#0108: Happy Meal Plush Toys

You didn't think I would miss out on Toy Eulogy's ninth birthday, did you?

If you did, I certainly wouldn't blame you, because if my research holds up, I have actually only remembered to address this blog's anniversary once. And that was in 2012, when I had only been blogging for one year.

Every subsequent January 11th came and went without any recognition whatsoever, but this year is different. And to be transparent with you, it's also completely coincidental, because I just happened to have some stuff to unload today.

Hence, today's gift to my humble little blog is less than thrilling. It's simply an assortment of Happy Meal Plush Toys. If this were any actual gift for an actual birthday, it would be on par with Homer's bowling ball.

Dated reference. Cool story.

As you would have gathered from the header image, I've dipped into two separate lines of plushes both in the interest of boosting intrigue and as a concession that I couldn't possibly squeeze enough discourse from anything here worth two articles. Or one, to be honest, but you'll learn that in short order.

The first pair should be instantly recognisable; Animal and Rowlf of Muppets fame. Evidentiarily (which should totally be a real word, don't crush my dreams) they dropped in 2003 in celebration of the Muppets' 25th anniversary. Australia received the biggest collection with ten characters, but the ones from the UK were larger and of better quality.

Which seems about right, considering my Animal is missing a fucking eyebrow.

Yeah Rowlf, you bite that shoddily made asshole! How dare he have disproportionate facial features, the dastard.

There's not much more to write about them, to be honest. Animal's arms are poseable, if you're so inclined. Autocorrect really wanted me to say that his arms are possible, and now I'm imagining some kind of existential alternate reality where his arms are in fact impossible.

Hence why I lumped them together with the rest of the (DK?) crew, promotional toys for the mediocre Lion King sequel, Simba's Pride. Having watched that movie, I don't think Simba's really got much to be proud of.

If you're looking for relevance, you could point to the fact that these licenses are all owned by Disney, but that's not really saying much nowadays, considering just about everything is owned by Disney. I vaguely suspect that I'm owned by Disney too, but so far they've done nothing with me worth noting.

They're not complex plushes by any means, though I feel that Pumbaa is absolutely spot on. He's adorable, pudgy, and filled with mirth, just like the real thing (or Kevin James). Zazu is a little less impressive, and completely out of scale, standing at the same height as a warthog. Perhaps it's a Dynamaxed Zazu?

As for — frantically checks Wikipedia — Zira, the movie's villain, she has nowhere near the charm of her on-screen parallel, but in fairness, that kind of scrawny, desperate aesthetic would be hard to nail.

What she does have, however, are a hypnotic pair of eyes that make me feel equal parts uneasy and aroused.

Don't kink shame me, dude.

You can take your #NotMyAriel garbage and shove it down your gills

Is it possible to be disappointed, yet completely unsurprised all at once?

That’s the general feeling among rational people in the wake of the fallout following Disney’s announcement that Halle Bailey will be playing Ariel in the upcoming live-action adaptation of the Little Mermaid.

The revelation that an African American woman would portray the beloved lead was bound to cause waves — pun only slightly intended — and if the vitriol was based on a stubborn resistance to change, that would be one thing.

In fairness, there would probably be a rabid contingent of fans who would lambast the concept of Ariel being, say, a white woman who was blonde, solely because they have this exact vision of what the character ‘should be’.

If only it were so simple.

A quick glance at the trending hashtags on Twitter reveals a phrase that is absolutely dripping with blind hatred, prejudice and ignorance.

I speak, of course, of the #NotMyAriel movement.

The fact that this has caught on with such ferocity is an indictment on society, and just yet another sign that the path towards acceptance is still fraught with the same kind of fear and cowardice we’ve been seeing for centuries.

This woman here? Who has has a proven track record of exceptional vocal talents and a look of innocence and wonderment that absolutely encapsulates what Ariel is about?

She’s not my Ariel. My Ariel isn’t black.

It’s ugly and petrifying. When I hear the ‘not my’ prefix, I think of the vociferous rejection of Donald Trump as president, based on his policies, his bigotry, and his demeanour unbefitting of a world leader. Halle Bailey has been rejected for the colour of her skin.

Ask yourself, if you are of the opinion that this casting choice is a mistake, how this can be interpreted any differently?

Some cite reasons that appear pragmatic on the surface, such as ‘historical accuracy’. The Little Mermaid, after all, takes place in Denmark, right? A black mermaid sounds like a farfetched concept, doesn’t it?

The first (and foremost) counterpoint to this, is that we’re arguing the merit of a black mermaid, a fictional species in a fictional story set in what is — get this — a fictional kingdom.

The underwater city of Atlantica? It doesn’t exist, and neither does the seaside kingdom that Prince Eric hails from, a place that also features palm trees and flamingoes. Call me kooky, but neither of those things strike me as particularly Danish.

Do you want to dive further into Little Mermaid lore? According to one 1995 comic, Atlantica was once located above the water and roaming with winged centaurs. Basically, stranger things have happened than mermaids who were not white.

Even if you disregard this from what is considered canon, you’re left with the simple fact; Ariel’s race is inconsequential, because it does not have any influence on her story.

2009’s The Princess and the Frog carries an unspoken but very obvious narrative of racial inequality in New Orleans. There is the affluent white suburb, juxtaposed very early on against the poverty-stricken outskirts, where the populace is predominantly African American.

The ambitious Tiana’s tale of success against the odds is the story of a black woman who fights for her place in a world run by rich white men.

Ariel, on the other hand, is a young lady who wants to break away from her sheltered life and find what is on the other side. The fact that she is female is important, as her struggle is against the well intending but ultimately overbearing patriarchy of her father.

But the fact that she is, or is “supposed to be” white? It doesn’t register at all. Nor should it.

