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Christmas Gifts, Shopping, and Stories.

Yoda

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This year of course was all about our daughter Grace. It was a day of spoiling for her. Not that I didn't get a good haul too of much needed things, and no Dude santa didn't leave me any skills under the tree.:rolleyes:

Best deal of all the gifts Gracie got was all her toys that make noise, came with different volume levels, instead of the always annoying level of 3 times too loud for most toys. Music to my ears.

But what i noticed this christmas that was really shocking, and i'm sure i'm not the only one who has been getting one of these for the last 20 years, is the lifesaver packs. You know the ones that look like little books with 10 lifesaver rolls in it, with maybe 4 or 5 that you really like and the rest you trade away to someone else.
Well this year to my dismay, I opened mine, and what did i find? 6 ROLLS OF LIFESAVERS!!!
Not 10, not 8, but 6! and for the same price as the 10 packs used to be!
One of the newest Christmas ripoffs this year.

Anyone else have any stories of gifts they got, shopping catastrophies, or a dreadful family dinner?
 

SC

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ah man...

This thread is going far. Let's hear the nightmare return policy stories, as if I haven't heard enough of them already :rolleyes:

+Sexualchocolatewithstorecredit:mad:
 

Fastshow

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dead thread.....

SC, why not ask Regs? I understand he has a Christmas story that might work in this thread...........
 

Regs

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Christmas is rubbish.

If mulled wine, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake, eggnog, chestnuts, brandy butter, Toblerone, Ferrero Rocher, endless amounts of fcuking turkey, parsnips, good will to all men, and ironic Father Christmas underpants are so bloody clever then why do we only have the lot of it once a year?

Christmas cards. Fcuk's the point in them? Thank you ever so much for this card from the Human Resources Department at Peugeot Citroen, my world is a better place as a result of your kindness and cynical generosity. Next time please send money. Then there are the cards from those whose presence one is forced to endure the rest of the fcuking working year. The spotty alcoholics in the post-room whose barely legible scrawl remains remarkable only because no one was aware they were literate in the first place, the bird who sits in the office next to you who would be mildly attractive were she to possess a voice that differed, even slightly, from the sound a fire engine's siren makes, the gin-soaked old duffers who make complete spectacles of themselves every Friday after work as the pointlessness of their entire existence becomes a Niagara of self-loathing and unattractive introspection, the poof down in payroll whose flowery calligraphy must have taken him literally minutes to write...... all of it a colossal waste of time and energy. My time and energy. The biggest cnuts of the lot are those who send out circular letters with their festive missives. Fcuk 'em. I don't give a flying fcuk whether or not your new promotion means more travelling or whether or not you got a new top-of-the-range mid-management-blue Ford Mondeo or whether or not young Robson is capable of speech now because, when it comes right down to it, his parents are complete tossers. If you can't be mithered to write me something personal then I see no reason to actually read the drivel you've sent me. From now on anyone who sends me a Christmas card will be getting it back in the post, 'no such address'.

What's the shelf life for a Christmas card? How long until it is deemed socially acceptable to chuck the flaming things in the bin and be done with it? Then there are those who keep the bleeding things and who state, vacuously, 'Whoever sent it put a great deal of thought into it, as I do, and, as such, it's ignorant to discard them so callously.' Bollocks to you, do you honestly expect me to keep the cnuting things in a box somewhere? Does anyone ever go back and have a look at last year's Christmas cards in, say, the middle of June? I fear for the continuation of our species that the answer to that might very well be, 'yes'.

The staff Christmas party. Full of people you've never actually seen before and have absolutely nothing in common with. Talking lines of business with the kind of party animal who wears a 'comical' festive tie is not something anyone is paid enough to endure. As a leveller, everyone should be contractually obliged to do what I did this year. Neck two pills and tear into the free bar like a man with only minutes to live. The fact that I can't remember six hours of my life and contrived to upset the only four people I actually like, admittedly, requires some fine tuning if I am forced to withstand any future Christmas do's or, indeed, if I'm still employed this time next year.

