Thursday, November 20, 2008

Rerun Hustle

Every day Fred "Rerun" Berry is hustlin


Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Thanksgiving

This year, I'm thankful to get out of my craphole of an apartment. My fiancee and I are moving to PA. What's worse, is that we're moving to PA. It's not the greatest state. It just happens to be infinitely better than South Carolina. You know, the "Sporadic Towns Situated in the Midst of Swamps and Nothing" state. There is nothing here. My apartment has something wrong with it I cannot readily identify, that is making us sick (literally - and figuratively.) So we're leaving the day before Thanksgiving for a 12 hour drive with our stuff. Even now, I write this entry from a laptop in the middle of an ocean of boxes and other packing-related crap. Awaiting the NXE. That's right, I can't wait until that stupid update finally comes tonight, or should I say tomorrow, since it's at 00:00 PST.

Anyway, I doubt I'll post another entry before Thanksgiving (don't quote me on that though) so here's your Thanksgiving entry. And in true BCK style, an related image that barely makes sense.


Friday, October 24, 2008

Laptop Found In A Deserted Office

Obligatory NSFW Disclaimer: This entry has a lot of swearing in it. If you think it's unnecessary swearing, you didn't read it. If you did, you wouldn't say that. But here is the NSFW disclaimer for you sensitive types nonetheless
----
.

I'm sitting in the dark. The power is out. Not just here. Everywhere in town. I write this to let whoever finds it know about what happened.

Best I can guess, it started near the hospital. I would have thought it was sick people, but it wasn't the way you think. A guy came in, he got bit by his roommate after a fight or something. His arm wasn't really bleeding, though. But after a while he started going into convulsions, and then he stopped moving. A nurse tried to go find a doctor, I guess to call him on his time of death. But the nurse must have been mistaken, because the dude got up and shuffled up to this other dude and bit his ass. Not his ass. I mean, he bit him. In the neck / shoulder area. That guy starts to scream, the nurse runs back to try to control the guy, and he bites her too. A security guard finally got his fat ass up there and tried to restrain the guy, and a doctor checked on the other guy and the nurse, but the guy died. So the doctor starts to antiseptic the nurse and gauze her or something, and all of a sudden she's dead too, but the guy who just fucking died is up and coming after the doctor. He freaks the fuck out, and starts speaking Roman Catholic gibberish. Everyone was panicking.

Except for me.

I grabbed a fire axe and cold-cocked that motherfucker with the back of the handle. And he kept coming. So I figured we're in a hospital, they can fix him if I seriously injure him, right? So I swung the axe, and slammed it into his leg. It got severed. My bad. They grow back, right? But this guy still keeps coming, trying to get up and falling back down, crawling after me, all that. So I was like fuck all this noise, and embedded the axe right into his fucking crazy people eating head. He stopped trying to get me at this point. Some idiot woman asks if I think he'll be alright, I told her sure, he was just sleeping. Stupid. Then this other woman starts screaming, and I'm all like screaming back and telling her to shut up, and that's when I realized why she was screaming. Or rather, I realized what wasn't right. What was out of place.

Where was the fat security guard? Where was the guy he was trying to take down like a donut store clerk trying to keep him away from the leftover glazed?

I got an answer. It figured I would. They both come shuffling out of this room, both covered in blood. The first guy's eyes had cataracts or something, but then I started thinking about shit. I had heard him say that he had seen things when he first came in. So he wasn't blind. So it wasn't cataracts. This was that clouding over bullshit that happens to your eyes within the first few minutes after death.

Oh hell no.

That dumb chick asks them if they're ok. I told her to shut the fuck up and get behind me, and take her arm and try to move her. She starts screaming about harrassment, and that I touched her bottom, and that she needs a lawyer and a doctor to check her for rape drugs I injected her with. What the hell? She's raving, and the security guard gets up to her, and he grabs her and starts eating her. Not biting, this motherfucker was full out eating her. I look at the other guy, and he's coming at me. So is that nurse. And some other guy from the other room. At this point, I was out of there. I ran my ass to the office, got another gun besides the two I already had on me, and started stacking desks, chairs, luggage, potted ferns, paper plates, and whatever else I could find in front of the door. A crappy barricade is still a barricade, right? I check the phones. No service. Fucking telephone company, I hope they die in a horrible monster attack. Oh shit, that wasn't right, considering the circumstances. Anyway, I try my cell phone, and I can only call local numbers for some reason. How the hell does that work. It's a cell phone! Anyway, I call 911. No answer. How in the hell does 911 not answer? I tried it again, just in case I dialed the wrong number. Somehow. Still no answer. So I do the next best thing I can think of, and start checking the phone book for Robocop. Turns out he's not in there, which sucks in about ten different ways.

