The night’s broken by frenzied clack-clack-clacking. French Couture Barbie leads the charge, flanked by her lieutenants, Lifeguard Barbie and Olympic Skater Barbie.
And they’re all clutching little pink assault rifles in perfectly manicured hands.
They cover ground on painfully long legs, running on heels and tippy-toes. Long hair snaps like flags. Those eyes never blink, those smiles harden at the corners.
Schoolteacher Barbie floors the Dream Car. Riding shotgun, Astronaut Barbie operates the turret. Wheelchair Barbie lobs grenade after grenade from the periphery.
Stewardess Barbie, old and worn, hops along one-legged with a flamethrower and dares anyone to disrespect her.
Last week, the Barbies descended on the Jones household.
It started when a friend of mine asked to leave something at our house for a mutual friend to pick up later. Much to my amusement, she carried in a couple large boxes full of Barbie dolls, still in their packaging.
So tell me, what would YOU do in a situation like this?
Jason’s approach was to build a tower of sparkly princess goodness out of them, which you can see on his blog here.
Me? I chose to write a commemorative drabble, of course!
While I find Barbies inherently funny as an adult (French Couture Barbie – LOL!), I wanted to capture a sense of dignity for the poor things in today’s story. They’re condemned to a frozen existence, always poised and smiling no matter what may really be going on beneath the surface.
I think they’re ripe for a revolution.
GI Joe better watch his back.