Category: TEAMWORKING DAY

Categories
TEAMWORKING DAY

Teamworking Day: PoxCo Regional Pretend Wrestling

Several weeks ago Seanbaby found an issue of Poxco Regional Wrestling Magazine lodged molecularly in the wall of his penis reduction shed. “What?” you might ask. Well, it’s a laboratory a San Francisco County judge ordered to be built on his propert– oh, you meant “what” like “how did a wrestling magazine glitch across dimensional barriers?” Well, it’s hard to overstate the amount of trauma we are inflicting on reality by calling attention to things like Troom Troom and Christian self-defense books on a daily bas– oh, you meant “what” like “I wasn’t listening, can you repeat the first sentence?” No problem; we found a cursed magazine and inside we discovered what might be the most cursed of nerd hobbies:

Wrestling By Mail.

Players of wrestling by mail send in the name and description of a wrestler, along with a selection of moves and a small fee, to someone who decides if they win an imaginary, imaginary fights against crudely drawn league veterans. For readers who don’t know anything about wrestling or role playing or postal mail, this is like training a gorilla to draw pictures of women and offering it $11 for one of their hands in marriage. It’s way too many steps to reach only embarrassment, and we love it. It’s perfect and we’re doing it. Right now. With virtually no modernizing of the concept, technology, or process, 1-900-HOTDOG is launching its own Wrestling By Mail championship tournament. Entering it is simple: if you’re reading this, you’ve always been able to submit a wrestler. If you have a heart, it’s always been able to yearn to be champion. And if you’re a bitch ass coward, go do something else…

…now.

Categories
TEAMWORKING DAY

Teamworking Day: The Gorgeous Guys of Gaming 🌭

Video games have been dominated by the male gaze since their inception. Back in the ’90s, when our pixel technology finally caught up to our ass technology, every female video game character had to have a supermove that pointed a butt at you. Brockway has been playing games since he was a kid and he’s seen so much unsolicited taint that he now suffers from a rare grundle-aversion disorder called Tailor’s Tourette’s. Seanbaby has so deeply associated street fighting with ass cleavage his enemies die knowing nothing but boner. And it’s so great, ladies. Whether we’re raiding tombs or punching someone to death, we men have so many things to look at to get horny. We want everyone to experience this joy, so we’ve assembled the hunkiest covers in gaming history just for the girls. Men, fuck off. Ladies, now is the time to engage your 1-900-HOT-DOG Panty Suspenders because they are about to shoot off hard and slippery.

Brockway: Super Robin Hood might have a dent in his face and a headband growing through his skull, but he has more abs than any man in history. And as we all know, more abs equals more attractiveness. His torso looks like a package of Peeps, and I’ve never met a Peep I didn’t want to fuck.

Seanbaby: Those aren’t abs. That’s how you say, “FUCK MACHINE” in Braille. And Super Robin Hood is like that all the way down– his dong has the rivets of a plump, freshly boiled ear of corn. I’ve never been so sure of anything. If you handed me a bomb set to go off if Super Robin Hood has a smooth penis, I would put it under my pillow and sleep so perfectly sound.

Brockway: This is such a meaningless pledge from you now. I can’t count how many times you’ve sworn to sleep atop a bomb set to explode if somebody has a smooth penis, and it’s never gone off. Maybe that’s because you don’t have the skill to set an explosive device to detect penile texture, or maybe you’re just always right. Either way, you’re not tricking me into betting on Greek Roulette again.

Brockway: It’s rare that a man is secure enough to splay. I’ve seen plenty of video game women do this pose, but for a man to risk ridicule just to expose that double standard shows an inordinate amount of confidence. And confidence is sexy. And demon-skull codpieces are very sexy.

Seanbaby: I know enough about demon skull codpieces to know it’s weird to have a red orb jammed into one. Did Targhan get transported into this dragon fight straight from a ball pit? Was he hiding mostly nude in a Chuck E. Cheese Discovery Zone thinking, “Come on, Targhan, how the shit are you going to get out of this one!? Oh, thank Christ, an unexplainable magic portal!”

Brockway: As hilariously awesome as EXPERIMENTAL SURGEON: THE VIDEO GAME sounds, this was actually an anti-smoking “educational experience.” Watching a child get this game from grandma is like taking a thirty second tour of all the emotions, but we can’t hold his game against him. Rex Ronan cares enough about human health to insert himself into a Tobacco Executive, and that’s a sacrifice we must respect. Care is sexy, and Rex Ronan cares enough to voluntarily penetrate pure evil.

