In a psychotic fit of boredom, I downloaded the Angry Birds app on my iPhone today. Yes, late to the game as usual. I wouldn't exactly classify a bunch of small creatures catapulting themselves head-first into solid objects a particularly efficient use of the term angry. Sad, pathetic, disturbed, masochistic, those all seem like more appropriate descriptions. But then I realized why Angry is truly appropriate.
Because you begin to hate those birds. And those pigs. And their smug, condescending faces. And the hatred grows until your whole world becomes a swirling vortex of pixelated rage.
Because you begin to hate those birds. And those pigs. And their smug, condescending faces. And the hatred grows until your whole world becomes a swirling vortex of pixelated rage.
The only reward for your increasingly feeble attempts at launching tiny masses of feathers at impregnable fortresses of stone and ice is the glowering image of a red, feathered, tennis ball. The red bird is a douchebag. I imagine him wearing glasses ironically and hanging out of the window of his Trans Am with a giant can of Red Bull in his hands.
