Back when blogging was still hip and I was just a little rascal running around the Internet throwing words at websites like an adorable scamp, I wrote a review of six bad Valentines Day gifts. I thought it was such a good idea at the time that I decided to do the same thing for other holidays. Then I proceeded to forget all about that idea and watch porn. Now I plan to change that. And what a better time to bring the review theme back than for the largest, most commercialized holiday ever? Kwanzaa!
Well, it turns out, people have gotten feed up with the commercialization of Kwanzaa. There just isn't enough Kwanzaa related products to review anymore. However, that is probably a good thing because nobody knows a damn thing about this holiday. I don't know anything about it either. I thought a Kwanzaa was some sort of horn. They play Kwanzaas in marching bands right?
Anyway, I hear there is this new holiday called Christmas that has many options of gifts to review. Unfortunately, everything is a potential Christmas gift and that seems like a daunting task. I don't like the prospects of doing a review on ALL the gifts. Literally all of them. So here is a review of 4 bad Christmas themed products (decorations and novelties mainly) instead.
Born to Shop Ornament
With this ornament, you can show all your loved ones that your purpose in life is to be a consumerist shill. People can look at your Christmas tree and know that when you go shopping, you shop with vigor. The vigor of a shopping spree hopefully in montage form with Bonnie Tylers "I Need a Hero" providing the soundtrack. Cashiers at the businesses you shop at will cower in fear when you flaunt your mighty purchasing power but it's okay. You were born for this very reason. It is, your destiny.
Actually, anybody who buys this is a walking stereotype. It's like an ornament maker from the 1950's designed this. I can only imagine what went through the designers head. "What do women like? Cooking, sewing, being capitalists...oh, that's right! They like to buy shoes and war bonds! Shopping, dames love shopping. It's almost as if they were, born to....hot damn! I'm on to something here. This is going to be a hit! Now only if my seventh wife didn't leave me yesterday, I could have given this to her for Christmas.
Santa Dollar Bill
I'm not sure what this is. Even the company that is selling it doesn't know what it is since they took it down.* If they made a full line of bills, was Rudolph on the 5, John McClane on the 10, and a red rider BB gun on the 20? Of course Jesus would have to be on the 100 dollar bill but that's only because there's like 100 psalms, which is divisible by ten, in which there are ten commandments and that number appears in the book of revelations somewhere and HOLY SHIT, THE WORLD IS GOING TO END IN TEN DAYS!
* What the shit, website? "The requested product does not exists"? Exists? I am nobody to judge since this blog has the occasional typo, ahem, but there is only one fucking sentence on that page. Are you trying to tell me that this product does not exist in ANY reality or time? This is a little too much for my mind to handle. Where did I get that picture from then website? The anti-reality? Neither myself or anybody else knows what that is! Please contact some scientists. This could be important.
Hahahahahaha! Did a hillbilly steal a table cloth from a nursing home and make a shirt out of it? Or maybe they made the shirt out of the carpet at the Tropicana casino in Las Vegas? See, this is what happens when you let fashion designers drink moonshine. Somebodies eyes will catch fire and burn right out of their skull if they look at that atrocity for too long.
I don't know what Poinsettias have to do with Christmas and I don't care enough to look it up but that might be the worst shirt I've ever seen. I feel bad for the model in the picture. That shirt makes her look 85 years old. And she is looking off to the side as if she is about to say, "I have a really strong opinion about bunt cake."
Santa Toilet Seat Cover
You're going to be alone for Christmas aren't you?
Just like with the first product review article, it only makes sense that I end this with another glorified shit joke.
Joe Fuckface stumbles home after finding the end of a bottle of McCormicks Whiskey, Dec 25th. 2011. Approximately 1:52am. Or maybe 1:53am because that clock that Sarah gave him is a lying whorish cunt too. He hopes that clock gets herpes.
"What nowwww werld?" Cried the drunken Joe. "What are you gonna do to I now? Just piss me off sumabitch......"
Joe passed out for the night. He dreamt of better days with Sarah. Days before her vagina found the better end of a dick named Sven. He dreamt of dates at the local watering hole picking fights with black people. He dreamt of stabbing his boss with an icepick at the Pussycat Lounge, the nightclub he bounced for. He dreamt about Candy, a dancer at the club. Boy did he ever dream about her, with her platinum blond hair and cigar burns on her left tit.
He was in a deep sleep. A sleep that a doctor would have confused for a dead man. That and because he died of alcohol posioning for 30 seconds in his sleep but that's neither here nor there. It was a sleep so good, that he was not too pleased to find out what he did when he awoke.
"Ahh-fu-ah-shit. I done pissed me self agayin." slurred Joe.
He starred down at the yellow piss stain on his floor, where he had passed out, and decided it looked like Sarah after she just got done being a fucking whorish cunt bag who cuntly did things a giant cunt would do. He concluded that Sarah might be, NAY, she WAS the biggest cunt to ever walk this cuntish fucking earth and that Sven was the vice-cunt president.
"Fuckin Sarah. Suppose'da have Christmas together." Said Joe, while his stomach began to ache. "I doubt Steve can lick a pussy like I can. Steve? His name were Stan. Stan the man. Stan the WOman, heh heh heh."
Joe's stomach growled deeply but not because of hunger or from some guy named Stan. No, this growl was from his nether regions. A place so foul, Sven's nether regions must have looked like Valhalla to Sarah.
"Ah fuck mah sista! I gotta shit." Yelled Joe.
Joe stumbled and tripped his way to the bathroom and that is when he saw it, just sitting there mocking Joe's very existence. It was the Santa toilet seat cover. The one him and Sarah bought from Pier One about a year ago. It was there because Joe had forgotten or maybe because Joe was a dip shit. The toilet knew too much about Joe. It KNEW things about Joe. Terrible things. It knew of the love he had for Sarah and how she betrayed him with Sven's eight inch penis that probably doesn't exist but if it does, holy shit. Fuck that guy.
"Are you gonna laff at me too now Santa?" Asked a dejected Joe.
"Hahaha. Yes, of course you fucking asshole." Said the Santa toilet seat cover in Joe's mind.
"Well then fuck you too Santa. I got yer cookies right here!" Said Joe as he pulled down his pants, sat down, and let rip the nastiest, mud buttiest shit he ever had.
Joe, feeling like he won the battle with the toilet, and by proxy Sarah, decided that he needed a little icing on the cake. A little something else to let all the other cunts in the world know that nobody will ever be as big of a cunt as Sarah, the fucking cuntist cunt of cuntington.
"Don't worry. The milk to warsh down those cookies is commin in a minute." Said Joe as he turned to the toilet, pants still down around the ankles, holding a Barely Legal magazine and flipping to the centerfold.
"Actually." Said Joe, "It might be a few minutes. I got a bit of the whiskey dick."
Disclaimer: This article is satirical and all of these products are real. Well, except for maybe the Santa one dollar bill. That thing only exists in the Realm of Sorrow now.
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