So I thought to myself, “how can I best make fun of a cuddly stuffed priest?” Would I talk about his special “cliff’s notes” bible, which only has the four important pages? I’m pretty sure you could get the high points in four pages with big felt letters. Ten commandments, check. Garden of Eden, check. Probably want to include the Christmas story and Crucifixion in there, just for funsies. That’s really all you need.

Or maybe I’d go on a bit about the demonstrable need for a cuddly stuffed priest. I’m not sure how to do it in the tasteful, sensitive manner that Thrifthorror builds its name on. I’m pretty sure the conversation between parent and child would go something like “Really, they’re not that scary, are they? Look, he’s smiling. He likes you. He’s sitting in your chair, do you want to sit on his lap?”

I thought, “this guy’s kind of creeping me out.” He’s got the whole “Blues Brothers” thing down, very much “on a mission from God.” But I never thought the Blues Brothers were avuncular. If you happened to be Mrs. Blues’s son or daughter, you might have a different opinion. But big heavy sunglasses and a pointy goatee do not help in the “friendliness” department. I feel like he’s going to try to sell me a used god. I’m not up to that.

But ultimately, none of this is what freaked me out about this guy.

Where’s his eyes? Where’s his EYES?!? What kind of strange, post-Lovecraftian seminary spits these creatures out? Are they aliens masquerading as priests? What do they want? Did they come for our eyes?

Probably.

Salvation Army near 183 and 620, Austin

Planet Goodwill: Like Pluto, Planet Goodwill isn’t classified as a “real” planet. This is because so-called astronomers are not yet ready to wrap their fragile minds around a planet made of Styrofoam. Without their telescopes they’re so shortsighted.

Astronomers didn’t notice Planet Goodwill until 2006, because up until then it was eclipsed by a giant Persian cat. We still haven’t gotten a good glimpse of its presumably blue-green orb, but can infer its presence by its gravitational effect on the giant fluffy cat, occasional sightings of its sparkly blue-green moon “Savers,” and by spotting the sparkly stars that it occasionally sheds.

Distinctive features: Many planets have moons with eccentric orbits. Savers is actually nailed down to the planet’s surface with an amazingly, inconceivably large toothpick, large enough to spear 363 million olives. Its atmosphere, which is painted on, is dominated by a free-standing formation known as the “Great Green Smudge.”

It’s the lightest planet in the solar system, occasionally being blown out of its orbit by a stiff breeze, or by the aforementioned giant fluffy kitten. Nevertheless, Planet Goodwill’s importance in our understanding of cosmology and philosophy cannot be understated, because it’s the only planet that is actually signed by its maker.

Goodwill on 183 and Metric, Austin

It’s good to get these silly myths out of your system early. That iconic image of an aging Native American warrior on a horse looking eastward, a single tear rolling down his cheek? Wrong. Based on 400+ year of a misapprehension.

Centuries of cultural war between Native Americans and European colonists were started entirely because the local New England tribes wore far, FAR too much make-up, big froofy earrings, and apparently died their hair in elaborate concentric circles. As staunch far-right religious conservatives kicked out of the country for being irritatingly non-British, the Puritan colonists were horrified (or secretly titillated) by their initial encounter with a tribe of shirtless, made-up men with large, full lips, and wrote up an extensive 200-year pogrom before the ink had dried on the Mayflower Compact.

It must be said, though –at the first Thanksgiving Dinner, Miantonomi’s turkey rissotto with cranberry and sweet wine remoulade was fabulous.

Little-known fact–members of the Haudenosaunee tribe traditionally adorned themselves with tattoos commemorating their first utterly failed hunt. This fellow was viciously trompled by a Great Dane, a particularly auspicious trompling.

Well, I thought it was a guy. I’m not sure, though, the pixie cut is kind of flattering, but looks more like a youngish Ellen Degeneres than any sort of noble savage. Those fake plaster indians, always breaking gender roles.

Goodwill on Parmer near I35, Austin

That reminds me, it’s time to clean out the fridge.

