by Matt ‘Volkov’ Schmidt “I hope your parents and your brother are brutally murdered, and you are forced to live with that for the rest of your life.”That wasn’t nearly the worst thing my old clan mate Captain Pilk ever said while engaged in fierce Call of Duty battles, but it was the cleanest phrase I could find in my recording vault. Good ol’ Pilk swore like a drunken sailor with Tourette’s Syndrome, with outbursts as frequent as his kill/death ratio dictated.

My fondest memory of him was in his Madden 2005 phase. Pilk disappears for a couple days, leaving the clan a little worried. He finally signs on, telling the story about 48 hours earlier when his game lagged out. The wrath that followed left him with a cable modem in pieces on the floor. He was never quite the same after that.

Mr. Pilkington might be an extreme case of gaming rage, but the feelings are not uncommon. Every gamer has slammed a mouse on their desk or whipped their controller at the ground in anger at one time or another. We’ve cursed out best friends and family and yelled senselessly at strangers via microphones. I have woken up countless toddlers in the middle of naptime as a result of my virtual deaths.

It’s all about the competition. Our war cries must be heard by our opponents. The louder you shout, the higher the winning percentage. It’s like Braveheart or The Patriot, only less drunken Mel Gibson and more hormonal teenagers. Shout down your enemy, and you shall be victorious. It’s a universal rule of any combat type.

Everything goes. Don’t be afraid to use the enemy’s sexual preference, ethnicity, religion, or embarrassing medical conditions against them. It’s completely dirty and classless, but as long as your name is up top on the scoreboard, nothing else matters. Am I right?

It’s too bad Viagra doesn’t also enlarge your kill count, or else Doc would be winning international tournaments!

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