I was at the bookstore with my children, and I couldn’t believe how many “unofficial” Minecraft novels there were. I think that I would suffer actual, physical pain if I tried to read one of these books, but I have a good handle on the game. I’m handy with stacking blocks, eating apples, and drowning in real life too. I am confident that this excerpt from my “unofficial” Minecraft story, Pendulous Breasts of the Heathen Gods, pretty much sums up the Minecraft experience:
Day 1: I find myself in a strange land with nothing but the clothes on my back, and so the obvious course of action is to hammer my fists against the dirt for ten minutes until I finally loosen up enough to fill my pockets. I’ll need real tools though if I am going to survive the night. Shucks, if only life had a difficulty setting (it does, and it is called booze, but I have no way of distilling it).
I run to the nearest tree and begin punching it until the wood eventually gives way and I can extract a log. I keep at it, punching and extracting logs until I have enough to meet my immediate needs. After that, I collect the apples and acorns that fell incidentally from the tree as I worked. I’ve learned a lot about survival so far. There is nothing left of the tree but a stump and a mass of leaves floating just out of my reach. Gravity is an elusive unicorn!
My earlier digging, or more accurately dirt punching had revealed a patch of stone. I return to it and begin punching it with the fury of a man boxing the pendulous breasts of the heathen gods. Nearly a minute passes before I see cracks starting to form, and my patience is nearly spent by the time that I extract the stone blocks that I will need to craft a pick axe for future mining, because wooden picks are for posers.
For a moment my thoughts turn to my situation. Here I am, quite possibly the last man alive in a world full of monsters. The only people who even remotely resemble human beings are the bands of big-nosed, avaricious villagers and their golem guardians. People used to call me antisemitic for talking that way, but now all of those people are zombies and skeletons, which are the most bigoted monsters of all.
It is getting dark, so like some creepy gym teacher, I begin piling cubes of dirt to build a crude hut. It is surprisingly easy — everything is! This is probably because I’m white. Just look at how little those villagers accomplish in any given day. But then me, half-an-hour later and I am installing a wooden door in my new home. I cut the wood with my bare hands, planed it on a workbench without needing tools, and I don’t even need mounting hardware to fix it in place. I’d like to see a villager do that!
Tomorrow, I’ll quarry a shit-ton of cobblestone with my huge hands and spend the whole day building a wall around my property to keep monsters out — ah, who am I kidding, it’s to keep the villagers out. I hate those guys!