I like having fun, and one way I do that is by playing video games with my friends. Willy and Swinkle will tell you the same thing, and I’m glad we found each other. During the summer of ‘13, when I felt like I was enduring another sad chapter in a frustrating narrative, we’d meet up and unwind at Swinkle’s place. He had a studio apartment above a church that used to be a pawn shop.
On his computer, Swinkle had ROMs of every single Super Nintendo game, and three controllers. When I look back, I realize there are many better titles we left unplayed, but for whatever reason, maybe the power of a joke going too far, the one we got into most that summer was Super Monopoly.
Really, that game was no match for Mario or Mega Man, Kong Country or Contra, but dammit, somehow it had the charm of the underdog.
With aspects of financial savvy and luck, Super Monopoly let us compete without losing real money. Plus we didn’t have to go through the tedious crap with a regular Monopoly game of portioning out fake money, and plastic houses, and straining to do basic math. We could roll the dice and buy a property by pressing a button on the controller. Rolling dice by hand onto a real surface had become too much of a chore, I suppose.
When I enter my name in Super Monopoly, I go with “Hammer.” I turn back time to the early ‘90s and think of myself as MC Hammer on a spending spree. I’m a dynamo of enterprise, buying properties and overindulging, convinced I will never go broke. I like making jokes and observations from Hammer’s point of view. Win or lose, I feel like I’m enacting an old episode of VH1’s Behind the Music. I can rewrite Hammer’s past with a happier ending, or lose everything and replay the great comedy of errors.
Hammer and I have a few things in common. In life and Monopoly, as we see it, we only get so many chances. That means we have to spend-spend-spend while we can, and accept the consequences if they turn out to be dire. Life in America and games of Monopoly are ventures for capitalists. The true winners are rare. The rest of us are left to scrounge for remnants of chicken wings in back alley trash cans.
That’s the bad news, but Hammer and I get that in order to get rich, the first step is to at least try to get rich. Flawed and defective as we may be, we still owe effort to the game. It takes a lot of gumption to buy a second yacht or Park Place on a modest budget, but even so, we’d forfeit our self-respect if we didn’t splurge on these extravagances when we had the chance.
What follows is me (as Hammer) in a game of Monopoly with friends. And if this premise seems outdated, keep in mind that Hammer appeared at the New Year’s Eve Countdown to 2013 on ABC. He performed a duet with PSY, who had a huge hit with “Gundham Style.”
Now that’s what I call relevant (I wrote in 2013).
It begins with a pixelated hand rolling pixelated dice.
Act I: “Too Legit to Quit”
They say snake eyes are a bad omen, but Hammer just started this party by landing on the Community Chest. Runner-up in a beauty contest. All my haters gotta deal with the fact that Hammer is just so beautiful. Like, second-place-in-a-beauty contest level beautiful. And to the winner, Earth Goddess Halle Berry: I’mma get first place next time.
Guess who just purchased the hell out of Oriental Avenue. My investment portfolio is so sound I’m destined to make Bill Gates look like a braindead chump.
This round was quiet for Hammer. I visited jail and spoke words of wisdom to Chris Brown. I gave him some advice: “What’re you doing smacking Rihana? Boy, I oughtta smack you.”
At the Community Chest, Hammer received a $25 consultant's fee. Cuz it’s not like I’mma tell Chris Brown that beating Rihanna was a punk move for free.
Hammer is now the proud owner of B&O Railroad. So, I called everyone in my crew and let ‘em know if they ever need a place to chill, we can play dominoes in a boxcar with no hassle from the cops.
Now that I got Pacific Avenue, an Atlanta man like yours truly can be for the deadly East Coast/ West Coast feud. The first step is getting everyone to agree that Hammer’s a better rapper than both Biggie and Tupac. After that, cultural wounds will be healed while Hammer fines enough trespassers to buy a new sound system for his silver Hummer.
Let the Swinkles and the Willys of the world have their precious Park Places and Boardwalks. Hammer just got a few Benjamins richer by passing Go. Then I celebrated by buying Mediterranean Ave. for the low price of sixty bucks. Those suckers will be headed for the poorhouse when they land here, two dollars at a time. Yes indeed, Hammer foresees a glorious future. Once all the sex offenders and crack-heads get the hell off my property, Mediterranean Ave. is gonna be somethin’ special.
Act II: “We Got to Pray”
When a man lands on Free Parking, he expects to be rewarded some residuals from the Community Chest. Clumsy-ass Swinkle just broke his leg and had to pay a $50 doctor’s fee two turns ago, and Hammer ain’t seeing a dime of that. You gotta be cornier than Kenny G to set the rules so that when you land on Free Parking, not a damn thing happens. Someone just made a mental note to email the makers of Super Monopoly, subject line: “Free Parking: WT Fudge?!” And that someone is Hammer.
