I think we may have taken the whole “nativity” thing to its barest essentials. Baby? Check. Josef and Mary? Check. Sheep? Uh…couldn’t find pegs in that size. Wise Men? Hamster’s chewing on them.

I question the use of wood chips for the floor. It’s distracting. Just too much. Wouldn’t the ideal be just a circle representing the baby’s head, maybe with a star or something? Don’t get on the minimalist cart unless you plan to drive it all the way to the market. Really.

“Why does the baby have a shiny white head, Mary?”
“I’m not sure. The ‘Baby’s First Year’ book doesn’t have a chapter on messiahs. That may be normal for them.”
“It’s all so new, so confusing. The book didn’t cover angels and shepherds and wise men, either. I’m glad they left. It’s a lot different from helping with my little sister when she was a baby…more, I don’t know, eventful.”
“The rose smell is kind of nice, though. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“True!”

I guess you really wouldn’t want to make the baby’s bed out of wood chips. They’d chafe, and might attract termites, or possibly Child Protective Services.

Woah. Nice staff there, Joseph. I like the sharp stabbing point at the end! I don’t remember seeing Jesus’s stepfather in quite such an “armed and dangerous” pose.

Maybe in this world, instead of sheep, they have little ambulatory meatballs? Then instead of a funny hook-shaped staff, you’d just spear one on a toothpick and then look around for some tzatziki. You wouldn’t even need to look very far, they’d just roll downhill.

On the other end of some nebulous, undefined spectrum, the Vaughans wish you a festive yule, in that unique “two stooges” way we’ve come to love and avoid.

I’m unclear on whether this is from the Vaughans, or whether it represents the Vaughans. For the sake of the more fragile presents, I’m hoping for the former, but I can see why they donated this one. Any Vaughans out there, want to abandon your dignity for Christmas? Check out the 183 and Metric Goodwill, they may have just the thing for you.

Somehow, I think this li’l guy is not on Santa’s nice list. Though I’m not sure it matters with elves. The only really important thing is whether they can hold a hammer and hit what’s loosely in front of them. Ideally, they can feed themselves and find the little elves’ room, but that’s pretty high-functioning, for an elf.

THAT’s an elf. Wandering around, arbitrarily candy-striping things. Thank god they’re mostly restricted to the North Pole area. There was the one time a cluster of them escaped and started breeding in Canada. Luckily the Centre for Disease Control was able to wipe out the colony before they spread to Montana.

Personally, I wouldn’t put lights up my skirt. Though she seems good with the idea.

There must be a kit or something that comes with a bunch of pipe cleaners and an angel head, I swear I’ve seen this angel three or four times now. What cruel agency creates all these poor creatures, little cherubs with their hands replaced by pipe cleaners, I don’t know. They don’t look upset about it, so maybe I shouldn’t worry.

Never match tinsel and black pearls. Let this angel be a lesson to you.

So this next guy I found in Goodwill’s Blue Hanger–look, you can see the big blue bins in the background. At first I thought he was a fuzzy little Christmas potholder, but then he unrolled to his full, majestic length. So beautiful.

Santa only wishes he looks this good.

This one’s for the centerfold. Work those…uh…coils.

I admire the ingenuity of this–turning a single sheet of dough into a collection of holiday cutouts, in just one go? Brilliant. But I don’t recognize all the shapes.

Festive Christmas goat skull? Yule Moth? Two big “Thumbs Up” for Solstice?

I think this is the festive Christmas fetus. I can’t be sure. If not, it may be some sort of Pokemon. It seems to be intentional, so it must mean something. But I’ll be hornswoggled, ideally by a team of professionals, if I can think what.

Christmas just isn’t Christmas without a pair of kissing-dolphin cookies. Mom used to make them by the hundreds. We sometimes still find them in, like, the backs of cabinets, in little piles under the sofa, and so on. The mice won’t touch them.

Let’s part ways today with crafts gone deeply wrong.

