Posts Tagged ‘Motrin’
If men could menstruate … clearly, menstruation would become an enviable, boast-worthy, masculine event: Men would brag about how long and how much. … Sanitary supplies would be federally funded and free. Of course, some men would still pay for the prestige of such commercial brands as Paul Newman Tampons, Muhammad Ali’s Rope-a-Dope Pads, John Wayne Maxi Pads, and Joe Namath Jock Shields — “For Those Light Bachelor Days.”
IF men could menstruate, I wouldn’t have to frickin’ BEG my goddam gynecologist for a total hysterectomy.
He’d have KNOWN, instinctively, to just go ahead and yank my plumbing from my gaping C-sectioned abdomen after he extracted the TWO-FOOT-LONG infant from my womb seven years ago.
Perhaps, IF men could menstruate, Dr. Doogie Houser would have — if not empathy — surely, SYMPATHY, for the fact that I SUFFER from retrograde menstruation and Stage IV endometriosis.
Perhaps, IF every month, in addition to experiencing a two-week crimson tide, Dr. Doogie ALSO had menstrual waste forced back up through his fallopian tubes to spill out into his abdominal cavity, he would give me the radical overhaul for which I beg.
Perhaps, IF Dr. Doogie had to endure just one ‘Butt-Kink’, as I fondly call it, wherein all of that menstrual waste material adhering to his intestines and sphincter feel as if someone has yanked them UP and held TAUT for a minute or two — perhaps, THEN, (after he is able to catch his breath and let every muscle in his very body relax) — THEN — he GLADLY would extract my female parts.
Instead, even before I can finish my HYSTER-ical plea, he is already shaking his head, saying, “No. No. No. You’re too young.”
Why is it men are all-too happy to stuff shit IN to your nether regions,
but they never wanna take anything OUT?
My only consolation: I think Dr. Doogie’s a Buddhist. I pray he comes back as a WOMAN. And then to another man.
Until then, I’m stuck with another 15-20 years of menstruation.
And that’s another thing that pisses me off: Shouldn’t it be ‘WOMENstruation’?
For crissake, even on that, WE get the GORY and THEY get the GLORY?
Recently, my pre-pubescent daughter asked me, “Mommy, if you had THREE WISHES, what would they be?”
Without hesitation, I fired off:
#1 That every man in the world would POOF! into a woman.
#2 That I would become the HEARTLESS BITCH GYNECOLOGIST to those new women.
#3 That Sir James Dyson would invent an affordable VagiVac so all the REAL WOMEN of the world could frickin’ suck out their own uteri in the comfort of their own homes whenever they damn-well feel like it.
Okay, well, maybe those three wishes were what I said in my head. Maybe I said ‘world peace’ to m’kid. Maybe. (I hope.)
But don’t get me wrong. I didn’t refrain from blurting out my REAL three wishes because I didn’t want to curse in front of the kid.
I just wanted to PROTECT her from THE PERIOD — period.
I want to protect her from THE CURSE and all of its nasty, negative effects, in general. I want to protect her from the visceral urge to slice up every male living thing on the face of the earth every 28 days.
How I DREAD my babygirl’s imminent entrance to womanhood! How my heart breaks at the thought of the loss of her happy, innocent, worry- and pain-free childhood. How sorry I am that she is a SHE; how sorry I am that she must heft the burden of being female.
Now, don’t get me wrong; I don’t necessarily hate womanhood. On the contrary, I know I was made a woman because women are the stronger of the sexes; I don’t care what anybody thinks or says. Hell, if The Big Guy thought for a millisecond that MEN could handle childbirth and MENses, He’d’ve given the Grand Prize to THEM. I’m just pissed that guys have all the fun and get all the breaks — in every way, shape and form.
And don’t even try to sell me that SHIT about how men are the ones who have to bring home the bacon and support a family, ’cause I’m not buyin’.
Most women I know hold down full-time careers AND do ALL 1) childcare 2) housework 3) shopping 4) cooking 5) bill-paying 6) yardwork 7) help with homework 8) taxiing kids to/from activities for which MOM arranged. (+ MUCH more)
THIS is what my daughters have to look forward to in their lives?
It’s not bad enough that my daughter must ENDURE the curse of THE CURSE?
