By Andrew Blumetti
yolks folks. Quentin Tarantino, I expect to hear from your lawyer imminently.
By Andrew Blumetti
yolks folks. Quentin Tarantino, I expect to hear from your lawyer imminently.
By Andrew Blumetti
She gives love a bad name.
Correction, make that the worst name.
Much like Carmen Sandiego, I’ve snuck around the world, from Kiev to Carolina, and during that traveled time, I’ve taken down a tally of near billions, and the collected results are as followed:
As a general human population, we all can’t stand Courtney Love.
And honestly, why should we? She’s astonishingly crass, inordinately offensive, and is the proud owner of an un-angelic singing voice that one can only be likened to that of Jonestown cats committing mass suicide.
Simply put, Courtney Love is 10,000 spoons, and all we need is a knife.
But by George, you gotta give that hay-haired nutjob credit where credit is due.
Back when current flavor-of-the-month downward-spiralers, Lindsay Lohan, Amanda Bynes, and Justin Bieber were dooking their silk diapers, Love was already America’s celebrity Titanic. She’s literally the closest thing to the human equivalent of Will Smith’s After Earth we’ve seen with our own two eyes.
But take a second to look at her lengthy track record of awful consistency— we’re talking over twenty years of being a flat-out mess of a person… that’s a train-wreck spanning some part of three decades folks.
Alright, alright, I know what you’re thinking- that’s not really impressive per say, it’s more flat-out jerky. Of course, I can’t blame you for thinking like that.
Feast your eyes on her infamous rap sheet… in Night Court.
So, Why All the Courtney
She spent the majority of the 90’s with more drugs in her system than Tom Hanks in the last half hour of Philadelphia, her estranged daughter, Frances Bean Cobain, won’t give her the time of day, she’s started wars with former members of Nirvana, mounted a failed comeback of her band, Hole (without her band, Hole), and for the cherry on top of this crap sundae, she may or may not have sent a shotgun shell through her late husband’s blonde noggin…
…or so Pat Smear would have you believe.
She’s kicked-up juvenile feuds with Madonna, Marilyn Manson, Billy Corgan, Gwen Stefani, and Kelly Osbourne, abruptly cancelled tours with the breakneck consistency in which Michael Moore cancels diets, and rubbed most likely half the earth’s population the wrong way with her historically sour attitude. Seriously, Gwen Stefani? The poor girl spends half of her free time walking into spiderwebs, let her be.
But if the miserable green Grinch with his curly elf toes in the fluffy Whoville mountain snow, and his (likely unhealthy) sudden heart growth has taught us anything, it’s this: time heals all wounds. Maturation is only natural– Father Time helps us tenderize, and maybe once notoriously-nasty Courtney has sewed up her ripped stockings, 86’ed those rusty heroin syringes in the dumpster, hung up her vomit-covered babydoll dresses, and isn’t that same rageful alterna she-beast anymore.
It’s easy to just assume abrasive Courtney kicks cute puppies, steals loose string beans at the supermarket, and voted for Taylor Hicks to win American Idol… She’s just like that, right?
You wish. Time to open your heart and bust out your Kleenex, because perhaps a 21st Century Courtney Love doesn’t hate, this Love, well, loves.
…and what does Courtney Love, love?
Courtney Love love love…
Courtney Love love Luvs…
Courtney Love love brotherly love…
Courtney Love love Love is…
Courtney Love love Lovie Smith
Courtney Love love “Love Will Keep Us Together”…
Courtney Love love “Love Will Tear Us Apart”…
Courtney Love love Love Boat…
Courtney Love love love bugs…
Courtney Love love crack…
Courtney Love love Love and Basketball…
Courtney Love love Love Guru…
Courtney Love love “Love Shack”…
…so is this really a new and improved Courtney?
We’re with you Dave.
By Andrew Blumetti
Top o’ the
morning afternoon to ya!
When your last name could pass for an extra on The Sopranos, this day really tears you up.
Surely, I’ll be the first to admit- green bagels can’t be beat, my Flogging Molly vinyl is spinning like Rob Ford after a weekend blowout, and I’ve already tripled my daily salt intake with corned beef, but let’s call a spade a spade- with a last name that rhymes with spaghetti, “Irish” I could say I’m authentic, but I’m just an ‘o-poster today.
