Jan 282015

Here is a “children’s story” I wrote on a piece of yellow construction paper when I was 20 & waiting for my boyfriend-at-the-time to get ready. SPOILER ALERT: it is so good.

(It’s not.)

I think this needs a companion painting.

Frannie Goes to the Zoo

One Sunday morning, Frannie’s alarm clock woke her up extra early.

“Geez Louise, Mr. Jerome! It’s only 6:00am!” Frannie was quite perturbed. Sunday was the only day she didn’t have to work at the food preservation material factory!

“Why yes, Frannie, I know it is way early. But I think today you should go to the zoo!” Mr. Jerome was the BEST alarm clock EVER. Without him, Frannie would have virtually NO agenda.

“That’s a great suggestion, Mr. Jerome!” Frannie spent a good forty-five minutes loving and stroking Mr. Jerome before she hopped into the shower.

Frannie, still not fully recovered from the early awakening, could barely keep her eyes open long enough to grab the shampoo. She mistakenly picked up Fred the Sea Monkey’s bottle of Nair instead!

So there stood Frannie, belting out some Engelbert Humperdinck classics, while simultaneously lathering the Nair into a big greasy lump on her head. Mr. Jerome joined in the song fest from the bedroom.

While Frannie was busy rinsing the ‘shampoo’ from her hair, she kept her eyes closed, envisioning what that night would hold for her and her beloved alarm clock. Candle light, unbridled passion and tuna for sure!

Incidentally, she completely over looked the fact that clumps of her green hair were being sucked down the drain.

Finally, Frannie finished scrubbing her leathery flesh with Crisco, and she emerged from the shower.

“Ack!!” Her ear-piercing shriek bellowed throughout the house, and even lingered a bit in her neighbor’s underground sweatshop.

“All of my hair is missing! It must have been the raw egg and pecan soup I had for dinner last night.” Frannie collapsed into a soggy ball of self-pity.

“Never fear! I am a bear!” Fred, the Sea Monkey and owner of the Nair, proclaimed as he popped out of the bathroom drain.

“No, you’re not. You’re a sea monkey,” Frannie said, matter-of-factly.

“Today I’m a bear.”

“No….huh-uh. You’re still a sea monkey.”

“I could be a bear.”

“You COULD be. But you’re still a sea monkey.”

“Tomorrow I could be a cow.”

“No, you’ll still be a sea monkey.”

Frannie and Fred locked eyes for a few minutes, and then Fred retreated to his lair in the drain.

Frannie, now completely over her hair-loss fiasco, got dressed in her best cellophane corset and saran wrap skirt. Working in the food preservation material industry had its perks.

“Au revoir, Mr. Jerome!” Frannie waved her yellowed handkerchief out the window of her Pinto as she drove away.

“Have fun, my love. Tonight we will make babies,” Mr. Jerome whispered to himself, perched atop Frannie’s bedroom windowsill.

After driving through the most monstrous of mountains, stankiest of swamps, and passing 2514 Wal-Marts, Frannie parked her car at the zoo.

“Hello! I am here to see the zoo!” Frannie cheerfully announced to the zoo employee at the gate. The zoo employee promptly turned his back to Frannie, leaning into his walkie-talkie.

“We have a visitor. Prepare the animals. 10-4,” he said, quite hush-hushedly. Frannie then handed him a hunk of muenster and the gates immediately opened.

Breathing in the stale scent of beer and oysters, Frannie whirled around in clumsy circles, her arms extended and head back, taking in the dilapidated, run-down establishment.

Meanwhile, haggard zoo people hustled to inflate all the animals, in preparation for Frannie’s arrival. But much to their chagrin, only the food court piqued Frannie’s interest.

“Amaretto corn dogs! Bonus!!” Frannie skipped amidst the peanut shells and rubber bands to the corn dog stand.

“Hello there, sir. How can I help you?” inquired the teenage employee.

“I’m a ma’am, not a sir.”

“Yes, I know. You’re a man.”

“No, I’m a MA’AM.”

“Right. How can I help you?”

Frannie scoped out the menu which consisted of…..amaretto corn dogs.

“Can I have a minute to decide?”

“Surely.” The vendor resumed painting his eyelids with green nail polish.

After twelve minutes of careful, excruciating deliberation, Frannie placed her order.

“Would you like to move in with me?” the vendor asked, rather nonchalantly.

