Except of course I’m paid by the word, and I work HARD for my $.57/week. I can only speculate that the sculptor’s intent was to show how excited the AIBO was to see its master coming home from school. And, in a sense, mission achieved, assuming you meant definition #3 of “excited.”
The boy, however, really doesn’t care. Despite the astonishing duplication of a dog’s behavior being exhibited by a machine (and I’m a little surprised they programmed in that particular behavior, but, hey, different strokes for different folks,) he really doesn’t care. This is the face of a deeply unimpressed child, one who’s leg is routinely violated by a robot dog every day after school. Must be hell on the fabric.
Though the posture is not indifference. The posture is religious ecstasy, as of St. Clare of Assisi bathed in celestial light as JHVH-1 says, “Pretty good job this week. Next week, a little less pious suffering, a little more humble servant, and I think you’ll have it.” Which, on the whole, clashes with being molested by an electric dog, but this being cheap resin sculpture imported from the Guangdong province, they probably already had the mold ready and just pasted on a backpack and baseball cap. And of course, the robot dog. No forgetting that.
Inappropriate behavior, Sparky. Don’t make me hit you with a rolled up “Huffington Post” column.
It’s over forty feet tall. The cows stare at it in mixed wonder and terror. In a stiff wind, it might crush the house and make Grandma blush. It’s…well, let’s just say it’s big.
This would have been about 20% funnier if it had been in glassware. Trust me, the jokes just write themselves. As it is, I can only speculate….who needs a pyrex adult accessory that’s bigger than a house? If I had one of those parked on my driveway, I’m pretty sure the home-owner’s association would have words with me. I don’t know what specific words they’d have, as far as I know they don’t have any specific restrictions on the use of sex toys as lawn art and the sizes and scales thereof, but they’d come up with something.
Someone donated this. Someone multiplied the retail value of this object d’art by .25 to figure out their deductible. It’s probably more useful than that shirt that was missing every third button.
My partner, after seeing me snap a dozen shots of this guy, asked…”did you buy it?”
Really, there are some things you shouldn’t purchase used. You’d always be asking dark and unanswerable questions.
I know the kids at Savers got a kick out of this. Anyone with that many piercings would put a glass sex toy front and center, proudly erect, beside the santas and clowns and ceramic crosses purely out of deep and pathological irony. Savers cashiers, I salute you.
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 :)
We were clearly in for an interesting ride at the Goodwill on Lake Austin Boulevard when we rounded the corner and saw this…well, there’s no other way to put it, this tomato.
Or maybe she’s an apple, all ripe with the temptation of original sin, tempting her husband to take and eat. Whatever she is, she had quite a profile.
Pick your symbol of choice. Up ’till this point, I wasn’t sure what a sex object was. Do they take batteries? Would you want to keep your mother away from yours? But I’m pretty sure I’ve found one here. The female reproductive principle is bound into a ripe fruit, filled with the promise of life, stuffed full of pips and maternity. The male reproductive principle is a huge metallic sperm. I guess that really sums everything up.
Will I understand this when I’m older? Probably not. But I know that I won’t look at tomatoes the same way again. Or else I’ll wash them, really really hard.
When I saw this picture, I HAD to have it. It had drama. It had joy, it had anger. It had kilts. But mostly, it had cat people who really had to pee, and that, friends, is art.
As it happens, my mother lives about a block from a huge thrift store. In fact, it’s probably the only reason she ever sees me, that and when she has to post bail. And this…masterpiece…was on glorious display at that store for about two months.
If you’re anything like me, you’re saying, “It’s so beautiful.” And you are RIGHT. Images of a far-away land, a land with anthropomorphic cats, and a urinal in every driveway. I’m sure the owner of the bijou little restaurant under the stripy pavilion might prefer that the urinal was not in his or her driveway, but these things happen. A land with very, very tiny cars, cars so small that rather than instead of driving them, the cat-people sit on top of them and steer them with their toes.
And yet, the $30 pricetag seemed a little on the batshit crazy side, so I said…no.