Seanbaby: Ladies, if someone told you, “My name is Rex Ronan: Experimental Surgeon, and that’s spelled entirely on fire,” you’re lying to yourself if you think you wouldn’t fuck him.

Seanbaby: Rick Dangerous is what a loving mother says to her son when he asks who his father was. Rick Dangerous is what you tell the Def Leppard cover band when they say, “We’re going with the name Fuckcity Ramblers unless anyone has something better?” Rick Dangerous is what your wife accidentally screams in bed when your name is Leonard Dangerous.

Brockway: Rick Dangerous will absolutely give you Chlamydia. Hell, if you call him up to tell him he gave you an STD, he’ll clap when he finds out it’s just one. He knows he’s a herpes gallery, you know he’s a herpes gallery, and you promise yourself it’ll never happen… but six daiquiris deep in an airport bar and you might find it’s nice just to have someone want you. Want you for forty-two seconds, standing up, behind the charging kiosk, and then never again.

Brockway: Look at these smooth boys with their high, thick pants and pinched faces. I feel like this is a hunky memorial calendar from a small part of Eastern Europe so dominated by war and forgotten by the world that we no longer list their country on any map. In South Muskoslav, they like their boys like they like their potatoes: Peeled, starchy, and gone too soon.

Seanbaby: The boxy, unshirted teen soldiers of Muskoslav are each issued a Kloopifart-16 Assault Sproingdoodle, a multi-purpose tool of conflict that can pit olives, hem pants, and keep 28 ounces of soup hot for a metric hour (37 minutes). God bless these husky fighting boys!

Brockway: Micro Fun was prepared to deliver exactly what their name promises. It’s a pretty bold move to proclaim right up top that your game is a huge step backwards. I respect that kind of honesty, Mr. Dino Eggs. Your face might not belong with your body, but my heart belongs to you.

Seanbaby: There seems to be no function to this man’s outfit. Tights and cowboy boots under french cut panties probably made him a symbol of hope where he’s from, but he’s alone in history, snatching eggs from baffled dinosaurs. He could wear sensible shoes and something with pockets. My point is, no one is going to see him until paleontologists dig his bones out of petrified dino shit hundreds of millions of years from now and he still took the time to get dressed up. I think ladies will appreciate that.

Brockway: I haven’t seen a man pull off the ‘my go-go boots, your panties, mom’s dishwashing gloves’ look since Burt Reynolds’ infamous Cosmopolitan spread. And I still haven’t.

Seanbaby: I worry things are getting a little too hot here, so let’s cool them off with Snake Roy, who is the worst of both of those words. Roy looks like he and the python eating him died at the same time and there was some kind of a ghost mistake. But whatever it is, there’s a good chance we are looking at its anus. On dating profiles, Snake Roy describes himself as, “I look like someone dropped their wedding ring in an outhouse, but I’m also a fat fucking snake from the back of the head down. 2 inches uncut, forked”

Brockway: Snake Roy is an atrocity of human imagination. He’s why LeVar Burton had to start telling children “almost everybody can be creative!” From his squat nose to his mossy patches to his snake scales made out of dry human skin, I have to hate every part of Snake Roy individually because I just don’t have enough hate in me to hate him as a cohesive whole. He’s the second worst thing that’s ever appeared on a video game box. Only behind…

Brockway: Space Rogue is the least attractive man ever to grace a video game cover, specifically because of the unearned arrogance on display. Space Rogue’s dad owns the company and insisted that his son be on the box. Space Rogue simultaneously thinks this gig is beneath him and that he got it on his own merits. Space Rogue has never had a dinner date that didn’t end with a concerned citizen whispering to the bartender.

Seanbaby: This is how Space Rogue walks away from a space bouncer after they point to a sign that says “CASH ONLY NO PUSSIES.”

Seanbaby: At first I thought women wouldn’t be into a man called Ball Raider. After all, a man called Ball Raider definitely wouldn’t be into them. But then I tried gender swapping the situation in my head. I thought, “Would I be interested in a woman named Titty Dominator or Labia Tamer?” I think I would. I think it so hard I almost dented the inside of my skull. I understand certain things like surprise nudity or ghostbusting don’t work as well after a gender swap, but just in case this isn’t one of those times, enjoy Ball Raider, ladies.

