ATLANTA, GA. – “Hey, she’s a dame. What do ya say, Hermie? We pick her up and show her a good time, give her the presidential treatment?”
Two pairs of eyes met in agreement on the rearview mirror. As it slowed to a stop, the campaign van brakes cried out in protest.
“I’ll introduce myself.”
The man in the backseat watched through tinted windows. “Yes, what is it?” the woman inquired of the driver, who approached her on foot now. He was a stocky white gentleman wearing a sportcoat, stylish prescription glasses, and a stained yellow mustache that matched his teeth.
“You want to meet a celebrity?”
“What are you doing?” she asked as he got closer. Her face changed, although an expression of politeness remained. “Now, wait just a second, what do you want? Back! Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The driver had grabbed her by the wrist, but when she pulled away, he slapped her across the face and took her by her curly brown hair, leading her into the side door of their idling press wagon. She noticed it now, out of the corner of her eye: 2012.
Perhaps you’ve seen him on TV. He’s bringing jobs back to America. He believes we can take this country back. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here today. His marriage fell to ruin in the wake of a series of sexual harassment scandals that surfaced as researchers snuffled for anything that might drop him out of the running. The hours were getting short; the days, much darker. It was only a matter of time now.
With their fly in tow, our two spiders drove around back of a warehouse not far from where they acquired a thirst for young flesh. Once inside, they removed her blindfold. The building was stacked to the tits with beer koozies, picket signs, boxes labeled “flair,” cardboard figures and T-shirts in every color and size ranging from small to medium to large, extra large, extra extra large, and the unthinkable XXXL. With no small degree of confusion, she absorbed her surroundings, forgetting for a moment the two dark figures just ten feet behind her. She struggled for breath at the sheer immensity of wall-to-wall fascism, lights shining on American flags, and in her eyes, too. She squinted to ascertain the meanings of slogans and effigies. America never looked so cheap. That is, until a red crowbar wedged itself between her right eye and the inner socket, hooking itself on her temple. The pain was insurmountable. She could not scream, and collapsed instantaneously under shock. Dull sensations of otherness were shooting off at random locations around her body. The pain was unfathomable. Reality ceased. A voice gave instructions. She followed them, without question, without understanding, with no intellectual capacity whatsoever to guide her through this terrible nightmare. She was no longer human.
The young woman – a skinny waitress in her thirties – with her fist in her mouth, put the other hand down to her gingham skirt. Her broken hand was gnarled into a claw, but using that claw, she tugged upward at her skirt with pathetic incapability, in a bid to satiate the verbose bloodlust of her attacker, candidate for the U.S. Republican Party presidential nomination, Herman Cain – a Georgia Tea Party activist.
The hairs on Herman’s neck bristled with anticipation. In the dark, he could not see it, but a flash of recognition darted through the young lady’s body as she made out the face of a man she once knew. A man who, before, had told her what to do in a more professional setting. She worked in one of his restaurants. Her boss. The owner.
Your God is Power. You have no shame.
“Rape victims are sluts who produce their own birth control. But you’re no victim,” declared Mr. Cain, a former deputy chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City. “You like this. I’m going to teach you to like me.” As he pumped, and huffed, and breathed scotch into his victim’s mouth, his eyes glazed over and fixated on the corner of the room, where he imagined a younger, better looking rape victim. And briefly, he pictured his wife. “Now secrete it!”
Herman Cain crouched down over the woman, who was now bloody, disheveled and used, and he asked her politely if he might take her out to dinner sometime, and if he can get that phone number.
Black dots patterned across his vision, bubblewrapping the terrible scene beneath him, the product of his undoing. One last passenger aboard the Cain train. As he struggled to breathe with that thin, tobacco-stained breath of his, Herman’s blood flowed like sand.
“She’s done for, Herman. Now let’s be on our way.” Chief of Staff Mark Block, Herman’s driver, sucked the last trace of life from his cigarette. He could not take his eyes off the scene. Her ripped white underwear with blue trim, bloody at the crotch.
