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Gapers Block published from April 22, 2003 to Jan. 1, 2016. The site will remain up in archive form. Please visit Third Coast Review, a new site by several GB alumni.
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Sunday, May 19

Gapers Block

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We were on a mission to go to American Girl Place. Why? Because American Girl dolls are creepy. They're the most desperately aspirational little moppets that a parent can hope to buy for their young Dakota or Bayleigh. American Girl dolls cost approximately as much as an eighth of good weed, and you can expect to pay as much for their outfits as you do for your own at Old Navy.

And American Girl Place is where little girls with better childhoods than ours and their families go to buy dolls, buy doll clothes, buy actual human girl clothes to match the doll clothes, watch the "American Girl Musical Revue" (seriously), and dine at the American Girl Place Cafe with special chairs for, no shit, the dolls.

So maybe you'll understand that something about American Girl Place totally made us want to throw down.

But we needed a doll to help us do it. We couldn't just walk in: we needed someone to represent. We bought a cheap knockoff doll from Target and gave her ballpoint pen tattoos, Sharpie eyeliner, and a minidress made from nylons. We named her "Courtney." Then we made reservations at the Cafe for Sunday tea.

The rest, really, is Courtney's story...

When the gals approached me with this whole prank deal, I was all, "Fuck that American Girl shit." I couldn't wait to get to tear their shit up old skool.

I will admit that when we got to American Girl, all the classy, overpriced, white-girl crap there sort of took the piss out of me. Those AG girls have good shit. I don't know who I'd have to blow to pay for some of those dresses, but man, I wanted a pink one. I wanted the doll beauticians to put my hair in pigtails. And more than I can even tell you, I wanted to be an American Girl doll.

We scored a window table for tea. Finger sandwiches, petit fours, and my good friend Bacardi. Nothing soothes the jealous heart like good Bacardi rum. After getting totally shit-faced, it seems (and I don't know for sure because Shylo and Wendy refuse to tell me) that I struck up a convo with an AG doll. I guess I gave her some booze and then we made out. At some point, we beat the hell out of each other. I guess I won though, because the next thing this drunk-ass doll remembers is standing on our table singing "Kiss Me Deadly" by Lita Ford.

It was cool.


Our delightful knockoff came with a pre-fabbed white trash name. We ditched the mic stand,
re-named her Courtney, and kept the tarty jacket.


What you lookin' at, homes? Courtney will fuck you up.


There she goes again. Courtney, sweetie, you're flashing the whole train.


The American Girl beauty parlor was not able to rat Courtney's hair
into a "big ol' hornets nest" like she had requested.


The AG army, poised to conquer. In their path stands only Courtney.


Wendy thinks about picking up some Josefina wear to trick Courtney out as Stevie Nicks.


If, you know, you want to have lunch with a doll, you can. These are loaners.


Courtney gets her sip on.


We invite a loaner over to the table. Courtney thinks she looks "fine."


Yeah, she's binging on cake. But she only ate a tic-tac for breakfast.


American Girl place goes all Rubyfruit Jungle.


Courtney will look back at this photo when she's old. She'll admire her svelte figure,
but wonder what the hell she was thinking with that lipliner.

UPDATE: Read the follow-up story, American Girls Pony Show, in which Courtney goes to see "My Little Pony: World's Largest Tea Party."


About the Author(s)

Shylo Bisnett suggests you Use Your Hands. Wendy McClure writes by the Pound.

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