Category: Games/Toys

Happy Father’s Day

A toast to you, dads and dad figures. This comes the day after Father’s Day by design. I respect your day of dad-ness and all the enjoyment you deserve. In fact, you deserve more than one day, but let’s take the day with gratitude. You do not always display the greatness that lies within, but it is there, waiting for an opportunity to shine to the world.

You have hidden strength that you hone in secret, crushing full garbage to more compact, manageable garbage. That shows thrift, by the way.

Should a challenger come to test your dexterity, you can draw on your reserves, comb in nimble fingers, to deftly give a show of Track and Field arcade tapping. Those are your quarters on top. You always have next!

Some may challenge your memory, citing omitted grocery store items and forgotten birthdays. Ha! Can those doubters recall Dead Ted, Potty Scotty, Windy Winston or Barfin’ Barbara? You can pull Garbage Pail Kids’ names with no effort, and what have they? 

Yes, you dads of perfectly ripe vintage don’t just remember when this was all just fields, but you also remember trekking through that field to rent The Three Amigos from The Movie Shack three times that one summer.

Fly your dad banner and relax, Dads. I will honor you even after that special day.

 

Here’s to you, Dad.

Happy Father’s Day!

Otto Scungy

 

Track & Field

 

The Garbage Pail Kids Movie

 

The Three Amigos

Ravenous, Infuriating, Hell-Spawned Hippos

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