A Few Good Lines

It’s nearly quarter to 1AM and the boys are arguing in the other room about what late night game to play: Call of Duty or the Zombie game within Call of Duty. A four-player limit finds me the fifth wheel, and I bow out to play some Starcraft.  Kevin is sleeping behind me, having passed out hours earlier.  Every half-hour he mumbles incoherent curses in his sleep, a sign my roommate’s sleeping peaceful (the boy is never happy unless he’s not), rousing himself as Ryan begins his recital in the other room.  I do not know what prompts it, perhaps the excitement for digital battle, the click of electronic triggers, the tinkling of bullets on 3-D landscapes.  His voice begins low, gradually crescendo-ing into a rebel shout, a call to arms for humans against the inhuman, a love-letter to the battle-borne and bullet-ridden:

“Good evening,” he begins. ” In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind. “Mankind.” That word should have new meaning for all of us today. We can’t be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will be united in our common interests. Perhaps it’s fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom… Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution… but from annihilation.”

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This Little Job of Mine

The first day of our Disney vacation (as appose to our ‘road trip vacation,’ ‘St. Augustine vacation’ or ‘cabernet-induced vacation’) found Tropical Storm Debbie hovering over our resort like a large fly buzzing a particularly spacious picnic.  Other families may feel flummoxed by the gloomy weather, bolting themselves inside until the sun should emerge to chase away the gloom to some other, less entertaining state . . . like Ohio, but the Murphey clan does not shrink from natural calamities.  We simply bought a quiver of over-priced Disney umbrellas and trod to the local cinema . . . like men! Continue reading

A Warning

Suddenly Shannon dived across the driving wheel, grabbing the switch for the Explorer’s high beams.  The oncoming Lincoln Towncar and its senior pilot, soaring down the highway nearly ten miles below the speed limit, were well-warned of the speed trap on the far side of the reservoir.  My brother seemed pleased with his stealth attack — despite the fact that I nearly lost control of the car.  He had won.  I had lost.

“We’re thirty feet from the cop car, dude,” I screamed.   “A red and blue flashing atop hill, visible for half-a-mile.  Why flash my own lights?  It’s like pointing out the obvious.” Continue reading

Snow Recovery Plan

We stand at the edge of a storm, the third in the last week, predicted to unload another six inches of snow overnight.  Like prison bars, the icicles stretch far outside the windows down to the lower drifts, which swollen with the piles deposited from the roof consumes much of the view of the back porch and my lil’ sister if she should venture outside.   The blizzards of the last few weeks were efficient tyrants, burying all of the driveway, several of vehicles,  and most of the house, locking its occupants inside together for a week.  And still it continues to fall.  After only a few days, the kids grew tired of the house walls and the blank empty landscape outside.  Pining for girlfriends and jobs, the boys race outside with snow shovel and plow as soon as the last flakes fell, eager for the return of status quo.

The Prison Bars

The Prison Bars

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My Brother Mike Is A Jackass

by Shannon Murphey

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but my brother, Mike, who styles himself here on this blog as Murph is really in truth a jackass.  It’s truly funny how nowadays essential information like this can be hidden or deleted among the wires and all the other ego-pandering junk on the internet.  By the end of the year, after reading this drivel, he might have you believing himself to be Mother Theresa or Spiderman, but trust me, in reality he wouldn’t stretch out a finger to help anyone, much less a half-dead Indian orphan or the even pope.  Nor can he shoot webs out his wrists.  He’s just a jackass.

Just last week he refused to help me clean out the kitty-litter, claiming he is allergic to the cats and ran from the room sneezing in that melodramatic way of his.  I was stuck with the job, while he snuck downstairs to play COD or Puzzle Quest.  Then for Christmas, while everyone else got cool T-shirts that read “Double Tap” or “Zombie Killer” with shotguns in place of the ‘L’s,’ that jackass got me an “I’m with Stupid” T-shirt with the arrow pointing up.  Hahaha.  Everyone got a big kick out of that one.  Just you wait Mike.  I’ll beat you down so hard, your legs will come shooting out your ears.  Who’ll look stupid then, huh?  I’ll give you hint: the correct answer lies between the letters ‘T’ and ‘V,’  you jackass.

