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Tuesday, December 16, 2003


Wishlist Dept.


Once again we find ourselves brought together by the holiday season. When my loved ones, acquaintances, and business associates ask me what I'd like for Christmas (yes, Amazon, you were right in guessing I was brought up a Christian!), I'm often at a loss as these people are rarely in a position to offer me an impromptu deep-tissue massage with French release, perhaps with a finger that "slips" around the area of my backdoor. So I turn to you, figuring that given our long relationship as eager impulse buyer and online super-retailer, that you might have some gift ideas for the many, many people who want to give me things to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.

But you have failed me.

Pardon me for saying so, Mr. Amazon Recommendations Engine, but I'm quite sure I would rather rape my favorite uncle with rusty salad tongs than buy the paperback version of The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing. (Tragically, the author photo is just large enough that I was compelled to masturbate to it when you somehow tricked me to "Take a Look Inside." I can't really blame you for that last part, as it's become an involuntary response to any image of a female projected onto a computer screen.) But I can't help but feel that somehow you entrapped me into this unseemly behavior by misinterpreting a harmless search for a coffee-table book of top-heavy Hungarian women in hip-waders as a sublimated desire to spend a day on the beach devouring the exploits of a twentysomething gal toiling in the book-publishing trenches to feed her cute-shoes jones. I've already been forced to sit through a full season of SATC just to get a handjob by someone who'd obviously honed her technique by weeding her garden immediately beforehand. I won't get fooled again, Amazon.

I don't want to seem like I'm piling on, but I'm not exactly sure why you'd think that Norah Jones would find a suitable home in my stereo. Once I'd finished servicing myself before her fetching portrait on the album cover had completely loaded onto the page (a landspeed record I'm proud of considering I have broadband), I'd already stopped wondering about the provenance of that recommendation. There's neither soft jazz nor adult contemporary pop in my CD rack. Another swing and miss, Amazon.

Understandably, my online recommendations session left me a little spent. So in my weakened state I thought I'd give you another chance to come up with my perfect gift. You obviously lack a keystroke-logging feature on your website, or you'd know that I have absolutely no need for a "Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing" software package. My words-per-minute rate was the envy of the secretarial pool. But something about that vixen Mavis' self-satisfied grin made me want to challenge her pop-up window image to a one-handed typing contest. I won't mention who won, but I will say this: that's Ms. Beacon if you're nasty.

I'm still without a viable gift idea.

You don't know a thing about me, Amazon.

See you next Christmas.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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