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, April 02, 2006
Aussie Rules Footy
Being a subject of the Imperial Federal Government of the United States of Fucking People Up the Ass at Tax Season, before this game I was generally unfamiliar with the concept of "footy" being a game. I remembered a reference to it in the movie "Dog Soldiers", and so I turned back to the movie for a little more information. As we all know, movies tell nothing but the truth, so I was pleased to find that "footy" was usually referenced right before someone got their intestines torn out or their head pulled off, or something similarly gratuitous. This seemed a somewhat tenuous link, so I dug a little deeper. That screenshot was not modified in any way. Honest. Apparently "watching the footy" is the national religion of 95% of all Australians alive - the other 5% awaiting summary execution (not liking the "footy" is apparently considered High Treason and is punishable by death). Footy as played by the rest of the world is completely unlike American Football as there is no body armor or referees. Aussie Rules Footy takes it a step farther, as the Australians are collectively crazy as a shithouse rat and routinely enjoy having limbs broken off and making strange faces. Think Vietnam with a pigskin. See Exhibit B: Once I recovered from the color choice menu, I went through and actually tried to play the game. Unfortunately, being that the target audience for Nintendo was the under 18 crowd, there was no blood, screams of pain or decapitations - all of which are routine occurrences in a real game. No, just the standard bunch of stick figure blobs running around after a shit-brown blob that's supposed to be a ball. Not surprised, really. Bastards. To top it all off, while I was writing this particular entry, I let the chicken burn, so now it smells like teriaki-flavored ass in here and dinner now resembles something that I will henceforth refer to as Hellshit. Damnit.
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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