AS SEEN BY MARY:

AS SEEN AT GOODWILL:

Note the contrast. This model has like 70% more buttons. In fact, her body mass is primarily buttons. And instead of bearing glad tidings, she’s bearing some sort of spool. It’s not so much “Do not be afraid!” as “Try not to giggle TOO much, it embarrasses them.”

Your annual Christmas cuteness overdose. The crafters of the world are writing out a formal apology as we speak.

Tongue Depressor Nativity and Light Bulb Angel from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, A Vaughan Family Christmas from Texas Thrift on 51st and I35, Strung-Out Yarn Santa from Goodwill’s Blue Hanger, holiday cookie cutter from Savers on Burnet and North Loop, Spool-and-Button Angel from Goodwill in Oak Hill near the “Y”, Austin

Pity the man made entirely of fruitcake. Is it the bigger tragedy that he might be eaten, or that no-one will eat him?

I wonder if there’s a series of these, little dudes dressed up like all the major Christmas treats. Like Ciderman (a bit like the Kool-Aid Man, though instead of bursting through your wall and yelling “OH YEAH!!!” he knocks politely at the front door, then sings anachronistic songs about wanting a drink, and figgy pudding. Though, as we’ve established, no-one wants figgy pudding.) Or maybe there’s Mince Pie Guy, though the thought of that makes me a little ill. Mince Pie Guy and Fruitcake Man don’t sound like the most masculine pair. On the other hand, with those tights, we’re really not out to prove anything to the world at large.

Is this what happened after William Tell’s son and the thing with shooting an arrow off his head? Like it became some sort of strange fetish, where he wore ever more outlandish costumes, balanced fruit on his head, and demanded to be almost shot? I’d better ask Dan Savage, he’d know.

So, if you’re anything like me, you’ve probably stayed up at night for hours, wondering what would happen if Santa Claus and Rasputin, the Mad Monk of Russia, had a child. Maybe you’ve even written fanfic about it. Or maybe I’ve said too much. Anyway, wonder no longer–if, indeed, you were wondering.

I like the blood-wax candle with the red flame. Just in case the blind, dead eyes weren’t creepy enough.

Okay, not only is this particular Santa clearly a Russian zombie, he’s also wearing a robe made of meat, and the totally achromatic bundle of gifts on his back suggest that, besides eating kids’ brains, he’s going to take all the color out of Happytown. I can’t get behind this Santa. Though that would probably be better than being in FRONT of this Santa.

Another one from the “Kids…we’re not going to sit on Santa’s lap this year” files, comes Santa the Strung-Out Folk Singer. No child I have the smallest amount of authority over will sit on this Santa’s lap.

Although I might.

Many of you might not have been aware that, among Santa’s many skills, he’s a talented mandolin player. You probably don’t want to know what he uses those skills for. Kids today, so innocent, so eager to fall under the sway of a folk musician.

That…that is one strung out Santa.  You can almost hear him singing. “Look out little Nestor, you’ve got ears that reach the ground…” I don’t know what Santa’s been taking. Probably the same stuff all those elves are on.

On the count of three, scream it…one, two, SANTAAAAAAAA!

Enough of that singie happy hippy folk music BS, this Santa is out to kick some naughty ass and bring a world of hurt to ANYONE who doesn’t believe in him. Maybe you missed the part of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” where Santa tears off his shirt and beats a few heads with his wreath shield. It’s in there somewhere. Right after “He’s making a list and checking it twice, laying out hurt for the kids who aren’t nice.”

Still with the creepy eyes, though. Santa really needs to get to an ophthalmologist.

…You know, you’d think she would have learned.

Really, after the grackles took her LAST hand, she’d be a little less trusting, but no, you can’t teach an angel anything.

Unless, of course, you’re trying to teach an angel how to lay someone flat with a roundhouse punch, like “The Million Dollar Angel.” That, they’re all about learning. Angels will seriously mess you up in a fight. Don’t let the jingling fool you, those fists are full of pain. And jingles.

