Listen up, maggots: It’s almost time to dress like a 1920s socialite and dry-hump classmates at the Valentine’s Day Dance.

HOW-EV-ER, it’s expected that you bottom-feeders play it safe by keeping it consensual with positive vibes. Basically what I’m saying here is: IF you can manage all three of these directives, you might get some brush burn on your chest, butt, or groin and go home smelling like drug store perfume. IF you hapless jackasses clean the crap from your ears for two seconds and listen to me, hell might freeze over and a person might waste dozens of seconds with a lackey like you.

So for the record:

I’m sure as hell NOT your BFF, bitch, sister, or bro.

I ain’t here to spray Axe on your armpits, splash some Brute aftershave on your neck, wax your upper lip, or glue dollar-store nails to the Armour sausages you call fingers.

Most importantly, I ain’t here to give you a warm beer to split between three of your pitiful friends because your sorry asses can’t muster the stones to dance to “Let Me Clear My Throat” without a little liquid courage in your system.

However, I AM here to help you understand how AND when to properly get your clothed junk within proximity of other fully-dressed genitalia because it’s easier than you think (even for turds like you).

Now keep in mind, it’s a dance. You can cut loose, but don’t go around trying to grind anyone who wouldn’t be caught dead with you in broad daylight. I have to bring this up, because some of you affable dipshits haven’t looked in a goddamm mirror to understand something more horrifying than war or real life: your goofy, pimple-ridden face in poor lighting. As a twice-divorced former Marine who did two tours in Afghanistan, that’s really saying something.

So now that you finally have the understanding that your self-worth is less than (or equal to) a gnat clung to a pile of ape shit, you might have a chance at having a person dance with your sorry ass.

First, you need to ask them IF they want to donate their valuable time (that you don’t deserve) for a dance. If they feel sorry enough for you, the person might say yes. IF the person says no, they did the right thing because the person doesn’t owe your sorry ass a damn thing. Just move along.

Second, ask and communicate, you mouthbreathers. If the person says yes and agrees that you may slow dance with them or they allow you to place your sweaty, frail hands on their waist, follow their orders. Since I have higher standards for my stool than I do for you inept dolts, I can only hope you fools don’t make me regret hiring a priest to attend your homecoming so that I have some faith you idiots won’t mess this directive up.

Third, if you even try to be slick and try to disappear with one of the people at the dance, I will find out about it and make for damn sure that you’re publicly shamed to the point where you’ll have the sex appeal of a family pet with an erection. Best-case scenario, you will die a virgin by the time I’m done scolding you.

Last but not least, enjoy yourselves. One can’t polish a turd, but your peanut-sized brain will enjoy the flashy lights, fun noises coming from the speakers, and the obedient civility for a few hours. Maybe I deserve a stained-glass window in the Vatican for allowing you inbred jackasses to exist in a social setting, but this jarhead has been rolling the dice in the military for a long time.

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