From Childhood Collector to Lunatic Teenager

By Destro Designs and Viper Den Studios

I made a quote tweet the other day about having my first drink at 11 years old—and it was a Zima. It got me thinking about those pivotal two years that ended my childhood collecting and turned me into a freaking lunatic teenager.

It was going to take a perfect storm of things to shake me out of my obsession with G.I. Joe toys and bring me back down to the grass.

Then, one day, it happened.

First off, the toys themselves had a hand in this. Starting in 1991, they released some abomination V2s, like Low-Light and the Snow Serpent—two absolutely iconic figures that got shithoused in the redesign.

The Snow Serpent would have been fine if he had been another character, and the Low-Light figure itself isn’t so bad. But that atrocious card art makes him look like the fifth member of Blue Öyster Cult—but things went bad, and now he’s out on the avenue selling his ass to truckers and meth heads.

Straight up.

That’s what it looks like.

Never mind the Eco-Warriors and those dumb fucking Sonic Fighters. Just absolute dumb shit that my growing mind rejected.

The Eel, Destro, Duke, Wet-Suit, Wild Bill, and Gung-Ho all got the blind-man molding treatment—and, of course, there was the most hideous of them all: Firefly.

If he had been a character with another name, I would have looked the other way. But they did my dude as bad as if he had been fingered by his uncle.

It’s bad.

Ninja Force. Battle Corps. More Sonic Fighters. And, of course, the goddamn blue-and-yellow Major Bludd.

God in Heaven, I was mortified.

But I still hung tight with what I had and hoped for the best every year.

Then, I was at a sleepover with some of my Pop Warner buddies. I will omit most names from this article because crimes were committed.

Anyway, my dude Billy’s aunt cracked out some Zimas. I drank an entire one, and I’m pretty sure I recited Damon Wayans’ The Last Stand? in front of everyone. That must have been odd as fuck coming from a kid my age, but everyone loved it.

I think something was born inside me at that moment—and it revolved around performing.

A short while later that year, I was at a school dance. I was slow dancing with a girl to Boyz II Men’s hit “End of the Road” while making out with her so hard on the dance floor that the teachers had to break it up.

I was a regular Don Juan.

Something was DEFINITELY born inside me at that moment—and it revolved around a raging hard-on.

By the next summer, I was able to get my hands on some weed.

This story is wild.

As a standout football player for my town’s Pop Warner organization, the Troy Patriots, I was asked—along with two other guys—to act as a sentinel at the home of the program director. He was a huge, fierce man whom we all feared but were also motivated by.

That is also a whole other story.

Mr. Gully’s son was getting married, and the reception was being held at the director, Mr. G’s, house. With everything set up and everyone they knew attending the wedding, someone had to watch the entire spread across the lawn, the lounge in the garage, and, of course, the house.

It was located in my hometown of Lansingburgh, which is a grid of 24 streets and eight avenues. Everything was within walking distance—hence the concern.

We were given our mission, and everyone departed.

As soon as the last car pulled away, I emptied a soda can and crushed it the way I had seen the teenager who sold me the weed do it. Then, I fired up a bunch of sift and dust from a dime bag I had bought from a dude who later went to jail for grave robbing.

Also, a whole other story.

The other two kids were split on this.

Pat, who was also crazy, took a whack or two. Billy—whose aunt had given me the Zima—wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

Fine.

More for us.

I got fucking ripped to the tits.

Totally.

When everyone returned about 90 minutes later, I had gathered myself, but the evidence was there for anyone who was paying attention.

Nobody was.

It was a wedding in the ’90s. Most people were already buzzed before they drove away. When they returned, everyone had their eyes on the cooler and the keg in the lounge.

One guy—a friend of the groom—caught my eye, smiled, pointed at me while nodding his head, and said:

“Fuck yeah.”

Then he walked away.

Something was born inside me at that moment—and it revolved around becoming an absolute lunatic who got super fucked up in places where I absolutely should not have been getting fucked up.

That went on for about three decades. Then I had kids, and everything changed.

By Christmas that year, my wish list was all clothes: Neumann gloves for football, Mizuno batting gloves for baseball, Nike cleats for both—and, of course, snow-shoveling money for weed, keg parties, and taking girls on dates so I could feel them up.

The rest is history.

No more toys for about 16 years.

I picked up some Joes on sale in 2008, but they went straight into the closet.

Then, nothing again for another 16 years.

Again, darkness.

But during the month leading up to Christmas 2024, I found that Classified Series Alley Viper.

The beast that had been entombed for more than three decades roared with the sound of an awakening giant—a giant who would pull himself up through the pyramid of teenage years that had buried him beneath the desert so long ago.

Now, that giant rules the land in ways childhood me could never have imagined.

I’m writing for this awesome site. I’m writing two G.I. Joe stories, a book, and a comic for Roadblock’s toy line. I have my own podcast, and I co-host with one of the most popular and talented content creators on the planet—my brother, Mark Fogarty of Destro Is My Spirit Animal.

I’ve made countless appearances on shows and, of course, I’m clocking in at just under 500 Classified Series figures, along with a ton of vehicles and extras—including about a dozen complete vintage figures I was obsessed with back in the day.

The latest additions are Beach Head and Hit & Run, coming from my brother Riptide O’Leary—an awesome dude I could write an entire story about.

I’ve gotten my fill of what life had to offer.

Now, I choose G.I. Joe again.

Hell’s Motherfucking Yeah.