How many times did this conversation about the t-shirt take place over the course of the two and a half hour party in Sheila’s backyard? A dozen times, at least. Friends, family, the hired help – no one was spared the explanation. Those who made the mistake of lingering near the drink table rarely returned, and those who did did so hastily, as if a horde of wild animals was about to stampede through and there was only two minutes to pour a vodka cranberry.
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With God of War III’s release, the Kratos Trilogy has finally come to a close. While Hardcasual is really going to miss all the foot-slashing, we know that these are things a “mature” person shouldn’t enjoy. (And certainly no one under the age of eighteen.) We haven’t played it yet, though, because we plan on importing the Chinese version of the game: Mr. Bald’s Jumprope Tag Adventure!
The blue turtle shell is only the tip of the iceberg. One has to wonder, are there still banana peels rotting on the brunette slopes of Choco Mountain? And how many fake item boxes have been left to the elements out in Yoshi Valley? These are the things we never think about when the confetti has been swept away and the winners and losers have all been chosen.
As Greg collects his jacket and car keys, he thinks about the day that he was given his marching orders from his father outside the tool shed on a swelteringly hot Alabama evening. Do what you love and everything will fall into place, his father had said, ever the benevolent quest giver. His words should have been the beacon with which Greg navigated his way through life. Instead, they were ignored, and now they rang in the bitter halls of his resignation.
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The bar ungulates with beautiful people Allen has yet to meet and, if not for the next 16 consecutive Tuesday nights in which he’ll play their personal cipher to the final season of LOST, he never would. That’s because they’re different than Allen. Jacob’s a cook and a college drop out. Zelda blogs at a gossip site down in Soho and says she’s never heard of the game she shares a name with – even though Allen brings it up every time they meet.
“Oh, cool, you like video games? Well, uh, my friend just played BioShock 2. Yeah. And he liked it. Or I think he did, I can’t tell. He won’t tell me until the embargo runs out. Isn’t that cool? Yeah, it is. Yeah, just keep talking me like you think I’m cool until your cousin looks over here. Yeah, then she might think I’m hot and then she’ll tell her friends. No, that’s not the only reason I’m talking to you. What’s your name? Oh, yeah. Great. Now look excited.”
Teddy makes his way to the bar and sidles up next to a blurry blonde stick sitting by herself. She turns towards him, her gigantic pink nose rendering, her bloodshot eyes flickering on bright and her lips chapping before him. She’s a hideous, stringy witch of a woman, twenty pounds heavier than any other girl at the bar; a being worthy of being alone, especially at a place like this. Now Teddy must find a way to dump this ugly chick, and fast.
Tracy Porter saves money on graph paper by shaving the Metroid world map above his left ear.
Yes, I know it’s really hard for you to make gut decisions, what with your Asperger’s and all, but I think that once you’ve mastered tackling things without the aid of a d20 in the safe confines of Todd’s basement here, you can take this way of thinking up those stairs and out the door, and maybe find yourself on a date with a woman that you don’t have to excuse yourself every half hour to make a secret roll in the men’s room.
Detroit, Michigan
Gordon Freelander spotted chasing paparazzi off his driveway, who were snapping pictures of him as he fixed up his cherry red 1976 Ford Mustang.
If we’d a rolled over and let all y’all egghead senators and…uh…congressionals…trample our second amendment rights, do you think we’d a lived as long as we have? Hell no! I mean, I can beat down a few sons’a’bitches with this here guitar, but a whole city-full? Boy, that’d a been hell on my arms.
How did I, Cliff Blezinski, become CliffyB? Kitchen-squats. And when Cliffy B didn’t bed a dozen women a night, what’d he do? Juiced pheromones out of dominant apes and slurped them like a friggin Diet Soda. Cliffy B takes action. So when folks get upset about New Games Journalism, the Cliffster fixes it.
Pokemon number 185 stares at the television with black, beady eyes. It’s firmly planted on the navy blue rug and looks like it hasn’t budged in days. It has a permanent smile on its face, but I can tell there’s no joy left inside that rock hard trunk. Only emptiness.
Dalaran, 23:10 GMT
As they washed Hippogryph shit out of their Tier 7 helms, two tauren adventurers promised themselves that they’d never exchange jewelcrafting tips beneath a flight path ever again.