#0111: Dragon Ball Battle Figures

If I may go on a personal tangent (and of course I may, it's my fucking blog), 2020 has been a great year for anime. Lots of solid premieres, plenty of compelling cliffhangers, and most significantly, my debut as a freelance blogger with AnimeLab.

It's just another feather in my cap as I continue to ascend towards career stability that eluded me for three decades, and I watched no less than 88 different programs in my exhaustive research. Dude, I get paid to watch and write about anime.

It has very little relevance to today's post, but it's as gratifying as filler can possibly be, particularly as the items in question were acquired during far darker days in my life. Maybe this is going to end up being a self-therapy session disguised as a blog entry? I've done much worse, and yes I'm referring to the talented fucking Mr. Cluck.

For about two and a half years, I toiled away as a staffer of EB Games. As is often the case, my colleagues were about the only redeeming factor in this nightmarish position. Upper management were a bunch of soulless ghouls, the customers ranged from awkward to repugnant, and every day, I stood there reminding myself that I held three diplomas, including a master's degree, only to end up in this dismal place.

I hark back to one interaction where I asked how to spell a customer's surname, only for him to respond with, "I don't know. I'm not smart, I dropped out of school".

Moral of the story? Don't study arts, become a fucking accountant. Plenty of career stability, and the cocaine flows freely.

Anyway, one of the minor perks was that I had free rein over unclaimed preorder bonuses when they were about to be jettisoned. Whether or not I had any interest in the product was irrelevant; shit was free, and gee whiz that made me moist.

To celebrate the release of one of the Dragon Ball games (either Xenoverse 2 or FighterZ, only Lord Beerus knows for sure), we received an armful of colourful capsules housing mystery contents of the Dragon Ball Battle Figures variety.

I never bothered opening them, as the primary purpose was merely having them, however today, I've elected to crack them open and unveil the prizes within. I hope I get a Krillin, or a Jeice, or a rolled up twenty. That last one is my favourite Z Fighter, incidentally.

Alright, it looks like a lot of interesting warriors who are very clearly not Krillin, but we'll persevere all the same. I can recognise Goku and Gogeta, and what appears to be a large red penis.

It's like all of my Christmas wishes came true at once!

So there they are, the battle figures in their splendour (I also added a suitable keychain to help them maintain balance, as well as proving a solid motivational tool). As suspected, we've got Goku and his fused alter-ego Gogeta, alongside the antagonistic duo Jiren and Janemba, the latter of whom apparently didn't get the memo about see-through stones.

On the note of those see-through stones, they act as a means of keeping the more dynamically posed figures aloft, but it also kind of seems like Goku's clambered atop a bar stool and is trying desperately to remember what he was supposed to order for Master Roshi. Five Cougars, thanks!

Meanwhile, Jiren is treading on ultimate boob squeeze territory, which is pretty much in line with his personality, if I recall correctly. That was Jiren's thing, right? He was strong, distrusting and incredibly into fondling breasts? If not, it was definitely implied.

Overall, I'd say that these gaffers are pretty much par for the course, as far as capsule prizes go, though they get bonus points for being particularly well painted and detailed. The Saiyan hair is pointy enough to take your eye out, and I'm partially considering holding onto it as an obtuse murder weapon.

The only enigma here is what this weird ass yellow substance is that was coating Gogeta. It smeared right off of his body and onto my fingers, and then subsequently, every surface I touched thereafter. It seems quite unsanitary, perchance an elicit lubricant he uses to ease himself into each battle.

Also pictured: a hidden phallus. Because one dick joke just wasn't enough.

All my money are belong to Nintendo

In case you were curious how my amiibo collection is going some five years later, let's just say that my overzealous spending habits...

have not become any more measured in 2020.

Also pictured: Goosebumps. Mah fravrit berks.

#0100: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Mini Mutants

Holy fucking shit.

I can't believe we finally got there. Since its inception in January 2011, INAKA has seen all kinds of weird, wonderful and occasionally woeful toys. Action figures, plushes, video games, figurines, books, board games, and even a godforsaken finger puppet.

Though it started off with a lot of steam, I lost momentum as the years went on. Some months would see the posts coming heavy and hard, while others would go by without a peep. But through a concerted effort between all of the team members (me, myself and I, the latter of whom is an asshole), we made the push, and we arrive, at long last, at #100.

It feels special. It feels bizarre. Man, it feels like a woman.

Who knows what lies ahead? It all comes down to how much free time I have, really. You have to understand, that every moment I'm spending on this blog is time that could feasibly be spent doing something more productive. It's the rigors of adulthood, and it gnaws on my conscience like a ghoulish wraith.

But enough of the preamble. The fact that that last paragraph didn't have a single joke makes me feel uneasy. When we hit the midway point, I saw fit to send the mighty Ripster puppet on his merry way. He remains one of the largest offerings I have put upon the pedestal up to this point, and I knew it would be hard to top that. So instead of trying to locate something bigger, I went the other way. I opted for smaller. More plentiful. Maybe a little too Raph.

Ladies and gentlemen, these are the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Mini Mutants.

Crikey, that's a mouthful.

Miniature playsets were something of an acquired taste back in the day. Though their diminutive stature made them more affordable than full-sized locales, their actual usage was fairly dubious. They were so wee and prone to going missing. Should you look away for just a moment, they would make a break for it and dive into the folds of the couch, never to be seen again. I assume it's similar to having a newborn baby; it's just upsetting every single time.

Despite this, the Mini Mutants became a must-have in my life, and I was the lucky recipient of oh so many playsets. Each of them came with their own unique themes and the appropriate figurines within them, ranging from staples like the Technodrome and the Turtles' home in the sewers, all the way to more obscure things like sporting events and a motherfucking war.

I can't really be certain of how many Mini Mutants sets I acquired, because more of them are AWOL than present. One of them was inside of Raphael's sai, another was connectable in a manner similar to the world of Sodor. And I know for sure that I had that Tokka Technodrome. It'll be super awkward when I locate it decades down the track and I have to messily shoehorn it into another blog entry.

