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04/25/08
HEY EVERYBODY! IT'S THE WEEKEND!!1!
If you're anything like me (god or his son or their monkey help you), the weekend is a time to sit back, relax, do your state taxes you forgot to do a week ago, and most importantly, reflect on your life. You know, like how long you think you can afford to keep your sucky job, why some guy stole your debit card number and had a bunch of weird herbal pills and books sent to your house with it, and that wonderful old gem, why women avoid you like a dead rat bobbing in the toilet. As I'm temporarily stuck at my job, and the bank is handling my stolen card, I decided to at least be proactive about the last problem and do a little research online (because hell - it beats doing my taxes or bringing my bedroom back from the edge of condemned.)
Unfortunately I didn't really find any helpful answers online. As shocking as it may seem, people who blog do not necessarily seem to be the same people who have full, satisfying sex lives. Which would explain why, while I didn't find any answers, I did find lots of porn and half-hearted advice from writers who are trying to turn their ability to have sex good into a long-term overpaid career. Which reminds me that I should update that list I posted some time ago about bullshit careers, but to point.
I found one such finger-quotes "helpful" column on Yahoo!, America's favorite source for spam emails and Google banner ads. It was written for women by a woman, and so was not really anything I should have been allowed to look at. That said, I was just going to leave it as I found it, but upon reading it, I realized that I, as the owner of something still resembling a human penis, had a responsibility to correct a few factual errors and expand on a few neglected points.
So, because semi-legal copy/pasting is fun, here is Lauren Frances's opinion about trying to do it with someone the first time, with my helpful addendums. This one is geared more toward the ladies, but like Women's Speed Stick, anyone can enjoy it as long as they don't mind smelling like iced tea and jasmine.
8 First Date Tips for Women by Lauren Frances
As a love coach [as compared to a hate referee, I guess], I've heard the following question more times than I can remember [10 to 1 it’s not about Batman]:
"What happened? I'm so confused. [Probably not about Batman.] At first, he seemed to really like me. [Who? Batman?] He made reservations, picked me up, and took me to a fabulous restaurant. [Okay. So the guy in question, possibly Batman, was pretty much miserable from the get-go pandering to your antiquated notions of gender. Got it. Continue.] But for some reason, over the course of dinner, he became a little cold and distant. By the time he dropped me off, he seemed withdrawn and just sped off into the night. I haven't heard from him since! And I really liked him. I'm so bummed! What do you think happened?"
[It’s called “you didn’t take your top off in the car.” Or at dinner, which would have solved the “cold and distant” thing right away. Might ruin dinner, though, but let’s get our priorities straight.]
Does this sound familiar to you? If so, you may have broken some cardinal first-date rules without knowing it. [See above.] Here are eight tips to ensure that a first date will turn into a second if you'd really like it to:
[Or again, just see above. But I guess you’re in the mood for some long division here, so… To give you ladies the male perspective on things, I’m going to put my analysis right after the examples given by Miss Frances. That way you’ll know what the guy is really thinking before the professional love coach gives it to you with kid gloves. Because it’s no fun if it doesn’t hurt.]
#1: Don't be negative about dating. Why should a man pursue someone who isn't happy? It's ineffective manhandling [as compared to effective manhandling, i.e., public restroom handjob] to dump your dating disappointments on bachelor No. 3.
Talking to a man about how awful dating is just begs the question, "Are you in therapy?"
[My Romantic Rule: Miss Frances uses the terms “negative about dating” and “isn’t happy.” Guys use the terms “bitchy whiner” and “cock-softener”. Look, ladies. You don’t have to smile all night like a ChiComm popo is at your neck with a freshly sharpened bayonet. But if all you’re going to do is bitch while you drink, we might as well be doing this over the phone, because at least then I can picture you washing my car in a bikini so I can jack off to your voice. Which brings me to my next point. There are instances where bitching all night will still get you the next day phone call. These instances are, you are a major league cheerleader, or I’m so fucking pent up at the moment you’d have to have sores dripping onto the floor to give me pause. Barring these two instances, you’d better keep in mind that most of us have high-speed internet now, and the only thing those girls bitch about his how it hurts because it’s too big. Which is the only example of good bitching I can think of.]
Miss Frances’s Romantic Rule: Be a romantic challenge, not a mental health challenge. [‘Don’t be a cunt.’ Yeah, like I said.]
#2: Don't get tipsy. [Huh?] Always maintain enough sobriety to assess your date's character. [Just hold on a minute here…!] Practice restraint, and don't have more than a drink or two when you're out on a first date. [No! No! NO!] Otherwise, how in the world can you possibly observe him and decide if he's remotely right for you? [SHUT UP! DON’T LISTEN TO THIS! JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!]
[My Romantic Rule: Rule of thumb, ladies. If the guy you’re with is turned off by you getting blasted off your ass the first time you’re alone together, he’s not offended by your impropriety. He’s gay. Or a pedophile. Or when he was in the bathroom he got a txt that you’re his long-lost sister.]
Miss Frances’s Romantic Rule: Always stay sober enough to remember how naughty you were the night before! [I thought this whole thing was about telling women how not to offend guys. Did I read it wrong? Hello?]
#3: Don't talk badly about your exes. [Preach it, sister!] I don't care if he cheated on you with your sister, don't recite a laundry list of grievances about your exes. [Amen! I feel the Spirit!] This will only make you sound unavailable at best, or worse, wounded. [Halleluiah!]
[My Romantic Rule: Miss Frances is saving hers until after the next point for some reason. I don’t know why. I’m not a highly-trained romance corporal or whatever. But here’re my two cents: she’s abso-distilled-vodka-lutely right about this one, ladies. We don’t care about the guys you were fucking before, except that you’re not fucking them now, or at least not at this very moment, which means there’s a very good chance you could be fucking us at some point in the nearish future. And nothing ruins the possibility of a casual hookup more than premature attempts at emotional sincerity. They’ll be plenty of time to drone on and on and on about the booboos on your heart later, once you’ve ensnared us in the inescapable web of your daintily cropped pubic hair. So save the deep emotional black holes for pillow talk, ok? Most of us won’t run away at that point. Because we’re not wearing pants.]
#4: Don't spook your suitor. [Rule 1: Don’t refer to the guy as your ‘suitor.’] Now is not the time to point out your physical flaws. [Because we do not share your dissatisfaction with palm-sized boobs, wide hips, thick asses, and about a dozen and a half other things other straight women and gay men bother you about. Because they’re jealous.] Only bring these complaints to people who can actually do something about them [and/or other straight women and/or gay men who are as miserable as you are about nothing], and not to men who will now be forced to lie to you if they possess good manners [i.e., are nice gay men].
[My Romantic Rule: Ladies, do yourselves this little favor. Go online and search up a picture of women from the Civil War. Now print it out, frame it, and put it right by your front door. That way, every time you leave the house late for a date because you were redoing your hair for the 8th time, you’ll see that picture of those un-shorn, dumpy, cosmetic-less wonders from the 1860s. Why would you want to do this? Because after a few months of seeing them the thought will dawn on you that yes, back in time women looked like crap, but yes, each and everyone one of them got fucked 5 times a week and had a list of poor bastards waiting to jump in the moment their main man got drafted to fight the Rebs. Get it? I say it in all seriousness: sexually speaking, there’s no such thing as an ugly woman. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to look your best to attract the best. But even the prettiest (non-gay) guy is the same species that’s been chasing tale for 100,000 years, and your side didn’t even start shaving its legs until some Iraqi figured out how to not live in a cave 10,000 years ago. We don’t know what we’re supposed to not like 90% of the time. And the other 10% is only after you’ve explained it. Directly after orgasm. But before food.]
Miss Frances's Romantic Rule: Confidence is sexy! Sometimes, thoughts are for the inside. [Change ‘sometimes’ to ‘at all times,’ and I couldn’t agree more.]
#5: Don't talk about your personal pet peeves. [Notice a trend here, ladies? About you not talking?] Although your therapist might get butterflies inside when you talk about how traumatized you are by the staggering number of germs that thrive in public restrooms, the typical male will be horrified. [Because his toilet probably looks like it’s wearing a toupee. Unless, again, he’s gay.] You'll have violated the sacred air space of "romantic quality time" and these little monologues of strange pain will be as off-putting as if you started sorting unwashed laundry in a restaurant [analogy only holds as long as there are no unwashed panties and/or bras in the basket. Or gym gear. Yeah, I know it’s gross, but any guy who says he hasn’t whiffed a dainty in his day is lying. Or, yet again, gay. And then he’s still lying - in that case it was just a pair of boxers. Hey, don’t yell at me. I’m not the one who made us disgusting animals, folks.]
[My Romantic Rule: Talk about unnecessary delineation! And I stress talk about – we’re running into that general problem again. Add it up. The more you talk, the worse things get. There are any number of wonderful things you can do with your tongues and lips during a date, and making noises with them is only one of those wonderful things in a very specific context. Go ahead, ask your date to explain. He’ll be more than happy to point it out. You know, if he possesses good manners.]
Miss Frances's Romantic Rule: You already know all about you. Keep your problems to yourself and get to know him. [You know, by asking questions. See above.]
#6: Don't chase your date. [In what context?] Never deprive a man of the thrill of the chase. [Give me a context here or I’m just going to go with the obvious one.] Besides, it's so much fun being caught! [Fair enough. I warned you. Yes. Yes it is.] A woman can always initiate a first tea date [not exactly the context I was thinking of], but after that, it's up to a man to decide whether he wants to pursue you. Entice men, play with them, and then release them! [But if you want the guy, why would you – ] Allow men to initiate and take the lead in moving your relationship forward. [Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Relationship?! When did that happen?!]
[My Romantic Rule: Alright, you curvaceous morons. We’re not as entirely stupid as you think we are. It may take us a week or two, but most guys will eventually figure out they’re being led around by the willie just so you can fill up the hours between getting off work and getting off in the bathtub. If you want to fuck, just say so. If you want to fuck plus, just say that too, but wait until after you’ve gotten us pantsless so we can’t run shrieking into the breaking dawn. As much as we hate your incessant babbling, we prefer the occasional direct proper sentence to years of purposely misleading mindfuckery. There’ll be enough genuine turmoil in the actual relationship for everyone to get their little ego boosts every now and then. Don’t try and do us any ‘favors’. Yes, some guys like being more of a predator. But no predator likes realizing the prey is slowing to a jog to make him feel like he’s doing well.]
Miss Frances's Romantic Rule: When men chase you, they're much less likely to fly away. [Until they realize you’re a manipulative bitch and they get you back by flying into your slut of a sister. Hope you’re taking notes here, people.]
#7: Don't keep squawking. [Finally!]
Don't feel pressured to try to fill up every second with meaningless chatter. [Or meaningful chatter. In fact, hows about doing away with chatter completely?] If the conversation falls silent for a moment, don't panic, just let it happen. [Yeah, it’s called “I’m eating this $7 bar sandwich. Let me alone for 2 fucking seconds, please.”] Natural pauses are sexy, and body language can be so much more powerful than words [you know, like precisely timed pizza farts]. Slowly smile at him and breathe. You may be surprised when he blurts out in the middle of a deliciously pregnant pause, "Come here and kiss me!"
[Whoa! We’re allowed to do that? When did – ? How did – ? I must’ve been absent that day in Dating School! I always thought ‘deliciously pregnant pauses’ were for txting your buddies about how you could see her nipples through her tank top or for drawing vagina-shaped monsters on the bar napkin to leave with the tip. See, this is why you should never skip school to make-out in the adjoining graveyard, kids.]
Miss Frances's Romantic Rule: Remember, sometimes less conversation really is more. [I’ve said this about 6 times already. You get the point. Shut the hell up already.]
#8: Learn how to leave. Anyone can be pleasant when they're enjoying themselves, but the true test of character is how one behaves when terribly bored, or worse, treated shabbily [I usually txt my buddies about nipples and draw vagimonsters on the bar napkin. But that’s me]. There's nothing to be gained by suffering through a terrible date, so if you're having an awful time, depart quickly and gracefully, without being rude [most of my dates have ‘gone to the bathroom’ and never come back. You’d be surprised how well it works. I fall for it every time]. When you're itching to leave, say: "Thank you so much for meeting me. I think it's time for me to go on home, Jerome. (Smile) Take care." Extend your hand for a quick shake, swiftly turn on your heel and depart.
[My Romantic Rule: Here’s some real wisdom for you, ladies: using a guy’s first name results in more dead dick than kicking a thousand eunuchs in the crotch with a studded metal boot. There’s a reason guys like using pet names, even supremely retarded ones: it’s a sign of a personal connection, basically a sense of sexual and emotional ownership. Nothing says “I’d sooner suffer genital mutilation than see you naked” more than unexpected formality. Forget the shit-eating grin and stupid handshake. If you’ve already used his first name, just walk away before he collapses on the table and starts praying for death. Oh, and if you’re going to do it this way, please, for God’s sake, don’t call the poor bastard the next day to see if he’s ‘alright.’ Sure, he might still want to be (non-sexual) friends, but not until his balls re-drop some time next week, which means if he answers you so soon at all, you will quickly discover that he is indeed not ‘alright’. Not to mention the fact that this could send the signal that you’ve changed your mind, which will fuck with his, which isn’t good for either of you. You’re allowed to not like us, ladies. Just don’t cut off any more than you have to to make the point.]
Miss Frances's Romantic Rule: If you're on date number one and aren't having fun, release your date back into the wild immediately [Because that fat brunette at the bar has been eyeing him up for six beers now, and he’s got to do something with those blue balls if you’re not going to. Have a heart, ladies.]
02/19/08
BRAND NEW YEAR, SAME OLD CRAP
Hello out there, my adoring pubic! I know I’ve been gone a few months, but I have a good excuse.
