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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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