Boone owed me. I delivered his wife’s murderer to him. I did it right, I didn’t cut corners or fuck up. I investigated places carefully and when the time came I drew that bitch out in front of the dinosaur and made sure she got what she deserved. So Boone joined up with me. Our mutual disdain for the Legion made us a perfect pair. So we hunted across the wastes together, stealthing up to Legion patrols, massacring them at a distance and then looting their corpses. We carved a swath through the contested territories and won Nelson back for the NCR. We made the Mojave a little bit safer.
But Boone was maudlin and taciturn. Great in a fight, but a bit much for me to handle all the time, especially since my only other companion is a robot that various tech oriented factions seem keen on using to spy on me. So I told Boone that I’d meet up with him later and recruited a lesbian with a mean fist from the Brotherhood of Steel. I’d always wondered what went on under that armor, and it looks like it’s a whole lot of Felicia Day. So now Fallout: New Vegas is kind of turning into that fan-fic I wrote. But I remain unsure about what the future holds. Not just because I don’t think Felicia Day is going to turn for a man with a measly five charisma, but because I’m not sure of what the future holds for the NCR, the Legion, the Followers and the Brotherhood, even with her no BS insider information. They’re all so unclear in just what they want and in what helping them would mean.
And I love it.
Most games I’ve played recently are bastions of clarity, including the laudable Fallout 3’s expansions. If I choose to launch cruise missiles at Project Purity, the Pentagon, or the Enclave’s Mobile Missile Command Platform I know exactly what that means. Even when things get a little muddy, like in the swamps of Point Lookout things eventually become clear, and I’m never asked to make decisions without complete information. By the time I have to choose a side I usually have pretty solid information on just what each side stands for, what each side really wants and what each side will do with my help. And while that is, at times, quite clear in Fallout: New Vegas, such as with the NCR and the Legion, wherein one group is clearly a benign bureaucratic entity and the other is a group of murdering, raping shitheads, most of the time it isn’t.
For example when I wandered into the Poseidon Power facility, HELIOS, I was met with a choice. Well, several choices. I could help the NCR cement their grip in the area, I could spread the power to disenfranchised areas, or I could share it with everyone with greatly reduced reliability and stability. Oh, or I could use the power to activate a weapon of unbelievable force and deadliness, a weapon that could split the world in twain and would certainly kill everyone in the camp surrounding HELIOS. None of these options, spare the last, made their consequences clear in the lead up to the decision. In fact some of the options weren’t even known to me until I finally managed to reactivate the array. And even after I made the decision to share the power with everyone, I still wasn’t sure it had been the right one. Unreliable shitty power to the entire grid? What are these people even going to be using it for? A lot of these people I was helping were known assholes. But the decision felt right, so I went with it.
But it endeared me to the Followers of the Apocalypse, one of the weirdest groups in Fallout cannon ever. The Followers told me about their semi-secret base and rehab clinic in the middle of Vegas and made clear their desire to make me feel like a part of their big happy family. Then they told me how evil the Brotherhood of Steel was and how I shouldn’t hang out with such a group of un-cool dudes.
But it wasn’t long before I ran into Veronica, who proved just how cool the Brotherhood really was. Especially compared to those sissy Followers. And as I got to know her a little better, and spent more time with my little friend ED-E I started to get dueling messages from the two groups. The Brotherhood wanted to study ED to see just what made him tick and see if they could learn a little more about the power station they’d nearly destroyed their entire order over a few years back. And the Followers wanted ED because the Brotherhood were apparently jerks who didn’t share. So I weighed the options, found out that the Followers would upgrade ED’s weapons and the Brotherhood would upgrade his armor, and decided to try the Followers first. Maybe the Brotherhood would be able to help me out later, but I wanted better weapons now. But I’m not sure I made the right choice there. Or any choice at all, to be honest. It’s so opaque, the decision making in New Vegas, that I’m hard pressed to know just what the consequences of my choices will be. I’m holding back on overthrowing the Brotherhood’s leadership, for example, because I want to see how the current leader’s direction will play out. But I really do have no idea. For all I know I could be denying myself an ally in the long run, but I want to know if he’ll come above ground on his own.