So, instead of hearing jolly tidings of St. Patrick’s joy from me, I’m gonna pass the baton to a man who really knows his way around a pint of Guinness. Let’s get goofy green with Mr. Ireland himself… Shaquille O’ Neal.
If you wear a Shaq “Big Shamrock” t-shirt in a bar on March 17, they actually charge you MORE for your beer.
To be sure Nick Nolte doesn’t fall off the wagon into a frosty barrel of green beer, O’ Neal will be spending the weekend with him. Hours will be spent smacking Nolte with Shaq’s elephant-paw when he gets out of line.
In 1996, Shaq took his movie career even further, playing a magic Irish genie in a bottle. He’ll grant ye three wishes, but unfortunately, “wishing I hadn’t sat down to watch Kazaam” isn’t one of them.
Before his time playing American basketball, Mr. O’ Neal spent many a year creating beloved tunes of Beautiful Days and Bloody Sundays with his Irish rock brethren, U2.
Here’s Shaq’s time spent with his leprechaun girlfriend.
Fun Fact: If you were to fill Shaq’s massive size-23 shoe with Lucky Charms, it’d require a whole cow and a half to provide the milk.
Say it with me… Shamrock Shaq.
Q: What happens when Shaq scores a lot of baskets?
A: The score will be DUBLIN!!!
You hear that new Cranberries album? PFFFFTTTTT
With no basketball to dribble around, no dunks to dunk and no free throws to miss, it’s time to hit the silver screen again. Pop your corn and get in line now, Leprechaun 7- coming soon.
So Danny Boy Shaquille- a most happy and merry St. Patty’s to you my Celtic friend. And to all the readers out there in internet land- Irish and non-Irish alike, may your bagpipes be filled with hot air, may all your Murphys be dropkicked, and may your meats be boiled to a fine bland gray.
By Andrew Blumetti
He died hard.
He Harry Pottered.
He Robin Hooded.
He Sensed and Sensibilityed.
He caused me to create fake words.
Renowned thespian of the Shakespearean theater, Alan Rickman has been tossing a shiny slick coating of refined Union Jacked-charm over the Hollywood sign for the past three decades of Earth time.
A wealth of colorful characters under his belt, often portraying a menacing villain with a touch of ironically unironic Eurotrash sophistication thrown in for good measure. Through and through, Rickman’s genuinely an actor’s actor– time-tested, well-respected, almost British to a glorious fault, and graced with a sharper, drier sense of humor than he’s often credited with.
“Those of you who are not aware of my brilliant career as a stand up comic, I’m not aware of it either so we might well wonder what we’re doing here.”
And for all you “Al-manics”, drink some Gatorade and take this moment to stretch out those hamstrings.
Prepare to jump for joy 26 times… it’s time for…
ALAN RICKMAN: A to Z:
BORING HEALTHY DIET FOOD…
CHEATING ON HIS DIET INSTEAD…
DUCK FACE AIN’T JUST FOR 16-YEAR OLD INSTAGRAMMERS ANYMORE!
ELLEN DEGENERES DIDN’T ASK ME TO BE IN HER OSCAR SELFIE PHOTO!
FORGOT THE SUNSCREEN:
“HERE WE’LL JUST PAINT A HAPPY LITTLE TREE…”
JAZZ HAND, (JUST ONE):
KING OF KILT STATUE MOUNTAIN:
LOVIN’ HIS DEMETRI MARTIN HALLOWEEN COSTUME:
MY TRENT REZNOR-LOOKALIKE AWARD IS IN THE BAG!
NICKELBACK’S STILL AROUND?!?:
OH ELEVEN HERBS AND SPICES, HOW I LOVE THEE…
PHIL ROBERTSON DARED ME TO DO THIS:
QUIGLEY DOWN UNDER:
“REALLY, I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE BACHELOR WAS THINKING LAST NIGHT…”
THERE’S ALWAYS ROOM FOR CELLO…
“WU-TANG CLAN AIN’T NOTHING TO $%@! WITH!”
X-MAS RICKSTER (AKA MIS-AL-TOE)
“YOU EXPECT ME TO MAKE EGGS IN THIS?!?”
“ZOOEY DESCHANEL, WILL YOU MARRY ME?”
By Andrew Blumetti
I love you all.
