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

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

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

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

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

Probably.

Salvation Army near 183 and 620, Austin

Somehow, I don’t think being a semi-collectable vintage reproduction has really worked out for this kid. She–possibly he, maybe it, but we’ll go with she because of the amount of lace involved–aged pretty well, didn’t mess up her very nice dress over the years, even seems to have all her limbs–and that’s saying something, in a thrift store!

But the part where her head was shaved, and a substantial portion of her skull was replaced with a metal plate, didn’t go so well for her. That, we might go so far to say, was unfortunate, in that “My creature’s form, which I thought would be like that of an angel, now seemed to be abhorrent and twisted!” sense of the word unfortunate.

At LEAST try to get a decent seam around the edges. It’s a skull replacement, not a yarmulke.

Poor thing. I confess to having a soft spot for maimed dolls. That whole “created in our image, innocent and young, made to be defenseless, waiting for the nursery magic to make him-her-it a real boy-girl-heffalump” thing is on some level pretty powerful stuff. But on the other hand, you see an awful lot of nursery magic worst-case scenarios at Goodwill. The Nursery Magic Fairy is a horrible imp, like a first unrequited love that shows up again, when you’re like 93, abandoned by your kids in a nursing home, and says “oh, yeah, I’d love to go dancing tonight, I just now got your note, is 7:30 good?” and they haven’t aged a bit.

Though exactly why she needed to have her skull partially removed and replaced with a metal plate is one of those special thrift store mysteries. Was she wounded in the Crimean war? Did she receive a badge for heroism after smuggling medicines, gunpowder, letters from home, and 15 pounds of Twining’s Earl Grey to the troops in her chemisette and cranial cavity? I hope so, she really needs a medal or something.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Definitely not for internal use. Probably not to be used as a household cleanser or small god. Arguably not fit for conversation, or any sort of medical application.

Also not to be inserted into the front door of a birdhouse, no matter how “welcome” it might be–although that’s really more raw absurdity rather than any sort of “purpose,” decorative or otherwise.

Surprise! It’s a sparkly Indian woman with no arms! She’s ideally suited for decorative purposes. Two of them add that special element of “tra la” to weddings and funerals. Put one of them in your cubical when you take an unexpected day off, see if anybody notices. Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. Maybe they won’t, and you’ll get a small raise. These things happen.

The jury is out on this particular doll, gentle reader. Decorative though she may be, she seems strangely minimal-effort. I would never, personally, use a running stitch for eye shadow, it just seems lazy. Frankly, so to does mounting a bindu to the forehead with a metal spike. I don’t think they do that in India. Not even for decorative purposes.

Goodwill on Brodie in South Austin

I don’t know, this seems like enabling behavior. If your delightful little child is so terribly round, so perfectly ovoid that she has lost the ability to use her legs, and has to be perambulated about in a basket, you probably shouldn’t encourage that.

“Georgette…I’m sorry, oh so sorry, but we went down to the Winn-Dixie, and they didn’t have any more dresses in your size. So we made you this out of a tablecloth. But a real pretty tablecloth. Do you like it?”

“Mu huh hah hah. Pi cho manji ko manki do chalo Han Solo tho ku ba le chale. Hah hah.”

“That seems broadly positive…”

Or maybe it’s a new product from Kentucky Fried Chicken? The Rosy-Cheeked Blonde Family Basket? Each one comes with a side of biscuits and gravy, and a family-sized cole slaw. Also comes with a crow-bar to lever her out of there. That’s the hard part.

…I feel safe in this basket. Serene and at peace. In this basket, the world is small, and within it, I am small–Ooh! It’s the Burger Barn!

Aaanyway…

Savers on South Lamar, which has been an endless bastion of perfectly round life forms, for some reason.