Or maybe I'll just edit this one? I'm pretty shameless, after all.

Oh look, heads! I do like heads. These are the surviving Turtle-Tops; Michaelangelo's Adventurer Playset, Raphael's Baseball Playset and Leonardo's Mutant Military Playset. The completionist in me is seething with rage that I never acquired Donatello's Basketball Playset. Not that that would have actually finished the collection, but having three out of four Turtles just feels friggin' wrong. Not nearly as wrong as the fact that the basketball figurines had four fingers on their right hands, but wrong all the same.

Before we venture in, I'll take a moment to remind you who you're dealing with here. If you want to see these items in their full glory, I recommend you venture over to a more respectable blog like the Sewer Den, where these things are treated with dignity and reverence. I'm just a higgledy-piggledy motherfucker who misplaces crucial elements a day after receiving them.

But most of it is there, and that definitely counts for something. That's the same justification that got me through six years of university, after all.

First off is the Adventurer set. With its mysterious theme and abundance of traps, it would have been my absolute favourite had it included Raphael. Without him, it felt distinctly lacking, and it lost serious brownie points as a result. Sure, I could have just put one of the non-safari Raphaels in there, but it wouldn't have been the same. For one thing, he wouldn't have been wearing a hat, and that's just not sun smart.

There's a whole lot going on here, and many of the pieces are thankfully still intact. The ancient civilizations erected a monument to Rocksteady in the lower segment, but eager explorers who venture into the basket will be sent into the deadly viper pit below. Their only hope for escape is a nodding crocodile to fling them aside. It's a bit Trainspotting, actually.

It's not much safer up above, however, as Leonardo is soon to discover the folly of disturbing the ancient jewel. Should he remove it, the floor will collapse and he will plummet from a deadly height of two inches. Over to the side, there are a couple of chambers that house untold wonders. One of them was an unrelated Leo figurine that I had forgotten about. He suffocated decades ago, obviously, but it was a nice surprise all the same.

Alas, the Turtles have returned to find that the world has fallen into great conflict. Welcome to the Mutant Military playset, soldier. You fight for your country. You fight for your people. You fight for Baxter Stockman.

This one was a little more cramped than other sets, due to so much real estate being taken up by the flying disc apparatus below. To make up for this, it really does fly, and it is fucking satisfying. Wind it up with a click, click, click, press the switch and whoosh! Away it goes, majestically soaring into the air. I don't know what militaristic purpose it served, but in all fairness, I have never joined the army. It's probably on a need-to-know basis. Also, I probably shoehorned too many onomatopoeias into this paragraph.

Private Porknose Bebop is outnumbered as he tries to fend off the Turtle menace, but one of his guns is bent, which makes aiming very difficult, and also looks very silly, to boot. Lieutenant Leonardo lays in wait nearby, brandishing a weapon/speed camera that fell onto the floor immediately after I took this photo. As it is the same colour as the carpet, I have accepted the fact that I will never see it again. I hope he put it to good use.

Last but not least, Pro Pilot Raphael has climbed aboard his aircraft and is ready to go. He has his oxygen mask on because he is safety conscious! However, it is entirely superfluous as his cockpit is completely exposed, suggesting that it would never reach altitudes high enough to risk hypoxia. Further, the propellers are positioned in such a way that he can only actually go upwards, which would prove useless in an actual dogfight. Should he be a Pro Pilot as advertised, he would surely realise this before even attempting a takeoff.

...No, you're overthinking my Ninja Turtles toys.

We move onto my most treasured set. It holds this lofty position for many reasons, and yes, one of them is because it starred Raphael. If it's possible to have nepotism for Ninja Turtles, then I have achieved this.

Beyond that, however, it also has a hilariously dangerous feature in its spring loaded baseball bat. Pull it back, and it will send the little red balls careening across the dining room and into your uncle's bowl of soup. Is that a home run? Or just unsanitary? It's up to you, but it sure makes Raphael's job as outfielder borderline impossible.

I find it kind of strange that they relegated Raph to the outfield, by the way. If he's the main man on this squad, you'd think he'd have been given a more glamorous position. Donnie's the pitcher, while Mikey plays the role of catcher, as I have carefully illustrated here in this photo. Once upon a time, a full-sized figure dubbed him the Grand Slammin' Raph, so I guess he's mostly here for his offensive prowess. I wonder where I would put him if he was DH? There isn't a dugout, as near as I can tell.

The set is loaded with plenty of places for the baseball to go, from a fully functional pipe to a series of holes lining the ground that will mercilessly gobble up foul balls. I also found that they were a perfect size for getting stuck up your nose.

...No, I'm not even fucking kidding. I have no idea what I was thinking, especially since I was six or seven and knew better than to be shoving things in my schnoz. Most likely I thought it would be funny if I walked into a room with a baseball in each nostril, but I inexplicably forced it further than necessary and freaked out when I couldn't extract it.

My mother had to pick it out of my nose as I bawled loudly. I suppose from that day, she realised that I would never become one of the world's great thinkers. Or a baseball player.

Here are the miniature Toon Turtles that now find themselves homeless. Remember how I alluded to 'connectable playsets'? I have since ascertained that they were in fact known as Bodacious Battlesets, and more startlingly, I actually owned all four of them. Long ago, Toon Turtle Leo, Mike and Don used to roam the streets of New York, while the fourth slot was reserved for Shredder and Dimension X because nobody liked Raphael, right?

Except me. And everyone. Dammit Playmates, just give us five if you're so keen on including Shredder. I should send them a strongly worded letter, demanding my Raphael Bodacious Battleset. They'll either give into my demands, or send a pair of orderlies to come and take me away. It's win/win, really, as I wouldn't mind the company.

Despite the fact that the City Wars playset where he resided is nothing more than a series of fragments and memories, Toon Turtle Leonardo can take solace in the thrilling concept that he is the only figurine who still has both of his weapons intact. With his silly blue katana safe and sound, you can see the elation in Leo's face. Mikey's only down to one nunchaku, but he's still having a hoot thanks to his upbeat attitude and the fact that he is high as balls 24/7.

