Ben Garrett is more talented than you are. Who else could take a gaggle of misfit ho-bags and turn them into regal white trash queens? Aside from the producers of Flava Of Love, of course. (That reference is indicative of me being “with it.”)

Click images for larger sizes. Or sometimes for the same size!

The last time I walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, I saw this modern declaration of Twoo Wuv:

This is clearly a man in need of some booty shorts-sportin’ puppets. I just hope he doesn’t love them so much he ends up in the E.R. with a bad case of Penile Puppet Pox. I’ve heard they itch even worse than Scrotal Muppet Burn and Vaginal Fraggle-Itis.

It’s official, Badder Homes and Gardens is turning two – thanks to all you lovely and masochistic readers out there. To celebrate I’m throwing Krista a happy hour, Krista is throwing Nikki a happy hour, and Nikki is throwing a happy hour for me.  Oh, and you’re totally all invited to all three! We’ll be conveniently hosting them all the same night at the same place (somewhere in Dallas to be announced very soon). So save the date – Friday 1/21 at 7 pm – and please, please come show us your pretty faces.*

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* Assuming two years of reading our whining hasn’t inspired you to claw your eyes out leaving you horribly scarred.**

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** In which case, you’re not invited.

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Image Via

Sometimes we’re let out of our cages to terrorize the city. Or at least attend a Blogger Social with Dallas’ bevy of design blogging bitches.

The three of us strapped on our socializin’ faces and attended the Post Blogger Social at Nest, a thuper rad Dallas boutique in a double-fab new location in the Knox-Henderson design district. It was hosted by Hello, Splendor and Fabulous K, sponsored by Nest Interior Design and had absolutely nothing to do with this.

Wanna see what you can buy us for Christmas? Boy, do you EVER!

Skully chairs for our bony asses.

This wax head made Nikki regret her last-minute decision not to wear wax lips. (Down there.)

The sock monkey was court-ordered to wear pants after an unfortunate incident involving a playground, a Girl Scout troop and tub of off-brand petroleum jelly.

These little skis turn almost any chair into a rocking chair. Just like how Sarah’s little fists turn almost any face into hamburger meat.

Yipes, Stripes! Fruit stripe rug! (And great little retro chair, too.)

Are your eyeballs bleeding from jealousy yet? No? Then let’s keep on truckin’, shall we?

A moment on the lips is totally worth a lifetime on the hips, amiright, ladies? (Cuppycakes by Citizen Sweet)

Beautiful and poorly-photographed flowers by Bows and Arrows. Also by Bows and Arrows?…

Adorable boutineers on adorable boy-tineers. (Crisman and Adam, respectively, who probably hate being called “boy-tineers” since it makes no goddamn sense.)

And, finally, a chair that looks like a dildo version of The Noid. You’re welcome.

Ta da! This post was brought to you by the letters K, N, S and the number 666. Air kisses!

I already know you love beautiful things because, duh, you love us. So it shouldn’t take much arm twisting for you Dallasites to scoot your booties down to Lower Greenville to visit Bows and Arrows. It’s a wee lovely space where you can feel like a kid in a goddamn candy shop (if candy shops were actually flower shops, you moron). But before we get to the flowers, let’s get to the ephemera. Which is not the correct use of that word, but HEY LOOK FUN STUFF:

But, of course, the real action is of the pistils and stamens variety. For anyone planning a fancy-pantsy event or (shotgun? arranged? greencard necessitated?) wedding, this is the place for flowers arrangements that aren’t half as stuffy as a mummified corpse locked in a trunk in my attic. Not that I know anything about that, officer.

They even offer classes! The only thing I can arrange is hits on ex-boyfriends, but you should try your hand at making pretty things. No, I’m sorry, you can’t make my likeness out of African Orchids, but I appreciate the thought.

Anyway, if you want your experience to be as lovely as mine, you’ll need to do three things:

1. Have your boyfriend accidentally pour a vase of water down your pants and into your shoes. (Subsequently: withhold sex for three days).

