Buying a subscription box for your husband is usually just a way to pay $70 for a candle he won’t light and a pocket knife that can’t cut a bagel. I’ve been on both sides of this. I’ve been the guy opening a box of ‘artisan’ beard oil when I haven’t had a beard since 2014, and I’ve been the guy desperately scrolling through gift guides at 11 PM on a Tuesday. Most of it is garbage. It’s like paying a stranger to clean out your junk drawer and then mail the contents back to you in a fancy cardboard box.

The “curated lifestyle” is mostly a lie

I used to think Bespoke Post was the peak of masculinity. I really did. I have about six of their boxes sitting in my garage right now. But here is the thing: I refuse to recommend them anymore. I don’t care if every other blogger on the planet puts them at the top of their list. They’ve become a glorified dollar store for guys who want to look like they own a cabin but actually just work in middle management. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. It’s not that the products are always low quality, it’s that they’re solutions to problems nobody has. Do I need a copper-plated flask? No. Do I need a tiny cast-iron skillet that can only hold one egg? Absolutely not. I measured the blade thickness of a ‘premium’ folding knife I got from them last year: 2.1mm. It bent while I was trying to whittle a piece of soft cedar in the backyard. Total junk.

Most men don’t want a “lifestyle in a box.” They want stuff they can actually use until it breaks.

Coffee is the only thing that doesn’t feel like a chore

If you actually want to get him something he won’t throw away, just get a coffee subscription. It’s the only one that works because he’s going to buy coffee anyway. I’ve tested three of these over the last two years. I tracked the roast dates for four months straight with Trade Coffee and Mistobox. Trade is better. 92% of the bags I received were roasted within 72 hours of shipping. That actually matters. Most of the other “husband boxes” are just sending you overstock that’s been sitting in a warehouse in New Jersey since the Obama administration.

Just buy the beans.

My irrational hatred of meat boxes

I know people will disagree with me on this, and I might be wrong, but I think ButcherBox is a scam. Not a legal scam, but a psychological one. I’ve had it. The meat is fine. It’s… fine. But the amount of cardboard and dry ice that shows up at your door makes me feel like I’m personally responsible for the melting ice caps. It’s too much. Plus, I weighed a ‘premium’ ribeye from a shipment last March. It was 22 grams lighter than the label claimed. I’m still mad about those 22 grams. It’s the principle of the thing. If I’m paying a premium to have frozen steak mailed to me, I want every single gram I paid for. I’d rather just go to a local butcher and talk to a human being for five minutes. It’s cheaper and I don’t have to dispose of a giant styrofoam cooler every month.

The time I tried to be a detective in my living room

I have to admit something embarrassing. On November 12, 2021—I remember the date because it was raining and I was bored out of my mind—my wife bought me a box from Hunt A Killer. I thought it was going to be incredibly corny. I sat there at the kitchen table with a fake police report and a bunch of “evidence,” feeling like a complete idiot for the first twenty minutes. But then something happened. I actually got into it. It’s basically a gym membership for your personality. Anyway, we spent four hours that night trying to figure out who killed some fictional guy in a small town. It was the first time in months we hadn’t just stared at our phones while the TV played in the background. It’s not “useful” in the way a wrench is useful, but it actually provided an experience that didn’t feel manufactured by a marketing team in a skyscraper. We didn’t even finish the mystery that night. We had to wait for the next box. It was annoying but also kind of great. Worth every penny.

I guess what I’m saying is that most of these boxes are just clutter. If you’re going to get him one, get the one that either disappears (coffee/food) or the one that actually makes him do something. Don’t buy him another tactical pen. He has nowhere to put it.

Do we actually want the stuff, or do we just want the feeling of having a package to open on a Tuesday? I’m still not sure.