I enjoy playing games with my son. I enjoy watching him happily amusing himself with a game, learning new skills through playtime, but I want to smash Hungry Hungry Hippos with a hammer. I owe my parents a giant apology for playing Hungry Hungry Hippos when I was a kid. That they didn’t sever my arms after listening to the “clack-clack-clack-clack-clack!” saves them seats with the saints. If Damien from The Omen had a game he enjoyed as much as tricycle riding, it would be Hungry Hungry Hippos. I try to avoid saying that I hate anything. Hate is too strong a word for any negativity I feel for anything or anyone. Hungry Hungry Hippos is one of the closest things I can think of that makes me feel anything close to hate. It’s more of an activity than a game. It doesn’t even really require hands or thought, just the ability to somehow mash a lever over and over again and the joy some find in pulling the legs off bugs. The designers of the game should be forced to wake up in the morning to the sound of a Hungry Hungry Hippos tournament.
I need to grow some tolerance regarding Hasbro’s torture device disguised as a game. If kids like it, it must have some value. Maybe Hungry Hungry Hippos is one of those tests that prepare people for true, peaceful Zen experience. It’s like monastic training, where you increase the time it takes to go from “No, it’s fine; go ahead and play,” to “Please, stop playing that thing so we can have just a goddamn minute of quiet!” I have steeled myself that my son will have a few only-child issues, but playing Hungry Hungry Hippos by himself pushes the envelope. When he plays the game, which is normally with my wife, the house turns into one of those scenes in books where authors set ominous tones with places devoid of animal life. Our pets would rather fight ten vacuum cleaners than have to be near Hungry Hungry Hippos. I should rise above the sentiment of our pets and just accept that different people enjoy different types of games. Maybe there is an inherent part of ageing that makes Baby Boomer dads, Generation X dads, and all dads extra sensitive to sounds like the number of times a patio door opens, the number of seconds a refrigerator door stays open, and the number and intensity of each cacophonous “Clack” of a hungry, hungry (good Lord, is it hungry) hippo. In the future, I’ll do my best to smile and not let Hungry Hungry Hippos get the best of me. I think I’ll go mow the lawn.
Have a good day!
Otto Scungy
Hungry Hungry Hippos – 80s commercial
