A day in the life of a gamepad

Dawn arrives with first light—no wait it's the middle of the day, what gives? The answer is soon revealed as I realise I was at the bottom of a pile of dirty laundry. Banished to the corner, never to be seen again until the hour of need arrives, my suspicions prove to be true as I am swiftly plugged into the computer. It's time to get ready for the ordeal all over again.

A sigh of relief escapes when I see that the game to be played is Far Cry 5. As far as effort goes, this is one of the more comfortable games to play through. Driving around or walking is good stretching practice for my left analogue stick. Wanton shooting with the large assortment of firearms (or a good ol' shovel) ensures the right analogue isn't left out of the party either. All good things must come to an end, however, and soon the open world seems too open for my master to handle.

While a different game is being searched for, I stretch my circuits and try to remember why I was discarded so unceremoniously the last time. I've almost pieced together the whole story when the doorbell rings.

Oh no.

Was it today?

Game night is here, and my master's friends waltz in. Steeling myself for the mess I'm about to be in, I spy the first torture device: Mortal Kombat X. Now the game itself isn't that bad. It's quite fun to be used for some ridiculous, over-the-top-violent fatalities. If only breaking bones was that easy in real life.

All these "MLG" players can do, however, is button mash. Emphasis on mash. The characters flail around the place like scarecrows having seizures while a tornado rages. Yes, it really is that bad. I wonder whether it's possible to get injured from this. If gamers can get Repetitive Strain Injuries (RSI's), then my overly-mashed buttons definitely could. 

Once everyone has had their fill of gore, there is an expectant air. A lack of eyes doesn't stop me from knowing that everyone is licking their lips. The tension in the air is palpable as FIFA is started up. Friendship goes out the window as the primitive urge to dominate your fellow man takes over. Winning is the only thing that matters, and I can't afford any slip-ups. That means no input lag, no sticky buttons, and definitely no running out of batteries.

From the moment kick-off occurs, I am lightning in a controller-shaped bottle. I have never performed as well as this, nor will I ever. My analogue sticks form a deadly pair—almost guiding my master's thumbs. Together we elude charging defenders, sell the dummy to the goalkeeper and deposit the ball in the goal, where it has made a second home.

After some blissful performances, however, I lose the magic touch. Gone is the fluidity, replaced by the clunkiness of a potbellied sloth. The scorecard suddenly reads the long way around, and before I realise what is happening, there's a deafening roar. Soon I find myself flying through the air, landing painfully on a pile of dirty laundry.

Now I remember what happened the previous time. I burrow myself deeper into the filth in shame. I can't even be sure if the tears are ones of sadness or just an unfortunate side effect of the ungodly stench. If only my master would take a shower. If only. 


With a heart of ash and a PC of potato, Wasique Hasan could use some help. Send loss memes to cheer him up at fb.com/hasique.wasan


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