But not Don, unfortunately. Not even his beloved Turtle Blimp can cheer him up, for his bo staves are much like Pauline Hanson's groceries; just gone!

This eclectic mix of fellows has no particular meaning, but this entry is already atrociously long and I figured it would be quicker if I just threw as many together as I could. Hence, we see Movie Star Mike and Movie Star Splinter being downright abusive to Shredder and his friends. They were just trying to have a nice picnic on this lovely, sunny day, when Mike came rolling in on a motorbike with a gun attached to it and began blasting blindly at everyone.

Most of the shots hit him in the back of the head due to poor ergonomics, but at least one was enough to send poor Bebop into the trash. Soon, Splinter descended atop a helicopter brandishing a bow and arrow. How he survived the propellers is anyone's guess, but he definitely means business. Shredder is agog, and Krang's Android Body is playing dead.

Did you enjoy that scenario? I fucking hope so, because it was a nightmare to set up. I have unsteady hands at the best of times, but trying to position fiddly little toys that are particularly fond of falling down and knocking the others over in the process truly tested my nerves. How in god's name do people build model ships inside of bottles? Is it easier when Bebop isn't involved?

Meanwhile, Movie Star Raphael is so good, I have two of him. You may choose whichever one you like better, but in my humble opinion, it's easily the one on the right. He's holding his trademark sai, while the other one is wielding the time scepter, which implies that he's from the third Ninja Turtles movie. Sha-wing!

And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Over 2,000 words of exposition on Mini Mutants. Honestly, you deserve no less for sticking with this blog for seven and a half years. The scary realisation is dawning on me that with each passing month, I edge closer to the point where I could feasibly have kids of my own, at which point we reach a crossroads - do I continue shedding excess toys? Or do I pour them upon my offspring in a well-intended but possibly hazardous gesture of gratuity? The answer probably lies somewhere in the middle, because in all honesty, they probably wouldn't want Ugly Laser Man any more than I do.

So thank you, adieu, and cowabunga, motherfuckers.

"Wait, he didn't talk about us! I feel shortchanged here. Do I mean so little to him?"

"Yeah yeah, Donnie, nice puns... But who in the hell is this guy?"

"Hey there! Do you fellas wanna come over to my place?"

"I have pizza!"

#0096: War Planets

 

When you're a kid, you just kinda... have stuff. For whatever reason.

Sometimes it's an impulse buy from your parents, desperate to appease your insatiable hunger for consumerism, while other times, you're drawn in by the sweet aroma of a particularly compelling commercial. Whatever the case, we all had the occasional toy of unknown origin from a series you didn't have any particular affinity for. Unless you were poor, in which case you just had specks of dust. Even then, some specks were better than others.

Today's specks of dust are these rather obtuse War Planets. Evidently, this was a late '90s toy franchise that spawned a TV show with character designs from Brendan McCarthy, formerly of ReBoot. The toys never really gained much traction and the show was short-lived, but despite all these factors, I ended up with not one but two of the eponymous planets of war. Allow me to take you on a trip to Bone Planet and Ice Planet.

Side note 1: I really had to force myself to use the term 'eponymous' in that leadoff. In actual fact, I much prefer 'titular'. Must be the 'tit' that does it for me.

Side note 2: "Allow me to take you on a trip to Bone Planet" sounds like the worst pickup line ever.

The narrative of War Planets is fairly self-explanatory, focusing on the ongoing struggle for galactic supremacy, with the occasional handshake armistice between parties to help shake the narrative up. Despite its tentacular exterior that threatens to molest oncoming spacecraft, Bone Planet is purportedly a heroic nation, and according to the Shadow Raiders wiki, part of the Alliance against the wicked Beast Planet.

Fuck Beast Planet. Hate that guy.

If you're unimpressed by the first photo, you'll be pleased to know that the planets are merely a precursor to the true wonder that lies within. Deep within the core of your War Planet are a bevy of aliens, ready to do battle with a wide variety of weapons and creatures. Does this imply that all War Planets are hollow? If we dug deep enough, would we happen upon the subterranean kingdom of Atvatabar? Will anyone actually understand this incredibly vague reference?

No time for answers, dammit, we need to crack our planets open and feast on the goo inside.

Whoa, that's a lot to unpack. Quite literally, actually, as it took around seven minutes to even set this stupid photo up. My dad walked in during the process, and asked me if I was working today.

"Clearly, I am!" I hissed, slamming the door shut before I continued to prop up my tiny little monsters in a manner I deemed aesthetically pleasing.

From what I can glean, the Bone Planet is a bit of a loose cannon, only entering the Alliance out of a convenient place of mutual interest, while masking their true intentions of double crossing everyone else at the last minute. In that sense, they're rather similar to the Forsaken legions of the undead from World of Warcraft, or North Korea if you'd prefer to be a little bit more on the nose.

There's beasts and cannons aplenty, and it was quite the nightmarish task to unearth all of these pieces from the toy chest and ascertain what actually belonged to the Bone Planet. If it was fairly green and vaguely lumpy, it was probably Bone Planet. Or infected.

I appear to have been so fond of Bone Planet that I acquired supplementary pieces, as there are some characters and vehicles that weren't included with the original set that look a little bit more yucky. I don't have any recollection of enjoying it this much ("they like War, they like Planets... One kid seems to love the Bone Planet"), which leads me to believe that it was in actual fact my father who was the Bone Planet fanatic. Holy shit, that phrase really rolls off the tongue.

And yes, I do intend on saying Bone Planet as much as humanly possible. It's what Bone Planet would want me to do. It's also really good for SEO.

Brr. This is Ice Planet. Hopefully their frosty reception doesn't give you the chills, they're just known to give the cold shoulder. Yes, I'm fully aware that that was a terrible sentence, and nowhere near as funny as the concept that Bone Planet is a euphemism for sex.

Ice Planet has a myriad of tiny blue denizens toting firearms, as you might expect. I particularly like the crystal spiders, but the missile turtles aren't without their charm. Particularly the one on the left there that appears to have stuck its nose right up another one's ass - he's tons of fun!

