Archive for the 'games' Category

And in the order they were received, no less

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Anonymous Coworker
on May 14, 2008 @ 10:14 am
in contests, games, i am so fucking awesome, music, nerd stuff, potty humor, sex and word nerd
. 23 Comments

It was the middle of the longest lecture on apiculture Charles Mingus had ever sat through and he was beginning to regret giving up his bass, a jazz career overflowing with accolades, and all the money, women, and excitement that came with it. Jazz was a ruritania now that he was mired in the minutiae of “fixed-frame hives” and “smokers”.

In his disclosure of his wishes to the president of the North American Jazz Association for Jazz in America (NAJAJA) to pursue a life in beekeeping he expressed his desire for change. Mingus chuckled as he thought back to writing that going from jazz to bees would be “vicissitudinal to his spirit, his lifestyle, and his artistry.”

“What a magnificent douchebag I was,” thought Mingus, “to use an archaic version of the adjective form of ‘vicissitude’. I must have just thrown it in there because I’m a stupid cockface.”

Mingus contemplated further his life decisions and all the women he could have porked as the speaker droned on about the need to concatenate hive structures and the benefits of the new singular hive designs shaped like an upside-down uvula. Back then any woman would have jumped at the chance to be his penis holster: to have his purple-headed womb-ferret wriggling within their loins.

But now that he’d left jazz women looked at him with eyes full of arsenic.

“‘Irregardless’,” Mingus thought, “that’s a douchey word too. Why do I keep using such utterly pointless words? I am a cock.”

He cleared the phlegm from his throat and ruminated again on the career he abandoned because he worried about being the jazz bassist who had shark-jumped his craft.

At the front of the room slide after slide of oblong, squamous beehives filled the audience with glee. Mingus saw the mostly-male crowd was unaware of their vaginality: their eyes were moist at the sight of beehives! These men were children, really, better suited to playing tag and wiping their boogers on each other. They had no place in the real world. He could take it no longer.

“Listen up, cats, we’re talkin’ ’bout bees! Yeah, they make that sweet honey, but they don’t make the world spin. Let’s cool out on the bees a while, huh?”

His shibboleth was palpable. A crowd of angry, confused, and irritated faces drove him out of the room, and he was happy to go, revealing his callipygian side as he turned to leave. As he reached the door the room heard a malevolent borborygmus, and though Mingus knew it was coming it was so violent and explosive that when it burst from him he pronked.

Paper in the lecture room blew everywhere, and the cockbag at the podium was knocked over by the bowel-blowout. As if by prestidigitation Mingus produced a full upright bass from inside his vest and made his exit from beekeeping forever, leaving a room full of arsemongers and a life of tomfoolery behind.

He was barely out the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The shitcock from the lecture was forcibly turning Mingus to face him.

Now that Mingus and the speaker were face to face, Mingus could tell from the speaker’s comb-over and threadbare suit that he was a parsimonious little twat who had long ago nerfed himself through years of coddling and penissockery. He lived a life bereft of adventure.

Mingus bellowed, “Get you hands off of me! Your life is a monument to floccinaucinihilipilification, you shit-faced dildo-sandwich!”

“Why, I’ve never met anyone so ribald…”

“Ribald? I’m the living transubstantiation of emotion into music! Sometimes it gets a little raunchy, but that’s what life’s about. You’re too busy studying insects to notice you anal-riffic meat-wallet!”

“… S..sir,” said the speaker trembling with rage, “I’d thank you to leave our conference now.”

“No, I think it’s time for you to leave you little cock-carnageous bug-fucker!”

And with that Mingus defenestrated the speaker. He then stooped over, gathered up his bass, and free from the inanity of the beekeeping world went on to write a song about the silliness of antidisestablishmentarianism on the bus ride back to his condo, chuckling all the while at the day’s douchebaggery.

And what, bitches? - ACW

P.S. Felching.

Drawing a blank

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Anonymous Coworker
on May 13, 2008 @ 8:54 am
in contests, games, meta blogging, the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs and word nerd
. 45 Comments

I’ve got nothing. Did you see that post from yesterday? What a pile of washed up shit THAT was. I can’t believe you even read it and then didn’t try to track me down to beat me up for having written something so completely boring. Ugh. It made pablum look like banality incarnate.

