Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Yeah, I Say "OreGON." And I Sort of Hate Myself For It.

(Content note:  The experience described below is a lot more universal than you're going to want to admit.)

When I was in grade school, the best days in computer class were when we were allowed to play Oregon Trail.  This was back in the day when a computer was still called a MacIntosh, and the green oxen pulled a green Conastoga wagon across a black screen.

Obviously, when naming the members of my party, I borrowed exclusively from my friends and, more importantly (sorry, friends), always included the name of my latest crush.

Because that's the height of romance in fourth grade.

Invariably, my crush would drown during an attempted river-fording (I knew I should have paid the Indians to guide me across!) or succumb to dysentery.  There were other diseases in the game as I recall, but dysentery seemed to be the only one that could actually be fatal.  That and ford-crossing.

Because I was a particularly twisted child, these deaths were always very amusing to me.

A few days ago, the Dude sent me a photo--he'd set me up as a test patient of the hospital that for some reason employs him.  The first thing that popped into my head?



(True:  I just went to the bathroom and discovered there was toothpaste on my ear.  What?!  How!?)

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