There’s a proliferation of storage racks in the Star Wars Lego set as well–I had rather enjoyed picturing a Lightsaber Bin–so the new working theory is that there’s some sort of organizational themed set that didn’t fly off the shelves (like Lego Container Store or Lego Card Catalog) and Lego Corp just dumped all the leftover shelves and racks into the advent calendars before the end of Q4. At least all the little princesses over at Lego Friends are having a feminine ball rearranging the pantry.
We have fuckery today, addressed to the “Lego Mistress”, which I love because it sounds like I am having a tawdry affair with another Lego’s husband. This comes to us from friends Eileen and Brian, who say “We thought Silver Springs could use a crazy monkey. Yes, we stole this toy from our son in order to give it to you.” Well, E&B, your good karma will come back to you in the form of little Matty not growing up into a twisted psychological freakshow, because this thing is terrifying:
We’ve only got six entries left after this (and I won’t be at the mailing address to collect mail starting the 21st), so if you’ve got any fuckery to send, get it out now!
Ahhh. This is the Lego Corp I’ve come to know and loathe. They threw me off with the cool four wheeler and lady Lego, but a flaming crate sounds just about right.
Yes, I am eating Cheerios one-by-one like a cranky 13-month old.
Good gravy. The box isn’t even on fire, those are just freestanding phantom flames. I’ve been letdown by my letdown.
Yes, I did get a manicure. Thanks for noticing!
At least we’ve got another Day Box and a sociopathic monkey to ease the blow.
Look, I get that this year’s advent calendar is fire-themed. I understand there is a basic color pallette associated with that. But must every single thing in this town be yellow, brown, and red? It’s
Ooooooh end rant I just noticed what I think are night vision goggles all is forgiven red yellow it up.
Sigh. Why do I even try anymore.
I guess no one can accuse OCD OSCAR of glamorizing the life of a fireman for the kids. I hope if my apartment ever catches fire–and since it was built in like 1913 out of oily paper and asbestos, it’s only a matter of time–it happens before the current crop of manly, fearless firemen move on and are replaced by the generation currently opening this calendar, who will take one look at the flaming building and then start alphabetizing my recyclables.
“Who are you?” asked Susan as soon as she walked into the firehouse to fix her makeup. “What are you doing here? This is municipal property.” This was not entirely true, as the mayor had to sell the station to Loan Shark Larry (his actual name) back in the early aughts after investing the entirety of the town’s coffers in Pets.com. It wasn’t even partially true, reall.
Betty looked up from the stew she was unsuccessfully trying to heat using magic and briefly panicked, knowing that her crossbow was across the room; however, she remembered that she was a rusty shot anyway (that last dart had only succeeded in punishing Jesse Janes’ tree), so it probably wouldn’t have been of use.
“Why are you standing there thinking to yourself? I can’t hear your inner dialogue, bitch.” Ugh, thought Betty. Someone’s Aunt Flo must have come for a visit. She had lost the trail of the man who was 95% definitely Jesse Jane’s when he hopped into his pickup truck, but had a hunch that sooner or later he would end up at the firehouse. This hunch was entirely unfounded, but it seemed as good a place as any to practice her new spells and maybe she could find some vigilante justice to dole out, since the town was about due for a crushing, uncontrollable fire.
“You’re doing it again. Are you mute? Are you a mime? You don’t look like a mime.” Betty could swear she was flirting with her. “You have twenty–well, OK thirty–seconds to tell me who you are and what you’re doing and why you’re here and where…” Susan paused to count out on her hands. “Forget where. And WHEN…you’re leaving?” Her voice rose a bit at the end, unsure, but she considered the question and decided it worked. “Yeah. OK, 30…29…28….”
Betty did not feel she had to justify why she was standing next to a cold stew in this whore’s place of employment, starting errant fires using the dark arts: the bitch should be able to figure it out for herself. Still, she seems like trouble, and I can’t have her getting in the way of my revenge plans to kill the man I saw earlier that I am mostly sure is Jesse Janes because he killed my twin sister on Christmas Eve all those years ago, she contemplated, spelling things out surprisingly explicitly for an inner thought.
She thought of her dead sister, her years spent forgoing happiness so she could become a successful practitioner of street justice, her shattered dreams. Mainly, she thought of this hussy standing in front of her, and how she didn’t like the look of her face. The strange alchemy of all of this very specific hatred channeled into her wand with a pinch of magic added in, and the station stood still and quiet, save for the not-entirely-correct countdown that Susan was conducting.
And then a sociopathic 800-pound gorilla appeared in the room.