#0119: McDonald's Christmas Taz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#0108: Happy Meal Plush Toys

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

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

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

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

Dated reference. Cool story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't kink shame me, dude.

Tales

"So you're called Ninetails, huh?"

"Yeah, but you've been spelling my name wrong. It's actually Ninetales."

"What are you talking about? You've clearly got nine tails! Why wouldn't it be spelled that way?"

"Just do a Google image search of Pokemon anthro fan art. Trust me, I've got some fucking tales to tell..."

#0103: Zeddy Bear

Despite the fact that I have spent the last two decades down south in Straya, fragments of my childhood in Canada occasionally bubble to the surface in weird ways, like a rash that only seems to appear during summer.

So let me throw it out there, right now. Do you remember Zellers?

Unless you're a Canadian, American or have a queer fascination with defunct department stores, you're probably shaking your head in bewilderment. Hopefully not literally, because this is a blog, dammit, and I cannot see your frequent gesticulations. That thing that you're doing with your junk, though? I totally see that. Save it for the playground, pervert.

For almost eighty years, Zellers was a Canadian staple, offering affordable toys, homewares and other such wonderful goods, and never really bothering anyone. As is so often the case, however, those damned Yanks invaded the border, and in time, competition from Sears, Walmart and others choked the life out of humble Zellers.

By 2013, Zellers was all but wiped off the map, leaving only a couple of stores scattered around like the last of the Jedi, or the final shreds of Activision Blizzard's dignity. Topical? Hardly, but I'm trying. Actually, I almost misspelled that as 'toypical', which I may repurpose for my own nefarious gain at a later date.

Any good store needs a good mascot, and in the case of Zellers, there was Zeddy Bear. I don't remember much about him, but just looking into those big, vacant eyes, I don't think he remembers much, either.

A quick scan of the Internet — because we all want to know if he's HTF, dammit — reveals that this is a much less commonly found plush, with his gaudier redesign flooding eBay in mass quantities. One such listing claims that the plush will prove to be 'highly collectable'. If, in that sense, they mean that you can collect a veritable shitload of them because everyone is hawking the fucking thing, then there's a modicum of truth to that statement.

Meanwhile, this much more understated variation only pops up here and there. Tragically, that hasn't really increased his value, and I think if you account for inflation, the asking prices are actually selling at a loss compared to his late 80s/early 90s $19.95 RRP. I guess people are really sick of Zeddy clogging up their closets, his outstretched paw eternally waving as he hopes to find a new friend, but receives only apathy and disdain.

Jesus, that's fucking morose.

Especially when you consider the optimism that Zeddy came into this world with. His tag proclaims in big, bold letters, "HI! I'M ZEDDY BEAR", before going on to explain that "I'm looking after all my friends. We can take care of each other! LET'S BE BEST FRIENDS!"

Alright, let's break things down for a moment. First off, I don't quite get how he's looking after all his friends. Theoretically, he was just sitting there on the shelf, awaiting sale among fifty other identical plushes. Were those his friends that he was looking after? Were they part of a support group? Was his departure the catalyst that caused all of Zellers to go under?

It surely can't be that important, because he seems to be pretty chill about the concept of joining you, instead. You're his new best friend, everyone he's left behind is dead to him. He was also on sale at the time of purchase for $9.95, which I think is an absolute steal. The best kind of irresponsible, fickle teddy bear is a thrifty one!

Over on the other side, the tag targets the parents instead, just in case they weren't sold on this sentient bear forming an eternal bond with their child.

"Zeddy Bear is the 'spokesbear' for Zellers' Colour Me Careful Children's Safety Program.

Zeddy's funny, furry face will be popping up everywhere on products for children at Zellers. The kids are going to love him and learn from him, too.

Best of all, you can trust the Zeddy logo to represent top quality and style."

Well, that seems legit. I've never seen a toy that felt the need to justify itself so hastily, but it did a pretty good job of it. Needless to say, there's also a tag in French, just in case Quebecois families refused to believe the credibility of a non-Francophone stuffed toy.

We actually have two Zeddy Bears, which is an excellent haul, however the other one is sans tag and, more interestingly, sans shirt. It looks even more disheveled and broken, leading me to assume that this one is the sub of the relationship.

