My mother -- my sweet, lovely mother -- has turned a good-natured, wholesome Christmas craft into a thing of vulgarity.
Behold, the ceramic Christmas village I painted for this woman, once-upon-a-procrastination-from-studying-for-university-finals:
Awwww. For sewing teeny-tiny pants!
Oooh! A teeny-tiny fire hydrant for that teeny-tiny doggy!Eeek! For teeny-tiny candies!
She's kept this on her mantle since November and nicknamed it the "Winter Village" so that she can revel in its lighthearted joy throughout the winter months.
However, dear readers, you are about to discover a shocking secret. Shocking.
My mother has turned this teeny-tiny delight into...
A red-light district!!
I know. I know.
Pet Shop? I'll bet.
Ooooh, what a creative innuendo.
Ok, I have no joke for this one.
I suppose that broom is used to keep this fellow's ladies of the night in line. For shame, sir. For shame.
And this gentleman's red and bulbous nose belies a history of hitting the sauce.
It shall take some time to recover from this blow, though I shan't let this prevent me from engaging in joyous and innocent Christmas crafts in the future. We shall overcome.
But in the meantime, I think I need to have a talk with my mother.