Subtle Changes to Game Dynamics in "Oregon Trail" Had Cannibalism Been an Option

Welcome to the Oregon Trail! Your journey begins in INDEPENENCE, MISSOURI. Before you begin your quest, you must select a profession.

You have chosen CARPENTER. The CARPENTER class starts with $800. Spend your money wisely at MATT'S GENERAL STORE to stock up on supplies for your journey.

Are you finished shopping?

You are done shopping. Would you like to EAT MATT?

You do not EAT MATT. Please name the rest of the members in your party.

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Your party has reached LARAMIE. Here you can buy more supplies, barter, or talk with other travelers.

You find PISTOL BILL. PISTOL BILL begins to tell you stories about Hockessin, Delaware. His stories bore you. You remember that you are running low on food - do you murder and eat PISTOL BILL?

You have selected NO. You listen to twenty-seven minutes of stories about barrel-making.

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Your FOOD SUPPLY is dangerously low. You will soon have to go hunting or eat one of the members of your party to survive.

You have selected to HUNT.

You have shot 240 pounds of meat. As you lug the deer carcass back to your wagon, your joints ache and your muscles grow weak. You consider it would have been a lot easier for you if you just ATE KELLY.

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KELLY has DYSENTERY. If you stop to rest, there is a chance her health will recover. Or, you can eat her now before the DYSENTERY makes her unappetizing.

You have decided to REST for three days.

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BANDITS have come in the night and have taken 28 BULLETS, 30 POUNDS OF MEAT, $66, and KELLY. You feel so angry you could eat GERALD right then and there. Do you EAT GERALD?

You have decided to THINK IT OVER.

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Your party is eight miles from FORT HALL. You have changed your RATIONS from "Good" to "Meager."

Your party has reached FORT HALL. Here you can buy more supplies, barter, or talk with other travelers.

You once again meet PISTOL BILL. He says you look "worse than a Kentucky weasel in an Alabammy mineshaft." He offers to buy one of your oxen for $17. Does he have any idea how insulting an offer like that is?

You and your party DEVOUR PISTOL BILL.

Are you finished in FORT HALL?

You and your party make for FORT BOISE. You have changed your RATIONS from "Meager" to "Plentiful".

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You have found an abandoned wagon! You find 14 BULLETS, 1 WHEEL, and 48 POUNDS OF MEAT. Will you celebrate by EATING one of your party members?

You and your party EAT GERALD.

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Your party has come across a RIVER. What will you do?

A) Attempt to cross by FORDING.
B) Pay an Indian Guide to FERRY you across.
C) WAIT for low-tide.
D) EAT the Indian Guide in the hopes of inheriting his secrets. (And potentially also his strength.)

You have EATEN the Indian Guide. Now you know how to FERRY your wagon across, and you feel stronger.

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You feel like you've been on this trip forever. You are bored. Will you eat TED?

Are you still hungry?

You eat SUSAN.

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Your food supply is running dangerously low. You have decided to HUNT.

You have shot 857 pounds of PEOPLE MEAT. You can only carry back 200.

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You and your party have reached the Columbia River!

You may:

A) Float the wagon downstream. (Fastest option, but dangerous.)
B) Take a toll road around the river. (Safest option, but will add 92 miles to your trip.)
C) Think on it over some barbecue PHILLIP.

You have selected to EAT PHILLIP AND THINK ON IT.

You are so gorged on PHILLIP that you fall fast asleep. BANDITS have robbed all your blankets. You are dead from EXPOSURE...but at least you die with a FULL STOMACH.

Private Correspondences to Drill Sergeant Shanks

Tuesday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Let me start by ensuring you how happy I am to have been assigned to your squadron for Basic Training. Other Privates I have spoken with assure me that you have a certain flair for sculpting the finest soldiers. (Your reputation precedes you, good Sir!) I do hope that mine is a clay suitable enough to be formed by your artist's hands. Granted, I may not turn out like David, but hopefully when it's all said and done I'll at least come close to The Burghers of Calais!

Overall, I feel very positive about today's meet-and-greet, but I did want to excuse myself yet again for mistaking a handshake as a suitable greeting between Private and Drill Sergeant. It was obviously an upsetting gesture for you, so much so that I couldn't fit in a response to any of your rapid-fire interrogations. (Please take note, I'm certainly not implying any rudeness on your part for this heated, one-sided exchange. For getting you so riled up, I scarcely deserved my own say in the matter.)

But vis-à-vis those aforementioned queries, let me assure you of the following:

There is certainly nothing wrong with my eyesight. Yes, I noticed that none of the other privates offered to shake your hand as you made your way through the column of new recruits. (I assumed they were all being rude.)

