Bratz: I Hatez Theez Dollz

Oh, how I hate Bratz dolls.  I hate the use of "z" to indicate plural, their collagen-injected lips, and their clothes.  The Bratz baby dolls in particular look like they've been playing dress-up in Cher's closet.

Before I get a whole bunch of pro-Bratz hate mail, let me say this: I know that as parents, we are their role models, not a toy.  This skanky toy itself doesn't damage their brains and it probably doesn't even damage their self-esteem.  It's not actually offering my kids ecstasy in the girls' bathroom at a rave, it just looks like it's going to.

I'm really not judging the parents that let these things in their houses.  It's sort of like how some people actually like antique dolls.  Not my thing, but hey, you go for yours.  I've explained to my kids that different things freak out different moms.  For example, at one friend's house, they can play with Bratz but aren't allowed to jump up and down inside.  At our house, they can jump up and down until they pass out, but no Bratz.  Every mom has their triggers, right?

Mine is the damn Bratz.  I have enough anxiety as it is without this looking at me:

  

I understand that they are "fashion dolls" and, inherently, are going to be more about fashion than, say, nuclear physics.  It's the company's right to make these god-awful things and it's other people's right to buy them.  Fine.  But seriously, who in their right mind thinks that black panties with red satin bows go on a baby?

I was all set to shut the hell up about Bratz.  They've done their time in rehab or whatever and now they're back out, showing less skin and with slightly less glopped-on makeup.  But then I saw those damn Halloween costumes and I threw up in my mouth.  So basically I'm back to hating everything MGA Entertainment has done, does now, and ever will do.

Here's the thing: when I was a kid, I wasn't allowed to have Barbie dolls, because my mom felt they were "sexist."  It was the 70s and we lived in New York City, and therefore everything in my life revolved around Marlo Thomas and Free To Be You and Me.  Groovy.


Thirty years later, I won't let my daughters have Bratz dolls.  I look at Barbie and think, you're not so bad, are you?  Barbie's fully clothed.  Sometimes she's a pediatrician, and those newborn baby dolls are never wearing thong underwear.  So yay for that.  And every four years, a business-suited Barbie even runs for President, bringing with her a briefcase, buttons, and information about her platform (education and the environment).  She even comes with those neighbor-annoying weeds of November, political lawn signs.  And my mother had a problem with that?  Okay, sure, her body is totally out of proportion and if she were an actual human, she'd topple over on those tiny, deformed feet and toothpick legs due to the weight of her bosoms.  But really, she's not so bad, relatively speaking.

Here's what worries me the most.  My mother didn't let me play with Barbies, and I won't let my daughters play with Bratz.  Can you imagine what kind of horrific crack whore doll my daughters aren't going to let their daughters play with?  Maybe something like this:

::Shudder::

Side note: Did anyone else notice that when the kids on Sister Wives play with dolls, they have four Barbies and one Ken in the doll house?  No lie.  And when the little girls were fighting over the Ken doll, Wife #4 said they had to share him, the way the mommies share daddy.  Way to take the teaching moment, Wife #4!