Y oy to you too, sir! And a merry oy to us all!

What would have been REALLY awesome is if the nativity set on the floor contained an even smaller nativity set. And inside THAT nativity set was another one, until finally, you got to a tiny, nearly invisible nativity set, but instead of Jesus you had a very small tablet outlining the secrets of the Merovingian dynasty, the Prieuré de Sion, and the true secret of the Holy Grail.

This particular Santa is quite ambivilent about the whole thing. “Lights…eeeeh…I don’t know. Too many years making toys I guess, the sight of a tree covered with lights makes me a little…uh…maybe you got any Pepto-Bismol on you? Yeah, that’s the stuff. The pink stuff.”

Styling paisley nightgown, Santa! I’m really liking this new look, it’s a subtle step away from overstated red velvet!

Actually, I have it on the best authority (a well-educated 10-year-old) that this is in all probability the Russian equivalent of Santa, Father Frost, who’s often blue with complex designs on his cloak. Either way, he still looks like he accidentally ate a boll weevil. “Sorry…did that cookie taste funny to anyone else? Donder? Prancer?”

In the 80s, all of Santa’s elves were sharp, angular, and available in colors not entirely of this world.

The anatomy here is…difficult to discern at best. I think little boy blue on the right has some sort of conjoined twin thing poking out of his head, to say nothing about the arm growing on his hip and the strange, trunklike way his legs fuse together at the knees. The other guy is tame by comparison, except for the way he draaaaags himself around the workshop on his head…”thump drag drag drag…’Giggle’….”

So, as a thrift reporter, I do make a special point of leaving the items essentially undisturbed, even if it would be REALLY FUNNY to swap out a few pieces here and there. I did make an exception for this one.

Playful Santa! After flying around the entire world in a few hours, he likes to kick back and caper around the room. No-one expects him to, but he is, after all, a right jolly old elf. And as we’ve already seen, elves really like wandering around on their heads.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just gonna kip up here for a few hours, kiddos. That jet lag is pretty harsh stuff–or I guess it would be Sled Lag! Ho, ho, ho!”

I love the way Santa drifts around the room like a downy feather before settling to the floor in a vaguely pine-and-reindeer-scented heap. It’s one of his special qualities that just doesn’t get mentioned in the songs. Except that irritating one by the same guy who did “Rudolph.”

“You go to one little Christmas party, stay up just a little too late, buy one wino’s clothes off him, and then everybody takes their camels and splits. Hello? Damn, I need some ibuprofin, this hangover’s harsh.”

Lost Balthazaar #3 from Texas Thrift on I-35, San Antonio. Whimsical Snow Globe from Goodwill on 2222. Dyspeptic Russian Santa from Salvation Army on 1325 in Round Rock, “Y Oy!” from Savers on North Burnet, strangely iterative nativity from Goodwill near Stassney and Manchacha and the weird little punk elves next door at Thrift Town. A belated merry Christmas!

“The crystal…the crystal tells me that you will eat…too much! And your children will…will…will fight over small things, like who got more little chocolates. The crystal shows me much of the holiday, much that might otherwise go unseen…you did not buy enough batteries for all the toys that will beep and make noise, and will have to go to the grocery store at 10:00 at night but they will all be closed.”

Okay, yes, glass ball filled with giftwrap and old ornaments, very festive. Obviously, it’s your standard seasonal gazing globe, but I look at the green thing and I think, “tentacle.” Or perhaps the entire thing can be detonated to scatter an estimated 60′ jolly zone.

“I, too, have been experienced by Christmas. Fall into it. Lose yourself in the season. ”

“I step forward into the season, and give myself to yule. Farewell!”

Now, mood change.

….”YEEEHAH!!!”

Santa comes riding into town on Christmas dinner! Awesome! It’s festively delicious! Don’t tell the pig, though, it still thinks it’s a guest for dinner.

“Oh yeah! We’re having porkchops tonight! I’m ringing the BACON bell!”

“Yay! Christmas dinner with SANTA! I must have been the best piggy in the WORLD this year!”

Meanwhile, from his secret lair, miles below the earth’s crust, Santa plots the demise of the Superfriends.

Or just stands on his head, I don’t know. He’s an old guy, but likes to prove that he’s still spry. So he builds a massive, x100 scale model of a gall bladder and does calisthenics in the colic flexure. After 1700 years hanging around elves, you get a little…whimsical.