“Yes, that would be okay,” Frannie agreed as she took the corn dog from his hand.

Frannie raced home after that magical encounter and told Mr. Jerome the news. He pretended to be happy for her, but when she left the room, he slowly pulled his cord from the wall, ending his life.

Fred the Sea Monkey walked out of the bathroom, in full bovine regalia, to bid Frannie a fond farewell.

Frannie glued some leaves to her bare scalp and left.
MORAL: If you’re an alarm clock, in love with your owner, don’t tell them to go to the zoo. Have them re-grout the shower instead.

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Jan 242015

Henry and I were tooling around town during Chooch’s piano lesson, and then I really had to pee. So Henry made me go in the Allegheny Cemetery mausoleum alone to use their bathroom, which is DOWNSTAIRS.

It was only marginally scary though, because there was some dumb group of hipster fauxtogs milling about, so j wasn’t totally alone. Until I came out of the bathroom and…yep, totally alone. I took advantage of the aloneness by wandering around (fuck you Henry, you can wait) and took my own brand of hipster fauxtographs—I mean, I edited them with VSCO and then posted to Instagram, that counts as hipster right?

I have no idea what I’m talking about. But here are my mausoleum selfies.


Mausoleum bathroom selfie.


Mausoleum reflection selfie.

Post-gospel aerobics tutu lounging selfie, because why not.

Other than that, today has been super chill. I had breakfast at Pamela’s with Jeannie and Wendy, bought some lawsuit* stationery on the off chance that I might ever write a letter again, exercised, painted, and listened to Pvris for the last 76 hours—my like for them has grown into OMG <3. I’m so stoked to see them with Pierce the Veil next month.

*(um, I noticed after the fact that autocorrect changed “kawaii” to “lawsuit.” Now I kind of wish that I had bought lawsuit stationery instead though.)

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Jan 222015


In collecting old photos of my Pappap’s house, I found several that reminded me of how much music has always been a part of my life, and why so much of it naturally reminds me of that house.

I got my first damn cassette player from my grandparents for my third (fourth?) birthday. A year or two later, I upgraded to a Fisher Price tape recorder—it was taupe in color like all electronics were in the early 80s and came with a microphone, which I would hold up to TV speakers in my Pappap’s den, in order to record shit from Friday Night Videos. Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” was on my very first mixtape. That song came on in the car a few weeks ago and I tried to get Chooch stoked on it but he only thought it was just ok.

The above picture was taken on the porch of my Pappap’s house, and anytime I hear the song “Under the Boardwalk,” my mind automatically beams me back to that porch, sitting at the glass table, playing Monopoly and listening to the Bruce Willis version of that song over and over while my grandma babysat me and my brother Ryan in the late 80s. AND THAT WAS MY FUCKING JAM.


Here we have my grandma holding me in the kitchen, and you can just barely see a stereo system on a shelf to the left. This is how I grew to love Phil Collins, Kenny Rogers, and Gino Vanelli and also grilled cheese sandwiches. SOFT ROCK 4 LYFE. NO SHAME.

(I made my Pappap order me the Time Life “Body Talk” CD collection, and literally every song reminds me of either sitting in that kitchen or my favorite childhood restaurant–the Blue Flame.)


This is my aunt Susie and me in the clown room. Inside the desk behind us was a record player, and this is how I heard Frank Zappa for the first time ever.

There was always music playing in that house back then. And today, there is always music playing in my house. Sometimes different music is playing in multiple rooms at once (soft rock radio in the bedroom, Spotify on the computer downstairs, music videos on TV); this drives Henry nuts. Especially if we’re watching something on TV and then I scream something unintelligible and clamber up the steps because some cherished song is playing on the bedroom radio and I want to pretend like this is a serendipitous moment, like I can’t just queue it up on my phone, and so I’ll flip down on the bed and listen to “In the Air Tonight” or “Eye in the Sky” like I haven’t heard it in 20 years, while Henry is downstairs mumbling, “How did you even HEAR that from down here?”

And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some soft rock to Spotify.

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Jan 052015

Some years ago, a crazy lady started a fight with me on Twitter because I wasn’t paying enough attention to her. One of the only slams she had on me was that I ONLY WRITE ABOUT MYSELF OMG. Writing about myself on my own personal blog, such nerve. Much audacity.

I mean, if people would stop taking out restraining orders on me, I’d have way more random lives to write about.

