Two days after valentine's day, after the tearless acceptance of office "secret valentine" trinkets had safely passed, I though I had survived. It was the slow and subtle approach, the "wait until she thinks she's in the clear and lets her guard down" approach - that frosting of self-loathing on the good old cupcake of, well cupcakitude.
I don't know, it's a cupcake. When I think of cupcakes I think of snot-faced drooly toddlers smearing said frosting all over themselves. No, I do not like children. No, I did not especially enjoy my childhood, unless I was in complete isolation with a battalion of fairy dolls. They would stage elaborate invasions and torture the barbies, and thus I passed my life until I was able to move away and have sex.
With that said, have you seen those Bratz dolls they have nowadays? Lordy Lordy. When I was a wee tot we had to cut the Barbie's hair into mowhawks ourselves, and stick pins into their foreheads to show the anger of the forest creatures (stuffed animals), yet it was DIY. We were creating the violence in a world of sweetness and light. These Bratz dolls, they are little sluts! They have plaid schoolgirl kilts and thigh-highs and razored bangs, red lipstick, DJ boyfriend dolls with little plastic records and plastic sideburns - they even have a Bratz limosine that they "party" in. That's what it said on the box. I think I know what partying in the back of a limosine entails, and it's not something that you want your eight-year old to be part of.
Well, perhaps its good to give these little demons some idea of what the world is really about. If there are princesses (and there are), they don't cooperate in song and they don't always get what they dream of (although they will cut ahead of you in the elevator). Perhaps little Susie, after hours spent practicing with her DJ Matteo playset, will finally figure out how to get him to stop sleeping with 19-year-olds and...no, it'll never happen. Get yourself some Legos.