Disney’s checkered past with race is something that we’re all well aware of. There’s a reason why Dumbo or Peter Pan don’t hold up so well, and let’s not even get started on the slippery slope that is Sunflower.

But something worth considering is that colour has also proven to be an indicator of villainy. Ursula, Maleficent and even Scar are the other. Their visual appearances differ from the norm, and in this way, we are given an immediate cue that their ideals may not be in line with our own.

There’s blemishes all over the place, and whatever motivation Disney had for their choice for the treasured princess of the Little Mermaid, Bailey’s casting should serve as a refreshing reminder of how far we have come.

But we’ve got long to go.

That much has been proven by #NotMyAriel, a disgusting war cry that demands that we keep our white characters white and our pure visions pure.

That kind of segregation had no place in the world fifty years ago, and it has no place now. So take a deep breath, check your privilege, and maybe, just for once, wait and see how things pan out before fanning the flames of hysteria?

#0104: Pride Rock

They say the lion is calling Dad
Say uhm a lion

As the lions go, they are
We say uhhmm a lion
Lion

It's Victorious
Lion
The lion and the leopard

The above may not seem awe-inspiring by any stretch of the imagination (it actually sounds borderline schizophrenic), but return it to its original Zulu, and kids around the world are belting it out with passion and shameless cultural appropriation.

Indeed, these are the opening lyrics to the Circle of Life from The Lion King, and they paint the perfect picture of the Pride Lands where our story is to be told. Because indeed, the lion is calling, and all of the animals are hurriedly gathering to catch a brief glimpse of the newborn prince.

Not sure what's up with the fucking leopard, though, and why he gets top billing. Must have been a contractual thing.

Today's entry will be a little bit weird, even by my standards, because I'm struggling to assemble the suitable toys nowadays for a vaguely coherent post. What we have here, obviously, is Pride Rock, a legendary monument that represents the strength of the kingdom. It also sounds like a really cool place to host your next LGBTQ function.

However, I can't for the life of me find any Lion King toys to adorn it with. The long departed Scar would have been right at home here. Maybe even a couple of the appropriate Pogs scattered about. I certainly wouldn't bother with Timon and Pumbaa's Jungle Games, though, because that game is fucking woeful.

I will persevere, because I'm sure that a fraction of my readers are foaming at the mouth with anticipation to see what this proud rock is all about. Considering only one person reads this, that would make it a fraction of 1. Does that mean I get to use the √ symbol? I like it because it looks like a tick, and I'm always desperate for approval.

Here we see the reverse of Pride Rock (also known as Shameful Rectum), and the eager peasants fused into the stone wall forevermore. How this tragic fate befell them is anyone's guess, but it could have something to do with the fact that I can't find my Simba figurine, and as a result they've had to wait there for twenty-five years.

They could do a lot worse, as far as prisons go, because they have the pleasure of a perpetual sunrise peeking over the horizon, and that's all very nice as long as they're wearing sunscreen and drinking lots of water.

But the true adventure lies inside, for Pride Rock opens to reveal a whimsical tapestry of storytelling and mirth. It's like a popup book and a playset all at once, and it is the most exciting thing to happen in all of 2019. I'm so keen, I'm dripping with sweat from every pore. I should stop delaying and crack it open once and for all, or at the very least, get out of the oven.

Again, a precursor: I'm absent the Lion King toys necessary to construct a Lion King chronicle, but I'll make do with the knick knacks I have lying around. I'll try not to incorporate the cocaine, unless it happens to flow with the narrative.

We open in the elephant graveyard. Wait, what? Why in the fuck did we open here? This shouldn't come until the latter half of the first act, we haven't even enjoyed the peace and tranquility of the savanna! It would be like going to a friend's house to watch the big fight and getting assaulted by Mike Tyson upon arrival.

Remember: if he winks at you, that's your cue to start swinging. Either your fists, or sexually, because that could be fun, too.

Anyway, the elephant graveyard is not a place to be trifled with, evident from the tiny purple hyenas lurking in the background. Sonic the Hedgehog was feeling brave enough to test his limits, but was quickly dismembered by a bombastic white stallion that proceeded to feast on his tasty brain tissue.

Nearby, I intended for Mike Wazowski to be trapped within the cage of bones, but he didn't fit particularly well and his smug demeanour doesn't really allude to an imprisoned man. Instead, we will simply assume that he is the Elephant Graveyard Overlord, and he watches the carnage with a sick satisfaction.

"Look, little Mikey!" he coos to his beloved teddy bear, "He bleeds like all of the rest!"

I know what you're thinking... this mirrors the actual events of The Lion King a little too closely, right? My apologies.

It's much calmer on the other side of the wall, however, because it is set in the jungle during the fun scene where Simba declares about how he 'just can't wait to be king' and attempts to murder his butler.

The fact that, chronologically, this should come before the elephant graveyard leads me to believe that this toy was supposed to be used from right to left like a manga. Could it be repurposed as a hentai, maybe? I don't have a lot of sexy toys, unless you get off on Yakko Warner and the Muppet Babies.

In any event, we have found a Simba facsimile in the form of this delightful kitty Koosh who will henceforth be known as Archibald. He watches on with glee as Michael Jordan performs a festive jig that he calls the 'triple threat position'.

Over in the far distance (read: the left hand side), is the tree of life, where there is nary a soul to be seen, but the faintest sound of rustling can be heard in the branches...

Oh my! What's this?

Why, Rafiki was there the whole time, after all. He was touching himself while he watched from the shadows. What fun!

Overall, it seems to have been a wonderful journey around the Pride Lands. We got to see a truly special dance from an NBA legend, a chilling feast with an equine foe, and even Rafiki's engorged genitals. I'd call that a pretty successful Saturday, all up.