Then I hear cars crashing outside, and I see a dead guy behind the wheel. Too bad it wasn't a dead hot chick, or I'd have come and checked if they were ok. Well I guess they wouldn't be ok if they were dead. Anyway, this car is all crashed up, and this guy is dead and not moving, and the telephone pole he hit was like "What?" and not caring, and I was at the window with a beer wondering what would happen next. And all of a sudden, the worst thing that could possibly happen in the middle of a situation like this happened. I was out of beer.

I threw everything out of my way, went out the door, got in my car and made for the beer store. Yes, there is a beer store in this town. You want to make something of it? I get to the beer store, and it's closed. On a Friday. At 6:30. I'm standing there like an idiot, trying to think of what I should do next, when I see all these people running down the street. I figured there must be free hot dogs or something at the park, so I haul ass after them. Unless it was snowcones. But snowcones kickass too, so I didn't care either way. But I'm running after them, and they're all look behind them, and I'm all grinning and waving and telling them how much I enjoy hot dogs, and none of them noticed me. I figured they were looking behind me, so I looked behind me too. And it was exactly what I thought. Someone had started a goddamned zombie apocalypse again. Well, that isn't the first thing I thought. The first thing I thought was how weird it was to see like a couple dozen weirdos walking down Garrison St., falling all over each other and moaning like a bunch of bisexuals at a frat party. The second thing was me rationalizing that they were undoubtedly after my free hot dogs and snowcones, and I was not about to let that happen. Then a guy screamed zombies were going to kill him, and it all kind of clicked into place.

So I kept running, regardless of the fulfillment of my refreshment seeking or not, and followed the panicky dipshits into this building, where a bunch of other dipshits proclaimed it to be a zombie shelter, and that everyone was safe. I asked who had a gun, and two guys did - hunting rifles. Better that than nothing. I still had two handguns and a shotgun. I asked if there would be hot dogs, everyone looked at me funny, so I turned my attention back to the situation at hand, completely giving up on the hot dog situation. And of course, the zombies were all over the front of the building, trying to get in, and everyone inside was freaking out, and then someone coughed and I thought they were going to be lynched. So I figured this was a bad deal and slipped out the back and tried to see what I could see. Not much, undead were everywhere, the sun was going down, I had no beer, and had a limited amount of ammunition. Which meant it was time to think of a plan. What would George Peppard do in this situation? Get eaten by the living dead. Shit, that doesn't help. I needed to start thinking rationally. I needed to be someplace with good shelter - someplace where nothing and no one could get it. Where could I not get in? I was never able to get into the fancy dance club on 32nd St., but that was a different situation than this altogether. Where could I fortify some defenses, have food and water and more ammunition?

Wal-Mart was straight ahead, and I was like Michael Johnson running for victory. Or Michael Winslow running for his life, I was making so many ridiculous noises from running the three miles to get here. Wal-Mart was full of people, naturally, trying to buy some sort of supplies at the last second. Which was stupid, because there were still zombies all over. I knew I couldn't just shoot everyone and lock the doors, so I kept running, trying to get to something more plausible. I could have kicked myself for not staying in my office - it had food and beverages (except beer, goddamnit), weapons and ammunition, radio and television, flashlights and supplies, Kidd and Play, and all the other essentials to get through a crisis like this. I could try to make it back there, but it was across town, and I had no safe way to get there. I needed a car. I look around, and see this timid looking pale guy in a Buick, and I'm like pow, this is the guy. I ran up, opened his door, pulled a Tommy Vercetti and tear down the street toward the office. At this point, I had no idea who was alive or who was dead, so part of me is saying just hit people if they get in my way, the other part is telling me that I just stole a car because a guy ate people at the hospital and I ran out of beer and Robocop is unlisted and just running people down would put the icing on the cake I'd get at the Welcome To Crazytown party. So I'm swerving around people, or what used to be people, and trying not to get hit by other drivers, and some nutfucks who are shooting at anything that moves, just trying to get across town as fast as possible in a car that was built to be the slowest thing short of the Flintstonemobile. I actually made it without hitting anyone or being shot, and ran back into the office, re-barricaded it, checked my messages that weren't there, and grabbed one of my friend's fruity wine coolers as an emergency substitute during these harsh times. I turned on the radio, and the power went out. I was like great, I fucking broke the electricity by using it responsibly and in its intended fashion, figures. I looked out the window, saw it was still bad, pulled out my laptop (yay for batteries) and started to record this. And here we are. I am typing. Right now. Type type type. See - it's live.

