When Doves Cry...And Shit All Over You

"If I keep smiling he won't know that I'm completely dead inside."

When I was sixteen (16) I worked at a Hy Vee grocery store in Council Bluffs, IA. It was my first real job. I had to dress nice (tie and slacks), converse with customers, associate with co-workers, and in return I was awarded a pretty solid paycheck...well, as solid as fifteen (15) hours a week at six (6) dollars an hour can be. I remember my first paycheck was actually for seventeen (17) dollars. I left the store that night thinking, "It feels like it should be more." Working for Hy Vee was probably one of the worst jobs I have ever had. Sacking groceries and ringing up customers at the check-out line is usually not a good environment for someone who has an innate aversion to other human beings. My tenure was a little less than a year, but in that time I never bothered to learn where things were, so when a customer asked me where the chili powder was I told her it was my first day. At drive-up one night I misread the number on a woman's receipt and actually put the wrong groceries in her car, knowing full well that I might have the wrong cart. Once a young boy came through my line and bought a small basket of food and paid with food stamps. Of course I short-changed him, believing that anyone who paid with food stamps obviously could not comprehend simple mathematics. But I got mine when the boy returned later in the day with his irate and terribly overweight mother. Needless-to-say, the boy fingered me (heh-heh) and my manager came over and gave me a stern talking to. Another time, the store's director, a chubby prick named Moon, came through my line, bought a fucking candy bar, paid with a fiver, and then told the shift manager that I did not count out his change back to him. So, the fucking shift manager took me to where Hy Vee does dry cleaning, and yelled at me for not taking my job seriously. And I didn't take my job seriously. I hated working at Hy Vee. I fucking hated it. Honestly, I gave people free stuff all the time when they came through my line just because I was too much of a lazy asshole to ring it up. "I also have a sack of dog food in the bottom of the cart. Did you ring that up?" I would just lithely dance my fingers across the keypad like I was typing. "Yep. Got it." Or I would over-charge people on fruits and vegetables because I didn't care about how much something weighed or was supposed to cost per pound. One time I charged a guy eight (8) bucks for a tomato. "Christ, that's a lot of money for one tomato." I shrugged my shoulders. "They're in season," I said dully, not even sure what I meant by that. I dreaded going to work, I hated every second I was at work, and when my shift was over I felt like that dude from Midnight Express when he busts out of that Turkish prison (except no one ever rubbed their tits in my face). The only saving grace, the only thing that made work bearable was the fact that a few kids from my school worked at the store with me: Jordan, Andy, Eric, Tony, Josh...so there were some mild distractions. Even though these kids were older than me, and we only hung out peripherally at school, when I was at work with them they talked to me and brightened my day a bit. One day at work I was behind my register and two (2) absolutely gorgeous girls came to my line with a few items. They talking between themselves and not really paying attention to me, as I mechanically scanned item after item. Suddenly, I hear, "Eric Moore red line. Eric Moore red line," come over the loud speaker. So I pick up the phone next to my register and say, "This is Eric." "Dude," a voice says. "How bad do you want to fuck those girls?" A sharp grin immediately cracks my face, and I start looking around the store, as nonchalantly as possible. "Uh, yeah," I say into the phone, cupping it between my head my shoulder while I continue to scan the pretty girls' things, "that would be great." Finally, I look to far end of the store and see Tony, an older kid from my school who worked with me, standing next to a closed checkout lane with a phone to his ear, staring at me with a big smile on his face. "I bet you got a fuckin boner right now." I smiled and nodded. "Yep. Yep. It's good. OK, buddy. Thanks for the call." Little things like Tony's phone call or stealing a can of pop from the stock room, tiny moments of subversion, is what got me by. Secret "fuck yous" that we sent to managers and dickhead customers could really turn the day around. But it wasn't just working with kids from my school that got me through the day. There was one other thing: an angelic angel (angle?) draped in blond hair and big blue eyes. Her name was Shayla (pronounced SHAY-la), and after one brief conversation with her, I was instantly smitten. Shayla was my age, but went to a school in Council Bluffs, whereas I commuted the ten (10) miles from Treynor in my parent's Chevy Lumina, which even that food stamp kind told me was a piece of shit. Anyway, Shayla was short, barely cresting at five-two or -three. But, like I said, she had long blond hair, giant blue Disney princess eyes, and a healthy serving of bewb up top. And her voice...she had such a sweet and tranquil voice, like flowers queefing on a pond under a still summer's eve. At 16, I fell madly in love with her, and eventually looked forward to going to work in hopes that she would be there. If she did work the same shift as me, it was like getting an old-fashioned while watching Care Bears fuck. But, if I arrived to work and found that she was not there, the