Christy Fantz has relationship advice and she’s not afraid to dish it out. Send your questions to firstname.lastname@example.org .
My boyfriend plays Xbox all the time. Like every spare second. Sometimes the only way I can get him to put the controller down is sex. But it would be fun to go out once in a while. How do I get him to let go of the idiot box?
Whew, he said:
Appreciate the altered moniker. Embrace it. Love it. Get it? Good talk.
Key: Give him a taste of his own medicine.
Amicable my ass. Let’s be children. (Pickled-liver children, of course.)
Purchase a lame game, bogart the controller and play until those eyes make every wall and dream hallucinate into anime.
By lame, clearly I mean awesome. Like some sort of vegetarian chupacabra in search of a SWF via a series of Craigslist ads gone awry — Choose Your Own Adventure-style.* (Get Sega on the horn.)
Heed! From the horse’s ass, this screams, “Danger!” I’m the horse’s ass.
You will turn into him. I did.
My foray in the video game world mainly entailed old-school Nintendo (you were a fetus, go back to sleep) with the best games ever: Super Mario Bros. and The Legend of Zelda (if you know the Zelda rap circa 1986, I will lick your face).
Younger days consisted of Pac-man, Mappy, Ikari Warriors (Atari. You’re jealous.) Later, there was a brief stint of Tomb Raider, Jet Moto, Grand Theft Auto and Twisted Metal.
Until gentleman lover’s PS3 became a fixture in my apartment, I was on video game hiatus.
Now I’ve become quite intimate with the toy. I want to be on it.
Besides the fact that the PS3 does everything (save for make you a drink — lazy bastard), Tiger Woods PGA Tour has become my new whiskey.
(Don’t tell Kentucky Deluxe. He’s depressed right now.)
So, instead of flapping your unkempt lady parts over him while he’s balls-deep in Call of Duty, invade, fondle and penetrate that machine with a disc that strikes your fancy.
*I’m afraid my dusty pop-culture references may be lost on you. Google it.