Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Most bloggers warn their readers when there is gratuitous profanity in their posts. Me? I tend to warn when there’s not enough. This is one of those days when the expletives did not flow. Not trying to censor myself, I swear. Or I don’t swear. Whatever. Get over it.

TOP 5 REASONS PEOPLE RETURN GIFTS

(a.k.a. Dafuq were you thinking)

#5. You’re a horrible judge of one’s physical presence. No carnival on earth would hire you as the bloke that guesses weight or age because, to your discerning gaze, everyone’s a buck and quarter, and pleasantly stuck at twenty-five years old like some New Adult Peter Pan. I weigh 350 pounds, Pumpkin; an extra large won’t cover my left tit.

#4. You bought a blind kid a pop-up picture book. Admit it, you don’t know that lady’s son from a martian named Flapjack. You bought the book in hopes of using your own pop-up in full view of his mother. You dirty birdie. I bet you’re the same gentleman that cuts a hole in the bottom of a bucket of popcorn, aren’t you?

Tickle, tickle.

“What’s that, Frank?”

“Free hotdogs!”

#3. You bought a terminally ill person a lifetime gym membership. 

#2. You attended a secret Secret Santa party. Seriously, nobody likes the trash they get at these stupid company get-togethers. “Holy shit, a purple elephant that moonlights as a saltshaker/back massager!” said no one ever. Or how about this one, “Oooh, I got the Joe Dirt Soundtrack!” The only people who buy good gifts for these little parties are emotional cripples or the recently divorced. And you should be scared of these people. Because you have to be in a pretty dark place to give a shit about buying a gift that could go to anybody out of a room full of people. Unless you know exactly who’ll be receiving your gift… then you’re in a whole other realm of creepy altogether. 

#1. I don’t like you. Never have. Why would I want a present from you? You’re always trying to strike up a conversation with me at the park, but, when I spray you with mace, you keep right on trying to talk. You offer me clothes that don’t fit, and you’re always staring at my kids, giving off that Neverland Ranch vibe. Go away. You smell. Like menstruating onions and garlic feet. You sweat excessively, as if you’ve just ran a marathon. Did it rain, `cause you’re soaked. Honestly, do you have water spickets in your armpits? What the hell is in your hair? Parmesan cheese? For the love of Tom Cruise, did you just fart? No, I will not hold on to this unmarked package. No I don’t want to watch your things. Where the hell are you going? Why is this box ticking…

Oh…