It will only be a matter of time before the living dead come marching up my stairs, knock on my door, and come in. Actually, I doubt they would knock, they would probably just walk in like some rude son of a bitches that think they can just waltz in and eat your shit any time they want. Point is, I have most of my weapons near me now. And I will wait. And I will not go down quietly. I'll probably be screaming like a bitch if they get me. But I don't want that to happen, and neither do you, the reader. I hope. I better not be alive if you don't hope I'm alive when you read this, or I'll fuck up your day. Anyway, here I sit. Waiting. In the dark. My laptop's battery is almost dead. I'm going to shut it off now to conserve enough energy for whoever finds it to read this. Unless everything is fine. Which is just as good. We should go get those snowcones.











Ok, really, we just had a storm and it was windy and the power was out for like three hours. But still, what I wrote was much more interesting than that. Bite me.

The New Old Republic Game About The Old New Old Republic. Soon.


It is a period of awesome MMOs being released. LucasArts, striking from a hidden base, has teamed with BioWare in an impending victory against the ever-present and somewhat overdone Fantasy MMO genre. Fans have been waiting for a Star Wars MMO since, well, forever. And most have been begging for a Knights of the Old Republic one... with enough power to destroy an entire planet. Pursued by Star Trek Online, or rather running along side of it, Star Wars: The Old Republic races home, custodian of the similar plans that can let them save face after crappy sequels and restore freedom to the galaxy….

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

To Boldly Stay Right Here

Star Trek Online has been in development for a while now, but recently, its hype has jumped exponentially. This due to several facts, I'm sure. You can fly around outer space in a ship, shoot at n00bs to both the MMO universe, the Star Trek universe, and the concept of a linear cohesive protouniverse. You can be a Klingon, which means you can play the game completely drunk and singing "yIjah, Qey' 'oH." And, most importantly, every time someone asks you a question, you can scream "THERE ARE FOUR LIGHTS" into your ventrilo headset. This will also be the first game I have ever played where, when entering a combat situation, I will not be humming the theme to The A-Team. Instead, it will be one of the first three Star Trek themes - The Original Series, The Next Generation, and Deep Space 9. Voyager and Enterprise are subject to me flying a Klingon Bird of Prey around a sun to go back in time and convince Gene Roddenberry that he's about to make a horrible mistake.

So, obviously, I'm looking forward to the thing. I'm like a retarded kid swinging a cat, giddy with joy at even the stupidest of options, like whether or not I want to make my first officer beardy. So I check the official website, to see what I'm going to be looking at when the game comes out. And I find out, to my dismay, horror, chagrin, and other negative descriptive adjectives placed to convey my disappointment, that my system requirements are comparatively like the space shuttle Challenger trying to install the Enterprise's holodeck. That means it's bad. As in, I can't play the game with my PoS computer.

So, what are my options? Well, I could buy a new computer. That seems like the obvious solution. Except the part where they won't barter for sheep and linen anymore. Those bastards. They want money - and a lot of it. Who is they? They is are am horrible grammar to be asking presented question for you me. Actually, "They" are people who will sell me a computer. Dell, or whoever. I can't even scrape together enough to NewEgg or TigerDirect or CompUSA myself into the United Federation of Awesome Gameplaying. So, I just have to sit complacently, and secretly seethe at my lost game. No more shall I hear the pew pew pew of my phaser lasers. No more shall Mr. Worf arm my fruton torpedoes. No more shall I try to remember what Conversational Klingon told me in context about what that particular Klingon curse meant as some fruit nut bar in Aufwiedersein Germania country of people who have the game yelled at me in the heat of a battle over who can control the pretty blue planet on the edge of this system in the Clark Bar Nebula.

