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During this summer’s Barbie movie-mania, many female fans turning up to cinemas dressed from head to toe in ostentatious pink and sparkles have boasted to be “channeling their inner Barbie”—yet there is one woman out there who spent her life doing literally just that.

In 1992, psychic former air stewardess Barbara Bell began channeling paranormal messages from the collective Jungian hive mind of the 700 million Barbie dolls then in circulation, or “the polyethylene essence who is 700 million teaching essences,” as she put it. Bell had been a lonely child whose only friends were her plastic dolls. Now she made cash by continuing her imaginary infant conversations with them, charging $3 for clients to ask Barbie a question, whereupon the doll’s fleshly “inner name-twin” would pen a reply on pink notepaper, no doubt in ultra-girly bubble writing with love hearts dotting each and every last “i.”

Gays and Dolls
According to Bell, this psychic outlet proved a great relief to Barbie, who was—uh-oh—trapped in the prison of her own body by the patriarchy: “I mean, her mouth doesn’t even open. Her eyes don’t open and shut. The poor woman is trapped in a sterile body, and [yet] she has really deep emotions and feelings.” (Feelings like “GI Joe is a very nice man,” but she didn’t want to shag him.)

The most reported-upon client of Bell’s back in the ’90s was an early male-to-female transsexual who wanted to know “why her [sic] estrogen pills were pink.” Barbie’s answer? Because “that’s the color of the Divine Feminine.” Whoever knew Barbie had been reading her Goethe? The implication of Barb’s answer, of course, was that even if you were a biological male with a body like Atlas and a beard like Gandalf, all you had to do was pop on a pink dress or panties, and then you too could magically become a walking, talking, living-doll embodiment of this very same Divine Feminine too.

Barbie’s manufacturer Mattel disagreed, sending Bell a cease-and-desist letter arguing her psychic activities “may adversely affect the wholesome, positive, family-oriented image of Barbie.” So completely have corporate mores changed in the three decades since, woke Mattel may now be more likely to gratefully pay lunatics to undermine such a now-unwanted, old-fashioned thing.

Obscene Limerick
Another query once asked of Bell’s psychic Barbie was “Is there a bad Barbie?” There certainly is. His name is Barbie Kardashian, and he was until recently housed within the women’s wing of Ireland’s Limerick Prison. Banged up in March for threatening to stab, rape, torture, and then kill his own mother, under the terms of Ireland’s absurd Gender Recognition Act 2015, Bad Barbie was allowed to self-ID as female without any prior medical diagnosis.

However, Weird Barbie is in receipt of a clinical diagnosis of narcissistic personality disorder, which, as this particular mental malady is really often just a synonym for “being trans” in the first place, will surely do just as well. Barbie once assaulted his female social worker so brutally he tore her actual eyelids with his long, sharp, doll talons; ordinarily I would be in favor of acts of extreme violence being perpetrated against social workers, but in this particular instance I’ll make a horrified exception.

You may be astounded to discover that “Barbie Kardashian” is not this individual’s real birth name, having been born plain old Gabriel Alejandro Gentile. As if to prove his maleness, once successfully in Limerick’s women’s wing, Barbie threw a wobbler after being asked to perform some housework, threatening to rape his female guards with his male penis after they told him to clean up following a shower. Burlier male screws then escorted him back to his cell, as they were the only ones strong enough to control him—because he is a man, albeit one wearing clownish, trowel-applied red lipstick eerily like that of Harley Quinn from the Suicide Squad franchise (also played by Margot Robbie, the very same actress now channeling Barbie at a cinema near you).

The Emerald Isle’s current Total Taoiseach is Leo Varadkar, who self-IDs as being an Irishman. A prominent homosexualist, Leo definitely knows what a man is, as he is currently bumming one on a regular basis. When confronted with the absurdity of Barbie’s case and asked whether he thought biological males should be locked up with biological females by a skeptical journalist, Leo replied, “No I don’t, quite frankly.” Why did you and your kind help engineer a situation in which just such an obscenity could obviously occur, then, you blind sanctimonious prick?

In Brendan Behan’s prophetically titled play The Quare Fellow (“queer” in “Auld Oirish”), in the onstage song “The Auld Triangle,” a lonely male prisoner longingly laments that:

In the female prison,
There are seventy-five women,
And I wish it was with them
That I did dwell.

Thanks to quare fellows like Mr. Varadkar, he very easily now could.

