#0116: Toby

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#0102: Mario Kart Yoshi

'Welcome to Mario Kart', declares Tony, grandly entering the room with all of the levity of a six-year-old's birthday party. He has a hollow grin plastered on his face, and half-empty bowls of candy balanced haphazardly on each palm. Your first instinct is to scream at him, but you're far too shocked by his brazen disregard for your feelings.

You waited several months, again, for him to return, and he doesn't have the common decency to address his absence? Or the fact that he missed yet another anniversary for his poor, unloved blog?

Of course not! Because he's done that no less than four times already, and that shit is overplayed. So just enjoy the frivolity, baby, and look forward to the next blog entry, due sometime in mid-2020.

For today, you have a Mario Kart Yoshi to deal with. Ugh, another mouth to feed Tony, you fucking cad.

What do you expect? Once a hoarder, always a hoarder. And in my advanced years, I've been trying less to jettison old toys, and focusing more on my floundering career. Ostensibly, I'm a journalist. Literally, I'm a fucking dropkick. But that doesn't mean I can't pull an entry out of my ass every now and then like an old man with a startling disregard for his hemorrhoids.

There is no segue that could possibly recover that last paragraph, so instead, we'll just jump right into the fray. Whoa, nelly! There's a dinosaur driving a car! I haven't seen that in weeks.

Over the years, there have been a few different variations of remote controlled Yoshi toys. The most recent offering, based on the anti-gravity mechanics found in Mario Kart 8, is capable of literally driving up walls using what I can only assume is some kind of voodoo magic.

But back in my day, we weren't quite so lucky. Indeed, my history with remote controlled cars is rather dubious as a whole. I recall having one when I was about seven or eight. I drove it out on the driveway on the first day, and it just upped and died. Right there on the spot, it said 'no more of your shit, Anthony' and broke down, never to operate again.

I never did get a replacement, and it's probably part of the reason why I still don't drive to this very day. Too many haunting memories, you see.

It wasn't until some time circa 2006 that I dared try my luck again on the RC front, this time entrusting my fate with a spaced out lizard who is actually incapable of putting his hands on the wheel. I sure hope he's insured.

Purportedly, this series of toys was released in 2004 by NKOK, though it seems a bit odd to me that, based on the packaging, they would be modeled after Mario Kart 64, as opposed to the more recent Double Dash, or even Mario Kart Advance, for that matter. MK64 was old news by that point, with its successor, the flawed but amiable GameCube, well into its lifespan.

64 was probably the most iconic title, however, and lord knows that they weren't about to go to the effort of sticking Wario's fat ass on the back of a kart, so this is what we ended up with.

Despite Yoshi's apathetic driving style caused by his inexplicably movable arms, the model actually looks pretty spot on. Granted, it's hard to mess up a design as simple as Yoshi, but other than its dead-eyed stare, everything else is as it should be. You can practically hear it make that famous sneezing sound it used to do before Yoshi's Story ruined the character forevermore.

That's a discussion in and of itself, by the way. Feel free to message me if you'd like me elaborate, and/or text me some nudes.

What doesn't look quite as kosher, however, is the remote itself. There's no dials, wheels or knobs for you to fiddle with, instead featuring a mere two button system. As you may have gleaned from the arrows on said buttons, Yoshi is capable of going forward, or backwards while veering off to the right.

That's it. No hairpin turns. No loop-de-loops. He literally has the functionality of someone who is trying to parallel park.

With that in mind, it kind of makes sense why he doesn't have his hands on the wheel. After all, he's not planning on turning at any time, instead opting to barrel forward recklessly until he meets his demise like Thelma and Louise. It's among the most mind-boggling design choices I've ever seen in a toy, and it may even claim the top spot overall.

It's not so much remote controlled as just remote prompted. That sounds a lot less fun. And vaguely reminiscent of a mistranslation.

But hey, maybe in practice, it's actually quite amusing? Perhaps we can get him up to a sufficient speed to make it rather death defying? If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits 88 miles per hour, you're gonna see some serious shit.

