Here is a lovingly crafted guest blog from our good friend Alex...
Alex: So the Hobo and I were talking (texting actually, even though I hate it) about video games, a perpetual topic of discussion, when the subject of video game difficulty came up. Here’s the string of texts (somewhat cleaned up, due to autocorrection’s unique brand of “help”) that lead to the rant that will be following:
Alex: I still didn’t hit level 60 by the end though. (In reference to Mass Effect 3)
Hobo: Lol, as if the level really matters anyways.
Alex: True. Leveling is pointless when the game levels with you. . .
Hobo: All you get are skill unlocks, and starting at level 25 gives you a ton of points to spend.
Alex: And by the end you have WAAAAY more than you’ll need.
Hobo: Whatever happened to games with actually difficulty?
Alex: They have those. They’re Japanese.
Hobo: Haha true. So what happened here in the USA to make us so soft?
Alex: Laziness.
Now I really hate the Western versus Japanese video games arguments. I really think it does a lot to further concepts of “they are different from us.” This is the same kind of thinking that leads us towards xenophobia and the scary parts of nationalism, when we should realize that we’re all humans and are more similar than different. That said, I do realize there are some differences in the overall aspects of games.
People say the Japanese prefer grinding (doing the same things again and again to level up or achieve some progress) in their games. What the heck is with the millions of World of Warcraft players then? That game is one gigantic grind! However, there are plenty MORE Japanese games that require some level of preparedness and planning to get through when compared to Western games, just as there are far more Western games about just quickly moving through the experience. It’s up to individual gamers to pick their style of play, neither is inherently better than the other. Monetarily it makes more sense to buy a game that you’ll get more hours out of, but I have known people to complain when a game takes too long.
Here is where my distaste for Western RPGs comes in. I can’t STAND when games scale alongside the player‘s level. Two recent examples to this are the aforementioned Mass Effect 3 and last year’s Elder Scrolls: Skyrim. By their very nature they render leveling useless and dilute the meaning of it. Leveling up should mean getting stronger, but are you actually getting stronger if the enemies are constantly matching you? Relatively speaking (I must stress the “relative“ part of this equation), no you are not stronger.
Part of the joy of leveling is to make use of that boost, to feel stronger than the enemies you’ve fought before. What sense does it make when that dime a dozen Banshee takes as much effort for Shepard (the galaxy’s supposedly best soldier) to kill when he’s level 54 versus level 30? None. Now here’s where that laziness comes in. Having the game auto-scale means you never have to judge where the player is at in that part of the story and craft encounters that are suitable to that level. This also means the player will never have a challenge, by crafting a scenario where the enemies are sufficiently higher level than the player. Never having a challenge also negates the necessity to do sidequests, as there is no need to be a higher level since you won’t actually gain an advantage.
I completed two games recently, and I think they’re a perfect representation of this concept of scale versus true leveling. The first was Mass Effect 3 (I know I keep using it as an example, it’s freshest in my mind). The two most frequent causes of death for my characters in ME3 were terrible controls (due mostly to their awful version of a cover mechanic) and my Xbox 360 freezing. That was it. The second game I finished recently was Shin Megami Tensei: Devil Survivor 2. Main cause of death? Not being prepared. Leveling up, choosing the right skill compliments, and getting better demons all factor into the game’s difficulty. You can take your time and over prepare to make it easier, or you can be curb stomped because you neglected something. Your effort has direct input on the difficulty, creating a genuine challenge. There are even optional fights that are too powerful for that point in the game, all to add extra challenge.
Ultimately, you should just play whatever makes you happy. Video games originated as a source of enjoyment, and they should always have some games that use that as their focal point. As long as you’re having fun, nobody should take that away from you--certainly not my opinions. The one thing I do worry about is what George Carlin referred to as “the pussification of America.” The idea that everyone is equal and everyone gets a trophy, even if they half-assed it. In reality there are difficult moments to life. Not everybody wins. In fact, there are far more losers than winners. It’s something you have to learn eventually. I prefer challenge to my games. I feel far more accomplished for beating Devil Survivor 2 than Mass Effect 3. If that challenge ever leaves the industry, that’ll be the day I stop buying games.
Showing posts with label Guest Blogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guest Blogs. Show all posts
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Guest Blog #3
Another Guest blog already? Yeah, consider me on Summer break from blogging. An unpaid, emotionally scarring break with lots of long awkward silences. Unexpected anger on the part of my Wife has prompted the rage-full binge of words that follows. She's learned so much from me with this blog, soon she'll be off on her own destroying poor souls with her spiteful rants! Enjoy!
Me, Myself and EYE
June has been the month of the EYE. Yes, I always try to have the Eye of the Tiger...but this month my eyes have decided to form a rebellion.
