#0025: Talking Pikachu

Who here loved Pokémon growing up? A fair few of you, yeah?

Who here… still loves Pokémon? Not as many of y’all?

Well, I don’t care. I still do. Obviously not with as much luster as I once did, it’s not like I’m still drawing pictures of Squirtle and putting it up on my wall, but I didn’t bail out on the franchise when the heat died down. I play the games when they come out, I try and familiarize myself with each new generation of lizards, blobs and angry rocks, and I’ve still got a whole backlog of Pokémon stuff cluttering my laundry room.

In fact, I’m surprised I hadn’t done a Pokémon item prior to this. I must subconsciously be more attached to the critters than I had assumed. Will I then regret parting with this glorious talking Pikachu? We’ll only know some distant date later. If I become a drugged out hobo sleeping in a pile of his own vomit, you’ll be able to point to this as the single event that led to my demise. Or maybe it was the time I bought a Hanson CD. It’s debatable.


The first thing you’re thinking, if you’re anything like me, is… what’s with that wacky colour scheme? Pikachu doesn’t have any white tinting around his face and tail!

The simple answer is… not known to me. Indeed, I’ve been asking myself this since I acquired it roughly thirteen years ago, but I was a particularly pedantic child with apparently less ambitious mysteries to solve, so hopefully you’ll be able to ignore it for now.

After all, other than that faux paus, this Pikachu is pretty spot-on. He’s got Pikachu’s weird little hunched over shape, his stubby little t-rex arms, and his great big brown stripes. He’s got a little bit of paint wear, particularly in black areas like his nose and the tips of his ears, but to be fair, when we get old, our ears and nose tend to be the first things to falter. He’s still a limber dancer, and his prostate is reasonably sized.

As advertised, the trump card held by this Pika lies in his title of ‘ye talking mouse’, powered by the same curious metallic system as the roaring lizard of yesteryear. This is dapper dandy at first, with his light-up cheeks and his sweet little voice, but eventually you begin to ponder what else he offers beyond that. So far, I haven’t unlocked any other hidden wonders, but I remain optimistic.

Is it just me, or did that start to look really, really wrong? I fear that that video will someday come back to haunt me. Potentially at the most inopportune moment, like during a presidential campaign or en route to the high score in Doodle Jump. Logic dictates that I shouldn’t have then bothered uploading it to Youtube or attaching it to this entry or publishing this entry as a whole… but then I would have wasted three precious minutes of my life for nothing, and I can’t handle that.

This Pikachu is still a bit enigmatic; he was made by TOMY in 1997 (by our Chinese overlords), and his ass spews all sorts of Japanese gobbledygook.


I can make out the phrase ‘todoka’ from exhaustive hiragana lessons of late ’05, but I have no idea what that means. I fear that if I were to try todoka-ing my talking Pikachu, he may never speak again. Come to think of it, I’ve never had to change his battery in all the time I’ve had him, which is more than I can say for most other battery operated toys. Those Japanese, they sure know how to make quality electronics, capable of speech, light and todoka.

A quick squiz at eBay reveals that he was part of a promotional package for the first airing of the television show, and they’ve got a boxed one up for sale at $90.

I wonder how much an unboxed one is worth? Surely more, because now that it’s been unpackaged, you can touch his ass and make him all noisy and shit!

I doubt I’m kidding anyone with that, but now that I’m aware that he was once of value, he seems much more precious to me. Could this lead to a treacherous u-turn that shakes the very legitimacy of INAKA to its core? Probably, but he’s fun to play with, so screw it, I’m keeping him.


Doesn’t he make a fantastic addition to the décor?

A Toyriffic Gesture

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!

#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.

Unlinked. Unliked.

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.

"Rock 'n' roll, ragazzi!"

We (still) need your help, Star Fox!

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.

#0023: Bart Simpson's Guide to Life

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…


Later I managed to get employed as #14.

#0022: Clifford the Rock Climber

I try and do due diligence (three times fast, go!) prior to making each of these entries. Most toys don’t need much research, because I’m already fairly clear on their origins. Though I occasionally meet an enigma like the smug Snoopy, more often than not, I can tell you each toy’s back-story, where I acquired them from, and why I’m feeling so compelled to get rid of them as though they were cursed.

This guy, however, he’s another story altogether. When I spotted him in that big translucent tub, I instantly saw that he was prime INAKA material. However, I knew next to nothing about him, except for his flashing chest feature, and the sparse info carved into his buttocks. For a solid six minutes, I cycled through the possible Google searches to unveil his shady past.

