Because the Bible tells us to. Behold, from Leviticus 2 (emphasis added):

“1 And when any will offer a meat offering unto the Lord, his offering shall be of fine flour; and he shall pour oil upon it, and put frankincense thereon:

2 And he shall bring it to Aaron’s sons the priests: and he shall take thereout his handful of the flour thereof, and of the oil thereof, with all the frankincense thereof; and the priest shall burn the memorial of it upon the altar, to be an offering made by fire, of a sweet savour unto the Lord:

3 And the remnant of the meat offering shall be Aaron’s and his sons’: it is a thing most holy of the offerings of the Lord made by fire.

4 And if thou bring an oblation of a meat offering baken in the oven, it shall be unleavened cakes of fine flour mingled with oil, or unleavened wafers anointed with oil.

5 And if thy oblation be a meat offering baken in a pan, it shall be of fine flour unleavened, mingled with oil.

6 Thou shalt part it in pieces, and pour oil thereon: it is a meat offering.

7 And if thy oblation be a meat offering baken in the fryingpan, it shall be made of fine flour with oil.

8 And thou shalt bring the meat offering that is made of these things unto the Lord: and when it is presented unto the priest, he shall bring it unto the altar.

9 And the priest shall take from the meat offering a memorial thereof, and shall burn it upon the altar: it is an offering made by fire, of a sweet savour unto the Lord.

10 Summer shall be for lovers.

11 And that which is left of the meat offering shall be Aaron’s and his sons’: it is a thing most holy of the offerings of the Lord made by fire.

12 No meat offering, which ye shall bring unto the Lord, shall be made with leaven: for ye shall burn no leaven, nor any honey, in any offering of the Lord made by fire.

13 As for the oblation of the firstfruits, ye shall offer them unto the Lord: but they shall not be burnt on the altar for a sweet savour.

14 And every oblation of thy meat offering shalt thou season with salt; neither shalt thou suffer the salt of the covenant of thy God to be lacking from thy meat offering: with all thine offerings thou shalt offer salt.

15 And if thou offer a meat offering of thy firstfruits unto the Lord, thou shalt offer for the meat offering of thy firstfruits green ears of corn dried by the fire, even corn beaten out of full ears.

16 And thou shalt put oil upon it, and lay frankincense thereon: it is a meat offering.

17 And the priest shall burn the memorial of it, part of the beaten corn thereof, and part of the oil thereof, with all the frankincense thereof: it is an offering made by fire unto the Lord.”

Amen.

It’s also important to find a summer sweetheart because if you don’t, your mailman will razz you. Eek!

You go outside to find a summer romance, but are stopped in your tracks by your mailman, who is mean.

“’Sup, chowder dick?” he says, dropping your mail into the sewer grate. “You find yourself a sweetheart for the summer yet?”

Here is your pumpkin. What kind of jack-o’-lantern do you want to make?

You spend the next 37 hours working on your jack-o’-lantern. Right when you’re almost finished, you hear someone yelling “CHOWWWWWDER DICK! CHOWWWWWDER DICK!” out in front of your house.

Oh, it’s the mailman.

“’Sup, chowder dick?” he says, dropping your mail into the sewer grate. “You find yourself a sweetheart for the summer yet?”

“Figures. You’re a loser with a melted-Dodge-Durango dick.”

You nod politely.

“Say, I’ve got a letter here addressed to you. It says ‘Dear Mr. Frowny Cock, if you don’t find a summer sweetheart within 24 hours, your mailman’s gonna razz the living hell out of you. You are a piece of shit. Sincerely, your own disaster of a nutsack.’

“Damn, that’s rough. But your nutsack is right: You better find a special someone soon, otherwise I’m gonna razz you. See ya in 24 hours, paunch sniffer.”

“Oh, is that so, goose tits?” he asks, skewering you with another one of his crude trademark insults. “What’s her name, then?”

Shit, he’s onto you. You’re struggling to come up with a fake name on the spot, and you nervously look around at nearby objects for inspiration.

