#0119: McDonald's Christmas Taz

Ho ho ho, peons! It's the Crimbo season here at Toy Eulogy, and we're sharing the merriment by bringing you something big, jolly, and red. Don't let the NSFW description fool you, it's merely a plush toy from the 1992 Happy Meal holiday lineup; our friend and yours, the McDonald's Christmas Taz.

...Autocorrect really wanted to change that to McDonald's Christmas Tax — what a fucking Scrooge, am I right?!

This handsome fella came as a set of four alongside Tweety dressed as an elf, Bugs in a snug winter hat, and Sylvester donning a set of pyjamas and sleeping through the whole season (as cats will often do). You might recall that the Tasmanian Devil was hot property in the 90s, so he received top billing, cast in the role of Santa Claus himself.

We were greasy connoisseurs of McDonald's in our youth, and yet this was one of the few times I can confirm we nabbed the complete set. Perhaps we were just into that plush toys. Or Looney Tunes. Or the commercial, which resonates with me to this day. To this day. To. This. Day.

Upon viewing, you'll surely agree that it's a perfectly lovely little ad, offering a selection of fluffy friends at a reasonable price. Upon viewing, you'll perhaps also agree that there's something a bit... wrong... with my personal Santa Taz.

Can't quite put your finger on it? Then please never enter the field of investigative journalism (or food prep, because that lacking attention to detail shouldn't be consumed by unsuspecting innocents). My Taz plush is less hirsute, by virtue of his beard being entirely absent.

No, it's not a factory defect, but a valuable insight into the twisted mind of a bizarre child. At some point, I decided that I wanted a regular Tasmanian Devil plush, and I couldn't wait to procure one at a store. No, I fucking needed a conventional Taz and I needed it now, so I took to the poor blighter with a pair of scissors, removing his beard and hat. Needless to say, neither of those were ever intended to be removed, and now he just looks barren.

I elected to place him in the fridge, either as a reference to his character trait for veracity, or to emphasise that now he looks like a meth-head hellbent on drinking all of your Zymil.

Alas, he's really rather foolish now, and there's little I can do to remedy this folly. He's got a pair of white threads where his facial hair was once attached, and more damning still — he's wearing his fucking Santa boots, Anthony. This is not something a normal Taz would typically have, unless he's cosplaying. Or shovelling snow, I guess.

About the only solace I can take from the matter is the notion that my sister and I almost certainly received one of these toys each. As such, somewhere in our vast collection may lie an unsullied Taz, complete in his merry regalia, that I can look upon with envy and/or claim was mine in the first place.

Until such time, the inferior facsimile you see before you will have to do. I'm sure he's at least mildly enthused by the notion of Christmas. Maybe he likes the sales or something, and enjoys having a few extra days off from work.

With all that being said, I reckon Taz is probably Hindu. I have nothing to base this on other than vague inferences and a surprisingly ribald headcanon.

#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.

#0085: Charizard & Blastoise

Ahh, Pokemon. That kooky phenomenon that captivated the world for a solid two years or so. This may sound insignificant in the vast enormity of pop culture history (and even more so if you extrapolate that figure to the dawn of mankind), but that is, in actuality, an incredibly long run for what some might deem a 'fad'.

To be fair, Pokemon has more merit than the curios of yesteryear like Beanie Babies and Pogs, by virtue of the fact that it was built on the foundation of a video game that was actually incredibly good (albeit hugely flawed, if you're willing to incur the wrath of stubborn genwunners who have had their fingers in their ears for the last two decades), and as such, it has enjoyed great success to this day.

But damn, to be a kid at the turn of the millennium when it was at its peak, it was something else, man. And other than everyone's third favourite rat Pikachu (behind only Mickey Mouse and Donald Trump), this formidable duo was at the forefront of the whole thing.

Odds are, you have fond associations with your very first Pokemon, particularly their evolved forms, Charizard and Blastoise.

...Unless you were smart enough to choose Venusaur, that is. But hey, we can't all be luminaries.

By the time we had reached 2006, Pokemania was little more than a collection of shrapnel scattered on the floor, threatening to be carried away by a strong Gust (it's super effective!) But I was still hooked. I am still hooked, obviously. I'm little more than a petulant man child who happens to be wearing a Litten hoodie at this very moment. And no, you can't have a photo.

So it was an inevitability when Jess and I arrived at McDonald's that Saturday evening in September that I would be walking out there the proud(?) owner of a figurine made for children. To give you the full scope of the situation, here's a blog entry I made the day after...

Our order was prompt; twenty chicken McNuggets, a quarter pounder and a Big Mac. ...Hmm, sounded more impressive at the time. And I lie, it was not prompt; I hesitated in my decision to go with the Big Mac. Foreshame, Tony.

