It seems like lately a lot of people have been dealing with vast quantities of unpleasantness, and only recently has the collective fortune of the unlucky taken a turn for the better. I've had my own rashers of shit to contend with resulting in a lingering despondency that I couldn't seem to shake.
Yet in my bleakest hour, when it seemed like all hope had been lost, a hero appeared on the horizon. A hero in a robot helmet, flanked by a similarly incredible female compatriot toting a withering glance that causes the immediate and irreversible decomposition of the manhood of those unlucky enough to be caught in its crosshairs. I hear she also has laser nipples, though that remains unconfirmed at the time of this posting.
You see, last night I received a surprise package. This weird little lumpy envelope that I would've suspected was an incendiary device or space wasps bio-engineered...TO KILL, had it not been addressed from Colette and Niero. To be perfectly honest I was a little puzzled. I mean, we'd agreed that my hush money for keeping Chad and Colette's growing army of mutant flipper babies a secret (Chad is half-dolphin you see) would come at the beginning of the month.
But not being one to turn down free stuff, even if it's a package of murderous space wasps, I tore into my mystery package.
What the deuce...
OH SHIT! MOTHERFUCKIN' SURPRISE QUAIL Y'ALL!
In my hour of need, Colette and Niero stepped up and made what was rapidly turning into a pretty horrible episode A FUCKING AMAZING QUAIL DANCE PARTY!
I love Destructoid, I love Colette, and I love Niero in ways that are almost certainly violations of my conditional parole. This place is fantastic, and all of you (even the ones who don't send me random quails) rock out with your respective cocks out.
The funny thing about Seattle is the level of intolerant bigots we have here in spite of our reputation for being an open minded, progressive city. On a regular basis there are a group of folks that stand on the street corners of our downtown core waving huge signs about God, Jesus, and the hatred of the aforementioned toward gay people. I'm not really sure why they do it, but they do, and often times these folks lead to a whole mess of hilarity.
Walking home from work (spanging at freeway off-ramps) I managed to wander through their net of vitriol. They're ranting into a megaphone as per usual and then one of them says, "WHAT IS JESUS TO YOU?! JUST A FIGMENT OF YOUR IMAGINATION?!". I'm sure he went on but I was too distracted by what had popped up in my head because of what he said.
All I could think of was collecting figments in Psychonauts to level up, and how hilarious it would be if all the figments were Jesus on the cross, or Jesus with a sheep or whatever, y'know...the things Jesus does.
What does it say about me, when a douche of epic proportion is issuing forth a torrent of some pretty hateful ideas and remiss in my Seattle-ite duty of getting all righteously indignant all I can think of is Psychonauts?
Most of us have seen Clerks right? I mean, come on, it was one of those movies that like it or not followed us through our formative years; likely resulting in a slew of school office visits (or entertained friend) when a line from the movie would get repeated in an attempt at humor through repetition. Regardless of whether you've actually seen Clerks (and if not I suggest doing so immediately after finishing this) or not, you've almost certainly heard of it, and thus know exactly why Kevin Smith's Wii-mod is hands down the best.
It seems Mr. Smith, when not starting fights with Tim Burton or delivering hilarious speeches, is a gamer; which really, isn't that surprising when you think about it. However, a man of the stature of Kevin Smith doesn't play on a regular rig (suggesting so is likely to result in a visit to your house by a strung out Jason Mewes), no he plays on an awesomely self aggrandizing custom rig.
Ramon Stokes of Morpheon Mods created Smith's kickin' rad rig, featuring the animated Clerks crew on one side, Smith's production company (View Askew) logo on the other, and a pair of black Wii-motes and Nunchucks emblazoned with "Kevin" and "Silent Bob".
Wikipedia defines journalism as "the discipline of gathering, writing and reporting news, and broadly it includes the process of editing and presenting the news articles." Personally, I define journalism as non-fiction (or fiction depending on your employer) I want to write and a great excuse to get press passes to things I might otherwise have to pay for. And never the twain shall meet.
Yet I find myself relatively undisturbed. I might never be considered a "serious" journalist but all the writing that gets done still gets proofread. I still have to be at events to cover them (most of the time). Hey, I even get that sweet, sweet press pass; and regardless of what other folks with gainful employment and health benefits have to say my laminate says otherwise, so if you'll excuse me I have some "journalizing" to do.
I got into this gig initially for the bitches and fame. However, quickly realizing that neither bitches nor fame were to be had (and having ruined any chance of gainful employment via several pokes of needle in face) I was forced to actually work. But what do I do? My bitches-and-fame lust blinding me to the vagaries of this "journo" thing I was like a lost child wandering the mall parking lot of life. Quick word of warning, if a balding man in a blue panel van attempts to lure you away with promises of candy, he doesn't actually have candy. No friends, there's just screaming and creepy smiles to be had down that path.
Thankfully, I have had many saviors. Those that swooped down in my hour of direst need like a mother bird to her starving young, vomiting the life-giving vittles of a regular gig into my hungry journalistic gullet.
My first was a comics gig, but they were really "handsy" and kept making me pick up pencils and pens (which I suspect were purposefully dropped) so I scampered off into the arms of another, that of Senor CeeFurn and the Weekly Geek, rapidly followed by a regularly humiliating post at Ectomo HQ. Let it never be said that the duo of Gauger and Brownlee are completely heartless, they are simply mostly so, yet found enough pity in themselves to set me up as an editor in between my regular beatings.
And now I find myself here, the hallowed halls of Destructoid, staring down the barrels of the shotgun of journalistic credibility (as drunkenly wielded by Niero of course). Am I scared? Christ, you have no idea, I saw like 3 dead guys just in the lobby. Am I intrigued? Natch. Am I bringing honor to the Destructoid name? Well, considering the stories I've heard about Ron Workman, at least I won't be able to besmirch it further.