Announcing ~ Bad Valentine Short Short Essay Contest Winners!

Enter the Funny not Slutty Thank you to all our contest participants and to Flytrap for sponsoring the Fns Bad Valentine Short Short Essay Contest!

EVERYONE’S a WINNER! Buy a GOOD VALENTINE from Flytrap using order code BADVALENTINE for 15% off Valentine items. Expires February 15.

My judging process was to rate essays from 1-10 in funniness (it’s a word because I say so) and quality of writing. I added the two numbers for final scores. Here are the results and winning entries:

 

1st Place – Dusty Earth Mother

1st Prize Flytrap Package: A Flytrap Card, a Sticky, a Littles and a (gasp) Boink Journal!

2nd Place – Amy Pannell

2nd Prize Flytrap Package: A Card and some Littles!

Honorable mentions – KiKi, Becca and Jotter Girl

 

1st Place – Dusty Earth Mother

“Bad Valentine”. A sonnet by Wilhelmina Shakespeare.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art just as sweaty and akin to the hairy-backed man at thy community pool.

Shall I compare thee to my ex-boyfriend?
Thou dost not have nearly as nice a car and thou does really need to work on thy kissing.

Shall I compare thee to a nice meal and a really good glass of wine?
No.

Shall I compare thee to my Dad?
Uh, my Dad who called me “Princess” and was faithful to my Mom for 50 years? Not a good idea.

Shall I compare thee to the alternative which is being alone and being called “an old maid” or a “spinster” not that anyone uses those words anymore but if they did they would call me that?

I think I love you.

2nd Place – Amy Pannell

You’ve been a bad, bad Valentine. You didn’t even notice me standing there while you were walking down the hallway – you have the perfect stride and ass in those jeans. You always walk and laugh, smiling and casually wiping the hair out of your eyes with a light toss of the head. I’d give anything to be the one making you laugh or at the very least able to laugh alongside you. I did overhear your laugh. Once. I walked past your dinner table while you were on a date with Jessica of all people. Jessica, really? She graduated with all C’s because I heard she had a professor fetish (or professors had a fetish for her) and she’s strawberry blonde, not what I considered to be your type at all. I thought you’d like the more strikingly-attractive-once-you-get-to-know-her-personality types. But of course those types usually come with an excess of 15 pounds. Ok, maybe twenty. But as I watched you kissing her goodnight on her doorstep I wondered what she had that I didn’t besides muscular calves and then I thought I’ll get calves for you. I’ll die my hair strawberry blonde and sleep with a professor except ironically all my professors this year are women but I might be able to wrangle up a C from my remedial algebra professor but if it would make me experienced and daring like Jessica I would do it if I could just feel your lips. If I could be the one to tell you there’s food in your teeth and fix your tie before your interviews, the one that tried to change the station in your truck and you’d playfully say “Don’t make me listen to Rascal Flats again” and then we’d laugh, the one that brings you a towel when you get out of the shower and reminds you to call your mother – I’d do anything. Instead I’m just outside your house watching you stare in horror at the candy hearts I specifically ordered with “Robert loves me” next to the huge overstuffed bunny sprayed with my perfume and the card that says I’ll be watching you. And I think I heard you tell the cops you didn’t know anyone that could’ve done such a thing as I drove away. Wonder if you’ll be wearing those jeans I like tomorrow.

KiKi

Nothing is sacred.

I try so hard to be good, yet it calls my name. The loud whisper echoes through my townhouse over mounds of dirty laundry and a sea of dirty dishes (and whatnot). It freaks me out, man. It makes me feel like I’m stuck in a bad SyFy guilty pleasure made-for-TV movie or something. I try so hard to be a good mother and not touch it, not do it—but those whispers taunt me. They encourage me. They laugh at me when I’m wearing my retainer.

To be fair, I can’t help that I have a sweet tooth. It’s genetic, yo. The way I see it, there’s nothing a good bowl or three of Fruity Pebbles® can’t soothe. So when any given sweet-eating-enabling holiday rolls around, I climb right on board that cavity train. Slap me on the arse and call me Cap’n! (Wait…train engineers aren’t called captains, are they? Or are they? Whatever.) Again, don’t tell my ten-year-old, but…nothing is sacred.

Holy crap, I’m the worst mom!