Today was the final straw, that loser who never had a girlfriend, not even ONE while I’ve had at least a dozen (how does that make you feel, ya queer?), had the nerve to talk trash after I beat him in Mario Tennis on the Wii.  He won a single match and you would have thought he was Andre Agasi or something.  Hey, jackass, swinging the Wii-mote doesn’t make you an athlete.  If you work up a sweat from pulling your fat rear from the Lazy Boy and flapping your arms, then you should try walking up the stairs every once in a while.  When you get to the top, I’ll throw on my steel-toed boots and show you my impression of Gerard Butler in 300.

This is Sparta, ya Jackass!

Now some of you family counselors or psychiatrists might argue about family dynamics or some other hippie-shrink bullcrap that Oprah shovels out every afternoon. You want family dynamics?  Charley Keaton’s brother taught him how to skin deer when he was twelve.  Kevin Kramer’s bro taught him how to build a potato gun when he was six.  The guys would spend their summer nights laughing, driving around the neighborhood, skinning animals they’d hit while launching taters at tractor trailers.  Havin’ a frickin’ awesome time like brothers are supposed to do.  The only thing Mike taught me was growing up to be an outta-work bum blows chunks.  If he ever learned how to build a potato gun, he’d probably use it on himself.  Death by starchy french fry is more than you deserve, ya jackass.

Just last weekend, I was minding my own business, shooting Nerf arrows at my sister until she cried, when that hobbit-wannabe walked in barefoot and suggested I go read a book.  Yeah right, Frodo Gamgee, why don’t you go get yourself a real job like a construction worker or kickboxer instead of playing boy-toy and apple-polisher to old Will Shakespeare.  I may never bury Caeser or Horatio but I will bury you one day beneath your library.  As a kindness, I might open War and Peace to your favorite page before lighting it on fire and dropping it on your stupid face.  How’s that for sound and fury, ya jackass?

On second thought, maybe I’ve gone too far, said too much.  You’re not such a bad guy.  We’ve had lots of good times together, right?  Remember that time I brought my girlfriend home for dinner and you brought out those old photos of me as a kid, grinning in curls, bows, and blue skirts Mom made me wear for Halloween?  Hahaha . . . and then you posted them on Facebook for the world to see.  Ah, good times.  So many . . . good times.  You know, I think about her now and then as the pain wells in my chest, her laughter nearly ripping my heart in two, but family trumps girlfriends, right?  Of course.  And when I’m done with trumping you with this shovel, the only photogenic spot left on your body will be your pale hairy ass, ya jackass.

“Friday I’m in Love”

Geekdom is crimping CAT-6 cables at eleven o’clock on a Friday night, discussing romance stories with your younger brother only to realize that most your suggested reading involve mutants, Spiderman, and young adult literature by Lloyd Alexander.  After heartily recommending the Black Cauldron for the sixth or seventh time, Shannon stole up to his room with a copy of Tolkien’s Farmer Giles of Ham, leaving me to pen this short post and consider shooting gargoyles online or returning to my collection of fairy tales by George MacDonald.

Geekdom is congratulating each other for defeating Bowser in Super Mario Wii, accompanied by loud cheering, high-fives, and several cycles of “You Da Man!” and “No, you da man!” with your baby sister and her best friend.

Geekdom is finding yourself inspired after several minutes staring at anime figurines unsheathing claymores on your VCR, while Bob and Bing croon Dorothy in Morocco on your television screen. You run upstairs for a cup of chocolate milk before Abbot and Costello Meet the Invisible Man.

Geekdom is knowing how lame this must sound to most people and realizing in one instance that you don’t really care.  You dip another cookie into your milk as Costello runs screaming from the room.

A Game of Life or Death

Lately I’ve been Puzzle Quest-ing for my health, jumping on the treadmill whenever I want to game.  Possessing one of those mediocre minds that becomes bored quite easily, in order to exercise efficiently for any length of time requires a distraction, some outlet for my mind as my body goes about the business of toning itself.  Movies or the morning’s SportsCenter typically satisfies most folks, but in this case predictable plots haunt most of the cable HBOs.  And sports just bore me, thus reminding me of my legs, the sweat, and that gnawing pain in my lungs.

The difficulty in this activity of course is finding the right game, as all do not apply themselves well to the constant motion and noise associated with cardio-exercise.  Castlevania: Symphony of the Night worked quite well as did other 2-D platformers.  Story-based RPGs found me jumping off the treadmill in order to listen to dialogue.  Initiating the intricate commands of Street Fighter or fast-paced headshots of Call of Duty while your body (literally) is in motion left me crippled, dying from zombie bites or roundhouse fireball to the face.  Duct-taping the Rock Band drums to the adjacent bookcase, I nearly stabbed myself with the sticks.