That photo probably didn't need to happen.

In all seriousness, if anyone who reads this blog happens to actually care about the quality of my toys, you'll be pleased to know that Zeddy is a really fantastic plush. His fur is soft, he's got his name embroidered into his hand, and he has this warm, peaceful smile on his face that belies the chaos that would befall his homeland.

He's got a little hang-tag adorning his noggin, though it seems a fairly odd proposition to hang a plush this large and heavy from the wall. I can picture him causing an entire panel to collapse, spreading plaster and good will all over the living room.

Looking at Zeddy, I can't help but feel melancholy. In my thirty years on this earth, I have seen many beloved memories from my childhood go up in smoke, longtime chains that we thought would be around forever. Zeddy sits somewhere among the clouds now alongside Geoffrey the Giraffe and the Blockbuster mascot, who I choose to assume is a giant VHS cassette with arms, legs and attitude.

I know that the 90s is never coming back, but that won't stop me from stubbornly detesting everything modern, spouting phrases like 'back in my day' and 'you kids ain't seen nothin' yet'. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to watch some Netflix on my laptop while sipping a nice, tall glass of hypocrisy.

Meet the muscle

"The apocalypse is upon us!!"

"You say that every week, Squeaker. What is it this time, did you get a pessimistic fortune cookie?"

"Anthony has returned to his treacherous ways. He’s made six entries in just over a week. Six!! That’s three times as many as the last two years combined! It’s only a matter of time before we’re little more than rotting piles of fluff in a heap of garbage..."

"So that’s why I came up with a contingency plan, see? Whiskers, I’d like for you to meet my new bodyguard, Sarge!"

"Grrr..."

"What are you talking about? Sarge has been here the whole time. He’s older than either one of us!"

"You son of a bitch! You lied to me!!"

"Sorry, pal. Times are ruff."

#0088: Rock & Roll Elmo

Of all the crazes that shook the 90s, Tickle Me Elmo was perhaps the most significant one to completely pass me by. Causing widespread panic and grievous bodily harm in the holiday period of 1996, it's hard to quantify exactly why it resonated so strongly with people. I mean, it was kinda creepy, wasn't it? It was certainly annoying by most accounts, but that didn't stop it from becoming a sensation.

The rise and fall of the Tickle Me Elmo was excellently covered by E.S. Huffman over on Uproxx, and that piece is well worth a read if you want a thoroughly researched, well-written sample of journalism. It's a stark contrast to what you'll get here; tired analogies and at least thirty instances of the word 'fuck'.

Regardless, my dad ended up with all kinds of bizarre knick knacks during his time as an Avon salesman, so in 1997 we became the proud(?) owners of Rock & Roll Elmo, one of many desperate attempts to recapture that giggling, wriggling gold mine. I assume dad got all of these things as free samples, and didn't steal them. But I can never be certain; he is Australian, you know.

The first thing you'll notice is that this Elmo is thicc. He's got a booty that will make the boys drool, and his apple bottom jeans are the envy of furry monsters the world over. Not exactly a faithful representation of Sesame Street's resident sweetheart, but you know what? I like my Elmos chubby. It's just the way I am.

He's got a leather jacket, garish shoes from the thrift shop, and a thousand-yard stare that indicates that he truly embraced the rock and roll culture of the 70s, for better or worse. Most importantly, however, is the hammer he wields. By my estimation, it's probably a modified Gibson SG, though the head more closely resembles a Yamaha Pacifica 012, while the body just screams Fender Stratocaster.

I'd love to hear opinions from actual musicians, because I literally just Googled 'blue guitar' and picked at random. I am rock. And occasionally Groot.

Whereas Tickle Me Elmo's gimmick was to fall about laughing every time you touched him inappropriately, Rock & Roll Elmo is much more composed. He just wants to fucking jam, and he even takes requests (as long as it is one of the three songs he knows).

I know you're desperate to hear him slay, and perhaps even a little bit apprehensive after the unfathomable letdown that was It From the Pit, who I am only now realising I should have called Shit From the Pit because that's excellent satire. But I implore you to be patient, for good things come to those who wait. Please, don't call my bluff and scroll to the bottom of the page. I've got to hit a sufficient word count, first.

