idiotprufs

the blog that made the pope laugh so hard he peed himself.

Archive for the tag “Family”

The Family Thanksgiving Without a Stabbing…Fingers Crossed

 

Bourbon

The Wild Turkey at your family’s Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is just a few days away and you’re still trying to recover from the previous years festivities.

Your Uncle Gabe attempted to fry the turkey in a deep fryer, which led to him setting fire to most of the barn, part the house, and all of his face. He burned off all of his hair. (Even the hair around his naughty bits.)

Your Uncle Finster was on his way when he was pulled over by a police officer, which led to the following conversation:

Police Officer: there are 15 empty cans of Coors Light on the seat next to you.

Uncle Finster: it’s a long drive–at least 20 minutes.

Police Officer: there’s a child in the backseat playing with a revolver.

Uncle Finster: it’s not loaded.

Police Officer: the child next him is playing with the bullets.

Uncle Finster: don’t worry, she never shares.

Luckily for Finster the police officer was called away due to a convenience store being robbed.

Your cousin Milton was arrested for robbing a convenience store.

It turned into a hostage situation, but since he was the only customer, he was forced to take himself hostage. The police stormed the store, so he shot himself leg. As they dragged him away he was heard yelling, “I didn’t want to do it, but they gave me no choice.”

Your cousin Milton is stupid.

Your aunt Peggy announced that she had taken one of those DNA tests and discovered she is 46% troll. She declared she was going to leave your uncle Karl, live under a bridge, never bathe, consume nothing but other people refuse and rats, and engage in occasional tussles with goats.

Basically her normal routine, just under a bridge.

Your uncle Karl seemed pretty okay with it all.

There were two stabbings last year, but that was down from previous years. You’re hoping that trend continues.

There’s bound to be a few drunken brawls, but you hid your uncle Philbert’s crossbow, so nobody should lose an eye this year.

Your in-laws will gather outside around a barrel fire like a homeless rabble and drink copious amounts of liquor as they shiver and lament their obvious and dreadful life choices. But at least they’ll be outside.

Your aunt Zelda will bring her famous potato salad, so there will be vomiting…some of it projectile. But you’ve invested in a case of Pepto Bismol and a disposable mop.

This year you’re feeling good about things. You’re feeling confident. You’re feeling prepared. You’re feeling hopeful.

Who are you kidding–it’s going to be a disaster.

police lights

“Can’t we have just one Thanksgiving dinner that isn’t lit by police lights?”

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Clowns and Penises: A Message to Overbearing Parents

brat kid

What a precious child.

Please stop showing me pictures of your baby.

The first fifty pictures of your little bundle of joy were all pretty much the same. If you’re going to inundate me with this barrage of maternal pride, at least mix it up a little. Dress the kid up like a gladiator or a pirate; give me a reason to at least feign interest.

I know you believe every human on the planet desires to see endless streams of photos of your child. You believe we have an innate need to gush over your child, and shower him or her with flowery praise.

We do not.

What people say: what a beautiful baby you have.

What people are actually thinking: holy crap your baby looks like a lizard: his skin is weird and his face is all smushed. Is his father a sleestack?

sleestack

Daddy?

 

The ugly truth: children grow up to be people and people suck. In fact, I know your kid’s father and he’s a jackass. That poor kid’s wading out of a gene pool that’s shallow, stagnant, and filled with parasites.

And stop acting like everything your child does is precious.

Your child dumped mustard in the fish tank: not precious.

Your child shaved the dog: not precious.

Your child peed on the cat: not precious

Your child got into the permanent markers and covered your living room wall with what appeared to be clowns and penises: honestly, this one’s funny.

And keep that notion in your head that it is advantageous to never discipline your child, because who doesn’t love a good “my child did the cutest thing in juvenile court today” story.

Maybe if Jeffrey Dahmer’s parents had made him eat his vegetables, things would have turned out differently.

Let’s all get together and stop praising our children for things that are clearly not praiseworthy.