So because I’m so lazy I’m going to throw it out to the internetstertubestersuperterhighwayternets. Leave me a single word in the comments and I’ll make a post using those words tomorrow.

Sorry for phoning it in today, but you get what you pay for around here.

Yeah, sort of about Guitar Hero again

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Anonymous Coworker
on May 8, 2008 @ 9:10 am
in devil cat, games, music and word nerd
. 10 Comments

To say that the game has devoured me is only half true. Having played before I knew going into it that I’d be presented with the intense feedback I so desperately crave from things I purportedly refer to as “fun”.

Not only am I concerned with what percent of the song I complete without error, but I can also dig deep into the song itself and find out exactly which subsection of which chorus gave me the most trouble, and with a brain wired like mine is, that can be equally enthralling and terrifying.

Every song that starts with a 50 note streak is the potential for my first perfect score. Every 100 note streak brings me closer still. 200 note streaks pretty much make me wet my pants with unbridled glee coupled with a snarling shred-face with prominent lip-curl. Like Elvis on meth. Then I try to successfully execute a coupling of the power of the stars with the terrestrial burdens of the ever-moving conveyor belt of notes and either screw up profoundly or initiate star power successfully, only to be so excited that I did it successfully that I fail to pay attention and again miss notes.

So, as you can see, not only has the game devoured me, but I have devoured the game as well, like some sort of recursive double Ouroboros, both of us deadlocked in a battle of wills to see who will blink first.

All the while Sherlock sits in the corner thinking, “Jesus fucking Christ is this magnificent douchebag ever going to play with me again? I’m over here, up to my hairballs in toys and that gigantic cock doesn’t even notice. Well fuck that.”

And with that Sherlock climbed into the massive (and embarrassing) basket we have that is full of “cat toys” with “cat toys” being anything we think they might have fun with and/or have already played with and shown some level of amusement. For example, some of the “toys” that you might be surprised to see are an old hat, the cardboard structural center from an old roll of duct tape, Happy Meal toys from McDonald’s, as well as any number of assorted toys that jingle, blink, have feathers, or simply have their various crevices crammed with catnip.

Last night, in the middle of trying to duel the end boss, Sherlock went to the basket, got a jingle ball out all by himself, and started playing with it right in front of me as if to say, “You see that you douchebag? Huh? Do you see it? You’ve ignored me so much that I have to play by myself. You are a bad cat owner, and I hate you, even if you do feed me.”

Seeing him half-heartedly scramble around on the floor with a toy he had picked out by himself so he could play by himself kind of broke my heart a little bit, so I turned off the Wii and played with my cat.

As soon as I finished the song.

I’ll stop talking about my wiiner when I’m good and ready

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on May 6, 2008 @ 1:16 pm
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, beer, games, music, nerd stuff, ocd and sex
. 19 Comments

Because I’m thrilled that Mrs. ACW doesn’t look with scorn upon the Wii, the only video game system I’m aware of to have accomplished that feat, I am constantly encouraged to buy more games and accessories for our Wiiner.

So we bought Guitar Hero.

This has introduced a number of interesting behaviors that I’m sure will become full-blown OCD tendencies in no time.

1) It is impossible for me to not rock out while I am playing. I’m constantly dancing around and bopping along with the music, even if it’s The (remarkably shitty) Killers and the horrendous douchebag among douchebags, Brandon Flowers, he of the “ironic” pedophile mustache, is singing. I’m glad I got five stars on that song, because I’d hate to have to play it again. Seriously, does he realize that when he sings he sounds like a whiny baby with a poopy diaper? What a knob. If I have one wish it’s that The Killers and Fallout Boy eventually get into a rumble and they all die.

2) It is impossible for me to not drink while I am playing. Granted, I’ve only played twice so far, but finishing each song to take a swig from that fantastic, long-necked, brown-glass teat of diminishing fine-motor skills is about as close as I’ve come to paradise. I only wish that I could play and drink at the same time, sort of using the bottle like a slide guitar, but I’m not that good yet. And the game doesn’t really work that way. And I would probably break something. Shut up.

