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I glanced into the face of my opponent, attempting to obtain some indication
of where his first lunge might be directed. My furtive glance was met only by a
cold, unblinking stare. His face revealed nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as
vacant as a synagogue on Sunday morning, as hard as the stones of Stonehenge.
Despite the complete lack of expression on his face, in his gaze one could not
help but catch something professionally resolute, something which seemed to
drawl in a lethargic monotone, “let’s make this quick and painless, shall
we?” He was good; possibly the best, and he knew it. He knew he had all the
means to win – speed, agility, brawn and brains. He was confident he would
emerge victorious. There was nothing I could do to stop him. Yet my heart was
pure – the ethics of this conflict were as black and white as the field on
which we played. All I stood for was virtuous and upright, while all he stood
for was despicable and vile. Though I was unquestionably the lesser player of
the two, I was righteous, and I would overcome. I had to.
A flash of white light and the ball shot across the swarthy black screen,
bouncing and rebounding in a kinetic dervish of unparalleled audacity. It
rocketed towards my feeble paddle at an astounding speed. By the blessed will of
God, I managed to maneuver my paddle in front of it, reversing the course of the
ball towards my ornery opponent, but before I could regroup myself, the ball was
hurtling back in my direction. I had no time to move in front of it; in an
instant it had vanished off the playing field. “UH-OH.” blared the announcer
in a tone that suggested he was a small forest creature who had been force-fed
helium. His squeaky prepubescent voice was intolerable as it mockingly screeched
the words that signified a victory for my opponent. “Zounds” I thought. I
decided to remain philosophical about the matter – after all, my rival still
had to score 98 points before the match reached its close. I had to put up a
fight. I would not lie down and die like a disheveled cur. My honor would not
allow it.
Towards me flew the ball; again I deflected it, but almost immediately my
opponent shot it back at such an angle that my paddle could not possibly have
been manipulated into position to parry it's thrust. My rival was so experienced
that he wouldn't even allot me the opportunity to defend myself against his
attacks of ever-increasing pinpoint precision. Again the garish squeak of the
announcer - “UH-OH.” Yeah, uh-oh is right, I thought. Even the announcer,
which was likely a hamster hopped up on methamphetamines, could see that I was
no match for this maniacal genius, this master of the game. I stared for a
moment at the face of mine enemy. It was every bit as blank as before, and
though he had no need to keep his poker face on, he chose to anyhow. He was
reveling in my feeble inadequacy. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. It was all
part of his game.
This time when the ball came hurtling towards me I had accepted my fate,
much as does one who suffers from hypothermia. Maybe his cold glare had gotten
to me, or maybe my will had been covered over in a thick layer of frost. Yet
somehow, in spite of my rampant apathy, I managed to move the paddle in the
right direction and to deflect the ball back towards my rival. It was in that
moment I realized hope was not lost. I could win. Damn the odds. I had been the
underdog my whole life, yet I always won anyway. I could do this, for what was
he, my antagonist, but a series of electrical signals? He may have the skill,
the training, the ability, but I had the drive, the soul, the human spirit, and
I'd take all that over all his skills any day. Hell, I realized, in Welsh, my
given name MEANS warrior. All my ancestors were Scottish berserkers. They would
paint their faces with a mixture of their own piss and special plant that turned
blue when mixed with human urine, and charge across the battlefield, often
barefoot, at full gallop wielding swords taller then themselves, IN SKIRTS. My
opponent, the machine, could never paint its face blue with a combination of
plant matter and his own pee because he didn't even excrete urine of any
variety. What kind of warrior, what kind of highland Scotsman would I be if I
curled up and died in the face of something that couldn't even empty it's
bladder on account of not having one? What would my ancestor, Bonnie Prince
Charlie say if he saw me in a dejected stupor of self-doubt?
This time when the announcer bellowed “UH-OH!” in it's nitrous oxide
voice, it was my turn to smile.
In the end I emerged victorious. My opponent lay on the ground, his face
cracked and oozing liquid crystal blood, his feeble electric soul crackling and
escaping into the ether from his broken plastic corpse. It had been a close
match – 99 to 98 (which means I had played 197 matches of pong without so much
as a coffee break) – but in the end I had attained another victory for Man. I
felt like Faust, or Ned Ludd, or Neo, or possibly Ted Kazinsky. I had overcome
the machine (I say possibly Ted Kazinsky because he bombed people because he
hated technology. The important part is that he didn't like machines.) Though he
was a worthy opponent, I had bludgeoned the fucker to death. God had created man
and man had created machine. Man had killed God, but machine could not kill man.
If you don't believe me, just ask the computer that is sitting on the floor of
my room. It won't respond, but you'll get the picture anyway I'm sure.
In case you didn't get how this story was a “review,” I was merely
trying to relate to you that Pong is obscenely dull and tedious and will make
you want to hurt your computer, and will also incite you to make up stories like
the one you just read to restrain yourself from poking your eyes out with
chopsticks and yelling “Mummy, I'm an ostrich. Come bury my head in the
sand.” Pong is mildly entertaining in small doses; however, never set the
number of points you play to before the match is over above whatever the factory
default is. Otherwise you may feel the urge to damage your computer, yourself,
or whatever other articles may be within hand’s reach at the time (in my case,
a thesaurus and a CD entitled “Highland Heroes: The Pipes and Drums of the
51st Highland Brigade”.)
If you want to challenge your computer to a game of this stupid, archaic and
monotonous apparition, you can download it at www.pong-story.com/pcpong.htm,
but I wouldn't recommend it. Neither the staff of bamboozled.org nor the hideous
people at pong-story.com (footnote) should nor can be held legally accountable
for any damage, which may or may not occur to you or your property as a result
of pong. If you do, we'll simply point and laugh at you and you'll feel stupid.
So just remember, PONG WILL FUCK YOU UP MAN.
(footnote)I’m just kidding. We love you, people at pong-story.com.
If you want us to prove it we'll bake you cookies. Please be our friends. All
the other kids hate us cus we're mean. But really, somewhere deep down inside,
we're human just like you, and just like you, all we want is to be loved.
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