How do Wish products fare in real life? Jihee Junn buys and tries a bunch of random goods.
If you’ve ever wondered what an online version of a $2 store would look like, it’d probably look a lot like Wish – cheap, disjointed, riddled with poor English, and stocked with a ridiculously vast array of tat. Some of it useful, a lot of it not. Nevertheless, you name it, Wish (probably) has it.
We know now, to an extent, why Wish ads turn up on our Facebook and Instagram feeds so often. We also know, to an extent, why so many of them are for weird, freaky shit like gimp suits and hamster leashes. But there are questions that still remain: does any of this stuff actually work? Is it legit? And what does a $3 prosthetic tongue really look like?
Approximately $27 and four weeks later, I feel like I’m ready to give some answers.
Functional in theory, disastrous in practice. As a terribly lazy cook, the promise of perfectly sliced fruit and veg was a tempting proposition. But when I tried using it while cutting a lemon, I very quickly realised that the hardness and curvature of the fruit meant the plastic ‘teeth’ – designed to separate the slices – kept prying away, making it hard to keep the lemon in place. It might’ve worked better for softer foods like boiled eggs or tomatoes, but lemons? Onions? Potatoes? Forget about it. Probably good for tossing salad though.
Verdict: When life gives you lemons, don’t use this slicer to make lemonade.
If you ever find yourself a few fingers short (perhaps from, say, trying to slice a lemon), simply replace it with one of these bad boys right here. But don’t just take my word for it, take Josh’s word who writes in his review: “Have a buddy that lost three fingers in a wreak (sp) it was great”! Or Frederick, for that matter, who reckons they’re “perfect for first aid scenarios”.
Look, I’m no doctor, but I think Josh and Frederick might be full of shit. These phalanges were a right old disappointment in the ‘realistic’ department: they’re huge, rubbery, and make your (real) fingers very sweaty. Plus, for some reason they’re all shaped like thumbs, which is great if you’ve got five thumbs, I guess.
With that said, they’re weirdly amusing in a kind of dick joke/whoopee cushion/pull-my-finger kind of way. They bring me joy, and according to Marie Kondo, that means they’re a keeper.
Verdict: Terrible but chuckleworthy. Could be improved with some acrylic nails.
As the most expensive item on the list (a whopping $5.70!!!), it just goes to show you really do get what you pay for. Not only does it look exactly the same as it does in the photos, but because it’s made from a matte melamine-like plastic material, it’s also smooth to touch and hard to break. But most importantly, it does what it says on the box. It holds my snacks, it holds my phone – a triumphant feat of snack bowl engineering.
Verdict: Come for the novelty, stay for the convenience.
A baby swaddled in a ball of fur? Honey, that’s just me on a cold day. While almost all the items I got were products that seemed to get frequently advertised on platforms like Facebook, this keychain was purely a vanity purchase – I just desperately wanted to own this disembodied child. It’s cute, it’s soft, and it’s a little bit creepy. what more could you possibly want?
Verdict: Don’t talk to me or my son ever again.
The Pee Bag
Initially, I expected the bag to be smaller, flimsier. But upon closer inspection, there’s actually some thoughtful design work involved. Made from a sturdy plastic with an even sturdier foam ‘mouth’ (ugh), the bag contained these mysterious granular, sugar-like crystals which I later found out are actually super absorbent polymers designed to ‘soak up’ liquids (ie: piss). There’s a zip loc closure built-in too, for obvious reasons.
So did I pee in the bag? Yes, I goddamn peed in the bag. For the first time in a long time, I peed standing up, hovering over the toilet in case of accidental spillage. But there was none: no wayward wees, no mess, no nothing. Every aspect of the bag worked as it was designed to, making for a very successful out-of-toilet-bowl experience.
Verdict: Not as environmentally friendly as a Shewee, but probably just as good.
Last but not least, the tongue. This was it, this was going to be the icing on the cake, the cherry on top, the sprinkles on the sundae to this whole Wish experiment.
But it never came.
The tongue never came.
When I notified Wish, I was instantly refunded, but its location remains a mystery. Did it get confiscated at customs? Did it get lost at sea? Did a cat get my tongue? These are all entirely plausible scenarios. Nevertheless, I’m devastated. Where art thou tongue?
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