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.
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.”
I don’t know what the director of this fashion shoot was thinking, but lining up some kind of Robin Hood/Florida Retiree next to Suave Black Guy With Half Untucked Shirt and Guy Who For Reasons Unknown Reminds Me Of A Vacuum Bag And Also The Guy From The Wedding Singer then startling them from far stage right does not inspire me to shop from the Shit Blind People Won’t Even Wear catalog.
Judging by the copy, they were really trying to push this hoagie on the orgy crowd.
At first glance this looks like a festive and cheerful birthday cake made by a well-meaning but mentally challenged member of the PTA. But then you start noticing stuff. Stuff like…
This bizarre olive-eyed birdmanthing chasing down whatever the hell the thing with three red tails is supposed to be.
And Mr. Grafty, the Burn Victim Clown.
This deranged fucking rabbit made an appearance.
Open flames and shit made of paper meant to be flung about. What could possibly go wrong?
And don’t even think I didn’t notice the ring of dicks on top of that Cake o’ Depravity, Larry Flynt. I hope you didn’t bake a stripper into that cake. She’ll be really disappointed and angry when she learns that first graders only get two singles a week for their allowances.
Jack Horner Prune Cakes, because what else would a geriatric porn star call himself?
Make sure your guests understand that the bunnies like dancing the Cossack and their ears should resemble boobs.
Sorry, Len, your limp noodle isn’t enough milkshake to bring anyone not sporting baggy lingerie and a Rosemary’s Baby hairdo to the yard. Just looking at your false surface confidence and very real surface grease makes me certain that you boiled that pasta in Drakkar Noir or Eau de Désespoir. I bet your underwear matches your lavender shirt.