Remember when Barbie, in all of her total-unable-to-realistically-occur-in-nature glory, stood beautiful and proud, 38 G breasts perky and firm, set snuggly inside her Bob Mackie gown could be relied upon for good, wholesome fun?
I mean, even after making Ken dinner, engaging in non-genital-having sex with him and then having a 5-year-old child sized fist of cotton shoved up her blouse to mime pregnancy (was I the only one who did that?!), Barbie personified the fantasy life of so many idol worshipping little girls who wanted nothing more than to be like Barbie when she grows up.
In the ‘50’s Barbie was usually a movie star or fancy socialite. As the years passed, Barbie transformed herself from pink Corvette driving beach babe to talented equestrian (complete with winking wonder horse), from older, more mature (and hot) big sister to “Skipper” to career woman. Barbie has, apparently been to veterinary school, flight school, cosmetology school, as well as both nursing AND medical school. Girlfriend’s got more degrees than a thermometer. Barbie has been a member of every single armed force in the United States,
not to mention a Canadian Mountie. Not only has Barbie been an Astronaut, but she has also served under Captains James Kirk AND Jean-Luc Picard (that’s STARFLEET, Bitches!)
She’s the only dame who can not only fly the plane, but can also pass out cocktails and peanuts as both the pilot and flight attendant. Barbie has worked at McDonald’s,
performed as a “Spice Girl,” and may possibly be the only Princess who was also a NASCAR driver.
That’s our gal, the embodiment of a woman who can truly “do it all.” That being said, it appears the folks at Mattel are running low on ideas. When I first saw the commercial for Barbie’s yellow lab that SHITS out little brown tic-tacs, I rubbed my eyes like a child waking from an afternoon nap, wondering in disbelief if my eyes had deceived me. No, no…there’s Barbie with a poop picker-upper (a long piece of plastic with a magnet on one end) and oh, yes er…uh…yep…let’s just say the ANUS on the dog qualifies it as more anatomically correct than Barbie herself. I can’t remember the exact name of the toy, but it was something along the lines of “Barbie and Her Dog That Takes A Dump.” I bought it the very next day.
About a week later, I was driven to hysterics when Barbie’s friend “Teresa” showed up on my doorstep, a gag gift from my friend Becky. Teresa is Barbie’s uglier, fatter, dumpier friend. (*SARCASM*) I know this because a) her name is Teresa and not Barbie and b) she is brunette, which automatically knocks her down to “side kick” or “wing man,” a fact that drives me, the mother of a very gorgeous brunette, BERSERK! It’s not that I have anything against the name “Teresa” per se…but why not “Gi Gi?” or “Jacqueline” why? Because Barbie is a jealous bitch and wants to hold Teresa back…
Upon opening Teresa’s box, I find that not only is Teresa a “cat person,” but her cat PEES in a LITTER BOX. And not only that…but it WHIZZES out of it’s BELLY BUTTON, not unlike a cat with a surgical procedure called a perianalurethrotomy or PU (Yes, the surgery to correct a severely blocked cat is called a “P.U.”) where the urethra is surgically shortened and altered to bypass the urogenital opening allowing urine to drain from a small hole in the lower abdomen…hopefully Barbie was her surgeon and gave her a discount. V promptly flushed the little rubber cat down the guest room toilet, who resurfaced several hours and hundred dollars later, and yes, the plumber was kind enough to ask if we wanted the toy back before reattaching the commode.
But just when I thought the bar of ridiculousness had been set too high to possibly top, I was jolted right up out of my chair as I was zoning out, vapidly reading facebook “status updates,” when my daughter started SQEALING in the next room. V is, by nature, accident prone and has a tendency towards tormenting our cranky older cat, so as visions of a 4 year old girl tangled up with a 10 year old orange tabby blurred through my brain, I was delightedly stopped in my tracks by V, who was laughing, shrieking and pointing at the television screaming “Momma! MOMMA! I want that! I WANT THAT! It’s called “Barbie Gets A Stamp!” I followed her transfixed eyes and pointed finger…no it’s not…it’s called…
Barbie Totally Stylin Tattoos!
Wait…er…WHAT?!
Seriously? TATTOOS?!
I used to only have to worry about banal things like the state of the economy and national security, now I have to worry about my 4 year old getting inked by Barbie?! I mean, really Mattel, what’s next? “Barbie’s Gardasil Vaccine Clinic?!” “Penis Enlargement Surgery Ken?” I mean, I thought the line was crossed with “Barbie Whose Dog Shits on the Floor,” and “Teresa’s Water Sports Wonder Cat!” It’s not that I’m against tattoos, obviously, it’s just all in due time. V should be learning to color inside the lines, not watching a fake Barbie dog take a crap. At least I waited until I was 18 before I, myself, got a tattoo. At this rate, V will be in Kindergarten.