‘flashing chest toys’: Bad idea, do you realise how many toys have flashing chests?
‘spark lighting chest toy’: Lots of things about spark lighting, nadda about our boy here.
‘1992 spark lighting hair’: That one was just weird.
‘1992 ace novelty toys lighting chest’: Bingo. I doubt I will ever use that search phrase ever again.

So here, we have Clifford the Rock Climber.


If it wasn’t painfully obvious by now, the key to every little boy’s heart in the early- to mid-90s was emulating the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. If something had a team of ‘teenagers with attitude’, we were gonna love it. That’s why we loaded up with a series of ravenous Street Sharks. That’s why we giddily followed the adventures of the Biker Mice From Mars. And that’s why a small, sad percentile of the population ever even glanced at the Wild West C.O.W.-Boys of Moo Mesa.

…Or maybe it was because of Tim Curry; in which case, I certainly cannot fault them.

Apparently, even the infamous Troll dolls, floundering in the cutthroat year of 1992, made an attempt to nab a slice of that (pizza) pie.

The result, tragically, was the Stone Protectors, a team of hip troll musicians pitted against the vices of the wicked Zok. That’s about as much as I could stomach from Wikipedia’s description before banging my head against the desk in fury. For all I know, the story could have taken a drastic turn towards an epic of Citizen Kane-like proportions.

Or more likely, it would have been so mediocre I would be wielding Rosebud like some description of melee weapon.

Orsonwellesclap.gif successfully inserted into my blog. Win.
Orsonwellesclap.gif successfully inserted into my blog entry about the goddamn Stone Protectors. Ultimate win.

My particular Stone Protector friend is the band’s drummer, Clifford, and I’m uncertain what his stereotypical personality may be. Though his facial features suggest the meek temperament and genius intellect of a Donatello, his country bumpkin accent and fancy of scaling mountains makes him seem more akin to a Michaelangelo.

I really can’t say for sure, because honestly, watching the cartoon intro makes me just assume them all to be the same horrible archetype. Except perhaps Angus, who’s a refreshing injection of Scottish army derelict.

Frankly, I'm amazed they were able to fill an arena. The lack of wide shots of the crowd could suggest that it was a particularly small arena, I suppose.

Unfortunately for Clifford, I have lost all of his tools of the trade, a necessity in these figures, which has rendered his rock-climbing capabilities shoddy at best. I mean, the dude’s got some boots and goggles, plus a purple knife he keeps dangerously close to his left leg, but he’s lacking in all of his sweet gear.

For those of you interested in what that gear was, and unconcerned for the amount of outsourced pictures and videos I have pilfered for this entry, here’s the super exciting bio card for big Cliffy, courtesy of a website called Comic Attack. Credit delivered where credit due for something as important as Clifford the Rock Climber™.


The most horrifying revelation behind seeing this imagery (besides the ludicrous notion that this man would go rock climbing with a plunger), is that he once had some sort of yellow bondage costume accessory. I am quite familiar with this accessory, having once attempted to locate its origin. I attached it to several Turtles and an unwilling Scrooge McDuck before giving up and chucking it away.

I am unclear exactly how this apparatus would have assisted Clifford in his exploits, but darn it all, it was his and I’m truly sorry for sending it away. It would be like someone throwing out my Paratroopa toy. I don’t know what purpose it could ever serve, but I’d hate to see it go. Plus, it’s yellow, too.

Before I proceed in my misery, however, allow me to question the validity of a purple equipment belt. I mean, why purple, exactly? Wouldn’t brown have been a more appropriate colour for a leather belt and the handle of a knife? I’m left assuming only that Clifford is a massive fan of Prince, and as such, is adorning himself with violet equipment. Plus, I suppose enemies won’t take you as seriously when you’re brandishing a shiny blade of purple. Thinking in these terms, it almost seems logical. Almost.

So finally, and most importantly, I suppose you’re hoping to see the Stone Protectors’ trick of the trade, a ‘flint module’ that ignites when you spin their right arm. As near as I recall, this archaic mechanical quirk was once used to ignite gunpowder, and shit, that sounds dangerous to me. Could a modded Stone Protector be used as a weapon, bullets whizzing from their grinning visage? What if a particularly exploratory child tore their toy to pieces, and then played with the exposed ‘flint module’? I can only assume the results to be pure disaster.

Though, come to think of it, touching these magic stones turned the lanky fools into mighty Stone Protectors to begin with, so maybe it won’t be that bad. Go ahead, TOUCH THE ‘FLINT MODULE’.

As you can see, the once benevolent hand of god prevalent in Greek tragedies has seen fit to smite Clifford forevermore.

…Did I just use benevolent and prevalent in the same sentence? I think staring into the blinding flash of the ‘flint module’ has fried my brain. Perhaps now, I can accurately pen a second series of Stone Protectors.