Moon monkey reminded me
I used to write copy for a toy company. We had to give the copy the feel of having played with the toys, and as such had quite a selection of samples.

It was a bloody ace time, everyone was in their early to mid 20s, and surrounded by toys, which meant that at any given time of the day, there was a Nerf Gun fight going on, and we all drank heavily as we hadn't quite got over being students yet.

Imagine how I felt, however, when entering the office early one morning with a stinking hangover, I discovered that a four-year-old child at my colleague's desk, just starting silently at his screen, not moving a muscle. The eyes! The dead, glassy eyes! Dear CHRIST why oh WHY is there a market for these bloody dolls?
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 8 Apr 2011, 13:46, 1 reply)

oh christ.
when my daughter was small she had a massive baby-doll. she called it Big Heavy Baby and it was known in our house as the Notorious BHB. the horror of walking into a darkened room and seeing it there on the floor, and the resulting ten seconds of 'OH FUCK. THERE'S A DEAD BABY ON THE FLOOR! WHY THE FUCK IS THERE A DEAD BABY IN HERE??' will stay with me forever. i was convinced i was going to wake up in the dead of night and find it on my chest, hissing at me. brr.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Fri 8 Apr 2011, 14:29, closed)