Your child’s artwork is dreadful. It’s fine to hang it on your fridge with a due amount of parental pride. Just don’t expect me to gush over it like it’s the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Seriously, from what I can tell, it’s a drawing of a clown and a penis on the back of a misshapen unicorn. (And I’m starting to sense a disturbing trend in your child’s art work involving clowns and penises.)

Do you know what happens when you constantly praise your child for things at which she’s bad? She wastes three years at college majoring in art, when what she actually excels at is smoking pot, wearing berets, growing copious amounts of body hair, and doodling clowns and penises.

Then she comes home with a giant face tattoo, and informs you she’s dropped out of college to focus on her poetry. (Dreadful scribblings that mainly focus on clowns, penises, and when she’s ambitious: clown penises.)

Then when she can’t get anyone to publish any of her poems about clowns and penises, she tries to find a real job and the following happens:

Interviewer: Your application seems fine, and we’d like to hire you, but there’s the issue of your face tattoo.

Her: What do mean? This tattoo is an expression of me and who I am.

Interviewer: I’m not saying it’s not a brilliant tattoo of a clown and a penis riding a unicorn, but here at Chuck E. Cheese, I’m not sure it would fit our image.

Her: My mother says this tattoo is precious. She says everything I’ve ever done is precious. She even refers to me as “her precious.”

Interviewer: It also bothers us that your mother appears to be Gollum.

gollum

Mommy?

 

Let me be clear, I don’t think you should squelch the dreams and aspirations of children. You should squelch the delusions of overbearing parents.

And please please please stop pointing to your children and saying, “there’s our future.” There is enough scary shit in the world already.

fire

The future?

A Wasp Nest and a Bad Idea


wasp nest in tree

“How do you see this ending?” You ask your Uncle Finster.

“I don’t know what you mean?” Your Uncle Finster replies snidely as he wildly swings a garden rake at the wasp nest directly above his head, as he stands perched shakily atop the seat of a riding mower.

You pause a moment to reformulate your words. “How do you imagine your state of being in, let’s say, ten minutes from now; do you think you’ll be well or not well?”

“I will be very well once I get rid of this wasp nest,” he says as he takes another swipe, missing the bottom of the nest by an inch. “Wasp nests are very dangerous.”

“They are very dangerous,” you acquiesce, “that’s why I’m standing at a distance and not directly under the wasp nest.”

“You have to break a few eggs to make an omelette.”

“But when you break an egg, wasps don’t fly out and sting in the face a thousand times.”

“Omelettes are delicious,” Uncle Finster admonishes you.

“Omelettes are delicious,” you agree. “A face full of wasp venom: slightly less so.”

Uncle Finster takes another wild swipe at the wasp nest, again barely missing it, this time losing his balance and nearly tumbling to the ground. “Are you here to help me or just to mock?”

“I’m definitely here to mock,” you clarify, “and I suspect to eventually call 911.”

Uncle Finster stops what he’s doing to look at you. “You always think the worst is going to happen.”

“This just reminds me of the time you had that hornet nest in your shed and you attempted to remove it with gasoline and a road flare.”

“I got rid of that hornet nest, didn’t I?”

“You got rid of the shed too.”

“I built a new shed.”

“And we all look forward to you burning that one down.”

Undeterred, Uncle Finster takes another swipe at the nest, again barely missing, and again nearly tumbling to the ground, regaining his balance just in time to swat.

“That mower seat isn’t the sturdiest thing to stand on,” you warn Uncle Finster.

“This is the sturdiest mower on the market; that’s why I bought it.”

“I thought you bought it because your last mower burned up in the shed.”

Uncle Finster ignores your previous comment. “Maybe if I jump in the air while I swing the rake.”

“Maybe I should just get your ladder,” you offer.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It burned up in the shed too,” Uncle Finster tells you as he crouches down in preparation to jump.

“Of course it did,” you reply.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I have to get rid of this thing before my big kick-off-to-the-Summer Memorial Day picnic. I wouldn’t want anything to ruin it–my kick-off-to-the-Summer Memorial Day picnics always go so well.”

“What about last year?” you question.

“What about last year?” he demands.

