The dangers of a heavily-seriffed font in the wrong hands! Let that be a warning. Or, maybe you WANTED to have a merth Christmas. To each their own, I suppose.

Santa and his impossibly narrow reindeer were part of a set of pencil-thin Christmas decorations–I don’t really have a better word than decorations. Sadly, both of them had been beaten down for their one salvageable part–their light bulb noses.

I don’t know why Santa had a light-bulb nose, unless he’s really been hitting the Christmas sherry. Actually, that, and then taking a sleigh ride through the sky at something like twice the speed of sound, would probably do it, so far as red noses go. Who needs Rudolph?

Don’t they make a cute pair? And Santa’s sporting some fine boots there! Those aren’t just platform shoes, they’re actual planks. I still think a good firm gust of wind would knock ‘em both down. Reindeers are notorious lightweights. On the plus side, Santa’s diet’s really paying off this year!

It’s a Precious Moments recursive nativity scene. If you can’t tell, the angel next to Jesus in the center is giving the baby Jesus a “my first nativity” set, still in box. You can actually open the box, too. But you probably shouldn’t, because fractal nativities really exist better in a potential state than an actualized one.

Clausbot 2.o is both modular and storeable. Each unit of Clausbot, which is over 50 feet tall and fully able to crush a forest of conifers and a small cottage, fits inside itself using our EZ-stack technology–well, except for his massive tank-tread base, we really don’t have a crate big enough for that. We assume this functionality will be useful in some alternate dimension where giant, military-grade Santas need convenient storage.

This is a somewhat “South Park” interpretation of Mrs. Claus, an obese monstrosity made of cut-outs, drifting and settling over a small city like a cloud of festive, gingerbread-scented nuclear fallout. She also really needs more vitamin C in her diet. I don’t like to think of Mrs. Claus as suffering from scurvy.

She seems to be built to grace the corner of a door or shelf or something, some sort of wooden ornament overhang thing. Like some lurking Christmas spider clinging to the wall, waiting to drop unexpectedly on the heads of the naughty. No thank you, Mrs. Claus! We’ll take our chances with Santa.

Um…Santa?

Santa creeps catlike through the snow, crouching catlike, waiting to strike. There’s a flash of movement, a blur of beard and red velvet, and then the sickening smell of torn elf and lightly-used eggnog. Santa…Santa feeds.

Another Santa that’s showing the ill effects of 1.3 million too many sherries as he flew over England this year. I want to be the kid at the end of his route, when he’s nicely sloshed and twice as jolly. “Idn’t care iff he’s naughty or nice. Fill it up. Just jam all kinds of stuff in there. Heeey, give him one of th’reindeer. Kids love reindeer.”

Unless Santa’s an angry drunk. I’m pretty sure the poem called him a “right jolly old lush,” but they could be sugar-coating things for the kids. Best to stay in your room if you hear anything downstairs on Christmas. Particularly a crash, the sound of broken ornaments, and swearing.

Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah, penguins.

Wait for it, wait for it, he’s near the hole…he doesn’t know that I’m Santa…okay, now! *bonk*

Well, Santa’s gotta eat, too. Though he shouldn’t have to travel to the South pole for dinner. I’m pretty sure the Russians fly Santa up a shipment of penguins every few months, just to make him a little  freer with the “nices.”

“Merth Christmas” pair from Goodwill near Goodwill Computers, 183 and I35. Recursive Nativity from Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha, which, alas, closed recently (it moved a few miles away). Boxy Claus and Santa and the Penguin from Goodwill on 2222, wretched green-faced Mrs. Claus from Savers at South Lamar, weirdly kittenish Santa from Savers on North Loop and Burnet.

New Year’s Day, and we’ve finally gotten the dogs to come out from underneath the sofa. Hope everybody had their requisite amounts of pyrotechnics, champagne, and black-eyed peas last night! Or at least one out of three.  This little guy’s clearly had his fill of consumer-grade explosives for the year.

This WAS in the Christmas section. I feel confident that, somewhere, giving a waif a mid-sized explosive on the end of a string is traditional, though my google-fu is failing me on what culture might celebrate the solstice in this manner. He…he looks shocked.