That broad was whack, but I have been thinking about switching shit up on here. Spritz it with some literary Febreze. Mask my own typo-riddled solipsism with the occasional guest post. WHO DOESN’T LOVE A SPECIAL GUEST STAR?!

As such, I’ve decided to do a monthly/bi-monthly/whenever I fucking feel like it travel-themed post where my friends—or anyone who happens to read this and becomes possessed with the spirit of Fodor’s—can submit a travel piece about their hometown! It doesn’t have to be some sprawling metro, either—I don’t discriminate against the rural demographic. Tell us where we can find the best hay bales to get high behind or where you go to use a rotary payphone in your Appalachian holler. I’m looking for YOUR favorite things about your hometown, cemeteries you’d take out-of-town friends for a walk, have the best ice cream, buy wheelchairs. OK fine–places you’d take me if I was visiting. BECAUSE THIS BLOG IS ALL ABOUT ME.

This is perfect for people who have a minimal desire to blog but are too ADD to maintain one of their own; have an upcoming typing test and need the practice; get off on the Internet to know intimate details, such as which drug store they get prescriptions filled and buy pregnancy tests to resell behind high schools.

Are you interested? You would have free reign–I don’t have a rigid format in mind, you won’t be censored (UNLESS YOU HAVE DIFFERENT OPINIONS THAN MINE. j/k.), you can include pictures. Take us on a tour!

Email me your travelogue (or questions) here: butgavincantdance [at] gmail.com. Don’t forget to include a short bio with any social media contact info you want me to post!

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Jan 032015


If one thing got me through last winter, it was furiously painting. So I plan on utilizing this same defense mechanism to claw my way through the early, dreary months of 2015. Right now I’m working on a Pittsburgh series. I just finished Rick Sebak (if you live in Pittsburgh and don’t know who that is, shame on you!) I have Warhol and Mister Rogers waiting in the wings. Mario Lemieux is in line back there, too.


On New Year’s Day, I painted some of the main players of the OJ Simpson trial. I call it “Simpson Trial Recess.” Glenn said it was “real special” and Henry was like, “I was too busy knocking back cases of Coors Lite while crying over my failing marriage to pay attention to what OJ Simpson was doing in 1995, so I do not recognize any of these people you literally spent the entire day painting, congratulations.”

I, on the other hand, was OBSESSED with the trial. So I’m pretty giddy about this and can’t wait to find a gaudy frame for it!

This is my aunt Susie’s dog, Tess!

“Sweet Teeth” – I painted this one last year and forgot that I stashed it in a drawer one day when I was “cleaning.” Because I’m a real “artist.”

In between a few customs I have on tap, I’m working on a big Twin Peaks group portrait thing. I love Twin Peaks.
In other news, Henry ate a seitan hoagie today because OMG vegetarian food isn’t all that bad after all.

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Jan 012015

If you don’t blog on the first day of the new year, you’re not a real blogger right? Sike. Who cares. But I do want to check in quickly to officially say HAPPY NEW YEAR! to that one lady who reads my blog from the phone of the milkman she kidnapped and wakes up occasionally with smelling salts. This one’s for you, random blog reader.


Typically, we don’t make plans for NYE. Frankly, it scares me to be out with all the drunks and belligerent people waiting to see some dumb ball drop. But then Barb was all, “Here have tickets to the Penguins game” and so that is how I spent my NYE: with Henry at the Pens game. I was done with work early, so he took the trolley downtown and we walked around for a little so I could introduce him to all of the crazies that I encounter every day, like this one man who was either homeless or the ghost of a sea captain, who barked “I SEE THAT SMILE” to me, but it was kind of threatening. And then there was a lady on a fake phone call who was screaming about people ODing and getting abortions while people went out of their way to cross the street in order to get away from her. Happy new year to YOU, Yinzer Schizophrenic.

We had pizza and drinks at Villa Reale before walking to Consol and Henry was in A REALLY GREAT MOOD, no sarcasm intended. Like, he was even holding my hand and only acting mildly annoyed when I was repeating overheard conversations in a demon voice. Too bad his joy and happiness never translates on photo.


This old man was sitting near me, acting 100% disinterested in the game and even started reading the comics at one point while shouting, “YOU’RE BORING US” and making occasional armchair coach assessments. I was obsessed with him because somehow he was carrying on without being annoying. Actually, no one there was annoying last night. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE. Maybe I just drank enough to not notice.


