Rocket Raccoon Action Figure Review

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Be straight with the forwardness at haste readers. When you hear the phrase 'Rocket Raccon', what comes to mind? No no I mean besides a lewd sexual performance in the bedroom which we'd rather not hear about. There are plenty of great archetypes and radical totally unbogus ideas out there, and I won't lie. 'Rocket Raccoon' barely makes the cut. (Don't forget this place is a furry safe establishment no haters or non-furry supporters allowed >:C)

I mean rockets are cool right? What aspiring 90s kids doesn't want to grow up seeing furry creatures with jetpacks or rocket boots or something cool like that. From little cute critters blasting about, to seeing the bestial creatures flurry towards the skys Power Puff Girls style like a miniature squeaking superman. I know I do.

Ok so maybe that's just me. Jetpack Pets aside, let's put my gently caressing fetish for childrens cartoons and picture stories off for another day indefinitely

So one when comes across Toys of such a great thrilling potential and testament of radical fortitude, one can sparsely hold their anticipation at thinking of such a toy. Merely imagining themselves throwing it across their room, smashing it towards the floor and engaging epic sweaty brawls with their other figures, inevitably breaking parts and detachable limbs for the amusement of none other than their playtime as the twisted prepubescent action-figure god they are. So imagine how their divine right to exhibit sadomasochistic tendacies on their play things works out when they see.. this.

Where's the damned Rocket you hornswoggling fraudulent hacks?

That's right. Rather than giving them an adorable raccoon playmate to throttle around with and imagine their furry friend saving the day and chewing through garbage dumps globally at the speed of whiskers, we've got this dingus. Not a miniature squeaking cuddly pal, not a rad Raccoon, ROCKET using cherubic Procyon Lotor in the midst of blasting off. Nope. We get this.

As Frankenstein Von Victor once said to his failed creation ages before that infamous book once said, "Holy shitcans bananas, that's the last time I ever do it with a drunken owl on friday the thirteenth while working in the lab. Maybe if I had, I'd invent some better goggles than the ones I did last night to hide this, thing from my sight. Who in the devils loins created that horror?!?" 

One can only wonder what kind of process is used to put together this mix-match of tacky, inelegant parts to create such a cretinous toy. Even assuming they has a monkeys paw stirring the broth of hell to produce it, who came up with such a stupid looking design? I mean, what part of this civilian furmonger speaks to a heroic and inspiring name like "Rocket Raccoon"? Least of all the Rocket part?

You know what's especially hilarious about this? I may not have read "Guardians of the Galaxy" or whatever fanciful series he's from, but typing "Guardians of the Galaxy Raccoon" into google and skimming for only 2 seconds turned up the following:

So you can see why this is a bit of a quagmire. There's clearly no poverty of coolness or gun-slinging agile ferocious raccoon spunk for the source material. So why the horrendous showing? Why have such a neat looking thimble character, and than give him a toy that looks like they stuck his head on a prison-escaped Hon Solo? Utterly horrific. 

I'd like to give some other special mention to that Starlord dude looks a little better by comparison.

Even if it looks like he's straining hard to hold back a dump and going to lay a wet fart any moment. Pose is kind of dumpy and hair isn't too shabby either. Closed cock-fisted syndrome remains at large.

The who how in this hoosegow and the which of what they may be fledgling about

Engage this intropersecutory entry at once 

Oh boy, where do I even begin. Well this is a fleeting piece of the internets where if you're already here, it's already too late for you. But since your here, I suppose tis not matter the least, and you could forgo the chagrin and ignominious regret otherwise. This here is a little something I put together to sometimes ravage and mutilate my thoughts and doldrums onto this here little shackle of lucidity. You could call it an outlet of sorts, if you will.

The only thing plugged in however is the tantalizing attraction for which it may dispatch, be it little at that, towards the complacent rubbernecks that trench across these sovereign spheres of deviance.

Given that idea, or not, I figure it may as well suit me to fill it with things. But what kind of things may make their way into a heap of smarmy disinterested mirth that is this webcoven here? Well if you're expecting treasure or little gold nuggets, I suggest you return your make-believe pirate hat back at the party store, and rip off that awful fake mustache while your at it. Gentlemanlyness is unbecoming in this sissified house of fraudulent debauchery.

Well what than exactly? I'd like to think this'll be the outlet of all my opinionated rants, reviews and critique, and swollen clandestine peaks into my noggin, inebriated of sense and worth as it may be. Oh yeah, and I told a budding acquaintance I'd recap some stuff here aswell, so I gotta do that on coercion of persistence and strides of not looking like surly scallywag that I am. Not that it won't be splenetic. Not like I'm ever in a good mood or have ever been mistaken for pleasant hospitality otherwise, but you might just be the first. (nah) And there you haves at it.

Oh, and what of me, the author of this inquisitive romp, of this narrating jape of insolence he allows on the whim of his proverbial carnal-tube lodged somewhere up the base of your poopdeck? Ayyye he ain't nothin' special. Likes the watch and read things, than make farce. Is a weird boy-girl vaguely humanoid thing with a measure in this world too disparate for words or present state of hereby inquiry. It's not beyond the reach of this blog, but y'all have to stick through the filth if you want to reach the oinking porcine scoundrel behind the pigpen. 


So grab a juicebox or sandwich or whatever you kiddies eat these days with your frumpy striped overalls and puffy cotton poop-pillows between your gaping crapholes, and sit back as the fool tries to juggle a few errands. Hopefully they won't fall and crack and kasploot him too bad, but either way the audience is bound to get far goopier on this end of the cynical rectum chutesore-scale than I have any right to be, given they paid the pennies of interest their meager attention spans had allowed for. (Maybe in a more literal sense at that?) That be that.

Peace out bromeos and jewfroets.