Dudes, this bear rug is only $1800, which is quite a steal considering how rare Pink Tapestry Bears are in the wild. Fun fact: 96% of all Pink Tapestry Bears are gay. The other 4% just pretended to be bisexual in college.

This is the perfect couch for anyone who lives in an episode of Scooby Doo. But I don’t. I live in an episode of The Shirt Tales. Or at least that’s what you should tell anyone who questions my constant lack of pants.

My brother-in-law* has such in inherent loathing of the sun that he spent our Virgin Islands vacation sitting under trees at the edge of the beach wearing long pants and cross-stitching. Methinks* he needs to take a note or two from Lauren DiCioccio and start cross-stitching our vacation slides. And after that he should learn how to cross-stitch some motherfuckin’ Pina Coladas, because I came here to get drunk and punch stingrays, and I’m all outta stingrays.

*He is not a Vampire

*I am not a pirate

01Mathery is an ambitious blog project from a pair of young designers who’ve vowed to post an idea a day and, I can only assume, live in an endless pile of discarded VHS tapes, toilet paper rolls, used bolts and wine corks somewhere in the idyllic country side. Here are just a few of their inspired creations:

VHS toilet paper dispenser

nut vase

floating drink tray

I find their stuff so inspiring I decided to give this “idea a day” thing a try. So here is my contribution:

Just multiply that by 365 and we’ll call it a day.

Via Swiss Miss.

Normally fake food is a total let down. If I’m in an antique mall sifting through 15 booths of Faberge eggs and moth-eaten mink stoles with the heads and feet still attached and I turn the corner to find a table spread with more deserts and goodies that you could shake a dick at, I don’t hesitate. I dive in, arms flailing and teeth masticating. And if that food is made of poly-resin? Let’s just say I have a mouth full of crowns and a deviated anus that say the results ain’t pretty. Side bar: who the fuck buys fake deserts? Is it for masochistic diabetics? I don’t get it. But I do get this awesome birthday cake postcard. It makes it look like a drunk left cake in your mailbox and boy are drunks festive.

10 AM ladybug? Fuck that. 10 AM is praying mantis time at my house. Plus, every other line item on this list should be “whiskey.” Tell your  to-do list glassware it can’t tell me what to do, Fred Flare!

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.

Golden Girls Nesting Dolls with complimentary Blanche cleavage?! I’ve never needed anything more in my whole entire life. Not even that time I was a bad guy and needed a new face so I could look like a good guy and get away with espionage/murder/being John Travolta.

I bet you think I’m just posting this light because it has a swear word built in. But that’s not it. I just think your sassy pussycat might enjoy batting at the shuttlecock for a bit, channeling her inner boxer. It’ll be pretty cathartic until she, who really has a lot of energy most days, grows weary and refuses bash it around. But that’s okay, because sleep is super important for a kitten. And why didn’t you just hang it up in the first place, you dumb fuck?

bleep bleep

via my Florida pally Maggie Sage at Sage Sisters Press

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.