Seriously? You’re going to make me play a game about farming? A game where I have to plant crops and make friends with townsfolk? This is the game I’M going to be reviewing? Me? Really? I guess that if we live in a world where people willingly eat Vegemite, Sarah Palin can be a governor and Carlos Mencia is considered a comedian, then it only follows that I would be reviewing a harmless, well-meaning game like Harvest Moon.
Here are my impressions from Harvest Moon, broken down by how long I’d been playing the game:
Slightly disappointing that I only have four characters for my little dude’s name. I call him “Chet,” because I hate that name and look forward to seeing someone named Chet fail miserably.
I’m tired of talking to all of these people. Nothing they say is even remotely interesting, the one exception being the screenshot for this article where I’m 99% sure that lady was hitting on me. I never thought I’d say this, but I just want to start farming already. LET ME OUT OF THIS GODDAMN TOWN. I SUGGEST *YOU* LISTEN TO THE VILLAGERS A LITTLE MORE YOU STUPID PIECE OF BRIDGE BLOCKING SHIT
Am I playing Harvest Moon, or am I playing IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS? I want to leave town. Let me leave town. Why can’t I leave town? I want to leave. I’m a free man. Boy. Whatever. Let me leave. Let me leave. I briefly consider going on a hunger strike in protest, but I’m physically incapable of going more than three hours without food, so it’s not an option.
I can’t stand it anymore.
Please, just let me out. Let me out. LETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUT! Who do you want me to talk to? I’ll talk to them! I’ll blow them! Just let me across the bridge already, please. PLEASE! Oh…OH, OF FUCKING COURSE. Why didn’t I realize that people would say something different to me if I WALKED AROUND THEIR COUNTERS. SILLY FUCKING ME NOT REALIZING THAT A COUNTER PREVENTS PEOPLE FROM CONVERSING PAST “WELCOME.” AAARRRRGGGGHHHHHH
The rancher Chet now has a free dog named Cory given to him by some desperate stranger. Is this the life of a rancher? Free dogs and croissant breakfasts? Time to get started on clearing out some rocks and shrubs!
Wow, Chet is a pussy. Tired already? You little bandana-wearing bitch. Pick up that fucking hammer and smash more rocks. Look how much you have to clear! Smash them. SMASH THE ROCKS. HARDEN THE FUCK UP, CHET! No, don’t fall over you little baby! I thought you were the son of a rancher! Why do you have the physical stamina of someone who spends all his time playing video games? I know I’m supposed to identify with you or something, but this is totally ridiculous. Fine, go back to bed, you fucking failure.
Chet is done being a rancher. He can’t handle it. How is someone who can’t break rocks or cut shrubs for more than a few minutes at a time supposed to deal with all the responsibilities that come with livestock and girls? There’s just no way. Chet stays in his shed drinking moonshine and waiting for blindness as harvest and festival days slip past his waning attention. The season turns as his vision dims. He hears a scratching on the door: it’s Cody, and he’s hungry. So hungry. In a fit of delirium, Chet opens the door and though near death, Cody finds the strength to rip out Chet’s Achilles tendon, sending him screaming to the floor. Teeth rend Chet’s carotid artery and the world slips blissfully away. Blood pulses across the dirty floor, and the moon shines through the window, illuminating the gory scene.