6 Awesome Gifts For Traumatizing The People You Love
It's getting to be that time of year again, and that means I have to head to the local Gas 'N Grunt to pick up gifts for friends and family from that back wall where they sell air fresheners and screwdrivers so small you could reattach your urethra, assuming it was screwed on in some way. Is yours?
This year, while perusing gift ideas, I came across an enclosed ecosystem with a jellyfish in it. What's that, you ask? It's my first entry, so no spoilers, you greedy little comedy hog. Suffice it to say, the idea struck me as terribly morbid. Do we often give morbidity as a gift? Maybe not often, but it sure is a creepy option.
Are you an ink fan? I love a good tattoo. I once saw pictures of a lady who has a butthole tattoo -- isn't that something? Like, right on the pucker. That becomes infinitely more interesting when you find out what I'm about to tell you -- you can save that tattoo forever, whether or not the butthole it's attached to is still quivering with life. Thanks to the efforts of Charles Hamm over at SaveMyInk.com and the National Association For The Preservation Of Skin Art, if you're an inked-up individual who's just at the end of a race with the Grim Reaper, you can arrange to have your tattoos surgically removed and preserved as art, complete with tasteful frames for hanging, to be gifted to whomever you desire once you've shuffled off this mortal coil.
Or, when the subject of your tattoo does, whichever comes first.
Hamm, a 60-year-old tattoo aficionado, realized one day that he had about $10,000 worth of ink on his back, all of which had significant meaning to him. His grandson had designed some, and many others had their own specific meanings. Can you let all that go to waste just because of a silly thing like death? Hell no. The solution was clear: find a way to skin yourself and preserve it like fine leather after death. If serial killers can do it, why not you and me?
Plus, your loved ones save money on a winter coat.
If you sign up for the service, your loved ones will notify the company once you finally get hit by that milk truck, and the company sends them a package in the mail. They will then have sit down with the funeral director and discuss the usual stuff -- type of coffin, headstone, hilarious spring snakes that jump out during the service, etc. Only now, they add in a new request: Would you mind having the cut man in the basement remove grandpa's skin and put it in this box?
The removed skin gets mailed back to the company, whose employees then go about their preservation technique, which takes up to six months and therefore makes me believe it's kind of like making the world's greatest beef jerky. You just dry rub that shit with salt, and let it sit in a room with precisely controlled heat and humidity until it's perfect. Then, they mail it back. Everyone wins, except you, because you're dead and skinless. But, someone else just got a wicked Christmas gift from beyond the grave.
Maybe you've seen this before, as it's a bit of a novelty right now -- a little objet d'art that sits on your desk, and inside is a tiny jellyfish who's probably thinking, "Shitballs, did the ocean shrink or am I huge?"
Pictured: an easy way to make Finding Nemo 10 times sadder.
This gift is somehow worse than even a goldfish bowl, which, at least, had a top to it and the potential that, one day, you could put the poor bastard in a larger tank with a fake scuba guy who shot bubbles out of his ass. This thing is never meant to transition to anywhere. It's basically Jellyfish Saw. We trapped you in a room with no food, and we want to play a game. The game is called "Fuck These Jellyfish."
"Tear off your friend's tentacles and be allowed back into the bag
or refuse and starve. Bag or die -- make your choice."
The problem is, jellyfish are very hard to keep because -- let's face it -- a jellyfish is a damp tissue that was granted semi-sentience. On the jellyfish intelligence scale, the smart ones are the ones that manage to not float their asses into boat motors. In tanks, they get sucked into filters constantly -- they're just idiotic little bumblers with unintentional death wishes. So, humanity harnessed a way they couldn't possibly die. Except, of course, as a result of ennui. Or, the fact that their world was reduced to a space the size of a can of soup, and it needs to have the precise right temperature and light and all this other crap, or else your gelatinous friends will just fall to pieces. But, it's a great gift idea!
Call me crazy, but -- of all the things a human body can leave in its wake -- I find hair to be the least appealing. Scabs, fluids, semi-solids: These things I understand because I sprinkle them about the countryside like pixie dust myself. But, I try to keep hair under wraps because it's just weird to find it someplace it doesn't belong, which is literally anyplace you find it. You get disgusted when you find a hair in your food, no one likes a hair on the soap, and why do public urinals always have a hamster's worth of pubes plastered to them? We don't know. But, it reinforces our dislike of the little curly fucks.
Until we set every barber shop on fire, our world will remain an imperfect one.
While one hair is unappealing, a whole head of hair is absolutely terrifying. It's the domain of serial killers and Japanese horror movies to see a lot of hair in one place and at one time, and I can't imagine how much the company that makes these hair glasses must have on hand, but I don't want to know. What I do want to know is why they need to make glasses out of hair. Because it's environmentally friendly? Well, so is not rolling barrels of toxic waste down into the creek, but are we discussing an actual problem that exists right now, or are we making one up?
The only correct way to wear these glasses is to not wear them at all.