depression was terrible, like the Lust perv from Se7en skull-fucked my heart with that leather knife strap-on. Now, I had noticed Shayla around the store before, thought she was pretty, but really never dwelt on her too much. I mean, I was 16, and Hy Vee hired lots of cute girls, not to mention all the pretty ones that came into the store every day. I had to prioritize my spank bank a little. The turning point with Shayla came one night at work when we were both in the break room together. At that age I was more concerned with hanging out with friends, and all of my friends were dudes. I never really talked to girls except when I was at school, and that was all strictly classroom related and mundane. I think, psychologically speaking, I was so used to my older brother Dale getting the girls that I just naturally assumed that I did not appeal to the opposite sex. Plus, I really didn't think I was good looking. Maybe a 6 outta 10...7 when I had my makeup on. Anyway, I didn't have a lot of experience talking to girls; certainly not ones as pretty as Shayla. Well, on this particular night, I found myself in the break room with this girl. I was sitting at the table, watching an XFL game on TV, with a hot microwavable dinner in front of me. As soon as Shayla sat down I stopped eating, even though I was starving. I thought too many things could go wrong: I could get something stuck in my teeth, I could drop a piece of food down my shirt, I could sneeze a whole mouthful of mashed potatoes across the room. I better just not eat, play it cool. Plus, I honestly thought she would get disgusted seeing me eat. Not that I'm a fuckin slob or anything like that, I just didn't want her to look at me while I was spooning food into my mouth, because I was afraid she might catch a glimpse of some unswallowed mush on my tongue. Shayla sat down across the table and began to munch on a sandwich. I thought my heart was going to punch outta my chest and land on my salisbury steak. I couldn't even look at Shayla, could not even move. I just stared at the TV like I was trying to perform a goddam Jedi mind trick. Shayla would say a few words to me, just some small talk, and I would reply in breathless exasperations of, "Yeah" and "No." I mean, I had no fuckin game whatsoever. I felt like a tool. But over the course of our break, I guess I lightened up. Shayla was very nice, talkative, and really just made me feel comfortable. And by the time our break was over I was hooked. I know that sounds like the confession of a serial killer. Most of you are probably saying, "Jesus Christ, Eric. It was a polite conversation, and she was probably like that with everyone. Get the fuck over it." Ok, ok. I understand that. But when I was 16 I had never had a girlfriend, never really talked to girls, and really no girl ever paid me much attention. So here I am, a teenage boy, sperm coming out of my fucking hair follicles, and I have this girl actually paying attention to me. Now, in hindsight, yes, I had made some...miscalculations, the major one being that I mistook her natural kindness for genuine affection, I'm just pathetic like that. Over the next few weeks I never had another chance to talk to Shayla one-on-one, and after a couple of casual nods at work, I realized that I was in danger of being relegated to just another random face at work--no one special. I had to act, so I did what most insecure boys do when they like a girl: have a friend talk to her. My buddy Josh, who I went to school with and also worked at Hy Vee with Shayla and I, became my official mediator. I told him about Shayla, and our night of passionate small talk, and that I really wanted to ask her out. Josh did his part, and did it masterfully to his credit. He talked to Shayla, about nothing in particular at first, then slowly brought up the fact that he had this friend who wanted to ask her out, but he couldn't say who, but it was someone from work. Finally, the big day came when Josh was to tell Shayla that I, the random dude from that one night in the break room, was her stalker secret admirer. I wasn't working the night Josh told Shayla that I wanted to ask her out, so he told me about it the next day. We were sitting across from one another at the lunch table, and Josh told me how he talked to Shayla on her break, and said that his friend was "Eric Moore, and he wants to ask you out." "What did she say," I asked, simultaneously happy and terrified. "She said, 'really'." Now, 'really' is not really an answer. It's more of an uttering of mild, if not meaningless, surprise. But it was in the way that Josh related Shayla's response to me that made me optimistic. Josh said that when told about my intentions, Shayla replied, "Reeeally." It's hard to get the feeling across with a limited number of buttons and font manipulations, but the point is, Josh made it sound like Shayla was happy I wanted to ask her out. So, I asked Josh, "Did you ask her if she would go out with me if I asked?" Josh nodded. "She said she would, dude." Cue choir of harmonizing angels and a heavenly spotlight. Already my mind began to work out all the sonnets I would write her. With Josh's reconnaissance mission complete, the work now fell to Yours Truly. Josh set 'em up, now I gotta knock 'em down. I finally asked Shayla out on a warm April night. I had planned out what I was going to say and how I was going to say it. I even checked her schedule at work so I could do it on a night where I wasn't working and she ways. I also brought Josh along with me, since he had done most of the work for me. Also, I