There aren't as many projectiles on offer in this set (disappointing if you particularly enjoy shooting your younger siblings in the eye), but they do have a sweet blue automobile that appears to be too small for any of the local fauna to fit into. This leads me to believe that there is a tiny unseen race of beings that operate this vehicle, or the people of Ice Planet are actually clowns, and they miraculously squeeze an entire group in there to great comedic effect.

Truth be told, I never waged war between my planets. I just believed in the sanctity of the peace treaty that much couldn't come up with enough things for them to do. Such is the plight of the miniature figurines; they're just not as hale and hearty as your hand-sized toys. For this reason, I also put a great deal of thought into how I would tag this piece; 'figurine', or 'action figure'.

Dictionary.com defines an action figure as "a toy figure with jointed, movable limbs, representing a character in a cartoon, movie, etc., or a real person or animal, often one known for exciting action or extraordinary powers."

The War Planets collection fit most of these distinctions, particularly their 'exciting action' or 'extraordinary powers', but it's worth noting that several of the pieces have no jointed, movable limbs to speak of. To this end, Reis O'Brien of The Spruce Crafts delegates them as figurines; "often small, sculpted and painted representations of personified characters like superheroes or movie characters. They have no moving parts."

The sizing is also consistent, as O'Brien goes on to note that figurines range "from extremely miniature (6mm model train figures) up to approximately 6 inches. Anything larger is generally considered a "statue.""

Or my penis. Ho ho ho.

In the end, I just said fuck it and chucked both tags on there. I'll allow you to argue amongst yourselves as to which is the more accurate delineation. Odds are, you'll find yourself a mutual enemy more worthy of your rage before too long.

#0094: THINKChip Pokemon Battle Stadium

I try to strike a balance on this blog as I send yesteryear's paraphernalia into the ether; the major impetus, obviously, is to select things that may be of some interest to the wider toy-collecting demographic. Folks out there tend to get a kick out of items related to popular '90s fads like Street Sharks. Less so when it's a pig I made from a sock. Go figure.

The other side of the coin, I must confess, is how much benefit I will receive from jettisoning these toys. Not fiscally, mind you, because I've made no more than a $4 return for Madden NFL 2005 on the DS (I legitimately had to argue with the staff member over trading in SmackDown: Just Bring It, as if it was carrying an ancient curse). Nay, the benefit I receive is slightly less clutter, hence why I've been trying to up the ante lately by turning my attention towards more unwieldy items.

It From the Pit no longer haunts the laundry room. Rock & Roll Elmo has ceased from tumbling out of the closet. And hey fuck you, those Gashapon figurines took up more space than you'd think.

So today, we shed the THINKChip Pokemon Battle Stadium. Now, the only battles we shall enjoy are the ones of our mind.

Two men enter. One will be blessed with immortality. The other, ripped piecemeal by the gnashing of a thousand bloodied fangs. Gotta catch 'em all!

Based on principle, this was one of the more relevant pieces of Pokemerchandise. You pitted your beasts against one another in the form of detailed figurines with a microchip lodged up their rectum. You could choose between a standard or a special attack depending on the type matchup, then press the button to stop a light on the floor as close to the middle as you could to maximise damage.

That made very little sense in hindsight, and I'm the one who wrote the goddamn sentence. It's all a bit much to explain it, so let me just refer to YouTube for further information. It's win/win, really. They get the extra two and a half clicks that come with my blog, and I cut approximately 800 words off my total. That gives me more room to say 'fuck', and that's very important.

Well, that sure was fun! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb!

There were a couple of issues holding it back from being a rollicking success, however. If you've recently read my entry on the B.I.O-Bugs, you can probably guess one of those issues already (if you haven't, well fuck you you're not invited to my slumber party). For you see, it's all well and good to have these fancy electronic devices where you could trade data and battle your friends and rellies, but the odds are, nobody else is going to own a single figure to justify it.

So what was I going to do? Invite people over to play with my battle toy thing? How do we decide who gets which Pokemon? They're mine, after all, I earned them through hard work/wise investment/pleading with mommy and daddy. So to be perfectly honest with you, I don't think I ever actually engaged in mortal combat with anyone other than myself, and remarkably, all of those matches were gerrymandered to ensure that Bulbasaur would always win, because he's my boi.

These were all of the Pocket Monsters I managed to collect. As you can see, it's a fairly conservative figure (pun? Maybe?). Squirtle and Geodude came with the stadium, and near as I can recall, tracking down the others was an absolute nightmare. Bulby and Charmander were must-haves, because damn those Kanto starters make me moist, but I never got around to amassing anymore. Either I reasoned that I had plenty of time to find the others, or I saw the writing on the wall and knew that I would hardly ever use them. I kinda doubt the foresight on the latter.

Only during my current investigation have I discovered that they actually went as far as releasing a few gen 2 critters like Cyndaquil and Totodile, but had the audacity to deprive the world of Venusaur. Clearly, they reasoned that Ivysaur was already too overpowered, and they would have to suppress its potential before it overthrew the Indonesian government.

As you can see, the figures look really damn good. You can even move Geodude's arms around to help boost his street cred. The actual functionality of this is probably to make him a lot less fragile as you haphazardly yank him to and fro. Even if you ended up snapping off a limb, that would be fine - because let's be honest, nobody was using Geodude to begin with.

Once again, any intention I had of taking my THINKChip posse for a spin was put on indefinite hold once I opened up the battery compartment. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times; take your fucking batteries out of your fucking toys. They're mean old pricks who demand your constant attention, and if you leave them to their own devices (or more accurately, your devices), they will leak aggressively.

Is it irreparable? Probably not. Is Tony going to repair it? Oh hell no. He's got more important things to do! He hasn't worked out what they are yet, but he's well aware that he's got to do them eventually.

In any event, you'll just have to venture over to YouTube for any battle fixin's you were craving. There's a fair few. Some of them are fairly cringey, I must confess, whereas I'm fairly confident that mine would have only proven to be mildly cringey (and rigged as fuck, because you know that everyone is jobbing to Bulbasaur).

