Graaaah!

Dear loyal readers,

Andy has been buried under a big fucking mountain of bureaucratic nonsense this week, and so the next blog entry will have to wait until he takes care of all of this crap.
In the meantime, here's a little variation on an internet classic. It made me lol.

Andy

Memories From London

Preface: This is something I wrote a few months ago about a little adventure I had one Thursday night while studying abroad in London. My friend Ryan's series of posts chronicling his hitch-hiking odyssey reminded me of this, and I figured you'd enjoy reading it. That being said, enjoy!

Thursday in London
It initially seemed like it was going to be a pretty slow night. Before heading down to the pub everybody in my group of friends were planning trips to Rome and France, and we wanted to relax in the Victory (the pub across from our flats) before finishing the trip planning and going to bed. All of my friends in the program were upperclassmen, and seemed to have lost their affinity for getting super trashed and doing stupid things, which is perfectly fine --my hat goes off to them for attaining that degree of responsibility and class-- but I wanted to do a little of that at least a few times while I was there. A couple pints and an Irish Car Bomb later I was ready to hit a club.

I decided to tag along with a couple of the girls I was studying with. Our destination that night was the Roadhouse, a ten minute bus ride from the Victory. After getting on the bus I immediately regretted coming, as all five girls were really obnoxious, loud, and depressingly American. One of the unspoken rules about public transportation in London is that you don't talk while en route; locals give you very haughty and condescending looks if you break the silence. It did not help things that the girls were pretty sauced already, throughout the ride I wanted to clap my hands over their mouths on a number of occasions to save myself the embarrassment of association. I had no frame of reference with any of them aside for one, with whom I only spoke in passing with, so to pass the time I decided to count the number of times the girls said "like" during the bus ride. All in all I tallied up 128 unnecessary uses of the word during the trip.

It was bliss getting off of the bus, at least on the street the sounds of traffic blur accents and diminish volume. We headed to the club, were handed some half-off coupons for entry on the curb, I got carded for the first time (the attendant outside thought I looked like Kurt Cobain in my drivers license picture, a fair comparison I suppose), and we went inside.

The club was really surprising, as it was designed with a very overtly American feel to it. A motorcycle was parked on the center island at the bar, neon American car signs (Pontiac, Ford, etc.) and other pieces of car-themed Americana were everywhere. Given America's less-than-flattering international standing, that there were so many Londoners who would willingly patronize such a place seemed pretty odd. There's no accounting for taste, I suppose.

I headed off to the bathroom, and the girls headed to the main bar. I joined them shortly thereafter, and we waited to place some drink orders. They were getting Long Island Iced Teas, but the drink seemed too mild to kill the painful embarrassment I felt at being attached to these obnoxious girls, so I opted for a shot of 151. They didn't have any, so I just got some rum. Apparently in the deafening confusion the bartender thought I meant two shots instead of just one; a mistake, but a rather pleasant one. Besides, two shots of pirate juice would do roughly the same damage as a single shot of 151. I downed them upon receipt. The cost for the shots was a staggering six pounds (twelve USD), but I sucked it up and forked out the bills. Might as well indulge myself during my first real British club experience, right? Besides, the bartender wielded his glasses and bottles of liquor with an artistic grace, I figured the gouging was worth the entertainment.

I tried to engage the girls in some sort of conversation through the chest-rattlingly loud dance music, but it was to no avail, so when the live band came on stage I decided to check them out. I really can't enjoy live music unless I know the band or I'm severely inebriated, so I indulged the performers with some half-hearted jumping around and beating of fists for a song or two before retiring to the bar for another few shots. Try as I might, the liquor simply would not hit me, probably an effect of my strange new surroundings.

I pushed my way back to the other side of the club to check on the girls. We did a round of tequila (which I thankfully did not have to pay for), and headed as a group to the stage. I tried to engage one of the girls in some dancing, bought us a round of Iced Teas, but she ended up making out with another random guy later in the night, so it was all just an expensive misadventure. I downed my own Iced Tea pretty quickly and considered getting some more to drink, but a review of the growing collection of discouraging receipts in my pocket and the rapidly diminishing thickness of my wallet kept me from getting anything else.

I did a few circuits around the club, looking for a female of suitable breeding age to waste some time with, but all of the moderately attractive girls that weren't ten years my senior had their faces locked with other men already. I fucking hate dancing, especially by myself, getting drunker would have been pointless and expensive, so I decided to brave London's night bus system and find my way back to the flats. The girls encouraged me to stay, but their misplaced faith in my talents with women wasn't enough to keep me, so I bid them adieu. I was bored, had spent too much money, and wanted to go to bed. I made my way to the front entrance and onto the street.

