Blow Sucks

It has come to my attention that a lot of Googlers happen upon this essay in search of references to cocaine and Tony Montana from Scarface. That's fine, but it should be stated upfront that this essay takes a firm stance against the snorting of powder that gets people high. Cocaine is disgusting and its illegalization is justified. Furthermore, Scarface told a cautionary tale, and if you think that that film was done in the name of glorifying white nose candy, you're mistaken. Further, furthermore, Scarface is nowhere near as great as The Godfather or Goodfellas, so I'd advise you to curb your enthusiasm in regard to the story of the rise and fall of Tony Montana. Now, if I haven't warded you off, thanks for reading "Cocaine Blows."


I support the legalization of marijuana. My reasoning is that its use--when compared to alcohol, its legal, mind-and-mood-altering counterpart—can be linked to drastically fewer crimes of violence, domestic abuse, sexual assault, and impaired driving. Smoking marijuana is not an unassailable choice, of course; abusing weed can lead to woes of lethargy and prolonged stupors. Lack of motivation and dumbness, though, are defects in character that are not at all comparable to the human horrors of a man raping a woman, a father pummeling a son, or an entire family getting killed in a car wreck caused by a lowlife with visions of multiple and distorted roads.

Lousy drunks.

Alcohol has proven to be the catalyst for far more evil deeds than marijuana. Whereas alcohol can be purchased without incident in plain sight of a police officer waiting in line at a gas station, possession of marijuana is a common catalyst for fines and imprisonment.

Rampant abuse of alcohol and marijuana, resp., so often marks the difference between Hell and jail.

Additionally, it's a blunder of justice to make criminals out of those who wish no harm on anyone and simply seek a means for calm euphoria and inspiration that is provided by nature.

I typed the gist of these beliefs on pot in response to a friend's Facebook post on the prospect of the drug's legalization. This is a friend of a rare and, more importantly, respectable breed who claims to have never once partook in Reefer Madness. His argument is rooted not in a personal fondness for the drug in question but rather in more vital issues such as the infringement on civil liberties and the high expense to taxpayers caused by its criminalization.

It was a rational discussion between two old friends in different time-zones. It was also inherently made open to others for debate, and we can so seldom count on rationale from OTHERS on the Internet. What follows is a reply from a third party to my comment on pot's relative harmlessness.

“On the day you witness someone die of a drug overdose come back and tell me how you feel!”

Awwwww... Now, doesn't that ignorant dipshit just seem so adorable? Someone needs to pinch his ruddy cheeks and ruffle his mop of hair for making a comment like that. Adults who still cling to the silly myth of marijuana overdose are too cute to take seriously. They are like little scamps at the family Christmas get-together who insist they have outgrown the company at the kiddie table. So precious! At first I wanted to tell him he was mistaken, and that the Tooth Fairy wasn't real, either, but I didn't have the heart to make a total stranger weep in a disillusioned fit. I could only snicker and marvel at the moral comfort some lies impose on feeble minds.

This selection is featured in More Stories, and Additional Stories. 

My Best Dreams

Point: “Dreams are the touchstones of our characters.”--Henry David Thoreau

In the grips of a fever dream years ago, I was having a mundane conversation with a friend when a stranger burst into the room to ask us a pressing question.

“Does anyone have a thumb or a rectangle?” he said.

That's when I woke up, sweaty and vexed. It seemed my mind was vomiting nonsense, and a short while later, as I knelt over the toilet, my digestive track followed suit, by way of my gagging mouth.

So many dreams account for little more than neurotic gibberish. When we dream, anarchic madness tends to hinder any semblance of reason. In my estimation, that sort of lawlessness of the thought process entertains more often than it enlightens. What's more troublesome, some dreams are mere bothers, surreal annoyances that serve as the mind's answer to getting stopped at a lengthy red light late at night when it feels like you must be the only one behind the wheel of a car in the entire county.

Dreams are not always without merit, though. In fact, I would go so far as to write that a cosmic disservice is incurred when we ignore the significance of the best of the bunch. With retrospective grandeur, I must confess that I owe the idea for “The Dark Knight and Brett Favre” to a dream. In a haze of awakening from that otherworldly mush, it struck me that one of the lines from the latest Batman flick could be applied to the career arc of the Old Gunslinger.

And I went from there, just as I'm about to go from here. These are my best dreams.

I. For reasons I can't recall, I got into a scuffle with the Undertaker.

The menacing pro-wrestler who tells his opponents they will “rest in peace” before he (pretends to) drive their skulls into the mat? Yes. The very same.

Rather than inside the squared-circle, the nasty dispute between the Undertaker and me took place in a disused warehouse. He lunged at me with those balled-up purple gloves flailing viciously. And since the Undertaker has never been known to inject performance-enhancing drugs, we have to assume Natural rather than 'Roid Rage was the catalyst of his attack.

Luckily, I was armed with a shot-gun. The Undertaker gave me no choice. I didn't want to get Tombstone Pile-driven—not even in a dream. I blew his head off. It combusted not with shards of grotesque brain and skull fragments, but in a burst of confetti.

It quickly dawned on me that if anyone found out about the murder, I'd be kicked out of college. The bleak prospect of imprisonment never came to me, for some reason; it was only the dread of being expelled (for the homicide of the Undertaker) that struck me with worry.

I realized I was going to have to change my residence and rushed home to the apartment I shared with my roommate Pat (my actual roommate in college, years ago). Confused and offended, he wanted to know why I was so suddenly intent on moving out. I dodged the question and continued to hastily gather my belongings. Instead of practical things like clothing and toiletries, I focused on rifling a vast mound of Lego's into an opened suitcase.

“Why do I own so many damn Lego's?” I wondered resentfully.

Rarely does a dream adhere to guidelines of dramatic form. Our subconscious scribe is not likely to present a cohesive narrative in three acts. Convention is not merely circumvented or even bucked; it is massacred—as though an eccentric hack who writes and directs community theater debacles has wrenched the script away from a more reliable source. Dreams tend to devolve into experimental theater in which the experiment goes awry and something abruptly vanishes into nothing worthwhile.

Accordingly, my hurried packing of Lego's is where the story of my killing of the Undertaker and the cover-up that ensued concludes.


II. It was a picturesque summer day and I was lounging on the beach when I spotted three gorgeous women in bikinis. The women were half-encircled by a film crew intent on capturing every frame of the enchanting lust they exuded. It soon occurred to me that I was viewing the production of a porno flick of the all hole, no pole variety. I realized I was dreaming and could not recall delivering a pizza to any of the actresses and was therefore content to sit this one out and watch from the fringe. It seemed my subconscious was treating me to a trial run of late-night Cinemax.

From a stagehand I was told that in the upcoming scene the brunette was to have a frightful brush with a killer whale about 50 feet from the shore. The killer whale was to be added with CGI technology in post-production. Her girlfriends, a redhead and a blond with lithe and buxom figures to match the brunette, were to watch the encounter from the shore, dumbstruck by nervous concern. Thankfully, the CGI killer whale would swim away, having caused fear but no harm, and the brunette would wade in, rattled but without wounds.

The brunette's anxiety was to be subdued by her friends through seduction. Yes, there was going to be chicks making out with each other, some serious tongues-to-hooters action, and maybe even mutual going down while the blond did her best to keep busy.

