As if seeing the boudoir photos your grandmother got your grandfather for their 40th anniversary weren’t bad enough on its own, someone’s gone and made a chair to commemorate it. All it’s missing is a saggy tits lumbar cushion and a prison tattoo.

Via Rod “Un-petite Feet” Cruz

One… Two… Three… Four… Four sparkles I punched off the face of Edward Cullen. Ha ha ha ha ha. One… Two… Three… Three turds I pooped into the mouth of Edward Cullen. Eat my poop you glitter-wearing poser. Ha ha ha ha ha. By the way, even Big Bird lost his virginity before you did. Ha ha ha ha ha.

Did any of you knuckleheads read Wait Till Helen Comes when you were little? Remember how fucking terrifying that book was for kids? Ghosts? Drowning? Spooky churches? Anyway, I bring it up because this print is almost exactly how I pictured horrifying, murdery ghost Helen in that book, and it pretty much ruined me for life. So, see, you can’t blame my evil on my upbringing. You can only blame it on my advanced reading skills and desire for knowledge.

Every once in awhile, something comes along that changes your life. The Mister Clean Magic Eraser, for example. Stretch denim. RuPaul’s Drag Race. Motherfucking Funyuns. Well, now you can add Companion Parrot to that illustrious list. Seriously, I’m used to telling people I hate their guts, but I never realized I could love someone’s guts so much.

Okay, fuck it. I can’t finish this post when I have the RuPaul’s Drag Race theme song stuck in my head. May the best woman, BEST WOMAN wiiiiiiin.

via Street Anatomy

So, what is this, like a wing word bubble? I guess we know what Miss Bustle Buns is saying: “Birds of a feather flock together.” Or maybe, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” Perhaps “The early bird catches the worm.” Or more likely, “Chicken headed bitches be trippin’ when they peep my fly dickie, ya’ll. Aaaand what?”

Smoking is extremely glamorous, but reading is for losers. Luckily, some genius shrunk down a bunch of literary classics and packaged them in cigarette packs. They totally save you the embarrassment of people thinking you use your brain for icky things like learning.  Duh, you should only use it to think up really cool ways to get cancer and die while you’re still young and oh-so-sexy. Man, I’m totally gonna bone your corpse.

If Hell has a basketball team, tell Hitler to make room on the bench for the maker of the Twilight Manllow. She (or possibly he) is probably not a starter, but she’s definitely third string Junior Varsity.  Though, in truth, I’ve got to cut her a lot of  slack since she describes her own product as “105% creepy, 5% lovable.” This whole Twilight thing isn’t her fault. Plus, these things are totally going to make her rich. So hat’s-off, I suppose. Either way, I officially need a lobotomy.

Are we 100% sure the Antichrist isn’t a pillow?

In High School, there was a mildly repulsive goth troll fellow who had a mad crush on me. He would express his love in typical ways, like writing me gothy love notes, waiting outside my classes for me, and shoving a giant needle from the biology dissection lab through his man-boob and then dramatically revealing the red, throbbing, impaled mound of bologna-nippled flesh to me as I passed him in the hallway. Normal stuff like that. So what I’m saying is, this pincushion reminds me that I’m glad High School ended ten twelve years ago, and also that my boyfriend pretty much fell out of a J. Crew catalog.

Pubescent teens and steroid users everywhere are suffering from an embarrassing and rarely discussed affliction: Ass Acne. Juicy inch-high pustules crop up on their butt cheeks , making sitting a delicate and uncomfortable proposition. Sadly, that’s not a detergent stain on Tyler’s jorts, nor are sweat marks the only dark spots on Dirk’s bodybuilding unitard. But thanks to the Drum Chair, busted ass pustules no longer need to be feared.

Crafted from old oil drums, the chair has experienced its fair share of unholy grease and oil smears. Ass Acne sufferers can apply their afflicted cheeks to the chair for 20 minutes in the mornings and the day’s supply of oil and puss will be find a new home on oil-drum metal where it belongs. When you leave your sickening slickness on the chair’s seat, not your seat, you’ll feel refreshed, confident, and free to take on the world. So what are you waiting for? Go get ‘em, you greasy sonofabitch!

I get thrown in jail for three weeks every time I pull the head off a live bat, so I’ve been looking for an alternate hobby that doesn’t result in me performing community service. With these drawer pulls, I can just pull on cast metal bat heads instead. Satisifies the itch without all that pesky “appearing before a judge” and “trading my vagina for blankets in the pokey.”

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via the fabulous and adorable Kitlane