Wait, what? I can't quite even work out what happened just now. Despite my thumb being pressed firmly on the forward button — a button which, by its very name, is intended for the sole purpose of moving forward — Yoshi decides to swing a right and take the off-ramp to Sacramento.

His tomfoolery is soon foiled when he hits a patch of grass and gets completely bogged. It was just as uninspiring as I had envisaged, albeit far more bewildering. Like going to a $5 stripper, and halfway through, she decides to stop and just eat her lunch instead.

I suppose it's only appropriate that all this time later, remote controlled toys are still finding a way to disappoint me. In turn, I shall continue to disappoint friends and family around me, keeping the perpetual cycle going forevermore.

...That wasn't meant to sound as sad as it did. If I wanted to put out a cry for help, I'd choose a lot less of an obscure format than a toy blog, to be honest.

#0072: Thomas and Friends

My fiancé asked me a question recently: it was, plain and simply, why our spare room is being cluttered with a bag of old Thomas the Tank Engine toys. Though I tried to state the honest truth; that once I had blogged about them, they were going to go off to charity, she countered with an argument that proved most damning to my cause. These trains are dirty, worn, and in some cases, chewed on by my dog, or possibly a small infant in the garage I was unaware of.

I had nothing. So sadly, I sit here today, a veritable executioner about to give the last rites before sending my dear old friend Thomas off to the train graveyard. There, he will hopefully take solace in the fact that he can collect 3 hi-potions and an echo screen. ...Mildly obscure reference.

Once upon a time, I lavished upon you a tale about Duck the Great Western Engine. In all truth, Duck was actually perched right atop the pile whereupon his compatriots were resting, but somehow he came out of the whole thing a little bit less worse for wear. After a bit of a wash, he was good to go, as long as your standards weren't lofty. Today's guests weren't so lucky. Let's take a squiz at the worst of the lot...

Dear God... why do you hate my trains? The titular Thomas and perennial asshole Gordon are truly on the threshold of death, their once shining blue hulls now encrusted with filth, and years of abuse at the hands of a ruthless Jack Russell rendering their chassises warped and useless. Frankly, Gordon had it coming, but poor Thomas? He deserved better than this. He's one of my oldest, dearest friends, he should have aged with dignity. But alas, we can't have everything. I at least pray they proved tasty?

Elsewhere at the station, my pair of Henry twins are, by comparison, not too bad. Why I owned two Henrys is a mystery to us all (in the hopes of increasing productivity, perhaps), but more curiously, these Henrys, 3 years apart in their creation, feature two similar yet different shades of green. True Thomas historians may declare this to have been a by-product of some sort of 'green paint scandal' running rampant at the time, but to me, it's a riddle. I like the lighter shade, personally. It's more festive. I like my trains to be festive, after all.

Donald and Douglas, trains who appeared in the second season, therefore I don't give a shit about, are dirty, but otherwise in great nick. Strangely enough, the troublesome truck is in absolutely perfect condition, not even a little bit dusty, and James is a little bit banged around, but still has that million dollar smile, and

- AAAHHH WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT

I don't even know who this is, but he looks fucking evil. Familiar faces Percy and Toby are nowhere to be seen, and instead I'm left with this sinister prick. I think he was a diesel engine. I should probably Google it, but it's actually kind of fun just assigning him whatever identity I choose. So henceforth, his name is Howard Bachman, he's the local drug peddler, and his passengers are 300 illegal eastern European prostitutes. ...I must confess, I now like him even better than James (who only carries a modest 75).

I have to say, I'm a bit disappointed with how little care I've given my Thomas toys over the years. I mean, had they not stayed in the garage, they would have been fine, but I had about sixteen years to retrieve them, so the fault is mine and mine alone. Could Thomas live on in some fashion, long after his haggard body has been tossed away like (Superted narrator voice) a piece of rubbish?

Maybe the answer is yes. Maybe the answer is no. I'm not sure at this point, but hopefully... someday... we'll find a way.