Your right hand was the only portion of your anatomy I had interest in grasping. (Admittedly, I'm still a bit perplexed as to how ready you were to interpret my politeness as a homosexual advance. Were you actually curious as to whether I had a desire to service you in front of the whole platoon? I'm not the type who gets these particular urges, Sir, and even if I were, I'm cognizant enough to recognize inappropriate timing.)

I hope this helps clear up any confusion or ill-will from this afternoon. And thank you for taking the time to read this. (I'm not even a confrontational person, believe it or not!)

Yours,
Private Witherspoon

Wednesday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Hi again Drill Sergeant. It's Private Witherspoon. Listen, I feel terrible about earlier. Honest, I wasn't ignoring you. I just hadn't realized when you were trying to get my attention that your new nickname for me was "Maggot Face." Had you called out "Spooney" or "Spoonerism", I assure you I would have responded much quicker.

Somewhat related question: Am I going to get punished every time you come up with a nickname for me that I don't instantly recognize? This could get very confusing for me, and moreover, it could be very straining for us.

Also: Can your grandmother really do more than twenty-two pushups? If you were just saying that to make me feel bad, mission accomplished.

Sincerely,
Private "Spooney"

Thursday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Sorry that I missed today's hand-to-hand combat session - last night's super-late K.P. punishment simply pooped me out! When's a good time to make up the lesson?

(Speaking of K.P., don't you think it's about time the platoon gets a dishwasher? Or at least a decent S.O.S. pad? That toothbrush makes the job last forever. The Army's all about efficiency, yes?)

Oh, and rest assured I've learned my lesson: Next time I'll get permission from you first before I go telling the other guys that you call me "Private Spooney."

Cheers,
Private "Dog Shit"

Friday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but some of the guys in the platoon are demonstrating textbook entry-level employee grousing. Some of the guys (I won't name names - unless it turns out that you later will want these names. In which case I'll gladly name names) are starting to complain about the routine and the food, and one soldier (OK, Private Bentley) referred to you as "Drill Sergeant Skanks."

I don't know about you, but I feel this is not building towards a cohesive work environment. It's especially difficult when a certain Sergeant-slandering private refers to one of his peers as "Private Without-poon."

I look forward to this issue being resolved promptly.

Best,
Private Witherspoon

Saturday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

I was sensing some real negative vibes from you today. Are you mad at me for something? I didn't even get a chance to say "Hi" before you were screaming in my face. And then you go and tell me "[I]'ll never amount to anything in [my] whole stinking life"? If something's the matter (with me, with us, with your personal life, etc.), let's talk about it. That'll get us a lot further than you just taking out your aggression on me.

Know this: I'm not mad; I'm concerned. Is there somewhere on base we can get a latte and hash things out?

Feel better,
Private Witherspoon

Monday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Some of the other privates told me about The Green Berets. It sounds like quite an impressive group. They said I should ask you for information on getting in.

Warmly,
Private Witherspoon

P.S. Changed your mind about that latte yet?

Tuesday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Is it true that we're being trained in order to be sent to Iraq? I don't think I'll go: I get airsick pretty easily. (And pretty badly.)

Send me a postcard!

Fondly,
Private Witherspoon

A Letter to Tom Brady, Quarterback of the New England Patriots

Dear Tom Brady,

I am a twelve year-old boy from Lafayette, Indiana. I am writing this letter to you from my hospital room, where I stay all day because I have lung cancer. I was left at an orphanage soon after being born, so I've never met my mother. (Neither have I met my father.) Doctors tell me that my lung cancer comes from all the cigarettes that the mother I've never known smoked while I grew - unwanted, apparently - in her womb. I don't blame my mom for not wanting me, though. Or for poisoning my lungs before they got a chance to be used in the real world. Everybody makes mistakes, right? Also I have AIDS.

Things are real rough for me, Mr. Brady, but one of the things that keeps me going is rooting for my favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts. I watch them every Sunday from the beginning of September to usually the first or second weekend in January. My favorite player is Peyton Manning, who must be the greatest quarterback of all time because his statistics are so good. I have never met Peyton Manning, but lots of people say that he is really smart and hilarious and lots of supermodels are jealous that he's married.

I think that you're a real good quarterback too, Mr. Brady. In fact, even though you don't have as many touchdowns or passing yards as Peyton Manning, I think you're one of the best quarterbacks of all time. Winning three Superbowls in four years makes you a legend, Mr. Brady. And that means that you only place your legacy has to go is down. What's one more Superbowl? Is four that much better than three? Winning another one can't make you a bigger legend than you already are; but losing a playoff game will only make people say, "Hmm, well Tom Brady isn't all that great, is he?"

I don't think anybody wants this, Mr. Brady. You don't want it; Patriots fans don't want it; I don't want it; surely that handsome, statistical marvel Peyton Manning doesn't want it to happen. That's why I think you should retire, Mr. Brady. Tomorrow. Before the game against the Colts. Take it from me, a little boy from Indiana who has cancer and AIDS: Life is short. If you keep your legacy intact by retiring tomorrow, then you can overcome life's brevity - you will be immortal.