I…I actually don’t have a good excuse. I don’t even have a bad excuse. Nothing profound has changed since November. I’ve literally just spent the last three months preoccupied with failing at Xbox games, drinking too much, spending way too much on iTunes for crap indie rock, drinking some more, passing out, downloading games over Steam too drunk to remember I bought them the next day, draining the remainder of the bottle, then buying outdated PC games on Amazon that probably won’t ship and at any rate probably won’t work on my rig. I nearly forgot I was theoretically responsible for this webnet e-intersite until I was looking over my Firefox toolbar bookmarks and saw it was still there. So here I am, all freshly boozed-up and porned-out, rocking out to a crappy British indie alternative compilation, taking a break from Audiosurf, to update the site with Photoshopped pictures of hot celebrities and game captures. Interspersed with my celebrated “derivative of paid reviewers” commentary. Because uploading is free.
Only 2 topics today. I’m not a machine, damn you:
AUDIOSURF IS MY NEW GOD
What do you get when you combine Star Wars: Episode I podracing, Guitar Hero-style rhythm gaming, Tetris, those couple parts from Psychonauts where you had to jumpy rail slide (stop pretending you didn’t play it), and art design circa TRON? If it’s a PC exclusive for 10 bucks and the difficulty of the game is determined by your non-DMR music library, you’ve got BestGameEver’s Audiosurf. And there’s really nothing else to say about this game, as it stands beside Portal as being one of those rare games that is virtually perfect in ever measurable way, except that there’s not really all that much to it, but what there is will addict your ass so fast 4 hours will fall of the clock before you even remember you were supposed to pick up your girlfriend at the airport. Returning from her Bariatric surgery. You disgusting ogres.
I suppose Audiosurf could be too much of a “casual” game for some people, but those people are unwashed, unloved 400-pound Might and Magic fans and therefore laughably irrelevant. The point of games, “casual” or “overly-complex, ego-boosting J.R.R. Tolkien simulators,” is supposed to be fun. So if a game is fun, and not just a little fun but so fun you’d rather rocket sled through another 3 songs collecting chiming colored blocks than evacuate that pound of unused former food writhing behind your bellybutton, then casual or not it is the epitome of gaming and you are not a gamer if you don’t prefer it and/or Portal to Halo.
Well, okay, you can prefer Halo to Audiosurf and/or Portal and still be a gamer, but only a gamer that has yet to play Audiosurf and/or Portal and/or doesn’t game on a PC. And in our (pointlessly) elitest gaming universe, that ranks you down there with the Might and Magic crowd, not with the cool crowd, the game-world equivalents of Judd Apatow’s Freaks, with the too-long hairdos, devil-may-care attitudes and pleasantly blooming Linda Cardellinies. So go buy an enema, you preppy bastards. And stop pretending you like Pekar and Crumb. Everyone knows that you’re tucking a Reader’s Digest behind that American Splendor anthology. And the Sex in the City complete box set, manager of guest services.
THE NEW WORLD IS FREE
Another PC-exclusive game I’ve been playing that you are probably too tEh st00p1d and/or the retarD3r3D to appreciate is IMC Inc.’s Granado Espada: Sword of the New World. Unlike Audiosurf and/or Portal, it is by no means a great game. But it is certainly a great-looking game with fantastic music, runs far better than you’d expect, and is very fun once you get over the fact that it’s an MMO designed to please millions of people who think StarCraft is a sport. I assume it has only been consistently underrated by the gaming press because it’s free to play up to the point most people are going to care to play it, and is therefore not going to win anybody big under-the-table cash bonuses for selling well on fawning reviews. Free Jeff Gerstman!
Doing research on Sword of the New World, I discovered that the article at my usually reliable source of pseudo-information, Wikipedia, has been e-graffitied by white racists who don spel 2 wel and seem to have gotten bored with their whole sub-Saharan African-bashing affair after the first paragraph. Why they decided to unleash their scorching critique (i.e., tiny brained sub-nonsense) on an online wiki about a Korean MMO I cannot fathom, except that said MMO is notably lacking in any character models with skin darker than freshly driven flour. But to be fair, what honkies there be be awfully Koreanized, so to the anthrobiologist’s eyes they look like the bi-ethnic offspring of Anglo-Europeans and East Asians. Meaning they look like elves.
But not to worry, dear friends. For said wiki has been appropriately flagged by the unpaid, anonymous, self-appointed staff at Wikipedia Inc. (or whatever lawyers call them) as having a “disputed neutrality.” Which means that in 3 or 4 months, based on random user input, said misdirected racism might very well be removed by whoever has the administrator code that month, assuming they’re not themselves a white racist and/or the particular white racist that decided to arbitrarily drop their illiterate anti-themselves bile into the first paragraph of a wiki about a free Korean MMO. All I can say is, thank god the system works. God, and Elf God.
Sword of the New World’s biggest draw is supposedly that you can “command” (game-speak: watch die a lot) a party of characters, as compared to the usual 1 of most MMOs, by which I mean EverQuest and WarCraft (no, I don’t know why we’re capitalizing the second part of compound words now, but yes, it does piss me the fuck off). I’ve freebased Diablo II off and on since shortly after it came out in 2000, so since giving up on rehab I’ve gotten quite used to watching a moron companion character run suicidally into kill-hordes. There was also that mod for the PC port of Oblivion that let me drag an Amazonian melee tank with me into the dungeons of Cyrodil for the price of the occasional strawberry. So the idea of watching a moron companion character run suicidally into combat in HD didn’t seem that big of a deal. But this isn’t what Sword of the New World does. It gives you a party of more than 3 characters to quest with from the start, and you personally control them, as a group or individually, as you see fit. Okay, so they know how to shoot or stab at things that get their teeth too close to them on their own. But no one goes running off 50 feet to single-handedly get killed by a giant tarantula over and over again unless your dumb ass tells them to do it.
Given the wide array of character classes (I think there are 6, but IMC keeps updating it), and the fact that at any given point you can jump back to your baroque mansion and switch “family members” in and out, you’ve got quite the number of play styles to choose from, even though you’re pretty much just clicking on monsters for trinkets the entire time. Still, it fits with the whole “American colonial period in confused, glowing anime” aesthetic of the game, making you feel genuinely like a party of colonists exploring the magical wilds of an unsettled new continent with only a sword, gun, calloused fist, or fire-shooting wand between you and waiting 30 seconds to respawn. Yes, even though you’re pretty much just clicking monsters for trinkets and running fetch quests for unvoiced NPCs with far too many over-bloomed, unnecessary belt buckles. Like I said, it’s not great, but it’s pretty and fun and free and you’ll be Googling for the opening menu music track even if you never get farther than that in the game. So check it out before IMC’s naïve business model betrays them and CNET buys them out and makes the game ad-based. Just be warned that Koreans really like unintuitive recessed menus with tiny fonts and no cursor popup tips. And unnecessary belt buckles. And StarCraft.
11/19/07
OBLIGATORY LATE NOVEMBER POST
This is basically just so I don't forget my password. What do you want? It's almost God-Man's birthday and I work at Beijing Goods Direct. If you can figure out why the hell those two things mean fat year-end bonuses for boring white guys in highrise offices in the Midwest, please let me know. Meanwhile I'll be working 60 hours a week to ensure that all you people get the cheap communist lead your children so desperately hunger for. For religious reasons. You mindless sacks of partially digested turkey and rum.
News item: The Daily Telegraph, 'KILLER OF AIR CONTROLLER HAILED HERO
By Valery Stepchenkov in Moscow
November 13, 2007 12:05pm
A RUSSIAN man convicted of killing an air traffic controller linked to a 2002 mid-air collision was given a hero's welcome as "a real human" by a pro-Kremlin group when he returned to Russia from a Swiss jail today.
Vitaly Kaloyev, whose wife and children died in the crash, was set free yesterday evening and immediately flew to Moscow, following last week's ruling by a Swiss court to cut his sentence to five years and three months, of which he had already served two-thirds.
Kaloyev stabbed to death Swiss air traffic controller Peter Nielsen, who was on duty the night of the collision between a cargo plane and a Russian charter transporting mostly Russian children on holiday that killed 71 people.
"I want to express my great thanks to all the citizens of Russia, to the Russian president for the strong support they extended to me," Kaloyev told dozens of journalists on his arrival at Domodedovo Airport outside Moscow.
"While in prison, I did not feel I was away from my motherland."
He was met by relatives who had come from his native South Ossetia in the northern Caucasus but outside hundreds of youths from the pro-Kremlin Nashi movement formed a chain along a motorway leading to Moscow.
"Kaloyev is our man," they chanted in chorus, braving frosty wind and snow. "You are a real human being!" read the posters they held.
Kaloyev had initially been sentenced to eight years in jail for the killing, but the split verdict said last week he could not be held accountable for his action.
One of the judges told the media that Kaloyev did not come to Switzerland intending to kill Nielsen but had lost control of himself when the man refused to offer apologies after Kaloyev had shown him pictures of his children.
A Swiss court this year found four air traffic control managers guilty of manslaughter over the accident, giving three of them 12-month suspended sentences each and fining the fourth. Four other employees were acquitted.
Defendants in the trial mainly blamed Mr Nielsen - who was alone on duty on the night of the accident - for poorly handling the events leading up to the crash in Swiss-controlled air space over the German town of Ueberlingen.
When the two planes collided, both the main and the back-up telephone were out of order, radar software displaying flight co-ordinates was in a restricted mode and Mr Nielsen's only colleague was on a coffee break.'
I have a few questions:
1. How did the Russian guy find out who was on duty the night his family got killed? Did he just call up and ask? If so, didn't it raise any Swiss eyebrows when an angry Russian guy (implied drunk) called up asking for the name of the moron who let two planes, one of them Russian and filled with women and children, collide?
2. Why didn't the moron who let the two planes collide just give his condolences and point out it was an accident? Granted, I've never accidentally killed a Russian hillbilly's entire family through gross incompetence then been forced to face him while he's holding a knife (and, implied, drunk). But I would assume that in that situation, my first inclination would not be to get all self-righteous and mouthy when he showed me a picture of his children, who were now ashes scattered across German forest because I was too busy playing Minesweeper to tell two planes they were about to French kiss. I guess when you're from a neutral country you think you don't have to answer to anybody. Which is probably what got everyone into this mess in the first place, as in...
3. Why is Swiss flight control, for lack of a better phrase, stuffed-animal-humpingly retarded? It's not like they don't have money over there. This isn't Uganda. They can't hire competent people to sit there for 8 hours a day and babysit airplanes for 12 euro an hour? Fuck them, I'll do it! That sounds like the sweetest fucking job ever! Just slide me a can of Redbull every 4 hours or so and I'll make sure the computer is turned on and the phones are plugged in. Hmm, maybe that's the problem. Maybe they don't have a competent Redbull guy. Hell, I'll do THAT, then. 10 euro an hour, please. And I'm Snussing, so just suck it up, fraidy-cancer.
4. Why is the Swiss legal system, for lack of a better phrase, Swiss-flight-control retarded? A year suspended sentence for manslaughter? And that conviction rests on the fact that IF you and the other three convicts had actually been anywhere near the murder that was taking place, you could have run away and called the cops while the murder was taking place? While the Russian hillbilly (implied drunk) who actually came into your country to hunt down and kill the guy he heard was at work when his children exploded, gets only 8 years, and then you send him home after 4 because, on second thought, what choice did he really have? Okay, Switzerland. From this point forward, you and the rest of pasty-faced Europe can't brag about your low crime rates and tiny jails compared to America. I bet our numbers would look exactly like yours if we sentenced all our foreigners who hunt people to stern time-outs, then sent them back home in the middle of it because on second thought, horrible personal tragedy IS justification for international bloodsport. See, OUR legal system is founded on the principle that people who kill people are NOT in fact entitled to hugs and candy, so that puts us at a certain disadvantage from the get-go. Maybe some day we'll catch up to you, finally be lucky enough to have to pay our government 70% of our income so they can give it to people who only want to work 20 hours a week stamping the release papers for convicted homicidal sociopaths. Until then comparing yourselves to us is just cheating. You know, like when we compare our ability to properly defend ourselves against yours.
5. What is wrong with Slavs? Yes, I am being racist here, if indeed they are a race, which they think they are, which is exactly what I'm talking about. Hundreds of youths welcome a revenge killer home with signs calling him a real man? I know that whole part- unhinged-Aryan-horsewarrior, part-ale- saturated-Viking, part-willfully- multilated-Mongol-hoard genetic makeup is quite the historical broom handle to extract from your collective bungholes. But murderers as heroes? Haven't you figured this out YET? What's it going to take? Stalin killed over 20 million people about 50 years ago, like right down the street from where you buy your 80% ammonia 'potato vodka', and it didn't exactly get you to the moon. You forget that already? I'm 4,000 miles away and 25 and drunk right now and I'M referencing it. Come on, now. I'm mentally connecting this to another story I read today about how in Serbia they 'treat' people with Down's Syndrome by strapping them to beds for a decade until they 'naturally' die of muscle atrophy and prolonged exposure to their own feces. Like, you don't have the least little bit of mopping or shoveling or serving food they could do? Of course, this IS the country that attempted genocide against its minority population. In the 1990s. Down the block from a NATO base. And then seriously tried to justify all the mass graves and rape squadding by ranting about how stupid the other guys' hats looked. Attention Slavs: we have inbred redneck hillbillies over here too, and they're just as inbred and redneck and hillbilly as yours, and they even get a couple of their very own states. But we don't give them parades through town when they get out of jail for training pit bulls to attack black people or their own daughters who wouldn't sleep with them.
WE have the WWE and NASCAR. Oh, and Steve Wilkos. Lest we forget.
10/31/07
GAMES THAT AREN'T HALO 3
Note: I’m going to say this now before the fanboy Kleenex toss wads start zinging. Over the next several paragraphs, yes, I will be making fun of Halo 3, and the Wii, and everyone who likes Halo 3 and the Wii, and Xbox owners in general, and Microsoft, and Nintendo. Yes, I have played Halo 3, I have played other Xbox games, I have played the Wii, and I feel as I do solely because I have. And not only will I be making fun of all the people who don’t agree with me, I will be implicitly and explicitly inferring that I have had and will probably continue to have oral sex with their wives, sisters, mothers, and perhaps grandmothers. If I happened to be having a particularly rough week.