Brockway: It’s true, Ball Raider should have been at the top of this list: He’s ripped, he’s got those handsome Muskoslavian features, and he’s not trying to hide who he is. He’s here to do two things: dispense stabs and raid balls, and brother — he’s not out of either. But like Rex Ronan, his game is a lie. It’s a Breakout clone superimposed over shitty sci-fi artwork, one level of which is just a bored space office-drone chatting it up on a CB. Rex Ronan didn’t lose points for a lie he couldn’t help, but Ball Raider, I know Rex Ronan and you, sir, are no Rex Ronan.

Brockway: Cock’in was going to get a much higher rating before I realized it was about chickens. 

Seanbaby: It probably says a lot about us as artists in how quickly we’ll throw away our entire premise to make not so much a cock joke as a cock statement of fact: a chicken game exists called COCK’IN. Ball Raider had some whimsy, but COCK’IN is a confrontationally lewd name. It’s like calling a flu shot “GRANDMA PENETRATION” or a turkey recipe “BIRD FISTIN’ ASSHOLE SALAD.”

Brockway: I was thinking of justifying this game’s inclusion by talking about how Mr. COCK’IN satisfies that hipster hunk angle, but we all know why this is here. I am a simple man, and they italicized the IN.

Seanbaby: If you like rugged men, it doesn’t get much more rugged than most of a wild animal’s face silently screaming from a man’s jacket sleeve. And what he lacks in handsome he makes up for in mystery. He’ll install most of a dreamcatcher in his beard and when it comes to holding pants up, he’s a handgrab man, not a belt man. A real Sturgis Man wears 270 accessories, but never one on the waist. It means one less step when you’re digging for a crotch that’s been showerlessly traveling on a hot bike seat for three days. So hop on, ladies, but be careful back there– this jacket is mostly possum teeth.

Brockway: I appreciate the brutal, unflinching honesty Harley-Davidson went for with this game. The model on the cover looks like he took Mister Congeniality in the Northern Idaho All-Militia Beauty Pageant. While the in-game screenshot is a bored dentist questioning his own sexuality on a tour through Olive Oil country. Truly, the full gamut of Harley riders. Take your pick, ladies — they will both disappoint you in equal amounts but in wildly different ways.

Seanbaby: The knife in the Joe Blade 2 title is not silent. This game is pronounced “Joe Blastabbed E-2.”

Brockway: Joe Blade is the greatest war hero that the hated North Muskoslav ever produced, and while he is certainly the greatest hunk their budget eugenics have given the world, part of any sexual fantasy is the illusion of attainability. And one look at that mustache and you know the only creature who could tame his wild heart is Tom of Finland.

Brockway: This looks like a school photo that a Swedish mother regrets springing for. You couldn’t even loan this poor intern a pair of boots for the cover photoshoot? You had him pose in socks, sweatpants, and a bathmat, and you told him he looked like a Viking. You assured him the hammer and helmet would look great in CGI, and in no way would he come across as “doing softcore porn for meatball money.” But you lied to him. You lied to him on every account and then you named him Vicky. I hope this kid killed every dog you ever had — that’s the only way this revenge seems proportional.

Seanbaby: I admire how they made such a low-rent design look like a struggle. Every inch of this cover art feels like the final destination of hundreds of hours of mistakes and bad decisions. Did they draw Vicky’s hat after a failed quest to find a real Viking helmet? Were they so torn between an action pose and a static one they had to settle on putting a little angry Vicky up in the sky? And there had to have been some kind of an argument about the socks. Also, was that the Vikingest font they had? Because I think it’s the one FastBusinessCards.biz calls “Default.” Vicky looks like an ebook about paleo fish curing techniques. This art is so bad I have fully lost track of what the fuck we were doing here.

Brockway: We’re critiquing proof of concept art for the knock-off Thor costume sold at Haunted Hank’s Halloweemporium, right?

Brockway: Yes, I know it’s Fabio and that’s not great. But you have to concede that Fabio is a beautiful man. The only thing not beautiful about Fabio is Fabio, so if he’s supposed to be somebody else — a wizard, a warrior, a stock boy, a serial killer with a toe fetish — that’s a sexy step up.

Seanbaby: In Ironsword you played a faceless hero in a full set of armor, and you fussed at monsters with a sword a third that long. Which means whoever commissioned this box art was so horny they risked their job just to be near Fabio’s nipples for a half hour. This shirtless photo of Fabio is so aggressively unrelated to Ironsword it’s barely the same genre. This is like advertising a NASCAR event with two men oiling each other’s chests from bicycles. It’s like putting a weird pair of tits on the cover of Donkey Kong and calling it a day.

