Do not turn your back on that goat

1000 Images About Ugly Christmas Sweaters On Pinterest Ugly

I’ve never seen a disgusted-looking goat before, and they eat rancid cans of Spam…cans included. These Rosemary’s Baby-Neighbors here are going to pay dearly for this shaming. Rethink the term “sacrificial goat,” as  ol’ Agatha is about to turn (possibly head-butt) the tables and offer up a yarn-heavy sacrifice to the AntiChristmas. By the time she finishes her rampage of vengeance, a few stray jingle-bells and a half-eaten receipt from Joann Fabrics will be all that remains of the McCheesersons.


Of course, if you’re into that sort of thing (this is where I switch into Whore Mode) you may purchase some Ugly Christmas Sweaters (or vintage glassware, lamps, or cool secondhand crap) at my eBay store Flowers From The Attic. Seriously, buy some of our stuff and get it out of our house. My husband was almost killed last night when he opened the door to the linen closet and an avalanche of seventy sweaters spilled into his head and buried him like a wooly man-moth. Thank god I heard his muffled sneezing and the jingle bells on the Rudolph cardigan he was shaking as an impromptu emergency alert system. I wasn’t about to explain that one to the coroner.

“That’s right, dear. Pucker up.”

My girlhood dream came true again for the 500th time tonight when I slammed down a cup of EZ Mac between my husband’s face and his Facebook feed and snapped,”I didn’t feel like washing a fucking spoon so eat it with this Popsicle stick. I used it for stirring, so make sure you use the right end. And I got the last of the plastic cups so if you want a drink then just put your face under the faucet.”

And I did it all without using one single dish.  




Bad Choice Barbie and her friend Enabler Midge, who are obviously tripping balls, are about to experience a very bad time in Levi’s. For these two hapless chowderheads, the bad times begin when those hideously fuchsia slacks become entangled in the spokes (pinwheeling Barbie face first into the concrete) and end with the midget whose bike they ripped off catching up to them and crawling up through the legs of Midge’s Levi’s to deliver a solid vagina-punch before reclaiming her wee bicycle and pedaling over Barbie’s comatose form on her way back to the Fisher-Price factory.

Not that I’m judging, I’ve had far worse experiences with mushrooms in far larger phat raver pants.

One Sleazy Piece Of Shit


Male strippers have come a long way since the era of breakaway polyester jumpsuits, which were apparently popular enough to justify bringing back for no less than five seasons.The term “manscaping” did not exist in the 1970’s so one can only imagine the full bouquet that Zach Galifianakis here is about to reveal before pelvic-thrusting around the stage in harmony with the melodic strains of “Macho Man” and the quiet sobbing of several tipsy bachelorettes.

I have to take a boiling hot shower now

Everything about this recipe card is pervy and unsettling and warrants a phone call to CPS on Betty Crocker’s ass. The Sexual Harassment Panda cake and the stuffed dog are clearly sharing a lascivious and probably illegal relationship, the directions kick off with an intro written by V.C. Andrews, and I’m guessing that any parent who missed these red flags also failed to notice that the party invites were cut in the shape of “that one uncle that we’re all aware of but never speak about.”

Oh sure. When I do it they call it “arson”…


I tried having a weenie roast in a bar once. They’d shut the grill down but I needed something to assist my stomach in keeping seven vodka gimlets under control so I set a stack of cocktail napkins ablaze, figuring that if I was polite enough to get the camp fire started then surely someone would be polite in return by bringing me some hot dogs and another beer. We’d sing some songs and make some new friends and everything would be just peachy. It didn’t work out so well. I’m a little fuzzy on the exact details, but I do remember a lot of yelling and judgmental name-calling before being sprayed with the soda gun. I woke up in a jail cell next to a woman named Big Missy who was wearing my watch and was then sent on my way with strict orders to return in one week for some silly trial, but I didn’t bother with that whole fiasco because who really wants to ever visit Utah more than once in a life time?

This year I’m thankful for the shit-wiches I’ll be consuming all week made from the leftovers of today’s fine and Fancy Feast.


My two grandmas always used Thanksgiving, funerals, and graduations as opportunities to whip out their five gallon serving tanks and concoct their showiest aspics to proudly flank the colorless yet edible Midwestern buffet spreads featuring the inevitable ham, German potato salad, hard rolls, and pickle-olive plates. Shimmering and shaking grandly like peacocks with bum legs, the mounds of hoofy pea-and-cocktail-onion-filled delights would be manned at opposite ends of the table with the competing grandmas each behind her own home made bridesmaid-dress-ugly abomination.

As the frantic efforts to out-serve therefore out-do the other escalated and the ladles of forced servings and grimaces grew larger and heavier on each resigned face and reluctantly held-out plate that inched down the buffet line, both grandmas would grow increasingly drunker and more enraged at the swelling size of the heap of chunk-filled Jello in the trash can that, despite everyone’s best combined efforts at concealment, could never be hidden by the smattering of shitty unabsorbant party napkins whose feeble tissue content wasn’t even enough to upholster the framework of a cocktail umbrella, let alone disguise Mount Grandma-Fail.

Wagers would be quietly and furtively exchanged among the family members as each octogenarian’s face grew more mottled and purple while their shrieked detailed accounts of the time, number of canned goods, and amount of (wasted on all of us ingrates) love that went into their culinary masterpieces increased steadily and sharply in volume. We would all hold our breath as the tension reached a crescendo and the inevitable breaking point would draw close enough to be almost tangible as it hovered enticingly in the air.

Eventually one of them would completely snap and lose their shit and scream that next year we could all just go eat at the fucking Sizzler before slamming the remnants of her losing entree into the trash can with its slimy brethren and storming off to fume in the passenger seat of Grandpa Bing’s Cadillac. Breath would collectively be exhaled from the bettors in either disappointment or glee, money would pass from the losing hands to the victorious, and Triumphant Grandma would smile graciously and give a short, succinct victory speech that was basically just a complete listing of what Loser Grandma had done to fuck up her Aspic Wapatuli before tossing her serving shovel onto the table and abandoning the results of her own hard labors in favor of Aunt Midge and her bottle of dessert whiskey.

Speculative murmurs would emerge from the bettors who were gazing out the living room picture window while gauging the intensity of Losing Grandma’s rage vibrations and the likelihood of Grandpa Bing forgetting to disable the Caddy’s horn two years in a row. Odds would be calculated, bets placed, and chairs pulled up to the window as Losing Grandma’s furious trembling exploded into sheer fury. As her muffled screams about all of our individual short-comings shook the car windows like a firm yet delicate mold of Jello, a fight broke out among the uncles over which of them had filched the last hard roll, Great Grandpa Kurtwood dropped an n-bomb in front of Cousin Karen’s new boyfriend, and the dog puked a rainbow-colored Jello puddle onto the eight square inches of carpet that Aunt Joan had not strapped down with CSI grade plastic sheeting but had protected sufficiently with a chair that was no longer covering her shame because it had been moved to the window to observe Losing Grandma’s.

Happy Thanksgiving. May all your aspics be victorious.


injumTalk about an identity crisis. We have one Native American seig heiling a tin of porked gel-meat, one socially unaware Caucasian raver in a headdress, and for some reason a baseball player. And like that stupid Disney ride It’s a Small World After All they all come together to convey the message that this meatfood-flavored gelatinous cube is protecting your table from what I can only guess is some 1960’s ad man slamming his forehead to the wood. There’s a new vocabulary word for this, and it is “lo-pot-o-meat.”