I want my girls to grow up to be STRONG WOMEN. I want them to know that they can handle ANYTHING that life throws their way. Unfortunately, that monthly visit from Aunt Flo is the one thing that many women, strong or not, simply CANNOT escape. Every month, women are PLAGUED with debilitating cramps, bloating, demon-channeling capabilities and LEAKAGE.
Included in my nightly prayers (and, yes, The Viv fuckin’ PRAYS) are the makers of Midol and 800mg Motrin. They, at least, can get me through the bloats and cramps and the feeling that my uterus is gonna tear through m’taint and hit the floor.
Am I to believe that we can build Great Walls and pyramids, put men (why, of course) on the moon, store 5,000 songs on a device no bigger that a pinky, sew without thread, live with artificial hearts, balloon boobs to a realistic trip-G, grow new hair, brace for perfect, pearly teeth and block sweat from staining our pits — but we can’t seem to figure out a better way to stanch the red flood than to shove a wad of cotton up the HOOHAW?
THERE’S GOTTA BE A BETTER WAY FOR WOMEN TO CONQUER THE CURSE!
IF men could menstruate,
we’d’ve had a curse-cure
How do they keep hemophiliacs from leaking to death?
Why can’t we just use THAT?
Or, how ’bout a giant styptic pencil?
IF men were just a wee bit quicker on the uptake, they’d realize that the quicker they cure the curse, the quicker they get 12 extra BONUS weeks to hound us for sex.
Now that I’ve purchased a few ‘bralets’ and some of that amazing anti-perspirant for my blossoming nine-year-old babe, my next purchases, no doubt, will be Pre-Teen Midol and a box of maxi pads (with WINGS! of course).
How I cringe at the memory of my middle school maxi pad days.
Ladies, is there anything more disgusting than having to run the mile in PE with a freakin’ saturated king-sized pillow between your legs?
True, pads have come a long way in terms of size and absorbancy since the early 80s, thank Gawd, but I feel so sorry for the young girls who have to wear them. Poor things. But, then again, what choice do they really have? TAMPONS? For elementary schoolers? Ugh.
I hopped online in search of SOMETHING — ANYTHING — better than pads and tampons for my babygirl — must she REALLY ride the cotton pony all her life?
As it turns out, the pad and the tampon really ARE the best out there.
I just can’t imagine trying to instruct my child in the proper folding technique, let alone the INSERTION and REMOVAL, of the DIVA CUP, and I would rather have her swallow a box of DAMP RID than tell her that she should shove a goddam SEA SPONGE up her little ‘tookie’.
The DIVA CUP
The Jam Sponge
“You simply squash it into your vagina and it soaks up the blood.”
(A shoe-in for the The Cannes Lions International Advertising Festival.)
No Way in HELL.
So, for now,
until Sir Dyson’s
hits Wal-Mart shelves,
pads it is.
I tore apart my basement looking for THE BIBLE of Pre-Pubescent Girls — Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.
Since the kid’s got booblets, I suppose it’s time for her to read it. It got me through that God-awful stage. It sure as hell made me happy that the ‘Teeange Softies’ I had to wear didn’t require a belt, though. At least my Kotex had tape strips to adhere to my Days of the Week undergutchies.
Another thing I appreciated about Blume’s book was the fact that the main character’s mother didn’t really make a major ordeal and alert the presses when her daughter gets her period. She sniffles a bit, and says, “My God! You’ve really got it. My little girl!” And then she goes to get the ‘equipment’ in the other room. No big whoop.
My own mother wept with pride at my first flow. She couldn’t stop hugging me and kissing me and telling me how proud of me she was (as if I had anything to do with it). And then at the dinner table that night, she beamed and proudly announced, “Daddy, our baby girl got her period today! She’s not a little girl anymore! Now she’s becoming a young WOMAN!” I thought my younger brother was gonna puke. My dad, God bless’im, without really making eye contact, mumbled something like, “Did ya, honey? Well, say now… how ’bout that? Do ya feel all grown up now?” (No, Dad, not really. Actually, I feel like total CRAP. And now, lucky me, I get to feel like this once a month? Me? I feel like a buck-fi’ty. Yippee.)
