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

I’m not sure exactly what he is, but he’s sincere, and I do like his mustache and winning smile. And if that isn’t a ribbon for “Miss Congeniality 2011,” it sure as heck should be.

Is he a tiny little polyp with a heartwinning grin? Is he an ambulatory cerebral cortex stalking through a dungeon on little green tentacles, waiting to burrow through some dungeon-delver’s skull, tear out (possibly devour) their brain and replace it with its own mass? These are not exclusive concepts. Most things that want to practice a little freelance trepanning, burrow into your skull, and replace their intelligence with yours have a disarming smile. Like that guy I met last night at “Woody’s.”

Is it some sort of octopus with a skin condition? A tragic, yet resolutely cheerful, example of man’s inhumanity to the oceans, wrapped up in a twist-tie deathgrip of discarded plastic, the chemical deterioration of its mantel showing the mutated brain structure underneath…somehow much bigger, and more active, than any cephalopod has a right to?

Really, about the most we’re prepared to say right now, is that it’s Paco.

And frankly we’re lucky to know that much, we were afraid it might be Jeanette.

Paco from the Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

The fact that this is obviously a bookend bothers me. That implies that there’s a second one somewhere.

Let’s talk color palate, could we? I’d like to. I’d particularly like to have this discussion with the artist, because words need to be had. I’ll accept that “pink elephants” is kind of a trope, sure. But did you have to go all crazy high saturation on the flowers? A nice, muted color scheme would have been just fine, really. A nice gentle green, an orange that didn’t come out of a highlighter.

On second thought, anything against that particular shade of pink is going to look a little jarring. If you colored “Whistler’s Mother” in that shade of pink, it’d look like an old-lady rave.

I’m not really sure what that bow is tied onto. It’d have to be either glued down, nailed in, or delicately tied around a lump of wrinkly pink skin. Only the glue option is really a pleasant thought, in that “gluing things to an elephant’s scalp” sense of the word “pleasant.”

Honestly, the more I stare at this, the less I think “elephant” and the more I think “mind flayer.” It’s the pink. And the huge soulful staring eyes, I’m pretty sure mind flayers have those. Pweeze? Pwetty pweeze can I flay your mind?

Anyway.

Savers on South Lamar, Austin

Oh, but we had a special day in late June. Some nice person had unloaded something like a dozen of finger-painted, crazy-coat ceramic masterpieces on the 2222 Goodwill. Each of them was a special flower. But some of them…some of them were just specialer.

Take Cujo here.

It’s like the titular character from Blue’s Clues finally gave up on teaching kids to count and solve simple problems, and went forth to end it all in a storm of blood and glory. Obviously, Nickelodean is a much edgier network than I ever gave them credit for.

Say hello, Blue!

…good…dog.

Aaand, Blue has a friend! A cousin, maybe even, in that uniquely DIY ceramic sense of the word, a brother. Or a sister. Or whatever strange gender arrangements they practice on a planet populated entirely by blood-spattered canines with glowing blue eyes.

Gaze upon it with care. The last person to meet the creature’s eyes is now distributed in small piles across the back yard.

Really, my day would have been made with just the wonder twins there, but it only got weirder.

If you took a frog, and threw him, as hard as you could, at Jackson Pollack when he was painting, this is what you’d get. That, and a confusing series of dots and splatters with a frog-shaped smudge halfway down the canvas, and a really pissed-off abstract-expressionist. But the frog? He doesn’t mind. He’s mellow, at peace. He would like a chance to wash the black paint off his face generally and out of his eyes in particular, but he’s easy, whatever.

But these creatures were mere stepping stones, guardians on the path, to the thing that was waiting at the end of the aisle.

Because combat boots with THAT dress is clearly the sign of a mind far past the madness horizon and accelerating.

In honor of the new “Smurfs” movie, and what a great honor it is, we proudly present…whatever the hell these things are.

Which are probably smurfs. Or at least “inspired by” smurfs, in the sort of loose, Hollywood sense of “inspired by” which gave us “The Cat and the Hat: The Movie: The Video Game.” Oh, and what pseudosmurfs these are! Distorted by a ham-fisted sculptor and the terror of the Peyo Estate’s mighty army of copyright lawyers, these poor little blue guys are weird, must un-smurfy mutations of their original selves. I think I’ll call them Smiirfs, to distinguish them from a childhood memory I still have some love for.