There’s nothing quite like the Goodwill “Blue Hanger” outlet store. Except if you imagined Hurricane Katrina washing the entire contents of a “Family Dollar” store down the street, picking up bits of cruft and drek, then depositing it like an alluvial plain into a flea market on “Tax Free Weekend” Saturday, under a full moon. That’s kind of what the Goodwill outlet store is like, but not quite as nice.

Framed gnome? Don’t mind if I do!

This poor little guy was in the refuse of a massive trough full of “housewares,” a catch-all term which covers, well, anything that isn’t clothes. Shattered VCRs, unidentified pieces of home appliances, board games missing their win conditions…and gnomes, apparently. Unhappy, broken gnomes.

You find yourself drawing closer to the gnome, as if the gravity of the trough is pulling you inexorably gnomeward. You think…”Dear god. It’s full of gnome.” But you throw that thought away when you meet the gnome’s gaze, because obviously…

No loving god would allow this creature to exist. See how it suffers, how animals–ANIMALS, I tell you, or Goodwill Depot shoppers, which are arguably more vicious than a pack of wild dogs at a pizza buffet–tore its beard free, its only real dignity. Felt eyes stare into a future that’s too bleak to even contemplate. Throw him back in the bin. Face down, it’ll be a fun surprise for the next person.

SPECIAL BONUS! If for some reason you’d like to use the SCREAMING FACE OF GNOME for your own desktop background, the Thrifthorror Management apologizes for the following link, wherein you may find screaming gnome in all his original glory. Do with this what you will, the management will tell no-one.

Goodwill outlet on Burleson near Highway 71

I’m not sure this is horrifying, not really, but as I look out the window and note that the trees are not just sagging, but actually MELTING, and that Texas summer survival suggestions often include “stop, drop and roll,” I think…better you than me, sister.

Wow. I’m not sure what level of decadence Victorian England actually aspired to, but if this was what all the fashionable ladies of London were wearing, the entire Scottish wool industry would have gone on strike. “Your dress,” this fashion would have said, “Your dress is like a potholder, and you, lady, are the pot…and how hot you are!”

Which worked well in my head, but I’m not sure how many people would like being compared, favorably or unfavorably, to a pot.

“I am WHAT, sir? Could you please repeat that? I fear the thick layer of wool muffled the tenor of your words, as well as the chill of the winter air.”

Heavy macrame bonnets. Yard upon yard of thick woolen flounces. This is a style that just won’t scale up very well.

From the side, though, I’m not reminded so much of a dress as much as the image of a pretty young lady slowly, over the course of years, being engulfed by brain coral. Or maybe some other ocean-going invertebrate, like the interior ruffles of a squid. Pinky-purple isn’t a flattering color, less so if your train weighs 750 pounds and smells sharply of a spill in a lanolin refinery.

Thrift Town near Manchacha and Stassney, Austin

Late night, in  the thrift store, they tell stories–stories like the headless horseman, or like the headless horse, or the headless, armless football player, who was technically a headless armless football-less football player, and might have actually been playing a different game entirely.

Sometimes, they say, if you listen real close, you can still hear them being marked down.

But no story is told with the same amount of shiver, the same don’t-look-over-your-shoulder dread, as the story of the weeping scarecrow of Aisle 13.

Do what the bear does.  Keep your head down, find something else to do, move slowly away, and if at all possible, avoid eye contact.

I’m not sure if she’s a doll, a decoration, or a public service announcement promoting compassion for paraplegics. I’m leaning toward the latter. She’s got that “brother can you spare an arm?” look that I haven’t seen since the ill-fated multiple-amputee walkathon. Which, admittedly, seemed like a pretty good idea on paper, but the hilly San Francisco district was not the best choice, and these things are all about location.

I really want to talk to the artist about “artistic vision.” Why the tear-filled, sorrowful expression? Is she pining for the hug, the words, the nursery magic that would one day make her into a real frizzy-haired, moon-faced, ham-armed tragedy? Because if so, this entire project is just ill-thought-out. I don’t know, it just looks like she’s trying to make me feel guilty for something I did. Like I accidentally misplaced her arms and replaced them with sacks of flour. Like she’s accusing the world. The world needs to tell her “no, we didn’t do it, and we don’t know where your arms are. Please go away now.” Take a stand, people!

