Anger Management
Let us first, before anything else, enjoy my post title. It's relevant to the topic AND it's also the name of a recent movie with Adam Sandler and Jack Nicholson. Eh? Genius. Every blogger must do this, by the way. It's in the rules that blogger.com makes us follow. We have to come up with blog post titles that are witty and relevant, or they kill us. That's why so many people do it, just in case you thought it was because every blogger sucks balls.
I get angry over the most stupidest retardedest awfulest things ever. When I'm doing poorly at something, I'm pissed. If my brain just can't wrap itself around a video game, for instance, I'll go absolutely bananas. And I'm not even sure what the hell that means. If I can't make something work for me, can't get something to "click," then I'm furious, and I sound like a little baby, though I look like a big, fat one.
It's really bad; just ask anyone who knows me. Keith probably knows this better than anyone, other than Jon, of couruse, who has the advantage of being my brother (and thus was present for all of my prepubescent tantrums over Pokemon and Metal Gear Solid). For some reason, though, I'm more likely to bust up in front of Keith than anyone else. I think it's because he, unlike everyone else, puts up with my shit long enough for me to come to my senses. Good man, that Keith.
During these situations, I occasionally gather enough self-discipline to shut up and think, calm myself, and try to sort through things. More often than not, serene contemplation yields excellent results and I return to the activity in question and dominate. Like when I'm just sucking balls at NBA Live 09 (basketball video game, if you're a noob): I'm yelling and whining and bitching and stinking shit up pretty bad(ly). But when I calm down, get a drink, turn the game off, and bring myself back to non-stratosperic levels of anger, I'm able to turn the game back on and win some games.
Or when I played Disney Think Fast Trivia (don't ask) the other day on my Wii, and Philippi and I were tied after two rounds: the third round consisted of picking the Hercules muse that was different out of a lineup, and it was competitive: whoever got it right first got the points. Well, I might as well have taken a dump in my pants; that might have been more effective. I was applying myself to the game in the wrong way and Philippi was getting EVERYTHING. I thought the hair was going to be a factor that changed during successive rounds and so I kept looking at the hair right away, even after four straight answers that consisted in determining who was wearing the glasses. I kept thinking I was going to be right that I messed it all up and gave Philippi four trillion points. I was pissed, of course. But then I settled down, concentrated, and went on to rape Philippi rather savagely in the next two rounds to win the game by a mile. He's still limping.
So when I turn into an asshole playing a game, I just have to calm down and, in the words of that black guy whose hand got bitten off by an alligator (crocodile? What's down there in the bayou?) in Happy Gilmore, "go to my happy place." My happy place, sadly, doesn't consist of that hot chick from the movie in sweet sweet lingerie, nor does it involve a little person, with the appropriate cowboy attire, riding a toy horse. It does, however, as in the movie, contain Shooter McGavin wearing a kiss mask while making out with my grandmother.
What I'm trying to say, I guess, is that I'm a little bitch. I whine a lot. I get angry if I'm losing. And I blame everything and everyone (usually Fillman) but myself. But beware the moment when I shut up and my eyes glaze over: I'm about to whoop some ass.
I get angry over the most stupidest retardedest awfulest things ever. When I'm doing poorly at something, I'm pissed. If my brain just can't wrap itself around a video game, for instance, I'll go absolutely bananas. And I'm not even sure what the hell that means. If I can't make something work for me, can't get something to "click," then I'm furious, and I sound like a little baby, though I look like a big, fat one.
It's really bad; just ask anyone who knows me. Keith probably knows this better than anyone, other than Jon, of couruse, who has the advantage of being my brother (and thus was present for all of my prepubescent tantrums over Pokemon and Metal Gear Solid). For some reason, though, I'm more likely to bust up in front of Keith than anyone else. I think it's because he, unlike everyone else, puts up with my shit long enough for me to come to my senses. Good man, that Keith.
During these situations, I occasionally gather enough self-discipline to shut up and think, calm myself, and try to sort through things. More often than not, serene contemplation yields excellent results and I return to the activity in question and dominate. Like when I'm just sucking balls at NBA Live 09 (basketball video game, if you're a noob): I'm yelling and whining and bitching and stinking shit up pretty bad(ly). But when I calm down, get a drink, turn the game off, and bring myself back to non-stratosperic levels of anger, I'm able to turn the game back on and win some games.
Or when I played Disney Think Fast Trivia (don't ask) the other day on my Wii, and Philippi and I were tied after two rounds: the third round consisted of picking the Hercules muse that was different out of a lineup, and it was competitive: whoever got it right first got the points. Well, I might as well have taken a dump in my pants; that might have been more effective. I was applying myself to the game in the wrong way and Philippi was getting EVERYTHING. I thought the hair was going to be a factor that changed during successive rounds and so I kept looking at the hair right away, even after four straight answers that consisted in determining who was wearing the glasses. I kept thinking I was going to be right that I messed it all up and gave Philippi four trillion points. I was pissed, of course. But then I settled down, concentrated, and went on to rape Philippi rather savagely in the next two rounds to win the game by a mile. He's still limping.
So when I turn into an asshole playing a game, I just have to calm down and, in the words of that black guy whose hand got bitten off by an alligator (crocodile? What's down there in the bayou?) in Happy Gilmore, "go to my happy place." My happy place, sadly, doesn't consist of that hot chick from the movie in sweet sweet lingerie, nor does it involve a little person, with the appropriate cowboy attire, riding a toy horse. It does, however, as in the movie, contain Shooter McGavin wearing a kiss mask while making out with my grandmother.
What I'm trying to say, I guess, is that I'm a little bitch. I whine a lot. I get angry if I'm losing. And I blame everything and everyone (usually Fillman) but myself. But beware the moment when I shut up and my eyes glaze over: I'm about to whoop some ass.
1 erotic poetry prompts:
the voice of our cousin travis, "If the game makes you that upset, then dont play" haha couldnt resist bro
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