Thankfully, another Christmas has passed. All that remains to remind us of the gluttony of giving that befalls our household each year is the stack of forgotten, yet unopened toys in the corner of the living room, many of which will be re-gifted – some to our own children – in the months and weeks to come. That and my bloody knuckles, of course.
When I was a child, toys came in a box. The box was typically made of cardboard which, except in rare instances, had a photograph of its contents plastered on the lid.
This was a convenient and effective packaging system. In the first place, our parents had it made in that boxes of the day were usually square or rectangular, which made wrapping them a breeze, even for a blind person missing two fingers on each hand.
To frantic children overcome by the spirit of receiving, it was also ideal in that once the thin veneer of gaudy paper was stripped from the box, we were able to tell exactly what was inside merely by looking at the photo pasted on the lid. It was rare, for example, to open a box with a photo of GI Joe on the lid only to discover Prom Queen Barbie lurking inside. What’s more, a quick shake and the lid would slide off, providing full and almost immediate access to the contents.
Today’s product manufacturers have decided that mere photographs aren’t good enough. No – people just won’t buy a product unless they can see the actual product encased inside a clear, hermetically sealed plastic vessel impenetrable even by Navy Seals demolition experts.
And I’m not talking just about toys. The same packaging philosophy appears to apply to electronics (lest we attempt to test them to see if they work), light bulbs (lest we mistakenly buy the wrong color), baseballs, paper clips, shoes, apples, puppies, etc. Want to protect something from damage, theft, or occasional use? Have it packaged by a modern-day product manufacturer. Idea: send the Hope Diamond to Mattel. No one will ever be able to steal it.
As a result, like most parents, I spent Christmas morning surrounded by hopping, squirming, whining kids, each desperate to actually touch the glimmering items smiling at them from inside their plastic prisons. So, after hacking four Hannah Montanas free of their acrylic sarcophagi with a utility knife, tin snips, and a blowtorch, and shredding my knuckles on the razor sharp edges in the process, the children were finally able to play with their toys, right?
Wrong!
In their infinite marketing wisdom, toy manufacturers have decided that not only must we see the toy, but it must be arranged in “play” mode so children – who are known to have little in the way of imaginations – can visualize how they might use it. “Look! We can pretend that he can fly.”
In order to create a more compelling illusion of “action,” each toy is then contorted and/or arranged into an exciting action pose or clever diorama via the use of thousands of tiny wires, strings, and nearly invisible rubber bands, the workable ends of which are sandwiched between layers of cardboard sealed at the edges with unbreakable clear plastic tape, thereby rendering the toy inaccessible to any child not skilled in the use of a hacksaw. And that’s just the feature item.
When we were kids, the small accessory parts (aka “choking hazards”) were contained in a plastic baggie tucked safely into a corner of the cardboard box. Not so anymore. In order to protect our children from certain death by insuring that these items can never be played with, each miniature thingamajig is sealed in plastic and glued (using the same adhesive NASA uses to attach heat resistant tiles to the space shuttle) onto a colorful cardboard backdrop depicting some clever use for the toy. “Look, Dolly can play with her rubber ducky in the bathtub!” or “Oh, I see – she wears the shoes on her feet!”
In that it is impossible to extract these smaller items without destroying them, we usually send them out to the recycling bin with the rest of the seven metric tons of plastic and cardboard that holidays of this magnitude generate.
Of course it’s all worth the hassle to be able to sit back and watch the little ones enjoy playing with the big cardboard box from my new television.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to try and get this blood stain out of Cinderella’s dress.
© 2007 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.
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