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EXT. BARBIELAND - DAY
“Not feeling so beachy now, are you Ken?”
“Not now, Ken,” Ken groaned from the ground. “I’m wallowing.” To emphasize the depth of his masculine sorrow, he rolled over and muffled a scream in his fur coat.
Ken chuckled, tossing his perfectly pompadoured hair. “Looks like someone wasn’t able to handle getting ‘friendzoned’.”
“Hey!” Ken lifted his face from the fur to point indignantly at Ken. “I was the one who told everyone about patriarchy in the first place! You can’t use its terminology against me!”
Ken crossed his perfectly sculpted arms with a smirk. “I Ken and I will.”
“Ugh!” Ken flopped back into a sad puddle. After a moment, he began sobbing again. “Barbie…”
“You know, Ken,” came Ken’s thoughtful voice from above. “I never thought I’d see you like this.”
“Like what?” Ken demanded through his tears, voice muffled.
“Like, cognizant of the harsh realities of life,” Ken explained.
“What?”
“Cognizant of the harsh realities of life.”
Ken lifted his face again, sitting up to squint at Ken. “What does that mean?”
“Uh… Well, I definitely know what it means,” Ken said quickly, scratching the back of his pompadour, “since I definitely didn’t just overhear President Barbie saying it. But I’m not telling you!”
“Well, I don’t care anyway. So there.” Ken stood up, glaring, and crossed his arms. (He checked surreptitiously to see if they were as muscular as Ken’s. They were.)
“Fine,” said Ken.
“Fine,” said Ken.
“Fine!” said Ken, and they each stomped off their separate ways.
INT. KNEIGH’S KEN-NEL - DAY
“Still haven’t won her over, eh Ken?”
“Not now, Ken,” said Ken. He didn’t even glance at Ken’s glossy pompadour. “I’m exploring—and in doing so constructing—my identity and self in a way that doesn’t revolve around a relationship with a girl.”
“Right,” said Ken slowly. “So does this new identity and self of yours just revolve around your relationship with a horse instead?”
Ken’s hand paused where it had been stroking a thick chestnut mane. He nodded thoughtfully and said, “Yeah. His name’s Kneigh. The K is silent.”
Ken stared. “What K?”
Ken sighed at Ken’s ignorance. “You know, K, N, E, I, G, H. Kneigh!”
“Right,” said Ken even more slowly. He cocked his head. “I thought you already had an identity of your own, though. Your job. ‘Beach.’ ”
Ken puffed up, squaring his shoulders at Ken. “I am great at beach! Even though some people think otherwise. But see, my job can’t be my identity.” He nodded sagely. “Ken’s been telling me about capitalism.”
“Capitalism.” Ken nodded back. “Yeah, I definitely know what that is.”
“Me too. It’s…” Ken paused. “Well, there’s no time to explain it right now. But you should ask Ken about it, he knows a lot. He’s turning into like, Liberation Ken!”
Ken stared. He’d been doing that a lot lately, and it made Ken feel oddly nervous. Like he was trying to impress Barbie, but different, since it was Ken and his pompadour.
“Liberation Ken?” Ken parroted, shaking his head. His pompadour bounced slightly with the movement. “Ken, what are you talking about? Only the Barbies get titles like that. We’re all just… Ken.”
“But why? We do different things too,” insisted Ken. He patted Kneigh’s flank. “I was thinking, I could be…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Horse Ken.”
A laugh burst from Ken’s mouth. “Hah, that’s definitely dumb-sounding enough for you.”
“Hey, watch it!” Ken scowled, but took a deep breath and calmed down to avoid spooking Kneigh. He crossed his arms and sniffed. “You can be Pompadour Ken.”
“I do have a great pompadour,” Ken agreed smugly, foiling Ken’s plans to belittle him by reducing him to his appearance. “But I wouldn’t just be Pompadour Ken. I’d also be Abs Ken!”
He flung his shirt wide, nearly blinding Ken with his glowing musculature. “And Teeth Ken!” A wink and a smile actually did blind Ken for a moment. “And Pecs Ken!” … Bouncy. “And Biceps Ken! Aaand Triceps Ken!”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Ken huffed. Subtly, he adjusted his shirt so that his rock-hard abs were also displayed, and rested a flexed arm against Kneigh’s side. “You’re ‘Abs-Teeth-Pecs-Biceps Ken.’ Eugh.” He stuck out his tongue.
“Actually, it’s Pompadour-Abs-Teeth-Pecs-Biceps-Triceps Ken,” Ken corrected, “and I wasn’t finished. I’m also Butt Ken—”
Maybe instead of Horse Ken, Ken reflected, he could be ‘Getting Horses to Kick Ken in the Face’ Ken.
EXT. BARBIELAND BEACH - DAY
“Hi Barbie!”
“Hi Barbie!”
“Hi Barbie!”
“Hi Barbie!”
“Hi Ken!”
“Actually,” Ken said politely, “it’s Tall, Dark, and Handsome Ken.”
Nobel Prize in Physics Barbie blinked, smile remaining firmly in place. “Oh. Hi, Tall-Dark-and-Handsome Ken.”
He giggled and replied, “Hi Barbie!”
“Oh, right right right! I forgot!” Ken exclaimed from nearby. “And I’m actually Singer-Bartender-Cool-Shoes Ken!”
Ken waved. “Hi Singer-Bartender-Cool-Shoes Ken! Your shoes are cool.”
“Thanks Tall-Dark-and-Handsome Ken! You’re so handsome.”
“Hi Skinny-Breakdancing-Redhead Ken!”
“Hi Fart-Jokes-Optimist-Film-Buff Ken!”