Late at night when I’m watching repeats of Hoarders—because who doesn’t love Hoarders?—I can’t help but sneak down to the pantry to grab myself a handful of Halloween, Christmas, Easter, or Arbor Day candy. I guess I could justify it by stating I’m actually doing my child a solid by keeping him from inhaling so many said sweets. After all, I did buy them by the truckloads—you know…for Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Great Pumpkin.

So when Valentine’s Day rolls around, I head on down to Albertson’s (I purchase all my treats at the grocery store because I’m classy like that) and buy some “fine” candy, and usually make a homemade card with lots of xxxoooo’s and hearts and all that goofiness. It’s genuine. I love my little guy, and I want to show my affection. So why am I such a bad valentine and swipe the candy back when he isn’t looking in the middle of the night? Why, oh why?

Is it really necessary to get my jollies on finding out whether my little candy heart says Be Mine or U R Cute? Yes. Yes it is.

I blame those loud whispers.

Becca

Dear Bad Valentine:
Roses are red, violets are blue, but Valentine’s Day sucks,
so to all the men out there on this God-awful holiday: Fuck You.
Fuck you to the boy who thinks that of him I took advantage,
it’s not my fault we fooled around and caused your relationship some damage.
Fuck you to the guy who insisted that he was from France,
pretending your lisp is an accent will not get you into my pants.
Fuck you for staring at me while you make out with another girl,
that you then brought her to my party just makes me want to hurl.
Fuck you for sneaking out in the morning while I was asleep,
I thought we were actually friends, but I’ve realized you’re just a creep.
Fuck you for tricking me into saying I was in love,
now no matter how much you apologize, it will never be enough.
Fuck you for kissing me, then hitting on my best friend,
after trying to play the two of us, you really thought I’d give you head?
Fuck you for lying and saying you’d been tested,
guess it’s good that it wasn’t in you but in condoms I invested.
Fuck you to that boy who turned out to have a girlfriend;
it doesn’t matter that you “cared” for me if you stayed with her in the end.
Fuck you to my ex-boyfriend who said he’d never get over me,
your needy tears turned me into a person that I never wanted to be.
Fuck you to the older man who claimed he wanted to keep it simple,
if I ever see you again, I swear I’ll pop you like a pimple.
Fuck you to the guy with dreadlocks, I don’t know why you seemed so hot,
you’re just another horn-dog, so don’t pretend that you are not.
Fuck off to all those guys from Austria, Israel, and Mexico,
this is one American girl who is not about to blow.
Fuck you to my high school boyfriend who made me afraid to feel,
although I really am sorry for towering over you in heels.
If you’ve ever cheated, lied, or messed around with me in any way,
then this poem is from me to you, wishing you a shitty Valentine’s Day!

Jotter Girl

On the morning of February 14th, I rolled over, looked him dead in the eye and asked, “Are you going to be a good Valentine or bad Valentine this year?” After a brief, vacant stare, he closed his eyes, buried his head into the pillow and was back to snoring in a matter of seconds. Ignoring me seemed to be our new morning routine and gone were the days when we used to cuddle before work. My recent early work schedule had me leaving the apartment while it was still dark, so most mornings I just kissed him on the head and whispered goodbye.

My work day consisted of several interruptions from the local florist, who brought bouquets of roses for the giggling girls in the back office. I spent much of the morning trying to ignore their constant bragging about gifts and romantic plans for that evening. As that snooty girl from Accounting passed my desk after lunch, she sarcastically wondered out loud, what my Valentine would be giving me this year. I smirked in response, but secretly wondered the same thing. Apparently everyone seemed to know about the “gift” I received last year. I spent the remainder of the day hidden in the conference room trying to avoid Valentine’s Day altogether.

As I arrived home, I paused at the door wondering what would be waiting on the other side. A nice kiss would be welcoming. As I put my key into the lock, I could hear my Valentine hurrying toward the door. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open only to find him standing in front of me with my favorite pair of Louboutin shoes in his mouth. I dropped my keys, and yelled, “Bad Valentine! You are a naughty, naughty dog.”

Comments

  1. Oh my gosh!!! Thanks so much! I am seriously delighted.

  2. Dusty’s was my favorite too, so yay. Good choice.

  3. Aw, thanks for the honorable mention! Was fun to participate on this one! xo

  4. These are GREAT. Congrats, people. You are awesome.

  5. Badass! Thanks so much! And the cards on Fly Trap are hilarious!

  6. YAy for dusty earth mom! Loved the sonnet – so funny!

  7. So funny! :-)

  8. Dusty, dusty: oh but you are one funny woman.

    xo

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