Ah, Pokemon Go.
Close your eyes and picture the following scene.
You’re at home, following the harried adventures of lovable misfits and Darwin Award recipients on Discovery Channel’s newest reality. A frothy beer in your grip, a score of missing links battling out over the pastry fad of the month. Suddenly, a bug bites your missus’ tush.
“Harold, will you clean up the yard?!”
You turn around, gleam said tush, and marvel at how gravity has evaded it. Kryptonite to your defenses. Up you go, out the door.
Two steps and there’s a squishy sensation. You lose sight of your North. You fall back. Your neck makes contact with a Tonka truck. Your neighbor’s dog feces fells you like a fool.
Blink, blink, you’re awake. Your beard has grown, your legs seem wobbly. Around you are the telltale signs of a hospital… an abandoned hospital. You’ve witnessed the trailer to this movie, and it does not bode well. Yup, you poor sob, you’ve stumbled into the Zombie Apocalypse.
A startling revelation hits you like a jolt of lightning. You dash out, buttocks flapping in your nighty, a pilfered scalpel glistening in your hand. Like a mad Jihadist (like there is any other) you scream.
“Wess, you son of a bitch,” your Shane (from Walking Dead you teat) analog springing to mind. “Stop buffing my wife!”
Bang, out the ICU’s door, visions of post-coital extramarital escapades, and strawberry flavored lube…lube your mind. All around ia an army of the risen dead. It’s a well manicured, tightly dressed zombie. Ragnarok sponsored by Armani and Zara.
A screech, a yelp, a tight stop, the smell of burned rubber smacks you silly. A Fiat dashes over a jaywalking ninny. The car trolls on, the deadite driver, none the wiser, phone in hand. Phone in hand? Something does not fit, with your Biblical revelation.
A smattering of business class drones, nonchalantly, pass over the watermelon-ed corpse now decorating the asphalt. It’s an undead rendition of Abbey Road… Phones in hand. A trend emerges.
Standing by you, the girl from “ The Ring” looks up.
“Ahh!” You bemoan your lot.
“Dude, stop squirming,” Tamara hails. “You’re about to scare off Charmander.” She points her cell at you.
“Please, don’t take my soul…” your retort. Tears fall out of the corners of your eyes.
Wiggling her diabolical fingers over the screen, that nasty goth demon categorizes your heavenly zest, no doubt preparing to barter your ghost to her fiery overlord.
“Will you chill,” she of the cloven hoof demands. “It’s not like it’s Pikachu.”
“Whut?… Say again…”
Flip goes the phone. Her eyes gyrate as if your parents demanded that you go outside and “play with a stick.”
You focus your thirty-something eyes on the smartphone. One word, three syllables: “Pokemon?”
Armageddon, the end of days, has come by way of Nintendo. The virus called: Pokemon Go has arrived. And man, that digital flu is more addictive than nicotine cut with coke.
Pokemon Go is Nintendo’s latest and proudest parade into AR (augmented reality). In other words, you point your camera at stuff, and stuff gets a wacky makeover. In this case, it’s in the form of adorable Japanese creations.
Since it has hit the market, Pokemon Go, has managed to rack up the following trophies:
- Nintendo stocks have gone through the roof. 40 percent more than last week.
- Countless police officials, dumbfoundingly stare on as rows of strangers come into their precinct. “Mike, why the fuck does everyone keep taking a photo of that damn column?”
- It has managed to entrap more users than Twitter.
- Morgues filling up with dumbasses that are certain their cellphones have an inherent plasma shield that guards them against traffic.
- Muggers and criminals are stalking, via Pokemon, their newest victims.
- There’s more being done for childhood obesity, by way of Nintendo, than Michelle Obama managed to accomplish in her years as First Lady.
- The folks at Auschwitz suddenly find themselves drawing something called a Bulbasaur on a billboard and asking: “Please refrain from chasing Pokemons in the gas-chambers.”
And the Pokemon Go craze has just began. Did you hear the one about the kid who’s cashing in on the insanity? A kid, no bigger than a bar stool, flung away the lemonade from his iconic corner stand, and started offering bike lights for night-time Pokemon Go hunts. He is earning cash hand over fist.
Is there some complex zeitgeist void being filled? Is there a psychological need, or parental hang-up to blame? Is one of mankind’s neurosis being fixed?
Still, this whole article was simply an excuse for that whole bit at the beginning. Didn’t really probe the Pokemon Go issue too much. Promise to do my due diligence next time. Meanwhile, fuck-off, my cellphone is chirping someone is making a move against my Ivysaur. Yes, I handed in my membership card for my testosterone fueled sex, along with a bloody soaked paper bag, and my cojones have been replaced by Poke-balls.