Sega Dreamcast is the Best Gaming Console of All Time – OF ALL TIME!

The Sega Dreamcast is hailed by legions as the best videogame system ever created. Gaming fans new and old revered Sega’s final foray into the competitive market of console gaming as their greatest achievement yet. The Dreamcast was more than just a gaming console – it represented a defiant protest of century-old Nintendo, a last stand against the staying power of Sony, and stood out as the ideological opposite of the soulless, ball-less piece of three-headed Hydra shit Microsoft calls an Xbox.

The Sega Dreamcast had the best repertoire of first- and third-party games of any console, the first mainstream integration of online play, and clear, beautiful graphics. Many games boasted 60 frames per second (FPS), making racing games and shooters like Unreal Tournament very exciting, and leading many to wonder, “Wait how many FPS was it before?”

Dreamcast even had a web browser (with an upgraded 2.0 version!) so young children, who didn’t yet know how to delete their browser histories, could safely download pornography without fear of parental retribution – right on their very own standard-definition TVs!

Behold, The Legendary Sega Dreamcast

Sega Dreamcast

To the average mouth breathing redditor, this looks like your average videogame console with a sexy Dreamcast logo on it. But what would you know? Part of the Dreamcast’s charm is in its subtlety. The Dreamcast had a little orange light that, when the system powered on, glowed bright orange and inspired the original design scheme used by the mysterious and fabled Elf Wax Times publication which – according to legend – reigned supreme for a better part of the previous decade. But who knows for sure? The system advances through several stages of power until its fans kick on and Phantasy Star Online bounces to life. Oh yeah, but if your VMU battery is dead, the VMU screen will appear faded, and Dreamcast itself will scream at you by emitting a long, ear-piercing tone from a tiny speaker built into the console. This is a gentle reminder to change your VMU battery. The tone gets longer based on how dead the battery is. You change it because you do as you’re told, and you don’t want to hear that noise anymore. Sega thought of everything!

What’s a VMU battery?

Upon closer inspection, the most observant of retards may notice there is a tiny screen on board the Dreamcast controller, which was revolutionary at the time. Dreamcast controllers also feature two analog triggers that fit nicely in the hands, like dual-wielded pistols with clitorises for triggers. Useful as a heads up display, the removable memory device known as a VMU (Visual Memory Unit) powers the tiny screen, which changed to fit whatever needs game developers chose for it. Oftentimes it displayed ammunition data, hit points or even jokes and small bits of game lore. Admittedly, it sounds kind of gimmicky. Fortunately, there’s more to it than that. You could download games onto that bitch, straight off your Dreamcast game discs, then jerk it out and play it like a fucking GameBoy. No shit. Look:

VMUSega just didn’t give a fuck. In the game Sonic Adventure, you collected Chao eggs. You can load eggs – or a hatched chao – into your VMU and then when you go to school, or work – where you no doubt suffer as a result of being apart from the Dreamcast – you can play Chao Adventure on the VMU, leveling your Chao’s stats to make him stronger for when you load him back into Sonic Adventure. Now that’s metagaming!

PowerStone contained three games available for download. There were fighting games, gun games and puzzles. There are a bunch more but that’s all I can remember off the top of my head. As a kid, I worked for my own videogame (and weed) money, so I didn’t have every game. Sorry, cunt.

If the VMU had anything going against it, it was the watch battery in the back that’s always dying, trying to meet the demands of all the awesomeness inside our VMU. When you needed a new one, you had to walk up to some sad person at Wal-Mart who acted like he was doing you this unspoken favor of constantly supplying you with these flat, quarter-sized watch batteries. It’s not opium, Rajiv. It’s just a fucking battery. I don’t remember what they cost.

Probably the coolest thing about the Dreamcast was just owning a god damn Dreamcast.

Tell you what, that’s the end of this game review, and there’s no looking back now. Now fire up your Dreamcasts and put on Slave Zero.

Masturbate, don’t procreate.


Mr. Stoyte’s Final Quest for Eternal Life

Long live the lifelong legend, inventor, businessman, and thinker!

Mr. Stoyte owned everything this side of Hollywood, and then some more. If you found yourself in a streetcar, you were not far off from one of his ventures, or his curiosities, or perhaps one of his great many abominations.