And then, there was the Thanksgiving sale. The entire store, 1/3 off. “Oh mother,” I said, “I have been ever such a good boy this year, and if Santa Claus happened to pop by Thrift Town during the Thanksgiving Madness sale and buy me the picture of the cats peeing, I would be so very pleased.”
Christmas came, but this year was, obviously, the Christmas that Santa forgot. But at least I have memories. And magnification x10 photos.
So, I can handle outdoor urinals, sure, that’s fine. But I can’t handle that part of this tradition is that the next person in line gets to stare at you over the door. That seems a little invasive somehow. “Are you finished?” “I don’t know, you tell me.”
Am I misinterpreting? Probably. Hey, is that a mouse at the left? I bet she’s going to be finding a different stall.
I love the stall artwork. Sort of a “The great cavorting blond goddess Shirley Temple mocks the pathetic, full-bladdered catlings” thing.
“Dark master Cat-Satan says, ‘Did YOU bring exact change?’” The mouse, his strange court jester, nods frantically, lest she be devoured. It does no good, Cat-Satan devours all…but he devours mice first.
But really, it’s all about this. This is the rascal dog tugging at his master’s bikini, this is the “two bits” after the shave and a haircut.
He might want to see a doctor about that, though, that’s not a healthy color, and I’m not sure what to make about the naked fleshy legs. Cats shouldn’t shave their legs. He’s too young for such vanity.
Thrift Town near Stassney and Manchacha, and mom’s house, Austin
To be honest, we’re not really certain what gender we are looking at. We believe this to be a female, a female what is still one of those great unanswereds, like “Why does god allow Paris Hilton?” and “How will we overcome ADHD this week?”
About the wing. It seems…well, of dubious utility in any sort of controlled descent situation. More like a blue croissant than a wing, really, or a strange flipper molded from cement.
We thought perhaps she was flying against a fiery sky, but she may only be swimming nonchalantly through a sea of blood, doing a sort of backstroke. Wings that were absolutely useless for flying might be quite helpful in paddling merrily through a sea of blood, even the tiny, useless vestigial arm might be helpful in, say, steering, or digging for bloodclams.
None of which changes the fact that she seems to be made of concrete. So much so that a few birds seem to have mistaken her for a lovely mutant angeldemon statue, and spattered her chest with a fine appreciation of sculpture. She was somehow able to keep her hair clean, and good for her, but this does explain her little “oh, fiddlesticks” expression, the downward turn of her lip.
Wait, that’s not her lip, that’s the glare from the shelf. I forgot, mutant angeldemons don’t have lips. It’s been so long since I took that course, I lost track.
Don’t sit on that. You don’t know where it’s been.
It’s passingly rare to see a buffalo shot on a piece of furniture, even in Savers. I’m glad I caught this rare occurrence on film. Remember, before donating your gently used furniture to charity, shave your sofas.. Frankly, it’s embarrassing, even a little non-hygienic. Does anyone really want to see your couch’s happy trail?
No. No, they don’t. Bad enough to think about what’s no doubt caught behind the cushions…ancient chee-tos, candy wrappers, small abandoned pets…without a graphic display.
Particularly with bikini season right around the corner, urge your thrift store community–both distributors and donors–to put out just a little extra effort, get out the extra-wide razor, and shave your sofa. Remember, the sofa you shave could be your own.
You could, of course, wax your sofa, but in many cases, the cure is worse than the disease, and that’s a lot of paraffin. You’ll never get that out from between the cushions.
She knows she’s beautiful. She’s sassy, sexy, and not afraid to wear a plastic garbage bag for a hat, because she can make it work. Just possibly, she’ll strut around wearing nothing but a slightly burnt whole wheat pizza crust on her head. Because she’s got the kind of self confidence you could back a truck onto to give the mechanic a better look at its undercarriage.
Hi!
I don’t have the heart to tell her that her corn muffins are unevenly mounted. It might hurt her feelings.
I am, I’ll confess, a little worried about whatever that is trying to escape from her abdominal cavity. It looks like there’s something large trapped there, trying to force its way out. Maybe it’s her inner child? Possibly her inner adult, actually, this is clearly someone who self-actualized at age 10 or so and stayed there. Otherwise, she’d be wearing more clothes.
