Chavez II


I like boxing. I enjoy watching men beat the shit out of each but still be gentlemen (for the most part) about it.

I do not like UFC at all. There’s something about guys with tribal tattoos being sponsored by energy drinks that I find incredibly “frat-house”. I can picture most of those dudes high fiving the fuck out of each in celebration of the usual Friday-Night-Date-Rape.

Fuck that kind of guy.

  • The kind of guys that call everyone “bro”.
  • The kind of guy who wears cargo pants and isn’t on safari somewhere.
  • The kind of guy who flips the collar up on his polo.
  • The kind of guy who wears multiple polos at once.
  • The kind of guy who wears Abercrombie/American Eagle.
  • The kind of guy who wears “The Man – The Legend” shirts.
  • The kind of guy who thinks that Korn is the heaviest band on the planet and as a result of listening to them he thinks that everyone should view him as “crazy”, “extreme”, or “psycho”.
  • The kind of guy who spells “sick” with multiple “q”s.
  • The kind of guy that wears sea shell necklaces during the summer months.
  • The kind of guy that is always, ALWAYS down to do shots.
  • The kind of guy that genuinely feels that a good time cannot be had without Tequila (preferably Tequila shots).
  • The kind of guy that believes sandals are appropriate at any and all events.
  • The kind of guy that expresses his enjoyment of a party by yelling the name of the thing he is at (i.e. “PARTY!).
  • The kind of guy that feels the word “party” isn’t expressive enough so he adds in his own vowels where he sees fit (i.e. “PARTAY!”).
  • The kind of guy that will happily watch any Vin Diesel movie.
  • The kind of guy that likes to encourage you to consume your beverage faster by screaming his mantra into your sweaty, nervous face over and over (i.e. “CHUG CHUG CHUG!!!”)
  • The kind of guy that enthusiastically reads Maxim and applies the knowledge he amassed in each issue to his every day affairs (i.e. putting Gold Bond on your junk will make you sweat less and make more girls want to eat your cock as a result).
  • The kind of guy that still loves to give wedgies and/or swirlies.
  • A guy named Brad, or Zack, or Chet, or Chaz.

Fuck that guy.

This game is basically like every boxing game. I know that sounds like a copout but it’s true. This game was not and is not revolutionary although it is very clearly sponsored by both Pepsi and Pizza Hut.

I like Dominos and Coca-Cola.

Carrier Aces


I hate flying games. Flying games are way too complicated and there’s usually no pay off. It’s like trying to sleep with girls that listen to NPR and check Pitchfork every 5 minutes. I just don’t have time to devote to something that won’t end in burgers or orgasms, or if I’m lucky, both, in any order I see fit.

This game is exactly like every other flying game in that everything looks exactly the same and it is incredibly fucking boring.

Here are the highlights of the game:

The End.

You buy planes, go up and down, try to shoot at Asians like some racist hillbilly pilot. That’s it.

In high school I wrote a story about a guy who wanted to be a pilot. Here is a summary of that story.

There was a guy, a guy who liked flying. He didn’t bother to make friends with anyone because he knew it would distract him from focusing on his goal: becoming a pilot. He studied morning, noon, and night. He didn’t play sports or watch TV. He didn’t get good grades in school because he couldn’t devote any of his time to anything other than trying to get his pilot’s license. He sacrificed everything in his life for the realization of his dreams. When he was finally old enough he went for his written exam. He passed with flying colours. His mom, proud of his achievements, offered to take him for ice cream to celebrate, instead he insisted they go home so he could study some more. Months later, after logging hundreds of flight hours, he was ready to go for his “full” license. He was so nervous that he couldn’t eat or sleep. His mom drove him to the airfield on the big day but they got in a car wreck and he was tossed from the car, through the windshield, the glass severing arteries in his arms and legs. The ambulance came and rushed him to the hospital. They had to amputate his appendages. Now he’ll never fly a plane and all the kids call him stumpy.

Needless to say my genius was not rewarded with praise and accolades but instead with a suspension from English class for the next week and a half.

Cacoma Knight in Bizyland

I’ll be honest. I didn’t play this game. I have played numerous versions of this game but not this one specifically. I downloaded the rom but it kept freezing on my DS every time I got to the part where Wagamama shows up.