Brockway: Welp, that’s it for us, folks.

Categories
TEAMWORKING DAY

Teamworking Day: Baskin 🌭

Seanbaby: Baskin is a Turkish horror movie from 2015 directed by Can Evrenol and written by an impenetrable stack of consonants. Brockway chose it and did not warn me of the blistering pace at which it moves. The camera oozes to every gross moment with all the urgency of Harvey Weinstein’s walker inching toward rape court. The first part of the movie is nothing but slow pans through background conversations, maybe to account for Turkish moviegoers arriving 40 minutes late shouting, “Bozkurt! Where are you sitting!? My Tofaş Doğan didn’t start and I had to ride the city chamois!” Anyway, Turkish automakers and fauna are the types of things I google while I wait for a movie to finally have one guy threaten to fuck another guy like a chicken.

Brockway: Baskin is a Turkish chicken-fucking movie from 2015, known for featuring subtle elements of horror. I chose it for the careful, measured pace in which it tackles the chicken-fucking epidemic in Turkey, and I honestly figured Sean would appreciate the way it simmers so slowly, when most chicken-fucking features just jump right to penetration with hardly any character-building. This is The Departed of cacik-flecked mustaches quivering against dark meat. Turkish snack foods are the types of things I google while I’m waiting for Seanbaby to realize I swapped his subtitle file with one from a Chinese bootleg. 

Seanbaby: This is like a Turkish version of a Quentin Tarantino scene where instead of the characters dissecting some tired theme of pop culture, they’re all talking about fucking chickens. Honestly, if you had asked me what the Turkish version of a Quentin Tarantino diner scene would look like and I was trying to be all funny, I might have said, “Five chicken fuckers talking about chicken fucking.”

Seanbaby: It’s important to me everyone knows how long they talked about sex with chickens.

Brockway: This is a complex subject. The cultural value of fowl sex in Turkish society deserves at least twice as much time as “Like a Virgin” in Reservoir Dogs. 

Brockway: Okay, maybe three times as much as Reservoir Dogs?

Seanbaby: These random Tarantino conversations are supposed to just quickly add human details to the characters and then get back to the plot, but this chicken fucking discussion went on to include all animals. And then they argued about whether or not you should wait until you’ve had sex with a human first? I’m pretty sure it’s all meant to be funny, but the joke only works if Turkish people don’t have sex with animals and I have no idea if that’s true. Though the Turkey Wikipedia entry is suspiciously quiet on the subject.

Seanbaby: I took the liberty of adding this quote to the Turkish 10 Million Lira note. You’re welcome, Turkish economy.

Seanbaby: Okay, so now one of the cops is telling a story about having sex with a trans prostitute. Navigating something like this is the major leagues of Subtitling in a Second Language and it is far beyond this translator’s means. Whoever translated Baskin definitely greets English-speakers like, “Up tops, bro! Chicken sex soupday, let’s party?” After this story, I know less about Turkish transphobia than when I started. Seriously, the next Turkish trans person I meet is going to be so disappointed in me and all my invasive questions.

Seanbaby: The first hints something supernatural is happening comes after one of the cops runs to the bathroom to puke and scream at himself in the mirror. The other guys call him “Such a female singer!” This is probably a bad translation of a Turkish idiom, but maybe it’s a joke? It’s not very evocative or elegant, but “female singer” sort of includes dramatic outbursts, eating disorders, and wussiness all in one insult. Still, a punchline needs more than bitter, clinical accuracy. For instance, my Harvey Weinstein joke from earlier was at one point “this film oozes with all the urgency of a Mormon’s 11th wife waiting to die in the back of a converted school bus.” I mean, that’s a long walk for a sad cry. I said to myself, “Stop the nonsense, female singer.”

Brockway: It is a Turkish idiom, referring to the tragically undervalued roles of both the arts and women in Turkish society. It’s actually quite a cutting, self-aware barb, most often leveled at dirty police who couldn’t hack their own chicken-fucking soliloquies and had to flee to the bathroom to assess the monster that they’ve become.

Seanbaby: Not many movies will, before any plot has advanced in any way, stop everything so the main characters can sing a whole song on the radio.

Brockway: Come on, “in the bloom of clothes, you see God” didn’t move you? Not even a little bit? That’s the line that won Ariel Baumgartner the Melbrook Heights 7th Grade Shy Girls Poetry Jam, and the heart of Izzy Stevens, reigning foursquare champion. It’s like you’re not even trying to get into this movie which is – good lord, a third of the way over and has so far taken place entirely in one corner of a wooden shack and focused almost exclusively on having sex with animals?!

