Bobblehead Rick Got What Was Coming to Him

My dad got me a joke gift this Christmas: Bobblehead Rick. My reaction was rather unenthusiastic. I didn't know who Rick was, nor had I ever desired to own a bobblehead doll of anyone named Rick. But luckily, my dad explained where it came from, to break the awkward and uncomfortable silence that had overcome the room since the gift's opening.

My dad runs a small construction company in Minneapolis. Apparently, one of the contractor firms they work with sent bobblehead dolls of all their contractors as a holiday/promotional gift. Rick, as my dad explains it, must be one of these contractors.

So a company of grown men creates girly little dolls of themselves and sends them to other grown men. This is not a company I would do business with. But I guess it really doesn't matter, because Bobblehead Rick is gone now. He was murdered on Christmas morning by my father's butt.

If you told me that a death had been caused by my father's butt, normally I would assume someone used the bathroom after him, and was unable to get a window open before the smell overcame them. But sadly, the real story isn't quite as interesting.

After opening the Bobblehead Rick, I put it on top of a larger gift, so I wouldn't have to look at the hideous thing. A few moments later, my dad bent over to pick up a different gift, and accidentally bumped the larger gift with his butt. Bobblehead Rick went crashing to the floor. Although there was ample carpeting to cushion the fall, Bobblehead Rick landed on his head, snapping it right off.

I felt partly responsible. I was the one who shunned Bobblehead Rick, so it was my blind and unwarranted hatred that ultimately caused his death. But oh, how I enjoyed seeing his neck snap like a glow stick. It seemed to almost happen in slow motion, like a claymation version of the "Faces of Death" videos.

Snaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap!

I felt awful, and mourned for a short period. Bobblehead Rick's severed head lay motionless on the carpet. There was no nodding, no careful yet indecisive swaying, just stillness. His face looked horribly pale. Rigormortis had obviously set in. His eyes seemed so cold and lifeless, mainly because they were, because he's a bobblehead doll, for Christ's sake.

I began to wonder whether the real Rick was okay. Did the brutally violent passing of Bobblehead Rick cause the real Rick to suffer a similar fate? Were these bobbleheads magical in nature, like voodoo dolls?

And if so, could a similar bobblehead be made of Terry Bradshaw?

Suddenly, my mood changed. Instead of mourning the passing of Bobblehead Rick, I began to feel good about it. It served him right, didn't it? He got what was coming to him. What kind of a man allows a bobblehead to be made of himself, anyway? Such a thing wasn't the act of a vain man. Vain men build statues of themselves. Only a madman would be crazy enough to build a nodding idiot version of themselves.

Well take that, Rick! Take that, you madman! You dare to be egotistical enough to make a bobblehead in your likeness? Then your bobblehead shall DIE.

Let this be a warning to the rest of you.