At long last I can finally live the dream and play Battlefield: 1942 for a living.

You heard me honey. It was a real roller-coaster ride at work today. First, we had a giant company meeting where our HR director lectured us about sexual harassment. Afterwards, three guys asked her out. The upshot is that for legal reasons, bending people over the copier and spanking them was no longer an acceptable punishment for poor penmanship. This made my boss pretty irritable, so at lunch he barricaded five of us inside the conference room with the bagel cart and to escape we had to blind him with the overhead projector. At that afternoon’s departmental meeting he stood on the table and ordered a keelhauling. And that’s when I did it! That’s when I did it! I told him that I QUIT!

Just imagine the RUSH, sweetie! Within twenty minutes I had all of my stuff in a cardboard box and I was shooting the breeze with the security guys escorting me out of the building. Together we all went to Hooters for hot wings and I got pretty loaded.

Then out of nowhere a primer-colored Volkswagen Rabbit puttered up to the bar, so loud we could hear it even through the front window. A disheveled little fellow clawed his way out and stumbled into the building. “Mr. Peters! Mr. Peters!” he shouted, looking around aimlessly.

“Thaz’s me!” I slurred, raising my beer. Some of it dribbled down my sleeve.

Without waiting for an introduction the guy sat down and told us his story. Apparently he needed to raise a thousand dollars to buy back a ring he lost to someone on eBay. “I’ve been looking for you for days. I understand you’re one of the best Battlefield 1942 players in the area,” he said.

The security guards I was partying with laughed it up. “Thas me!” I answered. “Erry night! I play Fattlebield like a Fothermucker!”

From his battered coat pocket the kid withdrew a folded up piece of paper. It was a photocopied announcement about a $10,000 eight-man-team Battlefield tournament coming to the LAN center next to the mall. “Mr. Peters, sir, I’m willing to pay your $200 entry fee provided I can keep $2000 of your winnings. Can you assemble a team to win this tournament?”

I straightened up and burped loudly. “You mean – you mean I can … LIVE THE DREAM? You’re giving me a chance to play Battlefield for a LIVING!?

“Yes.”

I saluted. “YESH SIR!” See? Suddenly, I was no longer unemployed. I was a professional. From now on, I could write off our broadband bills as a business expense for tax purposes. But more importantly, I had to act fast to put together a team. I flipped open my cell phone PDA and started instant-messaging my game buddies.

The best of the best of the best! That’s who I needed. Naturally that meant that I had to hook up with Crenshaw and his hood ornament. For infantry I selected a strategic mastermind who had perfected the Horrifying Human Wave Attack. My first officer of the navy could be none other than Battleship Bill, who reinstituted the long-dead tradition of Naval Flogging. Naturally I also needed the finest engineer the game had ever seen.

But I needed two more players. Who was it gonna be? My first thought was Jones. I didn’t like playing with him, because he spends the whole game talking like a pirate and none of us understand him. But he would have to do. And, for an eighth? Who? I needed a real war veteran … but none were available. So I went with the son of a war veteran. Sure, he was a little young for my crack team of commando professionals, but Kevin was my man. If he had picked up even half of his dad’s unorthodox anti-sniper strategy, a winner would be US.

So there you have it, honey. That’s why I was late. I’m a professional, baby! A professional! Now, help me hang this camouflage netting all over my home office.


Victim Pic Small

I’m pretty sure a pro Battlefield player can make as much as a middle-manager at a secure well-funded company. So quit whining and start filling sandbags!


Score: 9.01; Total Votes: 1551 as of 2009-12-09.


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