Seriously. Well, not the whole “like-like” school of brilliance dolled out by the Winnie Cooper-ed mind of Kevin Arnold, but you all who read, follow, and support my blog really are the bee’s knees. I sincerely appreciate and thank anyone who’s taken time to read, enjoy, or roll their eyes at the cornball absurdity that fills this page on a relatively frequent basis.
Ok, enough of this gooey shhhh….ow of emotion.* Let’s get down to brass tacks here.
Before we continue, a favor first— If you reside in the Northeast or Mid-Atlantic portion of the United States, please do me a solid- take a second and go to your window and look outside. I’ll wait.
Ok, I’ll wait more.
How about now?
See the Everest-high mountains of white stuff? There’s more snow out there than in a used CD bin.
Yeah, this brutal winter is crawling by with all the lightning-quick speed of Artie Lange’s metabolism, but believe you me fellow snowed-in’s, as hard as it seems to believe, our ‘ol pal spring will be here soon, and before you know it, you’ll be itchy, watery-eyed, and sneezing your head off like the Queen of Hearts was demanding it.
But hey, even in two feet of snow, life would be nothing without small victories- my birthday is only 10 days away, pitchers and catchers are about to embark to Florida and Arizona for Spring Training, The Walking Dead has returned in all of its brain-munching glory, the Winter Olympics are running full steam, and the new Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition should show up on my doorstep anyday to make me feel pretty awkward in front of my mailman. February is truly the month that keeps on giving.
Of course mid-February ain’t all AMC-zombies and Abe Lincoln’s birthday cake. Even if you’re still frostbitten from endless shoveling, you’ll still be sleeping on the couch if you forget the holiday that’s redder than Russia, circa 1960…
Conversation hearts? Fat baby Cupid? All-day Julia Roberts movie marathons? A remarkably thinner wallet? Make no mistake, make-no-mistakers, Saint Valentine is here with a bright red vengeance and he’s ready to kick yo keister up and down the snowy block.
For some of you, it’s a chance to take out a much-needed second mortgage for a dozen stupid red roses, boxes of mystery heart chocolates, and giant teddy bears the size of Delaware. For others, it’s an opportunity to throw Adele on repeat, curse the Hallmark holiday for shoving your blatant singledom in your face, and chow down on your emergency stash of Ring Dings while you feverishly refresh your OkCupid profile for new messages till the clock eventually hits midnight and February 15th comes to save the day.
That’s where I come in. Whether you’re single, taken, married, or a cyborg, I’m here to boomerang back all that amazing support and positivity to you on this Valentine’s Day, Twenty-fourteen. If it’s Friday and you’re in love, or maybe not so much, I want this day of hearts and crap to be your happiest and heartiest yet.
So, for a few short minutes, put that adorably plump Adele on hold, slam the flap on that box of uneaten Ring Dings, and pause those insufferable “Every Kiss Begins with Kay” commercials… Here’s my personal valentines to you rad readers- feel free to print and snip.
(* If anyone recognizes this quote, I’ll come to your house, hug you, and make you a B+ dinner.)
(2018 edit: This was a piece written years ago, at a time predating the terrible accusations against Bill Cosby. At that point, he was still strictly known as the ugly-sweater-wearing TV patriarch we all loved in the 80’s, and not a man found guilty of the monstrous claims against him.
I guess the most important question here is… can I tell the future?? I think it’s apparent the answer is: Yes.)
Andrew Blumetti Bill Cosby
This blog has gone off a cliff.
“Well, here, I had the taaaaasty ham sammich, and the mustard was just bippity baaa gooood.
Ya see… the chippppps, they’re the ruffled, kinda like Theo’s hair, DAAAA, and the shirt with the leiiiii… well it’s like Hawaii! with the belly dancers and the volcanoes and it’s too warm for ma’ sweaters! DAAAAA”
“Ahh, look at sleeeepy Billllll.
Well, what happened here, I had a long night the day before this. Little Rudy, ya remember HER? Well, her little mustache keep collecting the FLOP SWEAT! Baaaaa! The bright lights, ya seeeee, they kept glistening off her little whiskerrrrs, and zippity zop bop, we had to keep filming My Bill Show late into the nighttttt! Daaa…”
“My showwww. Bippity zip, man ya know I was the firrrst black guy on the TV! I did the Picture PAAAAAAges, with the Mortimer Ichabod Marker. He was squeakier than my old shoes! Bip bobbity…
Ya know what time ma’ watch says? It says it’s the bibbity booop blorp! BAAAAAA.”