Oh wait fuck that, the answer is a resounding YES.

#0071: Bugs Bunny Limo

It's rare these days that you're able to tear me away from my 3DS long enough for me to make a blog entry, but I'll try my best not to get distracted... Though I must confess, there's a noise outside my window right now that was actually distracting me throughout the duration of that opening sentence. I might take a look, and bring my 3DS with me, just in case.

So many of the curios I share with you are devoid of any sort of backstory, and we find ourselves in that familiar territory today, as I unveil to you the sheer majesty of the Bugs Bunny Limo. It is fantastically bizarre, and I'm already struggling to piece together the words necessary to describe its splendour. The first three words that spring to mind, however, are 'what the fuck?'

What we have here, clearly, is Bugs Bunny in a limo. He sports a bow tie, and clutches a carrot closely to his chest, as if it were some kind of trophy. Yosemite Sam is the driver of this limo, and his expression is one of pure fury and hatred. I don't know why Sam is so vexed, whether it's because his nemesis has claimed this prestigious carrot award, or simply due to being stuck in traffic, but whoa nelly, Sam be pissed. He reminds me a little bit of Dr. Robotnik, but that's neither here nor there.

Thorough Googling (or Yahooing if you sleep with your sister) comes up with bupkis. There is another 'Bugs Bunny limo' out there; most appropriately a Happy Meal toy from 1993, but it is not what we see here. This fine automobile, circa 1990, definitely didn't come complete with a cheeseburger and fries.

I think it might actually be a pull-back car, since it makes the appropriate clicks when put in reverse, but it refuses to launch forward afterwards, leading me to believe that it's broken. Possibly another reason for Sam's fury. Due to this, its major function is now to roll in 3 centimetre increments, and to bemuse. It does one of these things much better than the other.

Beyond that, I've got nothing. It's got nothing, frankly, so don't blame me for not coming up with a more verbose way of describing it. So instead, I thought I'd point out an odd coincidence I noticed recently: my favourite Looney Tunes things both have to do with basketball. I loved Space Jam to bits (we all did, I know), and Looney Tunes B-Ball is a great game that would have gotten more attention, had it come out earlier in the SNES' tenure. Its main theme is splendid, and when blasted out of your speakers, makes even the Bugs Bunny limo look fucking PIMP.

#0059: Tweety Bird Airplane

In the inimitable words of the pilot of Star Fox 64’s Meteo Crusher, ‘I admit defeat.’

For today, we encounter a rare beast; a toy so dreadfully obscure and confounding, thorough Googling yields no answers. I have hopes (or fears) that soon after making this post, someone will cite their wisdom, share their story, and solve this mystery with the panache of Tin-Tin, but me personally, I got nothing. I didn’t even have an appropriate way of associating this thing into my playtime session due to it’s nature: ‘Oh look, Raph, here comes an airplane with a small bird on it – Cowabunga!’

So what do I have? I have, for lack of a better term, the Tweety Bird Airplane.

And it is exactly as advertised: a blue airplane toy with Tweety perched on the hood. And sure, that would be perfectly reasonable, except for one sinister question: Who in the flying fuck (pun only 12% intended) is sitting in the cockpit?

I’m neither a historian nor a Rainman of Looney Tunes lore, and this guy here, he is entirely unfamiliar to me. With his untamed red mane and square-rimmed glasses, he looks to all the world like an adult Chuckie Finster.

…But wait, what is this? A quick inspection of the young man’s buttocks yields a clue: copyright details I originally thought missing! So it would appear as though this was a Burger King toy from 1990… Wow, was I going to Burger King in the year 1990? Or was my dad just a big fan of kid’s meals?

Now armed with this crucial nugget of knowledge, my Google search shifts from searches about ‘Looney Tunes character red hair’ and getting 1,000 different results of fucking Gossamer, and focusing instead on ‘Burger King 90s mascot’.

…Bingo.

So this is the Burger King Kids Club Gang, a group of culturally diverse and politically correct friends who, if my recollection of 90s children’s advertising serves, are fit, active, healthy, promote safe sex and, coincidentally, eat every single meal at Burger King.

