1) Barbie has no nipples
2) If Barbie has a vagina, we never get to see that sucker.
Now, before we continue - let us all just take a breath, relax, and realize that these are only words to describe human anatomy and miniature, molded human anatomy at that. If you can't deal with words such as vagina, pussy, cooter, hatchet-wound, snatch, beaver, fur-burger, cunt, frothy nether-regions, naughty bits, highway to heaven, sugar walls, love muffin or skin slit, then get the living fuck out of my galaxy. You, my friend ARE a pussy.
Moving on for the rest of us who refuse to let words hold power over our thought....
I began to wonder just how this plastic vaginal deception began. One has to assume that a board of suits was at some point (or more likely, several points) poised over a conference room table in heated debate as to just how this small patch of pink promised land was to be presented to young impressionable minds.
If you are already grinning at the endless possibilities for humor pervading the every essence of this debate, you are my friend.
Let us examine these various conversations using two hypothetical execs: Jane and Dick. I didn't make up those names and you know it. Save your laughter for later.
You will be in dire need of it.
One possibility is that they attempted with every molecule of their beings to make this a dignified endeavor, thus dooming them to be more ironically funny than they could have ever hoped to avoid. Observe:
DICK: Well, I would like to point out that all girls are likely aware that they have this feminine area and we would be remiss to completely exclude them from our doll.
JANE: I agree, Dick. (SAVE IT.) The problem that I am seeing, however is that parents would be very upset if they were to see their child's doll in a state of undress and noticed that she was quite, well, adult.
DICK: Well, I think it goes without saying that she's adult. Need I remind you that she has, shall we say, been rather well endowed in the...mammary department and is quite conspicuously a woman and not a girl?
JANE: But these are GIRLS who are to be playing with her, not women.
DICK: Let us hope so.
DICK: But can we not also assume that young girls might be somewhat traumatized by the thought that while Barbie can live in a dream house, ride a horse and play doctor, she is rather unable to relieve herself?
JANE: That seems to be crux of our dilemma.
DICK: Perhaps we can assure that her clothes will be somehow permanently attached: Say, we have her clothing stitched right into her body.
JANE: I see several problems with that. For one thing, there is something vaguely, if not disquietingly unsettling about the inability to EVER remove one's garments and secondly, girls are curious creatures and would find some way to eventually remove these permanently-attached vestments, as it were and we would be left with the same problem all over again only with a bit of struggle ensuing in the interim, which might further complicate traumatic confusion. And, Dick, that isn't even taking into account what aforementioned girl's brother might do with said doll.
DICK: Point taken.
JANE: No, we need to somehow draw attention away from the possibility that Barbie has reproductive organs.
DICK: And what would you suggest, Jane? Giving her a boyfriend with some kind of ambiguous, truncated lump so as to lure them into a more spellbinding puzzle and detract their gazes away from Barbie's special spots?
You laugh my little goblins but you know that even as you read this, your seedy little minds are weaving far funnier possibilities for this exchange. I have infinite time, a scoping, endless mind and fingers of fire and wind but alas, a very finite amount of coffee, so I can only cover a few of these bases. The rest I will leave to you and your own twisted, toy-infested brains, but let us dwell before we depart on the potential humor found in the possibility that these two threw caution to the wind, knowing that they could do nothing but laugh this off and tried a more direct approach.
DICK: Look, Jane - Barbie has a quaking, gelatinous tunnel of passion. We have to face that!
JANE: Oh, yes we do, Dick.
DICK: Regardless of how this doll looks once in the hand of young, impressionable minds, you and I both know that she has a steaming, visceral love canal, a sheath for a sword, trembling in anticipation of multiple sheathings and unsheathings.
JANE: We can't deny that, Dick. Now way in Hell we can deny that.
DICK: What, then?
JANE: What then, indeed....
DICK: Well, Jane - I can't be the one to make this decision. I am quite profoundly lacking a gleaming clit castle, myself and thus, have no basis for solid deliberation.
JANE: You got that right, Dick.
DICK: You'll have to cover it.
JANE: Yes, Dick. I'll have to cover it. Just like my panties cover my own undulating pantheon of erogenous neural masses.
DICK: I won't leave you in the dark, however, Jane. You'll cover it yes, but I will be there with you to UNcover the psychoanalytical ramifications of Barbie's cloistered, yearning temple of temptation.
JANE: Oh, yes, Dick.
DICK: Together, we shall discover the secrets which lay beneath the cotton-stitched, daisy-encrusted, pre-fabricated panties that enshrine Babs's hot and horny holiest of holies.
JANE: Oh yes, Dick!
DICK: Together, Jane, you and I shall visit that luscious, candy-coated wonderland of sweet, dripping ecstasy, the likes of which no pre-pubescent girl, nor her virile, throbbing post-adolescent brother may ever see!
JANE: Oh YES, Dick!
This could go on, but if you are still in your happy little computer chairs and not on a gurney on its way to Mt. Sinai, about to die from laughter, you get the point.
Now, my little ravenous neurons of exhilaration, this isn't even touching on the fact that Barbie's legs can by NO means assume the missionary sexual position. This doesn't highlight on the fact that Barbie's niece (cousin?), Skipper was once issued as a doll called "Skipper Grows Up" whom girls would force into puberty by twisting her arm at which point, I shit you not, SPRING LOADED BOOBS would shoot like volcanoes from her chest and stretch her 50's sweater like a hymen. This isn't even remotely breaching the sunscape of the understanding that the woman who created this doll and her steroid-tanned boyfriend, strangely named them after her offspring, Barbara and Ken. You look me straight in the eye and tell me that isn't fucked up and that it isn't SOMEHOW related to the Luke/Leia weirdness in Star Wars. I dare you. I double dare you. I triple dog dare you.
Here, then is your mission, assignment and utter guilty pleasure for the rest of the day:
Let your imagination run wild, naked, breathless and baited through the gargoyle sexually maddened world of Barbie and her anthropomorphic cohorts. You will thank me and you will thank that lunatic woman who, through the grace of God and to the credit of our human capacity for humor, created the pink, perfect pestilence of puberty. Go nuts, kids. This one's on me.