PuzzleQuest requires little in the way of ‘game learning:’ no intricate controls, combos, or plot-driven cyphers to memorize.  Players match jewels, skulls, and coins and use the collected matches to hurl spells at zombies, ogres, and minotaurs.  The thrill in itself is simple: the cascading gems chime out bonus points, extra turns, and created weaponry.  Control in hand, I could run for hours and never notice what had so completely distracted my lower half, while my thumb successfully cast bolt lightning and saved the world.

My motivations for exercise requires some explanation.  Outside the obvious drive to remain healthy and mobile, reducing the fate of one day donning pants fashioned from sizable circus tents, I fear an abscess of sloth might reduce or stymie my desire to write effectively.  That’s one excuse at any rate.  The primary drive is purely competitive in nature: as Dasad strives everyday to run, leap, and even doggie-paddle during his free time, training for various club sports and other sweat-inducing activities, I dare not let that bum get too fit, too fast.  He might actually acquire the energy and quickness to beat me in Tekken, and that I can never allow.

Lately my friend has joined that special clique of Americans that run marathons and jogs in the wee hours of the day in tight shorts.  You might notice him or one of his brethren racing along the shoulder at three in the morning or seven o’clock at night, florescent tags stapled to their Speedos, faces flush with sweat and exhaustion.  I often wonder what runners consider while retracing their respective trails every morning.  Don’t they get bored after a while?  I’d be sorely tempted after fifteen minutes to find myself something new, pausing on a park bench to consider the scenery, the stars, or the scents wafting from the corner Starbucks.  Indeed I cannot criticize their focus, but certainly my ADD would not be able to suffer the repetitious movements, the struggle against muscle and fat, the absence of meaningful words scattered among the neighborhood woodlands.

For what purpose, I ask you?  Why do we pay the monthly fees for gyms, the twenty-first century equivalent of a torture chamber?  Health of course is the obvious answer, forever linked with suffering and physical pain.  The digital realm and the computer, a god in its own right, demands the daily sacrifice of time, energy, and those size 36 pants you’ve kept since college.  Unlike our ancestors, we work not to survive.  The dinosaurs are extinct; Nature’s predators are stored away in zoo or protected by countless government edicts; even Maryland deer bounce off the sides of our Excursion as we cruise up the road to the grocer’s for milk.  The Wild is conquered.  We run not to survive another day, but to avoid fusing with our sofas.

Thus, with the snow building outside and my mind now fully awake, my body creaks and groans, demanding exercise.  I shall grab my shoes and hop on the treadmill, controller in hand.  Until they begin cloning dinosaurs, this is the best I can do.

Party like a Rock Star

Indulged any residual All Hallow’s Eve hunger for the strange and weird with a second helping of ZombieLand tonight in the bowels of our nation’s capital.  Meanwhile Mom, Kate, Bree and  our cousin Kathleen learned about friendship, celebrity, and sequined hot pants at  the Miley Cyrus concert next door.  Having carted my group of screaming girls to the arena (Mom wisely brought earplugs), I strode off to the local theater for a flix, accompanied by a host of lucky fathers, who had managed to escape the two-hour scream-fest in favor of blood-spewing zombies.

Fascination with undead violence is a universal man-love, much like weaponry, alcohol, and mammary glands.  Watching bits and pieces of animated corpses explode or disintegrate, or smashed to applesauce with giant carnival mallets reaches deep into our collective male pleasure nodes.   Imagine yourself armed with only a shotgun or a Ford Excursion (a tank on wheels) mowing down crowds of incarnate demons and your lips begin to quiver ever so slight . . . Heh heh heh.

Unfortunately our arrival at the concert was not half as cathartic.  In an effort to save the environment, Miley instituted a paper-less entry, which meant that we needed to swipe our credit cards in order to enter the arena.  Which meant we could not give tickets to others, driving separately.  Which meant I had to swipe nearly sixteen people into a venue, I myself would not see.  Which meant I was confused as hell.

Luckily Dad solved most of our problems by paying others to solve them for us.  As a kindness for buying the tickets in bulk, our ticket vendor guided the girls inside without any qualms or anxious glances.  I was free to see my show and the girls were free to squeal and giggle loudly at theirs.   We left early from the concert to emerge first-in-line for D.C. traffic, complicated by lane closures and road work, but all in all, we arrived back home healthy, exhausted, and wise enough to stay home for the next two weeks.

