Today's Penny Arcade, in addition to being a pretty decent poem somehow, is about the vinegary sort of people you find harnessing the power of global communication nested inside a FPS to inform you that the state of your genitals and/or sexuality is questionable, perhaps even outright lacking.
My Experience: I played an online FPS for roughly a day. I decided to give Team Fortress 2 a roll after I had exhausted Portal and started digging around into the rest of the Orange Box. I hadn't logged much guns + multiplayer time since GoldenEye 64, and sucked out loud. Under different circumstances I might have just kept weighing down the angry hardcore players long enough to actually improve, but I made a crucial oversight: I forgot to give myself a Steam handle. The default it used was my full name, resulting not only in the furious demands over talk to get off the server being disturbingly specific, but the feeling that every hasty death had my signature beside it. It said "Why yes, l33tG4Mz3r69, it is possible for a real person to suck this much". I couldn't shake the feeling that one day I'd be down at the local watering hole, brandish my ID to the barkeep, and he would glance, glance again more intently, then stare into my eyes. "That's him," he'd think to himself "that's the kind of face that both sucks and is gay".
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