Way-Out Wednesday: Ooh, That Smell. Can't You Smell That Smell?

It's Wednesday and you know what that means: it's Way-Out Wednesday! (And shish kabob night, FYI.)

First, let me address the fact that I'm not sure why my entry yesterday for Atomic Tuesday didn't show up. I scheduled it to post at a certain time, because I knew I would be gone all day yesterday, then early this morning I see my post didn't...well, post. Lesson learned: Blogger's scheduling function sucks.

What do you guys think: Should I post Atomic Tuesday's entry today? Or just say fark it, since it'll be all out of order and we hate when things are out of order and just wait until next week? Does anyone even really care that much about Atomic Tuesdays to necessitate having a discussion of it's whereabouts? And would anyone like to come over for shish kabob night? And what's the capital of Luxembourg? And why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? And who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp? That's what I thought.

Today's Way-Out Wednesday pic isn't creepy or freaky or gross or any of the things I normally like. But it does leave many questions up in the air. Witness, the very cool but very mysterious, these:




The seller isn't even entirely sure of their function but calls them TOTALLY WILD 1940s PAPER SCENTED BRA CLOSET SACHETS OSS UNUSED." And don't blame me for the all-caps, I'm not screaming at you, but apparently the seller is.




Here's the thing, if the boobs were filled with potpourri, then they'd totally be sachets for your drawer. That would be awesome. Lavender-filled bras! But the boobs are wood. The whole thing is wood. So I guess back in the 40's you'd have to spray some sort of smelly thing on it and then hang it in your closet? Whatevs. That's not even what's bothering me. What is up with her beer gut? I know that sounds very Jerry Seinfeld-ian, but bear with me. Or their angry beaver faces? Or their casual "armpit-whiff" pose that you do when you think no one's looking, like pretend to stretch but really you're making sure all's good in the hood and don't even act like you don't do it because I know you do. Even more disturbing is how they're all, let's say, packing heat in their knickers. I don't...I mean, it's so...I can't. I just can't. You tell me what you think: Just a simple case of bad design or it's a man, baby?