“Bullshit. My mail truck is dating an ambulance. Everyone knows that. You’re a fucking liar.”

You turn red with embarrassment over being caught in a fib.

“Listen up, eel tits: You have 24 hours to find yourself a summer romance, otherwise I’m gonna razz the living hell out of you. Sayonara, nacho cock.”

“Huh. That’s interesting, because in my pile of mail here I’ve got a report card for a third-grader named Tabitha Mailman. Are you saying your summer sweetheart is a little girl? Are you confessing to being a pervert who dates children?”

“I don’t like being lied to, mucus nips. You know I’m a federal employee, right? And federal employees can basically kill with immunity.”

You nod and thank the mailman for teaching you this new fact.

“Anyway, you have 24 hours to find yourself a summer romance, otherwise I’m gonna razz the living hell out of you. Sayonara, nacho cock.”

Wow, the mailman is not messing around. You better find a summer sweetheart—and fast!

Unfortunately, your prospects are pretty limited at the moment. Most of the women you know are either already in relationships or have put their head inside a microwave so they don’t have to talk to you.

Looks like you’ll have to try to meet someone new. You figure your best bet for meeting single ladies is to either A) use a dating website, or B) go to a place where there are many widows.

You decide to visit the cemetery. The cemetery is the place where old, lonesome widows go to talk to the dirt-covered corpses of their loved ones, even though corpses can’t listen. Hopefully, one of them will want to talk to an alive person badly enough to date you.

In an ideal scenario, you would try to find summer romance in a more normal place like Chili’s, but your mailman will be back to razz you soon, so the cemetery it is.

Hmm, no widows here. Just a happy elderly couple.

Damn, another happy elderly couple.

Sheesh, yet another happy elderly couple. Where the hell are all the widows? Perhaps one of these ancient cackling apes knows.

“Take a number, pal,” the boy one says as the girl one begins romantically eating his face-skin. “Me and my widower buddies already claimed all the prime gals. Get here earlier next time.”

“There might still be one or two sickly ones limpin’ around the memorial garden who haven’t been claimed yet,” he adds.

Sounds like all the good widows are taken. What a bummer.

Hoo boy. This widow’s a little too sickly for your taste. No bueno.

Jesus Christ. This is depressing as hell. Maybe you were wrong to come here. Maybe exploiting emotionally vulnerable senior citizens for short-term romantic gain isn’t a good idea.

Whoa, who is that?!? Hubba hubba hubba! Hubba hubba! Hubba hubba hubba hubba! Hubba! Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba! Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba! Hubba!

Maybe you should talk to her.

“What? No, I’m not a widow. I just came to the cemetery to pet the smooth rocks.”

“Because I realized that I’ve never ridden on a blimp.”

Looks like coming to the cemetery to find a summer sweetheart was a fool’s errand. Maybe you should try something else.

“No, of course not.”

You’re really having a tough time finding eligible widows to date. You’re beginning to lose hope.

You go ahead and dig a wallowing hole, and find a casket—an outcome that, in retrospect, you probably should’ve anticipated.

You open the casket, and at first glance, it appears as if there’s nothing but some dumb old bones inside. But when you climb into the casket and toss the skeleton out onto the grass, you find something fascinating: an old letter of some kind!

Wow. You’re not usually one to believe in fate, but it seems pretty serendipitous that the ONE corpse you decide to dig up today is a basketball player’s, when it just so happens that basketball is your favorite sport. What luck! And while this letter is clearly intended for a grave robber and not you, you can’t help but notice that it contains some thematic alignment with your current mission of finding a summer sweetheart. Pretty neat!

You go to a restaurant and eat two hamburgers. Then you buy a third hamburger. As you begin to eat the third hamburger, a strange feeling washes over you. You can’t put a finger on it, but something tells you that maybe you shouldn’t have thrown that letter in the trash. Maybe it was actually intended for you, and “grave robber” was just some sort of code name.