So thank you, THINKChip Battle Stadium, for being there through thick and thin, during some of the greatest times of my life, and some of the worst. I'm not suggesting that it was super supportive, I just mean that it was literally there, sitting around. Doing jack shit. A bit like its owner, actually.

Addiction renewed, part 2

...nuff said.

#0086: Pokemon Gashapon Figurines

After the raging success of the last entry (I asked the serial killer who occasionally visits my bedroom what he thought. He described it as being 'pretty cool', then proceeded to remove another one of my organs), I surmised that we ought to continue embracing the frenzy of Pokemania. Today, we're going much more minuscule, and for once, I'm not even dipping into my usual fallback of McDonald's-related merchandise.

These nifty Pokemon Gashapon figurines are not only tiny and adorable like a Colombian prostitute, but I think I could eat them all without even a single episode during the digestion process. Sorry, all that talk of McDonald's made me hungry.

I have had many dalliances with Gashapon machines over my thirty miserable years on this earth. Though not every toy vending machine falls under that branding, you're pretty much getting the same thing from all of them; wee little trinkets that you'll probably throw in the bin shortly thereafter, or in my case, store in a drawer at your dad's place for a decade, for reasons unknown.

One of my most vivid toy vending machine memories came when I used one that was dispensing rubber bug toys. I received something with big mandibles that resembled a stag beetle, which is fairly unspectacular by most accounts, but the main reason that I remember it is that I somehow broke the container in my feverish attempt to wrest my prize free, cutting my hand open on the jagged plastic. Think of the most gruesome death you've ever seen on The Walking Dead. It was basically that, but worse.

Fortunately, this happy trio is yet to cut me open. It consists of Turtwig, Chimchar and Piplup, the starting Pokemon from Diamond, Pearl and Platinum. For various reasons, gen 4 doesn't receive a lot of love; the victims of Pokefatigue and perhaps less ambitious than they should have been, they are still, of course, fantastic games that don't deserve a lot of the flack they catch. That kind of vitriol should be reserved for gen 7. Ho ho! Controversial.

Turtwig et al play merrily below an unspectacular tree, the ground dotted with several holes that suggest there was once some kind of apparatus to stand the figurines up. Of course, such an apparatus remains only a telltale whisper on a scandalous wind, so its veracity is dubious, at best. That there is fancy talk for I dunno where the fuck them things is at.

Don't worry, boys. We've all been there.

The figurines are unfathomably small, to the point where if you were to give them a whiff, you'd risk snorting them directly up your nostril. As such, any kind of aromatic pleasure you hope to receive from them is a fool's errand, and is best reconsidered. They have an admirable amount of detail, from Chimchar's cheeky monkey grin to Piplup's plumage. I bring attention to the latter because it has these white dot things on its chest that look all too much like nipples. Frosty penguin nipples, for all the world to enjoy. ...Did you enjoy? I thought they were okay.

What I can't help but wonder, though, is what purpose they are meant to serve. Not only are they incredibly losable (which is apparently a real adjective and that makes me very happy), but they don't really do much of note. They are more ornamental than anything else, and once you lose the pegs to actually make them stay put, as I am wanton to do, they don't even perform that task particularly well.

If you intend on flipping the script, pointing an accusatory finger my way and demanding to know why I bought them in the first place, my extravagance is already well-established. You are, after all, reading the blog of a man who bought this, these, these and this. Your words can hurt me no more than I can hurt my own bank account, so neener neener neeeeener!

I also have another Gashapon critter in my possession, but this one is even harder to explain.

Yes indeed, that there is Mr. Fancypants Darkrai, still in his original packaging and coming complete with a transparent Ash Ketchum boy toy of his very own. He comes from the Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Blockbuster line of Gashapon figures, and I can only surmise that this refers to the fact that they all had a movie about them at some point. I know for sure that that was the case with Mew, Lugia and Entei, each of whom are also included despite the fact that they have nothing to do with Diamond and/or Pearl, but the rest I'm not so sure of.

In fairness, there have been approximately 195 Pokemon movies, and most of us checked out mentally during the first one when the conflict between good and evil was resolved with tears. I was nine at the time, and as I sat there in the theatre with my dad, I couldn't help but feel ashamed by how lame that was. WHY WAS MEWTWO UPSET BY THIS DESPITE THE FACT THAT THIS WAS HIS INTENTION THE WHOLE GODDAMN TIME? BY HITTING CAPS LOCK I LOOK LIKE EVERY INTERNET COMMENTER AND WOW, IT'S A LOT MORE SATISFYING THAN I EXPECTED.

Darkrai is of a more serviceable size, but despite this utility, I kept him imprisoned like a particularly off brand version of Han Solo. And you know what, I really can't begin to tell you why. It's not like I was dismayed that I hadn't gotten Jirachi instead, choosing to cast Darkrai aside in an effort to show him that he's not pretty enough.

The mystery is so deep and complex, I think I'll keep him in there as I send him off onto his next chapter in life. Someday, someone more benevolent than I may decide to release him from his stasis, or the cycle will continue forevermore; a perpetual loop of ghastly misery.

As for Turtwig, Chimchar and Turtwig? Man, fuck those guys, they won't even stand up long enough for me to snap a decent photo. As if I care where they end up.

...Spoiler alert, I actually do kind of care, because I'm vaguely hopeful that someone really will either eat or snort them up. I don't know why I'm this way. I just am.

#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.

Addiction renewed, part 1

So what happens, you may be asking, when a blog dedicated to clearing space and moving on in life comes to a stall?

...Addiction sets back in, of course. And because I've arbitrarily made the commitment to never get rid of any toys unless they're in the guise of this blog, there's only things coming into my possession, when it's supposed to be the other way around.

But hey... I hope you enjoy my amiibos!! I certainly do. I wonder if they're the only item that's rapidly multiplying? Stay tuned...

amiibo and Me

To cap off what has inadvertently become Pokemonth, I thought I'd show you another one of my wee little purchases. As I had alluded to earlier, Nintendo's got a hot new toy on the town in the form of the amiibos. If they were just figurines, I could have resisted. However, the fun integration they have with Wii U games shows a lot of promise. I've only been able to test it out on Smash Bros, but I'm looking forward to seeing what else they are capable of.