The Wikipedia article for the Gang is pretty thorough; it describes at length each member’s personality, as well as their ethnicity, for some reason. I mean, how exactly is that relevant? Do Jaws and Lingo have to sit at the back of the BK bus?

This particular ‘male Caucasian nerd with ginger hair and freckles’ is known as I.Q., and I can’t imagine him as having been anyone’s favourite. He’s the archetypical nerd, and if there had been a cartoon, he would probably ‘do machines’, or some shit like that.

He actually reminds me a fair bit of Arnold from the Magic School Bus, who in turn had a corresponding redheaded equivalent in Wheeler from Captain Planet, so perhaps this is the awkward middle phase, transitioning from wussy Jewish boy to environmentally-conscious heartthrob?

Gracious. What a thinker. Now that that riddle has been un-riddled, the only question I’m left with is, shit, why is I.Q. trying to kill Tweety Bird?

Personally, I can relate; I was a big Sylvester fan as a kid, so I’d revel in any opportunity to see Tweety squashed between a large piece of chalk, and what appears to be the Bible, but isn’t it a strange marketing ploy to represent one of BK’s mascots as a malicious villain? I don’t think there’s much room for interpretation here. You could claim that he is just really enjoying his flight, and is making a grandiose scientific declaration, or singing ‘Pure Imagination’ from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but you’d be stretching more than Mr. Fantastic himself.

Otherwise, the toy is bog standard. Its propeller spins, which is marvelous, and the wheels operate in order to make your dreams of I.Q. taking off and touching down complete, and I.Q. himself is removable, but is tragically a single plastic cast. So he can hobble around in his uncomfortable seated position like someone with really bad hemorrhoids, but little beyond that.

Me personally, I’m just chuffed as chips that I was able to unravel the origins of yet another stupid toy from the Bush administration. Could its ‘HTF’ nature render it invaluable? Frankly, I don’t care. I just know I won’t be missing it much after this.

Because fucking hell, I wish I had gotten Kid Vid instead. He was awesome.

PS: If you're hungry for more info on that crazy Gang like they hunger for burgers, take a squiz at this entry from Diary of a Dorkette: it's much more factually accurate, and not laden with swearing, unlike the blog of another fucker who shall remain nameless.

#0048: Sonic Turbo Challenge Road Race Set

To say that today’s entry is a difficult one to make is an understatement. Frankly, this may be the hardest in the long run, because this is a departure that was against my will. My hand was forced by the bitter wrath of God, and I fight back an outpour of emotion as I spit a Latin curse at the moon.

A primer: It is ironic that after my audacious claims in a prior Sonic-related post that I held the uncanny ability to collect any toy I truly wanted, it is later with that very same hedgehog that I find the exception to the rule.

There we were, strutting our stuff through a store. What was this store? I dunno, but I remember there not being many toys. I’d claim that it was a hardware store of some description, but then, there would be no toys at all. Unless it was a hardware store constructed by a man with the heart of a child, like Michael Jackson or Bud Adams. But I digress. Just a little.

And on this particular day, I spotted on the shelf a prize like no other. A prize that, in any other packaging, would have no doubt passed my attention without incident. However, this particular item was sporting my main man, Mr. Needlemouse. Yes indeed, it was the Sonic the Hedgehog Jeu De Course Sur Route Pour Challenge Turbo! And this was the amusing thing about growing up in Canada, everything was laden with French! But no; really, in my eye, it was the Sonic the Hedgehog Turbo Challenge Road Race Set. Or to be more specific, it was a box of cars with Sonic.


But alas! The parentals were steadfast. They would not be granting their whelp the box of Sonic cars on that day. At the time, I felt slighted to the umpteenth degree. Today, I grab that little bastard by the throat and tell him ‘how about you work 40 hours a week and buy it yourself? HUH?!’