It was here that I really started to feel the effects of what I had consumed. In the club, I think, there were too many people for me to stumble around and too much going on for me to pay attention to the strange, wonderful things happening in my head, but when I hit the cool night air I jumped a full two or three points on the Andy Fry Inebriation Scale. I was asked if I wanted a taxi by the guys outside, but with little money and an inflated ego I denied them in interest of seeking out a bus stop.

I hadn't been paying much attention to how I had actually gotten to the Roadhouse, and given the state I was in I probably wouldn't have been able to figure out how to get back to the main street anyway, so I set out on a street that seemed appropriate. After about five minutes of aimless walking I got lost. There were many small little streets with nobody on them, few cars, and, most importantly, no bus stops in sight. After a while I figured if I just stuck to one direction I'd eventually come to a major road with a bus station. This proved equally fruitless, and soon I was completely out of conceivable solutions for getting home. I saw a guy with a bike and carriage on a street corner and asked him how much it would be to take me to Edgware Road. "Fifteen pounds." He replied. Out of nowhere a guy came up and joined in on the conversation, at the moment I thought he was another cab driver, so I ignored him.

"Fifteen pounds, that's thirty USD man, do you think I could get it down to ten?" I asked the cab driver, not really intending to actually use him to get to Edgware, but bartering for the hell of it.

The strange man who had interrupted me originally butted in again. "Oi, fifteen pounds? I kin direct you to the bus station fer two quid chum."
"Really?" I said, astonished at this man's kindness and my own good luck at finding him, "Excellent, let's do it."

It took me a while to realize who I had just agreed to chauffeur me around London's West End. He introduced himself as Gavin from Belfast, temporarily in London, currently without home. Only upon later reflection did I surmise that it was probably unwise to follow around a strange man in a foreign city, although at the time I thought he was the greatest guy on Earth. He was considerably drunk, and offered me a drag on his bottle of white wine (enshrouded, of course, in a brown paper bag). I refused, partly out of distrust, partially for fear of his questionable hygiene, mostly because I was too drunk to imbibe anything further. Gavin was a really friendly guy, and we talked a lot on our walk to my bus stop-

"So, where ya from Andy?"
"Salt Lake City, Utah!"
"Ooooooh, Salt Lake City then? With them Salt Flats, roight?"
"Yeah man!" I was shocked a guy living in bomb shelter in urban London knew about the Salt Flats. That, friends, is the definition of globalization.
"Yeah, them Salt Flats, with them cars gettin' up to five hunnerd, six hunnerd miles per hour out there, eh?" Gavin continued.
"Yeah! And they hit those fucking pebbles and go flyin'!" I replied. This imagery pleased Gavin greatly. We continued on for a while about the Salt Flats and a few other small topics of conversation. I'd never met a man from Belfast, so I decided to chat with him about the only piece of Irish "current events" I had any knowledge of:
"Yeah! So, Belfast huh?"
"Aye, Belfast."
"You guys have some problems with the IRA up there, right? Tragic stuff."
"Aye, fuck, the IRA the NFW, the…" He listed off a long series of abbreviated Irish freedom fighter armies, most of which I had never heard of. We walked on talking about the politics of the situation for a while until Gavin got to the subject of his wife-

"Well, me misses has gone missin', I dunno where she is." Gavin interjected.
"Ah, that's too bad," I said, " where you think she could have gone to?"
"I dunnoh man, I hope she's fuckin' trashed at the moment, havin a great time. OH SHIT MAN, stop!"
"What?" I said, dumbfounded. I stopped and looked around. I had apparently walked under some sort of overhead street sign, which Gavin regarded as unwise.
"Oi, don' ever fuckin' walk unner those man, bad luck!"
"Oh, oh, ok. Pretty superstitious then, huh?"
"Oi, fuck man, I'm incredibly superstitious, ya NEVER walk unner those."

Throughout the walk Gavin talked to almost everybody on the street, homeless and midnight street-sweeper alike. I had no idea that homeless culture was so extensive; everyone knew everyone. Mostly they talked about how much money they had made throughout the day through various enterprises. A majority were drunk and sprawled out on the sidewalk, the others were walking somewhere, probably to go get drunk like the people on the sidewalk. It's probably unwise to drink yourself into incapacitation at that age, but if I lived on the street I think I would too.