Baby Sham
Barbie is not the only kind of toy doll aimed at little girls. You can also get those hideous ultrarealistic ones shaped like small ugly goblin babies that cry and piss themselves on command like the girls of OnlyFans.

One such teary-eyed emotional incontinent is now under the watchful motherly care of the Scottish Prison Service, where a 38-year-old transgender “baby” calling himself Sophie Eastwood is currently being mollycoddled in what amounts to a giant taxpayer-funded crèche. Sophie is really an adult male humanoid named Daniel, originally put behind bars for dangerous driving at age 18, before upgrading to a much more grown-up life sentence after strangling his cellmate with shoelaces in 2004—final proof he can’t really be a baby, as small children are notoriously unable to knot such things.

According to reports, since selfishly deciding to regress back to a state of perpetual infanthood and suck happily off the teat of the state, Baby-Doll Sophie has been given a dummy by compliant prison staff and is now also asking for baby food and a nappy, and to have guards hold his hand when leaving his cell/crib. This was because “The Scottish Prison Service has no protocol in place for dealing with prisoners who decide they are babies,” and thus cowardly officials felt they had no choice but to comply due to “human rights reasons.” If a prisoner self-identified as innocent, would they let him go free?

Sophie might not like that, as he has openly admitted he only strangled his cellmate in the hope that this “would get me sectioned [as a madman under Scotland’s Mental Health Act] and I’d spend the rest of my life in hospital being looked after” gratis. Nonetheless, he now pines for release, wailing that he has only been denied it due to “transphobia” and “sexism” (against which particular one of his alleged sexes, I am unable to determine). Now in an all-women’s prison, Sophie is worried he “would not survive” if ever moved to a male one, as he would be literally a child among men, or at least an adult murderer falsely dressed as one.

Amongst prison staff, Baby Face Finlayson is known not as “Diddums,” but as “Hannibal Lecter Jr.” This is not on account of any propensity toward cannibalism or Chianti, but due to what the media dubbed his “wicked mind games.” In other words, they know perfectly well “Sophie” is taking the piss, but the leftist-created law is on his side now, even though his claims are literally physically impossible. “I have no history of gender violence [against women],” Sophie further protested. No, you’ve only ever killed another man, which is obviously absolutely fine.

An Absolute Shitshow
Sophie Eastwood is not the only adult to have successfully lived as a baby under the supervision of far-left Scottish dickheads. R.D. Laing was a swinging-’60s “anti-psychiatrist” who gained cash and kudos from an indulgent governing class by prancing around making pathetically juvenile statements to the basic effect that “It’s, like, not people who are mad, but, like, the evil capitalist society within which they are forced to live that is the true insanity here!”

Loony Laing encouraged a schizophrenic named Mary Barnes to inhabit the basement of his private London “hospital,” regressing her back down to a state of babyhood before supposedly then enabling her to grow up back out of it into a state of blameless adult sanity. From 1965 to 1970, she was bottle-fed and bathed by adults and encouraged to soil herself on a daily basis—once whilst celebrity visitor Sean Connery observed from a safe distance. Quite how shitting yourself in front of James Bond was supposed to make Mary sane, Laing never explained.

Becoming obsessed with her own poo, Barnes combed plop-plop through her hair and smeared it all over herself like Rachel Dolezal before another NAACP meeting, keeping a diary full of disturbed entries like “I dreamt of being in a big sink with all my shits. It was being cleaned off me” by her Ken-like boyfriend. Like Russian dung dolls, Baby Barnes came to think her turds were her own bum-laid “babies” in their turn, molding them into faces and figures within smelly little shrines.

At other times Scary Mary smeared excreta all over her own tits, then rubbed them on the walls, rendering them “so smelly people gasped upon entering the room.” But some were gasps of awe: Her tit-shit paintings and turd sculptures were taken by gullible visitors for artworks, facilitating an actual future career for her! Although those she later managed to sell were executed in normal paint, it would have been a brave man who bought any landscapes of hers depicting mudflats or peat bogs.

The seeds of our current self-indulgent, self-ID-as-whatever-you-feel-like-this-morning mania were actually sown long ago. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the Pink Ladies (and men) attending Barbie screenings dressed as Barbs go back home and decide they fancy living the rest of their adult lives that way from now on, too, like the woman in the famous “Barbie Girl” music vid. In fact, some already have.

Aqua were right: We really are now living in a Barbie World. Life may well be plastic, as the ’90s Danish Scandi-pop giants correctly forecast, but it certainly isn’t fantastic.