“Uncle Philbert had a heart attack and fell face first into Aunt Peggy’s coleslaw.”

“Let’s be honest: nobody was going to eat that coleslaw,” he pauses for a moment to reflect with disgust, “she puts prunes in it.”

“Actually, Uncle Philbert’s heart attack was the main thrust of my point.”

Uncle Finster straightens and addresses you with all seriousness, “He survived didn’t he?”

“What about the year cousin Erina got the lawn dart stuck in her head?”

“She’s had worse things stuck in her head,” he says as he leaps in the air, unleashes a mighty swing at the wasp nest and catches the bottom of it. Uncle Finster crashes to the ground, followed by the rake which takes a strategic path straight to his forehead followed by the wasp nest and all its inhabitants.

It was glorious.

Uncle Finster did destroy the wasp nest. The admitting nurse at the emergency room laughed hysterically at pictures you got on your phone. And the wasps rebuilt their nest in Uncle Finster’s new shed.

So, all’s well that ends well…very well.

emergency

“It says here on your chart that you’re a dumbass.”

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Just a Fact

Every parent believes their child is an adorable, angelic, bundle of perfection.

brat

You are horribly mistaken!

(You know who you are.)

Which is the Worst?


hard choices

 

Which of these scenarios is the worst?

scenario #1

You’re locked in a small room filled with disease riddled monkeys that screech at the top of their disease riddled lungs, and with incredible precision, hurl their disease riddled feces at your face…and they’re smug.

 scenario #2

You’re taken into the desert on an oppressively hot day, stripped naked, tied to ant hill populated with crazy stinging Amazonian bastard ants, and honey is slathered over your naughty bits.

scenario #3

You’re given a vat filled with puss and random toad bits, and you have to eat every last drop…and you can’t have any salt.

(You could substitute your aunt’s potato salad here–it’s same difference.)

scenario #4

You have to swim a mile through raw sewage and dead rats, and you have to use the breaststroke.

scenario #5

You have to spend the day with your aunts, uncles, and cousins at the family reunion.

I know what you’re thinking: they’re all pretty horrible, but which one is the worst?

potato salad

Your aunt always uses too much eye of newt.

Uncle Finster’s Picnic and Brightly Colored Marshmallows


colored marshmallows

You went to the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic at your Uncle Finster’s house.

Normally you would avoid your Uncle Finster’s house the way a small rabbit would avoid a pit of vipers. A big fat pit of bulbous, sweaty, bitchy, chunky-thighed, drooling, self-congratulatory, vain, big-mouthed, half-wit, vipers.

And those are just your aunts.

But this year your grandmother has declared this summer will likely be her last and any of her grandchildren who don’t attend every family function, to be vindictively and purposely speeding her descent into the grave—she’s a lovely woman.

As you arrive, you’re immediately met by Uncle Finster’s wife, your Aunt Sally. She’s standing with her hands on her hips and an expression of accusatory smugness on her face.

Note: Sally’s maiden name was Snaggle-faced Bar Sinister Hag, but for some reason people just call her Sally.

“Did you bring it?” Aunt Sally demands.

“If you’re referring to either fear, trepidation, or an overwhelming desire to be elsewhere, I never come here without it,” you reply.

“Do you always have to be a smartass?”

“Evidently,” you admit.

“I meant the Jell-O dessert–did you bring the Jell-O dessert,” Aunt Sally wants to know.

“I brought the Jell-O dessert,” you confirm as you hand her a large container.

“You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in it did you?” Aunt Sally asks. “You’re Uncle Finster hates those tiny little colored Marshmallows in his Jell-O.”

“I can’t stand that hippie Jell-O,” your Uncle Finster confirms.

“No, Uncle Finster, I didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O; I know how much you hate those tiny little colored marshmallows. In fact I’m well aware of the list of things you hate: things that colorful, things that are joyous, laughing children, puppies, opossums that aren’t dead, potpourri, shredded wheat, pinecones, anything that’s purple, people who live on islands, words containing the letter Q, human emotion, lime flavored foods, and seedless watermelons.”