I was a nervous wreck through the whole game because the Pens had been on a losing streak (#mumpcity), but Sutter ended up winning the game for us right at the end, eliminating the need for overtime, which made Comic-reading happy. Moments before he was hollering about how they needed to speed it up and win because some people has NYE parties to go to. Oh, that man. God love him.

After awhile though, I think my demon voice had gone from mildly annoying to STFU YOU DUMB BITCH. It’s OK. I get it. Not everyone has a high Erin threshold.

Today was a chill day except that I exercised approximately 87 times because FOREVER FAT. I also painted a lot of things and played Call of Duty and just acted like a basic bitch all over the house. It was good. Now the holidays are officially over and it’s back to reality and also: THOSE ENDLESS WINTER MONTHS. I’m trying to fill up the days with hilarity and weird adventures so hit me up if you’re down for shenanigans, a/k/a touring places while trying to pee from laughter.

P.S. Malkin reminded me so much of my deceased cat Don last night, even more than usual, that I actually blinked back tears numerous times. Every time someone would manically scream “GENOOOO!!” I would look at Henry and wistfully murmur, “Don-Don.” Henry looked concerned at one point. Maybe I should add “go back to therapy” to my list of 2015 hilarity and shenanigans.

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Dec 242014


Merry Xmas Eve, my homies! I drank way too much wine (I know, I know, “too much” and “wine” don’t belong in a sentence together) and laughed way too hard at old pictures of Henry at Kelly’s house (she spoils me with vintage pictures of him, like when he went to the prom at some other school as a “favor” to some broad and conveniently has no memory of dancing to Total Eclipse of the Heart).



Henry got his (grown) nieces One Direction makeup palettes and they were a hit. Now I kind of wish he had bought one for me too.

We’re on our way home now, behind a car with a “JAM2DMB” license plate. I’m excited to go to bed!

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Dec 202014


Hi. It’s Saturday night. Janna is here and we’re talking about Serial (I miss it already!), Chooch is puttering around in the wheelchair, we decorated our Christmas tree that we just bought today, and now Henry is making us grilled cheese. Plus I found another beer that I can tolerate but it’s a winter shandy (Jolly Traveler) and numerous people have said “Haha stupid girl that’s not real beer” but it’s as real as this bitch gets.

Also, I’m wearing my new Emarosa hoodie that I pre-ordered (#obsessed) and I painted cat heads for fun and then Chooch claimed it.


Overall, not the worst Saturday night.

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Dec 152014

On our way to Carlisle (our stopping point before continuing on to Philly the next morning), we ate at the Summit Diner in Somerset.

We has the same waitress that Chooch and I had back in October when we stopped there with Janna after screaming our faces off at Huston’s Haunted Hollow. On that night, she started out totally annoyed, not even trying to pretend like she wasnt pissed we came in 30 minutes before closing. She eventually warmed up to us though. This time, however, she was overly kind and kept trying to make suggestions when we were ordering. Something about her seemed artificial, and I decided that she reminded me of Alison from The Affair, that Showtime series that I love/hate to watch. I get really upset about it and then start thinking of buying a cage so that Henry can never leave the house and deal with all those pesky temptations to philander. I mentioned that the waitress reminded me of Alison and Henry just rolled his eyes.

Henry asked the waitress for napkins and she tried her best to say “They’re right there” without sounding like a snide bitch, pointing to the napkin dispenser on the table. Chooch & I have eaten here before so we knew that already and oh how we laughed. “You’re such a n00b!” I cried and Henry frowned angrily while ripping obvious napkins out of the obvious dispenser.

Chooch & I spent the entire weekend idiotically blurting out, “Remember when daddy asked for NAPKINS?!” Henry was barely speaking to us Saturday morning, especially after we arrived at Christian and Terri’s for breakfast (they are way too good to us) and Henry sat RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE NAPKIN HOLDER. Terri swears she didn’t purposely put it in front of him. .


Before we left the Summit Diner, Chooch–who was scarfing down his breakfast scramble like this was the first time we let him out in public since his picture was finally removed from the milk carton–began choking. And I mean CHOKING. You know when people say, “Oh so-and-so turned beet red because they were so embarrassed”? Well guess what, no they probably didn’t turn beet red. Maybe a slight rouge or coral. Because what I learned that night at the Summit Diner is that “beet red” is reserved for choking victims. I have never seen Chooch’s face that hue before, and it was teetering dangerously into the plum color family.