I was cool with that. Six boobs and three vaginas and butts? Beautiful faces, trim physiques? Thumbs up to this dream, I thought. I plopped down on the sand and sat Indian-style with a clear view of the women. The brunette was all-done panicking about a make-believe killer whale. She swam toward everyone.

Then the director yelled: “Cut!”

They took a break in filming just before the lesbian three-way scene. I watched on, mouth agape, as the redhead sat down on a lawn chair and sipped from a bottled water. The blond's cell phone was brought to her so that she could send a text message as a middle-aged, scruffy man held up an umbrella to shade her from the Sun. My treasured brunette wasn't doing anything especially sexy, either. She covered herself from shoulders to shins with a tightly drawn towel as she gazed down disinterestedly.

The director had picked a lousy time to announce a break on set. I had to laugh. Tickled by the joke that had unfolded and free of inhibitions, I approached the brunette. She had the appeal of a sexy wet taco wrapped in a shell of cotton.

I struck up a brief conversation of simple verbal volleys exchanged with casual interest and coy smiles that culminated, rather quickly, in me asking if she wanted to make out.

She giggled and peered upward in the way women do when they mean to say they like you but you simply must work on your timing. She conceded that she could remember my phone number if I told it to her.

Because it had clicked that I was asleep, I didn't see much use in getting the digits of a porn star I met in a dream. It seemed futile, like committing to memory the password to a Nintendo I hadn't played in years and was not inclined to ever play again. I came up with a fib.

“Sure. My number is 6-1-2 etc.”

With that I walked away and sat back down on the sand. I figured maybe I could wait it out until filming resumed, but I had a weird hunch I was bound bound to transport to somewhere else soon—whether it be consciousness or a different dream. A rueful grin spread across my face as I glanced adoringly at that brunette and, in Quantum Leap fashion, consumed by zapping-electric shocks, suddenly inhabited a fresh and random environment that was not at all as sexy as on the beach with three frisky vixens. I think it took place inside a dimly lit piano bar, where Urkel was trying to convince me we were both born in Fond du Lac. I called bullshit on Urkel's claim and longed for my previous dream between outbursts of his nasal yammering.

III. Although imagery provides the basis for most dreams, once in a while a weird succession of thoughts steals the show during my REM sleep. It's as if sunlight is pouring in through the windows of a classroom to diffuse the stills displayed by an old projector and the ramble of my own voice comes to the forefront.

I saw a faint image of my brother Dave and recalled with a tinge of resignation that the two of us share little in common. On a given night, while he handcuffs and wrangles abusive husbands and degenerate drunks into the back of a cop car, I'm immersed in yet another daydream holiday, ducking responsibilities in a basement or a friend's house. We are bereft of similarities—whether physical, temperamental, or political, but he was on my mind because he had just visited along with his wife and infant son. When in each other's company, Dave and I constantly banter quotes from The Simpsons as a sort of fluent second language to counteract the distance between us. One of our beloved exchanges is excerpted from an episode in which Homer happens upon a mound of spilled sugar on the highway and shovels the load into the trunk of his car with dreams of selling the “Texas Tea Sweetener” to make a cushy living. In his obsessive devotion to this goofy scheme, he neglects his job at the nuclear power plant. Marge confronts him while he's playing hookie from work in the backyard.

Nick, mimicking Marge: “Homer, the plant called again today and said if you don't show up tomorrow, don't bother coming in on Monday.”

Dave, mimicking Homer: “Woo-hoo! Four-day weekend!”

Nick and Dave laugh--giddy, revived, and indifferent to the groans and rolling eyes of other people in the living room who don't care much for The Simpsons and have been subjected to this same routine so many times before.

In my dream, the indistinct still-frame of a zombie flickered on the projector screen and I was reminded of a chat Dave and I had the day before. The ghostly picture of the zombie soon disappeared and I was left with the memory of Dave telling me that he too is a fan of the AMC series The Walking Dead.

Although I have no inclination to memorize lines of dialog from The Walking Dead, I was satisfied to find another way to bond with my older brother. In the unlikely event of a zombie uprising, he will be better prepared and enlightened on the ways of survival, he will be a capable protector of his wife and son. He owns a handgun and has access to a police station rife with shotguns, ammo, riot shields, and—if real life is anything like Resident Evil 2—cans of first-aid spray that cure zombie bites. I made a mental note to remember to call and meet up with Dave moments after my first encounter with a Walker.

Dave would be a worthy ally in the unlikely event of a zombie uprising.

I spotted an image of the Ghostbusters logo, the spirit encircled with a bold diagonal line slashed across it, and then the idea took off and I was left to frolic in offbeat thought.

If zombies did exist, there is no guarantee their presence would lead to Armageddon, as is the case in The Walking Dead. Nor is it a certainty that mankind would in no time snuff out the rise of the zombies, as is the case in Shaun of the Dead. There is a solid chance neither of these extreme cases are likely, that the reality would be somewhere in the middle, and the real upshot is that zombies would be like public nuisances, supernatural pests, that a crew of wisecracking cut-ups will have to be called in to exterminate, as is the case in Ghostbusters.

I'd love to be a wise-cracking zombie exterminator. Dave could be my sidekick. No. Scratch that. I'd be Dave's sidekick, as a respectful nod to his seniority and experience. Instead of proton-packs, we'd be armed with a shit-load of guns. Instead of sliding traps, we'd have body-bags. Instead of the Ectomobile, we'd drive in the ZomBMW to the entrance of an infested hotel or library. We'd have to recruit a Dan Akroyd lookalike and a black guy to round out the quartet. (I am now accepting applications.)

For our logo, we'd replace the spirit with a zombie and slash through it with a diagonal line drawn in northwest to southeast fashion rather than northeast to southwest to avoid a lawsuit. We'd get rich, save lives, become heroes, and annihilate the brains of the nefarious undead.

The name of our crew would be Zombiebeheaders.

When I woke up, I rolled out of bed and grabbed a pencil and notebook. It's my belief that it is a cosmic disservice to let dreams go to waste.*

Counter-point: “Dreams are what we wake up from.”--Raymond Carver, from the short story “The Bridle”


*Especially the ones about zombies.

McCartney's Beardo

When I showed some of the ensuing lyrics to a friend, I had hopeful intentions of performing the song live for the cover band he plays in. With my notepad for reference, in a British warble, I recited a few lines of psychedelic nonsense meant to pay homage to classic rock icons from across the Atlantic. The bit about driving my lorry on the left side of the road induced a laugh, as I recall.

This glimmer of hope notwithstanding, my friend said he'd rather decline my request. He said something to the effect that playing even ONE novelty song can easily come at the expense of a group's integrity. Where credibility is concerned, four minutes of sonic gibberish compromises an awful lot, he felt. He added that even though he loved “Smells Like Nirvana” when he first heard it, Weird Al Yankovic has no place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and the same goes for “Lunch Lady Land” and Adam Sandler. To conclude, he speculated that the threshold for novelty in legitimate music was marked by The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper album.

We were high. But it was only weed.

Deflated but comprehending, I tucked my note-pad back into the pocket of my jacket. I cast a peevish glare at him.

“Just you wait until my blog hears about this,” I said...



