I now have a new void that sucks away my free time. It’s the video game Angry Birds.
I’m not usually a video game addict, but this one is particularly fun. You load kamikaze birds into a slingshot and fling them, causing wood and stones and glass to fall onto little pigs, destroying the conceited little porkers. When you miss and some of the pigs survive, they smile mockingly at you, only redoubling your drive to wipe them out on your next attempt. Who wouldn’t be instantly addicted?
I don’t have the game on my phone, so I can only play it when I manage to weasel my husband’s phone away from him. He tries to tease me about my dependency, but as he only managed to stop playing after he’d beaten all of the levels, there’s not a lot he can say. I like it that he’s already played the levels, though, because it gives me a sense of superiority when I decimate his former excuse for a high score. Recently, after completely obliterating his scores with unceasing regularity, I suggested he call me High Score Kirstin. (Not a double entendre! It applies to Angry Birds prowess only.) He’s resisting the nickname, but I think eventually he’ll crack like a pig’s skull after it’s been struck by shards of glass.
The game is so addicting that I have trouble letting it go when I’m not playing it. The other day, for example, my son brought me his stuffed pig. My immediate thought was that I wanted to crush its head with bits of glass and heavy stones. I didn’t, though. So there you go—Video games don’t really cause people to be violent. It’s all perfectly healthy.
My husband maintains it’s a game of skill, necessitating a mastery of physics. He calculates the best fit equation of the parabola that outlines the trajectory of the slingshotted bird. Then he estimates the angle of inclination before flinging the angry bird at the unsuspecting pigs. I, on the other hand, fling mindlessly. Sometimes I repeat the level several times until, through dumb luck, I stumble out of the level. I marvel at the TNT explosions and general death and destruction and then laugh maniacally at my success. My husband mocks my strategy. But, then, no one calls him High Score Andy.
When you graduate a level, your performance is rated with stars. Three stars is the best possible score, but you can pass a level with only one star. This speaks to the overachiever in me. I want to pass every level with three stars. And I do—They don’t call me High Score Kirstin for nothing—That is, when people finally do start calling me High Score Kirstin, it won’t be for nothing. Maybe I should call my husband One Star Andy.
The real reason I play and enjoy Angry Birds, though, is because of the philosophical lesson it teaches. The birds are angry because the pigs have stolen their eggs. That’s why they launch themselves like sacrificial machetes into the pigs. I think this represents a truth that is stronger than the layers of fort constructed by the thieving pigs. This game demonstrates the fidelity and fierce love of parents for their children, a love that is thicker than the protective helmets worn by the villainous pigs. That’s why I play Angry Birds—not because of the joy I get from crushing my husband’s pathetic excuse for a high score.
I’m not usually a video game addict, but this one is particularly fun. You load kamikaze birds into a slingshot and fling them, causing wood and stones and glass to fall onto little pigs, destroying the conceited little porkers. When you miss and some of the pigs survive, they smile mockingly at you, only redoubling your drive to wipe them out on your next attempt. Who wouldn’t be instantly addicted?
I don’t have the game on my phone, so I can only play it when I manage to weasel my husband’s phone away from him. He tries to tease me about my dependency, but as he only managed to stop playing after he’d beaten all of the levels, there’s not a lot he can say. I like it that he’s already played the levels, though, because it gives me a sense of superiority when I decimate his former excuse for a high score. Recently, after completely obliterating his scores with unceasing regularity, I suggested he call me High Score Kirstin. (Not a double entendre! It applies to Angry Birds prowess only.) He’s resisting the nickname, but I think eventually he’ll crack like a pig’s skull after it’s been struck by shards of glass.
The game is so addicting that I have trouble letting it go when I’m not playing it. The other day, for example, my son brought me his stuffed pig. My immediate thought was that I wanted to crush its head with bits of glass and heavy stones. I didn’t, though. So there you go—Video games don’t really cause people to be violent. It’s all perfectly healthy.
My husband maintains it’s a game of skill, necessitating a mastery of physics. He calculates the best fit equation of the parabola that outlines the trajectory of the slingshotted bird. Then he estimates the angle of inclination before flinging the angry bird at the unsuspecting pigs. I, on the other hand, fling mindlessly. Sometimes I repeat the level several times until, through dumb luck, I stumble out of the level. I marvel at the TNT explosions and general death and destruction and then laugh maniacally at my success. My husband mocks my strategy. But, then, no one calls him High Score Andy.
When you graduate a level, your performance is rated with stars. Three stars is the best possible score, but you can pass a level with only one star. This speaks to the overachiever in me. I want to pass every level with three stars. And I do—They don’t call me High Score Kirstin for nothing—That is, when people finally do start calling me High Score Kirstin, it won’t be for nothing. Maybe I should call my husband One Star Andy.
The real reason I play and enjoy Angry Birds, though, is because of the philosophical lesson it teaches. The birds are angry because the pigs have stolen their eggs. That’s why they launch themselves like sacrificial machetes into the pigs. I think this represents a truth that is stronger than the layers of fort constructed by the thieving pigs. This game demonstrates the fidelity and fierce love of parents for their children, a love that is thicker than the protective helmets worn by the villainous pigs. That’s why I play Angry Birds—not because of the joy I get from crushing my husband’s pathetic excuse for a high score.
