All Tale material on this page copyright 2002, Cheryl. All rights reserved.
You thought you heard it all...
I remember being eight years old. I was the tomboy of the block; everyone knew that. I hated anything associated with perfect little blondes with their perfect little bodies. I mean, Barbie dolls weren't really that perfect. What kinda freak stands on tip toes all the time! You wonder why she never gets bunions. Anyway, on to the fun part.
At the time, my dad was dating this chick named Kate. One reason I hated her was because she was so perky and happy all the time. The second thing was that she looked like that plastic prostitute. Her hair was always bouncy, just like her $10,000 breasts, and she always wore these annoying purple and pink skirts. Argh, I'm getting off track! Anyway, one day my B-Day came along and I got loads of presents, including Action Jackson, Dinah-Mite, Football, and some really freaked-out giant jax. And then came Ms. Life-size Princess Barbie, and you'd never guess what she got me. That's right, a Barbie. The stiff blonde freak. She was wearing a skimpy pink miniskirt and holding a little plastic pink cake. I almost burst out laughing right then and there. Little did Kate know that she helped me learn something that day: torture.
The next day, I woke up and grinned my evil grin. There was that perfect little blonde, tied to the post of my bed with thick red yarn that I had ripped from my Raggedy Anne the previous night. She had that stupid "I'm prettier than you" look on her face. Hee hee, I thought, not for long, bitch. I decided then and there that her name wouldn't be Barbie, but Kate. So I woke up and prepared my little ritual. Action Jackson (who had already gotten a little banged up the night before) was now the angry chief of the cannibalistic tribe. Dinah, who had had her clothes shredded off, was now the dead remains of a previous virgin sacrifice. And Kate was next. Her first torture was to be painfully and slowly burned. I decided this called for sunlight. I rummaged through my drawers, and after my room was trashed, I found the magnifying glass. I grabbed Kate, who was still tied to the string by her foot, and carelessly dragged her down the stairs, pretending she was screaming in utter pain. I then opened the door and threw her out onto the sidewalk. It was a hot summer's day outside--perfect for a Barbie-Q. So, I positioned the magnifying glass over Kate's rubbery little head. It took a few minutes, but eventually she started smoking. After about half an hour, the fumes started to get to me.
I was proud of what I had done. Kate now had a mangled face that you would only normally see at a crime scene. But in some strange way, she still seemed to say, "I'm still way prettier than you!"
I went back inside the house with the living dead girl in my hand. I hurried past the kitchen, where my dad was eating breakfast. I ran to the garage and closed the door behind me. Hee hee, this'll be fuuuuun. Kate was slammed sideways into my father's vise. I decided the best way to get Mini-Bitch was to get rid of her prized possession. That is to say, her two most private possessions. So into the vise she went, me laughing like a freak and her "screaming." There was a slightly loud crunch as the plastic of her boobs caved in. Twisted? Sure. But haven't you ever flushed your brother's army men down the toilet? Remember how good that felt?
Anyway, I had created an almost perfect pint-sized Picasso. Then I noticed the legs. They were still perfectly crossed over one another. She seemed to sense what I was thinking, as her smile curved into an evil grin that almost said, "You're jealouuuuuus." I yelled, "STOP LOOKING AT ME!" and ran upstairs.
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