Category: Comics

I’ll let you guys wake up to Christopher Lee and Rhapsody this morning. Umair forced its wrath upon me a couple of times, and I keep watching it, because it is very extremely hard to turn away.

Real, actual, tangible updates to follow.

Peep Kiefer Sutherland’s Japanese 24 Calorie Mate ads. I’m not sure how old they are, and I’m not sure I care.

This one might be the best.

Assault Heroes came out on Xbox Live Arcade yesterday. It’s another original title, so it’s not an arcade retread with slightly updated graphics or anything. I’ve been wary of the originals, though. Small Arms was like Smash Bros. but not fun, and Roboblitz, despite having the words Robo and Blitz in close proximity of one another, was boring.

This game is rad, though. It’s like a third-dimension combination of Ikari Warriors and Jackal. The screen scrolls as you drive haphazardly in your ATV, disintegrating everything in sight; fighting suicide bombers that scream Indian battle cries and leaving your vehicle to learn how to be a man on the ground.

I personally can’t wait to see what happens when the homebrew Live Arcade kits are released. Truly it could, and probably will, be a flood of crap the likes of which we’ve never imagined. Then again, there’s also bound to be some smart motherfuckers like Jenova Chen and Nicholas Clark waiting to pounce on this opportunity.

I’m a frequenter of the gas station by my house, mostly because it’s seriously a couple of blocks away, tops. It has the same kind of essence to it as the diner at the end of Spaceballs and it’s convenient for quick-notice beer, fountain soda, and crusty early morning coffee trips.

Anyway, there’s this guy that works there; big, obese dude with a soprano voice [drawing provided for reference]. He always seems kind of grumbly and upset with himself for being who he is. With that said, I shouldn’t have been surprised at all last night when I outed his true burning otaku nature.

My first mistake was wearing a Kikaida shirt, the Super7 T with the Ishinomori-style comic art on it. The place was empty, so it was safe for him to molt his shell like Hino’s Bug Boy. Next thing I know, I’m hearing about how he doesn’t have cable, but he can take his VCR to his mom’s on Saturdays to record Adult Swim anime until the tape spools out.

There’s a point to this story; an exclamation point, if you will. After lamenting the long wait between new episodes of Inu-Yasha, he looked at me and shook his head.

“Haven’t you figured out who I am yet?”

Then his eyes unexpectedly turned a bright amber hue and his nose flared like an angry savage. He grabbed me by my collar and shook me violently, screaming, “I’m YOU! I’M YOU!” It was like a bad issue of Slamm Dunk but exclusively with white people.

Is he right, folks?

Wide-eyed hope has been mashed and puréed into cold disappointment, and I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that Nintendo is not going to respond to my most excellent query (see post #107 – Ed).

Despite the new abrasive relationship I’ve developed with the company, I still went out and paid cold, hard store credit for a copy of Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin. At 677.3% progress (what the hell does that even mean?), I’d say it’s on its way to replacing Aria of Sorrow as my favorite of the portable games. So well-grounded is my dedication that, when prompted to doodle an icon for my file with the stylus, I resisted, with a rigid brow and the sternest of looks, man’s instinctive duty to draw a penis.

Now, at age 25, I still find myself cursing aloud bastards of evolution and science like Frankenstein[‘s Monster] and Medusa, just as I imagine our forefathers did many years ago. I guess I’ve been killing things with whips for twenty years now, so I should be pretty adept.

(Pictured: Me, going to Pat’s house circa 199x)