I do Tai Chi on Saturdays with the Seniors' Association, and my Garden Club meets every second Tuesday of the month. The rest of my weeknights I used to spend maiming or killing the young whippersnappers, until that polite young man from Singapore talked me into switching over to whupping the AI monsters' bum-bums. The raids, he enthused, are collaborative, where PvP is always adversarial. You got to try it! The dear boy, bless his soul, has finally found a decent job, and I am still here, in the online jungles, killing monsters with those very same whippersnappers.

The dungeon-crawling is indeed a lovely thing, except that I get awfully tired of my inner voice piping in: 'Watch that potty-mouth, young man!' like a broken record. So, I have followed some helpful net advice and downloaded a speech filter app for my hearing aid that helps keeping things civil. The reviews say it will keep my ears from drooping without losing the meaning of what is being said.

With that useful gadget yours truly is all set to beat the Grandiose Dungeon of Doom on Hard difficulty tonight. I find myself on our group table on the screen, as the Healthbar Four in Column One, my usual position. My toon is tall, green and handsome, and wears a very sensible cosmetic overlay on him, an artistic take on a medieval knight's armor with some diving gear thrown in. Nothing is too good for my golden boy, and if I could, I'd color the tracking lights on his suit mauve to match his eyes. I am armed to the teeth with the Staff of Divine Healing, a glass of red wine and a crochet hook.

It's now Day One, Wipe Six. "We've almost got it!" Facepalm, our intrepid leader and tonight's main tank, booms in my headphones. Our spirits are high, as we huddle together at the mouth of a cave decorated with lovely ferns that Barb would have loved for her shade bed. Ahem...

Behind the foliage, the Boss paces restlessly, giving us curious glances from the height of ten or so feet. He roars, curious to find out if we have lost the taste for painful death he spreads over his entire domain on schedule. Thanks God for the clever hiding spots where we sit out his AoE, AoE and more AoE! Nobody died the last thirteen times he did it, but hope springs eternal, I suppose.

"I am good for a few more tries," I tell Facepalm. I don't sleep much nowadays, and have nothing planned for tomorrow before taking my pug Fluffy for his daily walk.

Facepalm gets nods from everyone else, and I hear the relief in his voice. Putting together full raids is much like being a single father of triplets, while also taking interest in herding cats and following Middle Eastern politics.

The second tank, Oldboy, interrupts unceremoniously: "What the---" My hearing aid's app tunes in with a soft click and starts to work on converting the curses. I've missed a couple of words, only catching up the end of the sentence, "... last time?!" Tsk, tsk, spoil sport!

But he's been playing games since the Game of the Year was chess, and he can role anything you want, need or can dream of. He'll come all maxed out for it. So, our contubernium - that's the smallest unit of Roman army, by the way, also consisting of eight men; and those too young to remember the hay days of the Empire call it 8M- takes his cue, and performs a quick review of our strategy.

Muchomacho pipes in first, the true test for my hearing aid, because he is fluent in at least sixteen languages, colloquialisms only, plus every word that has ever been invented to substitute for vulgarisms on prime-time television.

"This fragrance," I hear him say, "does not bring to mind roses."

Realcoolswordz is a decent enough DPS, who will, at times, pull the mobs, and everyone will die as a result. That's what happened on Wipe Four. He replies hotly, if a bit out of context, "Long Live Reproduction!"

Reallycoolgunz echoes him before I can remind myself not to translate this one back, defeating the purpose of my wearing the gizmo.

"Long Live Reproduction!" Realcoolgunz puts in a word in the edgewise. He is also decent enough DPS, but will, at times, pull the boss, and everyone will die. That's what happened on Wipe Five.

Healbot starts typing something in the chat window, and gives up. I take it he means to say: "I am a martyr." That martyrdom is self-inflicted, my dear, I want to say, but keep my lips sealed.

I like his avatar, a cat-like alien with reddish lion's mane, but the kid's still too soft-hearted to refuse to heal stupid. That's why Realcoolgunz and Realcoolswordz believe he is actually a girl with a broken microphone. Also, because they are convinced that all healers are girls, something I don't mind a single bit. Muchomacho believes that Healbot is a G.I.R.L. and the three of them have a crowdfunding going for a microphone.

Facepalm gives Healbot a moment to lose his will to type, and announces: "Allowing that our three DPSs possess a modicum of brainpower—"

"That's an overly generous assumption!" Muchomacho exclaims. He must have thought that Facepalm meant Rando, our fourth DPS. He is thinking of joining our guild and will pull anything that the fully fledged guildmates haven't pulled yet. But that's not what happened in our Wipe Six.

