Last week, I sat on the couch and laughed with a friend as we merrily assaulted a post-apocalyptic gas station, defended by gray, thickly muscled, reptilian adversaries. We were engaged in a cooperative game where we were humanity's last, best hope against the relentless assault of our hated foes--working in concert, we shot, fragged, and chainsawed our way through a veritable sea of enemies emerging from steaming tunnels that erupted from the bowels of the planet.
Later, I and three other anonymous individuals, playing those same reptilian monsters, stormed a warehouse complex defended by four of our hapless human enemies. We knew each other only by our handles and our voices as we worked together to crush the feeble earthling beneath the locust boot. On the last game of the set, two of us cornered another player who cowered in the shadows of a cargo container. The enemy's dastardly sniper weapon cut down my teammate, but with a bound, I was on the human, and his avatar howled as my chainsaw bayonet shredded through his ribcage. As the game prepared to reload, I heard my teammates congratulate one another. As we faded away, I heard a player's voice with a Latino accent say: "Good game, brothers--" and I felt a genuine sense of accomplishment and camaraderie suffuse me as I clutched the Xbox controller.
I'll tell you why your bridge club broke up, Mr. Putnam. Because bridge is fracking boring, and does not involve chainsaws.
PS: What a great country!
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