DAN MCGLAUGHLIN

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Sunday, December 5, 2010

The Whiskey Nerd Manifesto by Shawn Elliot

The bottom of my computer desk feels like braille to the finger--a cave ceiling, stalactites and such, but all boogers.
I stick em there while waiting for maps to load and while watching cutscenes, so blame the game, not the player.

I swish my legs through Taco Bell wrappers, leg high, and some stick to my soles like toilet tissue on a shoe.
I suppose I have myself to blame for that, however, hygiene's never been my strong suit.

There's not a dish in sight, though, and that being because while I can ratatou a ratatouille and souffle a souffle like nobody's business—all with limp-wristed Wiimote gestures--I can't actually cook.
I take out and order in.
Damn it, I need a USB powered hot pocket heater. Slash-pizza ain't a punchline, it's a lifeline.
Throw me a chicken bone here, as long as there's meat left on it. And don't go feedin' em to the dog: they splinter and the sharp ends hurt something fierce on the outbound and damn it, I don't need the howling in the background as I talk to buddies in Teamspeak.

In the future scientists will prove my Zboard made me 16.2 percent faster. It's luxury it's lightning it's been signed by Fatality. In pizza grease no less. Problem is its a Guild Wars Zboard brand Zboard so when I press the cast spell key I throw a grenade or hit a handbrake or throw a Hail Mary pass or make some other hot shit move that isn't casting a spell.

And I type on it, I'm typing this on it. And I know that when I press “items” then “mini map” then “skills” it comes out F T W and that way the message board champions know I'm a message board champion, too. I script whole words to single keystrokes. I hit “call target” and it comes out “confirmed”. With those four keys alone I can pretty much contribute to any conversation you can have. That is unless you're a lady.

If your FPS screenname is Princess PMS you better believe I'm asking A S L (no hot key makes me hotter). I might not know you but I already love you. Let me buy you nachos bel grande, baby. Or better yet, a 7 layer crunchwrap supreme and baja blast. We'll attack it from either end until our mouths meet in the middle like Lady and the Tramp only remade for today's brandscape. Living the good life of El Presidente. Make it mild or hot or fire, no matter to me. We'll lay in the wrappers and make snow angels maybe.
Just don't look up at the bottom of my computer desk.

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