“Look,” Daniel said, leaning forward on the couch, “there’s a lot of sentimental value. I never told you this, but my brother and I would get up early on Saturday mornings and just play together all day. You know how things are between us now, well, it just reminds me of a better,” he paused to sniff, “it just reminds me of when we were closer, y’know.” He covered his face with his hand, and turned away from Shelly. She didn’t buy it. Not for a goddamn second.

Without another word, he’s back at a new machine, and as we stared, confused, in his direction, we could make out his muttered “oh, the action is fast on this one” and “I haven’t played pinball since Rhonda got pregnant and ruined my life.” We looked at each other – Mom’s name isn’t Rhonda. Rick, my older brother, starts to cry, too.

“Then why aren’t you kids having fun? Don’t you like games anymore?”

Alex, the birthday boy, who no one had seen or heard approaching the table, spoke up in his loudest voice, “YEAH, LIKE FARMVILLE!” The Mitchell family jumped in their seats, as if startled by a gunshot. “I DON’T LIKE PLAYING THOSE GAMES BECAUSE YOU DON’T GET ACHIEVEMENTS OR ANYTHING SO NO ONE KNOWS HOW GOOD YOU ARE AT THEM.”

For six minutes, one can practically see the blocks descending from behind the upper velvet curtain and settling atop the heads of the brass section. A box appears to the right of the stage, beyond the percussion on the raised platform, that visualizes the next shape in the series: a block, a zag, a zag, a line. A tally appears in the gilded ceiling of the concert hall, rocketing upward as a Tetris clears the horn section out of existence.

While the President’s Day weekend promised to be a joyride for many Americans, who planned to finish Mass Effect 2, drink a metric assload of cheap beer, and completely ignore the Winter Olympics, a generation is now forced to ask themselves a serious question: are they bad enough dudes to rescue the President?

These guys mean business. They lay down the law. They don’t have the time to stop and ask themselves, ”Do all these people even belong to the gang that’s holding the mayor’s daughter for ransom?” No. Of course not. But that’s the deal, people of Metro City. If you’re on this street right now, you’re getting your ass kickboxed out of commission.

Time slows to a crawl. A frame of a moving van launches skyward off its axle and collides with a stray bit of The Walt Disney Company, which pings back towards Earth and glides along the pavement. Fragments of what was once Procter & Gamble lay nearby, their edges charred by flame and greed. The world’s largest stock market index clips the back of an oil tanker and spins seven times in the air, then lands derivative-first on top of a hot dog cart. And it isn’t done there…

The blue turtle shell is only the tip of the iceberg. One has to wonder, are there still banana peels rotting on the brunette slopes of Choco Mountain? And how many fake item boxes have been left to the elements out in Yoshi Valley? These are the things we never think about when the confetti has been swept away and the winners and losers have all been chosen.