Valentine’s Day is, among many other things, a sham. Look at it: if you’re not in a relationship by the time it hits, you’re absolutely rocked. If you are in a relationship, you’re going to get rocked if your present isn’t up to snuff. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, only in this situation “damned if you don’t” could result in a broken engagement and a series of unpleasant phone calls to your mother.
For those of you lacking the eye of the tiger for suave gifts, fear not, because I’m here to help. My knowledge of the world of consumer goods matched matched with my ability to read both minds and hearts will provide you with a crash-course guide on terrible Valentine’s Day gifts. If you’re looking for a collection of good gifts, you’re out of luck. Maybe you should stop looking to free-lance writers for advice on these sorts of things. We tend to be a bit cynical.
Nothing says “I love you” quite like fictional men in tights. Still, of all the people to help you score a date, why on earth would you rely on this guy?
Look at anyone Peter Parker has ever loved. The best thing that can happen to them is being sucked into the Negative Zone or shot by a gangster. The worst thing that can happen is death at the hands of their beloved.
I’ve come to accept the long standing philosophy of “different strokes for different folks,” and if edible underwear happens to be your stroke, good for you. But if this is the gift you choose on Valentine’s Day, the only day of the year that society demands you express your deepest, darkest feelings for another human being, try to keep it a secret from the rest of decent society. We’d rather not know that you’re comfortable with the idea of gnashing teeth near your genitals or eating something that’s supposed to cover one’s ass. Thanks.
Wine Sock Monkey
Before researching this article I had no idea who Baron Bob was. Apparently, he claims to be some sort of crusader against ordinary gifts, but I’m pretty sure that’s just a guise to cover up the fact that he’s actually H.P. Lovecraft. No one else could come up with a rendition of a monkey face that was both horribly off the mark and unearthly terrifying.
What happens when you wrap a monkey’s face around a bottle? You get something that looks like it was once pictured in a 17th century wood cut terrorizing small European children. And if that illustration on the label wasn’t drawn by a serial killer, I will eat my own hat.
Henry the Talking Gnome
Having spent about thirty seconds on Baron Bob’s website, I’ve come to the conclusion that I could write at least thirty more articles about the tacky s**t he tries to pass off on confused grandmothers as unique “gifts,” and if I weren’t so terrified that his wine sock monkey was peering into my very soul, I would do it. But before I flee to higher ground, let’s take on more pot shot at the man’s wares.
It’s sort of like that hillbilly bass that sings “Should Have Been a Cowboy” whenever someone enters a room, but instead of blaring Toby Keith’s greatest hits he plays back a message you record in high-pitched and grating way. That sort of thing wasn’t even cute when Alvin and the Chipmunks did it in the fifties and they’re the ones who started it.
I’m calling it right now: twenty dollars for Baron Bob’s head.