Originally published at: Baby Laugh Alot is the creepiest toy commercial I've ever seen | Boing Boing
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German Expressionist directors had to take whatever gigs they could find after the war.
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If you put her and Chucky in the same room, there’s no doubt she’d eat him for lunch, then go back to snacking on 7 year old kids.
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When my wife was younger, her grandmother gave her a ballerina doll that wound up and could dance on one leg while an internal music box played some music. I believe it also had those creepy doll eyes that would close if the doll reclined. She was creeped out by it, which is saying something, considering how many Japanese and Korean ball joint dolls we have in our house. So, she gave it to her sister.
Her sister didn’t like it, so eventually it went where all childhood toys eventually go: the parents’ attic. There it sat in a box for years, until one day, they had a house fire due to their water heater’s pilot light catching on some carelessly scattered laundry. By that time, we were living in a different state.
After the house was repaired and restored, we got a package in the mail. It was the doll. I got home from work, and there it was, lying on the floor, one leg extended, burn marks on its skin, the ballerina dress in tatters. My wife explained the history of the doll to me. She had no desire to keep it, explaining that at times, hours or days after being unwound, it would jerk and twitch and play music. We decided to get rid of it. I put it in a bag and carried it to the apartment dumpster. While I carried to to the dumpster, the bag started jerking in my hands. I tossed it in without looking back.
Years later, after having a kid, we moved back to be closer to our families. We bought a house, which we discovered later, was a hoarder’s house. The closets and basement and attic and barn were all filled with junk, which when we were looking at the house, seemed like normal things that one would keep in their closets, basements, attics, and barns; and also normal things that a person would take when moving out of the house. But less than a month after sifting through the detritus of a damaged psyche, finding kids craft projects that were older than me, copies of the school’s lunch menu (also older than me), bags of laundry and dessicated mouse carcasses, and several unopened packages from QVC, I started working on cleaning out the barn.
Raccoons had gotten into the barn, and most of the drywall that once covered the ceiling were now tattered, damp rags, hanging down in strips. The barn looked like something out of a saw movie, with rusted farm tools hanging from the ceiling, and the ever present smell of old horse manure from long-dead horses. Added to that was the occasional deer antler or possum skull, but the most striking thing was a trunk in the corner of the barn. It had a lock on it, but that lock was nothing against my prybar.
I popped open the trunk, and within was one of those creepy ballerina dolls, burn marks on the face, dirty, tattered ballerina dress. Carpenter ants were crawling all over it. I slammed the trunk closed and backed away as that music box tune started to play and something knocked against the lid.
Then I called the bulk junk removal people and had them clean out the barn.
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I would never set foot in that barn again. Ever. It’s clearly cursed or haunted or both.
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The doll’s final act was supposed to be @aethercowboy burning down the barn by themselves to try and destroy the doll for good, only to accidentally get caught in the conflagration.
Somehow, she was thwarted. But she is patient.
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I imagine act three will be when I’m an old man in a nursing home, oxygen tank at my side. The robot assistant pushes me in my hover-chair down a hallway for a late-night stroll through the halls, when after a flash of lightning on an otherwise clear and moonlit night, the silhouette of a figure, standing on one toe, other leg bent to the side, music box music playing, starts to spin. It spins and spins as the robot pushes me closer and closer, until, with one quick flick of the spinning leg, the doll, now only having half a face, kicks loose the hose to the tank. I look back at the robot as I gasp for air, but its uncaring red eyes only stare back at me as I collapse to the floor, slowing suffocating while a twisted, dancing dolls spins circles above my fading vision.
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Ah, Hobo. The typeface of a generation.
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Kinda like the forever crying baby jesus:
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Basically a single sample rompler.
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