Anyone want to guess what this is? It looks horribly biological. This is something you woudn’t want to see on any sort of medical -opsy or -oscopy, or maybe a rare case of liposuction malpractice. Maybe you could light it to cast a baleful blue glow a dark and malevolent ritual. Or maybe this was yet another C- in craft class.

After three days of hiding in the soft, warm recesses above what passed for a “cliff,” red, gelid fluids pooling around his feet, Frosty finally snapped, leaping to his death with a wet “gurgle,” nothing but a blue hat, cherry tomato, and a vaguely humanoid pool of briefly clear, melted snow to mark his passage into both oblivion and the lower digestive tract.

Ball of Christmas Magic from Goodwill on I35 and 183; vacant Christmas Lady from Goodwill on 2222; Santa on pig from Savers on Burnet; Horrid “Christmas” “Candle” from Goodwill on I10 and Heubner, San Antonio.

Unfortunately I already used the photo of the “Have Yourself a Racially Pure Christmas” Holy Family, or I’d lead with them.  Instead, I’ll just go with these faceless marshmallow simulacra:

“How many times is this going to happen THIS festive holiday season, Mary?”
“He was right here. We were playing, the lamb came over, it was all totally a Kodak moment, and then he was gone.”
“Of course he’s gone. He’s white, the snow’s white, the shelf’s white, everything’s WHITE. Couldn’t you have given him at least a red sweater or something?”
“…Well, could you just leave the gold and myrrh for the lamb? It’s…probably symbolic of something.”
“No, Mary. And give back that spikenard, too.”
“Poopie.”

(Okay, not much of a horror, but I like nativities.)

“I dust wat by DOSE for Christbas. I can lib widout by two front teeth.”

Angel? Snowman? Snow angel? Ghost of Post-Christmas liposuctions yet to come? These are difficult questions. S/he has a lovely healthy glow, but it’s…orange. Like the poor thing pressed its face into carrot juice in the vague hope that this, and gluing “twizzlers” onto its maw for something like lips, would make it look vaguely presentable, maybe a little human. It worked for Frosty.

Or maybe it’s just so that you can see it in the snow. Maybe it’s the LAST thing you see in the snow. Two beady black eyes, then a carrot-colored, fatal blur.

(In a sort of accidental “Where’s Waldo” moment, you can see both myself and my partner in this shot. Thrifthorror would not be possible without his patience, encouragement, and high-mileage hybrid vehicle.)

Whoo, that’s some excellent camera work there. If they were any dimmer they could run for office.

One could almost make a post that’s just “mildly suggestive choirboys,” and it would be both very long and irritatingly repetitive, because, well, the choir boy really speaks for itself. The hands on this little pair are a new addition to the Legend of the Willing Christmas Choirboy, though, one that I haven’t seen before–I assume they’re meant to hold little birthday cake candles, but to me, it says, wordlessly (because sometimes the Willing Christmas Choirboy is at a loss for words), “I can make two people’s Christmas wishes come true.”

Should I have included these guys in the angel post? Probably not. It was running a little long anyway, and I think that may be less of a pair of wings and more of a shark fin. A couple of these guys circling in the water after a ship wreck would be pretty scary. Choirboys have to keep moving constantly, or they drown. It’s true!

Santa didn’t come that year, or the next, or the next. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t like the Snowman Village and its festive frosty inhabitants, or that they didn’t celebrate Christmas or understand its true meaning, or even that they were particularly naughty, they weren’t, they were about as nice as lumps of ice could be. No, it was because of the giant spider.

“Please, let us out! BIIIG present for you! A little help, here!”
“Larry, I don’t think they can see us. It’s a blizzard out there and we’re made out of snow.”
“Well turn on the lights. MAKE them see us.”
“Won’t the giant spider notice?”
“I don’t care. Let her come, I’m not spending another Christmas in her web! There’s a whole world out there, and…oh my god! She’s coming! She’s coming down! She’s…Merry…nooooo!!!”

White Nativity from Goodwill on 2222, noseless snowman from Savers on South Lamar, Choirboys and Christmas Tree under Webs from Goodwill near 620 and 183

I don’t know about you, but in my family we’ve kept alive the proud tradition of the Christmas Stick.

