Barbie’s resume is one big, fat lie

I’ve written about Barbie before. Once when my daughter was 10 years old and again when my oldest granddaughter was the same age. They both went through their “Barbie years,” and both times it nearly landed me in the poor house.

Barbie’s companionship is not for the faint of heart or the light of wallet. Everything about her screams “future trophy wife who’s definitely comfortable living in a style to which guys like me can afford only on a doll-sized scale.”

She drives a “dream car.” She lives in a “dream house.” She hangs out with Ken, the “dream date,” who not only does not speak, but lacks the anatomical equipment which might, on occasion, prompt Barbie to lie about having a headache. He’s the perfect match for that narcissistic little minx.

I’m probably skirting the edges of misogyny here and for that I apologize. But I just don’t like Barbie. I never have. I resent her. She gets all the breaks and never seems to work for any of them.

Despite the fact there is absolutely no record of Barbie’s school years – no diploma, no transcripts, no paperwork showing she was ever a member of the National Honor Society – she has had over 200 careers since 1959. That’s right, 200 different jobs, most of them either fun or glamorous in some way.

I know this because of an article I clicked on while wasting my morning on Facebook instead of writing this column, which is what I should have been doing.

In the past 60 years and with no special training, Barbie has been employed as an astronaut, news anchor, firefighter, pilot and soccer star. She’s even worked as a politician, the only job for which she may actually be qualified. Possibly even over-qualified.

Now somehow – though she does nothing but shop and lounge around her “dream pool” with Ken and Skipper – Barbie has developed a partnership with the real-life National Geographic Society. This has opened up to her jobs such as wildlife photojournalist, polar marine biologist, conservationist and even entomologist.

I subscribed to the National Geographic magazine for 20 years and they never offered me so much as a manure-hauler position at the organization’s annual Yak Fest picnic.

If that weren’t enough to explain my lifelong dislike for this 11-inch-tall piece of plastic responsible for giving generations of young women serious body image issues, her newest “job” is that of astrophysicist. That’s right, somehow Barbie is now qualified to work side-by-side with Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Stephen Hawking. (OK, not Stephen Hawking, but only because he’s dead.)

How did Barbie land this cushy, high-profile gig? Did she spend 15 years paying off her student loans? Heck, no! I did, but you don’t see NASA beating down my door. Well, OK, admittedly, NASA doesn’t have a lot of use for an English major, but still.

The Astrophysicist Barbie – coming soon to a store near you – comes complete with a telescope, star chart and (of course) a fashionable T-shirt featuring a graphic of a nebula. Let me tell you something, Barbie, it takes more than a 4-inch refractor scope to make an astrophysicist.

I don’t know what that “more” might be, but that’s because I don’t know anything about astrophysicisting. But neither does Barbie. That’s my point!

Just dressing up in a lab coat isn’t enough.

Mattel, the evil corporate overlord that created Barbie in the first place, says Barbie’s latest careers are designed to inspire young girls to strive for greatness, to reach that unreachable star.

Personally, I think it cultivates even more unrealistic expectations in girls. Now, not only is little Suzy expected to maintain a perfect physique that exists nowhere in nature, she’s expected to somehow earn multiple PhDs in fields generally requiring years of laborious study.

And she’s supposed to do all this while balancing her extensive social life, her fashion career, her relationship with Ken … the list goes on. And who’s going to keep little Suzy’s Dream House clean while she pursues her career? Ken? Fat chance. He’s interested in nothing but surfing and trying to hide the fact he’s anatomically incorrect.

No, this whole Barbie “dream world” has to stop and stop now. Or at least before my youngest granddaughter, now only 3, hits her Barbie years.

As God is my witness, I’m not buying another Dream House.

When it comes to Barbies or zombies, we must remain armed and vigilant

I recently covered a story about an ammo shortage that has affected not just this area, but the entire nation. Apparently, folks are stocking up big time on shells, mostly in .22 and 9mm calibers.

Why? Reasons vary. Most of those reasons are predicated on Internet rumors, like:

• Homeland Security has purchased 62 billion rounds in preparation for an upcoming class war in which guns will be taken away from ordinary citizens.

• The government is hiding the fact an asteroid is headed toward the Earth and after (pick a date and time) our planet is going to be a zombie-laden wasteland in which only the strong (and those with lots of ammo) will survive.

• Obama is evil and where is that birth certificate, anyway?!

• The government (insert conspiracy theory here).

In most of these rumors, the government fills the roll of Darth Vader, the nefarious, dark force against which we common men must remain ever vigilant and — more importantly — heavily armed.

Now, before you go blathering on about that whole “liberal media” thing, let me just say, I own guns; yes, handguns. Granted, they are of the cheap “Saturday Night Special” variety, but they do shoot bullets and are for most part accurate to within four or five feet.

My guns are far better suited to zombie apocalypse purposes than, say, hunting squirrels. I bought them years ago to go plinking with my son and stepson.

We used to take my daughter’s discarded Barbie dolls out to the shooting range and blast away until the ammo was gone. Dumb fun, man fun, but fun none the less.

Since the boys grew up and moved out, I haven’t had the guns out of the lock box. But I know where they are, should I ever have to face down a horde of deranged, killer Barbie dolls. God knows those Barbies have reason enough to lust for revenge, and quite possibly, long memories.

Problem is, because of those stupid Internet rumors, I can no longer get ammo. So I’m helpless to protect myself from rampaging 12-inch action figures.

And personally, I think problems with zombies or killer Barbie dolls are every bit as likely as is the government suddenly showing an inordinate interest in my inaccurate firearms. Frankly, I just don’t think the government — as an entity — is nearly smart enough to pull off something like the disarming of gun-totin’ America.

Sure, there are some very bright folks working jobs in the public sector. But somehow, when you put them all together in Washington, they are quickly absorbed by the lumbering, clueless, bureaucratic blob that is our federal government and become every bit as ineffectual and incapable of any real action as is the rest of the administration.

In short, there aren’t enough wingtip-wearing nerds in Washington to cause me to lose any sleep about what they might do. For the most part, I believe they’ll probably continue to do what they’ve done for decades: nothing.

They will make a lot of noise, blame each other for their inaction, and then vote themselves a juicy pay raise. The world will go on pretty much as it has for a generation, the ammo shortage will abate, and I will be able to re-arm myself for the coming Barbie/Zombie apocalypse. 

Mike’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available in eBook format at Amazon.com and in paperback at Robbins Book List in Greenville. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.