But now, it's time to leave Pride Rock and move onto greener pastures. We'll head out the back way, so as not to attract attention from the paparazzi...

Macho Man: "Ohhhhh yeeeaaahhhh! I've got the sweetest of the sweets at my disposal, unquestionably envied across this GREAT NATION of Africa. The only question... ohh yeah... the only question remaining is whether you possess the GUMPTION to partake of this most LEGENDARY bounty?"

Big Boss Man: "I'm very clearly a cop."

Macho Man: "Nothing means nothing!!" *spins in a 360 degree circle*

#0098: Timon & Pumbaa's Jungle Games

Remember that Lion King video game? Unless you're a filthy millennial, you probably should. It graced all major consoles at the time, and was even available on MS-DOS. It was like they were hunting down potential platforms, truculently shilling their product until they had monopolised the entire industry.

It was pretty good, but man, was it tough. Many would cite the logs in the Hakuna Matata stage or the wildebeest stampede as the source of their misery, but I even struggled to properly time the double jumps on that stupid ostrich. Wouldn't that have been a strange twist for the movie? If while merrily singing about how he just can't wait to be king, Simba crashes into a tree and fucking dies. That probably would have been the plot if Roman Polanski had directed it.

But of course, Disney was basically pooping cash in the '90s, and Lion King was perhaps their biggest meal ticket up to that point. So inevitably, an utter glut of merchandise would surface like hyenas from the elephant graveyard, including other, much less significant efforts. This is where Timon & Pumbaa's Jungle Games comes into play.

In between levels in The Lion King, you had some fairly mundane bonus stages starring Timon and Pumbaa. It was probably my least favourite part of the game, and for that reason, it was an excellent idea to make an entire spinoff based on that premise.

Jungle Games debuted on PC in 1995, when The Lion King was still white hot and people were trying to pretend that Pocahontas never happened. Remarkably, a Super Nintendo port wouldn't follow until November '97 in North America, or March '98 in the PAL regions. By this time, we were playing masterpieces like Star Fox 64, GoldenEye and Final Fantasy VII. Who, exactly, was going back to their Super Nintendo to engage in some mediocre minigames?

Well, besides me, that is.

I acquired this title during a visit to Canada in 1998. The justification, of course, was that I had a North American Super Nintendo, and acquiring compatible software for it in Australia was a tricky bit of business, especially so long after the new console generation had begun. I mostly bought it for the bug dropping Puyo Puyo clone that I had seen on the PC.

You know. The one game that didn't make it to the SNES version. ...It's not funny, Ed.

The remaining attractions on offer are pinball, a Frogger imposter, a gaseous shooter and a slingshoteous shooter. On PC, each game would be preceded by a charming introduction from Timon and Pumbaa, where they would explain the rules, trade banter, and discuss the downfall of the textiles industry in southeast Asia. Reading between the lines a little on that last one there.

On SNES, you receive none of this. You choose a game, and it's like, "fucking figure it out, you asshole." If you didn't read the instruction manual, you were left to fend for yourself, though in fairness, none of the games were complex enough to necessitate thorough coaching.

Incidentally, according to the manual, Timon and Pumbaa built the jungle arcade themselves, which makes you wonder why they never held a steady job. I mean, clearly they are artisan craftsmen, and the only ones in all of the savanna capable of constructing elaborate structures. Frankly, I'm sick of them mooching off my tax dollars.

To investigate them further is paramount to sin, but I shall do so regardless, in the interest of thorough investigative journalism (read: padding).

Jungle Pinball doesn't particularly stretch the imagination. You hit the ball into animals who have willingly offered up their faces to be bludgeoned. There's a hippo that sticks his ass out with a target on it, indicating that he really wants you to send it right on up there. What did you do with your weekend? I put my balls in a hippo's ass, of course.

Sling Shooter is probably the low point, as you aim your reticle around the screen, attempting to fire grapes at passersby. It's just not something the SNES controller was built for, and tragically, there's a crocodile who bursts into tears whenever you shoot him. It's so mean spirited, and I can't help but wonder why he keeps coming back up. Does he feel like he deserves this punishment? Are you aiding the poor creature's flagellation? Why does he hurt so, so bad?

Once you've moved onto Hippo Hop, it begins to dawn on you that you have experienced half of this fucking game in the span of about seven minutes. Sure hope you didn't break the bank on your purchase. Timon attempts to collect bugs as he crosses a river, climbing atop the advertised hippos, as well as turtles, logs and rocks that apparently weren't important enough to mention. For some reason, the bugs are doing a sexy pose.

Finally, there is the cleverly titled Burper, in which Timon shakes a tree, causing various items to tumble towards you, as Pumbaa. You can either take them out by burping at them, or whack them with your tail if they survive the fall. I can't work out why exactly Timon and Pumbaa are engaging in such shenanigans. It's not like they're eating the bugs here, and judging by the amount of monkeys that end up careening to the ground, you're actually being very disruptive, and incredibly dangerous. It's almost as if they panicked when they couldn't come up with more games, so they just said 'fuck it, let's shake this tree and burp at people'.

Funnily enough, I believe that's also Donald Trump's solution to climate change.

As it is in life, there is no victory in the Jungle Games, as you just keep going until you fail, hoping to have achieved a high score. It's a little bit sad to think that Timon will never escape that accursed river, and Pumbaa will be forever condemned to aggressively belch at his assailants.

There is a two-player mode if you can actually convince someone else to join you on this joyless endeavour, but seeing as all of the experiences are for one person at a time, it's not much more impressive than simply handing the controller between each other. Had they actually included Bug Drop, the multiplayer feature would have been much more justified, and indeed, the package as a whole would have become quite tolerable.

