I I’m dying. I found some life expectancy calculators online that put me at either extremes of 84 or 54, and I’m turning 55 in December, so I’m worried. I’m running out of time to do the things I dream of doing: seeing Machu Picchu, finding a good vegan sausage, beating the kids at Mario Kart again.
The cats were our family’s favorite pastime, but when they began to gleefully slaughter me, I was forced to exact a petty revenge: take what they loved and secretly donate it to a charity shop. They still miss them to this day.
When they got Mario Kart 8, I called it a day, saying I was done with that childish stuff. But with death looming in the months or decades to come, I spent a week training to get to the top again.
The game has thousands of characters now. In addition to various versions of the original characters, there’s Kamek, a mysterious stranger known only as the Villager, and some totally random people, though I’m not sure who Pauline is. Glen Powell is probably in there somewhere, too; he’s been in everything else lately.
This was my first time handling the Switch OLED, and it’s a fragile little thing the size of a 1970s sandwich, with a recessed on/off button that requires tweezers — this is not a machine made for big fingers.
But those bloated fingers still have the skill. I tell my oldest daughter that she is easily passing the 50cc and 100cc levels. She says to me, “That’s amazing, Dad. As long as you do your best, that’s all you can do.” She smiles, but her eyes are not smiling. “Remember, Dad… Rainbow Road.”
I broke out in a cold sweat. That song destroyed dreams. It drove me crazy. It mocked my sense of depth.
On day two, I dominated Rainbow Road in the 100cc Star Cup and racked up wins like a pro. With perfect drift boost timing, I won four Grand Prix in one day. The menu music felt like something straight out of a “comedy” cop movie where one of Kevins (Hart or James) chases someone through a cake factory and comes out covered in icing, but it got the joy flowing in my old plaque covered veins.
I was surprised that I never went off course. Steering assist on…oh my gosh. This is like when my wife found out I was playing Horizon Zero Dawn on “Story” difficulty.
Without steering assist it’s a whole different story. The 150cc Star Road is the exact same nightmare as before. I hate this track, it’s like something out of a Gaspar Noe movie. 4 hours of practice on Friday gave me a stress rash on my face. My wife asks me why I yelled “Forget you, Lady Rosaline!”
On Saturdays, I go out drinking under pressure.
The Sunday of the Diamond Family Grand Prix arrives. My wife is called in to work. It’s a shame because she loses easily. “Are you good at Mario Kart?” I ask my son’s girlfriend.
“Not really,” she replied.
“Perfect,” I announced. “You’re player number four.”
My son plays shirtless because he doesn’t want to get his work shirt dirty, but it’s clearly an act of power, so I take my shirt off too. I have more hair and tattoos than he does. Nice try, son.
The controllers are the bigger problem. I’ve practiced with two Joy-Cons welded together into a single device, but with four players, each person shrinking one Joy-Con to the size of an inflated Mars bar and the shoulder buttons deforming into staple-sized flakes, my hands are twisted into unnatural shapes, and within minutes I’m in pain like I’m not feeling arthritis in 20 years.
There are other oddities too: My guy (Dry Bones, chosen to reflect one of my many ailments) keeps veering off to the right.
“What the hell is wrong with my controls?” I exclaim, in seventh place.
“The controller is drifting,” my son says.
“why?”
“Because it’s Nintendo.”
I’d completely forgotten about this. Just like the shoulder buttons on an Xbox controller start to wear out after a year, Nintendo controllers also drift. Good thing Nintendo can’t control the Mars Rover buggy, or it would just be spinning around in circles.
“You’ll get used to it, Dad.”
He does. I don’t.
I finished the Grand Prix in third place behind my son and the number one kid. The number one kid is a really good gamer. I asked her how she was so good. “Hmm. Autism, Dad!” she replied.
I demand a rematch, in which Number 1 Child must use a drift controller.
I get even worse. My son’s girlfriend is hitting on me. She is the sweetest, kindest, most respectful girl in the world, the kind of girl I would dream of giving to my son. But she Now he cries as if it were his own child. What a terrible child.
Miraculously (that is, thanks to me firing off an armada of blue shells), I overtook the number one kid in the final race and won. She still won the grand prize, but I proved I could still win. I did a loud, incredibly complicated victory dance and then booked myself in for a massage to fix my twisted, claw-like hands.
My elderly father still has some life left in him.
Source: www.theguardian.com
