For those of you living under a rock and have somehow missed the never-ending media blitz on this breaking news, Barbie Doll is turning 50 today. That's right, for half a century, she has now plagued chubby student government dorks and other adolescent females whose awkward bodies aren't all symmetrical like that of head cheerleader. I bet we can't even begin to put a number on all the Mercedes Benz luxury rides Beverly Hills plastic surgeons wouldn't have been able to buy had Barbie not been around to teach us what a woman's body is suppose to look like.
Now, don't get me wrong, Barbie. I ain't mad at 'cha. I know how unprofitable a Malibu Shonda would have been and it's not your fault that your maker made you all super hot. In fact, I will go far nough to say that you helped me as much as you hurt, Barb. Can I call you Barb? Cool.
You see, you were the only pure sex our parents wrapped up underneath the Christmas Tree and gave to us. Well, that's not entirely true, they gave us Ken, too. You know as well as I do that he's nothing to turn your nose up. Good for Barbie, you go girl. Anyways, along with millions of other curious American women, you allowed me to explore the sexual tango between a man and a woman with you and Ken firmly gripped in each of my hands. That's the closet most of us ever got to feeling like Marilyn Monroe or Farrah Fawcett or Christie Brinkley. Good bless you for that. I'm sure you knew our objectification of you would be rather helpful later in life.
Not to mention that, you were always there for us to mutilate when we were feeling a little down in the dumps with our body image or were particularly hating those bitches with the much glorified 36-24-36 frame, or both. It didn't matter if I burned your hair off or wrote on your face with permanent marker, you were always there with a perfect smile.
So, thanks, Barb, for not ratting me out to my folks about all the unick rubbing I made you and Ken do. That along with the head burning would've made a strong case for institutionalization, no doubt. It would help if you aged a little, maybe just one stray wrinkle under an eye or something. But, I know you can't help your plastic perfection. Here's to another 50 years. Someday my granddaughters are going to need someone to give them a healthy dose of self-loathing, pubescent sexual curiosity and a sounding board for their frustration and I know you are just the girl for the job.