A game-by-game diary of my attempt to play every Nintendo game. From 8-Eyes to Zombie Nation and everything in between. Even that strange Christian game where you convert people by hitting them with fruit. Just wait. You'll see.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Air Fortress
One of these days I'm going to take the next Japanese man I see, slam him up against the nearest wall, and I won't let him have his camera back until he tells me exactly what the hell is wrong with his country. Don't get me wrong, a lot of good things have come out of Japan, I'm just not entirely sure what they are at the moment. There seems to be a lost skill in making the unfortunate player of a video game start wondering What The Fuck, before he even hits the start button for the first time. We're all very glad that that skill has been lost, quite frankly, but it doesn't save me. With that in mind... Can anyone give me a remotely plausible explanation for why Sum Gie is flying around with an anal probe? Yea, and I'm already approaching the limit of my tolerance for this game and it's only been...17 seconds. To be entirely fair, my tolerance level has declined sharply since that Afro Megaman thing.
Obviously, anal probes give you the ability to fly and fight vicious moths. Isn't that silly! Ha, Ha. I have to write more or they'll break the other kneecap. Um. Yea. Something happened and Sum Gie lost his anal probe. If I had paid money for this game it's at this point that I would have marched back down to the video game store, found the sales weasel, and shown him how NES cartridges can be inserted rectally.
Location: Terminus (Where All Rail Service Ends, Brother), Georgia, United States
I'm 27, a self-made oil, rail and steel tycoon whose combined income makes Bill Gates cry like a little bitch. I look like Johnny Depp, Christian Slater, or Brad Pitt, depending on which chatroom I'm in. I have a 19" prehensile penis that I use to hold my coffee while I type. I know where Jimmy Hoffa lives, and I understand the language of cats. I help old ladies cross the street and translate ethnic slurs for cuban refugees in my spare time. I sleep only one hour a night. I make ice cubes with the power of my mind. I can touch MC Hammer. I know every rivet in the Russian T-34 tank. I've advised Presidents, slept with movie stars, and can organize my sock drawer in less than 23 seconds.
And I still have time to do this blog.
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