“Lime is disgusting and seedless watermelons aren’t natural,” he screams at you.

“They aren’t the only things unnatural,” you say as you wipe the spit from your face.

“Remember that time you put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O: your Aunt Sally had a heart attack,” Uncle Finster accuses you.

“First: grabbing your chest and screaming, “you’ve given me a heart attack” isn’t the same as actually having a heart attack. Second: I’m sure her sedentary lifestyle and lard based diet would be the primary factors in regards to any heart issues Aunt Sally may experience.”

“What’s going on?” Your Aunt Jackal forces her way into the conversation. “You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again did you?”

Note: your Aunt Jackal was meant to be named Jaclyn, but there was a clerical error with the birth certificate. Oddly, the name Jackal is far more suited to her.

“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you assure her.

“You’re still a bitter disappointment,” she tells you before she walks away to get another cocktail.

jackal

Your Aunt Jackal in her natural habitat. She’s probably just killed something.

“Did I hear something about there being tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O?” Your Uncle Brad asks. “Are you trying to ruin the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic?”

“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you tell him.

“Everyone is talking about how you put tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again,” your Cousin Bucky tells you as he joins the conversation, “I like the way you stir things up.”

“I have an announcement to make,” you shout as you stand on a piece of lawn furniture.

“I hope it’s not that you’re a bitter disappointment,” your Aunt Jackal says, “because we already know.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Cousin Bucky whispers to you, “Aunt Jackal’s drunk…and a bitch.”

Undaunted you continue, “I can assure everyone here, there are absolutely no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O.”

You stand waiting for a response as your family silently gapes at you.

The silence is finally broken by a scream from Aunt Sally, “This is lime Jell-O filled with chunks of seedless watermelon.”

“I did do that,” you tell the family, “but what else can you expect from a bitter disappointment?”

Aunt Sally clutches her chest.

Aunt Jackal drunkenly scowls at you.

Cousin Bucky gives you a thumbs-up.

Summer has been officially kicked off.

green jell-o

This would be great if it contained chunks of seedless watermelon.

 

Dragons, Lies, and Dragonflies

dragonfly

They’re really hard to catch.

You’re at the big family picnic  when you hear a high pitched screeching coming from behind. It’s like some kind of wildly malfunctioning siren, or a giant deranged braying donkey. The noise is so shrill, so piercing, you can feel it in your chest. You wheel around expecting to find some kind of harpy or mythological beast of misery—you’re close.

“Look at my daughter.” Your Aunt Zelda screams at you as she points to a filthy and disheveled child.

“I’ve seen her before,” you tell Aunt Zelda, “but keep up the grooming regimen, it’s really paying off.”

“What I mean is: do you know how your Little Cousin Erina has come to be in this state?”

“I’m guessing the combination of bad genetics and decidedly questionable parenting.” You feel confident in your answer.

“Specifically, the condition of her face,” Aunt Zelda snaps.

“Her face? That’s all on you and her father and possibly a radon leak in your home.”

Aunt Zelda is now visibly agitated—you can tell because there is some color in her normally pasty complexion.

“The gunk around her mouth; I want you to tell me what that is,” she demands.

“The final reason the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania needs to begin proceedings toward the termination of parental rights?”

“You’re full of little jokes today aren’t you?”

“I’d like to think I carry my wit with me everyday,” you tell her.

“It’s dragonflies!” Aunt Zelda screams at you.

“You shouldn’t allow your child eat dragonflies,” you advise Aunt Zelda, “you’re giving the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania ammunition they don’t even need.”

“She ate the dragonflies because you told her to,” Aunt Zelda snaps at you, her face achieving a level of color previously thought not possible.

“I never told anyone to eat dragonflies,” you defend yourself.

“You told the children if they eat enough dragonflies they would turn into a dragons.”

“That was more of a cautionary tale than actual instructions.”

“Well she believed you and now she’s eaten five dragonflies.”

“She’s eaten five dragonflies?” you exclaim, genuinely impressed, “dragonflies are hard to catch.”