I'm not interested in being immortal, myself. (Who would want to live forever with cancer? Or AIDS? And in my case, both?) But maybe that Peyton Manning could be immortal with you if he wins a Superbowl this year. Wouldn't that be great! Later in life, the two of you could reminisce about your Superbowl victories in Peyton's backyard in New Orleans with the football-shaped pool and twin hammocks. Peyton's lovely wife would even bring the two of you sweet tea and her patented "Victory Ribs", the dish she makes for Peyton whenever he wins a football game. (And also after losses to cheer him up.)

I get so excited when I think that you and Peyton Manning might be Superbowl buddies after this year. I know you two would be such great friends. And I'd sure like to see my favorite team and my favorite player win a Superbowl before I die, which the doctors here tell me will probably happen in about a month and a half.

Please retire.

Sincerely,
Little Boy

P.S. If you do retire, I have good word that Peyton Manning would gladly share half of his lucrative promotional earnings with you. That'll buy a lot of lobster. (Please, please retire.)

A Message from Brock

As many of you know, over the last few months I have been thinking hard about my plans for 2008. Running for Sigma Chi president is a hella-big decision - a decision no one should make solely on the basis of coming up with the idea last Saturday while getting totally baked and watching Air Force One - and so before I committed myself and my dad's finances to this race, I wanted to see if my suitemates, R.G. and T.J., thought it was a rad idea. "Dude, swiggity sweet!" advised T.J.

I certainly didn't expect to find myself in this position a year ago. But as I've spoken to other sweet dudes in the house besides R.G. and T.J. - Eric, Fritz, A.J., K-Ice, Z, J.T., E-Mac, K.J., J.J. - I've been struck by how hungry we all are for getting girls drunk and having sex with them.

So I've spent some time thinking about how I could best advance the cause of change and progress that we so desperately need, in order to get girls drunk and have sex with them.

The decisions that have been made in Sigma Chi this past year have put our fraternity in a sketchy sitch. Many of you have shared with me your stories about pot getting more expensive, the flip-cup partners you've lost to deactivation, and how really, super-pissed you still are that pot has been getting more expensive. Our continued obligation to philanthropy has been marked by many of you as "faggy" and "hella-gay". And we're still mired in a tragic and costly prank war with Lambda Chi (aka, "Rambda Guy") that should have never been waged when there's so many girls we could be getting drunk and having sex with.

But challenging as these problems are, it's not their magnitude that concerns me the most. It's the smallness of our balls. Sigma Chi has faced big problems before. But today, our Senior leaders seem incapable of using/growing balls, in a practical, unfaggy way. Our agenda has become so sackless, so gummed up by guys acting gay, that we can't tackle the big problems that demand solutions: What is the surest way to get girls drunks enough to allow us to have sex with them?

And that's who we have to have sex with first.

This won't happen by itself. Having sex with drunk girls can only come from you; from pledges across our house who believe there's a better way and are willing to work for it.

Years ago, as a summer camp counselor in Connecticut, I learned that convincing a girl to have sex with you is a long, arduous process. It takes talent, commitment, perseverance, and about six to eight Mike's Hard Lemonades. But, my brothers, it can be done.

So even in the midst of the enormous challenges we face today, I have great faith and hope about the future - because I believe in those of you who aren't totally gay.

And that's why I wanted to tell you first that I'll be rolling papers today with my newly created Balls Exploratory Committee. For the next several weeks, I am going to talk with brothers from around the house, listening and learning more about the girls we want to bone, the girls who will possibly be willing to let us bone them, and the role that alcohol might play in getting the girls who usually wouldn't sleep with us to let us have sex with them. And at the end of semester, at the end of these decisions and in the foosball room, I'll share my plans with my friends, Sigma Chi brothers, and fellow non-homos.

In the meantime, I want to thank all of you for being sweet, for your pot, and special thanks to Mikey J.'s mother for being a total ho and giving it up to me on Mom's Weekend. (Suh-lut!)

Sincerely,
Buff Brock

Internal Monologue of the 16 Year-Old Very Mathias on the Day of Breaking up with his 17 Year-Old Girlfriend

OK, OK. This has to happen, and it has to happen today. No way around it -- I am about to destroy another human being's life. Christine is about to experience the greatest pain she will ever know: the pain of me leaving her. She is about to get dropped into a boiling cauldron of rejection. The sadness of a thousand garbage trucks is on the verge of crushing her to bits. The endless despair of a horseshoe is about to leave its kick-imprint on the face of her soul. She will never, ever recover from this. Her life will be over as soon as I drive away.

Well, if it has to be done, it will be done today. As soon as I finish these next six rounds of Tekken, I will perform this ignoble duty.

