Great. I Always Wanted A Mickey Mouse Tie

This is a modern man-age of incredible man-things: more sports magazines than you could read in a lifetime, services that will send you selections of exotic whiskies around the year, televisions that can go back in time, automatic pornography machines.

With all these things of fantasy available to any woman at the touch of a button, it makes you wonder. Why is it that women give such shitty presents?

By the time we men are the age of fifteen or sixteen or so, we know not to expect a lot from women in a lot of ways. One of the more surprising of those ways is in gifts. Especially since women seem to be so fucking obsessed with them.

Let me list the last several presents I’ve received from women here as proof. I’m sure I don’t have to tell all of you men that this set is not atypical.

Socks without the leg things on them.
I have never ever in my life worn these types of socks.
Bod Body Spray.
A shirt with pink and lime green stripes.
A picture frame with a picture of guess who already in it.
Dove soap.

These are things that I need about as much as a fucking hole in the head or a broken bicycle. In fact that’s exactly what I said when I opened half of those presents up.

“Why didn’t you just get me a broken bicycle? You could have easily found that in the trash.”

And just as soon as I had said it, I realized why she hadn’t. Digging in the trash takes work, a lot more work than walking into your local thrifty market and purchasing a 12-pack of Dove soap. You can also store a broken bicycle in the garage or in the trashcan. That’s something that can’t be done with a pack of Dove soap or a pre-filled picture frame that for some reason can’t have a signed 8×10 of Andrew Dice Clay in it even though it’s fucking yours.

Which brings me to my point.

Women get presents for men with one and only one thing in mind: the cheapest and easiest thing to buy that will be a constant reminder of her not only to you but to fucking everyone in the world who happens to see it.

Think you want a remote control boat for Christmas? No. Guess what. You don’t. What you want is a hideous sweater with your wife’s face embroidered across it and a noose stitched into the collar.

Merry fucking Christmas.

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