Last night a certain young man was walking towards his car in the pouring rain. He was laden with groceries with which he planned to concoct a delicious meal as an offering to St. Valentine. He shuddered as he remembered what had befallen those who had not performed the proper wards against Valentine's saintly wrath. "The hemorrhaging," he muttered. "The terrible, terrible hemorrhaging."

Having secured the groceries in the backseat, the young man caninely shook water from his artificial coat and stepped into the car. He turned the key. In true last-minute Valentine's Day form, absolutely nothing happened.

"Curse you, Valentine!" He shook his fist at the thundering heavens, which was foolish because St. Valentine's does not make His abode in the heavens, rather His standard haunt is the dark alley behind locally-owned liquor stores.

The young man pondered. Would anyone be foolish enough to help him by utilizing exposed cables to transfer power from car battery to car battery in the middle of a thunderstorm? In his head, the timeless credo of St. Valentine echoed the answer his question: "Not bloody likely."

The young man did not despair. He had a very scientific mind (which allowed for belief in St. Valentine as His vengeance was well documented) and decided to investigate further. He opened the hood of his car, hands slipping a bit on the slick surface. He muttered his own credo "Time to introduce some variables." With a balled hand he hammered at the contacts of the battery. Once! Twice! Thrice! Leaving the hood open, he hopped back into the car and turned the key again. The car sputtered to life. "Eeeeee!" he cried joyfully. He shut the hood and vroomed off.

As he was turning left out of the parking lot, he was struck by an out-of-control semi-trailer carrying a delayed shipment of candy hearts. He was pronounced Dead On Arrival, having choked to death on the chalky residue of thousands of passably clever candy adorations.

And that, my children, is the story of Valentine's Day.