"Seriously?" My girlfriend shakes her head at me from the kitchen table, "You mean 'Sugar', right?"
Most mornings something like this follows as I struggle to regain my balance before completely tripping over one of my three cats, the kitty hit squad that is constantly making attempts at my life by navigating between my feet while I walk.
All three of my kids are sitting at the table finishing up breakfast, my youngest is in her high chair, but they all look over at me after today's particular near-death experience to see the big deal. As a parent, you try not to say words that society deems bad words out of fear that your children will repeat them in public and cast a shadow of doubt on your parenting. I don't really subscribe to this concept, but I play along as best I can for my girlfriend, who would be mortified if any of our children said some of the things that I exclaim in that brief moment of panic when I trip over a cat.
Smiling I play ball, "Yes. Sugar!" I get away from the cat-trip with my life intact for another morning, extending my undefeated streak another day and also testing my patience for these free-loading feline conspirators who take daily shots at my life. I stare at the most recent perpetrator, Monster Truck (my son named him), and he stares back at me, daring me to continue walking. I make my way into my bedroom very carefully and advance over to my video game console to turn it on. It is time to play.
I fire up Call of Duty, an arcade style, fast-paced combat game. Not my favorite, but if a few of my friends are online playing, I'll jump in a game with them. Sometimes it is better to play a mediocre game with a group of friends than it is to play an awesome game by yourself. Sometimes.
The match starts and I sprint out to the middle of the map, look down my sights, and I am immediately blown up by a well placed grenade. "Shit!" I respawn in the same place where I started the match and I move cautiously to the place where I exploded a few seconds earlier. BOOM! A sniper takes me down. "God damn one-shotting son of a bitch!" I holler out in frustration. I respawn. This time I don't even have a chance to move, I am killed immediately upon spawning. "WHAT THE F -"
"What game are you playing Daddy?"
As I respawn this time, it comes to my attention that my son is watching me play. He quietly slipped into the room at some point, unbeknownst to me and now his mom enters the room as well. "It's a scary game buddy. You don't want to watch this one."
BOOM! I am mowed down on screen as I explain this to him, the player that did it is crouching and standing rapidly, a perverse joke that increases my already boiling aggravation.
This time when I respawn, nobody is around me. I crouch down and make my way to a corner that looks safe enough for the moment. I turn around and see that my girlfriend is making the bed and my son is still watching me play. "Go ahead buddy, head back out to -" BOOM! I get hit with a head shot, a loud 'ding!' sounds off letting me know that my helmet was of no use at all and I can't suppress the urge to growl angrily.
My son speaks up in my defense, "God damn one-shotting son of a bitch!" He yells, fixing a scowl at the TV. My girlfriend snaps her head around and fixes a scowl at me.
"Thanks buddy," I say, patting my son on the head for defending me from the tyranny of the 10 year-olds that make up the team that is slaying me unmercifully. "I'm gonna switch games for a bit," I announce. I stand up and make my way to the console to swap games out for something a little more appropriate for my audience and -
BOOM! I collapse in a disorganized heap, my face thuds off of the floor causing instant pain and rage. "Monster Truck you stupid son of a - "
I fire up Call of Duty, an arcade style, fast-paced combat game. Not my favorite, but if a few of my friends are online playing, I'll jump in a game with them. Sometimes it is better to play a mediocre game with a group of friends than it is to play an awesome game by yourself. Sometimes.
The match starts and I sprint out to the middle of the map, look down my sights, and I am immediately blown up by a well placed grenade. "Shit!" I respawn in the same place where I started the match and I move cautiously to the place where I exploded a few seconds earlier. BOOM! A sniper takes me down. "God damn one-shotting son of a bitch!" I holler out in frustration. I respawn. This time I don't even have a chance to move, I am killed immediately upon spawning. "WHAT THE F -"
"What game are you playing Daddy?"
As I respawn this time, it comes to my attention that my son is watching me play. He quietly slipped into the room at some point, unbeknownst to me and now his mom enters the room as well. "It's a scary game buddy. You don't want to watch this one."
BOOM! I am mowed down on screen as I explain this to him, the player that did it is crouching and standing rapidly, a perverse joke that increases my already boiling aggravation.
This time when I respawn, nobody is around me. I crouch down and make my way to a corner that looks safe enough for the moment. I turn around and see that my girlfriend is making the bed and my son is still watching me play. "Go ahead buddy, head back out to -" BOOM! I get hit with a head shot, a loud 'ding!' sounds off letting me know that my helmet was of no use at all and I can't suppress the urge to growl angrily.
My son speaks up in my defense, "God damn one-shotting son of a bitch!" He yells, fixing a scowl at the TV. My girlfriend snaps her head around and fixes a scowl at me.
"Thanks buddy," I say, patting my son on the head for defending me from the tyranny of the 10 year-olds that make up the team that is slaying me unmercifully. "I'm gonna switch games for a bit," I announce. I stand up and make my way to the console to swap games out for something a little more appropriate for my audience and -
BOOM! I collapse in a disorganized heap, my face thuds off of the floor causing instant pain and rage. "Monster Truck you stupid son of a - "
