Okay, even though it’s awful showmanship to talk about video games right after the Tim Buckley penis comment, this one’s been lingering in my mind for some time now. In case you’re unfamiliar with Notch’s Minecraft (although, to be honest, I don’t know how the fuck you could be), the object is to mine ores, mine stones, build tools, build homes, kill pigs, kill men, etc. etc. etc. The game presents an ever-expanding natural world through the use of isometric fuckblocks as pictured below.
However, if you’re like me, you’ll realize the only thing worth doing in this dog-eat-dog world (although I can’t venture to imagine why, or in fact how a dog could ever do this) is to move about the lush plains in endless and daunting hunt of men. No homo. And by men, I of course mean fourteen-year-old autistic boys with limitless computer time.
Now, I frequent a server in this game which bans your profile for a number of hours upon death. Which means every time you kill someone, you earn the satisfaction of knowing you’ve forced them to play a different game or go outside or something. It grants the initiative to stay alive, and allows you to experience the true hunter-gatherer domestication-type philosophy, as seen on TV! The same occurs upon natural death as well, such as falling or burning to death. Or burning while falling to death.
In my time there, I’ve seen some hilariously sad things. Some things so intriguing as they are hilariously sad. The most eminent of which having to be the time when my friend and I stalked two fellows swimming to a nearby island while clad in our aspie armor. When we made our way to that island, we killed one of the guys no problem. The other gentleman backed up and, as I’d like to imagine, rapidly soiled himself as quickly as he begged for his life in exchange for his partnership and service. There’s something about watching a four-inch tall, eight-colors man in your monitor handing himself over as an indentured servant which really tugs at the heart strings.
Nonetheless, we killed him, grabbed what petty shit he’d managed to produce in two minutes, and went about our business.