Seanbaby: I took the liberty of adding this quote to a Hagia Sophia postcard. You’re welcome, Turkish tourism.

Seanbaby: The cops hit a pedestrian and crashed their police van right into Silent Hill. There are spooky villagers, a plague of frogs, and meat totems hang from every single everything. It’d be a dangerous situation for anyone, but our guys whimper shit like, “You bust our balls, we’ll rip your ball!” into the night when nearby shadows rustle. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen any movie characters more doomed than these chicken fuckers.

Brockway: Honestly, we’ve spent so long exploring the shameless sexuality of proud Turkish perverts that I had completely forgotten this was a horror film. We have to acknowledge the possibility now that this was all intentional: A filmmaking technique meant to overwhelm the senses with such insane nothingness that you forget where you are, what you’re doing, who you’ve become. Now the audience will accept the sudden, unexplained existence of another world without question. It’s like being trapped in a yurt for fourteen years, with only a goat molester and a radio that plays Mongolia’s greatest hits from 1972 to keep you company, then emerging, blinking at the light, stunned at the sky, to find a world of flying cars and plant-people. “Is this what life was?” You will throat sing, to no one in particular. “Is it the world that changed, or I?” You will bleat, and none will answer you, for none share your unique language — not since Yogritz passed away six left-part-of-a-goat-vaginas ago.

Seanbaby: I took the liberty of using this quote as the phone number to vote for the adorable dog act, Irem ve Cash, on Turkey’s Got Talent. You’re welcome, Turkish culture. Now put them through, Ozgu! You bitch ass coward! You wouldn’t know talent if I milked it from your wife in a motorcycle globe! You’ve got no eye for stars, Ozgu! You’ll never be an Eser! Or a Murat!

Brockway: Ozgu is a monster. I’ve been saying this for years. You’ve all surely seen my petitions by now. His callousness is even worse now that we know what kind of life awaits that dog, should it fail to entertain. 

Seanbaby: The subtitles were making a lot more sense at the start of the film. I don’t know if the translator stopped giving his best effort, or more likely: if chicken fucking phrases are the easiest ones to take from Turkish to English. Luckily, once they go into the basement of the haunted Ottoman police station, all they do is split up and get torn apart in different blood orgy rooms. And the gurgled screams of Satan meat are the universal language of cinema.

Brockway: Since I stole these subtitles from a Chinese bootleg, I have to wonder: Do Chinese bootleg captioners share the same work fatigue as you or I? Were they at the peak of their game when the film started, buzzing from the morning’s caffeine and ready to tackle the world? Then after dutifully hunting down their twelfth synonym for chicken penis (“Cock cock? That can’t be right. Damn this bootleg Turkish thesaurus I ironically purchased from America!”), they just gave up. Gut heavy with lunch, the 2PM spins setting in, all they can think of is clocking out of this job and immediately clocking in at the Fitbit mines for the next 17 hours. They simply stop caring about their art. Can you blame them?

Brockway: Oh, disregard everything I just said: Wei Lin is making fucking art again!

Seanbaby: Yeah, I agree. This one is really good. No notes.

Brockway: Sean wasn’t kidding. It is mostly wordless yelling and squelching from here on out. Luckily you don’t need subtitles to translate Turkish man-screaming. Not unless “YAAARGH!!!” really means “the unique sense of loss one experiences revisiting a place from childhood” in Turkish, and the translator just dropped the ball. So anyway, fourteen Silent Hills and six Resident Evils later, we’re suddenly thrown from the dank sewers of hell into a house, the very first scene, a cafe, and back to the dank sewers of hell all within the span of about ten seconds. If you’re wondering what happened, the movie has an explanation:

Brockway: Stop not knowing shit and start knowing shit up. It’s easy. I have to tell you that? Idiot.

Brockway: Our heroes find themselves at an underground devil orgy mass and freak out about it like a bunch of squares. Like a bunch of dudes who’ve never felt the tender peck of a chicken on their groin. What happened, Ramzi? You used to be cool. You used to leave one black orgy in Satan’s name just to hit up another black orgy in Satan’s name. Married life does not suit you. Tell Mrs. Bockgagock to rent you your balls back.

