This Tomfuckery Must Cease

Sometimes, my fellow crapfters, things just don't go to plan. Or they do go to plan, and it just turns out your plan is shit. For example, what must have started out as an ingenious use for old baked potatoes/stale french loaf/massive golden turds quickly turned into, well, this. A permanent pencil holder homage to not knowing when to cut your losses. Thanks again, CutOutAndKeep.net!

And She Looks So Pleased With Herself Too.

Oh, homegirl, no. Just no. You cannot, and I repeat, cannot, cover up your cute lil' body with a series of multicolored knitted granny squares and a ruffle. Excuse me, two ruffles. You just can't. And I don't care if it cost $800. Because it looks like poo. Or at least like a 70's afghan. And you should know better. Because you're Cate fucking Blanchette.

Chunk Style Jiff as Artistic Medium = Bad Decision

So this here is a beautiful homemade version of the Harry Potter chocolate wands, made from caramel and pretzel sticks.



And this here is a beau-*cough* homemade version of that version, made from equal parts chunky peanut butter and failure.

Expelliarmus, Harry, for god's sake. Expelli that terrible poopish armus.




And make sure not to absentmindedly sheath your chunky butterwands in your crocheted utility belt wand pouches. That would just make you look silly.


PS I am totally going to copyright the word "poopish" so don't even try stealing it. Hands off the poopish.

Cookies Spilling Out of Every Cranny

Let's take off our sociological analysis hats, shall we, and not really delve too deeply into why the trend for draping yourself in plasticene junk food has exploded in the midst of slavering media coverage of the so-called obesity epidemic. As far as we here at the HoHil are concerned, people (girls) just love building tiny cupcakes and cookies out of silly putty and stuffing them into their ears, hairdo's, charm bracelets, trapper keepers, and purses. No deeper socio-epidemiological reasons!

And yet... When the only crevice you will not try to shove a cake into is your mouth (which is, after all, the officially designated "cakehole"), does that qualify as an eating disorder? Maybe it's an eating disorder in the same way that Ted Striker had a "drinking problem" in the movie Airplane!--he just couldn't seem to get the drinks into his drinkhole.

Anyway, long story short, putting my own feminist analysis aside, since brevity is the soul of wit... I'll just say: these fake-cookie necklaces look like straight up finger-molded baby-doods.

Poopsy Daisy

A well-stocked and vividly elucidating vocabulary used to its utmost capacity is fecal matter. Oh, whoops, meant to say, "Choose words is poo."

I think all of these would be much funnier and much more insightful with the words switched. Poo is homophobia. Poo is ageism. Poo is war, man, think about it. I hope you guys do a lot of soul-searching before your next trip to the bathroom, I know I will.

inauguration fever!

Kudos to Julia for the snazzy new header. It's new, it's better, she really put her heart into it. I think she's got a case of what's been going around: inauguration fever!

Time for a change? Yes it is! Change we can believe in? Yes we did! Hope for change? Can we yes!

Hope I we? Change can did!

Everybody's going around dewy-eyed and guileless like Tuesday morning is Senior Prom and we've been asked by the coolest boy at school. It's certainly inspired a lot of really bad goods.



This right here is especially sad, a real tragedy, because if not for the unfortunate oversight about white-ink-on-white-cloth being hard to read, this could have been a really mediocre bag. Just extremely mediocre, the most mediocre-est of them all. I suppose the artist could have used black ink on that white cloth... IF THEY WEREN'T SO RACIST. I think if Martin Luther King Jr was alive today, he would probably shake his head and say "Can E has come to." Can E has come to, indeed, Reverend King.



Putting aside the fact that Obama looks remarkably like a burnt piece of toast mixed with a chinchilla,

you will not be able to convince me in a million years that this artist didn't make that HOPE out of toilet paper. Toilet paper is certainly ripe with symbolism. It says to me: COMFORT. It says HOME. Above all, it says I TOUCH DOODS ALL THE TIME. But it doesn't really say HOPE. Now if the "HOPE" had been spelled out in soiled home pregnancy tests, we'd be in business.



Speaking of doods.



I went all through the Etsy listing for this onesie, searching for some small hint that the artist was aware of their own poop joke, and I could not find it. I really think it was unintentional. Ironically, Obama's original campaign slogan was actually "Obama '08: A Fresh Diaper for Your Rashy Behind!"


I have a few more, but I think I will save them for later and end with a positive note, because gosh darn it I think I have a touch of that inauguration fever myself. Check out the cuteness that is the First Family Doll Set:



Finally our long national nightmare of chins has come to an end!