If, like Tater here, you were joyed and whelmed to learn that our own lucious, marvelous, Mastress of the Eloquents figgy will be leaving the banana republic madness of her homeland behind and joining many of us ‘Jibs as ‘Murkins and some of us in the bonds of holy matrimony — in other words, that things are about to get infinitely worse, but I guess some people will do anything to get Obamacare, including move to Texas — your second thought was:
What the hell am I gonna get a fellow ‘Jib for a wedding present?
In such a situation, of course, it’s always helpful to turn to the experts:
LARRY: Excuse me, what the heck is going on out here?
CRASH: Well, Nuke is scared because his eye lids are jammed and his old man is here, we need a live roo … was it a live rooster? We need a live rooster to take the curse off of Jose’s glove and no one seems to know what to get figgy and Mr. figgy for their wedding present. Is that about right? We are dealing with a lot of heavy stuff out here.
LARRY: OK, well a candlestick always make a nice gift, and a maybe find out where she is registered … maybe a place setting or a silverware pattern is good. Okay, let’s get two, Here we go!
Ehhh, I dunno … candlesticks don’t seem very ‘Jibly.
How about, instead, if I/you/we pick one object — any object — from a movie to bestow upon the happy or at least not murderously enraged couple?
(Don’t worry, go agead, talk about this all you like, you won’t be spoiling any surprises, figgy has already stated that she doesn’t read the weekend diversions *sticks out tongue goes pllllllltttttt* and anyway, she’ll be too busy accumulating enough goats and camels and live roosters for a dowry to have time to wander in here.)
Me, I’ma give them a house — the house from The Money Pit.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, just kidding! That wouldn’t be nice! Really, if they’re gonna be Texans they’ll need heavy weaponry, so my present is Dirty Harry’s .44 Magnum, and my wishes that they always feel (and get) lucky!
TATER BARLEY BANKS is not to be trusted. He probably makes up everything he writes about himself, especially the stuff about living in West Virginia. Don’t be fooled. In truth, he lives in Pajibaland, where he speaks gibberish as , (TCFKAB), spends his time sitting on a park bench, eyeing little girls with bad intent, and is developing a 25-letter alphabet, now that his key doesn’t work. He has no blog, no FaceBook page and no MySpace page, so don’t try to find him.
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