Great-grandpa brought the Christmas stick over from England. He would always say that some things went beyond “naughty and nice,” and would leave the Christmas Stick leaning by the stockings. It did keep the noise down to a dull roar during the larger family gatherings. And every year, the Christmas Stick was decorated differently. One year, it was a candy cane. The next, a snowman. One particularly creepy year, it was a reindeer hoof, and that was a weird one. Regardless, when the Christmas Stick was out, we knew, “Granddad got into the eggnog, and it was noggier than usual.”

….and another weird Christmas wedge. What the hell? It’s Christmas, things need to be wedge-shaped. And with only one ear this time. That has GOT to be the weirdest face I’ve ever seen on a dwarf. It’s like he wrapped one of those extra-large custodial brooms around his chin to draw attention away from his startling lack of nose. The glitter’s a nice touch. It’s a festive noseless, wedge-shaped bristle-chinned ear-amputee. Season’s greetings!

For the record, I hate this thing. It’s fleshy, pink, self-referential and insincere. Please tell it to go away.

I guess this doesn’t quite qualify as a “horror,” but it’s definitely got the edge of “Grandma bought and/or made this, and if we don’t give it to Goodwill we’re stuck with it, so maybe we can throw it in the bin for an end-of-year tax write-off. I bet it’s worth at least $40, get a receipt.”

Oh, ambulatory lump of flesh of Christmas Yet to Come, I fear you most of all!

This is a sad little thing. It’s very festive, but basically held together with push-pins pressed into a central pillar of Styrofoam, so when it finally makes it to Goodwill, it’s a collumn of leaking fluff and VERY SHARP BITS. This looks a bit like an unusually pointless Victorian party game–”This is a delightful new game we found in East Chelsing, I’m sure you’ll just titter behind a fan over it. Each person pulls a wad of fabric off the tree, and they stab themselves with a push-pin, and end up with a lump of bloody cotton stuffing! Isn’t that just the knobs?

That special time of year when everything conceals hidden pain. It’s like gift-wrapping a weasel.

Nothing says “Christmas” like a festive jingle-wolfbear. For a while, Santa was riding in a sleigh pulled by wolfbears, but 1) the roofs kept collapsing and 2) they’d eat the kids, even the “nice” ones. So, the tradition of the Christmas Wolfbear largely faded into obscurity.

Another entry from the “Not Really Horrible, but Not a Good Idea” category. Also from the “Make it…with POTS!!!” family. Really, everything made with glue and ill-planned intentions ends up at Goodwill eventually. This one’s…well, it’s “as-is.”

Drawn to scale, each of those buttons is probably the size of a man’s head. They could peek through the holes like a mask, and pretend to be garments. And do note, and adore, the lines of royal icing around each pot, lovingly applied with a butter-knife. Spackle that stuff on, the more, the merrier! Literally!

Thus the vital “as-is” element. The star tipped over, the candy cane fell off, the bow’s wearing out. It’s like Christmas suddenly turned 45.

Not an entirely unforgivable Christmas Craft, but for the love of holly, don’t take things into the realm of pipe cleaners. You had our Christmas respect until then, but when the pipe cleaners come out, you know it just goes downhill from there.

Human Bean from Savers on N. Burnet, Christmas Stick from Goodwill near 620 and 183, lump of Christmas fluff from Goodwill at 2222. Pot-tree and Christmas Wolf from Thrift Town near Manchacha and Stassney, wedge-elf from parts unknown.

(Well, two horrid nativities and some filler.)

I took a lot of photographs of nativities this year–and really, every year. I don’t know why–the little kids seem to enjoy rearranging them, shuffling pieces around, and I do think the sight of the entire holy family gathered ‘roud a manger to gaze upon a kid half again as large as the camel is endlessly amusing. Most of these I’ve tossed, but a few linger in my heart.

Like this one.

My relationship with this piece evolved over a month, as pieces would move around the shelf, new ones would surface, new pairings would turn up…and besides that, it looked like the British Gay Men’s Choir dramatizing “Silent Night,” or possibly “We Three Queens.” For the longest time, there wasn’t even a Mary (Or else, they all were?). It was an all-boy’s Bethlehem club with too much eyeliner, and it got weirder over time.

“Some people ask me, ‘Why where a golden labrador to a Christmas Party?’ And I say ‘Darling, with this face, I can only hope they’re looking at the dog.’”

“Besides, it went with my canteen.”

