I blame my son, the Err Apparent. This game is munching my brain. It is fiendish, evil incarnate, it sucks the life right out of you and leaves only a shambling, un-showered, unshaved husk of what was a mature and intelligent man. Or might have been, at some point. I don’t remember…
Japanese, of course. Their program of revenge continues…
Not that he plays the damned thing, oh, no! Being one of those ironic hipster metrosexual lame-o kids these days, he prefers something more wussified, like Skyrim.
Get off my X-box! Its a beautiful Minnesota day, barely below freezing, go outside and play! Take a Greyhound to Iowa and back, its a kicky experience. Better still, walk! Its good for you, it builds character! (I swore I would never say that…)
Flee! Run away! If you see the box in your presence, pick up with tongs and carry it to Gamestop for resale, buy a bottle of rotgut vodka with the money, you’ll be better off!
I have only one note of approval: the controller is built to endure being flung across the room with great force. It bounces, drops, settles and gloats. This monstrosity has already consumed thirty hours of my time! OK, forty. Fifty, tops. Its got a counter that, presumably, measures time spent on the game, but it lies! It LIES!
I need a titanite slab? There are no titanite slabs! The titanite cake is a lie! Dung pie is real, of course.
This is the thanks I get. His Mom wanted to name him Sunshine Rainbow, but I wouldn’t let her. Years of wisdom and sagacity in abundance. And he does this to me!
Remember: youth and skill is no match for age and treachery. Soon. Soon.