FURBY IS FROM THE DEVIL

As a certified Gypsy Thug Mom, I tend not to be uptight about things that other moms might be. For instance, when right wing mamas were freaking out about how bizarre Teletubbies were, I celebrated the Tubbies! I was a Child Development/Music major and I understand the psychology behind why babies and toddlers would love to look at a round, colorful, babble-talking being.  When Christian mamas worldwide were up in arms about Harry Potter, Pokemon, The Golden Compass and whatever else had their panties in a wad, I tended to want to find out for myself, rather than let right-wing culture dictate to me what was appropriate for my child. I did have moments of conformity where I just told my kids they couldn’t watch something because another mom said it was bad. My kids would usually challenge that logic, explain why they were into it and I would respond to the voice of reason. I have noticed that this makes me a little different than a lot of moms I know. I had a friend tell me that maybe it was because I was “artsy” that I allowed my kids to watch The Lord Of The Rings and that she thought it was evil. (I also named one of my sons Samwise).  I have read blogs about the “witchcraft” that could “get on you” from reading or watching C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, one of the greatest children’s’ series of all time. Sigh. No time for a proper rant. Suffice it to say, I am one of the more relaxed mamas, in regards to literature, cinema, games and even toys.

But there is one toy that I can say, without a doubt, is from the devil. Furby. Furby is from the devil. I have based this evaluation on my own personal experience with it. I don’t base this statement on a right wing blog post or the conservative “word on the street”. I am here to testify that Furby is evil and Furby tried to kill me.

Years ago, when Ivy said she wanted a Furby for her birthday, I immediately put it on the list. Furbys are so cute! Owly bodies with fuzzy fur! And they interact with you! The commercial said that they would tell you their name, play games with you and talk to you, in a manner of speaking. It sounded adorable. I picked up a cute white one and had it ready for the big day. She was ecstatic when she opened it and got busy right away trying to figure out how to make Furby do all of the things the commercial said it would.

She tried on her own for about half an hour before she asked for help. I am a “read the manual” kind of girl (I know, that’s so NOT Gypsy-Thuggish) so I found the instructions and we headed off to her room to see if we could figure Furby out. Within a few minutes, we managed to get the adorable fuzzball to  say “hello” and tell us it’s name.  We figured out a few simple commands and had moved onto the “play a game with Furby” level. We chose a “Furby says” kind of game that was supposed to be something like good old-fashioned, conservative-mom approved,  Simon Says. Simple enough. I read the instructions and told Ivy to let me try to play this game with Furby first-just so she could see how it was done. I was waaaaaay to into Furby. It was everything the commercial said it would be. Cute, responsive, and fun! Ivy sat on the sidelines while I started up the game of Furby Says. Furby was on the floor in front of me and I was crouched down on my hands and knees. I had the instruction book in one hand and I followed the steps as outlined. I got us through the first couple of steps and then Furby and I had a communication problem. It stopped responding to my commands. I thought maybe Furby couldn’t hear me so I got my face down close to Furby and consequently, my butt up in the air. Ivy watched expectantly while I tried to get Furby to hear me. It seemed that getting closer like that was just what Furby needed to get me in it’s evil grip. Furby then started clearly issuing instructions for me to follow. Furby told me to stand up, sit back down and turn around and I immediately did it, like some sort of bewitched robot-student. Then Furby did the whole “I can’t hear you” routine again so, I got back down on my haunches and spoke clearly in Furby’s face. Furby then issued a command for me to take three steps backwards. I was on my hands and knees, so steps looked like a dog backing up. I did so. One step backwards, two steps backwards, three steps backwards and . . . Oh My God my butt was on fire! Searing pain hit my upper  left butt cheek where my sweat pants had slipped down from my downward-dog Furby obedience position. Evil Furby had backed me up straight into the radiator that heated Ivy’s room. The bars of the radiator left me with four stripes of  six inch long burns that looked like a tiger had clawed me. I screamed and swung around to stare at Furby, who sat there, looking back at me with an evil glint in it’s eye. What had just happened here?? Had this toy, this evil dictator of a toy just led me to unwittingly harm myself? What if that had been a cliff edge behind me? Would Furby have commanded me to scooch backwards to my own demise?? Was Furby trying to kill me? Ivy sat there wide-eyed, observing the whole ridiculous scene.

“Ivy!” I said, “Furby just tried to kill me! This thing is evil! Did you see that?”                                                        “Mama, I don’t think it was on purpose . . .”                                                                                                                                    “Yes it waaaaaaas! Did you not see that? My butt is burnt!!!” I demanded that she put that thing away while I decided what to do with Furby. Would it need a stake to the heart or a ceremonial burning? Could I baptize it? If I smashed it with a baseball bat, would it rise from the rubble and command me into oncoming traffic? Either way, that toy was not safe, not for me or any innocent child.

I ran out to tell Barry what had happened and he got a good laugh out of it. His jovial response to this demonic encounter calmed me down a little. Heh-heh, isn’t that funny that this toy just commanded me to burn my own butt? Haha, what a coincidence!  Since Barry did not share my paranoia about the devil-spawn Furby, Ivy was allowed to continue to have a relationship with Furby. She and Furby got along famously until Furby finally gave up the ghost (and I do mean ghost) a few years later. But when I walked past that thing, I never looked it in the eye.

Moms, make your parenting decisions based on your convictions about what you believe is right for YOUR family. Allow and disallow as you see fit. But hear me on this: unless you want your vulnerable mom-butt burnt with tiger stripes or to be talked into walking off of a cliff, STAY AWAY FROM FURBY. Furby is from the devil.