#0118: Frantic Ants

In the sad, strange world of little Anthony, the mid-90s yielded a bumper crop of excessive board games. Over the years, I (and by proxy you, the faithful reader) have been blessed with such luminaries as 13 Dead End Drive and It From the Pit; a pair of wacky, impressive constructions that are honestly more fun to look at than to actually play.

Not every game is quite so spectacular, unfortunately. Some of them are modest in their visage, and tepid in their delivery. But hey, let's not bury the lede any further. You already know I'm talking about those motherfucking Frantic Ants.

Coming out of the Parker Brothers workshop in 1995, this was yet another one of those noisy motorised devices that demanded your C batteries as well as the undivided attention of everyone else in the household. Your nervous, jittery dog that keeps peeing on the rug? Frantic Ants is probably to blame.

The premise is basic to the point of arbitrary: you, as the lord and ruler of one variation of ant, must place your minions atop the anthill, spinning a little arrow on occasion that will either guide you to success or lead you to an early, buggy grave.

As always, props go to the advertising gurus who somehow managed to make this concept compelling. Without them, I doubt I would be the proud(?) owner of these manic insects.

Skip ahead to the 37 second mark for the relevant commercial, unless you're particularly interested in the notion of dickhead kids asking Bob Dole hard-hitting political questions, such as his policy on lunch.

The anthill structure itself is made up of three separate pieces, and I'm really quite shocked that I still have all three said pieces in my possession. This is despite the box being entirely AWOL, something that doesn't usually happen to my board games.

Were those ants so amazing, I had to repurpose them as action figures? I did bend some of their antennas to make them look more unique, and yes, the red one was the main character. He probably would have been voiced by Rob Paulsen, or Billy West, or Richard Simmons. That last one might work better than you'd think, just let it marinate for a while.

In actuality, I don't entirely understand the premise of the spinning device. It has the numbers 1-3, which I assume refers to which anthill they start from as opposed to their position on the basketball court. There's also a shortcut that places them right near the finish line like a fucking cheater. There's the anteater, which theoretically removes an ant from play, and a lounging ant picture that I suppose means you miss your turn, or go on a fabulous vacation.

Is that really all there is to it? If your ants are in a favourable position, couldn't you just be an asshole and delay your spin until they've safely reached their destination? This certainly doesn't sound like stellar game design to me, and while I was pondering over the specifics, my cat came and plucked up one of the purple ants (the most delicious colour), before running off with it to another part of the house.

Does that mean it won the game? Or was that the stunning recreation of what it's like when the anteater claims your poor ant's life? If so, it's a harrowing image.

Well, that's really all there is to the game of Frantic Ants. A quick glance at Board Game Geek confirms my suspicions as to the rules, though quite to the contrary, it advises that your best tact is pure, blinding speed when your turn arrives. Shows what I fucking know, I guess I'm no expert on board games. Or entomology.

All up, I have to say that the pundits were being a bit generous with their 6 out of 10 rating. It's like a noisy game of backgammon, accompanied by an army of leering, grinning ants. Call me a snob if you must, but I think I would actually give it about half of that score.

Technically speaking, if you have an egg timer and a piece of paper, you could remove the anthill aspect entirely and just compete with the spinner alone.

As Tommy Lee Jones once asked of Will Smith, "that sound like fun?"

Near as I recall, Will Smith's response was to slap Tommy Lee Jones in the face, and then win an Academy Award. Pretty sure that's how Men in Black ended.

In any event, even a stupid thing is worth doing right, so before I send those ants home to the op shop — and/or the junk heap — I'm gonna load it up with batteries and fire it up one last time. Let's see just how Frantic those Ants can get, shall we?

#0117: T.K. (Koosh)

Yet another year, yet another missed birthday — and more than a year-long wait between posts, to boot! What can I say, I'm a busy busy boy in 2024, constantly at work typing away at websites more lucrative than this one.

