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The Whoring Tree 1999-05-20 Erik
I thought Next-Generation was bad.
One of our clients, a privately funded think tank called "Leviathan", pays us to patrol the web looking for naked pictures of children, which they then "think" about.  While earning my keep yesterday, I stumbled across an online children's magazine called CyberKids.  A large portion of its content is devoted to reviewing games and educational software. While youth is a prerequisite for joining the staff of CyberKids, competence, insight, and integrity are apparently not.

The first review I read was of  Hasbro Interactive's Tonka Search and Rescue and was written by someone called Nicky Evers, age 6.  Here is his succinct assessment of the playing experience: What I liked the most was the prize and what I liked the least was how hard it was to drive [italics added - ed.].   In other words, the driving, the core play mechanic of Tonka Search and Rescue, is broken.  So does tricky Nick recommend the game he just finished savaging?  Of course; this is CyberKids.  "I think all kids would like the game, probobly from when they're 4 to when they're teenagers," is the exact non-sequitur with which he closes the review.  Hey Nick, didn't they teach you how to spell "probably" in your fancy kindergarten?  But wait, he's not through yet!  In what is possibly the most shameless act of journalistic misconduct I've ever seen, he actually thanks Hasbro "for letting me keep the game."  Congratulations Nicky Evers, you're a whore.

In another issue, Diana Richer, age 6, and Helen Feldman, age 7, review Menlo The Frog, a Musical Fairy Tale.  First of all, let me just ask Diana and Helen to confirm this fact for me: it took two of you geniuses to write this embarrasingly bad review?  They spend the first two thirds of the piece planting a wet kiss right on the ass of Windy Hill Productions, then proceed to brazenly state that "the clam game was too easy for us."  Last time I checked, Menlo was recommended for ages three to seven.  Did it occur to either of you idiots that a three year old might find the clam game rather challenging?   The title ultimately receives a B+, even though the last paragraph contains this interesting observation: We did not like finding the key because it was boring.  So finding the key - just the whole fucking point of Menlo the Frog - was boring, yet the game still receives a B+.  If a boring game rates an impressive B+ on the "Richer" scale, what would it have to do to get a B-?   Spray cat piss right in your mouth?  Jesus.  Whose dick does Windy Hill Productions - the solid waste excreting orifice of the edu-tainment industry - have to suck to get a good review from CyberKids?  I guess six year old Diana Richer's and seven year old Helen Feldman's.



E3: Trip Report 1999-05-19 Marvin
The dumbass twins forgot to mention that I was there.
While tweedle-gay and tweedle-even-more-gay were bunkered in the baby hospital stuffing tampons up erik's nose, I did some work.  After I was done selling blood, I decided to relax by attending E3.   The plasma-milking left me woozy, though I was also pleasantly spent from donating a rather large amount of semen.  "Donate" is not exactly right, since, as I told the nurse, why should I give it away when there are so many Japanese businessmen willing to pay for it?  While she was counting out my sixty bucks and giving me the stink-eye - I ruined the clinic's copy of Black Booty - I asked her what the hospital does with all that spunk.   "The gay doctors take baths in it," she said.  Of course I knew that; I just like hearing them say it - by law they have to.

Speaking of bathing in cum, I ran into Todd Porter while I was trying to get the hell away from Daikatana.  "How's Dominion 2 coming along?" I asked.  He got about three words into what looked to be a real freakin lecture series before I cut him off.  "I don't care.  Shut up." I said, "I paid for your goddamn game with money I made selling my fucking blood.  How bout you give me my sixty bucks back right now?  Or maybe you'd rather talk to Mr. Fist?"  I showed him Mr. Fist, who is actually just my fist with little eyes and a mouth painted on it in lipstick.   "Asshole," said Mr. Fist.  Somebody must have alerted Eidos security, because three dressy, bulked-up superfruits muscled their way through the gathered crowd and hustled Porter away, but not before Mr. Fist managed to call each and every one of them an asshole. 

All this excitement mixed with the mind-altering effects of blood loss caused me to abandon my complicated E3 plans faster than Next-Generation leaping off the Playstation 2 bandwagon.  I decided to simply roam the aisles, get a blurry glimpse of each game from a distance, and jot down the first Judas Priest lyric that occurred to me.  I ended up with forty pages of cryptic notes such as:

Drakan
    You better watch out and hold on tight
    We're heading your way like dynamite
    Uhhh, Delivering the goods!
    Uhhh, Delivering the goods!