“In the future I would appreciate it if you would refrain from telling my daughter lies.”

“You don’t know it’s not true,” you defend yourself.

Your Cousin Bucky notices Little Cousin Erikka’s face as he’s passing by. “There’s chocolate all over your kid’s face, Aunt Zelda.”

“That’s not chocolate,” Aunt Zelda screams at Cousin Bucky, ” it’s dragonflies.”

Cousin Bucky stops in his tracks as he absorbs the information. “Are you sure it’s wise to let your child eat dragonflies, especially with the whole family court thing coming up?”

“I didn’t let her eat dragonflies, you moron.”

“Still, you should probably monitor her insect consumption,” Cousin Bucky says, “because the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania already has more than enough ammunition.”

“Really? Do they have enough ammunition? Do they really?” Aunt Zelda snaps at Cousin Bucky.

“Do you not know…because they have a lot of ammunition,” Cousin Bucky assures Aunt Zelda

“Daughter Erina ate the dragonflies because this moron told her she’d turn into a dragon if she ate enough dragonflies,” Aunt Zelda pokes a crooked finger at you.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Cousin Bucky tells Aunt Zelda.

“I have nothing to worry about?” Aunt Zelda questions.

“I doubt it’s the case eating dragonflies will actually turn her into a dragon,” Cousin Bucky says matter-of-factly.

“You don’t know it’s not true,” you admonish Cousin Bucky. “You’re not an expert on dragons or dragonflies?”

“I suppose I’m not,” Cousin Bucky agrees.

“Obviously eating dragonflies doesn’t turn you into a dragon,” Aunt Zelda says, “she ate five of them and she’s not a dragon.”

“She ate five?” Cousin Bucky says with surprise. “They’re really hard to catch.”

“They are hard to catch,” you agree. “But clearly, five dragonflies is not enough to trigger the Dragon transformation.”

“Should I eat more?” Little Cousin Erina asks.

“I guess that depends on how badly you want to be a dragon,” you advise.

“Yay, more dragonflies,” Little Cousin Erina cheers.

“You’re not eating anymore dragonflies,” Aunt Zelda scolds.

“I think you’re missing the key point in this entire situation,” you tell Aunt Zelda.

“And what would that be?”

“The fact that your daughter desperately wants to be a dragon.”

“I wouldn’t bring that up to the people from social services,” Cousin Bucky advises Aunt Zelda.

“Why do you want to be a dragon?” You ask Little Cousin Erina.

“Because dragons can breathe fire and burn alive any person they don’t like,” Little Cousin Erina tells you with glee.

“That was a bit chilling,” you say.

“I definitely would not bring that up to the people from social services,” Cousin Bucky tells Aunt Zelda.

“Really, Nephew Bucky,” Aunt Zelda snaps. “Are those your words of wisdom for me?”

“Do you really not know…because that sounded horrible.”

“Look, a dragonfly,” Little Cousin Erina squeals with delight as she runs off in the direction of the dragonfly.

Aunt Zelda stares in silent rage at you and Cousin Bucky before she turns to pursue her daughter.

“Look at that,” Cousin Bucky says in amazement, “she’s caught another one.”

“And now she’s eating it,” you reply.

“It’ll be good having a dragon in the family,” Cousin Bucky says.

You just nod in agreement.

dragon

Little Cousin Erina–post transformation.

The Big Family Picnic: The Aftermath

idiotprufs nerds

A lovely family having a picnic–this is not your family.

The big family picnic has hit your community like a tsunami and is now slowly receding back into the ocean.

Your local emergency room has been taken off high alert and much of their staff has been given a well deserved vacation.

Once again your family has overtaxed their staff, frayed their nerves, and extinguished their stock of gauze, sutures and eye patches.

