Dude, they're more than just games!

By Felix Carroll

Ever since a bunch of prudes in California tried to prohibit the sale of violent video games to minors, they come to me, the creators of these sublime electronic art forms that make educational use of chainsaws and dismemberment. Mischaracterized, unjustly treated, hunted down — they seek wisdom and a reprieve from the mad world of the Mommy State.

Have I even introduced myself? Maybe you’ve heard of me. A child of the 80s, during what’s called the “Golden Age” of video games, I’ve never given up the ghost, never sold out (unlike all of my so-called childhood “friends” who now have so-called “jobs” and raise so-called “families” and have so-called “concerns” that many video games have gone “way too far” and that their children's classmates believe that fictional urination upon fictional victims is just another way of saying “Rest in peace, dear friend.”) ...

Anyway, unless you’ve lived under a rock for the past 30-plus years, you’ll recognize me as the man who brought the video game “Pong” to its next inevitable incarnation — “Beer Pong” (a variant of “Pong” involving a ping-pong ball, a co-ed dorm, and the consumption of lots of beer) and then later “Heroin Pong” (a variant of “Beer Pong” involving a ping pong ball that can no longer be located, a certain powerful opiate, and a condemned apartment building populated with trim people whose friends have all abandoned them).

Here in my bunker behind an abandoned bowling alley where I hold vigil with a lazar gun trained on the heavens (because the space invaders will be here soon, yes they will) the creators of such super-awesome modern games as “Manhunt” and “Postal 2” visit me seeking counsel. I guess you could say they are seekers, and in me they find their guru.

And yes, I wear a saffron-robe. And yes I give them lengthy pep talks the first Friday of the month and every other waxing gibbous. And except for potty breaks, I remain in the lotus position (and I’m not talking about the IBM software either, man!). And every person in their right mind credits my karmic/cosmic/phlegmatic/aromatic energy waves for influencing the Supreme Court in June to strike down California prudes, ruling it unconstitutional to regulate the sale or rental of violent video games to minors.

I sometimes feel like a voice crying in the wilderness, but we who were raised on “Space Invaders,” “Pac-Man,” “Donkey Kong,” and “Frogger" have an obligation to support this new generation of video game creators who have blessed our world with photorealistic, interactive, existential struggles involving stalking, gory bludgeoning, impalement, and death.

Jeez, everyone (except maybe psychologists, sociologists, the American Academy of Pediatrics, cops, clerics and educators) knows full well there’s no cause-effect relationship between a child's prolonged exposure to sadistic video games and what those do-gooders call “aggressive behavior, anxiety, bullying and desensitization.”

Still, modern gamers cannot rest easy. Those Propriety Police are still out to get us, which explains why my docket remains full. These modern Michelangelos come to me just as seekers of a different age sought out Shirdi Sai Baba, or Mother Meera, or Jack LaLanne.

Why just two weeks ago, riding in the back of a 300-foot stretch limo, the creators of "Postal 2" made a pilgrimage to me. Together, we celebrated the Supreme Court ruling as a victory for free speech. Then they flattered me with a few rounds of “Postal 2” in which we killed cats, slammed a woman in the face with a shovel, decapitating her, and tallied the "Number of People Murdered," "People Roasted" and "Heads Exploded by Shotgun.”

“Gentlemen,” I said as they prepared to depart, “bravo! What you’ve created here is nothing less than a brilliant teaching device for conflict resolution and hand-eye coordination.”

When the creators of "Mortal Kombat 9" sat by my feet and showed me their wares, I said, “Gentleman, I don’t care what the namby-pampies

say: Any game in which we are invited to eat off an opponent's head, pull out their stomach and slice them in half with a buzzsaw is a character-building experience in my book!"

Similarly, my mouth was agape at the selfless act of community service evinced by the geniuses of "Grand Theft Auto," which aids in building friendships, a respect for deadly weaponry and the appreciation of how fleeting life can be.

Gosh, if we only had those games around when I was 13. But I've certainly built a life for myself just the same. Yep, I've got my bunker and zero regrets. Long ago I decided against being co-opted by The Man. I gave up the plumbing trade, having learned from “Donkey Kong” that it’s only a matter of time before I’d be smooshed by a series of rolling barrels heaved by an angry ape. (And you know what?

It’s high time damsels take ownership of their own distress!)

Besides, 400,000 games of “Pac-Man” during my ductile years taught me that life is a maze and that the more coinage you waga, waga, waga upon, the more you’re haunted by ghosts until you’re — Bing-boowoo-el — dead!

(Don’t you get it, people? Blinky, Pinky, Inky and Clyde: That’s just a clever play upon Business Partner Innovation Centers, owned and operated by IBM Premier Business Partners. And everyone knows that IBM is just a one-letter shift from HAL, the evil-red-camera-eyed, eavesdropping supercomputer in “2001: A Space Odyssey.")

Look, I’m not saying I’m perfect. Having never made it through the first level of “Frogger,” I assumed it was only speeding automobiles responsible for the annihilation of our cute, little, hopping friends.

Gamers more skilled than me have since informed me that crocodiles, snakes and otters also bear some responsibility. (I really wish I’d known that before my anti-modern screeds influenced a whole generation of eco-terrorists in the Pacific Northwest.)

Ah, who cares! For this old wise man, when it comes to video games, Yin Yang my ass!