Facepalm's voice drips with honey, "My deepest apologies, I forgot to identify you by name, Muchomacho! Apply yourself to not sticking around to see what transpires when a BRIGHTLY colorful circle appears on the ground in your vicinity. Otherwise the heals get overwhelmed, ladies."

The last word is not an artifact of translation. DPS prefer blondes, and play vixens with the hairstyles that make me think fondly of my mother putting on the post-war glam.

Healbot tries to type: "I am a martyr," again, but Muchomacho does not see the chat window and keeps on, "To follow up on my New Year's resolution to take personal interest in my teammates, I'd like to inquire if Facepalm is familiar with actions that result in generating a threat."

"Watch me," Facepalm grumbles, belatedly remembering that Muchomacho's DPS character is the same base class as his own, and can be re-specced into a tank, and therefore has the---

"Do NOT use the taunt!"

It's too late. The Boss brightens and laughs at our efforts to erase him from existence, making it lucky Wipe Seven. It's still Day One, I ascertain by glancing at the cuckoo clock my dear late husband bought in Germany in nineteen-eighty-seven, but not for much longer.

As we ride single-file from respawn point back to the mouth of the cave in sullen silence, Oldboy hangs behind, and suddenly announces: "FRIENDS! I've arrived to an unfavorable prognosis in respect to our chances here. Since I subscribe to the fundamental belief of preserving my dignity at all costs... Ciao!"

The Deceptively Neutral UI Voice, the best VO in the game in my humble opinion, both irritating and strangely soothing at the same time, reports: "Oldboy has logged out."

Facepalm clears his throat, but instead of his voice we all hear the deceptively Neutral UI again: "Amnew has joined your party."

I have no idea who that is. Neither does anyone else if I interpret the crackling silence in my hearing aid correctly. Facepalm must have left the Random Group-Finder flag on to get the better loot drops and we've got the slot autofilled. Amnew's boyish voice has the first hoarse edge of manhood and a great deal of microphone feedback: "Hail, oh Band of Brothers! It's my first time in this Grandiose Dungeon of Doom!"

They all say in unison: "Long Live Reproduction!" and I take the first sip of my wine.

Amnew keeps raving: "I am at this cave entrance, and there is that sharp and shiny... oh! Hang on. I am back at the start."

I savour another sip, and start the first row for a darling little sweater for my grandson. Healbot finally types, "I am a martyr."

"Let's just try to seven-man it," Facepalm cajoles us, "the off-tank is no big deal." That's a sensible plan, because by now we've all inspected Amnew's gear. Even if he gets to us through the cleared part of the dungeon on his own, his contribution will be that of added visual interest, the dead body next to the ferns where Barb would have put another gnome.

I yearn to suggest that we drop the difficulty to Normal and call it a day, but everyone else has already pressed the "ready" button. I follow suit with a touch of a dark foreboding that this is going to be another 'learning the mechanics' run.

Facepalm advances, and the Boss turns around. He blinks its pig's eyes at the unsafe quantity of spikes on our tank's armor, "Rawr! Rawr! Exceedingly comic!" and lurches forward. His every step shakes the stalactites on the cavern's ceiling. If we survive into Phase 3 of the fight, the stalactites will loosen enough to crash to the floor. It's a great animation, but I don't think we'll see it, because he runs past Facepalm and brings down two massive claws on top of Muchomacho.

"Don't Resurrect him!" I scream in the heat of things. Fluffy runs into the den vibrating from his barking, eager to destroy whoever upset me. Alas, my thimble-sized warrior cannot penetrate the screen and bite Healbot. We are one tank and one resurrect short. That's Day Two, Wipe Eight.

I pat Fluffy on his head, and he sets his front paws on my knee, and stretches its black lips into a big smile. His tail does its best to wagg the rest of the dog.

Facepalm revs up his battleship Potemkin-like speeder, and throws over his shoulder: "Amnew, this was a textbook example of why hitting the boss with weapons or spells prior to observing your tank doing so for roughly three seconds is not a successful strategy."

Muchomacho passes him, narrowly avoiding tumbling over the precipice to the side of the trail and grumbles: "On an unrelated note, I have the following observations about your sexual orientation."

Realcoolswordz stops abruptly, and contributes: "How droll! Your remark brought to mind a number of assumptions about your family's intimate life."

Facepalm calls from the cave's entrance: "Tempus fugit, you morus idiota."

Muchomacho repeats Realcoolswordz's assumptions about Facepalm's familial customs in our living tongue. What he lacks in creativity, he makes up in emotional delivery.

Realcoolswordz snorts: "I am glad that this lifestyle choice is gaining in popularity. Maybe your families could organize a retreat together or something."

