Weekdays at 9 and 10 am, 12 pm, 6 and 6:30 pm et/pt. Weeknights at 11 and 11:30 pm et/pt. Saturdays at 12 and 12:30 pm et/ptIt seems I have ventured out of the house and now find myself accosted by the fierce and untamed heart of nature! Do not fear readers, for I am well prepared to defend myself with an avalanching barrage of insults both devious and acerbic. Though these beasts may be a burden to me, they are no more than an idle distraction and pencil sharpener that will become the unwilling grindstone of my pencil-like wit, sharpening it into a piercing point of painful punishment. Nature, you dare stand in my way as I ramble freely about the country with impunity? I am afraid you are now in for quite the beating. You may surround and overwhelm me, but remember this: I am an Internet writer, and therefore in possession of all the skills necessary to survive any situation. I say to you, Mrs. Nature, BRING IT ON!
Oh, Mr. Goose, it appears that you are pinioned behind a wall of chain! Count your blessings well, for this simple mesh apparatus is all that stands between you and the savage interpretive dance routine my fists will be conducting on your fragile little face! One must wonder what the chalk outline of a goose would look like. I know I am right now!
What's this? My angry yelling has attracted the concern of your wife. Oh, Mrs. Goose, do not fret! Your husband is doing an excellent job of cowering behind this fence like the pathetic fighter, lover, and father he most definitely is!
Oh no, the siren fury of my voice has also brought the kids out, undoubtedly fearing the forthcoming death of Dear Old Dad! Come children, watch your father hide from his manly duties and quack his way out of another test of manhood! P.S., children, I do not wish to destroy your perceptions of truth and good, but this is most definitely not your real father!
But wait, what's this? It appears to be a lousy mound of walking ham caped in mud, insects, and feces. My how aghast I have become! You heathen swine, lying about so lazily in your own filthily rut! I would gladly drive my kicking feet into you if not for the fact I fear my shoes would become untidy and caked in the vast slop wardrobe you have so expertly adorned!
You cursed cask of bacon, do you think burying yourself in filth will save you? Dear Swine, I am writing out a check with your blood, and I am making it out to the funeral parlor responsible for reigning your worthless life in! Looks like it will be a closed casket funeral, because anything more would be indecent and immoral! I must confess that even making a meal out of you would be too rewarding a death, as not even the diligent insects seem to be enjoying the kingdom they have built upon your person!
Ah, it appears to be a bovine! The legendary craftsmen of steak, weaver of leather, and fountain of milk! It is a grave shame such a utilitarian wonder has to be so pitiful and vile! Miss, I must inform you that you picked a rather dangerous day to roam so haphazardly. You now find yourself in my warpath, and this is no laughing matter.
I am above hitting a lady, true, but you are hardly a lady! In this moment of danger I must do what I have to do to survive, and though you are fenced in, you still threaten me and my most precious safety. With a little ingenuity, I could fashion a beating stick capable of reaching you even beyond your metallic mesh fortress. How would you like that, Mrs. Cow? How would you like to see your own fortifications turned into shackles while I whack feverously at you? Be glad I am only threatening you, for I am not a violent man and wish only to go about my day as harmoniously as possible, even if you do stand in my way.
Well giddyap, partner! I warn you, Mr. Horsy, not to come any further, for you are already violating my perimeter with your staggering body mass. Do not play so coy as to pretend you do not notice me while munching on the desolate patches of green you call food. I am well aware that the horse word for food is the human word for ruse. Sure, a beast like you could trample me to pieces, but you know deep inside your heart that you are no more than a slave to my kind!
If it is the taste of freedom you covet, then simply speak up. I would have no trouble writing an Emancipation Proclamation with my bare hands, freeing your soul from bodily enslavement! Knowing your ineptitude, you would end up in Hell carting Hitler and Stalin around an endless sea of fire while infernal gnats run grueling mining operations on your backside. Such a fate, Mr. Horse, would fit you like a saddle. BE GONE FROM MY SIGHT!
Well, well, well. Did you think I had forgotten you old friend? I am back with more beak-shattering bizarro benedictions! Perhaps you mistook me at first for the common sort – the type of pitiful slob who would gladly bestow a wealth of breadcrumbs upon your meager flock. Your judgment is jaundiced, for I am here only to pry your sanity away one feather at a time!
Go ahead and hide your head. Bury it deep from my view as the pig tried to do so hopelessly. Do you think me so naïve that I will not even know that it is you cowering there like a feather dust bunny? Is this, Mr. Goose, what you call a defense mechanism? What egg did you hatch from? Forget it all! If I were to fight you, I would have to provide you a helmet just to protect you from yourself. Lucky for you and fraudulent family, I simply do not have one in your minuscule size! Let us hope we never cross paths again, for next time I will not be so charitable!
OH DEAR LORD A SPIDER!!!
AHHHHHHH!!! RUN FOR IT! RUN FOR IT!
It seems I am now safely in my home, far from the menacing arms of the vicious beast which drove me from the wild! Though I was forced to retreat in the end, I believe I did much good in proving man's dominance over the wilds. I could see the fear in the eyes of these feral beasts, and I could smell the bloodlust dripping from their fangs and claws. I put myself in harm's way, but I stood my ground longer than most would dare. I do believe I scored an impressive moral victory fighting for mankind, one that we all can cherish. You may stay your ground for now, Mrs. Nature, but know that next time I will be more prepared for your tricks and assorted treacheries!
Hey folks, Taylor "Power Dunk" Bell here with a hip and in-your-face review that, if I am not mistaken, "goes there." Naturally I am talking about Sabotage, a game most people would never bother to try because of its incredibly generic name.
The second demo level is exactly like the first, only it takes place in a building with slightly larger rooms and slightly drier floors. Sadly these large rooms are too big for the game’s engine to render in their entirety, but I must admit the use of distance fog indoors is a fairly innovative trick that other developers haven’t used, mostly because it looks really stupid. The second level also showcases another recycling of the Retarded Suicidal Civilian character. The RSC is most commonly seen in games like Virtua Cop, and you can recognize him by looking for a civilian that jumps up right in front of you in the middle of a gunfight and flails his arms around shrieking “Don’t shoot me, don’t shoot me!” The RSCs in Sabotage have the same annoying habit of standing in the hallway right in front of an enemy, who can shoot all he wants without having to worry about hitting the civilian, but if one of your bullets flies within 20 feet of the guy he’ll instantly slump over and die. In Sabotage, if you kill two civilians your supreme overlord guy decides your mission isn’t really that important and kills you.
Read that shit, niggah!
Mothers, Danzig warned you in general terms about his nefarious intentions. Now find out what he specifically intends.
Makes baby look too appetizing. Also I have my thigh stuck in one and I can't get it off. It's so tight around the skin I can't cut it without risking injury. IT'S A LONG STORY AND IT'S NONE OF YOUR BEESWAX.
The darkest, most controversial game since Luigi's Mansion.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.