#0088: Rock & Roll Elmo

Of all the crazes that shook the 90s, Tickle Me Elmo was perhaps the most significant one to completely pass me by. Causing widespread panic and grievous bodily harm in the holiday period of 1996, it's hard to quantify exactly why it resonated so strongly with people. I mean, it was kinda creepy, wasn't it? It was certainly annoying by most accounts, but that didn't stop it from becoming a sensation.

The rise and fall of the Tickle Me Elmo was excellently covered by E.S. Huffman over on Uproxx, and that piece is well worth a read if you want a thoroughly researched, well-written sample of journalism. It's a stark contrast to what you'll get here; tired analogies and at least thirty instances of the word 'fuck'.

Regardless, my dad ended up with all kinds of bizarre knick knacks during his time as an Avon salesman, so in 1997 we became the proud(?) owners of Rock & Roll Elmo, one of many desperate attempts to recapture that giggling, wriggling gold mine. I assume dad got all of these things as free samples, and didn't steal them. But I can never be certain; he is Australian, you know.

The first thing you'll notice is that this Elmo is thicc. He's got a booty that will make the boys drool, and his apple bottom jeans are the envy of furry monsters the world over. Not exactly a faithful representation of Sesame Street's resident sweetheart, but you know what? I like my Elmos chubby. It's just the way I am.

He's got a leather jacket, garish shoes from the thrift shop, and a thousand-yard stare that indicates that he truly embraced the rock and roll culture of the 70s, for better or worse. Most importantly, however, is the hammer he wields. By my estimation, it's probably a modified Gibson SG, though the head more closely resembles a Yamaha Pacifica 012, while the body just screams Fender Stratocaster.

I'd love to hear opinions from actual musicians, because I literally just Googled 'blue guitar' and picked at random. I am rock. And occasionally Groot.

Whereas Tickle Me Elmo's gimmick was to fall about laughing every time you touched him inappropriately, Rock & Roll Elmo is much more composed. He just wants to fucking jam, and he even takes requests (as long as it is one of the three songs he knows).

I know you're desperate to hear him slay, and perhaps even a little bit apprehensive after the unfathomable letdown that was It From the Pit, who I am only now realising I should have called Shit From the Pit because that's excellent satire. But I implore you to be patient, for good things come to those who wait. Please, don't call my bluff and scroll to the bottom of the page. I've got to hit a sufficient word count, first.

...You totally scrolled, didn't you? You monster.

With that in mind, and as you've shown no regard for the sanctity of spoilers whatsoever (Rosebud's the sled, Bruce Willis is dead, and Brad Pitt lives inside Norton's head), let's move onto the man we all came to see...

Well, there you go.

The quality is actually pretty good, to be honest. Elmo's voice is a little tinny, but it's definitely him, and the tunes are all quite serviceable. The lights on the guitar are a nice touch, plus he even strums his instrument, though I'm fairly certain he's actually playing the same note every time.

The only thing I can't get behind is his mad vibrating. That just seems unnerving. Again, I'm not a musician, but I would think that rapid movement would prove detrimental to the quality of your performance. Is he chilly? Is he nervous? Or did the pingas just kick in right at that inconvenient moment? Hesitant as I am to pass judgement, just taking one look at his pupils makes me certain of my vote.

In any event, there he is in all his splendour. He does his thing, then he sits there idly, waiting for you to press that button to give him purpose, akin to a forgotten merry go round or Bernie Sanders. Once you've done it, you'll be subjected to that sinister show, and there's no way of stopping him. Pressing the button again doesn't turn him off, oh no. It makes him shake up his setlist and jump over to his next hit tune.

Overall, he makes me feel icky. And you know what? Give it some time, and I think you will, too...

#0046: Mozzarella

Time for another plush! I opened up my closet today, and was hit with a barrage of stuffed animals, all out for blood. Down they tumbled in their dozens, from Yoshi to Jirachi to Zeddy from Zellers. To be honest, it was quite annoying, and as a result, don’t be surprised if I suddenly go on a mass plush exodus in the desperate hope of freeing some closet space. They all sit perched atop a shelf that could really be used for something relevant. No, I haven’t decided what that is yet. I haven’t ruled out the possibility that it’ll be newer, bigger, even tumblier toys.

Tonight, we revisit the theme of Avon plush toys. Her name is Mozzarella, but she is more commonly known as Avon Plush Purple Bean Bag Mouse Stuffed Lovey Toy. For the purposes of this article, I will refer to her only as the former, because that second one is my nickname, too, and it could get all too confusing.

So this is a plush toy from the folks at Avon from way back in 1998. She is purple, her whiskers are really, really long and possibly dangerous, and she reminds me quite distinctly of our old friend Legume, who in retrospect I wish I had named Douglas, in honour of Douglas Hodge.


I am really incredibly struggling to construct any sort of coherent thoughts on this here plush, and I feel kind of disappointed by my own inability to prattle. I’d like to go on an entirely irrelevant tangent about my day, but I don’t know how interested my readers would be in the Cody Hodgson trade or the Jewish woman I served today.

Will this entry gain the dubious honour of being the shortest, most pointless in the venerable history of INAKA? Is this a sign that I’m losing my touch? Have I simply over-expounded my resources in a very busy blogging February? Or could this plush be the most indecipherable, non-descript creation known to man? It’s like some sort of puzzle, I think, and I’m far too fearful to try and solve it. Pandora opened the box from Zeus, unleashing all of the evils unto this Earth. Elliot Spencer opened the Lament Configuration, and was doomed to roam the planes of hell, surfacing only to collect the souls of the wicked. I opened a Rihanna album, and listened to some really shitty music.

I shall not give into temptation! I shall rid myself of this innocuous-looking, but possibly treacherous child’s plaything. It’s a sin! It’s a ruse! IT’S A TRAP.

Ratted out

"Mozzarella, my darling, my precious, my magnum opus! Though the toy empire appears to be crumbling before us like Troy itself, know that our love is stronger than fate. I shall protect you from the dire hand of treachery, until the bitter end!"


"Oh damn, there's the hand."


"Tarry, you wicked tyrant! How can you play games with our lives, only to throw us aside when you deem us obsolete? Years of loyal servitude, and how do you repay us? To be stuffed in a closet, in the garage, in a funky-looking plastic tub for a decade, and then, finally, thrown to the jackals of the world? You bastard! Leave her be! You will never take her!!"


"..."


"Oh hell no, bitch is yours."


"Well, that was interesting. What was with all the big fancy words?"

"I watched Shakespeare in Love."


"...It was terrible."

#0024: Avon Elephant

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.