Sex Detective vs Santa and the Icecream Bunny

Just to be quite clear here, this is from an actual feature film called 'Santa and the Icecream Bunny'.  It had producers, writers, directors and everything, and was released in 1972.  FoundFootageFest.com spliced these parts together but they're not even the weirdest parts.  In a nutshell, Santa gets stranded at a Florida beach and so needs the help of a dozen kids and a giant rabbit to rescue Christmas.  Yes, just like that dream you had after you mixed Absinthe with mineral turps.  About halfway through the film, when all seems lost, he cheers the kids up with the story (or at least a story) of Thumbellina - the film dissolves into this retelling, by which time I fell asleep.  Check this shit out:



This film has done more to prompt child protection reform than the entire coal mining industry and the Vatican combined.  You'll notice the creative use of freeze frames here, but I tend to think that the following shots were cut short due to ensuing accidents.  There's no mention of official stunt work on the film, so let's assume the worst, shall we?

"Okay, Melissa, in this scene just make a hoop with your arms for Zeus to jump through." 
"Are you sure, Mister, he looks kinda mean?"  "Look, the cop we bribed to hire him assured us he only attacks women over an unspecified body weight, you'll be fine."

Since 1972 we've seen enough Funniest Home Videos to see what's coming here.  The camera shakes and falls as the ball hits it, followed by a cracked, ground up view of an enraged cameraman bludgeoning the blond kid with his own bat for the next 47 seconds while the catcher starts crying.

Blaxploitation was an industry norm back in the '70's, so finding a little black kids to jump from a clearly crippling height with a weighty beach umbrella only cost the studio the exact same price as three cigarettes, a beer and a KFC two-pack.

Before beach cricket, a favourite Christmas past-time was to make two of your kids fight for presents in the backyard.  The camera crew were happy to film this somewhat one-sided scuffle until it started getting a little rapey, at which point they quietly moved on.

What we don't see here is the high-pitched, screaming tragedy that befell Cindy 3 seconds later when her frisbee struck a nearby wasp nest.  The director, unsure of the difference between 'wasp attack' and 'child on fire', quickly wrapped her, along with the wasps, in a blanket until help arrived.

Look, it's Huckleberry Finn playfully tussling with disease-ridden vermin.  Racoons love fun and games on the water bec- hang on, I'm thinking of beavers.  This poor, terrified little bastard is actually fighting for his life.

This little girl just stole her brother's skateboard, but due to cosmic justice she's now about to meet a pavement full of karma face first.

Don't worry, Santa, help is on the way in the form of an old-timey pick-up truck dangerously overladen by unrestrained children and being driven by a dude in a vision impairing rabbit costume.

Aaand here's the star of the show, an old man so heat prostrated that he's conducting an invisible orchestra on the beach.  It's never really explained why he chose to land on a beach, during the day, when it's not even Christmas Eve, or why his reindeer somehow unhitched themselves and fled.

But that doesn't matter.  Really, none of it matters.

Sex Detective Christmas Special, part two

I've just watched the latest Harry Potter film, which means I'm already in a pissy mood from all the plot holes and continuity errors.  But when it comes to fantastically bad stories it's hard to go past the Holy Bible of Christian Mythology.  Literalist believers would have you think that the Egyptian pyramids were built by Jewish slaves (there weren't any Jews anywhere near Pharoah-run Egypt at that time, and not for another 900 years when a few tribes were hired as mercenaries, not slaves), that people lived inside giant fish for a few days, and that Christ our saviour was a magic super-zombie.

But historians are going to look back at some of these pictorial archives of ancient celebrations and assume that we were no more sane in the 21 st Century.

Okay, kids, is everyone locked and loaded?  We're off to grandma's for pudding then the local mall for a spree.
What I really love about this one is that although Mum, Dad, big brother and sister are all excited about their Final Christmas Pact, little Tommy knows deep in his heart that something is very wrong here.

All across the globe thousands of dyslexic Christians pay homage to the birth of the Son of Dog.  This animal is clearly terrified, having just woken to find his owners dressed in bed sheets and wrapping him in a pillow slip.

