In a world where extreme beauty is the norm, and anything less than perfection is disregarded, where is there a place for those who don't make the standard?

I roll the Pringle between my fingers thoughtfully.

It's weird, but now the Papers have been passed, even a Barbie can stroll into a general store and buy a tube of Sour Cream & Onion. Even a Barbie.

I sigh. It's not like that's ever going to happen, anyway. The Papers don't demand that the Barbies give up everything now that they are meant to be seen as equals with us. I say meant to be, but that's not going to happen either.

Crunching on the Pringle, I tell myself one thing. Nothing's going to change. All the speeches and rallies and conferences about "political correctness" were just for show. Something to cover up what the Barbies have been doing for all these years.

All the new laws, and the laws that have been lifted: they won't make a difference. People don't change on the whim of one old fashioned politician, however much all of my kind would like it to.

That's not how the Barbie's work. That's not how they think.

To them, political correctness is something disgusting, unwanted, trawled up from the depths of history. It is something that belongs where it originated, in the Barbaric times. PB, we're meant to call it now.


Maybe this old way of thinking will change a few people's perspective. Maybe, just maybe, someone will realise what they have been doing. Maybe the blindfold will be lifted from them all. 

But not at the moment. Never will that happen, when Jon Spinnica and his daughters riside in the thrones of society.

The End

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