For more on this, check out EZIYODA, where I talk about video games, pop culture, and other anonymous bullshit. Or check out Late to the Party, my monthly anime column for Crunchyroll. Or check out PornHub. I don't have anything there, but it's still a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Before you depart, however, you might like to indulge yourself with the eulogy of poor old T.K.. Though I typically use the term metaphorically, I'm afraid that today's entry is in actual fact not long for this world.

Premiering circa 1991, the Koosh Kins were a spinoff series of the rubbery toy meant to inject personality (aka increased marketability) into the brand. Other than being pelted by Rosie O'Donnell with the damned things, Kooshes had really remained fairly nondescript up to this point.

Now, they had faces! And arms! And they were allegedly out of control!!

Call me cynical, but I feel as though the above toys look very much in control. If there's any kind of shenanigans going on, I'd be more inclined to hold the kids brandishing them accountable. Not only are they treating these possessions somewhat recklessly, but they're also far too close to one another in order for this Koosh orgy to take place.

Stand the fuck back, Kevin, I'm just trying to hang out with my homie T.K. here.

Keen Toy Eulogy historians might recall that we've already dealt with a Koosh ball named T.K. many moons ago, as part of the Koosh Lings line. Despite the shared moniker coupled with a "cool guy McCool" demeanour, I have no reason to believe that these lads are in any way related. Apparently the team at OddzOn Products just really liked the name T.K..

With their varied appearances and Muppet-like miens, the Lings are my preferred party invitees, and yet it was the Kins who received their own Archie Comic miniseries. There, they were reimagined as fun-loving aliens with wacky catchphrases. Part of me wonders if that's where Michael Bay would get the idea from for Transformers. Another part of me is delighted that autocorrect originally called them "unloving aliens", which sounds like an awful idea for a comic book.

Obviously, the real deal is much less charismatic than his comic book counterpart. T.K. has never once called me a dude, nor tipped his sunglasses to flash me a knowing glance. He's occasionally called me fat and recommended I start watching A Touch of Frost, but beyond that, nothing of note.

Tragically, the main reason T.K. caught my eye today after years of quiet inaction, is because he is molting, or should I perhaps say, melting, with the fury of a thousand suns!

You'll have to assume those were fairly lukewarm suns, but the point remains: the fella is falling apart.

I've done a quick Google search of this phenomenon, but either nobody else in the world is suffering through this affliction to their Kooshes, or nobody else in the world cares enough to discuss it online. Even keener Toy Eulogy historians will perhaps have flashbacks to Slumber Bunny Pip, yet another Koosh Ling whose once luscious locks disintegrated into mush.

In that instance, it was only her hair that was causing issues. T.K., on the other hand, is fast becoming a choking hazard. Not for myself, of course, but for curious cats and any infant crawling around the house that I hadn't been aware of.

I'm often blinded by nostalgia — the primary reason this blog exists in the first place — but I cannot justify salvaging a shedding Koosh any more than I could in maintaining leaking sand lizards.

So yes, we must salute T.K. one final time before he is jettisoned for good. We'll whisper nice things into his ear, claiming that he's 'radical', or even 'one bodacious dude'. Then afterwards, we'll have to go on a widespread hunt to see if other Kooshes are fucking up my toy storage in similar fashion.

It was an inglorious end to an unspectacular life, T.K., but you did it with style. I only hope there's plenty of pizza for you up in Koosh heaven (or Koosh hell, as I suspect he was likely a drug runner for the cartel).

#0116: Toby

A cursory glance through the INAKA archives would reveal that I have only successfully celebrated this blog's birthday a grand total of three times. I could trot out a myriad of excuses, were I so inclined, but the simple truth of the matter is that I don't particularly care enough to try.

So now in 2023, as I juggle workplace duties across multiple websites, combatting my rapidly diminishing health, and a daily celebration of Nintendo music that I have inexplicably deemed as important, I remind Toy Eulogy that it's lucky I even bothered at all.