I'm depressed now. I'm going to go play my Xbox 360 and look forward to the NXE in November. At least I know I'll have that.


There... are... no... lights....

Monday, October 13, 2008

Percival Lowell can die in a fire

On February 18, 1930, Clyde W. Tombaugh discovered a discrepancy in a series of plates that showed a bunch of astronomical throw-up. That is to say, out of a million billion stars, he saw one little dot that was not in the first picture. This guy should be looking for Waldo right now. Percival Lowell could have seen the same thing in 1915, but he didn't. Because he sucked. Then why does he get credit in most scientific circles for discovering Pluto? Because he slept with all of those scientists. Ok, that isn't true. In reality, it is because he was Clyde Tombaugh's boss. Yeah. This tells us some very important information - Don't discover anything at work, or that fat son of a bitch manager Rob will take all the credit. After Pluto's discovery, not much happened. In September 1930, prophetic writer H. P. Lovecraft related information regarding this new ninth planet,
Astronomers, with a hideous appropriateness they little suspect, have named this thing "Pluto." I feel, beyond question, that it is nothing less than nighted Yuggoth - and I shiver when I try to figure out the real reason why its monstrous denizens wish it to be known in this way at this especial time. I vainly try to assure myself that these daemoniac creatures are not gradually leading up to some new policy hurtful to the earth and its normal inhabitants.
and in August 1931, the published information was regarded as too fabulous for society to digest. In the 1940s, a strange man promoted the notion that Pluto was actually an animated dog, and subsequently, this man's head was frozen in retaliation.

On August 24, 2006, the International Astronomical Union, a French pseudo-international cosmic naming club, met in Prague to agree that Pluto would no longer be considered a planet. Prague was vaporized by a laser beam from outer space, and everyone there died. France surrendered immediately, although this was a fruitless effort since they still had no idea what happened or who they were surrendering to. They only knew this course of action had worked so well in the past, what with the Normans and the Germans, it was worth a shot.

Sorry, sorry. The laser beam and Prague being exploderized and the French acting like the French was not true. In reality, nothing happened.

Yet.


Friday, October 3, 2008

Monkey in the Middle-Earth

Each Lord of the Rings movie has special, extended versions. Two discs apiece, they are ridiculously incisive and loooong. And I watched them all in two days. I have hobbits coming out of my ears.

Who, also, in their right mind has the balls to take on a wizard? And I don't mean the Fred Savage playing Mario 3 with a bunch of retards in 1980 whateverville kind of wizard, or the check out the blacktacular Oz-related little kid that now want to kiss the childrens in his Peter Pan ranch kind of wizard. I mean the Ian McKellan, I have an awesome falling over giant cone-type hat, speaking Mordorian, singing opera in the snow and at cave walls, fight the giant ancient demon of fire and shadow kind of wizard. What's his name. Beardy-face. Yeah, everyone loved him in in those movies. I don't need statistical data to back that up. It has already become a fact due to the high levels of awesome he puts out.

Elves are totally gay. I don't mean the happy kind, then I would say "Oh good day and goodness me, those little hobbits look so happy and gay in their shire, tra la la la la." I mean, they are effeminate weirdos. Their notorious inability to grow facial hair, their froo-froo clothing and la-dee-da hairstyles are paled next to their love of artistry and apparent fondness for Star Trek memorabilia. Their language sounds like Russians whispering in broken Latin, and almost everything is "Spierethil dai ee lan gala." I might have even said something there. I probably said "I sound totally girly. Fear my pointy ears, almond-shaped eyes, lankiness, and rapid arrow-shooting." Ok, so rapid arrow-shooting might be applicable, but the damned Keeblers need to get back in their tree and make me some cookies, dammit.

John Rice-Krispies as Gimli was great, though. Someone give him an award. What? They already did. Well damn.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

The Lord of the Blogs: Return of the Chief

I am so neglectful. For shame, Big Chief! Neglectful, but consistent. Workaholism, some call it. I don't think that's quite right though. I am not dependent on Workahol.

First and foremost, redirect yourself to http://www.castersrealm.com

WAIT! NOT NOW! COME BACK!