That's my boy, Pikachu. With each battle, they grow in level, learning new techniques and traits along the way. After a few skirmishes where I smacked the little yellow guy around, he began to wise up. I came at him with a dashing attack, something he was previously quite vulnerable to, and shock! He sidestepped my assault, grabbed hold of me and flung me off the stage. After the KO, he taunted, just like daddy. Aww. ...Daddy's a dick. And now he is too. I love him.

Anyone else investing in the amiibo frenzy? If so, who did you select? A marvellous Mario? A legendary Link? An alliteration-absent Wii Fit Trainer? Show us your haul!

#0079: Thomas the Tank Engine miniature playsets

When I was a wee sprat, I went apeshit for playsets. For as much fun as it was to have my toys galavanting about the house and leap from couch to couch, or for them to wander the unknown territory of the backyard (I lost a Bebop figurine out there for a solid year), playsets allowed us to put them right in their element. Fuck you, creativity! For I have the Technodrome.

Rare were the times when you got a full-sized playset, however, because they were overpriced and, at least in my recollection, hard to find. Fortunately however, miniature figurines allowed for compact little locales that you could literally take with you on the go. In retrospect, there was a definite emphasis on the portability of these self-contained little societies. I don't think I ever really looked at a small village and said to myself, 'Man, I wish I could take this with me everywhere'. But to each their own.

Thomas and all his chums made for excellent playset fare (I'm getting sick of using that word...), because years of rich storytelling made for lots of familiar locations like the Tidmouth Sheds that children would love to have for their very own. Also, it was a show about trains - their very purpose is to travel places, so you could literally just stick a railroad track in any random location and it would seem appropriate. One does not simply walk into Mordor, but Thomas would be more than happy to take you there.

Toot-toot! Let's observe the Thomas the Tank Engine miniature p-words...

Well, shit. That's a glum-looking landscape, isn't it? Bare and vacant, like the aftermath of the bomb in Sarah Connor's nightmare. Those flowers held up pretty well, if that was the case. However, fear not! For deep within the bowels of this unassuming little burgh lurks a collection of fantastic autonomous vehicles, just ready to take you home! ...Though honestly, the fare from London to Manchester is absolutely batshit crazy expensive. I'm not even kidding you.

All it takes is a little bit of common sense, working out where to put each little feature - for example, the tree isn't supposed to go right in the middle of the railroad track, you malicious fuck - and voila! Your masterpiece is complete, and you're now a true engineer! I'm half-convinced this is the actual qualification required to drive a train in some third-world countries.

Fear me, for I am a fucking God. I have invented England.

This is, of course, the aforementioned Tidmouth Sheds. It's well-known for housing all of Sodor's colourfully quirky trains, and subsequently, the place where peer pressure and bullying runs most rampant. It's seriously bad news whenever a scene takes place here, because either someone's ass is getting teased, or someone is talking shit, and his comeuppance is imminent. The only thing for sure in this strange, sad little world is, as I've often stressed, Gordon is always the resident asshole. Always.

This particular set came with everyone's pal Thomas, as well as his passenger cars, Annie and Clarabel. You'd have to be particularly ballsy to ride in one of these coaches, considering how frequently the trains crash. To borrow an actual quote, Annie and Clarabel at one point say of Thomas: 'He's dreadfully rude, I feel quite ashamed. I feel quite ashamed, he's dreadfully rude. You mustn't be rude, you make us ashamed'.

Which is no doubt a respectable thing to say. But imagine if you were inside them at the time? You'd freak out like nobody's business.

'Daddy?' says little Wendy, of no more than four, 'Why is our carriage ashamed of the train?'

Her father holds her close, tears in his eyes. 'I'm unsure, Wendy. But you'd best hold tight - we're about to fucking crash.'

Tragic. Still better than Melbourne's public transport system, at least.

The most exciting thing about this playset is of course the fully functional turntable, which meant you could park within the sheds at your delight. Unfortunately, I've actually positioned Thomas in the wrong direction to get inside the shed, plus, all sorts of mayhem would ensue if I planted him on the turntable with Annie and Clarabel in tow. Little Wendy, she deserves better than that, doesn't she?

...Oh screw it, let's give it a try.

And let's never speak of it again.

Next, we turn our attention away from the foulmouthed locomotive, and escape to the peaceful countryside (the first photo in this entry. Damned if I'm going to recycle it and bloat my upload limit), a place where Bertie the bus is known to frequent. His best buddy good friend vaguely known acquaintance Percy often makes his rounds here, and as you'll note, this particular playset is sadly lacking in functional turntables. For this reason, it is infinitely inferior to the previous set. In its defence though, it features a bush which is abnormally large.

You might note, there is in fact a piece missing. I'm fairly certain it was a boom gate or something of that nature, because otherwise, that's a pretty deadly little stretch of road, isn't it?

There really isn't much more to say about this section of the set, unless you want eight paragraphs professing my love for the large bush. There are hinges on the side that suggest that there were four different parts to create your own perfect vision of Sodor. My world is therefore tragically incomplete, but it still has everything I would ever want.

...Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to playing.

#0070: Animals!!

Et voila! A post, as promised. In the early 90s, Northern Getaway was one of my favourite stores in the world. It had this awesome rainforest theme, and was stacked to the brim with neat shit, like sand lizards and sweaters depicting kung-foo frogs with the headline 'Marsh-all Arts'. It was also the site where I first learnt about anti-theft barriers. No, I wasn't a roguish thief or a miniature kleptomaniac, I just wanted to show my dad the cool toy I had found, and he happened to be standing outside the store at the time. I remember being so confused by how I was getting in trouble for nothing, but no blood was spilt that day. Crisis averted.

Also, what in the fuck are those anti-theft barriers actually called? I'm sure I know, but the words are escaping me right now. I typically just call them the 'beepy motherfuckers', a versatile phrase that I've also used to define cars and the Bee Gees.