McCartney's Beardo (“Creep” in italics)

When I turned sixty-four
When you were here before
And looked behind blue eyes
I couldn't look you in the eye
Saw Mop-tops entangled
You're just like an angel
And Marshmallow Pie
Your skin makes me cry
In pants made of leather
You float like a feather
Major Tom Sold the World
In a beautiful world
He flew in a vessel
I wish I was special
Rocket tin can vessel (WAH-THUNK, WAH-THUNK!)
You're so fucking special

Guitars that weep
But I'm a creep
McCartney's beardo
I'm a weirdo
Can you help me get to Kashmir?
What the hell am I doing here?
I'm British, not queer
I don't belong here

Wembley and Leeds concerts
I don't care if it hurts
It's only rock and roll
I want to have control
I'm gonna drive my lorry
I want a perfect body
On the left side of the road
I want a perfect soul
Ramble On to chorus
I want you to notice
See Me, Feel Me sounds
When I'm not around

Poor Tommy was special
You're so fucking special
Deaf, dumb, blind and special (WAH-THUNK, WAH-THUNK!)
I wish I was special

Guitars that weep
McCartney's beardo
Who dug the holes in Lancashire?
What the hell am I doing here?
It was Belvedere
I don't belong here

He's worse than Voldemort *
She's running out the door
Once I stuck with this line overnight, this notion of Mr. Belvedere (namesake of a cheesy sitcom from the '80s people scarcely remember) being more evil than Lord Voldemort (the wicked wizard from the Harry Potter series that has never piqued my interest) for digging the holes in Lancashire that John Lennon referenced in “A Day in the Life,” it dawned on me that I was in essence straining my brain to create rubbish—more so than usual. I have therefore put my aspirations as a novelty song-writer on indefinite hiatus, effective following the second appearance of “Mr. Belvedere” in the stanza below.

The worst part about this failure is that now it appears my friend was right.

He's...(I got nothing)
She's running out
He...(Still nothing)
She runs, runs, ruuuuuunnnnnnnssssss

Guitars that weep
McCartney's beardo
How can pudding come before meat?
Mr. Belvedere
Mr. Belvedere

Yikes. Never mind that business about an Indefinite Hiatus. Mr. Belvedere has much in common with my plans of ever posting a novelty lyrics ever again. They've both been cancelled.

* Or, as a weak afterthought:
He's On the Run some more
Run Like Hell, you lout
Run, Run, Ruuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnn...

Ultimate's Upbringing in Parts Unknown

The Ultimate Warrior, a pop-culture relic who wrestled in a Speedo and claimed to hail from Parts Unknown, has renamed himself Mr. Warrior and now maintains a blog. On this blog, he posts artwork of primal-looking sketches accompanied by motivational quotes from historical figures. The space he occupies on the Internet is surprisingly legit and interesting.

I sent him some a comment, which he promptly returned. The YouTube videos I mention, by the way, are a real source of some of the bizarre sayings attributed to the Ultimate Warrior.

"Persistence. The only thing that will piss-off failure enough to get the fuck out of the way of your success."

I love that quote!

The quotations you apply to your artwork from other bold and imaginative minds are great, as well. The Frederick Douglass quote about incurring ridicule from others for not conforming to their expectations, for instance.

I have to confess, I get a kick out of watching interviews from your tenure in the WWF on Youtube. They were quite silly and eccentric. But more than that, they were wildly entertaining. Plus, you don't seem to be troubled by the negative things people happen to think about you. Although I enjoyed pro-wrestling in my youth, I am now a cynic of its pageantry, and yet, after browsing through your blog, I have gained a newfound respect for you. You seem dedicated to the creation of some heartfelt artwork.

Best wishes to you and your family. Take care now.

Sincerely,

Nick Olig

Re: Nick, hello. Thanks for taking the time to write and comment.

My career creating and performing Ultimate Warrior was an (sic) great and inspiring time. Also, wildly entertaining. A huge amount of creativity USED TO go into developing your ring persona. Things have changed in that regard. I'm very proud of what I achieved in the business--more proud of how I've moved on in my life and used the experiences and life lessons form that time in my life to stay creative and inspired. Still being ALIVE is a good thing. Different than most believe, intensity for life is NOT an act for me. This life I have is NOT a dress rehearsal, and I will NOT disrespect it that way.


Always Believe,

Warrior

My ten-year-old self would be elated. My modern day, manchild-self was mildly thankful for the morsels of material Mr. Warrior had unwittingly donated to this story—which is a biography of the Warrior's life in Parts Unknown as told by his old friend, a nebbish, mythological Griffin.

###

“Behold my presence, brothers.” That is a common greeting where I come from, a town called Parts Unknown. We even say that to the women. Parts Unknown, I must confess, is not renowned for chivalry or equal rights among the sexes. The only thing our women can vote on is the name of their children. Their husbands also get a vote on the matter, which counts for 51% to the woman's 49.

It's a chauvinistic culture here in Parts Unknown. In my more idealistic teenage years, I felt gravely perturbed by my hometown's dismissal of all Progressive notions; shortly after graduation, I flew the coup. I didn't last too long on the outside, though. The same sensitivity that prompted my escape from Parts Unknown left me vulnerable to the judgments of Normals. They gave me the leper treatment. When I returned home, on the verge of total despair, I was not exactly welcomed, but accepted nonetheless. The elders decreed that I could stay, on the condition that I never leave again, nor foul the minds of the children with wild and foolish tales of existence outside of Parts Unknown. I was given a menial job as a paperboy and a modest dwelling above an alchemy lab and put on probation for ten years due to my “Radical Conduct.”

Not everyone's departure from Parts Unknown was ill-fated, however. A few thrived, even. I have crossed paths with the subject of this letter and wish to tell you Normals about his upbringing in our fantastically quirky town. The man made quite a splash in the pro-wrestling racket years ago. His name is the Ultimate Warrior.

Born on the 16th of June in the Year of the Minotaur to parents Mighty and Athena, the first and only addition to the Warrior clan uttered his first words without delay. In a spasm of wiggling limbs, moments after his umbilical cord was chopped off by the ceremonial ax, he bellowed, “The Intensity of Gorillius, God of Combat, courses through my veins as Summer Slam draws nigh!” He made this announcement many years before Summer Slam, the WWF pay-per-view event, was first held. The Ultimate Warrior claims he had an unforgettable and profound vision inside his mother's womb. What may have seemed like complete gibberish back then is now heard as mostly gibberish to the ears of most Normals.

His mother wanted to name him Doug, by the way. Fortunately, his father voted otherwise.

The closest thing we have to baptism in Parts Unknown is the Newborn's Rite of Power. There is no Holy Water involved in the Rite. Instead, once the newborn can stand on his own feet, he must body-slam a baby rhino for initiation into the Church of Brazen Souls. The Ultimate Warrior still holds the record for youngest Parts Unknowner to accomplish the challenge. What's more, he executed not a mere scoop-slam but a gorilla-press slam on the baby rhino, hoisting the beast above his head and posing for ten seconds before heaving the poor beast onto his back.