Brockway: Hey, we finally meet our villain over an hour into the movie. Remember when Squidward got weirdly handsome on SpongeBob? This is how Kuato from Total Recall does it. This guy is so goofy looking that I’m now worried he has some well-known tragic disease, and the comments will fill up with irate accusations that I have no respect for those brave heroes suffering from Relatively Handsome Kuato Syndrome. My crime is that of ignorance, not hate!

Brockway: ARE YOU AT THE START OF A BASTARD?!

Seanbaby: Ah, but who along the way is where to the fuck?

Brockway: You know what comes next – a good twenty minutes of Turkish torture porn accompanied by pleas in a language so broken it may as well be Simlish. I’m sure this is all very scarring to a normal person, but I’ve read My Little Pony fanfiction worse than this.

Seanbaby: Earlier I started typing a joke about how this was a Baskin, hur hur, Robbins training video that got out of hand, and I cut it because knowing when you’re being fucking stupid is what separates genius from butthole. Still, my brain never fully let go of it. So for the entire movie, through no fault of its own, I’ve been picturing it as an ice cream employee video with a murder orgy theme. The horror never had a chance. Every grotesque thing leaping from the filth only made it funnier. These guys are getting penetrated and butchered by psychopaths and in my mind they’re all screaming, “Scoops must be washed between each customer!!! Do not, AIEEEE, do not overfill fountain drinks!”

Brockway: Yes, I too was tempted by that sultry lil’ ice cream joke. Just sitting there, begging to be taken. But this kind of restraint is the only thing separating us from Turkish Entertainment Tonight reporters, quipping “Chickens cry fowl at Baskin’s not-so-sweet but oh-so-creamy treatment of its animal stars. See what’s got Bayrak’s goat in Can Evrenol’s Can-do new fantasy film, plus coming up: Ozgu’s Oz-goo goes Oz-ga-ga… Oz-goo-goo-ga-ga? Did Turkey’s least favorite orifice actually spit on a baby? Right in a baby’s mouth? Who will do the right thing and finally kill this man? Free us from the curse of Ozgu, we beg-u!” 

Brockway: See, Seanbaby? Now he’s having sex with the hellgoat. All that chicken-fucking talk was necessary for his character arc.

Seanbaby: Thank you. It’s actually pretty handy to know exactly the point at which sex with animals becomes Art for you. Chicken, no. More chickens, no. Goat, no. Hellgoat, stop. Yeah, there it is. The launch party is going to be way easier to plan.

Brockway: For some reason, the movie keeps going after what would’ve been the perfect wrap-up. Everybody with a mustache dies, it turns out the key was within them all along (it’s an actual key, hidden in the old man’s neck), you gotta use it to unlock Handsome Kuato’s forehead, we do some synthwave skull smashing, then the main character runs outside to get hit by his own police van containing himself, arriving, because time is a flat circle and you’ve always been fucking this goat, Yavuz.

Seanbaby: I think this is officially the real Hell they drove into, and hitting himself with the car means Arda and the others are stuck in this grimy, goat humping loop for all of eternity. In a way, it’s kind of an amazing self-own that the filmmakers’ idea of Hell is Baskin over and over and over. I wish this was the first time I’ve said this: I agree with the chicken fuckers.

Categories
TEAMWORKING DAY

Teamworking Day: Blaby Computer Games 🌭

The worst video game company that will ever be, Blaby Computer Games, was founded in 1983. For the next five years they published only one thing– bad copies of existing games for off-brand platforms. For instance, they made a copy of Tron for the Dragon 32 and called it Trun. Fucking TRUN. To put that into perspective, that’s one letter lazier than making a knockoff of Fargo and calling it Fart.

But worse than their ethics, creativity, programming skills, financial acumen, and dick game, was the box art these truns used to market their knockoff garbage. Let’s look at some!

BARMY BURGERS

Brockway: This is why the site isn’t called 1-900-BURGER. Everybody knows that hamburgers are the pussies of the grilled meat world. 

Nobody knows it harder than hot dogs. 

Seanbaby: Even a creature with the sub-animal intelligence of a burger knows when you see something like this, you point your main orifice away from it and run. What is this thing? There is no effort to communicate what kind of game it is or who the protagonist is. This is a painting made by a chef on death row to let people of all languages and creeds know he’s not sorry for all the sexual violence.

Brockway: This game came on cassette so it could moan when you stuck a pencil in the tape-hole.  