I have this strange feeling that these two angels are going to start invoking Mothra, like, any second now. It happens all the time.

The sound effect, which you can’t hear, is something like “pbfblfbth.” Or, possibly, the Mothra song. I don’t know.

And this poor girl appears to be endlessly beating her hand against a small cake. Apparently, both of them were deeply traumatized by having straw hair, but the more strong-willed of the two, and sought to fill the hole inside her with a small wooden spool. I’m glad she’s happy. We should all be so lucky.

Aaand then back to horrible, staring Santa. Oh Santa of beatings yet to come, I fear you most of all.

Is that a sap? Seriously, is it? Either he’s got a leather club or a turkey drumstick. And given the stitchmarks, I’m guessing the former.

Thump. “Another one into the sack for Santa! Ho ho ho!”

It’s a Dadaist Christmas–Santa shuffles around with only half a foot, menacing children with a club. The nice ones get to escape. The naughty ones…into the sack. The kind of so-so inbetween ones, they get individually-wrapped rectangular prisms, and go to sleep kind of relieved, kind of puzzled. Then there’s a musical number involving dancing representations of Quaternion numbers and hope.

Mr. Plum Pudding from Goodwill near 620 and 183. and scary blood-santa at the Salvation Army next door, on the same day in May no less. Creepy kohl-eyed bard Santa from the Savers on South Lamar, Santa of WAAAAR and straw angels from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, and scary shuffling Santa from Goodwill on 183 and Metric.

I heard an interesting little article on National Public Radio a while back about one of the last snowglobe repair people on the planet. How he carried different kinds of goo and snow and little festive parts, and knew how to replace dirty snow globe “water” with fresh, even transparent, versions of same, so that heirloom snow globes and little dioramas of precious memories could be. That man…that man  has not touched any of these. Probably he would not touch any of these, except if he brushed them accidentally while putting up a tasteful sign apologizing on behalf of the general craft of snowglobing.

Really, the shock wasn’t finding Santa in a gutter. That was one of those “the other 364 days” events. But this year, the police suspected foul play. Not one of the elves…granted, they’d have the motivation, but elves don’t have the brain cells God gave a garbanzo bean. That only left Mrs. Claus, and Rudolph. Their alleged plan: kill Big Red and run off to some place a little less “the north pole.”

They would have gotten away with it except for the hoofprints and reindeer pellets around the body. Another plot foiled, but another Chris Kringled.

No doubt about it, Mr. And Mrz. Fezziwig’s annual Christmas Ball was the highlight of the year in East End Victorian London. At least it was, until the 1886 tragedy, brought about, no doubt, by one too many shipping pallets of plum puddings.

One too many racks of puddings, one too many quadrilles…one too many Christmas fatalities. The way the warehouse lurched horribly in 6/8 time was mentioned in several popular tabloids, and placed as a six on the Rossi-Forel Earthquake Intensity scale.

Gentlemen, let this tragedy be of some small moral instruction to both yourselves and your acquaintances of the fairer sex: After your sixth pudding, put down your spoons.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

The shipment of tiny snowglobes to the village of Spurge’s End was a richly appreciated annual tradition. There was some fear of the choking hazard, but because of a rare condition achieved through dedicated inbreeding, the people of Spurge’s End had no mouths.

I’m not sure if this is a snowglobe that was broken when someone threw a santa head into it, or a snow globe that was shattered when the santa head trapped within tried to escape, seeking no doubt to rejoin itself to its body.  Someone threw a santa head through my sister’s window last year when we were visiting family. It was terrible, the place smelled like fruitcake for a month.

Aaaand, a not-a-snowglobe, but in the broad family of snowglobe-like-phenomena. This gives you some sense of what it must be like to actually be Santa, on his one special night. A sense of festivity, generosity, and acute motion sickness. It’s kind of impressive what Rudolph was able to do once he kicked all the dead weight off the sleigh…well, almost all the dead weight. Enjoy, but take some Dramamine first.

