When I was around eight years old or so, in a fit of unquestioned rage, my father kicked over a selection of G.I. Joes I had been collecting for a few years, breaking many of their rubber-band spines in half—Leatherneck, Wet Suit and Lifeline were among the casualties—with the loud message that I “needed to grow the Hell up” and fast.
When the incident happened, I admit that I was quite upset, as you’d expect; in hindsight however, it may have been the best thing that he had ever done for me and to me. As a result, I don’t get the same infantile erections that many so-called “men” that I somewhat consider my contemporaries do over old Thundercats or Silverhawks toys.