3) I have yet to master the “Star Power” usage. On the 360 it seemed to be a lot easier. Just pop the guitar neck up a little bit and viola: star power. With the Wii it can get a little temperamental, so the chance of you seeing me successfully execute star power is lesser than the chance of you seeing me successfully jerk the controller up and down like I’m some sort of spastic freak living in a fantasy world of tiny guitars that are attacking me for some reason and I’m trying to kill them. Also, I’ve yet to successfully pull off a star power activation combined with a Pete Townshend-esque guitar move, so until that day comes, I’m going to keep jumping and swinging my arm until I wind up hurting myself, which is the most likely outcome.

4) This is probably the worst one of all. Now that I’ve played a video game about playing a guitar, I totally feel like I can hang with people who actually know how to play guitar and talk about hammer ons, pull offs, harmonics, and fingering techniques. Double entendres aside, that is, which is what I would normally talk about if I heard those terms.

5) The best thing about Guitar Hero is that I can finally put into practice all the awesome band names that I’ve ever come up with. Seriously, I’m a band-naming machine. Need a band name? Just call me, I’ll do it for cheap. Ready? Here are 10 off the top of my head:

The Crap Monkeys
Flinger
The Gravymaker Express
The Rooster Pothole
Disco School
Satan’s Daycare
Forget the Alamo!
Windsock
Dreampickles
A Bucket Full of Pudding

Honk if you love honking!

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on September 22, 2006 @ 10:41 am
in games and work
. 16 Comments

When I was a little kid our bus stop was at the end of our street, and more than just a place to catch a ride to school (or, more frequently, to just barely miss catching a ride to school) it was the first place where I interacted with a large group of peers, most of whom were not necessarily my friends.

Some weren’t my friends because they lived on the other side of the busy road that intersected with our sleepy street; a road which we were forbidden to cross, and which roared with traffic each morning as we waited for the bus. Some of those kids weren’t my friends because they were much older, and it was unthinkable for 3rd graders to interact with 5th graders. 5th graders were big, and they sat at the back of the bus and used curse words. And some of those kids weren’t my friends because they were jerks who liked to make fun of me because I didn’t have a Starter jacket, or because I didn’t have Reebok Pumps. We all waited for the bus together, and most days it seemed like that’s all we had in common.

We were a perfect representation of modern society using mass transit. Many people arriving at different times, some rude and inconsiderate, some trying to blend in with the background, all strung together by a common means of transportation. The metro is the big yellow school bus for adults.

So as I drove to work this morning and passed the bus stop that I pass every day on my way to work, I was a little bit shocked at how the kids were working together to accomplish a common goal. They had lined up according to height, with the tallest students at the left and the height diminishing to the right as the diagonal line of elementary school students faced the street and gesticulated toward the oncoming traffic in unison, making the universal field-trip sign to get truckers to blow their horns. A quick pumping of the fist pulling an invisible cord connected to an invisible airhorn that was sounded in absentia by the passing traffic, including me. A quick honk was more than worth it to see them laugh and cheer.

I can only imagine that the people sleeping in the houses nearby wondered what all the honking was about.

How about another honeymoon story?

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Anonymous Coworker
on August 16, 2006 @ 9:58 am
in Mrs. ACW, games and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 4 Comments

Mrs. ACW and I chose to travel around beautiful Scotland via train, so we had lots of time to spend with one another, and after a few hours on a train longingly staring into each other’s eyes, forced together close enough to feel the other person breathing, it really stirs some natural instincts.

So we spent a lot of travel time playing hangman.

Now, I’m not one to toot my own horn (by the way, does anyone remember the time I was mentioned in the Baltimore Sun?) but I not only cleaned the floor with Mrs. ACW, but I wrung her out, cleaned the floor with her again, then stuck her in a closet until the next time we played hangman, whereupon I went nuclear on her ass.

Here’s an example: It took me a total of 5 wrong guesses to get the words “fluctuate” and “sable”, while it took Mrs. ACW 20 wrong guesses to get the words “finch” and “disc”.