As a toddler, the Ultimate Warrior's favorite toy was the tusk of woolly mammoth, which he discovered while digging a hole in his parent's backyard. He loved to throw it like a spear and impale bee hives, as well as treat the tusk like a baseball bat to club the skulls of decomposed Bigfoots long distances with a steep arc. When I was just learning how to fly, one of those airborne Bigfoot skulls clipped my wing and sent me into a frantic tailspin. I crash-landed in the Warrior family's backyard, badly bruised. Athena rushed outside, took the tusk from her son in a frenzy of motherly admonishment, and tended to my wounds. I whimpered meekly as she dabbed the blood-soiled feathers of my left wing. The Ultimate Warrior seethed from across the lawn, no doubt cursing me under his breath for being so foolish as to get in the way of a skull he had launched so impressively. His mother noticed this, too. An indignant tear trickled down her face-paint, rolling into a glob of radiant color that dropped from her cheekbone as she turned to him.

“You have brought harm to a fellow creature, Ultimate, for careless and vain reasons the Gods of Combat now frown upon. May the shame dwell in your heart until you know what it means to be contrite.”

Her words vexed her son. He took a knee in grave contemplation and nodded. When he looked up and looked me in the eyes, I could see a wild transformation had taken place. With a stolid strut, he walked over to his mother and me.

“I have insulted the Gods of Combat,” he said. “From this day forward, you are my friend, noble bird. You ride on my back for my protection.”

This declaration struck me as a reversal of logic, the sort of expression the Ultimate Warrior would be criticized for saying years later by the likes of Bobby “The Brain” Heenan. But that hardly mattered to me; I had just made my first friend.

Yeah, it's a weird story, but if you read More Stories, and Additional Stories, aside from your soul's forfeiture to Satan the Prince of Darkness, it'll only cost you like $2.99. So, we got a fucking deal or what?

Fear of Snakes

1.) Among the most acceptable and masculine phobias a man can be afflicted with, fear of snakes ranks toward the top of the list. While you won't exhibit any signs of valor in your fear of snakes, it's hard to argue that such a phobia is insensible. Certain species of snakes are highly dangerous. The spitting cobra, for instance, can emit venom into the eyes of a potential predator from ten feet away. The black mamba, as I learned from watching a movie, strikes with indefensible quickness and injects venom in its prey, causing a futile struggle with paralysis that leads to a feckless and slow death. Not all snakes are as lethal, of course—it will always be lame to fear wispy squiggles like garter snakes—but it is wise to remember that some snakes can really fuck you up.

That stated, snakes don't especially scare me. It's rational to fear deadly animals, and in most cases, snakes do not qualify as such. Snakes are mostly harmless; they tend to be little more than ambitious worms with lively tongues and scaly skin. Snakes are a lot like Muslims, actually: By and large, they are a peaceful group, but the most nefarious examples of their kind tarnish the perception of the group as a whole.* Only 10-15% of snakes are venomous. The percentage of evil, lowlife Muslims is about the same. If you live in the mid-west United States, there is not much sense in fearing Muslims or snakes. One could be a friendly neighbor who shovels your front sidewalk out of sheer kindness while the other could be your child's pet as he goes through a phase of reptile-obsession. But if you journey to Afghanistan on a cave-spelunking trip or wish to soak up the poverty and widespread A.I.D.S. along the Nile River valley, a sufficient fear of Muslims or snakes, respectively, is prudent and could mean the difference between death and survival.

I try to minimize the chances that a fearful situation will occur, and so it is doubtful I will ever vacation in Afghanistan or the Nile River valley. I only wish to deal with snakes and Muslims that are not likely to cause me harm. Steve Irwin, once a brave hunter of crocodiles and the like, and some members of the American military would tell me I don't know what I'm missing. Irwin is dead, though, and the same goes, sadly, for many soldiers who fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. I am not of their ilk, for good or ill.

***

2.) With few exceptions, the best humorists are compassionate people with sinister imaginations. This observation helps explain why Mark Twain rallied for the abolishment of slavery and exposed the pratfalls of prejudiced minds in his novel that featured a degrading term for black people with such frequency that it almost seemed as if he was afraid racism would soon go out of style. Moral advancement aside, because of his sinister imagination, Twain also felt inclined to demonstrate that racism can be awfully funny.

It seems Harriet Beecher Stowe thought otherwise. She wrote the novel Uncle Tom's Cabin. Not many laughs came from that one. Harriet was never much of a humorist, but if morality can be likened to a climb up a steep mountain, she probably held a perch loftier than Twain. It makes sense. The Bible, the word of God, is bereft of humor, too. For instance, Adam and his son Seth fathered children at the ages of 130 and 105, respectively—and you can dismiss all bunk theories that advances in medicine that span centuries somehow pertain to increased life-expectancies since pretty much everyone back then lived to be nearly a thousand years old. No foolin'!

Nope. There is nothing (intentionally) ludicrous or comical about those claims from the book of Genesis.

People speculate, but nobody knows a thing about God's sense of humor. All of His messages in the Bible were so damn serious. Granted, His alleged creation of such silly species as the sea cow, the tit mouse, and the balding white man might indicate His fondness for irreverence, but regardless, the question of what (if anything) makes God laugh will always be an exasperating one.

It's much easier for believers in God to infer what He deems right and wrong as opposed to what He deems funny and unfunny. If your intent is to create some sort of art for a living and then ascend to a scenic retirement community in the sky not long after you die, trying your hand at humor could cause you serious trouble. It's safer to use your art to straightforwardly instill in people hope and courage, or to scold them for their sins and demand they they change their ways—without getting matters complicated by humor.

The book I wrote includes the sentence, “Hope is like a cockroach in the nuclear winter.” My hunch is that God thought that line was just swell. Later in that essay, though, I joked that the outcome of a baseball game—the outcome that meant my favorite team had lost game six of the National League Championship Series in 2003—was a catastrophe of greater magnitude than the deaths of many people who were burned alive in a nightclub inferno on the night of a Great White concert. At that point, I may very well have squandered any merit points I had earned from God with that bit about hope and cockroaches.**

If that scenic retirement community in the sky denies me membership, I will have my sinister imagination to blame. Twain might not have made the grade, either. Damnation by jokes would prevent me sitting at the kiddie table at one of Twain's celestial hootenannies. (Assuming there is an afterlife. Assuming he'd invite me. Assuming parties are allowed in heaven. Faith gets pretty ridiculous...I guess that's the appeal.)

***

1.) meets 2.) My friend Tad Lightly is afraid of snakes. I learned this tidbit while we were watching Raiders of the Lost Ark. The scene in which Indiana Jones is dropped into a snake-pit was unfolding, and Tad reacted with dismay equal to that of the cinematic hero. The very image of feisty snakes viewed on a television screen incited in Tad spasms of nervous squirming. Their hisses and especially their slithers, he said— laughing aversely—really gave him the creeps. Oddly enough, he seemed to be mimicking the very pattern of movement that made him so uncomfortable as he told me this.

As I stated before, it's sensible to fear deadly snakes. But fearing the image of deadly snakes (filmed in 1981, no less) is a bit silly. Those were just movie snakes, Tad. They were on-set for a few hours simply to look scary before collecting paychecks to fund their expensive cocaine habits.

Weeks after the Indiana Jones episode, I asked Tad if the story of original sin had any bearing on his fear of snakes, if he put any stock in that timeless yarn about the snake embodied by the Devil that enticed and deceived Eve with an apple in the Garden of Eden.

His eyes lit up to match the cherry flare of his cigarette on the darkened front porch. He nodded quickly and I gathered that his catechism classes featured illustrations in books of Biblical re-tellings, and that among these illustrations was the vile serpent from Genesis that inflicted the bane of sin on humankind.