Possessing the sustenance, I peered up at the menu above. I keenly noted that they were still hawking their cheesy Happy Meal wares, and today's selection would be of the Pokemon variety. Ho-hum, how tacky, how 1997, how childish, how droll... OH MY GOD THEY HAD CHARIZARD.

I will now admit, I get all giddy at the very mention of Charizard, simply because he's a massive angry dragon whose tail is on fire. He's everything I ever dreamed to be, and though in actuality he ranks like thirteenth or fourteenth on my list of Poke-preference (the upper echelons reserved for such legendary beasts of valour as Venusaur and Dragonite. Those are the money-mon), he was always meant to be the most utmost cool Pokemon. I mean, seriously, his trading card game card cost like $100. That's one expensive lizard.

I had previously expressed my Charizard-fancy to Jessica (probably as an off-handed remark; 'Yes I'd like a coffee, and some scrambled eggs, OH MY GOD CHARIZARD RAWR'), and she could no doubt see the intensity in my eyes.

She quickly asked how much the toy would cost on its own, and I was taken aback. Sixty years from now, though there shall be a special place in my heart for my graduation day, wedding day, and the inevitable day I win the Superbowl, they will all bow down to the day when Jessica would buy me a Charizard. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the true mark of saintliness. ...After all, it's not like I was gonna ask for the friggin' thing, I look like a twenty-six year old stoner, don't need to act like one too.

I merrily watched on with anticipation as the McEmployee sifted through her box of mystery for the Char Czar. She came back empty-handed, expressing that there were none available.

WHAAAAAAAAT?? The sign clearly stated, AVAILABLE NOW. Had NOW expired in the duration of the last couple seconds? Was the Charizard on display in the case next to me mocking me at that very moment? I should have staged a McMutiny. I should have sent HER to St. Louis!!

She did however mention that for $2 I could have a substitute Blastoise. Jessica asked if I wanted that one, and, save for the fact that I felt like a seven-year-old who was just denied his favourite toy, I couldn't help but pity the poor Blastoise.

He's no fire-brandishing dragon, nosirree, he's a turtle with water cannons. He's like the G-rated Charizard. The Diet Coke of Charizards. What Charizard would be if he was a sissy. Whereas Charizard sits at a mighty 18 on my Poke-list, Blastoise probably occupies a conservative 35. I was still gonna get the Blastoise, oh hell yeah, but I was gonna sulk all the same. Additionally, keep in mind that the previous couple paragraphs all happened within the span of a couple seconds, which suggests that I really do ramble on.

Funny how times have changed. Charizard later took a tumble down the power rankings, fuelled by my bitterness that it got such adulation where others would be forgotten. But enough about that. What of the toys themselves?

They're both pretty damn cool. Quality figures, with their own little quirks and hidden abilities. Charizard's tail lights up with the fury of a thousand suns (or at very least, an alkaline battery or two), and if you press a button on its back, its wings wiggle. Barely. When I unearthed it from the drawer, it was doing its best Sephiroth impression by being a one-winged angel, and even after I had tracked down the missing appendage, its movement is particularly unmoving. It may have to take these broken wings and learn to fly again, learn to live so free.

Blastoise don't mess around, on the other hand. It's a wind-up toy, and boy howdy does it go like the clackers. Its hydro cannons poke up and down as it powers along, and its arms are outstretched in the ultimate display of aggression. Plus, it just has this look of genuine unhappiness on its face that I can only assume comes from having been dismissed as my 35th favourite Pokemon twelve years ago.

Which one is the truly superior toy? Well, there's only one way to find out...

In hindsight, there was probably a more academic way to solve that.

#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.

#0067: Snoopy World Tour

Fast food toys are a mixed bag, in all honesty. Occasionally, you'll go through droughts where the prizes are uninspiring: generic cars for the boys, generic miniature dolls for the girls. Most of the time, they're modelled after whatever television show or movie is hot at the time, and even then, it's hit or miss: for every fantastic Sonic the Hedgehog, there's about three auxiliary characters with lesser intrigue. I was six years old, I didn't want Robotnik! He was a fat, bald man, and I had been conditioned to hate him.

To this day, I can still remember the two most thrilling toy offers from my youth: McDonald's Teenie Beanies, and Burger King's Pokemon plushes. Seriously, if you want kids to gobble shit up, make it a plush item. This applies to all range of toy exchange, really: in gaming arcades, plush toys go off like nobody's business. Whether it's as a redemption item, or a claw machine prize, stick it in there. I don't know why I'm informing you of this as though you're likely to make these decisions.