What can I say, I’m a violent father. But it’s a retroactive violence against a younger version of myself, so it’s okay. It’s practically masochism. In fact, if you watch it juxtaposed against Ken’s theme from Street Fighter, it’s kind of fucking epic.

But I digress again. More so. The days would turn into months, and I don’t exactly recall how much the Sonic road race set (jeu de course!) weighed on my mind. Because this was 1994, and some serious shit was going on in the world. Some political stuff, some human interest stuff, some Donkey Kong Country stuff. So really, we were all probably a little pre-occupied.

To close the year on Christmas Day, one present stood out among all others. A little bit bigger, a little bit more significant, a little bit more radical. I’ll dispense with the suspense now, because you already know the substance, so it’s nonsense. Basically, I got the Sonic cars for Christmas. Life was worth living! There would indeed be a 1995, after all.


The concept was familiar; slot cars powered by a metallic connection to the racetrack, fed through the juice from a veritable army of D batteries. The little lights on the front of the car would illuminate when you pushed down on the throttle, and you could finally live out your fantasy of making Sonic peel about the course before your very eyes! …If, you know, Sonic was behind the wheel of a car. Like in Sonic & Sega All-Stars Racing, just without Billy Hatcher all up in your grill.

So understandably, as the logical six-year-old that I was, I instantly assumed that the goal was to make Sonic car go as fast as possible, and I jammed down on that button with fury. And he would zip so majestically, until he hit the first bend in the track, and skidded to a deadly halt, in a most un-Sonicly fashion.

What was this sorcery? Sonic could not go at supersonic speeds without crashing to his doom, ala Tommy in Tell Laura I Love Her? Would this mean that, for the first time in our lives, we would have to show restraint?

It would seem so, judging by the yellow car manned by my cousin, who was rounding the corners with ease and heading onto his next lap. In all fairness however, his car had a Tails sticker, it was bound to have better handling.

It was a daunting task, but I came to terms with it eventually. You see, kids these days don’t know how good they have it: they can just watch Cars to learn all about how to handle corners. Lightning McQueen didn’t hit our screens until I was 18 and behind the wheel of an actual car, at which point safe turning was useless advice to me.

In the end, I finally learnt something that day, and carefully accelerated on the straights, while easing the pressure on the turns. It was a hollow victory, because my cousin had figured that out right from the start, and had already completed the circuit eight laps ago.

It’s a little over seventeen years later, and I would most certainly love to recreate that pristine Christmas afternoon, but something is amiss. The aforementioned wrath of God, you were still pondering about that, weren’t you? Well, I’ll go one better than to tell you: I’ll show you.


Holy shit, my Sonic wheels have fucking melted.

Keen racing enthusiasts will note that this is detrimental to driving properties, and frankly, I have no idea how it happened. I mean, honestly: Australia is a warm climate, no doubt, but it’s not known for temperatures so scorching it will melt shit. And before you ask, no, this was never in the garage. It’s been sitting in the dining room since 1997, and I personally don’t dine in rooms hotter than ovens.

As you may have surmised, this effectively renders my Sonic racetrack inoperable. I mean, sure, I could possibly salvage the track and its components in the assumption that there are other slot cars that would operate on it, but surely, if someone out there has said slot cars, they most assuredly have tracks as well. The only thing they’re missing is a pair of palm trees, and I cautiously question the importance of that.

So out into the exciting world of landfill goes my Sonic track. I feel absolutely treacherous to dump something my parents so lovingly bought for me all those years ago, but what other option do I have? Really slow, awkward races where the cars bounce up and down as if they had a jack on the wheels? Screw that, Sonic is made for speed baby, he’d prefer to go down in flames.

And really, isn’t this an appropriate fate for a Sonic-themed racing set? No doubt it would have been pure degradation for the cars to have been ushered through the generations, once a hip, speedy toy, later an ancient dinosaur of plastic and metal. It’s like a proud racing horse that is relegated to children’s fairs in its advanced years.

Instead, jeu de course died in a blaze of glory. Look at it this way, we literally burned rubber. And that is pretty damned badass, no matter what way you spin (dash) it.

