Archive | December, 2012

Prototype 2 VERSUS Les Miserables!

31 Dec

IN ONE CORNER: a video game about destroying an armada of zombies with your horrible shapeshifting super powers!

IN THE OTHER CORNER: a movie adaptation of a classic musical about French people!

AND IN THE LAST CORNER: a writer who hasn’t written anything substantial for a few days so I’m making crap up!

(Wait, why are there only 3 corners shouldn’t there be 4 corners OH SHUT THE HELL UP. Maybe it’s a triangle, I don’t know.)

If I felt like doing this with any semblance of professionality, I might say ROUND ONE: STORY.

Prototype 2 is about a zombie infection in New York, because seriously, fuck New York. Zombie mutants roam the city, and an evil government organization called Blackwatch are hanging around, shooting autistic kids, infecting fetuses and other pointlessly evil things because they’re apparently staffed entirely by Saturday Morning cartoon villains.

James Heller (the protagonist, by the way) is sent in to kill Alex Mercer, super zombie extraordinaire (think “John Carpenter’s The Thing” meets “The Hulk”) but that doesn’t go well. Alex turns Heller in to another super zombie, which was… not his best idea, admittedly. Presumably, he was distracted with gluing more spikes on his wanking hand.

Wow, that's a great mental image.

It’s like he’s fisting a wood-chipper.

Les Miserables, on the other hand, is about the life of Jean Valjean, played by Hugh Jackman. He steals a loaf of bread and goes to jail for 19 years because the 18th century French government is run entirely on baguettes.


Of course, Jean is is haunted by the ghosts of the bread, and his life is filled with sewers, rebellions, Jevart the cop, and prostitutes which is, in a mad coincidence, also my recipe for pumpkin pie.

Out of the two, I have to give the point to Prototype 2, on the grounds that Les Miserables story felt very slow, and the ending was stupid. (Apparently the afterlife is just the French Revolution. Wait, what?!)



Now, Les Miserables is a famous musical, with hundreds of versions around the world, AND an original book! Truly, it is a classic.

So… is it wrong to say that I don’t actually like the songs?

Still, though, I have to give this one to Les Miserables on the simple fact that if I don’t, a thousand musical theatre troupes will break down my door and give me a well choreographed curb stomp.

WINNER: LES MISERABLES (of course they’re the winner, it’s a freaking musical)


Les Miserables biggest problem is… (dramatic pause)… it’s really boring. Like, dangerously boring. They have a 5 minute shot of someone’s face. Just their face. While they sing to themselves. I’ve seen more dynamic camera work at a fucking portrait gallery. 

Prototype 2, on the other hand, is a video game. Which means, if I feel like staring at a women’s bosom (that makes up, like, 90% of Les Miserables run time), I can do so. But if I feel like flinging a toddler off the Empire State Building, well, I can also do that!

I guess this pointless comparison really comes down to this: can I fling toddlers off the Empire State Building in Les Miserables?



Oh Haiku

30 Dec

A man stole some bread.

Next, a lifetime of hardship.


[Wait, did I just haiku Les Miserables? Damn, I’m classy.]



29 Dec

VIDEOGAMES(bow wow)VIDEOGAMES(bow wow)VIDEOGAMES(bow wow)VIDEOGAMES(bow wow wow wow).




[gunshots, explosions]



Wait, didn’t I do this already? Oh, screw it, we’ll call it a “running joke” and leave it at that.

Spyer Of Evil

28 Dec

I can’t think of something to write today, so you know what that means: Omegle’s Spy Mode! Yes, I know it’s played out as hell, but that’s pretty much the name of the game here.

“Spy Mode”, for those who have better things to do than tool around on Omegle (by the way, congratulations on making better life choices than me), is a mode that allows person 1 to pose a question for persons 2 and 3 to answer. If this was an actual SPY mode, it would involve more seducing shapely women, but there you go.


Who would be the best person to tickle torture a really ticklish man who is tied up? A) neighbour (old lady) B) daughter 6 years old C) work colleague 30 year old woman: …

No comment.

“Interior crocodile alligator, I drive a Chevrolet movie theater.” – Jesus: Wait, does he actually say that?!

Oh. Okay, probably not.

Religious people, how does it feel to live in the eternal doom of your own hypocricy?: OOH! Random troll on the internet: 1. People with religious entanglements who weren’t even aware that they were in a fight: 0.

