If you're not sure if you're playing with this guy, don't worry -- he'll tell you. Only vegans talk more about their lifestyle choices than pothead gamers. Within the first few sentences he speaks, he'll find a way to mention how much weed he has just smoked, what type of weed, the device which he used to smoke it, and his future plans to smoke more. Then he'll "forget" he told you he was stoned and mention it again every five minutes. If you still don't get it, he will loudly take bong rips directly into his microphone until somebody, hopefully, finally gives him the high-five for which he's apparently been left hanging all of his life.

This is a common tragedy that occurs when people mistake a hobby for a personality -- you'll find some version of it in anybody that's way too into anything. The bike girl won't shut up about gear ratios, the fisherman turns every conversation back to trout, and god help you if you meet someone into CrossFit. The only problem is, the pothead gamer is trying to merge two mutually exclusive passions: one that obliterates his reaction time and judgment and one that relies entirely on reaction time and judgment. He will loudly proclaim, without prompt, that he plays better high. But this will seem at odds with the amount of time he spends lost in hallways and staring at his own feet. But it's all OK: He'll make up for the fact that you have to carry him by bringing the music.

By which I mean he will blast shitty rap into his headset.

If you've ever played with the professional, you're probably the professional yourself. He will tolerate nothing less. But on the rare occasion that one of their clanmates shuns their tightly scheduled play time to, I don't know, watch their wife give birth or some stupid crap, the professional will be forced to associate with the unwashed masses. If that happens, and you wind up on his team, it'll be like getting dirty talked by a robot. He cannot fucking believe you're using subpar DPS strategies and oh my Jesus lord fucking Christ in hell are you seriously following an Echo Bomb with Aura Of Damnation what the shitting fuck are you even doing?!

The professional will try, briefly and without vigor, to explain to you what you're doing wrong. But there's just too much of it -- he would have to write some sort of online encyclopedia, hyperlinking your every mistake to a YouTube video of him doing it correctly and actually that's a great idea! He's starting one right now, as he's playing this game, and his K/D is still higher than yours.

The professional literally does not understand how somebody can have fun without doing their homework first. He's the kid that raised his hand in class and reminded the teacher that there was supposed to be a quiz today, and he brings that attitude to shooting magical robot goblins in the face. Nobody knows the rules of this fantasy world better than the professional, and nobody gives less of a shit about the concept of fantasy than the professional. If it's any consolation, you'll win every match you're in with him. If you don't notice that fact, don't worry: He'll let you know.

Nobody talks a better game than this guy. If there's something impressive to be done in the game, he's done it. That raid boss? He soloed it. While drunk. It wasn't even a big deal. That prime piece of equipment? He had it, once, but he found it made the game too easy so he threw it away. If you find yourself on his team, he's taking point. He's Rambo, and you're, like, Rambo's pants or something. You're just along for the ride. He will have a questionably Latino gamertag, or possibly something referencing an energy drink. Nothing is ever his fault. The game is glitching, somebody's cheating, his controller's broken, this never happens, honestly.

Ladies, if this doesn't sound familiar, just wait 'til he gets done gaming and comes to bed. It will.

This guy isn't here to have fun; he's here to win, and he doesn't experience either very often. He'll rage, swear, and froth into the mic, brag about his skills, immediately throw a grenade up his own ass and explode, then blame it on you and quit. Then he'll tell the next group he joins that they seriously wouldn't believe his last group -- they were so bad it was absurd. You guys aren't like that, right? If he's wasting his time, just let him know now so he can get out of here. No? You guys are ready? OK, but he's taking point ...

I guess there used to be girls who were like, "Look at me, I'm a girl and I play video games; isn't that crazy?!" I've never met one of those girls. I think they either weren't that common to begin with or they've learned their lesson the hard way -- by being slapped with more dicks than a cameraman for Magic Mike. Just ... absolutely bombarded by dicks. A veritable dick blitzkrieg.

As a result of the devastation from the dickzkrieg, all of the girls I've met while gaming have been nigh-mute. In games that require communication and teamwork, this can be a serious problem. But it's understandable: After the barest feminine whisper in an online game, somebody will open up their asshole and somehow words will spill out of it. That's not to say that all gamers are rampant sexists or anything -- most of the gaming community these days are just normal people. Gaming has gotten so big that the "basement-dwelling nerd" stereotype no longer applies. Only maybe 10 percent of players are socially maladjusted misogynist stereotypes, but in a game of 10 people, that still means one asshole who will flip out the first time a girl makes the mistake of bringing a taco platter to a sausage party.

He's not very good and, what's worse, he doesn't seem to care. If you're playing a fighting game with the invincible dipshit, he's just mashing buttons, not even bothering to combo cancel (the plebeian!). If he's playing a shooter, the invincible dipshit is not tactically covering corners and laying down suppressive fire on the valuable assets -- he's hopping across the battlefield like a war bunny while firing a shotgun at your face.

And the worst thing is, he's doing pretty well.

You've gotten good at these games, and as such, all of your strategies are built to counter other people that know what they're doing. You simply have no defense against blind, rampant idiocy. Now this jackass just stabbed you in the face for the hundredth time -- not even caring that this point is tactically unsound and he could have opened himself up to sniper fire, much less that this is a shooting game so who uses the goddamn knife?! -- aaaand now he's spinning around in a circle after crashing a tank into his own base.

Hi, I'm this asshole. Sorry.

But not really.

I'm winning!

I'm not going to pull a Reddit and start complaining about children playing with the same toys that I like. I'm only talking about the little kids who think that, because they spent all of spring break playing in front of the computer, they're suddenly going to get a sponsorship from Razer and have their face printed on mousepads. The hardcore kiddie will wait for you to make the slightest mistake, then promptly declare you "a casual."

With no regard for who you are, how long you've been playing, or what you've seen. The Dreamcast era, the great console wars, the atrocity of the Sega CD ...

Casual?

Motherfucker, I am 35 years old, and I've been gaming since I was younger than you. You're upset that Far Cry 4's graphics don't run at 60 frames per second? I remember when we didn't have graphics. I spent all night playing MUDs; my graphics were speed-reading.

You think Mario is a cliche? I remember when he wasn't a thing. I've been playing games since before Mario. That's like being alive before Jesus. You're all, "Excuse me, I think I know what I'm talking about -- I've been to Bible college," but you don't realize you're talking to a B.C. motherfucker.

You complaining to me about your DLC and ping and tear rate -- it's like complaining about your fancy steak being overcooked, when I was around before steak. I was running the Earth before mammals. I was back there eating the goddamn dinosaurs. All chewing on stegosaurus plates and shit. Oh, your meat is dry? My dinner is spikes. Raw spikes.

I'm a casual motherfucker, motherfucker? I am literally old enough to fuck your mother and it wouldn't be weird. I mean, supposing she was into it. People would see us together and they wouldn't be all, "That's inappropriate." They'd be like, "Good for her; they seem nice together." We'd hold hands and take funny pictures in a photo booth, and when she falls asleep in my arms, spent and satisfied, I'm so old that I wouldn't even get weird about it when she farts in her sleep. Because I not only accept the faults of the human body but actually get some comfort from the humanizing effect it has on her.

That's how "casual" I am, you little bitch.

Order Robert's hilarious new urban fantasy novel, The Unnoticeables, right here. Read more from Brockway at his own monument to narcissism, The Brock Way, or follow him on Twitter.

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