“Those books from early CCD classes,” he said, “Tried to influence kids to be like Johnny and Sally DoGooder. Don't swear. Don't smoke. Help old ladies cross the street. All that stuff. Sometimes Johnny and Sally were tempted by sin—to steal some fireworks or burn down a doll house or what-have-you—and they'd have a flashback to a story from the Bible. The snake would always make his case for doing the wrong thing, wrapped around the branch of an apple tree and hissing with that tongue of his, and then Jesus would show up to weigh in about doing the right thing.

“The idea was to agree with Jesus every time and never take the snake's advice. I guess the snake was drawn instead of the actual Devil because the sight of Satan would really scare little kids. So they drew a snake in place of Satan, and the look on the face of that fucking snake was freaky.”

Again, it was not the physical presence but the image of snakes, in this case the devil incarnate's bloodshot hypnotic stare and lashing tongue forked like a trident, that instilled fear in Tad.

He was, however, able to recall one instance in which he went to the Milwaukee County Zoo a few years ago. He saw all sorts of monkeys, bears, and penguins, but with the sun beating down intensely, he wandered into the Aquatic and Reptile Center, seeking refuge from the heat. Inside the building, mere feet from where he stood, he caught sight of two sparring snakes on display in an oblong, glass case. They were coiling around each other and tightening with deadly intent, determined to squeeze their rival lifeless with a heinous POP of insides oozing out.

On the front porch, he grimaced and intertwined his hands and forearms to mime the snakes' intimate battle. The gesture, coupled with facial expression, called to mind what it must be like to walk in on 2 gruesome elders caught in a fatal Kama Sutra pose.

Those sparring snakes in the Reptile Center repulsed him. Suddenly the summer heat didn't bother him.

“It was disgusting,” Tad told me. “I turned and darted out of there.”

“You didn't even stick around to see which snake won the fight?”

“Hell, no,” he scoffed. “I hope they BOTH died.”

“I'd have bet some money on the larger of the two snakes,” I said. “More squeezing power.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. I paused to gather my thoughts.

“Let me ask you this: Would you rather do some adventuring and then have some beers with Indiana Jones or Han Solo?”

He considered the question.

“Hmm. I guess I'd have to say Han Solo. Space travel would be pretty sweet. In the Millennium Falcon, no less. Han's more of an outlaw, too. He's not a part-time college professor like Indy. Han can probably pound those space-beers. When the adventures are done, Indy might want to be left alone so he can read up on archeology.”

He didn't mention snakes in his explanation. Blast!


I had asked a loaded question, though. The fact that he chose Han Solo means Tad wants to avoid snake-encounters altogether. Had he chosen Indiana Jones, however, I could just as easily say it's because he relates to Dr. Jones due to the fear of snakes they share. That Tad omitted any mention of snakes suggests his phobia carries a subconscious weight as well. And since he'd rather circumvent snakes entirely alongside of Han Solo in a galaxy far, far away, it can be inferred that his Ophidiophobia*** is acute rather than moderate. In addition, it seems Ophidiophobia has alienating and not bonding effects on those afflicted with it—lest why would Tad leave Indy to suffer alone in that hypothetical snake-pit?

Ah, but I am using words like “suggests,” “inferred,” and “seems” to mock someone I care about. That's low. I'll never write a book so full of truth that people are forced to place their right hands on it before they testify in court—and what's worse, I think the book that actually serves that purpose is partially bullshit.

The best humorists are compassionate people with sinister imaginations. And mischief flickers with so much appeal when I dwell on what my friends are afraid of. Got a phobia? If you play your cards right, you can befriend me so I can make jokes about it. Sinister imagination? You bet. But I'm starting to wonder how compassion factors into all of this. Maybe my morals are out of whack. Maybe I need redemption. Maybe I should focus on the parts of the Bible that are worth pledging an oath to...

I swear I'm not afraid of snakes. I see them as meager projections of the dark half of a story that is of the utmost magnitude. The struggle between good and evil is very real to anyone paying the slightest attention in this life. That slice of truth, I believe, can be traced back to an intangible**** genesis—God vs. Satan. If Satan really took the form of a snake, then God must have embodied the spirit of Christ, if only to lend balance to the story. Higher powers take turns rolling dice on the souls of mortals. It is free will and not luck or fatalism that decides which side wins each and every game. Know the stakes, buddy—and at the risk of preaching morals, please don't let the dice turn up snake-eyes.



* Another similarity: Muslims and snakes are both unpopular (and some might say frightening) sights on airplanes. Note to self: Write a script for a movie called Muslims on a Plane.
** And those tumor jokes won't help my cause, either.
***Fear of snakes.
****And unknowable. Talk about a mortal bummer.

Nick Is All Done Listing His Favorite Video Games

I'd like to publish another collection of comedic stories in due time. My plan is to write 50 or 60 of the things and choose the best 40 for inclusion in the book.

There is no chance "Favorite Video Games" will make the cut. It will become like a runt in the litter and I'll have to drown it—as was done in the crueler times of bygone eras.

I am resigned to all of that and look forward to finishing this countdown so that I can write something that appeals to a wider range of readers. But in my defense, I usually try to somehow relate the video game to a band, song, TV show, movie, or actual happenings in my life that are in some way interesting.

And maybe that's the problem...

Yikes.

This list is now part albatross, part marathon. It's an albothon, really. An albothon occurs when it feels like you're running a marathon with an albatross around your neck, when in reality you've just been sitting on your ass the entire time, either writing or playing video games.

Actually, to tell you the truth, I think that is a pretty appealing lifestyle.


14.Super Punch-out for SNES: Some are bound to bicker that the 1st Punch-out is superior—but that is hogwash. The NES version is certainly more challenging, as the 8-bitters tend to be, but Super Punch-out is loaded with far superior graphics, an upgraded super-punch system, and better controls. Why deny its merits just because it's not the originator? The Empire Strikes Back (Episode V) is more captivating and suspenseful than A New Hope (Episode IV), isn't it, nerds? Sequels don't typically surpass originals, but sometimes it happens. Purists need to realize there are exceptions to most every rule, and Super Punch-out exemplifies that.

Turning Little Mac, the diminutive underdog, transparent for the fighting at 1st seems like a quirky choice by the designers, but this visual touch allows for a better view of the player's wily and comical opponent, making it easier to measure up the likes of Bald Bull and Mr. Sandman.

Aside from eternal loser Gabby Jay, each opponent provides a puzzle of attacks and dodges to be deciphered through trial-and-error. The thrilling challenge of Super Punch-out is the way Little Mac is ALWAYS over-matched. He is bereft of brutal gimmicks like the Exercise Programs of Super Macho Man and he must play by the rules—unlike the fat clown who spits blinding seltzer water and the ancient Japanese mystic who inflicts chunks of damage with strikes from his wooden cane. Little Mac has inferior strength, speed, and versatility; he must use his wits and perfect timing to defeat all 16 fighters in the game.

He is the Underdog Spoon so melodically warned us about. Rick and Nick Bruiser had no fear of the Underdog. That's why they did not survive.

