It's probably safe to say that I've received more bad Christmas gifts than anyone else alive.
One year it was a blue silk bathrobe which made me look like Ricky Ricardo lounging backstage between sets at the Copa.
Another year it was a set of drill bits, even though:
a) I didn't own a drill.
b) Even if I did own a drill, the bits fit only a special drill made in West Germany.
Then there was the Christmas my father-in-law gave me a comb.
Now maybe you're thinking: "Well, OK, a comb. But it was probably a real neat comb. What was it, inlaid with silver and turquoise or something?"
No. It was just a comb.
A black plastic comb.
A black plastic comb like you'd find in Rite Aid for 69 cents.
It was Christmas morning some years ago and we were all tearing into our gifts under the tree when my father-in-law handed me a small package.
I opened it and there was this . . . comb.
My father-in-law smiled.
"It'll be great for your mustache," he said.
I said: "So, it's what, a special mustache comb?"
"Well, it's not just for mustaches," he said. "You could use it for your hair, too."
"Oh," I said.
"Yes, indeedy," he said.
I didn't know what to say. I looked over at my wife and kids, but they were too busy opening their presents to notice this business with the comb.
Finally I said: "OK, let's review what we have here."
"Uh-huh," my father-in-law said.
"This is a comb that can be used for mustaches."
"Righto," he said.
"But you could also use it to comb, like, your hair."
"Yes, siree," he said.
"I could carry this in my back pocket."
"Absolutely."
"So basically it's a regular . . . comb."
"You can't have too many combs," he said.
At this point he stood up and said: "Would anyone like some coffee?"
Then he smiled again and went off to the kitchen.
Which is something I wouldn't do if the roles were reversed.
If I had just given someone a black plastic comb for Christmas, I sure wouldn't go off to make coffee.
Because I'd be afraid to turn my back on that person.
I'd be afraid that person was going to lunge at me with a pair of scissors. Which, in my opinion, would be perfectly justifiable behavior.
Anyway, as soon as my father-in-law left, I went over to my wife.
"Your dad gave me a comb for Christmas," I said.
"Don't be silly," my wife said.
"No, it's true. A comb."
"OK, you say it's a comb," my wife said. "But it's probably a pretty neat comb. What is it, inlaid with silver and turquoise or something?"
"No. It's just a comb."
"What do you mean 'It's just a comb?' "
"It's a black plastic comb," I said. "Like you'd find in Rite Aid for 69 cents."
Then I showed my wife the comb.
"Well," she said, "you know how you're always going through combs."
"I've had the same comb for years."
"It's the thought that counts," she said."
Which is something I wouldn't say if the roles were reversed.
If my dad had just given my wife a black plastic comb for Christmas, I wouldn't say: "It's the thought that counts."
Anyway, as you can imagine, this incident shook me up quite a bit.
All that day I thought: What kind of person gives a comb for Christmas?
Then I began to get really wacky. And I thought: It's gotta be more than just a comb. Maybe you can write with it or something.
Or maybe it doubles as a screwdriver.
So I fooled with it for a while. But, no. It was just a comb.
The next morning, I drove to Rite Aid. And sure enough, there was my comb, midway down the Hair Care aisle on the left.
Actually, there were about 30 combs just like mine in this plastic tub.
The only surprise was that the combs were marked 49 cents, not 69 cents.
My wife said later that her dad had planned to get me something else, but by then the stores were closed.
Although not all the stores, apparently.