No that was not a mistake, nor was it a joke. Someone named the villain of this QIX rip-off Wagamama. I assume that she is the Supreme Overlord of Fox News’ Atlanta affiliate WAGA Fox 5 News .

Here is the message I sent them on MySpace:


What’s up buddy?

I am a big fan of the news which you are good at. I am also a big fan of your boss, Wagamama. I like how she made you named the station after her so people know it’s hers, like the same way dogs pee on each other. You know what I’m getting at.

What’s it like working for a fine bitch like that? Using mirrors and shit to complete fuck with the townspeople in Bizyland??? And then this young fuck and his magic chalk come around like a bunch of dick bags and start drawing over the rocky, depressing landscapes you worked so hard to create and then that shit transforms into flowers and all sorts of other pussy nonsense.

Look, I know this is short notice, but I’m going to be in the ATL next week and I’m really looking forward to the job interview you’re agreeing to setup with me by not replying to this message.

I’m also really looking forward to automatically getting the job you’re agreeing to give to me by answering anything at all to this message. Even if you just write gibberish back to me, I will assume that I have the job and just start showing up to work everyday. I’ll even bring my own mirror so that we can turn all sorts of shit all topsy-turvy.

So in summation, if you don’t write back, I have a job interview whenever the fuck I want, any time next week. And if you do write back, even if it’s just to say fuck off, then I have the job and will expect some fucking monies every week.


Scott MacDonald Shewan

As of right this moment, they have not replied. I’m going to be in Atlanta as of this Wednesday.

Also, QIX is a way better “making squares game”.



When I was a kid one summer I decided to round up all the cats in my neighbourhood and tie them to one and other and then shoot fireworks right at them. They’d get incredibly freaked out and start to fight. There would be fur and cat blood everywhere. It was awesome. I would charge neighbourhood kids 50 cents to watch the action and place bets and then at the end of the summer I would spend the money on skin mags and orange creamsicles. I would have gotten away with all of it had Jenny Hutchens not told Mrs. Moffet on me after she caught me drawing cats being disembowelled by each other.

I was furious with her for a long time.

We eventually started going out in sophomore year of high school and by the time we were seniors we were making hump on a regular basis. I kept alluding to wanting to marry her after graduation and I had even dropped hints to her friends that I was planning on popping the question at prom. At the end of prom when Stairway to Heaven started I could tell she was getting nervous, speaking quickly, smiling non-stop, playing with her hair. Instead of proposing I punched her in the cunt and dumped a bag of dead cats on her. I escaped under the bleachers, where I had stored the bag of cat carcasses, and then made it out the side exit. I went home and told my parents I had a lovely time. I fell asleep with a smile on my face knowing that I taught her not to fuck with me again.

This game is kind of like that but more like Mortal Kombat. You have the possibility of playing as any of the ill-named animals warriors, all of which are slightly more homo-erotic than the last.

This game, like every other game I’ve reviewed so far, is complete fucking garbage. I would not play this any longer than I had to, which I didn’t.

Animals should only do two things (neither of which is fighting):

  1. Learn how to bring me cold beverages from the fridge.
  2. Fuck right off.


Over the years I have played an incredible number of Breakthru clones and they all make me feel the exact same way: murderously angry.


I have never played a game that I am so terrible at and yet love so much. I have shitty reflexes and I’m slow as fuck, two things that do not bode well for my ability to play this piece of shit. I can cruise through the first few levels and I’m getting shit done. I’m pilling up and knocking down the blues and then the yellows, I’m a fucking man of action. But then they start adding colours and shit is piling up faster and I stop being able to find big clusters of similar cubes. It’s a mosaic of failure. I have woven myself a quilt of suck. Oh fuck I’m drowning in colourful squares. Oh shit my lungs are filling up. Fuck. It’s over. I am shamed and wet myself.

Playing this game is like being in a fucking shitty relationship. I come home from work and I get dinner ready, it’s delicious but we both eat it in silence. I do the dishes. I try to tell her she looks lovely and ask her about her day but the second I open my mouth, the belt is off and she’s whipping me in the face and chest. I’m bleeding and I can’t see out of my left eye. I cough up blood. I can feel teeth rolling around in the back of my throat. I swallow and choke. Everything goes white. I cough up more blood and the teeth follow. She stands over the top of me sweaty and fuming. I curl up and hug her ankles and beg forgiveness. I promise I can change. Maybe I can learn to cook better. Maybe I can just stop talking altogether. Whatever she needs, I want to give it to her. I need to give it to her. I beg for forgiveness. I tell her I’m sorry, that I can change. She spits on me and says I’d better.

