Celebrate Christmas with Wii Sports: Go-To Holiday Entertainment for OAPs and Drunken Revelers Since 2006

An inevitable caveat of the holiday season is renewing your acquaintance with all manner of family members. The suckitude of such is deftly-tuned to remind us why none of these guys get more than an annual cursory craptacular gift from the 99 cents store and a derisive middle finger. Cousin Barney was liberated from jail recently (so recently, indeed, that the guards don't even know it yet) and the bastard needs a couch to sleep/vomit/shit himself on for the next... seven months.

Happy Christmas!

Some of these unsavory souls, through no fault of their own, will be useless old bastards. Octogenerians, as we know, are a feculent plague that Satan's plumber found in the congested underworld u-bend of one of his infernal, fiery toilets (being the nefarious asshole that he is, does the devil ever deign to flush after taking one of his massive, flaming shits? He does not). They were sent to the realm of us unfortunate mortal flesh-bags to slowly shuffle in front of us in store queues, and ponderously count out each dime while regaling the cashier with childhood anecdotes that bear no semblance of reality to anything that actually ever happened ("You punched Hitler in his shitty-little-mustache bollocks in 1939, you say?").

They also, lest we forget, have those funky little stairlifts, which enable them to ascend to the next floor on their asses with all the resplendent glory of a Roman emperor. Ostrich feathers to wipe their ‘cheeks' and massages from supermodels -in the crotch area- may (may) be supplied in addition. Why, prithee, must I continue to use archaic leg-power, you entreat, like the proverbial peasant, toiling under the lash of my betters before searching for a suitable speck of earth, covered by copious mud-and-shitstains, to collapse and die on in the fetal position?

We allhave those thoughts, gentlemen. Such is the inimitable magic of the holidays.

One common shortcoming of every pensioner everywhere, nonetheless, is an inability to comprehend the subtle nuances of technology. Remember grandma's endeavors to toast that sandwich in your fax machine? Or grandpa, sans spectacles, inadvertently buying a Rampant Rabbit he had mistaken for an electric toothbrush?

As such, communal holiday gaming opportunities are rather mitigated. Those with faces as wrinkled as a scrotum will be unable to indulge in Halo 4, Resident Evil 6, Assassin's Creed 3 or any of Egotastic's favorites. Our only respite, then, is to instigate a rousing round of Monopoly, or similar ballache; pausing only to punch our own eyes and ears in the face in protest.

With the advent of the Wii came Wii Sports, the quintessential bundled glorified tech demo. The console's watchword, as is Nintendo's wont, was accessibility, as the foolish-flailing motion business here attests. Whether you're a pale noob-pwner who eats slices of bread straight from the bag with the curtains drawn, or an incontinent OAP that has never beheld a console in their life, you can engage in some madcap testicle-punching merriment in the boxing minigame together. A traditional family Christmas, then, except one of you leaves with your cartoon eyeballs in a sling and a bruised bollock.

Further, if you're drunk (which you unerringly will be), the experience is imbibed with 850% more comedy value. For the participants, any unfortunate onlooker will simply conclude that you're a massive dicksack.