Mrs. Fezziwig’s Stomp, Mach 30 sleigh ride, A Message from the Elves, and “ooooh…” snow globe from Goodwill on 183 and Metric. Death in the Snow snowglobe from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin.

The Christmas it snowed blood, oh, what a year that was. Grandfather would often tell us stories about those long-ago blood-christmasses, how the world was covered in a thick carpet of red gore, and when the moon shown on it just right, late at night, it was kinda…kinda horrible. We thought those special Christmasses were long long past, possibly entirely fictitious, until we got our own bloodfall.

What fun we had, throwing bloodballs at each other, the sound of children laughing, or screaming, it’s hard to tell sometimes. But I’m sure they enjoyed it, except for ma, who had to wash the clots off our warm winter clothes.

Nobody’d ask where the blood came from. Grandpa would always say something kinda vague, like “looks like the angels are playing hockey!” or “We said that’s what happened when Santa made a reindeer roast for Christmas Dinner,” or “when can I get out of this place and go home?” Some of us tried to skate on Newfield Pond, but that was doomed from the beginning. Kind of like trying to slide through a frozen pudding. You really didn’t want to try a double-axle, you’d get a face full of something pretty nasty.

So we contented ourselves with playing silly blood games, decorating the christmas tree with sparkling clumps of gore, you know, what everyone would do on a magical day like this.

I think someone may have skinned my 3rd Grade teacher to get this sweater. There must be a special catalog they all shop from.

This next guy isn’t really a horror, per se, but he is awfully stupid. And very, very excitable.

You have to imagine him either trampling through the snow yelling “Santa! SANTA! Can I help fly the sleigh this year, pleeeeeease?” the other reindeer–even Rudolph, and he’s had more than a few lumps of coal in the stocking of life, muttering…just keep flying, please don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t turn around…”

Apparently, this was a candle holder of some kind? Which is a little terrifying. Kind of like a festive Yuletide “Wicker Man,” or some nightmarish way to torture a reindeer that managed to fuck up one Christmas too many…”Oh god, it burns, just…kill me, Santa…” (Arms flail wildly, maybe a little festively)

Something from the “minimal effort Christmas” family, I think. If it’s the thought that counts, maybe someone should think a little harder.

I assume this is Christmas, it’s got a sprig of holly on it. I also assume these are horses, because tube socks don’t have ears and a mane.

If my sister had ever said, “I want a pony for Christmas,” this is probably what she would have gotten. Or else something that Mrs. Corleone might have embroidered for Jack Woltz as an extremely creepy Hanukkah gift in the Godfather Christmas special, the one where Vito Corleone is visited by, like, eight ghosts and learns the true meaning of Christmas. “I’m going to stitch you an ornament you can’t refuse” sort of thing. We’d watch that one every year when I was a kid.

I think this guy escaped from the little-known Rankin/Bass Christmas Special, “Jack Frost Vs. the Angry Snow Gods.” A lot of the dynamic duo’s later work just didn’t make any sense at all, I didn’t think it could get weirder than “The Life & Adventures of Santa Claus.” (or Thundercats. Did anybody else know that? I didn’t know that.) But, no, things can always get weirder in RankinBassland.

Tremble before the Snowflake King and his 5.7 million subjects!!

Honestly, I don’t think I would have been quite so cavalier about snowball fights if I’d known that the snowflakes had little tiny faces, and probably little tiny hopes and dreams (very tiny ones that melted at 33° f, but still, dreams nonetheless.) Thankfully, we only have snow in Austin, Texas one year in seven. I don’t know how people in Minnesota live with themselves. So much blood on their hands. Particularly during those three-foot-high bloodfalls I’ve seen sweatervests about.

This one was from another little-known Christmas special, they’d only run it past 10:30 so. I never got to see it when I was growing up. Now that it’s been released on The Warner Archives, I’m not sure what all the fuss was about.

“Mad Monster Party” was a lot worse. Seriously, Phyllis Diller vamping it up will leave scars that Frosty showing us his snow face never would.

