I love Mattel's old electronic sports games. There was something hypnotically refreshing about the simple
red LED lights, a few buttons to move-shoot-hit-kick, and an annoyingly primitive series of beeps that talked to you like some alien language. Before Gameboy, Hell before
most any electronic handheld game, these 9 volt battery powered toys kept it down to the basics, and nobody seemed to complain.
Though I'm no big fan of teh haxorspeak that the kids these days seem to love so much, this one was just so refreshingly different than the rest that I just had to give it "0987t 098khjg 59875 509875uy", if you know what I mean.
Chupacabra_bitch@yourmom.org (CB) dared email@example.com
(PTB) to fashion an Ouija board out of salt-water taffy. After completing the Herculean deed, PTB telegraphed firstname.lastname@example.org (GD) for a sťance, or
whatever the fuck hippies call them (OWTFHCT).
You should have seen what this guy's dad did with his life sized Barbie next year.
While driving to Grandma's I started messing with the game, just trying to break it. It wouldn't stop making the end zone
'bleep-bleep-bleep.' As Dad was kinda hung over he started screaming for me to 'shut that damn thing off.' Mom told Dad to cool down and we sat for the next few miles as
the game bleeped on, Dad's neck turning red and his knuckles white. I started giggling, this pushed him over the edge. He
This guy apparently forgot about the "100 Words of Less" part of the contest, but hats off for the Cthulhuesque prose, at least.
The Thing from Under the River by H.P. Lovecrap
In my dreams I see the pond, as black and smooth and opaque as an ebony mirror. The willow trees stoop down around the
bank, their branches swaying obscenely, although no breeze can be felt. In fact the air is thick and stale and cloying, smelling of rot and decay more ancient than
anything man has ever known. We sit on the bank near some rocks in our customary spot, and bait our hooks with earthworms we have dug from the garden. In my dream I
believe I can almost hear the screams of the worm as I pierce his slimy, wriggling form with the hook. Deep inside my mind I feel the terror as I plunge the hook again
and again through the loops of his tubular flesh, although in school we have been told that the worm can feel no pain - his
In my dream it seems like much time has passed, but I know it is only a few seconds. Then there is calm. At first I think I may have lost the fish, but the weight is still there, tugging gently but unmistakably at the line. I reel slowly, making sure not to give too much slack, lest my quarry escape. I feel it must be a very big fish from the slowness of my progress, and I turn to tell Jeb of my luck, but he is gone. No trace of him remains in the place he had been sitting; neither rod nor reel, nothing. Then I turn again to watch my line creeping ever closer and I begin to see the blackness take shape at the end. A hideously large mass, far too big to be a fish, slowly transforming, growing longer and continuing to advance to the shore without the impetus of my reeling, which I am too stunned to continue. I stare and watch as it becomes clearer, and I realize it has taken on the vague shape of a man. My heart leaps into my dry throat at the moment that hideous face breaks the surface, and I know I will take the vision of that face to my grave, the face of my friend, Jeb.
But it is not Jeb! It is a thing of another world; a changeling of plastic white and glittering red dots for eyes. Its visage is a cyclopean nightmare of angular edges and green and red spots that blink and flash in patterns of ever-changing variation. It comes closer, but I am rooted in place, paralyzed with fear, unable to tear my eyes from the sight of the thing from under the river. Red sparks flash, little tones beeping in time. Beeping, beeping! Ever closer!!
They say they found me on the road near my house. I had passed out and my clothes were rent to shreds, and soaked. I have
no recollection of my escape, or if I even escaped at all. But I know I will never, ever fish again. I cannot even bear the water of a bath, knowing I will remember the
whitened rectangular face with the swarm of tiny red eyes, and the terrible gurgling voice that called out to me as if from the bottom of a pit,"Touchdown!"
This one might have one, had he not used so many big words! Anyone who uses "paroxysms" in a sentence is not to be trusted.
Shivering from the cold I pulled my electronic football machine out of my burlap army bag. I huddled close to its glowing
intensity and with dexterity gained from many drained batteries and aching thumbs I began to play. The beeping and electronic squelching, so a part of my psyche filled
the bomb shelter where I lay. Paroxysms of the game that had been played with long bombs and grid iron fists, laid to waste my home. The only sounds now of my only
friend. Touch down.
An interesting use of pictures here, if not an incredibly inane tale...
So here's the situation as I see it: Using my vast knowledge of pyrotechnics and so on I will construct several bombs using football games and some common household items.
Then I'll go around the country in a Nixon Mask robbing banks, with the bomb in tow.
The federales will suspect Nixon, cause everyone knows Nixon's a crook right? So while the feds are distracted, I'll take off on a boat to Cuba and wait for it to blow over.
No wait, Nixon is dead. nevermind.
Any story featuring luchadore wrestling God LaParka is OK in my book. Virtual77 is a blast form the past, as he used to send me stories about LaParka back in 1998 for The Church of LaParka site I used to run. It's still there on geocities if you want to check it out.
Well, this story is a true one, and it has changed my life. A couple of years ago, I was down in the Bahamas with a
bunch of my friends. I decided to do all of the shitty, touristy stuff while down there, and went water skiing. Anyway, I went over a shark while water skiing and
fell in the water. As I was in the water helpless, a saw an ever familiar figure surfing on a metal chair. It was none other than La Parka! The man in black, came to my
aid, stopping only on occasion to do that crazy chicken dance. When he took me ashore, he handed me a Mattel pocket football game. I thanked him, and walked away, only to
be hit in the back of the head with the same chair he surfed to my rescue with. I guess I can go to bed a lot easier at night knowing La Parka is out there to protect us.
Alrighty then, here's my story. I remember using this nifty hand held game prior to watching a movie at the drive-in
theatre when I was five or so. So there I was, a happy little turd, trying to get my electronic dash into the end zone while trying to block out my older brother's
taunting. Then the movie started. To this day I don't know why in the hell my parents chose this movie, but it scared the shit out of me. Although I've recently watched
it and made the conclusion that Xtro is a low budget sci-fi gross out horror flick, as a kid I had no choice but to use my Classic Football game to block my eyes from the
hideous images on the screen. Unfortunately, the sound still bled through, contributing to many sleepless nights thereafter.
Gotta give this guy 10 pints for balls...
They are giving us a fuckin' football thing that no one has seen since the Atari days. my use is to bash some sense into
the Mattel president's head.
AND THE WINNER!
I think this Wesley Willis inspired ode to Mattel Electronic Football is my favorite by far. And kudos for throwing a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots reference in, too!
HANDHELD FOOTBALL ROCKED MY FACE
Thanks again to all who entered. Next time I come up with an idea like this, kill me!