Dead Santa

On a recent trip back to my homeland, The Midwest, I noticed a growing trend toward really cheesy holiday decorations in the form of giant, plastic blow-up lawn ornaments; what my sister-in-law dubbed “Get Her Done” red-neck holiday décor.


laundry-on-the-lawn1When these petroleum-based masterpieces are not inflated by their tiny life-giving respirators, they lay about the frozen landscape like piles of laundry.    I just assumed that the mounds were a result of a domestic dispute.  You know, a “Here’s all your shit, asshole. Now get the fuck out” kind of altercation which kinda bummed me out.  After all, ‘tis the season to be jolly and spread the joy and can’t we all just get along and kiss under the mistletoe and eat cookies.   I was wrong.   Sometimes it’s a burden being so cynical. I have considered therapy.


But I digress. 


I have to admit that I was oddly obsessed with these plastic creations.  Fascinated is probably a better word.  There were so many.  And they were everywhere! I wondered if there was some sort of competition going on that might result in prize money or a trip to Dollywood or something equally tantalizing.   I never did find out so I judged for myself.  Here are the results:


dead-santa4Honorable mention has to go to:  Dead Santa.  Or maybe he’s a hopelessly drunk Santa. I can’t really be sure.  Either way, it’s kind of metaphoric, wouldn’t you say?  Maybe it’s just me. 







But the Grand Prize, The Palm d’Or, The Jury Prize Extraordinaire, goes to Outhouse Santa. 


I would love to meet the schmuck who designed this beauty.  


Santa, sitting in an outhouse reading, how festive! This is NOT a joke.  It really is an outhouse, albeit a jolly ‘ole outhouse complete with candy cane embellishments and a lit-from-below toilet seat.


 Any guesses on the publication? 


I’m thinking Hustler.


P.S.  Special thanks to my sister, Joanie, for conjuring Allen Funt.