Super Bases Loaded


Hello. You look like you’ve played a baseball game on your Super Nintendo. Your hands are cold, breathing rapid. You just kicked your baby. But you begin to relax. Humanity is slowly returning to your torn neurons. There is a place for love once again in your heart. Sin and solace combine to form a new breed of angel. You are the benevolent decayed. You speak no good but do no evil. You are balance.

In your new form, you will wonder the world searching for those who are lost. Like you, the lost ones have no desire. They sit, rank and wet, on cold stone, drinking in the light of a thousand suns, spread over millennia. Eyes bulging with eye-juice, they pound their pads in frustration. Super. Bases. Loaded.

The crowd goes wild. The men and women of infinity locked in a dark grey shell. They share a meaningless battle. Impossible games. A ball moving faster than is humanly perceptible, time slows down. In the nanosecond before contact, the ball wonders if there’s life in the moon’s core. A thought ended by steel.

Meanwhile strings descend from the rafters. They cradle the ball, lift it out, up, over the fence. There is illusion and there is deception. Which is this? The crowd sings the victory song:

“Oh, we won

I guess that’s good.

See you tomorrow.

Fucking hell.”

“Why do people even come to these games?” Whispers a little boy. He is killed. But first his skin is torn off. Slowly. He is forced to drink his own blood until it drips again from the hole in his gut. He is not strong. They are ruthless. When he is dead, people will give him a new name. His new name will be Stanley Bumley. He will never see his father again.

God wakes up and feels around for his pocket watch. He turns on the oil lamp and stares at the time. He’s late. He staggers to the door, half eaten toast in one hand, sense of dread slowly creeping over him. He opens the door. Silence. Nothing.

Rumors of the death of God. A German monk in a white hat says, “I told you so.” Irony. God lives on. It is his creation that has died.

Somewhere a stranger hears wild women in the night. They drink man’s blood. They are not safe to touch. He curls up with the light instead. A lover that won’t betray him.

Baseball. They call it baseball.

I call it death.

Space Football

Do not disturb the babies.

Space Football Instructional Brochure

Welcome to Space Football! Before you get on the field (the ASTEROID FIELD, that is!!), please take some time to familiarize yourself with the basics of this space-age game. It is imperative that you pay close attention to this manual, lest your poor performance be attributed to your smaller-than-average cranial cavity. We begin!

Point of the Game

As with any game, the point of the game is to win. You win by grabbing the little flying saucer and zooming over and putting it with another flying saucer. If the two flying saucers fall in love and have babies, you score one point. If the flying saucers don’t fall in love, but still have babies, you score two points. (This is because it is less likely.) If the flying saucers fall in love, and have several babies, you score seven points. (This is because babies are required for the safety of all the citizens of earth.) If your opponent does any of these things, shame on you! He gets points! Mathematically, this is identical to you losing points. You should have been more careful.

Success is for you!


The arrow buttons zoom. The B button shoots red flying saucers, which actually do nothing except make you fly backwards. Nothing else does anything.

Your Opponent

We have chosen your opponent from the spice mines of Dangoo 6. He is dumb as a fish making a wish. The spice of Dangoo 6 makes one as dumb as a fish making a wish. It is for this reason that he is as dumb as a fish making a wish. This can be further illuminated by the realization that fishes who make wishes are not being proper fishes; proper fishes are rational hedonists — searching for pleasure, running from pain. A fish making a wish would be as dumb as a beetle eating a Hot Pocket. Your opponent is so dumb that, even if you don’t play the game, he will never score. Not ever. He has no clue how to do it.


We made your opponent dumb as a fish making a wish because you are as dumb as a monkey with a car key. You are so dumb that you cannot tell how far away the ball is. The only way you can tell if the ball is close to you is by driving at it. If it goes by you, it was close to you, but not where you thought it was. If it doesn’t go by you, but slides to either side of you, FOLLOW IT! The ball is wily and will attempt to escape! This must not be allowed! If the ball were too escape, the shield of babies protecting the earth from the sun’s dangerous rays would be penetrated! The world would explode!


Space is the final frontier. So is your mom. Thus, your mom = space. Since space = a vacuum, this explains the degree to which she sucks my dick.


Geez, sorry! Nice greenroom you've got there, Bruce Lee.

I have atrocious eyesight and could never be a pilot. Luckily for me, I never had any desire to be a pilot and instead wanted to be a giant nerd with big stupid glasses, so that worked out okay. It’s why I’m writing a review of the SNES game Pilotwings instead of flying an actual plane. That’s the only reason.

Pilotwings for the Super Nintendo Entertainment System* is yet another Mode 7 offering, so it’s already got strike one from me (out of twelve possible strikes, like baseball x4). I’ve talked about it before, but I just plain don’t like Mode 7 graphics—they’re all blocky and make me miss Mode 6 graphics. I think that was the best mode of graphics. 6. I’m too young to appreciate Modes 1-5 and too old to understand that sexually confusing Mode Gaga. I almost made a P-P-Pilotwings joke here but decided against it. Kind of?

When you’re playing a flight simulator, what’s your favourite part? If you said “landing,” then you’re entirely unlike me but will probably enjoy Pilotwings in a way I did not: a little. Yeah, I don’t like Pilotwings. First I’m trying to land a plane, but—oh no!—I missed a floating green ball! Damn! If only I’d been able to slowly turn my ponderous plane in the proper direction and hit the Loc-Nar, then maybe that guy wouldn’t be so disappointed with me. But no, I miss the Loc-Nar. But never fear, I don’t miss the ground! Oh no, I hit that thing right on target. Except not, since I suck. I can’t even crash right. Dale Earnhardt would be so disgusted.

How about skydiving? It’s too bad I accidentally spun off course, and now I don’t even know where the course is! I’d get back to it, but I have zero clue what direction it’s in and all I can see in the game is brown. Just a giant patch of dirt silently awaiting my incoming failure. Here I come, failure! Headfirst! The same way I came into the world to begin with! WHOOOO *crunch* (that was the sound of the doctor eating a carrot—he is health-conscious because he is a doctor and recognizes the importance of proper nutrition even as he is busy delivering babies. He is a true American hero, unlike G.I. Joe, who was Hawaiian.)

In conclusion, this is the last sentence I’m going to write for this article, with the exception of any footnotes.

* Ohhh! Now it all makes sense!