“It’s not gold, babe, and it sure as Christmas isn’t frankincense. Ferrero rocher chocolates, love. Nothing but the best. Maybe he can take some back to heaven, they may not have them there yet.”

“I was going to bring the frankincense, someone has to, but I can see that we’re going to have to work our way up to aromatic resins, love. Let’s start with those swaddling clothes, I can see we need a divine intervention here.”

“Well, actually, I bought the gold, the myrrh, AND the damned frankincense, and let me tell you, I had to go to all three Nordstroms before I was able to find Martha Stewart’s fall ‘Myrrh’ line, and the lines were beastly.. But I tell you what.”

“I’ll take the shepherd back with me, and we’ll call it even-stevens, ‘kay?”

“I don’t know what’s going on. We were going to have a nice, quiet Christmas dinner, and then the whole place was filled with the court scene from ‘The King and I.’ With musical numbers. Mary, I’m going to go play cards with the shepherd. Let me know if your friends are heading out.”

“Yeah, if I could just drop off the sheep and, you know–it’s getting a little crowded in here.”

“Oh, Mary, don’t do yourself any favors, sister. You’re a natural blond, girl, let’s see that golden halo. Let yourself shine..”

“Mary…you said these people were leaving…”

“Yeah, I’ll just take my sheep and, you know, go…away…like to Egypt, far away…”

Yeah, I got nothing to say about this. I hope they brought enough offerings to appease it.

“Mary? MARY? Would you put that stupid frankincense down and call 911?”

“People don’t lose babies, Mary.”
“He was just over here. Really. Maybe the camel ATE him.”
“He was the MESSIAH, Mary.”
“I KNOW he was the Messiah, Joseph. Quit riding me on this. Even Messiahs can crawl off and hide behind the furniture. Be useful and look somewhere.”

“Maybe somebody has seen him in the inn next door? Just take a few breaths, we’ll find him.

“If you ate the Messiah, you are not getting ANY more myrrh, I don’t care what kind of myrrh-faces you make.”

…The following nativity may shock you. I’m not sure who thought artificial soapstone was a good idea for a nativity scene, but here’s the tragicomic results.

“Unpleasant” doesn’t begin to describe this, and I’m puzzled by the fact that it wasn’t there a week later. Either someone bought it, or a benevolent shopper “accidentally” elbowed it off the shelf, though these guys look pretty durable and probably could have survived the fall. Unless she jumped up and down on them, which, really, I’d be okay with.

“Does this soapstone gown make me look too much like I just had an appendectomy? Or does it just make my arms look like withered, skeletal vestigial limbs?”

“Please tell me when they finish taking the picture so I can…just…die…”

“I ran here as fast as I could. Yeah, the sheep threw up a couple of times, but that’s okay. Hey, where’s the messiah? Me and old, caustic-bile Betsy will try not to drip too much on him.”

“Am I going to look like that when I’m older? Crucify my now, seriously. Get it over with. God, where’s his eyes? WHERE’S HIS EYES? And what is that horrible black tar leaking from his mouth? Mooooom!!!!”

“Jest point me to the baby. Oh, I love children. Look, he’s excited to see me. Mary, it does smell like he needs a change though.”

“Eh he heh…HEH heh heh…heh heh…heh heh heh..”

Gay and angry Nativity photographed during November, Savers on Burnet. Broken Mary nativity, same. “Lost Messiah” nativity from Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha, and horrible, horrible slimestone nativity from Salvation Army near 620 and 183.

That one line, “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,” has started quite a little industry. The Christmas market is endlessly reduplicative–there’s only a finite number of symbols that really say “Christmas,” so you have to really milk every new noun you have. So, merry christmouse.

This isn’t the best photo, but Autosharpen just couldn’t keep up with the demands, and when I used “Despeckle” the image just…vanished. Hang this combination wreath and mouse on the front door to set the tone for the Christmas party–awkward shuffling, muttered questions of “what does it *mean*?”) and, just possibly, a really big cheese plate–but strictly cheddar and Wheat Thins, this is a nice party that doesn’t put on airs. Only gingham.

Those eyes, like two felt cataracts. I’m not sure what it’s vaguely gesturing toward. Maybe it’s hoping someone will get it a Wheat Thin.

The Christmas Mouse tradition–note the iconography of the bow-around-tail–continued at a nearby Goodwill.

Better to zoom in a bit though, so you can see him in all his Christmas glory.

