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Play with my body, not with my mind
Everyone has played a game at some point in their life. Whether it be a solitare, a board game, a sport or something as simple as "Duck Duck Penguin", all of us have participated in some kind of recreational gaming activity. Not all of us, however, approach games in the same manner. There are two basic types of game players in this world: the casuals and the hardcore. The two different types of gamers are polar opposites, and don't generally mix very well.
A casual gamer is one who will pull out a board game maybe once a year and push the pieces around without really considering what they're doing. Sure, they'd like to win, but if they don't it's not really a big deal. They derive their satisfaction from the mechanical portion of playing the game and if they lose then at least they had fun playing.
The hardcore gamer, on the other hand, carefully considers their moves and the moves of the other players in order to gain some kind of advantage. Winning is the ultimate objective and mercy is not an option. The mechanical aspects of the game are just there to enable them to crush the opposition, and they are disappointed if they ultimately do not achieve victory.
Shocking, I know
For the majority of my life I have been of the hardcore persuasion. When I play a game, I play to win, and I must say that I'm pretty darn good. Without sounding like I'm tooting my horn too much, I must say that I have a natural aptitude towards gaming, especially strategy gaming. This has not always gone over well with those around me. I used to play a WWII simulation game (no, not Axis and Allies, it was "Command Decision") and, being as my name and heritage are German, I played the Germans.
Dear reader, imagine if you will the following scene: A group of WWII afficianados get together to play a WWII strategy game in which they will recreate some of the great British and American victories. A young lad would like to play, and he'll play the Germans, which is great because the Germans always lose and nobody wants to play them. The terrain and units are set up in accurate historical detail and everyone is ready for a German slaughterfest.
Only, it turns out that the British commander doesn't manuever well. His spotter and general have raced ahead of the batallion along with a troop carrier, wanting to establish an early vantage point on a nearby hill. The troops and the general race out of the APC and encounter light resistance from the german infantry. Then the mortar stirke is called in.
You can't make an omlet without ham and cheese... or something like that.
"Wait! You can't mortar your own troops!" Ha. Watch me. I'll trade five grunts for your general any day. Goodbye British command, and welcome to panicville. The British flank rolls up under the onslaught of the dreaded King Tigers while entrenched infantry sacrifices themselves against the American armor long enough to collapse the rear and ensure a decisive victory for the Germans.
I'm not sure if it was the fact that the American's lost or the constant barrage of German trash-talk ("Vill you surrender? Vhy so quite? Deutschland uber Alles!"), but the group only played once or twice more before I was curiously not invited back.
I try to be fair. I will help out a novice player for the first few games, but after that it's no holds barred. My philosophy is that if you continue to enable them to play weakly, they have no incentive to get any better. Besides, it's funny to watch a four-year-old cry.
She turned me into a newt! ... I got better...
Ok, maybe I'm not quite THAT terrible, but it is close. I have made a concious effort in recent months to tone this down as much as possible. It's been difficult, but I think I'm getting better. Just the other day I was playing "Lionheart" and I completely resisted the urge to jump up and do the "Medieval Victory Dance" when I won. See? That's progress!
Posted at 11:25 am by plki76
I have been officially requested to never ask this question again:
"Would you say that your belief in a religion is founded upon a complete lack of understanding of science or merely a futile attempt to maintain hope in a world run by tyrannical despots?"
Posted at 05:49 pm by plki76
Where does it hurt?
I recieved an email the other day informing me that there would be chair massages being offered to relieve the stress of daily life around here. Contrary to what the name might imply, a chair massage does not involve someone rubbing down a chair, much much like Girl Scout cookies containing no actual Girl Scouts or Compassionate Republicans containing no actual compassion.
A chair massage is actually a massage given to an individual who is sitting in a contraption straight out of "Medieval Hellish Torture Monthly" (I have a subscription). The victim straddles a bar whilst resting their legs behind them at an angle. The sufferer's face going into this little halo-looking device and the arms get positioned in from on a miniature shelf-thing. In this manner is the sucker's back and kidneys fully exposed to whatever malevolent desires the massage practicioner may have.
No Mammaries to Speak of
I arrive at the room a few minuites early for my appointment and discover, to my great dismay, that the massager is a man. Well, damn. Here I was with a mental image of a leggy blonde named "Bunny"dressed in skipy clothing oiling up my back, and I get some old dude named Steve with an evil gleam in his eye.
Well, whatever, it's disappointing but hey... free massage. Steve asks me to sit in the chair, and I do so. As it turns out, when I place my face into the (much oversized for anyone whose head is not pumpkinish) facehugger I find that my gaze is now directed squarely at Steve's crotch. Oh joy.
I keep repeating my mantra of "free massage" over and over as I close my eyes and wait for Steve to begin. Steve starts off by putting his elbows on either side of my neck and attempting to drive my clavical through the floor.
Ich heisse Helga, und ich hole die SCHMERZ!
Hey, I'll be the first to admit that I haven't had a lot of professional massages in my life. Ok, before today I had none. But I have recieved massages from other people on occasions, and they generally didn't hurt like hell. In fact, they felt pretty darn good. This though. This was just REALLY DAMN PAINFUL. But who am I to say anything? Steve is a professional and must know what he's doing, right? Maybe it's supposed to feel good later or something.
So I'm expecting that at some point Steve-O will start with the actual massaging stuff. You know, moving the hands in circular motions, all that jazz. Like those chairs at Sharper Image, only better, right? No. Steve decides that he is going to lift my arm and move it in little circles while squeezing my shoulder.