think Josh wanted to see what I would do if she said no. We walked into Hy Vee and scanned the cashiers. Shayla was working at a middle register with a line full of customers checking out. Seeing her and knowing what I was about to do suddenly became too much. I started breathing heavy and I thought for a moment I might lapse into a panic attack. I realized I needed to steel my courage, so I told Josh that maybe we should walk around a bit until I was ready. So we walked around the store a bit, even catching Shayla's eye and waving to her. She waved back, which I took as a good sign. Josh and I ended up over by the magazines, flipping through bullshit articles, while I spied Shayla's line from the top of the pages. As her line of customers slowly extinguished I asked Josh to repeat everything Shayla had said to him so I could over-analyze it again and again. Finally, Josh exclaimed, "She'll say yes!" Shayla had only one customer in line...this was it. I put the magazine on the rack and Josh and I each grabbed a pop from the little cooler at the start of her line. "Hey guys. What's up!" Shayla said in her normal jovial way. "Nothing," Josh said. He could barely keep a straight face. It was like he was in on some great practical joke that was finally going to come to fruition. "Hey, Shayla," I said, my words coming out in short rapid bursts. I thought, I have to do this before I pass out or shit my pants. "Hey," Shayla said. She quickly dragged my bottle of pop across the scanner and told me the cost. It felt like all of my innards were fighting to climb out my throat. Now-or-fuckin-never. I handed her a five. As she was counting out my change (a real pro) I said to her, "Would you like to see a movie with me?" It felt more like I was vomiting than actually talking, and for a brief hideous moment I thought I saw Shayla react to my words as if they were vomit. It felt too long. It felt like she was thinking too hard about it. It felt like she was being put on the spot. "Yeah," she said with a smile, and suddenly a wave of relief washed over me. It was like a devil had been exorcised from my body, and I was finally myself again. It was the most beautiful word I had ever heard. Shayla looked to Josh and said, "So, this is the friend who wanted to ask me out? I thought you were talking about someone else." Well, at that the devil came back and repeatedly kicked me in the balls over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...It felt like an anvil had been tied around my insides and dropped. Her words sounded unnatural and repulsive, like a Maroon 5 album. It was like I was hearing backwards Latin devil language. I thought you meant someone else. I wanted to fucking kill myself. I wanted to walk out into the street and step into oncoming traffic. I wanted my head to cave in. I wanted to be crushed out of existence. I was so fucking mortified, so humiliated, so goddam deflated. It was like that old joke where the doctor tells the new dad, "Your baby is doing great!" "That's wonderful, Doctor! When can I see him?" "Just kidding," the doctor replies, "your baby has brain damage and your wife died in child birth!" It was the most exhilarating thing I had ever felt, followed by the worst fucking feeling in the world. I had no idea how to respond! I just looked at her. Then she looked at me and said, "I'll still go out with you." It was such a condescending, patronizing thing to say. "I didn't agree to this, but I'll suck it up." She gave me her number and Josh and I left after I muttered an awkward goodbye. Outside in Josh's car all I could do was cuss. "She didn't even know who the fuck I was! What did you say to her? Did you fuckin tell her it was me? How come she didn't know who the fuck I was? Who the fuck was she expecting to ask her out? Did you see how fuckin disappointed she was?" We drove home without saying much. No matter how long I stayed in the shower, the filth of shame would not come off...But, honestly, I couldn't just sit around moping. After all, she did say she would go out with me. So, after I felt enough time had passed to get over my humiliation, I called her up, and asked if she wanted to go see a movie that Friday night, which she agreed to. We worked out the details, and she told me she had to work Friday night so could I just meet her at work? Sure. Soon, the big night came. I was showered, shaved, feeling refreshed, dressed to the nines (I never thought I would have the chance to use that expression) and actually feeling confident about things. I was going to be taking a pretty girl to the movies, that was the bottom line. My mom spent most of the time giving me advice like, "Be sure to open the door for her." and "Start with two fingers first, and if she is fine with that you can stick in a third." Just kidding about that last one. Anyway, there was a lot of hubbub, because this was my very first date. Then, Dale comes sauntering into the living room, looking every bit the older brother from a shitty '80s movie. "So, ah, what movie you seein?" "Joe Dirt." "Great," Dale replied. "I'll be there." To my horror, Dale had phoned his friend, Nicky B, and told him that the two of them should play chaperon to me and my date. I started to get worked up, but gradually decided that maybe it wouldn't be that bad. I mean, Dale was a dick, but not mean enough to fuck up my date with a girl. And I thought, maybe I'll be more relaxed if I know Dale and Nicky B will be there. Shayla would have no idea who they were anyway. So I hit the road into Council Bluffs, feeling uncharacteristically optimistic