Not In The Stars

There are bad Christmas gifts and then there are screamingly terrible Christmas gifts. There are any number of gifts that demonstrate a complete and utter lack of thought. You know these gifts. They’re the ones which are greeted with physical deflation followed by a wan fake smile and mumbled thank yous. These are your Yankee Candles, slippers, and fruitcakes. Sure, these gifts are terrible, but they’re still somewhat useful. You might be terribly disappointed by the Christmas Cookies scented candles, but you are going to light it up at some point. These gifts are of the merely bad variety.

The screamingly terrible Christmas gifts are a completely different animal. Not only do they show a complete void of effort on the gift-giver’s part, they are also utterly useless. For my money the king of the screamingly terrible Christmas gift is naming a star.



Let’s face it, naming a star after something is effectively getting that person nothing. What are you supposed to do with a star named after you? Nothing. That is what you do with your name on the star registry; absolutely nothing. You can’t wear it. You can’t play with it. You sure as hell can’t eat it. You can’t even look at it. I have a thousand dollars here that says no one with a star named after them has any damned clue where that star is. No, one can point out individual stars in the sky. Everyone knows astronomy is a lie. I refuse to believe that anyone looking at the vastness of the night sky can point out anything in particular other than the moon and maybe Orion’s belt. If you ever overhear some guy pointing out Cassiopeia, he’s making it all up in an attempt to get into some girl’s belt. If people can’t even pick out constellations that have supposedly been recorded as far back as ancient Greece, then how the hell are you supposed to pick out your star, which is so insignificant that no one has even bothered naming it until now? Guess what? You can’t.

How are you supposed to know the star is even named after you? What proof do you have? A certificate about as official looking as a perfect attendance award and a star chart purchased from a community college bookshop for their under-attended astronomy class? That’s great. No one can forge those things. So, all you have is a piece of paper claiming there is a star somewhere – which you probably can’t even see – that bears your name. Why not name a yeti after your wife. Just call up the International yeti registry and register a female yeti under your wife’s name. It’s just as valid. Actually having a yeti named after you is cooler. Because yetis – assuming they actually exist – are much more badass than some star – assuming it exists.

Even assuming the star registry is on the level, your star exists, and you can actually see it, there is a good chance your star died millennia ago. The light from these stars takes millions of years to get here. Half of these stars have already burned out and are nothing but dim floating clouds of gas. There’s a cheery thought for you on Christmas morning. What a great gift for your spouse. “Gee thanks, honey. This star, which appears bright now, has in reality already collapsed into a dark sucking black hole. What a perfect analogy for our relationship after this crappy gift.”

So, if you’re stuck for gift ideas, just stick with the tried and true crappy gifts. Sure, fruitcake is kind of an acquired taste, but it exists. You can touch it. You can even get a little crazy and try to eat it. It’s a crappy gift with an actual purpose, as opposed to the star registry, which doesn’t even afford the recipient the dignity of throwing the gift back in the givers face.

Shalom