Hortense, over at Jezebel, posted a though-provoking piece today asking why we destroy(ed) our Barbies. I'd make a safe bet that Freud failed to explore the psychological ramifications of doll mutilation, but something must be said for the adolescent tendency to dismember and reappropriate Barbie's glamazonian limbs. I, myself was always more intrigued by doll copulation though. As a toddler, I had more than your regular boy's share of dolls plus access to my cool older sister's collection. Needless to say, my eleborately staged Barbie/Ken/black-Barbie scenarios most often centered around shopping and sex. See, at 6 years old, I knew exactly how life should be.
Sea-World Barbie, complete with wet suit and orcha wale, was practically never used for her deep-sea diving skills. On the day that I brought her home from Toys'R'Us, the whale took a swim to the trash can and Barbie's too-modest wet suit came off. I dressed her arched feet in stilettos and gave her leopard leggings, passed on several blouse options and forced Ken to have his way with her creepy, plain breasts.
I remember being mildly frustrated with Ken's bedroom-passiveness, which can partially be blamed on non-posable forearms. I'm not alone on this either, one Jezebel commentator noted "I was consistently irritated by the fact that Ken didn't look rude enough while naked". Perhaps this lack of sexual flourish in a children's toy that is notoriously and commonly used as a adolescent sexual device led to the development of those cute little Bratz dolls; they certainly get their point across.