Christmas shopping. 'Only 44 shopping days left until Christmas' the shops scream halfway through November. Shops open all the hours God sends in an effort to shift their Far-Eastern tat to those who spend most of their lives drinking, watching the telly, wanking, or dreaming of winning the lottery. Some of the more clever and talented have established how to do all four things at the same time. The sickly modern synthetic nature of it all becomes too much after the two-minute mark though as the 25th of December approaches, more and more flock, sheep-like, to their modern-day Meccas to buy rubbish no one, not even the shopkeepers, actually want. What happens on Christmas Eve? 'Tis the season of good will to all but, because the shops will be shut for an ENTIRE DAY, fist-fights erupt and supposedly respectable pillars of communities can be witnessed behaving like the kind of teenagers who play with lock knives and enjoy fingering their own sisters. Because, rather obviously, no one should be expected to tolerate a day without buying something, anything, we now have scally's queueing up at 2:00 in the morning in order to capitalise on the biggest illusion/delusion of them all, 'The Boxing Day Sale.' Throngs of suede-headed morons, snot-face kiddies screaming hungrily in their buggies with sullen mothers hastily pulling a ragged piece of tissue from their pockets to wipe the little shithead's nose,

and an endless supply of interchangeable bile-filled-baseball-hatted-white-reeboked-hoop-earringed cnuts come staggering out of Next groaning under the weight of next year's Christmas wrap and half-priced knock-off Burberry rubbish that has already been out of fashion for at least ten months.
Christmas lights. More and more the Jones's are upping the stakes to keep up with the Smith's next door but where will it all end? Hundreds of flashing fairy lights surrounded by Santas climbing in and out of windows with plastic snowmen made in places that have never seen snow cluttering up the garden, the walls, the roof, the fence. Why not simply take a great deal of money, ring the neighbours and invite them 'round to witness you setting your wedge and, preferably, your house and yourself, alight?

Then we have Christmas Day itself. Instead of being free to spend the day down the pub with people whose company you genuinely enjoy, you're forced to spend it with people you see once a year and, were the world a fair and equitable place, would be shot for the good of mankind. Parochial, overweight troglodytes who gorge on the three key food groups; lager, chips, and 20 Silk Cut. And those are just the members of the clergy at the Christmas morning carols service. Family is worse. Having gorged on more unnecessary, tasteless, and overcooked food than can be good for anyone's insides, let's all retire to the front room for the Queen's speech and wait until the 007 marathon starts up for the 45th year in a row. Halfway through her Majesty's fifteen minute PR exercise, there's always an Uncle who falls asleep. A man whose alcohol abuse and rampant stupidity has him resemble a Morlock, appearing human yet structurally a plant though with bluer skin and even fewer remaining aspirations. Clap after clap of thunderous trouser-coughs, a direct result of eating his own weights worth of Brussels Sprouts, come resounding from his chair, interspersed with clattering insufflations that in no way can any longer be blamed on the poor fcuking dog who must surely, at this stage, be wondering just what the hell is happening.

After enduring Christmas Day afternoon, someone always has the apocalyptic notion to crack out the board games. No one in the history of the civilised world enjoys playing board games. Those any younger than 35 shift uncomfortably in their seats as question after question is repeated for those whose hearing has long since departed. Minutes later and Great Aunt Margaret finally answers with, 'I don't know, pet,' before lapsing into a pointless story about how she once saw Vera Lynn perform on Bournemouth Pier. 'It was a bit before your time, dear.' Was it? Was it fcuking really? It was a bit before my time last year, the year before that, and the 28 years before as well though for some reason only those older than Christ Himself can possibly know, exactly why you insist on telling us year-in, year-out. I've long since realised that the retaliatory story of how I once saw Oasis leave the stage early after Liam got a shoe chucked off his bonce is pointless and, invariably, comes, boomerang-like, back to me with a dismissive, 'I'm not interested in modern music, petal, it's all just a bloody great din to me, you see.'

Give me fcuking strength.

Don't even get me started on New Year's Eve.
 

Dude

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Christmas, until four years ago, was always a bit of the same for me. I always spent way too much money, never relaxed, and spent way too much time into getting thoughtful gifts only to get rubbish in return.

I remember one year in particular, X-Mass 1998: I got my sister a some really nice pottery she had on her wedding directory that nobody got her. Brilliant, eh? What’d she get me? Fcuking shirt and tie in a BOX…yes, from one of those temporary vendors in the mall who sell the set for $19.95. Understand this: I work in industrial sales, and haven’t worn anything more dressy than a golf shirt in 7 years. Also understand that I have about a dozen suits and countless fcuking shirts and ties from my previous career that are doing nothing but housing a small family of moths.

