Games = Horrible Violence

Computer games are the new Chuckie films as far as parents and reactionary press are concerned. They are evil tools created by tall, thin, pale men in dark pits of pain and misery, quietly chattering at their keyboards as they program their code of Satan into the consoles of youth, occasionally stopping to let out a well timed "Mwoooohahahahaha" as another polygonal figure is decapitated.

As a long time games player myself I have been exposed to a multitude of violent images over my early, formative and adult years. I have lopped peoples heads off, shot prostitutes in the face, driven articulated lorries into crowds of people, blown intestines into a fine crimson mist, ordered nuclear bombs to be dropped on hospitals just for the fuck of it and bayoneted allied troops in the face as they run round a corner (it makes a particularly satisfying fleshy, yet metallic noise).

Obviously from all this horrible, mind bending violence I have witnessed and perpetrated through games over the years I am, of course, a fucked up serial killer who assumes that every game I ever played was actually preparation for the deeds that I was required to carry out in real life.

I sit in the dark cupboard under the stairs, naked, making spiders touch me in special places before descending into a violent fit of sobbing and self mutilating masturbation. This usually leads to a truly disturbing homicidal attack on the pizza delivery guy I called before the whole spider incident. The dispatch of the, obviously, dangerous pizza guy is dependant on the most recently played game as I am such an impressionable, gullible fucktwat that I cannot form opinions or morals of my own and simply assume whatever is channelled into my tiny mind by the closest/loudest medium in the room.

Sometimes I will already be prepared, hanging above the door in a black all-over body suit complete with night vision goggles, supporting the weight of my torso with my incredible leg muscles. The doorbell rings, I swing the door open before dropping down into view and planting two silent but impressively accurate 9mm rounds into the chest and head of my nemesis, pizza dude. When all is clear I will sling the body over my shoulder and carry it to an area where I am sure no other guards will find it and raise the alarm.

Other times I launch myself out of a window in full WW II G.I. attire upon hearing the doorbell, screaming "CLEAR THE SHINGLE!!! KAWOLSKI, GIVE ME COVER FROM THAT MG42 POSITION!!! CLEAR THE MURDER HOLES!!!" before letting a whole mag from my thompson pepper the terrified pizza dude with fleshy blood craters of war death.

If I have been watching the news recently I will answer the door when the pizza dude rings the bell, declare that the pizza contains dangerous weapons that could destroy my house and demand to see them. When the pizza dude stares at me wondering why the window is smashed and how my legs are so big and strong and if they could be used to pivot my body when hung from the ceiling, I demand again to see the evil pizza weapons of nastiness, then I shoot him in the head. After I have consumed the pizza, I find there are no nasty pizza death weapons in the pizza, and it was actually quite nice. Not sure about the chicken. I feel no remorse for pizza dude as everyone knows it was for the preservation of my house. As I throw the last pieces of pizza crust onto the body, I notice another pizza dude up the road. Hey.....you....come here....