Though I stopped giving my wife gifts the day before we were wed, I’m still aware of the traditions in our society that plague men who weren’t as shrewd at nuptial negotiations as I. As Valentine’s Day quickly approaches, I’m reminded that nearly every holiday on the calendar has been carefully designed as a trap for other men, by women, to break their spirit. Sad, sorry men, who will inevitably emerge from each of these “festive” events feeling as if they are a severe disappointment to the women in their lives, they will transfer that feeling of failure from that where it belongs, onto themselves and shoulder the burden alone.

Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Anniversaries, Secretary’s Day…all diabolically crafted by the fairer sex to maximize the perceived romantic shortcomings men will deliver on each. And for some reason, men continue to allow it.

But not me, I asked long ago: When is it our turn to be disappointed in women?

Then I answered my own question: You mean other than every day of the year?

To which I replied: Yes. You must cancel Valentines Day and repurpose the date for your own reward!

And so I did.

I suggest you “men” read carefully because I figured out a solution to this problem that I think could help many of you.

Though I’d already forbidden most ceremonies and holidays in my home other than my birthday and Christmas, It was time to banish Valentines Day and replace it with a holiday I created in my own honor. I called it “Sausage Day” and it continues as a tradition in our family.

No, Sausage Day isn’t a day to enjoy the fruits of the Hog, but instead it’s a day where the man of my house (me) is served obediently by my women as my reward for the hard work I’ve done over the year. A day that I’ve named as a subtle nod to one of God’s most amazing physical accomplishments—the male genitals. More specifically, my genitals.

Sausage Day is a day where I don’t lift a finger. And though my recent medical conditions have forced me to spend many days not lifting my fingers, in previous years this day was in stark contrast to every other day where a more physically potent Speide Bahl was capable of rising from the motorized chair I’m now confined to and spread my elbow’s grease as I saw fit. Sausage Day is a day where those who are special to me, and more importantly I am special to, bring me gifts that I may cast a disappointed gaze over and dismiss with an indifferent glance as revenge for the many holidays where they’d do the same to me had I not banished them all years ago.

Take pause weak men, and take control of your lives before the very thing that gives Sausage Day its name is taken from you completely.