I’m sorry if that offends you, but no I’m not, because that’s kind of the point. So if you can’t handle this level of me making you look like the socially irrelevant sacks of digestive enzymes you are, please leave this site now and go back to exposing all your sensitive personal information on your Facebook page. Because spammers always need more business email addresses. Oh, and I’m sure your coworkers over at Douches Incorporated are cutting themselves in anticipation of finding out what books you read. You know, when you’re not customizing Master Chief’s faceplate on Xbox Live, or fondling your WiiMote to make an armless digital FisherPrice guy whack a hexagonal golf ball, Johnny Sophisticate.
Now on with the me being better than you.
THE ORANGE BOX: HALF-LIFE 2, HALF-LIFE 2: EPISODES I AND II, PORTAL, TEAM FORTRESS II FOR SOURCE
HALF-LIFE 2, et al.
While it is a first person shooter (you know, like Duck Hunt, but you can see the gun on screen, and the ducks are clawed zombies trying to kill you), it isn’t the frenetic, easy, boring slog through alien hordes that is Halo. Enemies are powerful and serious about ruining you, and being cornered by just one can make you feel exactly like the nerd in a stolen radiation suit with a crowbar you are. Well, with a crowbar, and a machine gun, and a zero gravity levitation gun, and occasionally a squishy space spider god-knows-what that gives you telepathic command over their soldiers. But most of the time it’s just you in the suit, low on ammo, running from grenade-wielding zombies and wondering why the fuck you downed those two shots on the way to Ravenholm.
Half-Life 2 really is more like a movie you play than an FPS. Yes, I know, Halo is purportedly (look it up, dipshits) the same thing, but, well, no it isn’t, you tards. And most games are like Halo – lots of first person action, long third person cut-scene, more action, cut-scene, now you’re shooting shit on the ship, cut-scene, fucking escort mission, final cut-scene where the character you play does something really cool you’re never allowed to do in the actual gameplay. And it sucks. In Half-Life all the cut-scenes are just gameplay sequences where you’re not allowed to shoot anything or leave the room, and people are talking or watching something on a screen or stuff is blowing up in the distance. The action never stops, the story never stops, and you never get pulled out of it to watch Master Chief rise from the grave after three days and send this disciples out to spread the Gospel of Why He Had to Sacrifice Cortana for the Good of Humankind (according to the translation I read, it was because THIS IS JUST A GAME, IT DOESN’T MATTER. Oh, and he’s a fag.)
By the end of whatever episode of Half-Life 2 you’re playing, you really feel like you’ve played through an honest-to-god movie, and one that’s infinitely better than any science fiction that’s come out in the last decade combined with your sister with a crate of lube. What makes it even better is the Source engine, which is getting a little dated but has physics so realistic you’ll be jumping off of 300 foot bridges just to know what it’s like.
Alas, we’ve yet to see how the physics hold up in the Hot Coffee minigame mod featuring ol’ Gordo and Miss Alex. But her dad himself more or less invites you to fuck her in the game, and there’s been a naked titty mod for Alex on the PC since, like, the day after the game came out. So let’s keep our testes crossed. No, the tit enlargement cheats for Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines (which uses Source) were not enough. Yes, I know how sad this is. But it’s my philosophy, dammit. Porn in every game! PORN IN EVERY GAME – YESTERDAY! AND A LITTLE TENTACLE RAPE NEVER HURT ANYBODY! You know, except the unfortunate Japanese school girls.
PORTAL
Expertly rendered boob jiggle and love excretion physics aside, one of the best examples of the Source engine is Portal. This is a short and sweet gem of an inflated tech demo, a prelude to a coming tie-in to the Half-Life 2 universe. You’re a hot Chinese (I think) test subject with leg extenders trapped in the automated labs of Aperture Science, forced to defend yourself against the lunatic computer and ‘her’ sentry drones with nothing more than a big gun that shoots – you guessed it, Mr. Hawking – portals. One is blue, one is orange, you can plant them on unprotected surfaces, go in one, come out the other. Mix this up over 8 hours of puzzle-solving, with Half-Life 2 style storytelling and one of the most fun final boss fights I’ve ever died repeatedly in (I fucking HATE boss fights), and you’ve got something totally original and surprisingly addictive. I know, it makes no sense, you’re not killing anything or cheat coding mods for panties or nipples. But like Tetris, what seems on paper like an ass-scratchingly boring idea translates into time-absorbing, muscle-atrophying fun. Just try to play it through only once. You can’t. Primarily because you unlock achievements by playing more challenging customized levels. But my shilling stands. Portal rocks. Portal rocks YOUR FACE.
TEAM FORTRESS II FOR SOURCE
BIOSHOCK
As far as an utterly original gaming experience is concerned (gaming press shill-speak for ‘not like Halo 3’), Bioshock is right up there with Portal. It’s still an FPS, so you get to shoot crazy mutants and electrocute giant cyborgs and punch open little girls so you can suck out the nutritious juices of the toxic slugs writhing in their poor little torsos. But to help you more easily slink through the dilapidated underwater city you’ve crash landed into, your left hand has been turned into a pulsating launcher of liquid nitrogen and flaming plasma and even a swarm of angry wasps. This sort of shakes up the “your parents every other Sunday night” game play. Expert use of the Unreal engine really makes this one hell of a tool, giving you plenty of pools of water and rusting kerosene tanks to help electrocute, freeze, and explode every raving fascist trying to eviscerate you with heated meat hooks. The art design is retro-future (think Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow…if you have to). The story pays tribute to (i.e., steals from) the works of Nietzsche and Ayn Rand, which should please every 14 year old emo public schooler and actually makes for some nicely creepy game play.
Only 2 things pissed me off about Bioshock. One is how the entire story is told through lo-fi audio clips, which you’re somehow supposed to pay attention to while stuff is attacking you and which keep interrupting themselves. The other is how the final boss battle is a textbook example of “this isn’t a rewarding challenge, it’s just a time-sucking reverse monkey claw,” the very reason I can’t fucking stand boss battles. You’ll spend 40 hours going through a game, and 25 of that will just be replaying the same 4 boss battles. Or, hell, just the final fucking boss battle. Attention American developers: this isn’t Japan. I don’t get a sense of spiritual satisfaction finally defeating a 6 stage boss at the very end of your $60 mutant freak killing simulator. I don’t have time or energy for this shit. Few hours beating a game, then it’s back to banging more ass than Andrea Bocelli and Mario Lopez combined. And friends, that’s quite the load of puffy, over-waxed MILF.
Just ask your mom. You’ll find her where I left her, crying in her bedroom. Remind her that it’s nothing personal, I just have a lot of fish taco on my plate right now. Tell her I’ll slide her another $300 if it’ll help.
I’ll leave the final word to international wrestling sensation “Screaming” Norman Smiley:
10/11/07
HOW TO GET PAID FOR BULLSHIT
I’m having a bit of a career crisis at present. Reflecting on my total lack of skill training and anything resembling profitable talent, a thought has driven over my foot. Since I hate doing and suck massive, sticky donkey dick at any and all substantive lines of work (especially those involving money and being nice to people), perhaps I can find a way to make a comfortable living, plus, totally bullshitting my ass off. I wouldn’t consider myself in any way an above-average intellect, but I remember in grade school that I was always stunningly, uncannily crazy-hair brilliant at perfectly faking my way to extremely high grades. I mean, I went to public school, so chances are I could have failed everything and still picked up a diploma through an underpaid cleric’s error. But I’m assuming I got on the honor roll that one time because of my bullshit and not inattentive elementary ed intern typing. That in mind, I’m also thinking, hey, perhaps I could use this small, otherwise useless talent for, well, lying, to similar effect in the work-a-day-to-not-lose-my-car world. I mean, if at 15 I could successfully convince a self-loathing, cheaply dressed prick with a greasy Ron Jeremy moustache that I had read every single boldface “nigger” in Huckleberry Finn without ever having seen the book, then how hard could it be, now ten years wiser, for me to convince old ladies in Tulsa, and pantsless trailer trash along both coasts, to (legally) send me hundreds of dollars with little to no overhead, and certainly no heavy lifting? I couldn’t imagine it would be any harder than it is, say, for an uppity nigger to buil’ hisself a Sweet Lordy riva raft. Or so the State Department of Education demanded I know.
Since stumbling upon this grand idea, I’ve done a fair amount of research. That is to say, I spent last weekend eating a lot of Frank’s Redhot and looking for new free porn clip sites to add to my bookmarks, before 6 hours of drunken Rome: Total War. It was during the 4 hours Sunday morning I spent on the toilet recovering from my ‘research’ that, pausing from my Batman comic, three viable bullshit careers at last dawned on me. I don’t know if I’ll actually pursue any of these, given even their close proximity to money and people I can’t hit, but I thought I’d at least share them with you. You know, in hopes that if you’re like me but can add and don’t want to bring justice to 98% of whining, small-jawed monkey faces, you may now see a possible way out of, you know, actually earning the money you use to buy lube.
BULLSHIT CAREER 1: FAITH HEALER
GETTING INTO THE FIELD: In America, easy as fucking for pretty people. That Oral Roberts douche actually started a college that hands out degrees to people who claim to cure cancer by yelling ‘Jesus!’ at it (yes, it’s in the South). If you’re about to graduate high school, I suggest making Oral Roberts University one of your top three colleges. Think about it – all you have to do is give them $30,000 a year for 6 years or so, and you’ll be legally certified to molest people under the guise of channeling the Invisible Space Guy’s curative magic juices into their organs. And you can’t go wrong. If they don’t get healed, it isn’t because you’re a charlatan. It’s because they didn’t believe in Bronze Age mythology enough. Or won’t stop watching the MTV. Or their check bounced. Or just wasn’t big enough. Because God don’t buy no off-brand Fresca, bitch.
The only downside to this line of work is that wad of busybodies who will stand out front of whatever venue you’re leasing and loudly proclaim that your little healing ministry reeks of fraud as pungently as pig diarrhea reeks of rancid onions. But you should just ignore them. As do the thousands beating down the gates with their foot cramps and partial color blindness and womb demons. Because these protestors, these pussy whiners, these people who think they’re better than the average God-confused Wal-Mart customer just because they went to a state school and majored in an actual discipline, like women’s studies or photojournalism or flute – they’re just jealous. That’s right. They really don’t care about you defrauding people out of millions of dollars, except that they aren’t buying a new cigarette boat every year on a concert flautist’s salary, are they? And that while a lot of people may think he’s a joke, at least everyone recognizes the name Benny Hinn, while most people don’t even know what the flaming fuck a flautist is. And if they do, they automatically don’t like them for being pretentious khaki commandos who use some queer French word that makes it sound like they do something more interesting for a living than blowing into a slot at the end of an aluminum tube.
Which is exactly why tube-blowers don’t count their assets in aquatic motorcraft – they’re boring. You ever see Benny Hinn smack somebody with his invisible God fire-flaming hands? Down they go, faster than a drunken Brazilian coed with a twenty under her bikini strap. And when they come back up, they’re cured! …At least, temporarily. …Of an undiagnosed aliment. …That may not actually be a thing. …And they’re probably some local community theater actor you paid $200 to fake the whole thing and then shut the hell up about it. But is it a good show? Hells yes. Is the Lord glorified? Apparently. And most importantly, is everyone out in the stands whipping out their checkbooks? You bet your sweet Ascension! So what that millions of fug-fucking mouth breathers now have false hope in medical and religious theories outdated since at least the 1720s? It’s not like they’re going to do anything dangerous with it. Most of these people don’t even know when Vote Day is, and those that do always pick one of two Ivy League white lawyers. No one is cutting off your Social Security, Comrade Grandma. That’s why Benny Hinn has no trouble enjoying his fleet of hardly-earned 30 foot WaveGlider Deluxes. It’s what Jesus would do. Well, that, and drilling that red-headed Legion-bait hooker he was always palling around with. Because he was trying to save her soul. With his half-god penis.
Hmm. If you fuck Jesus, does that count as Mass? Guess it depends if he’s wearing a condom or not. Maybe it has to be oral. Oral Roberts.
Who the fuck names their baby Oral anyway? “Hi, my name is Oral. This is my sister Anal. And my cousin Sticky Yankjob. …No, don’t shake his hand.”
BULLSHIT CAREER 2: HOMEMAKER
GETTING INTO THE FIELD: This isn’t so much a field as a barren salt flat with a bleached buffalo skull hosting a rattlesnake in the middle of it. And you don’t so much get into it as forget to rubber up after your 2nd anniversary Appleby’s-and-new-Ferrelly-Brothers-Comedy, and realize 9 months later that it’s going to be too expensive to hire some illegal brown woman to raise your poop-bloated cock spawn full time. One of you has to abandon your career to full daylight hours of scraping strained pea vomit off Old Navy sweatshirts, and your considerate partner is just too focused on becoming the next assistant supervisor of network logistics to give up those three long years of forced politeness and backstabbing. Well, that, and he or she makes almost twice what they pay you to answer phones at State Contracts-R-Us, you unmotivated douche.
Now, some people (mostly ugly women who like pretty pussy) want everyone to consider ‘homemaker’ an actual career. I’m willing to give it props, but only with the understanding that it’s a hard-on bullshit career, along the lines of faith healer and what follows. Homemaker is otherwise not a career. If you have a maid, and you fuck her, and in return you buy her cars and clothes and Marc Antony albums, then she can claim a career as your ‘homemaker’ – she’s outside help you brought in with the prospect of pay to chase the roaches out of your kitchen and occasionally suck your balls. That in itself is the very essence of a career. But if the person who pulls wads of hair out of your drains and weekly receives your fluids does so because of a matching set of gold bands and some small interest in listening to you talk when they’d rather be sleeping, then they may be making your home, but it’s not an actual career. Even if it’s all they do. Even if you buy them shit in some relation to the services they provide. They are not your employee. They are your lover, your friend, your mate, maybe your cousin, even – but they are not your employee, so they do not expressly have a career. You can’t call something a career just because you spend most of your time doing it and the person you do it for gives you stuff. Under that logic my ‘career’ from about 10 to 22 was “professional lawn care specialist and dog shit scooper.” My bosses were my parents, the pay was terrible, and every time I threatened to quit they threatened to hit me and took my TV. What kind of workplace conditions are these? If it was a real ‘career’, the State could have brought them in and charged them with all kinds of Big Brother fun. But it didn’t, because it wasn’t a career, it was being a son. Just like being married and deciding for whatever reason to stay home and mop isn’t a career, it’s being an opportunistic whore. No, you are not entitled to the same respect as someone who actually braves the viciousness of the outside world to afford their Big Macs. What you are entitled to is the same respect as faith healers and other professional shysters. Which, as far as I’m concerned at the moment, is no small testes. But let’s not pretend we’re harvesting cacao, here.