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If only breaking Christine's heart could be as easy as executing as 17-hit combo with Eddy Gordo. Should I shower before I do this? She might recover quicker if I'm a little gamey. No, no she'd see through my rouse and love me even more for putting myself down to make her feel better. Plus I don't want to look greasy if her older sister's there -- if Kelly has her sister's genes, she's probably madly in love with me too. Oo, I need to ask Mom if I can use the Tercel.

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Damn I'm nervous. My palms are so sweaty that my hands are slipping off the wheel. I need some music. Something appropriate. Something to prepare me for having to literally crush her soul. Something to get me ready to ruin a poor girl's young life with the worst news she could possibly -- oh sweet! I thought I lost my copy of Unleash the Dragon! Which number was "Thong Song" again?

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...that thong, thong thong thong -- oh, here already. I guess time flies when you're racked with bottomless guilt. Hm, no cars in her driveway. Good, her parents are still at work - maybe we can make out for a little bit. Shit, I forgot gum. OK, better just break up with her then. Yeah, that's best. It would be insane anyways to get her all titillated before letting her go. Just go in, do it, and get out. Like a Band-Aid.

Oh man. She's wearing that purple tubetop. Her boobs always look awesome in that purple -- hey! Focus!

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Innocent, sweet Christine. There she goes, going on and on about ballet practice. She has no idea what's about to hit her. Does she deserve this? Am I to blame for letting things get too serious with her? Sure, there was a time when I really did think I loved her. Think? No, I felt it -- I know I did. The truth is, I don't really know when the feeling passed. It was part of me for so long, I know that. For the better part of a year, being in love with Christine defined most of who I was as a person. I hope we can still be friends. I want to be there for...oh good, she finally stopped talking. Quick, before she starts up again, say, "Good news! You're about to have a lot more time to practice ballet."

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Man. This is going ever worse than I imagined. What time is -- oh Jesus. It's already 4:32. That means I've been here for eleven minutes. Am I ever going to get out of here? And is she still crying? She's been crying for at least four minutes! I never thought she'd be taking it this bad. I need to do something.

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This was a great idea. I successfully broke up with Christine, it looks like she's almost finished crying, and now the two of us get to enjoy a round of miniature golf. Should I have offered to pay for her? I think that probably would've sent the wrong message. I should also make sure I beat her, then. If I lose, it might look like I let her win, and like me paying for her, she might interpret that as a sign of affection, which she'll use for hope, which is something that she should forget about so she can just move on. For her own good, then, I will beat the miniature golfing shit out of her.

New Year's Resolutions

1. Quit smoking.

Granted, not the most original New Year's resolution, but pertinent nonetheless. It's just a drain on my wallet, and I think it's beginning to alienate me from my non-smoking friends. Good cue that it's time to quit.


2. Take up jogging

No cigarettes is a good start, but jogging on top of that is exactly what my body needs. And, admittedly, I'm not just doing it for my own health's sake - I wouldn't mind looking a little sexier around the ladies. Seeing as how I haven't had a date in months (let's not get into how long it's been since I've gotten any), I obviously could use some kind of edge. A fitter, happier me can't hurt in finding Ms. Right. (Or at least "Ms. Right Now"!)


3. No more denying that the Holocaust happened

Old habits die hard, so Number Three on the list here is gonna take some work. I've been denying the Holocaust for a while now, even longer than I've been smoking. Unfortunately for me, there is no patch or gum I can use to help me to quit denying the Holocaust. But I've thought about it, and I know that I want to quit. I know that if I just take it one day at a time, I'll slowly learn to accept the fact that history's version of the Holocaust is, in fact, accurate.


4. No more wire-tapping

All my surveillance gear is going on eBay: I am done with spying on neighbors/friends/family/acquaintances. Hopefully I'll get some money back, because I sure can't get any of my time back - what a bunch of boring biddies! No love affairs, no secret drug problems, no debates about the supposed validity of the Holocaust - I couldn't even stay awake half the time. This year, I'm moving out of my base of central intelligence operations (Dad's basement) and back into the real world.


5. No more feigning profound retardation for my own benefit

I think I've rode this horse for about as far as she'll ride.


6. Take a Tex-Mex course

This one's a redo from a 2006 resolution, because last year I only got through a class and a half before I got kicked out. My bitch instructor got pissy whenever I wanted to have a smoke or when I asked other people taking the course if they had any good reasons for believing the Holocaust occured. I tried to re-enter the same class a week later under the alias "Benjy," but my instructor saw through the slowed speech, contorted face, and ill-fitting clothes and threatened to call the police if I didn't leave immediately. I left, but not without secretly planting a mic in her car on my way out. (As of today, I've yet to overhear anything incriminating enough to get back at her with blackmail. Lucky for her I stopped listening as of this Sunday at 11:59 PM.)

Oh well. Tomatillo Salsa, anyone?