Then it hits you: If you rearrange the letters in “grave robber,” you get the words “grove barber.” And when you were in high school, you worked for two weeks as a landscaper, which is basically a barber for groves. Whoa—it’s so obvious! The letter was written for you! You’re the guy who’s supposed to follow the clues and make Sophia Sinclair your sweetheart!

You rush back to the cemetery, and luckily, the letter is still there. You carefully study the first clue:

CLUE 1: If the sweetheart you seek is Sophia Sinclair, go to a place and sit on a chair...

Hmm.... If you read between the lines, it almost seems as if you’re supposed to go to some sort of place and sit on a chair. You rack your brain for examples of places, and two immediately come to mind: your house and the alligator pit at the zoo.

You go to your house and sit in a chair. You keep sitting in the chair for nearly 10 seconds, but nothing happens. Figures. Looks like Wilt Chamberlain was just leading you on a wild goose chase. Fucking asshole.

You decide to get up, go back to the cemetery, and take your anger out on Wilt Chamberlain’s casket with a baseball bat. But just as you’re about to leave, you hear a horrible screaming sound outside like the agonized wails of a million locusts being scorched with a flamethrower.

You go outside and find a little lamb crouched on your lawn.

“That was me shouting,” the lamb says. “It is the noise I make to signify that someone has solved the first clue.”

“As you wish. Here is the second clue: When temps climb past the 90s, summer ain’t so sweet. But climb to where this next clue is, and you will beat the heat. ”

Well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out. Clearly, this riddle is telling you that in order to find the next clue, you’ll need to climb to the peak of Mount Everest, where it is cold even in the summertime. But that sounds like a hell of a lot of effort. If being in a relationship requires even half this much work, you’re not sure if it’s worth it.

You get in your car and drive all the way from America to Mount Everest. After the three-hour drive, you’re absolutely wiped, but you’ll need to muster what little energy you have left to climb the mountain.

...or maybe you won’t. It occurs to you that instead of going up to get the clue, you could just make the clue come down to you. Since the mountain’s covered in snow, you could probably start an avalanche. Then all the snow would fall off the mountain, and you could just dig through it until you find the clue. It’s definitely the lazy way out, but you’re tempted.

The agony of climbing Mount Everest is indescribable. The cold pierces straight through your protective attire and sucks the air out of you, leaving you constantly gasping for breath. The unforgiving altitude dries out your lungs and bones, and even the slightest cough threatens to crack your ribs. The shortage of oxygen to your brain leaves you delirious and afraid, unsure of where you are and what you’re doing. Frostbite takes three of your fingers and one of your feet. Digestion slows to a halt, making it nearly impossible to eat. The entire 29,000-foot ascent is littered with bodies of climbers, and in your disturbed state of mind you mistake them for loved ones, clutching their heads against your chest as you weep for their souls. Eagles swoop down and try to have sex with your backpack. The shadows cast by the rising and setting sun spell out “YOU ARE AN ASSWIPE WHO WILL PROBABLY DIE” across the icy snowfall. Shitty Nepalese dance music blares through loudspeakers night and day. Every time you try to take a piss, a Sherpa pops out from behind a rock and ridicules your tiny, air-shriveled dick. It is the fucking worst.

But finally, after weeks of unfathomable suffering, you make it to the summit. And sure enough, there’s an envelope waiting for you containing the next clue.

Goddammit! The damn thing says you have to go down the mountain and then climb the fucking thing all over again. Jesus Christ, this sucks shit.

You go all the way down the goddamn mountain and then climb the fucker for a second time. It’s just as fucking hard, and you lose your second foot to frostbite. As a small consolation, there are seven dollars waiting for you at the summit. Next to the money is the third clue.

1405 N. Delaware?!? That’s, like, three fucking houses down from you! You went through all this stupid bullshit just to find out the lady’s your fucking neighbor. Unbelievable.

You drive all the fucking way back to America. You go back to your house, and once you’re there, you hobble 40 fucking feet on your frostbitten leg stumps to Sophia Sinclair’s house.

