There’s a paradox evident in laundry day that particularily disturbs me: one must wear and therefore “dirty” clothes in the process of trying to clean them. One day, when I have my own washer/drier, I will carry out the task wearing no garment but the air that surrounds me. Only then will I be truly free.
Bayonetta
Format Reviewed: Xbox 360
Publisher: Sega
Release: Out now!
In the early days of gaming, when the Japanese ruled the gaming market with an iron fist thanks to the Playstation 1, gamers were first exposed to that crazier-than-a-shithouse-rat mentality of Eastern game developers. If you werent playing games where a rapping dog tried was trying to fuck a flower by having a rap battle with a kung fu onion or a Jamacan frog (pa-rappa the rapper), or spending 70+ hours reading love stories written in Engrish by people who have no idea what the concept of ‘love’, ’storytelling’, or ‘making fucking sense’ is (Final Fantasy) you werent experiencing gaming.
Gradually, as Western developers started producing better and better games, games where men actually looked like men and not 8 year old girls, 8 year old girls didnt look like the games love interest, and stories actually had a defined beginning-middle-end, the Eastern insanity gaming fad fizzled out for all but the most die-hard ‘wanking in my final fantasy bedset & matching pyjamas’ Japano-philes. But now, Sega, seeing a gap in the market, has decided to fill it with more crazy than Gary Busey’s big book of insanity with the release of Bayonetta.
Gary Busey: Marginally less insane than Bayonetta
The story of Bayonetta revolves around the struggle between light witches and dark wi….actually, theres no fucking point even trying to describe the story. Seriously. The only salient plot point you need to know is, ‘yes, bayonetta does get naked every 5 fucking seconds’. ‘That isn’t plot’ you say? Well fuck you then, because its all you’ll be able to recall once the credits roll. Honestly, 12 hours into the game and i have more of a clue about what happens in ‘Crime and Punishment’, a book ive never fucking read, than i do about spending 12 hours in Bayonetta.
Witches ride motorcycles through the air for no reason, penis fingered monsters shoot babies faces at you, for some reason you spend your time killing honest-to-god fucking Angels, your hair is your main weapon and can transform from anything into a massive fist to a spider to a fucking dragon, at one point you suck an enemy up your clunge as a finisher move, another naked enemy shines purple light out of her ass for no fucking reason, you get naked every 2 seconds (did i mention that already??) and Bayonetta herself seems to have spent the last 500 years alternating between perfecting the shittiest clipped Brrrrrrrritish accent of all time and working on her stripper pole moves.
Still less insane than Bayonetta
Gameplaywise, Bayonetta uses her perfectly honed stripper expertise to kill angels a-la most beat em ups since Devil May Cry back in 2001. Bayonetta has a massive amount of combos at her disposal and a large set of weapons to unlock. Sadly i didnt get as far as unlocking any of them due to the fucking tedium of the gameplay. The hundreds of combos available from the off are initially overwhelming, meaning most early fights will devolve into you mashing YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY and inspecting Bayonetta’s vagina like a short sighted gynecologist. Every. Time. You press a fucking button.
In fact, if theres one massive drawback to Bayonetta, its that after spending 12 hours having Bayonetta thrust her vag into my face at every available opportunity, i practically feel like turning homosexual. At this stage i am honest to god sick to death of seeing her naked fucking ass wiggle in my face like an over enthusiastic pole dancer any time i so much as press a button or even touch the fucking controller. Rather than titillate, Bayonetta will take what love you have of seeing half naked women in games, strip off her clothes, shove it up her chuff, blast it back in your face and make you never want to see another naked woman fire laser beams out of her minge for the rest of your life. The constant, grating overuse of Bayonetta’s fantastically modelled ass is less something to give you the horn and more a device to keep you watching the ridiculously over the top cut scenes.
