They’re Not ‘Dolls,’ They’re Voodoo Action Figures
It’s so annoying when some idiot who doesn’t even know what they’re talking about disrespects the things you like. It’s like, if you don’t even know what words to use when you’re talking about the scale representations I use to inflict pain upon real, actual people, then why are you even talking to me? If I prick the neck of a little man made of burlap stuffed with grass in the hopes that the person it’s modeled after thinks they’ve just snapped a vertebra, would you really be so rude as to call it a doll? Because it’s not a doll. It’s a voodoo action figure.
Get It Right!
I’m not inflicting tremendous amounts of pain upon my nemeses with the help of cutesy little girl toys. My voodoo action figures all have at least 50 points of articulation, and every single one comes in handy when I’m displaying them on a shelf in poses that accurately reflect the person they represent. Rodolfo, my annoying upstairs neighbor (who I swear is keeping a horse up there), can be seen picking his nose in miniature form in my glass display case. Whenever he or his horse clomps too loudly, I crank his voodoo action figure’s arms back, or flick its balls till I hear the satisfying thud of his tortured body hitting the floor. Then I put him back in the display case, posed like he’s trying to smell his own fart.
Would a voodoo “doll” come with up to six swappable heads featuring a variety of facial expressions, all depicting different levels of physical agony? Uh, I think not. The voodoo action figure of my deadbeat cousin Marisa has heads that include expressions from “Legs On Fire,” all the way to “Spike Through Face.” (Though I admit the array of swappable heads doesn’t really add much to the pain-by-proxy experience. They’re more for my own amusement.)
It’s The Details That Count
I’ve definitely never seen a voodoo “doll” with a ton of meticulous accessories tailored to make the experience as personal to me as possible. It wouldn’t feel right to stab my boss in the heart if he wasn’t holding his signature coffee mug emblazoned with the logo of the company’s 2011 corporate off-site jamboree. If my mail man’s voodoo action figure wasn’t holding a tiny, beat up, partially opened package with my name on it, I wouldn’t have anything to remind me why I’m ramming a red-hot metal crochet needle up his ass in the first place.
Don’t condescend to me when you’re talking about my passions. Learn the nomenclature. I know your lack of self-awareness means you won’t walk away from our exchange with the painful pang that comes with knowing you’ve made a boneheaded mistake, so you’ll likely never learn your lesson. But I don’t worry too much about that. That’s what the dolls are for. I mean, action figures.