And this is one of my favorite parts of Fallout: New Vegas. The people, the places, the actions, they have a weight and reality to them that games strive towards and always seem to fail at grasping. Games put us in epic scenarios where we hone ourselves on respawning challenges until we’re ready to tackle the scripted plot mission. New Vegas is totally willing to let me piss around as much as I like, but the world is constantly changing as I do so. I’ve all but wiped out Legion presence on the Southeast river bank thanks to Boone’s assistance. i didn’t do it by taking down scripted boss battles (although that is how I restored Nelson to the NCR). Instead I did it by systematically wiping out patrols and then destroying their base of operations. As far as I know nothing has officially changed, but I no longer see Legion scouts in the area, and the NCR seems to spend most of their time fighting local wildlife and their own soldiers turned ghouls in the area now.
For all I know just exploring the world could change it forever. I could render the humble coyote extinct through my relentless hunting efforts. I could become some sort of fearsome figure among the Bighorn for occasionally shooting them in the skull. I’ve already alienated the Powder Gangers just by standing up for myself, even though they were the retards who came after me in the first place. The Jackal gang is all but gone from the area around Goodsprings, just because I spent enough time walking around thereabouts.
And now as I explore ancient areas I am totally unsure of what I will find. In Vault 11 there’s something afoot, something terrible and ancient and evil that the inhabitants gave their own lives to bury. What lies underneath is unknown, partially because I haven’t found it yet but moreso because the plot itself is skillfully doled out. Most games would telegraph that something awful has happened at some point, but not this one. Fallout: New Vegas actually has me in suspense. And it’s mostly because I’m never sure just how far it’s willing to go, what it’s going to show me and how this new knowledge will impact the world. When I found out about Boone’s wife it’s no mistake that I spent a full ten hours scouting and hunting Legion territory with him. And it’s no mistake that Veronica made me want to help the Brotherhood of Steel find their place in the world again.
Fallout: New Vegas is adept at both offering up a world and making you feel a part of it. It makes you care without trying, just by being itself, not by raising the stakes beyond where they need to be. There’s no epic conflict, no grave danger facing the world. The world is shit, and that’s enough. Showing me nice people living in that shit makes me want to help them, even though I’m not some sort of chosen one. And it’s because the world is so lifelike, so chaotic, so rich and full, that I find it difficult to step away from New Vegas even briefly, even to write an essay like this about just how incredible it is. Because forty hours in I’m still enchanted with this new world, I’m still learning new things about what lies beneath the sands of the Mojave and the darkness that inhabits the human heart. And the spontaneous nature of that experience, the manner in which it iterates and responds to me, is what keeps me rooted to this chair, waiting to unpause the game as soon as I finish this sentence.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Congratulations Extra-Dimensional Intelligence!
You’re an extra-dimensional intelligence, formless and endlessly wise in the ways of our universe. But, like most extra-dimensional beings who can penetrate all our meager physical barriers, you spend most of your time watching random people do it.
You’ve seen a lot of configurations. Fat guy on skinny chick, fat guy on fat girl, skinny dude on fat guy. You’ve seen positions and acts most of us know only in rumor, terrible, wordless things that most of us would shudder to even consider, let alone witness. And you’ve done all with the detached amusement of a being completely without attachment or stake in our world.
All that will change this afternoon when you witness a young child loosing a balloon into the atmosphere. You’ll immediately be drawn to the balloon’s firm, supple form, its chaotic ever changing innards. You’ll wonder what its name is, what it likes, if it has ever done it outside of the fourth dimension. You’ll chase it up to the sky, dancing around it as it falls out of the sight of the child who lost it. Then you’ll set upon it.
You’ll ravage it with techniques difficult to comprehend, ideas and purposes and metaphysical devisings that should shame you but won’t they’ll feel so right and strong in you. When you’re finished the balloon and all its lovely gas will be consumed, floating back down to Earth a limp and spent thing. And you, you’ll realize that you’ve seen what this dimension has to show you. You’ll fold in on yourself and without the slightest pop you’ll vanish into nothing.
Congratulations Extra-Dimensional Intelligence!
