Maybe Barbi is Into S&M

A headline in Yahoo news grabbed my attention. It reads “Barbie ideal may be myth”.

Huh? Sorry, guys, but women are not plastic toys with big breasts and slim hips that you can bend in any direction. The fantasy may be there, but it is just a myth. I am sorry that Yahoo has to break the news.

First I get asked if I have a corduroy fetish, now I have been stopped a couple of times to be asked if I know where the rave was going to be? What is it about me makes people think I know where the rave is? Are corduroy pants the secret symbol indicating I am the person to ask for the location of the local rave?

It turns out I was close, after all. It was explained to me that my watch is the secret. I am wearing a watch that has the hidden meaning “I know the location of raves”.

Huh? I just went into a store and bought a watch.

I was also told my belt means I have marijuana. No, I don’t. Although I appreciate being forewarned as to why the cops will be following me everywhere.

What is this thing of wearing clothes to indicate secret messages? This makes me think of the outline for a romantic story:

As I glanced across the room, I saw her green poodle skirt and plaid earrings. I knew that meant she was looking for an older, ugly guy, just like me. I walked past and flashed towards her my fake Rolodecks watch upside down. She immediately understood I was interested. She didn’t smile, though, and I feared perhaps she I wasn’t her type. But then she removed her purple patent leather booth and tapped it on her shoulder, gently, three times. Alas, she was interested in exploring coffee and conversation, just so long as I understood that she was a woman who wanted to be loved by one man only, who enjoyed shoulder massages with chicken feathers, and wanted no more than three children and to live no more than a 100 miles radius from Manhattan. I removed my orange socks, and put on my yellow socks. At last, she flashed a smile, and I knew she indeed was interested in a man who was into corduroy, chicken feathers, and pizza at Lombardi’s. She changed her pantyhose into silver stockings. A white pizza woman, eh? I could live with that. I put on a purple sweater with glitter, letting her know that we should slip away for that coffee, and perhaps a bagel afterwards. She picked up her pinot noir, threw it in my face, and stormed out. That’s the problem with women today: we just can communicate.

I then read the Barbie article. It seems it was another Barbie myth that was being dispelled. The article stated that little girls do not play with their Barbie dolls. It seems they torture them. Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Women have been torturing men for generations, so they probably get their early practice with dolls.

Underneath that article is one reading “Kate Moss Is No Role Model.” What? Young girls DON’T want to grow up becoming anorexic cocaine addicts? Why should they when they can torture their Barbie dolls instead.