And we don't even have any Bratz or Monster High Dolls. Those sluts.
Apparently they're not the only promiscuous ones on the shelf, because even though I purge, rotate, and recycle from our bins and baskets almost every weekend, I swear they're multiplying.
Damn Buzz Lightyear and his freaking "laser" that he insists on using.
Somebody needs to put Polly Pocket on birth control. Or, like my friend Christina suggested, at least take away her credit card so she stops buying so many darn shoes.
And the same goes for Barbie, who doesn't even need a Ken to reproduce. I mean, I'm all for women's rights, but if you're going have lots of children, at least keep track of them. And all their heads.
I really thought that out of everyone, the cute stuffed animals would be the most responsible, but then I remembered: they're bunnies. Probably the worst offenders out of the bunch.
And as much as I love the Beyblades, any toy that requires screwing is mighty suspicious.
The battery operated cars just keep going and going. If only my vibrators had the same gusto.
And I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the Transformers have me completely stumped considering I need a PhD to put them back together.
All the LEGOs have to do is look at each other and they've doubled, even tripled.
You thought I was kidding about the LEGO babies?
Don't bitch about them either or they will cut you. Or well, cause nerve damage in your feet. And as much as my daughter is dying for the LEGO friends, I'm a little afraid what will happen if I add girls with boobs and hips into the mix.
I've tried hiding them, which probably just gives them more reason to do it. And tossing them just seems to be only a temporary fix. With four kids and in-laws who seem to entranced by the siren call of plastic toys, I can't win.
So until I figure out exactly how to handle this situation, I'm starting with the basic rule in pregnancy prevention:
I'm putting a condom on the Woody.
I'll let you know how it works out.