will desperately try to frame Valentine as a Jehovah’s witness invention and even rationalize at length how Vday is a conspiracy theory created by the illuminati….in vain.
Now at first, Valentine seems to rhyme with Vagina. But then all hell breaks loose when you take a second look and see all the responsibilities that come with it.
In the past, a stupid stuffed bear holding a cheap red heart was all you needed to draw a kiss from your girl. Nowadays the probability of having this bear stuffed up your ass on that romantic night is much higher than you’d think.
Today, the industry of love upgraded its game and chose to give you 2 options: a $2000 bill or your right hand for the night.
It’s a simple choice, really. Either you swipe your credit card while gazing romantically into your lady’s eyes over a candlelit dinner. or you swipe it down your lonely ass while masturbating to a porn clip in your room.
Despite all the horror stories you hear from defeated men coming back from Valentine’s day, you decide to grow a pair of balls and submit your soul to the love game.
And because nothing screams “I love you” louder than a table for 2 in an overrated French restaurant, you decide to book your funeral at “La Maison Rouge des Profiteroles Juxtaposees” or “La Table Royale de Gustave”.
As you bravely step into the Dragon’s den with your sweetheart’s arm firmly wrapped around yours, your heart starts drumming like a pair of bongos in an Afro-Cuban concert and your credit card begins grinding its teeth and shaking uncontrollably inside your jacket.
A penguin looking waiter hands you the menu, recites the “Plat du jour” in Luxembourgish then proposes a long collection of wine bottles in Portuguese. By the time he gets halfway through his incomprehensible list, you stare blankly into the menu as his voice fades out and another vocal sound emerges from the background singing “Hello darkness my old friend “. Regrets take over center stage and you can’t but blame yourself for not majoring in Culinary Science back at AUB when you were wasting your time completing your Masters in Engineering. You try to decipher the first page of the menu before you realize that your brain already bailed out on you and dived into the calculations of refinancing your debts. You’re on your own now. You lift your head up, nod at your waiter who’s still talking, then concur.
10 minutes later, the chef’s signature dish strikes down on your table like thunder. You spend the first 20 seconds inspecting your plate before finding 2 chickpeas inside a tent made from 3 carrots’ threads, surrounded with what it looks like unicorn tears.
You smile nervously at your sweetheart while trying to suffocate the voices echoing “Falafel Sahyoun” inside your empty stomach. Your waiter comes back with his fake smile, asking you whether you enjoyed your dish, to rub it in even further. Upon inspecting the set of 10 knives next to your plate you conclude that none is sharp enough to cut a human throat, and decide to praise the chef for his ingenious fusion of carrots and peas. Dessert ensues and 2 Chinese dick sized Eclairs appear on your table looking like they ran away from an orphanage.
You’re on time for the Oscar awards in 2 weeks as you deliver one of your lifetime’s best performances, playing the role of a rich gentleman who enjoys the finest things in life.
After paying the $500 bill, both your credit card and libido pack their bags and desert you.
You drop your girl back home and run straight to Sahyoun to mend your wounds with 3 Falafel extras and a Diet Pepsi.
As you wipe the tarator sauce off your chin and your tears off your face, you recollect the moments you went through during this infernal day and convince yourself you’d do it all over again in the name of love.
Beirut, loving you is expensive but you’ll always be Forgiven
Forgiving Beirut 