We've all been gripped by such mischief at one time or another - most likely at Christmas, when spirits are high, or some other holiday when the clan converges: the irresistible urge to fire up the gaming rig and, after she's had a few egg nogs … Blow. Grandma's. Mind.
But with what? Delightful cartoon worlds? Dashing hot laps in a Maserati? Of course not. She's frail, hunched, rheumy-eyed. She wears compression socks, for god's sake. Naturally, we choose a bit of the old ultra-violence. Zombies are good. Gods of war. The type of space where no one can hear you scream. Odds on, Gran'll peer into the television screen wearing a puckered gape (quad comedy multiplier for denture detachment), before slowly leaning back in her chair as if sensing a great disturbance in the force, and with reluctant diplomacy, not wishing to crush your spirits, say something like, "Goodness ... I can see that it involves quite a measure of ... hand-eye coordination."
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