The Curse of the Irish
What possible use is there for this, aside from "murder totem"? Is it supposed to be a Saint Patrick's Day decoration? Two questions, if so:
1.) What is it doing here, when it is nowhere near St. Patrick's Day?
2.) What did we lose in translation by bringing St. Patrick's Day over to the states?
Because over here, the holiday is a harmless celebration of questionable ancestry followed by a race to alcohol poisoning. But apparently, somewhere in the world, it is also the day set aside for trapping the souls of madmen in the eyes of dead ginger midgets.
OH GOD HOW DID HE GET THAT
Dora the Horror
What? What's out of place here? It's just a wall of kid's sleeping bags. Why can't I shake the feeling that I am being watched, judged and found wanting? Where is that cold, unfeeling disdain of my very being coming from? It's not Elmo; Elmo seems pretty cool with me. It's not the Disney princess. I mean, she looks like a judgmental bitch and all (every Disney princess does), but hers is more of an "I can't believe you're wearing that" vibe, and less of a "your pathetic scrabbling dance is something I do not recognize as life" vibe, like the one I'm getting here. God, where is that coming from?!
Mrs. Davis' fourth grade class, arts and crafts period:
"OK, time's up, children! Everybody hold up your piggy banks and let me see how you've painted them. Sally, is yours wearing a wedding dress? Adorable! 'A' for you! Teddy, yours has a wittle top hat! A+! Billy, let's see yours. Oh, he's still blank. You didn't even paint him pink? What's that? You did the face, you say? Well, let me take a look at wha- oh. You ... just sprayed blood all over his face. You, uh, you left your piggy bank completely blank -- a cold white pig with coal black eyes -- save for the bright red gore splashed across his face.
That's fantastic! A++!
Who doesn't need to go to the cornfield? Mrs. Davis doesn't need to go the cornfield! Isn't that right, Billy? Oh god, Billy, please tell me that's right!"
The "Friendly" Chefs
The "friendly chef" statues are in every thrift store, every department store and at every Russian flea market (right next to the Betty Boop lamps, behind the switchblades with the ornate crosses painted on them). They come in a variety of poses: they might be stirring a pot, presenting you with a plate of spaghetti, tossing a pizza or just wrist-deep in intestines!
Well, that's a little off-putting, but it is a part of cooking. So it's not disquieting in a way that haunts you, quietly, in the twilight state between sleep and waking. Like ...
Yep. That'll do it. I just want to stress that I found him like this: Decapitated neatly, head set upside down and with loving care at his own feet, smiling pleasantly up at me. Either this was just an unfortunate and unsettling accident, or else somebody is trying to send an obscure but ominous warning to the fat, mustachioed owner of the southeastern St. Vincent De Paul.
Have you ever wondered what Africans would look like if they were actually hybrid-aliens designed by H.R. Geiger to remind the viewer of diseased cocks? You have? Good news! You're going to be the most prolific serial killer this world has ever seen! History will remember you in hushed, frightened whispers -- reluctant to speak your name lest they invoke some small part of the greater evil that you brought into this life.
Even better news: I bought you this dead-eyed statue of a buxom and subservient member of the terrible race that is a byproduct of your specific kind of horrible insanity! It'd look great in your foyer.
My motto: "Always leave things worse than when you found them, no matter how awful they already are."