My Thumbs Hurt

Honesty time.

I'm horrible at video games.

I'm okay with this, really. If there were an award for most deaths in EverQuest, I'd interrupt my current naked run through dangerous territory to get back my stuff to step up to the podium and graciously thank the EQ Academy for their consideration and all the little people (gnomes, mostly) for their unwavering support.
Especially twitch-based games. My thumbs are powerful BlackBerry scrolling tools, but my reflexes are poor at best.
I've long suspected that any frag-tastic success at gaming is attributable to dumb luck or my penchant for camping the spawn points and firing a virtual rocket launcher at anyone who shows up just before they can fight back.
But yesterday all the luck and guile in the world failed me, and failed me miserably.
Gwynyth and I broke out the PS2. She wanted to play the X-Men game, but that game is cooperative and I wanted something a little more competitive.
We settled on Dead or Alive, a fighting game that allows a player to punch, kick, tackle and throw his or her opponent through destructible set pieces or off roofs.
I picked the angriest looking Kung Fu guy and Gwynyth settled on the girl with the nicest dress. And heels.
I tried almost every combatant available over the next hour or so. Gwynyth stuck with her original choice.
She beat me mercilessly ten matches to two. Her pretty-dressed avatar kicked mine in the face, chest and groin and repeatedly threw pushed and kicked me off overhangs, through parking garage walls and over railings.
Gwynyth is a poor winner. I suspect the standard Texas school curriculum includes Math, Science, English, History and Trash Talk, a subset of Social Studies probably.
"I'm going to beat you down again, old man."
"Oh. You want me to defeat you again?"
"Push the square button. That helps." (It doesn't, by the way.)
"You've been beaten again, but remember that time two matches ago when my girl grabbed your guy by the beard and rammed his face into the wall again and again? That was a good time."
She continued the trash talk through dinner and my switch to Mortal Kombat. The constant sprays of blood hastened our switch back to Dead or Alive. Where the beatings resumed.
As we put her to bed, she couldn't resist reminding me about the time she threw me off a cliff and I bounced across the cobblestones. I muttered something about my (legitimately) sore thumbs. Older people develop thumb cramps. I have a potassium deficiency and I'm allergic to bananas.
"Fine, Whiny McWhinester."
I turned at the top of the stairs and walked back to her doorway fully intending to lecture her about sportsmanship and being a good winner.
All attempts at good parenting evaporated when I saw the confident smirk under the pink mesh canopy.
"It's on for tomorrow! Be prepared to bring it!"

"It's already been brought old man, but I can bring it again."

Were it not for a stupid email outage, I'd have stayed home today to practice.