about the date. I picked her up from the Hy Vee parking lot, held open the door to the Lumina for her, and headed to the Mall of the Bluffs for some David Spade action. During a lull in the "conversation" on the way to the theater I realized something horrible: the date was absolutely mediocre. I mean, we were barely speaking in the car. You could fill a warehouse with all our awkward pauses. She seemed all together disinterested. And why not? I wasn't they guy she was expecting to ask her out. Disappointment was only a natural human response to your hopes being shattered, something I knew all about. We got to the mall and I opened the door for her and bought her her movie ticket. "You didn't have to do that," she said, which I interpreted as, "I don't want to owe you anything." When we got into the theater I saw Dale and Nicky B sitting near the back, and I gave them a furtive nod of the head. Shayla and I took our seats in the middle of the theater. We talked in little, pointless sentences about absolutely nothing of consequence. Every now and then I could hear Dale or Nicky B laugh behind us and I would cringe with embarrassment. I was thankful when the movie started, just so I had an excuse not to talk to her. It was going terribly, and I sensed that Shayla thought the same. The movie had its moments, but it was clear that she was not impressed. When it was over and we got up to leave, I asked her what she thought. "It was ok." Which was a nice way of saying she fuckin hated it. Thankfully, my two spies had left the theater without any ideas of taunting me. I hustled to the Lumina, wanting to get the passenger door open for her, when she said, pretty curtly, "Eric, I can open the door myself." The tone stung. I was only trying to be nice...When we got into the car I asked if she was hungry, and she demurely said, "I don't know." "Do you want to get something to eat?" Finally she shook her head. "Not really." So I started up the car and drove back to the Hy Vee parking lot to Shayla's car. "Well, I had fun tonight," I said. "Me too. Good night." To this day I remember how fucking fast she got out of my car. She said good night, and the next thing I know the door is slamming in my face. I wasn't going to try to kiss her. I knew that shit went out the window about two minutes into the date. I was upset though. I mean, I really liked this girl, and the whole time she acted like a cunt, and I'm not ashamed or afraid to say that. She was being a total cunt the whole time. She wouldn't talk, wouldn't responde to what I was saying, didn't want to get a bite to eat...she treated the whole fuckin evening like it was a goddam chore. In the end, I think she only agreed to go out with me so as not to hurt my feelings, or so that things wouldn't get awkward at work. Which sucked for me. I woulda just had her tell me no, and save me the 16 fuckin bucks on the movie tickets. Anyway, she gets out and into her car and starts dialing on her phone, no doubt to tell her friend how terrible the night has been. And when I look out my window I see Dale and Nicky B sitting in the latter's green Chevelle. I drive over to them and get out. Dale and his buddy get out, and we're just standing around in between our cars, bullshitting about the date, laughing over how bad it went, and I suddenly felt totally at ease. The whole bad date thing didn't matter...Dale said he and Nicky B were going to get some beers and play Playstation at Nicky B's house all night. I said I was in. And as we were talking, Shayla drove over. I was pretty shocked. I thought she would just start up her car and drive away. But she drove over to us and rolled down the window. "Hey," I said, trying to act cool. "Hey. What are you guys doin?" She said with a smile. "This is my brother and his friend. Probably going to just hang out tonight." Shayla nodded and said, "Well, give me a call, Eric." I said I would and we said goodbye again. Now, here is what I think happened. I think Shayla saw me drive over to this other car, and saw me laughing it up with a couple of guys, saw that I was having a good time, and got a little jealous. I think after our date she wanted me to be fucking crushed and sad and disappointed in the fact that I had blown my chance with her, and when she saw me laughing, saw me happy, she got a little pissed off and drove over to see what was going on. That cunt. So I went over to Nicky B's house with my brother, and we drank and played video games all night, and it was the best fucking part of my day. Over the next few months, Shayla and I hung out some more, but that first date really put things into perspective for me. I was much more casual around her and my heart was not aflutter when she walked by as it had been. In the end she turned out to be a huge cocktease, because it turned out she had a boyfriend this entire time! Eventually I quit Hy Vee. I called in on a Saturday that I was supposed to work and told the manager that I wasn't coming in because I had found a new job. "Don't do this, Eric. Do you know how busy it is today?" I told him not to worry, I had found someone to take over my shift, which was bullshit. So I was done with Hy Vee and done with Shayla. Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. Now, some people might think I'm being unfair, talking about a girl that I have not seen in ten years and bascially only telling one side of the story. Well, too-fuckin-bad! I'm the one who took the initiative to write a blog dedicated to talking shit about people who screwed me over. How about a little fuckin credit!

