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Turd Burglin Chodeo Clown's blog

4:03 PM on 02.08.2011

"Turd's Kind of a Chode, Himself." Volume 1

Recently, I was playing Valve's hat-filled gift to the world, when a conversation got me kicked from a Capture Point server. “Wow, Turd” (I’ll pretend, for the sake of this intro, any actual person reading it would ask); “you must have said something serious for them to kick you over a conversation. Did you go “Gibson” on their asses? Threaten the president’s life? Say “Voledmort”? No, my borderline-pathetic imaginary reader (seriously, Harry Potter? Whoever dreamed your sorry ass up needs to get laid); I used “big boy” words. Specifically (hide ya kids, hide ya wives) “Fuck” and “Shit”.

You see: upon joining that server I immediately closed its little “here is a list of behavioral guidelines we’re sure you’ll pay attention to. I mean, what kind of idiot doesn’t want sit around reading a window that’s telling them how to act while paying a game they bought with their money, and obscuring a significant portion of their field of vision’s left periphery after sitting around waiting for the map they just started playing to load?” text box (an action that I’m sure you’ve perceived had absolutely no negative repercussions at any point in the minutes that followed) to surmise my new team-mates had taken the map’s (Egypt's first stage) first capture point, but were unable to push through the enemy’s line of defense to take the final point. I assumed that whatever was hindering them could be eliminated by a good Demoman, and proceeded to the mid-map choke point. Once there (and after liquefying a R.E.D. team Sniper covering the area), I cautiously rounded the corner of one of the arch-ways in the wall separating our territory from theirs, only to be greeted by the dreaded “[bee-beeps]” of a veritable wall of level 3 sentry guns turning to face me. I "D"-key'd for cover, then began my attempt to chip away at this army of robotic adversaries by laying a sticky bomb carpet in front of the archway’s R.E.D. team entrance (to avoid any up-close interference from their mammalian compatriots) and darting in and out of their line of sight while launching pipe bombs in hopes of destroying them or the Engineers keeping them repaired. An Engineer, a sentry gun, and a few R.E.D.s that (apparently) couldn’t see the bloody bombs were all instantaneously disassembled at the cost of a significant portion of my health; which left me able to do little more than hold that position and call for a medic (“where’s his “Meet the…” video?” I guess Valve is too busy not-releasing Episode 3 to tackle that 10-minute monstrosity) until one arrived. After about 30 seconds and a couple more ordnance-oblivious combatants later, I still hadn’t received medical attention and was overwhelmed by a Soldier[] (the easiest class in the game) whose medic had activated his Kritzkrieg’s [] charge. While assuring myself this death was someone else’s fault, I took a look at our (12-person) team’s roster in search of a medic to blame all my problems on, when – low and behold – I realized there was none to be found. We had Soldiers (who, I’m assuming, were taking a break from doodling pretty little pictures) Heavies[], Spies, Demomen that weren’t me, Engineers, Pyros (OH! That’s right. They’re probably still slavin’ away on that "Portal" sequel the masses were crying out for), and even a Sniper or two; yet not a single medic. Upon respawning I (constructively) queried: “Hey, fuckfaces; you realize it’s usually a good idea for someone to play medic when we’re on offense, right?” Instead of receiving so much as a “you’ve a wonderful point there, good sir” my comment was met with only a “no swearing, please.” I took amusement in the fact that my tactfully-presented advice was met with such blatant trolling, and returned to the scene of my detonation. A little while later, our engineer informed me we had a dispenser for healing. I thanked him, but elucidated that “We still need a medic for Ubers and shit”. Seconds later, I was face to face with TF2’s main menu and a text box that read “You have been kicked from the server. Reason: ‘Profanity’”

In a non-existent to mild rage, I re-joined the server without even the slightest hindrance (real effective disciplinary action, gang) and asked its admins “You realize what this game’s rating is, right? Are you honestly going to try and tell me that the use of profanity is any worse than the (admittedly-cartoon-ish) depiction of violence?” I received no answer, and left the server while in the loading screen for the next map. My question still stands, however. I honestly have no idea who the server’s administration would be protecting with a “no swearing” rule. TF2 is an M-rated (online-only) game, so any child playing it has parents that clearly no longer care what content or people their offspring gets exposed to. And (in my opinion) any adult that doesn’t have the stomach for unseemly vocabulary also has no business playing a game where character models become puddles of viscera on a regular basis. But let’s assume the folks in charge of this server have taken it upon themselves to be crusaders for the preservation of small children and (arguably) regular Mormon’s virgin minds. Would there precious/polygamous charges be in any greater peril in the presence of actual profanity than animated murder? After all: ‘profanities’ are little more than a list of words that society has deemed unacceptable, and one must make conscious decision to allow these words to be counted amongst their common utterances; or at least to continually place themselves in environments where their use is all-too-common.