You're twelve now, blog, old enough to start earning your keep and looking after your beleaguered father in his advanced years. Have a happy birthday, you little asshole, here's a Toby toy that I'll fling in your vague direction before grabbing myself another glass of scotch.

Thomas the Tank Engine was a staple of my formative years, and not coincidentally, the formative years of the blog itself. The great and powerful Montague was one of the first items I had listed in 2011, while the majority of the Thomas cast would later make an appearance two years later.

I had opined at the time that Toby's absence was curious, and in today's sojourn to the garage, I finally located his tattered ass, relegated to a box of unrelated curios. My only assumption is that the trains had a falling out at some point over the last three decades, forcing him to seek lonely refuge amongst a crowd of strangers.

But now, Toby has the last laugh. He's gonna put some dirt in your eye.

For one thing, other than notable paint chipping on his roof and minor wear and tear around his chassis, he is a damn side better off than most of his departed colleagues. His unusual square-shaped head — no doubt the cause of much antagonism back in his days in the cutthroat world of Sodor — actually protects the sticker that makes up his face quite well. While Thomas was a-peelin', Toby remains steadfast; I guess seven was his lucky number, after all.

Speaking of faces, one of the fucked up things about Toby is that his passenger coach, Henrietta, was one of the few characters who originally didn't have one at all. As unnerving as it is to have a sentient train grinning at you, a sentient train with no face at all is arguably much worse. Is it the fucking Mugen Train? Am I going to have to fight for my life against Enmu, Lower One of the Twelve Kizuki?

Also, why were the original trains male and the passenger cars female? What kind of fucked up patriarchy was Reverend Awdry building here?! Little does he know, in the eighty years since his vehicular brainchild first left the station, gender roles have made quite the shift.

Here, Toby discusses politics with a respectable young gentleman who calls himself Marth. The tram engine is impressed not only by the youth's worldly, measured viewpoint, but the fiery manner in which he conveys it.

But what is this? It was a ruse all along, and the amiable lad was in actual fact Lucina in disguise. The rattled locomotive's whole perspective has been changed, and if nothing else, he is now really very interested in the concept of cross-dressing. It's a start, Toby. It's a start!

That gag was probably not worth unboxing my $200 Figma for. Alas.

There is a certain melancholy that goes into passing this charming little toy off into its next stage of life. Without getting too bleak (though in fairness, the Railway Series was originally quite bleak in nature), when last I covered a Thomas toy on this blog in 2014, my spirits were much higher. By revisiting it some nine years later, I pine for that era of Anthony once again.

And besides that, if I can't track down Percy out there in the garage, this could be the final time I ever hold one of my Thomas toys in my hand; rendering Toby the veritable Last Train Home. Unless I suddenly decide to buy new ones, of course, which is both an unusual and yet not entirely unrealistic proposition.

In any event, I am thankful to Toby for giving me one more memento from my youth. The world of Sodor is all glitzy and CGI nowadays, scarcely resembling those handsome little trains who captured my fancy all those years ago. Perhaps if that's not his cup of tea, he might instead like to take residence on the island of Aranearum? I hear trains have all kinds of fun out there.

#0115: Technodrome

When you are an innocent child, toys will generally come and go into your life with regularity. They're provided by your loving carers so often, you see, that their individual value is diminished (unless you're a poverty-stricken Icelandic kid hopeful to merely avoid being eaten by the Yule Cat).

Some of them, however, are acquisitions so momentous, they stand out in your mind. My exact recollection of the day I landed the Technodrome is a little fuzzy, but I just remember seeing it, wanting it, and knowing that it was a big ask — its sheer size no doubt inflating its price tag by quite a bit.

Despite this, mom and dad relented, and I grappled with the idea that I was about to receive the single biggest, baddest playset short of Castle Grayskull. I peered over at my mother, a look of shock crossing my face.