Why is it such an earth shattering, horrible, shocking and literally mystifying thing that I refuse to wear contact lenses? How many times must I stress my disinterest in touching my eye? The mere thought of being forced to touch my eye daily and partake in regular use of eye drops makes me sick. In fact, writing about it even makes me want to hurl. I am the type of person who is disgusted by all eye touching. I hate when people fondle their eyes in front of me (seriously go to a bathroom if you are going to mess with your freaking contacts in public!) and yet this is so alarming to people and eye doctors (who obviously crave eye touching as it is their profession). When I say I don't wear contacts and have no interest in doing so, I get the same reaction as I do from people when I tell them I've never seen The Goonies (since people always flip out at my not seeing The Goonies, I've decided to refuse to ever see it. The reaction is just priceless. Hey maybe I do sometimes enjoy getting a rise out of people on occasion;)).
So on Sunday while I was happily watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 on Blu-Ray, my glasses decided to break. Not the lenses but the frames snapped in away that was more than likely unfixable. The glasses-breaking really ruined the evening. I have had those frames since I was 17, so it was only a matter of time. As I am leaving for vacation in a few days, I knew I needed a quick fix. My husband's duct tape job just wasn't gonna cut it. So Monday afternoon I called the Wal-Mart Vision Center to see if I could get in. The first thing I am asked: "Do you wear contacts too?"
This is how the rest of the conversation went:
Me: No.
Wal-Mart Lady: Why not?
Me: *inner monologue — none of your beeswax!* Actual answer: I don't like them.
Wal-Mart Lady: Why don't you like them?
Me: I hate touching my eye. It makes me sick.
Wal-Mart Lady: Why?
Me: *about to Falcon Punch her through the phone* It just does. I don't want to wear them. So when can I come in?
Wal-Mart Lady: We can get you in Tuesday at 5 for an appointment. Maybe you could see if you like contacts now too.
Me: K, thanks, bye! *explodes into a fit of rage upon hanging up and then uses The Force to choke her from a distance*
After that unnecessary conversation, I was told by my mother-in-law that her eye doctor could see me that evening. I was hoping to see if perhaps my current lenses could be put in a new set of frames, since traveling with duct taped glasses would be just too sexy for some people to handle. Well, I arrived at her eye doctor's office with the husband, who came along (for fun?), and as we entered the building the song "I can see clearly now the rain is goneeeeee" was playing on the radio. How incredibly odd and almost antagonizing! After witnessing an overly hairy child furiously pounding his fists against the fish tank in the waiting room (I mean this kid was literally beating on the fish tank as if he were Rocky and the fish tank was Ivan Drago, the evil Russian from Rocky 4...seriously you all know that Rocky single-handily defeated communism, right?!), I finally got to share my glasses woes. First thing I am asked after explaining the problem and showing them my poor, shattered frames "Do you wear contacts?" *grumbles* "Noooooo."
I eventually saw the actual eye doctor and the first thing he asked "Do you wear contacts?" Again, my answer was "NO." If I had a lightsaber on me, I probably would have gone Darth Vader on him and chopped of his hand! He went on to ask me why not as well and then proudly proclaimed that he could "teach me." Dude, it is not a matter of teaching, do you not get it, I HATE TOUCHING MY EYES! How many times must I say it?!?! THIS IS SPARTAAAAAA! The doctor was able to fit my lenses in a new pair of frames. After checking for my astigmatism and switching the lenses (they were put in the frames the wrong way at first), I was good to go. I was informed by the doctor that if it wasn't for my astigmatism my vision would be fine and I'd never need corrective lenses. Jee thanks! He also told me when I was 40 I would probably need reading glasses. And who says you can't look forward to your 40s!?! Well after all this was said and done, I was ONCE AGAIN asked about contacts. I was told it was like "riding a bike." Ok whatever, doctor who has chosen to touch eyes on a daily basis *puke.* I finally humored him and just did the "smile and nod" before walking away with my trendy, new, way too expensive frames.
"You may take away my glasses, but you will never make me wear contacts!"
In addition to the aforementioned incident, my eye saga actually began earlier this month with this little happening:
A couple weeks ago my left eye also (so I hope I am not the only one that instantly thought of TLC upon reading the words "left eye") decided it wanted some attention and acted out in a temper-tantrum way. We are talking screaming child in the middle of Wal-Mart that everyone tries to desperately ignore, but can't. It became a puffy, gruesome, hideous display and caused my eye to be so swollen I could barely see. As the afternoon went on, I really didn't like the way it was looking. Then I turned to the evil Internets and my hypochondriac nature kicked into full gear and I began coming up with thousands of worse case scenarios for my eye. "OMG wats if my eyez fallz outs!?"