2. Have an oddly motionless Katy Perry dance party with small-to-medium amounts of shame.

3. Whore out your blog to darling boys who are possibly named Christman, which, if that’s right, just got 50 times cooler when I typed it and realized how Jesusy it is.*

*Okay, apparently it’s Crisman. Another day, another crushed dream. Thanks a lot, JESUS.

Sometimes we’re let out of our cages to terrorize the city. Or at least to ditch our cohorts and buy some art-horts.

I’m pretty sure you guys are sick of me waxing Brazilian about Blake Wright and his general badassery, so I’ll leave you with one parting image before we move on…

…to the rad pants worn by one mister Erik Schuessler.

That picture was taken mere moments before Hammertime. Anyway, on Friday night, I gathered my gaggle of man friends and hit up Guerilla Arts for the joint Blake N’ Erik show, which is not what it was called.

Dudes, there were so many captions on the guys’ art that I should have gotten a damn Personal Pan Pizza after reading all that shit. Not that I’m complaining, of course. The boyfriend and I loved it all so much that we bought ourselves some hot-tubbin’ ghosties. I’m putting each piece’s caption underneath it so you can get the full wrecks in effect:

Ghosts love to go hot tubbing only parrots can see them, and they keep their distance.

Ghosts love large family portraits so much they tend to build theme parks around them.

Ghosts can only float so high, after a while they need help so they get ghost ladders, but this one was caught on the clock tower.

Ghosts are always very generous at birthday parties, however no one really sees ghost gifts so they feel unappreciated sometimes.

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I was super impressed that Erik is so talented at photography that he can both travel back in time and also capture the supernatural on film. Those skills alone mean that his work is gonna skyrocket in price by, like, 4:30 this afternoon, so you should probably go to Guerilla Arts and buy it right now. Trust me: I’m the one who gave Martha Stewart all her advice on the stock market.

Hey, numbnuts, remember The Blake Wright? Of course you do, because he awesomes all over your face during your art-filled wet daydreams. Anyway, tomorrow is your chance to fork over the hard-earned dollars and cents you get from your sugar daddy to buy his artstuffs and officially make yourself cooler than all your friends. Plus we’ll be there, which takes that shit to an eleven.

In conclusion, local yokels and private jet owners: we’ll see your ugly mugs at the show tomorrow. You can find us by the bar waiting for you to buy us drinks.

Friday, October 15th from 7:00 – 9:00

1900 Haskell, Dallas TX, 75204

guerillaarts.org

It’s almost migration season, which means flocks of frostbitten, flying little chippies are headed my way with their chirpy repertoire of hangover-multiplying morning choral arrangements. This year I’ll be sending those birdies a message with these seedy spice skulls from artist (and local yocal), Helen Altman. The message being, “So long as you’re here making me want to kill myself, could you at least eat the corpses I left in the back alley? Thanks.”

Sometimes we’re let out of our cages to terrorize the city. Or at least stuff our faces with dead animal parts.

MEEEEEEAT FIIIIIIIIGHT!

Thus went the rallying cry at Meat Fight 2010. The Cheap Bastard end-of-summered our piggy faces off with a meat feast like nobody’s beeswax. Competitors from around the globe (that’s what I call the tri-neighborhood area) ponied (and pigged, and cowed) up their beefy wares, and the competition was impressive. Peep this brisket, ya’ll.

The winners took home some sweet “trophies,” aka “future family heirlooms.”

The commemorative cups were large enough to puke into after eating forty pounds of assorted beefstuffs.

Of course, I didn’t puke. I was in prime meat-gorging shape after doing driveway lunges for three-and-a-half hours pre-meat fest.

Nikki feared for my life, but I didn’t even break a sweat! And it’s is a fucking miracle, because I consumed enough barbeque sauce that it would have leaked right outta my pores. But so did everyone else, so instead of feeling disgusting, I just felt irrationally superior to everyone around me. But what the hell else is new?

I love this cat print from Audrey Jeanne, even though it’s common knowledge that boys don’t make passes at pussies in glasses. They pretty much only make passes at pussies in edible underwear, pussies in hot tubs and pussies that act as serving dishes for warm Corn Nuts. It’s the white trash version of eating sushi off of naked women, and trust me when I say it’s all the rage in Arkansas.

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via Dallas darlings We Are 1976