“Fra-Gee-Lay!” I yelled, while my wife brushed her teeth. “It must be Italian!”
“What?” she garbled through the electric toothbrush.
“You have to see this,” I told her.
She walked to the bed and peeked over my shoulder, then calmly said, “No.”
“But . . .” I countered.
I mean, I don’t get it. It’s not like I asked for an official Red-Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range model BB gun that I might poke my eye out with. It wasn’t like I would get my tongue stuck to it. It wasn’t like it was soap poisoning.
This is classy and fits any décor.
Just check out this glowing review:
I longingly stared at the lamp for another few minutes. It also made me want a cup of Ovaltine, but I digress.
So, I’m desperate. It’s time to ask the Big Man. Because apparently my better half doesn’t want to see the soft glow of electric sex gleaming in our window.
Santa, will you please convince my wife to let me have this amazing lamp?
I triple dog dare you.
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