‘a nightmarish peek into a world our parents warned us about if we were caught masturbating, didn’t finish our homework, eat our greens or say our prayers at bedtime’. So says Col. Jon, reviewing the now sadly-defunct Screamin’ Sugar Skulls.
Whatevs. That filthy-librarian combo of hornrim specs and rubber fetishwear sends confused and, frankly, delightful impulses to the Madonna/Whore subsection of the frontal cortex. No doubt about that whatsoever. And the badboy jawline of that Gretsch-wielding cadaver keeps those Pavlov responses nicely confused. Enough. Let the pictures talk.
All photos: Carl Byron Batson