Not a happy mouse. Someone woke him up. And he doesn’t care if it’s Santa, the Tooth Fairy, or even the Pope, they’re going to regret this poorly-timed mouse call.

Not real sure what’s going on in his hand. Maybe a candle stick. Maybe a bong. Looking this closely at it, yeah, that red thing is probably a candle, but really it looks like one of the stripes of his pajama is inexplicably trying to reach closer to god, like an absurdist upraised pinkie. And usually candlesticks are brassy or wooden. Really, I’m thinking that particular shade of purple-pink is more reserved for adult items of an unusually intimate nature, though the shape really says “little Christmas mouse hash pipe” to me. You’d hope he’d be more mellow.

And nothing, nothing says “Merry Christmas” like maimed labradors.

All together! We wish you a broken puppy, we wish you a broken puppy. We wish you a broken puppy, with a truncated rear!

These were part of my post-holiday bargain shopping a few years ago, found in a big pile with all their other broken brethren, a small scattering of lost and forlorn body parts underneath. The sign said “50% off,” but to be fair, I think it looks more like only about 20%.

…so named because he was discovered by NASA for the space program. I don’t know.

This sad state of affairs very nearly came home with me. What says “Kid, give up on all your holiday dreams, you’re getting socks this year” like a dead unicorn in a glass ball? It’s like something Voldemort would hang up with the tinsel.

Put this one up next to an ornament showing a Department Store Santa cashing his paycheck for three bottles of Jack Daniel’s, and maybe a very small, festive treatise on the Historical Jesus. Go for a theme this year.

And lastly, what’s more seasonal than a Christmas Goose?

Don’t worry, Mr. Bear. It’s only once a year, it’ll be New Years soon and the booze will take the shame and humiliation of Christmas away in a nice, champagne-colored haze.

Puffy Quilted Christmas Mouse from the Salvation Army on 1325 near Round Rock, painted, surly Christmas Mouse from goodwill on 2222. Maimed labradors from Goodwill near 620 on 183, dead unicorn ornament from Savers on North Burnet near 2222, and Quacky the “Take It!!” Christmas Goose from Goodwill on 2222.

Angels! They come in swarms of thousands around Christmas, drifting in clumps through card shops, idling in Wal-Mart like flocks of chickens, and, of course, hanging out on the most celestial shelves in Goodwill. I’ve seen more headless Santas than any one man should, but there’s something whimsically tragic about a maimed angel that never ceases to make me smile.

Particularly when they start getting into weird Christmas fetish behavior.

I have never, ever seen an angel with pierced nipples before. But I have to say, she completely made my day when I did. That sweet, innocent little face, you’d never imagine that she’d be combining gingham and bondage in one celestial package. “Hi! My name is Beatrice! When I’m not baking cupcakes for disadvantaged children or reorganizing my embroidery floss, I like to go down to The Chain Gang wearing nothing but a star and a smile! Oh, and this cute little bow that I made to go with my favorite skirt, but if black goes well with everything, it’ll go well with pain and 40-gauge wire.”

Ouch.

The back of this one says “Merry Christmas for a Wonderful Friend, for Stephanie from Paula and Harold.” One wonders about their relationship. If it involved angel bondage, I think I want to know more about their church social club.

Who thought this was a good idea? Really. When does gluing sequins add to the majesty and grandeur of…anything? If you were trying to recreate that somewhat unsettling final Liberace Christmas Special, maybe you’re on your way there, but giving an angel glittery, 80s-style wrist and headbands is not a value-add. Yes, they were naked and creepy before, but you’re just calling attention to the fact. Next, you’re going to give them to a friend, and there we have to stop you, because this is the fast track to friendlessness. Signed, your holiday common sense consultant.

Yes, the terrible angel plague of aught-three had claimed her eye, most of her face, and her right wing, but she just kept strumming!

I like this girl. Something about her suffering has given her a wry, knowing glance that’s a step above the average angel–on the whole, a vacuous breed given to vague, wistful stares. She’s just about to write a satirical ballad, and is trying to figure out what rhymes with “Gethsemane”.

Angel? Choirboy? Bowling pin? Therapeutic medical device? You be the judge.

I don’t know what this is, but it was definitely in the Christmas section, so you get to deal with it now. The thick, avuncular eyebrows and “two pints of stout” cheeks really put me more in the mind of “Norm from Cheers” than a member of a chorus, either heavenly or earthly.