The next night I come home, feeling confident, feeling like I can best this situation, like I can finally come out on top. But much like every night, I spend the next few hours nursing my wounds and picking leather fragments out of my face.

This game is like playing Tetris, but instead of getting good at it, you don’t. It laughs at your dick size and makes fun of you for crying during Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

Puzzle games make me fucking hate myself more than usual. I am not good at them and that makes me an idiot. This is just one of the many reasons I’ll never get married and probably never have sex again. All of my meals come in cans. I am a complete failure in every possible sense of the word. My parents were 100% right about me.


It is not often that I feel a game was designed exclusively for me. Not since Dr. Zhivago’s House of Big Titted Sluts and Fine Cheeses, has a game appealed to me on such a deep emotional level.


The premise of this game is that you’re the homeless son of Hacksaw Jim Duggan and the Garbage Pail Kids and the only way you can get your dick hard is by fucking rolling your boogers and flicking them at shit in this professor’s lab.

You are a sexual fiend who has completely fetishised his own mucus. You pick and roll and pick and roll and pick and roll and pick and roll until you find that perfect snot nugget, the holy grail of green globs; the booger with the single nose hair in it. You stare at it and it stares back into the empty chasm of your soul. Random images flood your mind, horseback rides, pastrami sandwiches, failed math tests. And then, as if by magic, the memories congeal and form a timeline: your timeline. There’s your first bike. There’s the tree where your dad built you a fort. There’s your Nana. Wave to Nana! You wave to Nana. Nana smiles.

Your memories speed up. Colours and sounds whirl past you, bursting into violent spheres of shame and rage and joy and laughter. And then just as abruptly as it started, it stops. You’re back in the present. You eat your booger. It’s salty. You smile and go to sleep.

This game is nothing like I’ve described.


You are a rich guy who likes snots

You wear a cape

You get into this dude’s lab

You try to ruin his day

You are a poor man’s Earthworm Jim

In spite of the fact that I’m their target audience (overweight, white male, doesn’t pull back the foreskin all the way when he pees so it sprays everywhere like putting a spoon over the end of a hose), this game is only fun for about 15 minutes, tops. Even the novelty of boogers eventually wears off. I’m saying that and I’m INCREDIBLY immature.

Two Snotty Thumbs Down.

Bill Laimbeer’s Combat Basketball

Somehow I’m getting stuck with playing (and reviewing) sports games that have been painted with the mighty, woman-repellent brush of science-fiction.

I like basketball. I’ve been a Celtics fan for as long as I can remember. I also like chainmail. Aside from first names, it’s the only thing Scott Steiner (aka the weathervane of cool) and I have in common. But just because I like both them doesn’t necessarily mean that combining the two will somehow enhance my love of the game.

Here’s another example. I like to have sex with my girlfriend. I love my dad. I do not think that my dad somehow giving my girlfriend the wang will enhance anything for me except my frustration and willingness to murder out of pure blinding rage.

Here’s the premise of the game: Bill Laimbeer is bummed about not playing basketball anymore and needs something to recapture the thrill of beating Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, and Michael Jordan in the NBA finals (on separate occasions) so he decides he’s going to become the commissioner of some pro basketball league.

Bill Laimbeer

In a post-apocalyptic future where they have no unions , Bill fires whoever the fuck he wants (i.e. refs and any sort of governing body) and decides he’s going suit everyone in armour and arm them with fucking dynamite. In short he has decided to take his no-holds-barred, I’m-a-tough-motherfucker street style of basketball to the extreme. And if there’s anything I’ve learned from dudes who flash the hang-loose and metal horns alternately, it’s that extreme is sweet.

This game plays like NBA Jam would if you chopped both your thumbs off and were somehow forced to hook this up underwater. Imagine playing polo in shopping carts and you would have the basic idea as to how this game controls.

It’s similar to every sports game in that you can trade players and shit but it’s different from a lot of them in the sense that it sucks. Bill Laimbeer is a bitch if he thinks that explosions make things better. That only works for making fuck and Jason Statham movies.

This game is on par with stuffing radio antennas in your peehole and then going around trying to “fuck zap” people: just because it sounds futuristic doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.