“Commissioner…we’ve run out of options. The Joker AND Two-Face have joined forces with the Shredder and Lucy from ‘Peanuts.’ It’s a perfect storm of villainy.”

“What about our inside agent?”

“…We have an inside agent?”

“Of course we do. Why else do you think the League of Supreme Evil keeps renewing the Riddler’s contract.”

“That makes sense. And that would explain why we recieved a letter saying ‘We’ve got your man, you blockheads.’”

“Sure it’s legit?”

“Comic sans, sir.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yessir. Should we call…him?”

“We haven’t heard from him in months. Not since July–every millionaire playboy out there’s packed up shop, called it a day. Damn you, Financial Reform Bill. Those liberals never consider the consequences. Besides, I don’t think even Batman’s going to be out on a night like this–Van Pelt would eat his utility belt for breakfast.”

“What are we going to do, Mr. Gordon?”

“We’ve got to use the only option we have left. It’s time to call the Lipkins.”

“The who?”

“Just bring me the red phone from my office. Don’t ask questions. You don’t want the answers. I just hope it isn’t already too late.”

Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha, Austin

Pull up a plate of leftovers, and see what tryptophan-induced hallucinations escaped from Savers this week!

Many many MANY years ago, when a boatload of religious separatists travelled over the ocean for 66 arduous days, braving starvation, an ugly voyage, icy temperature, and New York traffic, they probably weren’t expecting to end up on a shelf in Savers, particularly like…this.

Really, I can’t tell what he’s holding–is it a blunderbus or a peppermill? And doesn’t he totally look like an old Merrie Melodiescartoon? Like, a lesser-known one where the king of England is a wolf, and chases a boatload of sheep across the Atlantic ocean, where they team up with a bunch of Indians (turkeys, sadly, because of the feathers, you know. I don’t make these things up. Well, I do, but you can definitely see where I’m coming from.)

“Wait,” you say. “TV’s Jacob, that pilgrim isn’t a sheep!”

“That’s true. But it wouldn’t make sense to have a wolf chasing a bunch of anthropomorphic lumps of chewing gum, would it?”

“That’s true. Carry on.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“Splendid. Could you pass the turkey, please?”

“Certainly.”

“Let me make myself edible for you. I know…you wanted turkey, but you know what they say…what’s good for the goose, and all. Trust me, I can be all the turkey you want. If I wear this gourd on my head, you’ll say ‘That’s what’s for dinner. entrée vouz, oh yes.”

“This…this is the face of Thanksgiving. Twice as noble as a turkey. Three times. Heck, ten times, really, now much nobility does a turkey have? And what turkey can balance a gourd on his head for, like, three weeks? I can. Top that, Tom Turkey.

“Bring me your tired, your poor. Your cornbread stuffing, even your giblet gravy, I am ready for it. I am the bird of Autumn, and I am coming to your table. Stand back!”

The Tiniest Pilgrim from Savers on Burnet near 2222; Quisling Goose from Salvation Army near 620 on 183. Happy leftovers!

This was shelved with the Halloween stuff. Maaaybe it WAS Halloween stuff. But…I’m not going to even try to guess what strange haunted house it might be from–like a “last retail quarter House of TERROR. Which seems a little esoteric for a haunted house, but Black Friday’s pretty scary.

So, disembodied limb. Check, very traditional Halloween there. Cristmassy ribbon? Oooh…kay, sure. Maybe it’s meant to be hidden up in the sleeve, so that if you wave your limp, cottony mesh hand at someone and they squeeze it and get a big “surprise” that, wow, this isn’t a real hand, even though it has a convincing band of nearly flesh tone along one side…wait, where was that sentence going? Oh. The Christmassy ribbon will be hidden in your semi-convincing scarecrow-esque flannel sleeve.

So, yeah. That’s a possibility. Then we have to explain the weird “I love mom” tattoo the scarecrow has. Any takers?

Is it…

A hideous spider-turkey that spins webs, trapping innocent English peas in its cunning trap of deceit?

An indication that the turkey is SOOOO old that it’s got cobwebs?

A weird “Family Circus” cartoon where the Billy leaves a dotted line behind him, carrying him through the lair of Shelob the Spider Goddess, where he throws the One Corn into the fiery maw of the giant turkey?

Tattoo art from a biker that REALLY likes Autumn? So much that he tattoos Thanksgiving into his very flesh? I bet the other arm has “PAULA DEAN” embossed on it. There’s a yam-slinger, ooh.

So many options.

I’m really thinking this looks more like Raggedy Andy messing around with mom’s base and concealer. I’m just…not scared. Concerned, yes. But really, maybe we should move this out of Halloween and into, oh, home furnishings. Anything goes there, it’s crazy.

<I>Thrift Town, near Stassney and Manchaca, Austin</I>

“So…tell me what, precisely, is hurting today. I’m there to make it…so much worse.”

