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How to treat your sweetie snookums on Valentine’s Day!!!

My apologies, but the headline is a farce. I don’t care about your sweetie snookums. The fact that you call them “sweetie snookums” automatically makes both of you awful. If your snookums was speared through the buttocks by an antelope, I’d laugh because that’s exactly what I expect would happen to someone named “snookums”. It’s a comic relief name. “Here lies Snookums, with two holes in his butt.”

I also assume that anyone referred to as “hubby” lost their leg in a boating accident. Not sure why.

Every year on Valentine’s Day, bitter single people write articles about how the holiday was “created by Hallmark” or “makes love into a transaction” or “if your wife really loved you, she wouldn’t wait until a holiday to bang you.” But single people don’t want to read negative or positive things about Valentine’s Day. Even committed people just want to move past this tedious holiday and enjoy their lives again. So I’m going to ignore Valentine’s Day this week and tell a completely unrelated story about how I once tried to drunkenly stumble across the Blatnik Bridge. You’re welcome.

So it’s four days after the Super Bowl and you still have a hangover

It’s been nearly a week since the Super Bowl. If the party you attended was any good, you might still be drunk. Fortunately for you, this very column you’re reading is written by an expert in poor drinking choices. Here are some hangover tips to get that fizzle back in your . . . thing. Or something.

– Get the hell out of bed, you lazy, good for nothing jackass. The longer you stay horizontal, the worse you’ll feel. That’s science, fool. What the hell are you waiting for? Your mommy? Is she gonna make your boo boo go away? Get off your ass, deadbeat. This is America, not some millennial little league game where everyone gets a trophy. If you want your hangover to go away, stand up and punch it in the face.

– Seriously though, call your mom. She’s crazy old, so she probably knows all kinds of messed up hangover cures that you’ve never even heard of. Probably something involving snake venom, riding a motorcycle naked down a dirt road or filling your whiny face hole with copious amounts of water and swallowing it. If she’s a good mom, I guarantee she’ll recommend at least one of those things.

– You can take ibuprofen and aspirin at the same time. Just make sure neither of them share an active ingredient or contain acetaminophen. If you don’t heed this warning, you’re going to destroy your liver and not be able to drink anymore, and lord knows you wouldn’t make it a day in that terrible job of yours without a little help from Dr. Keystone or his younger, more successful brother, Dr. Keystone Light.

Sam Cook detained after office burglary

Five men, one a high-ranking columnist for the Duluth News-Tribune, were arrested Friday in what authorities described as an elaborate plot to alter votes for the Duluth Reader’s annual Best of the Northland awards. Police apprehended the suspects at 2:30am Friday in the Reader offices.

Three of the men were native-born Cubans and another was said to have trained Cuban exiles for guerrilla activity after the Bay of Pigs invasion. The fifth man was famed News-Tribune columnist Sam Cook, age 97, who has won the Reader’s “Best Columnist” award for the past 73 years.

There was no immediate explanation of why the suspects would want to alter the awards, which are essentially meaningless and don’t even help the winners get laid. Police chief Frank Willis said the only logical motive is Cook’s trophy lust.

“I guess he just has a massive ego that will never be fully satisfied by any amount of praise,” said Willis, speaking about Cook, not second place columnist Paul Ryan. “I’ll bet his mind is filled with all sorts of figmental rage. Every award loss and negative comment from a stranger on the internet just piles up inside him like crusty old turds, these inconsequential slights festering and building in his mind until he can’t take it anymore and wrongfully lashes out at everyone in the community through the crude jokes and unnecessary cursing that have now become standard fare in his childish, tiresome columns.

Please don’t judge me based on my alcoholic dog

My dog is drunk. It embarrasses me to say that, because dogs aren’t supposed to be sloshed. Yet as I type this, drunk little Gonzo is sloppily falling off the couch. His front paws are valiantly trying to grip the cushions as he slides to the floor. He hit the ground with a soft thud and remained in that position for a good two minutes, blinking and staring dreamily at the ceiling.

Just like me back in college. A real chip off the old block.

I’d lie about my dog being drunk, but there’s no denying it. He’s straight up trashed. His little pupils are dilated. His breath smells like he visited every bar in Superior, WI. When he walks around the house – or rather stumbles through it like Godzilla through Tokyo – he falls down so often that eventually he gets tired of attempting to walk and remains sprawled on the floor, like a weary prize fighter who desperately needs one more round to cover the bets, but just can’t pull it off.

“Stop the fight!” his eyes say as he stares longingly at the comfy couch he left with reckless abandon, but now so desperately wants back. But I won’t assist him, because this is great stuff and I’m too busy writing it down to lend a hand. Also, to hell with him for stealing my whiskey. I wasn’t done with it yet. Selfish bastard.

Man thought to be missing found not dead

Local police have found a man they initially believed had been kidnapped. It seems Duluth Reader columnist Paul Ryan, age 35, was living his life normally the entire time. He just went unnoticed because he’s not very interesting.

Ryan was initially reported missing by his parents when he didn’t answer his phone. His mother had just watched a particularly spooky episode of “Monk” in which an elderly woman is kidnapped. The intense excitement of the episode sent her into hysterics, leading her to phone the police about her son.

A knock on Ryan’s door from officers went unanswered, as did several phone calls. Co-workers told police they hadn’t recalled seeing him in months, and the people Ryan claimed were his friends had no recollection of such an agreement.

“I’m not his friend,” said Matt Fortner, a man who once accidentally invited Ryan to a party at his home. “I’m friends with him on Facebook, but I’m not his friend. I met him once through a buddy of mine, so I added him for networking reasons. When I sent the party invite to my friend list, I didn’t figure someone who barely knew me would show up. My wife was eating sliced cantaloupe, and Paul remarked to her how the insides of cantaloupes look like vaginas. He had never met her before. That was the first thing he said to her. Then he walked away and never said another word to anyone for the rest of the evening. What a creepy little weirdo.”