#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.

#0008: Duck

Kids are notorious for becoming obsessive about the latest craze and surrounding themselves with it, at the expense of their parents’ funds. These days, it’s crap like Ben 10 and Bakugan, things that I wouldn’t understand if I was given a complete thesaurus on it, but they make perfect sense to kids.

I was no different. I was on the Pokémon and Dragon Ball Z bandwagons a decade ago, and they came and went just like all the others. The price of admission to an Anthony birthday in 1995 was Street Sharx. One year later, everyone was going nuts about Space Jam toys. Or maybe I was the only one. Point is; I had legions of those damn things.

If you delve earlier though, past Sonic the Hedgehog and the Ninja Turtles, you’ll find my simplest, earliest fascinations. It was basically things that roll when you push them. First off, it was generic cars. And who didn’t love cars as a kid? You’d give your stationary toys a shove, and they’d tumble over and crumple like wusses. But cars? Man, you push them around, and they roll with it. They were like us. They understood us.

Then, it came to branded products. Hot Wheels didn’t quite catch on with me for some reason, even though it would have been the natural progression. Instead, I aspired to collect the things I saw on the television; I wanted myself an assload of Thomas the Tank Engine goods.

Today, we shall premiere this beloved series, with help from my good friend, Duck the Great Western Engine.


Ahh, Thomas. Just hearing the opening tune makes me feel giddy and nostalgic.

For a kids show, it certainly had an odd way of teaching us morals. In every episode, one engine would be our protagonist, and one of two things happened; either he was an arrogant prick who would get taught a lesson, or he was being picked on by other trains and had to show them who’s boss.

And seriously, there was very little in the way of character consistency. It didn’t matter who it was, every train was a dick at one point. Even the titular character was known to tease that little tosser Percy every now and then.

So it certainly didn’t instill any feelings of trust amongst our peers. Through avid watching of Thomas, we learnt to fend for ourselves, to pull our heads in or else face the wrath of God, and that trains are mean fucks.

Who is this Duck, then? I remember the episode when he premiered, one of the other trains (typically) made fun of him for being called Duck. Apparently his real name is actually Montague, and he’s called Duck because he… waddles. I don’t know. I don’t know why being called Duck because you act like a duck is any nicer than actually being named Duck, but if that’s what Duck wants then that’s what Duck gets.

(Eight instances of ‘duck’ in that last paragraph. I tried to slip that many in my Turtlecycle review as well, but it didn’t quite pan out)

Duck featured the unfortunate fate of being a later addition to the series (albeit the second season, but later all the same). Kids had already chosen all of their favourites, and about 95% of us had based our favourites on our most beloved colour. I was a James kid, because he was red and red was awesome.

In Duck’s case, he was a pompous little train of green. Oops! Kids had already hitched their wagons on Henry or Percy, and it’s not like Duck was much more endearing than either of those two.

He was an outsider. A misfit. A dog of the house of Montague!

Had it not been for my obsessive collecting tendencies back in the day, I doubt I would have acquired Duck for any merits of his own. I don’t remember him getting any playtime, and even if he did, he would have been getting rescued by James. James would have also had all of the superpowers, the witty one-liners and sex appeal. I projected everything I wished to be on that train, by god.


Forgive the nonconformist’s dirty face; he was a garage acquisition after all. The very first Thomas toys had stickers as faces instead of being modeled into the toy, and they would inevitably peel away after years of play and bath time fun, revealing the horrific truth that, under the façade of a grinning mug, they were indeed mere trains.

In Duck’s case, he was a fancy-schmancy edition with a real live face (well, not real real, of course. That’d be fucking creepy), and as such, other than some faded paint in places, a host of chipped flesh and filth ingrained within his being, he’s fared better than most.

I never understood what ‘GWR’ meant as a child. A quick squiz at Wikipedia reveals it as being an acronym for ‘Great Western Railway’, and in a few brief moments I have solved a mystery that plagued me for years of my youth. It was almost as infuriating as how Knuckles’ name was abbreviated to ‘K.T.E.’ in early Sonic games. Made him sound like a goddamn robot.