The last topic of conversation was the Fourth of July, and whether I'd be celebrating it here. I said I would, but Gavin said he'd be in court for peeing on a police car. Surprising confession, and a seemingly senseless thing to do, but we all have our shortcomings, don't we? Gavin and I kept walking and talking until we reached the stop I needed, I ended up paying him three pounds for his excellent, much needed service instead of his asking price of two, and promised him we'd have a chat if I ever met him again. He stumbled off in search of another lost individual to guide.

His first target was a woman obviously waiting for the bus, but in his questionable sobriety he tried to convince her that she was lost and attempted to guide her elsewhere. She protested that she was my cousin (hence, had to stay), and we shook hands to prove to Gavin that we were acquainted. She, though, held onto my hand for a lot longer than perfunctory politeness requires, and was giving me serious sex-eyes. "Goodie!" I thought, "Perhaps this night won't end in vain." Gavin eventually departed, shouting in a half-friendly, half-belligerent fashion towards a potential group of tourists in need of guidance.

The aforementioned woman at the bus stop was apparently a South African model working in London until December. She seemed reasonably clear headed, and aside for the questionable alignment of her teeth she could definitely be model material. We talked about Gavin, about how much difficulty we were having in understanding each other's accents, about South Africa, all manner of small talk. Incidentally, we were taking the same bus, so we sat next to each other on the top deck. The bus takes a drastic transformation at two in the morning; while the one I rode in on was completely silent aside for the girls I was with, everybody gets really loud and very angry on the night bus. There were only slightly fewer exclamations of "sod off" during that ten minute ride than "likes" on the first one. I've always thought sod off was a really funny exclamation, but apparently it's an equivalent of "fuck you" in England. I briefly considered some strategy for getting a little quality time with the nameless South African model, but in the end I didn't follow through with any of it. Besides, if she's the type to pick up random drunk American boys at two AM the day before an eight AM photo shoot then she probably plays host to a few nasty venereal diseases.

All in all it was an excellent, incredibly memorable night. Gavin gave me hope for humanity; it probably would have been more lucrative for him to just lure me into an alleyway, rape me to death and steal my money, but he decided to keep his word and led me to where I needed to be. The homeless, or so many believe, are an untrustworthy class of demi-humans, but I --the clueless, lost, drunk foreigner-- was not taken advantage of in the slightest. Our interaction transcended the class boundaries that separated us, and we even connected a little, despite our drunkenness. I consider the night the utmost adventure.

Phone Receptionist for a Day

My Tuesday, which I had formerly planned to spend watching old episodes of Star Trek Voyager and napping, was interrupted around nine o'clock by a telephone call. It was a strange number, but the sight of it sparked a little fire of hope in my chest. I answered it.

"Hello," the voice on the other line said, "is Andy there?"
"Speaking."
"Hi Andy, this is Justin from Temporary Staffing, how are you today?"

Yes! It's finally happened! One of my temp agencies has thrown me a bone! To elaborate: I've been on break since late December, and I was determined to make a lot of money while at home instead of just sitting around on my ass and doing nothing. Despite repeated calls to both of the agencies I work for, nobody ever had any work for me. I ended up playing Super Mario Galaxy from start to finish, shoveling snow, playing a lot of guitar, and watching Star Trek. It appears at the last minute, though, I'm finally going to get some work. The first job, for one day only, was being a phone receptionist at a company down in the valley.

From the instant I accepted the job I knew it was going to be incredibly stressful. Not only did I have to shower, shave, get dressed, and dash downtown in about 45 minutes, but I had to fill in for someone who had been doing the job for years. I didn't really have any idea how big the company was or how many calls I'd be receiving, but I was very nervous walking in the front door.

During the five minutes of training I got on operating the phone the lady showing me the ropes answered four or five calls. She knew the extension off of the top of her head for each call, and the nervousness I felt when entering turned into full-blown fear. Once she left the terror in my chest grew. Who works in what department? Which calls do I transfer where? How do I explain to the callers that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing? For two or three minutes before answering my first call I just stared at the phone, fingers shaking, silently begging it not to ring. Incompetence on my part translates into at least four people getting very angry at me: the guy at the temp agency who gave me the job, the owner of the business, the one who called, and the employee I mistakenly connected him to. Commission-based wages equate into a fifth angry individual if a wrongly connected call actually gets taken care of by the person I directed the caller to.

