I can think of no finer way to immortalize your favourite hippie-friend/weed-source than to cut off their dreads and fashion a bracelet out of them. Because if there's one thing I want touching my skin at all times, it's the slowly-rotting, severed, follicled remains of a hippie who hadn't washed their hair for so long it eventually fused together. I can almost smell the coconut oil and stale bong water from here.
And yes, badly made. But mostly questionably shaped. And wearing a tutu. But unequivocally questionably shaped. Why no arms? I have no freaking idea. Why a mop for hair? I don't freaking know. Why asleep? I wouldn't want to venture a freaking guess.
But what I do know, in all its glory, it that it looks like, for all intents and purposes, an eight-inch, cylindrical, round-tipped feminine crapft. So there it is. I don't know either.
Is it ... is it a llama? Or, or is it maybe a cat? Or a giraffe? Or, well, ehm, what is this, exactly? Other than hideous, of course. That much is obvious. What is not obvious, though, is whether or not I'm currently making fun of a mentally-deficient individual. On one hand, this crafter was able to physically construct this item, take a picture of it, upload said picture onto their computer, and then post it on cutoutandkeep.net. On the other hand, look at it.
So I just got an iPhone, which I have found beyond amazing, and I downloaded the free 'google search' application. With vocal recognition. Or so they claim. Anyway, I'm not even going to go into what I was trying to search for, vocally, but here's what I got:
And there you have it. A giant, homemade, bike-riding vagina. With its own personal assistant. And all I was searching for was local sea-food restaurants. I'm impressed.
WOW, GUYS, I'M AMOST TO 250 FOLLOWERS! IF YOU DON'T FOLLOW ME ALREADY, PLEASE DO SO SO I CAN HAVE AN EXCUSE TO DRINK MYSELF INTO AN EXCITED FRENZY TONIGHT!
You know those stories about cats suffocating babies and throwing up in shoes and biting off the lips of their owners while they're sleeping? Well, I think I know why. And I have photographic evidence.
So I've been staring at this picture of crocheted plastic bag jewelry for a while now, but I've been having a hard time writing a post about it, because the jewelry looks like jhbdsfylg. I'm sorry, let me try that again. The jewelry looks like kbdhjfwbygrfjhbg. Excuse me. It looks like sdafbnarugasbh333333333333333. kjsdfilhrteihu. dsgh. I just can't. And don't even get me started on the wig. That might force the caps-lock.
And that's just about where I stand at the moment.
Let me just remind you; if you like this website, click "follow" on the right-hand-side-bare there. And if you're on facebook, go ahead and follow me there - also on the right-hand-side-bar there. I will be awarding prizes along the way! If you want to win an award, click "follow" or whatever, and then email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and let me know you're following me, and I'll enter you in my awards pool. Lovely!
OKAY. I GET IT. Jeezus, Mr. green "BUY SODA" monster. Maybe I freaking will already. For real, chill the heck out. Seriously. You need to cool it for a minute, and then maybe ask nicely and then maybe, just maybe, I'll buy you some freaking soda. Just read your comic book for a second, put your skull away, and quit conversing with me in all-capitals, and then we'll see just how far your flaily-armed demands get you. Because at the rate you're going, all I'm prepared to buy for you is some diet caffeine-free Mr Pibb, and nobody wants that, now do we. No. We don't. Because it's the low-rent wall-eyed cousin of Dr. Pepper, and we all know it.
So just relax for a freaking minute and at least ask me politely in cursive.
I oftentimes (isn't that a good word) resist in posting pictures of sock monkeys, as they, as far as I understand, are intentionally goofy and home-ec-y (again, isn't that a good word). That is, until I was sent this fine specimen of a sock-monkey by a reader. And what a specimen it is. Not only is it bizarrely armless, but it is also extremely badly-made. Which is a feat unto itself, considering how low the bar was already set. Because it's a freaking sock-monkey. So, uh, way to go, crappy-sock-monkey-creator. Now you have a claim to fame.
Thanks to melanie skiver for sending this in!