Meet Dr. Cranium. On the plus side, he’s there for you even if you don’t have insurance. On the downside, he’s not actually there to help. Quite, quite the opposite.

Real doctors don’t have scary pointy beards that make them look like Satan Taking a Position in Nursing. But then, real doctors don’t have half their skull excised to show their brains. Look closely, you may see…dark thoughts. Thoughts that a thick layer of ceramic were only just barely able to contain, then, not at all. They burst free, leaping over the retaining walls of his eyebrows to infest the west wing. But you know, he’s okay with that. Let them wander through the emergency ward, infiltrate maternity. See what twisted things have escaped from his head, and what dire forms they spawn.

“Nurse, send in the next patient. And please re-wax my gloves, I want them to be extra-slick for the procedure. Oh? He’s got a cold? Send him in anyway, he’s getting a surprise procedure.”

Urk. That eye looks like a sullen little ball of decay, like he had his eye removed and replaced with the interior of a devilled egg. And I think his lower jaw is held on with a suture. Oh, Dr. Cranium, I fear you most of all.

Dr. Cranium from the dread shelves of the Goodwill on 2222, Austin

It’s just another day in the shell market. Across the busy square, vendors ply their hollow, unsatisfying trade. This WAS the biggest fishmarket in the world, but when the clams stopped flowing, the market dried up. Now, they sell the empty husks of shrimp, piles of those sharp little crab claws, the ones that aren’t really worth the effort–and, of course, the shells. Piles of shells. Not pretty shells, not exquisite, collectible shells like the noble pen shell, once used to dye the clothes of nobility, or the lovely “Glory of the Seas,” still collectible even after its Dutch Tulip Bubble-like collapse of its reputation. No…just clam shells, cast-offs from dinner…maybe you can boil them to get the ghost of a chowder.

Still, the market’s endless rattle and clink falls silent when she enters the room.

“Won’t you please buy my shells? Spare a few dollars for yesterday’s oyster?”

She’s the queen of the market, delicately moving through the stalls in a dress that uplifts the common clam into a thing of art. Even after she lost her arms in that tragic lobster trap accident, she still kept her spirits up and stayed thematically appropriate.

Go ahead, buy a clam. It’s an investment in the spirit of the shell market. You’re not just buying a shell, you’re…buying something quite complicated, made from them.

One assumes that these are not a matched set, that is, not Humpty *and* Dumpty, but rather some sort of monstrous nursery-land cloning operation. “What all the King’s horses and all the King’s men could not join together, SCIENCE shall restore!” Maybe they’re some study in Newtonian physics–take two egg-like people, shove over identical walls, see which lands first and which lands with a bigger “splat.”

Maybe I should actually post the picture.

At least they’re happy about their lot in life. Ready to take the big plunge (though the one on the right’s got himself an airbag, let’s not leave everything to chance.) With any luck, it’ll be a short fall, not a great one, just a one-foot drop to a graceful face-plant.

Option 2: This is actually a weird office “team-building” excercise. Each employee stands in front of their co-worker–maybe their manager–who shoves them off a wall. The “heart” between the co-workers represents, I don’t know, probably synergy. After the bloody noses are staunched, they’re given stupid “Jughead”-esque hats, and their daily dose of soma. And then, another trip on the wall, because that soma’s pretty good stuff, and there’s always time for another trust-building exercise.

These are very…pink…egg people. Pink and healthy, like giant chins wedged into pants, or some particularly fey individual with large, flat blue shoes painted his shins in only the happiest of tones. Their inevitable tragedy is kind of a shame. But again, they’ve got a positive attitude about it, and really, that’s all that matters.

For those of us that are still struggling our way through remedial pokémon studies, a Jigglypuff is a cute, balloon-like beast whose song puts everyone who hears it into a deep slumber. Very much like “A Prarie Home Companion,” yes, but with a slightly smaller head than Garrison Keillor. When it’s exposed to a “moonstone” a jigglypuff turns into a sort of pink, rabbit-like creature that gets into a lot of slap-fights. When it’s exposed to zombies, it turns into…this.

Which is a LOT less cute, but in all probability it’ll keep its audience awake.

…braaaaiiins….

Sadly, this was the last thing pokémon Grand Moff Ash Ketchum saw after getting his badge for catching all 126 radioactive pokémon in the far gamma regions of the Ultraviolet archipelago. Picachu collapsed under a dirty pink ball with a faint cry, rising from the dead an hour later to chew on Bulbasaur, then the two of them moved on to devour Misty, a battle which took at least three episodes. It’s a little known fact that the entire third Japanese series of Pokémon ended in a bloody zombie apocalypse. This series never made it to America because, in addition to several unpleasant and indeed completely nihilistic cannibalism scenes, US sensors decided there was just too much cross-dressing to allow it to air in the states.

Goodwill on Brodie Lane, Southwest Austin

It’s wooden, it weighs five pounds, it has steel whiskers–it’s logmouse.

