Now that the holidays have come and gone, our new acquisitions courtesy of Santa and our relatives have all been duly absorbed into some nook and cranny of our household. All, that is, except for this one.

The Demon Doll. No, seriously, that thing is freaking me out every single day. It’s not enough that I have a serious moral opposition to dolls of any sort, and especially that spawn of evil, the Barbie. *shudders* I can’t even go there.

Seriously, you wouldn’t like this staring you down from the top of your entertainment center daily, would you?!

Yaaargh. Kiss my good night’s sleep good bye. I’m gonna be tossin’ and turnin’.

Now why would anyone think it’d be a good idea to give this… hunk of creepy looking plastic to my susceptible l’il girl?!

For one thing, dolls were first given to girls in Victorian times to train them up to be good mothers.

What a good idea!!!

*smacks forehead* Yes, of course, I want my four year old to start her childhood learning to wipe a plastic butt and feed demonface in preparation for an adulthood filled with self-sacrifice. Never mind her own independence, exploration, creativity, and self-esteem. My daughter absolutely must first learn to worry about her doll’s wellbeing. How else could she ever be a good, productive adult female?!

*rolling eyes* Please, please, please… understand this: that was sarcasm.

What are dolls really good for?

Mutilation! The Barbie dolls in my youth, most of which were brought over by my best friend, each met an untimely end. Heads were yanked off. Eyes were poked out. Earrings were wrenched out and stabbed into other limbs. Legs were winched to impossible angles in attempts to ascertain that she, in fact, was not only anatomically incorrect, but impossibly ideal.

We do not allow Barbie in our household. She has nothing to offer my daughter. Nothing.

Yes, that’s right. I don’t need Barbie to tell Leah she can be a doctor and an astronaut. I’ll do that myself, and I’ll show her that without the help of pink high heels or a waist the same size as my neck.

Seriously, if Barbie’s only real contribution to the whole girl power movement is that she dumped Ken… she really doesn’t have much to go on living for, does she?

Die, Barbie, die!

My kid has much, much, much better things to be doing with her time than caring for or developing co-dependent relationships with these pseudo-toys. Like, you know, actually living her life.

And as for that…. thing staring at me from it’s perch on top of my entertainment center right now… Let’s just say we’re doing the same thing for just about every other offender that’s crossed our threshold. We’re keeping it there for a few days to make sure the little girl doesn’t actually form any attachment to it.

Then it’s hello, Goodwill.