Tag Archives: Action Figures

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN

This comedy blog post was made possible by Patreon. One of the rewards for becoming a Patreon backer is suggesting a topic for the blog. My friend and kind Patreon patron, Angela Webber of The Doubleclicks, gave me the very fun suggestion of “toys that come to life.” This unlocked a deep memory of humorous toy horror. Enjoy!

VenomNew

I had a lot of action figures growing up.

For the most part, if any of them talked it was because I was saying things for them. I was working through emotional issues, like the time I made Han Solo and Princess Leia go see Yoda for couples counseling.

That’s a true story. Learned a lot about expressing ourselves, we all did.

But I only had one action figure that actually talked. It was a huge hunk of plastic molded into the shape of the Spider-Man villain, Venom.

At the time, I thought a talking action figure was amazing. Now inanimate objects talk to me constantly. The other day, I accidentally activated Siri in my pants. I was walking down the street when I heard Siri’s muffled voice come out of my front pocket saying, “Joseph! I can’t help you find what you’re looking for.” I understand, Siri, I understand.

But Venom was amazing! He said three awesome things! Each corresponding to a different button!

Pushing the first button made Venom say, “Die, Spider-Man!” This was great. It was like his thesis statement. Clear, concise, great open communication. Yoda would be proud.

The second button made Venom say, “Hisssssss!” To be clear, he didn’t make a hissing sound. He said “Hissssss!” like it was a word. It was over-pronounced and insincere. Venom said “Hisssssss!” like he was doing musical theater. Like “Hisssssss!” was his big solo number in A Chorus Line.

But the third phrase was worth wading through all the musical theater in the world. When you pressed the third button Venom said, “I want to eat your brain!”

At the time, an action figure that said “I want to eat your brain” was one of the best things in my entire life. It was the verbal equivalent of accidentally hitting yourself in the balls: it was equal parts scary and hilarious.

I took Venom around and made him tell everyone that he wanted to eat their brain. He told my brother, he told my chihuahua, he told Luke Skywalker in Bespin Fatigues, he told my mother who was actually fatigued from life.

Eventually, six or seven months later, it got old. I set Venom on my dresser and forgot about him.

Until one terrifying night.

I was having a dream that someone was talking to me. Saying the same thing over and over. I struggled out of the dream and realized someone was actually talking to me. Someone inside my bedroom.

It was Venom. And he wanted to eat my brain.

It took me a few minutes to identify it. But when I did it was unmistakable.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.

“Weird,” I thought as I got up, stumbled over to the bed, and hit Venom’s brain-talking button. Unlike Siri, Venom stopped talking immediately.

I went back to bed. And Venom started up again.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.

I tried hitting all of his buttons repeatedly but he wouldn’t stop.

The closest thing I had ever experienced to this was watching an adult with a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. I could have held him or gently rocked him. Instead, I wrapped him in a sack and buried him in my closet.

But I could still hear him.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.

I tried to hear what he was saying differently, to imagine he was saying something less horrific like “I want to eat more bran.” So I hid under the covers and listened to that for a while.

I WANT TO EAT MORE BRAN.
I WANT TO EAT MORE BRAN.
I WANT TO EAT MORE BRAN.

Somehow that was more disturbing.

I was full of questions.

Why didn’t his batteries run out?

Was…was it possible that he was actually alive?

What would that be like to be trapped in plastic with only three things to say?

What three things would I say?

Probably “Thank you,” “I’m sorry,” and “Why?”

Or maybe “burrito” mixed in there. But would it be a question or a statement?

Burrito? Burrito! Probably burrito with an interrobang. Burrito!?

Eventually, I gave in and decided to really LISTEN to what Venom was saying. And I realized he wasn’t saying “I want to eat your brains.” He was saying “I want to eat your brain.”

To me, “brains” always sounded like the physical matter. Zombies want to eat our brains. No ambiguity there. Our heads are their burritos.

But “brain” singular seemed like a concept. Like Venom wanted to digest my mind. So I tried my best to hear it that way. I cowered in bed and listened to a possibly sentient action figure buried in a closet say:

I WANT TO GET TO KNOW YOU.
I WANT TO GET TO KNOW YOU.
I WANT TO GET TO KNOW YOU.

And eventually I drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, I was sure it was a fever dream. I went to the closet. I listened at the door. Nothing. I slowly opened the door. I gently unwrapped the towel.

And then I heard it.

I want to eat your brain.
I want to eat your brain.
I want to eat your brain.

It was just a whisper now. Soft and gentle like a lullaby. A brain eating lullaby.

I wrapped Venom back up and put him away. I didn’t hear him again.

Years later, I was packing up to move and I found Venom buried in the closet.

I assumed his batteries had long since burned out. I didn’t want to push his button and hear the nothing. But I decided to take a risk. I pushed his button.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN!

He screamed at full volume! Wow! I tried hitting his “Die, Spider-Man!” and “Hisssssss!” buttons.