One of the most frequent causes of expenditure at Northern Getaway came in the form of these delightful animals. Aye, a more specific phrase would be preferable, but Googling for 'animal figurines' just opens the floodgates to eleventy billion unrelated products, most of which belong to the Sylvanian Families. And unless these figures are just going through a nude, four legged phase in which they forego tea parties and quaint cottages, I'm quite positive they aren't Sylvanian.

Before I proceed, I thought I'd express that it was an utter pain in the balls to try and get all of these little things to stand for the photo. These motherfuckers are clearly drunk, and yet another reminder to never work with children or animals. At the front of said photo is the very first one I got, the little golden brown kitty I named Chester. According to the underside of his body, Chester is a somali cat. I don't know if I ever realised that at the time, because it was frankly much easier to just call him a tabby. Everything was a tabby back in them days, whether they were a somali, an abyssinian or a corgi. Made things easier for us simple folk.

I took Chester all over the house (most memorably to the supper table, where I insisted my parents refer to him as 'our dinner guest'), and of course, it led to me wanting every single one of the cats we could find, even the ones that looked incredibly similar, and especially the ones that were just differently coloured versions of the same species.

Hey look! Siamese twins.

After we had exhausted the bevy of feline figurines, we moved onto dogs. I didn't get as many dogs for some reason, either because I was obsessed with cats as a kid or the range of mutts was smaller. Can't remember which. Among the collection is an Alsatian I have recently named Baldrick.

All up, I collected at least 26 of these figurines. I might have had more, but these were the ones I could find. Much like an old southern hoarder, I may have twelve more cats and dogs lurking about the house somewhere. I'll be sure to update you if I ever do find any more, and if you ever do happen to care.

They're bound to prove useful in some educational capacity, so hopefully my fiancé will find a role for them in her classroom. I wouldn't be surprised if at least half of them go missing, because the more I look at them, the more I realise that these things are some really steal-able figurines. Christ, I want to put them in my pocket, and I already own them. Isn't it circuitous that the toys from the store I almost accidentally burglarised are strong candidates for petty theft? I like it. I mean, I like the symbolism, I don't like the idea that some little shit's gonna steal my schnauzer.

I also have other animals, not necessarily from the same series (maybe they are? I can neither prove nor disprove this), but with the same concept: animal figurines with their specific genus printed on their belly. These range from five-lined skink juvenile to dimetrodon to epipedobates tricolor to GIANT FUCKING TURTLE.

It was a veritable jungle in my bedroom. And I don't mean that in a sexual way. In that sense, it was more of an abandoned cave: lonely and damp.

At the very least, these things all did an excellent job of filling out my toy chest. You know how sometimes you had toys that you liked, but never necessarily played with? These were the quintessential also-rans, and I loved them for it. Other than Chester, of course, whose major claim to fame was joining my luncheons.

My new favourite, however, isn't the beloved old somali tabby. It is in fact an unrelated animal figurine that I have decided to include in this entry, because this is as close as I'll ever get to finding a relevant entry to slip him in.

Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for you to meet the hideous bleeding lion.

Is it a haggard Simba after things had turned south in the pride lands? Or is it a battered Aslan, fresh off a most impolite shanking from the White Witch? It's hard to say, but anything is possible. Discuss amongst yourselves. Don't look at his bad eye.

When all else fails, blame the Vaike

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

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

#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...

Some old friends...

Whether it's reasonable justification, or pure and simple hypocrisy, my progress in letting things go is compounded by a mad obsession with surrounding myself with things I enjoy, or if we're being honest, toys of a new era.

For some reason (other than the fact that I'm a hoarder, and there's possibly eight dead cats strewn about the garbage in my room), I want to wear my heart on my sleeve, to show off things that I like. I never want to get rid of my favourite video games. Whether or not I ever play them anymore, I want to hold onto them, to show everyone out there... 'Hey! I played Sonic & Knuckles! It's part of who I am!!'

In a similar fashion, I chose to collect two of my favourite athletes of all time, Steve McNair and Eddie George and proudly brandish them atop a bookshelf that is in our spare room, and few people ever actually see. And funnily enough, I have no buyer's remorse whatsoever. Someday, in my great big billion dollar mansion with rooms the size of airports and stairways that lead to nowhere, the figures will stand tall in a man cave to be proud of.

But really, I've given this far more thought than I probably needed to. In short, I got some more toyz. Online shopping sprees, they're dangerous things.

We commence with this handsome Jose Bautista bust, slugger of Toronto Blue Jays fame. Despite the Blue Jays being the very first team I was ever a fan of, primarily because dad had a Jays sweater I enjoyed looking at, I'd say there are fewer Jays in the all-time echelons of my favourite athletes than in my other teams. Nearly all of them played during the glorious years of back-to-back pennants, save a few obvious exceptions: Stieb, Delgado, Halladay et al.

In Jose Bautista, the Jays have had a true superstar, garnering the rare adulation that Toronto-based athletes often deserve but often miss out on. He's our modern-day Joe Carter, only with a better OBP, keener defensive abilities, and at least 99% more Dominican conversations.

Hacking through his plastic enclosure to yank him open feels mildly perverse, like bulldozing a rainforest, or performing a really unpleasant Caesarean section. Frankly, it doesn't feel like he wants to come out to play: he's held in place with a cable tie, and then, shockingly, his right leg is held in place by a hole in the plastic. I don't know why, but it's no wonder he was injured so much last year. That's dangerous, man!

Eventually however, he's freed from his transparent hub. In the process, I manage to do minor damage to his bat, as I didn't realise it was held in with a layer of tape, and came into two pieces. It's supposed to detach, apparently, but not so violently. I'll pretend it was wear and tear caused by dingers. Or, if I were at bat, a pop fly that lands harmlessly in the glove of the pitcher.

As is to be expected, he's a striking young figure (no pun intended, unless it was funny), obviously thicker than his more lithe cohorts of other sports, and with a more intense glare. Personally, I would have made the figure sporting Joey Bat's awesome reflective sunglasses, but I guess sacrifices have to be made. He probably would have looked a little bit nonchalant with them on, like he was just chilling at the beach, wearing entirely inappropriate beach wear.