...You totally scrolled, didn't you? You monster.

With that in mind, and as you've shown no regard for the sanctity of spoilers whatsoever (Rosebud's the sled, Bruce Willis is dead, and Brad Pitt lives inside Norton's head), let's move onto the man we all came to see...

Well, there you go.

The quality is actually pretty good, to be honest. Elmo's voice is a little tinny, but it's definitely him, and the tunes are all quite serviceable. The lights on the guitar are a nice touch, plus he even strums his instrument, though I'm fairly certain he's actually playing the same note every time.

The only thing I can't get behind is his mad vibrating. That just seems unnerving. Again, I'm not a musician, but I would think that rapid movement would prove detrimental to the quality of your performance. Is he chilly? Is he nervous? Or did the pingas just kick in right at that inconvenient moment? Hesitant as I am to pass judgement, just taking one look at his pupils makes me certain of my vote.

In any event, there he is in all his splendour. He does his thing, then he sits there idly, waiting for you to press that button to give him purpose, akin to a forgotten merry go round or Bernie Sanders. Once you've done it, you'll be subjected to that sinister show, and there's no way of stopping him. Pressing the button again doesn't turn him off, oh no. It makes him shake up his setlist and jump over to his next hit tune.

Overall, he makes me feel icky. And you know what? Give it some time, and I think you will, too...

Good Eeveening

One more quick hit for my spree of Pokemania; I thought I would show off my collection of Eevee Legacy plushes. These gaffers retailed at $25 each upon launch, with one being released every month. Considering their size and quality, that's actually a pretty good price - I was able to nab them at $20 apiece, but that's neither here nor there.

Eventually they got down to clearance prices of about $9 each, which is absolutely mental, but by then it was just a few lonely Leafeons whose cherubic smile belied their internal misery. I have this weird obsession with collecting a full set, so once I ventured down the dark path of buying Vaporeon, I eventually knew I had to see the journey through. Which will be great until they inevitably unveil a new Eeveelution and I have to start all over again.

Also in this photo: a Ninja Turtles pillowcase I have had all my life and can't bear to part with, a sun-bleached fully packaged Rosalina amiibo and my cat alarm clock that used to annoy the whole household. The joys of visiting dad's place!

TURTLE BALLS.

Hello INAKA, my old friend.

If anyone's wondering, yes, I do have machinations to someday get back into the swing of things and update this blog at least semi-regularly. The problem I've had lies within the title itself: I'm not a kid anymore.

So this means working full-time and trying to make enough to get by. I work, I come home, I eat, some days I go to Japanese class, I drink, I pass out. Weeks just whiz on by in this year of 2014, a year I would declare as ultimately one of the most disappointing of my life. I hold years ending with the number 4 to a lofty standard, and whereas 1994 and 2004 hover near the top in ranking my life, 2014 just sits in the lower third, an unfortunate victim of unrealistic expectations.

The second issue with blogging about toys is, as you may recall, I moved out of home two years ago. And unfortunately for my dad, I've left all of my junk there. It becomes more than a little odd when I visit him and devote time to frittering through tubs of toys, or bringing them back here to my apartment solely so that I can get rid of them.

But we'll see. The blog is never dead, in my mind. Sometimes, it's just a little bit like a sloth. It's covered in moss and lacking in ambition, but eventually, it will end up going somewhere. Also, sometimes I end up with things like this.

Yes indeed, TURTLE BALLS. I saw these a short while ago and thought they were too awesome (radical, even) to pass up. I don't know what I'm going to do with them. Chances are solid they will simply sit in the closet, only occasionally appearing in an effort to frighten intruders with the visage of a grinning, decapitated Leonardo.

Part of me wants to give one to each of my four children (children who don't currently exist beyond Cynthia and Morgan on Fire Emblem Awakening), passed down through the years as the line divides, a reminder of the bonds of family and the eccentric consumerism of their demented ancestor.

...But that takes too much effort, I think. Enjoy the closet, boys.

#0078: Pegasus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#0076: Christmas sock pig

And so, INAKA reached it's glorious third birthday. Like all forgotten children, it's special day passed by without fanfare or adoration. It sat alone at a table, a single streamer strewn across the table in a pitiful display of futility, as it cried itself to sleep and lamented it's life. Luckily for it, however, it is not a vivified thing; indeed, it is hardly a thing at all, hence, it has no life to lament!

