Nerding Day: OK, Zoomer (Patreon)

It’s here.

My new gift from Smith Street. Just in time for the holiday.

Happy Torment Day! It’s your favorite. Per tradition, we’ll play OK, Zoomer.

Another wonderful gate to the past. Smith Street has some other specialties, like celebrity worship and only that. But they’re gods of nostalgic print shovelware. OK, Zoomer is their latest retread of your peak, with more yesterday than ever. If the Black Mercy’s your ideal birthday gift, Smith Street’s there for you.

Instinct tells you the title sucks. But does it? You already know what this is, if it’s for you, and which friends will tolerate it. OK, Zoomer hits its targets like a predator drone. Sure, Smith Street found it five years after Bill Maher. Who found it five months after Impractical Jokers. Who found it five weeks after Twitter. But Maher’s not a comedian, so Smith Street hasn’t stolen a joke.

Smith Street’s all about effort. They even made a video rules guide, which is a strong sign for a party card game. Booklets talk down to you.

Got it. Time to find some pigs. Players. Players for this fun game.

Meet your generational contestants:

All four rushed to help an injured friend. Hideous mistake. Imagine falling for that on Torment Day. I’d pull my teeth out myself for a gag. Fun concept, really. Let me write that down.

The video has a little more to it. OK, Zoomer games last ten rounds, or until someone hits you. Players get two points for answering questions outside their age group, rewarding open-mindedness/literacy/time outside. To destroy other generations, you must understand them at a Smith Street level.

We’ll learn on the job. Card one:

What a fun memory! Vetoed. I’m here for a match, and this was the last time half our players smiled. New card.

Are we blaming Zoomers for that? It was 2018, and club filler’s half-driven by people in their–how dare Zoomers do this. By themselves. Taste this worthless should be punished by lifelong penury.

Answers?

A little overlap. While it hasn’t been the man’s year, I’m rooting for him. Lil Nas proved you can have a public breakdown without joining the brownshirts.

Interesting. Everyone put in the same effort, but Gen Z got less. Must be their work ethic.

Still, fine tutorial. GoodReads says that I use too many thinkhard brainsounds, so here’s a quick recap: Smith Street makes quiz books for dogs. Now they’ve given up on books altogether, and joined 2015’s card game boom. By playing OK Zoomer, we’ll learn which generation clings tightest to the past. Two answers are stock jokes, but it’s anyone’s game.

Round Two:

A rich vein of torment. The atomic anxiety gives it flavor.

Let’s see who remembers how to read.

Everyone but the people in charge. That should work out.

I kid, repressing Thatcher’s good for your longevity. What would you rather remember in forty years: covfefe, or k-turns?

Remember: answers outside of your clan earn double points. I don’t get it either. It’s the kind of patchwork rule you add when someone solves basketball, or you put off playable Orks for a decade.

Or maybe someone complained about their scores. You know how they are. Whichever age you hate. I'm still pissed about the Anor Londo archers, so I’ll go with Gen X. Theyv’e coasted since Megadeth. Especially the ones in Megadeth.

Smith Street has an offbeat definition of Gen Z. It limits the torment’s range a bit, but we’ll make do.

Wait, this pain’s a little too familiar.

I’ve seen this fuckup before.

They printed the same question, to the word. There’s the sloth that makes breathing today embarrassing. Well, that and every prisoner whiffing.

That’s a veto. New card:

Ah, lockdown YouTube. If memory serves, two videos existed. This is either “Bill Gates Wants Your Eyes” or “WAP.”

We’ve got a “Bill Gates Wants Your Eyes” crowd. Maybe he does. Though, given the demos and tastes of my breakdancing crew, I suspect two fucking liars.

More importantly, a trend’s emerged. Everything’s millenial but the millenial rounds. The Broken has a real chance of becoming apex pig.

Christ, losing to Smith Street is like getting outwitted by a fish. Let’s try some imperial decline, those are easy points.

Too on the nose for recession season. We can do better. Veto.

