December 2003 Archives

(Inspired by this)

KILLER APP STRATEGIES FOR BOARD GAME VICTORY

Monopoly:

I came up with a Killer App for this game by accident - sort of a desperate attempt to snatch victory from the jaws of owning only the Mediterranean-Baltic pair and the violet trifecta. I won't go into detail, and it's really a horrible, tedious way to play and win. But win you will, unless you're playing with a Free Parking jackpot, or some kind of anarchist Habitat-for-Humanity-back-of-the-box-rules-not-respecting Philistines, in which case you won't, but people won't hate you. Out of respect for everyone's future enjoyment of Monopoly, I will decline to state said Killer App, but dude, you would lose to me. I don't know what happens if two players try to use this same Killer App at the same time. Maybe it just comes down to the railroads, then.

Poker:

It's not always who has the best hand, but figuring out who has what, and who might be bluffing. It helps to create a small "cheat sheet" listing people's bids, shorthand codes for possible cards in opponents hands, and a small, fold-out sheet listing the probability matrix for any two-or-three-card hand, adjusted for wild cards and number of opponents. Your fellow players might resent waiting 5-10 minutes for you to decide whether to raise or not, but the payoff is well worth it.

Hungry Hungry Hippos:

Somewhat counter-intuitively, the skinniest hippo is generally *not* the hungriest. The fattest hippo didn't get that way by accident. If you don't get the fattest hippo, you might as well stop playing right there.

Sorry!:

Refer to the game as "My Bad!" Choose the blue pieces.

Free Cell:

Don't let that King psych you out. You can't fall for his shoulder fake, his little hip shimmy to distract you from the move you need to make to free up that second black four. Watch his eyes. Watch that clever bastard's eyes.

Battleship:

G-7. It's a hit? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Blackjack:

Count "1" for cards 2-6. Subtract "1" for 10-A. 7-9 are neutral. Bet a lot when the count is positive, and bet less when the count is negative. Or, bring your estranged autistic brother to Vegas with you, and buy him a suit. Just don't drive on the freeway, don't gamble in the afternoon during prime syndicated television hours, and make sure the goddamn syrup is on the table before the pancakes arrive.

Be aware, a Killer App strategy is much better when opponents do not realize you're using such a strategy. My advice would be to follow the cold-blooded, grueling consistency of your strategy, while pretending to be consumed with superstition. Blow on the dice. Refuse to move an inch from your "lucky spot" when you're winning. When pushing chips forward, make reference to Saturn's hard energy and other favorable astrological elements. Flip a coin before "deciding" whether to hit or stand each round. Accuse other players, the dealers, people's pets, the waitress, your girlfriend, someone else's girlfriend, and the concept of negativity itself of jinxing you. Annoy them with your personality, not your winnings.

Also, in card games, wearing a heavy jacket indoors will allow you to drop and substitute many cards undetected*. I have won many an UNO game in this manner.

I hope this helps.

*Will not work in Las Vegas.

Along with three loft beds, two separate examples of homemade, cinder-block-based furniture, and a refrigerator that would shame the Grinch, my new apartment features two bathrooms. Jack and Gene share one, leaving the second to me alone. This throws my normal resident-to-toilet ratio so out of whack it's a little ridiculous. Growing up, we had a few years of sharing one bathroom between six people. Then, after the remodel, it went to a 4:1 ratio, with the other 3 besides me being girls.

It got worse in college. Each year, five toilets were split between 32 hall residents, plus whatever guests or significant others happened to be there. At Ward Street, it was again 4:1, plus girlfriends, but at least the overwhelming maleness and one resident's consistent 45-second showers kept things manageable.

So now, I have my own bathroom. Waiting for a shower, or holding it are things of the past. The only downside is that my toilet kind of sucks. It seems to flush with very little water, often requiring me to depress the handle multiple times. It looks gross, because it is gross. I decided to take some action.

