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The Last Testament of a Promoted Blogger - Destructoid


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In what is the coolest jobs I've ever had, I write about toys for a living. All day, nothing but toys. It's amazing. When I'm not writing at work I'm writing at home, either working on my screenplay or my children's novel. When I'm not doing any of that I try to get in some video game time. I'm currently rocking Nintendo only consoles because dammit, I love Nintendo. More than Nintendo, I love platform games. Even though my favorite game isn't a platformer (The Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker), it is my favorite genre of games.

Follow me on twitter at www.twitter.com/thekillerbees and add me to your 3DS Friends List (1633-4277-3240 and let me know so I can add you to mine.) I'd love to meet some people who want play some Kid Icarus, Resident Evil: Revelations and Mario Kart 7.



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Let me start by saying that I am sorry if this is filled with typos. I’m writing it on my crappy LG phone because I don’t have access to a computer. I don’t have access to a computer because I don’t know where the hell I am. It’s hot here, there’s a lot of sand, and I just passed a sign that said “Jebil,” whatever the fuck that means. There’s some weird type of goat just down the road and I think I’m being followed by a lark. If I don’t find someone soon I’m going to die out here.

I’m trying to remember how I ended up back here, which is why I’m writing this. I can recall details much better when I write them down. I think it all started on Thursday after I wrote that blog piece on those Nintendo ads. I went to work and when I returned home I saw that the blog had been promoted to the front page. Yeah, that’s where all this shit happened. Immediately after I posted my thank you for the promotion there was a knock at my door. I answered but there was no one; just a small closed envelope on my welcome mat. Inside the envelope was a piece of paper that had an address and a time written on it. The letter was scented. Calvin Klein I think.

I arrived at the address expecting to get murdered, something I had expected would have happened by now being a poor white guy in LA. The building was an old brick firehouse, one that looked like it belonged on the East Coast instead of Los Angeles. Once inside my nostrils were attacked by the strong odor of weed. It took me back to my college days at Humboldt State. At first I didn’t recognize anyone inside. It was a sea of barely dressed bodies. I was ready to leave, thinking it was a mistake to come, when Andy Dixon approached me. He was shirtless, wearing zebra striped pants with a pacifier in his mouth. His eyes screamed ecstasy.

“Hey man. Are you crackedbat,” he asked, though his eyes couldn’t keep a lock on mine.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Congrats on the promoted blog and welcome to the club.” That’s when he licked my face and ran away screaming like a character in Rapelay. It was then that the sea of bodies in the building started to look familiar. At the bottom of the pile in the middle of the room was a passed out Jim Sterling wearing a blue onesie. To my left, snorting pixie dust off the ass of a hooker was Rick Olson. Scratch that, that wasn’t a hooker. It was a sex doll designed to look like Tara Long. The real Tara Long was in the back corner, disassembling and reassembling a military grade automatic rifle. There was crazed look in her eyes that was equal parts concentration and psychotic. Maybe I will get killed tonight, I thought.

I took a step further in as more Destructoid members exposed themselves to me. Tony Ponce was to my left, dazed and slowly riding one of those animal toys you find on playgrounds. Allistair Pinsof was near the fire exit riding a stationary bike that connected to a battery that connected to his balls. The sounds of his screaming laughs haunt me as I write this. A loud roar coming from the rear the building drew me over. As I walked I noticed Dale North watching from above like the twisted owner of some Satanic nightclub. The smirk on his faced ripped a hole through my soul. As I reached the crowd in the back it immediately became apparent to me what was going on.

Several people formed a half circle across from the corner. Rick Olsen, Hamza Aziz, Joseph Leary and Josh Tolentino I recognized. There were a few others I didn’t. I would later be told that they were others who had their blogs promoted. Some of them watched the action with a dead look in their eyes. They had been through hell, and I knew that’s where I was going after tonight. The half circle was loud, either watching or cheering the action in the middle. Some had money in their hands. They were taking bets; bets on the fight that was unleashing just inches from us. In the middle of the circle stood a bloody Jonathan Holmes and a bloody Jonathan Ross. Both were stripped down to their underwear, duking it out in a K-Y fist fight. So much blood, so much lube; it looked like a scene out of Rapelay.

After 12 minutes of a bloody battle, Ross fell to the ground in defeat. His face, puffy, bleeding and bruised, looked as if it had just undergone back alley plastic surgery. Holmes was the winner. Rick walked up to him and whispered something in his ear. Holmes looked at me and smiled. I knew I had to get out of there. But before I could I was stopped by Conrad Zimmerman. He took me to a booth in the back near Tara, who had moved away from her guns and was now pulling a pin out of a grenade and then reinserting it. She had the same look in her eyes as before, though now sweat poured off her brow.

As we sat down in the booth, a waitress with her lips sewn shut took our drink order. Conrad ordered for both of us. He picked something for me called “Cereal.”

“Well, what do you think?” he asked me, gesturing to the scene around us.

“I think I fell asleep watching Caligula,” I replied.

“Good, that’s what we’re going for. You know, you’re a lucky man, crackedbat. Most people never get to see this side of Destructoid, to see us as ourselves. Sure, they think they know us because we talk to them online and shit, but they know nothing. This... this is the real us.”

I took another look around. The people from the circle have moved over to bar demanding some “Heisenberg.” I thought it would be a German drink or something but it was just some blue glass. Tony and Allistair had switched places, though Tony hooked the battery up to his nipples. Andy was licking the floor where the Jonathans had been fighting. Ross was tightening a noose around his neck as he licked his bloody lips. I couldn’t see Holmes. Jim was still lying on the floor, motionless.