Instead of an uninspired Puyo Puyo facsimile and some other junk, we only end up with the junk. If this is the kind of shit that Timon and Pumbaa are into, it's no wonder Simba went back to the Pride Lands. Well, that, and he was chasing some ass. We can all appreciate that.

Overall, Timon and Pumbaa's Jungle Games will exit my life with as little fanfare as it had entered. This kind of tosh may have rolled on PC in the mid-'90s, but when you hastily scrap together an inferior port years later, you end up with little more than a collection of Jungle Lames that even the most tolerant cub would turn his nose up at.

#0080: Hopper

NOTE: My sister walked in on me taking the above photo, so you'd better love it to bits. It was totally awkward. I'm so ashamed.

It's well chronicled that I have eaten a lot of McDonald's over the years, because my god, does that shit taste good. I went for a long time without it recently, spurning unhealthy food and going to the gym four times a week. Unfortunately, juggling the gym with work and Japanese classes, something had to give. Sadly, my physical progress has slowed to a crawl. And I've had a few McDonald's binges, to boot. Don't feel too bad, though. Their promotional Argentina burger tastes amazing, and makes the whole thing worth it.

But enough about me. More about toys. For I am not a toy, I am a boy! Today's figurine is a bygone from the late 90s, a Hopper figure, of A Bug's Life fame. You know what's great about Hopper? He's voiced by Kevin Spacey. You know what's even better about Hopper? He hops around like a drunken old man. Incredible. I'll show you in a moment or two (depends on how quickly I type, or how slowly you read).

Once upon a time on this blog, I used to critique the quality of the toys themselves, as if people cared. I have recently realized it's a great way to pad blog entries, so let's try that again. Frankly, I think he's quite handsome. He's marvelously sculpted, his paint job is flawless, and his carapace (thanks, WoW) is bright and shiny. Like, literally shiny. Was it shiny in the movie? I don't think so, but it makes him look fabulous. And yes, I mean that in both literal and homosexual terms.

His stringlike antennae are super fun to play with, making me surmise I was a small kitten in a previous life. With one yellow eye, and one white one that is possibly blind (don't look at his bad eye!) he looks perfectly bug-eyed - pause for laughter - and sports the appropriate toothy, sinister frown. And bonus, his hunched over posture reminds me of hideous boxer. And that is simply marvelous. A Bug's Life? More like A Balrog's Life, mofos.

Frankly, I'm quite smitten with the quality of this figure. Especially when you consider it's a Happy Meal toy, something that by it's very nature is meant to be fiddled with at the restaurant and then never touched again, at least until some idiot makes a blog about it fifteen years later.

He even has, and I kid you not, I never noticed this until now and I'm kind of freaking out about this, a second set of arms. That's right kids, Hopper is the Machamp of the miniatures. The Goro of the garden. The... fictional four-armed character of a humorously aliterate nature. Of course, they're simplistic and easily missed, but they're most certainly there. It only takes you a decade and a half to find them, so I look forward to seeing you all again around 2030. I'll be dead by then.

Excellent. Also, autocorrect wanted to change freaking into 'free king'. I think my iPhone has a political agenda I wasn't aware of. Much like Hopper's superfluous arms. Most appropo.

But wait! There's more. I promised hopping, and good gracious, hop he shall. It's not the most graceful display of athleticism, but if you've ever watched Diving With the Stars, you'll no doubt attest that you could do a lot worse. And so, hop on, you queer little Spacey bug. Afterwards, you'll no doubt do battle with Superman, before returning to your home planet. If you have a package for me, I shan't open it.

...I ran out of references, sorry. Though in retrospect, a package from a grasshopper would no doubt be rather small, and as such would likely contain no head. So I might actually accept his wee little bug delivery. I do like presents.

#0078: Pegasus

I suppose if Chipmunks albums and socks made to look like festive pigs didn't wow you (what kind of sick monster are you??), then today could be seen as an attempt to redeem myself. For someone purporting to be doing this for the good of charity, my donation process has made me out to really be kind of a dick. Most of the things I've shared on this blog here have been, quite frankly, shithouse. They say that beggars can't be choosers, but I think we all know that's untrue. Beggars are choosy as fuck, just try to buy one a sandwich.

So now, I will try to mend the beggar's bridges, by doling out a Pegasus plush toy that is truly sexy. I mean, honestly. Look at that thing. Just try to tell me you wouldn't have sex with it. Remember, you're not just lying to me, you're lying to yourself.

This toy was purchased late in 1997 en route from Canada to Australia, a bittersweet memory of a child leaving his life and memories behind, offset by the fact that I went to the Disney Store and scored this sweet fucking Pegasus thing.

Not only is this stuffed toy very nicely crafted, but it's also pretty freaking big. It's not often you end up with a plush of such sheer majesty, and in a way, that was also its greatest curse. Because it's such an elite and expensive toy, it didn't bang around with the uglies very much. A veritable Tom Brady, its major function was to look pretty and be worth a lot of money.

As you probably realise, it's modelled after the sassy steed from Disney's Hercules film; a movie that took many necessary liberties with Greek mythology. The purists out there may cry foul, but no, Hercules is not an abusive prick who gets possessed and brutally kills his wife and children. Hera does not attempt to stuff up Hercules' birth by literally forcing the goddess of childbirth to cross her legs. Zeus does not have sex with any living thing with a vagina. Maybe in the sequel.

So obviously this Pegasus is not the hellspawn of the god of the seas and motherfucking Medusa - oh, to be a fly on the wall during that conception!

Medusa: Baby, look into my eyes...
Poseidon: Bitch, please! I'm not falling for that.
Medusa: If you loved me you would.
Poseidon: I'm having sex with a snake-haired monster in order to father a flying horsey. There is no love here.

