I sat, one day, in my girlfriend's living room, watching her play Wii Fit (and damn hell, what a sight. I certainly didn't buy that game or the Wii itself to work out myself, but it paid for itself handily over time). She stood on the balance board, watching the screen as it calculated her weight, anticipation reflected by the TV's white glow in her eyes. I watched her, instead, a far better show. Suddenly she began to move, and shout.
"I did it! Look, honey!" she said, turning to me and pointing at the screen.
I couldn't quite see the screen from where i sat, sagging down on the couch with my prodigious gut poking outward, a bud lite nestled upon it for my consumption. I grunted, not wanting to change position for whatever crap she was excited about. Couldn't she just get back to excercising? I finally managed to heave myself up, observing the number on the screen. "Veh," i grunted as a sign of acknowledgement.
"I reached my goal weight!" my girlfriend said excitedly.
"Veh," i grunted again, not caring one iota and wondering why she wasn't yet excercising for my amusement.
Her eyes lingered on me momentarily, wandering from my unkempt hair, down the stained tank-top i wore, past my exposed, hairy, swollen gut, and back up to the warm beer i sipped unconsciously out of the can. Her lips pursed, then she said it.
"We're through."
Next thing i knew, i found myself out on the streets, wandering around. All i had been allowed to keep was the beer in my hand, her apartment, off limits, my Wii and its games, now hers. To the victor go the spoils or some shit had been her excuse for claiming it. I walked in the middle of the street, my street, staggering in my brokeness, daring anyone or anything to defy me.
My dare was answered by one particular gentleman in an old station-wagon, honking at me to get off the street. My expressive use of my middle finger and passionately colorful language was not enough to daunt him, oh no, and he continued to honk at me. Passersby gathered to watch the exchange. Finally, determined to teach his punk ass a lesson it would not soon forget, i tossed what remained of my beer over his windshield, prompting him to open his car door and confront me directly. After a heated exchange, i slugged him in his stupid face.
The 87-year old didn't take a punch to the face particularly well. He lay on the street, the life slowly ebbing out of him. The passersby had dutifully called 911, and the cops were even less easily daunted by my foul language and middle finger than the old man had been. As i lay on the ground beside the old man i had slain, thousands of volts making their way from the cops' tazers into my body, only one thought endured in my brain, so defeated by depression, alcohol, and electricity:
I blame Wii Fit.
Monster Hunter: pissing me off since 2010.