Tiberian Sun (?)
    I'm a rocker, Oh oh
    Do as I feel as I say
    I'm a rocker, Oh oh
   And no one can take that away

One interesting entry doesn't sound like Judas Priest: 

Quake 3:Arena
    My niggas they never change.
    They kicken it wit they gang and remain the same

It is, I discovered, Cleveland's own Bone, Thugs, and Harmony.

That's it.  I walked around for ten hours and came away with nothing.   Considering Chet and little ricky don't pay me to write for them, and considering you don't pay to read it, I guess you all got your money's worth.  And, since it's not an OldMan article until someone badmouths Monolith or talks about poop, Lithtech 2 - eat shit!



Get Thee Behind Me Internet Entertainment Associates, LLC 1999-05-16 Erik
Some kind of thing is happening over at Stomped.
Gaming institution Redwood has closed his eponymous page.  The site was one of the foundations on which the old, better Quake community was built and made significant contributions to whatever the hell it was that made the community and its benevolent, dandyish overseers so freakin great.   Before the rejoicing starts, I should point out that Redwood, like Michael Myers before him, is not dead.  He has teamed up with the people who run Stomped and the people who recently purchased the people who run Stomped, Internet Entertainment Associates, LLC, to create a new megasite still haplessly called Stomped.  It's mission?  Unclear.  Like most of you, I'd never been to Stomped proper before the Redwood consolidation; so I'm not sure what they did prior to this recent tragedy.   Since Our Friend In Space figures so prominently in their vague plans, I can only imagine that a substantial portion of the "new" Stomped's reporting will focus on what is wrong with Redwood's computer, "what up" with his car audio situation, and where and when he first sees "Varsity Blues" on DVD. 

In an effort to generate excitement among their confused readership, the straight shootin', street talkin' Stomped editors in conjunction with a majority of the governing body of Internet Entertainment Associates, LLC have this to say about their new staff member:

So if you thought he ripped it up working on his site part-time, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

I think by "ripped it up" they mean to evoke images of the Three Stooges "ripping up" some socialite's fancy townhouse as they try incompetently to install plumbing.  Otherwise, it doesn't make any sense.  And speaking of not making any sense, here is a description of one of their boldest new features:

On the left you'll see a section called "Stomped Chronicles". These are subjects that are generating a lot of interest or news, but only a bit at a time.

James Vipond, if you are reading this, please avert your eyes:   Sweet Jesus, what the fuck are you Stomped people talking about?  Unlike the staff of Stomped, Redwood in particular, the employees of Internet Entertainment Associates, LLC, and any of the temps they hire to type Jason Hall's name and address into Access so they can later send him a fruit basket, I didn't graduate from high school.   But most of our smarty-pants readers did - many of them went to college - and my informal polling shows that they don't know what you're talking about either.  Maybe you've all got some post-tertiary degree that's necessary for understanding your secret purpose, or maybe it's just "wack."

For our young readers who may be missing already the life lessons freely distributed in Redwood's "State of the Wood" diary pages, let me pass along one of my own observations from something I experienced just yesterday:
Someday you'll have a girlfriend.  You'll argue with that girlfriend; sometimes heatedly.  In the passion of battle, do not scream hysterically, "You know who loves me?  Mommy!"




Portrait Of The Social Critic As An Unsuccessful Pornographer 1999-05-16 Erik
The Junior OldMan Patrol wins yet again.
Wagner James Au, when he takes a break from worrying about the moral decline of our global village, is apparently busy crafting appallingly ineffective erotic fiction.   He writes the kind of "artistic" fuck book that is good for neither reading nor jerking off to; in the spirit of fairness, I tried both.  Here is an orgasm killing quote ripped right from the heat of passion:

Dry brambles blow through her womb.

Is her vagina and its environs a haunted ghost town?  That's sexy.  And is there anything hotter than a womb?  If so, Wagner James Au hasn't heard about it.  If I had a nickel for every woman who begged me, in "choked gasps" as she climaxed, to talk dirty about her womb, I could afford to make another baby.



Expo Over.  Big Changes Coming. 1999-05-15 Erik
After several days of violent video games and self-reflection we have come to the realization that Wagner James Au is still an implacable idiot.
Our trip to E3 started badly.   While waiting for the Gamespot limo to pick us up from the bus station, Chet and I decided it was high time to settle a long standing argument over which of us could cram the most chunks of rock salt up our nose.  I won by a landslide of projectile nosebleeding, but had to be taken directly to the hospital, where I spent the entire show.   Chet, like some angelic valet-in-a-can, remained by my side throughout the entire ordeal, missing the show as well.  C'est la vie, as Wagner James Au might say.   Maybe next year.  While doped up in my sickbed, I had a chance to play some classic 2600 games that the hospital provides  for patients to pass the time until their assisted suicides.  Laser Blast is a whole different experience now that I'm old and my bones ache - like most other things, it sucks.

