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

Angel? Demon? Mutant? We reserve judgement.

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.

Savers on South Lamar, Austin

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.

Well, they do. And sometimes you just have to tell the world, using a simple woodburning kit and a block of leftover oak. In the artist’s defense (I don’t know the artist, but let’s just call her “Marjorie”) this was probably one of a number of “projects” you could do at camp. But what kind of a camp, you ask? Girl scouts? West New Brunswick interregional woodburners and handicrafts camp? No, this is a black tie affair.

In my imagination, which is a beautiful place, I’m seeing upper-level executives taking a few precious moments out of their six-figure lives to string together some pony beads and represent for the Lamb of God. After Marjorie got into her limousine, she had a brief, heated argument with her chauffer.

“Jeeves, hang this on the rear view mirror.”
“No, Mrs. G., it’s a five-pound block of oak.”
“Hang it. Do you know who I AM?”
“I do know who you are, Mrs. G.”
“And do you know how important I am?”
“I know you came back from VIP camp, and just like last year, you bring back a five pound block of wood on a piece of yarn and ask me to hang it on the mirror. And last time, you know, it broke and killed the dog.”
“I had a dog?”
“You did, Mrs. G.”
“Oh…I remember…he was the only creature that was happy to see me.”
“That’s not true, Mrs. G., and you know it.”
“But he’s dead, Jeeves. Now I haven’t got anyone.”
“Mrs. G., you just turn that block of wood around, and you tell me you don’t have anyone.”
“…thank you, Jeeves.”
“Mrs G., it’s not me you should be thanking.”

Aaaanyway! This is Jesus’s big week, so it’s good to give him some time in the sunlight! Let him out of your pocket and into the big, wide world!

I’m pretty sure Jesus has looked better than this. But this time of year, everything’s a little crazy. Including Jesus.

As far as I can tell, Mary, flies in from outer space on a flying rose-stuffed taco, powered exclusively by high-octane, 90,000-horsepower messiah. The awesomest part is the way it does not in any way mess up either her hair or her halo, though I really think the whole experience massively freaks out Jesus. He’s got that “Jumping me on a pogo stick!” expression that I get when I’m driving anywhere in Austin at 3:30. Mary, though, she’s cool.

I’m not sure how the bracelet and Jesus relate to each other. Jesus is clearly doing the blessing, albeit at a very fast, frantic pace. Who’s the blessed? If you wear this poster as a wrist-bangle, are YOU blessed? Or does the lady re-shelving the coffee mugs give you an angry glare?

The latter, unfortunately.

So, before you go into Holy Week and the fun-filled, crazy roller coaster before Easter, remember this one, important thing:

Jesus is much, MUCH bigger than you, and he likes to walk around with his eyes closed. Don’t let him trip over your scale model of an illudium phosdex molecule. Cripers. Clean this place up.

“Everybody Needs Jesus” block from Goodwill on 183 and Metric. Weird Madonna picture from 2222 and Lamar Goodwill, and the Godzilla-Jesus from the new Goodwill in Oak Hill, which is a great store, try to make it there if you can!

Saint Thuribaldi Alphonso Sparkletoes (1278 AD-1322 AD) is only a recent addition to the hagiography, his contribution to the church hasn’t been recognized until the last few years, when the Holy See finally got a sense for footwear and a well-turned heel.

Sparkletoes was beatified only a few years after his death—clearly his death was martyrdom in service to the church, as he was killed during his efforts to spread the faith to an encampment of Roman pedicurists who occupied Sant’ Agnese fuori le Mura, changing the old church from a temple to a foot spa—death by nail clipper is a slow, terrible way to go.

Turn around, Thuribaldi, let’s see your pretty face.

Here we can see St. Sparkletoes holding many of his traditional relics and insignia. Of course, he’s wearing his traditional magenta lipstick, rouge, and nail polish, which shows how faith in and adoration of God can conceal our base nature. Under his arm we see his traditional towel and pedicure pillow, which, in the Mass of St. Sparkletoes, show how even the most humble of things can be raised up in celebration. Like, toes.