One of my favourite range of prizes, plush hysteria notwithstanding, were these charming Snoopy World Tour figurines that did the rounds of McDonald's in 1998 and 1999. The premise is simple: each week, four new international Snoopy's would be released. The sheer collectibility of these little gaffers made people go crazy. Apparently they became a hot commodity, which is hilarious when you consider the apathetic expression of the Snoopy's themselves: the population of Hong Kong is ripping each other apart for a small plastic toy. Snoopy don't give a shit.

In two series, a whole slew of nations were represented, ranging from a Norwegian viking to a Canadian Mountie. Personally for the latter I would have just had a despondent looking Snoopy crying into his beer like a Leafs fan.

It would have been hilarious if they had gone with a Peanuts character other than Snoopy. Imagine how much less hype there would have been if they had made it Pigpen's World Tour? In fact, just jettison the Peanuts license entirely for a moment, and make it someone completely random. ...No, more random than that!

...What about Margaret Thatcher's World Tour? I love it! The English one would be totally easy, it would just be Margaret Thatcher, I guess. The Libyan one would be brandishing a bomb in a sort of self-destructive omen of things to come. The Jamaican one is still being workshopped.

I myself didn't manage to assemble that many Snoopy's, (and by that, I mean my poor dad who had to fork out the dosh for something that would ultimately be shoved into a drawer within the month), or (m)any Margaret Thatcher's, for that matter, but I'm rather fond of the little sampling I do have.

#1 is the United States of America. Here, Snoopy is adorned in traditional American garb: like all Yanks, he struts his shit about while dressed like the Statue of Liberty. I'm being facetious of course, though now that I think of it, I did see at least three people dressed up like that in New York City. No, I'm not including the Statue itself.

He's supposed to be holding the Declaration of Independence in his left hand, but it's much smaller than I would have imagined. He might just be holding Tuesdays with Morrie.

Next up is local boy Australia, or if you want to say it like the locals, 'Straya'. He originally came with a detachable slouch hat, but unfortunately in typical Tony fashion it is lost and will never again be tachable, leaving uninformed tourists to assume that it's Australian tradition to have just been assaulted by the Driller Killer. He's still got that fantastic stereotypical bandanna that Aussies are always associated with, though I've never actually seen being worn in real life, and not one but two boomerangs. It would be entirely impractical to try and dual-wield boomerangs, but fuck it, let's suspend our disbelief: Snoopy makes it possible.

The laidback chum on the right is Hawai'i, leaving excluded nations frowning that there were two American entries. In their defence however, Hawai'i is one of the greatest places on Earth, and Snoopy's fairly generic surfer attire could be applied to your nation, if you really wanted it to. I'm sure there's a big surfing scene in Kazakhstan.

Now we enter Fiji: a tiny collection of islands that I vaguely remember as being very rocky. My sister stepped on a shellfish in Fiji, and I think we tried to touch some kind of venomous reptile before being deterred by a local. Christ, Fiji seems really dangerous the more I think about it in retrospect. Despite the many hazards, the Fijian Snoopy seems cheery all the same, tappin' his toe and sporting a grass frock, just 'cause he can. I can't think of many more things to say about Fiji, but apparently the most popular sports are rugby, boat racing and varieties of wrestling. And I suppose the Fijian Snoopy looks about ready to rassle, so that holds true enough.

The last one is the Swedish Snoopy. He's dressed like a traditional Swedish leprechaun, holding a Swedish pot of gold, and appears to be as drunken and loutish as your typical Swede. But I kid, simply because I wanted to make this paragraph bigger. This is obviously the Irish Snoopy, and when it's all said and done, he's likely my favourite. It's probably the pointy shoes that do it for me.

Overall, I'd rate these Snoopy toys fairly highly in the echelons of Happy Meal toys. They certainly did the job (of making money), and allowed cultures from around the world to have their own personalised little beagle. Hopefully they'll resurface someday with even more nations, and fresh new takes on existing models. After all, Aussies are also occasionally known to disguise ourselves as other nationalities...

#0044: Skateboard Boo-Boo

In only a few short days, the cocaine snake has already found his way into the classroom, warming children’s hearts and fending off lurking vermin. One student has named him Peter, and enjoys placing him on my fiancé’s desk. I don’t know why.

I’m ecstatic to know that, occasionally, I can see the happy result of my donations. Off they go, into that classroom, into that playroom, into that brothel, ready to please. It’s exactly half of what I’m doing this for.