“I– I thought her body was supposed to shut down to keep this from happening.” Cain withdrew an unlabeled bottle of blood pressure medication and took four tiny white pills.
“If she gets pregnant, then it means she liked it. Who can blame her? We’ve run a campaign like nobody’s ever seen. But then, America’s never seen a candidate like Herman Cain.”
A smile bled from the open corners of Herman’s mouth, from which sprung twin puffs of gaseous hate that twisted up his thin, dark mustache, and moved in a vapor around his furrowed brows, tracing the restaurant manager’s gray, receding hairline. Sister demons danced a double helix in the midnight air, assuming the form of matching parallel negative impressions, shaped like dervishes with forked tongues slithering, their writhing agitations, spied ever so slightly amid the shifting breeze in Block’s polluted exhalation. Graciously, they pulled his mouth wide into a devilish smile.
The Innocence of Muslims has spread wildly throughout the Middle East and is one of the most critically-acclaimed popular films since The Passion of The Christ. A new landmark in American Cinematography, the wondrous shots of the barbaric setting for desert people transport audiences to a fantasy land where nothing makes sense and buildings are set on fire simply because they are inhabited by Christians.
Culturally speaking, this is a landmark for American film that could have only been shot by a highly-acclaimed pornographic filmmaker. Muhammed’s depiction as a bisexual who likes both submissive and dominant acts of sodomy had me laughing at all the sodomite homosexual submissive Muslims in the world. The poignant tale of Islam’s founder and his dynamic struggle for a sexual identity dropped a bomb on my misconceptions. No longer do I think of Muslims as serious practitioners of a religion, but now I see they are just innocent heathens led to destructive and violent acts by crazed Imams who follow in the tradition of Muhammed. No wonder they don’t like it when people depict him!
I have never seen a film which better facilitates masturbation. The sex scenes in this movie aroused me sensually and made me want to violate the Sweet Virgin Mary. I spilt my seed when Muhammed told his followers to rape the children of the conquered, because that has always been a dream of mine. Perhaps I will join the Army so I can get back at the Muslims for all their horrific war crimes through history. My only problem was that there were no graphic depictions of genitalia, and we did not actually get to see Muhammed having sex. That would have greatly improved my enjoyment of the furious masturbation.
It was hilarious how at certain points during the movie the actors lines were overdubbed with all the really incendiary lines about Muhammed, and that none of the actors were actually conscious they were participating in such a controversial movie. Not only has the entire Muslim world been fooled like the sad innocent child-like people they are, but the actors were also similarly fooled! The film all came together in the end, and the “Great Prophet” was depicted as a crazed sword-wielding maniac covered in blood, just as everyone in America has always imagined. Surely, this is the work of America’s greatest filmmaker. It was an intellectual tour-de-force that had me thinking, laughing, crying, and cumming in my pants all at the same time.
I’ve heard that its reception in the Middle East has been fairly negative, but that’s sad! If you can’t laugh at God, who can you laugh at?
If this triggers a flood of memories and emotions, Pokemon may be a perfect oracle for you.
As man has now known for decades, the meaning of an oracle does not in fact derive from God, who may or may not exist, but rather from the act of interpretation. Pokemon, when used properly, can provide deep insights into the nature of the self and our interaction with others.
Any Pokemon should work, (although I will talk specifically about the Red, Blue, and Yellow versions) provided there is an abundance of meaning invested in the game. That is to say, a cartridge of Pokemon one has owned since childhood is optimal. It is not recommended to attempt to use Pokemon as an oracle on the first play-through.