13.Grand Theft Auto: Vice City for PS2: The first GTA for PS2 broke more ground than its successor, but Vice City is a bit more ambitious. With voice-acting contributions from stars like Ray Liotta, Burt Reynolds, and Dennis Hopper, more weapons and vehicles to choose from, an expanded soundtrack, and an even broader 3-D landscape in which to stir up homicidal mischief, I once more give the edge—by less than the width of a fingernail—to the sequel.

As usual, no cops, hookers, or drug lords were harmed in the production or playing of this Grand Theft Auto title. It's funny how the same conservative zealots who condemn violence in video games (oftentimes) don't mind actual wars or budget cuts that come at the expense of the education system. In 20 years, when Grand Theft Auto: Rampage in the Vatican is released for Playstation 5, our culture will still embrace fully interactive malice, but I worry that America's kids may become too dumb to discern fantasy from real life. That is a gripe, however, to expound on at a different time.

Oh, and in the interest of citing a separate snippet from pop-culture to accompany this Vid, give a listen to the Geto Boys' “Damn, It Feels Good to be a Gangsta.” Mind-numbing and stifling jobs like the one Peter Gibbons had in Office Space are a primary reason why grown men turn to violent video games, by the way. Who wouldn't crave a simulated killing spree after another long day of squandering life away in a cubicle for a paycheck, at the mercy of phony greed-mongers in dapper pink shirts?

There is a chance I'm getting my wires crossed on this one, but I doubt it. If that is the case, though, let it be known that I played a lot of GTA and watched Office Space many times in college, and so the two will forever seem linked.

12. Tony Hawk's Pro-Skater 3 for PS2: No title in its genre has ever sensationalized the sport to such an absurd extent to the delight of so many gamers. The only thing realistic about Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 3 is the excitement. A 90-second flurry of kick-flips, shove-its, dark-slide grinds, Benihana 720s, and unifying manuals in an airport is truly inconceivable, and yet real skateboarders hardly minded; rather than abhor the lack of realism, they embraced the fantasy, and those of us who are dismissed as hapless klutzes when stepping foot on a four-wheeled platform felt the exact same way.

Harmony was achieved between (sometimes aspiring) professionals and hopeless novices. There is no call for realism in THPS3, no purists to spoil the fun. It's the video game equivalent of a Jawbreaker show in which the band members and the audience alike levitate high above the ground for 90 minutes in blissful defiance of the laws of gravity.

11.Mariokart: Double Dash for Gamecube: In an essay called “The Type who Craves Punishment,” I related sessions of Mariokart: 64 to sadomasochism and ill-fated relationships. This installment of Kart is slightly superior to the one I devoted so much thought to.

The same delightful pitfalls that apply to the 64 version—delusions of persecution and blitzes of anarchy—apply to Double Dash as well. The graphics are more refined, though, and there are more characters in the mix, and the added gimmick of two Nintendo legends per Kart truly benefits the series. And a special attack unique to each driver is an extra perk.

I highly recommend this Vid, especially if you can find 4 controllers for the obsolete Gamecube. I had better stop raving about it because I have no doubt exceeded a reasonable amount of words an (ideally) self-respecting writer should devote to the Mariokart series.

10. Donkey Kong Country for SNES: First Donkey Kong was a villain who took a cue from Bowser and kidnapped a Princess he presumably intended to rape, sadly, and then he was a slovenly gorilla who wore a wife-beater as a forgettable option in the original Mariokart, and then it was decided by some graphically gifted geek at Rareware that he should become a hero paired with an athletic but small monkey in a vibrant red cap and crusade against an evil crocodile in my absolute favorite side-scrolling platform Vid.

Makes sense to me!

Donkey Kong represents the career arc of Brett Favre from a Vikings fan's perspective. For so long he was a nemesis, but the mutations that come with time elapsed turned him into a beloved figure. No one thought it was possible, but conversely, only a fool would have deemed it impossible.

And I don't want to hear any bunk contentions that Donkey Kong Country 2 is the superior version. Despite its merit, it's like an album by the Beatles with no input whatsoever from John Lennon...what would I call that? Oh yeah, a Paul McCartney solo album—which no doubt boasts some chops, hooks, and pop pizzazz, but simply doesn't measure up to feats that have already been done.

9. Metal Gear Solid: Sons of Liberty for PS2: How many Metal Gears must the player destroy at the end of this epic crusade of stealth and combat? The answer is a shit-load. The game keeps going after that test of prowess with a rocket launcher, too. After all those Metal Gears are blown up, you still have to slay some nasty brute named Solidus in a sword fight. Let's rewind now: Before all of THAT, in the span of a long, long time of gaming, this Vid is positively stuffed with action. (Battles with a vampire and an elusive jet that shoots missiles, hasty bomb-disarmings, killing a fat guy on roller-skates, choking henchmen to death and then dragging their bodies away so they can't be found by other henchmen who want to tattle on you...oh, the list goes on.)

Some fans of the series were disappointed about someone other than Solid Snake--a blond codenamed Raiden--serving as the central character for 3-quarters of this masterpiece.

What follows is by no means an airtight analogy, and I'm not crazy about AC/DC, either, but here goes nothing: Raiden is to Brian Johnson as Solid Snake is to Bon Scott. Johnson took over for Scott as the lead singer of AC/DC in 1980 after Scott got disastrously drunk and choked on his own vomit. The success of AC/DC did not diminish when Johnson joined the band. Quite the opposite: Highway to Hell, Scott's swan song, established AC/DC as a powerful force in hard rock, but Back in Black, with Johnson on lead screeches, catapulted the band into newfound popularity.

Such is the relationship between Raiden and Solid Snake—although Solid Snake didn't actually DIE in SOL, and I'd be the last one to argue that Raiden nailed as many loose women as Brian Johnson.

8. Super Mario for N-64: Remember when I wrote that Donkey Kong Country is my favorite SIDE-SCROLLING platform game? Good times. Well, this is my favorite platform game (period). Super Mario in 3 dimensions--aided by an arsenal of innovative jumps and an adjustable camera perspective that revolutionized gaming--remains a superb achievement.

Perhaps my most noteworthy feat as a button-mashing addict is collecting all 120 stars in this Vid. For what it's worth, I earned the right to shoot Mario out of a cannon on the front lawn of Princess Peach's estate onto the roof of her castle, where Yoshi offered words of congratulations.

“You know you could've stopped playing this game once you defeated Bowser for the umpteenth time, right?” I recall Yoshi saying. “You rescued the Princess awhile ago. Now you're just jerking off. I mean...JESUS, you're so pale and skinny. You should go outside and lift some weights in the sunshine.

“So pale,” Yoshi added, shaking his head in dismay.

7. Goldeneye 007 for N-64: All that really needs to be written about lucky number 7 on our countdown is that it's still my favorite first-person shooter—in both single and multi-player modes. It is not without competition from the likes of Time Splitters, CoDBO, and Perfect Dark, but the urge to equate the Orleans pop song “Still the One” (as in “Still the one that can scratch my itch”) to Goldeneye is stubbornly lodged deep in my brain. And I'm okay with that.

My favorite character to pick in multi-player shoot-outs is Baron Samadi, the sinister and mysterious voodoo priest--mostly to counteract someone else's selection of that half-pint creep Odd-job. The Baron's height allows for easier head-shots on the wee nuisance.

Now you know!