Don't do that again. I thrive on your reading. Anyway, CastersRealm has been getting some love again. Yay. I feel like I should be playing some sort of nerdplaying game like Dungeons & Dragons or Call of Cthulhu or Shadowrun or Paranoia or... wow, I know way too many name of those sorts of games. But I feel like I should be downing Mountain Dews and chomping on salt and vinegar chips, staying up til four and five in the morning. I keep getting sucked into things with work, and every time I finish one task I've set, I see something else that needs done, and need to finish it.

At this rate, I could build a new Death Star with my bare hands. That thing would be full operational!

So now here I am, sneaking in a blog break between other projects. Blog breaks are nowhere near as satisfying as Fast Breaks, in their chocolatety splendor, or smoke breaks. But blog breaks don't make you stink like the ash of a half burned tome; some evil book you tried to rid this earth of in the fireplace of an ancestral manse, for the peace and safety of humanity as well as for the ability to cling to the last vestiges of your tattered sanity before the gods of old pull you shrieking into the primal darkness from whence they once came, gibbering with madness and locked into the dark places that were sealed with the signs of power....

Ok. No more Lovecraft for a while. I'm taking the fact that I can't get to the HP Lovecraft film festival this weekend too hard. Next year, I am going to petition UGO up down left right and possibly utilizing other functions of Konami-style code to try to get them to send me out with press passes. You know, for the safety of us all, and all that.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

MST3K of the Week

Grand Theft Auto: Jungle Viking

I have been playing a lot of Mercenaries 2 for the Xbox 360. I mean, I have been playing a lot of Mercs 2. That and Castle Crashers. But that is for another discussion at another time.

The first thing you notice in Mercs 2 is how often you find yourself going "This is awesome!" Usually you're killing people. I know most people can identify with this, since in our everyday lives, we exclaim how awesome it is gunning down Venezuelan revolutionaries. The second most noticeable thing is how much time you can lose in this game, running around doing, well, things. Lots of things. Stealing - I mean, finding - cash, weapons, fuel, whatever. Driving around. Killing more people. It's nearly limitless. Now, the most notable thing, even if not most noticable, is how much Mattias Nilsson resembles the Technoviking. It's uncanny. So uncanny, I found I must do something to display its uncanniness.


Thursday, September 4, 2008

Anonymous is written on the sands of Arrakis

I go on 4chan. Some may not believe it, but it's true. I frequent /wg/ and /hr/, looking for, well, wallpapers and high resolution artwork and photographs. One of the images I see, quite often, is an girl of (probable) arab descent, from National Geographic (if I recall properly). Every single time I see it, I think she looks like someone from Frank Herbert's Dune, minus the ostentatious features exposure to spice would produce. So, naturally, since I have seen that something is wrong on the internet, I had to fix it.



Be glad you didn't end up seeing Mua'dib in a Guy Fawkes mask.

Observations from the RNC

Well, 3 seconds into the Republican Nation Convention coverage tonight, some jerk started holding up a "McCain votes against vets" banner. Think of several points - they allowed it, for some reason, even though security was clearly seen at one point rushing the guy. What's worse is that the cameras kept showing the fool, alternating between holding his sign and proudly displaying his arms in the air with a V for Veteran, or Victory (presumably. I could be wrong, it could be V for Very Stupid, but whatever.)

But think of the Democrats and their media circus, and their whiny crybaby tendencies. What happened when the militant homeboy held up his sign at Obama's media event? His people ran in and ripped up the fool's sign. The only reason no one flipped out over it is because the media was quick to throw out releases saying Obama owned the guy and his questions. Ok, first of all, no one owned anyone, short of a buying off the media joke (but I'm not touching that one.) I watched it. The dude was a wingnut to begin with. He might as well have jumped up and said Bush caused Hurricane Katrina, and that George Bush doesn't care about black people. You don't have to be a good speaker to outspeak a whackadoo. It's one of the principles of public speaking. Whackadoos are everywhere, they fall out of the sky to ruin your day, and they frequently pick up some sort of liberal tree-hugging or divisive issue and go all stupid.

Another fella was removed from the convention for disruptive behavior, but the cameras stayed off the subject. McCain didn't, asking people to ignore the white noise. Or brown noise, as it may have been. This sort of idiocy should be expected, and might be - but it's a shame to even have to prepare for it. Glad I'm not working security in Saint Paul. Broken teeth on broken hippies tends to lead to trouble when tens of thousands of people see it on live television. It might actually boost ratings, though.

