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Massacre of the Fashion Dolls
Rachael S. Pankey
I was an
unworldly and naïve eleven years old when twelve of
my beloved Barbie®, Ken®, Midge®, Skipper® and
Tammy® dolls were ruthlessly kidnapped by
prepubescent boys. Barbie® and her entire entourage
were violated, sexually assaulted, and maimed as a
result of this abduction.
All of the victims were mysteriously returned to
their doll boxes from the scene of the crime. Full
disclosure did not take place until we were
dressing for the “Big Saturday Night Date.” To my
horror I was to discover my players on the stage of
life, my teachers of life's early lessons, my
friends and companions had been made suddenly and
violently “anatomically correct!” Crude, makeshift
surgical tools were employed to create genitalia
where none had ever existed.
Even if Forensic scientists existed in 1963, they
were unnecessary to discover that a Hammer + Ice
Pick = Defilement. This crime scene was eerily
replayed in Southern California some 20 years later
when a hapless GI Joe was abducted, stripped,
stabbed, drowned, set on fire, hung, and finally,
tragically, beheaded and left for the dogs to gnaw.
Barbie’s® bosom sported inverted nipples and her
unmentionables bore two obviously artificially
designed orifices. Even the young Skipper®, pert
and innocent, was not spared the ravages of the
evil Boys. Ken’s® injuries were emasculating. A
slight variation of technique allowed Ken’s®
private parts to exhibit a strategically placed
wound. Several strategically placed wounds. It was
assault upon assault. One after another I unveiled
the atrocities left in my doll boxes. My head swam.
My heart raced. I knew no expletive that could be
deleted. I would have destroyed the perpetrators if
I had been taller and stronger.
As it stood, no trial was necessary. No jury
employed. I didn't need a Private Detective to
sleuth the Who’s and Where’s and What’s and Why’s
of this capital crime. It was Boys. And I knew
three boys with ample opportunity, motive and
criminal natures. They were the kind of boys
swiping beers and smokes. The kind of boys who
purloined and smuggled girlie and nudist magazines
to their camp out tents down the bay. Boys passing
from physical obscurity into creepy stinky little
sex perverts. And those three boys, who laughed at
me as I cried and sobbed and hyperventilated with
rage while accusing them of the crime of my
century, those boys were my very own brother and my
two boy cousins.
Hell hath no fury like a sister with exactly 12
innocent sexually mutilated fashion dolls. I
already held my brother in low esteem. He existed.
I had no choice but to communicate occasionally
with him: we lived in the same house, after all.
But I believe I totally ignored the other two for
the remainder of time in memory.
Forty years have passed since this terrible
Massacre of the Barbies® took place. Out of honor
for the dead and deference to the living I will
name no names and point no fingers. I will only
shriek the obvious: young hopped up testosterone
freaks were the cause and indeed the effect of the
death of my innocence and the permanent dent in my
developing sense of trust.
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