I’ve said more cuss words since Friday night than I’ve likely ever said in my entire life. If you know me then you know that’s quite a feat. I’ve been known to make a truck driver blush. Some might call my fondness for a good cuss word gauche. I like to think of it as a talent. I’ve nearly mastered using each and every cuss word in all parts of speech. You like the F-bomb? I can use it as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an adverb. Imagine that! Think the C-word is far too offensive? Think again. I can make the C-word sound like butter rolling off the tongue with a sweet southern accent to boot. I’ve used both words (and more) incessantly since Friday night, but I’m not taking responsibility for my actions. In fact, the blame rests squarely on the shoulders of The Kid.
Let me explain.
I used to be cool and with my coolness came knowledge about things, cool things. But as every parent knows there comes a time when you become no longer cool. For a couple of years I have felt my coolness waning and during this time I have tried to determine exactly when it is that a parent’s coolness completely dies. What I’ve decided (and I think I’m pretty spot on) is that a parent is no longer cool as soon as their kid becomes cool – like at the exact moment that they become cool. Now, there is a phenomenon associated with the loss of coolness. I like to call this phenomenon the “You don’t know shit anymore” phenomenon. When this stage of parenthood rears its ugly head you find yourself asking questions like “Why can’t I get this computer to turn on?” “What’s a Snap Chat?” “What in the hell does KMSL mean?” and “Windows 8, what the fuck?” You have to ask The Kid who the half-naked girl is with a foam finger practically in her vagina performing at the VMAs (try having that conversation with a 14 year old), and who sings that ridiculous fox song. Finally, you find yourself only downloading games from the App Store after seeing The Kid play them because if the kid is playing them they must be cool, right?
The answer is no. Absolutely not.
On Friday night, after seeing The Kid play, I downloaded Flappy Bird.
And now we’ve come full circle.
If you are not familiar with Flappy Bird (which I’m sure you are. It’s probably been cool for a long time but because I’ve lost my cool status I’m just finding out about it), the most important thing you need to know is that you should not download it. My reasons are simple. The game is sinister, deceitful, and it just slam pisses me off. At first glance the game seems simple enough. Reminiscent of an 8-bit video game (like the ones I played when I was cool) the game features a stupid, cute, fat bird with Julia Roberts lips. The only objective of the game is to fly the stupid bird between two Super Mario-esque tunnels – one that sticks out of the ground and the other that defies gravity and hangs from the sky. Apparently, you fly the stupid bird by simply tapping the screen. That’s it. It’s that simple. Except it’s not. It is the hardest damn game I have ever played in my entire life. Hit the ground and BAM, you die. Hit a tunnel and BAM, you die. Graze a tunnel and BAM, you die. Gently sweep your Julia Roberts bird lip against a tunnel and BAM, you die. You have one life, no extra men/birds, and you die practically before you even die.
And my high score is 8.
This game has caused me so much grief in the last 72 hours, I have taken 2 Aleve, a cool orange Goody power, two Zantac (one generic, one real), drank a bottle of Aldi wine, eaten a half pint of Half Baked, and I have used every cuss word known to man – every single one and I’ve probably made up a few of my own along the way. I still haven’t given up on Flappy Bird, though. I’m determined to score in the double digits. Believe me when I say scoring double digits in this game makes you some sort of deity. Until then, if you happen to be riding by and hear a few (more than a few) foul words, just blame it on The Kid. It’s all her fault.
A DAMN EIGHT!