Here’s the biggest reason homemaker has to be considered a bullshit career: a lot of people do it in their free time. Which isn’t free time, it’s taking care of your shit time. Most people work a full 40 hours a week, then come home and spend 90% of the remaining 80 hours (accounting for sleep time) doing what so-called homemakers consider their actual job. And it’s not like anyone has to hold a gun to their head – they take out the trash and go grocery shopping and hit their kids willfully, not really by choice, true, but because if they didn’t, they’d be living in trash, they wouldn’t have food, and their kids would start acting like yours.
Being a civilized adult is not a job. It’s what civilized adults do. Which is why you’ve really won the game if you can convince everyone that this and this alone is somehow your job. That for some reason you get that additional 40 hours a week to take care of these things. Because you’re so specially good at it. Or that changing diapers well is so important to the person you live with that they’re willing to support the entire household to let you focus exclusively on it. Of course, most people just assume you’re lazy or must be such a galumphing turdodon that you can’t play the game like everyone else. But they’re not married to you, so kudos. And deep down they’re horribly jealous and pissed that they never thought of so compromising their dignity to get out of the cubicle.
What’s funny is when both partners want to be the homemaker. They of course can’t, and the one who has to keep their real job always resents the one who gets out of it. At least until the dog eats a dead squirrel and hacks up a pound of Bubba’s Butcher Shop on your bed, and the baby eats half of it while the homebound was doing the whites. Then who’s smiling on the drive to the hospital?
The pediatric gastroenterologist, that’s who. Because someone sucking at their bullshit career just earned him an actual paycheck.
BULLSHIT CAREER 3: ADVERTISING
GETTING INTO THE FIELD: Colleges offer majors in advertising. I think it’s part of the greater ‘communications’ major, that thing frat boys take when the general business major is full up and they demonstrate proficiency in telling the difference between a radio and a used sanitary napkin. 7 times out of 10 anyway. Go State!
Advertising. I don’t care what kind of paperwork you people have supposedly proving that client revenue is up 12.5% over last quarter since the launch of your new ad campaign: “Ringtones: Ignore the Fine Print, Just Tap the Code!” How can you possibly know this? Okay, fine. Revenue is up. So’s my dick. Yeah, both could be a result of your Flash animated commercial. Or both could be because a butterfly flapped its wings in Peru 2 weeks ago and I was thinking about Oral Robert’s 30 foot hand vagina. You want me to believe your overpriced, underproduced marketing bullshit is really getting my product sold? Then a week after you roll it out, I want to see revenue up at least 300%, or I’m coming for your wife. Otherwise I’ll keep my $2 million and invest it back into my oversized novelty dildo factory, thank you very much. If I buy bombs, I want to see Baghdad burning. Otherwise…well, I’m coming for your wife.
Do these advertising tools really think we little people see a commercial for something and then rush out and buy it? I saw Toucan Sam the other day, following his nose to some new flavor of Froot Loop, beef teriyaki or something. ‘Good for him and the people of the Amazon,’ I thought. ‘Their Ravenous Talking Bird God has satiated his sugar addiction for yet another day.’ But it didn’t make me want a $4 box of beaten wheat pulp and corn syrup. Maybe it would have if I were 12, and fairly retarded. But I doubt that. Sure, kids beg their parents for so-called ‘cereals’ when they’re at the store. But it’s not because of ads. It’s because kids do impeccable research when it comes to sugary shit only Satan himself would recommend eating, so they know diabetes in a box when they see it. It’s then that the begging and whining and temper tantrums begin. They want sweet, they see sweet, so they start acting like idiots in an attempt to get it. You know, like you at the bar every weekend, slugger. But this is just business to asshole kids. It’s not your glorious advertising rocking their simple worlds. They don’t care which sentient bird god you put on the box. They want Froot, dammit, and name brand froot, because as every kid knows, name brand froot has more froot per ounce than the shitty store brand. I.e., it has all 5 wonderful varieties of sugar and like-sugar, as compared to 3. Kids buy based on the demands of their addictions, advertisers. Not because you paid some gay 40 year old Jew in the Village $5,000 to write a rap about the radness of pouched bubblegum.
This arrogance really confounds me when it comes to car commercials. After 3 p.m. the networks run at least three car commercials every 7 minutes. Commercials for cars? Who buys a car because of a commercial? I’d very much like to meet this sorry sack of reputed person. Driving around in their KIA. Because I can’t boot ribs from a distance. It’s not like someone sees a car commercial and says, “Gee, how fortunate! I’ve needed a quality automobile for nigh on 4 years now, and I was under the impression that the entire automotive industry had stopped production of said mechanized conveyances! You know, because of the troubles in Belize and everything.” This same (il)logic applies to McDonald’s and Wal-Mart commercials. Yes, you arrogant fucktards – we know you still exist. We can’t drive 20 feet without being reminded of your continued foisting of lead-laced Chinese beef and plastic on the low-rent dullwits heating the atmosphere with their Cheez Whizz breath. All of them – Wal-Mart, McD’s, car dealers – spend hundreds of millions of dollars every year, and all simply to remind us that, in case we’ve forgotten in the last 5 minutes we’ve been inside and not looking directly at their blinding neon signs, that they still in fact exist. “No, no, we haven’t been sucked into a black hole, to swirl around the event horizon for the rest of a time-bending eternity. Your neighborhood Toyota dealer is still half a mile down the road from your house, and they want to give you $1,000 cash back on a sporty new Corolla! And be sure to ask about our 10 year, 10,000 mile engine mount warranty!”
Toyota is probably the worst. They’re currently running about 4 different ad campaigns at once, and each spot is about 40 seconds long. And for half of it, half the screen is stacked with point 6 font explaining how they’re going to screw you out of more money. What the hell is going on here? It’s bad enough you’re advertising a product no one needs advertised. Now you’re spending a full half of it telling me how much of an idiot I am if I actually buy from you? Now I not only don’t care about your product, I actually despise it. Way to go, Toyota. You’ve just dropped $200 million to remind me you exist, but that I want nothing to do with you. Congrats. If only you could have your dealers dress some college kid up in a chicken suit and have him run out into rush hour traffic, fingering up cars stopped at the light, pointing at the dealership. Oh, and have them set up some of those 50 foot gorilla balloons that always break loose and drift out into the path of speeding log trucks. It’s not enough that I hate you, I want to see you actively trying to kill potential customers. That really does make me want to buy a Toyota. With a stolen bank account. And then dump in the back seat and return it to the lot in the middle of the night.
…So I guess it wouldn’t be me buying it after all. Congratulations on your new Camry, Mr. Tariq Delbari. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the $1,000 Toyota paid you for spending $24,000. If your hobbies include snorting spray paint and hitting yourself in the forehead with chunks of cinderblock.
Displaying all this overt hostility the way a Sicilian hooker displays her vag fur, you’d think I didn’t respect advertisers. And not only respect, but admire them. But I do. Because as far as pulling bullshit for a living is concerned, they’ve got it down to an art. Not only do they have people convinced that they actually perform some valuable service. Not only do they get people to pay them billions of dollars a year to do whatever it is they think they’re paying them to do. Not only have they infiltrated every possible medium worldwide with their fantastic load of crap. To put the fudgy frosting on the brick of shit cake, they’ve even managed to create a brand of bullshit that actually inserts itself into your brain and harasses you whenever you’re too tired or too drunk or too bored to defend against it. No, that Oscar Meyer song running through your head in the twilight hours of morning may not make you hungry for slimy, processed meat food, but it does remind you that you have to get up in 20 minutes and actually work for a living, while some aging Semite in New York is presently having E-fueled butt sex on Egyptian cotton sheets because he convinced Proctor & Gamble that they couldn’t risk not sending him a check for a superb load of runny cow diarrhea.
That’s a degree of screw over that would wow Mr. Benny Hinn himself. To quote the great Jim from Huckleberry Finn, “Damn, son! That one shysty fuckin’ nigga!”
And that, my friends, is one hell of an easy A.
10/03/07
WHY NO ONE VOTES
The Democrats and Republicans are sort of like that ex-girlfriend you can’t stand but still booty call every otherwise lonely weekend. Yeah, she’s a dead lay, a total bitch to you at breakfast, and when she leaves you quickly discover that all the cash and cigarettes in your dresser are missing. But despite all this, you keep going back, time after time, because 1) you know what to expect, and 2) anything’s better than another drunken Friday night of Oblivion and FarScape Season III.
Don’t believe the bullshit media polls. That is really how we feel about our two major political parties. Except that no one actually wants to touch their jagged, cobwebbed genitalia. And instead of stealing stuff from your underwear drawer, they just take 20% of your paycheck before you get it and give it to Big Agri-Business. Or Big Anti-Agri-Business. A profound difference when you sit down to pay bills. Unless you're a douchebag.
Here is more information about these two easy sources of gummable political boob, courtesy of Wikipedia and its sister source of reliable information, my own hemorrhoidal sphincter:
REPUBLICANS: The original term had something to do with not liking kings, but that has absolutely nothing to do with the party as it is now, and probably never did. ‘Republican’ is now just another meaningless name you give yourself to look cool to stupid people, like ‘Snoop Dogg’ or ‘McLovin’ or ‘Only Begotten Son of God.’ The Republican Party is also for some reason known as the Grand Old Party, G.O.P. But only if you’re a media fag, because people with real jobs don’t have the time or energy to sit around making up nicknames for conglomerates of bitchy rich people who share vague ideas about which kinds of consensual sex and/or drug-induced highs should be illegal. The Republicans (or G.O.-fucking-P.) plopped onto the scene in the late 1850s, in opposition to the long-standing Democrats “just let it alone, dammit!” attitude about the legal enslavement of African immigrants by the lower 4th of the continent. When things got a little tense (Civil War, anybody?), the Republicans also came out in favor of a strong central government that wouldn’t let the slave-owning cocksuckers in the South officially declare themselves One [Confederated] Nation Under Forced Cotton Pickin’ and Sometimes Interracial Sex (It was on their flag).
Abraham Lincoln was the first Republican president. While all historians agree that he was one of the greatest presidents we’ve ever had, managing to both free the slaves and keep Alabama from becoming its own country, they’re also quick to point out that he was also one of the ugliest guys to ever give an intern a spludge moustache in the Oval Office. Meaning that we’re all damn lucky this Civil War thing happened way before TV, or he never would have gotten elected and we’d all have to get passports to visit the Evangelical Republic of Alabama. Or as it might be called in that terrifying speculative timeline, “Forced-Cotton-Pickin’-and-Sometimes-Interracial-Sex-ia. With a Side of Crucified Jew.”
Once the noble but tedious “equality and the rule of law” stuff was out of the way, the Republicans stole the long-subsisting Democrat’s playbook and got down to the real balls of being a national party in the late 19th century: letting the South still treat anyone darker than primrose like shit, killing Indians, and everyone’s favorite, Mormon-baiting. It wasn’t easy getting the hang of all this, and it cost the Republicans a lot of time and laundered money. But just like an underage hooker pimped at the truck stop by her gambling-indebted stepfather, before long they had learned all the tricks of the trade and were just as good as the Democrats at treating like retarded garbage everyone who didn’t use a pink, jewel-encrusted penis as a bookmark in their King James Version. And this is why some historians consider the period “America’s Golden Age.”
Given the reason for their showing up in the first place, the Republicans’ only consistent ideology throughout their 170-odd years has been “we’re not Democrats.” Given that the Democrats have been about as consistent in their ideology as a 14 year old who reads too much, this has meant radically different things at different times. As you can reread above, Republicans started out being anti-pro-slavery and pro-the-South-is-so-stupid-let’s-shoot-them. Almost 200 years later Ronald Reagan had single-handedly destroyed the Soviets with his giant space laser and the Republican platform had evolved into, predominantly, anti-pro-butt-sex and the-South-should-rule-us-all. If that makes any sense to you at all, then you’ll probably also understand why they defend our children’s unalienable right to processed tobacco, which kills about a billion people every year, but they’ll put you in jail for years if they catch you with marijuana straight off the stalk, which kills about 4. Or how giving tax breaks to people who can easily buy Caribbean islands makes a gallon of milk cost less. Or why Constitutional amendments banning flag burning and declaring married guy-on-girl sex the best sex of all are more vital than a few banning record companies and Hillary Clinton from telling you which art you’re allowed to like, and making you pay them every time someone in the same room happens to like it too.
If you get all this, then perhaps you can also tell me why the Republicans are represented by the elephant, a native American animal known for its not being remotely a native American animal or otherwise having anything to do with a group of people who currently want to make the New Testament the Constitution, and are comfortable explaining this to the public through deranged white guys screaming on AM radio. Maybe elephants have a natural hatred of illegal immigrants and boat safety laws, too. I’m no elephantologist and Wikipedia doesn’t say anything about it, so please tell me.
But at least Republicans aren’t Democrats, right? Because Democrats are pro-butt-sex vampires who eat children. Or something. I think that’s what he’s yelling, though it’s hard to tell in mono, through all that static. Besides the fact that the last time I checked, there were no gay vampires who ate kids. Since 1965, anyway.
Of course, I’m being a tad sarcastic. Read below to see how Democrats are not actually butt-sex vampires who eat children. They're not half that dedicated.
