When I was little, my sister (four years older) was obsessed with The Simpsons. I was too, if only because my sister was, and thus had a Bart Simpson doll that I would take every day to my babysitter’s house/daycare. Naturally.
A few things you should know about me as a child: I was terribly shy. I was terribly fond of dolls. And I was terribly, inexplicably terrified of getting in trouble. (I still have a real problem with authority.)
If you’ve ever held this 90s toy (and it’s okay if you haven’t, that means you were probably normal, as opposed to an almost-four-year-old girl with a prized Bart Simpson doll), just know that its head is abnormally huge and heavy. I found an image, though there was no credit (apparently, no one wants to be associated with this terrible thing):
Long story short: I accidentally wacked some kid in the face with Bart (Sorry, Adam!). I was sentenced to timeout. I wailed for about 30 minutes.
Who decided it was a good idea to have that large of a head, made entirely of plastic, on a small, plush body? WHO?!
There is a happy ending to this: For Christmas we got The Simpsons Sing the Blues. “Do the Bart Man” restored my love for The Simpsons.