Unfortunately, not all toys can be as lucky. Sometimes, we must pay homage to toys who will not be meeting a happy end. Whether it’s a leaking sand lizard, a chewed-up action figure or something simply horrifying, I know that the best they can hope for is to be disassembled for scrap parts. And today, we meet one of those tragic few. Strap on your skates Gordie, we’re going in for the Skateboard Boo-Boo.


As you can see, Boo-Boo’s been a hardcore skater since the 60s. Ranger Smith’s all like, ‘are those bears on a fucking skateboard?’ because that’s pretty weird, yo.

It was difficult to find all the details about this toy at first, because as you can anticipate, Googling ‘skateboard boo-boo’ inevitably yields thousands of photos and videos about unfortunate skating accidents. It sounds kind of cool saying that I suffered through broken bones and contusions in my search for an answer, and then, when I came upon that answer, I was frankly a little bit disappointed. This toy was from a set of four, made in 1991 to promote the new show Yo, Yogi! And it came from… yep, you guessed it. McDonald’s.

Every now and then, they show imagery of grotesquely overweight little kids, and your immediate reaction is either pity or disgust. How could anyone allow that to happen to their child? Just stop giving them McDonald’s, dammit!

I, however, have the toy-based evidence of many, many trips to McDonald’s, and I was a lanky kid who frankly could have stood to put on more weight. Clearly, I’m what’s wrong with America. I was a fat kid lounging about in a skinny kid’s body, and I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, please remember that I’m Canadian, so in effect, I’m part of an entirely different demographic from fat kids in the United States.


Anyhow, Yo, Yogi! was incredibly short-lived (and, like most of my childhood, featured Rob Paulsen), but I have to say, it garnered some pretty awesome Happy Meal toys. Described as ‘rev-ups’, these toys are intended to be dragged across the ground multiple times in quick succession before being let go, and away they zoom! Near as I can recall, I only ever got three of them (because Cindy was a girl and girls were icky!) and for my money, Boo-Boo was the best. That little guy could muster up some serious torque on that skateboard.

I remember quite distinctly putting that theory to test in a way only a stupid child would. I revved him up as much as I could, and then put him on my head. My intentions, I can’t quite recollect. Did I assume he would zip majestically off my head, and then tear onto the floor? I dunno. He ended up getting stuck in my hair. So tangled was he, my mom had to use scissors to cut him out, leaving me with a very small bald spot for a brief period of time. I’m tempted to give it another shot, for old time’s sake, but I shall refrain.

Skateboarding was hitting something of a renaissance in the 90s, so it made sense for the extreme sporting collection to include a boarding Boo-Boo. What I can’t quite support, however, is his lack of protective gear. You can’t tell me that a cap, a dapper shirt and a pair of white shorts will protect you from grievous harm. You can tell me that a pink bow-tie would, but you’d only fool me temporarily. That smug look on his face would suggest that he’s unconcerned for his safety, and moreover, unconcerned for the safety of the 90s children who look up to him. You can also prop him up to look like a rocket ship about to launch, and this is also an unsafe practice when done without a helmet.


So as you can see, Boo-Boo is now a broken man, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. Most of my toys are a little nicked here and there, but still in working order. Boo-Boo’s missing front axel, which appears to have been snapped off entirely, is an enigma. My guess would be that dwelling inside a plastic tub, occasionally harshly shifted about once every few millennia, has led to him running afoul of some very rough, very heavy customers. Finally, Boo-Boo would snap. And with that, his dreams of one day seeing the light of day and hitting that skate ramp one last time combusted like Lucas Lee.

He is, however, capable of doing some really awesome, frantic zig-zagging crap, like a fly after it’s been smothered with bug spray, and it’s actually better than the straight-line stuff he used to do, but it’s a hard sell. Seeing is believing.

Yeah! Boo-Boo’s on acid! Kids will dig that shit, right? Finally, a cartoon character we can relate to.

#0036: Spider-Sense Peter Parker

Here’s a random memory: While on a flight from Australia to Canada in 2004, I watched Spiderman 2. However, I had already seen it a fair few times, and it was becoming old hat, so I made the curious decision to watch it in French. And it was fantastic.

“Qui est Speederman?”

“C’est Peet-air Park-air!”

“Park-air?!”

It really opened the movie up for me: new possibilities, new discoveries, and perhaps even new references to croissants. I wouldn’t know, because I hardly speak any French. I learnt Italian instead, which has so far never proven useful to me in the slightest.

With all that in mind, let’s take a look at this exciting toy. It’s the amazing(ly shitty) Spider-Sense Peter Parker. Or, as the French say, Peet-air Park-air. …Chiudi la bocca!


