I was twelve, and my mother had just driven me to the nearest toy store for the sole purpose of disposing of a large-denomination banknote representing the majority of my income for the year. (My job, at the time, was to be and remain alive - a feat which my relatives, especially my grandmother, inexplicably deemed worthy of a quantity of cash payable one per year upon the anniversary of my birth.) We were immediately greeted by the cashier, a sweet old lady with nothing better to do at the time than to ask us if we wanted any help. Naturally, we didn't, as I knew exactly what I wanted, and had spotted it as soon as I entered.
I happily informed the cashier of this, and grabbed the box for the store's only remaining copy of Super Mario All Stars from its shelf. It was at this moment my mother made the unfortunate observation that Super Mario All Stars was notably more expensive than the other games available. Her offspring was about to make a disastrous financial blunder! Something had to be done.
In case someone out there doesn't know, Super Mario All Stars was a compilation of every major Mario game from the preceding NES era, complete with spruced-up graphics and including a fiendishly tough sequel to the original Super Mario game never previously released outside of Japan. The cashier quickly informed my mother of this.
My mother, unfamiliar with the finer points of interactive electronic entertainment, quickly processed this newly gained information and reached the highly regrettable conclusion that a 4x increase of available games would automatically mean a 4x increase in time per week spent gaming - and promptly forbade me to purchase Super Mario All Stars.
To soften the blow, she declared that I was welcome to spend my easily-earned cash on any one of the other games available. I made it clear that no other game would cut it (a twelve-year-old entertains only one passionate desire at a time), but to her credit, she didn't budge.
And so, I immediately dropped the subject and followed my mother out of the shop, wowing to save my money for the future exactly like the sensible person I was.
OK, let's be honest: How many of you fell for that? I was TWELVE! The sensible option is never an option!
I looked my mother square in the eye, and was met by an identical look.
I took a deep breath.
Then I turned around and, with a determined gesture, handed the banknote over to the cashier, telling her to enjoy it.
Naturally, both my mother and the cashier requested an immediate, in-depth explanation for this latest move on my part. And so I calmly and matter-of-factly pointed out that I had come for the sole purpose of handing THAT banknote over to THAT woman in exchange for THAT game, and if I couldn't do that, then the banknote was worthless to me - leaving me with no reason not to complete the remainder of the mission as planned.
Value of banknote aside, I still knew it was a risky gamble - but it paid off. My mother, unable to think of a counter-argument, had no choice but to lift the trade embargo. The cashier - bless her! - said something about not being allowed to accept tips, and handed the banknote back to me. And I handed it right back to her, along with the box for Super Mario All Stars, and soon left the shop feeling like a complete and utter bastard and thoroughly enjoying it.