This prompted me to go see a doctor, and the verdict of my eye was a type of bacterial infection that to quote the doctor "just happens." First question the doctor asked after we discussed my symptoms: "Do you wear contacts?" Le sigh. The doc also found it completely natural to caress my eye and didn't understand why I kept moving away and wouldn't sit still. She prescribed me some antibiotics and eye ointment, which to my dismay, I was told that I would have to rub on/in my eye...not on the lid. HORROR! Like Rocky defeated communism though (and the fact that the tiny tube of ointment was $70) I was able to accomplish the task! See I told you I try to have the EYE of the tiger! After completing the treatment all I needed was to run on a beach with Apollo Creed.
So, there you have it. The eye saga of June. And to answer your burning question, in case you didn't get it, NO, I DO NOT WEAR CONTACTS. Though even with reading this incredibly long explanation, I am sure you eye touchers still don't get my phobia. To each his own, I suppose.
I will leave you with one of my favorite FRIENDS scenes that describes me perfectly:
Me, Myself and EYE
June has been the month of the EYE. Yes, I always try to have the Eye of the Tiger...but this month my eyes have decided to form a rebellion.
Why is it such an earth shattering, horrible, shocking and literally mystifying thing that I refuse to wear contact lenses? How many times must I stress my disinterest in touching my eye? The mere thought of being forced to touch my eye daily and partake in regular use of eye drops makes me sick. In fact, writing about it even makes me want to hurl. I am the type of person who is disgusted by all eye touching. I hate when people fondle their eyes in front of me (seriously go to a bathroom if you are going to mess with your freaking contacts in public!) and yet this is so alarming to people and eye doctors (who obviously crave eye touching as it is their profession). When I say I don't wear contacts and have no interest in doing so, I get the same reaction as I do from people when I tell them I've never seen The Goonies (since people always flip out at my not seeing The Goonies, I've decided to refuse to ever see it. The reaction is just priceless. Hey maybe I do sometimes enjoy getting a rise out of people on occasion;)).
So on Sunday while I was happily watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 on Blu-Ray, my glasses decided to break. Not the lenses but the frames snapped in away that was more than likely unfixable. The glasses-breaking really ruined the evening. I have had those frames since I was 17, so it was only a matter of time. As I am leaving for vacation in a few days, I knew I needed a quick fix. My husband's duct tape job just wasn't gonna cut it. So Monday afternoon I called the Wal-Mart Vision Center to see if I could get in. The first thing I am asked: "Do you wear contacts too?"
This is how the rest of the conversation went:
Me: No.
Wal-Mart Lady: Why not?
Me: *inner monologue — none of your beeswax!* Actual answer: I don't like them.
Wal-Mart Lady: Why don't you like them?
Me: I hate touching my eye. It makes me sick.
Wal-Mart Lady: Why?
Me: *about to Falcon Punch her through the phone* It just does. I don't want to wear them. So when can I come in?
Wal-Mart Lady: We can get you in Tuesday at 5 for an appointment. Maybe you could see if you like contacts now too.
Me: K, thanks, bye! *explodes into a fit of rage upon hanging up and then uses The Force to choke her from a distance*
After that unnecessary conversation, I was told by my mother-in-law that her eye doctor could see me that evening. I was hoping to see if perhaps my current lenses could be put in a new set of frames, since traveling with duct taped glasses would be just too sexy for some people to handle. Well, I arrived at her eye doctor's office with the husband, who came along (for fun?), and as we entered the building the song "I can see clearly now the rain is goneeeeee" was playing on the radio. How incredibly odd and almost antagonizing! After witnessing an overly hairy child furiously pounding his fists against the fish tank in the waiting room (I mean this kid was literally beating on the fish tank as if he were Rocky and the fish tank was Ivan Drago, the evil Russian from Rocky 4...seriously you all know that Rocky single-handily defeated communism, right?!), I finally got to share my glasses woes. First thing I am asked after explaining the problem and showing them my poor, shattered frames "Do you wear contacts?" *grumbles* "Noooooo."
I eventually saw the actual eye doctor and the first thing he asked "Do you wear contacts?" Again, my answer was "NO." If I had a lightsaber on me, I probably would have gone Darth Vader on him and chopped of his hand! He went on to ask me why not as well and then proudly proclaimed that he could "teach me." Dude, it is not a matter of teaching, do you not get it, I HATE TOUCHING MY EYES! How many times must I say it?!?! THIS IS SPARTAAAAAA! The doctor was able to fit my lenses in a new pair of frames. After checking for my astigmatism and switching the lenses (they were put in the frames the wrong way at first), I was good to go. I was informed by the doctor that if it wasn't for my astigmatism my vision would be fine and I'd never need corrective lenses. Jee thanks! He also told me when I was 40 I would probably need reading glasses. And who says you can't look forward to your 40s!?! Well after all this was said and done, I was ONCE AGAIN asked about contacts. I was told it was like "riding a bike." Ok whatever, doctor who has chosen to touch eyes on a daily basis *puke.* I finally humored him and just did the "smile and nod" before walking away with my trendy, new, way too expensive frames.