“Hi Artsy-Freckle-Sarcasm-Anxiety Ken!”
“Hi Canadian-Photography-Indecisiveness-Dudebro Ken!”
Ken wiped his forehead and hunched over with his hands on his knees. “Hey,” he panted, “does anyone else… think these titles… are kind of… a mouthful to say?”
“Not at all!” exclaimed Ken. That is, Fart-Jokes-Optimist-Film-Buff Ken. “I think it’s great! The Barbies have all had cool titles for, like, ever, and now we get to have them too!”
“Yeah,” agreed Canadian-Photography-Indecisiveness-Dudebro Ken. A camera hung from his neck. “It’s suuuper rad.”
“You know what, I should get the Nobel Prize in Farting,” Ken declared. “Watch, this is my famous Fart Opera!”
“No way, bro!”
“Yes way!” Ken turned around, stuck out his butt, and—
[SCENE DELETED]
“The Kens sure are excited about this,” Ken remarked, looking down at the beach below.
Ken looked over at… “I am not calling you Pompadour-Abs-Teeth-Pecs-Biceps Ken.”
“Again, it’s Pompadour-Abs-Teeth-Pecs-Biceps-Triceps-Butt Ken. But I’m not surprised you didn’t remember; you’ve never been that sharp.” Ken smirked. “What are you, anyway—Stereotypical Ken?”
“No, actually.” Ken sniffed loftily. “I’m not just a male counterpart to Stereotypical Barbie. I’m my own person.”
“Well, then what are you?” Ken waited, his pompadour gleaming in anticipation.
Ken hesitated. The ideas he’d come up with flew through his head: Beach-but-like-in-a-fun-way-not-in-a-capitalistic-no-work-life-balance-kind-of-way Ken, Horse Ken, Getting-Horses-to-Kick-Ken-in-the-Face Ken. Friendzone Ken.
But none of them seemed right. Ken didn’t want to be known as Beach Ken or Horse Ken or especially Friendzone Ken. He just wanted to be…
“Ken.”
“Hm?” said Ken.
“No.” Ken shook his head. “I mean, I’m… I’m just… Ken.”
Ken peered at him for a long moment, long enough that Ken shifted his weight and glanced away, scratching the back of his head.
“But.” Ken’s pompadour wavered in confusion. “I thought the point of this was to have your own identity. Aren’t you done with that ‘She’s everything, he’s just Ken’ stuff?”
“You don’t get it,” Ken sighed. He stepped closer to Ken and explained, “I’m not just Ken because Barbie’s everything. It—it doesn’t have anything to do with Barbie.”
“You’re not making sense,” Ken said, squinting.
“Come on, Ken, don’t you get what I’m saying?” Ken stepped right up to Ken, looking him straight in the eye. “I can’t be Beach Ken or Horse Ken or Friendzone Ken, or even Beach-Horse-Friendzone Ken, because I’m—”
His voice broke off and he stared at his hands, inhaling deeply at the realization washing over him in a slow, totally surfable wave. “I’m more than that. I’m more than any number of hyphenated descriptors. Because I’m complex, complicated, cool, confusing, and also complex. I’m everything…” He looked up. “And that’s why I’m just Ken. And so are you.”
Ken and his pompadour were staring at Ken like he was complex, complicated, and super confusing. And maybe, just maybe… cool.
“But I have such great abs,” he protested softly, the softest Ken had ever heard him speak. “And—and teeth, and biceps—”
“And triceps,” Ken agreed just as softly.
“And butt!” Ken cried. “And pompadour!”
“You have a great butt and pompadour,” Ken assured. “But Ken.” He stared deep into Ken’s dark, manly eyes. “You’re more than your pompadour. You’re also good at dancing, good at writing songs and playing the guitar, and you’re a huge dick.”
“Only cuz you make it so easy,” Ken snorted.
Ken smiled through gritted teeth. “See what I mean?”
“Eeeasy,” Ken sang mockingly. He tossed his perfect pompadour. “Well, then I’ll be Pompadour-Abs-Teeth-Pecs-Biceps-Triceps-Butt-Dancing-Songwriting-Guitar Ken. The longer the better, eh?”
“But it can’t work like that,” Ken insisted, gesturing emphatically. “You can also do backflips, and frontflips, and wasn’t Ken teaching you to breakdance the other day? Not to mention you like wearing blue, and accusing people of getting emotional, and, and look, I’m definitely not using up my breath to call you all-of-that-plus-Backflip-Frontflip-Blue-Clothes-Gaslighting Ken!”
“Skill issue,” Ken remarked.
Ken rolled right over this interruption like it’d never happened. “Because no matter how many descriptors you add on,” he said, sweeping his hand out in a line towards infinity, “a title like that won’t get all of you. It can’t. But Ken,” he breathed, “I get all of you.”
Ken blinked rapidly. “You do?”
“Yeah. I get you,” Ken said like a challenge, jabbing a finger right into Ken’s perfectly bouncy pecs. “And when I call you Ken, that’s what I mean. All of you.”
“All of me,” Ken repeated. He shook his head, the smarm knocked right out of him for once. Even his pompadour rustled contemplatively. “All of me, captured in just… Ken.”
“That’s right!” Ken grabbed Ken by the perfectly sculpted shoulders, clutching him hard. “You get it, Ken.” They stared deeply into each other’s eyes for a long, manly moment.
“Ken,” Ken breathed. His pompadour trembled.
Ken swallowed. “Yeah?”
Ken lifted a hand and, ever so lightly, touched Ken’s face. “Can I… beach you off?”
“Yeah,” Ken whispered, heart thumping in his chest as they leaned into each other. “You have my Ken-sent.”
THE END