BORIS THE BOLD

Seanbaby: This was an era where a game’s entire plot could just be moving a baby to the other side of a sawmill. But I don’t think anyone was ready for the aggressive nothingness of “butternut squash looks into a basement.” What the fuck is this game that an artist chose to represent it with a vaguely something looking at a vaguely not anything?

Brockway: This game is all about trying to escape Boris’s sex dungeon, but there’s a glitch in the last level that makes it unbeatable. The only reason Boris has those tiny arms is so he can airquote the word “glitch.”

Seanbaby: It’s that look on your face when after hours of dodging the squirts and thrusts of his traps you realize the exit has no lock or knob… the moment where you realize there never was a way out– that’s what Boris craves. That’s what his loinsack bulges need to engorge for egg implantation.

DEATHKICK

Brockway: If you draw Bruce Lee’s entire abdomen, then he can sue for using his likeness. But if you only draw 73% of it, you are legally in the clear.

Seanbaby: Fun Fact: You can’t beat this game. Not because you make better choices with your life, but because it’s broken. This may shock you, but the programming team who used a row of ampersands to draw a crowd screwed something up in the code, and if you lug your non-animated man shape to the end of the game you’re met with an accidentally invincible enemy. So this game about deathkicking kung fu is actually a point karate tournament attended by keyboard symbols, they forgot to finish it, and the box art they went with was literally the first idea the dumbest person you’ve ever met would have. If a man hired you to paint a house and you laid down to shit your pants and said, “Toilet’s too far away. I also quit the painting job,” that man would tell people he met someone almost as lazy as Deathkick for the Amstrad CPC.

GI’S A JOB!

Brockway: I feel like this is racist propaganda from a country I’ve barely heard of, against an ethnic group I don’t recognize. Like maybe this is how Maltese are racist against Liechtensteiners.

Seanbaby: You’re weirdly close. This game came out in 1983, so the popular racial slur for Liechtensteiners in Malta at the time was “Halftorso Deathkicker.”

GOLD DIGGER

Brockway: I drew this while drunk in the fourth grade and I can’t believe they never paid me for my work. Wait… wait no, I can believe it.

Seanbaby: This is the first box that even comes close to communicating what the game does. One glance and I know I’m a potato monster stealing ear wax from a bear to have a sexual relationship with my brothers and sisters.

COPY EDIT NOTE: How big can the Patreon editor make the font size? I’d like to make that a giant pull quote: “I’m a potato monster stealing ear wax from a bear to have a sexual relationship with my brothers and sisters.” And then put my name and the year. In fact, let’s maybe take out all the other text and images?

‘GOTCHA’

Brockway: Man, I miss the good ol’ days when police brutality was a cute reference we could share with the kids.

Seanbaby: I think the cop has probable cause here, but clubbing a suspect’s head open is a pretty dangerous thing to normalize when you’re a computer game company who sells fraudulently broken games based on stolen intellectual property. Blaby should have considered making a game called LENIENT SENTENCING or, unrelated to what I’m talking about, DEATHKICK WITH TITS.

GUIDO

Brockway: Guido is legally distinct from Bugs Bunny because he fucked Bugs Bunny to death. That is law in Toon World. That’s how lawsuits are settled in the brutal and hideous world of Toons. Guido is the last thing you see before you die in a public bathroom. 

Seanbaby: You still think of Guido as a thing, but Guido is sideways in a direction no finger can point from what you know as things. Guido is how the darkness tells you you’re being hunted. Guido are the panties stretched across a moist penis in a cave. Guido is the salty brine of your own living flesh as you become a part of Guido, tasting what Guido tastes.

Brockway: Look at that start screen. There’s a field called Nuclear Semiotics which recruits artists and thinkers to warn people about toxic waste, even if it’s so far in the future they no longer have human language. They had to come up with universal symbols and abstract concepts to communicate the danger within. The grainy freckles on Guido’s face are how you say “run, motherfucker” in 41st century Glorpese. It is your fault if you hit start on that screen. You want to see what your genitals look like as a flag.

HIGHRISE HARRY

Seanbaby: Highrise Harry is so fucked. All he has is a bucket of red paint and he’s being chased toward certain death by a creature who’s already red. I’ve never seen anyone more about to die than this, and I once watched a child whisper “Guido” into a hand mirror.

Brockway: Highrise Harry was the most effective PSA about drugs in the workplace that 1978 OSHA produced. To this day, I will huff nothing stronger than dust cleaner within 500 feet of a construction site. 