The weird thing about this pic isn't the collection of horrible gothy kids trying too hard to not enjoy themselves, it's the Santa-esque patriarch seated in the centre of this stagnant pool of angst.  It's a silent battle of wills as the jolly old man of colourful cheer stoically tries to wait out these morose, pouty teens.  No contest, Santa man, the emo generation have already unlocked the secrets to weaponising  boredom and will patiently hover like ghoulish vultures until you surrender your soul to them.

No, no, no!  Your squade of space chameleons will never pass for normal Earth-humans if you don't get their annual celebration themes right.  You can't have an effigy of their Rudolph Deer God and be wearing Easter Hopping Rat ears at the same time.

It's a true testimony of the human spirit when a man is brave enough to wear the same sweater/shorts outfit on Christmas Day that got him beaten to a pulp in the week before.  His attackers were so inflamed by his wardrobe they even crippled his mutant dog.  Also, did you know that there is only so much in the way of gharishly contrasting colour combinations your eyes can process before the optic centres scream rape?  You do now.

 Look, when I see a book with this title I expect to see a fucking snowman on the cover, okay?  Not some chinless magician clinging to a lightning rod with a weather-vane inexplicably impaled through his hat while hordes of spastic children taunt him to jump to his death and an evil sun god looks on in malevolent pleasure.  And is that Santa in the background driving a horse-drawn moon buggy?  This is exactly the sort of story you get when HP Lovecraft and H.G. Wells hook up for an opium orgy and fuck each other on top of a typewriter.

I have to admit that my Portuguese is a little rusty, so I'm going to assume the worst of possible outcomes here.  This poster is either about child burglars or the mostly naked sex offenders that honey-trap them. 














"World's Best Dad", eh?  I'd just love to see empirical data which determined that lavish claim, dude.  Or maybe you legitimately won the title by defeating lesser dads in a pit fight. 
But that's not even the point.  Having a portrait of that puppy printed onto your sweater actually implies that the dog is the "Dad" in question, which raises some pretty disturbing questions among members of the sane community.

 This is an actual stock photo combination used on a costume hire website as a Christmas promo.  But one of these things is not like the others, and while there was no shortage of Herod's soldiers skulking around around at the time of Christ's birth, none of them were Roman.  And even if there were, what sort of sick fuck would rock up to a Christmas party dressed as a sword-drawing assassin intent on infanticide?  Apart from me, obviously. 










This not a deer, or at least not one designed by anyone who's actually seen a deer, but instead had the description of one sent to him in semaphore.  Looks more like a chipmunk with antlers, idiots.

 The Santa and little angel girl are pretty much on the mark, but what's up with Joseph's beard?  It looks like it has Down's Syndrome.  Charles Manson would reject that beard on the grounds that it was too creepy and sent the wrong message.

Wow, when someone said "Santa's elf" this is not the first image that came to mind.  Appears to be more like a troll with lowered ears and a mullet trying to infiltrate Santa's workshop, all the while being egged on by a little man that lives inside his hat.

Sex Detective Christmas Special, part one

Joy to the fucking world, god-lovers.  I'm the first to admit that I'm not overly familiar with Christian mythology, but you would have to go along way to find someone who doesn't know the story of Christmas, and the figures responsible for the whole gift giving craze that has been exploited by the retail industry as a result.  That's right, those three magi who camel-trekked all the way from fuck-knows-where to deliver pressies to the infant king of the Jews in Bethlehem one starry night.  Loaded down with gold and ancient toiletries, they supposedly decided to hook up, hit the road and follow a star until they found some kid in a manger to offload their goodies.

