After the batch of pink babies, I was not sure what to expect in the next package. Booze? Voodoo dolls? Beads? No. MORE WEIRD PLASTIC BABIES. These things are a cottage industry. A visit to the Mardi Gras Imports website reveals that these King Cake Babies are a type of FANCY BEAD. Who knew. Despite that revelation, the website generated more questions than it answered. I like that.
This post is about the contents of the second box: Stella’s box.
Amazing- they have seized on the strange appeal of these unholy infants and turned it into a game of Jacks! Or JAX. 10 ‘BABY’ JAX, to be precise. Gotta wonder who is writing the copy for this stuff. The back of the card contains precise, complex instructions for various JAX games with names like “Sweepies.” Just trying to envision how to play these ancient games made my head spin. Stella will never play with these in their intended fashion. I am cool with that.
I love these babies- they scream Mardi Gras like a hungry baby screams for mama. Goofy, bizarre plastic trinkets, slathered in lurid (possibly lead-based) paint and ready to get tossed off a float into a drunken crowd by a drunken person in a drunken costume? Sign me up! Hoo Na Nay!
Stella immediately started rooting around in search of the original King Cake Baby, so she could reunite it with its family. An Heroic Inclination burns within her heart. They wept when they saw each other.
I admit, that photo is as fake and staged as a political rally. The plastic babies do not really have a special relationship. I couldn’t resist, though. I dug up the rest of them for a group photo. Apparently one of the Gold ones- let’s call her Goldie- has gone AWOL. Say cheese!
They look cute enough- at first. The shiny colors distract one from their eerie forms, unlike the pink mannequin spawn babies. However, upon closer examination, one realizes they do not share the cute little belly-button hole of the little babies.
Oh no. The hole on these guys blasts brutally though the crown of their round little skulls and explodes out their butts. I am sorry to put it that way, but…
I appear to have rendered myself speechless.
It seems that finally, hopefully, I have run out of steam on these babies. That’s fine with me. I am sick of writing about them.