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.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Amagon
Close your eyes for a moment and think of a tropical island. Nice and lush and pretty. Now crash an airplane on it with Andre the Geek, give him a rifle and tell him to spread death, destruction and carnage from one side of the island to the other. As far as I can tell from a half-hearted 15 minutes playing this game, that is the plot. I'd be more hopeful if it involved the two chicks from Gillagians Island jello wrestling, but you take what you can get. Each and every programmer who sat down to create this game needs to get laid. Badly. So do I for that matter, since I'm the sad fleshbag that's actually sitting down to play this camels hairball of a game. I'm prepared to let go of the fact that the bees shoot fireballs. I'm willing to let go of the fact that Sum Gie can jump six times his own height (maybe he should be recruited for that All-American Basketball game). What I'm not prepared to let go of is that, despite the complete lack of realism, which is to be expected, there isn't one single, nubile naked tribal chick. Not a one. With this complete lack of cleavage, Sum Gie has to resort to dancing with the Lion Guy. Yea, I feel pretty violated too.
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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