5 Last Minute Gifts (That Make You Look Like a Proper Lunatic)

It’s easy to tell how much thought has gone into a gift, but it’s not always appropriate to call ‘bullshit’ when someone gets you charcoal briquettes from a garage forecourt.

If it’s this guy, you’re pretty much friends for life.

If you get your co-worker a potted plant for Secret Santa, well, how were you supposed to know her dad died in a garden centre fire? You’ve never even spoken to her before. Jeez lady, stop crying, you’re ruining Christmas for everybody. On the other hand, if you bought your wife of fifteen years a shovel and two tonnes of potting soil, she will immediately go to work digging a hole of roughly your height, breadth and depth.

“What? I’m just making room for a partiularly big, particularly inconsiderate plant.”

That being said, if anyone ever buys you anything on this list, they are almost certainly communicating through the medium of festive gifts that the wind whistles your name and they’ve already established at least three different alibis.

Blood Bag Shower Gel

Sometimes on a show like Dragon’s Den or American Inventor you will get a special kind of eccentric. These aren’t the same people who try to sell you rollerskates for your knees, they’re usually just normal people so caught up in their own idea that they haven’t stopped to think about the actual application side of taking it to market.

There are a hundred different endgame scenarios in this image, and every single one is a shredded dong.

Case in point: I once watched a guy in the den pitch a new central heating system he had patented. The idea was that instead of having a massive slab of burning metal stuck to your wall, you hid it all behind the skirting boards. It was a legitimately appealing idea…


Until almost every one of the Dragons pointed out that retrofitting it would mean households ripping apart every room in their house, pulling the current radiators off the wall and re-decorating the whole room because painter-decorators aren’t known for their thoroughness when covering the space behind giant slabs of burning metal.

I think in the end he still got an investment because new properties could benefit from the product, but the same wasn’t true for the legitimately adorable old man that had attached a lawnmower motor to his wife’s highdry; causing it to slowly lurch around in a circle drying clothes up to exactly as fast as before, but now with the added risk of water falling on the motor and setting the garden ablaze.

“So we don’t have anywhere to live anymore, at least your clothes are dry. God, nothing is ever good enough for you, is it!”

The point I’m making with all this is at some point, someone in the world decided that bathing themselves in the blood of the innocent was a good enough idea to take it to market, and instead of asking who made Thursdays ‘bring a dipshit to work day,’ someone with money and factory connections agreed it was a good idea and put it into production.

Even for practical, non-perverted reasons this would be a nightmare to use, mainly because the difficulty of trying to negotiate liquids from a bag is directly proportional to that bags size. A sachet of tomato sauce is manageable, but try to squeeze out a gallon of the stuff and nothing short of an icing funnel is going to stop it looking like you decided to go out for Halloween as someone’s period.

I refuse to even think of something to Google for that.

Chocolate Pills

I can’t decide who this gift would offend the most. If you give it to a fat person, it’s a passive-aggressive way of saying, ‘I hope you overdose on food, you fat son of a bitch.’ If you give it to someone who used to struggle with their weight as a light-hearted joke, it’s an expensive way of saying, ’I like the thought of several angry fists pummelling my face in unison; let’s make this happen, people.’

This is so un-funny that if you check your Friends boxset, two series no longer exist.

That’s all redundant, though; turns out that these pills were actually designed with women in mind. As in: all women. If you have female reproductive ladybits then you need this product in your life like a strong father-figure or a man who knows how to listen, am I right? I don’t know, I have limited experience in the field of being a fucking idiot so I’ll let the producers explain why, as a woman, you may need to pop chocolate Ibuprofens:

  • Irritating Boyfriend Syndrome
  • Attack of the monthly shezillas
  • That damn woman from work I hate is wearing the same top as me

I swear to God I didn’t make any of those up; there’s actually five or six more on the website. I get the feeling that whoever was in charge of product blurbs that day just got served his divorce papers and, bitch, she gets the house and the car? Well, if you think I am going to take this sitting down then guess again, you will know the fury of a man scorned! We’ll see who lacks initiative now Sandra you fuc-shit where am I going to live?

As if that wasn’t worrying enough, the fact that people continue to sell a product with gender stereotypes that would have been offensive before women were even allowed shoes means that a consumer saw this and thought, ‘ha ha! This is the one for me. Sharon does often worry that she’ll bump into her ex in a dirty rugby shirt. What simple creatures women are.’

Oh, and while you’re explaining to a thunder-faced girlfriend that you got her chocolate to eat because she’s annoying as fuck on her period, you better hope nobody else got her…

Voodoo Knife Block

Sweet Jesus of Nazareth.