To invest excess meaning in Pokemon, custom names should be used for both Ash and his nemesis, as well as each individual Pokemon. This is not necessary, but of extreme use in an oracle. A successful oracle hinges on ‘investment of meaning.’ A common misconception about oracles is that the player must ‘believe’ or be into new-age mambo jambo. This is actually not true! These are simply further tools for ‘investment of meaning,’ which can be easily compared to a drug such as table salt or LSD. Too much and it is poisonous, flavoring everything with its overwhelming meaning, but even the smallest taste can profoundly change the way one looks at the world.
Believing in the world of Pokemon was incredibly easy for me as a child, and it is especially easy to recall.
In Pokemon yellow, there is the added suggestion that Ash’s first Pokemon, Pikachu, is the Pikachu ‘from the cartoon series,’ which, of course, is highly preferable for fans of the cartoon television series seeking an oracular experience. Naming this special Pikachu, a visible companion in the overworld and no longer enslaved property, is nearly as important as naming the self and the nemesis.
Quite beautifully, you awake as a child in your mother’s house, the only place where you (vicariously through Pokemon (these ‘other’ agents are your source of ‘health’ or vitality)) can recharge all your ‘health’ without being subjected to a corporate machine (Poke (!) centers).
There is no love plot in Pokemon except the one between Ash and his mother. Ash’s father figure is Professor Oak, not his father but the father of the nemesis, who insists Ash must catch all 150 (There are 152, if one counts Mew and the glitch Missingno) Pokemon.
[Footnote: What would Professor Oak think if he saw a Missingno? Would he immediately conclude that his entire universe was a computer video game? Would he think he was in some kind of “simulation?” Or would he tie it in and use it to elaborate on evolutionary theory?]
The virtual ‘self’ is named by its contrast with the ‘nemesis.’ Using this Ash-shaped ‘mask’ and the name of a chronic enemy or opposing force provides the fundamental meaning, framing the values that play out through the entirety of the game and from which all meaning flows. This can be both a way to examine an existing persona xor to create an entirely new one. A vital point to make is that the enemy will always be defeated as long as the entire game ‘plays out.’ This is simply an important archetypal structure which must be made note of, a video game Hero Myth: Make it through the end of the day (game) and it is always a victory. A reassuring message, surely, but not necessarily realistic.
Pokemon are absolutely agents–especially the most powerful, (& anthropomorphic) Mewtwo. However, they are nonetheless enslaved and kept in magical pool ball belt-prisons to be released only to serve their masters. There is no cultural resistance whatsoever to this treatment of Pokemon anywhere in the world, although the ‘mistreatment’ of Pokemon by the Team Rocket ‘Criminal Gang’ and the ‘Evil Genetically-Modifying’ Uber (?) Corporation is widely criticized.
Wild Pokemon attack constantly in grassy areas and caves and represent a force to be mastered. The easily-unconscious treatment of these Pokemon is revealed quantitatively after battles, and profound events may be ‘replayed’ or interpreted upon reflection of a Pokemon battle.
Brains are interpretation machines, and the cultural stigma in the gaming community against ‘religious’ experience is disingenuous. Too often the ‘vision quest’ is replaced with lame drug experiences and trendy ‘trippy’ movies like Fear and Loathing or The Wall. Disbelief is suspended openly to supplement these experiences, but these are cheapened experiences! As a tool for deep reflection, a vision quest, or a modern oracle Pokemon is, even when ‘deeply invested with meaning,’ still a greatly cheapened form of a visceral real-life vision quest. The complexity of the Pokemon experience, however, is potentially much deeper and more ‘authentic’ than even that of the I-Ching!
@Kilgoar is the prophet and ex-leader of @YourAnonInglip’s (Part of the @YourAnonInc Monopoly-Anarcho-Finance-Capitalist (Monarchofincap) Social Media Empire) Rhizomatic Syncretic Legion (A Lebal Drocer Hometown Family TransHuman Religion @LebalDrocerInc) which is evidently now headed either by @Alrart or @MichelleMalkin.
Move over, “Toddlers & Tiaras!” Because there’s a new girl in town. . .