In the meantime, I’m off to kill some zombies on the Xbox before bed.  Somehow it just relaxes me . . .

Lightning Crashes

Internet deprivation has once again driven me to people-gaze at Panera Bread. Last night with the sound of thunder and a few rogue sparks, our modem fried: circuit boards blackened, wires caramelized. The sequence of events that followed our bandwidth’s demise is akin to the first radio broadcast of Wells’ “War of the Worlds:”

FLASH!  BOOM!

FLASH! BOOM!

FLASH!

BOOM!

Zap!

Pop!

Fzzzzzz . . .

Screaming . . .

“Murph, the internet died!”

“No Internet? Son of a &%$@! What about my &#%$ exam tomorrow?!”

“Wait, that means Xbox Live is down too . . .”

“What no Call of Duty? No COD?!”

More screaming ensues. Fire, flames, flood . . . The dead rising from their graves . . . Dogs and cats living together . . .

You get the point. Needless to say the fam is quite indisposed at the moment. Shut off as we are from the digital world, it’s like we’ve gone back in time to the early 80s or worse, the 70s. Shudder. My job as the house’s IT specialist (Ha!) is to carry out any necessary or immediate digital transactions in their stead. I scribe a list or two, much like a digital grocery list, and venture off into the world to search for potential WiFi hotspots . . . hopefully one with food too.

This morning as storms slide silently across the sky, butting up against one another with the grace and violence of rival hockey teams, I shuffled out into the rain, seeking potential hotspots like early man sought the warmth of campfires. Nowadays even the supermarket offers WiFi access beckoning laptop owners with Starbucks coffee and a buy-one-get-one-free deal on eggs. After some deliberation (having skipped breakfast, an omelet sounded good), I drove to Panera, deciding against the much preferred local booksellers in exchange for Panera Bread’s above-average iced tea and a WiFi connection without the fifteen dollar access fee.

Luckily they were still serving breakfast.

One egg sandwich (Wahoo!) and a half-a-gallon of unsweetened tea later, I settled in my chair and examined my fellow customers while my laptop blinks and buzzes to life. The bakery was veritably empty (the din of my laptop’s start menu sounded like a foghorn), only a dozen or so old women and men spending their retirement munching on Asiago-baked bagels and reading the latest Patricia Cornwell.

tread_ellipticalsStretching my legs toward the fire I noticed . . . did I mention there was a fire? No? Ah well, much like those found in a ski lodge (or at least those ski lodges I’ve seen on television), the fireplace sat in the middle of the room, encased in iron and mesh and formed the lower portion of one of the bakery’s supporting pillars. Three soccer moms had also cuddled up beside the gas-powered furnace, warming water-soaked feet and discussing the benefits of various exercise equipment:

Woman in Sneakers: “Look, you don’t understand. Everyone says the Elliptical feels better on the knees, but you have to work twice as hard to even feel tired.”

Woman with Floral Purse: “But a treadmill is just running. You can do that anywhere.”

Sneakers: “Not in thirty-degree weather you can’t.”

Woman with One Eyebrow: “Martha’s husband, Bill, nearly died on a treadmill just last year. Alice, you remember.”

Sneakers: “He was close to eighty though.”

Eyebrow: “Six children, nine grandchildren . . . shame.”

Pause.

Purse: “Alice, how much did you pay for your Elliptical again?”

I tuned out the eavesdropped conversation as the women discussed prices, department sales, and their children’s third quarter grades. My attention returned to my email. One of my classmates had written to me, eagerly asking if I passed my Comprehensive Exams. Over the past semester after a poor showing during the first round of exams (I got a little too creative with my essays and failed – I promise to write more on that debacle later; professors despite popular opinions do not appreciate thematic subtlety.), my professor worked with me to help shape my writing into something more straightforward, indifferent, and blunt like a fill-in-the-blank quiz. Another fail and I’d be forced to shell out more tuition for another round of classes. No one wanted that – least of all me.

Master's Degree . . . Wahoo!

Master's Degree . . . Wahoo!

I had anticipated the exam results in another week or so; thus, with beating heart, I filtered through the last day’s mail, avoiding several Victoria’s Secret ads and a 40% off Borders coupon – save those for later. A quick scan of my inbox found the desired email. Praise be . . . I passed my Comprehensive Exam. Masters Degree! Another letter or so behind my name. Another piece of paper . . . Wahoo!