You knock on the door.

An older woman answers the door.

“May I help you?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m Sophia Sinclair. Who are you? Why are you here?”

She is, like, 100 years old, and you weren’t expecting that. Wilt Chamberlain’s letter made it seem like she was young and beautiful, but now you realize that he probably wrote that letter a long time ago, so it makes sense that she’s old. Oh well. You are ugly and don’t have any standards.

“Oh,” she says, her eyes barely concealing her horror at your gruesome appearance. “No, thank you. I’d rather not.”

Fuck! What the hell did you do wrong?

“One moment please.”

She turns and goes back into the house. Maybe she’s getting some folding chairs so you two can sit down and kiss each other.

A 100-year-old man appears.

“Sorry, pal, but I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” he says. “I already beat you to it. I’m Sophia’s husband. I dug up Wilt Chamberlain’s corpse many years ago because I thought there might be a free basketball in his casket that I could have. I didn’t find a free basketball, but I did end up finding love.”

Ah, fuck. Oh well, it was worth a try.

“But keep your chin up,” he adds. “I’m sure one day you’ll dig up a casket that leads you to the girl of your dreams. Good luck, and may the force be with you.”

He shuts the door, leaving you alone on the doorstep without a summer sweetheart.

Ah, fuck. Look who’s in front of your house: the goddamn mailman.

“’Sup, chowder dick? Heard you couldn’t find a summer sweetheart. You know what that means: I’m gonna razz you. You ready?”

Okay. How do you want to start the avalanche?

Whoops, never mind, the sign says you can’t do that. Luckily, the sign doesn’t say anything about dynamite.

You ask some Sherpas if they have any dynamite you can barter off of them. It turns out they do have some—235 boxes, to be exact—and they’ll trade it to you for your wristwatch. You agree to the trade, and they load the 235 boxes of dynamite onto a giant sled for you.

You give up on finding a summer romance and decide to eat the talking lamb from your front yard. He tastes good.

What do you want to do next?

You start watching A Bug’s Life, and it’s great. It’s about some bugs who do activities.

Suddenly, your viewing is interrupted by someone knocking at your front door.

You’re at your favorite part of the movie, when the bugs find a discarded Bic lighter and believe it’s some sort of beautiful paralyzed worm, and then they all hold a talent show to determine who gets to have sex with it.

Unfortunately, you’re interrupted once again by a loud knocking at the door.

Whoa...is that an angel?

“Hi there,” the beautiful woman says. “I’m your new mailman. Your old mailman got eaten by some cobras and died. I’m new to town and don’t have anyone to hang out with this summer, so I thought I’d come introduce myself.”

What a fortuitous turn of events. Not only is your rival dead, but he’s been replaced by a lovely woman who seemingly wants to hang out with you. This is great. Now’s the time to make your move!

Urine is coming out of you right now, and it feels fantastic.

Suddenly, you hear someone knocking at your front door.

Mmm, yeah. Pissing feels good as hell. Unfortunately, though, you can hardly savor the nice piss feelings because someone is still knocking at the front door.

Ah, fuck, it’s the mailman.

“’Sup, chowder dick? Heard you couldn’t find a summer sweetheart. You know what that means: I’m gonna razz you. You ready?”

You finish your hamburger and then casually saunter back to the cemetery. You arrive just in time to see the garbage truck driving away with all the cemetery’s trash.

There’s a chance you could chase the garbage truck to the landfill and dig through all the garbage bags until you find the letter, but that seems like a lot of effort. You’ll assume that this is just fate’s way of saying that Sophia Sinclair wasn’t meant to be your sweetheart.

Maybe you should try some other way of finding a summer romance.

You do a Google search for “most successful dating site for meeting a summer sweetheart and avoiding mailman razzing,” and the consensus seems to be that Papa Rupert’s $30 Matchmaking Rodeo is your best bet.

