But, like life, you do know what you’re getting: 95 percent shit.
So when I unwrapped one of the X-mas gifts from the in-laws and it was a box of Russell Stover chocolates, I had to have the patience to wait before they left the house before throwing it in the garbage.
OK, not until I fished out the two tiny toffees and the two nut clusters, but immediately thereafter into the can went the disgusting white, pink and orange sugar nouget crap. And not before I squeezed every single one in disgust hoping that maybe there was another decent candy—but they all were filled with bland nougets that I hate.
Who the hell buys and eats these dreadful chocolates? Get rid of these, please, from the face of the Earth!
If I’m going to get fat, I wanna do it eating stuff I enjoy.
I already made one New Year’s resolution, and that’s to never tolerate these outmoded chocolate assortments where someone else has chosen for you which candies to eat.
Last year’s assortment from the boss went right into the can—right there in my office—after I picked out the two caramel-nut truffles. And, well, you know what happened this year.
Maybe a little tough love is in order. After getting a cinema trivia chunky calendar (I love cinema but hate chunky calendars and trivia) from some other in-laws for several years in a row, I finally nipped that one in the bud by showing some sort of displeasure and noticed that I did not get another one of those to throw in the garbage this year.
Getting a Russell Stover assortment sort of sends the message: We don’t know what to get you and don’t want to spend any time thinking about it or putting any effort or money into it, so we got you this shitty box of chocolates that you might not like.
I won’t go into the big philosophical diabtribe about how X-mas is BS and gift-giving is a waste (all of which is true), but since we’re stuck with this friggin ritual then there will be certain expectations that have to be met.
One, is that the receiver of gifts expects the gift giver to know enough about them and their interests to know approximately what will please them.
So, I look the gift horse in the mouth, appreciate the thought (that counts) and blah blah blah.
The next Russell Stover “quality assortment” goes into the trash bag with the torn gift wrap, in full view of all gathered.
Well, maybe I overestimate my cojones.