Sometimes when the snow is turning to slush, and the coffee machine has recently broken, and it’s a Monday, don’t you all sometimes wish you could curl up with your twelve Popples, make a rainbow on your Lite-Brite, and call it a day. Life just seemed easier when someone was tucking you in at night!
Although I never played rec soccer and my mom never drove a minivan (okay, yes she did), I still have fond memories of running inside as a child and chugging what seemed like a half gallon of Sunny Delight, which looking back, is completely disgusting. Reminisce about that sticky film that covered the entire inside of your mouth as you ran back outside to go test booby traps in your backyard, but by all means do not think about the 3,000 calories you surely ingested in that mid-play “refreshment.” Good thing calories didn’t count back then.
The Ninja Turtles (aka, the “turtles in a half shell”) were like the tooth fairy to me as a child. It was completely plausible that once upon a time, in the eighties, there lived in the sewers ninjitsu-loving mutant reptiles that saved humankind from “bad guys,” such as an incompetent, yet evil, team of a scheming warthog and his rhino pal. My friends today have issues ranging from depression to infidelity to pretty much everyone being on the verge of bankruptcy, yet the turtles’ only flaws were that Michaelangelo ate way too much pizza, and Donatello was too smart. Who doesn’t like pizza?! And how can being “too smart” be a flaw? It’s like when you tell the job interviewer that your biggest flaw is, “Caring too much,” or “Working too hard.” WTF I just realized that I am comparing my friends to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. And unfavorably, at that.
Pretending To Be Adults
As opposed to actually being an adult, that is. Being “all grown up” really blows. When my brother and I were little, we had so much fun playing school and torturing our students (aka, dolls) by making them read out loud and then punching them in the head when they stumbled over the big words. We also punished our dolls and stuffed animals by throwing them down the stairs and laughing maniacally. Once, we locked Jesse, a Cabbage Patch Kid, in a desk drawer and wouldn’t let her out for dinner because we “caught her” “having sex.” Gawd, we were such little sadists!
I am ashamed to admit that in my late twenties I am still moderately-to-strongly addicted to several online “leisure” games. I play this stupid, stupid. stupid game on my phone that I can’t bring myself to delete called Shoot Bubble. That’s right, it’s called Shoot Bubble. The name is even retarded. The whole point of the game is to – you guessed it – SHOOT BUBBLES. With other bubbles. And they’re pretty colors! Ooooh shiny! Ahem. You see, if Oregon Trail were still in its 8 bit prime, I wouldn’t have to worry about beating level 76 of a game that is surely deteriorating my vision and coordination at a rapid pace; all I would have to worry about was dying of dysentery and fording the river. Yes, I want to ford the damn river. I don’t care if my oxen are weak and my wagon is filled with too much excess bison meat! Life was so much simpler back then.