I called our landlord, Scott. Scott is a lawyer practicing out of Auburn, California, who manages our building because his dad is the owner. Scott occasionally stops by for repairs, such as when our neighbors' bathroom ceiling collapsed. At such times, he always apologizes for his profuse sweating, and he never removes the headphones of his Walkman. The general impression we have of him is that of a nervous fraternity pledge, stammering and awkward, yet chummy. We could probably bully Scott into making a beer run if we were forceful enough.

Scott returned my call tonight, a week after my original call. I explained to him the nature and grossness of my toilet problem. He was sympathetic, and suggested I examine the toilet tank. I lifted the the ceramic slab, and Scott began to explain in detail how I could incrementally adjust the level of the float ball.

"You may need a screwdriver to remove it - actually, I'd take the whole thing off at..."

At this point in the conversation, I was shocked to discover a glass jar full of dirt inside the toilet tank.

"Oh my God!" I exclaimed. "Scott, it looks like there's a glass jar full of dirt in here! I think I found the problem! Wow, this is so weird!"

Scott paused, only momentarily. "Well, as I was saying, if the float ball is higher..."

"Oh, wow, there's another one! Two glass jars full of dirt, in my toilet tank! I'm taking them out. God, where did these come from?"

Scott seemed to understand I was distracted. "Yeah, that's a, uh, water-conservation device. We may install, uh, low-flow toilets in the future... we reserve the right to do this..."

Only then did it dawn on me that Scott had placed the empty condiment jars, full of dirt, in my toilet. Since his dad's company pays for our water, he was trying to save an incremental amount of money each month. All of my embarrassed, labored flushing for the past three months, all of my self-conscious toilet brushing, all of this was due to Scott being a cheap, cheap bastard.

That is offensive, to be sure. He tried to gouge us on one of the most basic tenant rights; that of expelling human waste from one's place of dwelling. But now that I've had a chance to reflect on it a bit, I realize Scott's cheapness is not nearly as offensive as referring to empty glass condiment jars full of dirt as a "device". He's not just insulting my intelligence, he's insulting the whole English language.

The toilet flushes like a beaut now, by the way.

Fall of 1998 found myself and Mr. Aaron "Bin Lloyden" Vinson living on the 7th floor of one of UC Berkeley's fine dormitories. Expectations were high for the year of co-habitation, but the alarming number of Jesus enthusiasts along with both of our caustic personalities dashed our hopes fairly early in the academic campaign.

It didn't take us long to change tacks. Within two weeks, we didn't care at all what any of our dormmates thought of us, except maybe Angie, our talented and beautiful next-door neighbor. We were after our own amusement only. And it wasn't like these people were anything great. One girl laughed like a donkey. Two guys named Andy* once left their stereo on, blasting DC Talk and Jars of Clay for hours, while they were away at youth group. Our neighbor on the other side of the hall used to play the first thirty seconds of Dave Matthews' "Rhyme or Reason" on guitar over and over again for hours. Clearly, something needed to change.

We found our inspiration in Tommy Tutone's 1981 smash "867-5309/Jenny". We played the song over and over in our dorm room, singing along. Our rendition got progressively more sophisiticated, switching off vocal parts and even adding in harmonies. Outside the room, we'd drop lyrics into conversations with other people. No one understood why I said I had tried my imagination, and it was disturbed, but they themselves were certainly disturbed by it, and thus, the plan worked. Occasionally, when we spotted one another at opposite ends of the hall we'd point, and exclaim, "8-6-7-5-3-0-9!" and then high five.

No one was really sure if we were kidding, or if we truly were Tommy Tutone's biggest fans. Mostly, they just didn't care. I guess when one's goals are to discover new ways to be jackasses, and annoy the crap out of other people, success can sometimes be anticlimactic.

Besides, once we got sick of "Jenny", Aaron discovered "Metal Machine Music", which proved we had nothing on Lou Reed when it came to antagonistic behavior.