(Left) The entrepreneur/owner (nom de skeez "Coyot") responsible for this catalog was from "Golden Troll Productions". He was not golden, more dingy and brownish gray than shiny and metallic. Sometimes he paid for the stacks of color copies and half-days spent on the computer. Often he didn't. I got the feeling he presented himself as a fashion photographer; his models got an ego boost, he moved an earnest business a little further forward. The angles of the shots, the expressions, the women's delusional sense of actual appeal all make this a fairly accurate sample of the man's cottage business. An extended dalliance with meth and you could either marry one of these or become one yourself.

(Left & Right) Outtakes from the flyer sampled above. The list price on the catalog for 'Coyot's Custom Costumes'? $8.99! It's only six pages, but the cover assures "$25.00 in Money Saving Coupons" Subscriptions are available: $50 for six months, $80 for a year. On page one is a blurb for a "Free Portfolio & almost free costumes + MORE" with contact information for scheduling a test shoot with Coyot himself.
A white lace body suit, fringe black leather jacket: a perfect ensemble for cock teasing your boyfriend at a concert, or to complain about cold weather while your boyfriend beats up a homo with the help of a few friends. Only in Eugene, though, would a skank model be wearing Birkenstocks.

(Left) Another donation in my box one day. The heart warms as the ribald, spirited, Rubenesque women display themselves to indicate availablity to mate.
(Right) At the same party, two of three men fade into the background, cowed by performance anxiety before the fertile women eager to couple. One man, rapt by the pageant, helplessly responds by gingerly revealing his ding-a-ling. We all have cousins who resulted from events like this.
(Left) A third picture from the same blue-collar Bacchanalia of the damned. Did he get lucky this evening? From one of the women above? A rotted tree knothole? The man with the supplicant penis?
Time to reflect that criminals come from somewhere. Yet, for every asshole driving recklessly in a pickup truck are another two dipshits driving SUVs. If this man ever does run for President, I'd be tempted to vote for him. Then again, I voted for Nader, so maybe you shouldn't look to me for political advice.

(Right) Again, no story. Insert your own. If you try this at home make sure the cat is in another room, the kids are at school, and keep a can of Bactine nearby. And please, please, puhlease make sure to wash the rodent off before returning to a child's Habitrail.
No, I don't know who this is. We've all done things we're not proud of, often for money. Is this really any worse than working in telemarketing? Delivering newspapers?

(Left) Presumably a different woman. If you know any doctors we could have this confirmed.
Is this really Barbie's "Vacation" as the flier suggests? Despite her permanent smile, her long term relationship with Ken may have gone terribly wrong. When he blurts out that he wants to date other women, human women, in desperation Barbie chipperly offers "to share" his experiences. Sadistically, he orders Barbie to her own asphyxiation and as she draws her last artifical breath, she hopes this act will return his heart to her own.

(Left) An artist's "Pee Coat", a clear rainjacket covered by vials filled with his own urine. It probably only stays warm for brief periods.
(Right) A suit with noisemakers attached to airtubes. When you blow, the noisemakers toot!

(Right) Probable natal crisis aside, what is up with the dude? Did he get an emergency phone call from his girlfriend while at his job at Schuck's Auto Supply? "Your child is gonna get born, get down to your aunt's house, now! No, I don't care if we are broke up, it's your child and you better be here! Bring shop towels and wiper fluid!"
Several conflicting feelings swimming in his mind: fear for his ex-girlfriend's health, concern for the child, guilt over not wanting to be burdened with a child, fondness remembering when he used to be allowed this close on a regular basis.
Sure, these photos aren't pleasing, but stop getting all uptight on me. It could be much worse. I wanna be your friend. That's better. Now I'm giving you a cyber back massage. Aaaah. So, when are your parents getting home?