“Is he gonna be okay,” I asked, pointing at that massive body in the middle of the room.

“No, he’s dead.”

My heart sank.

“He’s actually been dead for a year and a half. We keep his body fresh with Ice-9. Haven’t you ever noticed that he never changes his clothes, or gains or loses weight? All those Jimquisitions were taped years ago, we just run them as if they’re new using a voice actor to dub over some of his lines.”

Oh my God, I thought, they’re using Jim to Tupac the entire Destructoid nation. The bombshells didn’t end there. Conrad spilled the beans on everything: Destructoid was bought by News Corp. two years ago and had been feeding Republican talking points through subliminal messages in its stories, Max Scofield has been prostituted out to Saudi oil tycoons in order to generate more funds, Sophie Prell is actually just an animatronic that is operated by a bath-salt rattled Yanier Gonzalez, and perhaps the biggest bombshell of all, that Destructoid reviewers took money unabashedly from publishers for better scores and took money to tank scores of competing games; all while they haven’t played a single video game in three years.

“Why?” I asked, remembering all the great times I’ve had with games.

“Here, I’ll show ya,” he said as he lead me to a quiet room in the corner. Our drinks were there. Mine tasted like cotton candy. The room was barren except for the computer desk in the corner. In front of the desk was a single chair, on the desk a computer that looked quite powerful.

“Go ahead, have a seat,” he said. I sat down and booted up the computer. It was Windows, XP I believe. There were only two things on the screen. One was the recycle bin, the other, a program labeled HL2:E3. That’s right, Half-Life 2 Episode 3. My heart jumped. How did it get here? How long has it been completed?

“Play that game, and all your questions will be answered.”

He closed the door behind me and I booted up the game. I took hold of the mouse as Gordon Freeman walked onto the screen. I was ready. My body was ready.

It seemed like only minutes had passed when the “The End” screen popped up. I sat there in awe. The graphics, the controls, the sound, the story, the gameplay, the design... all of it sucked ass. Absolutely terrible. Half Life 2 Episode 3 is the worst game I have ever played. Then I understood. I understood everything. When you base your life on anticipation only to be disappointed, then what is the point of your life. That explained everything. The bath salts, the guns, the dead Jim, the fights, the blue glass; they were just trying to live again, trying to get back to a place where their innocence and their hopes and their dreams weren’t crushed. Those other bloggers, the ones with dead looks in their eyes, they had let the disappointment over take them. They weren’t living, they were the living dead. It explained everything, except why I was getting so sleepy. I took a look at my empty glass. “Cereal”...”Special K”...

I awoke three hours later expecting to be naked with dead Jim on top of me. Instead, I had been moved to a different room. It shook. I was on a plane and we were flying. Right as I got my bearings I looked down at my feet. There was Holmes, sucking on my toes. I was about to kick him away when I caught sight of another promoted blogger in the room with me. He told me to just let Holmes finish otherwise there would be hell to pay. Now I understood the smile after his fight. So I let him finish. Hope he likes mouth fungus.

The blogger was named locketheliesz. He said I was trapped, that all promoted bloggers are trapped. You think it’s such a great deal to get on the front page of Destructoid, but really you’re signing your own death warrant. I asked him where we were. He said he didn’t know. Holmes had left, crying and slapping himself in the face. I put my shoes back on and tried to follow him, but the door was locked.

We flew for another six hours before we landed. Locketheliesz and I didn’t say a word the entire time except for a 10 minute conversation where we argued the merits of editing one’s personal blog for the purpose of moving it to higher traffic area. On the ground, locketheliesz blindfolded me. He whispered “Do what they say” in my ear as the door to our room burst open. I don’t know who grabbed me, but they were extremely violent with my crotch. They carried me out to some sort of vehicle and then drove me for a few hours. At our destination, they once again carried me down into some sort of cave. At least I believe it was a cave. The air was damp and every step echoed. When we got to the end they took off my blindfold. In front of me was some massive pirate ship wheel in the cave wall. It was glowing. I turned to the two who had carried me but I only focused on the one with a gun. Tony pointed it directly at my head.

“Turn the wheel,” he ordered.

“What, why?”

“Because...” Conrad cut him off.

“Because we have to save Valve,” he said.


“We have to save Valve,” he repeated.

Tony pulled out another gun pointed straight at me.

“Turn the wheel, or die,” he demanded.

His head motioned over to the side. I looked over. It was a pile of bodies. The bodies of the promoted bloggers who said no and you never heard from again. Their carcasses had been ravaged by prey and time. I turned to the wheel. The loud click of the guns startled me.

“Do it,” Conard said.

I grabbed the wheel and began to turn it. It was difficult, the wheel was stubborn. But I turned it. The last two things I remember is Tony laughing and a bright light. That’s when I woke up in this desert hell hole.

I may not make it back alive. I’m probably going to die out here. If I do, this has to be said: Destructoid Bloggers, stop writing good blogs. Write crap from now on. Don’t check your spelling or punctuation, embrace your inner fanboy and write in his voice, openly call developers fa**ots and ni**ers, make a post that is nothing but terrible art, attack the Destructoid editors, write a blog that’s favorable of Uwe Boll, upload 30 clapping and popcorn eating gifs; do whatever it takes to stay off the front page. Most of you are experts at that. But for the few who can string together a group of sentences, you have to write pieces that are so terrible and nonsensical that it makes you look like a tea party protester. Doing so will save your life.

Wait, there’s a truck driving down the road. The guy motions he’ll give me a ride. He’s talking to me but I don’t understand a word he’s saying. That’s not true. There is one word I hear loud and clear: Rapelay.

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