“Hello, my name is Papa Rupert, and I wake up every morning wishing I was dead,” the man on the screen says. “I reckon that I am one of the least happy people alive. The only thing that keeps me going is the satisfaction of helping other people fall in love. That’s why I made this website. If you give me $30, I will find someone for you to share your life with. I have plenty of time to help you because I do not have any friends or loved ones or hobbies; this website is all I have going for me. If you would like my assistance, please enter your credit card information to continue.”

Your $30 payment has been received. Thank you. I will now guide you through a scientifically designed, proprietary matchmaking survey in order to identify your core traits and ensure maximum compatibility with potential matches.

QUESTION 1: What do you look like?

A) Normal.

B) Sick.

C) Chinese.

D) Tall.

QUESTION 2: What do you consider to be the most important trait in a potential partner?

A) Has her own forks and isn’t always using mine.

B) Allows me to use the toilet.

C) Chinese.

D) Has no faults.

E) Is not an astronaut, or, if she is, does not wear the scary uniform.

QUESTION 3: What is your religion?

A) Christian.

B) Presbyterian.

QUESTION 4: What is your opinion of trucks?

A) There should be more of them.

B) There should be way more of them.

C) Trucks are good, except for the ones that transport horses, because why chauffeur animals around like kings when they don’t even pay taxes or contribute to society in any meaningful way? Plus, horses can basically run as fast as trucks, so why not just let them transport themselves? They’ve been getting fat off our dime for too long now, and it’s about time we made them do their fair share.

D) I have not researched the matter enough to provide an informed opinion.

QUESTION 5: Why do you want to be in a relationship right now?

A) Because I feel it is finally time for someone else to learn the bad news about my genitals.

B) Because I’m afraid of my mailman.

C) Because I just learned some new facts about the pilgrims and the Mayflower, and I would like to share them with someone.

D) Because I don’t want to be the only one without a date at the big Halloween dance this summer.

And finally, QUESTION 6: What’s your idea of a perfect date?

A) Going somewhere romantic and eating lots of peanuts, but we each bring our own peanuts so I don’t have to share mine.

B) Having sex near a blimp.

C) An intimate dinner for two on a private beach, and afterwards, a whale slithers up on shore and we get to feed it all our leftover gristle and rib bones.

D) Enjoying wine together at sunset while watching a person on crutches try to maneuver down a steep, rocky hill.

“Please wait while Papa Rupert goes off to take a bath and mull over who your top matches should be,” says a voice through the computer.

“Hello, I am back from taking my bath and have determined your most compatible matches. Unfortunately, because you possess very few attractive qualities, you are compatible with almost no one, and therefore have been matched with our least desirable candidates. Your top matches are a woman named Jennifer and a woman named Two-Turtle Lisa. I would show you their pictures, but I dropped them in the bathtub and they were ruined. Which of your two matches would you like to go on a date with?”

“Very well, then. I have arranged a date for you with Jennifer. She will be waiting for you at the water park four minutes from now, wearing a gray shirt. Thank you for using Papa Rupert’s $30 Matchmaking Rodeo, the website I made to distract myself from fantasizing about my own death. Goodbye.”

You go to the water park and find the only woman there wearing a gray shirt. You assume she must be Jennifer.

Jennifer doesn’t say a word. She just stares at you and seethes.

“Yes, that is Jennifer,” you hear someone say. “She is very excited to be having a romance date with you.”

Ah, it is a little boy.

“Hello, I am Ormul,” the little boy says. “Jennifer is my sister. She does not speak, but Ormul does. Ormul will do the romance conversation with you, and you will pretend that I am Jennifer.”

“I am Jennifer now. Ask Jennifer a question.”

“I have three job,” the little boy says on behalf of his sister. “I make wood with saw, catch gopher, and smell for bomb at parade. Please ask more questions to Jennifer.”

“My hobbies include hiding omelet in couch, digging tunnel under house, hissing at neighbor, and blowing nose,” says the little boy on behalf of his sister. “Please ask more questions to Jennifer.”

