Wall-Mount Test Tube Vases? More like Wall-Mount Condom Vases. I can’t help it: when I look at these I see condoms. Also, when I look at hot dogs, I see penises, when I look at coin purses, I see vaginas, when I look at apples and oranges, I see butts and boobs, and when I look at the Oprah, I see hope for humanity. What? I may be a pervert, but I’m still a woman!

Oh boy, this came from Oh Joy!

The Como Sofa looks like a row of teeth, so it’s no wonder it eats change! Get it? Eats change? Because it’s like teeth? In a mouth? Like the mouth of that high-dollar hooker you’re boning during your lunchbreak on said couch after your wife saved up for months to buy it? Where the frantic half-removal of your business casual Brooks Brothers pants shook the change out of your pockets and into the cushions? The couch where she’s going to make you sleep for nine months when she finds lipstick on your collar and herpes on your dick? Before stabbing you to death in a fit of rage after a restless night filled with nightmares of renewing your vows, only to have that slut stand up and give you a bj when the minister says, “Speak now or forever hold your peace”?

Yeah, it’s nice right? I think you should buy one.

slutty, slutty slut pants

via Breathe Modern

This is a good idea in theory, but the book choice is totally wrong. See, in Texas, you’re issued a flask at birth, so there’s never any need to hide it. The hospital puts it in a care package with your six-shooter, your future trophy wife and your inflated ego. Then they wrap you up in swaddling chaps, plop you in your Mama’s arms, and send you out into the big, bad world to flourish, secede, and die early of barbeque sauce-related heart disease.

Oh, Christ. I got Scabies just looking at this Comb Over Rug. Why would you want to envelop yourself in feet and dirt and errant pubes and nail clippings (Gaaghgh accchhh glaaaagh) and scab flakes and crumbs of every variety?

What I’m saying is, you lay down on that rug looking like this:

And you get up looking like this:

Not only are you a greasy, flaccid loser, but I can smell your dick cheese from here.

The only thing I have in common with the owner of this dry erase clock is that we both spend time vibrating at 4:00, if you know what I mean. (I mean masturbating). But instead of dreaming, loving and all that crap, my daily breakdown looks like this:

12:00 – Drunk Driving

1:00 – Raping

2:00 – Arson

3:00 – Reflecting on My General Awesomeness

4:00 – Vibrating (wink, wink)

5:00 – Buying Myself Gifts

6:00 – Gazing at Myself in the Mirror

7:00 – Judging Others

8:00 – Pillaging

9:00 – Vehicular Manslaughter

10:00 – Naptime

11:00 – Body Shots

My days are clearly pretty full. Speaking of which, I gotta run. It’s past Rape :45 and I’m late for an “appointment.”

The holes on the Amen Salt and Pepper Shakers are totally the nail holes from Jesus’ crucifiction, right? Wow, that’s pretty fucked up.  I know for a fact that blood makes salt clumpy because  I’m really good at pouring salt in people’s wounds. And I don’t mean that as a metaphor… I used to work for the KGB.

If you’re enough of a pansy-ass wimpster douche to have a fucking Vespa chair, then I can assure you that I’ll ride the parts of the Vespa that weren’t harvested to further craft your tired image right into your Super Hip Loft and drive straight into your stupid face while you’re sitting in that chair video chatting with your dipshit friends about being too blacked out drunk to remember the bands you saw play last night, though you did remember giving some cruster a blowjob after you found dried-up jizz in your Ikat scarf. And then you’ll die.

I’m keeping this short because I’m super busy vomiting onto my keyboard. This Coco Mirror looks like toenail clippings and even typing that makes me want to die. OH MY GOD IT’S LIKE THEY’RE IN MY MOUTH. Gag gross puke vom oh my God, ick sick my guts are wrapped around the spacebar.

via Robin, who I will forgive for this eventually

They should move that litterbox to the bottom of the slide. That way when Smoofy Flufferpants needs to take a kitty tinkle downstairs, he can just slide his furry little hiney right into his widdle baffroom. Also, I’m gonna give birth at the top of the slide and let the baby land in the litterbox.

I thought the secret to amateur porn stardom was having a rack or dick of freakish proportions, completely lacking any moral hang-ups, and putting aside your repulsion for unsavory, hairy pot-bellied men and/or women with frizzy perms and ingrown shave jobs.

Little did I know the actual secret is a willingness to digitally print your ceramic tiles. Gorgeous, isn’t it? Seriously, for every fifty tiles you order, they should throw in a free latex buttplug.