The cutest thing about these prints is the little girl’s inexplicable boner.

Thanks to the mind behind lolawesome (and behind my cubical wall), I have recently become aware of Zip Code Honey. The Dallas company places beehives in yards and on roofs around town – there’s even one on the roof of fancy-pants eatery Bolsa – and sells their citified honey down at the Dallas Farmer’s Market. This is fantastic news for me. If I had my own beehive, I’d train the bees to fly in the shape of a man and buzz in Morse Code. They’d join the police force and become the world’s best cop. And when they weren’t cornering bad guys on the mean streets of Dallas and oozing crime-preventing sticky stuff, we’d just sit around and chat. I’ve just been dying for some intelligent conversation on Middle East politics.

You’re probably thinking to yourself, there’s no possible way this could get any more adorable, but that’s where you’re wrong. If I owned it, I’d add a conversation bubble that says, “Whooo gives a fuck?” See? Cussing = The Cutest.

One of the only cool things about the stupid town where I grew up was the bats that flew around at dusk. Maybe with this bat house I can entice some of the little bastards to live in my yard and be generally awesome and adorable. Plus I can probably train them to steal packs of cigarettes from the 7-11 by freaking out the clerk and snagging Pall Malls with their feet. And then I can sell those cigarettes to underage neighborhood skanks for a mad profit. Have a problem with me ripping you off, you flat-chested little bitch? Then take it up with my fucking army of TRAINED BATS! But first let me borrow your Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers, please. Mine ran out on Tuesday.

Sometimes when you talk, my eyes glaze over. It’s not that I’m not listening. It’s just that I’m fantasizing about how to kill you. And on the off-chance I decide a dray of man-eating squirrels is the most efficient and eloquent method, I know just who to have commemorate the moment: Scott A. A. Bibus, Rogue Taxidermist. If you like to keep the contents of your stomach in your stomach, you may want to skip his Dead Animal Art site. But if you prefer to keep your used lunch on your keyboard, have at it.

This is going right next to my horse show ribbons and my Odyssey of the Mind honorable mention.

How I miss the days when green was a color and not a superiority complex. Listen, losers. It’s lame enough that no one these days will buy a house without it being zoned for a fucking chicken coop in the backyard, but a modernist Chicken Crib? I hope you die. Really. I hope you move into your fucking bungalow with your hipster spouse and your kids named Flannery and Pope, try to sustain your pathetically self-conscious lifestyle on a diet of twigs and rocks and chicken eggs from your own backyard in DALLAS or BROOKLYN or NOT GODDAMN APPALACHIA, THERE IS A GROCERY STORE TWO BLOCKS AWAY and die a slow, painful death from malnutrition. And then I hope your chickens fly the coop and eat your corpse. Because processed mac and cheese is fucking delicious. EVEN THE POWDER KIND.

Isn’t it weird how you can hate something in real life, but love it as art, objects and pictures? That’s pretty much the philosophy behind Facebook, no?

Early Bird Pendant Light, $180

Does the name Kristy Thomas ring a bell? Yeah, I’m talking about the fucking PRESIDENT of the Babysitter’s Club. Remember in Kristy and the Snobs when she moved into the richie-rich neighborhood and met that cunt Shannon Kilbourne walking Astrid of Grenville, her gazillion dollar purebred Burnese Mountain Dog? You just know that Kilbourne bitch grew up to loooove Anthropologie, and I’d bet money she bought this Bernese Mountain Dog dishtowel for her maid to use in the kitchen while she’s in the pool house porking her Italian neighbor behind her husband Logan’s back.

Duh, of course she stole Logan from MaryAnn. Fucking mousy loser never deserved that hot piece of man meat in the first place. Not without some contacts, a boob job and a a crotchless panties allowance.

Even though Shark Week will only ever mean bloody, crampy periods to me, I still appreciate Etsy doing a Shark Week showcase. Especially since it includes this Shark Cootchie. I mean Koozie. Eh, potato, po-tah-to, tomato, vagina.

I do love a cartoon character swimming in pink bubbles with stalactites in the background shooting laser beams. When asked, “What was your inspiration?” the artist replied, “Hallucinogenics mostly.”

via moco loco