Christmas, that special time of the year where the men are separated from the kids. Where the true skills for whether or not you’ll survive the coming of next year come into play.
Christmas, for us terminally devoid of basic math skills, is nothing more than the equivalent of Russian roulette with a coupon book and a starving wallet.
It’s that one of a kind festivity were your credit card commits suicide and, come January, you’re left debating the merits of seedy motels or joining the overpass community.
Nothing brings humanity closer than the nervous chills and brain humming bouts of panic Santa Claus leaves us, like clockwork, under our fire-hazard of a tree.
Men know the truth -the best possible gift you could bestow upon us is… Nothing. The gift of zero commitment, the present of jack-s#%t reciprocity, the unique experience of turning over to your soulmate, staring at the nonexistence of a token of love and saying with a tear running down our cheeks:
“You truly do know me. You got me diddly squad. The gift of a free conscious.”
After all, the truth of the matter is, that if we want something, guess what? We’ll buy it. Period, simple, no mystery.
Instead, a box below the tree, with a label on the top, is a clear call-out and bombastic flare up that spells: “Danger! Danger!” It makes us hassle to the nearest chaotic mall and rack our brains on what to give in return. We’re computing prices, dangling options, quaking in spasms of self-doubt, wondering on the nature – personal or detached – of your loaded holiday grenade.
But, for all of us in a relationship, we know that explaining such simple mechanics to a female is like trying to teach a monkey how to levitate with the power of his mind. It goes against nature. And, if it’s not a steady relationship or if you’re just starting to pick out each other’s annoying quirks, if you’re still caught in that limbo where a hand-job is a gift from the Gods and Trojans are a far away precaution, then, my fine horny lad, you have no other choice but to sell off your kidney for the best possible present available. Christmas, and what’s under the tree, might be the definitive sexual point in your amorous affair. You will either claim the naked trophy or go home, busted, grabbing a cold shower with a lifetime subscription to Playboy as your consolation prize.
With that said, here are a few do’s and don’ts to take into account before you hit that wild nut-bar maelstrom known as holiday shopping. The Hunger Games were tame by comparison.
Do: Anything from the Mac Store
It truly doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it’s wrapped in a white-clothed bag with the Apple logo. Steve’s emporium, come gift giving time, is akin to celestial catnip. There’s something in the silver display of a half eaten fruit, that will simply turn a woman’s sexual froth into a Krakatoa-like explosion of passionate hanky-panky.
“Earphones? You bought me earphones?”
“Yes, sweetie, earphones. Earphones from the Mac Store.”
Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.
Get ready for epic porn-level debauchery.
P.S: Anything that has an “i” as the first letter in the product’s name, grants you a free pass for butt stuff.
I for one have never gone beyond an iPod, but, there’s a very old urban myth, the sort of wishful story passed on from father to son, it states the following skid:
“I got Molly a Macbook for Christmas. Best gift ever!”
“You mean she got you a MacBook. Those things are expensive.”
“Nope, I got her the MacBook. Had to get a second mortgage on the house. Still, worth every penny.”
“I heard they were great, but I never thought.”
“Nope, haven’t even seen it.”
“I’m lost, Jim. You took out a loan to buy your honey a computer, you haven’t even played with it and last time I saw your PC, it still ran Windows 95. What I’m I missing?”
“She was so grateful that she invited her blond bombshell Pilates instructor over for an impromptu pajama party…”
“Jesus! What model? Quick, man, what model Mac was it? Can you order online? 24 hour shipping?”
Bling is special, don’t believe me, ask Mr. T. The last thing you want to do is spend your paycheck on a diamond, whatever, and discover it’s not her cup of tea.
Each time she fails to wear it, is like a sharp stab to your depleted bank account. A void on her person, that no amount of anything will fill. A constant reminder that:
A: you’re a fool.
B: for what you ended throwing away, you could have gotten that sweet sound system. Her naked wrists, fingers, or neck will only represent the ghost of 5.1 surround sound.