Fresh from the impaired minds of The Learning Channel executives who brought you “What Not to Wear,” “Randy to the Rescue,” and “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant,” comes little Honey Boo Boo.
Tune in this fall as fat Michelin-man shaped rednecks flop into a mud hole repeating Larry the Cable Guy memes, until you think you just can’t take it anymore. Then, wait for Honey Boo Boo to win back your heart with cute emotional avoidances, like, “You better redneckocgnize!”
“Redneckognize” is a play on words which combines all the ignorance brought to mind by the euphemistic racial slur “redneck,” with the word “recognize,” or to consider again; literally, to identify something or someone previously seen, such as the degradation of educational cable TV stations.
And if you learn anything from this corporate-induced delusional exploit, you’ll learn Little Honey Boo Boo is hardly the meanest one, or the baddest of the bunch. Indeed, much of her family is being paid and encouraged to reinforce every stereotype television helped create. WATCH IT EVERY NIGHT FOR ALL I CARE!
Watch for producers to inject new cutesy catch phrases, such as “Where’s mah insulin?”
I watched “Prometheus” and found it amazing. I can’t enjoy a movie unless I can piece the plot together and understand the motivations of all the characters. A filmmaker really needs to exaggerate these things so I don’t miss little hints and thematic details that might clue me in because I’m a total idiot. That was the problem with “Alien,” but “Prometheus” really laid it on thick, so I could enjoy the two-dimensional characters more.
I was expecting a strong female lead like Ripley from “Alien,” but instead I got an “Ancient Aliens” kook with faith in Space Jesus or something. I’m an atheist, and the cross she wore offended me. Deeply. The lead female, played by Noomi Rapace, was too interesting and mysterious. I’m much more into female leads that act exactly like males and don’t heroically give themselves abortions on machines designed for men only. This was the only flaw in Prometheus.
When I go to a movie, I also expect extremely subtle attention to detail, especially scientific fact, because I know exactly what an interstellar spaceship would be like and the ship in “Alien” was NOT it. I could spend all day picking out the scientific inconsistencies of “Alien” and get more enjoyment from that than I did the movie itself. I don’t want to have to suspend my disbelief, it’s too much work. Nothing was scientifically wrong with “Prometheus!” Like every film made in 2012, it reflects the fact that this is the future and we know exactly how space travel would work.
When they discovered the alien life in “Prometheus,” I really enjoyed how everyone jumped around and yelled like maniacs, because that’s what people do when they make huge scientific discoveries. In “Alien,” when Ripley is running down the hallway, that was so fake. No one would ever do that when being chased by an alien! Ripley should have been screaming at the top of her lungs! The audience really needs to know what’s going on inside characters, and that means huge exaggeration because we’re idiots.
I really didn’t understand the deep themes in “Alien” because I was too busy trying to figure out what the characters’ motivations were. All the absurd over-the-top explaining that went on in “Prometheus” was great, because it gave me a window into the relationship between a creator whose creation has become more powerful. A lot of people say it didn’t make sense that the Engineers would want to destroy Earth after they created it, or that they’d leave hints about where their big stash of “weaponized” organisms were. To me, it couldn’t have been more obvious. The Engineers are so far above our level of intelligence that we can’t possibly understand their purpose and this theme was driven home with so little doubt left for interpretation that it was almost too obvious. But I’m glad the filmmakers made everything so easy to follow and more scientifically consistent than “Alien,” because that’s all I really care about.
“Steve” is a terrible salesman, fond only of shoving Lack down the throats of idiots and rubes. Everywhere “Steve” goes, he leaves a trail of jokes that are so bad they’d be funny if any other person delivered them. But “Steve” is not really a person, only an idea created by the right Reverend Doug Smith, a thin persona of Philip Ivanovich III. “Steve” is nothing more than a modern hero myth aimed at exploiting the very heart of post-scarcity Lack. Lack is all that “Steve” has, and everyone knows it. Every waking moment, “Steve” embodies a train wreck and flails around wastefully, but somehow it works for him.