If logmouse COULD burrow into your wall at night, that would be a Very Bad Thing. Because logmouse is big. It would, granted, be an impressive sound, a bit like a table saw. And you wouldn’t have to install a cat door afterward. Of course, your cat will be outside, far away from your home. What could it do? It wouldn’t CHASE logmouse. Logmouse might roll over on it.

Logmouse is made of only the finest choice cuts from the scrap bin. Its ears are cross-sections of fallen oak branches, making it the mightiest of mice. Its body was hewn from a railway tie, the kind that, say, John Henry might beat into the ground. In fact, this is a mouse of the same legendary stature of those great heroes of American folk tale. Maybe this mouse struck out across the country to find The Big Cheese. Maybe, maybe, it did.

It’s almost sad to find this creature on the shelf at Goodwill. On the other hand, I can’t think of any place it would be more at home in. At Goodwill, no-one will say “Go away, we don’t want you here because your whiskers are made of rusted steel and your eyes are hammered on. They aren’t going to say “We don’t want your kind. You’re clearly a C- in Woodshop, and we only take the top 25% of the class here.” They’ll never say, at Goodwill, “Please depart, I fear that you will burrow under the shop and eat our foundations, and like Ygdrasil our inevitable fall will signify the end of the world.”

No, they’ll just say “$2.99, Housewares.”

Housewares? Would anyone eat off of this?

Goodwill near Stassney and Manchacha, Austin

I don’t like to pick on album covers, it’s not sportsmanlike. But Reader’s Digest records can take a hit. This particular album is “pleasure programmed.”

I’ve done a little research, and as far as I can tell, “Pleasure Programmed” is some kind of threat. Polka Parties. Mood-Music for Dining. Best of Hammond Organs. The Smooth, Sultry Sounds of Edna Vance, Southern West Virginia’s Queen of Dulcimer, with stirring Sounds from Parliament-Funkadelic. There is the smallest chance I made that last one up.

Anyway, the entire record line features inexcusably blodgy, weirdly achromatic, and, well, distinctly late 60′s images, concepts, and threats. But it’s clear that by this point, Pleasure Programmed had moved onto bigger, better things, and was ready to open the 1970s with…this.

This IS the last word in music–a nine-LP set of orchestral covers of classic hits. Seriously, after this, there was no nore music for like six years. It was made a controlled substance by Nixon after The People of West Virginia vs. Benny Goodman and His Orchestra. Apparently, Reader’s Digest found a way to make “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” even more insipid.

But you gotta admit…she does look happy.

Ready to take to the skies in her beautiful balloon, or ease the night away to the sweet strains of “La La La (If I Had You.)” Or, possibly, spin around and slice through someone’s carotid artery with her strange, cruel, claws. Look at that hand. Does this person not have some serious “American Werewolf in London” thing happening here? Or maybe she’s just cupping her hand to her mouth to whisper, “The Altairans come tonight. Wear silver lamé boots and for the love of god, know how to Watusi.”

Up, up, and away!

St. Vincent De Paul’s Thrift, near 620 and I35, Austin. It was there six months ago, and, still, is there.

I can get the basic “princess” concept here. If anyone’s American royalty, it’s Barbie. I mean, talk about an enchanted life–three story pink dreamhouse, more shoes than Imelda Marcos. And princesses, as everyone knows from watching the early Walt Disney cartoons, are surrounded by easily-amused woodland creatures. So, in that context, this makes sense. Except that it’s less “Snow White,” more “Cousin It.”

Whoops–sorry about the babyshot at right, that was totally not intentional. This is supposed to be a work-safe blog.

So, yeah, Barbie. I’m thinking, freak accident in a tumble-dryer, or maybe the monkey’s her hairdresser, and that never works out. Or maybe that weird little bud thing in front of her was wired to a big cartoon detonator, and this shot was just after the explosion. Bend over, smell an exotic jungle orchid, bam, bad hair day. I’m thinking it was the fox that planned it, he’s got a guilty smirk.

But probably, what happened was a four-year-old.

What’s the verdict, kids?

Bery pretty!

So Barbie, really–is a set of permanent sharpees really the best pick for your dream make-over? I’m not remembering that one in “Cosmo–”  “For a long-lasting blush in the summer sun, and eyeliner that will outlast the rush hour commute, put away that Avon, say “Estee Later!” and move from Mary Kay to Office Depot, because what’s in in 2010 is thick point felt tip permanent marker!”

It’s probably the destiny of every “beautifully brushable” children’s product to end up used, violated, abandoned, and utterly junked. And a testament to the optimism and-or desperation of St. Vincent De Paul’s to try to sell her. Amazingly, she was off the shelf in two weeks. Good luck, Barbie. May your next lucky owner have a bottle of really good conditioner.

St. Vincent De Paul’s in Round Rock, near I35 and 620. Bery Pretty, Goodwill on 183 and Research.