I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN!
I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN!

To this very day, I still own that action figure. And to this day, all he will say is “I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN.”

And he says it loud and proud.

A good reminder that I should try to be like Venom. I should say what I mean, loud and proud.

THANK YOU.
I’M SORRY.
BURRITO!?

That’s good, clear, open communication. Thanks, Venom.

If you enjoyed the post, check out my Patreon page! Thank you. I’m sorry. Burrito!?

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A Death Star To Guide Me

The following is the letter I should have sent to Santa Claus when I was a young boy.

Dear Mr. Claus,

My name is Joseph Aaron Scrimshaw. The adults in my family call me Joey. I hate that. I tell them my name is Joseph. They laugh and call me cute. I tell them their reaction is condescending and pejorative. At this point, most adults leave the room.

Their loss.

But back to subject matter that is more germane to this missive. In regards to my Christmas present this year–it is my deepest desire to be the first child on my block to own a Death Star Space Station play set inspired by the major motion picture event, Star Wars.

Now, Santa, I realize you are probably not a fan of this recently released sci fi/fantasy epic since you are of the older generation and probably prefer more adult fare such as Annie Hall, ABBA:The Movie, or Exorcist II:The Heretic.

Suffice it to say, like yourself, Star Wars is rooted in ancient mythologies. Its timeless narrative allows young people to vicariously live a life of noble heroism through the main character, Luke Skywalker.

The film reminds us that we all have exciting destinies. As soon as a fascist regime brutally murders our parents or guardians, oh, the adventures we will have!

At the end of the film (after his second parental figure, Obi Wan Kenobi, has also been murdered) Luke Skywalker deals a terrible blow to the Galactic Empire by destroying the aforementioned space station, The Death Star.

The film’s phenomenal box office success has generated an unprecedented wave of merchandise. There are Star Wars glasses, posters, cereals, pillow cases, ornaments, etc. In Germany, you can even get Star Wars toilet paper.

Wiping your ass with an image of C-3PO seems like an odd way to express your interest in the film. But then, it’s Germany. I don’t need to tell Kris Kringle how weird the Germans can be.

(As a side note: I am so completely surrounded by the oeuvre of Star Wars, I often wonder if it will warp my mind and lead me to an adult life in which I obsessively quote the film and pretend any long cylindrical item I see is a lightsaber. So it goes.)

The most popular tie-in product is the Kenner toy company’s line of action figures. Action figures are like dolls that don’t threaten your masculinity. As much. The Death Star is a play set for these action figures. Sort of like Barbie’s Mansion, but evil.

And speaking of evil, I realize the irony of celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ by receiving something called The Death Star. I could argue that there is a STAR connection to the story of Jesus’ birth, but I think we both know I would be equivocating.

I ask you to judge the Death Star not by the blatantly evil name (in fact, one wonders how the Empire got this name past the steering committee. Perhaps The Force was used?) or the rather inflated suggested retail price of $49.95, but rather judge it by the joy it would bring to me–young Joseph Aaron Scrimshaw. An intelligent, sensitive young man trapped in the barren wastes of the frozen tundra that is Northern Minnesota.

(Another side note: Northern Minnesota is much like the North Pole if most of the elves were alcoholics and Mrs. Claus had never heard of contraceptive devices. That is to say: it is lacking in magic.)

Rest assured, Santa, that I have exhausted every other possibility for acquiring the Death Star. I have asked my 26-year-old hippie parents to buy it for me. They answered a firm “no,” shaking their needlessly long hippie hair.

Even both of my Grandmothers put together to form a sort of financial Mecha-Grandmother could not afford the Death Star. I find this hard to believe as I have personally witnessed my maternal Grandmother smoke at least $60 worth of Virginia Slims cigarettes in one sitting.

And so, Santa, as holographic Princess Leia said to Obi-Wan Kenobi, you are my only hope. I risk no hyperbole when I say my entire world view for the rest of my life hangs in the balance.

I realize the Death Star is merely a collection of cheap plastic (and orange foam used to clumsily symbolize the garbage in the trash compactor), however, what magic has been fused into the plastic? Is it really an overly priced commercial tie-in? Or is it like a star itself? Both a muse to sentimental poets and a very real giver of light, warmth, and life?

If I receive the Death Star, I will be justified in my current belief that the world is a bright and happy place in which one can always make one’s dream a reality.

OR these fragile beliefs could be ruthlessly shattered by YOU. And I will be sentenced to a long and hollow life devoid of joy, compassion, and love. Suddenly, $49.95 doesn’t sound that expensive, does it?

Yours with much affection,

Joseph Aaron Scrimshaw

 

P.S. I must warn you in advance, I will not be able to leave out any cookies for you. As I mentioned earlier, my mother is a hippie, so I hope you will enjoy her seasonal collection of dried fruits and unsalted nuts.

Merry Christmas and May the Force Be with You.

A version of this story is also available in my book COMEDY OF DOOM.
Thanks for reading.

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