Sanity incarnate compared to Bayonetta
But much like the thrill of having your face buried between Bayonettas ass cheeks eventually wears off and leaves you contemplating what a dick might taste like instead, the constant WTF’-ism of all this insanity leaves you wishing it would go 5 minutes without having a mid air motorcycle chase, or a 500ft cherub shitting tentacles at you, or a gun-kata cut scene so ridiculously over the top it makes the Matrix looks like a kids nativity play. If anything, It’s TOO over the top, and leaves you wondering if the developers put in all this insanity not because they wanted to, but just to see how much ridiculous crap they can shove into a game and still sell truckloads of in the West.
It’s a game that is always turned up to 11, and for the most part, it seems that the ridiculous scores of 9 & 10 that it has been awarded seem to be solely based on the fact that ‘its batshit crazy!’, ‘it’s so japanese!’, or ‘omg she’s naked half the time!’. No mention then, of the god-awful camera which means half the time your’e so far out of the action you may as well just mash the buttons because you can’t see what the fuck is going on anyway, or the terrible levels shoehorned in to break up the gameplay. These levels are based on “classic” Sega games, and basically take Outrun, Space Harrier, and Super Hang-on, and replace the cars, motorbikes and space harriers with Bayonetta, and then replaces the fun of those games with the ‘oh my god when will this end‘ cry of desperation that can only come from playing Bayonetta for 12 hours.
A paragon of logical thinking and Sanity compared to Bayonetta
On a scale of 1 to Busey, 1 being sane, 5 being Busey style insane, Bayonetta recieves 5 Buseys out of 5.
Within seconds of getting tea with Cassie, I caught the whiff of weed. Of course, I should have been suspect from the get-go when she pitched tea, but I’m a trusting fella. I may or may not have shown up to these dates half a flask down, but I still didn’t approve. Most of my girls don’t get within smelling distance until I’ve had a few in their company, and by then they can probably tell what kind of drunk I’ve decided to be that night.
But I kept an open mind to Cassie, with her brunette braided pigtails. She was twenty six, but looked seventeen. She talked photography, and I mentioned my interest, and she basically ignored me. She was a one-track-minded girl with a one-sided conversation that made me wish for Whiskey. I even pitched getting out of there, and hitting up the dive next door. She fought me on it, and I made up a story about knowing the bartender and it being his first shift, how I wanted to show my support. She sighed and let an, “okay, just one quick round.”
Three Bloody Mary’s later we are talking about tea, Conan O’Brien, and how weird it was that my bartender friend was basically ignoring me. She was a David Letterman girl…which hurt more than the pot. I kept offering her up my booze-infused celery, and I fessed up that I don’t disbelieve in Karma. She asked if I wanted to smoke after we left the bar, I told her I did, but not that kind. Ironically, enough, she told disapprove of my smoking, and I told her to not worry, because I wasn’t going to give her my smoker’s breath, or even my bloody mary breath, but I had a lovely evening.
Possess too much testosterone: If you don’t have it, fake it. Laugh at other people’s misfortune. Repeatedly curse and make sexual references. Talk crude in front of the opposite sex and make fun of them when they can’t take it. Have an IQ of 45: if you don’t have it, hide the fact that you’re smarter. Talk about the girl you had the night before and how you disrespected every part of her. Talk about how you got trashed the night before and how you ended up naked in the front yard of somebody else’s house. Don’t do any work at work unless that work involves getting in other people’s faces. Threaten other coworkers jokingly with the worst bodily harm if they don’t do what you say because you’re in charge and then say you’re serious. Take care of yourself first and trust no one that you supervise. Remain incompetent to lead. Join with fellow supervisor’s who put down their subordinates. Punish everyone for the mistakes of the few. Demand of everyone that they know what everyone else is doing, and when they are not omnipresent nor omniscient take away their free time. Conform the place that you work at to the place you worked at previously. Always talk about how things were better at your last job. Pretend to enjoy your job and secretly hate it. Let bitterness over take you and hate everyone else who isn’t just as bitter. Hate the ones who actually enjoy their job. Stay in your current job because you know you have no real skills that could relate to the outside world. Continue the legacy of turning each other in. Do all this and more, and you’re probably someone I work with.