“HELP HIM!” I begged Henry, who was sitting next to him, but then Chooch slowly coughed up the mangled wad of cheesy bacon that had lodged itself in his throat. Relief washed over me and then I almost started crying. Henry was MAD.

“I TOLD you to chew!” he spat angrily and I was like “Our son nearly choked to death and you’re going to yell at him?”

Then our waitress came over and started wiping down the table behind Chooch. “You OK buddy? Yeah…” she said in an affirmative tone when he nodded yes.

And then it all came back to The Affair because in the first episode, that’s how the two cheaters meet: the guy is at a diner with his family and the girl is a waitress, and then the guy’s daughter starts choking on a marble, OMG.

So basically what this means is that Chooch choked and now Henry is going to cheat on me.

Ugh and now while I’m typing this, Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings” is on; that’s that’ll going to be Henry’s song with his mistress. FML.

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Dec 122014

I had only been on the trolley for about 2 minutes when I felt someone standing next to me. Like, not just a “Hey, there’s nowhere to sit so I have to stand here by no choice” stand, but a purposeful “please look at me” stand. I could see in my periphery that this person was facing me, so I slowly looked over and saw this small Asian woman, perhaps in her 40s, looking at me expectantly. OK, not a guy with a machete. That’s good.

I thought at first she wanted my seat, even though the trolley was far from full. I thought this because this has happened to me three times, by the same old man. Three times he got on the trolley, stood all up in my PS (personal space for those who don’t know trolley lingo; just kidding, I just made this up right now because I didn’t feel like typing personal space so instead I typed it two times with about 100 extra words to go along with it, why do I do this to myself? Better yet—why do I do this to YOU?). So this old man who’s usurping my PS peers down at me with the creepiest intensity and taps his finger on the back of my seat. When I ask “Would you like to sit here?” he exclaims, “Oh thank you dear!” Like I came to this decision on my own and wasn’t pressured into it. But you know, I’m a sucker for old guys and even though there were empty seats, I stood and let his ass sink into the ghost of my PS.

Second time, same thing. Third time, I was already up and moving before he even made it to my seat. So fucking weird. Just pick a seat and sit!!

Anyway, I thought for sure this was happening again and I started to feel insecure, like, what is it about me that oozes the impression I’m warming this seat for you?

I was bracing myself to move, but then she started thrusting a $5 bill at me and was going on in broken English about the fare, and I was able to figure out that she needed dollar bills since the fare box thing only takes exact change. She opened her hand, showing me that she had the fifty cents, but she still needed $2.

(It’s here I will note that she passed up at least 6 people and the motion of the trolley practically jettisoned her straight toward me. For as many times as Christina called me standoffish, I sure must seem irresistibly approachable to strangers.)

As luck would have it, I actually moved my wallet from my regular purse to my work bag-thing, and as even more luck would have it, I actually had exactly two dollars in there.


I handed her the two dollars but kept thrusting the 5 at me until I realized she wasn’t going to take my money until I took her $5, like a lopsided trade.

“Oh no,” I said. “You don’t have to give me that. You can just have this, it’s totally fine.” I pushed the cash into her hand.

So she slowly took my money, took a step back with her hand on her chest and made a strangulated inhalation of shock.

And then, I’m not bullshitting you here, she started to CRY.

“Oh thank you! Thank you! It is my first time riding this!” she sobbed loudly.

I had an acute awareness of EVERYBODY ON THE TROLLEY watching this. A quick scan for a hidden camera confirmed that yes, pretty much everyone was watching. OMG plz stop, I silently willed her. Oh god, I hate being looked at!

She pulled herself together and went back up to the front of the trolley to pay and then took a seat across from me. She quietly analyzed a map of the trolley routes for the rest of the trip into town and I went back to playing Simpsons: Tapped Out, eventually forgetting my brush with humanity.

Twenty minutes later, right before the trolley pulled up to my stop, the lady got out of her seat, approached me and put her hands together in a prayer-pose. Then she started BOWING and said, “I appreciate you! I appreciate you!”

My god, lady! I smiled nervously and insisted that it was fine, but part of me wanted to get my phone video-ready and then say, “Oh no really, it’s fine. But hey, can you go ahead and say that one more time so my boyfriend will see that I actually helped someone? He is definitely going to call bullshit on this one.”

