Is it just me, or are toys getting weirder? For example, there's this doll out called
"Baby Bear." It's a teddy bear with the face of a (human) baby doll. Now, I don't know
about you, but I find this smiling baby face peering out of a tangle of fur more than a
little disturbing. It looks like some DNA experiment gone horribly wrong.
Another incredibly expensive thing the kids can't do without is the "Just My Size
Barbie." Yep, Barbie's been eating her Wheaties, because this version is kid-sized, about
three feet tall. I'm still waiting for the full-sized inflatable version for Dad. On the other
hand, who has the money for all the accessories? (I've got to tell you, I don't care how
stacked Barbie is, the chick is WAY too high-maintenance. )
But the hottest and hardest-to-find item this year is something called "Furby." This
eerie little doll, which bears a suspicious resemblance to the Gizmo character in the
movie "Gremlins", is "interactive". It responds to sounds, light and music. You can talk to
it and it talks back. It can even "communicate" with other Furbys, via electronic sensors
in its head. (Am I the only one who finds this ominous?) Furby has its own language,
called, naturally enough, Furbish. You have to teach it English, after which, I suppose,
you can put it to work sewing in New York's Garment District. If you play with it
enough, Furby simpers such endearments as "Furby wuvs oo!" Frankly, this is a closer
relationship than I want to develop with any piece of machinery that doesn't have tires on
it. It's fortunate that Furby has no apparent neck, because just watching the commercials
makes me want to strangle it. One of my favorite sites on the Internet these days is the
"Furby Autopsy" site (http://www.phobe.com/furby/ ) wherein the owner of a defunct
Furby cut it apart to find out the "cause of death", then took pictures and posted them on
the 'Net. The picture of Furby with a coroner's toe tag on made me laugh so hard I
sprayed coffee onto my computer.
Weird or not, these toys are making a boatload of money for their creators and
manufacturers. So, with my ever-vigilant eye for a quick buck, I started tossing around a
few gift ideas of my own:
The Jerry Springer Holiday Snack Assortment: Full of nuts, bananas and fruitcakes.
You can't take your eyes off it, but it leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
The Henry Hyde Doll: Wind it up and it pursues the Bill Clinton doll, no matter how
many times you tell it to stop.
The Congressional Action Figure set: Collect 'em all! Flip the hidden switch and they
flush your money down the toilet!
The Bill Clinton Dartboard: The ultimate darts challenge. No matter how accurately
you throw, the doggone thing evades all attempts to hit it.
The John Glenn Yard Swing: Two long bungee cords with a rocking chair slung
between them. Fix it between two trees and launch Grandpa into space. Especially fun if
you wait till the old coot nods off after too much Christmas turkey. Oxygen tanks and
parachute extra.
The Linda Tripp Secret Agent Informant Set: With phone taps, body wire, and
miniature tape recorder. See Daddy's face turn red when you play back how he REALLY
feels about your Great-aunt Fern! Watch your brother squirm as his girlfriend Jane hears
the voice of his other girlfriend Shirley! Guarantee yourself easy "A"'s with indisputable
proof of what Teacher's been up to! Knife in the back sold separately.
The Dr. Kevorkian Lil' Scientist Chemistry Set: Manufacturer is not responsible for
death or injury to family pets. And whatever you do, don't start coughing.
The Boris Yeltsin Doll: Doesn't really do anything, but I'd keep it away from the
eggnog if I were you.
One thing you can always count on: no matter what you got your kids for Christmas, no
matter how faithfully you have hewn to their loudly shouted desires, some well-meaning
soul is going to bend down and ask your child "What do you want Santa to bring you?" At
which point the little ankle-biter will come out with something TOTALLY DIFFERENT,
something that has never been mentioned before this conversation, which of course
invariably occurs on Christmas Eve. It is about this point that I begin chug-a-lugging the
Christmas punch and muttering darkly to myself about converting to Islam.
Seriously, though, Joyous Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Good Solstice, and Merry
Christmas, y'all. Have some fruitcake.
1998 Jerry D. Rhoades, Jr.