He touched everything. Wherever men went about their business, Mr. Stoyte lurked in the shadows, a feathery wisp on the material periphery.

Stoyte, who lived high in a cement castle, was deathly afraid of dying. His terrors would not turn him loose! They shook him and broke him down into a man whose demeanor was white over gray, and he lived a dull, miserable, loveless, dim life. For 72 years he lived to see the day when he grabbed a young and veritable Dr. Troubadour by his shirt collar, shoving him into the exposed brick of Troubadour’s luxury laboratory / trendy gastropub, and pumping him full of bees and anxiety. Troubadour, fresh out of medical school, was unsure if this behavior is normal from a client.

“I’ll have you know, Doctor, that our time on this earth is short as it is terrible,” Stoyte whispered through his coffee-stained, nicorette teeth Chiclets, into Troubadour’s mouth. “We all die.”

As his breath hit Dr. Troubadour’s face, it took on color and light. The cloud glowed and smeared itself into a smegma coating his skin, filling in the pores. Troubadour’s skin melted off of his face, exposing his skull to the cool evening air.

Troubadour shaved every morning, as well as doing other shit that makes men better. Healthy living means nothing to the acrid hate in Stoyte’s air, which seemed to originate somewhere deep within the dry barren husk of the old, flickering man. Troubadour’s face took on an oily shine.

Stoyte’s eyes hardened into beady coals. Flaring his nostrils, he peeled back thin, snarled lips, revealing the gnashing of teeth.

He let go, and then quietly withdrew from the stairwell, where he had cornered his own physician in flush desperation. Troubadour crumpled to the floor. A grandfather clock in the main room chimed four times. Not even crickets chirped.

Months went by.

Seasons changed and the nights grew colder. A sharp wind howled through the IKEA artificial stoneface archways, snaking its way hatefully up and down the dank, hazardous tunnels of Troubadour’s Life-Extending Luxury Laboratory and CBD-Infused Tea House — a liberal playground proffered to him by gracious Mr. Stoyte.

One night, Dr. Troubadour went down to the basement, and he found four freaks a freakin out on experimental treatments that he believed had them at his command. At the request of Mr. Stoyte, this matter was delegated specifically to Dr. Troubadour, whose medical prowess was – at that time – nonpareil.

Eventually, Dr. Jack Kevorkian would supplant Troubadour as the world’s premiere Doctor of Death, but in the years leading up to that point Troubadour enjoyed mass success, securing rights to the vast riches of his elite clientele.

Until such time as the nonbelievers could be summoned to his bedside for individual execution, Dr. Troubadour – under orders from Mr. Stoyte – melded his mind with the tortured souls of their victims.

Troubadour’s heart was never in the quest for eternal life. He was never so eager to die as when Mr. Stoyte had commissioned the two of them to live forever. They both died abject, miserable failures *(albeit one much later than the other, with Stoyte being dead, and Troubadour taking on the position as Chair of the Internet Chronicle Truth Academy for Disaffected Youth.)

Internet Hatesec and the Guess Whats? performed their breakout hit “Never going to hit you again.”


Obama and Hillary’s days are numbered

INTERNET — As a vicious thunderstorm pelted Washington DC with softball sized hail Tuesday, Robert Mueller’s office filed High Treason charges against Barack Hussein Obama and Hillary Rodham Clinton for fabricating the fake news “collusion” scandal and undermining the United States Government.

The nation anticipates announcement from Fox News for the date of the public execution of these traitors and hundreds of others in the Media, including the staff of CNN, as decades of fake news and lies finally come to a close.

This beautiful political purge, reminiscent of Stalin’s gulags, Hitler’s night of the long knives, and the Chinese Cultural Revolution will bring about a citizenry that are completely supportive of their leaders. Under the emergency wall powers granted to President Trump, elections have been indefinitely suspended and the Supreme Court has been dissolved.

All members of the Democrat Party are to report to prison or face execution in the streets by militarized police units. Several so-called “sanctuary cities” including San Francisco are currently under siege by the national guard, and The President is considering airstrikes against neighborhoods harboring illegals. “We’re going to treat them like Waco, very tough,” president Trump announced from his golf resort at Mar-A-Lago. “This is the END of LIBERALISM, FOREVER!”