You boxed as "Little Mac," and the nickname could not have been more appropriate. Mac was really fuckin' little:
Even though the perspective is somewhat on a downward angle, the fact that Bald Bull is FARTHER AWAY yet still WAY FUCKING BIGGER means that Little Mac clearly has his work cut out for him. If these two were side by side, how high up would Mac come next to Baldy? His belly-button? How the fuck is some white dude who's too pussy to even take off his tank top while he's BOXING gonna handle this gigantic, mean-as-hell-looking motherfucker? It'd be like putting Mini-Me up against a enraged, drunken elephant that not even Paris Hilton could help.
(That reminds me -- remember how Wyatt and Gary were too pussy to take a shower with Kelly Le-fucking-Brock in Weird Science without taking off their jeans?
Yeah. That Kelly LeBrock.)
Punch Out asked me to accept that somehow Little Mac could handle such clearly larger foes as Soda Popinski and King Hippo (not to mention Mike frackin' Tyson), and in order to continue playing, I did. This sort of thing was remarkably prevalent in childhood. And I don't just mean Santa and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and whatever. They at least gave you things, so saying, "Okay, I'll go along with this [utter bullshit]," was somewhat understandable.
But Punch Out was a video game. Unlike 'Nam, it had rules -- which you couldn't argue with. But then there were things like Freeze Tag. "Okay, you tagged me. So now I have to stand here perfectly still? Why? So the fat kid whose ass I just kicked in Wall Ball can come tag me? Fuck that. I'm just gonna run away. What's he gonna do, get upset? Tell on me?" But those were the rules, so when I played I stood still upon being tagged. It was dumb, and I knew that even then.
However, there was one childhood game which perplexed me more than most. That feeling has never really left, either. There was one particular aspect of this particular game that I immediately spotted as Bullshit, and even though I played along, I always maintained my inner grievance. The game? Rock-Paper-Scissors.
Some of you may have seen what I'm about to show you. (As I type right now, it's the Number 1 story on Digg, so clearly this thing has ventured all over the Worldwide Interweb of Information.) But wow, when I read this, it was like whoever wrote it had read my precociously intelligent 11-year-old mind: Fucking-A!
(Picture first seen here.)