Jewelry, especially of the ring variety, has an ingrained, quite possibly nuclear, relationship connotation. An arrow that points to responsibilities you are, perhaps, not ready to shoulder. What you believe is a great present might turn into a death warrant for you. A sparkly rope wrapped around your neck; a noose waiting for a quick spill. Anything in a small case from your local jewelry store has the potential to go critical on you. One minute her eyes will light up at the sight of a velveteen container, visions of honeymoons, a couple of kids, a celebratory phone call to her mom. Then the next, her eyelashes will arch up in a question mark and her long fingers will fish out a golden necklace and hold it as if it were a radioactive isotope. Like I said, potentially fatal. By that, I mean, remember the scene where the Nazis’ faces melted off at the end of Raiders? That was mild when opposed to the mortal boondoggle you might have unleashed.
Jewelry? Ha! You might as well buy the arc of the covenant at your local Macy’s store and a truckload of cyanide pills. Steer clear.
Do: A couples retreat
This is a no-brainer. It’s the sort of item you read and instantly say: “No shit, Sherlock!” Well, it is so obvious that certain people simply forget it exists. It’s not a matter of where, it’s simply a matter of “Let’s get the hell out of town, pronto!”
Everybody likes to skip out on Christmas. Just imagine, the gift of not giving a fuck. Not only are you breaking the status-quo – you big counterculture rebel – but you are actually bequeathing each other a measure of unadulterated sanity; Xanax for Christmas. Just imagine the following scenario: no cooking, no organization, no gift wrapping, no nosy in-laws, or loud parents, no freaking carolers, no Bing Crosby, no more “the turkey’s a bit dry”, no more running rugrats, or devilish dogs, or screaming kids, no more family drama… Just bliss and the knowledge that for Christmas you’ll be pampered.
Plus, and here’s a big incentive, studies have actually shown that vacation sex is far more thrilling than normal everyday sex. Better still, that a woman’s libido actually goes hog wild – and that’s the technical term – whenever they leave their houses. Their home field advantage, dissipated. Giant bathtubs – so no need of feats of gymnastic aerobatic just to fit the parts properly, a bed that’s not your own – so you can actually lay waste to it with all your dirty antics without having to endure any consequences; no work or responsibility the next day; no one knows you, so…
“Let’s do in front of the open window. It’ll be exciting.”
“Jim, the neighbors will see us.”
“Who cares, we’re on vacation… Plus, weren’t they that odd couple necking like teenagers down by the breakfast buffet?”
“No, those are our neighbors to the left. The ones on the right were waving back at us from the hot-tub while skinny dipping… Offered us a joint and asked us whether we ‘swung’… Whatever that means.”
“See, who cares. Everyone is nut-so down here. It’s our duty.”
“Alright, let me just call room service, we need to fuel up. P.S.: today’s safe-word is Jalapeno.”
Don’t: Buy tickets to visit your family
There’s passive aggressive, then, there’s hauling your loved one to your parents’ house and selling the gesture off as a Christmas miracle. “Look honey, your gift! Ain’t I a swell guy?” That sort of friendly cruelty is nothing short of a demented art form or some sick twisted game for sadists.
She might smile, as you bestow on her two coach-class tickets to happy Michigan for the holidays, but behind her cracking mask is a tiny little girl that would have rather been arrested as a suspected terrorist and taken to an all inclusive vacation to Guantanamo Bay.
She would rather have her nails peeled off than sit in a dinner table and have a yuletide awkward conversation with a couple of dullards who will do nothing but analyze her to death. Or worse, look at her and comment on your great fortune. You want to know what’s dangerous? When your parents look at your catch and jokingly say, “Son, she’s too good for you. Ha, ha, ha.” Translation: “What the hell are you doing with my loser son.”
If you do this nasty bit of holiday slap down to your other half, don’t expect any nooky on your sabbatical. You might as well get a monk’s habit.
With that said, try getting her something that she actually likes. In other words, shy on bucks, don’t get her “Fight Club” get her “Amelie”. If it’s alive, remember they have an expiration date and holes are a must on on the box. And, above all, what’s really important on Christmas is the art of giving, of sacrificing your desires for others, of not receiving or wanting, but doling out. So, stop asking for a blowjob and do your duty as a man…