Master Chief’s Name Is Still “John”, And His Alien Friend Still Can’t Enjoy His Sandwich, But You Can Still Shoot Aliens with Railroad Ties in Halo 3

Halo has become a national pastime, on the same level as baseball, football, and complaining about gas prices, ever since its first release in 2001. It has become a huge cultural phenomenon, primarily because its principal character is named “John” but also because America felt sorry for those poor idiots who bought the first Xbox and had their hands fall off because of how big the controller was. We have now been through three of these games, and just three days ago I wound up playing Halo for the first time.

Halo is a game about rings, which sounds familiar, but neither of the two characters you can play as is a hedgehog. This is one of only a few problems I have with the game. Instead, you play as a character named “Master Chief”, a name he takes because again, his real name is John. John is not a masculine name. John is the name of your mother’s hairdresser. And whenever you’re up against enemies wielding guns that shoot giant railroad tie-sized spikes, you don’t want that. They’d just laugh at you. And then you’d have to kill them.

Master Chief is joined by an alien whose mouth is split at the bottom. I have no idea how he eats. This was the character I played as for most of the time I played this game. My cousin Josh played as Master Chief. This works out because, as I was informed by Josh, the alien is supposed to be the cool headed one, as I demonstrated by swearing as loudly as I could at the television screen throughout the game.

I saw very few rings. What I saw were lots of huge-ass aliens I was supposed to shoot at. I also saw a few “Warthogs”, some smaller vehicles, and a “Mammoth tank” that my cousin used to kill me several times in versus mode.

The first few levels were not difficult. For example, there was a base that got taken over by aliens, and Master Chief Johnny Josh and Myself the Alien Life-Form had to blow it up. Next, we took a tank out onto the mean streets of New Liberia Or Some Other African Nation and kill more aliens. I operated the turrent.

“FUCKING SHIT COCK-SUCKER FUCK YEAH KILL THAT FUCKING ALIEN BITCH-ASS HO FUCK YEAH” were my exact words as I attempted to kill aliens. I don’t really know why.

My mother comes in off the porch to yell at me for cursing while she was watching Denis Leary on PBS. Then we start killing aliens some more.

We stop for awhile to watch Jeff Dunham, a comedian with puppets, who is not funny. No ventriloquist is, unless the puppet in question happens to be a dead terrorist.

Next, more aliens.

The next level involved tanks and hitting at some sort of battle base; then we took on a giant spider, even larger than the type you see in Florida. We flew these flying things to a dropoff point, and killed some more aliens, as was the style at the time. Next, we landed on a giant ring. Sometime in all of this, we also killed an alien priest who wanted to infect the world with what appeared to be some kind of bowel disorder. The way it worked is, these little alien bug things would burst out of large fleshy sacs in the wall and start infecting you, and if you were dead, they would take over your body and make other soldiers want to kill themselves, probably because of the smell of rotting flesh combined with flatulence from the bowel disorder. I saw at least one soldier with a gun to his head mumbling some shit about the way his commander talked and how his skin was wriggling, so I hit him.

PROTIP: If someone you know and/or love is contemplating suicide, just slap them around for a few minutes. It’ll turn ’em around.

Using my personal favorite weapon, the Spiker, which was the one that shot huge spikes at people, Master Chief Joshie John-Boy and I infiltrated the biggest ring of all. We are talking a huge ring here, the kind that real men make whenever they don’t want to make a necklace. And it wasn’t even done, but it could apparently kill all life in the Universe including the bowel disorder aliens and the Covenant aliens and the humans. It was just that manly.

We go in, and the fucking obnoxious robot sphere thing that’s been talking to us throughout this bullshit starts shooting lasers at everybody, because firing the ring at this stage of its completion (second trimester) would surely destroy it and everybody on it. First, it kills the black guy, Johnson. Then it tries to kill the white guy, Master Chief. Then it tries to kill the alien (me). We kill it and it dies, and there was great celebration and cheering that finally the thing would shut up for a few minutes until Cortana, the digital little woman that Master Chief keeps in lieu of a real girlfriend (just like the guys that play Halo!) puts in the key that starts the giant ring. And suddenly we realize it’s time to go.

