#0118: Frantic Ants

In the sad, strange world of little Anthony, the mid-90s yielded a bumper crop of excessive board games. Over the years, I (and by proxy you, the faithful reader) have been blessed with such luminaries as 13 Dead End Drive and It From the Pit; a pair of wacky, impressive constructions that are honestly more fun to look at than to actually play.

Not every game is quite so spectacular, unfortunately. Some of them are modest in their visage, and tepid in their delivery. But hey, let's not bury the lede any further. You already know I'm talking about those motherfucking Frantic Ants.

Coming out of the Parker Brothers workshop in 1995, this was yet another one of those noisy motorised devices that demanded your C batteries as well as the undivided attention of everyone else in the household. Your nervous, jittery dog that keeps peeing on the rug? Frantic Ants is probably to blame.

The premise is basic to the point of arbitrary: you, as the lord and ruler of one variation of ant, must place your minions atop the anthill, spinning a little arrow on occasion that will either guide you to success or lead you to an early, buggy grave.

As always, props go to the advertising gurus who somehow managed to make this concept compelling. Without them, I doubt I would be the proud(?) owner of these manic insects.

Skip ahead to the 37 second mark for the relevant commercial, unless you're particularly interested in the notion of dickhead kids asking Bob Dole hard-hitting political questions, such as his policy on lunch.

The anthill structure itself is made up of three separate pieces, and I'm really quite shocked that I still have all three said pieces in my possession. This is despite the box being entirely AWOL, something that doesn't usually happen to my board games.

Were those ants so amazing, I had to repurpose them as action figures? I did bend some of their antennas to make them look more unique, and yes, the red one was the main character. He probably would have been voiced by Rob Paulsen, or Billy West, or Richard Simmons. That last one might work better than you'd think, just let it marinate for a while.

In actuality, I don't entirely understand the premise of the spinning device. It has the numbers 1-3, which I assume refers to which anthill they start from as opposed to their position on the basketball court. There's also a shortcut that places them right near the finish line like a fucking cheater. There's the anteater, which theoretically removes an ant from play, and a lounging ant picture that I suppose means you miss your turn, or go on a fabulous vacation.

Is that really all there is to it? If your ants are in a favourable position, couldn't you just be an asshole and delay your spin until they've safely reached their destination? This certainly doesn't sound like stellar game design to me, and while I was pondering over the specifics, my cat came and plucked up one of the purple ants (the most delicious colour), before running off with it to another part of the house.

Does that mean it won the game? Or was that the stunning recreation of what it's like when the anteater claims your poor ant's life? If so, it's a harrowing image.

Well, that's really all there is to the game of Frantic Ants. A quick glance at Board Game Geek confirms my suspicions as to the rules, though quite to the contrary, it advises that your best tact is pure, blinding speed when your turn arrives. Shows what I fucking know, I guess I'm no expert on board games. Or entomology.

All up, I have to say that the pundits were being a bit generous with their 6 out of 10 rating. It's like a noisy game of backgammon, accompanied by an army of leering, grinning ants. Call me a snob if you must, but I think I would actually give it about half of that score.

Technically speaking, if you have an egg timer and a piece of paper, you could remove the anthill aspect entirely and just compete with the spinner alone.

As Tommy Lee Jones once asked of Will Smith, "that sound like fun?"

Near as I recall, Will Smith's response was to slap Tommy Lee Jones in the face, and then win an Academy Award. Pretty sure that's how Men in Black ended.

In any event, even a stupid thing is worth doing right, so before I send those ants home to the op shop — and/or the junk heap — I'm gonna load it up with batteries and fire it up one last time. Let's see just how Frantic those Ants can get, shall we?

#0117: T.K. (Koosh)

Yet another year, yet another missed birthday — and more than a year-long wait between posts, to boot! What can I say, I'm a busy busy boy in 2024, constantly at work typing away at websites more lucrative than this one.

For more on this, check out EZIYODA, where I talk about video games, pop culture, and other anonymous bullshit. Or check out Late to the Party, my monthly anime column for Crunchyroll. Or check out PornHub. I don't have anything there, but it's still a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Before you depart, however, you might like to indulge yourself with the eulogy of poor old T.K.. Though I typically use the term metaphorically, I'm afraid that today's entry is in actual fact not long for this world.

Premiering circa 1991, the Koosh Kins were a spinoff series of the rubbery toy meant to inject personality (aka increased marketability) into the brand. Other than being pelted by Rosie O'Donnell with the damned things, Kooshes had really remained fairly nondescript up to this point.

Now, they had faces! And arms! And they were allegedly out of control!!

Call me cynical, but I feel as though the above toys look very much in control. If there's any kind of shenanigans going on, I'd be more inclined to hold the kids brandishing them accountable. Not only are they treating these possessions somewhat recklessly, but they're also far too close to one another in order for this Koosh orgy to take place.

Stand the fuck back, Kevin, I'm just trying to hang out with my homie T.K. here.

Keen Toy Eulogy historians might recall that we've already dealt with a Koosh ball named T.K. many moons ago, as part of the Koosh Lings line. Despite the shared moniker coupled with a "cool guy McCool" demeanour, I have no reason to believe that these lads are in any way related. Apparently the team at OddzOn Products just really liked the name T.K..

With their varied appearances and Muppet-like miens, the Lings are my preferred party invitees, and yet it was the Kins who received their own Archie Comic miniseries. There, they were reimagined as fun-loving aliens with wacky catchphrases. Part of me wonders if that's where Michael Bay would get the idea from for Transformers. Another part of me is delighted that autocorrect originally called them "unloving aliens", which sounds like an awful idea for a comic book.

Obviously, the real deal is much less charismatic than his comic book counterpart. T.K. has never once called me a dude, nor tipped his sunglasses to flash me a knowing glance. He's occasionally called me fat and recommended I start watching A Touch of Frost, but beyond that, nothing of note.

Tragically, the main reason T.K. caught my eye today after years of quiet inaction, is because he is molting, or should I perhaps say, melting, with the fury of a thousand suns!

You'll have to assume those were fairly lukewarm suns, but the point remains: the fella is falling apart.

I've done a quick Google search of this phenomenon, but either nobody else in the world is suffering through this affliction to their Kooshes, or nobody else in the world cares enough to discuss it online. Even keener Toy Eulogy historians will perhaps have flashbacks to Slumber Bunny Pip, yet another Koosh Ling whose once luscious locks disintegrated into mush.

In that instance, it was only her hair that was causing issues. T.K., on the other hand, is fast becoming a choking hazard. Not for myself, of course, but for curious cats and any infant crawling around the house that I hadn't been aware of.

I'm often blinded by nostalgia — the primary reason this blog exists in the first place — but I cannot justify salvaging a shedding Koosh any more than I could in maintaining leaking sand lizards.

So yes, we must salute T.K. one final time before he is jettisoned for good. We'll whisper nice things into his ear, claiming that he's 'radical', or even 'one bodacious dude'. Then afterwards, we'll have to go on a widespread hunt to see if other Kooshes are fucking up my toy storage in similar fashion.

It was an inglorious end to an unspectacular life, T.K., but you did it with style. I only hope there's plenty of pizza for you up in Koosh heaven (or Koosh hell, as I suspect he was likely a drug runner for the cartel).