They’ve treated various members of your family for the following injuries, ailments, and assorted issues:

  • Contusions.
  • Abrasions.
  • Cuts.
  • Lacerations.
  • Puncture wounds.
  • Broken bones.
  • Bone bruises.
  • Minor burns.
  • Severe burns.
  • Indian burns–you have an uncle who’s a jackass. (Actually you have several.)
  • Food poisoning.
  • Alcohol poisoning.
  • Lead poisoning.
  • Radiation poisoning.
  • Smoke inhalation.
  • Bite wounds–some animal, some human, some unidentifiable, and one that appears to be from a Bigfoot.
  • Stab wounds.
  • Gunshot wounds.
  • Crossbow wounds.
  • Ax wounds.
  • One particularly gruesome wound seemingly caused by medieval mace.
  • Asphyxiation in one individual who appears to have been strangled with a garter snake.
  • One garter snake bite.
  • Several cases of acute mental distress.
  • One case of a crippling fear of barbecue implements.
  • One barbeque implement lodged in a bodily orifice it has no business being anywhere near.
  • Dysentery.
  • Scurvy.
  • The plague.
  • Acute jock itch. (Don’t ask.)

The source of many of the problems was your uncle and his trunk full of games/weapons:

  • Horse shoes.
  • Horse whips.
  • Croquet mallets.
  • Croquet balls.
  • The little hoops you knock the croquet ball through that can be used to puncture human skin.
  • Lawn darts–your family is the reason lawn darts were made illegal in the State of New York and why a similar measure concerning bocce balls is currently making it’s way through state legislation.
  • Bocce balls.
  • Softballs.
  • Softball bats.
  • Vampire bats.
  • Dueling pistols.
  • Unexploded ordinance.
  • A board with a nail through it–this has the dual purpose of breaking open pinatas and killing barn rats.
  • A big stick with a jagged point that your uncle refers to as his eye-poking stick.

Once again your aunt has brought a cauldron of potato salad with way too much eye-of-newt in it. It results in stomach cramps, vomiting, and explosive diarrhea. Also, your cousin grows a tail.

Your aunt claims she had nothing to do with the locust swarm, but it seems like a bit of a coincidence that it happens every year.

Another aunt accosts you because you told her daughter that if she ate a dragonfly she would turn into a dragon.

Note: Have you ever eaten a dragonfly? You don’t know this isn’t true.

Your uncle–the volunteer firefighter–has inadvertently set fire to himself, a pavilion, and an old-growth forest. Unfortunately your uncle was only one still standing at the end of the day.

As the big family picnic passes and dissolves into repressed memories and a series of panic filled nightmares, your only hope is that all the injuries–apart from some of the more radical skin grafts–heal before the next big family picnic.

Your family seems horrible.

I’m just saying.

locust

Doesn’t every family’s picnics involve a swarm of locusts?

Just a Quick Clarification

floppy eared dog

There may be some readers of this blog who have made an inference (due to no fault of my own) based upon things they think they may have read in this blog.

It is my desire to stem any disinformation that may persist and to eliminate even the most infinitesimal chance of confusion.

To be perfectly clear: I have absolutely no firsthand knowledge that any of my aunts have a pseudo-penis.

If you are laboring under the impression that one of my aunts has a pseudo-penis, that’s on you.

That being said, I have absolutely no firsthand knowledge that none of my aunts have a pseudo-penis.

I mean, it’s statistically unlikely that any of my aunts have a pseudo-penis, but I do have a lot of aunts.

And saying that something is statistically unlikely is pretty much the same as saying it is possible.

So let’s just leave it at this: while statistically unlikely, it’s entirely possible that one or more of my aunts have a pseudo-penis…but you didn’t get that from me.

I have a cousin that’s half spider monkey. She doesn’t have pseudo-penis, but she does have a prehensile tail. She’s a pleasant enough girl, but the way she wolfs down grubs at the dinner table is quite off-putting.

Her mother on the other hand (who may or may not have a pseudo-penis) is a horror. Remember the mother alien from Aliens? That big, ugly, drooling, murderous beast. That thing was a cherub compared to my cousin’s mother.

aliens

A cherub in comparison…and this thing doesn’t have a pseudo-penis.

I do have an uncle who menstruates. You may think that’s not physiologically possible, but he does it. He thinks nobody knows–everybody knows.