Excellent. So let's look at this horrid Christmas sock pig.

No, your eyes are not deceiving you, keen readers; this is not an elaborately crafted plush toy from the finest sweat shops of Thailand. This is in fact the labour of love from one small Canadian boy, circa 1994. I know because I was that small boy. I am now a small man.

The task set before us that (presumedly) winter session in elementary school was to fill a sock with stuffing, and fashion it into a pig. Whereas my classmates all clamoured for the pink-coloured socks appropriate to pig-related endeavours, I opted for this nifty grey and white deal. From whence the sock came, I'm unsure. I like to think some kid stole it when this project was announced, and their bewildered uncle is sitting in a chair, looking at his bare foot and shouting 'where the fuck is my other sock?!'. To this day.

After we'd shoved the fluff up his piggy rectum and sealed it with a rubber band, we then decorated him with paraphernalia and appropriate features. The ears and the button nose are self-explanatory. The Santa hat was a bold seasonal inclusion. As you can probably tell, I wasn't exactly a glue gun dynamo. I also accidentally drew his eyes on incorrectly, and added a third one in a hasty attempt to fix my godless creation. Fortunately, I later (like, five or six years later) reestablished his proper eye positions with a Sharpie. I'm sure you are all relieved by this.

Anyway, for no particular reason other than I'm sick of having a fucking sock in my closet, I have chosen to disassemble the Christmas sock pig. It may seem sad, but I remind you, at approximately 19 years of age, he lasted a whole lot longer than most other socks. I filmed his execution (my very first snuff film), but decided it was either too gruesome/fucking boring to include here. I am considering keeping him in action though as a regular sock.

Look at him! He's chill as fuck.

In transit

T.K.: This is it, guys! The next step of our amazing adventure! First, we're going to climb into this great big yellow bag, then we'll be taken to a great new land... this amazing world known as 'opp shop!'

Tugs: I give this yellow bag a thumbs-up.

Skye: You gave that dead puppy we walked past a thumbs-up.

Tugs: It is my gift. It is my curse.

Dracula Don: Well, make yourselves comfy - you may be here for a while. The waiting list is pretty backed up as it is.

Festive White Bear: Fresh meat...

Hollywood Hulk Hogan: WHATCHA GONNA DO, KOOSH LINGS, WHATCHA GONNA DO?

Roaring Lizard: (is incapable of roaring. Strokes his nonexistent beard maliciously)

T.K.: ...This is the worst adventure since Terminator 3.

Tugs: I give this tragic turn of events a thum-

Skye: SHUT THE FUCK UP, TUGS.

Toy Flashback: Twins

"Has anyone ever told you we look alike?"

Toy Flashback: The Unfortunate Fate of Hulk

Incredibly delicious.

#0050: Ripster Puppet

Welcome, minions, to a momentous day in the echelons of INAKA. We’ve seen some cool toys, we’ve seen some shit toys, and we’ve seen some toys that defy imagination. And today, we hit the big five zero. In actuality, I don’t really see 50 as being a particularly special number; it’s really just riding on the coattails of 100, being halfway and all. 25 and 75 don’t quite go about gloating over their relation to the century mark, but the Napoleon complex 50, it’s all about it.

As such, we’ll appease it for now. Just don’t expect the same kind of treatment for 150, at which point I simply won’t care anymore.

So I went with the assumption today that bigger is better; and as such, I needed to up the ante from the previous size benchmark set by Krang’s Android Body and the cocaine snake. Today, I introduce to you a toy of mass destruction. Have you ever seen what happens when puppets go bad?

It’s pure and utter chaos! Even Vincent Price falls victim to their fury.

Today, we salute the efforts of a plush so obscure, I can’t even seem to locate it on Google. Effectively, this could make it my most valuable possession (worth more than my 3DS, my house and my soul), but in honour of thou, the loyal toy-loving brethren, I will sally forth. Puppets are good. Street Sharks are better. So the enormous Ripster puppet must surely be the grandest of them all!

