- Michael Jackson cologne. Not only do I heed the distinct difference between cologne and perfume, but if I did want to smell like a dude, it would not be MJ (pre or post death). Adding to the insult was the fact that this gift was from the dollar store, and it turned out I was acutely allergic to it, so I spent the rest of Christmas morning itching my head-to-toe hives with red weeping eyes.
- Pope on a rope. Because a soap on a rope isn’t useless enough, let’s put a religious figurehead on it, too. So I can scrub my naked flesh with the bishop of Rome’s face. On the Savior’s birthday. No thanks, I’d prefer not to explain that one to St. Peter.
- Several framed crumbling leaves. My definition of artwork is open and expansive, but you can’t just rake your lawn, slap it in a plastic-front frame and expect me to hang it above the couch. Moreover, this gift still contained its price tag. I’m not sure what is more offensive: the fact that they only spent $7 on me, or that they spent 7 whole dollars on Dumpster filler.
- Former Colorado politician Stan Matsunaka’s head on a can of tomatoes. Wait, what? Yeah. You heard me. This exists, and this was given to me.
- “Make IT Happen” key chains. Inspirational? Not exactly. Because I know your computer-based job distributed these suckers for free with their holiday cards. How do I know this? Because you gave one to everyone in my family, and it had your company’s logo on the back.
- One single unicorn tile, slightly chipped. Do you expect me to tear out all of the tile in my bathroom to insert this mismatched accent piece? It’s not a gift if it comes attached to work. Or is busted. Or has a unicorn on it and it’s not 1986 and I’m not 10.
- A stack of thank-you cards. Um, thanks? What’s the etiquette here? If I don’t thank you, you’ll know I had the resources to. But wouldn’t that be regifting? Do I have to send a different card back? And anyway, is this some kind of passive-aggressive hint? If so, I’m not so sure I’m thankful. Although I do need them. So it’s kind of cool. So why do I feel like crying a little?
[signoff icon=”icon-link”]ORIGINAL POST: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/aimee-heckel/behold-the-worst-christma_b_6320036.html[/signoff]