Now before I get into belittling a bunch of horrible things here, I just want to take time out to question the logistics of this part of the legend.  These dudes were goddamn kings from foreign lands, rights?  Not one, but three (trinitarianism is big in this religion as you probably know) ancient sovereign leaders who apparently set aside any differences, buried any potential rivalries and joined to hand deliver valuable commodities outside their own respective nations.  And trust me, the Middle-East back then wasn't any friendlier than it is today.  So, my question to you is: do you have any conceivable idea of just how frighteningly massive the triple entourage for these muther-fuckers would be in order to spend weeks crossing deserts and borders on this unified quest?  Bethlehem would have assumed it was being besieged by allied forces.  Personal bodyguard armies, servants, slaves, supply trains, chicks to peel grapes.  Magi did not screw around when it came to road trips, they couldn't afford to.  Nowadays if a foreign dignitary knocks on your barn door you might see a few guys in dark suits with shoulder bulges, but back then only deterrent to bandits, local militias and greedy nobility was a show of power.  So go ahead and re-read the nativity story, only now picture an extra thousand heavily armed men hanging around the town.  And you wonder why there was no room at the inn?

Anyway, the great thing about vaguely described, historically ambiguous events like the nativity is that you can apply a little poetic license to what is the second most important date in the Christian calendar.  Here are some of the results.

Eeek!  When you buy this for your front yard all your neighbours buy lawn darts.  Any kid who isn't using this retarded balloon show as a bouncy castle by the end of the day is in a cancer ward praying for a Christmas miracle, or, as depicted here, throwing up gang signs (or possible pretending to be airplanes, I'm not sure).

Huh?  It was a good 1800 years after Christ that St Nick was conceived, so how is he visiting the baby messiah back in Bethlehem to give him presents on the holiday that wasn't possible until after Christ died?  It's this sort of magical time-travelling escapade that fucks up universes, Santa.  Also, when I first read the signage above the stable I thought it was a flagrant act of narcissism that said "O Come Let Us Adore Kim".

Just enjoy the look of horrified surprise on these little faces, will you?  And no fucking wonder after they discover that baby Jesus has just been shoved into a jar.

Now here we have a more solemn and peaceful depiction of - OH DEAR GOD WHAT ARE THOSE THINGS STARING THROUGH THE WINDOW?!  Mutant sheep?  Aliens?  A three-headed alien sheep?  No wonder the crib is soaked with urine.















Nothing says Christmas like Dicky Costumes
From what I can tell, in the costume industry 'egg-nog' is code for 'opium' because that is the only way to explain these ideas.  As for the consumer who wears them, I can only blame their paint sniffing mothers.

I.... nah, I got nothing.

 As a costume catalogue model you will one day fall so low in your career that even your agent refers to you as "the penis turkey neck guy.

 Savour the irony of the term 'gay bashing' when you rock up to a party, strike this pose, then watch every homosexual in the joint come at you with fists swinging.

Now here's the conumdrum: you can't possible wear this piece of insanity sober, yet there's no way you can survive the night in it drunk.  The solution?  Gift-wrapped cubes of cement on your feet and stand in a dark corner in the hope that no one tries wiring you to a power outlet.















Christmas and Sexiness?
Christmas is a time for family, for thoughtful celebration, sharing, forgiveness, joy and boobies.

Ho-ho-hoe!

However, there's apoint where sexing up what is otherwise intended to be a G-rated holiday starts to creep into fetish territory.  Flower-pressing a couple of albino gerbils then gluing them to tits probably qualifies.  Oh, wait, according to the inset there it's just the cheaply crafted visage of an old, bearded man whose nose may or may not be a nipple.  That's okay then.  Still, the toxic slug adhesive seems to be causing her an aneurism.












And now the horror...

Somehwere in suburbia there's a mantlepiece with this family portrait sitting on it.  I want you to think very carefully about that fact.  One fateful night dozens of friends and relatives received this as an email attachment with the banner "Seasons Greetings, wish you were here!" (on Incest Murder-Cult Island Resort).
Look, for all I know, this family has hundreds of fig-leaf themed photo albums and that this one is only differentiated by the addition of Santa hats.  They could just be Creationist Purists trying to live out some Edenistic ideal.  I'm sure the child welfare authorities will take that into account when they order in the SWAT team.

Department store Santa portrait?  Don't be niave, this is the last 'proof-of-life' photo sent by a pyschotic kidnapper before the cops raided the throne room of his basement meth lab.  Luckily little Tammy survived, but to this day she refuses to live in any house with a chimney.