I know a woman whose family has a Menstruation Tradition, for crissake. When one of their girls gets stricken, one of the other women of the family — NOT the mother, though — presents the child with a fuckin’ TIARA to celebrate her induction into the Sisterhood of Stained Pants. Evidently, it’s this big family secret, and no one else is allowed to see your tiara. When the girl gets her period every month, and she is feeling like a heifer in heat, she is to go to her room, place the tiara atop her head, and look in the mirror and admire the beauty, the regality of being a woman. I guess the crown is supposed to make her feel better about the monthly sloughing of the lining of her uterus and cellular debris and the fact that she secretly wants to take a crucifix to her vagina a la Regan to take her mind off the pain.
I can say with the fiercest conviction that there willl be no Catamenia Crown for my kid.
There will be no celebration, no ‘Welcome to Womanhood’ festivities, no ’embrace-and-honor-your-sacred-feminine’ speech — no way, no how.
A FUNERAL to mourn my baby’s lost childhood, maybe. But menses, my friends, is no cause for celebration. (unless you’ve been worried about that one-night stand for the last three weeks, that is)
No; no majestic tiara for my little girl.
I’d rather say
‘Welcome to 40 Frickin’ Years of Abject Agony’
with a heating pad,
a Motrin I.V.,
a Symphony bar
and a 2-lb. bag o’ chips.
That’s more helpful that a friggin’ tiara, I guarantee it.
Even when I was little,
I led a double life.
At my Grandma’s,
I was all princess.
However, at home,
I guess I was
what you’d call a
It’s not that I CHOSE to be a tomboy; it’s just that there were only two other girls who lived in my neighborhood. One was a total whack-job who lived with her blind, deaf and deformed aunt/uncle/guardian-parents (up ‘ere beside ‘The Raccoons’ who came out only at night, but that’s another story entirely). The other GAVE total whack-jobs, blow-jobs and rim-jobs while in the 6th grade. So, my friend choice was somewhat limited.
If I WANTED to play,
I had to play with the neighborhood BOYS.
It turned out that I fit in with the boys quite easily. I could run fast, throw a mean crabapple, climb the highest trees, help to build the tree house fort, take a hard tackle, and probably best of all — SPIT— almost as far as they could.
To them, I wasn’t really ‘a girl’; I was just a buddy, and that suited me just fine. Who’d wanna play with dumb old dolls anyway when there were caves to be explored or slag piles to be climbed or birdies to be knocked from their nests or car bumpers on which to hitch a skateboard or sled ride?!
Oh, I HAD dolls at my house, but I left them in dirt pile out back or down on ‘Big Rock’ the instant the gang showed up, lookin’ for a good game of rundown or our specialized version of ‘Dodge’em’ (aka ‘throw-rocks-at-your-brother-on his bike-as-he-tries-to-dodge’em’).
My younger brother, ‘Nibby’,
— nearly four years my junior –
had one helluva
as a little guy.
At three or four, Nibby learned to shove off the toilet lid the stack of the heaviest texts my mother could find to keep it closed: Webster’s Dictionary, the PDR, the Kama Sutra and one, colossal Bible (on the SHITTER – SACRILEGE!). He would then bend over, take hold of the ceramic, and dunk the top of his head in the water. From there, he would reach up and FLUSH the toilet, taking great (albeit SICK) delight in the water swirling about his hair. Without fail, whence the water drained, he would FLIP his head up, whipping his ‘SWIRLY’ into a curlicue twist, the likes of which the folks of Dairy Queen would envy. Tiny rivulets of rank would wend their way down his chubby, little happy-cheeks, and yeah, unavoidably, even sneak into his eyes and mouth, as Nibby grinned and gurgled with rapture.
Eager to share his zen-like nirvana, Nibby SOMEHOW convinced my favorite baby doll, Ingrid, to partake of his bizarre potty ritual (in retrospect, he probably used the language barrier to his benefit; I tried to teach that stupid Swede some English, but she would have none of it, staring back at me with those vacant eyes). I can say this for her; though Ingrid did lack muscular shape and tone, she had lovely long, silky, spun-gold hair. (That is, PRE-SWIRL.)