I’m not sure what’s for dinner tonight. Nothing served in a crockpot should be that bursting with life, unless it’s been sitting out for a few days. Even then, what the hell kind of cooking experiment coughs up mountain laurel? The mushrooms I can handle, they’re opportunistic. I’m sure that if I left a big bowlful of…something…out, it’d develop mushrooms after a while. But little tiny trees are beyond the pale. You have to have committed some major kitchen sins to end up with a heaping bowl of mountain laurel.

Not sure what the yellow pods are. They look armed and dangerous, a bit like something out of a low-budget sci-fi movie. I’m waiting for one of them to tense up, cough, and blow a seed across the aisle into the coffee mug section.

Traditionally, as a part of the Thanksgiving feast, the pawnbrokers would decorate a tree with fruits for the orphans. Of course, it was a very small tree. With very small fruits. But the deeply destitute should be thankful for the little things.

A lovely bouquet of dried corn cobs, a misplaced feather, and Brazilian pygmy oranges for the scamp on the crutches. There you go. Nail it all down to a bowl of Styrofoam and pretend the little nipper could get some nourishment out of it.

I’m guessing this is intended as a holiday bookend or plaque, but once the festive holiday rats have chewed through the outer layer of leaves and twigs to get to the tasty, tasty hot glue layer, it’s less visually appealing. If it was visually appealing before, we rather doubt it.
Savers on South Lamar, Austin

The main reason the puritans journeyed to the New World wasn’t to celebrate their religious freedoms in an open country, without fear. No, they were forced to leave because they were damned creepy.

Creepy, and frankly more than a little bit pungent. Looking beyond the fact that every single one of them wore the same bouffant hairstyle and crushed felt hat, it was the way, from the waist down, they were giant garlic cloves.

“Oh look, here come the garlic cloves,” the Wapanoag would say. “And they’re bringing turkeys. Again.”

“Did you mean they’re bringing turkey?”

“No, turkeys. Plural, and alive. Next time, we should ask them to bring the canned cranberry sauce.  At least that way there wouldn’t be so much garlic.”

I had previously thought that I’d seen every variation on the Thrift Shop Clown. Mutant ceramic clowns, bulbous blown-glass clowns, shell-and-macaroni clowns, acerebrated buffoons. This one was new.

Just to begin with, he’s a really nasty little creature. Check out those eyebrows. It’s like he thought adding a Hitler mustache over each eye would enhance his comedy appeal. This is of course a failed hope, no force on earth can enhumor a clown, but this one isn’t even trying. It looks like the last thing a child ever sees after learning how to turn a handle.

Hmm…in the interest of public safety, this one doesn’t actually have a turn handle. It’s probably for the best. I’m sure a lot of sudden infant heart attacks were prevented by that simple precaution.

Anyway, evil ceramic clown, blah blah blah, you’ve seen this one before. The artist’s real advance in coulrophobia induction is the brilliant “clown-slug” approach. This is a new one.

Ever wonder what you’d get if you added grease paint and ruffles to an uncooked, “feeds six to eight” German sausage? Wonder no more!

The pink box is way too innocent. It lures children into a false sense of security. They creep forward, expecting a prezzie, candy maybe, or even a puppy or an appropriate succedaneum–then, BAM, sausageclownslug. I know what I’m going to give my nephew once my sister’s speaking to me again.

Savers on North Lamar, Austin

Sorting out all the strings and limbs on this little guy…girl…androgyne…was a trick. But well worth the effort.

I think we have our next presidential candidate. Able to go left and right at the same time, and absolutely no distinguishing characteristics. We have a winner!

I think this is a cultural referent I’m just lacking–some sort of mezoamerican night-and-day deity, perhaps, or the four-armed faceless Hindu god/dess of baguettes. Who did his hair, though? It’s sort of like Carrot Top, but funnier.

Got your finger! Wait, got MY finger. That’s not how that joke works. Darn it, how am I going to hold my fourth baguette?

For his final miracle before ascending into heaven, he mystically fit the hot dog into the hoagie bun without a knife. Dozens of people in hundreds of towns saw the vision and were most impressed. Now ensconced in the clouds he symbolizes the sun setting in the evening sky, which, as we all know, is time for hot dogs.

