And he�s devastated. See, he�s an America�s Army, online gaming, master-of-the-universe kind of guy. God�s gift to the Xbox console. No hero of computer animator born has ever bested him. But he cannot make even the lowest rung of the scoreboard on our Mario Kart.

Because Cricket and I rock at Mario Kart.

It�s not that we have any inherent natural ability. We don�t. In fact, if it�s possible to have a negative amount of natural talent, I have it. When we got our first computer and I was playing my first game of Pong my excursions with the mouse were exceptionally funny, if somewhat perilous for onlookers. (Sorry, was that your eye?)

What we do have in spades is the genetic code for Insane Competitiveness, tempered nicely with some Tenacity and Lack of Perspective.

Seriously. We�d work for hours to shave a tenth of a second off our personal best or, preferably, the other person�s previous high score.

The scene: Winter. Nighttime. A harried-looking woman is sewing nametapes to school socks. (She sews the nametapes in a different place or direction on each pair so that they�re easier to match after they�ve been washed. She also likes to label all the Tupperware containers, in case we get confused about which holds the Cornflakes and which the Sultana Bran. Later, with the help of the computer and a laminator, she'll move on to labelling the shelves depending on which kind of linen belongs there. Ain't nothing can't be explained by genetics.)

Screams from the living room. "MUM! It�s past Cricket�s bedtime! And he�s playing Nintendo! Even though you told him not to!" (Quite the little squealer, was I.)

Cricket is driven to bed, grumbling and cursing and vowing retribution as Alice smirks and takes the game control.

Title Card: Three hours later. A tenth of a second shaved off Cricket�s PB time, Alice goes to bed.

Title Card: Five hours after that. The sun has yet to rise. The frost is fresh on the ground, and the wind is whistling through the floorboards of the house. Cricket�s alarm goes off, and he tumbles out of bed in search of the Nintendo where he knows he can put in a good two or three hours before Alice surfaces.

Title Card. Four more hours after that: Cue howls of anguish as Alice discovers her score is now in the pointless and undesirable Number Two spot.

Luckily, we�ve grown and matured, and we�re now past such petty competition. Right? Cricket? Hey, where are you going with the GameBoy�. Whaddya mean, �woohoo�? What�s that supposed to mean? Hey, get back here!

Excuse me. Things That Are Important -- And Not In The Least Petty -- beckon.