THE FALL OF MAX PAYNE.
This is totally the shit. The original Max Payne game was groundbreaking with the first bullet-time system, actual plot and storyline, and non-stop action. MP2 is much of the same, but darker. Better graphics. I don’t really care that it’s more of an expansion pack than an entirely new game, because the first one definitely fits in my top 5 PC games of all time. My biggest bitch about the gameplay in this release is the cyclic rate of the Colt Commando – the akimbo Berettas are faster for god’s sake!
Hello, ass-clown. Nice try. Starbucks doesn’t serve “anything tasty” (though if they did you’d probably drink it). Try again, this time input something that Starbucks actually serves.
Reserved, fools! It’s too late to come up with the brilliant copy “Gourmet Mush” on your mushroom packaging. Interestingly enough, “mush” is slang for “magic mushroom” in street Japanese (that’s a bit o’ underground wasei-eigo I doubt you will find on any other site). Whoever designed this package ate a few too many, I think.
Warnings printed on the protective bag of the printer we set up yesterday. Surreal.
Incidentally, Cosmic Buddha’s GF recently shared a scary story about a women’s restroom at the rear of a temple she visited in Thai a couple years ago. Apparently there was a dead rat floating in the barrel used for holding water used for “flushing”. She fled in abject horror but didn’t have the heart to tell the nice monk who was showing their group around the temple.
Disclaimer: This temple obviously did not fall under the authority of Cosmic Buddha. We have flushing toilets at all of our temples, for both sexes.
Sometimes working in a factory office with constipated old men really has its downs. I have been waiting to take a crap for a couple of hours now. Its not that there are no stalls free – in fact, I could have been done with my business two hours ago if that were the only concern. The big problem is the stench. The stench that even I, the veteran of a thousand outhouses ripened by the summer sun and open pits at outdoor concerts, the back of temples, etc., cannot bear for more than two seconds. I wish there were a menu especially geared for those over 45 years of age (a full third who work here at my company fall into this bracket) at the cafeteria here, taking the odiferousness of feces during work hours into consideration. Because every time I work up the nerve to head to the bathroom (3 times in the past 90 minutes), I get a whiff of semi-digested ebi-fry (deep-fried prawns) from waaaay down the hall and immediately turn back to the sanctuary of stale cigarette smoke and pasty salarysweat in my office.
To my fellow workers, some of who I know are surreptitiously viewing this blog under orders from corporate HQ: Laying atom bombs in the john are uncalled for in this day and age. I surrender unconditionally in advance; just let me do my business. Soon.
I get the strangest notions in my head about what would make an interesting subject at those godforsken hours.
Crazy cool image, but I have no idea how this effect was created. Special things happen in the wee hours of the night.
The lamp next to my bed is powered with Chinese electronics and a Russian lightbulb that burns long into the night, a veritable beacon of perestroika.