defective yeti

A man walks up to a cashier. He wants to purchase something embarrassing: porn, say, or hemorrhoid medication. He has a few other items, too, but it's unclear as to whether he really wants to buy them or if they are just a beard for the shameful merchandise. He has a plan: when the cashier picks up the copy of "Car & Driver" to reveal the three-pack of "mango flavored" condoms, he will feign surprise and say "whoa, how did those get there? Well, I don't feel like returning them, so go ahead and charge me -- I guess I'll buy them ..." But then, as the teller rings up the items, disaster strikes. For some reason the bar code on the product fails to scan correctly. The teller gets on the intercom system and says, "I'm going to need a price check for the jumbo pack of Tink'L Trapp'R brand adult undergarments ..."

This scene is such a staple of comic strips and lazy sit-coms that when I actually saw it happen last weekend my first reaction was not to laugh, but to think "Jesus: what hack wrote this scene ..."

I was in Walgreens with The Squirrelly, behind three other people at the checkout line. The guy in front looked to be about 35, maybe 37 -- stubbly beard, glasses, a little paunchy. Everything was going fine until multiple swipes of some item over the scanner failed to elicit a response.

"That's okay," the guy said hastily. "I don't really ..."

But the teen behind the counter had already commandeered the microphone, and his voice boomed through the store as he haltingly read off the information from the package. "Claire, can I get a price check for a Super ... Star Wars Clone ... Super Clone Trooper Star Wars Action Figure?"

The guy flushed, turned to the next people in line, and said "I didn't really need ..." before trailing off. He told the cashier to go ahead and help the next people in line, but, no, the kid behind the counter was committed to his course of inaction. Finally the guy resigned himself to his fate. He gave the rest of us a "what can I do?" shrug, jammed his hands into his pockets, and turned to look out the glass automatic doors.

I wanted to take him aside and say. "Look, dude: I think buying Star Wars action figures at your age is a little silly. But if you enjoy it, at least enjoy it proudly. If the rest of us were stuck here waiting for you to buy something that you were unabashedly enthusiastic about, we probably wouldn't care." But of course I didn't take him aside to soothe his tortured soul, because he was making me stay in a Walgreens for a few extra moments and so I wanted him to suffer.

A few moments went by. Suddenly the whole scene turned into a play by Jean Paul Sartre -- "No Exit From Walgreens" or something. With no discernable activity from the back of the store (Claire? Are you back there?) we abruptly transformed from a line at a drugstore register to A Bunch Of Strangers Standing Around In Close Proximity To Each Other For No Apparent Reason.

The Squirrelly got bored, started looking around, and saw a display of enormous Valentines Day teddy bears on a nearby shelf. "Teddy bear!" he cried. The two girls behind me, both maybe 14, squealed with delight and said, "awwwwww!" in unison. Taking this as his cue, The Squirrelly charged over to the shelf and grabbed one of the stuffed animals, which was almost as big as he. "Teddy bear!!" he shouted. "That is so cute!" one of the girls behind me said.

I took a few steps over to reclaim my son; as I did so I heard one of the girls say excitedly, "oh cool, he stepped out of line."

After separating my toddler from his ursine pal, I turned around to discover that the girls had rushed forward to fill my spot. The line at Walgreens abhors a vacuum.

"We were here," I said when we got back, and indicating the place in line in front of the girls. "I just had to grab my kid."

"But ... you got out of line," said one of the girls. Not defiantly. She seemed genuinely perplexed.

"Look," I replied. "The convention of queuing up at a cash register is not a federal law, and my leaving the line for a moment is not some loopholes you can exploit without fear of reprisal. Queuing is merely a custom that we as a society collectively adhere to, because, in doing so, we make life easier for everyone. There's no rule that states that, in momentarily leaving the queue, I have waived my right to return to my original spot, because no such rights exists. The line itself is nothing but a social construct. There's nothing preventing me from simply going to the front of the line and ignoring everyone else. We do these things -- queing up, allowing people who have momentarily left the line to return -- not out of obligation, but because we are a civilized people. So with that in mind I am going to ask you, citizen to citizen, to allow me to resume my place in line."

Hah hah! No, I'm just kidding. I'm 34 years old now and have a kid, which, by my reckoning, means I'm entitled to be an Asshole Grown-Up once in a while. So what I really said was: "You know what? I'm not going to argue about this." The two girls scowled and resentfully moved backwards about seven inches, allowing me to wedge myself and my son into the vacated space like half a bagel being crammed into a regular-sized toaster slot. Thereafter they made a point of standing as close to my back as they could without actually touching me, to best express their sense of injustice at my unlawful usurpation of their spot, I guess.

Claire finally materialized and completed the price check. Once Darth Obstructus was out the door, things picked up a bit, though there was some doubt as to whether the cashier had ever used a register before in his life. By the time we got to the front of the line, we'd spent about 15 minutes in Walgreens for what should have been a 30-second purchase.

"Do you want your receipt in the bag," the cashier asked when he had finally finished bagging my items, holding up the piece of paper as if it were a winning lottery ticket.

I figured that operation would take another half an hour, based on what I'd seen so far. I snatched the receipt from his hand, grabbed my bag, and made a break for the door.

Addiction, thy name is Tichu.

When the Top 100 Modern Games list was released, I took no small amount of geeky pride in noting that I owned every single game in the top 10. However,my sense of accomplishment was muted somewhat in realizing that I had only played nine of them. I'd purchased the remaining game, Tichu, several years prior, but a quick read of the rules convinced me that it was nothing special, and it sat on my shelf untouched for years.

