To the creators of the Nintendo Zapper:
Your product, the Nintendo Zapper (aka the Light Gun) has caused me an unduly amount of grief and humiliation. I had been a faithful supporter of your product since 2003, when I purchased the Nintendo Zapper at a garage sale along with a copy of Duck Hunt. Over the years I have spent many nights and Christmas day marathons honing my sharpshooting skills, sniping millions of cartoon ducks and unwinding from my stressful job in the process.
My umbrage with your product began shortly after I was fired from the post office. My firing was an ugly business. Many have questioned the recourse I used after that little monster attacked me. I ask you, Nintendo corporation, what would you do if some redheaded punk bombarded your feet with Whipper-Snappers during your afternoon delivery? That's right. You'd chase him down and choke him with the strap of your mail bag, of course.
But my stuffy superiors at the post office saw otherwise. I was terminated at once and denied the traditional severance package of a $500 stamp collection.
The plentiful downtime afforded me an additional eight hours of Duck Hunt time per day. But after four months, as the bills piled halfway to the ceiling and I received an eviction notice, my utopia was disrupted by the cruelty of the outside world.
I decided I was going to put my proficiency with your product to good use. Unfortunately, since the Stridex-sponsored “Duck Hunt Invitational” hasn't been held since '86, my only option was to rob a convenience store using the NES Zapper.
This seemed the perfect solution because, unlike most postal workers, I don't really want to kill other people, but I am deserved money for putting up with all the bullshit God has dumped on me. To that end, the Zapper was the weapon I trusted most to get retribution from the Man.
The only problem was that the Man is hard to find. But his minions are everywhere, among them the scruffy cashier at the convenience store that wore a hemp necklace. Disguised in 3-D glasses and a baseball hat,* I waited a few minutes for the other customers to vacate the store. Once we were alone, I stalked to the counter, pointed the Zapper at his heart, and ordered him
to hand over all the money in the drawer.
The cashier only laughed at me.
“The Duck Hunt gun?!” he exclaimed. “Rad. I haven't played that game since I was like five. I love how the dog snickers at you when you miss all those ducks. You just know that bitch-eyed pooch is stoned!”
“You just know that bitch-eyed pooch is stoned.” I ask you, are these the words of a man who respects the Nintendo Zapper? No. They are not. For God's sake, I'd have had better luck intimidating the guy with a Magic-eye poster of a skull and crossbones.
My failed robbery attempt left me hopelessly depressed. I played a couple rounds of Duck Hunt to cheer me up, but it didn't work. It killed me that a weapon I had grown to love had proved so ineffective outside of my living room.
My will to live was gone, and since the latest season of 24 has been so disappointing, I decided on suicide. Since I didn't have a gun that would fire actual bullets (ahem), I was going to have to get creative.
And so I dialed 9-1-1 and told the operator that I was the length of a duckling feather away from blowing my dog's head off because I was furious with him, that he looked so much like Marmaduke but had none of his charisma. This was a crafty lie, of course. Dogs that have been stuffed, fitted with cigars in their mouths, and placed around the poker table in the basement have no personality traits to speak of, even if all five of them do kind of resemble Marmaduke.**
In less than five minutes a squad car arrived. One of them identified himself and then banged on the front door, but I didn't get up from my swivel chair in front of the TV. Soon he kicked the door open and barged into my house, his partner trailing. Both with their guns drawn.
Instead of screaming, “DIE PIGS, DIE!” or something along those lines, I drew a blank for a second. Before aiming your Zapper at the cops, all I could think to say was, “How 'bout a little help here...?”
Again, your product proved to be deficient. With their expertly trained eyes, the cops noticed the gaudy-orange handle of the gun paired with the gray stock and barrel and quickly determined I was not holding a real gun. Also, the Zapper was still plugged into the Nintendo because I wanted to play Duck Hunt during my last moments on earth.
“Oh, Christ,” said the cop who kicked open my door. “Wait 'til the nurses hear about this at the nut-house.”
Then the smart-assed dog your company created joined in on the cops' chuckling. In the midst of all the commotion of a botched cop-assisted suicide, I had failed to shoot three ducks in a row.