Religions like Raëlism and Scientology are obvious jokes, taken seriously by adherents in a desperate bid for Lack. Scientologists spend tens of thousands of dollars and years of phony auditing only to find out that it’s all kooky science fiction about some alien named Xenu. Still, the only Scientologist laughing is L. Ron Hubbard.
Reverend Doug Smith doesn’t laugh about “Steve,” only his followers do.
I have tried like hell to be like “Steve,” and I still don’t know whether I’m an abject failure or a total success. “Steve” is famous for destroying cults simply by infecting them with terrible jokes. Hell, he caused the fall of Paganism by telling Constantine that a dyslexic Zeus sold his soul to Santa.
As a new follower of “Steve,” I took the cult-destruction mission very seriously. It seemed to be one of the most important messages of the Book of “Steve.” I set to work undermining Reverend Doug Smith, that bastard, because HE was the one responsible for “Steve” in the first place. If I was going to destroy a cult, it had to be one I really believed in.
“Steve” usually stole good jokes and delivered them so badly they were no longer funny. I took a slightly different approach and stole all the bad jokes from Reverend Doug Smith in a vain attempt to make them even worse. I started my own religion and based it off of a guy named “Bob.” “Bob” was this crazy Reverse-Turing Test that had gained sentience and could identify individual personalities, even when they were trading off sockpuppets. “Bob” became wildly popular, but Doug Smith was not impressed.
Reverend Doug, I think, commanded his legion of “Stevies” to taunt me with sockpuppets. They hit me from every direction, infiltrating any area of the Internet I regularly visited. They both encouraged me and threatened my life, strengthening my resolve to destroy “Steve” at any cost. Over several months, I explored every crack in Reverend Doug’s evil cult that had so presumptuously invaded my brain, but there was no exploiting them. “Bob” had brought the sockpuppet torture, and “Bob” had to die. I killed “Bob” simply by not talking about “Bob.”
At this point, the mixed messages stopped coming from Reverend Doug’s sockpuppets, but instead they came from Reverend Doug himself. He and his evil cabal were dropping hints about how I was both terrible and heroic. I had finally become “Steve.”
Each year, Reverend Doug and his cult celebrated the beginning of a new world by camping out in city parks. I knew I had to show up, just to show him how much like “Steve” I really was. Being “Steve” on the Internet was easy, so I had to show up to prove that I was really the best “Steve” there had ever been.
On the long drive to the city, I got so lost in thought about how to best embody “Steve,” I swerved into the shoulder and nearly died several times. I arrived an emotional wreck and put on the Red Robe of “Bob,” preaching TransHuman madness to nobody in particular as I wandered around the city lost in “Steve.” Looking back, it was analogous to Jerusalem Syndrome.
I never actually found the camp of “Stevies,” but I did get arrested for shouting in the face of police officers. They told me later that the crowd following me was an illegal assembly and I needed a permit for that sort of thing. Reverend Doug was in the cell next to me, rambling on endlessly about “Steve” and Lack. By next year, I knew I’d finally figure out the True meaning of “Steve.”
Jim Hannahan, pictured during his last known public appearance, smiles comfortably just outside the wretched clutches of a long and rewarding Diablo III career.
Roanoke, Va.– 28-year-old Kroger clerk Jim Hannahan stopped going into work when he realized being a cashier at the supermarket was not only beneath a level 60 Legendary Monk, but cut directly into game time.
What at first he believed might be a rough transition came more naturally than expected, Jim said. “I used to just play it in my spare time,” he explained, “but then I found myself abandoning heavy responsibilities like work and nutrition. Now I’m peeing in bottles and setting them by the desk. I just dump ‘em out later, whenever I’m in town.”
What began as a casual hobby gradually assumed full time control of area man Jim’s coping mechanisms, creeping into his sex drive and profoundly changing his habits among regular society. There is no longer a facet of Jim’s life Diablo III does not touch.
