Associated Pressure
By C. M. Dougherty

Beat The Christmas Rush
Having a big shot friend in the toy industry puts me way ahead of the curve when it comes to Tickle Me Elmos, Pokemons and the latest electronic doodads. I love getting my hands on the hot items months before they hit the radar screen of the masses. It’s not so much that I have a toy-n-gizmo fetish. I simply like being the first kid on the block to know about these things. And thanks to my friend all my toy-related Christmas shopping is done by Labor Day. When the malls are filled to the rafters with mistletoe and misery, I’m at home in my bunny slippers, sampling all 457 holiday microbrews.

This past week when my friend flew in from LA for a big meeting I was eager to corner him for this year’s scoop. I arranged a sit-down at a quiet, discreet location, The Village Idiot on edge of the meatpacking district.

He arrived carrying a large brown shopping bag and I could tell by his demeanor that it contained something big. I hadn’t seen him for months, but he looked excessively healthy and sooo LA that I kept the "nice pecs/nice tan" pleasantries to a bare minimum.
"What’s in the bag, Kris Cringle?" I asked pretty much straight away.
He smiled and took a sip of the beer I had waiting for him. "I got some real cutting edge stuff this season," he said with unflinching sarcasm. He reached in the bag and pulled out a two-foot toy asparagus with a rudimentary smiley face. "This is perfect for you." It was nothing more than a cheap plush toy you might win in a roadside carnival for knocking over three leaden milk bottles.

"This is Junior Asparagus," he said by way of introduction. "He’s a talking Christian vegetable."
"Talking vegetables? Big deal. Everything talks nowadays."
"No. Talking Christian Vegetables."
He squeezed Junior’s midsection and his eyes glowed bright. "God is bigger than the boogie man," cried the asparagus in an eerie, chip-generated voice. "He’s bigger than Godzilla, or the monsters on TV. Oh, God is bigger than the boogieman. And He’s watching out for you and me!"

My instinct was to snatch the sectarian asparagus and crush it into the barroom floor, saying "Die! Die! Die!", but I quickly saw the beauty in its simplicity; a toy that brings you both in touch with God and wholesome food. It had the potential to lift your spirits on rainy days and remind you to eat your greens. Junior Asparagus would make a great Secret Santa present or a cheap "It’s-the-thought-that-counts" gag gift for less favored friends and relatives.

Junior Asparagus is not the only veggie in the garden. My friend told me others would follow: Madam Blueberry, Percy Pea and Bob the Tomato. Each would be programmed to recite a variety "bibli-cational" passages for children.

Veggietales, the collective name of these holier than thou farm products, are manufactured by Big Idea Productions whose motto is to "Draw kids closer to God — and asparagus!" But Veggietales goes way beyond talking toys. They even have a computer generated Veggietales feature film is in the works which is sure to be a blockbuster from Western PA to Texarkana.

Bob the Tomato sings on one animated home video, "After 40 years of wandering in the desert, the children of Israel finally get to go to the Promised Land! Only one thing they’ve overlooked though ... Jericho!" Now, I’m not up on my bible studies so I have no clue what that means, but it seems like the perfect gift for Rod and Todd Flanders of The Simpsons. In fact the whole talking Christian vegetables concept struck me as frightfully Simpsonesque.

My friend had another toy with him that he guaranteed would be a tremendous hit this holiday season. It was that plush prehistoric being we all know and love as Barney the purple, bumbling dinosaur. Again my initial reaction was disappointment as Barney is, in toy-years, older than the t-rex he was loosely modeled on.
"Let me guess," I said. "Talking Shiite Barney?"
"Talking, yes. But this is much more exciting."

He went on to explain that this Barney was a personal web-enhanced version with programmable feeds downloaded from the Internet. He comes with a computer pack that allows you to log onto a Barney website. Once there, you complete a profile of your child’s physical characteristics, his likes and dislikes — favorite foods, color, sports teams etc. The pertinent information is loaded into Barney and he becomes "humanized" just like on TV. He is capable of having "near dialogue" with your son or daughter. Your child can feel like a virtual TV star in their very own bedroom. Personalized Internet Barney will know that your favorite food is pepperoni pizza and say something like, "Christopher, pepperoni pizza is super-dee-duper. Gug, gug, gug! What do you say we share a pie or two?" This is a far cry from the CD-ROM talking toys of yesteryear, which mostly recited canned phrases and songs.

Although, the long term effects of an intimate relationship with stuffed toys have yet to be explored, web-enhanced Barney could make a great gift for lonely children, adults on the verge of a nervous breakdown or a convicts doing a long stretch in solitary.

My friend and I had a few more drinks before he was off to the airport and his glamorous life in Hollywood. He left me with a handshake and Junior Asparagus as a pre-Christmas present. I rode the bus home with a toasty buzz and Junior, riding shotgun in my coat pocket. Every so often I gave him a squeeze and passively stared straight ahead as other passengers looked around as if they were going bat shit. I couldn’t wait for next year’s toys. Who knew what was on the horizon? Talking Jewish Gefilte Fish? Exploding Muslim Matchbox Trucks? Gourmet Chef Teletubbies?