In the psych ward I was able to write the first draft of this letter, but other than that, my stint there wasn't helpful. The time dragged by slowly without my daily Duck Hunt marathons. During one of the group meetings, a nurse suggested that Duck Hunt was bad for me because all it did was facilitate a lot of medical hogwash she called “Repressed Anger.” She suggested I try new hobbies.
It may come as a surprise to you that as soon as I was released from the hospital I listened to her advice. On the long walk home from the hospital I stopped at a store that sold used electronics and beheld the sight of a plastic bazooka about two-and-a-half feet in length. There were purple and pink buttons on the top as well, which I thought were a nice touch. I asked the cashier about it. He explained that it was called the Super Scope and that it works for a system I had never heard of and must therefore be brand-new on the market: the Super Nintendo. Another one of your products, obviously.
At first I was thrilled by the Super Scope. I considered it a major upgrade over the Zapper, which is now collecting dust in my bedroom closet. Instead of mere ducks, the Super Scope allows me to destroy tanks, aircraft carriers, incoming missiles, and the occasional whale.
Your Scope empowered me in the beginning. Like shooting ducks, I realized that it was small stakes to rob convenience stores and attempt cop-assisted-suicide. Revenge against the Man is piddling when you could be getting revenge against the Man's Building. Since the average post office dwarfs the size of the average man by a ratio of at least 500:1, and the Man is ten times larger than his mortal counterparts, I deduced that getting revenge on the Man's Building is therefore equivalent to 50 times the revenge I could get against the Man.
It was that simple.
Naturally, I knew I couldn't destroy the Man's Building with your Super Scope. I'm no dummy. My plan was to evacuate the building from outside the post office with the aid of the Super Scope and a megaphone. Once the building had been cleared, workers and patrons alike screaming hysterically, no one would be able to stop me from burning the place down with a lighter and a mail bag full of oily rags.
With the debacles of your phony-looking Zapper behind me, I took the bus down to the post office, stood outside the front entrance and unloaded all my gear. I aimed the Super Scope at the Man's Building and stammered into the megaphone: “Get the 'F' out the post office, all you...scum-guys. Otherwise I'm going to turn this building into a pile of pebbles with this bazooka! Which I assure you is 100% real.”
The passersby barely took notice, and through the windows I could see the workers and customers casually going about their business. Just then I was approached by the same redheaded punk whom I had strangled with the strap of my mail bag. Apparently his neck-brace was no longer precluding him from outdoor play, and in typical punk-kid fashion, his idea of play was sinister. He pulled a machine-gun on me! It was fluorescent green and yellow in color, with a pump-handle for reloading at the end of the barrel and a tank on top with some sort of liquid inside. I can only speculate that the liquid was some sort of corrosive acid that coated the bullets for added deadliness. These kids aren't playing with popguns anymore.
“Put down that toy, mister!” he squeaked.
Blast! Once again, one of Nintendo's “weapons” had been recognized as an obvious novelty. Feeling pretty suicidal but unwilling to give lil' Ginger the pleasure of offing me, I threw my hands up in the air.
In addition to realistic appearance, your products also lack durability. The Super Scope shattered into a dozen pieces against the concrete after I was forced to drop it from its perch on my shoulder. What sort of a pathetic weapon can't survive a five-foot fall onto the sidewalk? You should feel ashamed, Nintendo.
If your company had made but the slightest effort to ensure that their firearm-accessories resemble the real thing, my life would've been enhanced immeasurably. Not only would I be as rich as the contents of that cash register, I would also be the proud destroyer of a post office, and best yet, I'd be dead. Curse you, Nintendo! You can expect a lawsuit from me.
One of my town's most affordable attorneys, the esteemed Len Finklin, has vowed to spearhead my case. If my lawsuit is successful, I vow to use my settlement money to purchase enough C-4 to blow myself to bits along with everybody within a ten block radius. (My feelings about killing others have changed.)
Sincerely,
Stanley Ool
P.S.: Thank you so much for inventing the game Duck Hunt.
P.S.S.: I'll see you in court, jack-a-ninnies!
* I don't even play baseball; that's what I call a great disguise!
