If you are a true Edgar aficionado, you probably know that Edgar was one of the founders of Plaza Bank, founded in 2005 as Washington’s first Latino-focused bank. If you are a true Edgar aficionado who loves ballpark promotions, you probably own this treasure from the early 2000s:
It’s a bank! An oddly-proportioned, weirdly humanoid bank. Surely upon gazing upon this monstrosity, your first thought is: who possibly thought these proportions represented a human figure? Was it designed by aliens? Prokaryotes wielding a paintbrush in one of their flagella? A chimpanzee who’s been up all night eating fruit from the bottom of sangria punchbowls let loose upon a 3D printer? But then you look closer, and the answer is obvious:
Look, I don’t mean this to sound classist. I have shopped in many a Wal-Mart in my day, in many states, and have been grateful for its ability to provide me with Easy Mac or yoga pants or boxed wine, usually things I enjoy in combination. But for sensitive artistic renderings of beloved ballplayers? Maybe take a pass, Waltons. No one would be mad about a poster giveaway. NO ONE NEEDS THIS MUCH RESIN.
The face here isn’t actually terrible. I mean, it doesn’t look like Edgar so much as it looks like a side character on a CW show, but it is a generally acceptable human visage, in a basic-cable kind of way. Where we run into trouble is the lower 3⁄4 of the figure. It starts with the lack of neck and then devolves into an utter disregard for the most basic human anatomy. Golden ratio? This thing is more like the tar ratio, if said tar is that which roofs the houses of hell. Try to drag your eye away from the FUPA of the midsection. You can try, but, like this statue’s attempt to not horrify children, you will fail. Gaze upon the hands. Have you ever wondered what it would look like if instead of fingers, people had fat innkeeper worms attached to their hands? Wonder no more! Then there are the thighs, which, like the rest of the trunk, are mostly an afterthought. The thighs are just two birch stumps, naked and shivering in the landscape of a nuclear winter. Clearly the whole budget was spent making the face look not-terrifying, leaving the rest to be sculpted by Dr. Frankenfurter’s idiot brother. No time to make feet that don’t look like Cold War-era bunkers! I need to work on making this brow entirely untroubled! The final insult is the bat upon which the figure’s right hand rests. Imagine the Lincoln Memorial, but instead of Abe’s right hand resting on the Cradle of Liberty, it’s holding a giant vanilla dong. Art appreciation, ladies and gentlemen!
All this being said, I’m disappointed I can’t find an active listing for this thing on eBay, so if you have one of these monstrosities to sell, hit me up. (You shouldn’t do that. If you have one of these, you should burn it as a sacrifice to the gods of OBP.)