Guest Column: A "My Pet Monster" Doll Speaks

I ran into a sad figure in a trashy bar last night. I was hesitant about approaching him for an interview. After offering a couple of shots of whiskey, he finally opened up to me. I thought it would be best to let him tell his story in his own words. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a guest colum from a My Pet Monster doll.

I know many of you remember me. I'm a "My Pet Monster." Some of you had me when you were kids. You loved me, hugged me and said you would never let me go.

Hah! Now look at me--boozing it up in a bar, reliving my glory days through tired old stories with other 1980's fad-doll has-beens. Oh yeah, there's more of us. You're lucky you're not in the bar on a night when Strawberry Shortcake shows up. That once cutesy, loveable doll is now one bitchy, boozing broad. Strawberry Shortcake. . . more
like double Strawberry Dacqueri now.

Remember the "My Buddy" doll? Heh. Playskool thought they could market a doll to boys. They thought My Buddy would catch on like those ugly Cabbage Patch Kids. Well I regret to inform you that My Buddy is now shacking up with Rainbow Brite. That once cute as a button doll now has long stringy hair, perpetual ten day old stubble and more track-marks running up and down his arms than freckles on his formerly cute face. Worst of all, he always smells like White Castle hamburgers. The police are called to his and Rainbow's place at least twice a month to break up their fights. The only thing keeping those two winners together these days is their horrible, cute little coke habit. All that remains of My Buddy's legacy is that fucking annoying jingle that still gets stuck in the heads of many children of the eighties. You know the song from the commercial, 'My Buddy, My Buddy, wherever he goes, I go. . ."

And then you got me. I was never a cutesy doll. I was made ugly on purpose, and that was my charm. I was so fricken ugly that I was loveable. My time in the spotlight lasted less than fifteen mintues. One day riding high, the next day I'm marked fifty cents in a suburban garage sale.

At that garage sale I was bought by a sick fuck stoner. I became a trip toy for him and all his hippie friends. You know what they named me? One night while they were all high in my new owner's bedroom (the little shit was twenty-two years old and still lived with his parents) a rank patchouli oil laden bimbo called me "Señior Scrotum Balls." Do you believe that shit? Do I look Mexican to you? Well, the name stuck, and I only wish that was the worst of it. After many bong hits and chugs from cheap beer, they made me dance to Pink Floyd songs, sodomized me and made me engage in sexual activity with an unwilling house cat.

As you can see, I got away from the stoners. I'm my own man now. Being "my own man" consists of sitting on this stool and trying to fill the bottomless pit inside me with as much whiskey I can get my stubby hands on. I'm trying to fill the pit that used to house my soul.

Well, it's about time I shuffled on home, the alley behind this bar. Before I go, let me leave you one bit of advice: Never get involved with someone whose main attraction to you is your cuteness. Even if your beauty doesn't fade, your appeal eventually will. The only thing that hasn't faded for me as I grow older and more bitter is my love for Jack Daniels, goddammit. I see life as tolerable, sometimes even beautiful, only throgh the haze from the whiskey fumes wafting out of my mouth and nose.

And don't any of you give me the "Oh look, it's a My Pet Monster!" and "How cute!" when you see me walking down the street. Unless of course you want to buy me a shot or ten of whiskey. It's the least you can do for a washed-up, disenfranchised victim of the 1980's like me. And Tina Yothers too.

Thank you.