"Playing with Yourself"

All right. Here it goes. I’m putting on my rant helmet and feeding my pet, Peeve. And this time, it’s about--drum rolls please--PlayStation Portable. [Applause]. Before I get mutilated by the geeks out there, hear me out, my four-eyed friends.

Cutscene: Party in a bar. Everyone’s having a good time. Even the designated wallflower is getting some. Booze are flowing, grub everywhere. One of those nights that you might regret the morning after. And then, there’s that “guy.” Sitting on his table, with annoyance etched throughout his face, elbows on the table, ridiculously engrossed in his portable game box that the 21st century people call PSP.

Cutscene: Graduation-slash-birthday party reception. Also serves as a family reunion. You know, family. People you see once, if you’re lucky, twice a year. Usually on the holidays. And there’s that guy again. Brooding on his table and his eyes glued to the LCD monitor of sleek and handheld videogame. If your sister ain’t hot, I wouldn’t have kept looking in your direction.

Now, to defend myself before you playas out there release the wrath of whoever that demi-god character you’re trying to defeat on me. I want one. A PSP unit. Yeah, seriously. Alto, I’d appreciate more if you’d give me a Wii, but PSP would be gravy. I’m trying to lash out on those people who plays them at inappropriate places and situations. I mean, you’re in a party and reception; lots of people to exchange stories with, lots of fishes to hook up with, and…you’re out there “playing with yourself.”

Do not condemn me to Hades. I did not break my “mustn’t care about anyone else or what they’re doin’.” I just wanna help. Instead of sitting there trying to reach the next level or completing your mission, the girl in the blue dress at the bar’s checking you out.