DEMOCRATS: The original term meant “rule by the people.” But as our wonderful little mercantile hegemony was founded by over-educated rich white Christian men FOR over-educated rich white Christian men, the Democratic Party is to technical democracy what furry sex is to any and all other sex. The Democrats got their start in 1792 as the Democratic-Republicans, a confusing and historically ironic name chosen by none other than Thomas “I’d-Fuck-France-If-Only-It-Were-A-Comely-Skank” Jefferson, in a bid to clearly demonstrate their opposition to the ideals of the other party of the day, the Federalists. Since no one but 2 Ivy League historians can remember what the cat shit the Federalists were about, no one, including modern Democrats, can remember what principle(s) their party was founded on…other than Thomas Jefferson citing party leadership to fuck comely French skanks.
Any semi-legal political club that has been around for more than 200 years is bound to go through some major ideological changes, especially when it can't remember why it came to exist in the first place. Especially since its main opposition the Federalists got tired of the crap and went home the 1820s, only to be replaced by other semi-legal political clubs that had absolutely nothing to do with the Federalist party. What this means at this specific historical/political moment is that the Democrats have absolutely no ass-fucking idea what the hell it is they stand for, except that it isn’t anything the modern Republicans include in their vague, widely inconsistent political platform. To wit: the party that once prided itself as the defender of Southern slave-holders is now seen as the stalwart defender of civil rights, especially the civil rights of the descendents of slaves that would themselves be slaves if the Democrats had gotten their way 200 years ago. The party that elected presidents that got us into both World Wars (Woody Wilson and Franky Roosevelt) is now seen as the anti-war party. The party that dominated Washington throughout most of the worst periods of corruption in American political history is now the protector of public interests in Washington, fighting hard for the legislative reforms that will make it illegal for Big Energy to “gift” Senator Jimmy Johnson from North Stupidtucky, Chairman of the Energy Committee, a new mansion with $50,000 taped under the media room table. Oh yeah, and they also think gay people are cool, no one should own guns or cut down trees, and they want you to pay to give drug addicts clean needles so they don’t get sick after they shoot up. Because…uh…
Their mascot is a donkey. A red, white and blue donkey, who wouldn’t mind a little moderate socialism now and then. And a hardy reach-around. And who hates – fucking hates – smoking. At least publicly.
To be perfectly honest, it seems to me most people only vote Democrat because they really don’t know what they believe but are bored on Election Day and find Republicans about as appealing as a drunken Vietnam vet. I’m not saying Republican voters are any better, but at least they usually have in mind a whole list of random things that AM radio guy said the Republican Party believes in that they think they agree with (i.e., immigrants are gay vampires, women shouldn't leave the house, gay men are gay vampires, etc). There’s no room for variety in the Republican Party – you either suspect all Muslims and want to jail women who have miscarriages, or you’re not welcome. Since the Democrats’ platform is largely invisible and at any rate missing a whole bunch of planks, you can pretty much believe whatever you want that isn’t expressly Republican and still be one. That explains why they always command the largest proportion of the population too afraid to actually throw in with a third party. And that’s just fine for the Democrats. By the time everyone figures out what it is a specific candidate actually intends to do we’re already footing the bill for illegal immigrants’ semi-annual rectal exams and there’s nothing we can do about it. You know, except that which requires more than just sitting around bitching about it.
Why Democrats want to give illegal immigrants free semi-annual rectal exams is beyond me, other than I’m sure the Republicans would definitely not want that, for whatever reason they hate illegal immigrants and their possibly cancerous rectums. But some Democrat told me his party supported such things, so I’m just reporting what I heard. Granted, a 110 lbs. fine arts major in a $40 faux-vintage Mr. T t-shirt, who called me racist and fascist when I said we should send all convicted drug dealers over to the frontlines in Iraq, is not a guy I’d really care to listen to on any topic, save maybe fine arts majoring and having the upper body strength of a 13-year-old Sudanese girl. But it’s so rare to find a professing Democrat with any coherent political understanding in the first place, so what the Himmler, right? They should make this guy Pope of the Party or whatever.
The only other thing I know about Democrats is that they whine. A lot. About nothing. Which I guess is better than yelling about nothing like Republicans. As in, it’s so much easier to ignore.
THIRD PARTIES: Now here’s where politics gets fun! If the two major political parties are that obnoxious but reliable booty-on-call, third parties are that crazy chick you hook up with at the bar, the one with all the tattoos and self-mutilation scars on her forearms, who fucks you like you’ve never been fucked before but who you’d never date because, well, she’s an emotional disaster and probably dangerous once the gin starts flowing. Crazy sex is quite invigorating every now and then, but you don’t want to have to pay for it with a bathroom sink of fresh bloodstains after ever routine squabble. Plus your family will never accept her, and what self-respecting 30 year old can risk his dad being snotty about the car insurance check?
To be honest, political parties, including the crazy ones, can’t be remotely as fun as your own personal Liz Vicious. But in a world where the opinion of 100 million 30-year-old soccer moms who think Jesus invented everything decides which non-white ethnic group we bomb next, the third parties’ unwavering dedication to any idea that has nothing to do with soccer moms or Jesus makes them a 400-pound latex-coated Ukrainian babushka chained in a box in your basement. That’s why these balls-out-slobbering-nuts little parties command the same percentage of the popular vote as the number of guys fucking crazy goth chicks compares to the percentage rocking dead-lay wives 4 obligatory times a week. Yeah, faux-raping a morbidly obese Ruthenian woman in rubber is way more fun than vanilla mattress-testing (in my experience), but it’s just not viable long-term: you keep getting that weird rash, and latex body suits for women with 60-inch busts aren’t cheap. Plus the rumor mill has made holding down a decent job about as easy as getting elected the new incarnation of Shiva. Despite a total lack of ideological consistency and their clear disregard for what you think, the Republicans and Democrats don’t scare children. You can bet that in 300 years they’ll still be buzzing around the Washington Arcology, fighting each other for access to your money by supporting human rights for cyberdolphins, or deporting all the cyberdolphins back to the terraformed Martian ocean that spawned them. Meanwhile all those credits you poured into the Anti-Martian Terraforming Party way back in 2345 got you nothing but social disregard, even if the AMTP president is still going strong on his third cloned heart and is now the President of the Anti-Venusian Terraforming Party, Madeline Cyberdolphin 7 Vice President.
But hey – life is to be lived, right? If you’re the adventurous sort who doesn’t mind risking your reputation or health for what you believe in, or you’re an idiot who has no qualms about sinking money and time into something as viable as an addiction to children’s cough medicine, then a third party might just be your frightening fetish. At least when you vote for the AVTP or whoever, you know exactly what you’re voting for: someone we’re all lucky has no chance of ever getting elected. Because at the end of the day, their unwavering dedication to one and only one extreme ideology means that as soon as they get in power, everything we’ve come to know and hold dear – like owning our own homes and not killing Jains – is going to go to supershit.
Here are some really wacky ways you – yes, YOU – can throw your vote away, and have one hell of a time doing it:
America First Party (AFP). White and English-speaking? Love fully automatic rifles? Hate abortion? Like black people and Mexicans in theory, but only when you aren’t convinced they’re taking jobs from white men? Still white and English-speaking? Then welcome to the Republican Party!
But wait – you say the Republicans' support of moderate gun controls and hemispheric free trade makes you cry out to Our Lord and Savior for His quick return? Then welcome to the AFP, you gun-totting, fetus-defending, passively racist Pentacostal! Started in 2002 by supporters of conservative Republican Pat Buchanan (who refuses to support them because he’s far too busy with the infinitely more respectable Reform Party of snarling half-hobbit Ross Perot), the AFP is for people who don’t necessarily want everyone on the continent to submit themselves to rule by well-armed, native-born white Christians, but at the same time think Stereotypical White Jesus would make probably the best President ever. I’m sure they mean well, but I also think it’s safe to say that if they ever get control of the military, the War on Terror is going to get a heck of a lot more…uh…splashy. Which I guess is one way to go. If you’re a Teutonic Knight from 1250. Or the Pope. Or Pat Robertson.
Communist Party USA (CPUSA). Founded in the 1950s by people who don’t want to work, the CPUSA is dedicated to exactly what you’d expect: them not working, while forcing you to farm the food and build the ballet theaters they need to survive. This could explain why current CPUSA membership is steady at around 10,000, and most of these people sleep in Central Park. I’m sure that’s only because the current socio-economic system is oppressing them, and not because they’re lazy or stupid. But hey – they clearly need help, so I’m sure they’ll welcome your support. Unless, you know, you don’t intend to share your hard-earned paycheck. Nazi.
Independent American Party (IAP). Found in 1998, they’re sort of like the America First Party. Except that they don’t have any qualms about turning America into an Evangelical theocracy. After all, that’s the only sure way to successfully combat the forces of Satan that are intent on bringing about a New World Order that has something to do with the Trilateral Commission and the Council for Foreign Relations. Because if Satan is going to conquer America, it only makes sense that he’d do it through issue-focused think-thanks composed of bowtie-wearing professors and Viagra-popping business men. For more information, read the Left Behind series. Or the Book of Revelation. Or the bumps on the back of a toad, born under the second full moon of summer, during a dcTalk concert.
Or something. I have no fucking idea how these people think. They’re opposed to porn and beer, for god’s sake. I mean, one or the other, okay, maybe, if you really have to. Which you certainly don't, so... Just...nevermind. Nevermind.
United States Labor Party (LPUSA). Ever see the Godfather? Goodfellas? The Sopranos? Want the government to work like that? No? Yeah, didn't think so.
United States Marijuana Party (USMJP). Hee hee...freakin' sweet.
National Socialist Movement (NSM). Siege Heil, Blondie.
New Union Party (NUP). Founded in 1974, they’re pretty much Communists, but unlike the CPUSA, have realized that it’s going to take more than just living on the street to liberate America’s financially oppressed. They go one step further than the United States Labor Party, advocating that unions actually take control of local politics and start organizing mini socialist provinces, which will then combine forces to eventually overthrow whatever it is in American politics and society these people want to overthrow in favor of them not working and forcing everyone else to build wheat and farm ballet shoe trees. But don’t worry. Considering how successful they’ve been in their home state of Minnesota, I think the Revolution is still a little ways away, comrades.
Peace and Freedom Party (PFP). What started in 1966 as a way for liberal Democrats to stand against their party in formally opposing the Vietnam War has now become an internationally-affiliated pseudo-Communist organization with one unique twist – they are women who want to eat co-ed pussy even more than me and your dad.
I bet there’s a really funny story about how a party goes from “Yay, anti-interventionist pacifism and liberal democracy!” to “Yay, communism and lesbo-pussy!” But I for one will not be asking any PFP members. My penis and socialist dyke scissors just don’t, as the English say, “get on.”
Reform Party of the United States of America (RPUSA). In 1992 Ross Perot, a shrieking half-hobbit billionaire who for these reasons thought he should be President, failed to become President (for these reasons), but in the process royally confused a lot of political dimwits about what they believed or what the hell it was the major parties stood for (which is nothing to begin with, which is why it was all so confusing). Not content with fudging up just one national election, Perot founded the RPUSA in 1995 to make sure no one would ever know what the hell was going on with anything ever again. Not that anyone ever did. Follow? Fuck your face, Hal Hartley.
What does the RPUSA represent? Well, that’s sort of the problem. “Democrats and Republicans are Ass-Hats” looks really cool on a button, but it’s not much of a platform for people who want you to give them access to the nukes. Granted, the Republicans and Democrats have been running for years exclusively on the fact that each was not the other. But after arranging things so that everyone believed that there were really only two choices on the American political spectrum and each was one of them, they could get away with this. Storming into this kind of overly simplistic environment, a third party can’t play this game. If people are only used to left and right, and you say you’re neither but both and that’s why you’re better, you really have to explain what the hell that means and why anyone should give two very rank shits. And “Well…the government is too big and taxes are too high” is what everybody says, so it’s not going to fly.
The RPUSA eventually figured this out, but only by not figuring this out soon enough. By 2000 Ross Perot had fallen under the power of the One Ring and descending into the caves under the Misty Mountains or something, leaving the RPUSA in the hands of… Well, a big mass of people all over the traditional political spectrum who were united only in their theoretical, non-revolutionary dissatisfaction with the way Washington had worked for the last 40 years. This, despite the fact that one of their own, former wrestler Jesse Ventura, had actually been elected Governor of Minnesota in 1998. To be fair though, I think the core of his platform was, “Hey, I’m Jesse Ventura, and I’ll pile-drive your grandma if you don’t vote for me,” which is really more of an independent political philosophy when you think about it.
Whining and yelling and limp-wristed slapping has come to dominate the annual RPUSA convention, which always ends with everyone just as or even more confused about what they’re all convening over in the first place, other than Congressional term limits and lower taxes and the shrieking cuteness of pre-Gollum Ross Perot. I guess you should vote for them if you hate the Democrats and Republicans and want a third choice that’s just as devoid of consistent ideology but politically impotent and half as organized. Or if you’d just really like to fuck Pat Buchanan. Or his wife.
United States Libertarian Party (LP-USA). Now here’s some organized crazy, biatch. They’ve been around since 1971, have about 600 people in office nationwide, and have an 11 point-plus political platform even a short-buser can understand, as long as you describe it slowly enough and with sock puppets. But forget about the 11 points. The Libertarian political philosophy can be summed up quite neatly in one simple and glorious phrase:
FUCK OFF.
