Not so fast, Furbys. You can’t slip into obscurity just yet. You can’t get away that easily.
Before you completely disappear from the collective consciousness of the world, I have chosen to call you into the spotlight for a well-deserved tongue lashing. You are the most awful, terrifying toy of all time. You have made worse the lives of millions. Because of this, it is only fair that you are subjected to one last stream of insults before the memory of you is buried away with the likes of Mighty Max and Creepy Crawlers.
I never personally owned a Furby. For one thing, I had nice parents that loved me. Secondly, I never had the desire to own a Furby. I could barely stand five minutes around one while at a friend’s house. The idea of actually owning one is quite frightening, to be honest. Always being there. Talking to me. Blinking at me.
The fact that Furbys merely exist is not all that bad. It was their popularity that took things over the line. For a couple years there, Furbys invaded households like an unstoppable virus. Every kid had one, two, or seven of these damned machines. It was hard to go anywhere without hearing the tiny movements of their plastic beaks and eyelids.
And that voice.
The voice of a Furby sounded like a cross between animals being stepped on and the demonic ramblings of a possessed child. When they spoke, sometimes at random and unprovoked, it wasn’t entertaining so much as unsettling. Similar to when a Chucky doll would speak; whenever I heard a Furby speak, I had this terrible feeling that my life was in danger.
If money and logistics weren’t an issue, I would round up every Furby doll that still existed and set them ablaze on live TV. They would still be getting off easy. Like many a tsunami and terrorist attack, no good actually came from Furbys. The Furby population – along with their inventor, and anybody else involved in their production – deserves to meet a slow, torturous end.
Do you get the message, Furbys? Or do I have to put it in Furbish for you?
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