I’m sure that that very first episode I mentioned would have told us the origins of GWR, but I was a dumb kid who was probably waiting for something funny to happen, or for James to do something cool, or for Ringo Starr to say ‘toot toot’. Clearly my attention span wasn’t at the level required for a sophisticated program about trains.

There isn’t really much more to be said here, because we all know Thomas. He’s been done before. It’s not like I can form a lore about him, and my fanfic would be very blasé and uneventful (and likely jam-packed with James action).

So instead, let’s ponder on something I never quite fathomed. Why were the trains always looking… somewhere to the side? Were they manufactured with the intention of sitting next to one another, smirking a creepy, knowing smile at each other? Were you indeed supposed to navigate them in that direction, thereby condemning them to an eternity of moving in circles?


I’m looking at Duck and looking at him hard, but he’s not telling me anything. All I know is I feel unsafe about the concept of getting into a train that refuses to watch where he’s going. …But really, would I board a talking, self-conscious train who’s often up to mischief and occasionally crashing into things? I suppose not.

You know what else I’ve only noticed from taking these photos? Those faces are damned scary. How were we not terrified by these trains as kids? The way they’d smile, and their eyes would dart around suspiciously? It’s quite eerie. It’s shit like that that got Mulligrubs canceled.

Unfortunately for Thomas the Tank Engine toys, because of their necessary length, they were smaller than our other usual toys. I always hated height inconsistency, particularly when people were larger than passenger vehicles. If this were Zoolander, I would slam the display to the floor in fury.



“Come on, you lot!” whistled Duck cheekily, roaring into the station hours ahead of time. If the Fat Controller found out about this, he would be very cross.

“Come aboard, come aboard!” shouted Duck to the passengers at the station, “We’ve got a long way to go yet.”

“How am I supposed to get on this train?” pondered Dracula Don aloud, shrugging in dismay, “I paid ninety quid for this ticket. Fuck that shit.”

#0005: Turtlecycle

Somehow, as I cast these toys off into the great unknown, I feel as though I’m saving them, in a way. From an eternity of mediocrity and uselessness, to a future more fruitful. Perhaps they’ll become a child’s cherished plaything? Or maybe they’ll find themselves in the possession of an avid collector, to be proudly displayed upon the mantle? Perchance they’ll even be put to work in the salt mines, earning a hard life’s keep?

It’s hard, nigh impossible for me to say. But today… today stands out as even more of a rescue. This toy wasn’t scooped from the comfortable retirement of an air-tight plastic container in the laundry room like its reviewed brethren. Instead, it caught my eye while I was searching for a lost Vancouver Grizzlies basketball in the garage.

In case you’re wondering, the garage is essentially where my old possessions go to die. Everything is deteriorating out there, and each visit is more and more depressing. There’s my ancient stuffed Garfield, burrowed into by vermin. And there; there’s good old Elmo, caked under a layer of dust. And it’s hard to tell, but I’m fairly sure that sun-bleached tragedy was once Bucky O’Hare.

You could think of me as a saviour, plucking the forsaken from the rubble like the hand of God, or Moe Szyslak in that episode where Homer became a boxer. Like I said, I cannot say with any certainty where these toys will end up, but surely, it cannot be as bleak as the existence out here in the garage?

The victims are many, but I only had time for one.

So it was just like that, that I dusted off and gave a wash to the remains of the Turtlecycle.


You might think it’s disrespectful to the cherished Ninja Turtles franchise for me to make this tattered abomination the inaugural Turtles item. It’s dated, broken and incomplete. But dammitall, it was on its last legs, it was practically begging for redemption. Wolfman Leo and caveman Michaelangelo can wait. The time for the broken Turtlecycle is NOW.


Fantastic. Though my Turtlecycle no longer resembles the imagery on its packaging, the very promise that it once had makes me pity it more still.

