Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start.

Grab a case of beer.

Let loose the dogs of war.

The year was 1988. The game, Contra. As millions of people typed in the Contra code, thumb blisters were formed. Near the bottom, in fine unreadable print, read: “Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start.” This code, fondly named “The Code,” wasn’t a gamer’s privilege. Hell, no! The Code was a right. Written in the Declaration of Independence somewhere is “life, love, the pursuit of happiness.” As does the Bill of Rights: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof thine Contra codeth.”

Contra: the staple of childhood, the sanctum of my youth.

Contra: a sweet game where I made aliens pee their foreign pants and scream “Casey’s my Daddy” in alien tongue. And without The Code, I would have endured innumerable embarrassing defeats at the hands of those South America-invadin’ alien freaks.

The Contra elite-force consisted of Scorpion and Mad Dog. Two freedom-fighting, spandex-wearing GIs. One wore blue pants, the other red, and they were nearly indistinguishable. And for such an elite force, Scorpion and Mad Dog were softer than a baby’s bottom. One hit wonders.

M.O.O.S.E says, “screw that whack jibba-jabba!”

The Code granted me 30 lives. Thirty lives to beat any level, squash any bug and dodge any bullet. On the other hand, the given three lives were enough to land, grab a weapon, get shot and die.

Most kids could last a few levels with the given four lives. I’ve heard reports about college students laying phatty smackdowns on Contra. Pimp-slapping Contra, sparing only two lives. Yeah, sure. Nonsense, pure make-believe goo-goo.

Behold The Code, in all of its splendid beauty. Here’s how it works:

1) Turn on Nintendo.

2) Wait for splash-screen of Mad Dog and Scorpion to start scrolling horizontally.

3) Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start.

4) 30 lives. UNF!

5) Shoot anything that moves.

That’s how it worked. Contra played like a coked-up Rambo-style Super Mario Brothers … with laser guns. At the end of every level, T-Rex-sized alien wankers awaited our heroes. They would kill you, too. This is where the 30 lives came in. As the ancient Chinese proverb goes, “kill me once, shame on you. Kill me twice, shame on me. Kill me thrice … Hahaha! I still have 27 left. Suck my laser cannon fodder.”

The last level had two beasts — the alien’s head and his heart. Destroy both. Show him who wears the pants. Flame him up real good. Make him resemble the pork chop you ate last July. Watch him cry home to mama. Witness the worst ending in the history of bad Nintendo endings. This is how Contra should end:

1) Aliens ship themselves back to space in body bags.

2) Mad Dog becomes president. Scorpion, his vice.

3) Spandex pants dipped in bronze. Immortalized.

Instead, “Congratulations!” quickly flashes across the screen as you watch the South American island blow sky-high, along with any alien remnant. Stupid aliens. Bad ending. Great game.

So, this weekend, do a little favor for your old Uncle M.O.O.S.E. Buy a case and hook up the old Nintendo. Bust out the Spandex pants, perhaps the neon-yellow pair that you had to retire because they loudly screamed “2 Legit.”

Boys … We’re goin’ to war.