- but instead, just a friend of Herc's from Mt. Olympus. I'm sorry about the sentence structure just then, that jump was way too huge to try and tie together with a pair of hyphens, but once I started down the path, I found it hard to stop.

So that's really all there is to discuss about Hercules' faithful mount. I could go on, but it would be less about this toy, who I frankly stopped thinking about four lengthy paragraphs ago, and more about Greek mythology. You know, Hercules killed his music teacher with his own instrument, simply because he was a shitty student. I myself had a Japanese class today, and at no point did I consider killing sensei with his own instrument (in this case, the Japanese language). Oh Hercules, you old dick, you.

#0075: Pogs/Tazos/Dizks

I don't claim to be an educator of any sort, but I don't think I'm out of line when I make the assumption that teachers worldwide hate collectible toys with a passion. Because it's so fucking important for kids to gather as many as possible, and if anyone fucks with your collection, there will be hell to pay.

I remember when I was in year 7, and a bunch of year 10s looked through my Pokemon cards. When I came home that day, I realised that several were missing. My mom had sent over some of the new Jungle series cards that hadn't yet reached Australia; Jigglypuff, Meowth and the like, and those motherfuckers stole them. What a bunch of heinous ball sacks! They had no interest in the cards, they probably just wanted to sell them for a couple of bucks. I hope they've since died of botulism. Seriously, fuck those assholes.

It's no wonder the various collectible series are soon banned from the schoolyard. We feel slighted as kids, because we weren't doing any harm, and true enough, we weren't; it was those soulless little shitballs that ruined it for everyone. Fortunately, I didn't go through that kind of distress back in my early collecting days. Because back then, I didn't go to school in the shitty western suburbs of Melbourne. I had a most delightful time gathering Pogs. Then Tazos. Then Dizks. Then spores, moulds and fungus.

Oh, Pogs, you crazy little pieces of cardboard. They were veritable schoolyard currency twenty-some years ago, and I remember that no Pog was to be left behind. At a school event with various games and activities, one of the stands gave out Pogs as a prize. So long were the lines, they eventually had to implement a three-game limit. We were being told we'd had enough Pogs, man.

Here's the family. As you can see, I had a whole bunch of Lion King Pogs. The lion's share, if you will. One of my less proud moments was when someone threw away their Power Rangers Pog, and I frantically chased it down. Who in the flying fuck is Aisha? Who cares, she was a Pog - she was a GOD. And I know you're all super jealous of my slammers and my limited edition 'secret weapon' Pog. Although I'm fairly sure they just put the limited edition line on there for shits and giggles, and it held no actual bearing on the rarity of the Pog.

In case you're wondering, no, I never played the actual game of Pogs. Especially not for keepsies - are you crazy? They were far too important for such frivolity!! From my Nickelodeon Gak Pog to my magic 8-ball hatching from an egg Pog, from my Ren & Stimpy Pog to my piece of styrofoam Pog depicting some kind of robotic foot.

Nowadays, Pogs are a relic of a time long gone. Most kids would have no idea what you were talking about, and anyone brave enough to explore pogs.com.au are led to the disappointment that is the Perth Obstetrics Gynaecology Specialists. That's no fun. I want to study Pogs, not vaginas.

Much bigger in Australia was the Pog equivalent, Tazos. As you can see, I entered the game far too late, and didn't really garner much of a collection. I like to think I got the most important ones, though, representing Space Jam and the significance of Duff beer.

Eventually however, they grew wise to the morning viewing habits of kids around the country. What happened next would boost the sales of chip packets by some astronomical percent. Possibly over 9,000...!

Meet the Dragon Ball Z Dizks. These sons of bitches were (figuratively) huge, and kids bought snacks in bulk not for their daily intake of potato, but for the chance to increase their collection of Dizks. As you can see, they were separated into three categories: the red good guys, the black villains, and the yellow 'super characters'. Unveiling a mighty Super Saiyan Goku or Super Namek Piccolo was cause for celebration, as you triumphantly thrust that silly little yellow circle into the air. You were cooler than cool! You were the hip happenin' thing, baby. Do a boogaloo shuffle!

In case you were wondering, yes, I collected all 40 of them. It has led to a better life for me and my children. But sadly, even the most complete collection is waiting to be dwarfed. While we thought the yellow Dizks were top of the pops, we later discovered glorious Dizks with bright orange backgrounds. We knew these were irregular, and hence, more important. As you can see, I only had three. And beyond that, there were even rarer gold ones that I only once ever saw in person - walking through a forest in the rocky mountains one day. I tried to snap a photo, but alas, it was gone.

Later on, they introduced newer characters in fascinating new shapes, as well as branching on to other shitty animes like Beyblades, but the magic was gone. We had already invested enough time, energy and cholesterol into the fine art of Dizk collecting. In my youth, they told me that I had had enough Pogs. All those years later, I was able to tell the distant Pog relative... 'nah, bro - I've had enough of you.'

When all else fails, blame the Vaike

I'm sorry, friends. All because I haven't been posting doesn't mean I don't still love you guys. The main reason for my absence lately can be traced almost directly to the 67 hours I have spent playing Fire Emblem Awakening. Oh my god, I love it so. Any scarce fragment of spare time I have, simply has to be dedicated towards playing it and buffing up my paladins. I even ranked the units over on my other blog, if you fancy a peek.

I do however have a bag of toys at my disposal that I have been feeling an itch to dispose of. So bear with me, there will be action (figures). To bide you over, here is my current collection of POP! Vinyls. They represent everything that is important to me, from Canadian superheroes to sea witches to Michael Keaton.

Toy Flashback: Scar's Greatest Enemy

The battle for feline supremacy...