The poor guy on the left has had it the worst. They stole his knees. THEY STOLE HIS KNEES!! The ubiquitous smurf tight-fitting speedo briefs, rather than being the sexy figure-hugging weapon of seduction that they are, now become something more like a diaper wrapped around some sort of overweight fungus in an ageplay-mycophilia smashup so unpleasant there isn’t a fetish group about it, even in Japan.

And yet, he’s still happy. Thumbs up, squashed, bloated blue truffle thing. Go put on some clothes now. You’re past your smurfkini days, sir. Plus, your chain is clashing with your mascara, we can’t have that.

Then there’s Papa Smiirf.

Who’s in a commanding, “Paul Bunyan” sort of pose, and has graduated from the smurfkini to some sort of smurfy red overalls. But there’s something wrong, so wrong, with his head. it’s about as head-shaped as an ice cream cone, a weird blue wedge suggesting a container from which smurf-type products, like smurfpaste and Preparation S, can be squeezed. Just get a grip on him and remove the red cap.

We are officially creeped out by his plumage, facial and otherwise. The beard is very strange–more like a thin paste spread evenly over his neck and chin, maybe to baste on some flavor, maybe he just wants a shave (just don’t touch the chest, it’s 70′s night at Studio 54.)

Oh…and call Boris Karloff. Someone’s stolen his hair.

Goodwill on Metric and 183, and they were there for WEEKS.

This is the cat that gave up. That’s it, it’s time to go to sleep. We no longer care about performing useful services like keeping the house pest-free, playing with yarn, or even making sure our nostrils are on straight. No, we are throwing in the catnip ball, because we have met the mouse. We have met the mouse, and we are afraid of the mouse.

Well, I’m afraid of the mouse, anyway. It’s some sort of horrible mouse automaton, chrome eyebrows, and chameleon eyes that roll crazily in two different directions. And it looks like it’s about to launch a golf ball across the room. It’s actually a rare mouse that can do that, most of them can’t take a golf ball, and have to content themselves with launching English peas across the table, frankly, not much of a threat.

Oh…and is this mouse married? It’s got a ring on its hand, even over its giant “rated for hazardous waste” thickness glove. Does that mean there’s a pair of them? That they’re breeding MORE of these gargantuan, golf-ball-spitting rodent terrors? Heaven help us. Heaven help us all.

Dear Aunt KC. Thank you for the unearthly hellmouse. Next year, please don’t.

Found together at the Goodwill on Lamar and Manchacha, Austin



Using only the AMAZING HEAD POWERS granted to me by my magical blood hat, I shall control the very mind of this cactus!

Which is actually harder than it sounds. Cactuses are pretty sharp.

I’m not sure about wearing the aztec style headdress and the white tank top, though. It kind of looks like you’re wearing the bib there, Mr. Plant Guy. Or were the only guy to bring your cactus to the foam party. Not a good idea. The cactus would pop all the bubbles, and then everybody would think you’re not into the whole foam party headspace.

Hello, Mr. Plant Guy?

Hello?

…Oh. I can see you’re in some sort of demonic trance. Please don’t let me get in your way. As you were.

I would gladly buy a Dr Pepper for anyone who can tell me what’s going on here. Is this Quetztaplaxtal, the Aztec god of cacti and bangle bracelets, communing with his bride on the rocky cliffs? Just possibly. Is there a reason why he wears bloody leg-warmers? Yes. It’s probably a complicated metaphor for sex, or a rain-making ritual. Ultimately, sex is really just a complicated metaphor for making rain.

Now, iss he aiming is red-eyed baleful stare of infinite evil power at the poor cactus? And does the special blood-red hat of power with the golden concentration crystal let him channel his massive powers into the cactus? Perhaps. We’ll never know, though, because it’s a cactus, and honestly, they’re not good for much.

Aztec Cactus God from Goodwill on 222, Austin.

Something went powerful wrong at the cat factory last week.

It wasn’t every day that the corpses of dead cats lurched to their feet in a stumbling mockery of life, mewling their alien hunger to the uncaring, breathing world. Really, it was only Wednesdays, because Wednesday was zombie cat day, had been for years. But this was a special Wednesday.

This Wednesday, Design had gone to a bit of extra effort in their zombie cat, added a touch of something special. Nobody’d ever thought to stitch a bit of dalmation fur into the mix for contrast, or add some floral print shower curtain for a splash of color, a way to add a tropical theme to the ol’ god-forsaken abomination.

Usually when they reanimate the cat, it moans and wanders in a more or less straight line. They didn’t often hide their face in embarrassment, but you really had to feel sorry for this one. Bad enough to be dead and stitched together from cat scraps. Worse that someone had a sense of whimsy about the entire thing.

