What is wrong with children's toys?

My sister and I were Barbie girls. We had tons of Barbies (don't you dare call them dolls), multiple cars, the dream house.

The works.

And since our childhood, Barbie has undergone multiple rounds of plastic surgery to shrink her bust, expand her waist, and reshape her hips. Because several people felt that her unrealistic body was prompting little girls to eat less and wear less.

Barbie has also been dating Ken for decades. And both of them have also undergone procedures to make sure their genitalia is as un-genital like as possible.

Because God forbid some little girl knows that men have penises and women have ass cracks.

Yet today, toddlers are given these toys.

Yo Gabba Gabba character, a giant dildo with one eye

Sing-A-Ma-Jig, looks to go along great with the above Gabba

And all I'm going to say about these horrific toys is this:
If Barbie is considered dirty, what in the hell do people say about these creepy toys? Usually these items are illegal in the state of Texas unless labeled "cake topper."

Next bachelorette party I attend, guess what the bride is getting.

I'd hate to hear what Freud thought of this.

Today, after a considerable amount of job-related stressors attacked me like buck shot, I realized that I was working with left my hand firmly wrapped around my throat.

And I panicked a bit.

Not only because I looked weird in my masochistic pose, but because I was so subconsciously angered by a particular project that I was trying to off myself in public.

Did anyone see? And if so, why didn't anyone stop me?

I have  dangerously expressive gestures anyway. (Another writer who shares my plight works by the manta "hide your face.") It's not unusual for someone to walk by me and make some comment about my being deep in thought, frustrated, or elated. I'll smile when I write something I enjoy. I'll slap my forehead when I write something particularly bad (or someone makes an asinine comment). Or I'll blankly stare out the window, at ceiling tiles, or at my pencil cup as I search for the right grouping of words.

All of this when something small happens. I over exaggerate with my body what I'm feeling on the inside.

But never before have I so unknowingly slipped a hand around my throat and started to squeeze.

Perhaps it's time to take up a new hobby.

I have a deal for the bed bugs.

Dear Bed Bugs,

I have a few family members around the country who've had to deal with exterminating you. And the whole experience sounds awful.

Steaming furniture. Bagging books. Washing everything including curtains. Temporarily moving out. Spending assloads of money.

I don't want to do any of that.

So I'll cut you a deal, Bed Bugs. I hear that you like tasty tasty blood. In fact, I hear you love it. So I will gladly give you a lip-smacky vial of my sweet vegetarian blood every week if you promise not to infest my home.

I'll even deliver it to wherever you'd like.

Think about it. Fragrant, veggie blood. I'll even eat extra fruit so it's super sugary with hints of citrus. And just think, you won't have to try and break through my skin. Extra bonus!

Act now, Bed Bugs. I'm completely serious.