Mr. Carmichael, why not Asian?
Scott, I will dropkick you twenty feet. I swear to Christ, Scott. Lunch isn't for twenty minutes, you three-wheeled shitwagon. Now, let's get serious.
Sir, I meant an Asian person as our new game mascot.
Yes, I imagine that there are Asian people. From what I gather, they must be 3 inches tall and sleep inside of clams. Listen, this is just what I read in magazines, but I think we can roll with it. Now, we just need a name... Let's see, he's small, and- Yes! Tinyman the Chinaman! Brilliant! Let's keep brainstorming, people. Now, what are the Chinese good at doing?
Rejected merchandise for Tinyman the Chinaman, 1994Laundry?
Scott, shut up, that's brilliant! He could... throw laundry! And then maybe eat laundry and and get invincible or some crazy shit like that! Every level, full of piles and piles of laundry! Kids love laundry; I mean, they're always running around wearing clothes, much to the dismay of my pervert step-son! Yes, this is all coming together! Tinyman the Chinaman: Laundry Adventure! No, wait... Raundry Ranger- The kids will love that! Any more bright ideas, Scott?!
Well sir, children seem to enjoy rooms full of insta-kill spikes and bottomless pits.
Scott, first of all, shut up. Secondish, I'm glad you're looking out for my best interests, even though you're a total pansy that I should probably demote to the rank of assistant shitstain. Alright, get our programmers on the horn; we need spikes, the bigger, the better. Also, pits! I want every level to have thousands upon thousands of pits! Oh, and recycle the enemies from that Fruity Flower game or whatever the hell it's called. No one played that stinkpile anyway. People, these are how good ideas are made: teamwork! Teamwork by me! Now that we have our idea, on what system are we going to publish Tinyman the Chinaman: Raundry Ranger?
Sir, before you tell me to shut up again, might I suggest the new Sega 32X?
Goddamntastic! With a number like 32, we can't possibly fail! Alright people, to celebrate our newfound success, we're all going down to the docks, and I'm buying every one of you seafaring shits a new boat. Oh, and Scott, when you get home, tell your mom I want Stove Top Stuffing for dinner.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.