i guess the cruel economics of the mulberry jam company i attempted to found and operate at age eight prevented me from ever obtaining one of these bad boys: crossfire. a god among board games. it’s not even a board game really, but I daren’t hazard a guess at its true nature, lest I be smote by a five-pronged hockey-puck that had some metal orb affixed in its hub. suffice it to say, this thing was badass.

every kid in my neighborhood wanted to be those guys in the commercial. and who wouldn’t? they both looked like the feral boy from the road warrior, only slicked out for a grease audition. plus, they got to fly around on those little ninja stars, surfing through waves of fire and legions of adoring fans. those people probably bet a lifetime’s earnings on the outcome of that fateful battle. you can tell by their bloodthirsty ravings. then that red-haired kid beat the slick greaser boy, who spun like a cyclone and got zapped into space as lightning struck, and the crossfire logo appeared, and the winner viciously declared his victory with, “yeah. yeah!”

that was it. i knew what i was meant to do. if that red-haired kid could savagely sling his opponent to a cruel fate in space, there was some hope for this red-haired kid. i had been put on the earth for a specific purpose: to fly around on a devilized hoverboard, terrorizing the kids in my neighborhood while cueing pyrotechnic extravaganzas, launching ball bearings at them, and revelling in their hideous, pathetic defeat. it’s amazing how much that sounds like something i’d get placed on a watchlist for saying these days.

in the end, none of these glorious options were possible. instead, all that remained within my realm of possibility was that catchphrase. there was such a euphoric cacophony of sound and light at the end of that commercial, and it was always difficult to make it out, but I heard it: “yeah. yeah!” i loved it. “that’s what the cool kids do,” i told myself. “you have to repeat yourself. say it once and then give it a breath. a pause. just long enough for them to respect your self-control and discipline. then say it again like you mean it and you’re gonna make ‘em wish they’d never become friends with you, and never sat down to play that game, because now they’re in fucking space!”

there’s just one problem: he doesn’t say that. or if he did, it must be like that polar pxpress bell thing, where you can only hear it ring if you still believe in the christmas spirit or whatever, but in this case you have to believe that a brutal thunderdome style game from the 90’s can fire your foes into a black hole, or you won’t hear both “yeahs” anymore. he just says it once! what the hell?

what am I supposed to do now?