Ignoring my sweet, desperate pleas to remain silent, the phone eventually rang. The phone didn't have a normal ring like something you'd find on a land line: it was instead a very rapid and continuous series of boops. The lack of spacing between groups of boops threw me off balance and made me feel like I had to answer the phone very quickly. Perhaps this was an intentional design feature, and if so, bravo. The caller wanted to talk to Mike, and after searching for a few minutes for Mike on the employee register I connected the call. As he didn't call back complaining that I had sent him to the wrong person, I assumed I did well. After a few minutes a rather portly fellow poked their head into the reception area.

He greeted me with, "Aaaah, the excitement of answering the telephones!" I replied with a jovial, subservient little "Yup!" I wouldn't quite call the job exciting, although it elicited a similar stress-based response. The man introduced himself as Trent, and apparently he was the "guy who handles the phone problems," so I should turn to him if I have any questions. Apparently this was going to be sooner than I expected, because a few minutes later Trent came in asking me where I had placed the last call.

"Uhh, that last one was to Julie I think."
"Well, you just put that through to Dylan."
Oh Christ, I'm already messing up.
"Well, uh, the list seems to say otherwise." I answered, hoping in vain there might be some sort of reason for the mix up aside for my own stupidity. It appears there was. They had given me an old, completely innaccurate phone list.

Around 11:30 I got a call from a woman, it went something along the lines of this:
"Hello, [company's name]."
"Hi, this is Susan, you have a Relay telephone call request, do you know how to use Relay?"
My immediate reaction went something like, "Oh fuck oh fuck they know I'm new here and they're testing me what the hell is Relay? Shit shit shit!" I asked her to repeat what she had said to buy some more time, racking my brain in an attempt to remember what Relay was, although after a couple seconds I had to admit that I had no idea what she was talking about.

Apparently Relay is an internet based service where one can type out something which will then be read by the employee at Relay to the person actually on the phone. It works the other way around for replies. The combination of adrenaline and confusion inspired an internal response something like, "What the fuck? Am I talking to Stephen Hawking?" In reality the guy on the other line was probably just deaf, although I suspect he had the same manner of motor impairment as Dr. Hawking, because he took forever in replying to what I would say. Throughout the call --filled with huge silences devoid of contact-- the phone booped quietly at me, indicating others were on hold. Eventually I just gave him a random email address --likely not the one he was looking for, since he was being so reticent and slow in providing the requisite information-- and hung up to take care of the other callers.

Aside for that there wasn't much else of interest going on. I attained a moderate amount of competence with routing phone calls around noon or so, and the only other thing they had me do was open and file letters, which was an adventure in and of itself. I was supposed to put them into a "statements" pile and an "invoice" pile, not knowing what exactly a statement or an invoice is, much less the difference between the two. Fortunately, invoices usually come with a big header at the top that says (you guessed it) INVOICE in big, fear-inspiring letters, so that made it a lot easier. When I left the guy I reported my hours to told me he hoped the usual phone receptionist would be sick again tomorrow so they'd get to have me there again. It was a filling compliment, probably not entirely deserved, although I left satisfied.

The experience definitely gave me a fresh resolve to finish my education; eight hours routing telephone calls is a boring way to make a living.

My Problem

I don't think I update this thing anywhere near regularly enough. That being said (and assuming enough of you visit regularly enough to care about a lack of new material :D), I've added a sidebar on the right with info on the next post and when it will be out. Hopefully this will rid you of irritation and me of procrastination.
And yes, I am a clever fucker when it comes to rhyming.

Spam, a Critical Reading

To begin: yes, that is Spam molded into an iPod. Is it related at all to this particular post? Only slightly. It is just too wonderful, I think, to leave out.

Anyway, now to the meat of my subject: spam. Some unfortunate souls have to grapple with spam on a very intimate basis, but the only interaction I have with the twenty or so pieces of spam I receive daily is emptying out my spam folder. I rarely pay attention to the actual contents of what I receive, but then again, why not? Bad English and embarrassingly obvious attempts at phishing are goldmines for humor. Entire communities dedicated to the exploit of spammers have been formed, and the results of the more extravagant of counter-scams are absolutely hilarious. I figured I'll join suit, if in a slightly diminished capacity. Following is my personal analysis of a few choice pieces of spam email:

From: Khiem Warner, khiem-warner@aerojazzstep.de
To: xxxx@gmail.com
Subject: msiluart

Why wait any longer, get your extra long schlong in 3 months
(link removed)

Hmm, interesting first name. I couldn't find anything on the origins of Khiem as a forename, although it appears to be a Vietnamese surname. Perhaps dear Khiem's parents were just a little challenged in the etymology department; it's a beautiful name, and certainly fits with Warner. Oh, and he's from Germany! As luck would have it, I plan on being an English teacher in Germany after graduation, perhaps Khiem will help me out in repayment for my patronage.