As you can plainly see, this thing is quite hideous. This McDonald’s prize from 1995 represents Peter Parker’s apparently dreadful fashion sense as he gallivants about New York City, hoping to get that elusive perfect shot for the front cover of the Daily Bugle. Maybe it’s the brown jacket I don’t like, zipped up so tightly it almost entirely conceals his red undergarments. He looks like a flasher, dammit. Add to that a utility belt either carrying camera gear, ‘spider’ gear, or gimp gear, and I truly do not want this man to take my photo.

Also, that camera is quite uninspired. It’s just entirely coated in an unhappy layer of black paint. Not even the scarcest attempt at adding a little colour for a lens, which makes it look suspiciously like one of those fake cameras that squirts water at you. You know the kind. It pissed Tom Cruise right off then, and it pisses me right off now.

And, to compound this frustration (and to begin three straight paragraphs with A words), the painting job at rear of camera is shoddy at best. The skin tones of Peter’s hand has spilt out onto the camera itself, causing the perfectionists among us to waggle our fingers in disdain. It could also possibly cause the deluded among us to fear that this is actually a horrifying display of Peter’s hand melting from mere contact with the camera. And though this is certainly the more exciting option, it’s hardly plausible.

Furthermore, why in God’s name has he got an arm raised skyward? Of course, you know the mechanic behind this, and if you don’t, persist with patience and ye shall be rewarded. But I mean, come on. The man is trying to take a picture. Why would he do this while shooting a fist to the air? Is it a curious gesture of ‘smile for the birdie?’, or is he dangling haphazardly from an invisible string in a daring attempt to catch his targets unaware? Or did he just take a particularly good photo that he’s chuffed as chips about?


I don’t know. But I’m sure Sarah Michelle Gellar Sticker is sick and tired of all these damned paparazzi. Though frankly, I’m sick of her. I’ve been trying to tear that thing off the bed head for years, but she refuses to go down without a fight. These damned feminist movements, they’re too empowering, you see.

…I totally didn’t intend on making a pun about a sticker not moving being caused by a feminist movement. That’s fucking fantastic. Additionally, this entry is so wordy it hurts. Don’t think I haven’t noticed this. Ouch!

But as the toy promises, every now and then (like when he sees a particularly attractive lady), Peter will feel his ‘spider-sense’ tingling. I sort of cock an eyebrow to this one, because although he can ‘do whatever a spider can’, at no point have I ever known spiders to be fucking clairvoyant. If they were, surely they’d be much better at avoiding being squashed by boots. …Or is it a self-fulfilling prophecy? Shit, now I’m confusing myself with spider paradoxes. I’ve never pondered such things before, and I’m alarmed to be doing so now.

Without further ado (and by ado I mean stalling), here is the manifestation of Peter Parker’s spider-sense.


Yup. I don’t get it either.

Evidently the spider-sense ravenously consumes half of Peter’s head, causing a sick amalgamation between mild-mannered photographer and daring web slinger. It looks quite painful, really, and it is a harrowing reminder of the burden that is Peter’s to bear. With great power comes great responsibility, and, on occasion, half of a mask will eat you.

You see, in my mind, this would be the more logical scenario for Peter’s arm to be raised. When he’s in a normal state, and either trying to take a picture, or just strolling around NYC, it just doesn’t make sense for him to be doing it. In the former instance, that would surely cause the camera to be unsteady and the photo blurred, and in the latter instance, Christ, you just don’t walk around New York with an arm up. People will think you’re crazy. Or that you want everyone to get a whiff of your new deodorant. In which case, you’re still crazy. You just smell nicer.

And that’s really all there is to this toy. He’s hardly up to the lofty standard set by his Spawn counterpart, the Clown, but I guess he’s kinda okay. I would be disappointed to have gotten him with my Happy Meal, though. It’s a Sad Meal for me.

I don’t know how I mustered over 900 words on this crappy thing. It must be the journalist within me, subconsciously triggered by Peter’s employment in the newspaper industry. That’s almost deep in a sense. Troubling, but deep.

As a final aside, if you position him just right, he looks like a mutated freak.

#0030: Manta Ray

Can't say I was ever a Transformers fan. I don't know whether I just missed out, or if the concept of robots battling each other simply didn't grab me. In any case, it wasn't until seven years ago that I discovered Megatron was the name of the enemy. Ouch!

I do, however, recall occasionally watching and enjoying 1996's CGI Beast Wars series. Because now, they were animals! And animals are fun.

To coincide with this exciting new chapter in Transformers lore, McDonald's introduced Happy Meal toys featuring the characters. The set included favorites like Beetle, Panther and Manta Ray.

...I have no idea who any of those people are.