All three of us have yellow properties now. Granted, Hammer did stroke his goatee and ponder putting the place up for auction, thus forcing those fools Swinkle and Willy to outbid each other, but I decided against those Art of War tactics because Marvin Gardens is the perfect place to rent out to my cousin Marvin.
Becoming a railroad tycoon has made Swinkle a coldhearted man. He’s charging folks $150 a night just to crash on a mound of raggedy blankets at Short Line. Next time I roam these parts, I’mma need God’s blessing. “Are you there, God? It’s me, Hammer–holding up my end of the deal. Now help me make it today.”
In Hammer’s time, you didn’t laugh in a man’s face when he landed on the Boardwalk you own. Willy can have my $50, but he’ll never have my class. Anyway, now I gotta do the Hammer Shuffle for strangers beside a collection hat to make enough change to buy a McRib.
When a man lacks the funds to make an ATM withdrawal, it’s a great relief to Pass Go. Revisiting Oriental Avenue has been nostalgic as hell. I spotted Psy and we reminisced about the New Year’s Eve show. Then I had to remind him that he owed me six bucks for trespassing. He shouted at me in Korean, gestured madly at his kids, and threw the money at my feet. He stormed off before I could apologize for the name of the avenue.
Today was as productive as any day in 1990 for Hammer. Rolling two threes has blessed me with the Electric Company. This will allow me hella-watts to record an album. Plus, I struck up a trade with Willy, getting rid of Pacific Avenue in favor of Baltic Ave. and some cash. With that cash, Hammer’s gonna build houses. Those fools are gonna fear to tread the south side of the Monopoly board.
Call me Dominique Wilkins cuz I got myself a double-double. My hand is so hot Scottie Pippen couldn’t guard me. St. James Place is mine! Super, Hammer’s bankroll is wearing thin, but the faithful man must honor a saint when given the chance. Whatever he was known for before doesn’t matter anymore. St. James is now the Patron Saint of Livin’ Large.
Lord have mercy, this game is a sham! Hammer’s getting sent to jail. Some trumped up charges of rolling doubles three times in a row. Where I come from, if you roll doubles thrice, you might win a crumpled pile of 20s! Rich Uncle Pennybags is turning my good luck into bad. Now ain’t that a B-word?
Act III: Any post-1995 Hammer Song
Willy won’t sell me his Get out of Jail Free card for less than a hundred. So, I retaliated. I wrote a dis song about his greedy ass. I’mma put him in a state of despair from which he will never recover with my cutthroat epic “Silly Willy.”
On my first day outta the joint, misfortune forced Hammer to pay rent at one of Willy’s houses on Kentucky Ave. Damn him. I had to mortgage some properties to avoid bankruptcy, but on the bright side, now I might have enough money to buy a gun.
Let’s just say the former owner of Pacific Ave deeply regrets trading it to the same punk who’s chagrin’ the former owner an exorbitant fee to stay at a hotel not owned by Hammer and leave it at that. Help me Jesus, I’ve fallen! I used to be in Taco Bell commercials, for God’s sake!
Dice in hand, Hammer is gulping at the sight of all those hotels on Park Place and Boardwalk. Hammer was tempted to buy Kleenex from the nearby Walgreens with his last four dollars. However, Hammer does not submit to tears so easily.
Luxury tax of $75?! Hammer done dodged a few landmines only to step in a pile of dog crap. At this point, what luxury are they taxing? Hell, my iPhone has a shattered screen and my pants are made of scraps from defective parachutes. So I don’t know where Uncle Sam, Uncle Pennybags, or any other uncle in a fancy hat finds the nerve to tax Hammer for luxury.
Mercy mercy me. Due to the nefarious crew of Willy, Swinkle, Pennybags himself, and now the Income Taxman, Hammer has lost all his assets. I don’t have money to buy a gun. Hell, I don’t even have the money to buy a hammer. Sure, maybe things would have been different had Hammer known he should’ve paid 10 percent instead of $200, but only a fool gets tripped by what’s behind him.
Throughout all the tribulations, Hammer still believes that God is good… to other people, anyway.
Swinkle’s St. Charles Place has sealed my fate. In much the same way that the great Dominique Wilkins sometimes lost an Eastern Conference Semifinal, Hammer has been bested in a game of Super Monopoly.
Oh, and by the way, St. Charles is the Patron Saint of Perpetrating Some Bullshit.
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A minute later, with Swinkle and Willy ravaging bids on my foreclosed properties like hungry vultures, I shrugged off defeat and said goodbye to my friends.
On the ride home, my gaslight turned on, but I couldn’t stop to fill the tank until I got my paycheck in two days. Like Hammer and all the other hard luck losers I spotted during a red light on Main Street, I was just another humble player circling the board, hoping to Pass Go again.