In celebration I consumed a tomato and mozzarella Panini and another large iced tea – ‘cause that’s how I roll. Immediately I signed onto Gmail and told Dasad, who after happily congratulated me, waited a few seconds before popping the dreaded question:

“So now what?”

The question seemed to hover in the air for several precious minutes, while I attempted futilely to understand what he meant. No dice. Instead I watched an old lady in pink sweats and matching headband refill her coffee before responding.

“Wait . . . Huh?”

“Job-wise, what’s the plan now? Library? Some office somewhere? That government job you talked about? What?”

“I-I don’t know,” I typed, including the stammer for effect. Don’t get me wrong. The question presented itself each and every day for the past twenty-years or so, but finding myself with little to no resources to adequately answer it, I proceeded to procrastinate my response, putting any serious thought until school ended, until I graduated college, until I finished my research, until I got my Masters. Now I began to wonder if I could push the decision back until I got married, but realized the wait would be too long even by my standards.

Still the books don’t buy themselves. Writers are more numerous than PhDs; the market is saturated as any blogger can admit. Perhaps it’s time to stop seeking an ideal job, and instead find something stable . . .

Still stability was never my thing; I approach jobs like a nomad considers borders. One comes to relish the absence of routines, tomorrow’s unexpected creation or journey. As Weezer sings (da da da . . . sucking up to Bob, growing old and hoping there’s a God) too many of us live merely to extend existence, cradle to the grave with my hand on the snooze alarm.  And that doesn’t sound very appealing either . . .

Still one must grow up sometime – in theory. I suppose that I’m still looking for that perfect middle ground . . .

“Well,” Dasad writes. “Personally I think you’ll get bored at a library. Too much repetition, you know? Not enough reading or at least discussion about reading.”

“Yeah . . . You wouldn’t happen to have any positions like that at your place, eh? Storytime leader for the IT consultants?”

“Would there be nap time and snacks?”

“Sure.” After all everyone loves cookies and sleep.

“Will look into it,” Dasad writes following up with a smiley face. “Just nothing too fantasy-based. If I can’t stomach Tolkien, any lesser master will send me retching . . .”

“You kiddin’? Nothing but O’Henry for this soon-to-be-unemployed student.”

“Ha,” Dasad laughs. “Tales of hobos and tramps, eh?”

“We all have our heroes. Poets, writers, and academia-addicts like me need to extract inspiration from somewhere. Why not the wandering minstrel or out-of-work vagabond? As long as it gives me story-fodder and time to write, right? Maybe I’ll consider teaching for a while too. At least then I’ll have my summers off . . .”

“Bum, why not just work for the government?”

“And eschew my last ounce of dignity?” I laughed taking my last sip of iced tea. “Even gypsies have their pride . . .”

Nothing is really work unless you would rather be doing something else. — James Barrie

Modern Methusala

The tables at Bertucci’s had appeared swarming with high school kids and college freshmen. The only couple over thirty sat in the middle of the room, donning festive NASCAR top hats around gray heads and looking quite bewildered – a fact partly due to age, partly due to the environment, but mostly due to the hats. The rest of the nubile crowd chatted noisily. A group of high school girls held conference behind us, practicing imperfect similes:

“Sorry guys for being like so late. We like got held up by like a thousand lights on the way.”

“No one calls sprinkles Jimmies.”

“No one calls sprinkles Jimmies.”

The kitchen clattered and steamed with thin-crust pizza, delivered to tables where GameBoys sang with squealing tires and power-ups. Therefore, when Dasad and I later made our way into the TCBY, it felt a little strange to be standing in line with seven or eight gray-haired seniors.

“Are we old?” Dasad asked afterwards.

“No, I just think we picked a very mature ice cream parlor, that’s all,” I said digging into my peanut butter parfait.

“Do you think we’ll be doing the same thing twenty, thirty years from now? Hobbling to the nearby fat free yogurt stand for waffle cones and white chocolate soft serve?”

“. . . and jimmies,” I helpfully add.

“Huh?”

“Jimmies, you know, the sprinkles you pour over ice cream.”

“That’s not the right word,” Dasad corrected. “No one calls sprinkles ‘jimmies.’”

“Sure they do. I just did.”

“It sounds like drug slang: ‘Give me a nickel bag of jimmies, man. The good stuff.’ ”

“No, its sprinkles, chocolate or rainbow colored. Jimmies.”

“One day I must learn this dialect you practice so well. Do you think we’ll be spendin’ our Fridays outside a TCBY?” Dasad asked for another attempt at focus. “For that matter, what will we be doing ten twenty years from now?