Even though I think I’ve done a pretty good job of convincing me that I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong in this situation; I’d like to hear your slightly-less-biased opinion. Was I (somehow) in the wrong? Is my salty talk any worse than a game’s violence? Does Valve honestly not get that it might be a good idea to release Half Life 2 Episode 3 sometime this millennium? TELL ME WHAT TO THINK, FAIR E-CITIZEN!

P.S. You might have noticed that I’ve gone out of my way to riddle this blog with links to just about every cursorily-related piece of promotional content for Team Fortress 2 I could find. This was simply my way of imploring anyone reading it that does has somehow managed to avoid purchasing this wonderful title to remedy this grave error as soon as possible. It runs on just about every computer, isn’t terribly difficult to play (especially when playing Soldier), and (knowing Valve) will probably be on sale for a nickel at some point in the near future.

P.P.S. Were you my favorite little over-used writing mechanic, you’d also be asking yourself “Gee, Mr. Clown! Where’d you learn to persistently cut such persuasive (and undoubtedly necessary) promos?” Well, my curious abomination: I gleaned this skill from a stream of wonders. A stream where anything is (in theory) possible. A stream that flows from about 4PM to 12PM (Pacific). A stream that, when followed, enters you for a chance to win a 3DS. That stream is Destructoid’s live stream, and can be found by clicking yet another link. BUT BE WARNED, YOUNG ONE! Once you’ve entered this stream, it would be wise to cast off the “Capslock” key from your board of scribing; for the Mause who polices its occupants is easily started by large text.

[Big ups to Ben Sanders for uploading and producing the pictures and captions I was far too lazy to upload and produce]   read

12:11 PM on 12.09.2010

"Turd’s Straight Clownin’ on Chodes!" Volume 1

You may have already deduced this from a quick glance at my “about me”, but if not: I play a lot of FPS’s; and (as I often tell my prospective lady-mates) I’m pretty alright at them. So, as anyone else who has dared perpetrate such a dire offense could tell you, I catch more than my fair share of shit on a semi-regular basis. This (sporadically updated) series is where I will chronicle my online adventures, the backlash they garner, and my response.

Yesterday (more like “earlier this morning”, but you get the point) I was just dickin’ about on “Halo: Reach”, mindin’ my own, trying to get to a high enough rank to buy this gold visor THEY’VE BEEN TAUNTING ME WITH SINCE “CAPTAIN”; when one of my old pals from school shot me an invite to play some Red Dead Redemption, a game that sports the most balanced and competitive of online experiences. I hadn’t so much as touched that game in ages, but I’d been hankering to get my cowboy (OH! I’m sorry: “cattle-driving American”) on for a couple weeks, and this was just the excuse I needed. I joined his game of Hardcore Free Roam, his posse, and was teleported to Fort Mercer, where we spent the next 2 minutes mercilessly gunning down its dastardly occupants. That’s when she showed up.

Today’s chode (we’ll call her “Wynter J.”) rode into Fort Mercer with a posse of 5, whose members were significantly higher levels than my friend and I. She started putting shots in my back unprovoked, so I whipped around and ventilated her mind tank. My (oblivious) friend and I were then promptly gunned down by her remaining companions. I wish I could tell you that we fought the good fight, and their posse let us be. I wish I could tell you that - but “Hardcore Free Roam” is no fairy-tale world. Three of their posse camped our spawns outside of the fort, while the other two cleared it out. I was able to take down one or two of them every couple of respawns, but in the end: they killed my friend (who was, admittedly, stinkin’ it up out there) and I so many times that our beloved “Wynter” got a bounty on her head, and took to hiding next to an ammo crate in the fort. I managed to get in there and take her down before I met yet another lead-enriched end, and my friend (fed up with all the “dying”) teleported us away from the fort without my consent. I got on my horse and playfully trampled him for this act of cowardice. My friend (no idea why he would do this) started shooting my horse, and right as he felled my trusty steed, good ole lady Wynter came a-whistlin’ out of some nearby brush and murdered my incapacitated ass as well as my (all-of-a-sudden-incapable-of-killing-things) friend. Wynter and her posse immediately left the session, and she initiated the following correspondence moments later:

Wynter J: fuckin bitch

Me: Eat a dick, whore.

[I didn’t resort to such vulgarity simply because she was a woman; her character was literally a prostitute. My only regret is that I couldn’t think of something more period-appropriate than “whore” (“saloon wench”? “Good time cowgal”? “Slizz slinger”?).]

Wynter: eat fuckin dirt like u did 2mins ago u worthless noob

Me: ‘Grats on your 1337 Red Dead skillz. When’s the next tourney?

Wynter: whenever i c u in a session.

Me: Then I guess I’ll see you there. And hey; maybe the prize this year will be someone who gives a shit about how good you are at Red Dead

Wynter: *hours of silence*

Like the series so far? Hate this garbage? Tell me just how thoroughly I’ve shit the bed in the comments section, and how I can clean it up for future installments. Want to guarantee you’ll see more? Just PM me your credit card information. I’ll only take five dollars. HEY! I’m a trustworthy and altruistic kinda guy. Just ask my friends.   read

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