A gift for Christmas | Our Courner

By special Christmas spirit request from all the goddesses in the office and Ms. Vegan, I will give my last-minute advice on buying gifts for girlfriends, wives and all those who make life worth living.

By special Christmas spirit request from all the goddesses in the office and Ms. Vegan, I will give my last-minute advice on buying gifts for girlfriends, wives and all those who make life worth living.

To the uninitiated (husbands in training) this may seem to be a simple, straightforward process ha ha ho ho. Is that dumb or what?

The All Knowing One has assisted me in my most sensitive approach to preserving some semblance of life after Christmas for the naive believer.

Here are a few of the Christmas gift buying declaratory statements I will translate from the ancient language given only to the women.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, you don’t need to buy me anything.”

Translation: “You are in a lot of trouble rockhead.Every year you buy me the wrong gift no matter how many hints I give you. I’ve given up buy a very warm sleeping bag for yourself because you’re going to need it.”

Let me provide the most graphic example of this Christmas morning scene. One of the most wonderful and perfectly matched couples I know are Becky and Ron. They were born to be married to each other and he is the yearly winner of the “goofball gift to my wife” award. Every year I try to find a goofball to beat Ron. Some are close but he is still the winner and champion.

Ron’s finest year was when he left a shiny, brand-spanking-new toilet under the Christmas tree for Becky.

I admit I understand and secretly admire the philosophical thought line in this gift. It has symmetry and is death defying. It makes sense and that is the genesis of our quandary and brings me to my second translation.

“Don’t worry honeybunlet; I understand. You are trying your best.”

Translation: You are roadkill. Life as you know it is over. Run away.

Remember “doing your best” are the three most dangerous words in your special loved one’s ancient language.

Help me, what can I do

You have been give a short primer on the lost art of translation. Now I will assist you on what can be done. First:

Probably nothing. It is always best to begin from a position of defeat, despair and admitted dopiness. Pathetic whining may work the first time or seven. It will eventually run out of petrol and leave you stuck on the wrong side of an unlit crossroad whimpering, “help me.”

I can attest from experience that going to the corner grocery for a frozen treat and a swift walk around the parking lot will not work. (Surprised me, too.)

You can try to do what is impossible. Listen carefully to the hints she gives you (like buy this,not this, gumby head), remember all the way to the store and not get distracted by anything that sparkles or someone singing, “Goober Peas” Peas, peas, peas, peas, peas. Eating goober peas. Goodness how delicious, eating goober peas.


My best suggestion which comes with the stamp of approval of “The All Knowing One” to my right is to reach down inside yourself, find that little corner of hope and optimism and give up.We lost a long time ago, back in the ancient time when God didn’t let us into that one classroom the girls were in. That’s where they were taught the secret dialect of always winning (I never get to know anything cool).

The fortunate ones have a Becky. Trying to explain your reasoning to Becky is hopeless, because there really is none. We do what we’ve been doing since kindergarten make things up to get out of trouble. And we all know, it never works and never has.

Merry Christmas to all and happy New Year.


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