You’ve seen a lot of configurations. Fat guy on skinny chick, fat guy on fat girl, skinny dude on fat guy. You’ve seen positions and acts most of us know only in rumor, terrible, wordless things that most of us would shudder to even consider, let alone witness. And you’ve done all with the detached amusement of a being completely without attachment or stake in our world.
All that will change this afternoon when you witness a young child loosing a balloon into the atmosphere. You’ll immediately be drawn to the balloon’s firm, supple form, its chaotic ever changing innards. You’ll wonder what its name is, what it likes, if it has ever done it outside of the fourth dimension. You’ll chase it up to the sky, dancing around it as it falls out of the sight of the child who lost it. Then you’ll set upon it.
You’ll ravage it with techniques difficult to comprehend, ideas and purposes and metaphysical devisings that should shame you but won’t they’ll feel so right and strong in you. When you’re finished the balloon and all its lovely gas will be consumed, floating back down to Earth a limp and spent thing. And you, you’ll realize that you’ve seen what this dimension has to show you. You’ll fold in on yourself and without the slightest pop you’ll vanish into nothing.
Congratulations Extra-Dimensional Intelligence!
Friday, October 29, 2010
Congratulations You Pompous Fucks!
Today all of you pompous fucks are going to give each other piggyback rides over how amazing the new Phillip Roth novel is.
“It’s exceptional,” so inane bitch who has made a living writing about other people’s art without ever producing a single significant or original work of her own will say while sipping overpriced red wine from south France, a recipe designed to be consumed within a few months, mass produced by peasants and stockpiled by the wealthy so that it could be sold to people who didn’t know any better at their earliest convenience.
“I find the manner in which it develops character to be beyond belief,” another pretentious asshole will say. This pretentious asshole will be a man who has lived ninety-percent of his life in New York, but writes primarily about works of art in a global context. He’ll regularly spend two to three-hundred percent of market value on clothing that is ostensibly “fair trade,” but is in fact made under crueler than average conditions by corporate magnates who have become incredibly adept at manipulating their own media image.
“I would the character development quite pedantic,” a pretentious asshole with a tiny penis will say.
“I’m not sure I agree,” a pretentious asshole will declare loudly after having one drink too many. This pretentious asshole will be a young woman in her mid thirties who has never actually paid her rent using funds she acquired from working and has never had a satisfying sexual experience.
“I thought it was kind of bad,” someone’s spouse will say. “Like, not really good at all.”
The entire part will turn and stare at them. “You’re certainly entitled to your opinion,” the crowd will say, “however ill-informed it is.”
Then they’ll go back to talking about how awesome Phillip Roth’s prose is while someone’s spouse fights with their mate outside. It will end poorly.
Congratulations Your Pompous Fucks!
“It’s exceptional,” so inane bitch who has made a living writing about other people’s art without ever producing a single significant or original work of her own will say while sipping overpriced red wine from south France, a recipe designed to be consumed within a few months, mass produced by peasants and stockpiled by the wealthy so that it could be sold to people who didn’t know any better at their earliest convenience.
“I find the manner in which it develops character to be beyond belief,” another pretentious asshole will say. This pretentious asshole will be a man who has lived ninety-percent of his life in New York, but writes primarily about works of art in a global context. He’ll regularly spend two to three-hundred percent of market value on clothing that is ostensibly “fair trade,” but is in fact made under crueler than average conditions by corporate magnates who have become incredibly adept at manipulating their own media image.
“I would the character development quite pedantic,” a pretentious asshole with a tiny penis will say.
“I’m not sure I agree,” a pretentious asshole will declare loudly after having one drink too many. This pretentious asshole will be a young woman in her mid thirties who has never actually paid her rent using funds she acquired from working and has never had a satisfying sexual experience.
“I thought it was kind of bad,” someone’s spouse will say. “Like, not really good at all.”
The entire part will turn and stare at them. “You’re certainly entitled to your opinion,” the crowd will say, “however ill-informed it is.”
Then they’ll go back to talking about how awesome Phillip Roth’s prose is while someone’s spouse fights with their mate outside. It will end poorly.
Congratulations Your Pompous Fucks!
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Congratulations on Your Impending Oral Surgery!
Today you’re going to show up at your dentist office all bouncy and cheery.
