Gregory J.P. Godek is the author of 1,001 Ways to be Romantic and 1,001 More Ways to be Romantic. If you're a longtime Cracked reader, you know that most of his tips involve a pun or a pizza, and the rest are Top 40 love songs he remembers. He's made a career out of being stupid and lazy, and if you still aren't on board with him being the biggest piece of shit in the world, the only book he's ever written that wasn't a list of corny, vagina-drying romance tips was a shameless attempt to make money off 9/11 with a completely random list of "American" things. Godek is what abortion doctors picture to make their jobs easier.
Godek's idea of clever is writing "Forget-me-not" on a forget-me-not. I always wondered what kind of person they were picturing when they decided to add instructions to a bar of soap.
Is this to convince her that I'm gay or that I forgot which day was her birthday? It actually doesn't matter. She's going to accuse me of both.
Ladies, let me save you some time. No one in their right mind would ever do this, but if you do buy every card in the store and give them to your man, you'll hear one of three things:
1: "Is this because I hate you? Because you weren't supposed to find out about that."
2: "You idiot slut, can I assume the rest of these envelopes are also birthday cards so we can just put this event behind us?"
3: "Hello, Batman? I work at the Hallmark store and I'm pretty sure you're about to start finding birthday-themed murders all over the place."
You can try this one, but I'm pretty sure women are trained from a very young age to not put their mouth on anyone who hands them a Garfield balloon.
Godek, you fucking dumbass. Only you could walk into a card shop and shout, "Hold on, I just thought of something! You could give these things to people! Sir, what are they called again? C-aaahh-errds?"
What Godek is saying is that most women are happy to ignore your lack of wit if you give them expensive things. Godek had to buy his wife a car to get his first blowjob. And the entire time she was doing it, he handed her blow-pops and screamed, "Get it? Get it!?"
This is the romance guru equivalent of tech support asking you if your computer is plugged in. "Sir? I'm sorry to hear about your marriage. Have you tried buying an instruction manual on sex and fucking your wife? Okay, try that and call me back."
I imagine a normal day for Godek's wife is tearing the fruity puns off all her household products in a desperate attempt to find one poisonous enough to kill her.
That's lucky, Godek because after reading one of your romance books, the thought of an erection makes a penis sick.
Even after all these years, whenever Godek leaves a present for his wife, her first thought is, "I'm being stalked by an eight-year-old rapist."
Yeah, I remember this hot tip from earlier in this same book, you useless hack. I know when you sat down to type every little goddamn thing that popped into your subnormal brain you figured no one would ever hold it up to any scrutiny. These are just books for bored old people to pass around when they've run out of gift ideas. Well fuck you, Godek. I read them. And you're worse at your job than the doctor who accidentally punched you for thirty minutes instead of giving you a circumcision. You write the same way you pee: out of a stupid vagina. These garbage books you make are inhumane attempts at population control.
Thirty percent of this book's advice is to buy greeting cards and now the idiot who wrote it is concerned about us wasting money and being predictable? I think Godek is probably just pissed off at roses because he couldn't think of a pun for them. He sat at his keyboard for a week thinking, "What could a stupid fuck write on a rose... I get a ROSE out of you! No... Rose rose rose your boat... not quite... ARGH! Fine! I guess roses aren't romantic. That Snoopy balloon, on the other hand, is making me rock hard."
He was right about a dozen roses being common, expected, and expensive. Luckily, naming your boat after your wife is none of those things. Following Godek's logic is like watching a kid play baseball. If he simply picked one direction and ran that way, you probably wouldn't even notice that he's retarded.
"And what's the deal with men's fashion? Why should us fellas have to wear t-shirts when nursing bras fit so much better?? And don't even get me started on grocery stores that sell the maxi pads alongside products for women. Men bleed out of the holes in their genitals too, ladies!"
Go ahead, but I think it might backfire the next time you get in an argument. "Honey, you can't watch the game. You're taking us to my sister's brunch today. And before this turns into a battle of wills, let's try to remember which one of us is a giant pussy. Oh, look! A check for one million kisses, signed by you! How about you go get changed and meet me in the car, tough guy."
That makes sense. Do I get in the elevator with her too? I don't want her endorphins to reach lethal levels from all this romance. She kind of looked like she was going into toxic shock when I handed her the stuffed tiger that said "Grrrrrrr!" on it.