Queer things give people the creeps, eh b’ys?
For instance, chewing gum creeps out Dearest Duck. That’s chewing-gum as a noun, not as a verb.
Dearest Duck never chews gum. She can’t bear the sight of people chewing gum — neither the chewer subtly molar-gnawing in the cheek, nor the chomper with mouth-wide-open.
She abhors the visuals and smells associated with a cud of gum being rolled around one’s chops, or a tongue reeved out stretching gum to the breaking point, or finger and thumb streeling gum from gob to … well, to as far as it will string.
Dearest Duck — god love ‘er delicate stomach — urges and chokes down bile if she’s forced to walk across a parking lot that is essentially an asphalt field sown with gum-dollars a heedless public has squat into the pavement.
“Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight?” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6bFTVi0hHs)
is not — never was — Dearest Duck’s favourite ditty.
“Harry, that’s gross,” says Dearest Duck.
B’ys, dolls give me the creeps. They are the creepy-critters of nightmares.
P’raps they cause me serious shivers because, as a bay-boy, I caused the demise of my little sister’s Christmas Baby Doll with the painted face. As an act of big brother badness, I buried the doll, swaddled in rotting cabbage leaves, among the stumps in Mammy’s cabbage patch [!].
Needless to say, Sister bawled all winter and wailed as if banshee-tormented come spring thaw when Dolly’s remains surfaced in the cabbage clay.
What was left of Dolly’s painted face gave me the creeps then … still gives me the creeps at wicked witching hours.
Dolly’s pox-plagued face cursed me. Her washed-out, cataract-scabbed eyes accused me of an heinous deed.
Although the elements had ravished Dolly’s foam-stogged, rubber body, the following Christmas her reincarnated spirit found a new abode in sister’s brand new Christmas Dolly …
… the doll whose eyes clicked … and clicked … and followed me around the house and haunted my dreams.
Sister sat Dolly in a wee babydoll rocking chair, her plastic legs splayed like … well, like a doll’s stiff legs.
Plastic fingers scrope into the rocker’s arms and bristle-brush eyelashes shaded marbled, unnaturally blue eyes that whirred and clicked when they blinked, as if miniature motors powered their actions.
Whir. Click. Blink. Whir. Click. Blink.
“Dolly hates you,” sister reminded me whenever she saw me in thrall of Christmas Dolly’s paralyzing stare.
“Harry, that’s lies for you,” says Dearest Duck, who doesn’t know that sometimes in the dead of night, the fact that she’s lying alongside saves me from poxplagued, clicking-eyed dolls.
“Would I tell a lie, my Duck?” say I.
No, not even about Dolly Wet the Bed.
Dolly Wet the Bed was her name incarnate. If sister squeezed water — or watereddown Carnation if Mammy wasn’t looking — into Dolly’s circular mouth orifice then laid her in her baby-doll cot, Dolly drained her contents via some unnatural (certainly anatomically incorrect) pee-pee aperture into the baby-doll sheets.
The curse on me continued. Time and again, I awoke screaming and, pajama-top soggy, found Dolly straddling my chest like the Old Hag’s play toy offspring.
Dolly Wet the Bed was not a Walking Doll (she came later) so I blamed sister for participating in my haunting. Sis swore it wasn’t so.
“Harry, my hag-ridden Honey,” says Dearest Duck, “you’re spinning yarns.”
“My Duck, I’m crushed,” say I. Not all dolls give me the creeps, eh b’ys? Not Barbie.
And, oddly, despite their name and the locale of Dolly Painted Face’s demise, not Cabbage Patch Dolls.
What scares me nowadays is a frightfully realistic doll I happened to encounter in a grandchild’s arms. The doll is so realistic that I said, “Be careful you don’t drop the baby.”
“Pop, this is a Real Doll, not a baby.” To prove it, granddaughter grinned and dangled Real Doll by an ankle.
Real Dolls have names like Newborn and Breathing-Newborn and Reborn …
Reborn. Breathing. Friggin’ scary!
These dolls are so realistic I can’t look at Mr. Google’s pictures of them. Their cheeks are so realistically chubby that Strange Aunties would surely pinch them. Their arms move so realistically that they seem as if they might reach out and grab you.
Or grab me in nightmares. Although their eyes don’t click, they do blink and follow.
But, b’ys, these dolls are “off” somehow, creepily so.
They wriggle and cuddle — they SQUIRM — like hell’s spawn fished from a toxic broth stirred by Stephen King.
Thank you for reading.