The bar at Smogcutter was fully stocked and paid for. We shoved the pool table against the wall, which really opened up the room and created a killer impromptu dance floor. Our good friend DJ Radikal was there – fresh out of jail (tax evasion, yo) – to spin some crazy beats for us. There was a gorgeous spread of meats and cheeses on the table in the back, complete with a giant ‘E3’ carved in ice. Yessir. Last night the stage was set for another truly epic Hardcasual E3 party.

Too bad none of you lying fucks showed up.

I mean, if you weren’t planning on going, then why bother to RSVP ‘Attending’ to our facebook invite? There’s a ‘Maybe’ option for a reason. If we weren’t so confident that at least half of the two hundred of you that said you were coming were actually planning on attending, we wouldn’t have splurged so much on party streamers.

If this was some sort of joke, we aren’t laughing. We’re stewing in a big ol’ pot of nerd rage. And what we’ve got cooking for you is bitter and spicy and won’t go down easy.

You know, at first we thought that everyone was fashionably late. We cut you guys some slack. At around eleven, a  few locals came in. They bought Stellas, called us faggots and left. (To be fair, we were all dressed as Kratos from God of War.) No big deal. Little did we know that was going to be the highlight of our evening. If we knew then what we know now, we’d be swinging from the rafters by our controller cords instead of cooped up in our hotel room, drafting plans for revenge.

After midnight came and went with nary a guest in attendance we realized – to our horror – that our party was a bust. We were losers. The laughing stock of a fucking video game convention. How does one rationalize that? YOU FUCKING CAN’T.

The rest of the night was spent frantically sending out text messages to people who we thought were our friends, desperate for someone, anyone to drop by. All we got back were half-baked excuses. “Work in morning.” “Liver.” “Seeing Up.”

I mean, come on. None of so-called creative-types could come up with a single legitimate excuse for skipping out? Hell, one of you told us that you had “bear sickness,” whatever that means. At least come up with something that we can lie to ourselves and say is true as we toss and turn in our beds all night.

What the hell did Hardcasual do to deserve this?

Last year our E3 party was a rousing success. The line outside of The Wiggly Wombat was around the block. We danced and drank and fingerblasted each other until, like, four in the morning. Remember when Miyamoto showed up for like fifteen minutes and goose-stepped through the entire bar with his suit coat on backwards?  That guys was sure high on something.

Wasn’t that fun? How did you all forget so quickly?

We were confident that each year our parties would get bigger and better, so we spent our entire advertising budget on this one. Go big or go home, we told ourselves! It’ll get our name out there! Everything will work out in the end!

By the time four rolled around, we had downed nearly a quarter of the spirits. We held each other in the middle of the dance floor as we wept. We decided that today must be some obscure Jewish holiday. That must be why no one came. The little lies we tell ourselves, huh? But deep down, we knew the truth. This was a slap in the face; a shit on the chest.

One that won’t be soon forgotten.