Slipperduke
The Camden Cad
The clue is in the name. They called it Mono-poly. Mono. One. Not Bi-opoly, not Tri-opoly, and certainly not Commi-opoly where you all work together and the renting revenue gets ******* on the space programme. It’s a game and it’s there to be won, so what’s the point in trying to play nice? Did Donald Trump play nice? No, he made money. Did Ghandi play nice? Yes, and they shot him. Here endeth the lesson.
Every Christmas, the wimps mock us. “Oh, don’t play Monopoly with him, he takes it really seriously. He becomes a different person.”
Of course we become different people. We become winners. When you’re trying to take over a graphical representation of the city of London, you can’t glide through on auto-pilot. Monopoly is hard and it’s never enough just to try and win. In order to prevail, you have to try and make other people lose. This is blindingly obvious, surely? Mono. One. I can’t take you with me.
So why do people always whine at winners? Why do people throw tantrums when you laugh at them for landing on your Orange hotels? You didn’t build them so that they could sit empty and untouched. You built them in order to trap, fleece and ultimately bankrupt your opponents until you alone remain, bloated on victory, sat astride your empire like some kind of glorious God. Rubbing yourself.
Monopoly is a simulation of capitalism. It’s a game for *******s. If you’re not prepared to be a ******* and win, don’t play it. There’s no shame in personal taste. I mean, personally, I don’t like inherently random games that make lots of noise. That’s why you won’t find me playing Hungry Hungry Hippos.
But only in Monopoly will you find this institutionalised angst. No-one plays Risk and decides to leave an entire continent in the hands of her indigenous people, lest their troop build-up be seen as some kind of neo-con Scramble for Africa. No-one holds their pawns back on the chessboard so that the two Kings can fight it out and spare the bloodshed of the proletariat. Sure, it might only be a game, but that’s no reason to play it like a hippie.
I’ve seen people let their friends off paying the rent because they did the washing-up. My wife once gave a property away just to cheer her sister up. She gave it away. For free. It wasn’t even a tax write-off. Do you know what that is? That’s cheating. That’s screwing with the structure of a game that was here long before you were and will still be played long after you’ve died and your Socialist ashes have been buried in a recycled Co-operative jam-jar in a dirty paupers grave. On the Isle of Man.
Every Christmas, the wimps mock us. “Oh, don’t play Monopoly with him, he takes it really seriously. He becomes a different person.”
Of course we become different people. We become winners. When you’re trying to take over a graphical representation of the city of London, you can’t glide through on auto-pilot. Monopoly is hard and it’s never enough just to try and win. In order to prevail, you have to try and make other people lose. This is blindingly obvious, surely? Mono. One. I can’t take you with me.
So why do people always whine at winners? Why do people throw tantrums when you laugh at them for landing on your Orange hotels? You didn’t build them so that they could sit empty and untouched. You built them in order to trap, fleece and ultimately bankrupt your opponents until you alone remain, bloated on victory, sat astride your empire like some kind of glorious God. Rubbing yourself.
Monopoly is a simulation of capitalism. It’s a game for *******s. If you’re not prepared to be a ******* and win, don’t play it. There’s no shame in personal taste. I mean, personally, I don’t like inherently random games that make lots of noise. That’s why you won’t find me playing Hungry Hungry Hippos.
But only in Monopoly will you find this institutionalised angst. No-one plays Risk and decides to leave an entire continent in the hands of her indigenous people, lest their troop build-up be seen as some kind of neo-con Scramble for Africa. No-one holds their pawns back on the chessboard so that the two Kings can fight it out and spare the bloodshed of the proletariat. Sure, it might only be a game, but that’s no reason to play it like a hippie.
I’ve seen people let their friends off paying the rent because they did the washing-up. My wife once gave a property away just to cheer her sister up. She gave it away. For free. It wasn’t even a tax write-off. Do you know what that is? That’s cheating. That’s screwing with the structure of a game that was here long before you were and will still be played long after you’ve died and your Socialist ashes have been buried in a recycled Co-operative jam-jar in a dirty paupers grave. On the Isle of Man.