From this angle, she’s suddenly the kind of person that would put a giant candle in her hat, which may be more inner child than I’m honestly prepared to deal with. “Naked woman Who’s Embraced Her Inner Pixie And Has a Flaming Hat” is a lot to bring home to mom. Particularly if mom’s got low ceilings. Though it would be worse if mom ended up with her wardrobe tips.
Somehow, this week has gotten away from me. I think it was the bears that did it. Okay, let’s just take this and run with it, as far as it will go. Will it go all the way to nipplepots? I think it might.
This is, as it were, the tip of the iceberg.
I haven’t seen much in the way of suggestive pottery, not this year anyway. In fact, I think this might be the only piece I’ve seen, but…it’s a doozy.
I’m having a hard time faulting the artistry of this piece. It’s bounteous and round, with a lovely coppery-brown dollop that gives it that quality you so rarely see in glazed ceramics–this pot is pert. And is it abundant? Yes, yes it is.
But I’ll be hornswoggled if I know exactly what it is. The little ribbony tendrils add a fanciful, feminine touch, just in case the overall effect wasn’t fanciful or feminine enough. Maybe it’s a special pot that you use to store wiles and charms in, and it was just so overfull that it BURST into bosoms.
This breathtaking boobscape simulates the experience of crash-landing on the set of Heavy Metal. Or a very very large bowl of strawberry ice cream and magic shell.
These things drift through our lives, and we step back and say “Artist…oh, artist. Where did you go astray? Was this what you intended all this time? Is this the culmination of your dream, the product of three years in art school?” And the artist responds, saying “Don’t you like my boobpot?” And you have to say “Well, yes. But that’s not really the point, and please stop waving that at me. You’re distracting me from a very reasonable conversation.”
This…weird little thing from the Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin
So, normally I have to *work* to find naughty, NC-17 stuff at the thrift store. Stuffed animals and dolls thrown into compromising configurations. Like this happy couple here.
Actually, with the fellow passed out on the left, this might have been a pretty good party. With Santa Claus knocked out over there, and the Amish couple disporting themselves, it’s probably the most wholesome bacchanalia I’ve ever seen. I mean, the guy even keeps his hat on. Very modest. I don’t know what Santa was drinking, though.
And occasionally there’ll be a piece that kind of speaks to me, that says “there’s probably a reason I’m here. I’ve been remaindered for inappropriate behavior.” And, to be fair, sometimes it’s just that after months of trolling the thrift stores, things start to seem funnier. Even things that you might have given your teacher, or Grandma. Depending on what Grandma was into.
Trust me, with only three hours of sleep, this was the funniest thing EVER.
Although in retrospect, it was definitely funnier at the time, and now I feel like I have to explain it, and maybe it’s only “3:00 AM” funny.
But it’s good that he’s trying to increase his flexibility.
But SOMETIMES the Thrift Gods hand you something on a silver plate. They say “Take this. TAKE IT.” And you do, and you say “Dear sweet Sally Mae, how could that have escaped them?” Is it even possible that an artist would create this and not…step back…and think about it? Or would they smirk and say “Oh yes, job well done, indeed”?
For instance.
Here is a clear-cut case of design going terribly, dreadfully wrong. Really. One must ask, “why? Why there? Why red? Why are they so cheerfully smug?”
Well…maybe they have a good reason to be cheerfully smug. As coat hangers go, this one is certainly, well, hanged. I guess you could put a coat on it, a small coat maybe, or hang your keys from them, but that just seems inappropriate. Plus, if you had to send someone back in to get your keys, you’d have to say something like “It’s hanging on the bear with the cheerful red baculum, second from the right. The lady bear. I guess. I don’t know. It’s…so hard to tell with bears.”
Oh proud, proud bears, we salute you. Though to be fair, you saluted us first.
Strangely wholesome bacchanalia from Texas Thrift, where I’ve found a LOT of this sort of thing. I think one of the employees has a…special…sense of humor. Extra-flexible unicorns from Thrift Town in South Austin, and Proud, Throbbing Bears from the Savers on North Lamar.
