“Teabaggers”: a Play

Setting: The scene is set within a small, cluttered bedroom, dimly illuminated by the bluish glow of a television screen. The room is strewn with heaps of clothing, empty soda cans, and discarded bags of chips. A solitary man, donning a worn-out fedora, sits in a creaky chair before his Nintendo Switch setup. His appearance is characterized by an unkempt beard and an oversized graphic tee depicting a faded anime character. His facial expression alternates between anger and despondency, reflecting the turbulence of his emotional state. The air feels heavy, stifling, and carries a faint mix of stale food and sweat, emblematic of both neglect and a suffocating sense of defeat. The room's disarray is amplified by the faint hum of electronics, the only source of life in an otherwise depressing environment.

[The individual, whom we shall refer to as NECKBEARD, slouches further into his chair, clutching a controller. His eyes are bloodshot, and the luminescence of the game is reflected in his glasses. The fatigue is evident in the way his eyes droop, yet an unrelenting determination, almost bordering on desperation, forces him to remain fixated on the screen. His face twitches occasionally, an involuntary response to the stress he experiences as he grapples with the need for validation.]

NECKBEARD
(voice trembling with frustration)
Stupid, stupid, stupid! How did I allow that to happen again?! How did I lose to some novice with a "Yahoo!" and a fireball? Mario... you are merely an overweight plumber! You do not even have a legitimate occupation! You have been carried by Nintendo for decades, yet you cannot even carry yourself in a genuine confrontation. I swear, if I ever encounter that mustache in real life... (grunts angrily, his face flushed with an intensity that suggests his words are directed as much at himself as at Mario)... another loss, just another reminder of my inadequacy.

(He tosses the controller onto the bed, then hurriedly retrieves it, gently patting it as if in apology. His eyes dart nervously, as though afraid that the fragile bond he shares with his controller might fracture altogether. His fingers linger over the plastic, tracing the cracks, as if trying to soothe the damage.)

I need you... I am sorry... I need you to help me achieve victory... I don't have anything else.

[He takes a deep breath, staring at the character selection screen. He selects his primary character and enters another match. His fingers tremble slightly as they hover over the buttons, the weight of unfulfilled expectations bearing down on him. The screen flickers briefly, as though taunting him with the familiar prelude to another potential defeat.]

NECKBEARD
(gritting his teeth, as he begins playing once more)
Okay... let us do this... Focus, just focus... Oh great, now it is Ganondorf? Another unskilled Ganondorf player. What is it with individuals gravitating towards these tedious, power-hitting characters? Do you believe you are impressive? Do you think you are formidable merely because you can spam smash attacks?

(His eyes remain glued to the screen, unblinking, as though the mere act of blinking might somehow result in a loss. The reverberation of Ganondorf's Warlock Punch echoes from the speakers, causing his jaw to clench, the tension radiating throughout his entire frame. His heart pounds, the noise in his ears drowning out everything but the game's relentless audio.)

No, NO! Why—WHY did that connect?! I dodged! I dodged, you faulty game! You worthless, defective garbage! Ganon, you are nothing more than an overrated swine sorcerer. I despise you! Why are you even in this game, huh? Just to frustrate me? Just to make me feel utterly devoid of worth, even in this insipid game? (he slams his hand on the desk, causing empty cans to rattle and a hollow metallic echo to resonate throughout the room)

[Ganondorf's character on screen begins to crouch repeatedly over NECKBEARD's defeated character, a behavior colloquially referred to as "teabagging." Teabagging is a way for players to taunt their opponents by making their character crouch and rise repeatedly, imitating a disrespectful gesture. NECKBEARD's face contorts in fury as he watches Ganondorf gleefully teabagging his fallen fighter.]

NECKBEARD
(voice shaking with anger)
Oh, you think you’re so funny, don’t you?! Teabagging me like that—crouching over and over like some playground bully! You are nothing but a pathetic, clumsy brute, Ganondorf! Do you hear me?! This isn’t even a real strategy, it’s just mockery, just... pure mockery!

[He pauses, his face contorting with anguish. He leans back in his chair, his eyes growing vacant as he stares at the screen. He can hear the echoes of the loss reverberate in his mind, a persistent reminder of his repeated failures. The longer he stares, the more his reflection on the screen seems to mock him, the faint ghostly silhouette a testament to his inability to move past his failures. Each "Defeat" notification feels like another nail driven into the coffin of his self-worth.]

NECKBEARD
(quieter, almost a whisper)
It is as though the game detests me. As if I am destined to fail. Perhaps it is not even about skill... perhaps I simply do not deserve to win...

(He sighs deeply, his eyes welling with tears as he gazes at the "Defeat" screen. He shakes his head slightly, as though trying to dispel the haunting thought, but the sense of failure lingers, heavy and suffocating. His chest tightens, each breath a struggle as the weight of his shortcomings bears down on him. His hands, trembling, curl into fists as he tries to contain the anger and frustration boiling inside him.)

Perhaps everyone online is correct. Perhaps I am just a failure. Maybe I am not cut out for anything at all. Maybe this is all there is for me—losing to people who probably don't even care, people who laugh at me through their screens, mocking how easily they crush me.

(He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his fingers running along the cracked plastic of his controller. He speaks more softly, his voice filled with resignation, the weight of his words sinking into the room like a dark cloud.)

