Dear, Mr. Bucket.
I always knew you were different. You, a popular children’s toy of the 90s with a raging libido. And me, an unpopular child of the 90s, horny as a soap opera. I still do 30 Kegels every time I hear that poem you wrote for me in your jingle.
I’m Mr. Bucket, toss your balls in my top.
I’m Mr. Bucket, out of my mouth they will pop.
I’m Mr. Bucket, weee, we’re all gonna run.
I’m Mr. Bucket, buckets of fun!
Everyone said I shouldn’t listen to you. That you were just a child-grooming puppet with powerful Milton Bradley friends. Before you, I didn’t know I could love a bucket. Now I long for your creepy, lurking-in-the-background Where’s Waldo sleeves. I want to squeeze your big, clown, child-molester nose.
You were the first toy to set my lady-garden on fire. And the way you kept hinting at tea-bagging without actually saying it, I know you were burning with desire too. I loved playing with you and all twelve of your balls. Especially the blue ones. Even now, thinking about tit…I mean “it.” Sorry. Freudian slip there. I was going to say something about your subtle choking hazard, as if I were ever concerned.
Our dance was always the same. I chased you around the room and you played hard to get, begging me to collect your balls and drop them in your top. And out of your mouth, they did pop. Just as I would yell “Weee,” as we pretend-climaxed together.
You only meant to teach me dexterity. But you also taught me about men. I’ve had many in my life — floating around floors, looking up my skirt, making your sexy O face, asking me to touch their balls. Like you, I blocked them with my hands, as if I didn’t want their balls inside me. But we both know I did. You turned me into a nympho with a flaming crotch. And I thank you for that.
After you, I never looked at balls the same — baseballs, meatballs, disco balls. Remember the ball pit at McDonalds where you dared me to fit all your balls in my mouth? Hayley’s slumber party where you got stuck and wall-banged her corner all night? Or Jacob’s bar mitzvah where Jacob’s mom slipped on your balls and broke her foot?
Let’s take that trip to a banana farm like you always wanted. We can even hit up a gay bar past midnight or a Viagra focus group on the drive home.
Whatever you do, Mr. Fuck It…I mean Bucket, don’t let this letter fall on sticker ears. I want you, even though you were banned, not once, but twice from every toy shelf in America. I recently saw you’re back for a third time, helping other little boys and girls grow up way too fast. No, I’m not jealous. I just want to turn you on and let you roll around on my carpet again.
I know it’s been 30 years. But, if you give me another chance, I’ll get you the strongest AA batteries a woman can buy. You can even have the ones from my dildo.
Forever longing for your balls,