Dead Pet Photography
I'm not a heartless goblin or anything; I understand human feelings. I just play fast and loose with expectations for the sake of comedy, which is why I make more jokes about sex with the elderly per square foot than any columnist on Cracked. It's not because I want to do your grandma -- I just like milking awkwardness for laughs. Not because I want grandma. Not at all. I mean, she's probably not even into it, right? Ask her.
Anyway, saintly man that I am, I get that pets can be a big part of our lives, and some people are more attached to dogs and cats than to human family members. If you don't understand that, reflect on every asshole you've ever met. Chances are, they were all human. Even when dogs are assholes, they can make up for it pretty quick by rolling over and showing their bellies. Human assholes who do that are still assholes.
As are cat assholes, especially since it's usually followed by claws up your asshole.
Given how close some of us get to pets, I also get that losing one is a big blow. I've lost pets and wept like a baby that got kicked down an escalator covered in vinegar-soaked thumbtacks. But, I haven't then felt the urge to hire a photographer to take my pet's corpse and pose it in a weirdly serene setting, so that I can enjoy the death photography later, because that's terrifying. Photos of dead things in life-related poses is, again, serial killer stuff.
It's like Madame Tussauds if it were bought out by young Ted Bundy.
The pictures of photographer Emir Ozsahin are meant to help owners come to terms with the death of their pets, but then, when you see a dead sparrow tucked into a tiny bed, all you can think is that some neighborhood cat has a sick-as-hell sense of humor.
"The tired bird hits the snooze button. Fuck the worm."
I feel like the best way to remember the dead is with actual memories or, if you really need a jump-start, photos or videos that were made when they were alive. Death photography really seems like the memorial equivalent of trying to add more water to a pot of undercooked rice in the hopes you can somehow unfuck it now that everything is done. Trust me, man, the boat has sailed. You need to let that go.
On the upside, no one needs to die for this gift -- just some shame and good taste needs to be buried in the yard and maybe shat on. The French business Dog Wool will take the fur that your little friend has shed and turn that manky crap into some manner of wool that you can use to knit sweaters, scarves, hats, and nooses.
So now when he humps your leg, it's a little bit like doggie masturbation.
Is the fur of a dog so different than the wool of an actual sheep? Well, yes. Sheep are farmed specifically for wool. Your dog sits on the sofa and makes eye contact with you while it tongues its own butthole. It slurps a few times and then notices how you've visibly tensed your entire body, and it raises its head, away from its frothy little turd cutter, and you keep looking at each other, and then it lowers its head again and snakes that thing deep inside while you watch, comfortable in the knowledge that this is how a loving relationship is supposed to work. It's a subtle difference, but it's noteworthy. And, more to the point, dog wool really signifies that you've dawdled off the beaten path into a Mad Max-style post-apocalypse, where you really need to make the most of every resource at your disposal before the War Boys fuck up your hovel and eat that dog you've been cultivating.
If you truly want a dog-fur coat, do it the old-fashioned way: throw your jackets on the floor and never, ever vacuum.
Gifting someone with a dog wool sweater is like gifting them with a virgin skin lamp or a planter made from your kiln-dried feces. It's great what you can do in a pinch, but are you? Are you in a pinch just now? That's not the case at all. Instead, take that good will and buy your loved one a road map, or some Twinkies, or anything that's less depressing than a dog wool sweater.
By now, we all know that cremains can be turned into all sorts of things, from diamonds to a joint that Keith Richards will readily smoke. Cremains are yesterday's remains -- what have they done for us lately? Do they give us any joy in life? Fuckin'-a, buddy. They give you all kinds of joy now. I'm talking the big O, you feel me? Don't feel me. Someone will put a vial of your loved one's remains in a dildo.
I've always wanted to be buried 6 inches under.
Does the idea of the ashes of a person you once knew plunging into your squish mitten not seem like a great idea to you? Well, you're probably not the target market, which I think is mostly Fallout ghouls and CHUDs.
Though they probably just enjoy this product for the family resemblance.
This entire product is like a phyllo dough of disappointment. The first layer is naturally just knowing there's a dildo full of dead folk out there, but peel back that layer and you'll see it's also a design disappointment. The least you could do would be to make this a marvel of engineering, like it's a dildo molded from your special person's femur, or the remains were turned into glass along with some silica and then made into the body of the dildo itself. Is that the right word -- body? The body of the dildo? The shlong of the dildo? In any event, it could have been used in the dildo construction. Instead, you just jam a vial of remains in the dildo. It's like a cubby-hole. You could put a Slim Jim in there later, in case you get hungry after boffing yourself. It doesn't have to be remains -- which takes us to the third layer of disappointment: It doesn't have to be remains. So, why the hell would it ever actually be remains? That's insane.
For more horrible presents, check out such holiday ruining gag gifts as a fake pregnancy test in The 10 Most Depressingly Unfunny Gag Gifts and if you need any more convincing to not buy novelty gifts then read The 7 Worst Gifts People Seem To Give Every Christmas.
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