A Right Cowboy

I am a man of a certain maturity; a well-ripened Cheddar; a well-cellared Burgundy; a well, you get the idea.
Never could I use the word "cool" to describe something that was whatever that word means and I could never say "well good" for something that was well, good.
I like to think I have sophisticated tastes in books, music and the arts. I won't go into them here but we aren't talking Potter, Sugababes or that bird with the nice tits and wonky jaw.
So why is it I turn into a hormonal pre-pubescent spotty eejit on steroids when I play certain stupid games on my iPhone?
Today I read in the newspaper of a 46 years old man who went and attempted to throttle a kid he was playing Call of Duty over the internet with because the kid "killed" him and called him names.
I can understand that. 
When I'm gunslinging on my iPhone on High Noon, dressed as a Ninja Cowboy with Union Jack boots wearing my Sidewinder Socks (for 20% faster dodging) and wielding a Stagemaster Shotgun with Double Dynamite up my sleeve as a surprise, I feel my anger well up when some bit of a hacker kid from Q8 (Kuwait) downs me with 2 shots to the head just as lining up my sights and I'm a-fixing to separate his legs from his torso.
I mean, I absolutely blow my stack: "The f**kin' cheatin' sod!" I cry out in anguish, oblivious to my surroundings. Then I feel like that throttler guy and consider booking a first-class flight to Kuwait City to exterminate the frauding little toad.
What use is it buying wooden teeth, silver bullets and voodoo dolls with my precious wampum to add extra ooomph when some twatty liddle twot on the other side of the world is prepared to risk his mortal soul by taking advantage of an old codger by nefarious means?
But then I gradually subside shouting "Get a grip, man!" to myself as I acknowledge my declining powers that come with age and gradually comport myself with the dignity that befits the advanced number of my days on Earth.
Suitably mollified, I go and read the Beano on the bog.