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.
I’ve never seen terrified food before.
Nice work, 1920’s. You’re just as disgusting as the ’70’s, and in a unique way that sets you apart as an original. What do you sprinkle on these things, Spic-lets?
This is Jesus’ way of letting you know that your Sunday would have been better spent in church. Even the olive is puking.
Look, it’s been like three hundred years. You had your fun with the witches and the crucibles and all your sociopathic burning shenanigans but now it’s time to move on to something new because quite frankly, the rest of the country is starting to worry about you.
I’ll take Stuff Served By Priests for $400, Alex!
“Anniagruk! The Asuilaaks are on vacation in some god-forsaken hellhole called Branson, Missouri. Now’s our chance to break in and get your punchbowl and my snowblower. “Oh we’re so sorry, we lost them,” my ass! Damn thievin’ neighbors. They’ll be gone for a week. Let’s see if we can completely fill their igloo with shit before they get back.”
“See, Mother? This is what happens when you make Sue take over, Mother. She puts LIVERS in the SPAGHETTI, Mother. Wasn’t your night off a swell idea, Mother? You’re not blinking, dear. Wouldn’t you like to tell the children what a fine job they’ve done? We can wait as long as necessary. We don’t blink anymore…”
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.