“One for a sweet, sweet dose of nitrous!” you’ll declare to the receptionist, who will stand up and give you a high five. She’ll have a really nice lip piercing, the kind that makes you want to kiss her if only to ask if it hurt when you let you teeth drag over the metal.
“Right this way!” she’ll say, sashaying her hips in such a fashion that makes her impossible not to follow down the hall as you watch the play of her lab coat over her skirt, implying the violent movement that her hips, still concealed beneath that skirt, are capable of.
She’ll bring you to a room and set you down on a chair, making sure you’re comfortable and offering you a lollypop. “All set?” she’ll ask, bending over so you can see her cleavage from an ideal angle. You’ll nod silently and she’ll smile and tromp out, her boots audibly clomping the carpet despite her apparent lightness.
Once she’s left a nurse will walk in. She’ll be an aging woman, also in a lab coat worn over casual clothing. She won’t be wearing makeup, although she will have a somewhat puzzling grin on her face.
“Ready?” she’ll say.
You’ll nod, a little nervous because of her seeming nonchalance despite the fact that your jaw is about to be cracked open and the deepest recesses of your mouth-hole vacated for the amusement of a few doctors and your greedy insurance company.
“Good,” she’ll say, sticking your arm expertly with a needle. Then she’ll drive an IV into just the right spot and hook you up to a bag filled with some of the sweetest legally controlled chemicals this side of the two oceans bordering America oh god now we’re losing consciousness.
Congratulations on Your Impending Oral Surgery!
“One for a sweet, sweet dose of nitrous!” you’ll declare to the receptionist, who will stand up and give you a high five. She’ll have a really nice lip piercing, the kind that makes you want to kiss her if only to ask if it hurt when you let you teeth drag over the metal.
“Right this way!” she’ll say, sashaying her hips in such a fashion that makes her impossible not to follow down the hall as you watch the play of her lab coat over her skirt, implying the violent movement that her hips, still concealed beneath that skirt, are capable of.
She’ll bring you to a room and set you down on a chair, making sure you’re comfortable and offering you a lollypop. “All set?” she’ll ask, bending over so you can see her cleavage from an ideal angle. You’ll nod silently and she’ll smile and tromp out, her boots audibly clomping the carpet despite her apparent lightness.
Once she’s left a nurse will walk in. She’ll be an aging woman, also in a lab coat worn over casual clothing. She won’t be wearing makeup, although she will have a somewhat puzzling grin on her face.
“Ready?” she’ll say.
You’ll nod, a little nervous because of her seeming nonchalance despite the fact that your jaw is about to be cracked open and the deepest recesses of your mouth-hole vacated for the amusement of a few doctors and your greedy insurance company.
“Good,” she’ll say, sticking your arm expertly with a needle. Then she’ll drive an IV into just the right spot and hook you up to a bag filled with some of the sweetest legally controlled chemicals this side of the two oceans bordering America oh god now we’re losing consciousness.
Congratulations on Your Impending Oral Surgery!
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Congratulations on Going Bowling with a Porn Star!
There are a few things you’re going to have to do to get this whole thing together.
First, go to Riley Mason’s website. We’re not sure where it is, but it’s a small internet and we’re sure that if you Google her you’ll find ample pictures of her being ploughed. Ample enough to keep you interested until you find her booking website.
Second, you’re going to have to find a way to transport Riley Mason to wherever it is you are in the world. This could be a matter of calling a town car service and having her and her bodyguard come to your apartment so the three of you can get in your Chevy Tahoe and hit the road. Or it could be as troublesome as you passing a background check, flying her to your city, hiring a trusted member of a security agency located in that city and having the security guard drive the three of you to a nearby bowling alley in his car, because yours might have gas or some shit in it.
You’re also going to have to pay her up front fee, which is a couple hundred per hour, travel time not included.
But after all these steps have been taken you’ll show up at a bowling alley with Riley Mason, who will actually be dressed in a fashion which is totally normal (because that’s how alt-porn girls do). She’ll have an amused, somewhat puzzled look on her face as she walks around the alley with her bodyguard in tow, drinking PBR and ignoring the stares as best she can.