We run like hell for the nearest Warthog, which is still running perfectly in spite of the earthquakes and the aliens and the explosions, and we drive it like hell all the way to our ship.

Long story short, we both make it out of the ring before it explodes into flame but Master Chief’s part of the ship is split apart like the Titanic on Christmas Eve. He is forced to begin cryogenic sleep until Cortana needs him to clean the bathroom. Which is fine with Master Chief. Because Cortana talked as much as the damn robot sphere.

I, on the other hand, went back to Earth with the humans, and there are pretty pictures of mountains and a big barren place as a monument to all the soldiers who lost their lives in the big war against the aliens. Then the credits roll and Bungie Studios thanks us for helping them in their quest to conquer the world.

Hey, I couldn’t be happier to help. I have finally seen the world that is Halo, and it is OK. In spite of the fact that everybody died, the alien thing still can’t enjoy his sandwich because his mouth is split at the bottom and Master Chief’s real name is still John, I could see what was so cool about it, particularly in Versus mode, where you can finally kill all your friends like you’ve wanted to ever since they forced you to strip naked and run all the way to the 7-11 on Christmas Eve to buy liquor so they can try to light their breath on fire like a dragon. The rest of the game was pretty good too, although I’d say there’s still not enough alien killing. But if you can make it for the Nintendo Wii, Microsoft, I’d buy it. Assuming, naturally, I get tired of Super Smash Brothers.

T,O,U,C,H,I,N,G our Brains Like Michael Jackson, or Why We Need To Destroy Paul Sharits

Many times in the history of this website, I have mentioned that certain touches are not “bad” touches like those given by Michael Jackson. This is to ensure you, O weary Google stumbler, that what I am discussing is not “bad”, and will not make you want to kill yourself. I thought that I would be able to keep away from the type of subjects that Rotten.com routinely discusses. This was before I discovered Paul Sharits.

As you probably know if you have looked through my archives, I generally regard the website Something Awful in the same basic way as I regard pond scum and some species of dog, particularly those poodles whose owners insist on cutting their hair into those little poofy balls around their joints; that is, I tolerate its existence, but it would not trouble me in the least if it were to get run over by a semi truck. This is because Something Awful routinely makes things that scare me, such as the following video:

Now, you probably looked at that video and thought, “Gee, that’s retarded”. That would make you normal. Even I don’t find this particular video to be particularly scary, except that it starts by saying “YOU WILL SEE SUCH PRETTY THINGS”, which is pretty much what the Wicked Witch of the West would probably say to Dorothy just before she kills Toto and makes the Cowardly Lion start “yiffing” the Tin Man.

But the video gets worse, and just as you think, “Oh, that wasn’t so bad, the video says “WE STAND AT THE DOOR” and a disembodied head turns around and makes you want to shit your pants:

…I should probably mention that it had really scary music.

So anyway, I don’t really know why I am so terrified of a man with such high cheekbones, especially considering how he seems so extremely jovial in the picture, but this video made me lose sleep for days. Maybe it’s because he appears to have had his eyeballs removed in the cosmetic surgery to heighten his cheekbones, maybe it’s his unnaturally white teeth, or maybe it’s because they said this was a television hijacking that made people kill themselves, but I was scared of Grandpa Smiley-Face.

Also, this picture:

So, anyway, I don’t like Something Awful because of these videos, not to mention the fact that they want to kill me just because I want to be a wolf and routinely refer to my dog as the “Love Sausage”. Nevermind. I continue to read through their archives, especially their “Pictures that Will Unnerve You” thread, because I don’t like to sleep at a normal hour, and naturally I stumbled upon the work of Paul Sharits.

(Also: Just because I call my dog the “Love Sausage” does not mean that I want to stick my sausage into her, so to speak. It means that she is shaped like a sausage, and I love her very much. You sick-minded pervert assholes.)

For those of you artless swine that would not know a Van Gogh from a Rembrandt, or frankly, a Bryan Konefsky from … some other avant-garde video maker I don’t actually know of, Paul Sharits was a teacher at the Maryland Institute College of Art who pioneered the technique of regularly scaring the shit out of his students by showing them movies with flickering words all over the place. These words, such as “DESTROY”, “MEMBRANE”, and “HORMONE”, were used to associate certain words and images with one another. This groundbreaking technique caused most of his students to become accountants, which is why today we do not have many avant-garde filmmakers.