That’s right. Let me repeat that: FUCK OFF. Think I’m being an ass-hat? Well, granted. But just go online or to that free book-borrowing place your college or town might still have and see for yourself. What’s the Libertarian position on abortion? “I’ll do what I want with my lady upside-down-inside-moose-head. FUCK OFF.” What’s their stance on gay marriage? “I’ll rub penises together if I want to rub penises together. FUCK OFF.” Gun rights? “I will too shoot stop signs if they’re destroying my crops. FUCK OFF.” Legalizing pot? “I’m too high to understand what the fuck you’re saying. FUCK OFF.” Taxes? “You’re not getting any more of my money unless you really need more bullets to shoot people who also want to fuck with me. Otherwise, FUCK OFF.” Healthcare? “Zigman’s Miracle Tonic has driven off the fever demons 5 times, and I’m betting on a 6th. FUCK OFF.” The War on Terror? “Just keep crazy, unemployed zealots from blowing up my shit like you’re supposed to in the first place and no one needs to be invaded. Above that, you can all just FUCK OFF.” And the list goes on. Internet regulation? Trust-busting? Education policy? War on Drugs? Funding for stem-cell research and robot soldiers and flying fucking electric cars? “I’m not sending you my hard-earned Tennessee TennyDollars for any of that! Fuck the exchange rate, and FUCK OFF!”
The Libertarians are the only political party I’ve ever heard of that literally wants everyone to just let everyone else the fuck alone, even if it means the occasional lead poisoning and body through the windshield and pothead for mayor. And they’re not afraid to admit these and other horrible – horrible – consequences to all the throw-back deregulation they’d love to un-legislate. It’s almost like they’re espousing some system of socio-political Darwinism, where people who lack normative common sense and the basic socio-financial skills necessary to succeed in a world free of governmental babysitting can – and will! – easily die. This means these people probably won’t have children, or if they have children survivors will raise them, thus giving them the opportunity they would otherwise not have had to be raised by non-meatwads. I mean, can you imagine the sort of terrifying dystopian future that sort of daily struggle to survive would create?
Because if you can, you’re a fucking socialist. Who the hell are we kidding, people? This would be fucking great! Just think about it – in 50, no 20 years, all the stupid people around you now would be dead of their own being stupid, leaving just you and that nerd girl who sits behind you in Contemporary Philosophy to fuck, high, in the middle of the goddamn quad, and no one giving a damn about it at all. It’s like Ayn Rand, Friedrich Nietzsche and a drunken Charles Darwin meet for tea in some hyperdimensional English garden, where my hot-as-hell 9th grade English teacher gives them an assignment to make up a political party. 20 minutes later Darwin is passed out in the azaleas, Nietzsche’s overturned a table and pooped on the patio, and Ayn Rand is fucking his ass with a strap-on and making him eat the poop. And there, skewered on the rose thorns, splattered and torn but legible, Mrs. Lapkowicz finds the manifesto of the Libertarian party. I mean, okay, Ayn Rand was an arrogant whore and Nietzsche couldn’t chill the fuck out even if you paid him a potato sack of golden vaginas, but come on – you can’t get any more awesome than “FUCK OFF,” writ large, as a political mantra.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s still too crazy an ideology to ever be viable. Put Libertarians in control of the government, and get ready to watch your ass 24-7 – America’s going to be a drunken, sexy madhouse. People will be selling unpasteurized donkey milk out the back of cargo vans as a cure for trifidius consumption. You’ll have to trade out your X27-RJ semibright headlights at the state border for B4522c ultrawatt foglamps or risk a judicial caning. Your kids’ teachers’ lounge will always be hazy and blaring Phish. Planes won’t fly into skyscrapers anymore, but as soon as someone gets spooked by the spoon salesman from Syria everyone will whip out their concealed pistols and blast survivability at 30,000 feet right out the punctured windows. But even so, I honestly think that living in an America that is 100% “Stereotypical Old West Movie Town” would be unbelievably fucking cool. And deadly. Probably, within hours, to my own fat-ass. And this is why I’m also thankful that it has absolutely no fucking chance of ever fucking happening.
And that’s why I always vote Republican.
Green Party, United States (GPUSA). Don’t you dare vote fucking Green. Ralph Nader is a butt-sex vampire who preys on children. Children and freedom.
09/29/07
DEAR MONTEL WILLIAMS:
Now this:
UNDERGROUND FLAMES, 2007
Pronounced "Eager". Toronto graffiti artist who also sells canvases. Support her, perverts!
You've seen her all over the place playing smart chicks who can literally kick ass, sort of like Foxy Brown but without all the racism and more racism. Probably the best choice for Wonder Woman ever, but won't get it because, you know, Wonder Woman ain't no Colored. Because it matters. She's dated everyone from Laurence Fishbourne to Samuel L. Jackson to Bernie Mac to probably freaking Ice Cube, who could all certainly kick my ass, and probably yours. Which leads me to believe that Gina Torres herself could probably kick our asses, which, combined with the fact that I want to see her naked, makes me so hard I'm getting splinters from my desk.
DEAR GINA TORRES:
How's it going? I just wanted to let you know that any time you're feeling depressed, or angry, or just in the mood to kick some white dude ass, you can come on over and kick my white dude ass. Naked, preferably. You know, for your sake. I'll be keeping my clothes on. Also for your sake.
I'd stalk you (if I had that kind of time),
The Bluesader
PS - Don't tell Ice Cube. Dear God, please.
The Britney Spears of Hong Kong, before Britney Spears became the bloated redneck cow she always was deep down inside and forgot how to do whatever the fuck it was we all thought was so damn great about her in the first place (read: we wanted her barely legal snatch, back before it got all puffy and stretched and gummed up with K-Fed's gin-soaked cock squirt). I guess more accurately, Britney Spears now wishes she was the Faye Wong of America, because Faye Wong is obviously still hot and marginally talented and wearing tight shirts in Wong Kar-Wai movies. Oh, and Kevin Federline has had absolutely nothing to do with her pussy. Which should certainly help you masturbate. I know it has me. And probably her.
I guess this one is a cheat because Christina Scabbia is currently as mainstream as a hot lead singer of an Italian goth metal band is probably ever going to be. But people still say "Fucker who?" every time I mention her, so whatever. It will be up to future music historians to figure out exactly what impact Lacuna Coil had on the artistic world (read: they blow), but I think people even a 1000 years from now will agree that Christina Scabbia is one of the damn cutest things that's ever lived. Remember: bad music fades away, but pictures of fuckable chicks go on forever. Or at least until 500 million years from now when the Sun swells up and incinerates everything. Whichever comes first.
Oofa! She was in Sin City, and also on Spin City. Which is sort of lexiconically ironic if you think about it. Maybe. Frankly I'm too busy thinking about burying my face in that fantastic pink rack.
In that first picture she sort of looks like my female buccaneer in Granado Espada. I wonder if Carla Gugino has ever killed a raving Zebra-eater with one blow? ...Naked? Someone should tell her to try it. In the interest of science. I volunteer to record it. For science.
She was the blacksmith chick in Knight's Tale. Cute, great body, good with hammers - I'll take 2 to go, please.
Welsh singer/songwriter/musician who produces okay music in her basement studio. I only bought that album because I saw a picture of her online, got a crush, and did it to impress her. But did the self-absorbed bitch even call me? Fuck no. Fuck you, Jem. Fuck you, and fuck Wales. With all your...Welsh crap.
Look at the perfect little belly. OOoooOoOo.
Naked in Carlito's Way Prequel! Naked in Carlito's Way Prequel! Look, just LOOK, at that fucking body! Yes, I suppose it could be a good body double. But if I can't tell, then she gets credit.
Thank you for all your hard work, Ms. DeSantis. Your tits get an A+. Now please take your seat. On Carlito. Or me.
When you name your goth metal band after an S&M slang term for people who drip hot wax and battery acid on someone's balls (Genitorturers), you know you're going to attract some attention. When your lead singer is an old school blonde bombshell with killer legs who dresses up like a Nazi SS officer and whips naked chicks chained to crucifixes during your stage shows, you know you're probably going to attract a LOT of attention. When said bombshell is also a professed real life dominatrix who writes songs about how she'll let you fingerfuck her but only if you call her Goddess and "join the pussy worship tonight," it's fair to say...well, um, that she's quite the Undeground Flame. Burn on, sister.
AND LASTLY...
YOUR MOM
Only thing hotter than your mom is your sister. And nothing tops them together. Found that out last night.
Oh snap!
09/28/07
ATTN BURMESE JUNTA LEADERS, WHO THINK KILLING BUDDHIST MONKS - GODDAMN BUDDHIST MONKS - IS AN AWESOME WAY FOR ALL TEN OF YOU TO HOLD ON TO POWER IN THE FACE OF MILLIONS OF PROTESTERS:
Jesus Christ. You douchebags make me and the rest of the world fucking sick. Here's to you getting overthrown and shot in the forehead. Only wish I had the capacity to do it myself.
Jesus Christ.
09/27/07
PICTORIAL REFLECTIONS ON VAMPIRE THE MASQUERADE: BLOODLINES
09/26/07
SECOND LIFE: A SECOND CHANCE TO BE A COMPLETE FUCKING MORON
In the end, here’s all we learn from the 20 million people ‘playing’ Second Life: Most of us would rather spend ridiculous sums of real money pretending to be a fake somebody than on improving our real selves into actually somebodies. Which in the long run would probably be a cheaper investment, and pay off much higher emotional dividends. But I guess that’s no secret. Guys would rather spend a thousand dollars getting 50 knob jobs from crack whores before they’ll spend it on enough soap, toothpaste, and hot, running water to deal with the 8 inches of bacteria shit that is driving all the datable women away.
09/25/07
ATTN HOMEBOUND DORKS:
10 VIDEO GAME ISSUES THAT SUCK DOG TESTY
I'll start out by saying that I am a PC gamer. The last console I bought was an NES back in '93, and that's probably the last one I ever will buy, unless my rich Belgian aunt dies and leaves me a shitload of money and I've bought all the drugs I know of. But this probably won't happen, since I don't have a rich Belgian aunt, and there are always new and wonderful drugs to discover. Yes, I've played Xbox 360 - Halo 2 was fun for about 2 minutes, then I got hand cramps and sick of not being able to aim and went back to Combat Evolved on the PC. I've played the Wii - it's only fun with a group, drunk, and only because everyone looks like an idiot. Sandbox party games suck. If I really want to see Princess Peach beat up Solid Snake...wait. Why the fuck would I want to see Princess Peach beat up Solid Snake? That's stupid. Yes, I'll probably end up playing PS3 too, as soon as someone I know forgets to pack their brain one day and gives WalMart $600 for a Blu-Ray player with one good game. And it's a mudtrack derby game. For Christ's sake.
Here’s to not being a nacho-inhaling shut-in fanboy, and treating games as they're supposed to be treated: as games, not the core of your pitiful, greasy existence. Now go find women, you man-cows.
NOTE: Yes, I am slightly aware that Halo 3 came out today. Have fun paying $60 for a game that'll be down to $20 in three months, just to get a decorative cookie tin. Maybe you can put the tin on your bookshelf, so that when your friends come over they can say, "Wow. Know who else decorates with cookie tins? My grandmother, you fag." But have fun with all that rewatching your saved games and moving objects around the factory maps you can't actually edit with your little rubber thumb sticks. I'll be fucking around with the mod editors for Halflife 2 and Oblivion to make everyone naked and the game completable in less than 6 hours.
Don't feel bad, Master Chief. You can always put your sorrows away in your $40 decorative cookie tin.
10. GETTING LOST IN THE OFFICE BUILDING LEVEL OF F.E.A.R. BUT ONLY WHEN I’M STONE DRUNK.
This is number ten because I’ve beaten F.E.A.R. about 7 times now, without cheating. But not while drunk. I’m serious – every time I get drunk, I get lost in that fucking high rise office building. I’ve got no problem beating those invisible cyborg ninja things drunk. No problem at all. But every time I try to navigate the goddamn hallways, I get turned around and end up back where I started about 8 or 9 times. The last time, it actually made me cry. I mean, I was so drunk I can't quite remember what happened, so maybe I was crying over Armicam's brutal mistreatment of young Alma, since by that point I knew she was my mother and everything and I tend to take things way too emotionally when I'm drunk. Which is why I'm not allowed to watch face-rape porn after a couple Black Russians anymore. Not sure. Either way, come on, Monolith. Give me a map or pulsating arrow or fucking something. Yes, again – sober, it’s no problem. But you have to realize that most of your customers are probably going to be playing this game drunk about 90% of the time, now that the initial thrill has worn off. I’m not 12 years old over here. Join my world of dropped balls. I have them, and distilled grain spirits, and I need a fucking map. NOW.
9. NOT BEING ABLE TO PLAY COMMAND & CONQUER: RED ALERT ON XP, UNLESS I BUY THAT NEW COMMAND & CONQUER MEGAPACK ON DVD FOR $50, WHICH IS FAR TOO MUCH FOR 1 GOOD GAME AND 7 DOS-BASED C&C’S I’LL NEVER PLAY AGAIN BECAUSE THEY ARE UGLY PILES OF POORLY-SCRIPTED DIGITURD.
I guess I should try to set up a WIN 98 emulator on XP. You can do that, right? Of course, if I just wait a year the C&C megapack will be down to $20 at Wal-Mart and I won’t feel like a tard buying 8 games or whatever just to play 1.
Yeah, this is just at 9. I’ll wait.
8. REALIZING THAT THE COMPUTER IN ALL TOTAL WAR GAMES, INCLUDING MEDIEVAL II, CHEATS LIKE…WELL, LIKE I DO.
This is 8 because it only pisses me off occasionally while playing games that are otherwise nard-squeezingly off-the-chain. I’ll be 40 or so hours in, my Spanish musket-wielding armies in control of everything west of Poland but Popeland Italy and on the verge of finally crushing the Scottish overlords of Britain once and for all. I’ll need a nice bundle of support troops for the final assault on London, so, since I control virtually the whole Mediterranean and North Atlantic, I casually load two massive armies from North Africa and the Italian islands into expensive galleon fleets and start shuttling them northward. And that’s when Computer God magically joins the spreadsheet fray against me. Suddenly my fleets are attacked and my armies irrevocably sunk off the coast of Marseilles by – you’ve got to be kidding me with this a-historical nonsense – six Russian fleets of 78 ships each?! How the…? The Russians don’t even control the goddamn Balkans yet! And how the fuck did they get 156 massive warships through the similarly unrealistic Hun naval blockade of Anatolia?! I try to run one soccermom-vagina caravel past the Levant to scout the coast and the bastards drop Kubla’s fucking Pleasure Dome on my head! I know the Russians and Huns had that 20 year alliance against the Hungarians, but the Huns violated it last century subduing Prussia. Hey Czar Nicholas: maybe the Golden Hoard wouldn’t be fleecing Novgorod if you concentrated your insane naval power on their yards at Constantinople instead of teleporting them fresh off dry dock to fuck with me 600 miles from anything you control. You inbred moustache waxer.
