When you’re about to close your eyes to go to sleep tonight, just remember that somewhere on the outskirts of Las Vegas, Marie Osmond is up in her doll attic, softly singing a lullaby into the porcelain ears on of her dolls while surrounded by hundreds of doll babies wearing pajamas. I think I just typed out the plot for the next season of American Horror Story.
At the Flamingo Hilton in Las Vegas yesterday, Marie Osmond signed her dolls for her fans while a dude in the background made a “Why am I here face?” and a lady behind him made a “Lord, I just wanna look that dude’s bald spot” face. I have a look of terror on my face, because when I look at a picture of Marie with one of her dolls, it’s really hard for me to tell which one is made of porcelain and which one is made of plastic.
Maybe it’s because most of my friends are mega sluts with no standards, but a lot of them have their own story about hooking up with a doll lover. One of my friends hooked up with some dude whose bedroom was full of porcelain dolls, floor to ceiling, and wanted to do the deed in there with the lights dimmed. Being the fearless slut that my friend is, he did it. There’s nothing more terrifying and awkward and uncomfortable than doing butt sex while holding in the shit the creepy dolls are trying to scare out of you. I don’t know why he would do that. Dolls are already know everything! Why was he giving him more information? How can he walk around the street knowing that dozens of dolls have stared deep up into his no-no?
If human eyes are the windows to the soul, then doll eyes are the windows to hell. Except for the Alexis Carrington doll. She’s an angel sent from above.