Bored? Make yourself a mental game. Or play mine…

Though my game is a little fucked up.  Here’s the working title, which clearly needs some work – “Mental Eugenics”.  I’ll explain, but first I should give the background so I don’t sound completely like some kind of Nazi scientist.

This may come as a surprise to people who read this and don’t know me in real life, but believe it or not, I actually have a family.  I don’t mean that I have like a wife and kids and shit.  Parish the thought.  No, I mean I wasn’t just constructed in a lab where they make horrible people that say and do horrible things, just to keep the rest of the population on its toes.  No.  I wasn’t.  That would be crazy.  I’m just saying that I do have parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings and shit.  Someone did birth me and I do spend some of my time with people who have the same blood.  Some of those people are children and sometimes you gotta go watch those children do whatever thing it is that they are into in front of an audience or crowd.  I mean the kids are in front of an audience, not me watching the kids.  That would be a really odd world where the audience is there to watch some family member watch a kid perform… come to think of it, that kinda happens now with youtube reaction videos… yeah, we live in a pretty weird assed world.

You know, stuff like high school sports or stupid recorder concerts.  In my case, it was a ballet recital of children.  Too young to really do anything complicated and truly entertaining but too well coached to do anything totally bananas and hilarious/youtube worthy.  The prospect was pretty boring already, so they added the factor that at least a dozen different acts were performing and my family member wouldn’t even be on stage until the eighth or ninth go.  Plus it was Disney themed, and I’m not that into Disney.  I don’t hate it and have enjoyed some of their movies, but I don’t lose my shit over it like some of you weirdos do, you fuckin’ weirdos.  It’s a corporation, not a magical fun palace.  Calm the fuck down.

So there I was, in polite society with all manner of people, my family, and sheer boredom.  What’s a guy to do?  I really only had about three options: 1) Scream loudly in my mind but silently on the outside until I actually lose it and become catatonic  2) Scream loudly on the outside and run the fuck out shouting about how the scorpions are all over just to see how the parents try to handle the situation 3) Come up with a mental game that could involve what’s happening on stage just enough so it would seem like I wasn’t completely disengaged.

I chose the game.  The concept of the game is rather simple.  It’s a bit like “Seven Degrees of Kevin Bacon”, except that there is only one degree, and nobody really wins.  Here’s how you play.  Next time you’ve been forced into a situation with a ton of kids that aren’t your own and you have to keep yourself mentally distracted/entertained without seeming like you’ve completely checked out, evaluate the children in your presence.  Do so as if you are somehow capable of actually picking out which child you would like to be yours through birth, being sure to weed out any that you don’t like for any reason, no matter how petty.  So basically, part one is Gattaca.

That kid is annoying.

That one is too awkwardly tall.

That one has a goofy face.

Bad smile.

Ears curl in a weird way.

Non-cute lisp.

Under bite.

Pig nose.

Gut?  You’ve got a gut at that age?  Really?

Uncoordinated.

Don’t care for the hair color.

Focus on those who’s faults are, to you, not deal breakers.  Then whittle that down to ones that, if you had to, you’d be cool with raising.  “You know… yeah, I’d… I’d be cool with that being my kid.  I could show him/her off to family and friends and they’d be all, ‘Oh, good lookin’ son/daughter’ to my face and ‘The fuck is my kid so ugly’ in private.  Yeah.  Yeah, you know what?  That could work out.  They could be a professional athlete or model when they grow up.  Yeah.  Rockstar.  Sweet.”

Now consider your own genetic background.  What are your genes like?  How do you look?  Are you awkward when you walk?  Is your nose kinda piggy like?  What are the parts of you that should be kept for your Frankenchild and which bits should be scrapped?  Could those bits be swapped with those of a better model?

Alright, look – before you run kicking and screaming from this blog, remember two things: A) It’s just a game and it’s just in your head.  You’re not sharing this with anyone (wuss), it’s just something to pass the time.  B)  You’ve already stepped in it.  People are already judging you.  You’ve come this far and there is only one more step.  If you already think this is awful, it doesn’t get much worse.  So come on.  Take my hand and lets waltz through the door to hell together.

So you’ve got your kid all picked out, right?  You’ve had your pick of the litter and, in your mind, you’ve picked the best.  Good height, eyes, complexion, posture, and everything else that you could think of that would set your fictionally-yours child up for success and a great life.  But you’re missing an important part of the equation.  How’d you get the kid in the first place?  Boning.  You banged some other human being.  Their gross bits bumped up, on, in, or around your gross bits and someone’s chocolate got into someone else’s peanut butter.  That’s how you got that special edition candy bar.  But who’s ingredients are right for your prize confection?  This is the final, most important part of the mental game.  It’s where the real exercise comes into play.  Time to really stretch out that mind of yours.  Knowing what you do about your one genetic background, figure out who you’d have to knock boots with in order to have that perfect baby.  “But who can I pick from?” you ask stupidly.  You could pick from the people in the room, but chances are that you’re just going to land on one of the actual parents, and that’s kinda boring.  Plus, sometimes ugly people make good looking children.  Yeah, I don’t know, I don’t understand it either.  It just kind of happens.  So if you play it like that, it’s too easy to win and fictional you is left with an ugly partner.  You don’t need that noise.  For a better game, pick a celebrity who’s genes could mix with yours and make that kid you’ve picked.  For more of a challenge, pick a celebrity who maybe, just maybe, might actually have sex with you.  You know, maybe after you lose a few pounds or ply them with wine coolers.  Whatever it takes short of chloroform.

So you’re actually a celebrity and you’re currently starring in the latest big hit and could probably bang any starlet?  You’re a regular guy but happen to have an encyclopedic knowledge of B- through Z-list celebrities?  This isn’t much of a challenge for you?  Don’t fret, just play by some house rules.  Start the same way, but deviate when picking the partner that you get to plow to produce your progeny.

Step 1) Evaluate the children most harshly.

Step 2) Pick one you’d be alright with calling your own.

Step 3) Review your own pathetic genetic background.

Step 4) Figure out what kind of chick/dude you would need in order to make that kid happen, according to any of the following rules:

  • Pick from people you know in real life
  • Pick from people you know on the internet
  • Pick from only your close friends
  • Pick from celebrities (also known as “Classic Style”)
  • Pick from only 80’s pop musicians
  • Pick from the people in the room (also known as “Easy Mode”)
  • Pick from people at your work
  • Pick from people in your school
  • Pick from people in your church (then contemplate why you go in the first place if you’re playing such a twisted game)
  • Pick from family members that aren’t related by blood
  • Pick from family members that are related by blood (also known as “Country Style”)
  • Pick from people in the magazine you’re pretending to read
  • Make your own rules!

Step 5) Realize what you’re doing right now and consider a lobotomy.

Let’s recap in equation form, from the perspective of me, the universal “me”, which is you in your case.  Got it?  Good.

Me + X = [Selected Child]

tl;dr – Solve for “X” you evil fuck.

Mengele would be proud.