Ah, it is finally here. The day that Microsoft launches Kinect. The device that lets you karate chop, finger-bang animals, and Minority Report your way to dumbassery. Thank goodness. I was waiting for it to come out. That way my annoyance can reach critical mass. I had to slap down my Nana today for dropping a banana peel. Her head spun around like a god damn Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot. As she writhed on the ground, I tried to explain myself.

Sorry Nana, video games made me do it. It’s the new motion controls! They’re a bad influence! I just want to karate chop everything. I can’t tell real from fake anymore. It’s the violence! No, don’t you dare call my psychiatrist! They’ll never take me alive! Alive!

Then I dove out the window. I am typing this under shelter of fallen leaves and raindrops. Wi-Fi is a helluva thing.

But seriously Kinect can go fuck itself. I’ve never felt so little excitement over an add-on. And this is coming from the guy who bought a Sega CD and a 32X. I totally had to have them.

Dropping an honest bomb on your ass, a part of Kinect appeals to me. As a technology whore, I can be a turned on by the idea of manipulating menus with my hands. I would love to totally don my duster jacket, sweet reflective shades, and pretend I’m in Neuromancer. I can imagine the hours I’d spend manipulating the dashboard, while manipulating my dong-bot. Enhance! I’d say. Enhance! I’d command. Sure nothing would happen, but I’d be living out a Gibsonian dream that I’ve fantasized about for years.

Hand manipulation? Facial recognition? Speech commands? It’s something out of my wet dreams.

The problem is that I simply don’t give a fuck about the games. I own a Wii. It sits in the corner, gathering dust. Every once in a while I take a moment to demean it.

You underpowered piece of shit! Where’s your HD? LOL AT YOU. YOUR PENIS IS SMALL AND YOUR BREATH STINKS. STINKS.

It only murmurs, hurtfully.

I don’t need to spend a $150 for something whose only marketing value to me is a sweet-ass way to get through a dashboard. I don’t need to pet animals, or do dance moves, or play tennis. I can do all that shit in real life. And if you know anything about me, it’s that I pet animals daily. That’s not to mention the fact that my dance moves are fucking elite. Seriously, I cut a rug like a son of a bitch. White guy funk drizzled in insanity, motherfuckers.

It’s a sweet ass piece of technology that beckons to me, like a Siren’s Call. But underneath that is the fact that it’s a gimmicky utensil of bullshit. If I’m being completely honest, they’ve almost won me over. Not for $150, but the allure of gadget-stroking. Perhaps my vitriol is so manifest because I can see myself staring down the chasm of douchery. It calls to me, yet I know how much I detest a good portion of what it stands for.

Stay strong, fight the fight. Say no to gimmicky motion controls, even if they harbor the allure of living within science fiction orgasm. You don’t need to play hopscotch with your grandma and grandpa. I promise.