In today's age of blatant false advertising, Manta Ray could be considered refreshing. True to her moniker, she has the ability to transform into a manta ray.

And by 'transform', I mean you can move a ray head either on or off over her noggin. And frankly, that's the loosest definition of transform I have ever come across. If I put on a Jack Skellington hoodie, I don't suddenly become the pumpkin king, now do I?

...

...No, I apparently do not.

Manta Ray features some particularly unambitious design. Her arms can be moved, and her legs can be turned outwards, which makes her look like she's doing a square dance. She has great big screws puncturing her boobs and nether regions like a robotic parallel to Jesus, and a grand tally of five different colours. One of those colours is black. Another is silver.

On the plus side, she looks pretty damn hilarious when you turn her to the side so she just looks like a ray with arms and legs. Like a crappy superhero, or a Lady Gaga costume.


The most interesting thing about this character is that, if I'm not mistaken, in Japan, Manta Ray is male. It's not dissimilar (double negative, ho-ho!) to English dubs of animes like Sailor Moon, where genders have been altered to overwrite homosexual relationships.

Does that mean that Manta Ray had a gay lover in Japanese lore? Manta Gay?

I dunno. But I am pleased as punch about how much material I managed to muster about such a simple little toy. I'm now looking forward to seeing if Manta Ray ever resurfaces (zing!) in the Transformers movies; be it as a female, a male, or something in between.


...Wait, why do the robots have genders?

#0021: Shameful Furby

So there I was; flicking through my bucket of old toys with a look of deep consideration upon my face. Each one with its own strengths and flaws, each with a story to tell. Which would I select for tonight? To be clutched for that fleeting, treasured moment, before being rejected into the harsh reality of society forevermore?

Suddenly, there is the thundering of little pawed feet. Before you could blink a particularly laborious eyelid, my dog had hit the scene. Apparently it was time for him to come in for the evening, and I was standing between him and a good night’s sleep. Now, I had to rush things along, lest my selection of playthings be the recipients of fervent gnawing.

After plucking out a multitude of Ninja Turtles toys (as if I would jettison them!), my hand landed wildly upon our subject. Suffice to say, I care not for this toy. Frankly, he pisses me off a little. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not exactly a lingual dynamo during the process of trying to relay the mediocrity that is the shameful Furby.


Aye, he should be ashamed, shouldn’t he? He’s not even a real Furby. Why, they laugh and dance and sing! They were the hottest toy on the market during the Christmas season of 1998, and everyone remembers where they were when they first met their Furby.

Fewer people recall with such fondness, the day that their Furby died. In my case, it was in the middle of the night after he had flown back to Australia with me. He awoke with a fright, spouting some garbled gibberish before declaring that the room was filled with monsters. His final moments were tragic, held upside down with a screwdriver lodged up his rectum as my father removed his batteries for good.

Perhaps because it was the presumed procedure, or perhaps as a gesture of mercy towards this dying creature, my dad had seen fit to stick his finger in Furby’s mouth during this ritual. That Furby, he loved them fingers. ‘Yum’, he cooed, before finally perishing.

…This is all very touching, but ultimately irrelevant to our plasticky comrade here. I note with a degree of sadness that his colour scheme appears to mimic that of this aforementioned ‘true’ Furby, a bastardised facsimile of a toy much more grand.


To his credit, the shameful Furby is not without his own ability. If you press his tail, his ears close over his eyes in a true display of misery. This is a curious ability for him to feature, because of all the things Furbies did, closing their ears was not one of them. True, they’d wiggle them back and forth as they sang ditties and demanded to play hide and seek, but nothing like we see here. Probably should have just gone with blinking eyes or a closing mouth if they wanted to stay loyal to the formula.

In the same way that Shakira’s ‘hips don’t lie’, all secrets of a toy’s true origins lie scrawled upon their ass. Out of curiosity, I took a good look up the clacker of the shameful Furby, and was met with a familiar discovery. This Furby was in fact a Happy Meal toy from McDonald’s.

So many years, so many eras of toys, so much McDonald’s. Why was I not a fat child? I assume it to be the blessing of fabulous metabolism: a quality that has garnered much jealousy from other, less fortunate people over the years, their chubby fists clenched in rage.

As near as I recall, one of the other toys in this line had wheels. Again, completely inappropriate for the things Furbies were known to do, but much more exciting than my Furby toy. Wiggling ears are tricks for eccentric grandfathers, I want a Furby who’s a motherfucking car!!


…Can you tell I lost access to Photoshop?