Even more telling is the next trip when I guessed “wiener”, “canard”, “beasties”, “stench”, and “stenographer” with only 14 total incorrect guesses. Mrs. ACW, however, did not do so well. For “grumplet”, “pastiche”, “cromulent”, “gable”, and “perjure”, she guessed 44 wrong letters. And before you give me a bunch of grief about using the not-quite-real words “grumplet” and “cromulent” those are the words that she guessed with the least wrong letters.

When we weren’t playing hangman, Mrs. ACW suggested we play 20 Questions, a game at which she typically excels. Well, most of the time. Every 9th or 10th round you can be assured that the clue she has in mind is either Wookie or Sherlock, and if it wasn’t one of them, it was probably sheep or Highland Cows.

I never end up asking the right questions, so I flounder helplessly, guessing “cabinets”, “linoleum”, and “brillo pad” when given the clue that the “thing” can be found in the kitchen, but never guessing “marmalade” because I forgot to ask if the thing was “food”.

But otherwise, we just passed the time talking. It’s nice to be stuck with someone who’s a good conversationalist.

Oh, we also boned. A lot.

I wouldn’t use those to strangle, and then forcibly sodomize, my worst enemy

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Anonymous Coworker
on June 8, 2006 @ 9:43 am
in contests, games and meta blogging
. 16 Comments

So the other day Carolyn at Whirled Events emails me and tells me that she’s having a “World’s Ugliest Tie” contest/meme/thing and asks if I would like to participate. Because I spent four years in Catholic school wearing a tie every day to school, and knowing that I still had some of those ties, and knowing that those ties were simply hideous, I said, “Yeah, I’ll give it a go.”

So, for your viewing pleasure, I’ve outlined my ties below. Those of you who have just recovered from Lasik surgery, or those of you with astigmatism, or those of you with fashion sense/taste may want to look away. Go have a wheatgrass enema, or whatever it is you fashionable people do.

This is a picture of all the ties that are so ugly that I can’ bear to throw them away. I have many new ties now. Ties that are respectable. Ties that match things. Ties that weren’t inpired by the seething pool of filth, degredation, disease, and human excrement that typify the backstage area after a James Taylor concert.
ties

This is a detail photo of the wool ties from the picture above. As you can see, they were lovingly handcrafted by a blind sadist, and resmble knitted, unrolled condoms. The height of fashion would not be high enough to hang yourself for wearing one of these.
wool ties close

This is the striped-tie collection. As you can see by the reflected luminescence of the flash on the ties, not a single natural material was used in the production of these style-abortions. “What goes well with brown?” Silver, grey, red, blue! I imagine this is what Ralph Lauren’s cancer might look like.
striped ties close

Finally we make it to the single ugliest tie in my collection. I encourage you to click on the image below for the opportunity to view it full-sized. Not content having captured the color of baby leavings, the designer of this tie incorporates a new shade of toddler shit into each stripe! Look, there’s bananas and peas! Look, there’s carrots and corn! Look, there’s peanut-butter and cat-food! Obviously, this is my favorite tie.
orange tie close

So, I, by proxy of Carolyn, challenge you to find ties uglier than the ones profiled here, and on Carolyn’s site. Also, let me know if you want to borrow any of them.

Poker? I don’t even know her!

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 10, 2006 @ 11:26 am
in games, money and travel
. 13 Comments

Last night I played Texas Hold’em for the first time. Well, that’s not entirely true. I played once before online at my buddy Matt’s house, and without really knowing what I was doing, and with a few lucky checks, bets, and folds, I somehow managed to beat everyone else at the virtual table. But, it wasn’t like I had any idea of what was going on, and it was probably very much like teenagers boning. Neither one of them has any idea what to do with the other’s equipment, but damned if they don’t get pregnant anyway. I guess comparing pregnancy to taking all the chips at poker is probably a poor analogy. I was more referring to the sweaty fumbling and impulsive nature of the act as opposed the byproduct of chips or crotch-fruit.

And actually, I played before one other time, but we weren’t playing for money, so I kept going “all in” on every hand. I think it was pretty annoying to the other players, but I figured that I had nothing to lose, so why not bet big? Last night was the first time I had played for money, and it was weird, because I’m not really the gambling type. It’s pretty funny, because I was also playing with Mokie and my dad, and apparently the gambling gene isn’t from my dad’s side, because he was pretty disinterested, as was Mokie. We’d make quite the trio in Vegas, I’m sure.