The Moore You Know: Don't you think it would be hard to be a smurf? Forget about Gargamel and his fucking cat, I'm not talking about the survival aspect of it. I'm talking about the language. Smurfs have so many definitions for the word smurf, it must be fucking impossible to get anything done. What if a smurf was diabetic and he needed his daily insulin injection? He would say, "I need my smurf! I need my smurf right now! Otherwise I'll go into a smurf!" Would the other smurf be able to differentiate between the word smurf for insulin and the word smurf for reading glasses? What if two smurfs were trapped in a house with Azrael the cat trying to bust through the door, and the only way to live was to lock the door. One smurf would be screaming, "Where is the key! Where is the fucking key to the front door!" And the other smurf would be cowering in the corner saying, "It's on the smurf! The smurf is on the smurf!" And the smurf trying to lock the door would scream, "The smurf! The smurf!? What does smurf mean in this situation!? In what fucking context are you using the word smurf!? Does it mean bureau? Table! Jesus Christ, he got in! He's eating my smurf! My smurf is coming out of my smurf!" Anway...I'm high right now.

© Eric Moore - 2011

For The Spandex, If Nothing Else

"Green Arrow, can you lose the hat? It's a bit much."

One of the biggest problems that I have is my inability to properly maintain my finances. I am absolutely terrible with money. Anytime I get a little bit of coin in my pocket I have to go out and spend it on the most pointless things imaginable. Most people do not have, nor would they ever need, a crownless Panama hat...I own two. Once I bought something called an "egg cuber" because I thought the reason that I hated eggs was because of their oval shape, and perhaps squared-shaped eggs tasted better. Indeed, the square eggs did taste better, but I am now willing to admit this may have been only a placebo effect. But the thing I spend most of my unearned, government check on is comic books. I love comic books. I started reading them when I was a little kid, then the habit waned a bit in high school. I started obsessively reading them again in college once I convinced myself that vaginas were probably not all that great. And my favorite superhero has always been Batman. Just a regular guy who uses his vast fortune to fight crime. Pretty cool. Of course, a man like Bruce Wayne could never exist in real life, even though the world is full of wealthy douche bags who possess the resources the become Batman. This article explains that the process of becoming Batman is not so fantastic, but of course, our world would never accept, never allow, a superhero to exist. For one, most of the rich people in this world are, as I mentioned above, douche bags. Second, a lot of them are ugly as shit and out of shape, and no one wants be rescued by fucking Bill Gates, whose hero persona would be something retarded like The Window, or The Human Circuit. And, let's be honest, most of the people who possess the means of becoming a superhero are Arab; rich oil barons living in posh palaces in Saudi Arabia. These are the guys that could really invest in some great superhero gear: lairs, cars, costumes, gadgets, et cetera. But be honest, if a costumed vigilante just saved you from a horde of enthusiastic rapists, wouldn't you be pretty disappointed if you found out he was Arab...Actually, people in general would be pretty unhappy if they found out the superhero running around saving everyone was a minority. Look at The Avengers or Justice League of America. It's all white people, mutants and aliens. Now, I'm not saying that the mutants and aliens in these superhero teams represent minorities, but they probably do. Sure, there have been black superheroes in the past: Black Panther, Luke Cage (who gets points taken away for being Nicolas Cage's namesake), one of the Green Lanterns, Spawn (who is also kinda iffy, since his face is burned off, so he's really more of a skull than a face...a white skull). But more often than not, your hero is gonna be white, and I think I know why. Deciding to become a superhero, coming up with a moniker and a symbol and an outfit, and saying, "I'm going to go outside in this, and I am going to take myself seriously and I am going to try to stop bad people," is totally batshit crazy, and batshit crazy is exactly what white people do best! There is a reason that most serial killers are white, most participants in the X Games are white, most stuntmen are white, most people eaten or attacked by wild animals are white...because all that shit is, to some degree, nuts, and no one does nuts like a fucking Caucasian. It probably has