"You may take away my glasses, but you will never make me wear contacts!"
In addition to the aforementioned incident, my eye saga actually began earlier this month with this little happening:
A couple weeks ago my left eye also (so I hope I am not the only one that instantly thought of TLC upon reading the words "left eye") decided it wanted some attention and acted out in a temper-tantrum way. We are talking screaming child in the middle of Wal-Mart that everyone tries to desperately ignore, but can't. It became a puffy, gruesome, hideous display and caused my eye to be so swollen I could barely see. As the afternoon went on, I really didn't like the way it was looking. Then I turned to the evil Internets and my hypochondriac nature kicked into full gear and I began coming up with thousands of worse case scenarios for my eye. "OMG wats if my eyez fallz outs!?"
This prompted me to go see a doctor, and the verdict of my eye was a type of bacterial infection that to quote the doctor "just happens." First question the doctor asked after we discussed my symptoms: "Do you wear contacts?" Le sigh. The doc also found it completely natural to caress my eye and didn't understand why I kept moving away and wouldn't sit still. She prescribed me some antibiotics and eye ointment, which to my dismay, I was told that I would have to rub on/in my eye...not on the lid. HORROR! Like Rocky defeated communism though (and the fact that the tiny tube of ointment was $70) I was able to accomplish the task! See I told you I try to have the EYE of the tiger! After completing the treatment all I needed was to run on a beach with Apollo Creed.
So, there you have it. The eye saga of June. And to answer your burning question, in case you didn't get it, NO, I DO NOT WEAR CONTACTS. Though even with reading this incredibly long explanation, I am sure you eye touchers still don't get my phobia. To each his own, I suppose.
I will leave you with one of my favorite FRIENDS scenes that describes me perfectly:
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Guest Blog #2
Look, another guest blog! Rejoice! Dump's very good friend Alex has written us a very exciting tale, so please enjoy. Comment below!
Aloft Bolingbrook
My wife’s cousin was getting married, and since he came to our wedding (despite a long drive) we decided to return the favor. Besides, I’d only been to Chicago twice in my life--one so-so trip and one that ended awfully. I figured I’d give the “Windy City” another chance, but apparently that wind is a fart.
So off we head to Fart City. Five and a half hours of excruciating driving later (I don’t like to stereotype drivers but people in Indiana are either idiots, assholes or both — don‘t get in the left lane if you‘re going 60 in 70MPH zone!) we arrive at our “hotel.” Now I already had a foreboding sense for this place I had never seen. I was told beforehand that our hotel cost would be $100 for one night. Which seems about $20 over the norm. If you factor in that we should have had some sort of group rate, it becomes even more absurd. Then I saw it--Aloft Bolingbrook--a wretched hive of scum and villainy. They wouldn’t even let our droids in. . .
The interior gave off a Starbucks feel — overpriced and pretentious. There were even $4 muffins for sale. The employee dress code there must be pretty strict, as they all wore all black and had their hair greased as though they were New Jersey natives. Seems the only leeway was whether or not they could have frosted tips in their hair. We checked in and headed to the room. I’m not going to say I have a flair for design or anything, but whoever picked out the décor for Aloft should be fired. The majority of the place is new-age chic (read as “crap”), but then they have Japanese style sliding doors, a sink that is a bowl in the middle of a counter (don’t even know WTF that is), and Texan cow print above the bed. One look inside the room and I vomited out something that looked better. It is a great place if you’ve ever wanted to hear your spouse’s bowel movement symphony, as you’re only ever a glass panel away from the bathroom no matter where you’re standing in the room.
I retain all of this monologue internally, as we have to be at the wedding within two hours of arriving. It’s a wedding, shut up and enjoy it. We go to the wedding, have a good time, eat and drink. The bar at the reception even had my favorite whiskey and a competent (but slightly deaf) bartender. So all in all, mission accomplished and good times were had by all. The family then gathered in the morning for breakfast. Panera was voiced as an opinion. I’m not sure why Panera, as it is a sandwich and soup place, but whatever. It was 9 a.m. and I could always hit up McDonald’s breakfast if it was bad at Panera. It was pretty bad at Panera. At least half the group complained about their food, but whatever, I still had my secret McDonald’s plan in my back pocket. You see, I was on my way to visit a friend, leaving my wife with her family. We were packed and ready to go, all I had to do was checkout and be free. That’s when it happened.