Rape me: I don’t think it counts if you, oh I don’t know, CONSENT.

small boobs vs big boobs?: Aw, do I have to decide? DON’T MAKE ME CHOOSE!

A-America?! You insufferable Git! B-baka…: Is… is that a fucking Hetalia reference?!


Does he not have glasses lenses?


i can haz cheezborger?: Wait, ‘borger’? What’s a ‘borger’? “I can haz assimilation?” Or, maybe, “resistance r footile!”

Are you Bozo The fucking clown ??: No, I’m Bozo the Chaste Clown.

I am always talking to this guy I really like but I found out that my best friend is talking to him and giving him xxxx’s she knows I really like him .what should I do ?: QUICK, TO THE ORGY MOBILE.

When I grow up I want to be a potato: We all do, son.

We all do.

Freshly Riffed 15: Santa’s Got A Gun

27 Dec

Welcome back to Freshly Riffed, the only web series forged in the fires of Mordor, then lightly dusted with Hollandaise sauce.


It’s the only true way to eat a hobbit.

According to the ventriloquist dummy who lives in my sock drawer, Freshly Riffed is where I make fun of the titles of Freshly Pressed blog posts. Also, I need to wash my socks again. They smell like ass.

Oh, and I feel I must specify: no ill will is intended through these mockeries. I don’t actually read any of these, so I can’t really hate. I just like using these titles to make bad jokes. Why am I saying this when I haven’t ever before? Because this is going to be the first time I actually link to the people I mock! Thus, drawing their attention to me!

Ooh, this is going to hurt.


To America From A Teacher: “Detention! I send all of America to detention! You go sit in Cuba and think about what you’ve done.”

Freedom Works: Yeah, but he’s got a shitty union.

2012 Person Of The Year: Barack Obama, The President: Oh really? I thought you were talking about Barack Obama, the grocer.

I gotta be honest, I don't see much difference.

Wait, does that make America a tomato?

How The World Will End (Pt. 2): If you say “a whimper”, I am going to smack you.

Dreaming In The Dark: I prefer to dream in BROAD, EYE BURNING DAYLIGHT.

I Can Write: Me thinks thou doth protest to much. Starting a post by saying “I can write” is like starting a date by saying “Hey, you look beautiful tonight. I DON’T HAVE HERPES.”

Time And Eternity: Yes, let’s talk about time! After all, it’s just a jump to the left.


I realize that this song has almost nothing to do with the title and SHUT THE HELL UP DO THE MOTHERFUCKING TIME WARP.

Why I Won’t Be Quitting Instagram: “They made me sign a contract in blood. They also own my first born son.”

My Son’s Christmas Dress: I’m sorry, I just will not stand for this!

No, not the “cross dressing” thing. I simply REFUSE to believe that people own CHRISTMAS dresses. Come on, people, it’s one day of the year! Why the hell would you buy a dress for that! That’s like owning a birthday suit!

Never mind.

A “Predatory Teenage Girl” Speaks Out: Okay, please tell me I’m not the only one imagining a fine boned fifteen year old white girl fighting Arnold Schwarzenegger in the mud. Because my therapist has… questions.

Wait, does that mean all girls have self destruct codes in their cell phones? SOLD.

I have the weirdest boner right now.

Well, there we go! Now, I’m sure that the (probably very talented) writers that I have shamelessly mocked will not hold a grudge at all, and will accept this as harmless fun!



5 Worst Musical Pick-Up Lines

26 Dec

Ah yes, it’s time to engage in the time honoured Boxing Day tradition: collecting a list of the worst musical pick-up lines and making fun of them.



5. What do I have to do to get inside of you? – Inside Of You

Has this ever worked on anybody? Ever?! Has anybody just walked up to somebody and said, “hey, how can I get inside you?”. I’m guessing it didn’t end well!

The worst part is the explicit detail. It’s not “can we have sex” or “how can we have sex” or even “how can I get inside of you”. You did that JUST to make me scream.

Nice work, I guess.

4. Your sex takes me to paradise – Locked Out Of Heaven


I’m not even sure what this means. She’s… so good at sex, she takes you to paradise? Her vagina is heaven? Well, I guess that makes a bit of sense. I mean, they don’t call them the “Pearly Gates” for nothing!