At first, getting his bat in his hand felt so difficult, I almost contemplated leaving it out. Without it, he's just doing the cha-cha, or launching a Kamehameha. I'm cool with that. I really don't want to snap his arm off and ruin the whole figure, when suddenly...

The arm wretches aside! What is this? His arms are... movable? What a shocking revelation! After years of just accepting that these fellas were locked into their respective positions, but Jose chooses to freely flail his arms about in the interest of making that perfect batting stance. Unfortunately, it now means I have two unwilling hands to force that bat through rather than one, but I'll live with it. Whether he will remains to be seen.

Our next subject is Chris Bosh, formerly of the Toronto Raptors. Rather amusingly, he comes packaged without legs.

Despite this, he's still better than anyone currently on the Raptors roster. Also, it means that I could recreate the scene from Robocop 2 where Murphy gets dismantled, if I wanted to. ...I don't think I want to.

The first thing that strikes me upon unleashing the Boshtrich is that... wow, he's really tall! I mean, it's to be expected when your subject matter stands at 6-10, but beyond that, the box reveals that this model happens to be 11½ inches tall, or exactly four inches taller than Muggsy Bogues.

One of the things I like about the McFarlane figures is that, whenever a player moves to a new team, their model is rereleased with an updated look. Sometimes, it's with a new pose and whatnot, but in the case of Mr. Bosh, it was in the exact same pose, only sporting a Miami jersey and a shaved head, as is his current look. If they were being truly accurate, the new Heat model of Bosh would come complete without the ball in his hand.

Oh, I kid. I kid because I love. As Scott Carefoot once pointed out, and yes, I realise I'm heavy-handed with the links today, Chris Bosh cops a lot of shit from fans, primarily because of how awkward he is. The other guys around him, LeBron and D-Wade, they're pretty cool, y'know? Pretty slick (like LeBron's forehead). But our boy Bosh? He's just this lanky dude who sometimes looks like a lizard. No reason to hate on that. Indeed, all the more reason to cheer for him. He'll always be a Raptor to me, perhaps primarily because he so resembles one.

Once I've finally gotten his legs on (one fell off onto my lap at one point. It was horrifying), I perch him upon his stand, and good lord, this thing really is huge!!

As you can see, Bosh towers over the once-hulking Jose Bautista, ready to dunk all up in the face of Felix Baumgartner. In fact, Jose looks like Joe Pesci, about to crack the kneecaps of this enormous beast. Truly, I fear for Bosh's safety up there: he's held in place by a sturdy little piece of metal, but he still wiggles when I touch him. It's actually really fun to poke him and watch him bob back and forth, but I surmise that it's not the best way to maintain the figure.

...Just one more poke. Hehe!

Now we meet Ryan Kesler. His box is dustier than the others, which makes me feel as though I am the only one who is buying Ryan Kesler. If I know my countrymen as well as I think I do, I figure a great deal of this is due to his being American. What do fellow Vancouver Canucks Kevin Bieksa, Roberto Luongo and Maxim Lapierre all have in common? They are all Canadian, and as such, they will always have that homegrown love. What else do they have in common? None of them are very good goalies.

I'll stop now. Because I have a near-legitimate fear that everyone I've talked smack about (Bosh, Luongo and the entirety of the 2013 Toronto Raptors) will come and get me. Which would be really cool for a photo opportunity, but ultimately dangerous to my person and my personal belongings. They might even poke my Bosh figure. Dangerous!

Ryan Kesler comes with a removable hockey stick, a tiny little puck I think I'll lose by the end of this sentence, and a shocked expression on his face. Maybe he's shocked that he's responsible for that tiny little puck, wherever it went. His pose is quite amazing, because he's leaning over so far he looks like he'll fall at any second, and it makes me really appreciate the grace and athleticism of hockey players. I mean, imagine being in that position on a field or a court, you'd lose your balance, right? Then imagine doing that on the ice, while being chased by many men with few teeth. Now I understand the look of alarm on Kesler's mug.

And finally, last but not least, the coup de grâce, the mack daddy, the man who garners more animosity from the Toronto faithful than perhaps anyone else (though really, that hatred should be directed at Hedo Turkoglu)...

Vince Carter.

For years, I bemoaned his name. The former Raptors' superstar, one of the biggest names in the league, who brought excitement to the young franchise with his sheer athletic prowess and bevy of amazing dunks. Then, after six years, things went south. Vince was traded for peanuts to New Jersey, and the divorce was less than amicable. It took me almost a decade to get over it, and now, I look back fondly on who he was for us, and what he did for us, rather than how it all ended.

And now, he's in my house. This particular figure is modelled after one of Vince's finest moments, his triumphant performance in the 2000 Dunk Contest, with a series of jams that many consider to be the best of all time. Perhaps it's appropriate that I got this figure in a year when Terrence Ross became the second Raptor of all time to win the contest? Perhaps it's fate? Perhaps it's coincidence? Perhaps I was just shit scared that if I waited much longer, the Vince figure would no longer be available in Raptors garb? ...Yeah, that was it.

Just like Chris Bosh, Vince is in mid-flight, but unlike his crimson ally, Vince tragically has the metal jutting right into his knee. Which frankly, you'd think would hurt his ability to jump. It might be my misty-eyed nostalgia, but I think this one is my favourite. It represents one of the highlights of my tragic tenure as a sport fan (bested only by Sidney Crosby's golden goal and the day that Joe Carter touched 'em all), and it will be forever immortalised upon my mantle, at least until one of several things happen (theft, earthquake, or angry fiancé furious that I spent all this money on toys).

And so, my set is complete, for now. There are other athletes who hold a place close to my heart, and inevitably there will be many more on the horizon. I look forward to watching this collection grow (as long as it doesn't become obsessive, which it most likely will), because there's always room for winners in my home.

...Fingers crossed, the next one is Andrew Wiggins after he leads Toronto to an NBA title.