I tried to help him, I did. He was such a sad frog, I tried to, you know, lift his spirits a little, put him back on his feet in some small way.
Sadly, it didn’t work.
This is what the toy section of Thrift Town does to you. It breaks your spirit, and your back, and makes you wear comically chunky plastic shoes. Of course, being made of terrycloth might have the same effect. Five minutes in a giant green towel can make anybody wilt, particularly an amphibian. If you had a football team, and your home town game was widely considered improved if it was rained out, this could easily be your mascot.
“We’re the Makinaw Frogs.”
“The Frogs?”
“Yes. Frogs.”
“The Fighting Frogs, maybe?”
“We fought. We fought once. Never again.”
“It’s still not much of a name. You can’t really rally around it, can you? You could at least be, I don’t know, the Brave Frogs, or the Raging Frogs.”
“The Orthopedic Frogs.”
“Not planning on going to state, are you?”
“Not really, no.”
But this level of despair really wants to be set…to music. Enjoy.
Emo Frog from Thrift Town on Stassney and Manchaca, Austin
I heard an interesting little article on National Public Radio a while back about one of the last snowglobe repair people on the planet. How he carried different kinds of goo and snow and little festive parts, and knew how to replace dirty snow globe “water” with fresh, even transparent, versions of same, so that heirloom snow globes and little dioramas of precious memories could be. That man…that man has not touched any of these. Probably he would not touch any of these, except if he brushed them accidentally while putting up a tasteful sign apologizing on behalf of the general craft of snowglobing.
Really, the shock wasn’t finding Santa in a gutter. That was one of those “the other 364 days” events. But this year, the police suspected foul play. Not one of the elves…granted, they’d have the motivation, but elves don’t have the brain cells God gave a garbanzo bean. That only left Mrs. Claus, and Rudolph. Their alleged plan: kill Big Red and run off to some place a little less “the north pole.”
They would have gotten away with it except for the hoofprints and reindeer pellets around the body. Another plot foiled, but another Chris Kringled.
No doubt about it, Mr. And Mrz. Fezziwig’s annual Christmas Ball was the highlight of the year in East End Victorian London. At least it was, until the 1886 tragedy, brought about, no doubt, by one too many shipping pallets of plum puddings.
One too many racks of puddings, one too many quadrilles…one too many Christmas fatalities. The way the warehouse lurched horribly in 6/8 time was mentioned in several popular tabloids, and placed as a six on the Rossi-Forel Earthquake Intensity scale.
Gentlemen, let this tragedy be of some small moral instruction to both yourselves and your acquaintances of the fairer sex: After your sixth pudding, put down your spoons.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
The shipment of tiny snowglobes to the village of Spurge’s End was a richly appreciated annual tradition. There was some fear of the choking hazard, but because of a rare condition achieved through dedicated inbreeding, the people of Spurge’s End had no mouths.
I’m not sure if this is a snowglobe that was broken when someone threw a santa head into it, or a snow globe that was shattered when the santa head trapped within tried to escape, seeking no doubt to rejoin itself to its body. Someone threw a santa head through my sister’s window last year when we were visiting family. It was terrible, the place smelled like fruitcake for a month.
Aaaand, a not-a-snowglobe, but in the broad family of snowglobe-like-phenomena. This gives you some sense of what it must be like to actually be Santa, on his one special night. A sense of festivity, generosity, and acute motion sickness. It’s kind of impressive what Rudolph was able to do once he kicked all the dead weight off the sleigh…well, almost all the dead weight. Enjoy, but take some Dramamine first.
Mrs. Fezziwig’s Stomp, Mach 30 sleigh ride, A Message from the Elves, and “ooooh…” snow globe from Goodwill on 183 and Metric. Death in the Snow snowglobe from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin.
The Christmas it snowed blood, oh, what a year that was. Grandfather would often tell us stories about those long-ago blood-christmasses, how the world was covered in a thick carpet of red gore, and when the moon shown on it just right, late at night, it was kinda…kinda horrible. We thought those special Christmasses were long long past, possibly entirely fictitious, until we got our own bloodfall.