The little snowman on the coffee mug I hadn’t noticed before. Someone should spray for those.

It’s Edvard Munch’s “The Angel.” He? She? It? Does not seem to be at all happy about being slowly strangled by vines, and having a messiah-like crown of thorns (okay, crown of weeds, which is much less hardcore) stuck to its bald, bald head. I’m thinking this isn’t so much a pretty little angel, but rather some sort of sick, ritualistic play, like a sequel to the movie “Se7en” where Kevin Spacey’s character tortures people to death going through the entire year of holidays, and let me tell you, the Guy Fawkes Day scene was both chilling and a spectacular pyrotechnic display. “We’ve found the victim. He’s bolted rusty wings to her and wrapped her in straw. I have no idea what this means…but there’s a note…oh god, it says ‘Merry Christmas’ on it. What’s next, Epiphany? I can’t handle this holiday madness anymore, it’s got to stop!!!”

…So, Heaven. After 10 years of church, I’ve heard a lot of good things about the music up there. The music of the spheres is well-regarded, the heavenly cantillating of “Hosanna” is supposed to be very good, they’ve practiced it enough. However, little is said about the musical accompaniment, the background score to the Laudate Domino, and frankly I’m a little appalled. If this is Heaven, I’m going to Newark.

Welcome to Hell. Here’s you’re accordion.

Oh, this is a brilliant, well-thought-out plan. Martha Stewart would almost certainly say “No, no, that’s a bad thing.”

So, once in a while, apparently, you just have to craft. It’s gotta happen. Maybe you haven’t crafted in a few weeks or something, see a necktie, and before you know it, you’ve turned it into a mop-headed angel clasping its arms together. But there’s got to be a better way. This is the poster-child for craft abstinence.

There are good things to be said about recycling, but this poor thing looks like it was taken off the neck of that fat, fat guy that smells of very cheap tobacco, and then made into an angel while he was struggling to get it back. It’s got that special discoloration of motel furniture. The saddest thing about that is that there weren’t 20 of them lined up together in a dreadful, faceless choir. That would have been pure necktie magic.

Fear not, for I have been sent by Our Lady of the Hardware Shop to bid you glad tidings and give you good news of a great sale in the east! Home Depot gives the gifts of Christmas this year with a 15% discount on all name-brand mulchers, and a free poinsettia with every purchase! Hosanna, hosanna in the highest!”

I’m not sure if this is a “handicraft” or not, the wings and stuff are actually pretty well-made, but that face screams “Senior Activity Center.” It’s the pipecleaner that does it. And the glue, glitter, paint pen, peat moss hair, and vacant, empty gaze. Any one of those, really. Maybe there’s a kit–20 mesh angel skirts and a blank head to decorate to your heart’s content. Slap some lips and moss on it, call it $9.75. I know how these things work.

“Be not afraid!”

Aiigh! Zombie angel!

It would be awesome to be able to pack yourself up into your own body for easy storage, wouldn’t it? Just pop the top, tuck in the arms, wings, and so on. Maybe even the head would fit in there somehow, and suddenly you’ve gone from being an awkward flying thing with limbs everywhere to an angel that’s conveniently giftwrappable. Give the gift of angel!” It’s just a pity about that eye. God, you should do something about that eye. You’ll give the shepherds the fantods.

Braiiins…

Hoboy…ah…Hardware Mesh Angel, “Merry Christmas” Country Craft Angle and Pierced Nipple Angel from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, and again, Goodwill at 183 and Metric, there’ll be a plate of cookies waiting for you tonight, just wear the Santa Claus suit. Tawdry glitter angel and red zombie angels, Savers on South Lamar near 290. Accordion Angel and small, clever-looking one-eyed angel from Salvation Army on 1325, bowling pin angel (?) from Goodwill on 2222, and Necktie Angel from San Antonio’s Texas Thrift, on South Flores.

You’d think that, if you used a flimsy little trinket your aunt bought at Hallmark to break open a brazil nut, at LEAST the thing should give you some sort of error message before the top of its head flies off. So…share a moment of silence for the fallen victims of brazil nuts. And then hand me a bowl, I love those things.

Yep, another filbert-based catastrophe. I mean, she clearly made the effort, and she had the chops for it, but never, never, take a nut that’s bigger than your head. Now, she adds an element of much-needed pathos to the stage production of Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Pink Winter Fairies.” Let the screaming and lurching begin.

