You guys. GUYS. We did it. We took SO MANY PICTURES of our Twinkle Trot Horsiez collection this week that we’re practically professional photographers now. Like, seriously, eat your heart out, Anne Geddes—WE OWN THE CAMERA NOW. That’s right, Annie. You’re shaking in your weird little flowerpot booties because there’s a new legend in town, and their name is Scott “Bubble Wand” Savino.
Twinkle Trot Horsiez and Our Budding Photography Career
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It all started innocent enough. We were just playing around, right? Just tinkering! First, a cute little photo of Rainbow WiggleTrot™ next to a pile of shattered snail shells (artsy!). Then a dramatic close-up of Starry PuddleSprinkle™ staring longingly into a broken mirror we found in the woods. High fashion energy, right? Very avant-garde. Honestly, it felt so natural, like we were born to do this. The Horsiez practically posed themselves.
But then something shifted. We started feeling… competitive. Maybe even… inspired? Possessed, perhaps. There was a sudden, overwhelming urge to prove Anne Geddes WRONG. Sure, she’s famous for putting babies in flowerpots and dressing them like vegetables, but you know what she never had to do? Photograph the half-decomposed carcass of a feral raccoon, dragging it through brambles and mud for that perfect shot. We adapted, Anne. We evolved.
You see, when you’ve spent the better part of a year stalking and killing woodland creatures with your bare hands, photography becomes second nature. First, you get your hands dirty (literally—there’s so much fur and blood involved, you wouldn’t believe it), and THEN you bring in the whimsy. It’s all about balance. Like, remember when we poked out that possum’s eyeballs with a bubble wand for the aesthetic? BRILLIANT. The bubbles added such a playful, unexpected pop to the gore. Honestly, it was giving “whimsy meets raw animal instinct.”
And now? Now we’re ready for the big leagues. The transition from feral raccoon couture to baby photoshoots was, honestly, seamless. We mean, how friggin’ hard can it be, right? Babies don’t even move that much. At least not like the raccoons did (those little bastards are fast). And babies don’t scream like banshees when you corner them in the woods—unless you’re doing it wrong. Which, duh, we absolutely did do it wrong, but WHOEVEN FRIGGIN CAREZZZ?
Besides, we’ve been practicing. A LOT. Like, all week. We started with snails (so cooperative, 10/10), moved up to the raccoon thing (very ambitious, great textures), and now? BABIES. We are READY. They won’t know what hit them. Or, well, they’ll know—it’ll just be a pink-and-blue deluge of professional Twinkle Trot magic and unsettling whimsy. We are UNSTOPPABLE.
So buckle up, world. You thought you were ready for the SugarBoop Delulu Baby Gallery Extravaganza™, but guess what? YOU WEREN’T.
The Orphanage Incident
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The plan was simple. Break into the orphanage. Steal a few babies for the photo gallery. What we didn’t plan for was the head matron, Mrs. Hicklebrow, stumbling upon us mid-theft. Obviously, we had to act fast. We tied her up with a pair of her own stockings, freshly plucked from the ridiculous armoire in her boudoir. (Let us tell you, this armoire was a masterpiece of nonsense. From the outside, it was barely four feet tall and covered in peeling floral decals. But on the inside? A labyrinth of velvet-lined drawers, secret compartments, and at least one full spiral staircase. We think there might have been a small weather system forming in there.)
Anyway, we tied her hands and feet real tight, like professionals, and wouldn’t you know it—her hands and feet just fell clean off. Pop, pop. Gone. That was… unexpected. Naturally, we rifled through her boudoir for her limb reattaching wax because, obviously, she was gonna need it. But you know what? She didn’t have any. Who in the shifting red sands beneath the broken shell teal sky doesn’t have limb reattaching wax taped to the back of their boudoir mirror? That’s basic housekeeping! We mean, every one of our 14 mothers and 6 grandmothers had wax handy.
She screamed a lot about it. We took pictures of her screaming (we’re building a portfolio, okay?), but then she screamed so hard her larynx ruptured, and her head just plopped right off. Again, not our fault! No wax, no fix. Simple math. Mrs. Hicklebrow really has no business raising children with such careless housekeeping habits.