“That stupid Urkel kid! – that showwww was the stupid!
He just sat there with the snortin’ and bortin’ and the hip bob bibbity boo zopp, with the pants up to his stupid kid nipples. I can’t believe they stayed on the air, and ‘ol Bill got thrown in the garbage like a used Kodak Film box. DAAAAA.”
“I went to TEMPLEEEEE. The UNIVERSITTTY! And nobody beats the Owls. Except for the Penn, who’s sweatshirt I got on. …and these fine young trackleetes from The University of the Tennessee.
Boppidy bop! I wore my best sweatpants to impress ‘em and hopefully get them the pregnant! They had the orange shorts and I thought I was at the Hooooooters! I said, ‘I’ll have some Buffalo wings with the hot sauceee!’ DAAAAA…”
(Blumes note: Bill later settled undisclosed lawsuits with both of these unfortunate girls who claimed Mr. Cosby encroached upon them, asking “You want Dr. Huxtable to help you deliver the baby?!?”)
“GHOST DADDDD!!! DAAAAA!!! Biggest hit of the summer of 1990!! And the second most successful film from that calendar year with the word ‘Ghost’ in the title!
I got lots of the dead prezzies to play a dead guy. Ghost Bill was zoobity zip zip! I came back with my TOP HAT and the zipppty and the zorp and the kids wanted to play with ‘ma briefcase! Frizzle frazzle!”
“Well, the chubby kid, ya see, he ate all my puddin’ POPPPPPS.
The little porker, well he got what was comin’ to him. He’s eatin’ ma’ foooood instead listening to the jazz music! I dropped him on the floor, and he fell on Lisa Bonet! DAAAA Zippity zip zorp bop! Ya know what? That little meatball never touched ma’ food again! He knew Bill had the boppity bip zaaa!!!”
Editor’s Note: Bill Cosby said every single word on here. Truth.
By Andrew Blumetti
With less than seven days until the biggest of big games approaches, are you still scraping for last-minute plans like Urkel on prom night? Or maybe you’re a diehard who bleeds Bronco blue and orange? Or you drink so much Starbucks, your jittery veins just scream out to support Seattle? Perhaps the marquee clash of Peyton Manning vs. Russell Wilson means 100% diddly squat to you, and you’re just are looking to punish your belt by eating your weight in Buffalo wings? OR… just maybe you’re looking to spend Super Bowl week 2014 at the epicenter of the pigskinned party action?
Well, no matter what your interest, wonder no longer friends. Pack your wooliest mittens and your 90’s Starter jackets, you’re coming to Jersey!
Unless you’re living under a rock (which granted, may be a very nice rock), for the first time in the nearly fifty years of the big game, we are about to experience Super Bowl XLVIII, the first such game played in a cold weather location, in an open stadium.
That stadium is called MetLife Stadium.
That stadium, MetLife Stadium, is located in East Rutherford, NJ.
That stadium, MetLife Stadium, located in East Rutherford, NJ, just so happens to be less than ten minutes from my house.
A. The entire surrounding area has been plastered with these banners for the past month. Literally, everywhere. I think there’s one on my back.
B. Traffic is more trafficy, even by this area’s high traffic standards. Also, traffic.
C. Everyone and their grandmother is making a sweet, sweet buck off this game. From parties, endless merchandise, themed events, and even renting out spare rooms to out-of-state visitors.
So, of course, when in Rome…
Attention football lovers, haters, and the indifferent! I happily present to you, an offer, make that the offer of a lifetime! (Well, technically, I guess that’s kinda true) It’s time for…
BLUMES’S SUPER BOWL WEEK EXTRA-EXTRAVAGANZA!
Yes, you’ve Q-Tipped your ears thoroughly and heard that last statement correctly. Leave your most-likely warmer climate, trek on over to the East Coast, kick back and stay for a spell in the Garden State, and you can spend this upcoming week with me in
Included in this relatively glorious package is:
– “Hey, that’s the cemetery where Joey Ramone is buried!”
– “Oh look, that’s the supermarket parking lot where my car battery died last month!”
– “See that place? Their pizza is sooooooo good! Well, only if you go on Wednesday nights.”
– “Can you wait in the car for a second? I gotta go to the ATM.”