Yes, I know no one is actually fighting anyone but me unless I’m right there, but come on, Sega Australia. At least fake it better than this, like Ensemble Studios does in Age of Empires (or maybe not; but more on this next). It’s starting to look like Total War: Rome YUBTSEB battle-elephant territory here. Which was an even more blatant example of the AI randomly pooping anti-me code, since those 8-storey oliphant rip-offs were specifically created by you as cheat units that were only supposed to be activated by me. I mean, look at their goddamn name. The only reason coming up against them didn’t piss me off more was because by that time I was gold-coding to finance my entire North African campaign, and because they did look pretty damn cool smashing through my carefully ordered ranks of legionnaires and mercenary Ethiopian spearmen.
But that Russian boat thing? That pissed me off so bad, I bribed the Pope to call a crusade against them. And then used the increased movement points of my flagged crusader armies to invade Egypt and wrest it from the Dutch. Which I didn’t feel all that bad about, since they’d won it virtually the same way in 1300 from the Milanese. But I didn’t have to use any Berber mercenaries. Just 12 culverins spewing explosive rounds. That I manufactured in my foundries on the Caribbean islands. Manned by converted Aztecs eagle warriors, I suppose.
Hey, it’s better than Civ III. Every game I played ended with Joan of Arc nuking Gandhi’s rail system before Shaka Zulu acquired enough horses to build the deep space generation rocket ship (unless I had enough coal to power my own Algonquian Air Force against his Wonder of the World-stealing ass. Fucking imperialist Africans).
7. ALL AGE OF EMPIRES GAMES ARE THE SAME FUCKING GAME. THE SAME FUCKING EASY-ASS GAME.
I always join the rest of the planet in bowing before Ensemble Studios every time they puke out a “new” game. But I’ve finally taken two seconds to reflect and have realized that all they’ve been doing since 1997 is re-releasing the original Age of Empires, but each time with better graphics and reclassified melee units. Why did it take me so long to realize this, and why am I the only one?
Here’s how to play every Age of Empires game ever made, and every Age of Empires game that ever will be made: pick a random faction, and a couple other random factions to fight against. Whichever. It makes no difference; they’re all the same. Make a bunch of resource-gathering units. Get shit as fast as you can, and blow it as fast as you can building the same 8 buildings your enemies can also build. Then make these 8 buildings churn out the same 12 or so units your enemies can also churn out. Then sic your army on an enemy base before one of them sics its army on yours. Once you’ve beaten this enemy in about 20 seconds, rebuild your losses as well as a wall or two around your own base. Defend it from the little trickle of soldiers the surviving enemies send at you, and proceed repeating exactly what you did to the first guy from once more to 6 times more. Oh, unless when you show up to do so you discover that someone has already done it for you, in which case you just have to find their one last guy hiding in the trees in some random corner of the map and kill him to win the game. It doesn’t matter what the fuck theme Ensemble has chosen for the incarnation: medieval Europe, the fantasy world of Western mythology, the recently discovered New World, probably the goddamn Moon or Mars or something next. Just do exactly what I described above, and you’ll win, guaranteed. And then experience the phenomenal let-down of realizing that you just paid $50 to play the same game you’ve previously paid $50 for, and not just once, but possibly 3 other times. And you did this stupid, stupid thing just because the box looked different, and because the self-anointed “gaming press” dorked their pants over the non-playable demo movie at Shill-Load Gaming Convention in Insert ‘Name of Expensive City With Plenty of Hotel Space For Corporate Gaming Douche-Hoses’ Here.
I’m allowed to be vicious about this one, because I’m one of those people with about, adjusted for inflation, $200 worth of the same fucking game repackaged in 3 progressively pretty ways. I even used to design player scenarios for Age of Empires II: Age of Kings, but that was only because by that point, the game had gotten so mind-numbingly easy that I had to do something to feel like I wasn’t a complete tool.
Those scenarios were pretty fucking rad too, if I do say so myself. I had scripted battle sequences timed to Loreena McKennitt tracks and everything.
But I still feel like a goddamn tool. Because I am one. Sort of like all those people buying Combat Evolved for a third time because now they can customize armor colors. OOoooOoOo!
6. THE LAST GOOD STAR TREK GAME WAS NEXT GENERATION – A FINAL UNITY, BACK IN 1995. EXCLUSIVELY FOR MS-DOS. AND IT WAS POINT-AND-CLICK. AND WOULDN’T RUN ON MACHINES WITH THE LATEST SOFTWARE UPDATES. PER 1996.
You really can’t blame this one on developer Spectrum HoloByte, a 1980s studio long since consumed by Atari. What you can blame it on is the shittiness of computers in 1995, and the subsequent slightly-less-shittiness of computers the following year. The game was actually quite teh awesome, even by today’s standards. It just relied on insanely specific low-end tech specs that were obsolete pretty much a month after the game came out. It’s a shame they never recoded it and re-released it, because to date, it’s still hands down the best Star Trek game anyone has ever made. Believe me, Chakotay. I’ve played my share of shitty Star Trek games, i.e., all that were not Next Generation – A Final Unity, and there’s just no comparison. Well, there is, but it makes all the Star Trek games that aren’t A Final Unity look like moldy rat shit in that box of old Readers’ Digest in your grandparents’ basement. Rock your face to that one, lieutenant commander.
This, I don’t understand. In Star Trek you’ve got a pocket-protected paradise of fantasy races and settings that can give any incarnation of World of Dorkcraft a run for its money. And what do developers keep making of the expensive license? Shitty flight simulators. Or shitty space dog-fighting simulators. Or shitty RTS Starcraft rip-offs that make us long for the shitty flight simulators, or better yet, Starcraft. What the fuck, developers of the world? Nerds, dorks, and other assorted wedgie-wearers love Star Trek not for its stunningly realistic portrayal of intergalactic commerce. They love it for the host of human-boobed alien races based on broad ethnic stereotypes, and techno-babble. Just take a peek at one of those conventions. They don’t spend the weekend discussing gold-pressed latinum-to-Ferengi dinar exchange rates: they’re in the Green Room learning made-up languages so they can wow other nerds into making pale, autistic children with them. Stop giving these people games based on any version of reality. Give them Dungeons & Dragons with spaceships. Spaceships, and giant barbed Klingon cunts.
That’s what made Final Unity such a kick-ass game. You didn’t have to carefully balance reactor power so that the Enterprise could use its phasers to heat diamonds on some planet to the right temperature so they would turn into the specific element some dumbass group of colonists needed to complete the surface-to-air missile system to defend themselves against the Romulans, that had to be built to weirdly specific standards or the planet's atmosphere would ignite because it's a stupid fucking game. You just told old Data the Manbot which planet you wanted to visit next, told him how fast to make you go there, and then made him do it with a confident “Engage!” And next thing you knew you were orbiting the desired planet, its welcoming planetary thighs spread wide for the away team you would soon beam down. And what would your away team do there? Why, exactly what they would do on the shows or in the movies – kill monsters, get mixed up in local tribal squabbles, tell the amply-boobed Chinese Aliens how their culture was bullshit, and deal with the consequences of your frisky, bearded first officer demonstrating his “tractor beam” on their recently matured, sacredly virgin young Queen. They put you in jail? Just ask Data or blind Afro-Engineer Geordi to get you out using techno-jargon that means nothing but can somehow turn a flashlight and a bedpan into a magnetic lock pick. Then it’s off at Warp 9 again, probably to a planet dead in the middle of the Romulan Neutral Zone. Because starting intergalactic civil wars is, I assume, fun.
Is all of this fantastically unrealistic? Yes. Do you have to be a giant sticky wad of dork to take any of it seriously? Certainly. But there’s a reason this game is stupid in the ways it is, just as Star Trek the show and movies are stupid in the very same ways – because being a jerk-wad space cowboy with a Ph.D in techno-babble, in a giant galaxy-wide sandbox of boobed aliens who speak English, is fucking fun, you sopping morons. Having to manage the impossibly, inconsistently complicated ship is not fun. That’s why Data the Robot and Sulu the Asian did it in the show. Having to balance fake resources at some colonial base to defend against space orcs with funny foreheads is not fun. That’s why on the show the Enterprise always got there after the people in the base had failed miserably and the space orcs had killed them and left. Yes, all of Final Unity was pretty much choosing between four different lines of text after some scripted event, when it wasn’t pixel hunting with the cursor around low-res, pre-rendered stock environments. But when those four text choices involved which local tribal queen to screw or which star empire to start a war with, and when the pixels you were hunting for went to the sonic screwdriver you needed to retwasterize the harmonic spring douche on the stabilizer hydro-phlange that you needed to repair the aliens’ dam to finally win their allegiance and accompanying access to their polyamorous women, there’s nothing tedious or frustrating about it. That’s good TV, that’s good cinema, and that’s good gaming. Get a clue, dumbass programmers.
They make good Star Wars games, though. I hear. I've only played two old ones for PC and they sucked, as did the new movies, so I'm not real interested in the brand anymore. Oh, and if anyone mentions Lego Star Wars again, they're getting a mouse up their brother love hole. If that whole thing isn't a case of over-developed WTF, I don't know what the hell is.
5. MAINTAINING CONSTANT WATER PRESSURE IN SIMCITY.
Everyone who has ever played this game knows exactly what I’m talking about, and as that currently includes about 4 billion people, I don’t think I have to go into details. I swear, my last city must have had 250 goddamn water pumps plus the river, and I STILL couldn’t get the pressure to hold. I even set up specific areas for them, where I could just plunk down row after row of bright red water pumps, mostly right by the river. If it had been real life, that much mind-blowing water pressure would surely have caused millions of toilets to simultaneously launch off their fixtures, spewing shit and blue water as they blasted through body cavities and roofs. But in the physical fantasy world of the Sim universe? 250-plus water pumps and a river, and my new development of luxury townhomes adjacent to the largest retail district is utterly dilapidated in four turns because the god-forsaken water pressure keeps plopping out.
It’s almost enough to make a guy resign the mayorship. You know, if he isn’t collecting 15% in property taxes. Plus, I know sooner or later a tornado or volcano or UFO is going to show up and barbarize hundreds, if no thousands, of innocent, virtually invisible Sim people. And I didn’t build this metropolis up from empty swampland just to take off before I see lots and lots of people devastated.
This includes you, Mr. Transportation Secretary. Fuck you, and fuck that stupid bus driver's union. Greedy bastards. I'm hiring all Rajis from here on out.
4. CONSOLES VS. CONSOLES: WHO FUCKING CARES. I CAN PLAY ALL YOUR HI-DEF GAMES ON MY PC IF THEY PORT THEM, WHICH THEY ALWAYS DO, IF THEY’RE WORTH PLAYING AT ALL. OH, AND I CAN ALSO DOWNLOAD PORN.
Xbox vs. PS3 vs. Wii vs. Famicom vs. 3D0 vs. Texas Instruments Goddamn Graphing Calculator. I repeat, who fucking gives a fuck? Yeah, I’m going to shell out $400 or more for some ugly plastic box that only plays games. Oh, I’m sorry, plays games and CDs and DVDs, through a shit-ass interface, and only thorough your TV’s speakers. Oh, and it can go online to…uh…download more game shit, or let you play games with other people with the same expensive, ugly box and same game discs. Wait, you say you can put MP3s on your ugly box now? Fantastic. So you have a $400 tiny-ass hard drive in an ugly box that can play MP3s…through your TV’s speakers. When you’re not gaming with it. Good for you. I downloaded iTunes for free, and can listen to music WHILE I play a game, IM all my rockstar and model friends, download homemade porn of the same, and write this very tirade. And probably 5 other things, if I had the number of extra hands and eyes and centralized attentions needed to concentrate on 5 more things.
Your next-gen console displays at 1080pi? Great. Now you can go buy a new $1200 big screen because it’s the only one with the right cord attachment. Lucky you. Now you can see the poorly-animated Madden ‘0Shit players clipping through each other and the grass from seven yards away. Oh yeah, that’s right – your living room isn’t that big. Oh well. Maybe they’ll start building houses longer so you can properly enjoy your room-heating TV. But hey, at least you can use the hi-def DVD player that came with your console to watch the newest hi-def movies. Like that classic college comedy Accepted, staring Mac from the Mac vs. PC commercials that aren’t funny anymore. Or that classic pointless remake of a movie that is infinitely better in black and white, with claymation, King Kong. And I hope you like those two quite a bit, because they’re on HD-DVD, which has pretty much lost the Japanese format bitch-fight, meaning that they’re pretty much as big as your library is ever going to get. You’re much luckier if you went with Sony and BluRay. Who wouldn’t want to pay $30 a pop for literally DOZENS of movies from last year, complete with no special features, or special features that aren’t in hi-def anyway?
…Oh yeah. There is that little matter of most movies still not being filmed in hi-def, so it doesn’t really matter what format they’re pressed on, does it? Not to mention the thousands of old movies that were filmed with, you know, film, which isn’t ever going to look hi-def unless you re-press them all from the negative, which would cost studies hundreds of millions of dollars and so will never actually happen. But kudos, now you can see digital transfer skitters and blobs and furries the rest of us miss. You should post about them on IMDB. I care. Deeply.
You have a Wii instead, you say? I envy your access to new Mario content with Nintendo-64 era graphics, aimed at 6 year olds. But you say it’s much better now despite the ancient suckiness of the graphics, because instead of moving Mario by pressing your fingers, you can now do it by waving your arms all over the goddamn place like you’re landing the Jet Blue flight from Spazzing Pumpkin-Fucker Town. Superb. Your arms would never have gotten this much exercise otherwise, unless you, you know, did pretty much anything not related to video games and/or your fucking television. But I guess the fact that you won’t in the first place is the issue, so congrats. You’ll have the thinnest arms of any morbidly obese pubic-dripping around.