A portrait: one through ten

As a special celebration of all things ten, I have seen fit to take one last group shot of the premiere ten toys of INAKA. I love that acronym, by the way. Makes this blog sound important and Japanese.

Does the picture need explanation? I assumed it to be pretty obvious, but I want my intentions to be made clear to all. After all, my dad walked in on me positioning and photographing this eclectic set of toys like a freaky man-child, so I don’t want this to be for naught.

At the rear, Oogie Boogie has established himself a throne of the equally creepy Fi-Do from which he does his bidding, but not his glowing. Alternatively, they have eked out a relationship and are going steady. It’s up to interpretation.

Just ahead of them, Wildwing and Lowly Worm are engaging in road rage. Though Lowly continues to beg that they ‘just be friends’, Wildwing has gone mad with hockey fury. Unfortunately for Wildwing however, he has left the goal completely unguarded, causing his Ducks to lose in a record 94-0 slaughter. As a result, Wildwing is transferred to Thailand’s national team, where he becomes an instant star.

You might have noticed Robin Hood fleeing with his coveted sack of gold, having discovered the Turtlecycle to be history’s first getaway vehicle. Tragically, Robin Hood does not know how to operate a motorbike, and furthermore, it lacks handlebars and a reversible trashcan sidecar. He will be missed.

Feeling emotionally distressed by the chaos around him, Scar tucks his tail between his legs and slinks away from the scene. He finds solace only in bubble baths and Enya’s Shepherd Moons album. Needless to say, he’s never the same again.

This is indeed a spectacular day for the hapless Ugly Laser Man, who has finally found a head he can point his gun at, after years of pointless shooting at toes. The luckless fellow in this position is the smug Snoopy, who chose the worst place to take a nap. If only he truly were a magician, he would have been able to get out of this mess. His only hope is that Lowly Worm chooses to park nearby, so that Snoopy may run Ugly Laser Man down in his apple car.

Duck has no fucking idea how he got this far away from the railroad tracks. But he’s a malicious son of a bitch, so he simply watches the bloody mayhem with glee. It only comes to a halt when Snoopy asks the horrifying question:

“Is that train fucking smiling?!”

#0010: Oogie Boogie

We’ve hit something of a hallmark today. An important moment, and one that will go down in history for its significance in the world of toy eulogies.

We have reached ten toys.

That’s ten toys that I won’t play with anymore. Ten prizes that have ended up in someone else’s possession. Ten little pieces of my life that I have passed onto the next generation. It’s like donating sperm, you know. My little babies are out there somewhere, and I’ll never see them again. Just, most of them aren’t as sticky as that.

So a special day calls for a special figure. And although I don’t know if you (or even I) would consider this one to be ‘special’, per se, while I was sifting through the tub for the next selection, he just felt right. You know how sometimes in life, you pick a winner? Today, my winner was in the form of a fat ghostly sack filled with bugs.

Let’s roll the dice with Oogie Boogie.


Haha at first I typed that as ‘Oogie Boobie’. Sounds like a kinky game for the bedroom.

I was a fan of The Nightmare Before Christmas back in the day, so much to the point it’s hard for me to say ‘Night Before Christmas’ without slipping up and chucking a ‘mare’ in there. Its animation style is still beautiful, its denizens are still surreal and creative, and I’ve been known to strut down the street as quickly as my spindly legs will take me while fondling everything I see and asking ‘What’s this?’

Unfortunately, I choose to do this naked, so it’s not considered acceptable in today’s uptight society. Not until that proposition passes, at least.

Oogie Boogie (Boobie) was the antagonist who tried to kill a singing skeleton and Santa Claus. Yes indeed. It’s like Casablanca all over again. He also had one of the most boss songs from the movie, a swingin’ jazzy tune where he declared his love for gambling and killing Santa Claus. If you haven’t heard it yet, check it out on Youtube. It’ll give you newfound appreciation for this toy, and possibly also a distinct fear of sacks.

This Oogie Boogie toy knows where it’s at. He’s not posable, he’s not opposable, it’s just not possible. All the same, he grins a fearsome grin, dice in hand, curiously showing snake eyes, which he hated. I know, it’s referencing the game of chance and everything, but I would have thought he’d be so superstitious that he would never roll from the starting position of two ones.

I don’t think anyone else in the world has ever analyzed this toy. Maybe they should. I feel as though something good is coming from it.

I seem to recall him glowing in the dark, just as he did in the movie. I love glowing toys. Especially when they’re considered canon to the character’s ability set. I don’t know what advantage glowing would have given Oogie Boogie, other than being able to blend in with his neon surroundings, but he sure had it.


That’s the demonstration of his glowing ability, which you will have surmised is not much. In actuality, it seems as though the only part of him that still glowed after twenty minutes of light exposure was the inside of his mouth, but my elitist camera clearly felt slighted by this lacking glow and chose not to capture it.

I swear to god, he fucking glows. And that showed some dedication right there, taking the boogieman into a darkened closet. I mean, Christ, that’s the boogieman’s domain right there: I was just asking for trouble. So when he broke my nose and chewed off my fingers, I wasn’t exactly surprised. It just made this review a little harder to type, because I usually type with my nose.

For some unknown reason, he’s got a sort of discolouring phenomenon occurring across his body. You will have noticed the prominent orange and blue smudges upon his stomach, but his back is even more wild.


I don’t know how to explain this, but it’s almost like a child just assaulted Mr. Boogie with a crayon. And though it certainly wasn’t me, whoever that evil, artistic little toddler was has surely devalued Oogie to all get out. I could have made millions off my Oogie. Instead, he’s a worthless Oogie. Prick won’t even glow when I tell him to.