The subject line of the email, however, is a little confusing. "Msiluart" didn't make sense at first, although it occurred to me that Khiem may be playing word games with me. A quick visit to the Internet Anagram Server turned up several possible rearrangements for the word, among them: altruism, muralist, lair smut, ultra ism, and "a rim slut." I'd rather like to know what a rim slut is, perhaps if I inquire further Khiem will introduce me to a few. He might even let me have some of his lair smut if I'm polite.

So far as the actual email is concerned, I have to hand it to Khiem; his English is excellent, and he writes in a very persuasive style. His message is quick and to the point, and "long schlong" is a very clever rhyme. He may have forgotten the period at the end of his sentence, but overall I'd rate this as an excellent composition. I look forward to doing business with him in the future, and eagerly anticipate ordering and ingesting all sorts of mysterious pills and clicking on strange links.

From: RAY sandor, RAY180@241445.dmresh.reply.placeapts.com
To: xxxx@gmail.com
Subject: tuvisiru

hello andy
few simple thlngz to make */our life easia
(link removed)
RAY sandor

I can tell instantly that RAY is someone you don't mess around with. The capitalization of his first name is striking; it imparts an almost regal sense of power and demands respect. RAY is a shrewd businessman indeed, I'm sure he got to his position in life through his strong-armed self-presentation. The capitalization of his name could, however, be interpreted as mere arrogance by those so foolish as to underestimate RAY's power, but in anticipation of this he leaves his last name uncapitalized. Through the lower case spelling of a proper noun, RAY shows us that he also has a humble side, and is not so inflated and self important as to disregard the thoughts of lower class individuals. Sheer brilliance.

Notice how he addresses me on a first name basis, as this is a very subtle maneuver. RAY is respected by many, although in addition to taking the time to write me an email promoting his mysterious product, he chooses to ignore the trappings of more officious greetings and instead meets me on a personal level. One would be foolish to ignore this most intimate and generous of gestures.

RAY strengthens his personal relationship with me by appealing to my generation, more specifically by employing an unorthodox yet effective combination of l337 sp33k and urban slang. Anyone can simply write words like "things," "your," and "easier," but RAY recognizes that these words have become drab and passé in the hundreds of years since their inception into the English language. The use of "easia" displays a deep understanding of my cultural heritage, and that RAY has so effectively bridged the generation gap between us is nothing to belittle. These mysterious things that the formidable RAY is vending entice me greatly, I'm sure that whatever he has to offer will improve my life by orders of magnitude.

From: Dr. Graham Kimball, grahamkimball@conchtraders.com
To: xxxx@gmail.com
Subject: Are you a real man?

You Do not please with your male organ size.
Women joke at you.
Solve this problem now.
Use our male aggregate enl,argement and Girls will love you sure enough.
I have tried! Now it is your turn to change your sexual life.
(link removed)

Oh, it's from a doctor! But how did he know that I don't please women with my organ size? Perhaps the government shared my medical information with him regarding my performance problems in the hopes of helping me with my sexual deficiencies. It appears news of my diminutive phallus spreads fast, as this is only the second of thousands of emails I've received regarding penis enlargement. I think this surge of support has renewed my faith in the goodness of humanity; these fine gentlemen, instead of snickering and ridiculing me, are trying to help. Well, maybe Dr. Kimball does mock me a little, but the spirit of his offer offsets his strange sense of humor. The domain name of his email address is also of particular interest; I'm absolutely sold if he's trading pills that will result in a conch-sized penis.

Although maybe not, "male aggregate enlargement" doesn't sound like something I'd be interested in. Taken at face value this doesn't make much sense, as the word aggregate means "a whole formed by several (typically disparate) elements." Dr. Kimball may have gotten a little confused looking through a thesaurus for synonyms for penis, although this statement could be construed to mean that I will end up with several large, disparate elements in my jeans after partaking of his medication. The very concept of tentacle rape freaks the shit out of me, and while I may be seeking to change my sex life, I think I'll stick with what nature endowed me with. Thank you, Dr. Kimball, but I'm passing on this one.

