I get depressed thinking about sex coupons or even their cousin, the Sexy Massage Coupon (what does THIS mean? Butt stuff? On me? I don’t need to know if I like that). I’m not sure if the sex coupon is one of those things that only exist on sitcoms like, “The wife gave me this sex coupon, good thing I came home with the milk from the store or this could have been one of those sleep-on-the-couch coupons!” (cue laugh track, cue the world ending). If they do exist then please stop giving them. They have an expiration date of like a minute after they’re given and all it shows me is that sex with me is so horrible that it needs to be limited, by written contract, to a finite amount of times.
Alternative: Actual surprise sex and when your dude climaxes just slowly whisper, “I've had my tubes tied. Merry Fucking Christmas.” He might double-climax and finally explain the whole Virgin Mary thing.
Bros don’t read. Little known fact, we are actually all illiterate. When we read something over your shoulder we are actually just counting to five before saying, “scroll down.” I'm actually dictating this article right now to a call service representative in India named “Gary.”
Say “what's up,” Gary.
(Side note: What's up.)
Thanks, Gary. Anyway, we bros only know how to read five words, “Natty,” “Awesome-sauce,” “Blowjob,” “Boobs,” and “Puerile.”
Alternative: iPad. At least I can tell people it has tons of books on it. I can then live my life looking smart and firing tiny birds at pig fortresses in space while I poop.
Girls get their boyfriends sweaters so that no other girl will try to have sex with their boyfriends. This is a fact. Know that guys are like dogs, if you see one in a sweater that thing is owned. As guys, we know that every time you tell us we “look so cute in that cardigan” you’re really just saying we “look perfectly unfuckable” like Mr Rogers.
Alternative: A screen-printed tee of Indiana Jones working his whip, only with my face photoshopped over Harrison Ford's.
We don't share your bizarre enthusiasm for warm feet. Actually, “bizarre enthusiasm” is a vast understatement for the way you react when your feet are cold mirrors the screaming agony of someone being buried alive. Seriously, nut up. It's outrageous. I can deal with a slight breeze on my toes. In fact, I find it exhilarating. Granted, I'm extra-tough, but don't buy socks for a man unless those socks are made of gold and aren't socks at all but rather bars.
Alternative: Bars of gold.
Hey let's go go-karting! I love to be reminded how shitty you are at driving. Or mini-golf! There's nothing I'd enjoy more than to watch you six-putt it from three feet away (Somewhere along the way in life, you learned how to swing either so hard the ball launches off the course or so slightly it barely moves. Apparently, the part of your brain that remembers how hard you swung the club one second ago was lobotomized). Or let’s do that thing I want to do six months from now so I can trap you in this thing for a set amount of time. I'm sensing a trend here…
Alternative: A day at the bars. On you. With my buddies. You can meet up later. I’ll text. I swear.
Of what? Of “us”? No, you're right, I hate video games and ukuleles and a new basketball and cool sneakers and iPads and candy. I really wanted a photo of us doing the prom pose so it’s the first thing all of my buddies see when entering my room. I want them to ask me questions like, “Is that where you lost your penis?” and “Are you the inside spoon?” and “How come that sweater you’re wearing in the picture makes you look like an unsexy Mr Rogers.” That’s what I wanted. A trojan horse set up in my apartment to look at before I masturbate so that I can no longer masturbate. Thank you.
Alternative: A framed photo of me sleeping with someone else. That you took. During an orgy. With Gary and his wife. (Note: I'm not sure about this). You're into that, right, Gary? That and large choreographed dances, right? Then my buddies will be like “Who’s that brown guy you’re high fiving?” and “Great erection!” Hey Gary did you see “Slumdog Millionaire?” Ha, I'm gonna make you a Slumdog hundred-aire. Have you ever ridden an elephant? (Note: ok, this is offensive, I live in Cupertino. I don't even have an accent. I refuse to write anymore).