Also, I got another award! Thanks to The Fox Den for my shiny new addition to my already over-laden mantelpiece:
Thanks, fox den! I'm glad I'm addictive. Like heroin. Or meth. Or gambling. Or sex with underage Thai male prostitutes. Or your mom.
And, finally, I have a winner for the last competition. Well, multiple winners, really. A couple people guessed the right answer, Bob Dylan, but there were some really funny answers as well which I think it's only fair that I award. So, rock out, I guess. Here are the winners:
Nooter: for being hilarious, as always. Eye love: for being correct, at least 50% of the time MABJewelry: for guessing Bea Arthur and Me-Me King: for also being correct.
I think, that if my old university textbook of various psychological diseases were to manifest itself into a visual representation of what a brain tumor tastes like, this technicolour disaster would be the unholy result. In fact, I think this painting may have even been cited in the chapter's preface on paranoid schizophrenia as part of an anti-marajuana message.
Although, ironically enough, the artist reminisces: "I painted this clown during a very horrific time in my life," while also noting that "This bittersweet painting reminds us all that even clowns are sad sometimes". As if the idea of grown-ass men spending their lives dressed unrecognizeably in wigs and costumes with slathered-on grinning facepaint with the sole intention of playing with small children wasn't obviously sad enough already.
Although, to be fair, I think there's the perfect space for it on my second-floor landing. I've been looking to add just that perfect touch of "Oh-My-Fucking-God-What-The-Hell-Is-Wrong-With-You" to my other-wise neutral color scheme.
Everybody shut up! Stop what you're doing! Cancel the contest! Drop those groceries, where we're going we don't need groceries. Shut up I say.
You with the baby, tell it to shut up. Okay. Is everyone sitting down? Is the baby sitting down? Okay, pay attention because I just found the worst handmade item in HoHil History. Something so inappropriate in its conception and so disturbing in its final state that it makes Julia's crocheted placenta look like your Nana's Amish quilt.
Feast your eyes on that, why don't you? That is, if any part of your body can still feast. I don't think I will be feasting ever again. That. Is. A. Placenta. Teddy Bear. And it ain't the crocheted kind of placenta neither.
First they came to give me menstrual blood paintings, and I did not speak up because I was not a womyn. Then they came to give me placenta teddy bears, and I did not speak up, because I have never been to Burning Man. Then they came to give me earrings made of spit and flower vases made of soiled diapers, and by then there was no one to speak up for me.
(That's how it goes, right?)
(More information at Inhabitots where I found it.)
Because I'm being a right lazy fatty today, we're going to have a little contest! Hooray for 12-hour work-days! Anyway, this contest should be pretty self-evident: I want you to guess just who the crap is that painted on this buxom lady's chest. Which means you're going to have to stop staring at her bra for just a minute and tax your historical/musical/presidential/gay 20'th century poet knowledge (or not. I don't want to give too much away.)
What do you stand to win? Why, international fame and unlimited riches, of course. In the form of an awards jpg. But still, I'm awesome so it's worth it.
In the event that no-one guesses correctly, the most creative/humorous answer wins!
And no, it's not a young Karl Lagerfeld, for the amount that it would be epic if it were.
Look, I'm all for making a tooth-brush bracelet in the same way I'm all for creating pop-tab chain-mail. But, in the same way that I believe you should remove the pop cans before putting together your pop-tab chain-mail, I equally believe you should remove the bristles before creating your tooth-brush bracelet. Call me old-fashioned.
Maybe it's the freakishly large head. Maybe it's the freakishly small hands. Maybe it's the complete lack of the lower half of her body, or the unexplainable blue beaded tit she seems to be proudly and emphatically emerging from. Maybe it's because she makes me want to sing "the hiiiills are aliiiiive, with the sound of uuuuuugly." Or maybe, just maybe, it's because it appears the whole lower half is held together with large safety pins.
Or, you know, maybe it's all of the above, but I just can't bring myself to believe this is worth $20. Or the crafter's dignity.