"Reiner," I gasped. "Are we doing it?! Now?! Right here?!"

"Yeah," she muttered in response, a stoic look crossing her face. "We settle this... right here, right now!"

Mikasa Ackerman then emerged, seemingly from nowhere, burying her blade deep in the side of mom's throat. A bloody battle would ensue.

I'm pretty sure that's how it happened, anyway. So let's take a closer look at the home base for nefarious baddies like Shredder, Krang, and Short Stack when he wants to feel popular.

Sensing this is a place where turtles come to die, the passing Dry Bones feels a chill up its spine. Or perhaps its greater concern was the enormous thumb that was holding the apparatus in place.

Foreboding though the Technodrome may seem at first glance, my version is decidedly lacking. Practically every knick and knack once contained within has long since gone missing, rendering it less into an impregnable stronghold and more like a ransacked supermarket in a zombie movie.

In its completed form, this dastardly hideout was a sight to behold, riddled with traps and torture devices that made it the perfect training ground for consolidating homicidal maniacs. Do you think Jeffrey Dahmer would have gotten a kick out of subjecting the heroes to every manner of abuse? Or Ted Bundy? Or Ed Gein? Or Donald Trump?

Without any of these, it is literally and functionally an empty shell, tragically adorned with only one blue platform that inexplicably remained intact, and a series of haphazardly planted stickers that make it resemble the Springfield police station radio.

Indeed, my miniature Tokka Technodrome actually comes out looking more like the real thing. It at least has the iconic eyeball still available — perhaps the reason the full-size version is so barren is as simple as them having lost their only lookout system.

As you can see, Toon Raph has since taken up residence, using this as a means of forcibly wresting leadership duties from his brother. Rest In Peace Leonardo, you were a real one, for sure. 

The ravages of age have stained the plastic casing, but curiously this is isolated only to certain locations. The left and middle sections, which have been inside the house for all these decades, are yellowing as if they took up smoking at some point in the early 2000s. Meanwhile the right section, left to rot in the garage and thereby exposed to the nastiest of elements, is encrusted with dirt but otherwise untarnished.

It truly begs the question: what in the fuck am I breathing in this house and how am I not dead yet?

Most disappointing than anything else, is the guilty realisation that beyond its initial purchase, I don't necessarily have any vivid memories attached to this thing. I've exhaustively described my affinity for childhood protagonists over the many years of this blog, so ownership of a playset that operates like a wicked sex dungeon doesn't really align with my values.

In actuality, I probably spent most of my time having Raphael ninja kick things while spouting pithy one liners. Rob Paulsen would have been proud of little Anthony, though probably ashamed of big Anthony who is somehow still playing with his Ninja Turtles toys.

Odds are, after this entry is complete, I will inadvertently track down some of its remaining accessories, from its crucial wheels to its home and contents insurance. For now, at least, I hope you enjoyed this reflection upon its battered state. Like the very children who adored it over thirty years ago, in 2022 it finds itself somewhat incomplete... but who knows what next year shall bring?

#0114: Moby Lick

Sometimes, very strange, very specific things lodge themselves in your memory — ingrained and inseparable as a flesh bud from the man named DIO.

For me, one of those is an exchange between my parents on my ninth birthday in February 1997. My dad took note of how nearly all of the gifts I received were Space Jam toys, and how the theme shifted so radically over the span of twelve months.

"Yep, this year it's Space Jam," my mom replied. "Last year it was Street Sharks, this year it's Space Jam."

I don't profess to know whether children's trends are as ephemeral nowadays, but as far as fads go, Street Sharks was pretty fucking epic. Also, I have told a version of that story on this blog at least twice before, with the details varying somewhat from telling to telling.

Such is the risk you run when you have hardly changed over the span of eleven years of blogging.

Also also, in case you were wondering, I had challenged myself to force a JoJo reference into this piece as early as possible, but even I'm impressed that I managed to land it in para 1. That's some next level meme-ing, y'all.

