Big Little Man

Last Saturday afternoon I was at home, without a hangover. What the fuck, right? Instead of my usual routine of waking up and checking sports scores before chugging a 500-milliliter bottle of Gatorade, popping two extra-strength Tylenols, and returning to bed, I thought I maybe might coulda head over yonder to Yongsan to buy a Nintendo Wii (the extra I is for impatience). Always one to avoid a confrontation, I realized my capricious idea was poorly formed when I told [my mother] of my plan and she responded thusly:

"What are you, eight?"

Typical me, I started something (word to Morrissey). For the life of me I cannot grasp why women despise adult men playing video games. I even showed her an on-line video of Super Mario Galaxy. She watched it like she was watching the Daniel Pearl tape. That's not normal, is it?

At the risk of sounding misogynistic, I have a theory about women. Namely, they hate men having toys. Women, see, are reprimanded early in their development for wearing make-up, and later on wear it as a badge of honor; men are reprimanded for basically the same thing, only in reverse (it's somehow evil to collect cereal boxes and M.U.S.C.L.E figurines at 30?).

Why can't a 40-year-old man play videogames? If he does, he's psychologically stunted? Fuck the world.

I realize that men are strange animals (I got to follow), but what's so perverse about enjoying the pleasures of -- in layman's terms -- an electronic videogame device? It doesn't have a vagina, and it doesn't turn me on sexually. Yet.

Believe me, when I was eight I tried to stick my pre-pubescent cock into my Nintendo Entertainment System. It wasn't very entertaining. Now that I'm older, I still fantasize about it, but I hold my desire at (E)bay.

(Too many sharp corners, see.)

I can die happy with you. I can die happy without a Wii (at least until I tackle the sweetest hangover that is Contra 4). But if I ever cheat on you it won't be with some long-legged, raven-tressed co-ed; it'll be with Super Mario and Link. Three-way.

If that day ever comes, call Jerry Springer. After you shoot Santa Claus.