Grandma calls him a medical miracle, but that’s just because freak of nature sounds bad in the Christmas letter.

His wife has a pseudo-penis.

Correction: it is statistically possible that his wife has a pseudo-penis. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.

I trust this post has cleared things up.

And maybe certain family members will be less angry with me…they’re so touchy.

Final Note: aren’t you glad I didn’t include a picture of pseudo-penis in this post?

monkey

See how useful a prehensile tail can be.

The Absolutely Indispensable Gift Guide–2016 Edition

bad gift

“You said you liked me au natural.”

All you want is to give the perfect gift for Christmas. The gift that will brighten a child’s face. The gift that shows thoughtfulness and caring. The type of gift that will result in moments to be cherished forever.

What a load of crap that is!

You are an insensitive oaf, but social convention dictates you must give gifts at Christmastime. What you really want, is to give gifts that won’t result in icy glares from your significant other, and more crucially, gifts that won’t result in a face-stabbing.

Granted, most of your big family get-togethers result in a face-stabbing, but there is no need to exacerbate an already tense atmosphere.

Note: that knife-wielding aunt of yours is stunningly spry for a lady with such chunky thighs.

Note to the note:  do not get that knife-wielding aunt of yours with the chunky thighs, a Thighmaster for Christmas–it will not be taken in the spirit with which it is intended.

Since I’m practically an expert at screwing things up badly (I mean, I am shockingly good at it) I am going to aid you in what gifts not to give.

Don’t give your goth cousin a bottle of skin bronzer. Her pale, nearly translucent skin, is her choice. It is not a result of her inability to tan naturally. Her flesh will not burst into flames if it’s exposed to real sunlight. It’s Holy water that makes her flesh burst into flames.

Don’t give your still single aunt a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, because the only way she’ll find a man is if she constructs one herself. She will not find it as amusing as you do.

Don’t give your girlfriend, and I cannot stress this too strongly, a self-help book of any kind with the phrase “for dummies” in the title. Just don’t.

Don’t give the guy your cousin is dating this book, when what he really needs is a book about better decision making.

bitches

Don’t give your aunt a jar of anti-wrinkle cream and bottle of wart remover. She will not appreciate them…regardless of how desperately they’re needed.

Don’t give your uncle, who likes to hunt, that bottle of scent-masking spray he’s been asking for. The first thing he’ll do is try it out, and nobody wants to sip eggnog while they sit next to someone who wreaks of deer urine.

Note: Sure, your uncle generally wreaks of urine, but he splashes on that deer stuff like it’s cologne.

Don’t give that same uncle a book of vegetarian recipes; he’s just going to use its pages to start the fire he’s going to use to roast the woodchuck he hit with his pickup truck on the way to the Christmas party.

Don’t get your vegan cousin that Chia Pet. It looks entirely too much like bean sprouts growing out of tofu, eventually, he’s going to try to eat it. He’ll be rushed to the hospital, and your entire family will blame you.

Don’t get your aunt and uncle that home drug testing kit. While it may be applicable, your cousin carries a blade, and she will cut you.

Don’t get your wife a rat trap.

Note: Not a joke. One year my uncle bought my aunt a rat trap for Christmas. True story.

Don’t give anybody anything that has Justin Bieber on it. Why: because it has Justin Bieber on it. Enough said.

Don’t give any of your aunts or uncles this book:

problem child

Don’t avoid this gift because you fear recrimination. Avoid this gift because it’s just too late.

Don’t get your boss this mug; he may not have a sense of humor about it.

boss coffee cup

“Why does everybody laugh at me when I drink coffee?”

And finally, don’t give your grandmother that DVD of Deliverance; home movies can be so tedious.

You are now prepared for gift giving this Christmas season.

Addendum

If John Wayne Bobbitt had listened to me when I told him kitchen knives were a terrible Christmas gift for his wife Lorena, perhaps their marriage wouldn’t have become so severed. (Ha! I used the word severed.)

knife

A set of kitchen knives from Bed Bath and Beyond. It was the beyond that got John Wayne Bobbitt in trouble…she cut his penis off.

 

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