Factoid: The butts to which your attention has been drawn may only be 16 years old, so the accompanying pictures are not meant to be titillating. Please keep one hand on the keyboard and the other on the mouse. In this instance, mouse is not a metaphor.
I present somebody’s daughter’s butt here so as to insure you understand what I’m talking about. The ONLY reason girls wear things with stuff written on the backside is to draw attention to their ass. As they slip them on, they mean for men to look at their butt and want to get in to their pants. There is no in between, there is no other reason.
By allowing their little darling to go out in public with a sign plastered across their booty, the future “victims” parents are demonstrating just how irresponsible they truly are. It’s possible, not probable but possible, they could keep their wanna be slut from becoming a full on hoe if they enforce a little decency.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for girls with nice butts being kind enough to point it out. Only reason I bring this up is because I had to listen to a coworker drone on about some old guy checking out her daughter at the mall yesterday. Her “child” had the word “Luscious” on her ass.
I just think if you smoke you shouldn’t complain about body odor and if you let your kid go out with a bull’s-eye on her ass; you shouldn’t whine when some random guy takes a gander.
Of course along the same line, responsible parents wouldn’t let their little darling walk out the door with their tits hanging out either. Below is a classic example of what I’m talking about . . . .
Fun Challenge Of The Day: (be sure to post comment about your experience)
Work the phrase "you can’t motor boat a personality” into conversation.
Big things were going on for music in the UK in 2009, but 2010 is gonna be even more EPIC. Obviously, you should be on the look out for me but someone else to look out for is my girl Rita Ora.
This London R&B songstress is signed to Jay Z’s Roc Nation label, and is rumoured to be dropping her record in february this year…
So a new thing I’m going to debut on The Intoxication are sex articles and tips. Yes, I’m sure you have read plenty of them. Yes, I’m sure what I’m going to say won’t be anything new. That’s why I’m not going to be the only one writing them. I’ll also have friends helping me with this.
Plus, I’ll have sexy pictures accompanying the articles. Well, I need something to hold your attention, don’t I? Like this pretty kinky ad for men’s underwear:
You’re paying attention now, aren’t you?
Getting off is not dirty. Anyone who thinks it is obviously one of two things: a person who’s a bad lay or someone who needs to get laid more often. There is no nice way of saying it. But an art form you ponder? Well, yes.
To be better in the sack, you need to learn your body. What turns you on? What turns you off? What gets you going? What doesn’t do the trick? Masturbating will answer all of those questions. You need to get to know your body in order to be a better lover.
So how do you start? I hope you don’t really ask this question but in case some of you are a 40-Year-Old Virgin, let’s break it down:
Hands and fingers. They’re cheap and easy. Think of your favorite musician, crush or artist. Be relaxed and let your fingers do the talking.
But you might want to use some lube. Pick up a small bottle (or for you real freaks, a big one) from your local store or porn shop. Dry masturbation is not fun.
If you’re too shy to use your fingers and hands, use a toy. If you’re a beginner, please start with something small. 4-5 inches will do the trick nicely. Work your way up to the big dogs.
And definitely, most definitely, invest in porn. Despite what some conservative assholes think, porn is not harmful and is actually healthy in bettering your sex life. Many women I know have actually become better lovers from watching porn actors and studying their techniques.
The word ‘cancer’ can strike fear into even the fearless of hearts. At my last routine physical, on a typical Thursday, my doctor discovered something not so routine. Gowned in an open backed, blue and white, unflattering garment that even Kate Hudson couldn‘t pull off, I sat there on the papered exam table, desperately trying to focus on the words my doctor had just spoken.
This mole will have to be removed; it looks to be basal cell carcinoma.
Being of Scottish and Irish decent, it’s only natural that I should be concerned about my skin. The sun takes one look at me and I’m spending the next week slathering lotion on a severe burn. But hey, in return I get these cute freckles all over my shoulders, back and nose. No real harm, right? Right. That’s why I’m here right now.
