Seriously - What's Going On With All The Angry Jesuses?

And where would we be in this most festive of seasons, my kind and gentle readers, without the obligatory Angry Felt Tortilla Jesus?  Nowhere, I tell you.  Nowhere.

Give Us Today Our Daily Bread. And Butter. And Owl.

What is it with this apparent zeal for handcrafted representations of foodstuffs? What am I missing here? Has Martha Stewart, say, had a damascene conversion and designed some crazy new diet which demands that instead of baking and eating that delicious tray of cup cakes you now instead knit it?

There are bountiful examples so I shall limit myself today to that most humble but comforting of comestibles, cooked bread.

Here's a genial and sexy looking slice of toast, made, it would seem, out of leopard skin. In a lacy tutu, if you please:


The caption excitedly asks us "Don't you just love toast???"

Why, yes. Yes, I do. That's why I eat the freaking stuff rather than wasting hours of time, yards of felt and vats of glue making an anthropomorphic wholemeal doppelgänger.

Toast with a face is a recurring theme. Say hello to the woefully unimaginatively named 'Mister Toast':


He looks a bit glum; but an understandable lack of enthusiasm for the project prevents some people sewing on any sort of visage at all, making it all the more pointless:


How about a delicious pat of butter to spread on that lovely, er, grey bread?


Again with the face. And I think it's wearing blusher. (Blusher for butter = blutter. Perhaps).

Here's some handiwork that was called an 'owl'. Right. I'm guessing that it was another felted slice of toast that went wrong, with some big old owly eyes and beak hurriedly stuck on:


Even so, it still looks more akin to burnt bread than to anything strigiforme.

Unless ... unless all the rest are a succession of owl crafts that went so badly awry they had to be called toast. Either way, I'm not buying it. In more ways than one.

G. Henry

I'm Not Totally Sure If This Is Kosher

So I recently came across this bacon scarf (yes, that's right. A bacon scarf.) on craftster, and I had to think long and hard before deciding to post it. See, here's my problem with it: I made a point when I started this website to never post anything that's been purposefully made ironically, and lets sincerely hope that this has been.

After mulling over it for a few days, though, I decided to share it with you all because it reminded me of this one guy I used to see around campus sometimes at college. It wasn't that he looked like a bacon scarf, because he didn't especially. Instead, this guy had decided to grow a massively exaggerated and extraordinarily noticeable mullet, all in the name of some post-post-ironic fashion statement. He, and all of his football-playing buddies, thought it was totally hilarious and clever and I'm sure he got laid by lots of ladies who also thought he was terribly cool and hip and funny.

At the end of the day, though, the guy still had a mullet. And, at the end of the day, this scarf still looks like bacon. So, while I may be laughing, it's certainly not with them, which I have decided brings this crapft around full circle and back into the realm of postable images.

I think Alan Rickman would agree.

Here's Lookin' At You, Kid.

I... I don't think this was meant to be terrifying.

And I don't think it is meant to look like an old, wrinkled, six-fingered, naked Woody Allen, curled up in the fetal position and wearing a diaper whilst suffering from a bad case of pink eye and/or allergies, either. Or an emaciated, raw chicken that's been left out on the counter to marinate in hollandaise sauce alongside the leftovers of last night's baby pot roast in preparation for tonight's preemie-pot-pie. Or a hairless, albino chimpanzee named Snowball which has only recently been discovered locked up under the floorboards of the "fantasy room" at Neverland Ranch.

I'm sorry. That was all pretty inappropriate. This is actually a charming and not-in-the-least disturbing hand-made felt premature baby, currently for sale for $500 on Etsy. Warms the heart, really.

Wrong-Cat

Lord knows I love a good lolcat. I am all about them, all the time. I love the way they can't figure out basic spelling. I adore the way they never got the hang of grammar. I can't get enough of their capricious and often rakishly-angled little faces, looking up, asking if they can haz a cheezburger or buket or other such foolishness. So, I get it. I really do. What I don't get, though, is the desire to recreate a lolcat (the famous "long-cat," in this scenario) out of 20 feet of felt. Regardless of whether or not this plush cat was made in irony, or faux-hippyism, or as-previously-unseen levels of sheer rediculosity, the end product here is a surprised-looking stuffed tapeworm longer than their couch. And only a surprised-looking stuffed tapeworm longer than their couch. And yet, somehow, they seem so pleased.