Now, Frosty would like you to put his sordid past behind him, and just have a merry Christmas, okay? Forget all about his “Blue Christmas” special and move the hell on.

Or he’ll club this poodle.

Fields of Snowblood Sweater from Goodwill’s Blue Hanger, which is always a magical wonderland no matter what time of year it is. Flailbot Reindeer from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, horses needlepoint from Savers on South Lamar, Snowflake God from Goodwill near 183 and I35 behind Goodwill Computers, “Snow Job” from Goodwill on Parmer near I35, and “Merry Christmas or I’ll club this Poodle” from Goodwill near 620 on 183, all Austin. And a Christmas “Thank you” to our stunt model, Dierdre! I’m sure I misspelled your name again :)

Sheriff Santa–protector of the North Pole’s Wild West. Which, technically, is South, because…well, there are diagrams. Anyway. Santa doesn’t like people to see him like this. Because, when you’re spanning the globe at roughly 650 miles per second, in an open sleigh behind a bunch of reindeer, you’re not a right jolly old elf by the end of your journey. You’re exhausted, probably covered in caribou exhaust, and your hair is really, really messed up. Assuming of course that Santa has some sort of mystical protection against the hazard of his hair burning off at re-entrylike velocities, we might imagine him looking something like this.

Particularly if he decided to fight crime among the pine forests of the Great West, and Mrs. Claus made him some denim pants and a nice overcoat. And actually, Sheriff Santa makes a heck of a lot of sense. He already knows if you’ve been naughty or nice. Judge and Jury, we only need an executioner.

Not sure why he has pine stuck to his shoulders. I guess once the sap gets on your hands, everything’s sticky.

So…about the effect that traveling at nearly relativistic velocities has on your hair. If you ever want to blackmail Santa, here’s your moment, because that is NOT a right jolly old elf.

Good god. Please, Santa, use some conditioner next time. I swear, his mustache is crammed halfway up his sinus cavity.

Of course, Mrs. Claus has her bad-hair-days too, though she doesn’t tend to hop in the sleigh quite as much as Santa. Her sleigh-hopping days are a bit behind her, thanks, and don’t make a lady tell stories. Particularly after the lady’s apparently been in a bar fight.

A fight that, apparently, cost her arm. Though she could probably give someone a world of hurt with those boots. Damn, Mrs. Claus. Are you packing iron in those Doc Kringles?

Takes a beating, still smiling. Though she might want to put an ice pack or a cold steak on those cheeks before they swell up any more. And sorry about the glasses. Maybe you could ask Santa for a new pair?

Mrs. Claus stands triumphant over her enemies! Fear her bloody fist of destruction!

This supports my theory that snowmen are a race of aliens, possibly benevolent, from the Auriga Quadrant. They have come to earth for our carrots and coal. This one, unfortunately, has not found any carrots or coal, and he is angry. And when he’s angry, his nose and eyes pop out like a novelty squeeze toy.

Don’t know what he stepped in, there. Maybe a Festive Christmas Slug.

We have met the aliens…and they are Amish.

And we have met the angels, and they have very tiny heads. I really want my angels to be majestic, but something about “Christmas” and “Angelic majesty” tends to fail. This one has a higher degree of fail than usual.

This raises that old theological question: How many pinhead angels can dance?

If it’s this angel, probably not one. S/he/it would probably just stumble over that enormous bib or something, and then its halo would slip over its face, and it’d just stagger around flailing until its little feet got caught in its massive, all-concealing robe, and then it would just roll around slowly making sad “perp” sounds. And we’d all feel kind of vaguely guilty for asking in the first place.

The nutcracker guard: Here to protect your nuts.

This particular nutcracker’s courtesy of Jim Henson Studios, who provided the initial designs and feltwork, and Quaker Oats, who provided much of the superstructure. I’m sure all nuts everywhere feel distinctly safer with this guy watching. Mind, all he does is watch, because of his ridiculously  tiny arms.

