You'd have to be a real bastard to steal Hello Kitty. This is the operating principle behind my superfantastic Hello Kitty lunch box that I take to work with me every day in my superfantastic OliOli Trolley purse, which I got from my sister, who won it as a door prize when she worked for the largest Japanese travel company in Hawaii. It's a double helping of awesome Japanica, swinging by my side on the subway every morning, mocking my coworkers with its maybe-she-is-maybe-she-isn't-being-ironic sweetness.
There's just something about that white, beady-eyed little kitten, with her gargantuan head and absolutely no mouth (she must absorb nutrients from the air), that compels a person to behave. Look at her. Look at that quizzically cocked head, those tiny toeless feet, that eery, blank stare--she'd make a great propaganda poster for a totalitarian society ruled by preteen girls. Sure, you could steal my lunchbox, and secret policemen with pink boots and glittery berets could come to your house in the middle of the night and bludgeon you with faux-fur covered billy clubs. Enemies of the state abound in Sanrioria.
But here's the punchline: this isn't actually a Hello Kitty lunchbox. That's right, look closely. "Charmmy Kitty." It's a knock-off! Laypeople don't know the difference, and if some bastard actually does swipe it from my desk one chill winter's morn, well, I can get another for ten bucks at Pearl River.
I'm a lunchbox ninja.
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