Today a coworker came into my cubical to discover my Smurf Raceway. Really just three smurfs in "vehicles" which theoretically could locomote. The coworker offered quite kindly to give me her vintage smurf collection, which her small children are busy, lo, at this very moment, scorning. I happily agreed.
Then she mentioned something about communism. It had never occurred to me to wonder why I loved the smurfs. But now it makes sense, they all had little jobs that corresponded to their little names, and outfits, and homes. They all had purpose and order.
I guess even as a child I was a strange mixture of Monk and Karl Marx (substitute piggy-tales for a beard.)