While dealing with bouts of paranoia, consuming my weight in
Bit O’ Honey bars and suffering from “Whiskey dick,” I have also been plowing
through a stack of videogames purchased eons ago, way back before my nuts


While playing catch-up, I realized several disturbing things
about myself.  For one thing, I really
suck at videogames now.  Recalling the
days of yore through Gin-soaked memories, I remember being huddled before my
NES, staying up all night trying to get past every infuriating level of Ninja
and every bowel-clenching level of Mega Man 3; my heart
rat-a-tatting from No-Doz and Vivarin overload; my bulging eyes bloodshot.  Then I’d crawl to school in the morning, my
thumbs sore and cramped; my head dizzy. 
I’d sit at my desk; my mind consumed with the layouts of different
levels; replaying the patterns of enemies as they scuttled along the screen.


Now though, I have depressingly transitioned from a “young
guy” to a “not-so-young guy.”  This means
that frustration easily mounts and I rarely have the patience to deal with
anyone or anything.  And, unfortunately,
this has had a detrimental effect on my gaming, since I quite often find myself
lobbing game controllers across the room, then scouring my breakfast nook for
something with lots of fiber in it.


In the past, if I died in a game, I would immediately hit
the “Continue” button and soldier on; not content until I cleared whatever
level I was on or whatever boss I was battling.


Now though, if I die, say, three times in a row, I’ll toss
the controller aside and never touch the game again.  Well, that’s not true.  I’ll usually start it up again several months
later, after I’m finished reading the latest Lake
book.  Then, with my guts percolating with Metamucil
nectar, I’ll jump back into the thick of things with renewed vigor…until I die
again.  Then it’s back to the Rascal
store where I like to hang out before heading to Hometown Buffet for an early


It is also sad that my waning youth is combating with an overabundance
of horrendous and/or difficult games.  I
own a Wii and an Xbox 360.  For some
reason, certain labels have been thrown around in relation to these different
systems.  According to my sources, Wii
owners are “casual” gamers, while Xbox 360, Playstation 3 and computer players
are “hardcore” gamers.  These labels are
a tad confusing, since I find nothing casual about the glut of Wii party games
that make me want to throttle my poodle (this is not a euphemism).  Any game or games that require me to pump
both my hands furiously, as though I am milking an angry cow or Rachael Ray,
does not seem “casual” to me.


I do not want to get tennis elbow every time I pick up a
game, nor am I interested in suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome.  I once played Rayman Raving Rabbids
for about twenty minutes and blacked out. 
When I awoke, I found myself in my neighbor’s front yard, dry humping a
garden gnome.  Embarrassed, I shamefully
buttoned-up my Dockers and, with the help of my trusty wooden cane, shambled
back up to my apartment.  Once inside, I
mournfully gazed at my tattered reflection in the bathroom mirror.  My hair was flecked gray and thinning.  Deep lines cross-hatched along my face.  Then a little tear ejaculated from the corner
of my right eye, where it eventually seeped into a jagged, cavernous wrinkle
above my dry, chapped upper-lip.


Thank you Nintendo!


Recently, through sheer force of will and an unhealthy
obsession with trying to prove that I still “have it,” I have crept through
such time and soul-sucking games like Dead Space (which I blindly
bought on title alone, since I figured it was based on the area that surrounds
my crotch) and Fallout 3 (purchased for the exact same reason).  My disturbing dedication to beating these
games took me to all corners of hell and back. 
For one thing, they are on the Xbox 360, which has about a thousand different
buttons on each controller.  This means
that there is a good chance you will experience hand cramps and/or finger-joint
fatigue; ailments normally associated with furious masturbatory practices (like
my favorite technique, which involves whacking off with a handful of garlic
croutons.  I call this “tossin’ a Caesar,”
as in “Man, I had a wild night last night. 
I sucked down five shots of Knob Creek, flipped on the Flintstones
and tossed a Caesar! And I’m still sore!”).  


Like many geriatric folks, it’s time for me to bust out an
“I remember when…” nugget of wisdom, where I complain about advancing
technology and reminisce about the “Good ol’ days.” For instance, I remember
when game controllers were simple (and, even though a flaming retard could
flick a Wii remote up and down, it still utilizes motion-sensor technology,
which, as I have already made clear, requires physical movement on the user’s
part.  And honestly, who the fuck needs


You see, I have also come to the realization that, although
I am part of a generation where console and computer gaming originated, I
somehow reached my “gamer” peak about 15 years ago and no longer possess the
proper reflexes to decimate dozens of alien zombies or super mutants on account
of my withered, arthritic hands.


A good example of this is when I purchased Guitar Hero
and had visions of awakening the inner Buckethead and Yngwie Malmstein in
me.  Little did I know that, due to old
age, I now possessed the gnarled and delicate fingers of Abe Vigoda and the
lightening-fast hand/eye coordination of a drunken sloth.  Depressingly, whenever I find myself passing
by a Gamestop store, I’ll inevitably witness an eight year-old brat flawlessly
shredding on the “Expert” level of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet
” or Debbie Gibson’s
“Electric Youth.”  Then a little part of
me dies inside, especially since I have yet to master the game’s start-up menu.


And then I shuffle back to my crappy car and ask myself “Am
I too old to be playing this shit?”  Then
I realize that I’m talking to myself and I get scared and I look around the
parking lot to make sure nobody heard or saw me and I peel out of there and
rush home where I curl up in the fetal position next to my toilet bowl and
silently cry myself to sleep.


I’m not sure what the point of this whole blog was and, much
like the litany of foodstuffs winding their way through my overstuffed colon,
there have been many horrific and diverging paths.


So, until next time…see you on the Xbox Live leaderboards!