When our mother discovered Nibby had swirled Ingrid, did she put the doll in the bathtub with my brother? No. She tossed’er in the washer – and from there straight into the dryer – on HIGH. I waited for HOURS for my Ingrid to emerge from the Maytag, pacing about the laundry room, plotting and scheming to exact my revenge on Teddy, Nibby’s omnipresent brown bear. (Don’t think for a minute I had overlooked the fact that if his little Eljer baptism was SUCH a moment of spiritual enlightenment that he would’ve converted his VERY OWN STUFFED BUDDY over Ingrid. Nope; Teddy was TOAST.)
Now, I’m not sayin’ Ingrid didn’t undergo a spiritual conversion at the hands of my toilet-twisted sibling; maybe sí, maybe no. I CAN, however, attest to the fact that that poor girl was PHYSICALLY TRANSFORMED.
Poor, dumb, Euro-trash Ingrid! My sad friend appeared to have been the victim of the business-end of a shovel as the left side of her molded plastic skull was bashed in, never to ‘pop-out’ again. Her left eyeball had receded and retreated to wasteland of said molded plastic skull, leaving but a gaping black HOLE where it had once been. When shaken severely, Ingrid’s eyeball could be heard and FELT to be rattling and rolling around inside the vacuum of her head. But the WORST part of all was that Ingrid’s lush, golden mane had metamorphosed into a clownish blonde afro (well, it WAS the 70’s; perhaps Ingrid was a bit more ‘with it’ than I thought…). No matter how much Love’s Baby Soft I dumped on her, that melted-plastic stench would never leave her.
Oh! How I lamented the loss of my original Ingrid! And, for awhile, I was content to play nursemaid to my damaged friend. I fashioned a mini-eyepatch from black felt, wrapped her dented face with ACE bandages and pretended that her bobbling eyeball was a traveling tumor. It wasn’t long, however, until I tired of caring for an invalid; I mean, if she wasn’t able to pick up even a little English before ‘THE SWIRL’, there really wasn’t much chance of her recovering from severe brain damage.
Ingrid was headed to the
It was about that time
that I discovered
the wonderful world of
Now, HERE was one, hip chick! Not only did she have partial genitalia, my girl was young, rich, carefree and stylish! She had great clothes, great shoes with matching handbags, jewel-encrusted accessories, and she had a hottie boyfriend, too!
Oh, I fell hard for everything Barbie: the swimming pool, the van, the Dream House, the camper, the corvette; you name it, I had it!
I had Barbies of every hair-hue! I had Kelley, Cara and Ginger, a few Skippers and and a couple ‘a Kens. My Barbies had more clothing than I did! I even had a cute pink wardrobe trunk for storing all of my Barbie paraphernalia (EVERY gown and outfit was hung on a tiny pink hanger). I recall losing only a few shoes, ever – devastating.
I remember changing their attire frequently, usually opting for casual summer frocks or eveningwear to forego grunting and tugging and eventually RIPPING slacks and glittery hot pants over the dolls’ sticky rubber legs and freakishly-jointed baby-bearin’ hips. (Years later would I learn that baby powder would have gone a long way in easing my dolls into their campy-trampy duds.)
In the beginning, the imaginary world I created for my dolls was sweet and innocent…benign. I would stage fashion shows, trips to the grocery store, tea parties, sleepovers and even hold school for them.
When my personality split, and my dark side emerged, Barbie’s world was somewhat less than idyllic. What accessories I needed but couldn’t purchase, like an emergency room – for when Babs botched an inward on the diving board which ripped her arms from their sockets with a ‘THWOCK’ (okay, and a pair of pliers), or the absolute MUST for every pool party – the pitcher of martinis – I would mold out of PlayDoh and improvise. I could play with my Barbies for hours on end, much to the delight of my parents who were relieved I was too preoccupied to torture Teddy.
I kept most of Barbie’s homes and vehicles at my grandma’s house because I spent nearly every weekend there, being pampered to the hilt. The dolls themselves and the wardrobe, however, I would tote back and forth to and from home.
Except for that ONE weekend – that one weekend wherein I got to Grandma’s and realized I’d forgotten all my Barbie shit at HOME. (And NO FRICKIN’ WAY would either of my parents CONSIDER making the 3-mile trek back to Grandma’s to deliver my forgotten dolls.) I was sad at first, but when Grandma told me I could go upstairs and dig around in her attic, look for untold treasures, try on all of her ‘good’ spectator pumps in every color – never saw her wear’em even ONCE – (I guess she bit it before ‘GOOD’ ever came along), dress-up in the fancy dresses of her youth and play with her old pocketbooks, my big-boobied Barbies faded fast in my memory.