 
Texas Thrift on 51st and I35, Austin

What is she thinking, that sassy little cube girl? She’s planning something delightfully mischievous. She’s thinking about stealing green apples from the farmer’s tree, maybe knocking on some doors and hiding, possibly about selling junk bonds in a leveraged buyout. Good, old-fashioned country fun.

Straw hat, impish grin, peat moss hair–the girl’s made of country. Give her a glass of sasparilla–or just maybe an icy coke–and a jar full of lightning bugs, and you’ve made her summer night. Except…except for her arms. Her puffy, puffy arms.

Really, I don’t know how many hi-jinks you could get into, or how high they would be if you could even access them, if your arms were two gingham-wrapped bolsters, and your legs were basically the same, but longer and with more lace, could you really even successfully manage a single shenanigan? She’s optimistic, I’ll give her that, particularly from someone that’s 70% platonic solids, and a couple of floral print tubes.

A girl like that, she’ll break your heart, and leave you smiling. Or, her head will roll off and end up under the cabinet. Either way.

Likewise, a country-fresh find from the St. Vincent De Paul’s near 620 and I35, Austin. She was there for…months. Edging on to a year. I wonder if someone finally took pity on her, or if they just gave up. On the one hand, it seems kind of tragic if they threw her away, she’s got a certain spirit that deserves more than the dustbin. On the other hand, we’re deep into the realm of minimal effort country kitsch here, maybe we should turn back.

Oh, Texas Thrift Store. You amaze me. I thought, growing up in a town with a dozen vintage stores within a block of each other, I’d seen–really experienced–thrift. You taught me otherwise. You taught me to fear thrift, respect thrift.

This chain is astonishing. Four huge locations, each the size of a grocery store, each filled with…really, the cream of the crap. Everything I’d hope to find–horrible handicrafts, disturbing wall art, inexplicable small appliances, and a few gems. I’m not going to give up the 183 and Research Goodwill’s class ring over it, but maybe I’ll have to apologize afterward, bring it some flowers, you know.

Is this a cultural artifact? I’ve seen a few of her now, mystifying, strangely beautiful ladies, wearing gowns spun from the purest egg carton, delicately festooned with glitter and sequins like they were dancing a spiralling pavanne under magical fairies–incontinent magical fairies.

…So beautiful. And yet so strangely like an android. An android wearing several egg cartons, and a crown of pipe cleaners. Were she only life-sized, she could be swept off her feet by a handsome prince, or a really stiff wind. Wheee!

I thought this was for something like a quinceañera, where a young girl gets all dressed up like she never did before and never will again, really comes out like a shining star, but I think this may be a little more like that scene at the end of “The Little Mermaid” where the heroine comes out wearing a dress made out of coral and angry cuttlefish, squawking voicelessly, before she drags her betrothed to her foamy, under-sea lair and endlessly dresses him in squid. Disney really did pretty up the story for the modern audience.

…So beautiful.

I’m not sure if this could legitimately be called a “horror” or not. But it does seem to hearken back to the holy grail of the bargain bin that is Goodwill–1970s handicrafts. And “Things That Seemed Like Good Ideas After We Had a Few.” The artist, after a quick count, seems to have had about 104. Phantom beer tabs–make that pull tabs, we’ve gone waaay back in our beverage history–form a mandala of used delights, topped by little pats of embroidery floss that look like tiny swirls of mustard from the end of a pâtissière‘s semi-automatic paper cone (sputsputsputsputsput!!)

For some reason, a very few of these are red. Is this a sophisticated statement about race in a postmodern society, or did the artist run out of yellow twine? We may never know.

Shortly before we left the Texas Thrift Store on South Flores, we discovered Satan. But he’ll wait until Friday.