1 million people each year are affected by basil cell carcinoma and it is the most common form of cancer. The majority of people at risk are those with a history of sun exposure and anyone who is fair skinned, blond or red hair, and have either blue, green, or grey eyes. Great. So my green eyes and brunette hair with natural red highlights is a bad thing now. What next? My glasses will catch the suns rays and burn my retina causing another form of cancer? Fortunately, as with any type of cancer, early detection is key. However, even if caught at a later stage, skin cancer isn’t as deadly as many of the other types.
With a reassuring smile, he tells me that I’ll need to make another appointment to have my mole removed and sends me on my way to contemplate the meaning of life. Normally, being an avid Douglas Adams fan, I’d throw in a joke about it being 42, but normal is still back in the exam room. Alone in my Jeep, I wonder how the hell to tell my husband, my family, my friends. Do I tell them or do I wait for test results to come back positive, if it indeed does? Am I making a mountain out of a mole hill?
Lunch with Cougar (not my husbands real name) seems to be a good idea, so I head down to the animal shelter where he works and I volunteer. Many familiar faces, some fury, some not, greet me as I make my way toward my salvation, my husbands embrace (once he’s off the clock, that is). My decision to tell only my family and a few select friends was a good one and I received the same response from each – it’ll be ok and no matter what, they’re there beside me, the entire way.
The following Monday, Cougar and I set out into the early morning sun to have my mole, and fear, removed. After reuniting with my stylish gown, I laid flat on my stomach, exposing my bare back and evil mole, anticipating an excruciating amount of pain.
My doctor came in and warned me that the lidocaine would ensure me comfort, however the injection itself would hurt. Gritting my teeth, I braced myself for the shot. And waited. And waited. Finally I asked when he would be administering it, and I was surprised to learn it had already been given. Supposedly the worst was over.
The next 15 minutes passed quickly and pain free. The only sense I had that something was being done was from the steady flow of commentary made by both my husband and doctor. He cauterized the crater, I mean tissue, and bandaged my back, declaring my procedure a success. My biopsy was processed and sent to the lab and we left, exercising patience for my results.
Later in the day, as the lidocaine wore off, I started to feel discomfort and the following morning, I woke wondering if my husbands ex wife had yet again stuck a knife in my back. But then I remembered it was just my doctor, my mole and took a couple of ibuprofen.
It’s officially a week later since my malicious mole reared it’s ugly head and three days since it’s removal, yet it feels like a life time. In the span of a week, I’ve learned to take life slower, something I’m certain my family won’t believe. Looking at and evaluating the daily events that make up each of our lives, I’m saddened by how much of time I’ve devoted to hating the little things instead of simply appreciating them. Life isn’t meant to be a series of events or chores to rush through, just so you can live for that one brief moment of happiness. It truly is about the little things, how we each deal with them and allow them to effect our lives. My mole is one of these little things, and cancer is certainly a very big thing, but for better or worse, I’m going to appreciate my life and I won’t procrastinate these little things in the future, either.
The Jock Strap piece is another work in progress. For this project I sat nude in a men’s locker room and knit myself a jock strap, commenting on the notion of woman’s work vs man’s work and appropriate activities within gender bondaries. What activities are appropriate in any given space? What activities are appropriate within a gendered space?
Photos by Rance Palmer.
I plan to reinact this piece in a locker room that gets more foottraffic, videotape it (hopefully capturing people’s reactions), and make sure I get some footage/images of myself wearing the jockstrap this time. Stay tuned.
Within seconds of getting tea with Cassie, I caught the whiff of weed. Of course, I should have been suspect from the get-go when she pitched tea, but I’m a trusting fella. I may or may not have shown up to these dates half a flask down, but I still didn’t approve. Most of my girls don’t get within smelling distance until I’ve had a few in their company, and by then they can probably tell what kind of drunk I’ve decided to be that night.
but someone else to look out for is my girl Rita Ora.
