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.
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.
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 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.
I like how the props department just sent over a handful of veg to be brandished jauntily in order to drive home the fact that these are, indeed, rabbit jeans. This is what happens when you hire people who “graduated” from DeVry “University.”
“Now listen, Linda, I need this shot and we’re not going anywhere until you give me what I need. I don’t care how weird you think it is and I don’t want to hear about how you just want to be a babysitter and how your hyper-narcissistic stage mother beats you with wire hangers. I know what I’m doing. I’ve done multiple shoots for Yarn Barn Europe, you know. Now do as I say and give me the “HAND OVER THE MONEY THEY HAVE A GUN IN MY BACK” look that’s going to land us the cover of the Family Circle Slacks Spectacular super-issue.”
“Look, just cover up as best you can with the balloons and…no,no…look, Bertrand, just wield the balloon as if it were an extension of your banana pants and don’t try to keep up with Leroy. Don’t inhale the balloon to be funny, that’s imitation helium from Bangladesh and it isn’t very…well…look what it did to Leroy. His face has been like that for three days and his grandma’s funeral was yesterday.”