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.