I have no idea
just how long it took me
to realize that I came home
to the scariest collection of Barbies
young girls of the world
had ever seen.
When I opened the pink wardrobe, I was utterly horrified to find that, while still stylishly dressed, wearing travel-appropriate footwear (for the trip to Grandma’s that never happened for THEM), my Barbies had fallen victim to a band of cannibal headhunters!
HEADLESS, THE LOT OF THEM!
The savages had viciously POPPED off my dolls’ heads and made off with them for nary a noggin was to be found within the wardrobe. My dolls were nothing but a collection of knobby bodies with knobby necks.
As I looked at my pathetic doll-pals, I could actually HEAR the POP of each doll’s head coming off; it was a sound with which I was familiar as I would often put Skipper’s HEAD to Barbie’s BODY – I had always pitied the flat younger sister, and I enjoyed ‘treating’ her to some time wearin’ Barbie’s rack.
When I ran to my numb mother to report the heinous crime, I was both shocked and relieved to learn that savage head-hunters were not culpable and still lurking under my bed; rather, the culprit was none other than my little brother.
Apparently, during my absence,
Nibby had acquired some new toilet tricks.
Having been dissatisfied with the family’s overall reaction to what became known as ‘The Conversion of Ingrid’, apparently Nibby deigned my beautiful Barbies to be worthy, easily-manipulated converts. If only he had been satisfied with ‘conversion by swirl’….
The ‘official’ story I got was that Nibby ripped off the Barbies’ heads and FLUSHED them down the crapper! At some point, a glut of heads clogged the toilet, and my dad was forced to plunge.
Did my folks THINK to run out to buy even ONE new Babs to replace my headless dolls? Nope; evidently, they operated under the assumption that the next time I opened my trunk, I wouldn’t even notice my friends had no frickin’ heads. Hell, they even may have PRETENDED to actually SEE heads on my dolls should I bring it up, hoping that labeling me ‘DELUSIONAL’ may save’em $50 in replacement babes in the end.
To add insult to injury,
the little fucker
didn’t even get in trouble
for his little foray into religion.
he’s too little
to know any better…
he’s just very creative,
and he was just
Oh, yeah? How come THAT EXCUSE didn’t work for me when I performed major surgery on STRETCH ARMSTRONG, hoping to prove once and for all that there was, indeed, MAPLE SYRUP inside of him? (and, though my hypothesis was woefully wrong, I DID LEARN that if it don’t SMELL like MAPLE SYRUP, girlfriend, it SURE AS SHIT ain’t gonna TASTE like it.)
After all that, Barbie no longer held the magic for me that she once had. I didn’t even have the will, the heart, to craft Playdoh heads for the ‘knobbed ones’. Their lovely heads gone, for me, they’d lost their luster.
My damn dumb-doll days were over.
I came to DESPISE all things Barbie, telling myself that they were ‘dumb blondes’ anyway, and that the shallow bitches deserved what they got in the end. I decided that the BOYS had all the fun in the world, and that they rarely got in trouble for anything they ever did, their parents chalking up pranks and even arson to ‘boys being boys’. I committed to tomboyhood, once and for all.
Sadly, my hatred for Barbie has continued through adulthood, and much to the chagrin of my daughters, into my motherhood. I absolutely REFUSE to purchase Barbie and/or any of her BIMBO galpals for my children.
I see absolutely NO VALUE WHATSOEVER in having young girls play and fantasize about the DREAM-HOUSE and the DREAM-LIFE and the DREAM-METROSEXUAL-HUSBAND-KEN.
To what avail?
No, I want my girls to learn what REAL LIFE’s all about.
The earlier they learn that LIFE AIN’T NO DREAM-WORLD, the better.
When Mattel starts makin’ HOME-IN-FORECLOSURE-CAUSE-YOUR-BALD-FAT-GOOD-FOR-NOTHIN’-BEER-CHUGGIN’-HUBBY-DONE-BLEW-RENT-ON-DOGFIGHTS-AND-NASCAR BARBIE, I might take notice and buy’em for my kids.