Reducto your face off \m/

After listening to LastFM, I was raised on AIM, and Almighty David brought up a discussion of metal bands. Naturally, I linked directly to Six Feet Under's Ghosts of the Undead on YouTube.



After a few moments, David cracked me up by ejaculating, "IS THAT HAGRID FROM HARRY POTTER?" Of course, it's much funnier here because A.) I have an accompanying picture and B.) I used the word ejaculating when I had more than a handful of other words to choose from.


Six Feet Under is, in no particular order, Allen West, Terry Butler, Rubeus Hagrid, and Greg Gall

Not only does this show that nerd culture has completely pervaded my existence, thus negating nearly everything I've known and causing the universe to begin collapsing in on itself, but also that I am entirely too nonchalant with Photoshop. Rock over London, rock on Hogwarts.

MST3K of the Week

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Character counts

I meant to post this yesterday. Better late than never. This is one of the most impressive speeches I've seen, so I wanted to put it here for posterity. Shame Fred Thompson himself isn't the one on the Republican ticket for the general election, but McCain is still a good choice.

Fred Thompson speaks at the Republican National Convention. September 2, 2008







I can also imagine Fred Thompson physically knocking out the head of a foreign country. That's my kind of elected official.

A million browsers, each a million lies



Everyone is talking about the beta release of Google's new browser, secret code name Chrome. Ok, so it's not a secret code name, but it sounds cooler if you say it that way. While it launches quicker than Internet Explorer 8 and Firefox version 3.1, all other comparisons are negligible to downright sucky. Worst of all is what you can catch in the fine print: "By submitting, posting or displaying the content you give Google a perpetual, irrevocable, worldwide, royalty-free, and non-exclusive license to reproduce, adapt, modify, translate, publish, publicly perform, publicly display and distribute any content which you submit, post or display on or through, the services. This license is for the sole purpose of enabling Google to display, distribute and promote the services and may be revoked for certain services as defined in the additional terms of those services."

MySpace (owned by Fox) pulled this same trick, which is why no one except 14 year old scene kids and underage topless girls hitting on 20 and 30-something year-old homeys ever use the MySpace blog features. Well, don't use the blogs anymore. Quite a few have actually left MySpace completely in favor of Facebook (for social purposes) and LiveJournal or Blogger (for semi-existential self-validation and ranting observatory purposes). No one wants to find out that when they posted their new novel, MySpace, Google, or whoever owns the rights to them because of the medium used to post it to the internet. In fact, pretty soon, if you want to share something you created, you're going to have to beam the entire thing directly into the brain of the person you're trying to show it to. In which case, you'd need some kind of focal lens and... I'm getting kind of off-topic here. Go invent your own brain shooter idea machine, I'm not going to hold your hand through it.



Chrome looks alright, from the screen shots I've seen. I'm sure lots and lots of people are going to use it. But I rely entirely too heavily on FireFox's Adblock to go and rearrange my hosts file just so I can use some dumb new browser when there's nothing wrong with this one. I'm sure there are plenty of people who would agree that I can be damned stubborn regarding trends. An overwhelming majority of, well, majorities, have been proven to be populated by idiots. Some of them I can't mention because of this, you know, One Rule.... that and I don't want infinity billion script kiddies blowing up my intarwebz from hacking by way of "Never Gonna Give You Up" and Guy Fawkes masks. But maybe, just maybe, after Google gets itself together and gives us a browser that most people with an IQ higher than 90 are going to instinctively distrust, then I might have a look at it. Until then, I'm going to keep on rocking the Q energy ball from Encounter At Farpoint. It beats a logo that looks like a Master Chief plama grenade, or the Eyeball 3000.

For further information, this page reflects on the ideas presented in this article:
http://www.google.com/chrome

Ultimately, Chrome will remain an awesome song by VNV Nation, as well as an album by Trace Adkins. It will also be my choice of finishes on a custom-made IMI Desert Eagle, and something that rhymes with and is frequently associated with the word "Dome." As to which, the latter usually has a bald guy, or some sort of henchman brain-surgeried hybrid creature. Like the guy with metal teeth. Or Joe Biden.