"At least this time we will be finally joined by Amnew," our long-suffering cheerleader says with a forced smile, then glances around. It's hard to miss Amnew's seven-and-a half foot tall barbarian even if his mutton-chop-lined, tattooed head is barely visible above the expanse of his default-armored chest. He is definitely not here. "Amnew?"

All we hear is the feedback for a while, then Amnew explains: "Wow! I thought I'd jumped over it just like the rest of you did. Hang on! I am back at the start."

Muchmacho sighs: "What can I say, he is truly a gift!"

"Thank you!" Amnew sounds like he is beaming with the warm internal light. "Hello?! Band of Brothers? I am at this shiny tombstone with a skeleton? Which way do I go? Where is everyone?"

The dot on the map indicating his position is moving purposefully away from us. Facepalm turns his speeder around and says: "Hold on! I am coming to get you."

Muchomacho seems impressed by Amnew's ability to vocalize, because he continues to offer resilience tips to him: "Don't move! Just stand there and... Why don't you contemplatively engage in an alternative form of reproduction with an end-goal of self-perpetuation?"

Realcoolgunz echoes with that old-time favorite, "Long Live Reproduction!" and Muchomacho intimates his deepest heart's desire for Realcoolgunz to self-perpetuate as well.

I get a bit of crocheting done, frowning at the color. There is such thing as too much yellow even on a toddler. The two dots rendezvous at the corner of the map, and then slide around the screen together towards our constellation.

Healbot types, "I am a martyr."

It's just after Wipe Twelve, and it is probably still the weekend in Brazil. I am out of wine. The Boss tilts his rhinoceros-inspired head to one side and observes: "Rawr! Rawr! The fun never ends!"

Facepalm sounds like his supply of wine was more plentiful than mine: "Realcoolgunz, we have discussed on at least ten previous occasions how it is paramount to our victory that you relocate yourself to push the fifth lever on that wall over there, after Realcoolswordz has accumulated precisely thirteen stacks of the Meteor of Doom, and the light in the dimmest corner of the hall has changed from bright yellow to that slightly paler shade of orange!"

Amnew gasps over the modern-loud style music that bleeds into his otherworldly microphone feedback: "Halt, Brethren! You've omitted to share the strategy that you no doubt devised for this highly fascinating activity prior to the wise fates sending me your way!"

We all stare at him in wonder that he'd made it to the mouth of the cave this time. I had counted on a bit of downtime to double-check the crocheting pattern going into the standing stitches, but I am always glad to see a young man succeed in life.

Facepalm picks up on the thought that got interrupted: "So do help me understand, Realcoolgunz, how this simple mechanic was not carried out?"

Rando adds enviously: "You are a ranged DPS, should be peanuts for you!" He lives for the day when he can gear out his ranged alt.

There is no reply, just like that old song goes. Instead, Realcoolswordz sighs: "Coolgunz just texted me that his dog bit the tail off his cat, when his cat overturned the tank with the wife's goldfish and got caught under it during Wipe Ten. Anyway, he'll call me once he is back from the vet and the pet store. Oh! He also needs to mow the lawn."

I pull out the half-finished sweater, while the pregnant silence presides over our contubernium, as we ponder the complexities of Realcoolgunz's life. Being a senior has its advantages.

Facepalm makes a half-hearted attempt to blow on the quickly extinguishing coals of our resolve: "Amnew, can you relocate yourself to push the fifth lever on that wall over there, after Realcoolswordz---"

Muchomacho interrupts him with a tirade so fast and furious that my aid barely manages to convert it: "In the name of reproductive health, allow me to present a brief yet exhaustive collection of the colloquialisms in sixteen languages! Plus, a conclusive summary on your sexual prowess, past, present and for the years to come."

Deceptively Neutral UI Voice informs us that Muchomacho has logged out.

The Boss bats his eyelashes: "Same time tomorrow, guys? Oh... Rawr, rawr!"

Facepalm says: "I guess." We do not erupt into enthusiastic cheer.

Healbot types: "I am a martyr."

The Deceptively Neutral UI Voice says: "Facepalm has logged out."

The Deceptively Neutral UI Voice says: "Healbot has logged out."

The Deceptively Neutral UI Voice says: "Rando has logged out."

The Deceptively Neutral UI Voice says: "Realcoolswordz has lo--- oh, long live reproduction! Everyone has logged out!"

I go to wish the Boss good night. "Nighty-night, SpringChicken," he replies warmly.

The Deceptively Neutral UI Voice belatedly spots that we have not all yet logged out and tries to sound professional while porting me from the dungeon to the Guild's stronghold: "Stand by for the denouement. You have gained two garbage points towards nothing special."

The last thing I hear before shutting down the game is Amnew's voice calling forlornly into the online vastness: "Hello?!"

words: 2700