I think this exercise in sarcasm has inspired me to explore the lives of these spammers further. I want to seek them out and ask them questions, as these short emails they send me offer up little actual substance. Perhaps I'll reply to a few spam emails to see if I can lure a spammer into a little correspondence. Stay tuned for the results.

Edit: Sorry for the funny formating after the first email. Don't know what's going on, and efforts to fix it have proven fruitless.
Edit: Now fixed! Thanks Ikinari.

Rehab for Disney Movies

I saw Enchanted recently, and I have to say; it was a damned precious movie. I was in a pretty bad mood when I sat down in the theater, but after stomaching through the nauseatingly cute opening musical number I really started to get into it. It's good for a change to watch a cartoon that's, you know, actually drawn, albeit for a quick fifteen minutes or so. By the time Giselle finally made it into the real world I was thoroughly engrossed in the story, and by the heartwarming end I was left feeling absolutely elated. Things had gone so perfectly for everyone involved, and all the bad guys were either reformed through the goodness of others or, well, killed.

And that is precisely the problem I have with it. It ended in a depressingly uplifting fashion.

I don't know at what point in time happy endings started to leave me with a sickly, melancholy aftertaste, but the first time I really noticed it was with the film adaptation of Hairspray. Touching as the show might be, once I stepped out of the movie theater reality came and bitchslapped me in the face. As much as I would like to believe that a bunch of singing, dancing high schools students can end racism and change the world, and as believable and heartfelt it may appear on film, it's completely ludicrous to expect. As just and righteous Hairspray's conclusion is, things could never be so simple or the results so good. The same was true for Enchanted.

It's the little things that wear down the celluloid magic- homeless guys on the street asking for change so they can feed their meth addiction, the blatant disrespect of other drivers on the road, the dark, quiet drive home. Thoughts quickly turn away from the perfection of the cinema to other, more disquieting things: AIDS, genocide, the third world. The exploits of Giselle quickly wear off when I try to justify the ludicrous amount of privilege I enjoy in my life when there are millions of invisible people dying of hunger or getting their hands blown off by land mines.

The ideal emotional response to a tragedy is catharsis; the emptying of all emotion, usually leading to happier thoughts. As of late, though, I only get left with a crazy sort of reverse catharsis after indulging in something with a happy ending. The spells don't last for very long, and sometimes they don't come at all, but when they do they always leave me feeling a little more guilty.

Mario the Capitalist

"You're not listening to my theory!" She said, inflecting her words with an irritating little twinge of self importance. "The goal of Super Mario is to collect coins, right? So it teaches kids to be capitalists."

My friend Nate was playing Super Mario 64, she was sitting on his bed, part of a circle of strangers passing around a bong. I was watching the game, but when I heard that escape her lips I turned and stared for a second. I didn't say anything, but what I should have said is as follows-

Hey, dumb bitch, you've just insulted one of the biggest influences on my childhood. Setting aside the silliness of this pretentious stoned philosophy you're trying to spin, let me entertain your argument. For one, while the acquisition of "wealth" may play a big part in Mario's games, the coins serve a different purpose in the game than they do in our world. While you might collect coins to restock the half-gallon of eyeliner you must have applied to achieve that curious, hookerish appearance, Mario collects coins to earn points, thereby unlocking levels, and bringing himself closer to defeating Bowser and rescuing Princess Peach. So you see, while we humans use our money to selfish ends (that is, buying things for ourselves), Mario is completely selfless. When was the last time you saw Mario buy a piece of sweatshop clothing or starve a local business by shopping at a huge, evil superstore? It appears you do both, although I've never seen Mario spend a single coin. Period.

Even then, the coins don't have that much of an influence in the overall score a player achieves. In the original Super Mario Bros., for example, a coin is worth 200 points. Stomping on a Goomba, though, gives you 500 points, and while collecting coins sequentially grants you no more points than collecting them one at a time, bouncing from enemy to enemy increases the points the next enemy grants, eventually resulting in a 1-Up. Where you earn the most points, though, is in speed; however much time you have left out of 400 seconds is multiplied by 50 when you reach the end.

So you see, Mario does not preach capitalism. Rather, the disciples of Mario learn speed, efficiency, and heroism. The goal of a game is not to earn as much money as possible, it is to rescue the Princess, and that is where your pro-capitalism musings fall apart. In actuality I probably would have muttered about half of that, but it gives me a little sense of vindication to write it anyway.