November 1, 2026
The pungent aroma of wet cigarettes and used condoms hangs thick; crack vials glisten in the morning dew. Surrounded by beer bottle shards and dead three-eyed trout (courtesy of a nuclear-waste management plan gone awry ten years ago), it is difficult to fathom Honeysuckle Beach, Alabama, as ever having been a hot spot for vacationing families in the 50’s – it’s heyday – or any era. Frisbees, old cans of Brylcreem and pieces of non-biodegradable hula-hoops the only conclusive remnants of its fabled history.
I regret not having voted against AmeriMexiCanada President Mark Zuckerberg’s dismantling of the EPA. “We’ll each do our own part, individually, to save this great planet,” he’d said ten days into his lifetime term.
I, Jerry Gladstone (avid researcher, renowned writer, investigative journalist extraordinaire), have arrived on this little piece of land God long-ago forsook in search of one of the most famous women who ever lived: Barbie.
For a time, she was the woman every adolescent boy dreamed of and every pre-pubescent girl wanted to be. Seemingly, she had it all: the Dream House, the Pink Corvette, a handsome husband and an infinitely-accessorized wardrobe.
She also had her detractors. (Read: Overweight females claiming she represented a false image of womanhood to young ladies who, genetically, were destined for a career in the food-service industry.)
Regardless – or perhaps because of – the controversy, Barbie was a cultural icon for the ages.
But if the paparazzi who hounded her day and night had delegated a few ounces of the brainpower they used for snapping blurry photos of her in the Caribbean to more dignified priorities, they would have discovered the secret double-life behind the glittering eye shadow, underneath the candy-apple lip-gloss. I have done just that.
As you know, this – my weekly, syndicated column on pop culture and the weather – appears in two national newspapers. My most famous piece, “Whatever happened to that Girl from that Show on that Channel?” was carried in the prestigious Kindle Times™, which boasts a circulation of 4,000 (prison-inmate subscriptions included).
Unfortunately, as is often the case with such profound and insightful articles, I was immediately besieged with requests for more, “Whatever Happened To?” stories. (Perhaps you remember my initial follow-up regarding the cast of “Friends”; now stars of the highly-rated sitcom “Geriatric Buddies”, airing Thursday evenings on Apple’s One Channel Global Telecommunications and Entertainment Network – AOGTEN for short.)
But I’m getting off-track.
Our story begins in the year 2016.
At the pinnacle of her career, Barbie (full name: Barbara Allison Weidermeyer) checked into the Lindsay Lohan Celebrity Clinic in Calabasas California (renamed in the remembrance of the deceased starlet) for what her then-publicist would only confirm as, “a corrective habit reinforcement”.
Two weeks later, Barbie checked out and was never heard from again. One month later, Ken smashed the Vette into a telephone pole and fled the scene before police arrived. Then he, too, vanished into the dismal abyss of night.
An initial probe into the famous couple’s disappearance revealed nothing.
Gradually, the public lost interest and little girls the world over turned to playing with the new line of G.I. Jesus Dolls – a useful fluke in the Brazilian Crisis of 2018.
Six years passed with no mention in the press of Barbie or Ken. They were a footnote.
Then, the popular television program “Discarded Matters No One Cares About” (airing Sunday evenings on AOGTEN) ran a five-minute segment on a Barbie sighting in Newark, NJ.
The following morning, calls flooded in from around the globe. In one week, Barbie was reportedly working as: a chambermaid in London; a mechanic in Philadelphia; a prostitute in Bangkok; and co-managing Sushi World in Japan with the King himself, Elvis Presley.
Her location was solidified, however, when a homeless man named Barney claimed he had provided her shelter just one-month prior, via his duplex refrigerator box, during a storm.
After being fed and bathed, he produced a Polaroid of himself and Barbie dining out…of a very lovely dumpster. Though considerably older and missing several key teeth, the woman in the faded snapshot – licking spoon grease from a broken plate – was undeniably the elusive blonde.
Now, after days of pain-staking research and death-defying odds, I bring you – my lucky readers – the true, uncensored, heart-breaking fairy tale turned-nightmarish-reality; the shocking story of Barbie’s fall from grace. You may all breathe a collective sigh of relief.
November 2, 2026
When the check I wrote from my Microsoft International Banking Systems Fund for hotel accommodations bounced, Barney the Bum offered use of his new and improved cardboard home (Now with 2% more insulation!) in exchange for sexual favors.
I agreed.
Barney’s generosity aside, I decided after three days of fornicating cornholery to roam Honeysuckle Beach, scouring for clues. I was shocked by the swiftness of my good fortune.
After only half an hour of hopping over otter carcasses, a primordial scream thundered across the sky. This was not the scream one’s girlfriend produces when Freddy Krueger slashes his umpteenth young, dumb, busty victim in: “A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 19, Freddy’s Arthritic Claw”. No, this was a guttural sound escaping from deep within someone’s abdomen. A groaning formerly associated solely with childbirth before the openings of Walmart’s Buy-a-Baby Super Centers.
I crept toward the baritone moan. Soon, I was hunched behind a forest mutation (eerily reminiscent of my grandfather’s ‘72 El Camino) masquerading as a cherry blossom bush. I parted the bucket seats of the plant. Squatting a few yards beyond, her back-side facing me and in dire, grunting- need of a more fiber-rich diet, was–
“—Barbie?” I whispered.
A tangled weave of gray jerked back and in a moment, “Crouching Figure, Hidden Dignity” was gone.
Dazed from this brief encounter, I traipsed through the slush of the beach, praying to no avail that the wind would shift. I was resolved that my chance was gone, she was gone.
My hopes subjugated, I began building a bonfire on the shore.
I was surprised when she re-appeared a few minutes later. I stood slowly, fearing any sudden movements might scare her off, as though she were a frightened deer.
She held her guarded stance, but made no indication of leaving, so I spoke:
“I’m Jerry Gladstone. I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to startle you. I–”
“—I nearly popped a vein…all for a wet fart,” she giggled, approaching my mostly-smoldering attempt at fire.
In the night’s luminosity, I was more astonished by her looks than her witty observations regarding the colon.
Gazing into one lazy eye, at lice-infested hair and a mammoth four-hundred-fifty pound frame, I – with my vast knowledge of life, comprehensive understanding of the human psyche and an astute vocabulary – could think of only one thing to say:
“What happened?”
“I get that a lot,” she remarked, gnawing on a barbecued bat-wing.
“So you are Barbie then? The Barbie?”
“In the flesh,” she said.
I pinched myself to keep from laughing.
Between bites, she asked, “You want the long or the short version?”
“Well, I’m a journalist. I’m writing this article for–“
“—Another journalist, huh?”
“Many of us come looking for you?”
“Not for a long time,” she said. “Occasionally someone recognizes me and I’ll take off or just pretend I don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Why are you talking to me then? Not that I’m ungrateful,” I said.
“A person can’t run forever. I can’t anyway,” she chimed. “You’ve got questions and I’ve got answers. But it’ll cost ya.”
I opened my wallet and pulled out my emergency (Read: Twitter Strip Clubs) money: $200.
I was about to give the world the enlightenment of the century, but I’d be sucking dick for cab money back to Buffalo.
Suddenly, I felt Barbie’s stubby fingers on my arm. I looked up, into the creamy folds of her face.
“I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout money, honey,” she bellowed, flinging herself on top of me.
November 3, 2026
The next morning – when the deed of the damned was done – I wanted a lobotomy, not a smoke. Barbie sat up partially, bracing herself with endless layers of elbow skin.
“Well, I’m not exactly sure what you wanna know, but you sure know how to go ‘bout gettin’ it!” she exclaimed, slapping her gelatinous thigh.
I smiled, planning a trip to my Mosque, ASAP.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man,” she commented.
“What about Ken?”
“That faggot?” she scorned. “I haven’t made love to that bastard since I came home from a photo shoot and found him in bed with the pool boy.”
I pulled out my notebook.
“I was young then.” She continued, “Into exploring my body and my sexuality. I was always willing to try new things.” Her fingers pranced down her chest. “So instead of freaking out, I grabbed a bottle of Merlot and joined them. It was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life.”
Slowly, her fond smile turned to a blank stare.
“Ken said it was that night when he realized the difference. He couldn’t live a lie anymore. Having us both in bed at the same time proved to him how much he preferred cock. What an asshole,” Barbie muttered.
“Occasionally, he’d fly in to attend social functions, but it was all for show. I don’t blame him for running off. Our marriage was long dead by then.”
“I’m glad you brought that up. Tell me about Ken leaving, the car wreck,” I queried.
“Not much to tell,” she quipped. “Ken and the pool boy – Rasheiki, I think it was – were coking it up that night at some gay bar and snorted their stash.
"So, they hopped in the Vette and about half way to their dealer Rasheiki got frisky and was trying to go down on him and Ken lost control of the car.
"Ken was already on probation for a hit-and-run on a Girl Scout the year before and couldn’t afford to be caught. I’d just checked out of the Clinic and was staying with my aunt. They showed up all panicked and Ken blurted out what had happened.
I told him: ‘This is the last straw’, wrote him a check and suggested he disappear.
The next day, they were gone. I heard they boarded a ferry to some small Indian Ocean island, Rashieki’s homeland, I think.”
“So the marriage was truly over then?” I asked.
“Like I said, it was the last straw. Before that mess, Ken and I had an arrangement: I would forgive him his private indiscretions and he would play the ‘good hubby, happy couple’ role.
"I also truly believed he was just going through a phase and that the love of a good woman would bring him to his senses. Things were tolerable until the car wreck.”
"I have to ask,” I said. “How much money did you give them?”
“About forty thousand,” she responded, a tinge of sorrow seeping out and into her voice.
“Dollars?” I clarified.
“No – pesos, jerk-off. Yeah, dollars. And I didn’t know it then, bit it was all I had left.”
Barbie paused, closed her eyes for a moment, then continued: “I should have had millions, huh? Where’d all the money go, right?”
I was silent.
“To my cunt of an accountant,” Barbie steamed. “She hadn’t made any mortgage payments on my Dream House in years. She kept them at bay for months with promises and excuses and bad checks from my trust. The bank foreclosed on the place two months after Ken took off. Like an idiot, I believed that blood-sucking tramp when she told me it was all just a big misunderstanding.”
“And the–“
“—Car?” she interjected.
I nodded.
“My manager set that up. Publicity-wise it was great for Chevy, but it was never mine. In truth, they’d been trying to repossess it for years. And when Ken smashed the thing, I found out there was no collision coverage. I was responsible for the damage. He could be such a fuck-up,” Barbie lamented.
I jumped in: “So your accountant squandered all the money that was supposed to go toward the house and you had to pay for the crashed car. What about the rest of your money? You modeled for years, made commission on the merchandise bearing your likeness. Where’d all that cash go? Did your manager or accountant spend that too?”
“You’re close,” Barbie laughed. “Both of them are out there spending the rest of my money. Probably as we speak. See, at the time, I didn’t know the check I wrote Ken was all my money. The day before I got out of the clinic, Cindy, that’s my accountant, she and my lezbo manager, Debra, ran off to Morocco together.”
My eyes widened.
“I know what you’re thinking: Why didn’t I stop them somehow. Call the cops?”
“Yeah. What about the authorities overseas? Couldn’t they help?” I asked.
“Sure, they could have, but they wouldn’t. Not when they realized those bitches probably already had new identities and there was no chance of any precinct getting a “donation” for their troubles. So they gave up and basically told me to do the same. They said the paper trail would be too hard to follow once they exchanged the currency.
“I kept modeling for a while, but I was getting older. And I didn’t have any money for plastic surgery, so that didn’t last long.”
“So you’ve been living here ever since?” I asked, placing my hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently (but not too gently, lest she get the wrong idea).
“Oh, God, no!” Barbie boasted, leaning in my direction to allow a bit of gas to escape into the brisk night air.
“I ran the gamut of jobs,” she added. “Everything from teaching and sewing to being a weather girl for FANDANGO-TV in Minneapolis under the name "Summer Showers". I got fired after three weeks. I’d been at a company picnic a few days before, when a storm blew in. I got struck by lightning and developed Tourette’s Syndrome.
“When I gave the forecast, it always went something like: ‘The fucking temperature will drop into the Goddamn forties by shittin’ midnight, and a mother-fucking cold front will move in by pussy-lickin’ morning’. And, I had twitches that would embarrass a retarded epileptic!” Barbie added, as a glob of drool slapped against her spittle-ridden chin.
“And that’s when you gave up and moved here?”
“Nope. After that, I found what I thought was my true calling: working in a Brooklyn ER.”
I was intrigued.
Barbie’s eyes (the good one serious, the lazy one staring at my crotch) welled with tears. I waited patiently until she was ready to speak.
“It felt really good being a part of the healing process,” she said softly. “It was worthwhile, important.
Barbie paused, breathing deeply, then wiped her nose on her grimy sleeve.
“Anyway, I was holding his hand, trying to comfort him, telling him ‘everything’s gonna’ be OK, everything’s gonna’ be all right’, but before the doctor could get him stabilized, his little hand just went limp in mine. He was gone. I wept for a month. I couldn’t imagine going through that again.
“So I quit, bummed around the country for a while and eventually, I ended up here,” Barbie said, pressing down on one nostril and blowing snot at my feet.
“I’d like to backtrack for a moment,” I said. “Why were you at the Celebrity Clinic?”
“So my accountant and manager could escape with my money.”
I frowned and Barbie’s sarcasm dropped an octave. She answered again: “To smile more.”
I said nothing, but my furrowed brow showed my curiosity.
“My PR agency thought I needed to smile more, thought it would be good for business. ‘TMJ Barbie,’” she laughed.
“They wanted to fix it so I’d smile constantly, even while I slept – something about higher-profile gigs. As for the clinic, I don’t really remember much about it. When you arrive, they sedate you and throw you butt-naked into a sterile room. When you regain consciousness, you’re cured, fixed, lipo’ed, clean, sober, whatever. I don’t know how it works, but the end result stays with you,” Barbie stated with a grinning presentation of her epiglottis.
“Was that the only reason you were admitted?” I pried.
“No,” she answered meekly. “I also had…gonorrhea.”
My pen snapped in two.
“I was downing shots of bourbon one night with some girlfriends and I’m hornier than a dyke at Lilith Fair when I drink. Well, I knew Ken was at home, taking it up the pipehole, so I called this escort service. This buff Italian guy shows up an hour later. I gave him the ride of his life and a thousand bucks and he gave me
some cheese for my taco.”
Barbie, the Metaphor Queen.
I delved deeper. “Where were your girlfriends when things took a turn for the worse?”
“You mean true pals who stick by you through thick and thin, the good times and bad?” Barbie grunted. “Friends who cry with you when you’re sad and rejoice with you when you’re happy? That cliché bullshit? Those kind of friends?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I didn’t have friends like that. Even my ‘best friend’ was someone who made me look even more attractive when I hung out with her, made me seem like a better person. They were all like that.
“Remember Becky? The cripple in the wheelchair? Did you know I had to restructure the entrance to my home and install ramps everywhere just so that gimp could get around? Jesus! ‘Fall out of your chair and crawl’ is what I say! But my ‘people’ thought that was too insensitive. They said I needed to reach a wider demographic.
“Pretty soon, I had to start inviting every dysfunctional, differently-abled trollop to my parties so as not to offend the liberal, Dockers-wearing, overweight baby boomers with nothing better to do with their pitiful lives than count the number of diverse individuals I entertained. It was disgusting.
“Maybe I’d feel different if that disabled ditz had expressed even the slightest bit of gratitude for all the money I spent making every room handiCRAPped-accessible, but she didn’t. Not even a thank you.
“Hey, that reminds me of an old joke: What do you call a quadriplegic out in the middle of the ocean with no life preserver?”
I shrugged.
“Fucked,” Barbie chuckled.
November 4, 2026
Over breakfast (for those of you interested, she ate six strips of bacon, four poached eggs, nine slices of buttered toast and drank three glasses of chocolate milk) at Denny’s, Barbie finished her incredible story.
Nearing the end of the meal however, I still felt there was some piece of the puzzle missing. I needed closure for myself – and for you – my readers.
“I can understand the failed marriage,” I pressed. “Unfortunate as it is, it happens frequently. I can understand losing your money, your looks and your whole way of life. But I want my readers to grasp what else drives someone famous like yourself to go from internationally known to–
"--Fat, no job and homeless?" she finished.
“Yes,” I stated sympathetically.
“Well, it doesn’t happen overnight, you can tell your readers that. It takes equal parts unresolved emotional issues, a dedication to self-sabotage and a desire, subconscious or not, to repeat mistakes.”
Barbie paused to slurp down a milkshake and continued, “If I had my life to do over, I’d make a lot of changes.”
“How so?”
“Well, first off, I wouldn’t let a group of cowardly, money-grubbing parasites lead my life, make everyday decisions for me. Worst of all, I became totally dependent upon those people. I trusted them emphatically. I wanted their advice on every single facet of my existence.”
Barbie threw her hands in the air. “I should have trusted my instincts and been more involved in handling my own assets. I never took the reins, so when I lost it all, I didn’t know how to be responsible. That’s my only regret.
"Well that and substituting food for love.” She paused, belched and added, “And having my teeth knocked out in a fight last month over a half-eaten funnel cake. I regret that, too.”
I cupped Barbie’s pudgy face in my hands.
“You know, if this article is a success, a lot of very important people are going be interested in you again, I said. “You’ll probably have book offers and television movies about your journey. You could get a fresh start, make an honest living, buy a house, find someone to spend your remaining years with. This could be a new beginning.”
She didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm.
“You know the best thing about having been Barbie?” she asked before standing.
I shrugged.
“Millions of girls looked up to me, wanted to be me,” she said, teary-eyed. “They thought I had it all. And I always believed, still believe, that that concept gave them the idea they could be anyone, do anything they wanted. And I like that. I want them to have courage. I want them to chase their dreams, reach their goals.
"I want them to remember the Barbie I was; not the haggard, barely-mobile, moo-moo wearing creature that looks like it swallowed their childhood Barbie. I want more for them. I want them to keep their innocence. You understand, don’t you, Jerry?”
I sat, motionless.
“Look,” she finished. “The people who wondered about me are gonna’ read your column and what you print will have to be enough to satisfy their curiosity. It’s good enough for me, just getting this stuff off my chest. I’ve been holding on to far too many grudges for far too long. Plus, I don’t wanna’ do the talk show circuit. I’ve had more than my fifteen minutes, you know?”
“Thank you for your story, Miss Weidermeyer,” I said solemnly.
“Thank you,” Barbie responded, excusing herself from the table.
As she exited the restaurant, a thought struck me and I yelled out, “What happened to the Tourette’s Syndrome?”
“Medi-fuckin’-cation, Dicksmack!” she hollered in return.
I stood and yelled out: “What about the lazy eye? Was that from the lightning, too?”
But she was gone.
In an hour or two, some guy would probably find her walking along the road and offer her a ride to Branson, Missouri (where people famous 40 years ago go to die), never knowing who was sitting in the passenger’s seat.
And that’s how Barbie would want it.
Don’t forget, next week I continue chronicling the “Exploding Livers of Delaware” right here in Kindle Times™ Interplanetary Gazette.
It’s a balmy eighty-four degrees. Thanks for reading.
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