Of course, we got off at the same stop together so I walked slightly slower than usual so that we wouldn’t be awkwardly walking up two flights of steps with each other. She kept going straight as I crossed the street to The Law Firm and I MIGHT have smiled about the whole thing. Maybe just a quick flash of a smile.

Later that afternoon, I Have Good Karma For No Reason Amber came back from lunch with all these sauce samples and chips from Qdoba.

“So they have these new smothered burritos and I just asked if I could taste one of the sauces, and the guy me these samples of all three sauces PLUS a free bag of chips!” she practically BRAGGED. “For like, no reason!”

“Wow,” I deadpanned. “It’s almost as if you had given some poor Asian lady trolley fare today.”


Oh well. Who needs FREE SAUCE when I have these warm Good Samaritan feelings to dip my chips in. That didn’t make sense. That lady took more than $2 from me. I think she took some of the ice around my heart too and it’s got me all messed up. I want to go help another person now.

[ed.note I wrote this on my phone, half-asleep while Henry is driving us to Carlile, PA. So if it is even more typo-laden than usual, well, there’s my excuse. Philly tomorrow!!]

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Nov 242014

You guys. It’s my favorite time of the year, as far as inappropriate greeting cards go. Christmas!  Henry has been positively giddy over these majestic, sparkly card stock packs he found, perfect for our Christmas card line!




We’re now offering sets of 8 at a more affordable price of $15. The cards in this set are A2 size, which, if you’re deep in the card scene, you’ll know is slightly smaller than the standard size you can expect from non compos cards.

GO GET SOME! Add some fear and disgust to 8 mailboxes this holiday season!


I was sick on Saturday. I think I had a fever but Henry was all, “You do not have a fever.” Anyway, my point is that instead of resting, I used my fever-induced (yes, fever) delirium to design some new cards for the Holiday line. For some reason, this H.H. Holmes one made me laugh so hard but Henry was like, “It is not that funny.”

Henry doesn’t use contractions.



H.H. Holmes was a real nefarious fellow, and is considered to be America’s first serial killer. He would lure victims into his murder castle, which was full of mazes, stretching racks, and gas chambers. But damn if he doesn’t look dapper on the front of a Christmas card.

This card would be great for anesthesiologists, people who write fanfic about the  Chicago World Fair, or anyone you know who uses the term “Holmes” as a synonym for “friend.”

It comes with an envelope, which you can lace with fruit cake if you want. I won’t tell.

(Doesn’t he look super dapper flanked by Christmas trees?)

And then I was like, “Shit, son, Satan’s Little Helpers needs to happen” because who doesn’t love sitting at the computer, Photoshopping elf hats onto a parade of serial killers?


Ho ho ho, the gang’s all here for this merry holiday card, sure to delight even your most heathen-iest of friends. Etsy: where you can find a goddamn greeting card for just about everyone.

This card boasts the avuncular mug of Gary Ridgeway, David Berkowitz’s bashful smile, the cute & cuddly Jeffrey Dahmer, BTK’s friendly smirk, and Ted Bundy’s aw-shucks face. Perfect for the true crime aficionado, Satan worshiper, or that good little Christian you just can’t help effing with.

Comes with an envelope. Pentagram not included.


I can’t remember if I shared these ones on my blog yet, but here are two festive birthday and wedding cards that I made a few months ago. They just really brighten up the shop.



The perfect birthday card for your favorite true crime enthusiast. You’ve gotta know at least one! Go the extra mile and stick a ticket to Disneyland inside and say, “I’ll see you at Disneyland.” Get it? Because that’s what Ramirez said outside the courtroom when he was convicted….?

Whomp whomp.

ANYHOW. This card is lovingly printed on top notch cardstock. It’s like the Egyptian sheets of paper, you guys. And because I’m a great merchant-girl, I’ll even throw in an envelope of the correct size. The perfect canvas for pentagram doodles.

This next card started out as a custom order for a real cool dude, and I liked the end result that I decided to keep it in the shop. (Now I’m going to have to make a Charles Manson version! Maybe if I kill some people, I can find someone to marry me, too.)




Oh good, your friend got married. Before they start to feel too special, remind them even notorious serial killer John Wayne Gacy found not one, but TWO, women to marry his murdering ass.

