Yeah, I know 'em.
In fact, that's my name too.
And whenever I go out, people always shout:
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."
"Na na na na na na na," I say.
"You're thinking of the other guy."
Here's something that the song doesn't mention about ol' John:
Mean drunk.
What's yer game?
I'm not referring to the lies you choose to tell women so as to have sex with them.
I mean your board game.
Those Mormons who have had me over for dinner know that I enjoy Scattegories.
Though, if we're splitting irons and thimbles, Scattegories doesn't involve a board.
I used to play Mouse Trap. Remember that one?
I'd construct the whole mouse trap only to set it off and put the game away again.
Because I had no friends.
Speaking of which, I used to play board games by myself.
Monopoly. I'm not sure what else.
Chess, when I got older.
Our school went through a chess phase in junior high.
Everyone set up boards and played during recess.
This lasted until the adolescent hockey players realized this behaviour wouldn't get them handjobs any sooner, certainly.
Sort of fizzled out after that, leaving only the kids who looked like they should be playing chess playing chess.
Just reread that last sentence. Should make sense this time.
Summers spent on wheels resulted in a lot of board games.
Clue was always a favourite of mine (God knows I'm a sucker for role play ["Oh. What a drag. Miss Scarlett again."]).
Clue's fatal flaw, however, was that its whodunit format necessitated 3 players.
And, as I believe I have mentioned, I used to struggle to find a 2.
Hopelessly romantic and sentimental both, I always wanted to play a game with the whole family.
Just once.
Like the family on the box!
That could be us, right?
Wrong.
If we ever sat to play a board game together, the photo would look like this:
Mom would be rolling the dice with one hand while mashing potatoes with the other.
Dad would be checking his watch (though, in reality, this is something he would never do).
Colin would be complaining that he's bored.
Brian would be stealing fake money from the box.
And Paul?
Well, I'd look the part, actually.
Just like these freaks.
I'd look exactly like the wiener kid in the green polo shirt.
Hand poised, unmoving.
Back then I couldn't understand any of this.
Instead, I'd wonder, "Why can't we sit down together for a nice game of Life?"
It took me so many years to understand the inevitable truth:
No families look like that when they're playing board games together.
No families play board games together (again, Mormons. Mormons are the exception).
That isn't life.
Charlie horses from Brian.
That's life.
Never being able to nap on mom and dad's (motor home) bed because Colin was always asleep on it.
That's life.
Mom and Dad arguing about which exit to take.
That's life.
I couldn't understand that I was in the game already.
Mom and Dad were the blue and pink pegs in the front seat.
The three of us the burdensome blue pegs in the back seat.
It took me years to learn that the game box photo was taken by Santa Clause.
It took me even longer to learn that Life was fun, but life was better.
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