JUMPMAN

Brockway: If you only draw 73% of Mario’s… wait, we’ve already done that joke. Okay: Jumpman is legally distinct from Mario because he fucked… that, too? Damn, there was really a whole cottage industry of slipshod video game developers trying to trick your grandma out of $20, wasn’t there?

Seanbaby: These guys might have invented that industry, but they’re so uniquely bad at everything they do they didn’t quite get their knocking off right and this Mario Bros. clone is really a Q*Bert clone and you play a monster named Hubert. If you don’t know anything about video games, let me assure you this is like stuffing the remains of a cat into a sock, naming it “Free Dog,” and selling it to someone looking to buy a horse.

Brockway: Maybe they shouldn’t have been making games, but Blaby made some damn fine art. Look at the depths of utter despair communicated by the single black pixel of Hubert’s eye. That is a pixel that has looked behind the curtain of the universe and seen what awaits us all. You can recognize that pixel in the eyes of soldiers that did not fully come home from war. 

KILLER KONG

Brockway: Oh. Oh no. I know that face. I know that face so well. That’s the ‘something in this room knows what the inside of my ass looks like, and you can’t leave until you guess with your tongue’ face.

Seanbaby: You’re acting like you’d hate that, but Killer Kong sort of has nice titties.

Mac Dougal’s Last Stand.

Seanbaby: “No, NO, the kangaroo is digging my grave!” shrieks the madman to everyone and no one. “The cantaloupes are coming for your secrets!” he continues. He pulls the knife across his throat gargling, “Help, HELP! The robot took my bagpiiiipes!”

The lead designer from Blaby Computer Games turns to his wife and says, “Someone should do something about all these cra– hold on now, what was that last thing he said!?” His eyes turn to dollar signs. His wife grimaces at this, his latest impotence. She is, ugh, she is just a total beast.

Brockway: Can we not make light of the tragic death of MacDougal at the hands of HexBot 5000? It’s Scotland’s most precious holiday, you monster.

MORBID MANSION,

Seanbaby: This one is how you know these people are true lunatics. It was pretty strange they made a business around slapping children’s drawings on broken ripoff games for 8th-rate computer systems. And it was weird when they added an apostrophe to both sides of  ‘GOTCHA’. And it was pretty troubling when someone put a period at the end of Mac Dougal’s Last Stand.. But is that a motherfucking comma at the end of this game’s title? Did these goddamn maniacs end a video game title with a comma!? That shit is going to drive me,

Brockway: Is the rest of the title a DLC? This is a bullshit Activision move.

PERILOUS PIT.

Brockway: Oh, here’s the sequel to Morbid Mansion.

Seanbaby: 

“What do you think about JaMarcus Milkwolf’s Journey into the Perilous Pit?”

“Who the fuck is JaMarcus Milkwolf!? It’s called Perilous Pit! Period!”

“Pretending you literally meant to include that period will be my greatest act of defiance. You trun. You gorilla fingering trun.”

“What!?”

“N-nothing. Perilous Pit (period) just like you said.”

RICOCHET

Brockway: Rambon’t.

Seanbaby: More like Rambon’toh, god damn it.

RUBY ROBBA

Seanbaby: Stealing rubies from an exploding snake pit is #7 on my Top 10 Spectacular Deaths list. Number six is Broken Parachute Over “Most Simultaneous Breast Feedings” Guinness Record Attempt, but any entries above that number would be homicidally irresponsible to share.

Brockway: This is room four of Boris The Bold’s Infinite Fuckpit. This is what Boris is smiling about.

Wreckless Roger

Seanbaby: We only know one thing about this mysterious space mission– it would go a lot smoother if Roger didn’t fuck around so much.

Brockway:

“Roger, I’m telling you – there is zero way you can hit your ex-girlfriend with a handheld laser from space. It’s lunacy to even try. It’s beyond lunacy. It’s… it’s….”

“What does my fucking nametag say, Careful Carl?”

“I don’t-”

*Laser charging*

“WHAT DOES IT SAY?”

“W-wreckless Roger.”

“You’re god damn right it does. Now I need you to do three things in this order: Step back, open the airlock, and live your life in the shadow of my greatness.”

*Airlock opens*

“WHO’S IMPOTENT NOW LINDAAAAA!?”

Seanbaby: A star hero is born. Space was right to fire Careful Carl.

THE BELLS

Brockway: The ol’ Medieval Snooze Button.

Seanbaby: I worry how at this point in the article a joke about murdering a hunchback to shut up his bell seems almost wholesome.