– “That Chinese place used to be a Sam Goody! That’s where I bought Significant Other by Limp Bizkit!”
So, let’s get down to business…
How much would you pay for this truly unique, and only mildly crappy experience in the chilly Tri-State tundra for this history-making Super Bowl? $2,000?? $3,000?? Did you say $4,000?!?
Well, if you’re willing to pay that much, how’s $5,000 sound? I could really use the cash.
I gladly accept cash, check, money orders, or bags of loose change if need be. Don’t let this opportunity pass you by. Together, we can put the super in Super Bowl! Or the owl… either way.
See you then!
(…and act fast! I just ate four more of those Reese’s Pieces.)
Blumes Note: The idea may not be totally original, but this was too much fun. All the fun of the Sunday paper, without those pesky K-Mart circulars…
By Andrew Blumetti
To address that seemingly exaggerated title, let’s bust out of the starting gate with an important question. One simple inquiry that should, no, make that needs to be answered by the end of this article.
“Did he do thaaaaaaaaat?”
..and my dear friends, the answer to that haunting query, beyond a shadow of a doubt will absolutely come back, yes.
Carl Otis Winslow is an island.
No, that’s not just because the zoftig patriarch of the Chicago household is filled with more coconuts than a Rupert Holmes song, it’s because, despite his penchant for adult hissy-fits and Sears Tower-high cholesterol, this doughy donut factory is still standing on two legs.
…and more importantly, it’s because a good chunk of his family isn’t.
Take a few seconds to gander, ganderers. Above this very sentence is a delightful photo of the Winslow clan mid-series. Sure, they’re all smiles and bright colors here, but fate would reach its cold, calloused hand down and throw them in a different direction. You can print that adorable picture out, tape it to your wall, toss a dart at it, and there’s a likely chance the character it lands on quietly disappeared by the series’ unfateful demise in 1999.
Well, of course, unless it landed on Carl.
Now, by comparison, here’s a cast photo in the show’s final (nauseatingly bad) season:
A few additions, a lot of subtractions. My, my, my, that is some frighteningly suspicious TGIF math there. Granted, television is a fickle land, shows do pick up and drop stars at will. Heck, look no further than the differences between E.R.‘s first and last season casts, there’s nary an Eriq La Salle to be seen for miles around. What made the cast changeovers on Family Matters unique is how heavy, yet subtle the subtractions came.
A typical 90’s neon-drenched sitcom whose seed was deeply planted in Perfect Strangers, (the Odd Couple for Eurotrash in the 1980’s), Family Matters quickly grabbed the “loving middle class African American family” baton from The Cosby Show, and ran like the Dickens through the following decade.
The hilarious irony is that the longer the show lasted, the less family seemed to matter. Quietly dropping like flies, all while pants-to-his-stupid-nipples next-door nerd neighbor, Steve Urkel, apologetically hijacked the show, dunked it in silly juice, crashed it on the moon and eventually turning it into a grade-A slapstick mess on toast.
If there’s one thing Carl knew well, it was food, and if “you can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs” rings true, it’s time to start looking at the last man standing for the remains of those tossed broken eggshells…
THE WINSLOW FAMILY BODY COUNT:
1. Judy Winslow
In real life, Jaimee Foxworth, who portrayed the youngest Winslow kin, took a major league spill down crap mountain so historic, even the world’s most adorable meth-head, Jodi Sweetin, rolled her bloodshot eyes at her in pity. In the world of Family Matters though, Judy just flat-out disappeared, (although to the viewing audience, she actually disappeared somewhere between episodes 2 and 4). The best part? The family blew it off like the girl never existed in the first place.
Or, just what Carl Winslow would have us believe.
THEORY: Desperate for a ratings bump and with blood-sugar issues driving him up a wall, Carl, infamous for his 28 Days Later-level of rage, turned to cannibalism during a dark, unaired episode.
Let’s begin our meal…
Annoyingly useless character gone, hunger pains gone? Sounds like a Win/Winslow situation to me!
2. Rachel Baines-Crawford
She wore stupid hats, sang at strange times, opened a restaurant with the most narcissistic name humanly possible, and bizarrely enough, left her weirdo son out of nowhere, only to make periodic returns at the oddest times with no explanation given.
