Reminds me of an article written in Inquirer:
The Thing had more of a life than I did, and I didn’t appreciate it much.
My life as a negligent parent went smoothly until one weekend, when plans for a trip to the beach went absolutely awry. My brother and I missed our flight, while my two sisters were already at the resort. Panicking, I dug into my bag for my cellphone and was dismayed to discover that The Thing was nestled inside a pocket. Apparently, my sisters had forgotten it and asked my mom to pack it with my things.
So I spent a strange hour standing in line at the ticket counter hoping to get listed as a chance passenger and pressing buttons to feed The Thing. However, hours of neglect had rendered it ill, and two skulls were hovering over the shapeless mass onscreen. I zapped the skulls, fed The Thing sushi and ice cream, and cleared away its poop, but it was still looking listless. Panicking, I called my sister:
“Nikka, The Thing’s crying and no amount of food or play will appease it!”
“That’s because you have to praise it to make it calm down,” she said.
“Huh? Pray over it?” I was pretty sure I was losing my marbles.
“Praise it! You have to praise it!”
“Are you sure?” I looked over my shoulder, checking for eavesdroppers. An old lady with orange-tinted hair pretended not to look, but her ears were taut like a dog’s.
“Er, uh... good Tamagotchi! Coochie coochie coo, such a pretty little...”
“No, you moron, you’re supposed to click a little button that says ‘praise!’”
Read in full here.