His most famous piece is entitled “T,O,U,C,H,I,N,G” and is apparently his version of a very emotionally painful breakup. At least, this is what I’m guessing, considering the fact that the movie suggests that Sharits wanted to cut his tongue out.

And then “do it doggy style“, so to speak.

And then engage in something that I can’t really make out, but which I think is best left unT,O,U,C,H,E,D.

My take on Paul Sharits is about the same as my take on Something Awful, in that his work makes me want to hide behind my chair in terror. Whenever the movie starts just screaming “DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY”, it makes me want to prepare for some kind of alien invasion wherein moon people start flushing paper down toilets for no reason and then start opening people up and filming the whole bizarre thing like some kind of intensely disturbing wildlife nature video starring Gargon-5, Human Hunter.

I know I should keep writing more for this article, but after watching some of the videos I just heaped on you, I feel like taking a long, long nap. I don’t think it’s possible to look at anything more bizarre than that last picture, and if there is I don’t want to know about it. The only other thing I want to say is this: Paul Sharits needs to be destroyed. Not only did he take the name of my bestest friend Shari, but he will likely be the cause of several months of sleepless nights for me, not to mention even more problems with my golf game. On the other hand, after watching it several times, I can safely say there is no reason to be angry or afraid of the Wyoming Incident.

After all, why should you hate?

It is only Happy Grandpa.

Mother’s Day In Three Parts: Demon Bitch Loses, Gadget Hackwrench Gets Ogled, Lesbian Writes Transformers Slash Fanfiction Part II

The important news story this week involved Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama. These two marvels of the modern Democratic Presidential election have been at each others’ throats for the past few months or so, as you undoubtedly know, and this week an important milestone was reached: It appears that the People Who Hate Women have trounced the People Who Hate Black People.

This was unsurprising to the vast majority of people, inasmuch as Hillary Clinton has the personality of a cleaning robot, but, the collective viewing public said, who knows? Maybe Hillary the Amazing Woman Born Without A Personality Or Real Opinion On Anything has a chance of winning. This is what everybody thought. And thus the lines were drawn. Hillary was backed by women and Guys Who Hate Black People, as well as me, even though I do not have ovaries or hate black people. Meanwhile, Barack Obama was supported by everybody else as well as men who were absolutely not ready for a female President, inasmuch as they chose to use the phrase “demon bitch” as a mode of political discourse. In the end, Ms. Clinton and her racist followers were destroyed by Barack Obama and his sexist followers, as pundits are now saying that unless there is an Act of God such as God spontaneously erupting from the Heavens and sending Barack Obama straight to the deepest depths of Hell, Hillary Clinton will fail to enslave America and unleash her Demon Bitch Rays upon our embattled nation. John McCain, who is supported by people who are both racist and sexist and enjoy killing endangered species for sport, will win the election come November 2008, because Americans are stupid racist pigs. And I still won’t get a Ford Mustang.

But enough of the upcoming Elections For America’s Next President. I want to talk about other things.

Important News Item #1: For those of you who want to know, Kaycee The Dream Girl Who Hates Me has blocked me from seeing her Facebook account. She may be ready to press charges if she ever reads this, and she will probably get her mantoys to come and kill me. Also,

Important News Item #2: There are people who are sexually attracted to the characters from Chip N’ Dale: Rescue Rangers. This surprised me just as much as last week’s revelation that there are in fact people who are sexually attracted to Transformers. Apparently, This involves a character by the name “Gadget Hackwrench.” And I wonder why I grew up so fucked up. Me–and my entire generation– got our collective start watching shows with characters who are named by the tools they use. What kind of name is that? Gadget Hackwrench? Are you serious? And these shows portray women as having real jobs other than being secretaries or something else God intended women to do, such as not running as candidates in Presidential elections. As one Something Awful user put it,

Jesus, that Ray Jones guy is creepy. I’ll admit that I had a crush on Gadget when I was five, but I grew out of it. He doesn’t even have the excuse of having been a kid when the show was on.