What fun we had, throwing bloodballs at each other, the sound of children laughing, or screaming, it’s hard to tell sometimes. But I’m sure they enjoyed it, except for ma, who had to wash the clots off our warm winter clothes.
Nobody’d ask where the blood came from. Grandpa would always say something kinda vague, like “looks like the angels are playing hockey!” or “We said that’s what happened when Santa made a reindeer roast for Christmas Dinner,” or “when can I get out of this place and go home?” Some of us tried to skate on Newfield Pond, but that was doomed from the beginning. Kind of like trying to slide through a frozen pudding. You really didn’t want to try a double-axle, you’d get a face full of something pretty nasty.
So we contented ourselves with playing silly blood games, decorating the christmas tree with sparkling clumps of gore, you know, what everyone would do on a magical day like this.
I think someone may have skinned my 3rd Grade teacher to get this sweater. There must be a special catalog they all shop from.
This next guy isn’t really a horror, per se, but he is awfully stupid. And very, very excitable.
You have to imagine him either trampling through the snow yelling “Santa! SANTA! Can I help fly the sleigh this year, pleeeeeease?” the other reindeer–even Rudolph, and he’s had more than a few lumps of coal in the stocking of life, muttering…just keep flying, please don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t turn around…”
Apparently, this was a candle holder of some kind? Which is a little terrifying. Kind of like a festive Yuletide “Wicker Man,” or some nightmarish way to torture a reindeer that managed to fuck up one Christmas too many…”Oh god, it burns, just…kill me, Santa…” (Arms flail wildly, maybe a little festively)
Something from the “minimal effort Christmas” family, I think. If it’s the thought that counts, maybe someone should think a little harder.
I assume this is Christmas, it’s got a sprig of holly on it. I also assume these are horses, because tube socks don’t have ears and a mane.
If my sister had ever said, “I want a pony for Christmas,” this is probably what she would have gotten. Or else something that Mrs. Corleone might have embroidered for Jack Woltz as an extremely creepy Hanukkah gift in the Godfather Christmas special, the one where Vito Corleone is visited by, like, eight ghosts and learns the true meaning of Christmas. “I’m going to stitch you an ornament you can’t refuse” sort of thing. We’d watch that one every year when I was a kid.
I think this guy escaped from the little-known Rankin/Bass Christmas Special, “Jack Frost Vs. the Angry Snow Gods.” A lot of the dynamic duo’s later work just didn’t make any sense at all, I didn’t think it could get weirder than “The Life & Adventures of Santa Claus.” (or Thundercats. Did anybody else know that? I didn’t know that.) But, no, things can always get weirder in RankinBassland.
Tremble before the Snowflake King and his 5.7 million subjects!!
Honestly, I don’t think I would have been quite so cavalier about snowball fights if I’d known that the snowflakes had little tiny faces, and probably little tiny hopes and dreams (very tiny ones that melted at 33° f, but still, dreams nonetheless.) Thankfully, we only have snow in Austin, Texas one year in seven. I don’t know how people in Minnesota live with themselves. So much blood on their hands. Particularly during those three-foot-high bloodfalls I’ve seen sweatervests about.
This one was from another little-known Christmas special, they’d only run it past 10:30 so. I never got to see it when I was growing up. Now that it’s been released on The Warner Archives, I’m not sure what all the fuss was about.
“Mad Monster Party” was a lot worse. Seriously, Phyllis Diller vamping it up will leave scars that Frosty showing us his snow face never would.
Now, Frosty would like you to put his sordid past behind him, and just have a merry Christmas, okay? Forget all about his “Blue Christmas” special and move the hell on.
Or he’ll club this poodle.
