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Here it comes. Another goddamned migraine. You might think being a stuffed unicorn toy is a walk in the park, but you’d be sorely mistaken. It’s all sweetness and light until you have a tusk shooting from your forehead.

I didn’t always have The Pain.

When the darling child Mindy was 5 years old, I was her favorite toy. She even had her mother wallpaper her bedroom with pictures of me in endless repetition. At first, she named me “Corny,” then it was “Princess.” She finally settled on “Bob.” Bob the Unicorn. She adored me and the magic I brought to her young life.

At least until that bitch Barbie came along. Barbie and her fucking “Dream House.” Beach Bimbo Barbie. Banging Bartender Barbie. Abominable Adulterous Barbie.

Sure, I was included in the tea parties.

In the beginning, all the stuffed animals were included. As Mindy’s obsession with that plastic trollop grew, attendance at the tea parties dwindled until Mindy was only interested in playing with, and eventually dressing up as, that synthetic harlot.

Although Barbie was annoying, The Pain didn’t truly begin until the puppy.

Named Sugarcube, he was anything but sweet. Sugarcube had a taste for stuffed animals. Ironically, the first casualty was Dotty the stuffed Dalmatian. Mindy accidentally left poor Dotty on the floor of her bedroom and Sugarcube shredded the toy puppy into something no longer recognizable as stuffed, animal, or toy.

Despite Sugarcube being scolded, the killings continued, sowing fear among the rest of Mindy’s toys. Apples, the stuffed horse, lost a leg. Smoky, a stuffed cat, lost her tail. Hoppy, the stuffed bunny, never bounced again. The fear of mutilation was so prevalent that even Barbie was afraid of being left outside of her Dream House.

It was a frigid day in January when my worst nightmare came true.

Sugarcube and I met, mano a mano (or, more appropriately, boca a bocina). I lost most of my horn that day and the migraines have struck me almost daily since.

These days, Mindy’s bedroom is like a war zone. Early in this war, the fallen were repaired, only to be potentially re-maimed or decapitated in the end, but now they become Sugarcube’s playthings until the inevitable trash can funeral. The best the remainders can hope for is a trip to Goodwill or the Salvation Army.

For now, hope is all we—

Oh shit! My leg!

Ed Lynn

Creator of National Pasquinade (, a so-called humor magazine. Still perfecting ways of making ceiling wax.

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