Screaming Babies in Flowerpots
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The babies were perfect. We mean, sure, they were screaming—absolutely shrieking—but who wouldn’t scream if they were riddled with dysentery and cholera? The trick was in the composition. A flowerpot here, a coffee mug there, and maybe a little lace bonnet for contrast. The dysentery really brought out a certain glow in their cheeks, and the cholera gave them a sallow, ethereal quality that screamed art. (Well, screamed louder than the babies did, which was honestly impressive given the sheer volume.)
One baby fit so snugly in a terra-cotta pot that we almost left him there, like a gift to the gardener of fate. Another kept vomiting uncontrollably, but hey—that’s texture. We shot them all against a pastel backdrop of neon pink (#FF00EA) and electric blue (#649DFC), and the results were chef’s kiss. Nothing says “delicate innocence” like a cholera-ridden infant in a hydrangea pot. Anne Geddes, eat your heart out.
Gallery: Flowerpower Hour Barfing Baby Needs A Shower
- Little Dinkleberry – “Dinkleberry’s wails reached a pitch that shattered three pots!”
- Grumbly Sue – “Grumbly Sue broke the hydrangea pot, but she’s perfect!”
- Zorpheus – “Zorpheus is glowing… or maybe that’s the cholera again?”
- Tootsford – “Tootsford’s screams were so loud, we all got headaches!”
- Snorbert – “Snorbert’s face scrunched so hard, his nose almost disappeared!”
- Blorpina – “Blorpina projectile-vomited everywhere—what a natural little artist!”
- Plibble – “Plibble’s face is stuck mid-scream; isn’t she adorable?!”
- Gloober – “Gloober threw up, but we love his raw energy!”
Babies in Mugs…OMG!…with Marshmallows!
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The mugs were chipped, the cappuccinos were steaming, and the babies? Unbelievably loud. We thought the warm foam might soothe them, but nope—still screaming. So naturally, we started pelting them with marshmallows. (What else were we supposed to do? Use earplugs? Be reasonable?) One baby, Sporkella, caught a marshmallow in her mouth mid-scream, which honestly made for a stellar action shot. Another baby, Clamblet, managed to tip their mug entirely, froth and all—what a drama queen. But hey, chaos makes the best art, and these babies? Absolute masterpieces.
Babies in Rotten Fruit Bowls [Straight From the Plague Wing!]
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We stumbled into the plague wing expecting sorrow, but oh boy—what a treasure trove of screaming babies and rotting fruit! Each bowl was more horrifyingly perfect than the last, filled with half-decayed oranges, squishy bananas, and babies crawling with fat, glistening roaches. The sores on their tiny faces added such a unique texture to the shots—real visceral drama, you know?
One baby, Scrunkle, tried eating a roach while shrieking (multitasking lord of the land!), while another, Griblet, just sat there bawling as a kiwi melted into their lap. The roaches worked hard to steal the show, though—they scurried over fruit and flesh alike with such determination. Honestly, the babies didn’t seem to mind. (Okay, they screamed a lot, but isn’t that just babies? DEY ALL DOES DAT)
We couldn’t have asked for a better plague-themed aesthetic. The light hit the roaches just right, and the whole gallery practically buzzes with unfiltered energy. 10/10, would absolutely revisit the plague wing for future photoshoots!
Babies in Washtubs [featuring Skigglebert the Perverted Sentient Slime and Squiggly-Wiggly Millipedes!]
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The washtubs were supposed to be simple—a little water, some screaming babies, and a touch of slime for drama. But then the slime, Skigglebert, revealed it was sentient and started demanding royalties. While we negotiated with Skigglebert (turned out he was ready and wiling to accept “hand stuff” as a payment, and really, we didn’t mind) we decided the scene needed something extra. Luckily, the millipedes we had in our mouths (don’t ask) really fit the mood. We spat them onto the floor, where they scattered like little wriggling confetti, adding a touch of natural whimsy. Honestly? Art perfected.
Babies in Clamshells in Our Vintage JNCO Jean Pockets!
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So there we were, on the beach near the pirate shipwreck, basking in the salty air and snapping pics of screaming babies in clamshells. You see, I’d just happened to be wearing three pairs of JNCO jeans that day (you know, because they’re great for storage), and wouldn’t you know it, they were perfect for carrying the babies.
