Pippi

I have discussed at length my fear and hatred for most of what passed as "children's programming" in the 1970s. Coked-up network executives conspiring with 'shroom-addled production staff churned out abominations such as the afore-mentioned Puff-n-Stuff, et al...

Few, though, were as trauma-inducing as Pippi Longstocking. Concocted by the creative savants of Sweden (or Denmark, whichever...), and poorly dubbed for bland-tasted monosyllabic American youth, this monstrosity ran on endless weekend loops on minor media outlets in most major markets for years on end. Like Bond movies on cable, it was always on.

For those fortunate enough to have been born too late, or to have been raised in some sad peasant hovel beyond the reach of American television, Pippi was the story of a neglected latch-key daughter of an alcoholic sea captain, who lives alone with her pet monkey and horse. Her hair grew, like mine, perpendicular from her head. Her hair, also like mine, adamantly resisted all attempts to lay flat.

Pippi had unnatural physical strength. She also had a couple of sycophantic followers who verbally validated her every whim. Whims which were vast and well funded, by the way, by the never-depleting treasure chest left behind by wayward Captain Dad. Pippi was dirty, disheveled and annoying, just like every other latch-key kid that I grew up with. I hated them, and I hated her.

Yet, I dutifully tuned in week after week, because, well, I had to. It was children's programming. I HAD to watch. These days, my only solace is the fact that the grinning freckled mongoloid that played her is now a dried up shriveled old shrew.