Actually, he doesn’t watch, because he’s got no eyes. He’s also lacking a bit in the ear department, and may or may not have a nose. If he DID have a nose, it’s got a mustache stuck to its front like a propeller, though he looks about as aerodynamic as a 1975 console television. IT might be his mouse, in which case he should stop chewing on that, whatever it is. Might be some sort of mole…really, he should get a dermatologist to check that out, if so.

Still, he cuts a fine figure. Or he did, until the accident.

Sad, really. I left the store for an hour, and here’s what I found. Christmas needs to invest more in security, these guards are kind of fragile.

Let’s close with a decapitated Santa, always good for a laugh at parties.

Through some strange process of metaphor, his hunger for cookies grew so profound that, like in a late 60s French surrealist film, he becomes his hunger, leaving nothing but a gaping void that wants to be, must be, filled with cookies. Oreos, for preference.

Scary beard Santa from Goodwill at the “Y” in Oak Hill, Fighting Mrs. Claus and Martian Snowman from the Goodwill on 183 and Metric, Tiny-headed Angel from Goodwill on Parmer near I35, Boxy the Christmas Guard from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Headless Santa Wants Cookies from Savers on South Lamar, Austin.

I really think the “wet loops like a soft serve” look just never quite works. Particularly with the sparkles. The overall effect is as if one of Santa’s elves had a little emergency, right in the middle of Savers’s housewares section. Really, he should have tried to hold it until he got to the romance novel section, it would have been funnier, but with elves frankly you’re lucky if you can even train them to go on a newspaper in the corner.

I hope this wasn’t a scented candle. It probably was, I don’t remember. I can’t even imagine what it would smell like, the aftereffects of all those sugerplums, possibly. What’s a sugarplum, anyway? Probably what Santa shovels into the elfpit every night.

…Release the Christmas Hounds!

I like this a lot better than the camels they usually ride, because black Labrador puppies are frankly a lot cuter than a camel any day of the week, but this really lacks a certain dignity. Puppies just don’t command that special “We Three Kings” grandeur that goes with the song, which I remember as being “slow and stately,” if my fading and frankly port-addled recollection of the church Hymnal is accurate. Labrador puppies are more “frenetic and spazzy.” Less “Pomp and Circumstance,” more “Theme from Benny Hill.”

Maybe it was so they could sneak out of King Herod’s lands with a little less post-epiphany hassle. The border guards would have melted. “Awww…puppies!”

Hmm…maybe they weren’t going for “Stately and Dignified” after all. If they were, they should have washed their faces after snorting shoe polish. I’m just saying. And why did the guy at the left chrome his robe?

On that note, did someone CLONE a magi? That’s got to be illegal somehow. “Lo, three kings came from the west, though two of them were genetically identical, you could tell them apart because one of them had his robe spray-painted gold. And the angel of the Lord said unto them, ‘daaaaw, puppies!’ And gladly they went to Bethlehem, except when they passed by squirrels or a cat.”

Really, I wouldn’t want to be a nutcracker. I’m not sure I could get the job, if the principle requirement is “must brake nuts with teeth.” It’s no wonder there are so very many nutcracker failures at Goodwill. But this one’s special.

I really hope that, when this guy cracked his last thick-shelled walnut, there was an amazing “BOIOIING!!!” sound as the top of his head popped off. Maybe it landed in the punch, and just floated there, like a disturbing Christmas mole. “Woah, watch where that thing landed, we’ll probably need it later.”

After the operation, he wasn’t a very good nutcracker anymore. Not only were the nuts, well, uncracked, but they were covered in drool too. It really wasn’t very festive.

This next guy…well, he’s not really very CHRISTMASSY, unless in your part of the world everybody gives each other foxes  for Christmas, which would be AWESOME, except for the smell. And…well, maybe it’s funnier in my head, I’m still a little sleep-dep’ed and tryptophan-addled.

But I thought it was funny. It’d be funnier with sound effects. Bleah!