6. WWF: No Mercy for N-64: As I stated before, I like to kick ass. Seriously. But only when the violence is entirely make-believe. The most fitting case in point for this adage has got to be a Vid based on the farcical spectacle of pro-wrestling.

It's NEVER been real to me, dammit! But what does that matter? I don't watch the bogus pageant of tough guys on TV anymore, but I'll still play the video games for the N-64. They're so much fun.

The outstanding create-a-wrestler feature has allowed me to pit Abraham Lincoln, football coach Mike "I'm a Man, I'm 40" Gundy, Walker of Texas Ranger fame, and Principal Blackman from Strangers with Candy against each other in a Royal Rumble. I do love phony violence between historical figures and TV characters and such. It really tickles me silly.


5. Tecmo Super Bowl for NES: Trouncing the computer 49-7 is par for the course in the early weeks of a Tecmo Super Bowl season. The opposing secondary is lethargic and constantly vulnerable to deep passes from the likes of Joe Montana or Dan Marino to Jerry Rice or Mark Clayton. The running back you control on sweeps toward the bottom of the screen, whether he is Barry Sanders (legend) or Reggie Cobb (a bit of a scrub, no offense, Reggie), seems two steps faster than the computer's pursuing linebackers. But that lavish ease comes to an end toward season's end, and when playoff time comes, you really have to fight and scrap and focus on every single play. Hoisting that Lombardi Trophy at the culmination of the Super Bowl is no easy task (without a little help from the RESET button).

Tecmo could really fuck you over in the playoffs. The computer's drones run faster and break more tackles than your guys. An overpaid slouch could easily break two 50-yard touchdown runs if you break containment or miss wildly on a diving Superman tackle. Your receivers are commonly covered in the playoffs, which prompts mad scrambles for yardage and risky throws into traffic.

It's a wonderful yet frustrating challenge, and I have prevailed a handful of times without ever having to punch the reset button in an outburst of rage.

Being an elite Tecmo player in your neighborhood doesn't mean what it used to. I'm fine with that in part because of a jesting scenario my friend, a married 28-year-old with a baby daughter, outlined for me that made me laugh hard.

If a child of his ever asks for a new video game system for Xmas, he will most likely purchase the thing, but he will present it in a box sheathed in decorative wrapping. He will then plug in his Nintendo, crack open the first beer in a 6-pack and grunt to his elated and expectant child...

“You can't open that 'til you beat daddy in a game of Tecmo.”

Hope for the future.

4. Which Ever Madden Football Game Is the Most Recent for PS2: I'm leery of the more modern system's Madden Football Vids, but I'm contently hooked on the PS2 versions. I'm nuts about them, and never you mind what my record against a good friend in the Super Bowl is. It's so woeful that I can't bear to see it typed on the computer screen. I'm a Pro-Bowler who loses to an All-Pro 9 times out of 10. I am to Madden Football what the Buffalo Bills were to real football in the early '90s. Like a half-wit Cubs fan deluded by the power of hope, I am left to renew my faith in next year's prospects.

It's all very fitting and comically appealing, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if redemption is really out of the question. I hope not—in matters both major and minor, both genuine and fickle.

3. Resident Evil for PS1: When Survival Horror reared its decrepit, ugly head into the worlds of gamers, peering with vacant malice from behind a creaking opened door, we were thrilled to obliterate that head with a shot-gun blast and beg for more. Resident Evil features elements of treasure-hunting for keys and artifacts to extend the quest and puzzle-solving to compliment the game's primary focus of pumping lead into zombies and other bloodthirsty monsters. Ammo is limited. But there is no shortage of Evil residents in a mansion with a research facility in the basement. And therein lies the challenge...along with getting lost in the intricate rat maze and not knowing what to do or where to go next.

And Hey, don't kid yourself: the malevolent experiment in the laboratory, the Tyrant, is no slouch. And don't even get me started on the giant snake the player must twice defeat. Fighting that behemoth serpent is no day at the beach, either...which is actually ideal for gamers like me who don't get all that much sun, anyway.

In the unlikely event of zombie Armageddon, I'll be fully prepared to decapitate those evil fuckers that were once mortals, and I have Resident Evil to thank.

2.NBA Jam or NBA Jam T.E., it doesn't really matter which for SNES: We've already covered this on fistpumps. I think there's another analogy about Star Wars movies somehow relating to video games.

Get a load of the May, '08 archives for more elaboration than you bargained for.

1.Resident Evil 4 for PS2/ Gamecube: The end is in sight, so I'll keep this brief. I love the addition of the laser-sight on every weapon. The knife can even be used as an effective weapon in moderation to conserve ammo. The over-the-should perspective is a transformation in Resident Evil camera perspective that actually works wonders and breathes new life into re-killing zombies with precision.

I love the weapon upgrade system, of collecting loot and using said loot to enhance and modify all sorts of guns. The zombies are more dangerous; some of them run, some are armed with axes, torches, or chainsaws, some of them shoot crossbows and cannons. The fourth installment introduces an advanced breed of zombies into the mix.

This Vid is challenging but not impossible. The Mercenary Mode, earned following completion of the game, adds another 2 or 3 months of engaging fun and gory mischief.

Let me be clear: It's my favorite, my absolute favorite.

Game over.

Continue?

Yes or No?

No.

Nick Again Lists His Favorite Video Games

For what it's worth, we know that although I enjoy video games, I'm not fond of the roll-playing genre. A friend from college jokingly took exception to my dissing of an RPG for Super Nintendo titled Chrono Trigger.

“What in the hell is a 'Chrono Trigger,' anyway?” I wrote. “A robotic clitoris?”

It occurs to me now that, having a game called Super Metroid on my precious countdown makes me guilty of hypocrisy. Someone could just as easily scoff...

“What in the hell is a 'Super Metroid,' anyway? A robotic anal fissure?”

Instant Karma got me again. John Lennon warned me about that. My apologies, Rick, and thanks for reading.


20. Marvel: Ultimate Alliance for X-Box 360: From the apparent perspective of an aloft owl fitted with a helmet-cam, a quartet of interchangeable superheroes prowl through 3-D landscapes as diverse as the Villain's Fortress Stronghold and the Super-Villain's Fortress Stronghold. The goal of these superheroes is to clobber Evildoers into comas. In addition to traditional means of punching & kicking, the superheroes also have weapons such as swords, sharp claws, and guns—and many possess mutant powers like the ability of flight, superhuman strength, and eyes that shoot laser beams. This litany of ways to inflict pain is all done in the name of Justice; the Evildoers, eternal foes of the superheroes, must always be punished for the malice they reap on the Innocent.

It is a familiar story—marred perhaps by rampant clichés and adventures that become as predictable as the workweek routines that get us by—and the story extends beyond video games, of course. But it is also an ESSENTIAL story, one we'll never be rid of, for reasons both realistic and fantastical. Marvel: Ultimate Alliance is a highly effective rerun of the Tale of Good versus Evil.

East of Eden, the brilliant retelling of the fable of Cain and Able by John Steinbeck, concerns the nature of Good & Evil, too. But even a mind that likens Bionic Commando to the White Stripes can see that Steinbeck offered the realistic inclusions of moral ambiguity and human fallibility into his story. Superheroes are different. Their appeal is fantastical in the sense that their crusades are not subjected to such concerns. Captain America embodies all that is Good and Dr. Doom embodies all that is Evil. There is no Gray Area of Moral standing in video games inspired by comic books.

