Baby Stay Out

My parents and I went antiquing a little while back, searching for postcards of the Jersey shore and a cute end table. We found, uhh…

…not that.

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Jurassic Snark

justin-wall-hanging

I’m trying to be a lot nicer in this blog than I have been—after all, the world has enough negativity as it is, with millions of Americans pranking on Donald Trump by pretending that they’re going to vote for him for President. He already has to live every day with the gamma radiation that gave him that hair and those tiny baby-hands. Hasn’t he been through enough?

So I won’t be making any hilarious snarks today, like”I bet this looked really cool before it was melted in a Creepy Crawler oven,” or “Justin? Maybe you’re JUST-IN TIME TO MAKE GARBAGE-ART!”

Instead, I’ll focus on the positives. For example, it’s clear a lot of creativity went into this piece (PIECE OF SOMETHING, AM I RIGHT?? Sorry, sorry, last one). I mean really, who says that dinosaurs can’t have eight legs? Can science even prove that they didn’t? I’m assuming that’s a dinosaur, anyway—it’s clear that Justin didn’t feel artistically beholden to traditional imagery, perhaps taking inspiration from abstract artists like Cezanne or Picasso, or those elephants who paint flowers.

And why shouldn’t all the letters be smudged together like the J has really bad B.O., and all the rest are trying to get away from it? Maybe it does have bad B.O. It’s not like I smelled it.

Bonus points for the pricing, too—after all, it takes a real outside-the-box thinker to sell junk like this for three bucks.

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These Are Mine Now

santa-kidnapping-puppies

WHAT THEY WERE GOING FOR: “You get a puppy, you get a puppy; everyone gets a puppy!”

WHAT THEY ACTUALLY MADE: “Well, there was that one time a guy dressed as Santa Claus broke into my house and stole all my dogsIt ruined my childhood. Now I’m going to ruin yours.” — Michael Bay, on what inspires him as an artist.

The Puberty Switch

bloody-yard-sale-sign

Was that written in blood?

Like a grizzly bear emerging from her cave after a long winter’s hibernation, yardsale season is now upon us—and like a grizzly bear, you’d better not get too close, one because you will probably die, and two, because you don’t know where that’s been.*

Today’s trip exemplified that like no other, as my little quadrangle of Connecticut played host to estate sale after estate sale after crusty old “hey, is this floor up to code?” estate sale. …Which is kind of an ominous sign, given, you know, why people hold estate sales. Continue reading