Your Controller November 23, 2009 Entertainment 64 views Comments Print This Post  Email This Post

Hi. I’m your controller. We need to have a little chat. I’ve been following your adventures for some time, and I ain’t talkin’ about your recent exploits on Halo 3: ODST, Borderlands, Modern Warfare 2, or Hexic.

I’m talking about all that other sick shit you do when you’re not playing video games: the scratching, the picking, the adjusting, the wiping, the diddling, the petting, the squeezing, the popping, and the-Baby-Jesus-knows-what-else.

Actually, I have a pretty good idea of what it is you do on a daily basis, seeing as you leave deposits on me. I have direct contact with your sickass habits.

Need glasses? Can’t see how caked I am? Remember how I used to look? Take a look at the pic above. I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I used to look good. Shiny. Nice and clean.

It’s all your fault.

I gotta say: you’re nasty. Straight up nasty. Keep your grubby paws away from me. Every time you touch me–even if it’s just to fire up the XBOX 360 to watch some Netflix–I feel like barfing all over myself.

I’m really tired of you bringing back “leftovers” from your trips to the bathroom in between multiplayer matches. Haven’t you heard of soap, you filthy motherfucker? Little white bar, usually by a sink? Ring any bells?

Wait–fuck soap. You should upgrade to bleach. Bleach and fucking Lysol. Fill a bucket and dunk those hand-shaped cesspools in there for 20 minutes.  Maybe buff with some 10-grit sandpaper.

I’m surprised you even have hands to play video games. I woulda thought that all those goddamned microbes and bacteria and viruses that have pwned your grubby-ass fingernails for so long would have totally consumed your putrid little fingers by now, leaving nothing but a giant black ball of bacteria shit at each wrist. Bet it would be hard to fire your noobtoob, then, wouldn’t it?

One word for you, you dirty sack of dogshit: QUARANTINE. You should be on lockdown, at the Center for Disease Control. And I ain’t going with you. “But I’ll get bored!” you shriek. Read a book, asshole. I’m tired of being besmirched and tainted by your nasty manos. Go ahead–See what your half-read copy of Catcher in the Rye has to say about your “hygiene.” I’m done with you.

Ugh. Just put me out of my misery. I feel so gross. Just smash me to bits next time you throw a tantrum about those “fucking camping bastards.”