outhouses

The Not Safe For Work Post.

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Sometimes it’s best not to try to figure out the story behind how a particular item ended up at a yardsale. For example, you might not want to know why, exactly, someone’s selling their collection of used bedpans. (Best case scenario: The homeowner likes peeing in buckets. Worst-case scenario? Grandpa’s gone to a better place.) You also might not want to know how so many “World’s Best Dad” mugs ended up on the 25-cent table. (Best case: He actually just is the World’s Best Dad and has an abundance of them; worst case: there is a sinister reason why he doesn’t deserve them anymore, and would you mind calling child services?)

I really really didn’t want to know why this young couple was selling a wedding dress (and matching shoes) for only $10:

So when they caught me looking at it with what appeared to be interest (but in reality was  me trying to surreptitiously take a photo without becoming known around town as “the guy who takes pictures of used women’s clothing”), I quickly bolted to the next closest thing and started stroking my chin thoughtfully—as though admiring a great work of art and contemplating Deep Thoughts, like “ah, the master brushstrokes are clearly indicative of the artist’s blah blah blah,” or “man, I really wish those people would stop looking at me.”

…which is unfortunate, considering what I was standing in front of at the time:

At that point I pretty much had to resign myself to moving.

(By the way…between this and the painting I saw a couple of weeks ago…is there some kind of tiny-headed epidemic that I should be worried about? Are the melon heads of Connecticut real? Is this why the election has mostly been about birth certificates and tax returns, rather than anything even remotely important—because people’s brains are literally shrinking?)

The rest of today’s finds were less embarrassing. …For me, anyway; I don’t think I’d ever want to admit to owning, for example…

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