Finally, there’s something unshakable about this here Furby toy. It’s… his eyes. Though they don’t feature the hidden mysteries of the festive white bear, they’re simply unnerving. They bulge out of his skull, locked in an intense stare more deadly than that of the mystical basilisk. Furbies were always a tad bit creepy, but this guy right here? Oh, he’s not quite right.

With all these facts considered, I should feel lucky, perhaps even grateful that I was able to separate myself from the shameful Furby before it was too late. His lacking skill set made him disappointing initially, but now I have seen a side much more sinister.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m beat, and headed off to bed. Like my dog, I’m ready for a good night’s sleep…

#0004: Lowly Worm

Today’s featured fail is of a different standard of pity. Why, he’s a toy so tragic, even his name is a pox upon his very existence. In the so-called ‘busy’ world of Richard Scarry, he seemed to some as an ambassador to all things good. He was upbeat, pensive, wise and amiable. He was the kind of guy to whom you’d say, ‘well shit, I’m in trouble. Bananas Gorilla just burgled my store and raped my daughter. I NEED YOUR HELP.’

He was a worm of the people and a worm of many talents, but unfortunately, a worm who owned the unfortunate title of lowly. I’m speaking, of course, about Lowly Worm.


When I think of lowly, it’s usually in reference to floundering sports teams; the lowly Carolina Panthers, for example. And what sort of comparison is that to bestow upon your offspring through name? The Panthers went 2-14 this season! Their coach got the boot, their QBs wallowed in pathetic misery, and their running game was absolutely abysmal.

To name your own (and perhaps only?) son after such a term is not only cruel, it’s downright malicious. I guess that’s why he’s always hanging out with Huckle Cat instead of his own family; the dude hates those pricks.

Me personally, I always thought of Lowly as being kind of like the positive handicap stereotype. He gets around with only one leg just fine, and is able to play soccer, drive around and fly a helicopter. When I was a kid, I also found the surname ‘Scarry’ quite funny. Admit it, you did, too.

So the Lowly Worm toy. It’s a pretty unspectacular little toy, portraying Lowly driving in his trademark apple-car. The little stem on the top can point in any direction you choose it to, and Lowly looks so enthusiastic at the driver’s seat, he’s almost downright frantic. He’s also too solidly attached to the framework of the apple itself, making him look less like a worm, more like some sort of bizarre Muppet.


It’s a fun little fact about this particular toy, is that he had a damning way of sticking around during all of my little toy races. Like most children with no friends or hobbies, I would sometimes organise tournaments for my little toys, rigged carefully so that my favourite toy would always win. One of those was a series of races. No, I didn’t actually race them around, it was more like a distance thing, or endurance test; ie. Which toy rolled the farthest on this surface, or which toy didn’t fall into the pit of unspeakable horror (the toilet).

In Lowly Worm’s case, he’s so light with wheels so well made, he always seemed to roll further than everyone else, and even had a sixth sense about stopping on command. Dammit, he wanted to win, but I sure as hell couldn’t handle that. You look at the names on that list… Sonic the Hedgehog… Streex from Street Sharks… badass racing champions… then… Lowly fucking Worm?


He’s not supposed to be winning races, dammit! He’d be more inclined to stop inches away from an opponent before declaring that they should ‘play it safe’. The only time Lowly ever got up to any mischief was when he was hangin’ with that bad cat Huckle, and even then, it was more of a character inconsistency than anything else; Lowly only didn’t know better when it was imperative to the plot.

Whoa, am I actually analysing character development in The Busy World of Richard Scarry? A Sunday well spent.


For the more exploratory among you, one side of Lowly features open holes with screws assembling his apple-mobile, allowing you, if you so chose, to literally rip his car in two. I don’t know why you would want to do this, but I note with some amusement/alarm that this divide also cuts Lowly Worm in half. If you really, really hated you some Lowly, you could mess him up something shocking.

This deadly side to Lowly is also the business side, declaring the toy to be from the year 1994 (or as I call it, Donkey Kong Country year). Copyright of ‘Scarry II’.

Research doesn’t explain if the author of the busy world is indeed the second Richard Scarry, but it does reveal that he fought in the army during World War II. That’s awesome. Imagine Nazis being killed by a children’s author. Imagine Nazis being killed by Lowly Worm. Imagine Nazis being killed by Mr. Frumble.



…Too far? I thought so, too.

Amazon.com declares this toy to be 2½ inches and made of plastic, but its origin is sketchy. One seller says McDonald’s, but offers no definitive proof. If I cared more, I would do some in-depth sleuthing, but I’ve wasted enough time on this stupid thing as it is. For those who are wondering the kind of mega bucks I’m missing out on by giving my Lowly Worm away, one eBay user is asking for $21, or to ‘make him an offer’. I ‘offer’ him this advice:

Nobody is paying $21 for Lowly Worm, yo.

