Actually, I’m not sure if this is a Santa with a garrote or a sort of cheerful anthropomorphic personification of spring. Either way, not a bad way to end the 12 days of Christmas. Meet the last Santa you’ll ever see.
I suppose the flowers should make me feel at ease–maybe that’s what he wants–but it isn’t working. Instead he’s coming across as some sort of teal ninja with a skin-tight jumpsuit, to hide in the shadows–or maybe in a backdrop of sage and heather. There are the cuffs. I don’t know what those are about. They may be buttercream icing.
I hope it’s buttercream.
There is no hiding that head. If you could somehow stand Santa on his head and spin him, he’d go forever, only wind resistance halting his graceful rotation–and with that jumpsuit he may have wind resistance taken care of, too. It’s practically painted on.
Is it just me? Maybe I’ve had too much eggnog, but that little white spot makes that cheek look an awful lot like a boob. I’ve studied a lot of Christmas lore, but Santa Boobcheeks is a new one for me.
Big heart, small neck. It’s amazing what that puffy red robe hides. The perfectly bald head I can understand, he’s no spring chicken. The pin-width neck is a little more worrying. Maybe Santa should see a specialist.
You know what they say about a man with small feet.
He has a tiny neck.
Actually I don’t know what they say about a man with small feet. Santa’s clearly ready for a career in ballet. Dance on, murder santa, dance on.
Salvation Army on Anderson Mill and 183, Austin