Here’s a normal day for in: I show up at the Central Toybox
Station—which by the way has the architectural aesthetic of a pig on
fire. I clock in and go to my assigned stage. Then I follow orders:
Up-B, Down Tap-A, Held R then A. I knock the living stuffing out of my
friends. Sure we’re so doped up on anesthesia that none of us feel
anything physically. But that poison latches onto more adverbs:
emotionally, romantically. I can’t even make love to my wife anymore.
I feel nothing when I look at my children. Sure I’m a tough guy; I’m
nothing like my loser Fluid Lizard. I try not to cry. But what’s the
point of it all? Am I just here to smash into people. These
“characters” are my friends. Do you have any idea how traumatizing it
is to violently pummel your friends all day long? We tried
unionizing. We tried striking. We tried petty vandalism. None of it
worked. I’m making below-minimum wage doing this job to which the
government has turned a blind eye. I’m not even winning first place
anymore ever since the guy turned the CPU level up to five. I feel
like a prostitute, and I can’t keep this up anymore. It’s just me and
this gun. Does God even exist anymore?; what’s life after death: more
of this? This gun is all I have. This gun is all I have. Give me the
courage to kill myself.
There is a noise in the room. In the middle is a chair, and on that
chair sits me—eminent French existentialist. The noise? It is
suspiration, mingled with the tendrils of boredom and infused with
that dreaded e-word. This game before me lighting up the syphilitic
television screen holds, nay dangles, pearls of joy away from me. This
game is Super Smash Brothers. The CPU level is five. What is first
place anymore? It is no longer mine. And without possession, whence
identity? Why must I forever console myself with the swigs of second
or third place? Mario’s special spin is special no longer; Ice
Climbers’ freezies seem, ugh, ordinary. No matter the combination,
life only holds second place. To lose, perchance to bore. Here lies
Mario, paralyzed for moments on the ground. Or is he sleeping? How I
long to sleep. What’s the point of it all? What’s the point of it
all?
(This should totally qualify for McSweeney’s convergences contest.)
Meta Knight, from Super Smash Brothers: Brawl, has a quasi-teleport
move. It’s B-Down with the nun-chuck. Basically he disappears and then
reappears nearby, and you get to control where “nearby” should be
within reason. If you have a laptop track-pad, you can do this with
your mouse cursor. Just hover your two index fingers above two
relatively close points. Then press one down after the other in a
rapid succession. Like a quick 1-2. If you’re successful, the cursor should teleport to
somewhere on the string in the direction you tapped. Which
direction? It should somewhat align with the vector you tapped out
with the two points on the track-pad. With practice, you can max out your
success ratio and enjoy this highly advanced computing technique.