Tragic Personal Loss: I No Longer Want to T-Bag Noobass Mofos
[Dumbsclaimer: This piece of gaming satire does not reflect opinions of any specific individual or this website as a whole. It’s also really fucking profane, so like, heads up.]
New Year is old news, and the Overwatch winter event has ended. Loot boxes are back to normal and that’s cool, but the worst part of that update stuck around: the Stay as Team function. This has built comradery and taken away my urge to spew vulgarity! Instead of swearing, I find myself caring. Safe to say, that’s something we simply do. Not. Want.
When strangers suddenly become friends, I am forced to recognize their value and I no longer want to call them fuckheads. Just today, I went a whole match without saying “ass-gobbler” and barely even manage to yell “shlazballs” more than once or twice out of habit, and wholly refrained from threatening teammates over their character choice. What the fuck, Blizzard? You’ve ruined the game entirely!
“We were brothers and sisters in arms, now. We were comrades. Man, fuck that!”
It happened like magic, but not the fun kind of Snow White Poison Apple Magic, I mean the scary kind of dark Harry Potter Cribbage magic. We took the field in Eichenwalde. As usual, I was Symmetra and shutting crotchtrucks right the fuckhell down, we had a great Mercy taking care of us, Reinhardt used his shield and hammer in tandem like a pro, and so on… we… we were a well-oiled machine with hardly a dicktool among us. After our win, all six of us pressed that new button: Stay as Team.
But, now, all my urge to blame any one person for unfortunate circumstance disappeared right along with my once-burning desire to crouch low as if I were humping the ground. We were brothers and sisters in arms, now. We were comrades. Man, fuck that!
Our chemistry in the second match was off the charts. Now that we’d gone through the trenches together, knew each other a little better, and recognized each other as *shudder* …friends, there was no one on the team that I wanted to kick out, no doucheguzzler for me point my finger at if things went wrong. When someone picked Windowmarker, I didn’t even go through my usual routine of yelling “fuckshit get that assripple bullshit cockslice out of here!” Not even once!
Instead, I — and to my surprise, my teammates — picked a group that might compliment Wildbaker’s sniping. We looked out for each other, we planned ahead, and in the heat of battle, we were all aware of each other’s actions and possible ideas. We had no headsets but were of one mind; we operated as one unit like the bad guys from Ender’s Game and also the good guys from Ender’s Game.
People needed healing and were getting healed instead of called sackscabs; people asked to group up and we had a rendezvous instead of whatever the French word for death is.
This had the equally terrible side effect of making me rarely want to give my opponents the ol’ T-bag. In general, I take any chance I can to walk up to a fallen opponent and repeatedly drop my groin as if it were hot. This sends two messages: you just got eliminated in a video game where everybody gets eliminated at some point, and also that I hope you are visualizing my genitals forcefully colliding with your unconscious paralyzed dead face. Maybe you are not picturing it, but I’m picturing you picturing it, and that makes you a loser.
But this time, I was the one who felt like a loser. Suddenly, I saw these ding-dong dick biscuits as other people trying to meet objectives in a video game rather than rectum clowns trying to clown around in rectums or whatever. I thought, maybe they weren’t trying to do that?
That Overwatch update has officially turned the whole game upside-down in a way that I can’t stand. Blizzard, I appreciate the gesture, but actually I don’t. If I don’t hate people, I have no reason to try and beat them at a video game, and if I like my teammates, I might be forced to evaluate my own play more honestly. Fuck that and fuck this game, I’m out!