Your product, the Nintendo Zapper (aka the Light Gun) has caused me an unduly amount of grief and humiliation. I had been a faithful supporter of your product since 2003, when I purchased the Nintendo Zapper at a garage sale along with a copy of Duck Hunt. Over the years I have spent many nights and Christmas day marathons honing my sharpshooting skills, sniping millions of cartoon ducks and unwinding from my stressful job in the process.
My umbrage with your product began shortly after I was fired from the post office. My firing was an ugly business. Many have questioned the recourse I used after that little monster attacked me. I ask you, Nintendo corporation, what would you do if some redheaded punk bombarded your feet with Whipper-Snappers during your afternoon delivery? That's right. You'd chase him down and choke him with the strap of your mail bag, of course.
But my stuffy superiors at the post office saw otherwise. I was terminated at once and denied the traditional severance package of a $500 stamp collection.
The plentiful downtime afforded me an additional eight hours of Duck Hunt time per day. But after four months, as the bills piled halfway to the ceiling and I received an eviction notice, my utopia was disrupted by the cruelty of the outside world.
I decided I was going to put my proficiency with your product to good use. Unfortunately, since the Stridex-sponsored “Duck Hunt Invitational” hasn't been held since '86, my only option was to rob a convenience store using the NES Zapper.
This seemed the perfect solution because, unlike most postal workers, I don't really want to kill other people, but I am deserved money for putting up with all the bullshit God has dumped on me. To that end, the Zapper was the weapon I trusted most to get retribution from the Man.
The only problem was that the Man is hard to find. But his minions are everywhere, among them the scruffy cashier at the convenience store that wore a hemp necklace. Disguised in 3-D glasses and a baseball hat,* I waited a few minutes for the other customers to vacate the store. Once we were alone, I stalked to the counter, pointed the Zapper at his heart, and ordered him
to hand over all the money in the drawer.
The cashier only laughed at me.
“The Duck Hunt gun?!” he exclaimed. “Rad. I haven't played that game since I was like five. I love how the dog snickers at you when you miss all those ducks. You just know that bitch-eyed pooch is stoned!”
“You just know that bitch-eyed pooch is stoned.” I ask you, are these the words of a man who respects the Nintendo Zapper? No. They are not. For God's sake, I'd have had better luck intimidating the guy with a Magic-eye poster of a skull and crossbones.
My failed robbery attempt left me hopelessly depressed. I played a couple rounds of Duck Hunt to cheer me up, but it didn't work. It killed me that a weapon I had grown to love had proved so ineffective outside of my living room.
My will to live was gone, and since the latest season of 24 has been so disappointing, I decided on suicide. Since I didn't have a gun that would fire actual bullets (ahem), I was going to have to get creative.
And so I dialed 9-1-1 and told the operator that I was the length of a duckling feather away from blowing my dog's head off because I was furious with him, that he looked so much like Marmaduke but had none of his charisma. This was a crafty lie, of course. Dogs that have been stuffed, fitted with cigars in their mouths, and placed around the poker table in the basement have no personality traits to speak of, even if all five of them do kind of resemble Marmaduke.**
In less than five minutes a squad car arrived. One of them identified himself and then banged on the front door, but I didn't get up from my swivel chair in front of the TV. Soon he kicked the door open and barged into my house, his partner trailing. Both with their guns drawn.
Instead of screaming, “DIE PIGS, DIE!” or something along those lines, I drew a blank for a second. Before aiming your Zapper at the cops, all I could think to say was, “How 'bout a little help here...?”
Again, your product proved to be deficient. With their expertly trained eyes, the cops noticed the gaudy-orange handle of the gun paired with the gray stock and barrel and quickly determined I was not holding a real gun. Also, the Zapper was still plugged into the Nintendo because I wanted to play Duck Hunt during my last moments on earth.
“Oh, Christ,” said the cop who kicked open my door. “Wait 'til the nurses hear about this at the nut-house.”
Then the smart-assed dog your company created joined in on the cops' chuckling. In the midst of all the commotion of a botched cop-assisted suicide, I had failed to shoot three ducks in a row.