That’s what I get for nudging the scale. You can only force growth for so long before disaster.

In The Dying’s defense, they just skimmed “internet-related.” US real estate melts every twenty years like oh fuck.

Points can’t buy housing.

For many, time stops here. And I get it, and appreciate how it simplifies torment. But you should know modern dentistry bangs.

Again: these cards were written by fish. Overpaid fish. Calling it WWE Wrestling annoys every primate that can answer this. When OK, Zoomer aims higher than “which president was named Jimmy Carter?” it soils itself.

Cool, only two friends listen when I talk. Good to know.

Some relationships are like that. No matter how many torture games you run or hilarious nicknames you give, they just take. It’s best to cut those people out, until you need victims for torture games.

Those quote marks tell me you’re a spy.

Booker T tattoos aside, is WWE wrestling that Gen X? I watched a kid land a Swanton Bomb in Brooklyn yesterday. It only took him three tries.

Veto. Try harder. More people can answer this than “is genocide bad?”

Enjoy proof that I only lightly rigged this game. This question’s only vapid, instead of an insult to thought. A mammal could’ve written it. But can a mammal answer?

The Forgotten’s in the wrong row to type “simping.” I expect sad grasps at youth from The Broken, but this hurts. If The Dying mentions Kick I’m moving to the forest.

That double-points rule might be elder abuse.

Smith Street’s true love. They don’t really get anything else, but they’re trapped by the premise. Every other topic’s a cross they’ve nailed themselves onto.

They also know nothing about this topic. We’ve seen this fucking question:

I came for fresh pain. This pandering has mold.

Recycling stands out, and nothing distracts your mind during a Smith Street Game. People are smarter than that. And who hoofs it through Hyrule like some kind of reverse speedrunner? Vetoed.

Better. I’m probably one word-search of So You Think You’re a Millennial away from rage, but it’s my first time seeing this. Or learning Furbies had their own language. That’s a cute idea: your toys talking to each other in code. It gives Christmas some Torment Day flavor.

A sweep! Unacceptable. No one should leave Smith Street feeling better about themselves.

Now I see how the double-point rule helps. It caps player joy per round. I respect that.

This might be decent—half the time Smith Street cops out and plucks a Millenial topic they semi-understand.

Raw failure, but a nice exchange of methods of failure. The Doomed clings to irony. The Broken jabs at kids these days. The Forgotten spams unfiltered near-thoughts. And The Dying taps childhood comfort. You’ve really got to take pigs as individuals.

Hold the fucking phone. Gen Z?

Tastes and experiences vary. But we can agree that it is physically impossible to be more millennial than Lady Gaga. If mad scientists gathered cells from board games and axe handles around the world to create Ur-Povvo the Ultralennial, it would come out singing “Ooh-ah-ah.”

You can’t be this basic and wrong. This migraine’s worse than my toothache.

Smith Street’s back home, and I still have no hope. The pigs are laughing at me. A complete corruption of natural law. I won’t forget this.

While we’re going deep, why not ask for the show’s title? Which twins sparked a wave of dire porn? Which writer never has to hear “deadline” again?

Smartass Rebellion across my empire. Torment Day’s ruined.

There’s one question left to fix this.

I don’t ask you guys for much. Aside from your attention, patience, and tolerance for jabs at your spiritual life. But today? Lend me your faith. I need you to pray for Torment Day. I don’t need molars, but I need Torment Day.

Veto.

No.

You can’t. You can’t. You can not.

I have nothing.

God, I think it’s the same font. So You Think You’re a Millennial shouldn’t be anyone’s golden age. But it looks like Smith Street’s, and it was definitely mine. I remember those gentler days warmly. Nostalgia porn’s final victory.

Unprecedented. What’s the final score?

Interesting pitch. One could suspect that I’m the pig. That my suffering’s a joke, and always has been. One would be wrong. One knows nothing. One can shut their fucking mouth. Reigns of terror never die. I, like all tyrants, stand unowned forever. Good talk.