Please vote, it’s for science.
“Hey kid, the fuck do you think you’re going? Yeah, you. The one pointing to himself and looking around all like, ‘He can’t possibly be talking about me, can he?’ Yeah. Where the hell you going, walking by me with a piping hot pan of, uh–”
“Canadian-bacon-pineapple pizza, sir.”
“Ah, yes–the Hawaiian. The hell don’t you just call it a Hawaiian pizza? Who the fuck orders a ‘canadian-bacon-pineapple’ pizza?”
“We already have a specialty pizza called The Hawaiian, sir.”
“You do? And let me guess–it’s got red onions and American bacon and some sweet-and-sour shit on it, and costs five bucks more than a real, honest Hawaiian.”
“For fucking shame–uh–hey, where’s your nametag?”
“They haven’t given me one yet. I’m new. Name’s Shane.”
“Well, Shane. That’s some fucking bullshit. What kind of incompetent fuck doesn’t give nametags to his employees? He think you’re all just faceless drones or what?
“It’s a ‘she’, sir.”
“Oooooh, my bad. Hey, uh, between you and me–she hot?”
“She’s standing right over there behind the register. You tell me.”
“Wuh-hoah! Yikes. That’s a big negatory.”
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to serving–“
“Okay, so serve me. There you were, walking right past me, holding a pan of Hawaiian–the real stuff–and you didn’t even stop to ask if I wanted a slice. I’m hurt, Shane.”
“But your plate’s full.”
“So? You think I’m gonna stop once I finish this plate or something? Just stack a slice on top that pepperoni-olive-sausage and you can go on your merry way.”
“Can’t, sir. It’s against–“
“No. No more of this ‘sir’ shit, Shane. I ain’t that fucking old. I ain’t gonna keel over mid-meal, grasping at the air with one hand and clutching at my heart or my throat with the other. Sir, ha! Name’s Johnny.”
“Well, Johnny Law, as I was saying, it’s against company policy to give a customer a new slice if their plate’s full.”
“Hey Shane, this an all-you-can-eat joint, or what?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays from five-to-eight, yes.”
“Holy shit, Shane. You pop a gear or something? You almost sounded human there.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have to go–“
“No, don’t gimme that, Shane. You stacked a goddamn pepperoni pyramid for that girl at the table over by the jukebox. Don’t gimme that horseshit.”
“Johnny! Johnny goddamn Law!”
“Johnny, she’s an employee on break. And I didn’t give her those slices. She grabbed them.”
“Playing favorites for the ladies, eh? Wanna hold on while I go to Tijuana and grow some rusty tits right quick? That what I gotta do to get a fucking slice a Hawaiian ’round here?”
“Tell you what, Johnny.”
“You eat a piece–one of those six on your plate–and I’ll give you a slice of canadian-bacon-pineapple.”
“Okay, fair’s fair. Lemme just cut this piece here–”
“I’ve never seen a spoon used for that before. You know, there’s a fork and knife over there next to your plate, sir.”
“Your point, kiddo? Knives are the tools of serial killers and forks are for people who can’t find their way around a goddamn spoon.”
“Spoon’s a versatile tool. You can’t eat soup with a fork or a knife, but you can eat a salad with a spoon.”
“What about sporks?”
“Don’t gimme no goddamn lip. This ain’t fucking Taco Bell.”
“Okay, sir. Here’s your slice.”
“I ain’t finished this slice yet!”
“The pizza’s getting cold. I don’t want to disappoint other customers who love candian-bacon–“
“Christ alive, Shane. Don’t you fucking dare. You say that awkward shit one more time and I swear I will fucking show you why you don’t want to see me pick up a goddamn knife.”
“Fuck you, kiddo. Say it. It’s a delicioso motherfucking Hawaiian pizza you’re carrying. Say it or so help me, with Brando as my witness I will make your ribcage an offer it can’t refuse.”
“Yeah? What’s the pizza, Shane?”
Wrote this for a contest which spontaneously decided not to exist one day after I wrote a piece specifically for it which used the phrase “I’ve never seen a spoon used for that before” as per contest requirements. Ah well, I still dig it. Maybe they meant November of next year for the deadline?
And he’s next.
It’s come down to this final race against the clock as he rushes to finish his time machine prototype before the killer tracks him down.
But can he save his brothers from their fate? Or will his meddling result in a world that no one wants to live in anymore?
It’s a new psychological thriller from the mind of Tim Burton.
Johnny Depp as the murderous beast,
Helena Bonham Carter as the reluctant love interest who will eventually discover that her heart is still capable of love,
and Ving Rhames as:
The Third Little Piggie.
This summer you won’t want to miss the only movie guaranteed to blow…
I’ve been wanting to post a review of Bloodborne for quite some time to kick off my gaming sub-site.
But it just ain’t that simple.
See, it would be impossible to talk about Bloodborne without first talking about the Souls games. Bloodborne is, in every way but its name, a Souls game. Mechanics and elements have been tweaked and refined, but it is still very much a Souls game.
But does it live up to its predecessors, the critical praise, and the hype?
Read on for the next five pages you will have to click individually that are filled with fifteen pop-up ads each to find out!
Just kidding. I fucking hate that shit.
If you’d like to know my opinion on the matter, I will tell you straight out that I think Bloodborne is another masterpiece that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Demon’s and Dark (the first). And, like its predecessors, it must also be acknowledged that it is a flawed masterpiece.
But, just like relationships, what it really comes down to is how you feel about various flaws and whether or not you believe you can overlook them and enjoy the game/lover for who they are.
Bloodborne inherits many of its joys and its problems from its Miyazakiborne predecessors. And considering the unique nature of these games, the best way to describe the newest is to start by examining the way the others work as a basis for comparison. So, just like Vizzini told Inigo, we must first go back to the beginning.
I’m currently working on a retrospective covering each of the Souls games, starting with Demon’s. And admittedly, it’s getting a bit out of hand. I’ve got a rough draft for part one of the first game finished that nearly breaks 3,000 words. This is ending up more of a novella than a simple game review.
But if you’re interested in that kind of long-read discussion of the underpinnings of games, I think you might enjoy it.
More to come very soon.
and everybody knows it. The floors
are never clean enough and
you’ll never get out fast enough for
Mr. Mani-Pedi, the owner/asshole
who only ever comes in Monday mornings
to drop off the supplies he picked
up earlier that day from Sam’s Club.
Fucker never buys enough
floor cleaner anyway, so you’re
scrubbing the floor with bleach
by week’s end, which doesn’t really
work, but nobody listens to you so
don’t bother bringing it up.
Raise your voice and be known
as the complainer around here. Just run
the month-old disposable mop
head smelling of piss and pepperoni
over the floor, and be sure to pick up
the split-end threads that fall out when
you vigorously scrub down those mysterious
gooey black spots. You could throw
those loose mop threads in the trash
one-by-one as they appear on the tile,
but you might as well stuff ’em in your pocket,
wait ‘til you’re done, and throw that shit
away all at once. Saves time. And you already
smell like pizza and farts anyway since you
just cleaned the floor drain out. At least
you got to yell “fuck” as loud as you wanted
when the drain butter spattered on you as
you sprayed that shit down. Manager didn’t
care. Too busy blowing his paycheck up his nose
in that bathroom you just cleaned. Still is.
The bathroom door finally opens and he comes
out stretching in an over-exaggerated and
accomplished fashion and initiates some
uncomfortable eye contact. His smile twitches
and he says, “Whatcha wanna hear tonight?”
You smile back and say, “Whatever is cool, man.”
But secretly, you hope it’s Maiden.