As our legion of rabid fans will attest, we are loathe to share autobiographical stories. Why? Our life is fraught with embarrassments and banalities. There was that humiliating stint as a tap-dancing chicken. Recall the infantile tale of our bloody-baby-bomb prank. Were we someone else, we'd ridicule ourselves. Aside from dumping a full Citron martini (with a twist) into the lap of a slightly inebriated Stacey Keach, our existence has thus far been virtually free of accomplishment.
But in the spirit of Xmas, when we trample Walmart salespeople to death to celebrate the baby Jesus (and the holy placenta) being spat from the shame hole of a homeless virgin, we have a totally true story of Christmas past from our dark, dreary childhood. Sound fun?
We had to be about 4, so our sister had to be 6. All we wanted from Santa was a play cash register with fake money (we know, shut up). The previous year, our sister received an Easy Bake Oven. And instead of growing tired of it within a week (as any normal child would do) she took delight in torturing us nightly with her nauseating creations; hockey puck-sized cakes that tasted like brown chalk and smelled of burnt crayons. This Christmas, she wanted a caseload of more Easy Bake cake mix. Instead, our mother bought her a doll: Baby Party.
Our mother is not the world's most adept doll picker-outer. Case in point: a few years ago she gave our niece (then approximately 3 years old) a horrifying doll called "Baby Blessing." It was a brunette moppet in a night gown, rather tame by appearances. But place her palms together in standard "praying hands" formation, and the dreadful thing uttered "The Lords Prayer" and "The 23rd Psalm" in a mechanical voice so terrifying we're still having nightmares about it. Our niece, having freshly unwrapped it, rightly proclaimed the thing ghastly and tossed it into the fireplace before dashing out of the room, screaming. Mother, poor soul, promptly burst into tears. Good times.
The Christmas morning in question, we were playing with our toy cash register, blissfully pretending to short change imaginary customers, when our sister unwrapped her new playmate. Baby Party was a monstrous creation. She was made of rock-hard shiny flesh-colored plastic, her platinum blonde hair severely chopped in a Hayley-Mills-in-Parent-Trap bob. Satan lurked behind her steely blue plastic eyeballs. After cramming about two dozen D-sized batteries up her ass (no lie, you opened her ass to insert the batteries), she was good to go. All you did was place a party horn or one of those unfurling paper party things her her mouth, flip her switch and she'd blow. In theory.
So there she was, a cheerfully bright conical party hat perched on her noggin, $50 bucks worth of Ever-Ready D-cells anally inserted. Our sister placed a horn in Baby Party's eager blow hole/mouth. And turned the thing on.
Baby Party dutifully blew the horn. But instead of a festive toot, it sounded like the trumpet of the apocalypse. Everyone stopped what they were doing and covered their ears. Our sister tried in vain to shut the thing off. The horn was stuck in her mouth. Wisps of smoke drifted up from Baby Party's hair. Her demonic baby-blues began to melt in her sockets. "Make her stop!" our sister screamed in abject terror. We grabbed our cash register and hid behind the couch. Our sister hoisted Baby Party over her head and swung the possessed toy by her legs, pounding her head into the coffee table. The horn continued to blow. Baby Party's head popped off and rolled across the floor. Our dog Fritz (a clumsy German Shepard-ish mutt) barked at it. A gruesome hissing noise issued from Baby Party's neck-hole. Eventually, the misbegotten thing gurgled to an unceremonious stop. Brownish battery acid oozed from Baby Party's overheated rectum. Baby Party shortly found a new home at the bottom of a trash bin.
We suppose there ought to be a point to all this, about the crass commercialization of the holidays or some kinda crap like that. But there's no point. All that remains are the lingering nightmares. And somewhere, at the bottom of a landfill, Baby Party plots her revenge. She will reconstitute. She will take two dozen D-cell suppositories. And Baby Party will rise. And she will blow. She will blow. She will blow.
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