The shirt was light blue, size medium, and short sleeved. The tie was a bad polyester with a Santa motif. Yes, I can only use this tie one day of the year: Christmas dinner. This I wore it? Nae chance, lasse.

Of course, she was upset…like every other Christmas. Every year, she finds a way to get bent about something, then right during that space of time between relaxing, and carving the turkey for dinner (you know, when everyone is in a good mood and looking forward to dinner), she has an emotional breakdown. That year it was because I came to dinner wearing a sharp looking turtleneck. The bad short sleeved shirt and Santa tie were donated to the Salvation Army, where I’m sure those in need of clothing cursed it too.

I love my sister, but she can be a bit much at Christmas.

Now, it has been a lot different ever since our first came along, then our daughter. We got the family great gifts again, but they were no-brainers and cheep. We spent one day and went to a bunch of sample sales, and the Helli Hansen “friends and family” warehouse sale. It was a very Helli Christmas in the Dude house. Yes, their gifts to us still sucked, but at least we could hold over the greatness of ours to them, all the while knowing we got them for 70% off.

With the kids, we get them one special present from Santa, and a couple of nice ones from each of us. Nothing outrageous. The Santa presents are wrapped in distinct gold wrapping paper, and placed in the middle of the floor. They look totally different than the other gifts. This year, Mini Dude got a “Thomas the Tank Railroad” set, and Mini Dudette got a pink rocking horse. We stuff their stockings, and leave out cookies and milk as well. The wife and I have basically eliminated getting things for each other…not much we need, or want, anyhow.

Another tradition we started with the our oldest a when he was born and ever since was to bring them to the toy and clothing store, and pick out a bunch of things for the Christmas Bureau. It’s been very cool, especially the last couple of years with Mini Dude, who understands what we’re doing. He picks out a bunch of toys and clothes he’d like for himself, and personally hands them to a volunteer and tells her (the volunteers are always ladies) the presents are for little kids like him who don’t have any. Both times he just hands them the presents, then we leave…no fuss, no questions. Because he’s so good about it, our little girl, who is only 18 months, just follows suit. She copies him at everything anyhow.

Of course, the family spoils the kids, which as far as we’re concerned we’d rather they do anyhow. It all changes when you have kids…you’re as excited, or even more excited, to watch them open presents, and how happy they get when they get something the really like or wanted.

So, Regs, get to work on Connie now, and maybe you can have a little Mini Bastard by this time next year.
 

Regs

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I would just like to say that I am not the original author of the previous short story.

I've been told I should have posted it in blue :rolleyes:

~Regs.
 

Fastshow

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festive......

Regs, your formatting's rubbish too.

Cheer up mate, Christmas is a lovely time.

I thought the Queen's speech was bloody good this year too.

 

Yoda

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Oh Captain, my Captain

The thread does include Christmas gifts and stories as well.
Besides, with the female roster now on TTP, i had to make it appeal to everyone. I wasn't talking about those great looking pants that fit great in the waist but made my butt look big, or the sweater the was perfect length in the arms but made my tits look like mosquito bites. I was thinking more along the lines of standing in line for an hour to find out the one item you wanted wasn't actually on sale, or had sold out hours before you got there.

:(

Trust me a shoppper i'm not. Although after posting this thread i did go shopping, for much needed clothes. Spent $220 on $550 worth of clothes, but much to my dismay and the TTP Penticton teams, i could not find any soccer shorts small enough for me.
:D
 

SC

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in defence...

If it makes any difference Yogi, I didn't read any posts over 2 lines. I guess I really haven't been paying attention, apparently I'm too cheap for that.

I must say, Christmas should come apres Boxing Day, so everyone can cash in on the bargins
:rolleyes:

+CheapSC:eek:
 

knvb

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That would explain what happens to the end of all your posts then. You lose interest and all the funny bits aren't inserted. (Copyright Fastshow 02')

The only thing missing from "Regs'" post was the $15.00 Secret Santa gag gift that is almost an inevitably at most small business. Like I need another Fcuking Sedin bobble head. It wasn't funny last year nor was getting his brother this year.

Damn you TTP for starting shite that sticks!

KNVBah humbug
 

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