My sweetheart and I enjoy passionate entertainment. We watch the romance movie When Harry Met Sally, an odyssey of passion about when Billy Crystal meets the Loud Restaurant Woman who sits at the public table and screams, “Terrific! It is the orgasm of good feelings!” and then a nearby lady tells her waiter, “I want to eat her food. Bring me the same pleasure meal immediately.”

I attempt to woo my sweetheart with unrequited entertainment. I sensuously read my sweetheart some of the romance poems I have written, such as “I Long To Feed You Oysters While You’re Driving” and “Babe, You Are The Pearl In The Oyster That I’m Feeding You In The Car.” Yet my sweetheart remains unmoved and unimpressed by my erotic verses.

My sweetheart and I suffer through angry entertainment. We sit nude before the fire and take turns loudly accusing each other of murder. There is no love in our eyes.

My sweetheart and I enjoy neutral entertainment. We sit before the fire with our shirts off and take turns erotically whispering the names of all the actors who have played James Bond. We then shrug at each other.

I did the most romantic surprise. I rode into my sweetheart’s bedroom sensuously on the back of a white tiger and I fired a revolver into the ceiling while my sweetheart applauded and became troubled with lust.

I did the neutral surprise. I gave my sweetheart a gift-wrapped loaf.

I did the angry surprise. I paid an honest, hardworking pilot $1 million to write the words, “My Sweetheart Is The Frown” in skywriting, thus embarrassing my sweetheart in front of all who looked into the sky.

I did the unrequited surprise. I wrote a love song for my sweetheart, and while I was singing it my sweetheart Googled the phrase “Training Ants To Eat Bad Musicians.”

Two giant oysters washed up on the beach. One oyster slowly opened, and standing inside of its shell was my sweetheart and I, sensuously smooching, as if we had been loving each other since time began. The second oyster opened and shot out a small shower of confetti, which added to the power of our romance.

I put out a personal ad on an online dating site that said, “Who enjoys a nice time at a barbecue?” and my sweetheart sent me a reply that said, “Sometimes me.”

I stood at the mouth of a cave and blew an air horn, and my sweetheart came sprinting out of the cave.

My sweetheart and I were both protesting in front of the White House on the same day. I was carrying a picket sign that said “Rats should live forever,” and my sweetheart was carrying a picket sign that said “Rats should die at some point.” Opposites attract, and we became sweethearts that same day.

My sweetheart’s parents could not get enough of me. My sweetheart’s father spent the entire evening shaking my hand, and my sweetheart’s mother smiled at me as she called the police and said, “I have a new child,” before immediately hanging up.

My sweetheart’s parents and I got along fine, but we were not overly effusive. I said friendly and neutral things like, “I will never kill you,” and my sweetheart’s dad replied by saying, “I would try pretty hard to save you from a witch.”

My sweetheart’s parents and I did not get along at all. My sweetheart’s mother told me that I seemed like I had two rats eating each other where my heart should be, and I told her that every night I prayed to God that Wile E. Coyote would stop chasing the Road Runner and start chasing her. After dinner, my sweetheart’s father took me aside and told me that meeting me had robbed his world of music.

I have never met my sweetheart’s parents. Whenever my sweetheart’s parents call and ask if they can meet me, my sweetheart lies and tells them I can’t come to see them because I’m at the White House angrily demanding that they allow people to weep in their passport photos.

My sweetheart and I suffered an evening of anger. We went to a fancy restaurant, but we couldn’t enjoy the oysters because we spent the entire time loudly arguing with each other about which one of our obituaries would have the most appearances of the word “shoplifting.”

My sweetheart and I enjoyed an evening of sensuously forgettable, neutral romance. We drove out to the desert to look at a piece of plywood that had the word “Acquaintance” painted on it. We held hands and we looked at the plywood. Just thinking about it makes me shrug.

I suffered a night of unrequited romance. I invited my sweetheart to the fancy opera, but when I got there, a man at the door told me that the opera had been canceled because my sweetheart had successfully framed the orchestra’s conductor for causing the Challenger explosion.

My sweetheart and I enjoyed a thick and passionate night of huge romance. We put on the passion songs of the sensual deep-voiced man Barry White and we let Barry do the talking. Barry White sang his No. 1 love hit, “My Hands Were Made To Feed You Oysters (And Your Hands Were Made To Hold The Steering Wheel).” By the end of the evening, my sweetheart and I were so troubled with lust that we could not stop ourselves from doing a physical romance, and I allowed my sweetheart to solve my body with sex.