This is one of those things that you’ve probably seen in every gadget or novelty shop, but have never, ever seen anyone buy. It’s quite a cool idea for, say, a piece of Outsider Art, but as a household item (even as a practical way of storing knives) it’s completely insane. I’ve lived on my own for three years now, and I’ve never once had to call my parents for ideas on new places to keep my knives.

“Gee son, I don’t know. Have you tried in a woman’s face?”

I don’t want to sound sexist, but this was definitely designed by a woman or a murderer. There is literally no one else in the world I can think of who would see a novelty factor in stabbing a man in the lower intestine every time they need to cut a block of cheese.

On the other hand, gentlemen: this is where I sit on my chair backwards and ask if we can just rap for a minute, keep it real? If you’re ever on a first date and you find yourself in her house with one of these tiny tragedies in the kitchen, don’t run just yet. The needs of many outweigh the needs of one and it’s time to man the fuck up.

Ask for something that needs a knife to cut (like some delicious cheese or the sudden tension in the air.) Once she’s done, watch like a hawk as the blade is slid back into place: did she do it without thinking, or did her eyes light up? Did she make an indiscernible ‘eeeeeee’ sound? Did you only just now notice how cold it is in here and, my God, all these newspapers are from over a decade ago. The photos: black and white! No one has been in this house for years. No one…alive, that is. Shit.

In retrospect, the tombstones and ethereal fog should have been a giveaway.

Anyway, if the answer to any of these questions is ‘yes’ or ‘oh my God, spiders! Thousands of them! They devour the light!’ then what are you doing recalling instructions at a time like this? Get out of there you idiot, the woman has knives stored inside a man.

Christmas Turd

Picture the last day in the office before Christmas. Everyone has handed out their Secret Santa except for you. There have been novelty socks, little books of stress-busting techniques, a singing sunflower; all the classics that hardly any money can buy. Some people are up, some down, but spirits are high and everyone is having a good time.

Suddenly, you burst through the crowd, grinning from ear to ear and salivating a little bit, which is kind of weird. You eagerly thrust a remedially wrapped gift into the confused hands of your department manager, eyefucking the shit out of him until he starts to unwrap it and discovers…


The cheerful atmosphere dissolves immediately; the record player skips and the Christmas tree packs itself back into the box. Your boss looks upon you with eyes sad and grey; he has three days until retirement, he’s literally too old for this shit. As he rests a solemn hand upon your shoulder, a wave of bitter realisation crashes over everyone in the room: you really are an unlikable cock.

And even though you’ll most certainly be drinking alone through the Christmas period with the knowledge that you don’t have a job to go back to after the holidays, what of your co-workers? What stories will they tell when they are greeted by their families on this night? What will become of their dreams?

Also, it’s wearing a Christmas hat. Even in the ever-diminshing niche genre of fake poop jokes, you could only use this once a year. Nice going, jackass.

Regular fake poop jokes are evergreen, of course.

Grow Your Own Boobs

Maybe it says more about me than the weirdness of this product, but my first thought after clapping eyes on these buoyant beauties was, ‘dangerous men will use piss instead of water.’

And Japanese men will wonder why I even bothered to make the distinction.

One of the most concerning aspects of this criminally unfunny gift is the fact that it’s product info boasts about it being re-usable; because dripping novelty tits aren’t only funny the first time.

Obviously as you watch them balloon in front of your very eyes you’ll be creasing yourself with laughter (and possibly also rubbing yourself against the arm of a couch) but as they shrivel to packet size you’ll no doubt be filled with that familiar pit-of-the-stomach sorrow that normally only sex with someone who hates you can provide. Don’t worry, just wet them again and away you go!

As any eight-year-old boy who ever wasted money on incredible grow-your-own-dinosaur kits will tell you, these things don’t work for shit. Seriously, anyone you give it to would probably have liked it better if you just threw a wet sponge at their head as hard as you can (protip: get it right, and a wet sponge will hit a human head with velocity equal to a sack of broken bricks. We’re talking at least a broken nose and a few missing teeth, here.)

Suck it, Geneva!

To be honest, this is probably the only gift on this list that I think might have been put up for sale accidentally or at least in the wrong place. If you told me that this was medical equipment to help a woman make informed decisions on breast augmentation surgery, I’d probably believe you. ‘Hmm, no, that’s too big. Go and fetch the hairdryer, we’ll see if we can’t take it down a cup or two.’

“Idiot, they’re obviously too small now! What are you, a paedophile?”

Well, that’s about it for my list. I hope you have a delightful Christmas and that it will at least be quick for your victims so they don’t suffer as they are shuffled from this mortal coil.

Happy holidays!

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3 Responses to 5 Last Minute Gifts (That Make You Look Like a Proper Lunatic)

  1. Pingback: Five Perfect Gifts (for Humourless Fuckwits) | Rob Simple

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  3. Pingback: Search Term Serial Killers II: This Time it’s Custodial | Still R.O.B.

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