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Wednesday, October 17, 2007
First, watch the commercial to get the jingle stuck in your head. I'll wait.
Now then. In the mid-eighties my parents bought my little brother one of these things. I don't know that he ever got all that attached to it, but he seemed to like it enough. What I do remember about My Buddy was that my older brother and I beat that thing mercilessly.
I still don't know what it was about that toy that caused David and I to succumb to violent tendencies we never knew we had. We never abused any of my sister's toys like that. (Sure, Super Grover spent more than his fair share of time up on the roof, but he was supposed to fly.) All I can tell you is that there was nothing more cathartic than grabbing My Buddy by the ankles and smashing his head into the metal bunk bed frame. Over and over and over...
I'm sure it started as a way to annoy my little brother. You punch his toy in the face, he gets mad, a good time is had by all. But it grew into something much bigger. Maybe it's because he really was indestructible--and he was the perfect size for such manhandling--so we took it as a challenge to see if we could really damage him. (I don't think we ever did.) Or maybe there was just something about his face that provoked our wrath.
Anyway, I was reminded of all of this by a blog post that claimed that My Buddy was for kids whose parents thought GI Joes were too violent. I had plenty GI Joes, but they never once inspired the kind of blood lust that My Buddy did.