Traditionally, he is shown holding a foam toe separator sponge, or sometimes a rolled up piece of paper towel, to keep us mindful of the strict life of discipline observed by both the monastic soul and pedicurist. However, it is often misinterpreted as a rolled bread or dumpling of some sort, and for this reason, Thuribaldi is often invoked in prayers of protection against burritos.

Everyone knows what the fuschia cord and tassle means.

He was also a 14th degree Freemason.

To be fair, nail painting technology has advanced by nearly 1000 years from the days when people would just dunk half their foot in a bucket of red ochre and called it a day.

Goodwill on 183 and Metric, where all truly good things come, and where, ultimately, they will go.

“Please buy my fine, pre-bagged children. You will never again, this side of home furnishings, find a collection of children quite this deliciously cooperative. Lay your feet upon them. They’re okay with this. Chopsticks? Chopsticks the size of railroad ties? Sure. That’s why they’re here. That’s why I’m selling them…to you.”

“You have that ‘thinking about the ethics of the situation’ look to you. Let me just say, don’t. Look at them. They WANT to be your ottoman. They’re enthusiastic about propping up whatever you’ve got. It’s going to be the highlight of their day, trust me.”

“I wouldn’t sell you these pre-bagged children if I didn’t BELIEVE in these pre-bagged children. I’ve tested each one myself, they also make excellent sawhorses. Don’t believe me? Get a couple of two-by-fours and and one of the little guys. Look, he’s practically ASKING for it.”

On another direction entirely, I’m going to say that, as a very, very white person, I’m a little mystified by the colorful Buddhist pantheon. But I’ve never been quite so bemused as by this little fellow, who’s making me want to fall out of my chair out of sympathy. Which is a pretty neat god-power, and must make the celebrations at the temple loads of fun, what with everybody gently toppling to the right.

You’ll recognize his special temple because of the way the strings of bells and colored cords hang at an awkward 25 degree angle from the building itself. It’s a trick, they probably do it with egg white.

May I have this dance?

ALL ORGANIZED RELIGION would be exactly 40% more awesome if priests, imams, rabbis, nuns, alterboys, monks, celebrants of every sort, would all stand at an oblique angle. Every sunday at church would be like a trip to the mystery spot..

My neck’s sore just typing this.

Strangely angled god from the Goodwill on Huebner and south I10, San Antonio. “Please Buy My Shrinkwrapped Children” from Salvation Army on 183, near Metric, Austin.

(Well, two horrid nativities and some filler.)

I took a lot of photographs of nativities this year–and really, every year. I don’t know why–the little kids seem to enjoy rearranging them, shuffling pieces around, and I do think the sight of the entire holy family gathered ‘roud a manger to gaze upon a kid half again as large as the camel is endlessly amusing. Most of these I’ve tossed, but a few linger in my heart.

Like this one.

My relationship with this piece evolved over a month, as pieces would move around the shelf, new ones would surface, new pairings would turn up…and besides that, it looked like the British Gay Men’s Choir dramatizing “Silent Night,” or possibly “We Three Queens.” For the longest time, there wasn’t even a Mary (Or else, they all were?). It was an all-boy’s Bethlehem club with too much eyeliner, and it got weirder over time.

“Some people ask me, ‘Why where a golden labrador to a Christmas Party?’ And I say ‘Darling, with this face, I can only hope they’re looking at the dog.’”

“Besides, it went with my canteen.”

“It’s not gold, babe, and it sure as Christmas isn’t frankincense. Ferrero rocher chocolates, love. Nothing but the best. Maybe he can take some back to heaven, they may not have them there yet.”

“I was going to bring the frankincense, someone has to, but I can see that we’re going to have to work our way up to aromatic resins, love. Let’s start with those swaddling clothes, I can see we need a divine intervention here.”

“Well, actually, I bought the gold, the myrrh, AND the damned frankincense, and let me tell you, I had to go to all three Nordstroms before I was able to find Martha Stewart’s fall ‘Myrrh’ line, and the lines were beastly.. But I tell you what.”

“I’ll take the shepherd back with me, and we’ll call it even-stevens, ‘kay?”

“I don’t know what’s going on. We were going to have a nice, quiet Christmas dinner, and then the whole place was filled with the court scene from ‘The King and I.’ With musical numbers. Mary, I’m going to go play cards with the shepherd. Let me know if your friends are heading out.”

