On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a threat to go to the American Girl Place store. I’d rather jump out a fucking window. To the uninitiated, this is the intersection of all the reasons the terrorists hate us. Pointless American consumerism in it’s most vile form. I’ve yet to set one foot in this seventh circle of hell (I do believe that much like Dante’s “Inferno”, there is a sign above the door to American Girl Place which reads “Abandon Hope All Ye Men Who Enter Here”) but I’m aware of what transpires within. You, your daughter(s) and whatever wretches you’ve suckered into this macabre death march, buy exorbitantly priced dolls and then parade around as though the dolls are real humans. Go ahead and re-read that last sentence, we’ll wait. I’m not fucking with you, this is real life. Or real life pretending that fake life is real life. You actually buy outrageously priced meals and stage these dinners with the dolls attached to your table as though they might eat the food, burp, offer up witty political commentary, and excuse themselves to go take a dump. Then you take the dolls to go shopping for other dolls. You get the dolls’ hair done at a doll beauty salon. I shit you fucking not muchachos, this actually factually happens. They want me to subject myself to this sado masochistic charade? Jesus H Fuck, I don’t even sanction it–like I don’t want my kid to know of the existence of such a disgusting show of extravagance.
Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, an ex girlfriend’s sister’s in-laws were traveling to Chicago to have an American Girl Place birthday party for one of their daughters and her dolls. They had the audacity to request that I attend. Balls the size of coconuts to even ask. Hah, fucking laughable mein! How about this counter-offer: Ask me to attend the American Girl Place doll baby real-fake birthday party, but give me $1,000,000 dollars. I’ll take the million bucks and find the most famous modern artist in the world. I will pay that artist the $1,000,000 as commission to create in sculpture a 5-story tall plaster hand giving you all the middle finger to look at while you have your make-believe but actually happening and you paying money for it birthday party. Sound good? I was in my twenties at the time and it was a Saturday, for fuck’s sake. “Are you shitting me?” doesn’t even begin to convey how shitting me that I cannot believe you are. I did not politely decline so much as belligerently declare that not only would I not attend this sad, sordid affair, but I was taking it as a grave personal insult to be asked. In fact I made it a point to go and get drunk with some very unsavory friends while the acid-trip day dream was occurring at AGP to leave no doubt as to my feelings on the event. I’m sure my name was Mud that day within their party but I don’t care. Face was saved as far as I’m concerned.
Now back to present day and I’m the poor schmuck faced with the dilemma of taking my own nuts, resting them inside the door well of car, then slamming the door home as violently as possible, or being the asshole dad who flatly refuses to have this feminine capitalist manifesto forced upon my person. It is like being the last sailor off the submarine in Bangkok and by the time I hit the brothel the only two choices are a 300lb stenching whore with no teeth (maybe cool?), a glass eye and one leg or another sporting a five o’clock shadow and a pronounced Adam’s apple; either way I go is fraught with peril and in the end I’m hatin’ it. Why does it have to be this way? Can’t we immerse ourselves in some other line of dolls where the sole intent is not to lure people into their lair and mentally and financially rape the ever living shit out of them? I’ll endure days of imaginary tea parties at home with Sesame Street dolls before I spend 90 minutes in this house of horrors. Once you walk through the doors of American Girl Place you’ll never be the same man again. You might look the same but something inside of you dies and can never come back. This is the crossroads at which I stand. Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas! Pretty par for the course though when you consider the overall holiday season:
A dead car battery
A lone long pube on the gym shower wall
WHAM!’s “Last Christmas”
A Disney movie full of princesses
A simultaneously puking yet wild-as-shit toddler
A two-day hangover at age 35 and an
Arctic blast right up the ass