This photo was taken just moments before the carnage began. It was a happy community. When we were first baked, we really came together. Yeah, your roller skates got kind of tangled up in the cheese, and maybe there were…mushrooms…on the north side of the neighborhood, but it was an affordable place to live, and if that meant sharing the wedge with some mushrooms, maybe that’s okay.

Don’t look at me like that. We’re a tolerant slice. I mean, when Onion shacked up with Pepperoni, we were there for them. The rest of the world would judge, but if you can’t count on your neighbors, well, pizza’s not worth living. I don’t exactly know what she saw in him–he was a meat product, after all–maybe she just fell for a young musician. It happens. And he played a good balalaika.

I’d say we were probably too tolerant, if anything. But hindsight’s always 20-20, isn’t it? Bell Pepper seemed like a nice enough guy. He was…kind of special, in a Saturday Weekend Special way. If you gave him $5, he’d water your lawn, pick out all those damned olives that kept sprouting up during the summer, maybe he’d even edge your crust a bit if you were nice to him and if he remembered.

Nobody knows where he got the slicer.

St. Vincent De Paul’s Thrift Shop near 620 and I35, Austin/Round Rock

“…These teeth…These teeth are clean.”

It’s a good thing that god’s gift to humanity has time for the little things. Like oral hygiene. “Suffer the little children to come unto me, for theirs is floss, and toothbrushes, and sugar-free dum-dums.”

Okay, I confess, by the standard of “original artwork found in thrift shops,” this is actually tolerably not-terrible. But the vague, glazed expression of the little girl as she looks…somewhere…maybe at the ceiling, maybe at the stray forelock–JC did NOT use enough hair product today–really made this for me. That in the incredibly INTENSE stare of the boy behind Big J.

“Ohmigod. Ohmigod! I’m going to sit on his lap and ask for a PONY!! And a Red Rider BB-Gun!” That’s an unvarnished “wetting myself with excitement” expression. Check my molars next!

The kiddies in the foreground gently amusing. The little blonde–oh so blonde–girl is so completely sincere, concerned, and, again, vague and unfocused. She’s saying “So, is it going to have to come out? Can you make it quick? ‘Cause we really don’t have insurance.”

And the kid in the back shouts “PULL IT! BOOYAH!” Or something very similar. He’s probably going to run back with a plumber’s wrench if JC takes too much longer with his examination. “Verily, I say unto you, crappers, calm down! He’s just got some tartar build-up, put thou the plumber’s wrench away!” Always with practical, loving words of wisdom, that JC.

Stand back, they may be hungry.

With Bad Art, you really have to ask yourself, “What was the artist’s vision?” What was he, she, or in the case of the Thai Elephant Orchestrapossibly it, trying to achieve? In the case of our friends the Raggedies, the artist’s intent must have been punitive. Someone, somewhere was having too much fun, so they get…the Raggedies.

How do you build a rag doll? First you find a bare pink torso, preferably one with the eyes already sewn on. Eyes that come to sharp little points, eyes that cut. Then you give it a serrated mouth, like unto some sort of lizard, or demon, or lizard-demon. Or Steve Buscemi, which is possibly redundant.

If you still hate the world as much as you did when you started, give them strange baggy circles around their edges. Huge, puffy, sunken orbs. Don’t think “cute little manniken,” think “bubble-eye goldfish.” And then, to express your deep, primal hatred of the recipient of this masterpiece, climb to the top of an oak tree, pull down every piece of ball moss you can reach, and spray-paint them orange. Against all logic, glue them to the poor, benighted thing’s head.

Then, dress them in yellow. See if they scream.

Actually, they look strangely happy. They’re doing little jigs of delight, indeed, they’re practically capering. One could imagine them stepping off the wall in a merry, slightly awkward dance. Probably the last dance of the night, since they have an unfortunate resemblance to a bizarre hybrid of rag doll, a navel orange, and a cheerful piranha. In a best-case scenario, your jacket is savaged beyond rescue.

Then, give them to your favorite child. Count how long it takes for all the joy to drain from their lives. See them cringe before going into their playroom at night. You know that bit in the story where the toys come to life?

That’s the worst part.

…Oh. Since I’m never going to find a better use for it, here’s another Raggedy. This one politely demands the heart of Snow White.

All raggedies found at the Goodwill on Metric and 183. Every time I go there I want a cigarette afterward, it’s that good.

They do not know who I am because for so many years, I stand by the man with the grass skirt. He smiles, he invites the ladies over for parties, to drape flowers around their necks. He tells them about his rippled sixpack, about the grass under his feet, about how difficult it is to keep the grass skirt smooth, and how much he would appreciate their help in this matter.

