Lock On

Hold me closer, tiny dancer
Hold me closer, tiny dancer

So, flu season has struck to the heart of this writer, dear reader! Alas, I am struck to the heart, with flu, and symptoms thereof.

I’m all delirious and shit. I think. I’m not quite sure if any of this is real, actually.

A moment ago, my space-plane was zooming after bitty hexagons on the horizon and blowing them to hell. Now I’m writing about it, like a war hero/journalist coming back from the front lines only to be ridiculed because he/she didn’t bring back any jam for tea. WTF! I brought back marmalade, that’s almost jam!

Everything has to be about war! WHY? And why is war so fuckin’ easy? Is American space-plane technology so good that they can ram a warhead up a womp-rat from a distance of eighty light-years? Probably. Yeah, unlike every other game created for this system, this game is pretty easy. All you gotta do is shoot missiles all the time and blast your laser like it’s your favourite drug. The bad guys come at you four at a time, but no problem for you, cause you have a secret weapon: a little blippy thing that comes out the back of you and makes the missile go, “I’ve grown tired of life,” and blow itself up.

Count the headlights on the highway
Count the headlights on the highway

Seems like a waste of a good missile, really.

And this is so much of a flight sim that you can’t even crash. It’s actually impossible. You can try, but your super-techno space-plane will gradually ease back on the stick in its papa-knows-best way. “Why won’t you let me end this??!” sprach Jared to the sky, with foaming mud rolling down shoulders so cold. I have no God but the one who meets my needs!”

AND THE GODS HAVE MERCY! My ship, gorged on fuel, sinks low. The screen, he sayeth, “fin,” and I believe.

Narrator: Without any fuel left, Jared cannot continue his reign as the Freddie Prinze Jr. of the skies. He is stranded, alone and hungry, on one of those many repeating islands below. This one is called “England.”

Now England is a tall and funny sort of nation, with butter and bread and cats-up (what the fuck is cats-up??).

Jared: If you’ll take the time to examine Scott’s review that he wrote while he was sick, you’ll see that I’ve done a terrible job. In fact, I’ve only been able to accomplish two of the tasks on his checklist, you jimmy-wimblers, nancy-boys, charlie-nogoods.

Oh, here’s a try for the last one: what do when you mix a man and a woman who love each other very much? A child with many of their characteristics.


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