Sunday, August 31, 2008

NASCAR hurt me

NASCAR 2008 has to be one of the most ridiculously difficult games I've ever played. The only game I can think of that beats it out is GRAW, but that game is so retarded it doesn't merit comparison, or mention... in fact, I strongly believe that every copy of GRAW should be thrown in a deep hole, inundated with gasoline, and a fire should be lit that would burn for all eternity as an effigy of humanity's struggle to forget it made awful games like GRAW, the 50 Cent game, or Shaq Fu. Throw Dead Rising in there while you're at it.

Now that I've confused the reader, back to the topic at hand. Next generation NASCAR games should be played using the steering wheel controller. While I have no basis for comparison, because I don't own one, I have to believe that the people at EA spend most of their time laughing at people like me, who try to play these sorts of games with a controller. After struggling through a few races, I finally got my car tuned to where it needed to be where I could at least finish a race without feeling shamed. This is not the casual racing experience one would expect from going around an oval over and over and over again. Again, this game probably rules your face if you have a steering wheel, but for those without one, prepare for many, many, many slams into walls, cars, grass, penguins, mailmen, poinsettias, fat women named Irma, southern Sri Lanka, the 1978 Pittsburgh Steelers, killer robots, spatulas, cheese-based casseroles, professional yodelers, and Captain Crunch cereal - possibly with Crunch Berries. But please no Dale Earnhardt jokes. It's too soon.

About now, most people should probably be wondering why on earth I am playing NASCAR 2008 over NASCAR 2009. Well, it's quite simple, really - GameStop is offering a 25% off used 360 games special, and with an Edge card, the additional 10% makes for 35% off. So why buy a new EA game, when most people will agree that the biggest thing that changes year to year is, well, the year. Don't believe me? Go play Madden.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

How to confuse an idiot.

The loading time is slow, but it's worth it in the end.


Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Oh no, they say they got to go, go go Mozilla

Alright, alright, alright, I'll admit it. I didn't something extraordinarily, and unforgivably nerdy. I downloaded season one of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Streaming through my 360, I started watching from the beginning. And had to pause it somewhere around 12 minutes into the first episode.

Has no one ever noticed that the starship Enterprise is being chased by the Firefox logo in Encounter at Farpoint? No, seriously. Seriously. STFU, I said seriously. Look.



I mean, come on. Coincidence? Probably. I mean, I'm not going to sit here and tell you that the heads of Mozilla are really using Firefox and/or Thunderbird as a front to hide that they are in reality an omnipotent race called the Q. That would just be silly.

Silly like a fox.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Big Chief Diamondboots

Rock Band is probably the single most popular party game on the market today. Overshadowed by the release of Rock Band 2 at the end of September, my lovely fiancée and I have been playing it like fiends. She plays guitar, forcing me to play bass, so I got bored last night and decided to dust off my old vocalist character and give him an update from unfancy mister plain-looking guy who was slightly reminiscent of Peter Steele of Type O Negative, to the much more awesome (and ridiculously time-consuming) King Diamond. Of course, I didn't call him King Diamond - that would just be a blatant rip-off and kind of petty.

I give you Big Chief Diamondboots.

Late that night I awoke from my sleep, hearing unknown voices laughing...

Naturally, the game has a character limit (gay) and I actually ended up with BigChiefDiamond, but we all know what he's really called.

So I went to edit my personal quote, which you know was going to be awesome and King Diamond-oriented. What did I enter? "Try to enter" would be a better choice of words. Harmonix, the developers of Rock Band, has a word filter in place for potential character names, band names, and personal quotes. I tried to have my quote as "Let me help you out of the chair, Grandma." The Rock Central Server told me my quote was "not what most would describe as "classy"", and that it would not be visible on the leaderboards until I changed it. Which means one of the words is considered to be obscene.

Wait, what?

I read, and re-read, the quote. Did a grouping of letters in there accidentally form an obscenity? Where? What? Did "toft" mean something in Ethernopia that I was not aware of? In the end, it turns out "help" is an offensive word.

Wait, what?

Now I had to use a play on words, resulting in "Let me assist you out of the chair, Grandma." Because, you know, they have no problem with the word ass.

So whatever you do, if you're getting attacked or drowning or something horrible but equally disturbing and/or life-threatening, under no circumstance should you yell for help.

People will think you're not classy.

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