Now that I think about it,
there ARE some Barbies
that I would run out
snag for my girls:
Stripper Barbie – Barbie’s done got a boob job! Now a trip-D, this doll is ‘dressed’ in tassle pasties, genuine rhinestone thong and ‘Miss Pole Dance Australia’ sparkling sash. Stripper Barbie’s appendages are Gumby-bendable to facilitate this bombshell’s technically intricate and sensual dance tricks. Pole, rope Mallakhamb, strobe lights, jar of Vaseline and miniature paper currency in $20, $50 and $100 denominations included. *Stripper Skipper also available at pedophilepatdat.com
Bad Hair Day Barbie – Oh, wait! That’s the REGULAR Barbie. Forget it.
HOA Rep Barbie – comes with clipboard containing the low-down on each neighborhood resident, binoculars, Canon Powershot camera with mega-zoom lens and time-lapse capabilities, VIOLATION stickers, comfortable walking shoes and removable stick up her ass.
Stay-At-Home Barbie – Barbie has packed on 50+ extra pounds. Comes with laundry basket, six kids (one in middle, one in elementary and four under 4 years old), enough crafting supplies for completing all of her kids’ school projects, Costco card, smokes and a TV Guide.
Debby Downer Barbie – The antithesis to Barbie’s perky personality. Debby has a pull-string, but come to think of it, it’s really not necessary; she’ll BITCH INCESSANTLY about any- and everything. Batteries NOT INCLUDED; the only way to get her to shut the fuck up is by bludgeoning her repeatedly with a sledge hammer (included). If THAT doesn’t work, set the bitch afire (matches also included).
PTO Barbie – This chick does not stop! Wearing the latest trends and styles, hopped up on her kid’s ADHD meds, PTO Babs drives the kids to school in her own bus (included), and spends the day volunteering in the cafeteria, the classroom, the main office and with PE (because the teacher is ‘smokin’ HOT’). PTO Babs USED to assist the school nurse, but she was asked to refrain when it was discovered that the clinic’s Ritalin supply had dwindled. PTO Barbie does not drive the students home in her bus, however, as she remains at school to tidy the teachers’ rooms and to gather as much information and dirt on these educators as possible, committing each detail to her eidetic memory for future blackmail plots. PTO Barbie hangs out in the office chumming with admin until she presides over the the meeting at 7 pm. When the meeting ends at 10 pm, Babs is too tired to drive the bus home, so she sleeps in the extra janitor’s closet she has converted into her own personal office/boudoir.
Single-Working-Mom Barbie – Single-Working-Mom Barbie holds down TWO full-time jobs while ‘having parties’ every Saturday and Sunday as a consultant for Lia Sophia, Mary Kay and Tastefully Simple to supplement her meager income. She comes with her Daytimer, Bluetooth headset, a year’s supply of 800mg Vivarin and a list of 25 friends’ cell phone numbers she may need to call to pick up her three school-age kids when their deadbeat dad is too drunk to pull up his dungarees after bonin’ his trailer court manager’s third wife. Single-Working-Mom-Barbie can whip up dinner for four from the fridge door, and she comes with (3) additional pairs of arms that can be attached to her back (she could always use an extra hand or two).
Bipolar Barbie – This doll’s head can be swiveled front to back to reveal one of two faces, ‘benign’ and ‘possessed’, given Bipolar Barbie’s current mental state. B.B.’s hair is used to camouflage the countenance not currently employed. Quite unlike other Barbies, this doll sports flexible arms to pose, perhaps, in a warm, embracing hug. In addition, the doll’s fully jointed finger digits and opposable thumbs, enable Bipolar Barbie to throw the bird or wield a cleaver should the imaginary need arise. Also included: One year’s supply of Abilify. *Disclaimer: Destroy doll when meds run out.
OCD Barbie – Being a textbook example of the Type A personality, the OCD Barbie must insist that utmost care and precision-cutting be employed in the opening of her product box. Upon opening the product box, the consumer should adhere to the following procedure:
1) Carefully REMOVE doll.
2) Carefully REPLACE doll inside box.
3) REPEAT 1) and 2)
4) REPEAT 1) and 2)
5) Leave doll in box so she’ll stay clean and perfect.
