That's What You Think: Lose the Snood, Dude

Published 01.30.01 in The Heights, Boston College


By Annie Barrett

WARNING: If you have never heard of, played, or been addicted to Snood, this column might not appeal to you. If you’d like to quickly be brought up to speed, go to www.snood.com, play a few hundred rounds and pick up the paper again.

I am in hell. I admit it. Snood has taken over my life.

Those eight nasty creatures are all around me. I see Snoods on blackboards and on overhead projectors, and in that infinite pre-sleep darkness.

Professor: Look at that model student, peering into my eyes so inquisitively! She must really be into this subject matter.

Annie: This is great! He looks exactly like the purple Snood!

When trudging up the Walsh stairs, instead of merely admiring the beauty of the beige cinderblock walls like I used to, I now see an entire round of Snood. I’m telling you, it’s there.

During a recent shower, as I closed my eyes and tilted my head back for that first splash of rust-smelling water, I saw a truly gigantic image of Mildred, the gray Snood. I was both humored and frightened by this occurrence, as I’m sure you are, too.

Or maybe you just think I’m nuts.

It’s amazing. She truly is nuts. How does The Heights keep allowing this?


New Game.

Looking at Snood from afar, it seems so dumb. How could colored blocks be that captivating? You scoff at the idea.

Then you play.

Suddenly, nothing else matters. Homework, friends and personal appearance become inconsequential. Snood sessions become increasingly longer, eventually encompassing entire evenings. The game can be exciting, adventurous, alcoholic, erotic, anything you want your night to be. You just can’t tear yourself away.

The “New Game” button taunts you as it knowingly awaits your submission. Every time you click it, you detest yourself a tiny bit more. Warning: 1,254 games will make those “tiny bits” seem not so small.

Your IM away messages simply read “Snood.” Buddies know what’s up. You have craftily edited the word “Snood” on your computer’s icon to read “The Deathtrap.” You let loose raging, expletive-enhanced outbursts when the game's "ceiling" descends, and utter often indecipherable yelps of satisfaction when a perfect off-the-wall shot is executed.

“Aiigghhhhh…yahhhh…oooooh!” I am the master.

“Ew, what’s wrong with her?” onlookers ask.

“She's playing Snood.”

And all is understood.


New Game.

REVELATION: In a perfect world, there would be a giant Snood screen above each of our beds and each mattress would be joystick-equipped. University Housing, take note.


New Game.

The scariest thing about Snood is that it makes you feel like you’re doing something, when actually your productivity level is well below zero. Of course, this pseudo-activity could come in handy when you want to drive out unwelcome room visitors.

If you want someone to leave you alone, just start playing Snood. This should offend him or her right away, because 100% of your attention will focus on eight different but equally lovable faces and not on your visitor. If this doesn’t work, turn the sound on, full blast. People will be so offended you won’t see them for a few weeks. Which is fine by you – because now you can play more Snood.

Speaking of The Sound of Snood, which in no way compares to The Sound of Annie, that “Da, da DA!” you hear after uprooting a few superfluous Snoods could brighten anyone’s day. You hear it and a little smirk appears. You might even give a little attitude to your computer: “Yeah, that’s right.”

When you get a “Da, da Da… Da, da DA!” you almost want to stand up and salute the screen. Your entire body gives an alert start, but then you slowly curl back down into the Snood Slump.

The four dreaded organ-like chords that ring out upon a loss are bad enough; when they are rudely followed by that elaborate piano concerto that accompanies the awful “Register now!” poems, the effect is almost unbearable.

“You have played 1,254 games of Snood. If you register for $14.95 now, that’s only $0.01 per game!” Nope. Too much.

You hurriedly click “Not yet.” More like not ever! Ha, ha, ha.


New Game.

Do you really think you’re fooling anyone when you try and mask your Snood habits? These two failed miserably at such an attempt:

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Uh… not sure…” Snood. “What about you?”

She’s playing Snood. “I think I might hit the bars.” Nope. Totally playing Snood.

Perhaps Snood wouldn’t be so life-consuming if it weren’t for the list of the top ten high scores on each Snood-bearing computer. Typically, each nearby-dwelling Snoodaholic creates an alias. (Mine, “Bananninator,” a cute spin-off from my Instant Messenger screen name, is much better than my roommate’s, which is the misnomer “Sexpot.”)

After you get sick of using this alias, you write “Not (Snood archrival’s name)” just to prove a point. You and this opponent sneak in hours of games while the other person is at class or asleep.

After a while, Bananninator just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I decided to take things up a notch.

Within only six-and-a-half hours, “Top Banana” had assumed the appropriate top score slot, proving once and for all that I truly am the tops. “Sexpot”, by contrast, is the pits.

I would provide my specific score, but the number would inevitably exceed the column standard, so I cannot.


New Game.

This column’s two most avid readers (my parents) literally just called. I had told them this week’s topic and they, hitherto clueless to the hip, college life, promptly downloaded The Deathtrap themselves. The conversation went like this:

Annie: Hello, The SlackShack, Annie speaking.

Mom: Hi, baby. We are Snood dudes!

Wow. There’s really nothing to write that could possibly top that, so I won’t even try. At least now you can see that my nerdiness is entirely hereditary and not my fault.


New Game.

After completing the necessary research for this week’s column, I now show the following symptoms common to any Snoodaholic:

1.Burning eyes; an insistence that my computer’s clock reads “5:66 a.m.” (sadly, I was only one digit off).

2.Dull aches all over my back, from sitting perfectly still for seven hours.

3.Rapid depletion of self-confidence.

4.Complete loss of sense of self.

When TWYT asked a worried friend about my current state, this friend explained, “Annie doesn’t really know who she is anymore. She just sits there, clicking. Whether or not she listens when we talk to her is constantly in question.”

Wait, did someone say something?

The good news is, I’m rehabilitating. I’ve capped myself to 100 rounds per day, my away messages have become more agreeable and I’ve opened the curtain to let some much-needed sunshine back into my life.

I’m going to be just fine. And, in time, so will you.


New Game.

Next TWYT: The Door-Hold Episodes