According to most people, I am a man. A man with Crohn’s disease, an inflammatory bowel disease that job interviewers have repeatedly told me to stop putting on my resume. As a man, I naturally spend a lot of time with my Ostomy Bag Ken doll. He looks great when I make him kiss Batman, a Minecraft Steve plushie or even himself in the mirror. I have but one complaint: Why isn’t he bloated?
If we as a society truly want our Barbies and Kens to represent us, then we need to go all the way. Ken should be bloated, just like me. Actually we can’t stop there. Where is the weird, unexplainable rash on Ken’s neck? Why is he so comfortable with me pushing white bread through his lips? He should break out in hives if he gets anywhere near gluten. To feel truly represented, I need my Ken to wipe that satisfied smile off his face and replace it with a look of deep, chronic fatigue. Fortunately, whenever you bend Ken’s knees, they click loudly — exactly like mine. At least they got that right.
True representation cannot go halfway. It would be insufficient of Mattel to give Ken a slight, hard bloat. His bloat should be customizable. Did he eat too much at dinner? Is he having a flare? These should all be settings on his bloat knob (I would also accept some type of water-pump system to control the size of his bloat, as for some reason I too bloat whenever I drink more than one glass of water).
The bloat knob is only the beginning. As I had been telling Mattel for years before they filed a restraining order against me, Ken should have an interactive digestive system. I want to give my Ken a colonoscopy. Or, at the very least, an abdominal MRI. If I have to drink three bottles of lemon-lime contrast for an MRI, then I should be able to make my Ken do it too.
The road to proper disability representation in dolls is a long one, but it starts, as always, with bloating. Your move, Mattel.