Imagine my surprise when I logged on a few days ago and noticed the size of Fox McCloud's junk my readership had increased three times in size.
Such things happen through no coincidence, so after some short sleuthing (ie. people said it quite clearly), I realised that BubbaShelby of Toyriffic had given me a plug.
I am appreciative to no end that Bubba did this for me, and also appreciative to all my new followers (hello sailors), and clearly, one good turn deserves another.
So I advise, if you haven't already, to head on over to Toyriffic and read the musings of a true toy aficionado. Unlike my rather limited collection, Bubba has toys from all walks of life, new and old, good and bad, Buzz-Off and Darkwing freakin' Duck.
Plus weekly entries dedicated to Harley Quinn and Catwoman, and it never ceases to amaze me that every time, he delivers new, thorough content dedicated to the characters. I doubt I could manage the same. I also think I would do Knuckles the Echidna, which is immeasurably less cool.
So put simply, Toyriffic is all the things a toy blog should be, devoid of all the filler and videos of kicking Wildwing Flashblade that you'd find here.
I would advise you to go read now, though tragically, the majority of my readers have now been sourced through that very blog, so I don't think my plug will have quite the impact that his did. Sorry, Bubba. On the plus side, my mom might follow you now.
That picture, incidentally, fills me with endless delight. If you want to seek relevance within me including it, you could claim that Streex represents the awesome crushing power of Toyriffic, whilst Throttle embodies the mediocrity of INAKA.
If that's the case, then I win, for I am voiced by Rob Paulsen!
I face a task with these entries that at times seems daunting, occasionally even insurmountable. Not only do I intend to rid myself of a lot of clutter with this blog, but I really genuinely want to make their send-off entertaining enough to make it worth reading.
And judging by the fact that in nine months, the only comments have been from myself, I would say that I am clearly failing in this task.
With that being said, I now feel a lot less guilty about the shit I’m about to type about this blue Avon elephant. For these are apparently akin to secret dirty letters to myself, and I can say what I please.
Boobs!
Right. For about three years, my dad sold Avon products. As a result, I have always been pissed off by those Avon commercials that simply reek of gender inequality. ‘Talk to your Avon lady’, they would say, ‘she’ll open up an amazing world of Avon’.
For the local residents at the dawn of the new millennium, their Avon lady was a man. And, funnily enough, he was the most successful Avon agent around, routinely topping the sales list with numbers that basically tripled the amount pulled in by the nearest competitor. For some unknown reason, my dad was able to sell cosmetics and perfumes like nobody’s business.
Maybe his cliental thought he was hot. I don’t really know, and I don’t really care. All I know is that we have a slew of Miss Albee commemorative dolls leering out of our antiques cabinet.
She’s my favourite, because as near as I can tell, she is the only trophy we have in our possession. At least, until I win an Emmy or something.
One of the nifty things about being the hellish spawn of an Avon agent was that I got to rake in the free products. I mean, I’m sure dad actually bought them; it wasn’t like these were shifty dealings in black market toy slave trade, but I always felt as though I had the inside track by being chummy with the direct line to an arsenal of products.
To get us started in this nostalgic farewell, I thought I would introduce you to this blue gaffer here. I’m fairly hit or miss with remembering their names, and in this case, I’ve struck out. The first name that leapt majestically to mind was Peanut, but alas, that’s the moniker of a Beanie Baby doppelganger.
Maybe it was Jumbo? Can’t be sure. And in today’s age of information and at least one person knowing enough about the most obscure things to lead someone to eventually read this stupid entry, I can’t afford to be wrong. So I’ll just invent a new name for him. He reminds me of the aforementioned Peanut, so henceforth, he shall be known throughout the land as Legume.
Treat him with the dignity and respect befitting a blue elephant plush named after a subterranean snack.
So I’m sure you’re all asking, ‘whatever is it that Legume can do for our people?’
Asking silently, in your heads, of course, because otherwise you’re talking to a computer screen, and I declare you as crazy folk.
The answer, put simply, is very little. He’s about as nondescript as a plush can possibly be, and he has lived a quiet, hermit-like existence in the closet for nearly fourteen years. And by that, I mean he has literally lived in the closet, I’m not saying that he’s gay.
Although he very well could be, couldn’t he? I don’t think I’ve ever had a gay toy before. I mean, Bugs Bunny has always seemed borderline, but I’m lacking in outwardly homosexual playthings. Which makes me feel rather uncultured, frankly.
As such, Legume now has the exciting distinction of becoming my first ever gay toy. I’m so very excited! With this, I figure his value should go up by 900%. I mean, that’s a moot point because I’m giving him away for free, but now this neglected elephant can become that valuable prized possession for somebody out there.
Now I can detail with glee the curious knot in his tail that I had originally disliked and painstakingly untied over the period of much fiddling, which seems like an awful lot of work to go into a toy you never intend to play with.
Allow me to also ponder; why are elephants often blue? I mean, I suppose blue is close to their true hue of grey, but if you’re going to truly choose an appropriate appearance (without adhering to the absence of fun and magic that is grey), you’d surely go with purple? Not deep sexy velvet purple, but that soft, lavender-esque purple that seems to be all the rage with towels these days.
But then, our mate Legume, he has orange feet at his behest, which completely throws some trickeration into the deal. I guess he doesn’t care at all about how much he resembles a real elephant. I can understand that; I don’t look like a real elephant either.
