From: dise@news.cs.odu.edu (Aegis)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: The games that people play
Date: 8 Apr 92 20:08:53 GMT
Article-I.D.: cs.1992Apr8.200853.14829
Organization: DUBL-D Enterprises, Inc.
Originator: dise@nightshade.cs.odu.edu

Kids play strange games.  Most people don't realize this, because kids
don't view their games as strange, and adults won't admit that they played
strange games as children.  Either that, or they have become so senile that
they have forgotten completely.  I usually argue on the side of senile.
I was an especially strange child.  My friend, Lynn, and I invented many
rather interesting pastimes.  One of these games was to imitate expressions of
intense pain.  We scored each other on a fifty point scale, based on realism.
"I've got a good one for you," Lynn said as he batted an empty nest out
of a tree.
"OK, let's see it," I mocked as he kicked the nest.
I watched him closely as his eyes grew, nearly popping out of his head.  At
the same time, his cheeks started to inflate, and his whole face turned
red.
"Not bad.  Not bad at all.  I'll give that about a ten."
It was right about then that he started flailing his hands viciously at the air and began to violently stomp the ground.  He then started saying something
that sounded like "Wath, wath, me ma me mow!"
"Impressive.  I'll give you a fifteen."
Suddenly, Lynn broke out into a modified skipping run, which basically
involves sprinting in such a manner that you only touch the ground every 
fifth or so stride.  A good skip runner can easily travel thirty-five
miles per hour.  Good old Lynn was doing closer to eighty.  I called his a
modified skipping run because every other time he'd set foot to earth, he
shot straight up in the air about twenty feet.  Needless to say, I was
impressed.
"You did it!  You got a fifty!"
Not that he was paying any attention to me.  He broke out of the circle
he apparently had been trapped in and made a bee-line in the general
direction of home.  The only problem being that home was on the other
side of an unusually thick patch of woods.  The last time I saw him that
day he was skip-running through the woods, flailing his arms, and at this
point turning puprle.  Occasionally he'd ricochet off of a tree or two,
but it didn't look like it hurt much.  I later found out the wasp nest
he'd knocked out of the tree wasn't quite as empty as it appeared.  It's
alright, though.  The swelling went dowm much quicker than the doctors
anticipated, and he even regained the ability to walk by the end of the
summer.  Occasionally Lynn and I will go back and visitl the two baby
teeth he left embedded in that first oak tree he bounced off.  More
good news!  His therapy is going well, and he's almost overcome his
fear of flying insects.  Once during his recovery, I made the mistake of
luaghing about the expression on his face at the time of the incident.
He then proceeded to get rather angry with me and made some sort of rude
comment about my heritage.  There was no way I could let those manners
go unavenged whether he was sick and bedridden or not.  I must admit,
though, after I was finished with him, I did feel a little bad about
what I'd done.  It was shameless the way I beat up his fist with
my face.  But don't worry, I'm feeling much better now!


			--Aegis



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