What? You’ve left it to the last minute again? Fuck sake…right, let Bobby sort you out.
Let me tell you a story: When I was five years old my house got robbed the week before Christmas and all my presents were stolen. Now, despite the fact I’ve spent the last twenty years having explicitly vivid revenge fantasies about the perpetrators, I think it’s worth pointing out that the house was woefully lacking in security and it was really a matter of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’.
That being said, a stupid fucking light that looks like you’ve got the telly on isn’t going to deter a career criminal because it takes the same amount of time to plug the piece of shit in as it does to peer in the window and see there’s no one home.
I’m almost certain that some dilbert took this on the Dragon’s Den, too, and was ceremonially ripped a new arsehole by every one of the Dragons as they pointed out the many flaws in an over-priced strobe light.
Did you know that crows remember faces? Also, they will actively seek revenge on humans who have wronged them in the past. I can only assume they were the target market for a product aimed at animals that have no concept whatsoever of bungee jumping, because otherwise I see no point in spending more money on a novelty-shaped bird feeder than a regular one you get in the pound shop.
All I’m saying is my Nana used to hang old beef from the washing line and they ate that shit up, so it’s not a Michelin star you’re aiming for, here.
Seriously, after last year’s sponge-tits debacle I thought it couldn’t get any worse in the grow-your-own industry, but this is so fucking despicable on so many levels that I now assume the entire market strategy team is staffed by murderers and arseholes.
‘He loves to shop,’ ‘has great relationship advice’ and ‘he loves to dance at clubs’ are just a few of the promises the packaging makes, all of which conjures up in my mind the saddest fucking thing I can ever imagine. It’s bad enough you can’t find a man to love you, but when you can’t even find a gay man to go clubbing with and have to defer to an eight-inch, damp effigy…oh, I see what this is for, now.
You dirty beasts.
I don’t have kids –that I know of; court case pending– and I am routinely grateful for the fact, but I remember being one myself and leaving crayons on the radiator just to see what would happen. (Protip: they melt and ruin your fucking radiators.)
The point I’m driving at here is if you give a kid a toy car he’ll go ‘vroooom’ and run it over every surface in your house. If you make it out of crayon he’ll go ‘vrooooom’ and systematically drop the property value of your house, room by room.
What the fuck has to be wrong with you when you decide to forego the traditional means of writing on card with pen; instead choosing to whittle out a message on a slab of wood, losing three pints of blood and the tip of your finger in the process?
Have you ever tried to carve something into wood? I have, and unless you’ve done it as a hobby for years the only message your friends are going to take away from your splintery postcard is that you’re a moron and possibly a very dangerous individual.
My favourite thing about this piece of shit is the product information, which jovially states, ‘can be scratched or scored into with something sharp like a knife or a key’ as if that’s a plus, and not the same advice a madman would give for marking the hookers you’ve killed.
I originally planned to use the ‘Back Away, Fatty’ fridge magnet by the same company, because I genuinely can’t fathom why you would give such a passive-aggressive gift to someone you obviously hate, but I chose to go with the notepad after I realised the it was out of fucking stock.
Since I still have faith in humanity, I’ll assume that the company only ordered the one notepad in and forced an employee to buy it the way supermarkets get their staff to buy all the out of date bread at the end of the day, because I can’t bear to face the fact someone thought it was a good idea to give someone they care about a journal that indirectly says ‘you’re a moaning-faced bint’.
I fucking love this. I smoked in earnest for the best part of five or six years, and I can tell you you will never be in a place where you can smoke that does not have an ashtray. As in it will literally never happen.
And even if you do somehow find yourself in that situation, the beauty of smoking is that anything you don’t plan to eat or drink out of at that exact minute can be an ashtray. I’ve used mugs, plant pots, my own cupped hand…the list is honestly only as limited as your imagination.
Finally, judging by the picture, the thing is only large enough to hold the ash for one cigarette, meaning you’ll have to empty it somewhere before using it again. Know what’s a better solution? Tapping your ash straight into that receptacle as and when you smoke, instead of carrying around a tiny locket containing the ashes of the smallest family member, ever.
I cannot, for the life of me, work out why you would want a toy without any of the best aspects of a pet (such as fluffiness and trying to make them say ‘sausages’) and instead choose to focus on the worst thing about keeping domesticated animals.
I.e. they are prone to pissing and shitting everywhere.
This has to be illegal. I could almost dismiss it as one of those novelty gifts that you all laugh about and then never use, but if you’re spending fifty quid on a watch with a camera built into it then you’re kidding no one.
I know for a fact you are using it to video kids at the swing park, with all the subtlety of a part-time paedophile, you vile atrocity.
I’m not going to pretend this doesn’t look quite cool, but clocks are one of those things where practicality beats out style for me, and as much as I enjoy the work of Dali, the mad bastard, when I ask Dan the time I want an exact answer.
I don’t want to watch him squint at our weird, melted clock for thirty seconds, before timidly offering up, ‘quarter to one? Or two. Maybe?’