Oh, and you also get to download old NES, Super NES, and Nintendo-64 content for just $10 a pop. Lucky you. I had to get the ones I play through software emulators for FUCKING FREE, YOU GLUE-WHIFFING TURD SPRITE. And I don’t have to buy 4 different controllers to get mine to work. And I can re-map the buttons I use on the keyboard any way and time I want. But no, no, I don’t get to wave my arms around to make Mario jump. But on the plus side I don’t look like a gargantuan dork pretending he’s too stupid to realize he’s not actually getting any exercise. Which is a plus. But that’s just me, I’m sure.
Look, you frigging turd-logs. Hi-def is cool in theory, and in about 5 or 10 years, I’m sure I won’t be able to live without it. But that’s when the players go down to $50 a pop, and are all in whichever one format wins the War Between the Rich Japanese Guys. The government has decided to cave to the paid TV lobby and is stealing back all the airwaves next year, so I assume that’s when all the hi-def TVs will lose their current 600% markup and be cheap enough for me to rationalize buying a new TV I would otherwise not really need. Even then I don’t think I’ll really care if its 720p or 1080pi or whatever the fuck, because I’ve used the same single-speaker 13 inch Sanyo for ten years now, and as far as I’m concerned, I can see Sopranos and Simpsons reruns on it just fine. But this is coming from a guy who officially stopped watching network TV when Seinfeld wrapped in 1998, so all you 24 and CSI fans probably think I sound like a foreign trisomatic pinhead eating a peanut butter sandwich. Which is fine by me, since to be a fan of either of those shows you have to be so gloriously uneducated and unnaturally incapable of otherwise absorbing information about reality that I pray to Whoever’s listening that no state lets you operate any sort of motor vehicle, even out of pity, even under pressure from Teh St00p1ds Lobby. Or, hell, even a bike.
But at any rate, buying a so-called “next-gen” console now, for the potential hi-def pay-off later, only makes sense if you consider paying up to 10 times the value of something you don’t actually need a sensible business transaction. Maybe it’s a conspicuous consumption thing with you retards, which is something I understand, but only through confused observation. See, I assume you’re probably the same people who, responding to fully solicited network media hype that you had to know was in fact fully solicited network media hype, rushed out and bought the $600 iPhone the day it came out. It was only then that you realized that you would have gotten better devices with better support and saved about $300 buying a regular non-Apple cell phone and a hardly used, first generation iPod Nano on Ebay. Not that I expect you’ll actually learn a lesson from yet another demonstration of your own short-sighted gadget greed, you diamond-grubbing Yahoos.
Let’s strike a deal, shall we? I’ll keep my year-old PC and Xbox-unaffiliated penis as far away from you as I possibly can, at all times. In exchange, you stop trying to rationalize buying overpriced, redundant shit, as well as arguing with me as to why it’s not in fact overpriced, redundant, and shit.
In fact, you should probably just stop talking to me in general.
And that goes for your millions upon millions of friends, too. Spread the word for me. On Xbox fucking Live.
3. FAILING THE LAST MISSION IN THE ORIGINAL HOMEWORLD, ONLY TO REALIZE THAT THE ONLY WAY TO BEAT IT IS BY GOING BACK AND REPLAYING THE LAST 8 MISSIONS, AND THIS TIME MICROMANAGING MY ENTIRE GODDAMN FLEET THE ENTIRE GODDAMN TIME.
That pretty much says it all. This one is actually my three biggest video game-related ‘friction blisters on my cock’-in-one: 1) ridiculously hard final mission, 2) forced replaying of tedious levels, and 3) having to dedicate as much mental energy to a fucking game as some kind of organ surgery. Don’t misread me: Homeworld was and still is a hot fucking game, with scripted game engine story sequences second only in kickassness to Half-Life 2. I’ve played selected missions dozens of times and still would, if heartless XP would let me load the thing. But I’ve seriously never beat the game because of the insanity of the ending, and now I guess I never will.
Don’t feel too sorry for me, though. Yes, I know what happens. The Homeworld is Earth, and now it’s liberated for all mankind. Yay for the hippies. Now back to Half-Life 2.
2. I COULD NOT BEAT THE LAST CASTLE IN THE ORIGINAL NES MARIO BROTHERS, ON THE ORIGINAL NES. AND I’M TALKING WITHOUT THE ADVANCE PAD TURBO OR GAME GENIE.
This is still 2 because, even though I downloaded an NES emulator and finally beat it two years ago, I had spent almost 12 years cursing this stupid game for its unbeatablity. I beat Mario Brothers II, and with freaking flies-like-retarded-Superman Luigi, no less. I beat Mario Brothers III, and I had to keep the console on for about a week solid until it was so hot the corners of the cartridge got sticky. I beat the original Ninja Gaiden, where the last level was 8 insane hours of crawling your way back and forth through mine shafts before facing the final uber-boss demon, then being rewarded for killing him with some insipid still-frame cut scene in which your vicious killing-machine ninja hooks up with his flat-chested girlfriend and watches the sunrise. I even beat, yes, Chip ‘N’ Dale: Rescue Rangers. But Mario Brothers forever eluded me on the console. I could always get to the final castle, and sometimes even with 10 or more lives, but I could never, NEVER, get through it. Ever. I have no idea why this particular game was so impossible for me and apparently me alone, but I feel pretty safe saying it was not in any way a deficiency on my part. Maybe my Nintendo was demon-possessed or something. I did buy it at Toys-R-Us. And that would explain why both Mission Impossible and Maniac Mansion wouldn’t let me progress because certain mission-vital sprites never materialized.
Or maybe it’s just that the original Nintendo was a hardly-functioning piece of Japanese shit, but at the time I was too obsessed with the timeless perfection that was Ghostbusters: the Animated Series to realize it. To think how it would have spared me a lifetime of failed dieting if I’d instead spent all those thumb-blistering afternoons outside. Or in my neighbor’s basement, taking her up on her offer to “pet her lady kitty.” But I guess hindsight really is 20/20.
Fuck you. I was 13. It’s only statutory rape as defined by law. Tools.
1. FLYING THE MISSION PLANES IN THE PC VERSION OF GTA: SAN ANDREAS. OH MY FUCKING GOD, GIVE ME A MOUTH-FUCKING BREAK.
Now here’s something I can’t do drunk, sober, on E, on shrooms, on nicotine, on Phish, on Scandinavian death metal, or with my balls sticking to my leg while bombs fall on Baghdad. I have tried to fly that god-forsaken mission-specific plane that Toreno guy demands you fly about, oh, 25 fucking times now, and I just can’t. Fucking CAN’T. Seriously. I have never been this gloriously stuck in a game before, except at that similarly mind-blowingly difficult flying mission in GTA: Vice City, which thank Mohammed Christ wasn’t integral to the main story line. What the hell, Rockstar? I’ve tried every built-in control configuration you provided, and I still can’t loop around that mesa-infested desert trap in under 3 fucking minutes. Why? WHY??
And the sick thing is I can easily – read: EASILY – fly every other goddamn plane in the game, including the weird little cumshot-shaped biplane I found in some weeds. And that was using the default control scheme, with all 8 freaking mapped buttons that you sometimes have to hit all at once to avoid crashing into the suspension bridge pillions that randomly pop out of the distance fog. I repeat, I can do this 98% of the time – the other 2% representing just those fucking game-breaking Toreno missions! What I’m saying here is that the central issue of advanced Rockstar-pissing-me-off is not the button layout, even if it rivals the control scheme in Microsoft’s goddamn Flight Simulator, software I have not purchased primarily because shelling out $50 to see how boring and hard really flying a plane is is about as fun as actually learning to fly a plane. Except that if you actually learned to fly a plane, then you could say you were a pilot, which I assume gets you some variety of hottish skank-ass, knowing how shallow most hottish skanks are, and how cool actually flying a giant jet-powered tube a mile above Earth is.
Let me remind everyone that what we’re talking about here is a video game that, in the course of rewarding you in-game cash and advancement points for destroying property, also routinely requires you to shoot other ethnic stereotypes with automatic weapons and eat lots of fast food until you can finally have sex with a random chubby-chaser who owns a body shop. All things I certainly enjoy doing virtually, since doing them successfully in the real world requires a degree of supernatural awesomeness I am certain I do not (yet) possess. Which is why I don’t spend my valuable free time playing fucking Flight Simulator. If I have a few hours to dick around on the computer, and I’ve already jacked-off to free porn clips my usual three times daily, then I want to virtually drive some cars, shoot some crackers for disrespectin’ my colors, and maybe tag some rival gang turf, all the while rocking out to early 90s West Coast hip-hop. Let me fly a plane here or there too, and I’m cool with that. Jumping out with the parachute is fun and everything. So why the hell does the fucking late game story arc involve a flight simulator sequence that I’ve been stuck on now for about five fucking months?! Have I made my point yet? Damn you, Rockstar. Damn you, and seven generations of your Scottish nerd spawn.
And that brings me to the second reason why this problem makes me clench my ass so hard it actually freezes my shit: why can’t I find any help online for this specific problem, other than foreigners/idiots explaining in plagiarized walkthrus, “oh yea by the way thes plain misons are harrd!!!1!”? Thank you, galumphing retards. I figured that out the first 24 times I tried and fucking failed to hit the first magic sky ring without stalling out or nose planting into that strategically placed Stone Pillar of Repeated Fucking Failure. Here’s an idea – instead of wasting time preparing text documents for online distribution that are about as helpful to my completing the game as would be punching the computer screen and electrocuting myself, why don’t you post your goddamn save game files where I can download them? Great, you wasted a million hours pushing yourself through Rockstar’s supremely evil programming. If I wore a hat, I’d tip it to you. But I don’t have that kind of time to invest in a fucking video game, so take pity on one with a life outside his computer and help me skip it. I’ll even pay you a couple bucks for all your palm-slicking work. Seriously. It’s not like you’re helping me become a better person by making me figure it out on my own. You’re just joining the staff at Rockstar North in the line for a super beating.
Jesus. This whole thing pisses me off so much… I didn’t drop $40 on a game supposedly about L.A. street life to struggle through Kazakhstani fucking flight school. That’s like if the DVDs of GoodFellas and The Godfather didn’t let you watch them past the halfway point unless you successfully subjected yourself to some kind of Sub-Saharan genital mutilation. This is supposed to be entertainment – gun-totting, ho-bagging, dancing-minigaming entertainment. Rockstar, if you have to put insanely difficult content in your game so you can feel like you’re not wasting your talents on soulless, ultra-violent gaming content (which is a total shaved-mangina sentiment to begin with), don’t make it vital to the storyline. Or give me a cheat to skip it. Save your high-level coding for next year’s Kazakhstani Fucking Flight School Simulator. Which I won’t buy. Because if I want to go through that kind of trouble, I’m damn well doing it the way that at least guarantees me shallow Kazakhstani skank-ass afterwards, thank you very much.
Douchebags.
This is the inexplicable marketing name for what amounts to a new console port of a 2 year old PC game, plus about $50 of newer content and a free multiplayer mod. That said, the whole thing kicks more ass than Steve Wilkos on a gallon of Kamchatka at a NAMBLA convention. Which is to say, it’s about 400% cooler than any incarnation of Halo before it even gets in the shower. To wit:
To the pitifully uninitiated, Half-Life 2 follows the wacky alien-fisting adventures of Dr. Gordon Freeman, a theoretical physicist-turned-alien-fister in a unreasonably superpowered biohazard suit, and Alex Vance, the daughter of one of his associates who keeps a high-powered automatic pistol hanging from her delightfully tight jeans. Beyond this the plot makes about as much sense as your souse of a mother trying to explain why God hates gay people, so let’s just say this. This stuttering guy named the G-Man teleports you from a secret government base in Arizona (site of the original Half-Life) to somewhere in Eastern Europe, where you’re now friends with the enemies in the first game and have to work together to destroy half-alien, half-Nazi hybrids and 5 foot space spiders. And you get to drive a beat-ass hovercraft, dune buggy and modified 1969 yellow Dodge Charger. Yeah, say it: fucking sweet.
I haven’t played Team Fortress II, primarily because I played the original Team Fortress once and got so pissed that I vowed never to waste money on another multiplayer team mod again. Which isn’t the fault of the programmers: TF II has a really cool art style and I’m sure, using the Source engine, it’s as competent as those kinds of games get. But I won’t be playing it. If I want to fail to coordinate strategy with self-righteous fuckwits I don’t know who can’t even spell the insults their spewing, while getting my ass handed to me over and over again by members of a coordinated team who plan cesarean sections around going online to play a game they started playing 4 years ago with the first Beta version, I’ll go play CounterStrike again. Or just save myself the time and slam my dick between the flaps of the toilet seat. If these kinds of games are your thing, then go play Team Fortress 2. You know, before your wife goes into labor.
POPULAR EXAMPLES: Benny Hinn, Oral Roberts, Ken Hagin, Kathryn Kuhlman, anybody over the age of 30 in Sub-Saharan Africa, everyone from Jamaica, those guys on the streets of Mexico City who squeeze rancid dog blood all over your belly and try to rip you for $20 for curing all the ‘spirit tumors’ haunting your appendix.
POPULAR EXAMPLES: Those millions of white women at retail plazas at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. Also, any woman younger than 30 who drives a new SUV. Of course it is the 21st century, so men can be housie-spousies too. You’ll see them congregating in swarms at public parks before noon, comparing pudgy manginas and crying. Always crying. I swear, these dude-bitches cry more than your girlfriend after I promised I wouldn’t then milked off all over her ass cheeks. It’s embarrassing. Both things, for everyone involved.
POPULAR EXAMPLES: Whoever came up with that Dell Guy, the ’Noid, cartoon characters on cereal boxes, Chef Tony’s parents, and the guy who invented television. And a billion other soulless shills responsible for the catchy jingles inexplicably bouncing between your temples 20 minutes before your alarm was supposed to go off.
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