It is at this point that I decide that I am in some kind of bizarre human psychology experiment. Steve is actually Dr. Svenson, head of the Institute of Behavioral Science. There is a camera in the room recording my facial expressions and somewhere there is a guy in a little room wondering how long it will take me to tell Dr. Svenson that he is a quack and should release my limbs from his grasp.
And I never saw Steve again
Sadly, Allen Funt never emerges from his hiding place and instead Steve informs me that my time is up. My neck was still as stiff and sore as when I entered, despite the fact that I filled out a little questionare asking me what area I would like him to concentrate on. Of course, given what he did to my shoulders, I'm not sure I could have survived whatever torture he had in mind for my neck...
Posted at 05:03 pm by plki76
Say Hello To My Little Friend!
Dirty Cock-a-roaches
I would like to think that if I ever rise to the head of a large criminal organization I will surround myself with henchmen who are intelligent but not ambitious and ruthless but not psychopathic. These henchmen will at all times have heartbeat sensors on them. That way when they are silently killed by the ninjas that have been sent to attack me, I'll still know about it. I might also have them wear little bells. You know, like cats do. That way I know if they're trying to sneak up on me.
It shouldn't be a problem to staff the headquarters of my crime syndicate. There seems to be no real lack of henchmen to do one's bidding. Rarely have I seen a gangster film where the main characterts are not surrounded by all assortments of weapon-wielding thugees. It's not a bad life, when you think about it. Your main job is basically to stand around with a machine gun for about eighty minutes. Then, with about ten minutes left in the film the action sequence will start. That's pretty much the end of the road for you though. You're just not going to live past the climactic shootout scene if your name is "Criminal #13".
Say goodnight to the bad guy
When I am head of this organization, I will take great pains to eliminate people who are generally considered to be insane. Anyone with a nickname that involves "mad", "crazy" or "sick" gets popped real quick-like. No matter how much they are revered by their peers for their craziness, they will have an accident. One thing that you don't need when you are a prime target is one of your guys randomly deciding to take offense at something that another bosse's henchmen says. This can only lead to tears, bloodshed and your eventual capture or demise.
And speaking of capture, that's one thing that I would plan to avoid. These criminals always seem to be arrested on tax evasion charges. Well, that's just no good. My plan would be to set up some shell company whose cover story is internet gambling. This gambling site would have dummy players who would stop by and convienently lose millions of dollars on a regular basis. Then, you know what, I'd go ahead and pay the damn taxes. Yeah, that's right. I'd pay the taxes. Hell, in that bracket and with a decent lawyer I'd only be paying about $5 annually anyway, so what do I care. Everyone is happy in this situation. The government gets their money, I get my money, and nobody goes to prison
I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.
I will also be sure to not sink into a downward spiral of despair, drugs and alcohol. I will not be melancholy and depressed whilst sitting atop my jewel-encrusted Throne of Power. There will be no binge-drinking alcholoism or inebriated shouting. There's just no point in it. Instead of self-destruction, why not try channeling that energy into something positive. You know, like basketmaking or needlepoint? Something that you can be proud of!
Saldy I don't think that I'm cut out to be the head of a ring of international drug smugglers. It seems like a lot of work. Always having to order people's executions. Eating Italian food all the time. Reloading my gun after spraying bullets everywhere. I think I'd rather just sit in an office chair and write code. Less effort.
Posted at 11:41 am by plki76
I'm only happy when it rains
Here comes the rain again
I live in a city where it rains approximately 200 days out of every year. The rain is a constant companion, kind of comforting in a way. No matter what else happens in life, you can always be sure that those ugly grey clouds are just around the corner, waiting to restore normalcy to life.
The constant rain does have its advantages. The number of depressed people in Seattle is low, because they just don't last that long. The sunlight and the uplifting moods that it brings means that distraught people in California can hang on for months or even years before they finally succumb or get better, but up here they're either getting help or taking the plunge right quick. Plus, there's the savings on sunscreen to take into account. That's gotta add up to at least five, maybe six dollars every year. So, like I said, there are perks.
Raindrops are falling on my head
However, there are also a few downsides. The most annoying downside is the fact that people cannot seem to figure out how to drive when it rains. It's odd, too, since it rains so often. One would expect them to have ample amounts of driving experience in wet weather conditions and be confident in their skills. I would expect people to be cruising around town at 90 miles per hour and power-drifting around corners like some kind of Rally Car driver on crack.
Instead what we get is people who refuse to take their car out of second gear and plod along at approximately thirty miles an hour. If they see a puddle up ahead they will immediately slam on the brakes, lest they go through the puddle only to discover that the road has washed out. Even though the previous ninety cars ahead of them went through without incident, it's better to be safe than sorry. You never know when a sudden sinkhole will appear.
This is especially frustrating when one is riding a motorcycle. My crotch slowly accumulates water as I manhandle the clutch for miles on end behind these drivers. Since they have no concept of how the defogger on their car works, they change lanes without bothering to look, preferring to rely instead on the wisdom of Mr. Kenobi to get them through the day. By the time I get home there is a family of goldfish living in my boxer shorts and my heart is thumping like a motel six headboard.
Singing in the rain
I think that the driving test out here should reflect actual road conditions. None of this "make three left turns and try not to run anyone over while you do it" crap. No, take people out to a track and spray a firehose at their windshield as they attempt to slalom and parallel park. While they're doing that, have little old ladies in huge beater cars come careening at them from random angles while screaming their death kell. Anyone that can't take the pressure is denied a driver's license until they get it right.
Posted at 01:52 pm by plki76
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