Is this a nutcracker? I guess it isn’t, but it partakes of the spirit of the nutcracker, in that it’s vaguely military and the top of its head is basically elsewhere.

Hmm…I think I’ve totally misplaced this image, and it should really be in the “horrible candlesticks” post. Or maybe you put a nut on his head and hit it with a hammer, which sounds like a great way to get rid of some of those Christmas frustrations. It’s clear that the wars against the Mouse King aren’t going very well for Team Nutcracker. Not enough that the mice stole his arms (I hate it when that happens) but then they threw in a little impromptu brain surgery as well? Awful! The same thing happened to my great-uncle in the war. For years, he thought he was the silverware drawer. Awkward.

I kind of feel that dressing random household items up to look like a piece of Christmas Craft is really cheating somehow, the holiday folds onto itself like a Möbius strip and everything becomes self-referential. But that’s the draw of the season–to give the “let’s glue something onto something, paint it, and then give it to our loved ones because we clearly have too many loved ones” crowd something to do with their vast free time. In that generous spirit, we have the LEAST USEFUL Christmas Nutcracker of them all, bearing in mind that the Venn Diagram here has no overlap between the categories of “Christmas Nutcracker” and “good idea.”

Someone’s grandmother made this. Again, we’re in the realm of “things that reference nutcrackers” again, my apologies for this inaccurately-titled post. His little “Lance Corporal in the Army of Twee” costume features a festive pom glued to his flower-pot hat, itself only the top of a poorly-conceived tower of flower pot tragedy.

“You there! Villain! Unhand that string of Christmas lights and step away from the festive seasonal display, or I shall most assuredly topple on you!”

The floppy little minimal effort felt arms are my absolute favorite part of this. Another victim of the Mouse King wars, or maybe a refugee from the Muppets Christmas Special, doomed to flail madly when agitated.

Hey there…got any nuts?

Theory number 147: the custom of the “Christmas Soldier” is to commemorate the legions of King Herod’s troops who were working on unpaid overtime to cap all the firstborn children in Israel. Those ancient soldiers suffered, too.

I’ve got to say, the little guy’s weathering this really well, very stoically. I would be substantially more nonplussed faced with a bear that size, even if he’d tattooed hearts on his nipples. In my limited experience, someone who tattoos hearts to their nipples is up to no good, and is only using their nipple-hearts as a clever ruse. The cherub looking on and smirking adds to the “tainted innocence” of the entire affair. S/he/it’s in on the game.

Bah, humbug!

We are not a happy little drummer boy, and we ask you to take your Christmas Spirit and shove it up your parumpumpumpum. We are cold, we have been standing here for several hours, and we have better things to do, because we are missing our audition for the American Idol tryouts.

Pink Winter Fairy from Goodwill on 183 near 620, Nearly Headless Soldiar from Savers in North Austin, Pots Soldiar and Fear the Christmas Bear from Salvation Army near Metric and 183, and Holiday Wedge Warrior from the Goodwill on 2222, Austin.

At least, I think they’re reindeer, I’m not totally sure.

This might be reindeer. It’s almost certainly covered in ancient glue and the vague scent of dust and cinnamon oil, which does not match my experience of reindeer as a species, but then, they aren’t supposed to have glowing red noses either, and that shows how much you can trust the Time-Life Encyclopedia of North American Mammals, I’ll be going exclusivelyto country crooner Gene Autry for my zoology lessons from now on, thank you.

Boo!

I’m a little more certain about these guys, because my options are 1) reindeer or 2) strangely stylized missile silos.

It’s close, but I’m going to have to go with “ungulate” on these, even though they look like strange vaguely deer-shaped automata. At least they have red noses. Yes, antlers like tracking systems, but you shall know them by their snouts.

I don’t care if I’ve only got two legs because my front ones were removed in a freak nine-deer pileup and my antler left with the runner of Santa’s sleigh, it’s Christmas, I’m standing in snow, and I’m going to do a little dance because I’m happy, and if I don’t, I might start to cry. Someone…please…take the bow off me? Please? I can’t reach it. Let me at least have my dignity.

