John Madden Football 93


John Madden, you wily son of a bitch, where’s the throw button?

I played this game for a whopping 12-14 minutes and played through two possessions, always picking passing plays (I can tell the difference). And, wevery time, I ran DIRECTLY AWAY from the defense and pushed every button I could think of to throw. I spun a bunch, mostly. A couple times I fell down on my own. And the other team got a bunch of sacks.

I don’t like these football games that are opaque and irritating and borderline useless. And I blame John Madden alone. John Madden, you’re dead meat.


I dunno how I’m gonna do it yet but I’m gonna. I’m going to put poison in a chicken which I will put in a turkey and feed it to you, maybe. I call it TURDIOXIN. Aren’t you hungry, John?

Or maybe I’ll put a little bug in your head primed to explode if it hears you say anything brutally obvious (eg. “Hey, the offensive linemen are the biggest guys on the field, they’re bigger than everybody else, and that’s what makes them the biggest guys on the field.”). You’d have to constantly think of things to say that aren’t dumb. It’d be like a race: would your brain fail first, causing the tiny C4 nanoterror to annihilate your brainstem, or would your heart give out due to the sheer effort you need to output to not say something painfully evident?

I have no shortage of awesomely diabolical supervillain ideas to get you, John Madden. Carpet bombing your house with pigskins (which are, in turn, filled with carpet bombs)? Eye on the sky, MAD-DEN! Or maybe you’d like it if I filled you with a deadly disease and put the only antidote on an airplane (oh yes, I read Wikipedia and found out you hate planes! Your weaknesses are EXPOSED TO THE WORLD!)?

John Madden, my name is Brilliam. But you can call me Death.