Hey, yeah, let's all run COMPLETELY UNARMED into PLAYER 1's jeep! What a great idea!
Greets gang, this is your old pal Blue Guy #762,182 here again with yet another update about my intensely frustrating life. As you might've noticed, I haven't been writing the monthly evil Video Game Henchman 563rd Union Addresses since last October or so, and I can only assume your concern has reached a critical level. Well it turns out that the 563rd Union here didn't like the outwardly negative tones of my updates, so they decided to hand over the reigns to Giant Fat Guy Who's Part Robot #4,361 in an attempt to appease those stuffed suits in upper management. Let me tell you something, this is complete bull honkey if you ask me. We're not supposed to be pawns of the administration yet, hey, let's hand over the podium to a guy who is incapable of communicating anything besides ominous warnings for PLAYER 1! What a great idea! Then why don't we spend $18 billion on a robot who ejaculates nuclear death and is completely invincible except for, oh, THE FIVE SECONDS HE OPENS HIS CYCLOPS EYEBALL IN FRONT WHICH IS COMPLETELY SUCCEPTIBLE TO ANY TYPE OF DAMAGE WHATSOEVER! Great thinking everybody, I'm sure this will put us on the fast track to world domination and succeed where we've failed the last, oh, 700 times or so!
I'll never be able to understand why they voted on Giant Fat Guy Who's Part Robot #4,361 to represent us. The guy's a roving idiot who couldn't stand up to management even if Mr. X implanted a cybernetic metal backbone into him. You don't believe me? Here, take a look at this junk from his last address:
OUTSTANDING ISSUES REPORT: Robots with Spinning Blades demand more spinning blades and ability to spin blades faster so PLAYER 1 cant jump over or duck under blades during timed sequence. THERE IS NO ESCAPE, PLAYER 1. We meet with Tiny Green Guy Who Runs Around Giving Powerups Union and tell them to stop handing out valuable items inside our property or else we going to call cops and get they union license revoked. YOU'LL NEVER GET OUT ALIVE, PLAYER 1. 57th Union of Janitorial Floating Robots demand a way to turn off the Five Giant Crushing Steel Cylinders which constantly go up and down all day for no reason. They need to clean the dead raccoons off the bottom of them cylinders. YOU WILL DIE A SLOW, PAINFUL DEATH PLAYER 1. Me hungry want food. Round ball hand stop.
Yeah, that's a fantastic piece of literature right there, Giant Fat Guy Who's Part Robot #4,361. You did such a wonderful job standing up for our rights as generic video game enemies and demanding we receive the outrageously basic benefits we both deserve and need. I'm sure with a winner like you in charge, we'll finally get that Federated Insurance health care plan we've been working on for the past three years. You'll just march right into CEO Mr. X's office and tell him "ME WANT NO DEDUCTABLES AND COVERAGE FOR ANNUAL ROUTINE VISION EXAMS, ME KILL PLAYER 1 WITH SMASHY GUN" shortly before doing that thing where you crouch down and then get up and crouch down again for absolutely no reason whatsoever. But hey, I don't want to sound bitter or whatever, I'm sure the Video Game Henchman 563rd Union knew what they were doing when they elected you. My only concern is that you don't.
I would spend hours and hours writing up the Video Game Henchman 563rd Union reports and this is how they treat me?
Anyway, I've got a few free minutes to write here since PLAYER 1 just came through here and murdered everybody with that one gun that shoots bullets in three different directions, all of which can somehow pass through solid surfaces like the ground. I was on shift last Tuesday and was doing my scheduled appointed rounds where I run forward 10 feet, turn around, run backward 10 feet, and then repeat over and over for the next six hours. I usually don't mind doing this because I just bring my Gameboy and play Tetris all day until I start hearing gunfire and bloody shrieks of my fallen comrades in the distance. Then I put it away and try to put on a good show so if Mr. X sees any footage of me, he'll think I'm doing a great job. I guess it doesn't really matter since it's clear Mr. X doesn't give a crap anybody he employs; if he did, then he'd at least pay to arm me with some kind of weapon.
Oh yeah, did I tell you guys about that? After I wrote my last update, I suddenly found myself "relocated" to the industrial toxic waste warehouse sector, that big rectangle that's about 30 miles long and 30 feet tall, most of which is full of glowing green barrels and various annoying mutants who hop around everywhere really quickly. I was stripped of my gun which shoots slow moving white circles, which I guess isn't such a huge loss since retarded children in wheelchairs can avoid the projectiles that thing tosses out. My supervisor, Giant Green Alien Tentacle Monster On Tank Treads #27 told me that my new weapon was "death touch," which I guess means that if I simply come into contact with PLAYER 1 then he'll die, but there's no way in hell I'm going out of my way to test that out. They don't pay me enough for that kind of crap; it's bad enough that I'm being paid minimum wage to run back and forth in this neon clown funhouse cancer pit.