It’s incredible how much swag they were able to push out through the small window of Street Sharks’ popularity. In 1995, they were the hot ticket, and toy manufacturers would capitalize like keen strategists. Keen strategists with sharks. By the end of the year however, they were old news. Suddenly, it was all about Space Jam toys. At least, that’s how it was in my little community, and I assume that, as the epicenter of everything, what I deemed haute couture was accepted as the norm.

The paraphernalia came in all shapes and sizes, and this isn’t even the only Sharks foray into puppets. The more commonly seen variety were much more conservative hand puppets, appropriate for roleplay and post-modern attempts at Punch & Judy. However, I have looked high and low, and cannot find anyone else in all of society who owns this particular majestic menace.


And frankly, that’s really weird to me. I’ve pumped out some toys that I never expected to be recognized, but in this case, it’s a part of a big fad franchise that isn’t even twenty years old. Why is it so damned hard to find anyone else who is willing to discuss their Ripster puppet?

Is it one of a kind? Was it a prototype from a cancelled brand extension? Did I make it myself?

Who knows. Alls I know is that this enormous sucker has been lurking about my closet for years, warding off intruders, and eating stray socks that came his way. I also assume that, within a week, someone will have successfully located another site where people have already discussed the Ripster puppet. There’s probably even a fan club dedicated to it, with weekly meetups and secret shark handshakes.

But enough about his shady origins, let’s observe with keen interest the toy itself. For starters, wow, he’s really, really big. He’s like the size of a small toddler, but he’s much buffer and has rows of jagged plastic teeth, which makes him better than a small toddler.

He’s pretty finely crafted (as is the norm with Mattel), and even has nice little details like stitching tactfully placed to resemble abs. He lives up to his puppet status through use of an opening in his back, where you can pop your hand into to make his mouth stretch open widely.


As you can see, this makes him capable of biting, singing, and saying ‘ahh’ for the dentist. He’s even got Velcro hands, though amusingly, he’s far too unwieldy and muscular to successfully stick them together. You can hold them in place for a moment, but as soon as you let go, he’ll yank those suckers back to neutral. I don’t know what exactly the intention was of providing Velcro hands on a toy that can’t hold them together, but it’s still a fun addition. For one thing, when you hold them there, it looks like he’s praying. It’s like the cover of a hip-hop album. With sharks.

He’s got some minor wear on his teeth, but they’re shark teeth man, they’re meant to be rugged. Besides, if this truly is the only Ripster puppet in existence, then there still ain’t a better conditioned one in town.

I can’t help but note, in case you were wondering, that yes, he is excellent for cuddling. He’s soft and he doesn’t judge. This might sound wussy at first, but I will justify this by pointing out that I am cuddling a shark. Much more badass.

He’s also got some soulful eyes, hasn’t he? Like he’s about to pelt out a few bars of Ol’ Man River, criticize the lack of progress in the civil rights movement in the United States, and endure the pressure of McCarthyism. Yes, I effectively cast Ripster as the lead role of a Paul Robeson biography. That would be fucking epic, in my opinion. And yes, I did base the terminology of that biography on the first paragraph from Robeson’s Wikipedia page. As all true historians do, no doubt.

Right. I think I’ve said enough. Because truly, this manimal speaks for himself. He is a powerful fish. He believes himself to be ‘jawesome’. And he hungers for flesh. Or Snickers bars. Whichever is more readily available.

#0046: Mozzarella

Time for another plush! I opened up my closet today, and was hit with a barrage of stuffed animals, all out for blood. Down they tumbled in their dozens, from Yoshi to Jirachi to Zeddy from Zellers. To be honest, it was quite annoying, and as a result, don’t be surprised if I suddenly go on a mass plush exodus in the desperate hope of freeing some closet space. They all sit perched atop a shelf that could really be used for something relevant. No, I haven’t decided what that is yet. I haven’t ruled out the possibility that it’ll be newer, bigger, even tumblier toys.

Tonight, we revisit the theme of Avon plush toys. Her name is Mozzarella, but she is more commonly known as Avon Plush Purple Bean Bag Mouse Stuffed Lovey Toy. For the purposes of this article, I will refer to her only as the former, because that second one is my nickname, too, and it could get all too confusing.

