I know I'm not the only one who, as a child, played with her Barbie dolls (the ones her parents kept buying her regardless of how many she decapitated/shaved/disemboweled previously) in inappropriate ways.
I didn't care what Barbie, her little sister Skipper or her ugly cousin Courtney looked like in the Malibu mansion, driving around in a pink Corvette or wearing the latest fashions Mattel and its sweatshops produced each season.
I wanted to know what they'd look like bald, with a leg in the arm socket, or hanging from the Christmas tree.
And when mom came home with my first Ken doll — “They can have a family!” — I sent him hurdling into the back yard just in time for the 12-year-old neighbor to mow the lawn. (I remember the look of horror my mother had when he presented her with Ken's limbless mangled torso…and the look of understanding and slight amusement shown by my dad.)
I wanted Barbie to do more than just gossip, shop and hang out at ice cream parlors with her girlfriends. While my friends mashed their Kens and Barbies together to “make babies,” I stacked my lady dolls (since Ken was out of the picture) face-to-face to make babies the way I thought made more sense.
Our motivation was hoping we'd create new dolls as a result (an adorable lack of understanding on our part)…but alas, all I succeeded in doing was show my parents I likely wouldn't be searching for my own Ken one day.
But anyway, my point: This is awesome.
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