Let us get one thing out in the open before I begin: I motherfucking love Zelda games. I have them all, have already plowed through most of them, own a stupid-ass Triforce t-shirt, and I even have a friend with the goddamn master sword tattooed on his stupid arm.
Actually, let us get another thing out in the open: Timothy King does not really motherfucking love Zelda games that much. He owns a decent deal of them, but has only plowed through A Link to the Past, and refuses to play any of the "shitty ass 3-D ones that are all the same." He owns no stupid-ass Triforce t-shirt, and has never even thought about meeting my friend with the master sword tattoo.
Now, with this information in tow, it'd be pretty easy to drive to the conclusion that I would be pretty well versed in the ways of Hyrule (for the geek community illiterate: the magical, pixie-laden elf land where Zelda games take place), and Kinger would probably be so-so, right?
If you said yes, you just drove all of us off the edge of the Earth. Game over.
Yes, the Earth is apparently flat, and Kinger is apparently telepathically linked to the fucking game developers at the Nintendo Corporation.
The other night Kinger arrived home tanked after a lovely visit to the Portsmouth Brewery, which, as I heard from him, has "a lot of fucking beer" on tap.
Anyway, at the point of his arrival, I was playing "The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask." This is one of those direct-sequel, black sheep sort of titles, and one of the only ones that I hadn't attempted to slog through all the way. This is mostly due to a time passage and limit system that, to say the least, is about as annoying has having Jerry Lewis stand over you and recite every one of his lines from the original "Nutty Professor" while he beats you over the head with a popular Milton Bradley board game (pick whichever title you like least, for me, that'd be Mousetrap, the needless complexity of which still flusters me to this day.)
But I digress.
Anyway, Kinger decided to slump down on the couch next to me and have a look-see at how I was wasting my night.
For not really liking the series, Kinger makes a damn good call... or twelve.
To put it bluntly, I was a fucking wreck. I was getting lost in pretty basic tunnel structures, missing things in plain sight, and forgetting to do shit in places I just left, forcing me to backtrack almost endlessly. How did I realize I was doing all these things? Why, Kinger's astute observations of course. He called me on my every error, and he wasn't just nitpicking either, he had the answers (remember: he has never played this game. ever.) My jaw was about this close to unscrewing and then hitting the floor, as I'm pretty sure many a robot jaw in Looney Tunes has done countless times.
It has been difficult to cope with my sorry display of incompetence. I've tucked my Triforce t-shirt away, sobbed at the mere mention of an ocarina, refused to even look in the general direction of my buddy's arm, and most of all, tried desperately to get my groove back.
To no avail.
I have come to the conclusion that I have been doing Zelda completely wrong all these years. I've burnt my brain out on puzzles and fetch quests, carefully planned out boss strategies, and combed the map endlessly for hidden goodies, all without the help of hint websites. It's been painful, or at least laborious, folks. It turns out all I've ever needed to be good at Zelda is alcohol.
Much like music-making and marijuana, alcohol is the great enabler in the vast world of Nintendo action RPGs. Finding that treasure chest or figuring out just how to use that stupid fucking boomerang will never seem so easy. Of course it means all my hard, honest goddamn work over the years has been meaningless, but now that Kinger has shown me the ways of the Drunken Master, I'll be on the bullet train to success in no time. Am I grateful?
Yes, but it's still fucking demoralizing.
This is what I would look like in the Legend of Zelda universe. I am about three feet tall, made of wood, shoot nuts out of my mouth, like flowers, and am extremely bummed. Kinger's character is so big that they can't make pictures of him, made of only muscle, shoots fire out of his eyes, can eat entire barrels of beef jerky in one bite, and uses his three foot cock for a sword.