At least this E3 will be memorable for the hospital stay - the last five have blurred in my mind into one long demo of Prey.  Years from now, when people ask me where I was when I first heard that Daikatana had been pushed back to Xmas ྟ, I'll be able to confidently say "I was convalescing in the Los Angeles Shriners Hospital."   Then I'll say less confidently, "Or was that the Xmas ྜྷ delay?"   Some of you may be wondering how I managed to book space in a children's hospital.   I'm well known on the sick child circuit for my ability to lift their spirits by crafting some pretty cutting diatribes against their tormentor, God.   There's nothing an agonized four year old with rickets enjoys more than seeing a professional character assassin go to work on the Creator.  Hospital Administrators know this simple fact, and so, whenever I need medical attention, almost any pediatric care facility will patch me up for free.

Now for the big news.  We are retiring the Martin Van Buren Bitch-X alert system this weekend.  Time to pull the plug on that old dog (Bitch-X, I mean, not the little magician.)  It will be replaced by a new community service alert system.  Maybe something to keep you abreast of the Blood 2 fan fiction scene.



Salon Writer Wagner Au: Next Game Enthusiast To Crack, Kill Hundreds? 1999-05-12 Erik
Sane humans to Wagner James Au:  are you receiving us?
Salon Magazine, a hit or miss amalgam of post-leftist commentary and substandard TV guide, has published an analysis of the gaming press' reaction to the war in Columbine.  The article is written by Wagner "My last name starts here.  I think." James Au.  He takes a dull knife still slick from buttering his many pancakes and waves it in a vaguely threatening manner towards the gaming press, including our Gamespot staffmate William "Elliot Chin" Shatner.  The first page is a pretty standard spasm of crackpot theorizing punctuated by one tragic instance where citizen of the world Au finds he's reached the expressive limits of the English language and must resort to French.   It is not until the the second page that things turn weird and, finally, interesting:

Play a first-person shooter long enough and its morbid reality seems to descend over your awareness like a grid, accompanied by a kind of adrenalized hyper-awareness and euphoric rage. Grid, adrenaline and rage stay with you, far past the point when you exit to the desktop. Walk away from the computer, and they still persist. You find yourself stealing up on street corners as if preparing to strafe the adjoining block; you seem to see a crosshair traced across the bodies of passersby.

Dear Wagner James Au, please remember to take your meds.
He seems to think that this 'grid' is a concept familiar to his readers, a common feature of the human experience for which further explanation is
unnecessary.  He mentions the 'grid' again in the very next paragraph:

For the overwhelming majority of us, with well-adjusted social lives and a diverse range of interests, the grid recedes. But it's not at all hard to conceive, absent those factors, that the grid would remain in place.

I don't know what the grid is.  Perhaps one can't be told what the grid is.  I do know that Mr. Au feels we gamers are trapped in it.  I also know that it's only a matter of time before he reaches the inevitable conclusion that death is the only surefire escape from the Grid and that he, Wagner James Au, can become the "savior of the Grid" by shooting at us from atop the hood of the car he calls home.



E3 Week - Day One 1999-05-10 Staff
We're so excited we could shit.  On camera.
 
Things have been quiet for the last several days thanks to EverQuest and our elaborate preparations for E3.  While we planned on announcing today that we would have the only live twenty-four hour show floor toilet-cam at E3, Avault has kind of stolen our thunder by yesterday announcing their own.  After a brief period of feverish retooling, we are happy to report that we will have the only talking toilet-cam at E3.  Unfortunately, it won't be running twenty-four hours, because erik, the adorable voice of the toilet-cam, will sometimes have to sleep or perform complimentary acts of lovemaking.  What can you expect from "Potty" the talking toilet?  Well, we plan on mistaking everyone for Tom 'Paradox' Mustaine.   "Tom?  Tom 'Paradox' Mustaine?" Potty will say whenever anyone takes a seat, "Is that you?  How's FAKK2 going?  Tom?"  We're not sure what we'll do if Paradox actually does show up to take a crap, but our sources tell us that he has what doctors call "shy bowels" and once, during summer camp, held it in for eight weeks.  So we're almost positive we won't have to deal with him in the flesh.  Another thing you can expect to see is a lot of people playing GameBoy and the NeoGeo pocket and maybe even a WonderSwan or two.  There may be some real surprises here, such as getting a glimpse of the super secret Capcom vs. SNK title through the thighs of a high ranking Japanese VP of marketing.  "Tom? Tom? Potty to Tom Mustaine!  Is that Adon vs. Hanzo?  Wow!  How many hot dogs did you eat, man? Tom?  What do you have to say to allegations that that mole on your ass isn't real?"  Lastly, you can definitely expect to see a wide variety of what those insufferably lefty "next wave" scat sites refer to as "the secret blossom of the bottom." (Note to you artsy pornographers:  thanks to our recent bombing of the Chinese Embassy, the world will now officially be ending with a bang.)  We hope you'll come for the toilet-cam but stay for the famous Peter Molyneux "sit down pee."  

