Funko Pops make me want to die

[The Argonaut]

They're actually good for the environment, so

[B]

- Pearl Jam
- Grogu
- Batman
- Kristoff from Frozen

The last 2 were gifts from my kids. Grogu sits in our front window and guards the door.

[Ello Sailor]

They're actually good for the environment, so

[Chris_H_2]

dollies

[dad]

dollies

I was hoping you’d post this. I feel like I willed it into existence.

Never change. I love you.

dad

[Chris_H_2]

dollies

I was hoping you’d post this. I feel like I willed it into existence.

Never change. I love you.

dad

[epilogue]

I don't understand the appeal, either.

A friend gifted my us a Brienne of Tarth and a Night King. I don't care about them at all but I feel bad getting rid of them because they were a gift.

I did willingly and intentionally purchase the PJ set. But that was more about band fandom than Funko Pop enjoyment. I love that set and I consider it the only Funko anything I do or will ever have.

[VinylGuy]

Jorge hating funkos and stand up comedy makes me wonder if he is alright these days

[wease]

I don't understand the appeal, either.

A friend gifted my us a Brienne of Tarth and a Night King. I don't care about them at all but I feel bad getting rid of them because they were a gift.

I did willingly and intentionally purchase the PJ set. But that was more about band fandom than Funko Pop enjoyment. I love that set and I consider it the only Funko anything I do or will ever have.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[wease]

A friend gifted my us a Brienne of Tarth and a Night King. I don't care about them at all but I feel bad getting rid of them because they were a gift.

I kind of want to offer a workshop on how to get over this stuff. If a gift I reserve holds no utilitarian value nor does it offer deep emotional connection, it goes straight into the trash or donate pile. I’m relentless with this stuff.

cold bastard…

[knee tunes]

My kid has Bob Ross

I just dusted that fucker the other day .

Holy shit , maybe that's why I did a painting shortly thereafter.

Quick, go fondle your Funko and it will come

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[Jorge]

Getting rid of stuff feels great, but sometimes you miscalculate. About 10 years ago I took around 90% of the CDs I had accumulated over my lifetime and sold them off. Now I really wish I had kept them

[knee tunes]

A friend gifted my us a Brienne of Tarth and a Night King. I don't care about them at all but I feel bad getting rid of them because they were a gift.

I kind of want to offer a workshop on how to get over this stuff. If a gift I reserve holds no utilitarian value nor does it offer deep emotional connection, it goes straight into the trash or donate pile. I’m relentless with this stuff.

cold bastard…

one of my parents is a low-key hoarder so

Joey , take a picture or video of you and your wife playing with the Funkos and then throw them out. You will then have your keepsake without the bulk

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[knee tunes]

Getting rid of stuff feels great, but sometimes you miscalculate. About 10 years ago I took around 90% of the CDs I had accumulated over my lifetime and sold them off. Now I really wish I had kept them

True. Start with hunks of useless plastic when beginning a liquidation

[The Argonaut]

I can't remember ever regretting getting rid of anything. Getting rid of things is good work, pleasing to god

[epilogue]

A friend gifted my us a Brienne of Tarth and a Night King. I don't care about them at all but I feel bad getting rid of them because they were a gift.

I kind of want to offer a workshop on how to get over this stuff. If a gift I reserve holds no utilitarian value nor does it offer deep emotional connection, it goes straight into the trash or donate pile. I’m relentless with this stuff.

Normally, I tend toward being the same way. But there's extenuating circumstances.

[epilogue]

A friend gifted my us a Brienne of Tarth and a Night King. I don't care about them at all but I feel bad getting rid of them because they were a gift.

I kind of want to offer a workshop on how to get over this stuff. If a gift I reserve holds no utilitarian value nor does it offer deep emotional connection, it goes straight into the trash or donate pile. I’m relentless with this stuff.

cold bastard…

one of my parents is a low-key hoarder so

Joey , take a picture or video of you and your wife playing with the Funkos and then throw them out. You will then have your keepsake without the bulk

That's actually a super rad idea.