So apparently, my generation was not the only one whose lives were destroyed by the menace that is Chip and Dale. Damned chipmunks.

These people call themselves “Rangerphiles”. Protip: If your children know anybody who is a Rangerphile, or anybody who has ever said anything about rangers or philes of any kind, you should probably be safe and just kill them. Or at least slap them around for awhile.

I’ve run out of steam with this Important News Item, so I’m going to go on to the point of this article. Which is Mother’s Day.

Mother’s Day is a day of giving back to our mothers, who willingly had sex with our smelly male fathers so that we could exist. It is an important day, for me especially, because I have a lot to give back to my mother. I love my mother, as much as if not more than I love my dog. I know that sounds strange, but my mother bore me, whereas my dog has primarily urinated on the floor. I know of nobody else who is willing to proofread my blog posts other than my mom.

As one good example of an absolutely smashing post I was going to put here, I wrote a very special piece entitled “Trolling the Trollingest Of Trolls, Plus I Finally Get To The Bottom of Green Energon, For Better Or Worse”. This was a piece in which I talk about trolling John Solomon, who is here to tell you that your webcomic is bad and you should feel bad. I also discussed Transformers pornography, and rewrote my pagan lesbian friend Sabrina’s slash fanfiction. This did not pass my mother’s inspection. Also, my friend’s real name is Dessie. So there you go.

Anyway, to give you a quick sampling of what you missed out on, here is an excerpt from my finished piece of slash-fanfiction:

WARNING WARNING WARNING This fanfiction contains gay sex, Transformers gay sex, nonconsentual gay Transformers sex, and lots of throwing up and shitting and associating throwing up and shitting with sexual arousal. If you are UNDER THE AGE OF 18 NOT OVER OR AT THE AGE OF 18 or DO NOT LIKE CASUAL REFERENCES TO ROBO-DONG AND HOT TRANSFORMERS ACTION ESPECIALLY WHEN BUMBLEBEE TURNS INTO A CAMARO AND STICKS HIS TAILPIPE INTO PROWL’S POWER-OUTLET, do not read this fanfiction. In fact, close your browser and leave this website, because holy shit. Viewer discretion is advised.

I wrote this because I thought it was hilarious. I should probably mention that I am not gay, so far as I know. Anyway, all of the above was included, because this is what Dessie wrote. I cannot stress this enough. I was not the one who started the whole “Transformers porn” thing. That was Dessie. Sure, I wrote like four or five pages of reworded Transformers slash fanfiction, with references to robot-spooge and robo-loving and the like, but it’s not like I liked doing it. I was disgusted by what I wrote. I didn’t do anything wrong, trust me. In fact, I vomited after I wrote that. Like, a lot. Troll her, not me.

Also, her DeviantArt is here.

Important News Item #3: There is a Transformers character named “Gadget” too. However, his last name is not Hackwrench, to my understanding. I’m pretty sure he’s more used to the screwdriver, judging by Dessie’s fanfiction.

So, we salute you, oh mothers who make sure their children don’t submit disgusting Transformers pornography to our fair Internets. May you continue to not be sickos like we are.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Waiting for Godot To Fix His (Ford) Mustang Already

Lately I’ve been reading up on the latest muscle-car wars. For those of you who don’t give a shit and would rather drive your Toyota Corollas or Honda Civics for the next 150,000 miles than deal with a real All-American car that requires major repairs every five feet (less in snowy climates) I should mention that this may not be a big deal for you, but it is a big deal for me.

Because I like the Ford Mustang.

I’ve been reading about Ford Mustangs for around five years, and from what you hear in car books you’d think that the Mustang was designed by angels and built by God himself. These car books wax rhapsodic about how the Mustang just kept beating the shit out of all of those no-good Japanese cars built by the tiny yellow men to take all our fine All-American women with blonde hair the color of an incandescent lightbulb and bodies the shape of a Coke bottle only with less room for bodily organs. The car books had might as well have come right out and said the way they really felt:

************* FORD MUSTANG HELL YEAH BITCH*************

*************The Car built for men that beats the shit out of pussies and children*************

When Lee Iacocca devised the perfect car, in 1964 1/2, he did so with a sense of duty. For he, using his incredible psychic abilities, realized the need for a car that could beat the Asians that were about to try to destroy ************* THE AMERICAN WAY ************* with their well-built, fuel-efficient, and fun-to-drive compact cars. Thus, taking only a compact Ford Falcon chassis that was about as sporting as a bison, Iacocca created the impossible: A fuel-efficient, V-6 powered compact car that possessed the quintessential American car traits: Beauty, brawn, usefulness, and handling that resembled driving a tiny bison. It was a great, ************* ALL-AMERICAN ************* moment in American history.

