Remember how you’ve been looking for the perfect Christmas gift for me?
Shut up, you have so.
Okay, well… remember how my father promised me a mogwai and never delivered?
Shit, I never told you that story? That’s so weird… I tell basically everyone I meet, just in case. Okay quick version: I was however tiny and we’d just left the theater after seeing Gremlins (shut up, yes, I’m that old) and I told my Daddy that I wanted a mogwai. He said, “you do, huh?” I confirmed that yes, this was all I wanted and would never ask for another thing ever again if he got me one. And then he said, “Tell you what, I’ll look and ask around and if I see one, I’ll buy it for you.”
Having got caught in The Pony Trap once before, I asked, “no matter how much it costs?”
He laughed and said, “No matter how much” and I let him lead me away, confident that my Daddy, who could find me the goddamned strawberry C-rats,* would bring home a mogwai by Christmas.
ME: Furbacca is a thing, in case you wondered.
HIM: (looks through other recommendations) Or the Porg.
ME: But the Porg isn’t a furby. So it won’t learn. It’s basically a glorified squeak toy.
HIM: You think Brindle needs friends that will learn to talk with her? She already thinks they’ll open doors if she asks nicely.
ME: No, for you! You can put it on your desk.
HIM: I’d need a bigger desk; mine is cluttered enough already.
ME: Well, there’s a Gizmo one…
I know what you’re going to say, and I’ve mentioned my current mogwai-less life to my father several times over the years. He claims he just hasn’t found one yet. Which we all know is bull, because he hasn’t even tried Chinatown in like, any city. He’s just afraid that it’ll be expensive, or that it’ll have fleas like so many of my childhood finds. Or that it’ll require ‘round the clock care like that kitten my stepmother and I smuggled in, which is ridiculous because the whole point is that you can’t feed them after midnight. Duh.
So if you’re looking for the perfect gift for me this year—and I know you are, don’t try to deny it—there you go. Goddamned furby Gizmo, which is almost as good as the real thing. Almost. Or, you could find a real mogwai and tell my father where to find it and then make him go get it because he’s already 33 fucking years late and I’m not getting any younger.
Also, the other stuff I showed you. But really, isn’t Gizmo better than those?
* Freeze-dried strawberry purée in a foil packet. Basically the ideal toddler snack—no idea why they stopped making ‘em.