Mokie: Um, I guess we should play the slots since we’re here.
Dad: I’m not wasting my money on that crap.
ACW: Ooh! Let’s go see Penn and Teller.
Mokie: Yeah, that sounds cool.
Dad: I’m not wasting my money on that crap.

Come to think of it, my dad would probably never even go to Vegas, as his favorite thing to do for vacation is fall asleep on the beach, and why fly to Vegas when he could drive to the beach here?

But I digress. My grandfather (my mom’s dad) was having a grand old time, and he’s half the reason my uncle started up a poker night, so we played for his benefit. My grandfather’s best friend passed away recently, and since then he’s had a tough go at finding ways to spend his time. The poker night is partly for him to have something to do and look forward too, and partly to play some poker. So we played some motherfuckin’ poker motherfuckers.

Without getting into the jargon too much, I’ll just let you know that there were a few kicker flops on the full-house river that upset the boondle, and a flim-flam tarpaper bonnet on a scundling brish. It was pretty exciting. Mr. K and Hof can explain what all those terms mean.

I was drawing cold cards all night (how cold? Well, let’s just say that my nipples could have cut glass.) but I somehow managed to be one of the last three players out of eight through a cunning use of not knowing what the hell I was doing.

My grandfather, on the other hand, was slowly ensconcing himself behind a pile of chips that grew ever higher, at one point teetering so precariously that it looked like a whimsical character of Dr. Suess’ creation had a horrible gambling problem.

My grandfather took the pot at the end of the night, and while I was driving him home he mentioned that he was happy to have won for the second week in a row, but he was also a little embarrassed to have taken everyone’s money twice, yet at no point did the stingy, crotchety, old bastard offer to give me gas money out of his winnings. What a douchebag.

Abr. UPDATED

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Anonymous Coworker
on February 15, 2006 @ 8:19 am
in games, sex, word nerd and work
. 19 Comments

Busier than a sexaholic in a dildo factory this morning. Maybe with a little less anal penetration though.

In the meantime, you can ponder this riddle that I heard last night. First person to guess correctly wins. I’ll be back in the afternoon to see the comments.

I am with you when you’re not
With your family when you’re here
With your thoughts when you are caught
and with your fears when you are near.

I can’t be seen or held
I can’t be heard or felt
However I can be dreamed
even if I can’t be smelled.

What am I?

UPDATE: The answer is….

There is no answer. I just made it up yesterday so you’d have something to think about all day long. Brain exercise. I thought you could use it after how much your brain has atrophied due to the constant porn viewing. Don’t you think it’s about time to give that “pause” button a rest?

A glimpse into the home of ACW

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on January 26, 2006 @ 8:20 am
in Mrs. ACW, games, meta blogging and sex
. 24 Comments

Her: There’s nothing on TV.

Me: Why don’t you just watch a CSI rerun?

Her: Fine…. oh. Man, I’ve seen this one like nine times.

Me: Well then it works in your favor.

Her: What does?

Me: The CSI bingo.

Her: What are you talking about?

Me: CSI bingo. I pick contusion.

Her: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: If somebody says contusion during CSI, I get a prize. Let’s say, a handjob.

Her: No way, I’m not playing.

Me: Oh, come on! You watch this crappy show all the time. You’re bound to win!

Her: I’m not playing.

Me: Fine, I’ll play for you. If someone says pericardium you get a foot massage.

Her: (sings) I’m not playing.

I go back to ironing and halfheartedly watching CSI and she goes back to reading and halfheartedly watching CSI.

Coroner: blah blah blah blah pericardium.

Me: Did you hear that? You just won CSI bingo!

Her: (sigh) I’m going to bed.

Me: What!? How can you go to bed? The show is just getting exciting!

Her: Whatever. You’re a big nerd.

Me: I’m going to tell the internet about this, and I’m going to make it look like I’m awesome and you’re a jerk.

Her: Whatever. You’re a nerd, and you need help. (walks upstairs)

Me: That’s going on the internet! People will know of your jerkdom!

Bad Behavior has blocked 782 access attempts in the last 7 days.