Whenever I read this, I thought, “HELLS YEAH MUSTANG MUSTANG MUSTANG GO AMERICA GO”, which is just what you are expected to do when you read about a car like the Mustang. Unfortunately, I stopped there. Because had I read further, I might have reconsidered, as the following passage demonstrates:

…Except Ford realized that the decent fuel-economy of the V-6 engine made the car useful and purposeful, and thus UN-AMERICAN, so they remade it into a big pig-like gas-guzzler with a big honking V-8.

Ford has a full supply of engines that can undo this. They have a 3.5 liter V-6 engine that produces more horsepower, torque, and 3 mpg more fuel economy than the Mustang’s 4.0 liter V-6. They have bigger, more powerful V-8s for those who want them. They have special suspension systems that could make it handle much better than it does. I thought they would use these engines, in spite of Motor Trend saying “Don’t expect any changes in today’s, base 4.0-liter V-6 offering, as its prime purpose is motivating low-end and rental-fleet Mustangs.”

But I still held out hope. On the optimism that things can always change, wrongs can be righted and the Big Three would acknowledge fuel prices that are currently approaching plutonium-level pricing, I kept up hope that the new Mustang would get a brand-new V-6 that did not suck ass.

Fast forward. Today I finally got to see the new Mustang. My horse in the Kentucky Derby, #5 (I always choose number five) won–twice– so I figure, hey, things be goin’ my way, time to checks out that new Stang.

This is how it looks, according to Car and Driver:

Well, OK, so a Jpeg from The Mustang Source Forums. But still.

I had visions, I was going to call my car the WolfStang and have a huge growling wolf painted on the hood, with wolves running along the sides and a huge honking V-8 or fuel-efficient V-6 engine underneath it. I thought I was going to have a car that could not only run with, but eat smaller cars and their drivers and passengers.

Along with the pretty pictures of the car, they had a small blurb talking about the engines Ford’s Mustang is going to get. Long story short, I found out that Ford had decided to surprise me. I can only imagine the way this went out at Ford headquarters.

Alan Mulally (CEO): Huh, I guess we have a really good V-6 engine here.
Assistant: Yeah, it’s pretty good.
Mulally: I guess.
Assistant: We could put it into the Mustang, and make it more fuel efficient and powerful and the same time.
Mulally: Yeah, no harm in that.
Assistant: But it would be what people expected.
Mulally: Yeah.
Assistant: And who likes their expectations to come true?
Mulally: Not me, that’s for sure.
Assistant: Why don’t we surprise everybody?
Mulally: Yeah! I like that idea!
Assistant: We’ll leave that shit alone, and just put a big ugly droopy face on the car!
Mulally: HELL YEAH!
Assistant: Well, I’m gonna go home now
Mulally: Yeah, I’m gonna get in my Toyota Camry and drive home now.

So apparently, that’s it for the Mustang. Its specs will be as impressive as they have ever been, as follows: A rear seat that can hold two quadruple-amputees, assuming they scrunch their leg stumps the right way; a trunk that can fit as many as three average-sized postage stamps; an engine that is not fuel efficient with the added benefit of not being very powerful; and a “retro” interior with fire-engine red leather for top-of-the-line models and cloth seats made from the clothing of deceased Iraqi suicide bombers and filled with packing peanuts for lesser models. Meanwhile, the Chevy and Dodges will be the exact same, but with backseats that can hold small children in a pinch. And Toyota will continue to build fuel-efficient, useful and more agile, un-American small cars.

And thus begin the Muscle-Car Wars. Again. Because the Three Detroit Stooges can’t resist one last poke-in-the-eyes. Nyuk nyuk nyuk.