something to do with the fact that white people have been at the top of the racial totem pole for a very long time, and with that comes a dangerous mix of boredom and arrogance. Minorities in America have enough to worry about as it is, so fuck hiking in the woods and fuck jumping across a goddam roof in a cape. Now, crazy does not discriminate. It passes through every nation and race and religion, white people just have more crazy than other races. Crazy for white people is like sickle-cell to black people or taco farts to the Mexicans. So, yeah, there are some black superheroes and there are Latino superheroes and Asian superheroes, but none come close to touching upon the fanatical commitment of white heroes. Another reason why this world could never have a superhero is because asking a being of unlimited power to be a good guy is really just too much to ask. If you had, say, Superman's abilities, would you honestly use it for good? Or would you steal a bunch of money and beat the shit out of people. I mean, I probably would not become a supervillain, killing millions of people and wanting to take over the world, but I would dick with people. However, being the avid comic book fan that I am, I have often wondered what kind of superhero I would be. I definitely would want a cool costume, and although fashionably speaking I am not necessarily drawn to codpieces, I am definitely not going to rule out wearing one. Then there is the whole matter of what powers I would want. Now, quick side note: it is well known that in order to gain superpowers one must expose himself to large amounts of radiation. Yes, you may grow little dicks on your head, but you will also be able to run fast. For me, I have never cared for the power to fly, or superstrength. For me, it would be all about invisibility. That being said, if I did have the power to make myself invisible, I would probably be a villain. Going invisible is essentially wiping yourself off the face of the earth. Like Kevin Bacon said in the sci-fi masterpiece Hollow Man, "You'd be amazed at what you can do when you no longer have to look at yourself in the mirror." You would have no need for morals or ethics. You could pretty much do whatever you wanted. If my superpower was to go invisible I would sit on a bench in a girls locker room somewhere and say, "This is my life now." No saving the world bullshit, just leering...all day...But I would probably die of starvation because I would forget to eat. Anyway, I guess it's just something to think about; that kind of powers would you want to have if you had the choice of becoming a superhero. Really you can't go wrong...except Aquaman...that guy got the fuckin shaft. All the fuckin powers in the universe, and this asshole gets stuck with talking to fish. Superman is pretty much a god, Green Lantern can use his ring to create anything out of thin air, Wonder Woman uses her whip to get people to tell her the truth (little shaky on that one), and fuckin Aquaman has to settle for talking to fish. Why even have a power then? Why even let him into the club!? I cannot think of a single thing that Aquaman brings to the table. What diabolically plan could possibly be thwarted because a goddam fish told Aquaman about it? Unless Al-Queda's headquarters are located under the Arabian Sea, get that guy outta the fuckin group!

The Moore You Know: Lately I have had a lot of Time on my hands (Mallory H. Time is the name of my penis), and I also play a lot of video games. Specifically, I play a lot of Call of Duty: Black Ops. This is a FPS (first person shooter for those with lives), that partially takes place during the Vietnam War, and is also one of the most visually stunning games I have ever played. Remember back in the day how awesome that game Contra was? You and your buddy just going around blasting the shit out enemies...that was fuckin fun. But it's different now. The enemies in Black Ops aren't little multicolored pixels dancing around on the screen. These new enemies have fucking facial expressions, they have artificial intelligence, they have names and human voices, and probably families...little computer families praying for them in some program somewhere. I think kids might start to get PTSD from these games. Can you imagine fat ten-year-olds screaming themselves awake at night, lying a pool of sweat, stammering about what they had to do, "in the shit." Mom comes running in, "It's OK, Billy. It's only a game." And Billy, red-faced and bawling, "A game! A game, you cunt! Tell that to the fuckin gook general I fuckin executed on level 9 today!" Pretty soon we will see thirteen-year-old boys sitting in wheelchairs begging for change outside the drugstore.

© Eric Moore - 2011