3. Let me kiss you inside out – Kiss You Inside Out

Wait, what?

Okay, so you kiss their… insides? Like, their esophagus? Their uvula? Or maybe the singer is talking about a different orifice.

Do vaginas work like that?

2. We don’t even have to try, it’s always a good time – Good Time

Hey, this one isn’t so bad! I mean, it’s not crass or disgusting or anything. Who sings it?

Hmm, let’s see… some guys I’ve never heard of and… CARLY RAE JEPSEN?!


Oh, fuck you. Fuck you SO HARD.

And, wait a second, would that even work as a pick-up line? Admittedly, I’ve never been a girl (except that one time) but I don’t think that would be very compelling!

“Hey, I’m going to put no effort in to sex. I’m not even gonna try! Wanna have sex anyway?”

1. Tonight I’m fucking you – Tonight (I’m Fucking You)

No, tonight I’m fucking you.

A Very Strange Christmas Carol

25 Dec

Erik awoke with a start, pulling at his sheets and rising from his pillow. And by “pillow”, I mean “his laptop”. And by “sheets”, I mean “his t-shirt”. Erik hadn’t quite gotten a hang of the whole “go to sleep when you’re tired” thing. He instead preferred to collapse on his laptop, specifically the ‘Z’ key. The ‘Z’ key was the comfiest. We’re not quite sure why.

After yawning several times, Erik rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he examined his surroundings. The t.v was still showing a 24 hour fireplace loop, the laptop was still plugged in, his flask of eggnog was still spiked with a frankly dangerous amount of rum, and the cats were still smacking ornaments off the tree.

All is good.

After taking a swig of eggnog (then spitting it out, coughing for several minutes, then slamming back the rest of the flask), Erik turned back to his post. Just a couple more words, and it would be ready for the putrid slum that is the internet.

“And for those 23 reasons and more, I believe that Christmas is the b-“, Erik typed, stopping mid-sentence as he heard a noise. 12 chimes, to be precise.

“It must be midnight. Silly grandfather clock.” muttered Erik with a crooked smile. He turned back to his post, erasing his previous sentence for no good reason other than to sate his mild O.C.D.

“And for those 23 reasons and more, I believe that Christmas is the b-”

“Wait a minute,” Erik stopped once more. “When the fuck did I get a grandfather clock?!”

Suddenly, a wind ran through the house. Well, technically, it blew through the house, but “ran” sounds more exciting.

Steps suddenly rang through the halls. Before Erik could untangle himself from his myriad of power cords, a man walked in to the room. “Eeeeeeeriiiiiik!” the man cried, elongating the syllables because he thought he thought it sounded better.

(It didn’t.)

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.” Erik screamed as he gazed around the room, looking for a weapon he could use that didn’t involve him actually getting up. Spying his flask, he hand snaked out, grabbing it and suckling it in terror.

The man walked slowly in front of Erik (did I mention the man was behind him? The man was behind him.) before stopping and spreading his arms, presumably to impress Erik.

It didn’t work.

The man was pale, clad in a tattered vest, name tag, and pyjama bottoms. He had red curly hair, freckles, and was wrapped from head to toe in bright pink yarn. He wore glasses with no lenses, glaring with the ferocity of a man who couldn’t quite remember what he was doing, but was determined to do the hell out of it!

A moment of silence passed between the 2 of them.

Then another.

“Erm,” began Erik. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, come on, Erik, it’s me! Don’t you know me?” the yarn man arched his eyebrow.

“No, not really. Why, should I?

“We used to go to school together!”

“Nope, don’t remember a thing.”

“I died a month ago!”

“Sucks to be you.”

I’m wearing a fucking name tag!

“Look, if you’re going to be here, could you at least get me more eggnog? I don’t want to get up.”

The yarn man threw his hands up. “Look, shut up, just shut the fuck up. I’m Jacob, okay? JACOB.”

Erik straightened himself, wiping the eggnog off his chin. “Good for you. Any reason you’re here? And… covered in yarn?”

“I!” screamed Jacob. “I am a ghost! Here to warn you, Erik! Soon, 3 ghosts will appear, and teach you the true meaning of Christmas! It will be an exciting adventure, rife with symbolism and other crap like that!”