The JNCOs? Oh, allegedly, I found those in a footlocker on the pirate ship at the bottom of the sea. That’s right—sunken treasure, baby—allegedly. I pulled them up from the briny depths, salt-stained and perfectly oversized, a relic of nautical history.
Except… okay, FINE. There is no pirate ship. The JNCOs have been in the coffin of my dead pet muskrat Trimbletoes since the ‘90s. You happy now? We didn’t want to admit that, but you made us. Anyway, back to the babies—they look absolutely stunning in the clamshells, don’t they?
Work-Release Career-Criminal Toddlers and the Cabbage Patch
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Ah, the orphanage garden—such a peaceful place to return to after… well, let’s just call it the Hicklebrow Incident. (Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to put a woman who didn’t even keep limb-reattaching wax in charge of nearly 50 angelic, photogenic babies?) Anyway, these particular babies were on work-release, and let us tell you, we had no idea just how bad their files were until later.
Take Drabbel, for example, who was almost caught doing hand-stuff with Skigglebert in exchange for roach colonies. Horrifying! What kinds of monsters could do such things? Don’t worry, they stopped Drabbel before things escalated, and now that I’ve read these kid’s files and know what kind of ABSOLUTE BEASTLY creature we tugged off earlier in the day, and I WILL be notifying the offender registry so they can come and collect Mr. Skigglebert post haste. Drabbel is only 23 months old!
Don’t even get us started on Spronk, who allegedly stuffed an entire orphan into his JNCO jeans pockets, leaving the poor kid folded in half for days. Then there was Blibsy, who figured out how to make people’s limbs fall off using only a pair of pantyhose and sheer willpower, and let’s not forget Thomaslee Ribblebach who forced dozens of his peers into pottery, beach debris and even millipede bathtubs for photoshoots. Thomaslee Ribblebach isn’t even a real photographer! We couldn’t believe just how horrible and depraved these children were. They deserved to be out here gardening beneath the hot-hot sun’s poison, earning skin cancer. If they were our children—we mean—we would never…
…oh…um…
Stop looking at us like that. What are you? So perfect? God’s gift to the Daytona 500? Ok Dale Earnhardt Junior, whatever you say…why don’t you go crash a private plane or something?
Anyway, as we stared down at the rotting cabbage patch, remembering the delights of the day (pitchfork in hand) we wondered if we were starting to have second thoughts…maybe these babies weren’t that bad?
Nahhhh.
They were unruly, biting swamp-creatures that shrieked and broke child-labor laws as they made their way around gardening tools a little too well. Could we really hold it against them? Could we blame them for hoisting tiny shovels in defiance as we arranged them in rotting cabbage leaves?
…Absolutely.
A little threat of rusty gardener violence goes a long way. They behaved long enough to capture some truly stunning shots and we only had to use the pitchfork to stab just three of them.
…oh, give us a break…
All three of them got it in their left foot—that’s it—it’s really not a big deal, they’ve got another one and only one of them got it hard enough to remove a toe. Or three three toes (but who’s counting?).
Why are you judging us? They’re literally like lobsters at this age! The claws grow back!
Reflections on Our Post-Mistress Portfolio
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When we think about everything we’ve accomplished since the unfortunate disassembly of Mrs. Hicklebrow, We can’t help but feel a swell of pride. The babies in flowerpots, in clamshells, in rotting fruit—each shoot has been a masterclass in deranged genius. From the millipedes wriggling over screaming infants to Skigglebert the slime demanding we give him another hand-job mid-shoot, every moment was a chaotic triumph. These photos will echo through history, immortalizing our unhinged dedication to the craft.
This, my friends, was better than the time we dressed up as a beaver to infiltrate an underground dam-building contest run by sentient otters just to retrieve our grandfather’s gold tooth. We mean, sure, that was satisfying in its own way, but this? This is art. This is legacy.
As we wipe cabbage rot off our JNCO jeans and reattach the lid to Trimbletoes’ coffin, We can’t help but feel that we’ve ascended. Anne Geddes, who even are you? Have you seen these shots? A bitch like you could NEVER. Go eat your own heart out. We’ve done it. We’ve changed the game.