Genericide Update: Chateau de Frog Vomit

Summary: Oblivion post next week.

Being sick sucks. Obvious, but true. Especially if you’re like me, and never seem to do it halfway. I’m either poppin mad hangtime with my crew in total envy of my rad bad attitude, or I’m…wait, hold on a minute. Wrong homonym.

Being sick sucks. Obvious, but true. Especially if you’re like me, and never seem to do it halfway. I’m either so pure surgeons use my spit as a disinfectant or my body is holding together like a realistically portrayed zombie and my mental state is plummeting down a garbage chute into the bile ducts of a demonic toad.  The only upside to illness is it gives you a convenient excuse for not writing blog articles.

Genericide Update: Little Orphan Jimjerroo

The Gist: Bad MMO article coming soon; Oblivion article coming soon+1.

And so, I triumphantly return once more to the noble tradition of filler blog updates! That’s…that’s a thing that can be triumphant, right? And noble? I mean, not that noble, obviously. It’s not like I’m saving any starving orphans with these filler update posts. Although then again, who am I to say? Perhaps poor little orphan Jimjerroo, already driven to depression by his hilariously stupid name, only needed one more obscure filler blog post to keep on living. And that blog post is mine.

If that were the case, which for simplicity sake we’ll just say it definitely is, why then this blog post would be conclusively proved to be the best thing ever. Proved so conclusively that it would require a frankly excessive amount of italic text. Yeah, what can I say? I’m just a natural humanitarian. The Red Cross should really be allocating more of their budget in getting me to write about how JRPG stories are a load of butts. It’s just the most logical way to save mankind.

Cold Smokes and Metaphors, Part 2

11:16 PM, December 24th. South Personificationsburg, Abstractia.

Shifty Simmons was leaning back onto an alley dumpster, entangled in a moth-ridden trench coat three sizes too large for him. He held a stack of bills in his hands, passing them back and forth like a deck of playing cards and taking in the crisp yet crumpled scent of Legitimately Acquired legal tender. Sighing contentedly, he stuffed the bills back in his pocket and smoothed down the dusky patchwork spider web he called hair. As he rose back to his intimidating peak of four foot ten, I decided to speak up.

“Evening, Sim.”

“AH!” Simmons jump earned him more hang time than an 18th century pickpocket. The landing, however, was a mere 3 out of 10.

“D-D-Donny! What a s-surprise!” he wheedled like a clarinet filled with equal parts phlegm and sawdust. “What, ah, eheh, brings you to my neck of the woods?”

I stepped out of the shadows and rolled my eyes, vision glowing with a six pack of cigarettes rubber-banded together.

“Please, Sim. Even you can’t be that dense. Why does anyone come to you?”

Cold Smokes and Metaphors, Part 1

9:42 PM, DECEMBER 24TH. PERSONIFACTIONSBURG, ABSTRACTIA.

The dark enveloped me like a cold, lifeless blanket. Streetlights left stark orange holes in the fabric, casting harsh rays of visual perception on a snow-covered cityscape. Legs stiffly pumping as they seized up in the breeze, I crunched through the weighty white blanket towards the scene of the crime. I already used blanket. Shoot. Well, it fit better for snow anyway. We’ll retcon the darkness into a cardigan or something.

Turning at the corner of 5th and Simile, I came face to face with tonight’s job. It was a grizzly scene, and not the kind you see fishing for salmon. The stiff was sprawled out on the concrete behind that taught tape TP of the local PD. The chief was already there, looking down his wobbly, grim-faced lip-fur at the blood on the snow beneath him. Well, the stuff wasn’t actually on the snow. It was mostly along the curb, mixing with the filthy gutter slush for a sort of spotty dark brown color. I knew that on top of everything else, the killer had a profound disrespect for the conventions of visual symbolism.

Genericide Update: A Payload of Discontent

Words! Unlimited transmitters of information, unparalleled transportation for communication! These supremely significant symbols signify all knowledge that shall ever pass from one human brain to another. Pouring from the mouths of all who live easier than air, they infest the world with ideas equally insidious and ingenious. Thrown to the wind like flowers in the breeze, they ingrain themselves in the hearts of men. Also alternate genders of human, a small subset of clever animals, and theoretical lab experiments where cardiovascular systems gain sentience. Words are tools, to an author as a hammer and nails to a carpenter or confidence and mental insulation are to successful businessmen. But there are not a thousand hammers of varying shapes equally equipped to conquer every nail. For the humble author need not worry about mere execution, but the tools. Before he can concern himself with composition, he must select the instruments. Before he can compose a sentence, he must select the words.

Genericide Update: A Fresh Jug O’ Word Juices

Why hello there! Been a while since we’ve had a chat like this, eh imaginary friend I pretend is an active audience? A few months, as a matter of fact. Though it only spanned two different topics, I’ve spewed out a fair few words lately. Last week I slipped off the metaphorical hook due to Thenksgorbing, but now America is done reminding the world of its enjoyably unhealthy relationship with food and I’m back on said hook. That metaphorical hook has me by the metaphorical jaw, and if I don’t want to end up catch of the day I’ll have to write a blog update or something that fish do I don’t know this was actually a terrible metaphor for my situation.

Since it’s been a while, allow me to acclimate myself to the proper mindset for my uniquely endearing* brand of non-content (nontent, if you will). Ahem:

*Genericide earned a perfect score on a scale of one to endearing, by a panel of five judges that were all me in a delightful assortment of different wigs.

The Great PokeClone-Off Finale

On this winding path through lame jokes and Poke-themed armchair game design, we are finally at the beginning of the end, which is author-speak for “whenever sounds most dramatic.” The sun is setting, the ship is leaving dock, and the fat lady is running low on lung capacity. We have reached the end of the road, the line, the journey, the thread, our wits, and the overextended intro sequences. And we’ve hit that point with a whole mess of baggage still waiting to be packed in.

So it’s time we got to it! This final post will focus on the miscellaneous, those nuggets of critical gristle that don’t fit within the neat, juicy cuts of analysis covered before. I’ve condensed these turbulent storms of raw opinion into five sorta-distinct categories: Level Design, Difficulty, Post-Game/Multiplayer, Economy/Interface, and Mini-Games/Side Quests.  Each will be worth five points, which I have ingeniously combined with my incredible skills of basic multiplication for a 25 point total. The critiques will be doled out quickly and efficiently, like extremely condescending machine gun fire. And that rapid rain of ravishing reverence and ravaging ridicule will begin…

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…hold on, let me just check my wa – RIGHT NOW!