#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?

#0002: Robin Hood

It’s clear that, if a Disney movie is going to be a classic, it’s gotta be a musical. Where would Aladdin be without ‘A Whole New World’? Could Simba possibly be king without singing about how he ‘Just Can’t Wait’ to do so? And dammitall, Pocahontas was forgettable as shit, but David Ogden Stiers singing ‘Mine, Mine, Mine’ is an iPod favourite.

Then, there were the Disney movies that forgot this formula. The sad, bastardised Disney movies that garner less familiarity, more awkward cocked eyebrows.

I’m looking at you, Black Cauldron.

I’m looking at you, The Rescuers.

And I’m looking squarely at you, Robin Hood.


Alright, in fairness, there are smatterings of songs here and there, but they’re not the kind of ‘every character breaks out in song’ sort of shtick. In Robin Hood’s case, the singing is done primarily by Alan-a-Dale, voiced by Roger Miller. He also sang ‘Dang Me’, which was much better than anything contained in Robin Hood.

And if anyone dares to point out that there were songs in The Rescuers, I waggle a defiant finger your way while pointing out that these were not musical numbers, but in fact montages, as none of the characters themselves were singing the songs. If I paid for Eva Gabor as a classy mouse, then I paid for Eva Gabor to sing as a classy mouse, dammit.

And furthermore, if anyone else dares to point out that upon its initial release, Robin Hood garnered $9.5 million, the biggest box office total of all Disney films to that point, then I say… well, shit. You’ve got me there. But I shall press on, regardless.

So what of the Robin Hood toy? For one thing, I have to say that I quite like the Disney Robin Hood character, primarily because he reminds me of Fox McCloud, and a bit of Link, too. Their bastard child has always remained a likable character for me, though because I never really watched the movie a great deal, I never had any particular inkling to play with the toy much.


He’s a smidgen adjustable, as his arms and head can be moved to your delight, plus his hips can swivel around a tad, just in case your version of Robin Hood needs to be just that little bit more sassy.

One of his hands is in the shape of an accusatory pointing gesture, while in his other hand he brandishes a bulging sack of money. We can tell it’s money because it has a dollar sign on it. As far as I recall, Nottingham didn’t exactly deal in dollar figures, but we’ll let that slide, as it’s more of a way for dumb kids to know that it’s a money sack as opposed to a bomb satchel or his lunch.

It begs the question, though, where he got this sack from? I don’t recall the plot of the movie particularly, did he do all his robbing from neat little sacks? Or did he have it filled up with coins somewhere? If the latter is the case, then how come nobody grew suspicious when they saw him carrying a bag with a dollar sign on it?

The figure features horrible posture; Robin Hood’s upper body leans forward as though he’s about to pounce, but his legs are arced so far back you’d swear that he was sitting on an invisible chair. This makes him difficult to stand up, accentuated by his large, bushy tail, curiously the only fuzzy thing on him.

And in the razzle-dazzle world of toys, being hard to stand is a serious no-no. There’s little more frustrating to a child trying to set up his vision than one of his figures constantly toppling over. Every time you reset them, it’s with an infuriating adjustment of various limbs to try and decipher exactly what imbalance is causing this tumble, and, even worse, you risk knocking over the other toys, too!


If this blog ends up on Something Awful, it’ll be for shit like that last sentence there. The above picture illustrates Robin Hood fucking up my interpretation of Hamlet, by the way.
Point is, toys that stand about as well as a drunken lout are not popular playthings.

For the anal retentive (me), you’ll (I’ll) note with annoyance that the feather on his hat is left completely unpainted. It’s supposed to be red, dammit. I don’t know what yellow bird he killed for this feather, but it’s surely a crime.

I did a brief scan of the Interwebs, and it informed me that this toy was from a McDonald’s happy meal back in 1996. I had thought so, and upon confirmation, the first thought that crossed my mind was ‘how much is he worth now?’

On the rare occasion where someone has been trying to pawn him off, he has garnered 0 bids in two years, with an asking price of $1.29. Another website lists him as ‘HTF’, which I have assumed to mean ‘hard to find’, and again, no takers.

I told you, Robin. If you had just busted out a tuneski while you were laying the smackdown on Sir Hiss, you would have totally been a Disney golden child. But I suppose he’s suffered enough. There’s little more embarrassing than appearing in an animated Disney film, only to be forgotten by all but the most avid furries all these years later.

Personally, I don’t remember getting any particular amusement from the toy, other than one time where I got his tail wet. I don’t know why it was funny at the time, but if I recall later, I’ll edit it into this blog.