And he said, “You, uh, sure you don’t want an apple or a cookie or something?”
“Chocolate chip?”
He nodded and handed me a cookie.
“Thanks,” I said. “The Doctor won’t forget your generosity when he’s a national icon.”
Just like that, I was back on the road. And the journey was a hard one, my friends, I won’t lie.
Except for my parents, I was all alone in this cruel, uncaring world. I walked and walked, my muscle-bound legs growing weary, like a powerful but grumpy camel crossing the vast Sahara. I finally decided it was time to bunk down for the night.
I threw my pack down onto the cold, hard ground and started to change into my He-Man pajamas. They were not only badass but also very warm and snuggly. I’d just stripped off my tactical jacket, my pants, and my Spider-Man Underoos when I heard the shouting of what I assumed was a crazy idiot.
“What the hell are you doing butt-nekkid on my front lawn!?” screamed the crazy old man. Even as angry as he was, I could tell he was impressed by my athleticism.
“How else do you expect me to bunk down for the cold, pitiless night?” I said.
“Night? It’s twelve fucking noon! Now get your pasty ass—” He squinted. “Hey, aren’t you Paul and Diane’s kid from down the street?”
“Hi, Stan!” my mom called from the Dodge Caravan. “Sorry for the intrusion! Our son is a little… different.”
“THE NAME IS DR DISRESPECT AND I AM ON A HISTORIC JOURNEY OF EPIC VIDEO GAME DOMINATION JUST LIKE FRED SAVAGE IN THE WIZARD!”
And Stan was like, “That Fred Savage seems so nice. I loved him in Webster.”
And I was like, “That was Emmanuel Lewis. But I get it, easy mistake.”
I grabbed all my shit and I booked out of there—the Blockbuster Video Game Championship was going to start in just thirty minutes!
After all my wrong turns, all my epic adventuring, how the hell was I gonna make it? I didn’t even know where I was!
Suddenly, like a Chariot of the Gods, racing down the road came the answer I’d been waiting for. The Lift of Destiny. The ride that would bring me to the end of my personal odyssey of fame and fortune.
A blood-red 1991 Lamborghini Diablo.
Now that was the way to travel.
I sprinted after it as it drove by—thankfully my highly developed calves and preternatural speed made me more than a match for its 5.7-liter V-12 engine. Also it was stuck at a red light.
“WAIT!” I screamed, waving my powerful arms. “HELP ME! I NEED A RIDE TO THE GREATEST BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO GAME CHAMPIONSHIP THE NATION HAS EVER KNOWN! HELP ME, PLEEEEEEASE!”
The sleek, tinted driver’s-side window slowly went down.
And guess who was at the wheel?
Fred MF-ing Savage, that’s who.
“Fuck you!” Fred Savage said. “I hate children! Now, stay away from my beautiful car and go to hell!” And just like that, he rolled up his window and peeled out in a cloud of smoke.
I couldn’t believe it. Fred Savage was not that nice!
I dropped to my knees in despair, just as my parents pulled up next to me in the Dodge Caravan.
“Mama, Mama!” I wept. “Help me! Fred Savage seemed so nice in The Wizard! And The Wonder Years too! My life is a lie—I don’t think I can make it to the end of my quest!”
“But you’re standing at the entrance to Marine World,” my mom said. “Like, five feet from the door.”
I looked up and peered through my tears. “OF COURSE I KNEW THAT, MOM!”
My competitive fire was rekindled! My quest for greatness burned hotter and angrier than ever before! So I got up, dusted myself off, and walked proudly through the giant metal doors. Right after I borrowed $50 from my parents for the entry fee.
Inside was the most massive, epic arena of battle I had ever seen. Mightier than the Colosseum of Rome, more ancient than Stonehenge, more alien than Area 51, and truly worthy of two of the greatest Fortune 12 companies of all time—Blockbuster coming in at number six and Marine World trailing just behind it at number eight.
In front of me was a vast hall full of row upon row of state-of-the-art Sony Trinitron TVs. There must’ve been two or three hundred of those babies—all glowing and flashing like every one of their 640 x 480 pixels was alive. And man, back then, that was a shit-ton of pixels.
The place was teeming with thousands of competitors from all over the nation, like a Model UN minus every country except for America. There were slick snipers from New York City, oiled-up console surfers from Hawaii, and thirty-two-bit cowboys from the dusty plains of Wyoming, all there to prove their mettle on the big stage.
Press was swarming everywhere. Radio, newspapers, network TV, satellite TV, pay-per-view TV, TV Guide, everyone. We’re talking Peter Jennings, we’re talking Tom Brokaw, we’re talking Wolf Blitzer—but no one really knew what CNN was yet, so even Connie Chung treated him like a bitch.
Music was blasting—BLASTING—from these huge Bose speakers hanging from the ceiling. Classics like Bel Biv DeVoe’s “Poison,” Lionel Richie’s “Hello,” and pretty much everything by Roxette (and I go la la la la la I’ve got the look).
And in the back looming behind it all, encased in an entire football field of thick protective glass, there was Bubbles the Killer Whale, arching and flexing in the icy blue water, baring fifty-six razor-sharp teeth, his glossy black eyes devoid of compassion. I never did find out how he saw out of those tiny eyes—it must’ve been his warrior spirit.
“Bubbles!” I shouted in my rage frenzy. “Bubbles! Give me your ruthless warrior spirit! Bless me with your killer instinct as I devastate my foes, earn honors and kippers beyond any gamer’s wildest dreams, and avenge my roadside humiliation at the hands of Fred Savage, who it turns out isn’t that nice!”
And lo, Bubbles spurted a victory geyser of spume into the sky and unleashed the
