How You Know You Are Fucked on the Oregon Trail

I've traveled over 1400 miles, only one dead so far (sorry Allie that being on the verge of death couldn't wait 23 more miles) and $138 in the bank. The rivers are acting like they want me to lose when I caulk those wagons and float across, meeting the line of rocks that goes the entire length of the river. I'm down to three oxen so I'm going at a mind numbing rate across the prairie. When all of a sudden my axle breaks. The Indian, who just happened to be passing by 200 miles from the nearest outpost says he will fix it for $150. He doesn't seem to be fooled into taking my $138, bastard, so now what do I do. I try to steal from someone else's wagon, get shot and that's all she wrote, thanks Oregon Trail, good times.

Best facebook application ever. Even though I didn't qualify for the survey which would have given me the fake dollars I needed to fix the wagon and not start my short life of Midwestern crime. Thanks for shooting me Laurie, if I would have had to stop and rest for the mysterious ailment of "Really wants a cigar" one more time (or Bryan's constant bouts with cholera, which I have no idea what the symptoms are but it sounds like an STD), I would have been offing those freeloaders left and right.