Never did see that cat again. Kind of a relief.

Meow!

Take a walk on the wild side. Or at least, take a drink on the wild side. We don’t endorse drinking out of something wiht a picture of a leopard on it, particularly with no brand name, or ingredients, or even a warning label—”warning, may cause a leopard-like aftertaste in pregnant women.” We assume that if you pour yourself a tall glass of leopard, you’re probably pretty open-minded, and willing to suffer a bit for your beverage. But no-one suffers like Lumpo, the Special Needs Leopard.

The other leopards laughed at Lumpo. They did not laugh cruelly, because really, Lumpo the Leopard had it coming. Creatures that try to hunt down gazelles with whimsical hamhocks instead of forepaws need to be able to take a bit of good-spirited derision. And any top-level predator with a floral-print coat, even in neutral savannah tones, is going to get ribbed, just a little bit. Heck, even the aardwolves laughed at Lumpo. And they were fricking aardwolves.

But Lumpo wasn’t concerned.

He really had bigger things to worry about.

Like, why his eyes pointed in different directions, and the way his face occasionally faded into a vague blur. That REALLY worried Lumpo, though the hamhock thing was a bit of a concern. No-one likes their face smudged off into the ether, it’s undignified.

Lumpo the Leopard from Savers on South Lamar; Frankencat from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, Austin.

…Of course, the LAST person to ask, “what’s in the cart?” That person we haven’t seen, not for a long time. People don’t ask that question much these days. They don’t ask where the jelly beans come from, they don’t ask about the colors on the eggs, and they don’t ask, “what’s in the cart?”

But you know, the out-of-towners, sometimes they don’t know enough not to ask. They think the Easter Bunny’s all about “hippity hoppity,” and “Here Comes Peter Cottentail.” And if there’s another song about the Easter bunny, they probably think that, too.

But before you throw too many questions around, mister…

or miss…

You need to ask yourself, what’s it worth to me?

Do I want to be in the cart?

I didn’t think so.

I really must speak to our friends across the ocean in the great Easter Bunny manufacturing plants about their rabbits. I must talk to them about their rabbits with bloody, frothy muzzles, and how they are distributed to Easter shoppers across the world in cardboard boxes that obscure their horrible faces, and how people throw them in the “Goodwill” basket with the thought that, whether the damned thing gets purchased by some weird ironic hipster or tossed in the crap ceramics bin, at least it’s out of the house. I must talk to these Easter barons from across the ocean, and I must thank them. They do good work.

Tell me about flowers. Do they really come in all the colors in the world? Sometimes when I smell one, I can just about imagine what red smells like…

Cart bunny from Goodwill on 183 and Metric (and if I haven’t said it lately,”Thank you,” Goodwill on 183 and Metric. If you have some time for a drink or something, call me.) Red-muzzled bag-bunny from Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha, blind, blind bunny from Texas Thrift, I35 near 51st Street.

It’s been a while since we’ve talked about puppies. Let’s fix that. Let’s have a puppy moment.

Are you going to eat that? Are you? Maybe you should just put that plate down. You know you want to. Maybe just a few fries. Nice and low, like on the floor. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine. Would this face lie?

That’s exactly like what my dog looks like when I go roller skating while holding two roast turkeys. Or a pretzel. Or really anything vaguely edible. The careful placement between two glasses is a clever camoflage…put the food on me…I am really a dinner plate, I only LOOK like a dog…and to be fair, not much like a dog…

Now, onward to squirrels.

This squirrel is making me distinctly uncomfortable. I’m trying to imagine what it would look like if it was actually in use. First, it’d be on its side, and filled with nuts. This may be, on the surface, pretty much squirrel “dream come true,” but they’re not inside him like “oh, that was a great bowl of nuts, what’s for dessert? More nuts? Don’t mind if I do!” but inside like “scoop the internal cavity out, fill with almonds.” Not pleasant.

And then you’d ram two pecan-winklers and a pair of second-rate, chrome-covered pliers into him. It’s like Excalibur on a tiny, comical scale. “Whosoever pulleth out pecan-winkler ‘Excalibur’ from this squirrel shall reign as king…of nuts.”

And yet, somehow, he keeps smiling. And unless his teeth are foam-rubber, that’s got to hurt. I admire his dedicated to mirth even when his teeth are shoved widdershin by an uncrackable acorn. There may be something…special…mixed with his nuts. I hope it’s codine.

Dreadfully focused dog from Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha. Weirdly happy squirrel from Goodwill on Parmer near I35.