InfiniteImprobability

Sunday, August 15, 2004

Barbies WetDream House

His thumb twitched. Twitched. Twitched. Then stopped mid-twitch. There it was! Our little man inched forward on the couch cushion and watched. He had caught it just in time, right as his thumb surfed on to the next monotonous channel. Barbie. The oldest perpetual propaganda from the Yuppie hoards. Get ‘em while they’re young. Seduce them with the Dream House, then reel them in with the Corvette. Hell, a few years ago they were so blatant that they gave Ken and his silicon-enhanced honey credit cards. Only in America. . . The little man knew good and well that his children were never going to be allowed to play with credit card carrying dolls that promoted such a lavish lifestyle. Of course that assumed that one day he’d be allowed to breed.

The commercial ended and he smiled quietly to himself. If anyone had seen the corners of his mouth curl upward in pure self-satisfaction they would have called it a smirk. He preferred “smile” as to not seem to uppity. So he smiled and mentally gave a high-five to all the assorted voices now celebrating a small, but long awaited victory. Patting himself on the back, literally, he congratulated himself on being right. And on being double jointed.

Barbie had always played it pretty cool. Nice tight skirt and heels when Ken was coming over. Sunbathing together on the House Boat, dancing at her Disco. But Ken. . . Ken was a dead give away. Always dressed just right, well groomed, kept the house really clean. He was just a little too good looking. The little man always thought it was odd that Ken never went fishing or hunting with the guys. He never showed up drunk at the Dream House trying to talk Barbie and Skipper into a three-way. A lot of people had come out of the closet in the little man’s life, so he new the signs and Ken’s was large, flashing and neon. The final proof that Ken was riding side saddle came when he started spending an inordinate amount of time hanging around the Command Post waiting for GI Joe to come riding in, all hot and sweaty from the life of a mercenary. That was the military for you. Them and their “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” policy. Like Joe really needed Kung Fo Grip when he had a rocket launcher. A blush spread across the little man’s unshaven cheeks as he imagined Joe demonstrating his new talent to Ken behind the mess tent.

Ken was a flamer, but Barbie? He should have known. The anorexic thing hopped on every trend that hit the cover of Cosmo. So if bumpin fuzzies with your best friend was all the rage you can bet she’ll be wearing flannel and listening to The Indigo Girls. That was all fine but why did she have to flaunt it in public? Our little man didn’t need to know which side she buttered her bread on. He was quite content to live in a world where the only dolls with sex lives had a valve stem in the back of their neck. But no. Mattel had to go and mess up his world with a dose of reality. There it was, Barbie’s condo. Kitchen, bath, living room and one bedroom. What’s that? He smiled again. There’s Barbie, her flat chested friend Skipper, and Stacey (the illegitimate love child of whom?). But only a crib for Stacey and one bed. Hmmm. . . something smells fishy. Maybe his overactive imagination had seen too many Doublemint commercials but the little man had definite ideas about what two attractive woman would do on those long cold nights with only one bed. So there it was. Barbie had been educating the children of the world for decades and now it had come to this. Lesbianism 101. The little man twitched on to the next channel and smiled, what did it matter, Ken wasn’t getting any anyway.

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