But it's appearance in the top 10 made me wonder if I was missing something. So I dug it up, dusted it off, and gave the rules another readthrough. I remained unconvinced. But the proof of the pudding is in the eating, so I recruited three other players, dealt out the cards, and started playing Tichu.

And now I can't stop.

Tichu is a partnership game played with 56 cards: a standard deck (four suits, cards ranked 2-10, Jack, Queen, King, and Ace), plus four special cards (the Mah Jong, the Dog, the Phoenix, and the Dragon). After the cards have been evenly dealt out the lead player begins a trick by playing a poker combination -- three 5s, say. Every other player then has the opportunity to either play a higher combination of the same type (in this example, three 6s, three 9s, etc.), or pass. Play continues around the table until all players have passed, at which point the person who played the final combination takes all the cards and leads the subsequent trick.

The hand does not end when someone gets rid of all his cards; instead, you note the order in which players "go out," and play until the penultimate player has gotten rid of his final card. Thus by the end of the hand everyone has a ranking, from "first out" all the way down to "last out."

The mechanics of the card game will be familiar to anyone who played a few drunken hands of Asshole (a.k.a., President) in college. Like Asshole, Tichu is a climbing game; that is, players are generally striving to get rid of their cards as quickly as possible by playing them to tricks.

Several elements set Tichu apart from the standard climbing game, however, the first of which are Bombs. Bombs are special combinations (four of a kinds and straight flushes) that someone can play onto any trick at any time, even when it's not their turn. A Bomb will always win a trick -- unless another player follows it with a higher Bomb.

Each of the special cards has it's own power and liability: The Mah Jong counts as a 1, but the person playing it gets to make a "wish" -- they name any card value and the next person able to play a card of that value must do so. The Dog is the lowest card in the game, but allows a player to pass the lead to his partner. The Phoenix is a wild card and can be used in any combination, but is worth negative points. And the Dragon is the highest card in the game, but if a player wins a trick with the Dragon he must immediately give it (and all the points therein) to one of his opponents.

Scores are tallied after all cards have been played : 5's are worth 5 points a piece, 10's and Kings are worth ten, the Dragon is worth 25 points, and the Phoenix counts as -25. If a player and his partner go out first and second, their team receive 200 points and their opponents receive nothing. And any player can up the ante for a hand by declaring a "tichu" before play begins: if the declaring player goes out first, his team receives a bonus 100 points; if he does not, his team loses 100. The first team to 1000 wins.

If all this sounds rather mundane to you ... well, now you understand how I felt after reading the rules. But the addictive quality of Tichu is hard to quantify. For one thing, the game is surprisingly deep -- it seems that every time I play I stumble upon some facet of strategy that I'd overlooked before. For another, the dynamic of a Tichu hand is always in flux as you play. You may start with a strong full house (three Kings and two 5's, say), but necessity may force you to break it up, playing the three kings to win a three-of-a-kind trick and leaving yourself with a relatively weak pair of fives. The dynamic nature of Tichu makes every hand engrossing.

In the last month I have been teaching all my friends how to play Tichu, to ensure that I always have a plentiful supply of opponents. And everyone who has learned to play has become a fan. It takes a hand or two to get your "Tichu legs" despite the relatively simple rules, but once you grok the fundamentals you are likely to become hooked. The partnership element of Tichu makes it perfectly suited for those evenings when you, your significant other, and another couple get together, or anytime you find with three others and an hour to kill.

Though I've only been playing it for a few weeks, I can see how Tichu wound up on the Top 100 Games Lists. Indeed, it's already in my personal Top Five, and will likely remain there for years to come.

* * *

If you'd like to try a "climbing game" but Tichu doesn't pique your interest, here's a few others you could pick up instead.

Richard Garfield (creator of Magic: The Gathering) designed climbing game about a decade ago called The Great Dalmuti, which was a favorite of my game group for years. We played so often that I eventually burned out on it, but have pressed my Dalmuti deck back into service since becoming interested in climbing games again. One nice thing about Dalmuti is that it occupies a different niche than Tichu: it's better suited for larger groups (five to seven players, whereas Tichu really only accommodates exactly four), and is much more of a drinking game than a strategy game. If you're looking for a light climbing game to play at bars or parties, Dalmuti is a fine choice.

Gang Of Four is very similar to Tichu, but is streamlined and not played in partnerships, sacrificing some of the depth of Tichu at the altar of accessibility. If Tichu has a flaw it's that it takes a while to get new players up to speed; with Gang Of Four you get much of the the same Tichu feeling without all the overhead.

The cards in Frank's Zoo do not have values, and instead bear the images of animals. You can beat the current animal by playing a better animal onto it, and the highest animal of all -- the elephant -- can be trumped by the lowest, a tiny mouse.

Pig Pile is perhaps the easiest game of those listed here, but is remarkably fun despite it's simplicity. It is an amalgamation of a climbing game and Uno, mostly luck but with a smidgen of skill. Best of all, players keep track of their points with small, rubber pigs -- what's not to like? This is a great game for families or when copious amounts of alcohol are involved.

Who's The Ass? is essentially The Great Dalmuti with a scoring system and a deck of cards that accommodates up to 12 players.

Or you have a few decks of cards laying around your house, you can play one of the many public domain climbing games listed at pagat.com. Tichu is descended from Zheng Fen; Gang Of Four is more akin to Choh Dai Di (a.k.a. Big Two). Pig Pile is a commercial version of Shithead. And then there's Asshole, the climbing game almost everyone played a few times as a youth, . All these games are played with a standard deck, though a few require a special card or two -- nothing you can't jury-rig with a joker and a Sharpie.