You’ll ask her her shoe size as you pick up your rentals and she’ll laugh when she answers. She’ll tell you when you show up with a pair of sixes that usually men just ask her that so they can buy her skanky shoes that she can wear while they fuck her. She kind of likes the change. You’ll smile and tell her that you probably couldn’t afford to fuck her which, if you had to do the whole plane thing is probably true, and she’ll laugh and punch you in the arm.
The game will go by easily with you, and for a few seconds you’ll believe that you’re on a date with a girl, not paying to spend time with someone who has sex with more people than you can probably imagine. It’ll be a surreal experience for the two of you, each of you pretending that you’re normal for very different reasons, and when you ask her if she wants to bowl a second frame she’ll shrug and say “Sure” without even thinking of her billable hours.
When the bowling leads to a few more beers and the beers lead to more beers the two of you will talk like it’s the first time you’ve ever really met, like one of you hasn’t been paid to fuck in front of crowds the world over and the other one has had a significant relationship since the era of being able to carry liquids through airline security. You’ll pay for all of her drinks lavishly, which won’t be that bad because her taste will actually be quite cheap, and at the end of the night you’ll be too toasted to drive. The body guard will have to give the two of you a ride back to your apartment.
At the door Ms. Mason (which is not her real name, of course, but it is poor taste to besmirch such a lady by printing such information without her permission) will hold your hand as she walks you up to the door. She’ll tell you that she had a lot of fun and that it was totally worth it to visit you. She won’t mention money once. She’ll just captivate you with her beauty, and you’ll make her feel like a person again instead of an object with your genuine attempt to woo her. When you reach your door and struggle with your keys she’ll give you a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek and then depart back to her security guard, who will be waiting in either your or his car.
The two of them will drive away, leaving you smiling like an idiot on your porch. You won’t even realize that that was your car, assuming that was your car, until the next day when you need it and can’t find it. Even then you’ll have a little glimmer of hope when you see a text from an unknown number asking if you want to get brunch or something. Assuming, of course, you lived close enough to just hang out with her and that you didn’t have to fly her in. In the latter case a bodyguard will show up and ask you for your email in exchange for your keys, leading to one of the strangest long distance relationships in your life.
Congratulations on Going Bowling with a Porn Star!
First, go to Riley Mason’s website. We’re not sure where it is, but it’s a small internet and we’re sure that if you Google her you’ll find ample pictures of her being ploughed. Ample enough to keep you interested until you find her booking website.
Second, you’re going to have to find a way to transport Riley Mason to wherever it is you are in the world. This could be a matter of calling a town car service and having her and her bodyguard come to your apartment so the three of you can get in your Chevy Tahoe and hit the road. Or it could be as troublesome as you passing a background check, flying her to your city, hiring a trusted member of a security agency located in that city and having the security guard drive the three of you to a nearby bowling alley in his car, because yours might have gas or some shit in it.
You’re also going to have to pay her up front fee, which is a couple hundred per hour, travel time not included.
But after all these steps have been taken you’ll show up at a bowling alley with Riley Mason, who will actually be dressed in a fashion which is totally normal (because that’s how alt-porn girls do). She’ll have an amused, somewhat puzzled look on her face as she walks around the alley with her bodyguard in tow, drinking PBR and ignoring the stares as best she can.
You’ll ask her her shoe size as you pick up your rentals and she’ll laugh when she answers. She’ll tell you when you show up with a pair of sixes that usually men just ask her that so they can buy her skanky shoes that she can wear while they fuck her. She kind of likes the change. You’ll smile and tell her that you probably couldn’t afford to fuck her which, if you had to do the whole plane thing is probably true, and she’ll laugh and punch you in the arm.
The game will go by easily with you, and for a few seconds you’ll believe that you’re on a date with a girl, not paying to spend time with someone who has sex with more people than you can probably imagine. It’ll be a surreal experience for the two of you, each of you pretending that you’re normal for very different reasons, and when you ask her if she wants to bowl a second frame she’ll shrug and say “Sure” without even thinking of her billable hours.