“Yeah, if I could just drop off the sheep and, you know–it’s getting a little crowded in here.”

“Oh, Mary, don’t do yourself any favors, sister. You’re a natural blond, girl, let’s see that golden halo. Let yourself shine..”

“Mary…you said these people were leaving…”

“Yeah, I’ll just take my sheep and, you know, go…away…like to Egypt, far away…”

Yeah, I got nothing to say about this. I hope they brought enough offerings to appease it.

“Mary? MARY? Would you put that stupid frankincense down and call 911?”

“People don’t lose babies, Mary.”
“He was just over here. Really. Maybe the camel ATE him.”
“He was the MESSIAH, Mary.”
“I KNOW he was the Messiah, Joseph. Quit riding me on this. Even Messiahs can crawl off and hide behind the furniture. Be useful and look somewhere.”

“Maybe somebody has seen him in the inn next door? Just take a few breaths, we’ll find him.

“If you ate the Messiah, you are not getting ANY more myrrh, I don’t care what kind of myrrh-faces you make.”

…The following nativity may shock you. I’m not sure who thought artificial soapstone was a good idea for a nativity scene, but here’s the tragicomic results.

“Unpleasant” doesn’t begin to describe this, and I’m puzzled by the fact that it wasn’t there a week later. Either someone bought it, or a benevolent shopper “accidentally” elbowed it off the shelf, though these guys look pretty durable and probably could have survived the fall. Unless she jumped up and down on them, which, really, I’d be okay with.

“Does this soapstone gown make me look too much like I just had an appendectomy? Or does it just make my arms look like withered, skeletal vestigial limbs?”

“Please tell me when they finish taking the picture so I can…just…die…”

“I ran here as fast as I could. Yeah, the sheep threw up a couple of times, but that’s okay. Hey, where’s the messiah? Me and old, caustic-bile Betsy will try not to drip too much on him.”

“Am I going to look like that when I’m older? Crucify my now, seriously. Get it over with. God, where’s his eyes? WHERE’S HIS EYES? And what is that horrible black tar leaking from his mouth? Mooooom!!!!”

“Jest point me to the baby. Oh, I love children. Look, he’s excited to see me. Mary, it does smell like he needs a change though.”

“Eh he heh…HEH heh heh…heh heh…heh heh heh..”

Gay and angry Nativity photographed during November, Savers on Burnet. Broken Mary nativity, same. “Lost Messiah” nativity from Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha, and horrible, horrible slimestone nativity from Salvation Army near 620 and 183.

…And Our Lady of the Late Model Ford wishes you a blessed holiday, too. May your fenders never rust.

As a thrift reporter, I make a special point never to tamper with the beautiful things I find shoved to the back of the Brick-a-Brack shelves. Luckily, some people do these things for me, and then I figure they’re fair game. When I picked this adorable scene of holy…uh…something or other? up, the baby’s lovely lovely head fell off. What a shame! It may be that I was the only person who saw this miraculous apparition, but I do feel quite blessed.

Our Lady of the Late Model Ford. Truly one of the martys who suffered for her faith. Because…that delivery was a tricky one.

There needs to be a Christmas carol for this one. Maybe “God rest you, Chevy Cherokees,” or “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like a Toyota Takoma.”

I figured we should really start the Christmas festivities with the star of the show, Frosty Jesus. Sadly, I don’t have any good pictures of him, so we’ll just settle for this one.

I think he’s some kind of squash.

Okay, this isn’t terrible, it doesn’t look like Mary’s about to eat the poor kid, and it’s maybe a little unfair to set something to x10 magnification and then mock it. But doesn’t he look like something from the Beavis and Butt-head nativity? Just a bit?

That, and I think Mary’s about to put the son of god into a log flume. Really, that straw has a vivid, lively sense of motion that you don’t see in just any manger.

“And there he goes! Woosh!”
“Mary, have a little sense of the moment, this is the messiah after all.”
“Yeah, but look how quickly he goes down the chute!”
“Okay, that is pretty miraculous…hey, is he even in the water?”
“Nope. You should see him at bathtime, it’s all kinds of special.”

