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I don't recall the specifics of why I was at Dollar General to begin with. I like to think it was a sudden shortage of cheap disifectant wipes, but sadly I was probably bombing the place with coupons I clipped and compared to sales ads all weekend much like the bored housewife that I am. My spending habits are such that if Versace made coupons holders, I would likely put in overtime to purchase one so that I have a fancy place to stash all the 50¢ off Grands biscuits coupons I plan on doubling with my bonus card.

In any case, I found myself amidst the toy aisle, remembering there had been some requests that I resurrect my defunct website. I began the mental run-through of action figures I had stashed away for future make-overs, but failed to recall where they might be stored. Thus I was limited to the current stock in the aisle of Dollar General. The selection was fairly pitiful, and while I weighted my options of painting a generic My Little Pony versus the generic Transformers with the tiny little crevices I suddenly realized something dreadful. I had to poop.

I'm not trying to make some sort of fecal humor joke, just setting the scene. As a weight loss surgery patient, I'm trained to take these scenerios very seriously. When I went for my surgery, it was right in the midst of the Al Roker "I sharted myself at the White House" craze, and fear coursed through me like moonshine through the South. A few weeks ago I was moving desks at work and even came across the spare pair of pants I stashed in my desk in the event of such an emergency.

So there I am, trying to quickly grab an action figure and some nail polish and make my departure. The choices were, frankly, terrible. In the corner of my eye I spotted a clearance section. Out of half urgency and half frugality, I came home with Defender.


With a lean 75¢ price tag, Defender was a clear contender from the budget standpoint. Unfortunately, it was a poor choice from the "get my ass beat for defacing a soldier with pink nailpolish" standpoint.

I managed to save my ass on this one. Barely.

It took a few days. I started out with the initial soft pink tones on the shirt, feeling exceptionally of guilty over it. Remorseful. Awkward. Though I suppose painting an action figure while you're supervising your toddler's tubby time isn't a typical bored housewife task. After the first coat I decided I would have to put the project on hold and regroup. This wasn't happening. I wasn't defacing a soldier. I toyed with options, and the only reasonable one I could come across was painting a swastika on him. I knew this would somehow only serve to aggravate the situation. I thought about ditching the project entirely. Pretending it never happened, like Halle Berry's Catwoman.

A few days later I was out shopping at yet another dollar store and found my way out.


Meet Blart, Defender of Crown Combo. The shiny purple crown decal on his helmet designates him as the head of my own personal toy army. Note the highly polished boots and trendy manicure, which is not to be topped by the glitter belt accents. It's nowhere near the level of craftsmanship as my Optimus Prime, but for 75¢, I like to think expectations were low to begin with.




© 2006 Crown Combo