When the bowling leads to a few more beers and the beers lead to more beers the two of you will talk like it’s the first time you’ve ever really met, like one of you hasn’t been paid to fuck in front of crowds the world over and the other one has had a significant relationship since the era of being able to carry liquids through airline security. You’ll pay for all of her drinks lavishly, which won’t be that bad because her taste will actually be quite cheap, and at the end of the night you’ll be too toasted to drive. The body guard will have to give the two of you a ride back to your apartment.
At the door Ms. Mason (which is not her real name, of course, but it is poor taste to besmirch such a lady by printing such information without her permission) will hold your hand as she walks you up to the door. She’ll tell you that she had a lot of fun and that it was totally worth it to visit you. She won’t mention money once. She’ll just captivate you with her beauty, and you’ll make her feel like a person again instead of an object with your genuine attempt to woo her. When you reach your door and struggle with your keys she’ll give you a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek and then depart back to her security guard, who will be waiting in either your or his car.
The two of them will drive away, leaving you smiling like an idiot on your porch. You won’t even realize that that was your car, assuming that was your car, until the next day when you need it and can’t find it. Even then you’ll have a little glimmer of hope when you see a text from an unknown number asking if you want to get brunch or something. Assuming, of course, you lived close enough to just hang out with her and that you didn’t have to fly her in. In the latter case a bodyguard will show up and ask you for your email in exchange for your keys, leading to one of the strangest long distance relationships in your life.
Congratulations on Going Bowling with a Porn Star!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Congratulations Ski Doo Dude!
Today you’re that guy on the internet who does tricks on his Ski-Doo. Normally you do them pretty well, so no one really gives a shit about you. No one except 14 year olds and people with problems coming too soon, the primary cross-section of humanity that subscribes to your Youtube channel.
But this Wednesday you’re going to try the toughest trick you’ve ever tried. You’re going to try ramping your Ski-Doo over a series of ski-shacks. Some of them will be on fire, not because of careful planning but because of careless drinking. You’re going to rev your Ski-Doo right up though, regardless of those looming flames. You’re going to point the nose down and put the pedal to the floor.
The snow will race beneath you, the air rush past your face. Your cheeks will burn with pressure and cold, your eyes will water with fear. As the end of the ramp approaches you’ll have a thought as to whether or not this was a good idea, but it’ll be a tiny thing, reverberating far below the drone of engine and the fire of the cylinders pumping.
When you take off from the ramp you’ll feel light beyond your wildest beliefs, a weightless thing, a bird. You’ll soar over trees and clear the first, non-flaming cottage. Then the second.
Heartbeats will pass between each one. The seconds will stretch into minutes in your mind, desperate things clinging to your mind, knowing what comes next. As the first flaming cottage passes beneath you you’ll think, for one of those heartbeats, that you could make it over the next one.
But the angle of approach will drop sharply. Physics will not favor your Ski-Doo today, and you’ll begin to arc down out of the sky towards the cabin, into the flames. You’ll enter at their zenith, catching fire and rolling across the second peak before you slam face first into the third burning building. The Ski-Doo will drop below the second roof, having crashed its weight into the building it collided into. You’ll sit there in shock in the flames, feeling them roil over you, feeling your clothes catch fire as you try to move but cannot make your nerves respond.
You’ll be dragged in under thirty seconds by nearby Ski-Safe-Tee personnel, who will put you out with fire blankets and snow. Then those personnel will escort you inside amidst cheers at the spectacle of your failure. You’ll be placed next to a fire, roaring and safely contained, where you’ll slowly regain your body heat and shiver occasionally at the thought of your possible death while pulling off a stunt for a Youtube audience.
You’ll think of how all your cred has been undone by your failure, how bad shit is. You’ll think this for a full hour and a half, until one of your friends brings in a laptop showing the view-count on your upload. You’ll see that it has already topped one-hundred thousand views. In one hour. At that moment you’ll realize that you and your Ski-Doo can make a lot more getting injured than you can pulling off stunts competently.
Thus will begin your brief, incredibly lucrative career.
Congratulations Ski-Doo Dude!
But this Wednesday you’re going to try the toughest trick you’ve ever tried. You’re going to try ramping your Ski-Doo over a series of ski-shacks. Some of them will be on fire, not because of careful planning but because of careless drinking. You’re going to rev your Ski-Doo right up though, regardless of those looming flames. You’re going to point the nose down and put the pedal to the floor.
