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.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Akagawa Jirou no Yuurei Ressha
For all of my dear readers who have the good sense not to read this, my apologies for the delay in posting. I have a momentary lapse of reason and installed SP2 on my WinXP box. Between the time it took for me to stop screaming, then to pull my computer off the ceiling, and then reformat and reinstall, it's been a long week already. Everything's back up and running, though,and I'm back to having massive amounts of disk space just ready and waiting to be filled with porn. Life is good. At least, it was. Akagawa Jirou no Yuurei Ressha, which translates loosely to "Satan hates you and wants you to die of syphilis", was the next game waiting to prove to me that I spent my past life beating nuns and stealing from the salvation army donation thingies.
Today, in "Life Lessons From Pathetic Japanese Games With No Discernible Point" we bring you a special message from the conductor (played today by Richard Nixon): informing us all that he's planning on helping Santa murder you in your sleep. *sighs* Ok, this isn't working. There's not a damn thing that I can say that could possibly be amusing enough to wipe the skidmark of this game off the underwear of my mind.
For some reason, though, this has rekindled my interest in getting together a crew, finding a decent boat, stealing a couple of 40mm deck guns off the Navy and becoming a pirate. Now a life spent sailing the seas, drinking liberal amounts of 151, sleeping with Thai hookers and helping old people on cruise lines dispose of their excess jewelry. Now that sounds like the life for me.
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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