The question has merit. In the spring of my life, I constructed a bucket list of sorts, a short repository of aims and goals for the future.

  • Find true love
  • Save a life
  • Be a good brother, friend, husband
  • Get in shape
  • Travel the world
  • Win the Pulitzer Prize
  • Write a work of fiction that will stand the test of time (perhaps children’s lit)
  • Kill a dragon with my bare hands

dragonslayAlright perhaps not the most reasonable goals (especially that last one), but then your life’s pursuits should never be too modest or probable. It’s the impossibility of it all that makes it worth pursuing in the first place. As of this moment, I have yet to achieve . . . well anything. But although scratching off any item on my list may seem like carving Mount Rushmore with a toothpick, if you never give up, you’re that much closer than those who do.

Despite our accomplishments though, I do not believe people change that much. When she was a girl, my grandmother would travel downtown via street car to the movie theater, watch movies all day for a nickel. Today she spends her free time poised before Turner Classic Movies and field trips to see the latest Oscar nominees. My great-grandfather during Prohibition concocted booze in his bathtub. I recall his lavish parties, where beer and booze would fill the glasses of all guests, regardless of race, creed or legal drinking age.

Dasad and I arrived back home and nestled our aging bodies down in plush armchairs. The TV and the Xbox hummed into life. We see the familiar devastation, silhouetted against a blood red sky, a large rotating cog and a grinning skull where the sun once stood. Horde mode loads.

“I think we’ll probably be doing the same thing we’re doing now.” I pushed a few buttons, trying to remember which trigger button controlled the aim.

I could see ourselves, sitting in the same chairs, obsessed with the latest cooking show, playing the latest video game: virtual reality Tetris or Super Mario Multi-verse perhaps.

Dasad nodded. “Is that sad? Should we feel disappointed by that?”

“Oh well, more yogurt for us . . . "

“Oh well, more yogurt for us . . . "

“Well,” I considered. “We might be married with kids by then. That’d be cool. Plus when your fifty-something, you get to eat as much yogurt as you want, right?”

“Is that why so many old people were at TCBY?”

“Probably, because it’s soft and relatively fat-free, they suck it down,” I say, “Ooo . . . got boomed.”

“On it. Why’s that matter?” Dasad said navigating his character through the debris, where I lay bloody and crawling.

“Because old folk are more health conscious, and many have trouble chewing. You know, dentures and all that.” I wrapped my lips over my teeth and mimed someone gumming their vanilla mocha yogurt.

“So what you’re suggesting,” Dasad laughed, “is that when we’re fifty, we’re going to be sitting in the same chairs . . .”

“. . . well not the same chairs, perhaps something more comfortable and ergonomically satisfying . . .”

“Whatever . . . wasting our Saturday nights playing the same games – or the future equivalent,” he added before I could interrupt. “And all this will be ok, because we’ll be consuming vast amounts of fat free yogurt . . .”

“ . . . with chocolate jimmies . . .”

“Shut up, there’s no such thing . . . and teaching our kids and wives how to kill undead hordes, alien swarms, or subterranean invaders? Is that it?”

“Yes, only our wives are super hot, and my kids are showing your kids our shared manga collections and anime DVDs,” I smile. “Oh, that will be a grand day.”

“My kids,” Dasad frowns, “will never see your kids – unless it is Thursday. Thursdays are the days when my kids make your kids eat grass. We’ll call them green ‘jimmies.’”

“Hmph, try as you might, my kids will train early on, mastering their Tekken, Street Fighter, and Soul Caliber. By the time their twelve, they’ll have mastered all the world’s fighting styles rendered into the virtual world. They’ll be able to shoot fireballs from their hands.” My geekdom knows no bounds.

kawaii_hat“That’ll work well until my kids Asian genes kick in . . .”

“Ha, my kids will be exposed to so much manga and anime that they’ll be more Asian than you by the time the next Thursday rolls around.”

The game stalls for a moment or two. Desad walks into an empty room and suddenly finds himself out in the open surrounded by subterranean mutants. Mine is the sole character left. I run him towards the bridge for the final stand when the screen goes red: disconnected from server.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I mutter.

“That there’s not a Hell’s chance we’re ever going to reproduce.”

“It’s probably better for everyone, you know?” I say dropping my controller to the floor.

“Oh well, more yogurt for us, I suppose,” Dasad shrugged.

“And chocolate . . .”

“Shut it.”