I was having dinner with some recent initiates into the cult of Set, the Snake God. Everybody loves the cult of Set, the Snake God, the falsest religion that exists. I was telling the new members how everybody can enjoy the simple pleasures that Set, the Snake God has set aside for everybody. * . The greater pleasures are, of course, reserved for the followers of Set, the Snake God. Even the most casual worshiper of the Great Scaled Serpent can savor the delights of the sure knowledge of an afterlife of luxury and sloth. One uses sympathetic magic to prepare your mansion of the after world. A few figurine cows indicates livestock; some pigs, some chickens. Some figures of men indicates you will have servants, which implies superior cash flow. Indeed, you can prepare a plantation of happiness for yourself, your family, in the next life. For followers of Set, the Snake God, this is a great comfort, this use of necromancy to provide a feather bed in the after world. But it gets better …
Archive for the ‘Toys’ Category
I suppose that hockey cards aren’t technically a toy, but it was one of the many diversions a young Mayor of Mitchieville had growing up in the 70’s, so Ima gonna add them into the toy category.
I loved playing with hockey cards as much as I loved little green Army men, Tonka Trucks (oh right, that’s a good one for tomorrow!), Hot Wheels, and rifling through my brothers Playboy magazines when he wasn’t home. I collected sets, traded them, and played that game where you and your opponent would flick cards against a wall and the nearest card to the wall got to keep the other guys card. I was a freaking MASTER at that game. But what good did it do, throwing cards at a wall destroyed them, making them untradeable and worthless. But my victory was seeing the tears of the loser. Yup, a young Mayor was a prickish Mayor. My, how things have changed…
The particular card you see above this typing is one Bobby Orr, #4. The greatest hockey player to ever strap on a pair of skates. There will no debating this FACT, Bobby Orr was the greatest of all time. If you even try to debate this, I will close the comment section down. If you continue in your ways, I will close this blog down. If you insist on arguing with me still, I will hire a detective to find where you live, and I will pull out the teeth from your dogs face.
This particular card is from the O-Pee-Chee collection of 1974. There were 396 cards in this set, and Bobby Orr was #100.
I actually remember that. I should be given some sort of medal. Perhaps a mystery prize. At least a handshake from some high-ranking government official who isn’t Fenris or Adrian from Unambiguous blog.
Hockey cards were once very cool to have, trade and play with. But adults screwed that up by introducing bastard cards like Upper Deck and the like. Then hockey cards became a business, one in which kids could not participate. In a way, I wish children were more vicious, then they could have risen up and smited (smote?) tortured every adult who participated in destroying this once fine tradition.
The Mayor never played with a full-size 442 Olds convertible when he was a child, but I did play with the Hot Wheels version of this car. I also had the Custom Charger, Silver Shadow, Kuda, a few Fat Daddy Sizzlers, and a host of other cars that I can’t remember the names of.
Like Army men, The Mayor use to set up elaborate courses and race and smash the holy hell out of his cars. I did take care of them though, made sure they were clean and all, and I NEVER lent my cars out – no one but The Mayor played with The Mayor’s cars. That’s how I kept things from being destroyed and stolen. Sharing is for suckers, and I won’t be a part of it.
Sometimes I would set up my Army men and then drive my Kuda past the soldiers. The soldiers would say to each other, “It looks as if Jerry has taken over our car companies and have made some sort of super-car. We must get the bazooka guy and blow this most-cool looking car up”. But even the Army men couldn’t blow up the Kuda. Cuz the Kuda be too fast, yo!
And that’s The Mayor’s story. I would like to thank you all for joining me tonight/today. You have been a wonderful audience, and make sure to tune in tomorrow as I will have more “stuff” for you to look at.
Don’t be a stranger now, ya hear!
Who would have thought that cradling a couple balls in your hand could be so much fun?! Buehler? Buehler?
Clackers, remember ‘em?
I must have been only about 6 or 7 when I got my first set of Clackers. I must have been 6 or 7 the first time my Clackers exploded and bits of acrylic plastic exploded into my eyes. “I’m blind, I’m blind, oh God help me, I’m blind!!!!”
That NEVER happened to The Mayor, but I’m sure Clackers were responsible for its fair share of mutilations, dismemberment’s and eventual deaths. Good times though, smokin’ good Clackaroonie good times.
Did you know Clackers were NOT made out of glass, but made out of acrylic plastic? No, YOU shut up, what I’m telling you is the truth. The glass Clacker is an urban legend. Like the three headed Golden Retriever, Houdini dying because he got punched in the stomach, and Obama the smart President. Ya, all urban legends. And out and out LIES.
Someone left a comment a few years ago regarding Clackers, but I can’t remember who it was. I think it might have been Nancy? Maybe, possibly? Anyhoo, it had to do with someones husband or wife use to play in the discarded, broken Clacker mounds behind a Clacker factory in Somewhere USA. It was a funny comment, but a comment that had serious societal implications. Just kidding, there were no implications in the least.
Anyway, The Mayor loved Clackers. I also loved crackers. I loved smashing my crackers with my Clackers. That use to drive my mom quackers. My Clacker cracker drove my mom quackers. My dad would get upset and give me a smacker. Imagine The Mayor got a smacker for busting his cracker with a Clacker because it drove my mom quackers. One time, I was watching the Packers, busting my cracker with a Clacker, driving my mom quackers, when my dad snuck up behind me and gave me a smacker. I wasn’t sure who was the attacker of my Clacker cracker smacker.
Where the hell is the justice I axe youze?
**I just drove SpellCheck off the rail, yo!
Plastic Army men. The Mayor called them “Green Army Men”, but plastic Army men is acceptable in my eyes, too.
When The Mayor was a child, I spent the better part of forever playing with little green Army men. I LOVED them. I could play all day and night if given a chance. When I was about 8, someone gave me a pack of plastic *UN Peace Protectors* as a Birthday gift. I remember setting up elaborate sets where my UN Peace Protectors would go into a village and rape all the children and then kill their parents, all the while the High Command would applaud them and send them on countless missions where they would be accountable to no one, and paid for by the tax dollars of “rich” western nations.
The “battle” would always end the same way: the UN Peace Protectors, after finishing devastating the village they were in, would try to just casually leave…la dee dee, la dee da, and my green Army men would roll in via a few dozen M48 tanks and half a dozen Jeeps. My soldiers would look around and access the situation and then walk up to the commander of the UN Peace Protectors and ask in stern voices what just happened. Not getting the answer they liked, my green Army men would smack the beret off M’Bingo’s head and demand a better answer. Seeing as Mo’Bingo can hardly speak a word of any language and only answers in a series of clicks, and seeing as how that REALLY pisses my green Army men off, they exact justice on the UN Peace Protecting rapists by shooting every one of them in their stupid faces and then stealing the gold fillings from their disgusting mouths.
Justice is served. Green Army Men 1, UN Peace Protectors 0.
Little Green Army Men, The Mayor’s favourite childhood toy.
**Picture supplied by Jesse’s Hunting