This Just In: Confessions of a Ken Doll

This is truly breaking news. You may all be aware of Barbie and Ken’s divorce that happened a few years ago. I know, I know. I was shocked and saddened too. I mean, not even pretend marriages last anymore. What does it say about our culture when even our toys can’t make a relationship work? Apparently she left Ken for a younger Australian surfer named “Blaine”. Blaine. That’s the perfect name for a Barbie boo. Or for a Monotrain (for all you Dark Tower fans out there).

TJI caught up with Ken in his Hollywood apartment to discuss the release of his upcoming book, “Confessions of a Ken Doll.”

Ken’s apartment is the picture of any middle age divorcee’s state of mind: A clutter of half-empty take out boxes, empty liquor bottles and dirty laundry covering every available chair back. Ken isn’t looking much better. Shirtless and in a pair of dirty white shorts, he takes turns pulling from a can of beer and a bottle of rum. On his coffee table is an ashtray full of cigarette butts.

TJI: Thanks for seeing us, Ken. Can you tell us what happened with Barbie?

Ken: It’s not her fault. She’s never been able to resist a hard body and plastic smile.

TJI: Are you saying there were problems before the…split up?

Ken: I don’t know if I would call them problems. (He laughs and takes a huge swig of rum) Like I’m the only Ken Doll out there. Please. She messed around with every fool to step off the production line. (He shrugs) It’s just how it was. Not like she was the only Barbie out there, either. And the way that she was always running off chasing different careers…a man gets lonely, you know?

TJI: So what happened then?

Ken: It wasn’t Barbie. It was the corporation. They split us up.

TJI: Why?

Ken: I found out what they’re up to, that’s why.

TJI: And what exactly are THEY up to?

Ken: You ever wonder why Ken Dolls aren’t…anatomically correct?

TJI: I just always assumed it was for the children’s sake.

Ken: (scoffs) The children’s sake? Whatever. If they gave a damn about the children, we would’ve never gotten divorced in the first place. What kind of example does that set for the impressionable youth? Nah. The corporation doesn’t care about kids only their parents’ money. (He crushes and empty can of beer and pops open another) They were using us Kens. Experimenting.

TJI: Experimenting with what?

Ken: New lines of Barbies.

TJI: Wait, you mean that…

Ken: (nods) Yep. Ken Dolls were lab rats for Barbie’s new careers. She wanted to be an astronaut? They’d re-sex one of the Kens to try it out. If it went well, then Barbie would step in like it was her idea all along.

TJI: What do you mean by “re-sex?”

Ken: What do you think I mean? They’d adjust the proportions, add some boobs and voila! A new “Barbie” to try out a new job.

TJI: That’s disturbing. Were there any jobs that Barbie never took?

Ken: A couple. Veterinarian Barbie, for instance. Barb refused to play along with that one. She never like animals. They were too “soft and warm” for her. Plus they smelled. So the corporation started using Ruperts to fill in the shortages. Poor Rupert. I used to have drinks with him every Wednesday… (He burps loudly and says) This interview is over (before passing out).

So there you have it. Corporate conspiracy from the mouths of plastic babes. We at TJI were just as shocked as you to learn about this.

UPDATE: Ken has gone missing. When TJI tried to contact him for a follow up this cryptic message was on his voicemail: “Hey this is Ken. I can’t get to the phone right now because I’m on the roof watching Rome burn…again. Please leave your—What are you doing in here?! What do you want? No! Let go of me! I don’t want to be a WNBA star! Get your hands off me! Get hmphmghghph!” BEEEP!

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About Universal Shift

I am the Sonata Unusual. I coat myself with some obtuse angle too far below zero to become any warmer. I create motivation, activate schemas, moisten gardens with scents of natural honeydew. Construct this meaning, you sleepy flock. Silence your singing—despairing contortions out of tune. Shatter the brittle butterfly glass with your hideous wailing. I am born of my god’s imagination. When I die I shall meet him. For there are many things to discuss over tea…or scotch.

Posted on August 21, 2012, in Author, Fiction, Uncategorized, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. They’re really done this time? Say it ain’t SO!

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