As I was saying, there I was, doing my rounds and minding my own business like I'm paid to do. Not paid well, but that's another issue. After my 8,362nd pass, this gun just kind of magically appears on the ground in the middle of my route, and although I can't exactly stop to examine the thing, it appears to be one of those guns which shoots the fire everywhere and makes people like me blink repeatedly until we disappear. Now I'm not going to start bitching about how ridiculous it is for all of us to be outgunned in our own damn bases by PLAYER 1, but - no wait - hell yes I'm going to bitch about that! I am fully aware that Mr. X has a budget just like every other megalomaniac corporation hellbent on destroying the world with an orbital plasma cannon, but I feel it's completely reasonable to demand some kind of security precautions so PLAYER 1 doesn't find easier, more effective ways to murder us employees by the metric truckload. Here are a few ideas I came up with to at least slow down the number of employee casualties that are a direct result of giving free firepower to PLAYER 1 every 10 seconds:
1) You know all those training courses and seminars we have to sit through during initiation that say over and over how important it is to keep the floors clean of trash and other obstacles which might block our progress when we're running forward in a straight line? Well they could add something to them that says, "oh yeah, if you see a bazooka or nuclear rocket launcher just sitting on the ground, perhaps you should either pick it up and throw it away." If they want to make it really catchy so people remember it, perhaps they could get some kind of hip cartoon character like a tiger with sunglasses to rap out something like:
Hey you cats, listen to me roar!
You better pick up that gun on the floor!
'Cuz if you don't, then I won't lie:
You and 40 million employees is gonna die!
Then the cartoon could do some breakdancing and maybe that beatbox stuff where he makes drum sounds by spitting into his hands. Er, paws.
2) I know this sounds strict, but perhaps there could be some kind of "no gun" policy? Yes, I'm aware that sounds counter-productive at first, especially for an industry that is attempting to crush all forms of government resistance by building an army of jet planes that transform into robots that transform into giant poison gas-spraying howitzer cannon beetle monsters, but think about it: if PLAYER 1 comes rushing into our Outrageously Linear Research Labs, guns blazing (like he always does), then he'll run out of bullets awfully quickly. Once he's out of ammo, there's no way for him to kill us if we remove all the guns from inside the complex, thus preventing him from successfully powering up. I mean, the only thing we got going for us is that whole "death touch" deal, which is absolutely worthless unless we can somehow convince PLAYER 1 to touch us, which is near impossible. Has anybody out there ever tried to trick PLAYER 1 into touching them? I offered the guy $500 and a photo of my nude sister and he didn't even consider it for a second. Then again, there might be flaws inherent to shouting "I'll give you $500 if you touch me," so maybe I don't blame him. Regardless, the point stands: PLAYER 1 can't kill us if he's got nothing to kill us with.
Putting these helpful reminders up on the walls might decrease the amount of powerups given out like M&Ms to PLAYER 1. Who's giving the guy all these anyway?
I don't really know why I'm bothering writing all this since I know Mr. X is just going to ignore my concerns; I guess I just would like to have some answers to my questions, that's all. I mean, I suppose I can kind of understand why there are guns and ammunition laying all over the ground, since we are a pretty evil corporation which uses guns to kill virtually everybody in the universe (except PLAYER 1), but I really can't understand these powerups that keep growing out of the floor. First of all, nobody employed by Mr. X can use the damn things. I've tried picking up the stupid items, licking them, and shoving them into my face, and I didn't feel any stronger or run any faster or any of that crap. Although he'll probably kill me for writing about it, Red Guy #56,380 once tried to forcefully shove a blinking "P" powerup into his, well, the hole where his poop comes out. Needless to say, he didn't get much more powerful and actually began walking around with a limp, at least for the 19 seconds before PLAYER 1 shot him and sent him to the great high score in the sky. I never told his son about that because it would absolutely mortify him. Oh yeah, and also because his son was killed last September when PLAYER 1 pressed the "self destruct" button on the Atomic Train Mr. X built to ship the highly volatile laser guns to his hideout in Eagle Ridge. God I hate those buttons.
Oh well, I guess this turned into another update where I bitch and moan about the myriad of completely idiotic and deadly working conditions I have to suffer through every hour of every day just so I can get a paycheck every other week and send half of it to my loud ex-wife. I don't really care any more, I found this awesome Canadian pharmacy on the Internet where I can order industrial-strength Prozac by the crate, so that's about the only thing making me tolerate this horrible job. But this stuff I'm suggesting, really, this is all really obvious and simple to implement. All I want is for Mr. X to stop permitting guns and powerups, both things none of us here can use, to fall into the blood-soaked hands of PLAYER 1. We're just trying to do our jobs here, so why make them even more unnecessarily complex and dangerous for us? Well, everybody except Giant Fat Guy Who's Part Robot #4,361. You can leave guns all over the place in his patrol area.
Hentai Game Re-Huh-Who?
Zack "Geist Editor" Parsons here with a brand bleeding new Hentai Game Review of the amusingly bloody "Jewel Knights Crusaders". Did you know that if you have sex with a virgin red candle wax comes out of her vagina? That's where pioneers got all of their candles before they discovered bees!
In her bondage gear Asako becomes Arshura and uses her hypnotic powers to turn average women into her obedient slaves. She only seems to be able to accomplish this one at a time, but that suits Asako's needs just fine. Her evil scheme is to use her henchwomen to have orgasms and harvest sperm that they then turn into magical floating gems that fly out of their womb through their stomachs. Asako harvests the gems like Tiberium and uses them to fuel and expand her own magical abilities.
I think you should probably go read this as soon as your boss isn't looking over your shoulder!
Did you know that you only use 10% of your brain? You may have heard that before. But what if you could use 100%? YOU CAN!
This is where the excerpt from an article usually goes. Since the content of this update is only intended for cool people, I refuse to place a single word in the path of blundering normal people.
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