Aaand, these guys. This is kind of a cheat because I know I wrote these guys up in the original Thrift Shop Horrors community, but you know, if I see them again, it’s like a new thing.

There’s a lot of evidence that Jesus wasn’t actually whiter than a bleached Osmund. After all, he was Jewish, and from the middle East. This does lend a certain darkness of skin and hair to one’s appearance, even if JC was one of those rare albino messiahs. But we shouldn’t tamper with people’s simple faiths.

…the lipstick’s got to go. I know, every darn Jesus I see is quite the cracker, ethnic roots notwithstanding. But this is just a bit too much!

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…

Meanwhile, Joseph’s whispering, “He’s not a bad kid, but I’m not sure that Adonai, the god of the mountains and king of Heaven, is really our sort of people. If that brown smear doesn’t wash off, we’re going to have to renegotiate this weird foster-father thing.”

“Whoops. Some look around under the manger, it fell off again. Does anyone have a very small late model Ford I could borrow?”

“Cluck!”

“You’re no help…”

“Myrrh or candle…myrrh or candle…2000 years from now, what’s going to look better on a postcard? These are damn good candles though. Oh hell, it’s candles all the way. Hey, get me three camels, these are going to Bethlehem.”

Our Lady of the Late Model Ford from Goodwill on 2222, Beavis Jesus from Community Thrift in San Antonio, very very white Holy Family from Goodwill on Stassney in South Austin (though first discovered five years ago in Leander), Headless Jesus from Goodwill on 183 near 620. And Wandering Balthazaar, again, from St. Vincent De Paul’s in Round Rock.

Just past the pretty lady in the egg-carton dress, we stumbled over this Boschian nightmare.

The fine meaning of this piece eludes me. I’m pretty sure that it involves Voldemort somehow, and that the angelic vision that is Cyndi Lauper is using her apotropaic powers to protect the huddled forms of Ignorance and Want (or anthropomorphic grape and orange popsicles?) as they cringe in a vine-covered cave, while tiny red devils begin their sinister musical number of Doom as they attempt to break through the green barricade, in an obvious allegory of the herd mentality and the dangers of conformity. I’m not at all sure how Voldemort figures into this, that’s where the entire thing breaks down.

Okay, this piece is really too much fun to make fun of. This guy’s just great!

The triangle motif’s carried out in so many different ways–the geometric world being invaded by biological, curving imps, a barricade of wedges and angles becomes our only wall against the organic, vibrant world of our subconscious demons. And Voldemort.

Oh, how the fiends cackle! Shala, what a strange world you’ve painted for us!

Actually, that looks kind of fun, like a thousand little scampering devils playing at a children’s playscape, sliding down the slide with their little hands in the air. Wheee!

But I’m still not sure how Voldemort figures into all this.

Next week, the management promises there will be jokes, and shell art. Some things are too much fun to make fun of!

“…These teeth…These teeth are clean.”

It’s a good thing that god’s gift to humanity has time for the little things. Like oral hygiene. “Suffer the little children to come unto me, for theirs is floss, and toothbrushes, and sugar-free dum-dums.”

Okay, I confess, by the standard of “original artwork found in thrift shops,” this is actually tolerably not-terrible. But the vague, glazed expression of the little girl as she looks…somewhere…maybe at the ceiling, maybe at the stray forelock–JC did NOT use enough hair product today–really made this for me. That in the incredibly INTENSE stare of the boy behind Big J.

“Ohmigod. Ohmigod! I’m going to sit on his lap and ask for a PONY!! And a Red Rider BB-Gun!” That’s an unvarnished “wetting myself with excitement” expression. Check my molars next!

The kiddies in the foreground gently amusing. The little blonde–oh so blonde–girl is so completely sincere, concerned, and, again, vague and unfocused. She’s saying “So, is it going to have to come out? Can you make it quick? ‘Cause we really don’t have insurance.”

And the kid in the back shouts “PULL IT! BOOYAH!” Or something very similar. He’s probably going to run back with a plumber’s wrench if JC takes too much longer with his examination. “Verily, I say unto you, crappers, calm down! He’s just got some tartar build-up, put thou the plumber’s wrench away!” Always with practical, loving words of wisdom, that JC.