Where to start? The marvelous slime-shooting slingshot? The inclusion of the National Turtle Quiz Jokebook? The insane Leonardo shouting ‘Turtles rule’ while wielding a trashcan lid, like the member of a cult? Perhaps I need not say anything at all. These things speak for themselves, really. If we’ve gained nothing else from this review, perhaps we should be happy to know that Leo is apparently batshit crazy. Like Westboro Baptist Church-type kookoo.

Also, don’t think that I didn’t notice that the figures in the inset are actually Raphael and Donatello, offering a whole slew of other questions. Wasn’t there a Leonardo available at the time? Is Raph slutting his ride out to all takers? DID HE DIED?!

…The latter was supposedly a meme. I just wanna be like the cool kids.


The reverse is perhaps even more enticing; if the wacky illustration didn’t hook you in, then this surely did: a bevy of Turtlecycle features. From ‘sewer saddlebags’ to ‘foot-ripping Hub Cap’, it’s all there and it’s all glorious.

The fact that you could also point the trashcan sidecar in either direction was apparently nothing to be sneezed at, garnering not one but two individual examples. Frankly, I didn’t think it was either that hard to understand or that incredibly exciting to make such emphasis necessary, but I’m not a child in the year of 1989 right now. For all I know, maybe that was the only thing worth talking about back then.

Take note that you save two pizza points for purchasing this product. Me, I never used any of those damned pizza points, but I reckon I would have accumulated enough to have been awarded something mighty special. It’s a shame, I don’t think I kept any of them, throwing them out with the rest of the packaging to be recycled. Some bastard at a recycling plant probably got rich off all of my pizza points.

And my favourite bit: the box tells us to collect all the Ninja Turtles merchandise ‘…or else!’


Talk about your pressure advertising!! It’s not like this was Goosebumps or Spawn, this was friendly, safe Ninja Turtles. Why threaten us like that?!
Between you and me, I never did collect all the accessories. I haven’t felt the ramifications yet, but I will have a little bit of trouble getting to sleep tonight.

Other than the unopened boxes of yesteryear, it’s hard to find this toy available in its entirety. Most of them are either missing the sidecar, the handlebars, or in my case, all the above. Plus, it’s a smidgen obscure for being one of the earlier ‘playsets’. Everyone wanted the much more prominent Turtle Party Wagon, or the iconic Technodrome. Ain’t nobody wanted a slimy motorbike.

As such, a Google search will net you less results about the enigmatic Turtlecycle than pages about a turtle’s life cycle. But maybe you’re into that.

Anyway, my Turtlecycle is in such a state of disrepair that there really isn’t much worth mentioning about it, so instead here are four turtley revelations I had while doing all my research on this toy.


1. What is the point in having a license plate on the Turtlecycle? It feels redundant; It’s not like it’ll be hard to identify the Turtlecycle if you got hit by it. It’s the GREEN MOTORCYCLE SHOOTING OOZE OPERATED BY GIGANTIC TURTLES. Even if there’s more than one of those in New York, there’s bound to be only nine, tops. It won’t take long to find.

2. Why is the Turtlecycle adorned with turtle shell gear? Did our beloved boys kill some hapless wannabe TMNT’s and fashion a bike out of it? I only shudder to think.

3. Not only is our sidecar missing, but judging by the two-decade-old sticky tape on the bottom, we must have snapped it off clean. Perhaps in the process of attempting their precious reversibility function? Blatant false advertising! They promised me reversibility and I got none. I want my pizza points back.

4. Did you ever wonder why humans always got scared shitless when they saw the Turtles in public, even though they’re so cute and cuddly? I’m inclined to think that it’s because they actually look like this costume.


Fuck, I’m running already.

Finally, if you’re wondering why I had a picture of Davy Crockett Raphael draped over the Turtlecycle, looking less like he wants to ride it; more like he’s challenging someone to an arm wrestling match, the answer is simple. Without the sidecar, this thing can’t balance for shit.

For your amusement, here is a brief video of me attempting to get him to ride. He’s either drunk, or safety conscious about his lack of a helmet. You decide!

#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?