Feel free to kill me at your leisure
February 19, 2012, 9:31 pm
Filed under: Call of Duty, MW3

Talkin’ ’bout lag. And not just your run of the mill, fleetingly temporary, laughably ignorable lag. Nope. I’m talking molasses in January, mud so thick it sucks off your boot, two frames a fuckin’ second L.A.G.

That is my fate. I probably have more experience with lag than most of my Call of Duty opponents have with the opposite sex. In fact, I’m sure of it.

Here’s why: I live off the grid (meaning there are no power or telephone poles out here in Bloated Horse Carcass, Colorado, Population: 3 if you count the dog) so everything we have has to be generated on-site. We make our own electricity, our phones are stationary cell phone thingamabobs. Our internet connection, another stationary cell phone thingamabob) is DSL (or so they claim), but I recall dial-up connections that were faster. Now, add to that the fact that Missus VirtualWarCriminal also has a laptop, with which she watches entertainment news over the internet (no reader, she)–while I am hard at work trying to kill 12-year-olds with a two-attachment PP90M1 and one lousy EMP greande in MW3. And not just the sort of snot-nosed 12-year-old I recall being. No. These are 12-year-olds with preternaturally fast reflexes, warp-speed internet connections, War College post-graduate-level strategy skills, and potty mouths.  Hitler’s illusory master race, now with lemony-fresh Xbox360! I hate them.

I will be merrily wreaking what miserably little havoc I am able to wreak when Missus VirtualWarCriminal decides to stream last week’s episode of, ironically enough,  The Good Wife. Suddenly, on my screen, the grenade I just tossed stops in mid-air; everything else, in fact, likewise freezes, and I know with a resigned certainty that when it unfreezes, I will have respawned elsewhere, victim of the demonic red light-green light game MW3 becomes for the latency impaired. Or maybe just me.

Or the alarmingly frequent Downloading of Monstrously Large Graphics of Cute Kittahs that turns the action in MW3 into a stop-action slo-mo version of wack-a-mole, starring me as the mole. If 12-year-olds had serious money, I’d be certain my wife was on their payroll.

For now, though, it’s just a suspicion.


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