valis2 | Harriet Carter Horrors #1

So last week Husband and I retrieved our mail while on our way to my sister's house. While perusing it in the car, I found a model railroad magazine and a Harriet Carter catalog.

Now, having never received these before, I scratched my head for a moment, and then realized that they were addressed to my elderly neighbor.

That sorted out, I proceeded to thumb through the Harriet Carter catalog during the drive, thinking it might be good for a chuckle. Imagine my astonishment when I found it to be chock-full of horrors. Really good horrors, too. And since it's been a long time since I inflicted horrors upon you, I decided to make an extra-special action-packed edition in honor of Harriet and her fine products.

Yes, I stole mail just so I could share this with you. Fine, it was only for a day, so I could scan these in. But still. That's the depth of my commitment to amusing my flist.

Also, it gets a little scary. Be warned.

You will never run out of salt and pepper with these!

Frankly, unless these shakers actually create salt and pepper within their innards, I doubt it. Eventually there will come a day when the last grain is dispensed.

This did lead to a hilarious Husband demonstration of how the infomercial would work. "Are you tired of putting together sodium and chloride molecules by hand?" [Mimes someone desperately trying to pick up atoms with their bare hands.] "Then you'll love our new salt and pepper shaker combos. You'll never have to create tiresome atomic orbits again!"

Rolling snowplow makes back breaking snow removal a cinch!

Unless it vaporizes the snow it comes into contact with, I don't see how this would improve things. I mean, you still have to push the snow around. And if it's wet snow, it will pack together rather quickly and make this a nightmare.

This catalog really relies on a special niche of people. Those who are too cheap to buy an actual snowblower, but don't mind spending a few dollars more for a snow shovel with extra weight attached.

Cat fleece throw has seven kitties sitting pretty, all in a row!

All she had to do was pose with the blanket. Just ten minutes, and they'd let her Christopher go free. Just ten minutes. She tried to hold the smile, but it was difficult. She could feel the violence in the blanket, she could hear the desperate sounds of the cats trapped within it, hissing to be set free upon the innocents of the world. Just seven minutes left, and they'd take her to Christopher. The blanket pulsed sickly. The garbled shrieks of the damned felines gathered within it pierced her ears. Her hands were numb. Five minutes left. Christopher was waiting. She stamped down her panic. Her fingertips were raw. The cats were singing a song of destruction, they were yowling a chorus of discord, their screeches grated in her skull. Three minutes. Her face was frozen in its expression. Blood ran down the back of the blanket. The cats growled. They wanted to bite through flesh and bone and feast upon the hapless. One minute. Christopher. Christopher. The seven demons howled in fury, their claws flashing. She had to think of Christopher. But it was too late.

Military fleece throw

George thought modeling in the Harriet Carter catalog would be a piece of cake. Lenny told him it was easy. In he'd go, pose for a few pics, get a check in the mail, and new tires for Rosie's car. But he hadn't known about the blanket.

At first it had seemed nice. Warm, soft, comforting. They took a few pics. Changed the angle of the lights. A few more pics. More changes.

But then he started to grow hot. He could feel the static rising up from the collar of his shirt.

When they were done with the shoot, they gave him the blanket, laughing and clapping him on the shoulder.

Oh, how he wishes he could go back to that moment.

Now there's nothing left for him. Lenny won't answer his calls, or even the door. Rosie's left, entered the convent. His car reposessed. Disowned. One look at that photo, and he was fired from his job of twenty-seven years.

It's just him now. And the blanket. It won't leave him. It knows where he's hiding. The shotgun in his bedroom drawer won't be enough.

Hair cutting umbrella is an essential tool for the home stylist.

I like hair cutting. Cutting. Cutting. I like hair. It grows and cries. And hair is good. I am good. Mommy knows I'm good. She likes my hair. I have good hair. Mommy knows to cut it. I cry. She makes me tell her. But I want the hair. It cries and I am happy. Mommy grows hair. I am good and I cut it. She cries. I tell her I'm sorry. At night the hair fairy comes and glues her hair back. She cries. I am happy. I like hair.