Warning: Crime Scene Photographs to Follow
Evidence includes: 2 tiny golf clubs, 1 little hairbrush, several miniature shoes, a tiny snowboard, and a pair of mini-snow goggles.
Check out the Bratz doll with the missing feet. That's one thing that creeps me out about Bratz dolls (one of about a thousand things). You don't just take their shoes off. Their whole foot comes off along with their high-heeled hooker shoe. But I have to admit that this an improvement on the Barbie shoes of yore. They never fucking stayed on Barbie's foot. Plus, the design of the Bratz doll shoes are a great improvement on the bland old Barbie shoe. I love me some hooker boots. I have to also confess, I love their clothes. Yes, I said that shit. Tell me you wouldn't rock these jeans:
or these boots:
(Ignore the crumbs scattered beneath hooker boots and pack of cigarettes in upper right corner)
Now the blowfish lips, the make-up caked doe eyes, and the round head that is large enough to have its own moon - these are all things I could do without. But most of the clothes are just too fabulous to dismiss off hand.
I've noticed there's much hatred in the parenting community towards these dolls. They're "slutty", "trashy", and "over-sexualized". Apparently by allowing my daughter to play with them I am an irresponsible parent. If she keeps brushing their long, flowing hair, if she keeps dressing (and undressing) them in their risque outfits she will definitely become a prostitute or a stripper. Because all girls who wear mini-skirts and too much make-up are either a whore or a pole dancer. Except not really. Besides it's a fucking doll not a guidance counselor. I just really doubt that playing with a doll can make or break a child's future.
When people say that they hate the dolls and won't let their kids play with them because they're creepy, weird, strange, scare the living shit out of them, I can respect that. I get that. I just really hate when parents get this self-righteous gleam in their eyes and emphatically state: I wouldn't let my daughter play with those dolls. As if they're some kind of mother of the year or some shit and I'm absolutely not.
But let's be honest here. I think we all know by now that we, the parents of the Jackson family, are certainly not going to be winning any Parents of the Year awards in the near future. That's okay with me. I cuss like a trucker, Todd smokes like a chimney, and we both drink like fish. And speaking of fish, he won me a goldfish at the carnival on Saturday night. He tossed a little plastic ball into a cup and Voila! we had ourselves a cute, little fishy. I bought a small plastic tank and a plastic cup of fish food. I carried that precious fucker around the carnival for 2 hours, walking very gingerly all the way lest I jostle it too much. On the way home, we argued over a name for the newest member of the Jackson clan. Liv wanted "Olinta" and I wanted "Jaws". When we got home I dropped in the tank some flakes of food and we watched eagerly while he ignored them. "Not hungry little guy? Maybe tomorrow." I yelled at the kitty, "Leave that fishy alone. He is not your dinner!" The first thing Sunday morning, I run out into the kitchen with eager anticipation, with way more happiness and childish glee than I should have. And here's what I found:
RIP Jaws/Olinta - There was just never enough time to figure out what your fucking name was.