Anyway, enough preamble. It's time to Moby Lick.

As alluded to in my shitty Jab post, my memory of the Street Sharks lore itself is rather spotty. As one may suspect, he is apparently an ally of the eponymous fishy fellas, though his impact on the franchise was likely greater for toy manufacturing than progressing the narrative.

Indeed, the wiki even goes so far as to declare that "it's seen as somewhat of a sad loss then that at the end of Road Shark, that he takes off for a while."

That's a little opinionated for what should be a factual biography, considering someone removed my valuable thoughts on Stray within twenty minutes. Double fucking standards, I reckon.

The action figure version of Mr. Lick possesses a writhing pink tongue that could be flexed through the use of a dial on his back, and a blowhole upon his noggin that squirts fluids in a pinch.

I shan't be applying either of these features for the purpose of this piece, as the dial has long gone missing, and as you may recall, Street Sharks retain water like a motherfucker.

Get out of the sink, dude, I'm not falling for it.

Much like Big Slammu (and no, I will not ease up on dumping as many links as possible, that's just how clickbait works!!) Moby's paint job is beginning to see some wear and tear. It's not nearly as noticeable, as he is fortunate that it doesn't proceed up to his face like poor old Coop.

Back in the ancient era known as the 90s, Moby Lick apparently came equipped with a superfluous red hat. I have found no evidence that this ever appeared in the cartoon, though I am a bit miffed that I have misplaced it, because the notion that it would perhaps fly from his head with enough pressure is rather enticing.

Due to his tongue lashing talents, pressing on his fin does not result in a vaunted biting action. It's up to you whether this is a worthy trade off, particularly now that his tongue must remain forever stationery.

...No, that's not a spelling mistake, I like to use it as a pen sometimes. Don't judge me, and don't judge my muscular whale action figure.

Tragically, now that I've already gone through so many of these Street Shark items, there's not really much more to opine on that I haven't already said multiple times in the past.

What I will mention, however, is that a brief glance at his neon orange pants reveals the copyright patent for "Street Wise Designs" and a hitherto long forgotten extension of the anthropomorphic craze.

You may recall the Extreme Dinosaurs, but what about the Muscle Mutts? If you've got one of these garish canines somewhere in the closet, you'd best hope they're still in good condition, considering they could fetch you anywhere up to $15,000 on eBay.

That's assuming anyone is stupid enough to fork out the bones for such a ludicrous investment. I'll just stick with my broken lingua sea mammal, thank you very much. Him and me are getting along just fine.

Well, shit

Sometimes in life, your sense of duty outweighs your desire to actually undertake said duty.

To wit, on this day I had no particular desire to update this blog, as I'm not currently in possession of any toys upon which to opine. I happened to be stumbling through (mostly to check my SEO in an effort to figure out why Clifford the Rock Climber is the sixth most viewed entry) when it occurred to me what day it was.

Figured it out yet? It's eleven miserable, neglected years of INAKA.

What started as an earnest attempt to clear out some unused toys escalated into a very unproductive and yet methodical opportunity for exposition. Life would have its ups and downs over this time, and if you're curious, you may note that the amount of posting I was doing here was the inverse of how much I had going on in my life.

Long story short, 2018 was not a good year for me.

But hey, we're on the up and up in 2022. I'm constantly working, and even expanded my writing repertoire to Funimation's official blog, where I wax lyrical on all kinds of wonderful things.

This would of course suggest that this will be another slow year on Toy Eulogy, and as much as I'd like to dissuade these concerns, I must be transparent and confess that blogging is a lot more motivating when you're getting paid for it.

But hey, there will be toys at some point. I have to appease fans of Stone Protectors, after all, and look! There was a photo sitting in my camera roll that I have inserted as the header for this piece. It may be a little bit on the fringes of relevant content for the purposes of this blog, but if Toy Story 4 taught us one thing — besides the fact that Toy Story 3 did not need a sequel — it's that anything can be a toy if you dream hard enough.