Erik nodded for a moment. “And the yarn?”

Jacob shifted uncomfortably. “They’re supposed to be chains. To represent my sins, ya know? But apparently I didn’t sin enough, so I’m stuck with yarn.”

“Note to self; sin more.” Erik muttered under his breath. Erik stood up, gesturing to the door. “Well, I’m sorry to say, Mister Ghosty-Yarn-”


“-yeah, whatever. Look, I don’t know where you get your information, but you’re sadly mistaken. I love Christmas! So, yeah, no need for this whole ‘spirit’ journey thing.”

Jacob gasped. “What? You like Christmas?”

“Well, duh. It rocks.”

“Look, Erik, we have you written down QUITE CLEARLY as a Christmas hater.”

“You… you don’t actually keep track of that, do you?”

Jacob puffed his chest out proudly. “Of course! Us ghosts are damn rad.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t tend to trust people dressed in yarn.

“It’s my sins!”

“Well, your sins are tacky!” sneered Erik. “What, did you knife a Pride Parade and that’s your penance?”

“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. This is why you hate Christmas!”

I don’t freaking hate Christmas!


Suddenly, Erik’s cat was drawn out of it’s ornament induced coma and noticed Jacob. Or, perhaps more pressingly, his yarn. In a flash, the cat was off the tree and on Jacob’s head.

“Oh god! Oh god! Cat on my head, cat on my motherfucking head!” Jacob stumbled out of the room and out the front door with a smash.

“Can I have my cat back?” Erik called after him.

No sooner had Erik said that, that a blinding light filled the room. His retinas felt the sting of a thousand suns until the light receded a moment later. It it’s place was a woman, a fact of little importance to Erik’s burning eyeballs.

“Greetings, mortal.  I am the ghost of Christmas past.”

“Holy ass balls, that hurt! OW OW OW OW OW.” Erik fell to the ground, scratching his own pupils. A fact that would prove curious to his Optometrists, later in life.

“I am here to show you why you hate Christmas, by showing you your past.”

“I don’t hate Christmas! I do, however, hate people who douse my corneas in gasoline when they enter a room seriously lady what the hell?!”

As the pain receded, he saw the ghost more clearly. She wore a long white gown, had no hair, a blindfold, and was holding a trout. Wait, what?

“Okay, why do you have a trout? And a blindfold?! Is it symbolism, or were you just really drunk when you got dressed this morning?” snipped Erik.

“That was a joke.” said the ghost in a monotone. “That’s good. Hah hah. This is better.”

Suddenly, a light enveloped the both of them. When it receded, Erik was rolling around on the ground, his eyeballs steaming.

Sweet Jesus titty fuck cinnamon fuck that hurt!” 

“That’s why I have a blindfold.”

After 15 minutes and 150 new swear words, Erik finally regained his mental facilities. He looked around him (sneaking an up-skirt glance on the ghost), and suddenly realized where he was.

“Hey, this is my old neighbourhood.”

“Exactly, and look over there: that is why you hate Christmas.” the ghost pointed an old monotone.

“You know, my old neighbourhood was only a couple blocks away.”

“Look over there!”

“We could have just walked here. Without, you know, blinding me!”


Erik looked. 15 feet away, a 6 year old Erik was in the middle of a snowball fight with a collective of other 6 year old’s. As they watched, a snowball whizzed by, smacking the hat off his head.

The ghost nodded in approval. “And THAT… is why you hate Christmas.”

“Wait. That’s it? Just… just that?”

“Yes. That has made you hate Christmas.”


“Ahah! Unbeknownst to you, I have one more moment to show that you hate Christmas!”

Erik turned to her. “That’s impossible, because-”

Suddenly, the light began to fill the space.


The next time the light receded, Erik was midway through strangling the ghost. She managed to swing the trout, smacking Erik in the head, knocking him on his ass.

“And that’s why I have the trout.”

From his comfy position on the floor, Erik examined their new location. “Hey, this is my house! Did you take us back to the beginning?”

The ghost looked around, just as confused as Erik was. “Erm. I actually meant to take you to the next moment in your life that proved you hate Christmas. We’re… about 5 minutes before Jacob got here.”

“Lady, I’m 15. You don’t exactly have a lot of ‘past’ to work with.”

“Indeed.” The room flashed again, taking the ghost with it.