This sweet card comes full of congratulatory sentiments and an envelope. We’re not penny-pinchers here at non compos cards. No need to fold your own card satchel out of toilet paper and duct tape.

Made from exceptional quality card stock, because appearances matter.


If you order anything this week, please use coupoRn code “marilynchambers” to get 20% off, just for reading this damn blog!

And as usual, I’d be remiss if I didn’t include my handy dandy disclaimer:

 DISCLAIMER: As always, I’m here to remind you that I do not endorse serial killers, murder, etc. I don’t think they’re “cool” and I don’t “worship” them. I’m just extremely interested in true crime, pop culture and designing tongue-in-cheek greeting cards.


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Nov 172014

Or: I’m not feeling like typing words today.

Brief summary, tho: the new Punk Goes Pop compilation just came out and while I’m not super into these comps, there are actually a few tracks I like a lot this time around. (And then you have the jumbled mess that Slaves made of Sweater Weather. What a great song for that merry band of misogynists to shit all over. That’s awful even by Kidz Bop standards.)

(I wish Dance Gavin Dance had covered Sweater Weather instead. With Tilian.)

The standout track for me is State Champs’ cover of Zedd’s “Stay the Night.” I love the original so much (full disclosure: I can’t listen to that song without crying, every.damn.time) and State Champs added their own sound to it while STILL making me get choked up at the gasoline part.

“Stay the Night” can stay on my radio.

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Nov 062014

It’s time to unload all of the deceased, Glennified celebs that I have been hoarding on my phone. You will note that there is no Robin Williams Glenn yet. I want to make a collection of Robin Williams Glenns, like a Brady Bunch-esque grid of them, but I just haven’t had the time yet.


I think I posted this one already, but I recently found out that Glenn used to be a beekeeper and now is not a beekeeper.



When I was a kid, I remember finding out that Bob Hoskins was supposedly (“supposedly”) British and I disputed this furiously. “I saw him in Who Framed Roger Rabbit and he is definitely from America because he talked American!” I MEAN, REALLY.



My god, I was so giddy when I made this one.



This one was suggested by my friend Kristy when we were at the Zombie Luau and it was apparently the nth anniversary of Elvis’s death. I know this because Kristy said to me, “Hey, it is the nth anniversary or Elvis’s death.” So, here is his RIP Glenn. You’re welcome, Mr. The King.

It makes me really happy when people who don’t work here/know Glenn suggest an RIP Glenn. I told him that this happens sometimes and he was like, “OK.”


Out of all the Glenns I have made over the years, this one probably is the closest match to his likeness.



This one hurt. Jan Hooks’ had a small role in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, but it was huge enough to make a lasting impression on me (and millions of others!). I am not big on referencing movies, but her scene is such a metaphor for my life, always looking for something that doesn’t exist, finding myself asking for something that gets me laughed at. I have written about countless “Alamo Basement” moments on this blog.

One of my fondest Alamo Basement moments was a literal one. It was the summer of 1992, when we were hosting a French foreign exchange student so suddenly my family was doing textbook family stuff, like “going on outings together.” One of those outings was to Laurel Caverns, about an hour away, where we took French Kid on a tour so he could take home a souvenir of stalagmite with stalactite confusion, like the rest of us dumbass Americans. So we’re on this tour, deep inside a fucking dripping cavern, and my dad raises his hand and asks, in a perfect deadpan, “When do we get to see the basement?” My dad and I barely got along back then, but goddamn did I laugh.

Jan Hooks will always represent something happy from my childhood. And now, she is a Glenn.


I’m pissed about this one. The gown looks like stupid Alaska water and a stupid Alaska mountain. Ugh, Alaska, you constantly mock me!!

I KNEW I should have made the dress red.


After I made the Wayne Static Glenn, Glenn shrugged. “I don’t know who that is.”

Mean Amber turned around and said, “Yeah, either do I.”

So then I felt confused. Was I astral projecting again? Was Wayne Static someone who only exists in the astral projection town I visit on my fantastic subconscious trips and now my two worlds are colliding and everyone on this side is going to think I’m nuts, bringing back memories of characters who don’t exist here on this side?

