With Christmas around the corner, I thought I'd be nice this year and spend my Christmas bonus on presents for those special people in my life who make each and every day all the more worthwhile:

At the Gym:
For the guy who wears tight short-shorts and skinny 80s tank tops: my gift to you is a pair of underwear that actually does a decent job of preventing your junk from spilling out when you're doing invasive lunges towards me.




For the bulimic-looking girl who works out in a camisole and leggings with the word "JUICY" emblazoned on the ass, and halfheartedly pedals on a stationary bike while flipping through one of seven magazines stacked in front of her: my gift to you is a prescription of amphetamines. It'll curb your appetite and give you a boost of energy, so now you can actually, you know, break a frickin' sweat while you're at the gym. Win win!


For the douche hole who thinks he's way better than he actually is at basketball and pounds the wall angrily when he misses a three-pointer that is clearly beyond his shooting range, and punts the basketball like a prick because he got called for traveling for the fourth time in a row: my gift to you is Stephen Colbert's Hiphopketball: A Jazzerbration. This should momentarily keep your mind off the fact that you suck balls at basketball.



At the office:
For those bums who live in the alley behind our office: my gift to you is a day planner. Now you can keep track of what days you'll piss yourselves and holler at me and when you'll vomit on yourselves and holler at me. I'm thinking piss on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, vomit on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. You can alternate Sundays.



For the asshole who parks in my spot every morning: my gift to you is one slashed tire for each day you continue to steal my space. Sorry I didn't wrap it, but it's only because I hate you. Fun gift, huh? It's like Channukah! Eight kuh-razy nights of tire slashin'!





At my apartment:
To my pothead neighbors who stink up the hallway with weed: my gift to you is a jack o' lantern, because you're probably so stoned that you think it's still Halloween. Dude, that guy with the orange head is still sitting outside our apartment. And he won't stop grinning.




To my building manager who never opens the office during office hours, meaning my package has been sitting there for two and a half weeks: my gift to you is an alarm clock. Now get your fat ass out of bed and give me my package.






For my family:
For my not-so-vaguely racist Aunt Ethel: my gift to you is a black lawn jockey. Now you can make everyone in your neighborhood uncomfortable with your bigotry, not just me when I come visit once a year. Isn't he precious? No jive talkin' here, Aunt Ethel! Just a big red grin frozen in permanent subservience!



For my gun polishin' Coors guzzlin' trailer-park livin' cousin Ollie: my gift to you is the complete works of William Shakespeare. Just kidding, I got you that turd Larry the Cable Guy's DVD. Hey look, a redneck who makes money. Yes, he's built a veritable blue collar empire on one barely coherent phrase. Weird, huh?




And finally, for my Drivl readers (yes, I consider you family--by default, you're the least dysfunctional of the bunch): my gift to you is...a pony! No, seriously, look under your tree. What? What do you mean it's dead? Wait, was it a black pony? Awww, not cool, Aunt Ethel!