While cleaning out some of the pockets in my laptop case, I found a copy of "The Sims". I never really played it that much when I first bought it, but I was bored so I figured I'd slap it in and give it a whirl. I've regretted that decision ever since. Those little bastards infuriate the hell out of me with their damned stupidity, yet I can't stop playing.

One game in particular sent me over the edge. I had spent all this time creating a nice little Sim. I gave him a good home. I bought him lots of things to keep him happy. Was he thankful? Oh, hell no. This guy was the whiniest, most demanding blockhead of a Sim I've ever seen.

Things started out well enough. He got a job and started making friends. All of his "mood indicators" were in the green and things were going along swimmingly. He was happy. I was happy. "Oh, the things I shall buy for you my wee creation! You will rise through the ranks and become powerful! Would you like a guinea pig? Here you go: a gift from your Creator. May his puffy cheeks and cute antics provide hours of entertainment."

Little did I know that my Sim was about to unleash his inner Oscar Madison. I was a little disturbed that he had a voracious appetite for potato chips and would leave the empty wrappers all over the floor. It didn't seem to bother him. Even when the flies started buzzing around, it didn't bother him. Soon, his trashcan overflowed, leaving a pile of rubbish sitting right square in the middle of his kitchen. "That's all right," I thought, "I'll just hire a maid for him. No expense shall be spared to ensure Billy Bastard's happiness."

Yet Billy seemed to resist all I did to make him happy. I kept pulling on the reigns, but like a stubborn mule, he just sat there wallowing in his misery. I noticed that his "Hunger" indicator was always in the red. I don't see how a man who consumed his weight in potato chips every day could be hungry, but I'm here to meet his needs. I bought him an expensive, shiny stove so he could make big, filling meals. I even bought a nice dining room table for him to chow down on. Upon noticing the new appliance, he stomped his little feet and clapped with joy. He cooked a meal and promptly set the oven on fire. "Put out the fire, Billy!", I yelled. All he could do was jump up and down in fright and point at it. "Yes, it's a fire. Extinguish!" The fire soon spread to the refrigerator which held his precious potato chips. "Ah, now he'll get on the ball!" Nope.