Rachel’s sudden and unexplained disappearance was even more peculiar than Judy’s, as the character played a bigger, more important role (in other words, she had actual lines of dialogue). Richie basically lost a mom, Harriet lost her sister, Rachel’s Place lost its owner, and Telma Hopkins lost her paycheck. Tragedy was dinging like a pinball machine all over the Matters universe.
THEORY: During the final season’s Christmas episode, Rachel, after opening her presents, skedaddled and was never to be seen again (although leaving the show at that point really was a present). To explain her lengthy absences, it’s safe to assume Carl “Buffalo Billed” Rachel, keeping her in an underground pit in her own restaurant’s basement, to fry up glazed donuts/yaks for him upon his request.
3. Estelle Winslow
SHOWDOWN! Her new hip is the new hip! A battle royale of this streetwise granny vs. yours truly
Dates: MANY HAHA!
Social Life: YES HUH?
Hip Factor: HIGH PAUL PFEIFFER-ISH
Yet, despite kicking my sorry white kiester in carpe diem-ing, after marrying her main squeeze, Fletcher, the eldest Winslow also mysteriously went POOF! from the show, taking her new baritone hubby and the greater Chicago area’s supply of Ben Gay down the bottomless pit with her.
THEORY: Let’s just put it this way… you don’t want to know what the secret ingredient in Carl’s “Taco Tuesday” menu is. Yes, those are bits of support hose in there.
4. Richie Crawford
Mother of all creatures, big and small! This creepy little troll-faced hobgoblin…
Nowhere near as adorable as they portrayed him, freaky little Richie Crawford somehow managed to pull off the Everest-task of sporting both a terrible Jheri-curl AND a mullet simultaneously.
It’s like this… you know how when viewing photos of Michael Jackson as a child, there’s that wave of shock about how normal he looked in comparison? Well, Richie is like an adult Michael Jackson, but as a freakin’ kid. Trying to try to figure how that molestation scenario would play out hurts my brain.*
THEORY: As if one weirdo youth wasn’t enough, the Winslows adopted the biggest sass-mouthed orphan since Annie. Enter Jerry Jamal Jameson, also known as “3J”, in the eighth season. The powers that be deemed this too many kids, so latchkey Richie vanished with his flaky mom during the final season’s Christmas episode, leaving 3J to take the reigns as the low-Winslow for the show’s final half-season.
Or more likely, Carl paid 3J to poison Richie’s Capri Sun pouches. The little runt never saw it coming.
5. Waldo “Geraldo” Faldo
city village idiot and best friend of Eddie Winslow, Carl’s eldest child. Waldo was the owner of a Forrest Gump-ish lQ, an unexpected culinary flair, and is the single-handed reason I still annoy people to this day by responding, “No prob, Bob”. But, in typical Matters mystique, he vamoosed during the show’s December years faster than a dirty-footed hippie dodging the draft during the 70’s.
(wait for it…)
THEORY: When good-natured simpleton Waldo tried to cook calorie-Carl a healthy, low-carb broccoli dinner, Winslow snapped like a postal worker in the 1990’s. That’s the number one reason you don’t bring your piece to the dinner table. (Number two reason? Buckshot in the rice pudding.)
6. (original) Harriet Winslow
“Hey Harriet, stop giving us a bad name.”
Close to the series’ close, when it had unceremoniously been dumped on CBS to die a slow and painful, and well-deserving death, Jo Marie Payton, the show’s second-billed actress, left the show, to unseemlessly be replaced by a different Harriet Winslow, played by JudyAnn Elder. Yes, we all noticed. It was like a bad toupee.
THEORY: To any readers in Chicago, go to Soldier Field. Yes, literally on the grass. Now, start running. Notice that huge lump bulging out on the 20-yard line? Courtesy of Harriet Winslow!
When would supa-fly homeboy Eddie, goody-two-shoes fussbudget Laura, and massive shark-jumper Urkel have bit the proverbial dust too? Maybe a tenth season would’ve given “Carl the Calorie Killer” Winslow the chance to work his malevolent magic on those unsuspecting stupid kids, but alas, we’ll just never know what horrors laid ahead at 1516 W. Wrightwood Avenue in Chicago, Illinois.
…or should we call it… HOUSE OF 1000 CORPSES?!?
Now remember that adorable family photo from earlier? By comparison, it looks a heck of a lot sweeter than this haunting piece of evidence, found by detectives in Carl’s disturbing bedroom:
Till next time… no sweat, my pets!