“No. Jennifer has experienced many internet romance-dates and enjoyed groin ecstasy with many men. In fact, if it is agreeable to you, Jennifer would like to go to house and perform groin ecstasy with you.”

Um...what. This kid can’t be serious.

Jennifer nods her head and points at her crotch, signaling that yes, in fact, she would like to perform groin ecstasy with you.

Hmm. You’re not particularly attracted to Jennifer, but if you perform groin ecstasy with her, maybe she would become your girlfriend, and the mailman wouldn’t razz you.

You go back to your house with Jennifer to have sex, but she promptly disappears into the bathroom and stays there for a long time.

“Please be patient for Jennifer,” Ormul tells you. “Jennifer is oiling her loins with cola drink and putting on erotic romance attire.”

After over an hour, Jennifer finally emerges from the bathroom in her erotic romance attire. Ormul plays a sensual melody on a clarinet and gestures for you to pull down your pants.

Groin ecstasy happens. It is not at all what you thought “groin ecstasy” meant, and it is easily the worst part of your week so far.

Regardless, you feel as though, in some way, you’ve achieved a certain level of intimacy with Jennifer, so now you can ask her to be your summer sweetheart.

“No,” Ormul says. “Jennifer will now leave you forever, although she will first stop by your refrigerator and enjoy a meat snack.”

Unfortunately, you have been denied by Jennifer. Looks like you’ll need to try something different if you want to find a summer romance.

Jennifer does not take the rejection lightly. She spits on your legs and waddles off in a huff before climbing into a nearby dumpster to sob. Ormul follows and sings a lullaby to calm her down. The lullaby goes like this:

“O my sister Jennifer / The moon and the stars do a smile upon you / May your omelet be filled with treasure / May Nightmare Goose not appear in your sink / May NASA not do any more experiments on you / You are my old sister / Amen.”

Now that Jennifer is out of the picture, it looks like you’ll have to try a different tactic for finding a summer romance.

“Very well, then. I have arranged a date for you with Two-Turtle Lisa in four minutes. Go to the botanical garden. Thank you for using Papa Rupert’s $30 Matchmaking Rodeo, the website I made to distract myself from fantasizing about my own death. Goodbye.”

You arrive at the botanical garden for your date with Two-Turtle Lisa, and though you have never seen a picture of her, you have no problem picking her out of the crowd.

“Hi, I’m Two-Turtle Lisa,” she says.

“I bet you’re wondering why they call me Two-Turtle Lisa.”

“Well, you may not have noticed, but I’m actually holding two turtles right now.”

“Oh. Well, these ones are mine. You can’t have them, and now I’m paranoid that you will try to steal them. I think it’d be best if we went our separate ways.”

“Oh, well, that’s pretty much my only thing, so if you don’t like turtles, you probably won’t like me. I guess we should just end the date now.”

“Okay, bye. I’m going to take my turtles to Old Country Buffet now for some butterfly shrimp, and then afterwards I am going to throw them off a mountain.”

You say goodbye to Two-Turtle Lisa and she leaves. As she walks away, you get the sense that things aren’t going to work out between you two. Looks like you’re going to have to try a different tactic for finding a summer romance.

“Wait, how did you know that? Have you been stalking me or something? I’m honestly a little bit creeped out.”

Oh, shit! She’s onto you!

Phew, that was close.

Anyway, looks like online dating isn’t going to work out for you. You had better try a different way to find a summer romance.

“It appears that you have declined to provide your credit card information,” Papa Rupert says. “I am saddened to hear that. Would it be okay if I covered the cost of your membership fee out of my own pocket? This website is all I have going for me, and just the thought of losing a new user makes me yearn for death.”

“Thank you for allowing me to pay your membership fee,” says Papa Rupert. “I really needed this. You may now proceed to the matchmaking survey.”

“I am devastated to hear this, but I understand,” Papa Rupert says. “Okay, bye. I am going to go drown myself in a washing machine.”

Welp, looks like online dating wasn’t for you. You’ll have to try a different way to find a summer romance.