I cannot guarantee its safety.

I’m the not-so-proud new owner of a tabletop foosball game. Why would she buy me such a terrible gift? When would I even use it? She says it’d be fun for when I have people over, but there’s no way I’m playing tabletop foosball with my friends. “Oh hey guys, wanna play foosball? You do?! Awesome! Gimme a sec while I prop it up on the table.” Embarrassing.

Blah. As shitty as the gift is, I’m using it as a punching bag. What I’m really upset about is…no…wait. I want to talk more about the shitty gift.

What was she thinking? Christ almighty. I haven’t even mentioned that I like foosball to her. You know why? Because I don’t like foosball. Of all the things to get me. Wow. She knows what I like and could’ve chosen from a laundry list of things that’d make me smile but she decided on a miniature foosball table? A book would’ve been fine. If she wanted to be a really awesome girlfriend, she could’ve broken out the bowls and oven mitts and tried her hand at baking this delicious looking bread. Useless.

I feigned surprise and appreciation when she came home with it. I’m looking at it right now. I hope she doesn’t ask me why I haven’t opened the box; I wouldn’t be able to act my way outta that one as it’d require a level of talent equal to at least a Robert De Niro–I’m sandwiched somewhere between Madonna and Keanu Reeves.

What a waste of money.

Foosball. I mean really?