Trying to track down this figure’s origin is a fruitless endeavour. There’s lots of Oogie toys out there, each with their own bugs and their own (theoretical) glow, and they’re all much more robust and detailed than my little guy. This could potentially make him rare (or HTF in the lingo of cheap toy hawking), but I may never know.

Perhaps there is a truer story behind all this, and that his decline into obscurity is derived from his lacking ability to glow? What if this was indeed the reason he was evicted from Halloweentown to begin with? I always just thought it was because he was an asshole, but if I was kicked out of town simply because I was shitty at glowing, I’d be an asshole too. Such a misunderstood burlap sack is he.

Give him your love. Give him your arms. Give him your fingers. He’ll take it all.

Worthy of note, I think that this gaffer actually came from a similar line of toys as Scar from our last entry. Does that mean that Oogie Boogie is also a devout Chinese enthusiast? Let us investigate!


‘Applause 2 China’?? The plot thickens…

#0009: Scar

What’s your favourite Disney movie?

I’m guessing that the majority of people would name something from the years of 1989-1994. Some call it Disney’s golden age. Others call it a key era for commercialization and consumer monopolization. Me personally, I wouldn’t use that many ‘zations’ in one sentence, though in essence I suppose I just did.

It’s hard for me to decide on my #1 flick these days. They each have their own merits and shortcomings, and I’ve been yelled at more than once for spending hours on deep analysis of Disney films, when I could be trying to make something of myself. I guess I always just figured that somehow I was making something of myself, but realistically, comprehensive knowledge of Rajah’s character development over the course of the Aladdin trilogy isn’t quite as useful as a doctorate in physiology. My mistake.

When I was a kid though, the choice was easy. It had to be The Lion King. It gave you everything you could ever want, from endearing characters to Mr. Bean as a parrot. It was made of so much ‘yes’, you might as well have called it The Yes King.

By now you should understand that that would mean demanding a multitude of Lion King products. Toys, plushes, activity books… And yes, a sticker book, too. Those things were nightmarish money vacuums. But that’s another tale for another day.

For now, we’re going to get dark and sinister. That’s right, we’re going to take a fleeting peek at Disney’s own Claudius. He’s climbin’ in your kingdom and he’s snatchin’ your lions up, he’s Scar!


Accusations of a fetish for plastic be damned, this toy is just plain sexy. He’s wonderfully coloured, his face is full of expression, and his details are so precise… Plus, his chin is pointy as fuck. It could take your eye out, so step back. Scar is dangerous!

This particular figure has Scar sporting a particularly malicious snarl, making him battle ready, or plotting something wicked. It’s less appropriate for scenes where you’re trying to recreate his famous deception of Simba, because one look at that mug and you just know something’s up.

He also has a mane of delightfully shiny black hair. He’s a true greaser. A toy this fantastic surely created a generation of kids skulking in corners muttering about overthrowing their brothers, with horrible Jeremy Irons impersonations. Unfortunately, I never acquired an adult Simba toy to engage in fisticuffs with Scar, so combat was left in the incapable hands of his younger self, or Pumbaa, who was the only other one I had who was similarly sized. Come to think of it, Scar never did plunge off Pride Rock in my playtime. It’s seventeen years later, and Scar is still king of the ring. You’d think he’d have cracked a smile by now?


In his elder years, King Scar likes to strut the catwalk. He’s also closely involved in foreign affairs, carbon emission reduction and park preservation.

But future generations may not know of his infamous evil exploits. In fact, I worry a little bit for Scar’s well-being once he’s left my loving possession. Will the benefactors treat him with the fear and respect that he deserves? I don’t want to relegate Scar to tea parties with Barbie.

So as a test, I introduced Scar to a three-year-old with no prior knowledge of his tyrannical power and authority.


The results were a raging success. King Scar rules on, and all others tremble in his presence. After briefly sniffing him, granted, but there’s still trembling involved regardless.

So what does this toy actually do? Nothing outside of the realm of our imagination. He has no movable parts or rocket launching action, so he’s not really helping you along much with visual cues. Indeed, if you did fling his ass from the throne, he’d still just look pissed off and in a curious prone position of prowling. That alliteration did nothing to enhance that paragraph, incidentally.

Although I’ve just now discovered that you can tuck his tail in between one of his legs.


I don’t know about you, but I’d say he almost looks bashful now. As though he’s done something naughty that he’s trying to hide, or he’s come across a girl he likes. In my mind, the latter is unlikely.

He’s gay, you know.

He’s also a Chinese ambassador. I know this because his belly told me.


Don’t pretend you don’t see what it says on there. ‘Applause 4 China’. That’s right, subliminal advertisements in a child’s plaything. I don’t know if his propaganda ever got through to me, though on a completely unrelated note, this entry will henceforth consist solely of portraits of emperors from the Ming Dynasty.


Above you’ll see Zhu Yuanzhang. He established the Ming Dynasty in 1368, overthrowing the Yuan Dynasty and helping influence the growth of our proud nation tenfold. His influence was godlike.


Here we have Zhu Di, known during his reign as the Yongle Emperor. He strengthened Chinese culture through erection of monuments such as the Porcelain Tower of Nanjing, as well as weeding out foreign dogs from our land.


I’m sure you already realise that this is Zhu Yijun, son of the Longqing Emperor. His reign was plagued with fiscal instability and, later, encroachment by the Manchu. Despite his faults, he is praised in Korea for his contribution towards defending the Chosun Dynasty against the Japanese.


This is Chip. His reign was brief and confusing, and consisted primarily of mass acquisition of acorns.

#0003: Wildwing

Unless your parents were fanatical hockey fans that bullied you into liking a particular team, odds are that when you were a kid, you were a Mighty Ducks fan. Not because of Paul Kariya or Teemu Selanne of course, but because of Emilio Estevez and Lester Averman.