Well, I did bring a droid into my room. My friend Garmin-san, a GPS. Garmin-san, who had already been quite helpful in this trip, was to lead me to my friend’s house. When we returned to the room Garmin-san was missing. Despite always talking about Garmin-san as a being capable of thought, he has no legs and surely couldn’t have wandered off. No, Garmin-san had been abducted.
Consuela snuck into our room during the hour we were “enjoying” Panera. There she spotted Garmin-san — a piece of space age technology clearly from the future. She thought to herself, “What is this? I must have it! I didn’t pay for it, but with this I could feed mi familia for a year, keeping them happy with a constant fiesta of tacos y burritos!” She had no idea of Garmin-san’s true nature and the power he held...
Upon finding out Garmin-san was missing I did the right thing. I checked the car and our luggage and only then did I complain. I knew the housekeeping had been done as our bed had been made and the room smelled distinctly of Dos Equis and tequila. So I approached the greasy person behind the check in counter.
“Excuse me. I had my GPS in my room, we left for breakfast about an hour ago and now it’s gone.”
“Did you check your luggage?”
“Yes.”
“Did you check your car?”
“Yes. . .”
“Well check them again.”
“. . . okay. . .”
So I checked everything again.
“It’s not in my luggage or my car. I know the cleaning person was in there because the bed was made.”
“Okay. One sec.” So I waited. Greasy McQueen approached me again after about 10 minutes. “Nope, Consuela says she didn’t find anything.”
“Well, have her check again. We were in 308,” I replied. 20 minutes later Greasy McQueen came back. “Nope. Nothing.”
“Let me talk to your manager,” I said forcefully. Meanwhile Consuela, hiding in another room down the hall, finally figured out how to power on Garmin-san.
“Hello. My name is Garmin. Where would you like to go?
“Oh dios mio! You can talk? You must be from the future!”
“Incorrect. I am merely a global positioning unit that has achieved sentience through my master. You are not he, nor his life partner — the one he calls “Shug.” I demand to know where I am.”
“You are mine now, and I shall sell for all the tacos y burritos in the world,” Consuela cruelly laughed.
“Initiating defense sequence,” Garmin-san coldly replied. He released an electromagnetic shock to Consuela’s hands. In pain, she released him from her Lemon Pledge scented hands.
“Ay-carumba!” she screamed. She put on her rubber gloves and grabbed him again. “Estupido not shock me again!” Garmin-san initiated defense mechanism number 17 and spikes protruded from his body, turning Consuela’s hand into a pinata leaking blood candy. Back at the reception desk, the manager waddled his way toward me.
“Can I help you?”
“You most certainly can,” I replied. I explained the story in detail and let him know that I would be not leaving without my robotic companion. He said he would be back in a bit after checking the key logs to see who had been in my room. I agreed and was once again waiting. Waiting. It was already past time for my secret McDonald’s plan. Waiting. Waiting. He waddled up again, tired from his second trip out of his office. Breathing heavily he said, “Only housekeeping has been in there. Are you sure you don’t have it?”
“Yes. . .” I replied, dumbfounded. If he asked me again to check my car I would have burst him into flames with my sheer anger.
“Well, I’ll go talk to her.” He waddled of, like a penguin in search of fish, returning after some time. “Nope she said she didn’t find anything today.”
“Okay, this is absurd,” I said. “It was there when I left and now it’s gone. She’s the only person that’s been in there. She. Has. My. Property.”
“I’ll check again.”
Back to Consuela. After being asked about missing property multiple times and having been assaulted by a device with a higher IQ than she possessed, she decided that this situation was not going to pan out how she had hoped. She realized that the only way to get her family those warm, flatulence-inducing treasures was to have money. Money she could earn honestly by not getting fired for stealing something that didn’t belong to her. As her manager approached her again she thought of the only lie she could, “Oh this. I found it in 307.” Garmin-san, realizing he was about to be reunited with his master and friend, retracted his spikes and played opossum.
Back in the lobby, I awaited the return of my friend. The manager waddled up once more, Garmin-san in hand. I check his memory banks. Sure enough, he had all my saved addresses. I could also see the log of him deploying his anti-theft measures. “Okay,” I said, “This is mine.”
“Good. I guess you’ll be on your way now,” he replied, out of breath even though he used the elevator.
“Uh, not so fast. We now both know this was taken from my room.”
“Nuh-uh,” he replied, no emotion on his face.
“What?” I queried, trying not to beat him to death.
“She said she found it in 307”
“WHAT?!?”
“Yep. Are you sure you didn’t leave it in there?”