The snow will race beneath you, the air rush past your face. Your cheeks will burn with pressure and cold, your eyes will water with fear. As the end of the ramp approaches you’ll have a thought as to whether or not this was a good idea, but it’ll be a tiny thing, reverberating far below the drone of engine and the fire of the cylinders pumping.
When you take off from the ramp you’ll feel light beyond your wildest beliefs, a weightless thing, a bird. You’ll soar over trees and clear the first, non-flaming cottage. Then the second.
Heartbeats will pass between each one. The seconds will stretch into minutes in your mind, desperate things clinging to your mind, knowing what comes next. As the first flaming cottage passes beneath you you’ll think, for one of those heartbeats, that you could make it over the next one.
But the angle of approach will drop sharply. Physics will not favor your Ski-Doo today, and you’ll begin to arc down out of the sky towards the cabin, into the flames. You’ll enter at their zenith, catching fire and rolling across the second peak before you slam face first into the third burning building. The Ski-Doo will drop below the second roof, having crashed its weight into the building it collided into. You’ll sit there in shock in the flames, feeling them roil over you, feeling your clothes catch fire as you try to move but cannot make your nerves respond.
You’ll be dragged in under thirty seconds by nearby Ski-Safe-Tee personnel, who will put you out with fire blankets and snow. Then those personnel will escort you inside amidst cheers at the spectacle of your failure. You’ll be placed next to a fire, roaring and safely contained, where you’ll slowly regain your body heat and shiver occasionally at the thought of your possible death while pulling off a stunt for a Youtube audience.
You’ll think of how all your cred has been undone by your failure, how bad shit is. You’ll think this for a full hour and a half, until one of your friends brings in a laptop showing the view-count on your upload. You’ll see that it has already topped one-hundred thousand views. In one hour. At that moment you’ll realize that you and your Ski-Doo can make a lot more getting injured than you can pulling off stunts competently.
Thus will begin your brief, incredibly lucrative career.
Congratulations Ski-Doo Dude!
Monday, October 25, 2010
Congratulations Brain Parasite!
Today, in a hilariously ironic twist of fate, you’re going to crawl up the spine of Stephen Hawking and attach yourself to the motherlode of all fucking brains. You’re going to fasten yourself hard and fasten yourself fast and stick there and suck, suck, suck. You’ll suck so hard, in fact, that you’ll suck the neuro-muscular dystrophy right out of his body and have him up out of that wheelchair and dancing within a matter of hours.
Stephen will write a series of papers about how physics define just how great you are and quantify in a manner that makes it potentially infinite without necessarily being infinite in the even that a means by which to measure your awesomeness is devised. He’ll make you the toast of the town, with your name being sung and celebrated from every corner of the globe. You’ll have undone one of the greatest injustices that nature has ever visited upon the world, and you’ll have gotten fat doing it.
We just hope that tomorrow, when you send a copy of Time Magazine with your picture of it as “Parasite of the Year” along with a handwritten note from Stephen Hawking which reads, simply, fuck you old man, you’ll be gracious when your dad calls you and tries to make up with you. There’s no way of knowing if he genuinely feels bad or if he’s just trying to cash in on your fame, but you should let him in anyways. It’s not like he has a lot going for him right now anyhow.
Congratulations Brain Parasite!
Stephen will write a series of papers about how physics define just how great you are and quantify in a manner that makes it potentially infinite without necessarily being infinite in the even that a means by which to measure your awesomeness is devised. He’ll make you the toast of the town, with your name being sung and celebrated from every corner of the globe. You’ll have undone one of the greatest injustices that nature has ever visited upon the world, and you’ll have gotten fat doing it.
We just hope that tomorrow, when you send a copy of Time Magazine with your picture of it as “Parasite of the Year” along with a handwritten note from Stephen Hawking which reads, simply, fuck you old man, you’ll be gracious when your dad calls you and tries to make up with you. There’s no way of knowing if he genuinely feels bad or if he’s just trying to cash in on your fame, but you should let him in anyways. It’s not like he has a lot going for him right now anyhow.
Congratulations Brain Parasite!
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