While experts suggest Jim suffers from depression and social anxiety, others aspire to his achievements, which are logged indefinitely at his profile, BabyDust#1662, on the Battle.net servers.
Tommy Sellers, 14, purchased Diablo III on release day but, because of school and extracurricular activities his parents “forced him into,” he is only level 52 on the Hell difficulty setting. Tommy expressed a desire to drop more time consuming activities like baseball and French Club in order to play Diablo III (Game of the Year) and eat Hot Pockets, a wonderful product. “Jimmy’s already on Inferno pushing the devil back into the underworld,” said Tommy, “and here I am learning French like a sap – like a fucking faggot. All I’m learning in French class is surrender – to my parents! I wish I didn’t have to do anything so I could just go up to my room and play Diablo III forever. I hate my fucking bitch mom.”
One night, out of nowhere, Jim woke up the whole neighborhood, bellowing ‘YOU CAN’T FUCKING HEAL ME!?’
To fully engage Diablo III, Jim takes dietary supplements for nourishment and has resorted to daily intake of Baby Dust Pills, a tremendous product, in order to release aggression through masturbation. Jim said dying all the time is not only costly monetarily, but causes unhealthy spikes in blood pressure followed by “inexplicable” heart palpitations and crying fits.
“Jim’s in a world of pain he’s just going to have to fight his way out of, alongside Barbarians and Demon Hunters.”
Tammy Hannahan, Jim’s mother
A friend close to Jim, who asked that she remain Anonymous, said he is prone to sudden outbursts between long stretches of tomb-like silence. “One night, out of nowhere, Jim woke up the whole neighborhood, bellowing ‘YOU CAN’T FUCKING HEAL ME!?’ at the NPC [non-playable character] following him around. I said, ‘Jim, they can’t hear you!’ and he didn’t respond, not a word. He just kept shaking his head, and clicking. Oh, the clicking!”
Jim Hannahan has not expressed plans to go back to work, because playing Diablo III, dying repeatedly and farming for gold, he said, “feels enough like work already.”
Anonymous hackers from UGNazi have infiltrated Geroge R. R. Martin’s personal computer and found a rough draft of the next two installments in the Song of Ice and Fire series made famous by the HBO Game of Thrones Series. I have had the pleasure of reading these manuscripts in full. Spoilers are as follow:
Jon Snow is actually not the son of Eddard Stark, but rather of Rhaegar Targaryen. He dies at the end of A Dance with Dragons, but then enters a complex state of semi-death just as his uncle Benjen Stark did.
Jon Snow believes he is in command of the undead Wildlings, and Daenarys believes she is in command of her own dragons.
Jojen is dead. Bran Stark ate part of Jojen in the paste of Weirwood seeds.
Stannis becomes the new “Reek” for Ramsay Bolton.
Bran is actually in control of the hordes of undead Wildlings invading Westeros during the Winter.
Bran uses the walkers and whites to rain hellish destruction upon the Lannisters and other enemies of the Starks, but is temporarily thwarted by the dragons of Daenarys before taking partial control of those as well.
Daenarys gains the throne, but only after melting Winterfell into a smoldering ruin.
Jon dies a second time in a fiery confrontation with Melisandre.
Patchface uses powers granted to him by the Drowned God to help Arya find the Red Priests.
Arya answers the prayers of Westeros, which call for the death of all the Red Priests. Her newly gained powers from the cult of the Many Faced God penetrates their glammers, and she sees each Red Priest as a hideous monster. She kills them with Needle, but never reunites with Jon Snow.
Arya’s mission traumatizes her and she returns to the temple of the Many Faced God and prays for her own death. Her prayers are granted.
Tyrion falls in love with Penny and marries her, only to reunite with Tysha that very evening.
Jamie lied to Tyrion, and Tysha really was a whore. “Hands of Gold are always Cold.”