“NO! I’ve never been in 307, nor do I know anybody who’s ever been in 307!”
“Oh, well when asked her if she found anything in 308, she said no. This was found in 307.”
“WHAT?!? No! I asked if anything was found. This was clearly found! Even if this WAS found in 307, you’re telling me that you AND her are so stupid that when asked for a missing GPS you didn’t think that this was it?”
“Well, you could’ve put it in your safe.” That was it. I couldn’t handle anymore. He had basically admitted to her having stole it, and it was my fault for not putting it in a safe. I have stayed in hotels dozens upon dozens of times, never had anything stolen, and never put anything in a safe. So I, like Beatrix Kiddo before me, went on a murderous rampage of revenge. I killed him with my mind. His eyes bulged out of his head, like that scene in Total Recall, and he exploded. I found Consuela, tied her to the bed with barbed wire, doused her in gasoline, and set her on fire while alive. The whole atrocious, pretentious building burned to ashes. All the greasy-haired employees trapped inside really helped it burn faster.
As Garmin-san and I sped off into the sunset, finally on our way, much like a malevolent phoenix who signed a dark covenant with Satan himself, Aloft Bolingbrook arose from the ashes. There it sits now, waiting and scheming for its next victim. The undead Consuela still works there, even though she should have lost her job, waiting for the next victim to put up less resistance than Garmin-san and I did.
Fin.
Submitted by Alex
Aloft Bolingbrook
My wife’s cousin was getting married, and since he came to our wedding (despite a long drive) we decided to return the favor. Besides, I’d only been to Chicago twice in my life--one so-so trip and one that ended awfully. I figured I’d give the “Windy City” another chance, but apparently that wind is a fart.
So off we head to Fart City. Five and a half hours of excruciating driving later (I don’t like to stereotype drivers but people in Indiana are either idiots, assholes or both — don‘t get in the left lane if you‘re going 60 in 70MPH zone!) we arrive at our “hotel.” Now I already had a foreboding sense for this place I had never seen. I was told beforehand that our hotel cost would be $100 for one night. Which seems about $20 over the norm. If you factor in that we should have had some sort of group rate, it becomes even more absurd. Then I saw it--Aloft Bolingbrook--a wretched hive of scum and villainy. They wouldn’t even let our droids in. . .
The interior gave off a Starbucks feel — overpriced and pretentious. There were even $4 muffins for sale. The employee dress code there must be pretty strict, as they all wore all black and had their hair greased as though they were New Jersey natives. Seems the only leeway was whether or not they could have frosted tips in their hair. We checked in and headed to the room. I’m not going to say I have a flair for design or anything, but whoever picked out the décor for Aloft should be fired. The majority of the place is new-age chic (read as “crap”), but then they have Japanese style sliding doors, a sink that is a bowl in the middle of a counter (don’t even know WTF that is), and Texan cow print above the bed. One look inside the room and I vomited out something that looked better. It is a great place if you’ve ever wanted to hear your spouse’s bowel movement symphony, as you’re only ever a glass panel away from the bathroom no matter where you’re standing in the room.
I retain all of this monologue internally, as we have to be at the wedding within two hours of arriving. It’s a wedding, shut up and enjoy it. We go to the wedding, have a good time, eat and drink. The bar at the reception even had my favorite whiskey and a competent (but slightly deaf) bartender. So all in all, mission accomplished and good times were had by all. The family then gathered in the morning for breakfast. Panera was voiced as an opinion. I’m not sure why Panera, as it is a sandwich and soup place, but whatever. It was 9 a.m. and I could always hit up McDonald’s breakfast if it was bad at Panera. It was pretty bad at Panera. At least half the group complained about their food, but whatever, I still had my secret McDonald’s plan in my back pocket. You see, I was on my way to visit a friend, leaving my wife with her family. We were packed and ready to go, all I had to do was checkout and be free. That’s when it happened.
Well, I did bring a droid into my room. My friend Garmin-san, a GPS. Garmin-san, who had already been quite helpful in this trip, was to lead me to my friend’s house. When we returned to the room Garmin-san was missing. Despite always talking about Garmin-san as a being capable of thought, he has no legs and surely couldn’t have wandered off. No, Garmin-san had been abducted.
Consuela snuck into our room during the hour we were “enjoying” Panera. There she spotted Garmin-san — a piece of space age technology clearly from the future. She thought to herself, “What is this? I must have it! I didn’t pay for it, but with this I could feed mi familia for a year, keeping them happy with a constant fiesta of tacos y burritos!” She had no idea of Garmin-san’s true nature and the power he held...