Why can't I just be good at something? Why can't I find one thing that makes me feel worthwhile? Why do I always end up here, in this miserable cycle of trying and failing? Why does every attempt seem to end in humiliation?

[He takes a moment to regain composure as the next match loads. He sees his new opponent’s character—Donkey Kong. A wave of weary disbelief crosses his face, his lips curling into a bitter, humorless smile. His eyes glaze over as he remembers the countless times he has faced this character, only for it to end in the same inevitable defeat.]

NECKBEARD
(incredulous, almost laughing in exasperation)
Donkey Kong... Oh, for the love of—here we go again. Another simpleton who thinks spamming grabs and cargo throws demonstrates skill. Do you think you are clever, huh? Do you think just because you are a massive, brutish ape that you can humiliate me?! No one humiliates me and escapes unscathed!

(He leans closer to the screen, his knuckles whitening from his tight grip on the controller. The tension in the room mounts as the match begins, and NECKBEARD is entirely absorbed, muttering curses under his breath. His eyes widen in a manic focus, the muscles in his neck straining as he fixates on every frame of the action unfolding. His breathing quickens, every movement of Donkey Kong a direct affront to his determination.)

You are just like all the others, DK. You are large and powerful, and I am... I am not. But that does not mean I cannot... I cannot still defeat you! I just... need to secure one victory. Just one. Is that too much to ask?!

[A tense moment unfolds as the match progresses. Donkey Kong successfully executes a cargo throw offstage, sending NECKBEARD’s character plummeting to defeat. As NECKBEARD's character lies prone on the ground, Donkey Kong begins teabagging—crouching up and down repeatedly, an exaggerated gesture of derision. NECKBEARD’s face flushes with a mixture of rage and embarrassment, his hands trembling as he watches the screen.]

NECKBEARD
(voice breaking, almost pleading)
Come on... no, not like this. I am better than this! I am superior to all of you! I deserve— (chokes back a sob) I deserve something... anything...

(He slams the controller down, this time cracking it slightly. He stares at it, tears brimming in his eyes. He watches the replay of his defeat, the screen mocking him with each second that passes. Donkey Kong is teabagging again, the oversized ape gleefully crouching over his fallen avatar, as if rubbing salt into the wound. His hands are trembling, and his breathing is uneven, each exhale a shaky testament to his crumbling resolve.)

Why can I not just excel at this? Why can I not simply... excel at something? Every time I think I am making progress, every time I feel like I have found something that gives me an edge, it slips away. It feels like life itself is mocking me. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much time I put into this game, I can't seem to rise above mediocrity. It's like I'm destined to remain at the bottom.

[He looks around the room, the disarray and chaos mirroring his inner turmoil. The piles of clothes, the empty cans, the bags of chips—everything a reflection of his internal state. The screen displays another "Defeat" notification, with the triumphant Donkey Kong dancing on-screen and proceeding to teabag repeatedly. The lights from the TV cast flickering shadows across the clutter, accentuating the mess. The room seems to close in on him, the walls pressing against him with a tangible weight, as if even the physical space is conspiring against him.]

NECKBEARD
(softly, almost inaudibly)
It is merely a game... but it is all I have... and if I cannot even succeed in this... then what remains for me?

(His eyes well up again, and he swallows hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. He slowly places the cracked controller down, his head drooping in resignation. He reaches up to rub his face, his fingers pressing against his temples, as if trying to push away the thoughts that are tormenting him. The pressure builds, a throbbing ache that refuses to subside, the manifestation of his mental and emotional exhaustion. His breathing is labored, each inhale shallow, as though the weight of his thoughts is crushing him.)

(He glances back at the screen. The replay continues, Donkey Kong celebrating his victory while his own character lies defeated. The defeat feels profound, far deeper than just a game—it is a reminder of everything he has failed to achieve, everything that slips away no matter how hard he tries. His gaze grows distant, his thoughts drifting to the missed opportunities, the regrets, the countless instances where he fell short, each memory like a weight added to the burden on his shoulders. He can almost feel the laughter of his opponents, the faceless players who seem to delight in his misery.)

NECKBEARD
(barely above a whisper, voice thick with emotion)
Maybe I am just... nothing. Maybe this is all I am—a loser, sitting in a messy room, trying to find meaning in something as trivial as a game. Maybe this is what I deserve. Maybe there is nothing more for me. Nothing but this... this endless cycle of hope and disappointment.

(His shoulders slump, his whole body sagging as though the weight of his thoughts is finally too much to bear. He closes his eyes, taking a shuddering breath, as the room descends into silence, save for the looping victory music of Donkey Kong. He remains motionless for a while, the weight of everything pressing down on him, suffocating in its inevitability. The air feels thicker, almost oppressive, as if every breath takes more effort than the last. His fingers twitch, hovering near the controller, a momentary flicker of hope that dies as quickly as it comes.)

(The screen continues to glow, replaying his defeat. The blue light from the TV illuminates the room, casting long, dim shadows over the mess, leaving NECKBEARD to sit alone with his thoughts—an inescapable reminder of his perceived inadequacy. His fingers curl weakly around the armrests of his chair, as if grasping for some semblance of control that continues to elude him. The silence, punctuated only by the repetitive game music, stretches on, enveloping him in an almost tangible sense of futility. The room feels colder, the shadows lengthening, as if the very space around him is conspiring to amplify his loneliness.)

FADE OUT.