Most folk buy their beloved nice things — sweet things, smelly things, sparkly things, and sexy things to celebrate their special times.

Not me.

To salute nine years of monogamous relations — I bought my old lady a Napsack. 

This bastard love-child of a sleeping bag and poncho is exactly the opposite of everything above. You can’t eat it, it does smell — but mostly like the ghosts of baked beans passed, it ain’t shiny, and anyone who puts it on immediately becomes at least half as attractive. This foul cocoon turns butterflies back into caterpillars.

So then, what possible reason could I have for such a terrible gifting?

Well, because it’s hands-down the comfiest campfire couture you’ll ever swaddle yourself in. Just slide on in, and bask snug and smug with one less barrier between beer and bed. And if you’re partial to a sneaky nap — particularly a post-booze snooze — no slumber will be better than when wrapped in the Napsack. And that, friends, is a gift worth giving.

Slap uncomfortable sleeps right in the face —