Roasting 12 Sweet Norman Rockwell Paintings to Hell and Back

Cool it on the turkey, grandma. Maybe next year we can get something more than grapes and celery to go with it? Is this a family or just a group of disordered eaters that get together to binge?

Did you have a good trip, little lady? Are your suitcases full of mementos from whatever country your father’s trading blood for oil in?

Down, boy. Can you and your 14-year-old hard-on chill while she puts her god damn shoe on? The chaperone already warned you.

Is he that kid’s dad, and drooling on this poor lady’s Ouija board what he’s doing while he’s off at the dance? She’s trying to do her job, man, stop straddling her table like it’s a racehorse. This is the kind of guy that’s made three local baristas quit.

I don’t need a yardstick to tell you that you’re closer to those kids than the court said you can be, Zombie Johnny Depp.

Maybe you should paint yourself some friends, buddy. You’re gonna need them, because your dog is eating early 20th century paint like it’s peanut butter.

The card says “The Sphinx,” but we know you’re getting all hot and bothered looking at pictures of overflowing bowls of Turkish Delight. Doesn’t help that you’re dressed like a Willy Wonka factory casualty-in-waiting.

Not 100 percent sure, but I think this is a portrait of a young H.H. Holmes.

He’s holding a nice, tight pencil dive pose that will let someone shove him in a toilet all the way clean down to his ankles. He looks like he goes to the courthouse on weekends to root for the prosecution.

Fishing? Shouldn’t you and the rest of the Candy Land Militiamen be defending the Peppermint Kingdom from attack?

You think you’re god, Kringle? To decide that you’re a red-clad paragon of morality is borderline heresy, and I’ll see you hung for it. You’re a saint, you should know better.

Hey, man, you’re cool. Put that thing down.