Don’t Toy With Crass Commercialism

There comes a moment, deep in every major toy hunt, when you catch yourself saying things adults just do not ordinarily say. Like: “Excuse me, do you know your Zords?”

Take it as a sign of what this season does to some of us that the toy store stock clerk of whom I asked the question didn’t punch me in the nose or say, “Sir, I think that’s rather personal.” Instead he replied, in an affable voice, “Yes. What do you need?” There followed a perfectly polite discussion of the merits and availability of various Zords. For those of you without small children, your basic Zords come in a frightening variety that includes, but is not limited to: Falconzord, Ninja Megazord, Frog Ninjazord, Ape Ninjazord, Ninja Ultrazord and Shogun Ultrazord.

I suspect I’ve just done more to encourage birth control than anyone this side of Planned Parenthood.

Once upon a time, toys were a lot simpler. Take the Christmas I wanted a toy bus. I said, “Mom, tell Santa Claus I want a toy bus.” Christmas morning, there it was.

What a difference a generation makes. A child of the ‘90s, after all, would request the Super Destructo Mega-Ninja Bus with working headlights, authentic engine sounds and a special button which, when pressed, transforms the whole megillah into a fire-breathing Tyrannosaur.

It’s enough to make one long for days of yore. A pox upon the toy makers. Do they think we’re MADE of money and time?

You’re probably thinking to yourself, “This sounds like the raving of a man who’s come up empty after searching two counties for a black Baby Sip and Slurp doll.” But I’d say to you, “Ha! Do you know where I can get one?”

I hate this doll so much I can’t even keep its name straight. Or maybe I subconsciously refuse to say it right because I’m sick of saying it at all.

“Excuse me, do you have a black Baby Slurp and Burp?”

“… Baby Sit and Spit?”

“… Baby Slip and Fall?”

“… Baby Ski and Pee?”

It strikes me that I’m going through an awful lot of trouble for a hunk of plastic that, by Dec. 28, will be naked, hairless and blind in one eye. But that’s what many of us do this time of year, isn’t it? Each year brings at least one hot toy, one Holy Grail item for which Santa’s helpers search in mounting panic, schlepping breathless and vacant-eyed from store to store like tabloid reporters chasing Elvis sightings, except that one has a better chance of actually FINDING Elvis.

Holy Grail toys, on the other hand, always sell out by August - and the next shipment is never due before February.

I speak from experience here. Your humble correspondent is a veteran of the Great Cabbage Patch Wars, where ordinary adults engaged in bare-knuckle brawls in toy store aisles for the right to be overcharged for ugly little goblin-faced dolls. And don’t even get me started on the toy that I will henceforth and forever know as Those Damned Power Rangers.

Two years ago, I’m calling toy stores up, down and across the Florida peninsula asking, “Do you have Those Damned Power Rangers?” Then I start trying stores in states where I have friends or family. Nada. Finally, I begin to call stores in states NEXT to states where I have friends or family. They finally pried the phone from my hand when I got off the line with a store in Anchorage. For the record, I don’t know a living soul who knows a living soul within 500 miles of Alaska.

Never did find Those Damn Power Rangers, either - the one blot on an otherwise spotless record. But that year taught us an unforgettable lesson about the magic of Christmas. Because when the special morning came and our son found no Power Rangers under the tree, he still turned big brown eyes upon us and gave us a look that said, with touching, unmistakable poignancy: “You people are absolutely worthless.”

Which is, of course, why we jump through the toy makers’ hoop this time of year. Trust me: you NEVER want to see that look.

Speaking of which, you’ll have to excuse me now. Looks like we’ve got a line on Baby Surf and Turf. If we hustle, we can just make the plane in time.

xxxx