My hopes were obvious: a little extra elbow grease applied in the right manner, might stop a “squeaky wheel” from howling all weekend long as I sat on my rump and laid waste to a fictitious neon city set in the 80s. The missus was not quite as excited about this new video game as I had anticipated, and it seemed that my intense efforts might be overlooked. So I hauled out my naked-lady-in-contorted-position-lamp (an old favorite – the light glowed from the top of her feet, and her derriere was a true conversation piece) and my wife merely nodded, like Vader would after the Death Star had obliterated a planet. What else would I have to sacrifice to the marriage Gods to get the blessing of weekend indolence?

Turns out, not much, because she’s a good wife. She granted me an entire Saturday – a full 24 hours if I wanted – to play the game without her looking over my shoulder and calling me out for playing a violent game that would be completely banned in our home if we had children. If you were to ask my wife, we have a child on our hands right now (me) and I certainly wouldn’t argue too heavily against that notion. I’m getting to that age where people expect you to act responsible all day long – and it’s downright frightening. I have to behave like a child every now and then, for fear that I might lose every mite of immaturity I have; reduced to laughing only at fart jokes.

Playing video games over the age of 30 is the equivalent of a comb over on a shiny bald spot. It’s one last vestige of hope that not all is lost, that cute girls in ice cream shops might stop calling you “sir,” that people will cease to ask you for directions because you look well-traveled, and no one will question your devotion to your job just because you wear Hawaiian shirts and boat shoes to work. It’s one last position of defense against maturity, and I plan on fortifying that stronghold all summer long, or until Mrs. Bruns freaks and pops the computer with a hammer, whichever comes first.