Super Damage Deposit Bros.
I blame video games for the current state of my once bachelorific apartment. My younger brother's generation has been raised in a digital fantasy world where smashing mundane everyday objects holds the very real possibility of rewarding them with super-human strength granting mushrooms or electrified pet monsters. Very rarely does a game depict its characters walking into a store and purchasing these excellent items with hard earned currency. And even when they do, the currency is usually aquired by smashing mundane everyday objects.
Being an avid video game player for a solid chunk of my own life, it really shouldn't come as any surprise to me when I come home and find another piece of furniture in ruins.
I definitely hold an advantage over most parents though. Whereas some people would be utterly dumbfounded by how the simple act of sitting down could yield such descructive results, I know that my brother has been virtually conditioned to accept the possibility that my chair may contain something that will grant him the ability to throw fireballs.
Being from the first generation of mainstream video gaming, I was afforded the luxury of living half of my childhood without its corrupt influence. I am able to look back on Mario's wantonly destructive behavior with a furrowed brow. Hey, Mario! Did you ever stop and wonder who all those bricks belonged to before smashing them for your own personal gain?! That kind of contract work doesn't come cheap, dick weed! I thought you'd understand that, being a plumber and all.
As it stands, my brother and I are forced to deal with the cold hard realities of a living in a world without a reset button. It's becoming increasingly obvious that my furniture holds little in the way of power ups, and I refuse to buy another tasteful household item until his ass has finished school, at which point his ass will find itself in the general direction of not my house. Until then, I'll just have to deal with the massive amounts of mockery that my new fold up soccer chairs are bound to generate. Laugh all you want, but try to break those, fuckers!
I blame video games for the current state of my once bachelorific apartment. My younger brother's generation has been raised in a digital fantasy world where smashing mundane everyday objects holds the very real possibility of rewarding them with super-human strength granting mushrooms or electrified pet monsters. Very rarely does a game depict its characters walking into a store and purchasing these excellent items with hard earned currency. And even when they do, the currency is usually aquired by smashing mundane everyday objects.
Being an avid video game player for a solid chunk of my own life, it really shouldn't come as any surprise to me when I come home and find another piece of furniture in ruins.
I definitely hold an advantage over most parents though. Whereas some people would be utterly dumbfounded by how the simple act of sitting down could yield such descructive results, I know that my brother has been virtually conditioned to accept the possibility that my chair may contain something that will grant him the ability to throw fireballs.
Being from the first generation of mainstream video gaming, I was afforded the luxury of living half of my childhood without its corrupt influence. I am able to look back on Mario's wantonly destructive behavior with a furrowed brow. Hey, Mario! Did you ever stop and wonder who all those bricks belonged to before smashing them for your own personal gain?! That kind of contract work doesn't come cheap, dick weed! I thought you'd understand that, being a plumber and all.
As it stands, my brother and I are forced to deal with the cold hard realities of a living in a world without a reset button. It's becoming increasingly obvious that my furniture holds little in the way of power ups, and I refuse to buy another tasteful household item until his ass has finished school, at which point his ass will find itself in the general direction of not my house. Until then, I'll just have to deal with the massive amounts of mockery that my new fold up soccer chairs are bound to generate. Laugh all you want, but try to break those, fuckers!
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Yours in Jesus,
Debbie