In the psych ward I was able to write the first draft of this letter, but other than that, my stint there wasn't helpful. The time dragged by slowly without my daily Duck Hunt marathons. During one of the group meetings, a nurse suggested that Duck Hunt was bad for me because all it did was facilitate a lot of medical hogwash she called “Repressed Anger.” She suggested I try new hobbies.
It may come as a surprise to you that as soon as I was released from the hospital I listened to her advice. On the long walk home from the hospital I stopped at a store that sold used electronics and beheld the sight of a plastic bazooka about two-and-a-half feet in length. There were purple and pink buttons on the top as well, which I thought were a nice touch. I asked the cashier about it. He explained that it was called the Super Scope and that it works for a system I had never heard of and must therefore be brand-new on the market: the Super Nintendo. Another one of your products, obviously.
At first I was thrilled by the Super Scope. I considered it a major upgrade over the Zapper, which is now collecting dust in my bedroom closet. Instead of mere ducks, the Super Scope allows me to destroy tanks, aircraft carriers, incoming missiles, and the occasional whale.
Your Scope empowered me in the beginning. Like shooting ducks, I realized that it was small stakes to rob convenience stores and attempt cop-assisted-suicide. Revenge against the Man is piddling when you could be getting revenge against the Man's Building. Since the average post office dwarfs the size of the average man by a ratio of at least 500:1, and the Man is ten times larger than his mortal counterparts, I deduced that getting revenge on the Man's Building is therefore equivalent to 50 times the revenge I could get against the Man.
It was that simple.
Naturally, I knew I couldn't destroy the Man's Building with your Super Scope. I'm no dummy. My plan was to evacuate the building from outside the post office with the aid of the Super Scope and a megaphone. Once the building had been cleared, workers and patrons alike screaming hysterically, no one would be able to stop me from burning the place down with a lighter and a mail bag full of oily rags.
With the debacles of your phony-looking Zapper behind me, I took the bus down to the post office, stood outside the front entrance and unloaded all my gear. I aimed the Super Scope at the Man's Building and stammered into the megaphone: “Get the 'F' out the post office, all you...scum-guys. Otherwise I'm going to turn this building into a pile of pebbles with this bazooka! Which I assure you is 100% real.”
The passersby barely took notice, and through the windows I could see the workers and customers casually going about their business. Just then I was approached by the same redheaded punk whom I had strangled with the strap of my mail bag. Apparently his neck-brace was no longer precluding him from outdoor play, and in typical punk-kid fashion, his idea of play was sinister. He pulled a machine-gun on me! It was fluorescent green and yellow in color, with a pump-handle for reloading at the end of the barrel and a tank on top with some sort of liquid inside. I can only speculate that the liquid was some sort of corrosive acid that coated the bullets for added deadliness. These kids aren't playing with popguns anymore.
“Put down that toy, mister!” he squeaked.
Blast! Once again, one of Nintendo's “weapons” had been recognized as an obvious novelty. Feeling pretty suicidal but unwilling to give lil' Ginger the pleasure of offing me, I threw my hands up in the air.
In addition to realistic appearance, your products also lack durability. The Super Scope shattered into a dozen pieces against the concrete after I was forced to drop it from its perch on my shoulder. What sort of a pathetic weapon can't survive a five-foot fall onto the sidewalk? You should feel ashamed, Nintendo.
If your company had made but the slightest effort to ensure that their firearm-accessories resemble the real thing, my life would've been enhanced immeasurably. Not only would I be as rich as the contents of that cash register, I would also be the proud destroyer of a post office, and best yet, I'd be dead. Curse you, Nintendo! You can expect a lawsuit from me.
One of my town's most affordable attorneys, the esteemed Len Finklin, has vowed to spearhead my case. If my lawsuit is successful, I vow to use my settlement money to purchase enough C-4 to blow myself to bits along with everybody within a ten block radius. (My feelings about killing others have changed.)
Sincerely,
Stanley Ool
P.S.: Thank you so much for inventing the game Duck Hunt.
P.S.S.: I'll see you in court, jack-a-ninnies!
* I don't even play baseball; that's what I call a great disguise!
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