I need a caption for this next one. Maybe “Take one house, and add a half cup of milk.” Or “You will be visited by three ghosts…really BIG ghosts.” Or “I’m not sure that the baby Jesus is going to be in this one, it’s kind of small.”

I do know I’ve seen a LOT of nativities, and clearly, none of them were to an accurate scale. Giant 15-storey wise men striding across the land, leaving devastation in their wake and scaring hell out of shepherds is a much more interesting story than yadda yadda frankincense yadda. Go, you awesome monster wisemen, go.

…I think I snowed up on myself a little.

Big steaming pile of Christmas and broken nutcracker from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Christmas Hounds and stamp-licking fox from Goodwill on South Lamar and Manchacha, monster Wise Man from Savers on South Lamar, “snowed up on myself” from Texas Thrift near 51st and I35, Austin.

Whatever holiday you celebrate, we figure this should just about cover it. And if your particular variation on the “celebrating the light on the darkest night” festival involves giant beavers, well, this one’s for you. And, probably, only you.

When I saw this, I wanted to buy it and run it over to the Unitarian Universalist church. It would be the definitive winter altarpiece. It has…everything. The only reason I didn’t was that I was worried that I might have to explain it to someone. And I didn’t think I could. Or, if I could, they would ask me to wear nice warm jacket that fastens in the back, and then I couldn’t work the camera.

Santa! He represents the true meaning of, well, whatever the heck that is. He brings gifts to unsuspecting bears, sneaking up behind them and muttering “ho ho ho” to see how high they jump. Then he sticks a candle under a cow’s tail. This probably symbolizes something about lighting a candle of hope in the deepest dark of night. Or seeing if cow farts explode. Which is really only seasonally appropriate if you do it to “Jingle Bells,” and then it’s comedy gold on Youtube.

“It’s Christmas, son! Tonight, you can have all the ice cubes you want!”

Really, beavers in the nativity I can handle. It’s a good, sturdy, hardworking animal, and Jesus was probably something of a carpenter in his day, so there’s a connection there. And it only makes sense that they’d wear their nice shirts, after all, it’s Christmas, a Messiah might be showing up, you’d want to look your best, in case he starts unloading salvation or peace or Best Buy gift certificates or something

I’m not following the reindeer though. I don’t think he was in Mark OR John. You’d think he’d be in some of the carols. “We Three Kings of Orient and a Reindeer are” doesn’t feature prominently in the songbook. I know this. Nor does the story go “they came bearing gold, and frankincense, and a Playstation 3.” Although it would have been an unusually foresighted bible story if it had. Even John only mentions the Xbox 360 in passing, and that’s as a liturgical device.

Mary and Joseph watched Jesus pretty much 24-7, lest his eyes be pecked out by GIANT BIRDS. That happened a lot in the desert. That’s why the shepherds were watching the flocks by night. Giant birds.  Flocks of them. It was…terrible.

Whatever you’re celebrating this week, have an excellent one!

Goodwill on 183 and Metric, Austin

Unfortunately, all the visits from the grandparents seem to be lumped toward the end of the year. The engine’s hardly cooled down on their mobile home after they left on, like, the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and now they’re here three days early, if it’s not a bother. It’s like the line “It’s not a bad tree, it just needed a little love!” activates their homing beacon.

This Christmas, the solution for your seasonal grandparent woes: yards and yards of packing tape.

Just make sure you anchor them securely, otherwise Grandma’s going to list off to the right and lose her count on her stitches, and you’ll get a mutant three-sleeved jumper or something. Which, who knows, may have actually been intentional. It’s the holidays, bad time for negativity.

I wonder when Grandpa started wearing bling? Maybe it’s time to stop. Granted, everyone knows he’s either into country-western dancing or has a boot fetish, and if Grandma’s okay with the latter, well, maybe there’s a reason they’ve been together 40 years. But there’s something to be said for subtlety.

#1 reason grandfathers tend to walk all hunched over: 15-pound boot bling. You read it on the internet.

Psst. Grandma. GRANDMA. You’ve got something on…oh, never mind.

