Well, the 25th has come and gone, and for those of us destined to ascend to Heaven come Rapture, that meant Christmas (Sorry 85% of Cracked readers, but according to this book here, Jews burn).
The details of my own Yuletide celebration are too involved and heroic to relate here, but suffice to say Disney has acquired my likeness rights for the upcoming straight-to-DVD featurette Michael Saves Christmas.
But now that the carols have all been sung, the halls undecked, and our gay apparel stowed tastefully our of sight, only one thing remains to fill our souls with the fading warmth of the Season: our shitty, shitty presents.
Now, because my Mom occasionally reads this blog, and because I actually needed them, I'm going to go ahead and say that I truly appreciated the socks and underwear I received this year (not a joke). But, there's no arguing that opening a series of small, soft packages filled with cloth can fail to impart that certain thrill that runs through a young man's body when he gets, say, an N64 for Christmas.
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And that got me thinking: there are a number of you out there who read this thing (at least eight, judging from the comments), and I'm betting some of you got presents even shittier than mine.
Well, now's your chance to share that pain with the world, and probably get zinged appropriately. Consider it a group therapy session, or just a way for me to make myself feel better about the thirteen pairs of dress socks I will now be wearing to all family functions.
Let the whining commence!