Neopet Disdain
I am not happy with the Burger King establishment. Not happy at all.
Last week when we went for our weekly BK play date with neighbors, we did purchase BK Kids meals in hopes of procuring these much-touted Neopets. We received said Neopets, complete with a rinky-rickety “box home” and a supposed “special code” that allows Internet play. Here’s the home of the lovely “Grundo,” who, thanks to amazingly-progressive toy technology, is able to “move his antennae and arms!”
We frolicked happily in the Burger King wood chips with our Neopet dinosaurs and aliens that were surprisingly quiet and simple. Everyone was happy. I waxed poetic over my children’s ability to actually play imaginatively with creatures that don’t shoot a projectile, scream an incomprehensible saying or render a tattoo.
Happiness flew out the window, however, once we loaded everyone into the van. Sprites were overturned and ketchup-smeared hands soiled Britax car seats.
“Where’s my Neopet’s super-secret code?” Edward asked, suspiciously.
“Maybe it’s on the box,” Joseph offered. We scan the box madly. No code on the box anywhere.
In the meantime, Sue is screaming in her car seat because she just wants.to.hold.the.Neopet.box. She cares not a whit about any secret code.
“My Neopet will not be web-enabled without a secret code! He’s not even web-enabled! I can’t take this!” Edward warns from the back set.
“OK, let me figure this out,” I promise, always the peacemaker. I drive the van over to the front door and pop out to peruse a poster advertising these creatures. The poster alludes to a “code” on the BK Kids bag.
Great. Our bag is deep in the depths of some ketchup-encrusted cess-pool of a waste can. Even I won’t stoop to digging it out.
I return to the van with the heroic promise that I will buy yet another BK Kid’s meal just so we can have the “delightful” bag. (Insert other words in the spot where I typed “delightful” but thought a different word.)
I cruise up to the drivethru, order a meal for me (since I didn’t eat) and thrill to receiving the happy bag. The drive-thru worker, a youngish teen, hands me the bag.
I put the car in park and peruse the bag, scanning desperately for the “secret code” as the youngsters in the back screel desperately, “Where’s the code? What about the web-enabled code? Do you see the code?” Blah blah blah. I’m a fairly quick read. I SEE NO CODE.
I unroll my window, lock eyes with the teen, and ask cooly, “Where’s the code, dude?”
“Code?” He replies, looking bored. “What code are you talking about?”
“The Neopet code! The code that allows Neopet Internet play! The whole raison d’etre behind the BK Kid’s meal!” I’m losing my patience.
“Code? I don’t know nothin’ about no code.”
“Well,” I reply cooly, “The poster on your FRONT DOOR says the code is on the BK Kid’s bag. I see no such code.” The youth snatches the BK Kids meal bag from me and begins to scan it. “I don’t see a code. Wait, we did have bags with a code a few days ago. Don’t have any more of those bags now.”
“This won’t work!” I slowly begin to raise my voice, “You can’t play on the Internet without a code. I need a code and I NEED IT NOW.”
“Lady,” he drawls, the sweat popping on his slightly furred upper lip, “They don’t pay me enough to keep up this this kind of stuff. I do not know. That’s all I can tell you.”
I thought about calling for a manager, but when I looked through the drive-thru window at said manager, I decided it just was not worth it.
We enjoyed a fun-filled week with our simple, non-web-enabled pets as they frolicked in the sun, played hide-and-seek and shared our meals.
Here is Sue sharing orange juice with her Neopet:
Fast-forward to today. We meet our neighbors at BK. They are eating, but we are having leftovers. My sweet friend purchases two BK Kid’s meals for her children. While the children play, she carefully lays out their meals on the hamburger wrapper, two brimming ketchup cups per child, the fries sprinkled beautifully next to the burgers.
It’s BK plating at it’s best. Even I am getting hungry for BK fare.
She calls her children over to eat, and they rush over. The three-year-old smiles sweetly as she takes her seat and daintily begins to dip a crispy fry. The eight-year-old, however, scowls and begins to scan the table in a frenzied manner.
“Mom, mom,” he asks breathlessly, “Where’s the bag? The BK bag??”
I sense his looming panic and I realize what’s about to transpire.
“Sweetie,” my friend explains patiently, “I threw it away when I got your food out.”
“THREW IT AWAY? WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU THREW IT AWAY! It’s got the Neopet code on it! The code that allows Internet play! I’ve got to have that bag, Mom!”
Thus, the Neopet frenzy has driven yet another usually mild-mannered, well-behaved eight-year-old into a raving lunatic. Here is the coveted code:
Thankfully, we were able to retrieve the discarded bag, my children convinced me to buy just one BK meal so we, too, could finally taste the freedom of a Neopet Code, and we all returned home happy and excited to finally have truly web-enabled pets.
Fast-forward to this evening:
Edward slowly shuffles in, his face pale and wan, “Mommy, I feel like I’m going to pass out.” I immediately run to his aid because with his hypoglycemia and all, he is a trifle prone to falling out.
“What is it buddy? How do you feel?” I ask, concerned. “So very, very sad, Mommy. My Neopet…he’s…he’s…dying.”
Apparently these “pets” do not subsist very long without their web-enabled food. You’d think they would at least hang on for a few hours after the BK Kid’s meal purchase, however.
Gracious heavens alive! Haven’t we been through enough?
As usual.
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