Jamie is killed by Catelyn’s evil reanimated corpse.
Cersei commits suicide by throwing herself into an angry mob.
All the pivotal characters then die in a single bloody battle. Some are revived by magic and the rest of the deaths are just lies spread by Varys.
Tyrion stabs Varys to death.
Eddard is also revived as a warrior skeleton and reunites with evil zombie Catelyn.
Eddard and Catelyn have another marriage, at which Jamie is revived just so Eddard can kill him to drink his blood.
Theon marries Asha and Jon Snow eats their faces off at the wedding.
Sansa marries Petyr Baelish and Jon Snow eats their faces off at the wedding.
Victarion returns from Valyria, also marries Asha, and Jon Snow eats their faces off at the wedding.
Victarion is revived, marries Daenarys, and Jon Snow east his face off at the wedding.
Oberyn Martell is revived and marries Daenarys. Jon Snow eats Oberyn’s face off at the wedding.
Barristan Selmey is revived and marries Daenarys. Jon Snow eats Barristan’s face off at the wedding.
Daenarys figures out the pattern and marries Jon Snow. Catelyn and Eddard eat both of their faces off at the wedding.
The series is not actually over, and there are at least 3 more books planned.
Laura Sparkling’s chest acne proves, once and for all, that her crazy bipolar YouTube antics are really just the first signs of a born hero of Freemasonry. Hopefully she will join up before the Black Lodge burns her to death in her sleep with HAARP!
The American gaming male automatically degenerated into an alternating cycle of hardcore gaming and furious, repeated bouts of masturbation Tuesday after Mother Blizzard released her tepid seed into the yawning, fertile womb of jilted fantasy gamers who have already seen enough WoW expansions to make General Patreus reconsider an extensive Iraq strategy.
The most celebrated feature of the game thus far is that in Diablo III, you’re no longer a slave to reading. Audio lore gives you experience points as you continue about your quest by reading your own journal entries to you. No longer will gamers groan at the sight of glowing books which fall open into the floor in front of them.
Diablo III journals are now jam-packed full of game lore you never cared about before, but sounds really cool coming through your speakers as you ransack the libraries where you found it, like an SS squado looking for ze papers.
Diablo III is well-optimized to run on computers dating all the way back to 2007, when Barack Obama was busy hiring the white collar criminals responsible for America’s economic collapse onto his financial planning committees. Those were shitty computers back then, but they will still run Diablo III at medium settings and you won’t feel like the poor kid whose left light up sneaker stopped working a week in because you did the Macarena too hard. Good luck with Minecraft, though. NASA is still working on a PC capable of running it at maximum render distance.
The NSA supercomputer might be able to blanket the United States with Constitutional rights violations, but it still can't keep up with Tribes: Ascend.
Many new games push medium-rated hardware beyond their limits, unreasonably so. Recommended specs if you want to run Tribes: Ascend, for example, requires that your computer be qualified to run CERN supercollider calculations as theorized having taken place on the varied surfaces of distant asteroids, providing NASA had a budget and Hi-Rez Studios wasn’t run by Jews hell-bent on absorbing it.
Diablo III has you shooting the shit out of Thriller extras with both hands; it even has rapid-fire drawstring longbows which makes no sense at all, except magic. Instead of magic, however, the Demon Hunter – like chronicle.su – balances hate with discipline to land combination attacks of rippling snarefuck and piercing arrows of godlessness.
The storyline enlists you – the main character, whoever you are – to assist Leah with various quests and, without raping her, collaborate with this old Nick Oliveri-looking dude to own up on some shit-eating demons. You even get to help a guy kill his wife who, inexplicably, is a mini-boss loaded to the tits with rare magical items and gold. She’s a sweetheart, though. Play to find out why.
I’m about to.
It’s $60. The first coolguy to leave us a comment on this review (with your email in the appropriate field) gets an official chronicle.su Diablo III guest pass providing free access to early gameplay.