You may think Cards Against Humanity is a game of skill, of windmill-slamming the perfect answer to the perfect question, causing uproarious laughter and instantly becoming the coolest, smartest, sexiest person at the table.
But you’d be wrong.
Cards Against Humanity cards are like wads of donair meat: vaguely tasty, but glommed together with the garlicky glue of some kind of flavoured mayonnaise. Cards Against Humanity is fast-food prompt gaming — carb-loading on double-entendres, a vivid pornography of faux-pas, randomly generated speed-insults — a college cup ice breaker that would prefer if you fell in, too.
Naturally, he who raises his fist hardest and highest against humanity will prevail. This would be fine if it weren’t for the economy of evil coded into the deck of Cards Against Humanity. See, the game doesn’t really care for your cleverness, because, more than anything, this is a slot machine of subconscious kinkiness. You pray to all the dark gods for a good hand from the start; plain rudeness will only get you so far without the ass-nasty cards to back it up. We’re sold the game as drunk algebra — a conceptual chemistry, where horrified reactions lay in wait between individual question and answer cards — but all we get is Monopoly. Three half-baked evils are nothing compared against the high-octane cringe power of Two Midgets Shitting In A Bucket.
You ever draw Queefing? Queefing is funny — kinda. Queefing is funny as an instance of something. It causes funniness, sure. But it almost never scores a point. It lays in an uncanny valley of offensiveness — just before true darkness, yet beyond respectable cheek. I’ve seen multiple mothers have to prompt the table for a definition. “Ya know when your cooch farts, Ma?”
The Kanye card can be a pinch-hitter. With perfect timing, Kanye can bring down the house, but the rest of the time it just feels like he elbowed onto the podium to congratulate the winner.
Much like in life, Surprise Sex! is a fierce contender. The surprise factor alone allows you to cram it into holes where it doesn’t belong.
But it doesn’t even matter what the question is when it comes to 2MSIAB. Two Midgets Shitting In A Bucket is so vivid, so suffused with implications, that it makes whatever question it set out to answer its bitch. Any question becomes backgrounded by the obvious focal point of the, well, you know… the two midgets… shitting in a bucket. Two Midgets Shitting In a Bucket is a green-screen concept. All nearby context is sucked up into its sheer prominence, its innate significance, like a black hole, a cosmic train wreck that pulls in awareness itself. Everything else is like a cheap backdrop to the midget act on karaoke night. Every time I see this card come down, it wrecks. Even brilliantly unlikely plays are swept away by the torrential force of Two Midgets Shitting In A Bucket. And it's OP as fuck.