What a relief! But at the expense of literacy and understanding of how the real world works, of course.

As a thoughtless post-script, I would like to mention that I believe the 4 superheroes to choose to maximize the group's ass-kicking potential in MUA are as follows: Wolverine, Spiderman, Deadpool, and Iron Man.

No offense intended, Ms. Marvel. It's just that, you know...you're a WOMAN.

19.Ken Griffey Jr. Presents Major League Baseball for SNES...And a fine Presentation it was, Mr. Griffey Jr. It's way better than the finest thing I've ever presented: A lifetime achievement award to you, Junior, for single-handedly designing and creating this terrific Vid—not to mention dropping some funky bass lines on the infectious soundtrack.

Ken Griffey Jr. did not return my phone calls or fan letters and therefore did not make an appearance at the ceremony in my brother's attic, but a plastic robot I call Professor Radington was there to accept the award on his behalf.

Such nonsense.

The soundtrack really is incredible. And the controls allow for fluidity and technique on ground-balls and fly-outs; a skillful Jr. player could negate 2 or 3 extra base-hits with a quick jump and a perfectly timed dive or leap. Pitching is simple and, by today's standards, obsolete, but semblances of change-ups, sliders, curveballs, and of course fastballs could be thrown with great effectiveness. Hitting is even simpler, but requires subtleties of timing and location relative to the plate.

It's a sweet Vid, but my appetite for playing it has been sated. The only way I'll ever play it again is if some chump challenges me to a game.

Yeah. You heard what I typed, would-be challenger.


18.Super Smash Brothers for N-64: For every Ocarina of Time-caliber game for the 64, there are at least two Castlevania: Symphony of the Night(s) for the Playstation. This means that, concerning one-player quests, PS1 definitely has the edge over Nintendo-64. But the 64 counters with a much deeper array of multi-player classics, and Super Smash Brothers is a fine example. Between the two, I'd opt for a Playstation in the all-important “stranded on a deserted island with a power source” scenario, but only because it is implied that I'm all alone on said deserted island. If the Gilligan's Island technicality can be employed, however, then I'd much rather order Donkey Kong to execute a break-dance double-kick on the wing of Starfox's ship to inflict damage on Samus, Kirby, and Mario (under the respective control of the Professor, Ginger, and the Skipper).

It's that simple.

The single-player mode for SSB is easy and a bit repetitive, worthy of a B- grade, and the skill challenges afterward are fairly fun, but make no mistake: If you honestly have NO FRIENDS to play with, this game loses most of its appeal...and I'm sorry to hear about your life.

But I had friends to play SSB with, fortunately, and that is what made this game so great. Every match ignited cartoon bedlam, a frenzy of Nintendo icons out to clobber each other for reasons unknown and immaterial.

It's still an addictive Vid today, too. If all parties involved are drunk and/ or stoned and not expecting sex or the needs of others in the near future, one match with 4 players can easily turn into a 3-Hour Tour*.

The original Super Smash Brothers: It's the next best thing to having a 3-way with Ginger & Mary Ann.

17. Super Mario All-Stars for SNES: One of my shrewdest moves as a child and budding consumer was to ask for Super Mario All Stars for Xmas, circa '93. All 3 of Mario's quests for Nintendo are included on just one cartridge, with enhanced graphics--and the Lost Levels were thrown in just to sweeten the deal. Do the math. It was well-worth the cash mom & dad shelled out to keep my brothers and me happily busy after school for the entirety of a cold and snowy winter in Wisconsin.

It's a shame Billy Mays missed his chance to peddle SMAS on infomercials that would have aired 2 hours after broadcasts of Saturday Night Live. Billy's untimely death in 2009 has left me to ponder the effusive sales-pitch he never got to belt out in promotion of such a wondrous cartridge...

“For just ONE EASY PAYMENT of $49.99, you can RELIVE all of MARIO and the Gang's THRILLING ADVENTURES in the Mushroom Kingdom and Beyond. If you liked the sight of Mario in 8-bit, YOU'RE GONNA LOVE HIM IN 16-BIT! Whether you want to FLATTEN KOOPA TROOPAS, shoot FIREBALLS, dig a hole in the sand QUICKLY with TOAD, JUMP over a bottomless pit and GRAB hold of a FLAG-POLE to slide down, knock BOWSER and his entire FAMILY into PITS OF LAVA, or dress up like a RACCOON and take flight to COIN HEAVEN, you'll find all the ACTION YOUR HEART DESIRES in just ONE VIDEO GAME!

“CALL NOW and we'll include the LOST LEVELS FREE OF CHARGE. Or call later and we'll STILL give it away! SWING YOUR ARMS from side to side in CLELEBRATION and call to order your copy of SUPER MARIO ALL-STARS today!”

Thank you, spirit of Billy Mays. And thank you Nintendo for offering so much bang-for-my-parents'-bucks all those years ago.

16.Super Metroid for SNES: I didn't own this one as a kid, and when I played it at a friend's house, the struggle vexed me and in no time I passed the controller back and looked on in awe at the stunning graphics, innovative weapons, and level design of an eerie underground labyrinth that harbored all sorts of deadly alien creatures.

A decade later, in my early-20s, burdened by the excess of projects and classes of senior year and harassed by the recurring thought of so much hard work being squandered on so many unhappy lives, mine included, I plunged into a deep depression, a ghastly funk of psychosis, and dropped out for a semester.

I lived at home and worked 3 or 4 days a week frying chicken at Ma & Pa's Grocery Express. The first few weeks were miserable, but in time my interest in the things life had to offer—major and minor, genuine and fickle—began to seem at least a little bit worthwhile, and I finally conquered Super Metroid.

It remains a feat of relatively little merit—a feat to be scoffed at, perhaps, by Super Bowl Champions and winners of the Slam-Dunk Contest, but I'm proud of how I mustered the 16-bit gusto required to defeat all sorts of vile monstrosities from outer space—Mother Brain included—and escaped the planet before it blew up.

Deciding to conquer Super Metroid and following through actually holds magnitude to me. It was a way to prove I was interested in something rather than nothing when times were bleak.

15.A tie between the arcade versions of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, X-Men, and The Simpsons: These three get lobbed together because they were so similar in terms of genre, control, and appeal. All three allow for four friends to direct their beloved cartoon characters on ass-stomping quests across vast side-scrolling landscapes. In all three arcade classics, short-range attacks and jumps are the linchpins of button commands. As for further controls, the Ninja Turtles can do a quick but effective vertical jump-strike, the X-Men have mutant powers such as Cyclops' optic beam blast, and The Simpsons can join up for outrageous co-op moves. Aside from those minor differences, they are in essence one and the same.

I have fond memories of plugging fistfuls of quarters into these arcade games at pizzerias, truck stops, and skating rinks. They were much more fun to play with three friends.

To my bucket list, I'd like to add that someday I'd get a kick out of playing any of these three with an all-star team of three pals while Tenacious D's “Friendship” blares on the stereo on repeat for an hour.

“Oh shit, there's a bear/ Could you hand me that shotgun, buddy?/ Also, that chair.”

And “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?”--Stephen King, The Body

Okay. That's it for tonight. On your way home, if you're gonna drive, don't drink, and if you're gonna drink, don't drive.

*A 3-hour tour.