But then Nate walked by and said, “Yes I am familiar with Static X” so I was relieved until it occurred to me that Nate and I are astral projecting together somehow, to a town on the other side that never advanced past pre-millennium hard rock.
FUNNY STORY: Glenn’s wife came to visit with their new baby a few weeks ago and Glenn took her to the other side of his desk, where two poster boards of Glenns hang on a wall.

“So, I never told you about this before,” he started slowly. “Because it’s kind of hard to explain, but…here is this thing.” And then he Vanna White’d an arm along the poster boards and maybe it was just the angle but I could swear I caught a glimmer of PRIDE on Glenn’s face.

There was a tense moment of silence while his wife took it all in. I was prepared to throw Amber under the bus.


But then Glenn’s wife started cracking up and pointing out her favorites. YES!

Later that day, Amber and I were reminiscing about all the Glenns we’ve defaced over the years.

“You know, when you first started this, I thought, ‘Yeah, this is going to get old.’ But no. No, it’s still funny!”

And then we laughed for awhile until Amber realized she had gone more than 5 minutes without being mean.

The end.

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Oct 292014


I HATE EVERYTHING!!! First, We walked to The Hollywood Theater to watch Halloween. There was a Michael Myers statue that moves but doesn’t have the knife. Sadly! We got Popcorn and M&M’S. Also we got Raffle Tickets 2 raffle Tickets. Next, We were watching the movie. These kids said to Tommy a little boy that the Boogy Man was going to come after him. Tommy kept saying he saw the Boogy Man but it was Michael Myers. The Sheriff came in this house that the babysitter that baby sitted Tommy came in because Michael was in there and at the end of the movie The Sheriff shot Michael in the head about 16 time and Michael fell off of the balcony. He looked down and Michael was gone. Last, The movie ended and it was time for Raffle the last prize was a Michael Myers mask and we were 716770 and the winner was 2 Goth people with the number 716771 I freaked the eff out! I almost cried I said to mommy for the Goth people to BURN IN HELL!!! I knew they were Goth because they had black hair,the makeup Goth people wear, and they were black spiked shoes. Finally, We walked out and I forgot my jacket and a bunch of people came out and Brad and his Fiancee Casey I told them everything I was so mad about! I calmed down after passing the Fragile Stuffs store because there was a FLUFFY NICE KITTY CAT THAT WAS BLACK AND FREAKING WHITE!!! We were walking home and we ran half the way and on the other side of the street there was the scary guy that was like “Have you ever tried WEED? I HAS IT WAS SO GOOD ALSO HAVE YOU EVER HAD WHISKEY? That’s good to! I just got high and drunk yesterday!” (That’s not really what he said he was singing Ring Around The Rosy like a Drunk and high idiotic moron. We thought Henry was going to be in his underwear playing Xbox1 but he wasn’t. We got home and Henry was like HOLD ON! Because we were banging on the door! I told him everything and he was like You would of won if I was there. JK I never win anything! We would of won actually! Because we would of had 3 tickets and the one would be 716771 and we would of won! Laugh Out Loud!!! Wow that was a horrible and dreadful day.

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Oct 292014



Today’s National Cat Day! Kind of bittersweet for me since in the last three years, our cat family has dwindled from 4 to 1.  Marcy was my first cat, and she’s still here. Even at the ripe old age of 17, she still has so much personality and venom in her veins. I asked her to pick out some of her favorite pictures and her response was to carve the letters D-I-E into my face with her eyes alone, so I picked my own favorites.


Some facts about Marcy:

  • I got her in the spring of 1998 from a co-worker at Olan Mills. I volunteered to take her in, even though I was raised by a family who were 100% against cats and were Team Dog4l. I had no idea what I was doing but she quickly took over and sometimes it feels like she was the one taking care of me, in her own sadistic way.
  • She loves Cool Ranch Doritos.
  • She hates everyone but Henry.
  • She held Janna and me hostage on  the couch one time and it was hilarious and horrifying all at once.
  • She hates being pointed at.
  • She bullied our other three cats every chance she got, even though two of them were her own children.
  • She’s named after the band Marcy Playground. (Come on, it was 1998! John Wozniak was a babe!)


She amazingly lets him get away with so much. If I did this, she’d turn me into a cleft palate commercial.

The Sue Sylvester of cats.


Chooch didn’t have the heart to move her, so he was using a mound of stuffed animals as a pillow until I saw this and hooked him up with another pillow.


She’s always been such a huge part of our family. I don’t know what I’m going to do when my time with her expires. :(

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