Fields of Snowblood Sweater from Goodwill’s Blue Hanger, which is always a magical wonderland no matter what time of year it is. Flailbot Reindeer from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, horses needlepoint from Savers on South Lamar, Snowflake God from Goodwill near 183 and I35 behind Goodwill Computers, “Snow Job” from Goodwill on Parmer near I35, and “Merry Christmas or I’ll club this Poodle” from Goodwill near 620 on 183, all Austin. And a Christmas “Thank you” to our stunt model, Dierdre! I’m sure I misspelled your name again :)
I knew I was supposed to do something today…what was it? Something…something…Ach, it’s going to be hanging over my head all day!
One of my favorite things about the “Last Supper” picture is how it looks like one of the Marys has grabbed a camera, and everybody’s squeezing to get into the shot—that, and how everyone’s sitting on one side of the table. It’s like God himself staged a publicity shot. It’s a wonder none of the disciples is putting a “rabbit ears” on Peter, they were always ragging on him.
Frankly, though, the entire thing looks a little claustrophobic. It would be a LOT easier to fit everyone at the table if they were one amorphous lump of flesh.
I’m just saying.
One thing that a lot of people did not know about the last supper—but when you think about it, it makes a lot of sense, what with the extremely high Hebrew content of the evening—was that it was actually bagels. And small rocks.
There weren’t a lot of takers on the small rocks. And this horrible, awkward silence when Jesus said, “This is my body.” And Simon said, “Oh really? Which part?” And usually Jesus is really good on the snappy comebacks, but he was having a bad evening, and just shook his head sadly. The evening kind of went downhill then.
It’s also not widely known that fully half the disciples were conjoined twins.
They wore thick heavy scarves to disguise the fact that they had vestigial heads wobbling on their shoulders. Sometimes three, four heads. Scary stuff.
Mind you, not everybody brought their extra heads. Bartholomew left his head at home. He totally didn’t get into the multicerebral spirit of the thing. It was supposed to be a big surprise for Jesus, everybody’d leap out and say “SURPRISE!!! Two-head party!”
And SOME people didn’t get the updated memorandum, the one that said the theme was “vestigial heads” and not “cheesy 1940s werewolves.” And then Matthew started copping an attitude about the whole thing, said that Simon kept changing plan at the last minute, he was ALWAYS changing the plan at the last minute, and Judas left in a pissy huff, which was really it. Thaddeus was going to take Jesus out for breakfast, but he disappeared, and the next time anyone saw him was Easter and all the restaurants are totally full after church, PARTICULARLY on Easter. It was generally agreed…there had been better Fridays.
Last Supper from Texas Thrift, near 51st and I35. Frustrated Jesus Glowers on Chair from 183 and Metric Goodwill.
We here at Thrifthorror would like to applaud the DIY community, because without people willing to go the extra mile–check that, the extra five feet–we would have to work to find material. Amateur craftsman, we salute you.
But finding a ham-fisted glassworking project? That’s a treat.
It’s good to recognize the limits of your craft. Let’s say you’re making an hourglass. Further, let’s say that you’re not very good at this, that you failed remedial hourglass-making and got an “F” on your egg timer…or maybe you like VERY runny eggs. If all the sand runs out before you’ve actually flipped the hourglass over…maybe because the sand-sphincter is as wide as a yawning abyss…you’ve got a solution.
And that solution is scraping gravel and asphalt off the side of the road. GOOD solution. Now not only can you measure time with your new project–about 2.3 seconds, but who’s counting–it makes a gentle, restful thundering noise as the gravel strikes the glass.
While the choice of road grit as medium is a revolutionary one, we really must look at the art of the device itself, to truly read the mind of the artist. Two vastly uneven chambers speak volumes of metaphor. “Time is relative, uncertain. 2.3 seconds may feel like a brief moment, or a claustrophobic eternity. And you do not want to get it in your shoe.”
I think the top was actually epoxied onto the base–a glass slab to keep the grains from scattering, slammed onto the top of the project like time was a scorpion trying to escape. Top it all off with a whimsical little twist of glass, a piece of molten drool plastered to the side–is it a handle? Is it a tumorous growth on the rigid construct that binds us to our “schedules?” We’ll never know.
Experience the joy for yourself with this first–a Thrifthorror multimedia extravaganza!
