Tags: childhood memory, Stretch Armstrong, toy
It happened like this.
My sister and I were playing at our cousins’ house one afternoon. The house had a basement filled with wonderment! Chock-full of toys–boy toys–I had never been exposed to. Cars to race. Guns to shoot. Men to stretch.
I fell in love. With Stretch Armstrong.
He was one hunk of a hunk. Muscled. Tan. Blonde. Wearing only black underwear. And he was stretchy.
You could pull his arms and legs. At the same time! You could squeeze him. Pinch him. Twist him. Made of latex rubber and filled with gel, Stretch Armstrong would retain his newly formed shape for a short time before returning back to his original state.
This was the best toy ever!
And then. When my cousin left the room, I couldn’t resist. I took a bite out of Stretch Armstrong’s chest.
Goo started oozing. Red goo. Again, I could’t resist. I tasted it. It was sweet, like raspberry jam.
My younger sister looked at me in horror. As in, “you killed him.”
Quickly I hid Stretch Armstrong under a pillow. And I made her swear not to tell. We went on with our playing, as if nothing happened.
And then poor Stretch Armstrong was left to die a slow, bloody death, under a pillow.