I have another word for you: Obvious Crapgiver!

First you gave me a copy of the Tiger Woods 2001 Demo burned onto a CD. Like I couldn't just download it myself. You didn't even giftwrap it. You're an ass. Besides, I already have the full game.

Next, you give me this golfball that's obviously been used! Look it's dirty Holkins! You've been golfing with this ball, and I'm on to your tricks. No wait, be quiet, I'm not done yet. And this club? It looks like you got it at a yard sale! I took one practice swing at the wall of the conference room and bent the whole thing out of whack. Even the grips are all worn out -- you didn't even try to make it look new. For God's sake it's got your name engraved onto the handle!

And another thing, as a secret Santa, you should at least try to keep your identity a secret. I mean, hence the name, you dig? But no! You left my gifts just sitting right by your desk, so I took 'em. That's pretty pathetic, all told, but you want to know the most pathetic thing? I'll tell you -- I don't even PLAY golf! I hate golf! It's an idiot sport for idiots in stupid pants! Some research you did, you fat assed not-so-secret-secret-santa-wannabe! Weakness! WEAKNESS!

What do you mean you're not my secret Santa? Oh. Oh ... oh. Sorry about the club.