Goodwill on Riverside near Mo-Pac, Austin

In all fairness to the artist and his/her vision—even if “vision” in this case was pulling a blank plaster unicorn off the shelf, and adding as much detail as the limited color selection and $5/hour fee would allow—I do scrounge the bric-a-brak shelves at the five-and-dim looking for things that aren’t actually suggestive. Unicorns, however, usually ARE suggestive and don’t need my help.

I think they use their image as innocent symbols of purity and nobility to sneak past our guard and rob us of childhood illusions. There’s a wonderful scene in “The Last Unicorn” where an angry, lived-a-hard-life woman–Molly Grue–finally sees her unicorn, and shouts “What good is it to me that you’re here now? Where were you twenty years ago? Ten years ago?” Seeing this guy getting to work, I’m thinking the answer is “well, you were probably too old.”

Never trust your child with a unicorn. Particularly THIS unicorn. He wants you to believe an herbivore couldn’t possibly be a predator. More importantly, the higher-ups in the unicorn chain of command don’t want you to believe that, so they turn a blind eye, hope that people remember the legend and not the string of broken lives he leaves behind.

Don’t struggle, Timmy, I’m probably a lot faster than you. Now come on, kid, you’re going to be in folk songs.

Texas Thrift near I35 and 51st, Austin

Or another round of “Why did I photograph that? Really. Oh, well, it’s Friday, what the heck.”

This first li’l guy has been sitting there staring at me so long he’s kind of got “unofficial Flickr mascot” status. And looking at him, he’s not really that bad. Rather, he’s not that good, which is bad. Or–oh, sod it. Here’s a turtle on a surfboard.

Okay, he’s no Donatello, but this turtle’s got skills. And, presumably, Revlon Lash Fantasy Total Definition waterproof mascara, because it takes a serious mascara to hold that kind of length and eyelash volume when you’re shooting down a barrel wave at a most un-chelonian speed. None of which is actually funny, but this turtle does have amazing eyelashes.

My god, he’s full of dirt.

Some sick bastard cored this poor little dude and used him as a planter, and the worst part—he hasn’t noticed. Like one of those eat-it-live lobster dishes where the entree hasn’t noticed that the better part of his rump has been abstracted and dumped in a brandy-cream sauce. But on a surfboard and stuffed with flowers. Cowabunga.

The temptation, at least for me, is to clean him up, run him through the dishwasher, and use him to serve soup. But there was only one of him, which is the eternal tragedy with dimestore surf turtles.

An oldie from 2006, from my young, carefree days when anything seemed funny. Also, from the Goodwill on 183 and Metric.

Oh the things you find at Goodwill’s “Blue Hanear.” It’s kind of the place where thrift goes to die–vast bins of overstock, fractured ceramics, broken microwaves, and whatever the heck they couldn’t sell roll in, and move out the door for like $1.00 a pound. When a new aisle full of fresh bins open up, the stampede of bargain hunters is amazing–and frankly, I’m not surprised that there’s the occasional fatality.

I really feel for this poor guy. Life dealt him a few painful blows, and then, Blue Hangar. I’m not sure what he looked like when he was alive–kind of like a lion, I guess, but teetering around the Serengeti on stilts so that he could reach the succulent leaves on the topmost tree branches, maybe. But I know what he looked like after…Blue Hanger.

Oh god.

I’m going to suggest to any future designers of animatronic toys that any cute fuzzy creature’s natural, batteries-not-included state be “cheerfully awake with large, sympathetic eyes,” not “corpse.” The horrible black crust around the eyes and nose is not helping. Not at all.

Buy this one for your kiddo the next time they ask for a puppy. Put the batteries in first, the anticipation is more fun. Then the next time they pester you, ask, in a sweet voice, “Did you take care of your lion?” You can string this joke out for months. “Can I have a baby brother?” “Did you take care of your lion?” “Can I have dinner?” “Did you take care of your lion?”

Considering the therapy bills, a puppy might be cheaper.

All in all, a valuable lesson about life and death for the children. Or at least death.

Blue Hangar in South Austin