Apparently both of them are into extreme accessorizing now. Really, someone should have words. She’s going to get that awkward “three inch earlobe” problem.

Wait. Those are glued on. Grandma, you’re…you’re weird.

All things considered, they’re still a perfect couple, after all these years. Grandma knits, grandpa reads his doily. They both like their quiet time. They both accessorize with price tags. They both spent a few weeks on the rack for printing criticisms of the crown without a license. And they’re both into alternative relationships.

Which is why Grandma takes her paraplegic fisherman with her every Christmas. It just adds to the yuletide awkward.

Goodwill on Parmer near I35, Austin

First off, and off-topic–for those of you that are jealous of eight days of Hanukkah, the 12 days of Christmas begins December 25! And we have 12 bazillion santas, snowmen and nativities that we have been saving for the occasion. So if you have an office mate who enjoys Christmas Crapola, the “12 days” tag below should link to the festivities. For a limited time only, here’s last year’s link, which will be subsumed into the broader category of “Christmas” soon. Anyway, enough rambling. Here’s…uh…more rambling.

Clearly, this is a candle, or at least candle-related phenomena. After all, it’s covered with a thick layer of old wax. Of course, by that extension, my oven, which has not been cleaned since short shorts were cool, is clearly food.. But while this was definitely in Goodwill’s “candle” section, I rather think it’s some sort of pink and frothy altar to the god of slaughter and coffee. Look, there’s even bits of gore plastered to its sides. Another way in which it resembles my stove.

Why do these presumably master craftsmen insist on keeping “intestinal pink” in their color palates? It’s not a nice color. The effect is like someone decided to use an antique coffee mill to make tasty lamb sausages. It’s a mess of coffee beans and a greasy pink froth. Yum!

The jury is still somewhat unclear on the concept. We see wax. We see coffee beans. We see…drainage holes. Not very good drainage holes, as whatever basin might be tucked underneath the terracotta platform would fill up after two or three (select one: [A] candle burnings, [B] tasty lamb sausages, [C] small, fussy offerings to the god of caffeinated carnage). Plus, it’s round, so candles would fall over. I suppose it might be an incense burner–and the category of things which might be incense-burners is pretty inclusive–but that seems like kind of a stretch.

“I made you a foamy pink latte incense burner! You don’t have to thank me!”

“Well, that prevents a possible conflict of interests, good.”

Goodwill on Manchaca and Stassney, Austin

Greetings from Goodwill’s Blue Hanger, where even trash may die. This one, unfortunately, sank. I was able to fish it up from the bottom of a huge bin of misfit toys, where its life was being strangled out of it by an unusually tenacious Sargasso of beaded curtain and an unspooled ball of yarn, but I had to throw it back. It was too small.

“All I need is a tall ship and a star to sail her by.”

“No, I said tall. And I said ship. That is not a ship. That is remnants.”

The first voyage of the HMS “The Home Depot” was cut short when the entire thing was capsized by a river otter. It was, in the craft’s defense, a particularly big river otter.

There are days when I feel like I need to have a special tag for “why did they donate this?”  But that’d be like setting up a tag for “tacky” or “unfortunate” or “clowns,” I’d just be spamming it every single post.  And to be fair, there’s some real advances in boatmaking here. The The Home Depot can ever flood or take on water, because it’s made of planks. It’s unlikely to rust, either, or take damage from salt, because it’s made of planks. It might suffer from a broken mast, because of the aforementioned river otter, but really, the worst thing that’s likely to happen to this fine craft is that it might topple face forward into the water because it’s both top-heavy and front-loaded, but let’s be realistic. If you were using the The Home Depot for anything more involved than a short jaunt across the lake, you probably more into this for the whimsy than the seamanship.

It iahbh hnbin to you to! Another fine product of The Br Divit. Not only is Alonia a shipwright, carpenter, and designer, she also does children’s parties. Hire her for yours!

Goodwill Blue Hanger, regrettably closed, at McNeil and 183 North.