The company strongly recommends that the consumer allow band of plastic shrink wrap about the doll’s hair and the basting threads which keep OCD Barbie’s brilliant-white pin-pleated skirt sharply creased — intact — throughout ownership of the doll. Included with OCD Barbie is her ‘necessary’ carry-all which contains: (2) Tide To-Go Stain Removal Pens (one may dry up), tissues, (1) gallon bottle of moisturizing hand sanitizer, regular-size bottle of antibacterial hand soap, (2) MEGA-rolls Bounty paper towels, (1) box – 100 count – latex-free disposable gloves, (1) travel pack of triple-ply toilet seat covers, (2) rolls triple-ply toilet tissue, (1) plastic container of large flushable wipes, (1) box of triple-zip security plastic Baggies, (1) box assorted bandages, (1) 10x magnifying mirror, diamond-cut precision tweezers in cushioned case, (1) roll each: Scotch tape, masking tape, black electrical tape, duct tape, 20’ tape measure, (3) each – ‘emergency’ keys to her car, home and office, (1) gallon ‘emergency’ container of unleaded gasoline, (25) brown paper lunch sacks for aiding hyperventilation when specific rules and regulations are ignored.
Butch Barbie — This doll sports the ‘s/him’ hairstyle which is perfect for a day on the WPGA Tour or to deter the dreaded ‘trucker hat’ hair when she parks her semi in the McDonald’s parking lot and heads in for a Filet O’ Fish and some fries. Doll comes dressed in Dickies dungarees, Buffalo plaid flannel shirt with sports bra attached and steel-toed workboots. Golf clubs, semi and Honda Accord sold separately.
Bi-Barbie – Bi-Barbie is the Girl-Next-Door. She is a married mother of two. Her ‘best, best, best friend’ is Chach Barbie, and they go everywhere and do everything — together. Every other month they have a ‘Girls Only’ spa weekend. Bi-Barbie’s favorite song (included) is “Best of Both Worlds” by Hanna Montana. Ken doll and Chach Barbie sold separately.
Botox Barbie – (aka Middle-Aged Barbie) may be a tad frightening to your young daughter upon first glance. This doll’s spent her 20s and 30s in the tanning bed, and her leathery, sagging, collagen-deficient skin hangs from her thin frame. Fret not! Though, at first, you may wonder if, mistakenly, you have purchased the Crypt Keeper or E.T. doll, you will be pleasantly surprised whence your daughter injects the live botulinum bacteria into the doll’s folds. Like magic, Botox Barbie pleasantly plumps up, resembling an energized, albeit shocked or surprised, middle-aged bimbo who just came from the doctor. Miniature syringes, botulinum type-A toxin and hand mirror included. *Coming Soon! New Botox Barbie’s Culture-Your-Own-Botulinum kit!
HandiBarbie – (aka Handi-CAPABLE Barbie) – This plucky athlete-phenom comes seated in her proportional-speed breath-operated motorized state-of-the-art wheelchair. She paints! She draws! She ‘rolls’ marathons! She skis! A former flight attendant, HandiBarbie is a mother of four who tours the world, piloting her very own breath-and-eye-operated Cessna. A motivational speaker, HandiBarbie teaches the young women of the world of the many dangers of joining the pilot and the Mile High Club in the cockpit. High-heeled, flats and sneakered prosthetic legs (L and R) included; Cessna and sit-ski sold separately.
PMS Barbie – (aka Homicidal Rampage Babs) — Voice-activated doll unleashes a scathing rash of threats and epithets at the slightest hint of conversation coming her way. Realistic bloating and sore, swollen breasts enhance PMS Barbie’s authenticity. This doll wears a big, comfy sweatshirt, elastic-waist sweatpants and warm, fuzzy slippers. Accessories included: comfy sofa, eye mask, warm, fuzzy blanket, heating pad, (10) ThermoCare adhesive heating pads, (2) lbs. milk chocolate, (1) wild animal saltlick, (10) ‘POUNDER’ bags of Extra-Greasy Potato Chips (ANY brand, MOTHERFUCKER, it doesn’t MATTER!) and (1) gross 800mg Motrin.
When Mattel brings THESE Barbies to market, I’ll bring my credit card. I’ll be the first in line to buy the HALFWAY HOUSE, ABUSED WOMEN AND CHILDREN SHELTER and ABORTION CLINIC, if they make’em.