 

Tom Mustaine contemplates his next move. Bowel move, that is! Ba-bing! Thank you. Good night, God Bless!
This is from a test reel that we shot at the day care center we operate back in the world.  Rest assured that even though we couldn't afford the spy equipment small enough to fit inside this tiny baby toilet, our E3 version will be a proper "inside looking out" model.  Note the toddler's surprise and delight at being mistaken for Tom Mustaine - it's a sure fire crowd pleaser.





EverQuest Ruins World's Most Beloved Game Site 1999-05-07 Erik
Here are some fun things to do while daddy's busy being magical in his fantasy world.
The new Gamespot column is up.   You could go read that.  Or for some real brilliance, go visit autistic Christian media critic James Vipond's If I Ran A TV Station (part of his larger, must see Game Show Bonanza.) You could also check out an audio transcript of a recent "This American Life" in which a pimp from the 1970's reminisces about pimping, whoring, and classic arcade games such as Pot o' Gold - though the emphasis is mostly on pimping and whoring.



Small Clarification About The Banners 1999-05-06 Erik
Chet is the sole member of the office football team, the client accounts-payable staff debating team, and the football team's cheerleading squad.  He beat me up and took my bannner ad money.  Someday he may get a surprise he doesn't like - the kind of surprise that might cause someone to say something like "I told you NEVER to use my scissors again.  You freaki- CHRIST!...shit... ohhgahhh... pull the scissors out of my stomach, man..."
Several hundred readers have written to express their displeasure over the ad banner now prominently displayed on the main page and somewhat less prominently displayed on this page.  We understand your concerns and we feel sincerely bad for all of you.  But rest assured, this is no money making scheme - we just think it makes the site look super cool, like a racing car.   Some other readers have asked what might happen if they click on one of the banners.  All I can say, and I'm quoting here from commercials for the movie 2010 that I remember seeing in the 80's, is that something will happen.   Something wonderful.



EverQuest More Depressing Than My Life 1999-05-03 Erik
Also more addicting than pornography.
I'd like to welcome all of you to the lowest point of my life.  Not content to endure my daily struggle to eek out a meager existence in the real world, I am now paying to do exactly the same thing in 989 studio's EverQuest.  Only I'm a midget.  After one weekend, my youthful fantasies of leading armies against the forces of the undead or crashing my giant flying turtle into a crowd of horrified orcs in a wondrous, magical air show accident have given way to dreams of one day affording a pair of shoes.  I'm currently on a quest for the fabled "platinum piece", several hundred of which will buy me a weapon.  In honor of our entrance into "their world", Chet switched his nightly relaxation tool, Budweiser, to Olde English.  So while I have no idea what spells I should purchase or where to get food, I now have empirical evidence that malt liquor makes Chet an even meaner drunk.  By ounce thirty-eight of his one hundred and twenty, Chet had more or less abandoned the role playing aspect of EverQuest, had hot-keyed the saying "Thou art gay", and lost all inhibitions regarding using it over and over again.   Somewhere around ounce sixty Chet lost the ability to even hit the hot-key and simply walked over to my desk and started screaming it at me.  "Thou art gay!" he shrieked.  When I pretended to ignore him, he yelled "That's Olde English dumbass!  I'm calling you gay!  You stupid... Come'ere.  I'm sorry."  Then when I went to give him a hug, he tried to poke me in the eye, but he missed and shoved his finger way the hell up my nose.  There's a point beyond which a finger in your nose starts to sting like a bitch.  Chet reached that point and kept right on going.  He must have popped something up there, because blood started pouring out of both of my nostrils.  So much red, snotty liquid was streaming out of me that it started getting in Chet's beer, so he backed off, got behind me, wrestled me to the floor, and started rubbing my face against the rug.   "Feel that?" he was screaming, "Thas a plus twelve carpet.   Wheres all the fancy new fuckwords now, you freakin midget?"  At that point, Tony returned from getting Thai food, saw what was happening, and knocked Chet out with a big stapler we use for knocking him out.  Then we frisked him and took his wallet and the peppermint candy he's always got in every pocket, and went to the movies.   Thanks to 989 studios for providing me with so much high adventure.





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