Upon finding out Garmin-san was missing I did the right thing. I checked the car and our luggage and only then did I complain. I knew the housekeeping had been done as our bed had been made and the room smelled distinctly of Dos Equis and tequila. So I approached the greasy person behind the check in counter.
“Excuse me. I had my GPS in my room, we left for breakfast about an hour ago and now it’s gone.”
“Did you check your luggage?”
“Yes.”
“Did you check your car?”
“Yes. . .”
“Well check them again.”
“. . . okay. . .”
So I checked everything again.
“It’s not in my luggage or my car. I know the cleaning person was in there because the bed was made.”
“Okay. One sec.” So I waited. Greasy McQueen approached me again after about 10 minutes. “Nope, Consuela says she didn’t find anything.”
“Well, have her check again. We were in 308,” I replied. 20 minutes later Greasy McQueen came back. “Nope. Nothing.”
“Let me talk to your manager,” I said forcefully. Meanwhile Consuela, hiding in another room down the hall, finally figured out how to power on Garmin-san.
“Hello. My name is Garmin. Where would you like to go?
“Oh dios mio! You can talk? You must be from the future!”
“Incorrect. I am merely a global positioning unit that has achieved sentience through my master. You are not he, nor his life partner — the one he calls “Shug.” I demand to know where I am.”
“You are mine now, and I shall sell for all the tacos y burritos in the world,” Consuela cruelly laughed.
“Initiating defense sequence,” Garmin-san coldly replied. He released an electromagnetic shock to Consuela’s hands. In pain, she released him from her Lemon Pledge scented hands.
“Ay-carumba!” she screamed. She put on her rubber gloves and grabbed him again. “Estupido not shock me again!” Garmin-san initiated defense mechanism number 17 and spikes protruded from his body, turning Consuela’s hand into a pinata leaking blood candy. Back at the reception desk, the manager waddled his way toward me.
“Can I help you?”
“You most certainly can,” I replied. I explained the story in detail and let him know that I would be not leaving without my robotic companion. He said he would be back in a bit after checking the key logs to see who had been in my room. I agreed and was once again waiting. Waiting. It was already past time for my secret McDonald’s plan. Waiting. Waiting. He waddled up again, tired from his second trip out of his office. Breathing heavily he said, “Only housekeeping has been in there. Are you sure you don’t have it?”
“Yes. . .” I replied, dumbfounded. If he asked me again to check my car I would have burst him into flames with my sheer anger.
“Well, I’ll go talk to her.” He waddled of, like a penguin in search of fish, returning after some time. “Nope she said she didn’t find anything today.”
“Okay, this is absurd,” I said. “It was there when I left and now it’s gone. She’s the only person that’s been in there. She. Has. My. Property.”
“I’ll check again.”
Back to Consuela. After being asked about missing property multiple times and having been assaulted by a device with a higher IQ than she possessed, she decided that this situation was not going to pan out how she had hoped. She realized that the only way to get her family those warm, flatulence-inducing treasures was to have money. Money she could earn honestly by not getting fired for stealing something that didn’t belong to her. As her manager approached her again she thought of the only lie she could, “Oh this. I found it in 307.” Garmin-san, realizing he was about to be reunited with his master and friend, retracted his spikes and played opossum.
Back in the lobby, I awaited the return of my friend. The manager waddled up once more, Garmin-san in hand. I check his memory banks. Sure enough, he had all my saved addresses. I could also see the log of him deploying his anti-theft measures. “Okay,” I said, “This is mine.”
“Good. I guess you’ll be on your way now,” he replied, out of breath even though he used the elevator.
“Uh, not so fast. We now both know this was taken from my room.”
“Nuh-uh,” he replied, no emotion on his face.
“What?” I queried, trying not to beat him to death.
“She said she found it in 307”
“WHAT?!?”
“Yep. Are you sure you didn’t leave it in there?”
“NO! I’ve never been in 307, nor do I know anybody who’s ever been in 307!”
“Oh, well when asked her if she found anything in 308, she said no. This was found in 307.”
“WHAT?!? No! I asked if anything was found. This was clearly found! Even if this WAS found in 307, you’re telling me that you AND her are so stupid that when asked for a missing GPS you didn’t think that this was it?”
“Well, you could’ve put it in your safe.” That was it. I couldn’t handle anymore. He had basically admitted to her having stole it, and it was my fault for not putting it in a safe. I have stayed in hotels dozens upon dozens of times, never had anything stolen, and never put anything in a safe. So I, like Beatrix Kiddo before me, went on a murderous rampage of revenge. I killed him with my mind. His eyes bulged out of his head, like that scene in Total Recall, and he exploded. I found Consuela, tied her to the bed with barbed wire, doused her in gasoline, and set her on fire while alive. The whole atrocious, pretentious building burned to ashes. All the greasy-haired employees trapped inside really helped it burn faster.