“It’s okay, boy,” the nutcracker said, a not-altogether-unwarm hand on his shoulder. “Your first one’s always a little startling. Next Christmas, you’ll be a pro.”

Cake decorations? Flowers? Publicity still from the new Broadway production of “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert?”

I’m not ruling out “Priscilla,” but I’m still a bit lost on the actual-factual. I’m operating under the assumption that this is Christmas fare,  sort of a “three kings” riff, but the weirdly-placed regional pride is not helping me here.

Bueller? Bueller? I did some double-checking, and the flag is the flag of Puerto Rico. The hats, though, are not as far as I know the hats of Puerto Rico, unless Puerto Rico has an unusually high fabulosity level. Something, somewhere, is clearly lost in translation.

“And lo, there came three wise men from the East, bearing gifts of frankincense, and snails, and calla lilies. But just their heads came, that’s how wise they were, and Jesus wept.”

Angel, or bird? Which has the tiniest brain capacity? My bet’s on the bird. Did you know if you hold your ear up to an angel’s head, you can hear the ocean? It looks like both of them are going to break out into cheerful whistling noises any second.

“Did you invite him?”
“No…uh…I’ve never heard of him. But I think he brought better gifts. At least, better than myrrh.”
“Generally toys go over better at a baby’s first Christmas than funerary balms.”
“He only brought dolls. They’re kind of girly, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but it’s still not myrrh.”

“I never got a doll…”

“I sold my hair to buy him a chain for his wristwatch, but by then, he’d already lost his hand in a bar bet. So…pretty typical Christmas, all told.”

Creepy little guy…”Would you like my other hand for Christmas? It’s yours, just say the word. My hand, your stocking. That…that should have sounded better than it did.”

This Christmas..
for the people you love…
give the gift of springs.

Boiiiiing!!!!

Boom! from Junior League of Austin on Burnet and 49th, enigmatic magi from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, horrible vacant angel from Savers on South Lamar, “Boiing” and “How’d he get here?” from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, and distressing angel in blue from Salvation Army on 1325 in Round Rock.

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.

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.

Not everybody’s cut out for Santa’s workshop. Sure, it’s mostly happy-go-lucky fun and gingerbread-dances, but there’s a couple wee little guys out there that don’t get to help make toys (and, as a consequence, don’t get to come to the gingerbread-dances, because Santaland is a meritocracy. Nobody ever said Christmas was fair, just look at what your sister got last year.)

This guy–or girl, I really can’t tell with elves–really hasn’t been the same since the incident with the Slot. You remember how you’re not supposed to lean out the window on the bus, or stand up on the roller coaster, or disable the safety on the food processor with a bent paperclip and then explain to your sister how you feel about Christmas stocking disparity, and the magic food fairy at the bottom of the Cuisinart? That’s pretty much the Slot in a nutshell.

Coins go into the Slot. If you’re lucky, folded up fivers go into the Slot, though that is something of a rarity.

Arms…arms do not go in.

Goodwill on 183 and Metric, Austin

ital

Don’t worry about the dog. The vet assures us that the final stages are relatively painless.

At least, painless to the dog. The viewing audience may have a different opinion.

I’m not sure why any artist would, upon commencing a sculpture of a great dane, would say “Sherbet!” But, there you go. The only great dane available in a whimsical combination of grape and lime.

Though really, that mouth looks more like a Frank Herbert-esque Sandworm than any sort of canine. He could totally wrap those jowls around a prize-winning watermelon. I’m not sure where to go with that image, so I’ll just leave it there on the floor for the night staff to clean up.

Really, if Gahan Wilson could design his own housepets, he’d get this little guy. The three-week-old banana of the Cruft dogs show. He may actually be breed standard for the Greater Louisiana Flap-lipped Phlemhound, but until the powers that be recognize the breed–and they only just now got around to recognizing the Mexican Hairless–we’ll have to wait for him to place in the “disgusting and slime-coated” category.

Savers on Burnet and North Loop, 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

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