About five months ago, we sat down with a raptor (who preferred to remain anonymous) to ask his thoughts on the possibility that dinosaurs may be misrepresented by the videogame industry. We showed him various photographs of his videogame counterparts, hoping to get an honest response to the portrayals from an average, everyday velociraptor. We shall from this moment on refer to him simply as "V," and these are his raw, completely uncensored replies.
Translation- ("Oh, of course...the dinosaur is the bad guy. Never mind the fact that it would have been physically impossible for my reptillian brother to have tied up that woman (an unsubtle mockery of his obviously diminutive upper limbs), but even worse still, he is then massacred by the merciless cave "man" without a fair trial, although he has obviously been framed. If the arms don't fit, you must be a dinosaur-hating asshole."
Translation- ("Here you are, the Uncle-fucking-Tom of the dinosaur world. 'Oh yessuh, get on mah back, Mr. Fat Man. Where you gonna ride me to today, Mr. Fat Man? You gonna drop me down a endless hole so you can jump off ta reach that high platform again, Mr Fat Man?' Disgusting. If I was a dilophosaurus, I would spit in your face for showing me that.")
I drank half a bottle of El Presidente and decided to start writing a short story in lieu of doing my homework. Here is the beginning. Please don't be mean : (
Within a few deliberately difficult puffs of his cigarette, all of the anxiety melted away into the depression from whence it belonged. The air thickened with the stench of poor self-medication, he followed the rising smoke as if it were his very soul, wandering away elsewhere, anywhere but where it belonged. His husk, however, remained to trouble the decrepit old rocking chair, which also should have seen its graceful retirement years ago. Now, however, there they both were: used and outdated, dutiful to the very end, and then after.
He was called Matthias Mire Jr.; the chair preferred anonymity. Under the poorly thatched porch they sat, day after day, harboring, for the most part, startlingly similar thoughts. Matthias had never cared for a pet as a child or as an adult. This was, in part, due to Matthias’s belief in the philosophy which his father, Matthias Mire Sr., had so eloquently shared with Matthias Mire Jr. as a boy.
It was, essentially, “You love ‘em, they get worms, an’ then they die.”
This laissez faire attitude toward pets that the patriarch of the Mire family had steadfastly kept for so many years (mainly after the exodus of his fallen, Rahab, from the lives of both her husband and son), had also trickled into his dealings with others, and, eventually, into his son’s dealings with others as well. It was mainly because of this, but also due in part to his own perceived shortcomings, that Matthias Jr. had lived a decidedly simple existence, tucked away from all organic life, save his own personage.
Throughout the years, the old wooden rocking chair and Matthias had so tightly grown their bond that it had become plainly clear: they were made for each other. It could even be said that Matthias had entered into that hallowed stage in which Masters and pets begin to become eerily similar: both were advanced in age, white, worn-down, and creaking. Every afternoon for the past fifty years, excluding the days of the hurricanes, they would hold communion at the porch of the Acadian House, gazing out into the metropolitan abyss. It was at this point that Matthias would occasionally wade into his deeper, more deciduous realms of thought:
“In the Bible, Matthew ten, I believe, Jesus says that not a sparrow falls to the ground without the Lord’s knowing it, yet, they fall just the same. It also says they don’t have to worry about what they will eat or wear the next day," but he soon remembered that he was a man, in possession of a man’s brain, and the bird, as a bird, did not worry, because he could not. Such is the plight of the non-bird-brained.
...and he goes by Peter-Motherfucking-Chimaera. When I first read about the writers' strike affecting the forty-million dollar modern-epic: Castlevania: The Movie, I was grief stricken, and didn't eat for days. But then, one of those days, in my starvation-induced delerium, I had an epiphany: get Peter Chimaera to write the script! No one knows the material better, and it's painfully obvious that a writer of his calibur wouldn't need to hide behind good-for-nothing, gutless-wonder guilds. Too good to be true?
I read the interview with the C-Net employee trying to explain with his "gut" that the timing of Jeff G's firing was purely coincidental, and I threw the bull shit flag. Now, according to a source from Kotaku, it appears that the timing of the firing was anything but coincidental, with C-Net having waited until two weeks AFTER the now notorious review to lock the man out of his own office. Funny thing about that is, after Thanksgiving, there are no more major titles of the year to review, so any inevitable strikes planned by GS staff would be absolutely pointless. Also, as is in the article, I'd heard of Gamespot's very strict review guidelines that must be met before a review goes live, one of which includes screening the review before the whole team. If this is the case, the decision to put up the review was made by the team itself, not just Gerstmann, which would therefore make his firing even more suspect. Scapegoat, anyone? You can read the whole interview for even more edification of the fact that GS now (officially) sucks.
If they respond at all, I'd imagine it would be something like this:
"Uh, we were just ready to give some new blood a chance at GS. Really, Jeff was good, but ten years is a really long time to spend reviewing videogames. It's time to let someone else have a turn. Honestly, some of his reviews as of late had been a bit questionable at best *cough* Zelda *cough*. So, this was actually a quality assurance thing, you know, for you, the reader. Yeah..."
If they don't respond...well, I don't really see how they couldn't respond. It would be like sweeping an 800lb gorilla under the rug (pun intended).