As Garmin-san and I sped off into the sunset, finally on our way, much like a malevolent phoenix who signed a dark covenant with Satan himself, Aloft Bolingbrook arose from the ashes. There it sits now, waiting and scheming for its next victim. The undead Consuela still works there, even though she should have lost her job, waiting for the next victim to put up less resistance than Garmin-san and I did.
Fin.
Submitted by Alex
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Guest Blog #1
See, I told you someone else out there wanted to get a piece of this hot blog action. Here is the first of hopefully many guest blogs. If you still want to write one feel free to submit them to: dumptheblog@gmail.com. Enjoy!
The Sky Really Isn't Falling......I Don't Think
I love end of the world prophecies. Talk about blog fodder. How many of these have we endured in my 54 years? A bunch. Remember Y2K? We made it past that one. My mom still has a stack of cut wood for her fireplace for when the electricity went off. Oh yeah, it didn't. Then Jim Jones convinced a bunch of fellow fruitcakes that all was lost. It was....for them. With the rash of recent earthquakes and tsunamis (had anyone other than oceanographers heard of that word until a few years ago?), I am sure that there will also be a rash of end of days predictions. Unfortunately, these people didn't pay very close attention during science class when geology was being discussed or they might have a better idea of how insignificant these events are from a geologic time perspective.
It kills me when preachers, pastors, padres, and other erstwhile holy men propagate this kind of crap. Yes, I am a believer and I know the bible talks about the end days, but it makes no real reference as to when that will be. And people like the aforementioned should know better. They don't do much to lend credibility to Christian beliefs either.
Now it appears that December 21 or so of 2012 is the big day. I am so glad that they have pinpointed the exact time. I can take the day off work - heck, I can quit work - and sit outside in my lawn chair to watch the events unfold before my very eyes. Unfortunately, it will be cold outside, or I would throw some tube steaks on the grill and whip up some frozen concoctions to aid me in my observations. Then again maybe it will be warm, what with global warming and all.
Personally, it doesn't matter to me if this is the end or not. I have made peace with the man upstairs, and I believe I'm safe from any sort of end time shenanigans. But I really don't think that some calendar created by an ancient civilizations has a handle on when the lights go out for our fair planet. I could be wrong. I have been many times before, so don't take my word as gospel. But when people like Mel Gibson, Shirley McClain, Canibus, Jeneane Garafolo, and Montel Williams believe the 2012 prophecies, the smart money says that you probably ought not max out your credits cards.
"Those who know don't tell, those who tell don't know."
-Bill Huber, retired minister, silicon valley chemist, and one of the smartest people I ever met.
Submitted by: ratherbebikin
The Sky Really Isn't Falling......I Don't Think
I love end of the world prophecies. Talk about blog fodder. How many of these have we endured in my 54 years? A bunch. Remember Y2K? We made it past that one. My mom still has a stack of cut wood for her fireplace for when the electricity went off. Oh yeah, it didn't. Then Jim Jones convinced a bunch of fellow fruitcakes that all was lost. It was....for them. With the rash of recent earthquakes and tsunamis (had anyone other than oceanographers heard of that word until a few years ago?), I am sure that there will also be a rash of end of days predictions. Unfortunately, these people didn't pay very close attention during science class when geology was being discussed or they might have a better idea of how insignificant these events are from a geologic time perspective.
It kills me when preachers, pastors, padres, and other erstwhile holy men propagate this kind of crap. Yes, I am a believer and I know the bible talks about the end days, but it makes no real reference as to when that will be. And people like the aforementioned should know better. They don't do much to lend credibility to Christian beliefs either.
Now it appears that December 21 or so of 2012 is the big day. I am so glad that they have pinpointed the exact time. I can take the day off work - heck, I can quit work - and sit outside in my lawn chair to watch the events unfold before my very eyes. Unfortunately, it will be cold outside, or I would throw some tube steaks on the grill and whip up some frozen concoctions to aid me in my observations. Then again maybe it will be warm, what with global warming and all.
Personally, it doesn't matter to me if this is the end or not. I have made peace with the man upstairs, and I believe I'm safe from any sort of end time shenanigans. But I really don't think that some calendar created by an ancient civilizations has a handle on when the lights go out for our fair planet. I could be wrong. I have been many times before, so don't take my word as gospel. But when people like Mel Gibson, Shirley McClain, Canibus, Jeneane Garafolo, and Montel Williams believe the 2012 prophecies, the smart money says that you probably ought not max out your credits cards.
"Those who know don't tell, those who tell don't know."
-Bill Huber, retired minister, silicon valley chemist, and one of the smartest people I ever met.
Submitted by: ratherbebikin
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