Yes, kids of the 90s were force-fed the Mighty Ducks, and though we didn’t really understand it at the time, it was a brilliantly-planned Disney ploy to create a generation of fans across the nation for their fledgling franchise.

These days, there hasn’t been a movie for over a decade, the actual hockey team is now simply known as the Anaheim Ducks, and anyone who bothered to stick with hockey realised that there are better franchises out there to follow. Ones with more intimidating mascots than a ducky.

One of the more obscure pieces of the marketing machine was a short-lived cartoon series, featuring of course, anthropoid ducks on the icy planet of Puckland. They use hockey as a means of entertainment, a lifestyle, and probably as a way of solving any problem that came their way.

Their mighty leader was (apparently) the heroic Wildwing.


I’d never watched the cartoon. Even back in ’96 I realised that a show about hockey-playing ducks was lame. And reading the synopsis now makes me cringe. Though admittedly, there are some pretty solid names in the voice acting front, including Tony Jay, Charles Adler and my man Rob Paulsen.

So what do I know of Wildwing Flashblade? He’s the leader of the Ducks, and he’s also their goalie. Personally, I cry foul (or fowl?) at this. Why is the main character the goalie? We’re not supposed to pay attention to the goalie; we’re supposed to just assume he’ll do his job efficiently, and hate him when he doesn’t. If I had to assemble a team of hockey players to do battle against cyborgs and evil aliens voiced by Tim Curry, I would not give Roberto Luongo leadership duties.

But maybe that’s just me. Maybe I have reason to hate goalies of any kind. Maybe I’m just bitter that Luongo freezes up in shootouts. Maybe I’m still scathing that Mark Schwarzer allowed four goals in Australia’s 2010 World Cup match against Germany, effectively dooming them from the start. Maybe I feel like Grin appears to be twice the size of Wildwing, and thus would be a much better goalie.


But I digress (heavily). After snatching Wildwing from a tub of unloved toys for this review, a quick Google search revealed that he was another acquisition from McDonald’s, again from the key year of 1996. I suppose this proves two things; I’ve got to be more creative with the toys I select, and HOLY SHIT I ATE A LOT OF McDONALD’S IN 1996.

Frankly, Wildwing doesn’t do much, which is appropriate for a goalie, I suppose. He sits gloriously upon a throne of puck, from which he looks down on the world below. He appears to be behind the wheel, and whoever made this horrid thing also saw fit to provide Wildwing with a splendid black lump. I’m guessing this is either a windshield or a bumper, or perhaps all pucks in Puckland have this lump. After all, the concept of gigantic ducks playing hockey is stranger than an unusual puck growth.

It seems as though I’m always whinging about paint jobs, but you might agree that this one is a little bit lacking. It’s nice that he’s got his little ducky logo on his chest, and his trademark ‘00’ sits proudly upon the back of his jersey, but that’s about as good as you’ll get in the details department. His gloves are one monochrome colour, his jersey is completely devoid of colour, and his mask is simply white. You could forgive the omission of his usual gold mask for the more traditional white goalie mask, but there’s no holes or anything. In actuality, it looks as though his face has been melted off. That’s just unducky for him.


And I haven’t even gotten to his wheels yet. I know you’ve been scanning through this entry frantically, trying to get to the good stuff. You’re all, ‘Tell me ‘bout the wheels, man! THE WHEELS!’

And here’s the juicy part: He ain’t got no wheels. He’s got futuristic silver orbs upon which he glides gracefully in any direction he chooses. I, Robot taught us that silver orbs are the way of the future for transport, and I could only feel lucky and privileged to know that this rare prototype was in my possession.

So with that, let’s guess how far he rolls! Is it:
A) Really far.
B) Really, really far.
C) Far enough to make Canard Thunderbeak proud.

Let’s find out!!

Yup. That’s it. I’m barely sure he even rolled at all. It looks more as though I startled him from behind, and that was a frightened flinch.

Knowing that my hands were not mighty enough to send the greatest goalie in Puckland on his way, I figured it was worth a shot to kick him around, consequences be damned.

That one was admittedly a bit better, but he’s looking less like a smooth rolling pimp, more like a wounded animal trying to make a break for the door.

Hahaha he cheated that time! Did you notice? Instant replay shows that he wasn’t using his orbs that time at all. That’ll be five minutes in the penalty box for you, Wildwing.

There we go. It wasn’t exactly how God intended, but Wildwing certainly got some awesome distance there. In retrospect though, goalies are supposed to be immovable objects, so I guess my little experiment was doomed to fail from the beginning?

There’s really not much more to be said about McDonald’s Wildwing toy. There’s a reason that nobody knows who he is, and the cartoon only lasted one season. Besides, Disney had better hockey-playing ducks in their day anyway…


That’s right. Screw Wildwing’s body armour, puck launcher and mask of the legendary Drake DuCaine, Donald Duck moves the puck around by yelling at it. Hellz yeah. I never saw Wildwing do that, or his brother Nosedive, either.

And while we’re at it, what kind of horrible parents were the Flashblades, anyway? What makes you look at your son and decide he should be named Nosedive? Did he tragically fall from the womb? Or was his older brother Wildwing copping so many beatings for his name, that in pity they decided to make their next child’s fate even worse?

In any event, Wildwing may be the first toy I’ll be sad to part with. I love reminders of my lost 90’s childhood, and no doubt wherever he ends up, it’ll be in a place where people know nothing of who he is, what his dreams are, or why the fuck he doesn’t roll properly.

But maybe, just maybe… He’ll go onto a better place? Maybe he’ll even find his lost hero Canard? I don’t know.

…Do you?