First a refreshing breath of copyright infringement.

Obviously, it doesn’t count as flagrant trademark violation if you mold the entire thing out of chewing gum, right? Right. This blobby little pustule of a bear seems to have been carved out of a solid, massive mountain of raw “Wrigley’s Chew” ore, and left to stand in his best “Lo, I am Ozymandius, and I love you” pose over the nearby village of lower Crapton. He may not make the town feel any safer, he’s unlikely to come to life when the neighboring countryside is threatened, but he does make your self-esteem a little stronger. Go, you.

Just hang in there, guy! You’ve got so much to live for!

Well, maybe not.

Once again, someone didn’t enjoy their crafts hour, and is going to have to sit in their room while the rest of the group gets to watch “Pleasant Bill and the Theraputic Riders.”

I’m imagining the artist–and I’m giggling a bit as I imagine him–stabbing at the creature’s eyes with a blue-stained, thumb-thick brush, screaming “Stare no more, ursine menace! Your sight I take from thee!!” Paint splatters the wall as the guy’s handlers drag him carefully from the room, hoping to debrush him before he defiles another piece of sculpture.

I’m glad the artist gave him fangs. They’re kind of a nice touch, a bit of menace just in case the bright blue alien face paint job didn’t creep you out enough. At least he could have cared enough to give the poor little guy differentiated toes.

“Charles, are you finished painting your bear?”

“Md’n.”

“What did you say, Charles?”

“I’m d’n.”

“Did you want to finish painting the rest of your bear, Charles? You didn’t finish painting all of him. Do you want to finish painting your bear, Charles?”

*splash*

“Okay, Charles, I guess it’s time to put the paints away.”

Not-so-Tenderheart from the Goodwill on 290 near Goodwill Computers, Old Blue-Eyes from the Salvation Army on 183 near Anderson Mill, Austin

I don’t know what’s sadder–the tragedy that befell America’s favorite mouse, or the fact that I COULD have lined up a shot of Mickey with a poodle head and utterly failed to. I think the latter.

14, huh? Is that the number of ladies that have fallen for Pluto’s sweet lines, the number of angry, spike-collared husbands he’s left in his wake? The number of broken hearts? Or does that just mean he’s 84 in dog years?

Sadly, I may never know what Mickey was holding. I’m guessing it was somehow related to dogs, or something he yanked out of his luggage in a fit of rage. “I TOLD you never to bring that cocker spaniel slut here again! You could have had everything. You could have had it all, fellah! The bed, the ottoman, I would have even forgiven you for the time you brought my newspaper back covered in mud. But this…oh no, not this.”

All of which would have been substantially funnier if I’d lined the shot up so that he had a poodle head, that’s all I’m saying.

Let Mickey hold your giant soap. Mickey loves soap. And he’s here to help you wash. Wash and scrub. Scrub away the dirt and sin. Keep scrubbing until you, too, have no face. Mickey would prefer it if you were faceless. Perhaps torso-less as well. Mickey’s somewhat demanding.

Mickey sans head from Goodwill in Oak Hill on the “Y,” Mickey Ashtray from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, Austin

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.

I’ve watched the Wizard of Ozsubstantially more than once. I read the book a few times, and the Cowardly Lion has never struck me as particularly “gangster.” Even if you catch The Wiz, where the action starts in Harlem, the Emerald City is superimposed over the Big Apple, the lion appears outside a library, breaking free from a big concrete lion to menace the travellers. So…street, no. Mean, possibly, cowardly, definitely. Gangster? No sir.

But he can’t help trying.

It’s actually IMPOSSIBLE to look street when you’re sitting in a big pile of stuffed animals. Scientific tests have been done. Very respected members of the rap community, urban luminaries, were asked to hang, or possibly chill, while nestling ET-style in a pile of stuffed bunnies and amiable teddy bears. Results showed a startling loss of over 75% of street credibility, and most subjects experienced a strong desire to bury themselves further in the pile while making happy burbling noises.

It’s also VERY hard to display any real attitude or adopt an urban posture while being naked in a thrift store, or, alternatively, dressed in a lion costume. Can’t be done.

But we forgive him for trying.

Lion: “You don’t have any courage for me in that bag, do you?”
Wizard: “Many men, and indeed, some lions, go forth into the world with little more courage than you do. But they DO have street cred. Therefore, by the authority vested in me by the Street and Urban Development Society of Oz, or ‘SUDSO,’ I give you this bling.”
Hangs a large gold “OZ” logo around Lion’s neck.
Lion: “Shucks, folks, I’m speechless.”

Somewhere over the rainbow, Stassney and Manchaca, Austin