What possessed me to do it? Through the course of a simple game of Madden Football, I managed to destroy a perfectly functional wireless controller. The rage that coursed through me as the guy I played against scored on the cheapest hail mary bomb recorded in the history of video game athletics (McNabb drops back 15 yards, rolls out to the left, uncorks a 50 yd bomb that floats right into the outstretched tricep to Todd Pinkston as Chris McCalister feebly falls to Pinkston's feet, worshipping his video game deity), enough to uncork some choice vocal ejections. When the cursing didn't alleviate my disgust, I hurled the controller out of my hand, spinning to the wood floor below. The sound of plastic cracking preceded the tittering laughter of my opponent and further verbal diarrhea from my toilet mouth. Much like a golfer shattering his putter with fury, I looked at the mangled instrument with a helpless anger, which could only be alleviated with a misguided kick into the corner of the sofa.
Did this really happen? Yes. Two years ago, I raged on about video games. I haven't had an outburst since...until last night. My roommate was the Philadelphia Eagles, controlling the ever wily McNabb with patented scrambles and pinpoint accuracy. I was playing as the Baltimore Ravens, relishing the opportunity to release the hounds of hellacious defense. On a run up the left, Jamal Lewis, version 2004, pulls away from the line, savoring a steady trot to a sure touchdown when the roomy pulls the ultimate in bad video game behavior. He pauses the game. Sure, the doorbell rang, and waiting in the night was EV, ready to come in and go to sleep. However, as standardchuck maxim #5 states: you will never, ever impede the progression of a play in a game of Madden by using the pause button. Failure to do so should require a 2 month suspension from using the playstation and 72 hours of community service at the local GameSpot, cleaning the controllers of their demo machines after the grubby children play ratchet and clank. While we're at it, you'll also be required to wipe the droll from the mouths of their employees as they view the latest anime girl from video game covers. One should serve the mouth breathers if you resort to this sort of poor video game sportsmanship.
Why am I going all Phil Helmuth on this oversight? Here's the reason. When we started back up, I forgot what direction I was controlling poor Jamal. I slowed down his momentum when we un-paused, and he was tackled. No touchdown. The following play, a bit pissed, I tossed an interception, which the roomie returned for a touchdown. The rest of the game was ridiculous. I was in about as much control as Fredo would be if he were ordering the Sopranos in proper familial responsibilities. It was disgusting chaos.
So I tossed the controller. I cursed. I lost my cool. This is how far I've developed in the last few years. No forward progress, its like my temper
were simply in a pause, and when action resumed, the same patterns of behavior popped out like Redenbacher. So simply, I will state this for the rest of the world to hear this: I can't change. The adaptation strategy that has help creatures evolve to their situation, to roll with the punches, to help Nicholas "bitchin' technology" Cage bring out his inner nebish and Meryl Streep out of her clothes...I don't have it anymore. I'm just a raging moth hidden behind a coy cocoon, ready to whomp up on your controllers. Boys, lock your games at home, cause Chuckzilla thinks it's clobbering time.************************************************************************************
Additionally, had a great phone conversation with Kid W. Actual excerpts (based on my memory, which is fuzzier than a Q-Tip made of the downy hair of adolescent mustaches (see Adam Morrison)
Kid W(KW): I work with a lot of Wisconsin people.
Standardchuck (SC): Wisconsin, you mean the geographical area that is still reknowned for dairy products and ridiculous accents?
KW: (Fargo impersonation, which continues for a few lines) Oh yeah, we love cheese.
SC: Those people are...
KW: hicks.
SC: Exactly. So have you tried the cheese curds?
KW: Yeah, cheese curds.
I don't remember how it started, but then we started talking about using cheese for hair products. You know, using every day cheeses such as Velvetta for casual use, maybe some government cheese for when you're trying to dress down (head out to the dive bar to listen to "The Editors of Tapes and Sorrow," which CMJ compared to a mixture of Sigur Ros, Ted Leo, and a hint of NKOTB. Later that night, after ironically consuming Pabst Blue Ribbon, you take home a skinny girl who's really anorexic but passes it off as being to disinterested in life to really "get" food.), and you know, fancy cheeses like Swiss for those nights out at the Opera.
Fancy Lad: Yes, Mr. Haversham, I do indeed enjoy Tristan LaCaveliere.
Mr. Haversham: Ah yes, and Ms. Featherpennies, I love your hair. Is that Boursin? It smells delightful.
Ms. Featherpennies: I'll such your cock for a thousand dollars. But Fancy Lad can't watch unless he pays 500 hundred.
Fancy Lad: Bitches is crazy.
(All laugh in unison as the string quartet reaches a crescendo as the scene dissolves with technical prowess)
Additionally, we progressed through many different topics, such as cheeses in cadavers, buffets at receptions, hikes, dirty clothes, and the random Wisconsin facts:
KW: I went hiking and saw a river moose.
SC: Where?
KW: St. Croix Falls.
SC: Oh. Huh. This is Wisconsin?
KW: Yeah, in 1900 land acquisition for Wisconsin's first state park began. The park became Interstate State Park located in St. Croix Falls.
SC: No way?!!
KW: Yeah you can totally check out other facts about Wisconsin on the internet?
SC: But I don't know where to get those kinds of interesting pieces of information about the Badger State...
KW: Go to http://www.50states.com/facts/wisconsin.htm
SC: Word?
KW: Double true; they've got the facts, son!
At this point, Kid W had to get off the phone. I miss that guy. He's great. An articulate, funny, absurd, yet serious and thoughtful individual.
That guy is one bad ass mamma-jamma. That's no hyperbole...Literally.
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