. . . And the Rest: A Gibbing Update
Despite evidence to the contrary, we have not forgotten our initial mission statement: To knit, to gib. To gib perchance to pull off a groin shot . . .
Where was I? Oh, gibbing. That we knit is obvious, but we do, in fact, gib. Sometimes we do both simultaneously, but, on the advice of council, we do not commit anything on that score to print. (Hint: Do NOT ask chicagowench how she single-handedly raised our nation's terror-level alert with nothing more than her knitting needles.)
But on the gibbing front. Just a week or so ago, I had only to say two short phrases to chicagowench ("Shooting at the walls of heartache" and "It was the HEEEEAAAAAT of the moment) and she was off to obtain the means of rocking '80s style. (Our short, collective review of Guitar Hero Rocks the 80s? Awesome costumes [should have had alternates], several great song choices, many, many more egregious holes in the catalog. No Night Ranger? I bloody well ask you!)
Chicagowench got her own back, though. There was brazen, shameless Wii flaunting on my recent visit Chez 'Wench. Before Herself had to leave town, she'd had me hooked on the bowling. By the next day, DevilKitty had lured me into golfing. (GOLFING?! Moi? It is the greatest understatement to say that I do not golf.)
But it was not until Tuesday, my head heavy with math, that I found my gibbing calling. The Lad had talked up Red Steel quite a lot, and I'm very big on wandering around and mindlessly killing (despite the fact that we've had an xBox 360 for almost 3 months, and I have yet to smash a painting over the head of a single zombie, thus preventing him from reaching beyond the border of the picture's frame). So in the down-time between math! and murfle swim lesson, DK and the Lad tried to de-spazz me sufficiently to play. The result was me finding my Native American/Hobbit/Pylean gibbing name: Twitching, Twirling, Reloading Princess of the Junk-Touching Clan.
See, I have some pretty serious gibbing affliction, probably attributable to my complete lack of art brain. This plays merry hell with my sense of spatial relationships. For example, in racing games, I cannot back up and turn at the same time. So trying to navigate with the remote + nunchuck is a bit of a personal nightmare (especially as I had not understood some instruction regarding this "aiming" thing). My first attempt at the game culminated in me spinning uncontrollably in place, shooting---among many other things, few of them the bastards shooting at me---the overhead lights. One of the very few kill shots I did manage to get off? Right to the groin. Take THAT, dirty pudendum-touching bus boy.
When I returned to the game, after much rocking, golfing, bowling, and the retirement of chicagowench for the evening. I managed to develop what I thought to be quite a stylish mode of play. This involved shooting away any and all shelter that the bad guys might take (no wall is safe from me!) and then emptying roughly 2 clips of automatic ammunition into each and every bad guy. I cut them in half. I blew off their heads by shooting up through the underside of their chins. And, yes, I shot them in the junk. Repeatedly. After a while, I realized that I'd been totally bogarting the gaming console, but then I realized that me playing Red Steel was the most fun that any three people could have. I'm sure my companions would have concurred, but they were too busy rolling around, crying, and pissing themselves in convulsions of envy for my m@d 5k1llz. Oh YEAH!