Dude. Amiibos. WTF. What is their all-consuming powerful allure over me that has been slowly sucking away at my brain since the day they were released?
Scene: Last Christmas. Best Buy. The wife is buying me a gift. We had a five-month-old at the time, so gifts were this unromantic, I-just-want-to-feel-normal emotional/consumption response. I had my gift choice down between the Michael Bay Ninja Turtles Blu-Ray or an Amiibo and collector case.
I’m a sucker for a spiffy collector case. I’m pretty sure I just wanted the collector case more than the figure. But the wife grimaced, knowing if I got that case, I’d have an uncontrollable urge to FILL IT WITH ALL FIGURES.
Then I looked at my sweet little son and knew innately that now was not the right time in life to obsessively buy and hoard yet another collection of small plastic figurines. I knew these toys were evil.
It looked like this. Just like this. In my mind:
I chose the Michael Bay Ninja Turtles movie. You know, Ninja Turtles. An old friend. A trusty standby.
That movie. I’m never, ever mentioning it again on this blog. The baby woke up fussing about 3/4 of the way through and we never finished watching it. I can only hope it ended with a livid fire that killed the bastardized Turtles and then somehow caused the Blu-ray itself to also explode into flames.
Still, the Amiibo thing haunted me. It slowly ate away at me. The little figures whispered in my ear “Buy me! Buy us! Want us!” in scary high-pitched voices from afar.
Skip ahead to scene: Last week, when Nintendo announced a pre-order for a pack of Amiibos I could absolutely not resist any longer:
The Retro 3-Pack. I NEED a mini-ROB the Robot in my life. I also need his Japanese Famicom counterpart version.
And while I’m at it, I also need Little Mac, Sonic, Silver Mario, Gold Mario, Bowser, Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, and Diddy Kong, all of whom I bought in swift order in about 48 hours.
Aaaand I’m still going to need Wii Fit Trainer, Fox, Pit, Samus, Kirby, and Toon Link.
And like five more that are coming out next month. Then that will be it. Maybe. Except for a spiffy collector case, of course.
The wife? Let’s just say that she loves me.
The son? Let’s just say he’s happy as long as he can smear mannicotti all over the curtains.