By Rich Kane
By Joel Beers
By LP Hastings
By Dave Barton
By Patrice Wirth Marsters
By Erin DeWitt
By Taylor Hamby
By LP Hastings
What? Pogs are back? Sorry, I was just whomping a trick on Grand Theft Auto: Black Star Canyon.
Okay, seriously: Pogs? Are back? Nice try, Global Pog Association, if that is your real name. Why don't you tell us who you really are and what you reallywant—we who have had 230 years of practice asking questions and getting answers? Okay, maybe not us. Get Mossad.
But this is 2006; by Sunday, the bitmap will be as extinct as diphtheria, and we'll all be walking around with Bluetooth/camera-phone/iTunes/Broadband/satellite-equipped headsets. With Myst. We don't need you anymore, is what I'm saying—and even if we did, you're not PSP-compatible.
On my street we used to shoot marbles, except for two weeks in July when we blew things up, and the time we made rubber-band boats out of beer cans—but I'll be 36 in December. Okay, in June. You get points for effort—and sure, I'd like to see you succeed, but come on. If Pokemon couldn't make it—or Yu-Gi-Oh! or Tamagotchi—what are the odds?
You had your chance in—what?—the '90s, I think, and you blew it. So we consign you to the Island of Castoff Toys, along with jacks, Pick-Up Sticks, Tinkertoys, the yo-yo, the Erector Set—heh, set—the top, the jump rope and the View-Master.
It's sad, but your ship already sailed. I hear Barbie and Ken might be booking a room on the next passage. Such is life.