Especially boxes, if my kittens are to be believed.

#0113: Spoink & Groink

Nearly a decade ago, I opined on the glory that was Aaahh!!! Real Monsters. The misadventures of Ickis, Oblina and Krumm taught us lessons in peer pressure, the merits of hard work, and how if you have enough faith, you too can regurgitate your own intestines to frighten your enemies.

My opinion on the show remains starry-eyed and largely unchanged, to the point where I had to delete the original opener to this article as it closely paralleled exactly what I said in the preceding post. Dick move, 2012 Tony, you totally stole my bit.

Incidentally, I was talking about Ickis in that post, a pillar of the main squad, and it got me to thinking that ARM (horrible acronym) is a fairly top-heavy affair. Beyond them, you've got The Gromble, Simon the Monster Hunter, Zimbo and The Snorch... and that's about it, really. There's that duo of wonderfully camp monsters that Krumm hangs out with briefly, and the dude who enjoys himself some rice, and after that, I'm tapped out for recurring characters.

And that's fine, of course. As long as your foundation of core characters is strong, you don't need to bloat the roster with excess. That is, until you score yourself a toy deal and have to pluck some marketable characters out of thin air.

Because truth be told, as much as Blib, Snav and Don exist in the super distant periphery, they're not exactly going to shift many units. And that's how you end up with the Aaahh!!! Real Monsters Dare to Scare line, and the arbitrary introduction of Spoink & Groink.

According to the flavour text on the back of the box, and yes that flavour is spit: "these two really know how to project themselves! But it's Groink who always shoots off his mouth, especially when Sproink is in it! For maximum velocity and ferocity, shove Spoink down Groink's throat, punch Groink, and watch the terror fly!"

Wow, that sure is a lot of exclamation marks! It's also very revealing! At first I assumed that Groink was the dominant one in this relationship, but now I can see that he is actually the uke! I'll have to adjust my headcanon accordingly!

Anyone familiar with Gabor Csupo's distinct style may see some vague resemblance in Spoink's design, however Groink is entirely unlike anything you'd find in the series itself. Indeed, only four of the twelve monsters in this line were ever seen onscreen, in a manner not dissimilar to the bevy of auxiliary mutants Playmates would push out at TMNT's peak.

My curiosity was piqued by this contrast, and I was delighted to find that several of the final Dare to Scare products were actually repurposed models that a toy designer, Mel Birnkrant, had been trying to get onto the market for quite some time. He goes into great detail on his website, and it's really worth a read for a fascinating insight into the bumpy road of toy manufacturing.

But I digress. We're here for Tony's toys, Tony's opinions and Tony's reliance on the rule of three, so let's return to those, shall we?

Bastardised facsimiles of the original vision though they may have been, Spoink and Groink have some nice little details to them. The former's expression is perpetually locked into the kind of terror that can only be experienced after having some dude suck up your asshole repeatedly, while Groink actually has long, slender legs that match up with his spindly arms. It's a neat touch, considering how easy it would have been to just have him lack shins a la Cotton Hill.

My Groink has seen a little too much rough and tumble, or has been suffering a tragic bout of leprosy as one of his arms tends to fall off with little provocation. Considering that he were never intended to have movable joints in the first place, it's beyond me how I've managed to still loosen up this one arm so badly, like a poor chiropractor. It pops right back in there, but either way, I'm losing my license.

Also, I keep wanting to call him Gronk. I have no reason to believe the Bucs' tight end would suck up small creatures into his mouth before shooting them across the room, but you know what? He's a party dude, I wouldn't put it past him.

At last, let's put these spooky bastards through their paces by showcasing their vaunted creature feature. By my estimate, Spoink should shoot clean through the wall and straight into the brain of the nearest fascist.

"Eat the rich", he shrieks, his final moments on earth a deeply satisfying assault on the oppressive bourgeoisie.