Me, I’m the one that carries the basket of fruit to the party, that sets the tables, that blushes furiously when he squeezes my orange and asks me if a tender fruit is ripest. I’m the one that wore two petticoats, an overskirt, a head-scarf and a heavy linen apron to a luau, because that’s the way I roll.

Everything is stitched together. My worried frown, shining with second-hand embarrassment that he somehow reflects from his bronzed skin. My mouth is a thin line of gathered stiches, lest I tear my face open and howl at the moon for pain, for the aching joy of finally making a noise, of breaking out of this endless moment of service to finally, joyfully, bite into an apple of my own, dare to eat a peach, shame the world by tearing his skirt off and wearing it myself, proud flowers against shockingly white skin, breaking my stitches in shameless, selfish happiness, and he can grin like a fool all he wants, because that skirt’s not going to hide either of us anymore. Today. Today. TODAY, by God. Just as soon as I find a platter for these grapes.

Savers, South Lamar and 290

…Now available for $3.99.

Trust me, this piece has the ENTIRE experience of southwestern life in one small, blessedly-sealed container. The sand really is that orange, the wildlife really is that stunted, and there really is a strangely rippled, mysterious wall of force that completely surrounds you, isolating you from the world and the blessed gifts of water, air, and Miley Cyrus.

I respect the general line of thought the artist was going with. Terrariums are really cool, and cactuses don’t need a lot of water, so, sound design principles all around. Where they faltered, or perhaps expressed their genius, was in gluing the sand together. Brilliant! An eternal, perfect Santa Fe Sunset of orange and yellow, preserved for all time, and climbing up the side of the cactus like a slime mold. It’s so beautiful. So beautiful the cactus tried to escape all the beauty, climbing out of its pot and beating itself senseless–in that special “cactus” sense of the word “senseless”–before succumbing to exposed roots, fatal levels of glue, and all the regrettable side effects of living in a tightly, inviolably sealed glass brick.

Let this be a lesson to us all!

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

You do have to step back and say “Just what message are we trying to send here?” Kids are young, impressionable things. Are we trying to tell them, “Love me, love my pig?” “You can never have too many hats?” “Just laugh it off, the skin condition will fade over time?” I don’t know. All I know is that even a five-year-old could call out this things deep, unconvincing wrongness. Don’t sit on it, the stain might linger.

Much of the trulyscrewed-up stuff at our local thrift stores is literally home-made–made by someone’s grandma, made at school, made by a surly teenager. This, I don’t think so. It’s too intentionally hideous. It tells a story of faux whimsy, of discounted, mass-produced pseudo-playfulness.

The recipient was not convinced, I think.

Let’s just dissect this for meaning. The hats…the pig…the hat on the pig…I’m not feeling it. The green fedora is kind of sinister, like sublimated gun-rage. “If you sit on me, the pig gets it.” The pig itself seems to be infected with green fungal growths, but perhaps it’s more surprised by suddenly wearing a bonnet, caught between a skin condition and an unexpected courtship. Life is cruel, when you’re a pig.

The multiplicity of hats is also a bit of a puzzle.

Ignore the fact that someone tried to macho up this one with a World Wrestling Federation sticker, it didn’t help.

Straw hat, stovepipe hat, green “hipster, please!” fedora, and then, as far as I can see, Ash Ketchum’s hat from Pokemon. Spotpig, I choose you! And the face–we’ve got some serious chemicals going on. We’re talking “Higher than Carrie Fisher on Life Day” here. We’re on a “six hats, paint the pig green” trip, and there’s no coming down off that sort of thing gently. The last time–the time we beat the living shit out of an Abraham Lincoln impersonator, lost two teeth, and got a “Moe Howard” haircut, that time we didn’t come down until we’d painted racing stripes on the goat. And we’d do it again, hell yes. We’re painting the livestock teal, motherfucker.

On the back, birds play innocent, and think about eating grass. They are still their natural color, but like the protagonist of a Tom Waits song, are howling at the heavens and are missing at least one eye. At least they haven’t got hats.

Savers on South Lamar near 290, Austin

It might be a monkey. It’s got a sort of ape-like profile to it, definite simian sensibilities, a broad, hollowed nose and heavy jaw that says, “That’s Mr. Baboon to you.” There’s monkeyish potential there. But I’m pretty sure monkeys don’t come in that color.

I’m not ENTIRELY sure, because monkeys come in some truly whimsical shades of purple, but somehow “corroding copper over navy blue, inlaid with cheerful lemon” doesn’t strike me as a color palette normally found in the primate house.

If it’s not a monkey, though, I’m going to run low on options. There’s a certain happy resemblance to the statues on Easter Island, but scaled down, surprised by a loud noise, and used to hold an arrangement of wilting petunias. It MIGHT be a charming little candy dish, though with that whole “kind of like a monkey” thing you’re edging into that horrid scene toward the beginning of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom–you know, the one where Kate Capshaw comes on screen.