I haven’t quite figured out the tradition of the Christmas log yet. Yes, I know about yule logs, they’re big, big pieces of wood that you can set on fire, stand around, and wassail your little hearts out. But that’s not the same as a Christmas log, which tends to have bits of plastic mounted to it, or a face, or small cloth trees, or in a worst-case scenario, be painted like a manger scene. Are you supposed to burn this sort of thing? Wouldn’t it smell kind of funny? Would Donder there streak like a blaze of glory out of the fireplace, landing in a molten “splut” of deer on the rug in front of the hearth?

Come to it, I’m really not sure what’s going on with Donder, but something’s deeply wrong. He’s somewhere between a dish of festive winter venison and a zombie, with glassy, staring eyes and a coat that’s matted and not all there.

Do you really want this deer on your rooftop? Trust me, if you hear something tip-tapping on your roof, aim for the head, right between the antlers.

Christmas Log from Savers on South Lamar; Christmas Broom from Goodwill on Metric and 183, Happy the Happiest Maimed Deer from Savers on Burnet, Deerbots from Salvation Army on 183 near 620.

This particular Santa is here to remind us that everything’s easier when your head is mostly hollow and made out of plastic.

He’s kind of a shlep, but that’s okay, he’s mellow. And maybe his face is eroding away, but that’s okay, if his eyes finally go, maybe they’ll finally give him a little time off from making all those damned toys. Actually, his vision was pretty good until the mid-80s electronic period. Damn you, Nintendo, and all your individually-soldered parts.

His perfectly round head gives the vague impression of him having just stepped off the pages of “Peanuts,” or maybe “Family Circus,” where he left a long, dotted line from the North Pole to every house in the world with an income somewhere vaguely above the local poverty line. There might have been some vague joke about “I Dunno” and “Not Me,” but it wasn’t funny, really. Please let Santa scrape the rest of his face off, now, it’s the only way he gets by.

No, really, this was going to be a post about happy Santas! Let’s try that again.

Go Santas! It’s your birthday! Except it isn’t, not really. That’s okay, it’s December 26, and you’re ready to party like it’s February! You’ve got your best suit on, and for some strange reason you’re wearing more eyeliner than Mrs. Klaus, but that’s alright, she probably helped you put it on. I didn’t know Santa did the goth scene, that’s actually a little surprising.

Are you also digging on Santa’s magical third eyebrow? I am. Also, is he licking his lips in a manner not entirely unlike the floating lips at the beginning of the Rocky Horror Picture Show? I think I saw him there last Saturday. “Brad! Janet! Dr. Scott! Santa? Rudolph??”

Once Santa finishes getting his Kringle on, he takes it to the floor for a slow dance, maybe “Santa Baby” or a nice, slow version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” then he grabs his girl, holds her close, and…

Oh yeah, Santa’s got you under the mistletoe, baby, wrapping his red velvet loves around you for the gift of Christmas love. Not sure about the little red patent leather booties and the cotton balls he apparently glued to his robes, but Santa’s a player, he knows what those north pole chicks dig. Heavy, heavy beards, apparently.

And who’s the lucky girl who gets all the Kringle, from January through November?

That’s Mrs. Claus, and she is hot because she is filled with pepper. That’s what’s in the box, pepper for all the good little boys and girls. And, wow, she’s got the same makeover artist as Ming the Merciless, but she makes it a little more ladylike.

So…did you ever want to know what Santa’s up to the other 364 days of the year? That’s right, he golfs. Only…maybe he’s not getting any younger, it’s been a few years since 4th century Myrna. Santa is, in fact, a bit of a duffer. No-one tells him that because he’ll put you on the old Naughty List and he tends to doctor his scores a bit, but it’s true, and no-one knows that better than Mrs. Claus.

Santa! For the love of holly, watch where you’re swinging!

Oh the horror! Oh, the humanity! Why did someone let a ceramic Mrs. Claus on to the golf course? Why didn’t Santa NOTICE? Besides of course the hat pulled over his head and his ears plugged up because of the endless, endless jingling? Oh golf, oh Santa, gaze on the calamity you have wrought!

Heads and broken pieces of Mrs. Santa scattered across the green. Next time, switch to a wedge, Santa. You’re not to be trusted with those new metal woods.

Golfing Santa and Shattered Mrs. Claus from Savers North near Burnet and 2222, Glass Santasphere from Goodwill on 2222, Peppery Mrs. Claus from Savers South near 290 and Lamar, Dancing Santa and his Girl from Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha.