When I was seven I had two Furbies. I was given one as a present and my sister Christina—or as I affectionately call her Teeny, because, you see, she is very short, exactly one inch shorter than me, and one inch in my book is basically a foot—was given one as a present. And then, as I’m prone to do, I convinced her to give me hers. So I had two and she had none. I named one Isabella and the other one Huffington. Witty, I know. I loved my Furbies. Well, I loved them for about as long as Britney Spear’s first marriage lasted (exactly 24 hours in case you were wondering).
I stopped loving them when I realized they didn’t have an off switch. I stopped loving them when they wouldn’t shut the fuck up. First, I threw Isabella into a wall. She continued talking. Then, I threw her out the window. She continued talking. I then realized Isabella the Furby was indestructible. So I hid her in a box and put her in the garage. She is probably still talking. I had better luck with Huffington the Furby. I gave her to a friend. What can I say, I love my friends. I often give them things I don’t want and they don’t yet know they don’t want. But really hats off to you Furby—you are the third most annoying creation right behind Nickleback and sexy Halloween costumes for children.