INTRODUCING: Ferby
(can I get a 'Woooit Wooit dum, ditty, dum')
thats 'Furbish' in case you are not yet hip to the lingo.
(which you will be if you spend more than .5 seconds in my house because DEAR GOD that thing does not shut his yap)
My mother in her infinite wisdom and quest to make my time spent raising this child particularly bothersome, busted out this relic last weekend.
I believe I was in my freshman year of high school when the Furby craze swept through. I can't remember if it was actually purchased for me or my little brother (we'll go with him, just to mask the potential for overwhelming lameness the first option offers) but we had one, and it was fun. Certainly no Tamagatchi, but the merits of parenting a fuzzy faux-child were much greater with the Furb.
Until the day the batteries went low.
Please tell me you remember those occurrences, when all the coo's and 'Oowo Oowo Furby like me danka Oowo Oowa's' dissolved into more of an ' Oooolabba Immmdyyying ffuurby killllll yooooo'. And suddenly, Furby wasn't so much fun. Nor was he an adorable fuzzy faux-child whose mouth I wished to stick my hand in. In fact, I was quite convinced that low battery Furby was going to scale to the top of my canopy bed and murder me with an ice pick.
Needless to say, it was a leeeeetle intimidating last night when I walked into our room and found this-
He had taken the time to stash the pick in an unknown location but I'm certain he was really up to no good.
Worry not though, I took care of it.
'Oowa Oowa Furby no like blender Ooowa Ooowa Oooooooooooooshhhhhhiiiiiitsss'
Frappe.
Disclaimer: No actual Furby's were hurt during the making of this post. Badly.
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