Game Boy

Father and son losing at "The Game of Life"

We recently brought Lucy (back, left) and twins down to the Lowcountry of South Carolina, where Britt, now known as Uncle Bick, has relocated with his wife, Evelyn. While Evelyn (26) spends most of her waking hours saving lives as a first year internal med resident, Britt (32) stays home, diddles with point and figure charts on the internet, takes Tarpon (front, right) to the dog run to play Frisbee, watches college basketball during hoops season, cast nets for shrimp during shrimp season, fidgets until he can, in good conscience, open his first 5 o’clock Hefeweizen, then makes dinner (all varieties of shrimp…see “Forrest Gump”…or burritos, plus a nightly frozen 'rita for Ev). For dessert, if Dr. Bickley is up for it, BEER PONG!

This lightish schedule leaves my friend and...gulp...portfolio manager...lots of time for sub-sophomoric games. I actually hung out quite a bit with Britt during sophomore year, and I’d have to say he has gotten less mature. Back then, for instance, he didn’t own a remote-controlled fart machine. Back then we did, on occasion, play fart tennis, but we did not play Britt’s new favorite game of dropping something on the floor, getting a sucker to stoop and pick it up, then farting in their face. He got me and Andre (in the kitchen, with a spatula)...his first ever two-fer. Andre, ruthless when provoked, stuck back by dropping an especially nasty diaper bomb in Brit’s glove compartment.

Britt had the last laugh by getting Andre and I to do 10 penalty pushups in “The Game of Life.” “The Game of Life” is in no way related to flatulence, but this by no means makes it a worthwhile pursuit. If someone asks you to play “The Game of Life” (as Britt did) and you say “OK” (as I did) the rules are simple and non-negotiable: If a fellow player asks you a question and you reply using the word “mine”, then you have to do 10 pushups.

In 5 days I did more pushups than I've done in five years…on the beach, with Andre in the Bjorn, on a shuffleboard table in a bar. The one time I refused (he got me while driving in the rain…“Did Darcy make this mix?...he pulled over and I said “No Thanks”) we got a flat tire 5 minutes later, which indicates that “The Game of Life” may be reffed by the big whistle-blower in the sky. After Darcy joined the game and started getting me too (she collected in situps, since my six-pack is a few cans short) I was relieved to head back home where the dumbest game we play is wiffle ball.