Christmas Gifts, I Don’t Want

Whilst some people consider lists the lamest cop-out for a blog entry, under the current circumstances I find them ideal. It’s nearing Christmas … everyone’s writing their lists, checking them twice, checking if they’ve been naughty or nice, then remembering that they haven’t hung out the washing they promised they would do … bugger it. It’s going to be easier to tell you what NOT to buy me for Christmas.

Here is a list of all the things I would hate for any of you to buy me for Christmas:

1. Anything that says : fragrant.
First thing you have to realise is that no man is going to say when he receives this gift is : “Dude, this is exactly what I wanted! How sweet of you and your wife!” Are you kidding me? The only way he can accept a gift that has “Aqva pour Homme Marine” written on the bottle is if the bottle is shaped like a woman.

But this isn’t to say we wouldn’t accept a fragrant gift. If it were part of a hamper of other cleaning products … like TurtleWax for the car and Coopers Beer for the mind, then we could grunt in appreciation. Right men? Right! Right on.

2. When a utensil tells me my weight, it’s mostly likely going to end up wedged in the neighbors wall. There’s no way on this planet that I want a Beurer Glass Body Fat Scales. You can forget that, yesssireee! Thankfully my wife agrees with me on this idea. If I want someone to tell me I’ve slapped on a few extra pounds over the last 12 months, I want to be something I can’t hit, throw, or damage without guilt. That’s why I married the perfect woman. Only she can tell me about the excess weight. After all, it is her fault. If she didn’t cook so darn good, I’d be 10kilos lighter. At least.

3. Do I look like someone who’d wear a robe and slippers? I ain’t eighty years old, I’m barely half that age! The last thing I want to be wearing is the rug off a bear’s back. OK, so they feel great against the skin, but, dude, unless it is monogrammed with my initials, I’d feel like I was waiting for a masseuse to arrive to relieve the sore muscles in my shoulders. Forget it.

4. I am not a golfer now and probably never will. Cannot understand the fascination with chasing a little white ball across a field with a bent piece of metal. I’m sure there is some skill involved, and probably a great way to network with people of prominence. But no thanks. So you can forget buying me the Golf Mouse Pad and matching Ball Mouse. Please no!

5. Now there’s probably a few people who think I need to ‘vent’. And they’d probably be right. But, please, please, don’t buy me a pair of Inflatable Boxing Gloves. As much fun as they look, I’d have to find someone willing to take the punches. My wife? Noooo… well , maybe. I’d have to let her get a few punches in to let her feel like she could … No, best not do that … Please don’t buy these. I wouldn’t know, but I hear divorce papers can be messy.

6. Over the last few years my Father-in-Law has received interesting little gifts that involve intricately interlocking wood into unusual patterns. Whilst that may interest some men, these are usually puzzles that once pulled apart cannot be easily returned to how they originated. So, for the love of sanity and finger-nails, don’t get me Soccer-Ball shaped Wooden Puzzle. Heck, I don’t even want a real soccer ball, so this is not a replacement sport, this is a baseball going somewhere to smash.

7. This has a certain amount of ingenuity, but I have enough t-shirts to one wear every day for two months – without washing! A shirt with a Bottle Opener built in really is unnecessary!

8. In closing, I don’t want the poster of Princes Leia, or the Jedi Negotiation Tools, not even the the Sonic Screw Driver. Nor do I wan the the Chrome Bender to annoy my day-job friends with, nor the Playset by Darwin. Nope, I don’t want any of these. My office has enough toys in it already. I have a toy robot, I have plastic chattering teeth, I really don’t need any of these.

Who am I kidding?

I want all of these! I want them now! I want them wrapped in bubble wrap and hand-delivered by Santa Claus himself. Anyone, please?

Disclaimer: Not all men are Neanderthals. Especially not me.