To his credit, he’s soft and lovable, and that ought to be enough to see him well when he goes onto the next step of life. Whether he goes into the loving, eager arms of little Suzie Whitner, the adorable little beacon of sunshine who treats her toys like best friends, or little Brutus Murdurur, serving eight consecutive life sentences, who truly just needed a plush elephant to set him straight.
Legume shall change lives. He is a beacon; a symbol, if you will, and all you need to do is figure out how he can help you.
Disaster today as the LinkWithin widget appears to have spontaneously combusted. Without it, there's no intuitive connection between related posts, and my blog looks vastly inferior as a result.
There is only one possible outcome from this absence...
Related posts will not recognise one another as like-minded friends, and the ensuing war will leave no survivors.
Dark times, toy enthusiasts, dark times. On the plus side, however, I have found a way to get everyone in Star Fox 64 3D to speak Italian.
So get this. I left for my overseas holiday on September 13th, which was exactly two days before Star Fox 64 3D came out in Australia. Because of region locking making an American copy useless to me, this effectively meant that I had to wait nearly an entire extra month to get my Star Fox fixin's.
I finally ended that wait today.
I love the fact that, though at first you think Fox is looking over his shoulder to check the bogey that is pelting him with laser fire, it's probably more likely he's peering over in Slippy's direction, who, in this single image, is in great danger.
First off, you've got the pink lasers of Fox's enemy whizzing by, which Slippy appears to have drifted past obliviously, you've got more enemy fire in the form of a green plasma beam that has narrowly missed his froggy tail, and you've got a gigantic exploding bee headed right for him.
Oh Slippy, you suck ass, bro.
...I'm sure this is relevant to this blog somehow.
Returned home two days ago after a month-long vacation to the United States, culminating in 20+ hours of flight in one miserable day. Some people find it difficult to readjust to the monotony of regular life, particularly after partying on Bourbon Street, shopping in Times Square and lounging in Waikiki. In my case, I’m ready for action, and more than ready to get back to work.
And by that, I mean I want to get rid of an old object. Not actually go back to work. Does anybody want to take my shift tomorrow? B sure 2 txt me, plz. Either with an affirmative to the shift swap, or if you would like to further discuss Bart Simpson’s Guide to Life.
I reckon that every house should have a bible. Even if you’re not religious, I just think it’s a nice thing to have on hand. Be it as a way of satiating the cravings of your Christian visitors or a way of proving your apparent faith should God ever actually arrive to smite the nonbelievers, the advantages are limitless. Or in actuality, they probably are limited, but I can’t be bothered exhausting all of the possible perks. So we’ll just have to assume that it’s more than two.
In my case, I did not conform to the typical tomes. While most kids learnt morality through scriptures and passages, I decided to veer off onto the respected teachings of Bartholomew J. Simpson. Indeed, I never even realised that I ever owned an actual bible until I found one in the drawer a few months ago. It is titled ‘Good News: New Testament and Psalms’ (labeled ‘today’s English version’: tomorrow, who knows?). I don’t know how it’s actually good news, because all I’ve found so far are a whole bunch of punished Egyptians. I tried to digest it, I truly did, but I got distracted by a Sesame Street book, and all was lost.
Anyhow, the Guide to Life. Effectively, it’s Bart’s way of telling us all about the important things in life, littered with familiar Simpsons in-jokes, frequent references to things that don’t exist that will surely fluster people actually trying to guide their lives, and occasional threats to kill anyone who stole this book. Some may see this as a playful joke, but in actuality it’s Matt Groening’s thinly veiled way of saying ‘I hate you, why didn’t you make me rich(er)!’
Like a late 80s Saturday morning cartoon, the Guide attempts to educate kids on all the things that would be important in their day to day adventures, only devoid of all of the actual lessons of said cartoons; such as ‘share with friends’ or ‘stay in school’ or ‘don’t do drugs or else Kermit the Frog will show you the damage it does to your brain’.
Chapters include ‘art and culture’, ‘psychology’ and ‘sex’. In my case, I flipped directly to the section on sex, because I was a pervert who wasn’t getting any at the time. In that sense, I suppose I was able to channel my frustration through a Simpsons guide book, which in some minds could perhaps justify its existence, but in most other minds (mine included) it just looks fucking creepy in worded form. I might tinker with that paragraph someday. But not today. I’m busy reading about sex.
The tricky thing about this book is that, sometimes, the contents are factual. It’s not uncommon for books of this nature to blur the line between fiction and reality, but how best to utilize and show off your newfound knowledge, when you’re not sure whether or not it’s bull? Do you regale friends (and possibly attentive enemies) with international meanings to hand gestures? Or how to pass cooties?
The choice is yours and yours alone. I choose to say that phrase while sounding like the Mayan god from Legends of the Hidden Temple. Because I am cool like that.
The Guide tallies in at a healthy 186 pages, and they’re all jam-packed with content. In fact, the book is so full it has actually broken its spine over the years. It is, effectively, a read of spine breaking proportions, and I cannot think of a better claim to fame that a book could possibly make.
My favourite tidbits are a catalog of actual phobias like pognophobia (fear of beards) and linonophobia (fear of string), a collection of foreign food-related proverbs, and a list of 25 of the most miserable jobs you can work when you grow up. I used to find that list amusing. However…