So this is a plush toy from the folks at Avon from way back in 1998. She is purple, her whiskers are really, really long and possibly dangerous, and she reminds me quite distinctly of our old friend Legume, who in retrospect I wish I had named Douglas, in honour of Douglas Hodge.


I am really incredibly struggling to construct any sort of coherent thoughts on this here plush, and I feel kind of disappointed by my own inability to prattle. I’d like to go on an entirely irrelevant tangent about my day, but I don’t know how interested my readers would be in the Cody Hodgson trade or the Jewish woman I served today.

Will this entry gain the dubious honour of being the shortest, most pointless in the venerable history of INAKA? Is this a sign that I’m losing my touch? Have I simply over-expounded my resources in a very busy blogging February? Or could this plush be the most indecipherable, non-descript creation known to man? It’s like some sort of puzzle, I think, and I’m far too fearful to try and solve it. Pandora opened the box from Zeus, unleashing all of the evils unto this Earth. Elliot Spencer opened the Lament Configuration, and was doomed to roam the planes of hell, surfacing only to collect the souls of the wicked. I opened a Rihanna album, and listened to some really shitty music.

I shall not give into temptation! I shall rid myself of this innocuous-looking, but possibly treacherous child’s plaything. It’s a sin! It’s a ruse! IT’S A TRAP.

Ratted out

"Mozzarella, my darling, my precious, my magnum opus! Though the toy empire appears to be crumbling before us like Troy itself, know that our love is stronger than fate. I shall protect you from the dire hand of treachery, until the bitter end!"


"Oh damn, there's the hand."


"Tarry, you wicked tyrant! How can you play games with our lives, only to throw us aside when you deem us obsolete? Years of loyal servitude, and how do you repay us? To be stuffed in a closet, in the garage, in a funky-looking plastic tub for a decade, and then, finally, thrown to the jackals of the world? You bastard! Leave her be! You will never take her!!"


"..."


"Oh hell no, bitch is yours."


"Well, that was interesting. What was with all the big fancy words?"

"I watched Shakespeare in Love."


"...It was terrible."

#0042: Wild Republic Python Plush

Occasionally, I look through the progress I’ve made in this blog with a hint of dismay. Though surely I have unearthed some treasures; classics that deserved revisiting, as a whole, I can’t really say that I’ve entirely succeeded with the objective: clearing my life of clutter. You might ask, how can I really expect ridding myself of a tiny Snoopy toy to free up a lot of room, but in all fairness, you don’t know the set-up I’ve got. For all you know, I could have had an entire pedestal dedicated to that Snoopy, complete with flashing lights and soft-serve dispenser.

So every now and then, I crack my knuckles, flex my muscle, and throw around my proverbial weight. This is especially important now when you consider that I’ve been on an eBay binge, and for every McDonald’s toy that’s going out, I’ve got large Titans figures and Ghostbusters soundtracks coming in. In my mind, this is a good thing. With all that being said, I have had it with this motherfucking Wild Republic python plush in my motherfucking closet!!

…These harsh words are only intended to mirror a quote. In actuality, I was quite happy with the Wild Republic python plush in my motherfucking closet. It’s awful pretty.


I haven’t really got a great deal of history surrounding this piece here, because its origins are as spotty as its exterior: all that I have gathered of its details have come from a quick squiz through the world of Google. I state it to be a Wild Republic python, but that’s just because that’s the result that it most resembles. …I’m finding this paragraph hard to continue because Cops is on in the background, and all I can think about right now is crack and probation. These are not relevant things for a snake.

Other than its exaggerated size, I don’t know what else to talk about. It’s just a very nicely made plush toy, and in all honesty, it’s probably the best thing I’ve covered in this blog. Which should surely be a noteworthy topic of discussion, but personally, I prefer to observe the oddities of the items in my possession. For something to basically be excellent leaves me lacking for words. Other than crack and probation.

Is my plush snake on crack and probation? I don’t think so. He’s such a sleek character, if he’s on anything right now, it’d be the good stuff. Plus, he’d be able to buy off the cops, so he wouldn’t even know the definition of the word ‘probation’. He rolls in the finest of circles, rubbing elbows with the greats.

And that’s all I’ll really say. Because this was not going to get better after it got worse. Just worse, I swear to god. So long, classy cocaine snake.