Oh god have mercy on my poor useless eyeballs!” 

Erik sat weeping in the middle of the floor. After a minute, he crawled under the Christmas tree and waited for Past-Erik to be spirited away by the ghost. The last thing he needed was a temporal paradox.

Sure enough, time progressed, and Past-Erik was gone. Current-Erik crawled back to his chair and settled in, ready to sleep.

“Finally, I can finish writing my damn post.” Erik pulled up his computer and started to type again.

“And for those 23 reasons and more, I believe that Christmas is the b-”

The house suddenly shook, as if a car has smashed in to in. (Because that’s what happened.)

Erik sighed, slunk out of his chair, grabbed his coat, and stepped in to his front yard. A hot red sports car was smoking in the yard, and out of it stepped a hot red head. 


She had pale skin, shoulder length red hair, a black tank top, jeans, and a black leather jacket. In one hand was bottle of Jack Daniel’s. In the other was a cigarette. This was apparently a woman who just did not give a fuck.

“Lemme guess: you’re the next ghost.” I commented dryly.

“And you must be the ghost of stating-the-fucking-obvious.” she slurred. “Yeah, I’m the ghost of ‘whatever the fuck is happening right now’.”

She took a swig of Jack Daniel’s and a drag of her cigarette. “I gotta go show you what people think of you or some shit. My name’s Avery.”

“Cool. Are you going to… do that stupid flashy thing?”

“Oh for fucks sake, has that bitch been showing off again? Stupid ghost of Christmas past. Naw, we travel in style.” Avery grabbed Erik’s collar, tossing him in to the back of her car.

“Ooh, is this a time car?”

“No.” The car lurched back, turned in to the street, then sped down at break-neck speed.

“Where- where are we going?” Erik asked desperately as he struggled to find a seat belt. Apparently, Avery had replaced the seat belts with more cup holders.

“To a party. Gotta show you what your brother thinks of you or some shit.” Avery took a swig from her bottle as she swerved around another car. Avery was not a very conscientious driver.

“I… I don’t have a brother.”

“What?!” Avery slammed on the brakes, tossing Erik in to the front mirror. “Well, what the fuck am I doing here?!”

“Going to a party?” Erik suggested lamely.

Avery looked out. “Ooh, we’re here!” A massive house party was blasting across the way. People were necking on the front lawn, the hose was spraying out vodka, and there was at least one corpse. “Even if I can’t show you the true meaning of whatever, might as well have fun.”

Fifteen minutes later, the front lawn was on fire, Erik had contracted several venereal diseases, and Avery was having her stomach pumped.

Erik sighed a sigh of distaste and started the long walk home.

“Stupid ghosts.” he muttered as he walked.

Suddenly, as if from a nightmare, a cloaked figure approached. He stood at six feet tall, and carried with him a musk of death and inevitable.

Hello. I am the final ghost.” rumbled the figure in a bass monotone.

“Oh, gee, really? I never would have guessed! I mean, your entrance was so fucking restrained.” Erik snapped.

We have quite an itinerary ahead of us.” he continued. “First, I have to show the things to come: like your gruesome, inevitable death-

“Yeah, I get it.”

– then I have to show you how nobody will ever love you-


– then I have to show you how your mere existance will fuck over every living creature you ever come across!

“OKAY YES I FUCKING GET IT. What, do you get paid for stating the obvious?!”

Come on then, we’ve got to go. We don’t have much time left. Get it? Time? A little ghost joke.”

“Actually, now that you mention it: I see the light! I now know the true meaning of Christmas!”

Really? Are you sure?

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Hallelujah! Christmas rocks!”

You… you don’t want to see your battered corpse?

“No, I’m good.”

Your disgraced family members? Insane girlfriend? Come on, I’ve got a million of these things.

“Nope, you already convinced me.”

Damn, I am the best ghost EVER.

The cloaked figure soon disintegrated, fleeing in to the dark. Erik sighed once more (it’s rather habit forming) and finished his walk home.

He entered his house, slipped off his coat, and settled back in to his chair.

He picked up his computer.

“And for those 23 reasons and more, I believe that Christmas is the b-”

Erik paused for a moment, thinking.

“And for those 23 reasons and more, I believe that Christmas is the biggest piece of crap the world has ever seen.”

He smiled to himself.