Maybe that was unfair.

Maybe it’s some sort of strange funnel, where inspiration, which is ALWAYS a cheerful yellow, at least in medieval iconography, is poured into the top of the head, ruminated in the passages of its ceramic cortex, illuminating the eyes with a sage glow. Then wisdom pours forth from its mouth, in the form of divine scripture or apparently a fine white powder, which is probably significant. This would explain its startled expression–divine revelation is startling, particularly when dumped into an open cranium!

There’s a certain satisfying roundness to this theory, but really, if that was the case, it should have been selling for more than $2.99, even on blue-tag Saturday. So, probably a monkey.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin. Apologies to Kate Capshaw. And monkeys.

You may be wondering, if you’re in one of the several states where the spread of oil threatens your local ecosystem, “how do I keep our birds safe?” Certainly the spill in the gulf is the greatest petroleum-based threat to avians in recent memory, bigger than when John Travolta’s hair wiped out a flock of seagulls in 1978 (the glare confused them). Some people go to nonsensical extremes.

But sealing your waterfowl away from the world in a glass box is only delaying the inevitable. They must be free…free to fly, free to find out who’s got half their beaks. Free to be birds.

Plus, an all-glass bird cage is really kind of revolting after a few weeks. Trust me.

So, third time’s the charm, right? But begin with confidence, paint with bold orange acrylic, and REALLY permanent marker. This is a house for BRIDS, damn it. Write it proud.

Oh.

After teacher gently corrects you, and you realize your mistake, you know that day-glo orange and blood-red will probably scare away the brids. So, entrance two, a more inviting one. A gentle invitation for the brids. How we love them. We love them.

What? Well, crap.

After teacher uses the standard copy editor’s mark for “transposition” to show the error of your ways, and maybe held your hand this time, it’s time to decorate! A little glitter-caulk just about covers up your first bold forays into spelling, and a long ribbon of drool demonstrates that this clever little contraption isn’t a three-seater, but a single bird longhouse cleverly disguised as a block of birdie condos. You were just as shocked as I was, I’m sure, so you shellac the damned thing in green, tell mom to put it on the back porch, and dare any brids to chirp their complaints. It’s a heartless universe, and a remorseless back yard. Take this, sparrows, it’s more than you deserve.

There are more sophisticated ways to mess with a songbird’s head. Bearing in mind that you couldn’t find their brains with a pair of tweezers and a Fresnel lens. The most deliciously perverse treatment is to make a birdhouse out of birds. Then watch their confusion!

That’s right, a pretty outdoor hut covered entirely with…marabou stork? Owl feather? Not a clue, but it’s GUARANTEED to scare hell out of wrens, finches, and other turdiform bug-eaters. Each night they’ll sit, quivering in their bird box, and think “Whatever’s out there, it killed an owl and stapled it to our house. Be quiet and maybe…just maybe…it’ll go after the robins.

The only thing that’s more hideous than this nasty little bird chateau is what it would look like if it was actually used. By birds. Outside, in the rain. Add a nice green slick of mold and despair to the thing, and never be bothered by finches again. I can only assume the whole thing looked better on page 35 of Martha Stewart Living, maybe after a few martinis.

Glass cage found at Goodwill on Parmer near I35. Other bird houses at Goodwill on 183 and Metric. Oh Goodwill on Metric, say the word, I’m yours.

New Jersey Radio Station WFMU does a seasonal body count for those killed in the line of duty for the World Cup. For those taken in a fan rampage, crushed under the weight of their wide-screen TV, beer-logged to death, or otherwise sacrificed to the football gods, this trophy is for you.

Ave, Ceasar, we who are about to punt salute you!

The concept is, you’ve just taken your infant out of the bathtub, and want to wrap him, or her, or possibly it (this IS the South, after all) in something warm and snuggly-soft, keep their little heads cozy, and so forth. And it really should be cute, right? Otherwise, what’s the point of HAVING a baby blanket?

So, making one in the shape of a puppy dog, you really can’t go to wrong there. It’s got all the right stuff. Plus, dogs are incredibly warm, like little hot water bottles that lick themselves. So, overall a good choice, except for the licking part.

I can’t think where the artist went wrong.

Years later, your child will be in therapy, trying to explain WHY blank-eyed corpse dogs wrap themselves around him at night, breathing carrion breath down his neck as they dab water from his body with their pancake-like faces.

He will not know why beagles with eyes like cave fish stunned by an oncoming 18-wheeler stare at him from the towel rack. He won’t know why the feeling of terrycloth makes him shudder. All he will know is “yep, it’s time for another rock-bath.”

Found at Thrift Town, Stassney and Manchacha