Toadvine posted:

Orkin Mang posted:

u know a womans orgasiming when she starts doing the worm

Quidam Viator posted:

He MUST not have been around for Stuntcock's old posts.

pentyne posted:

Not really, most young(ish) people live off soda and energy drinks. It'll turn your urine opaque.

Cyberball 2072 posted:

This semester at the retard college.

Banging your head against the wall 101

Yelling loudly about everything 101

Drooling 202

Adv. McDonalds Register Operation

Stuttering and Spittle Projection 102

Required texts;

Shoes? Two of em? Should they match? - $54.99

THAT SHIRT HAS A TIGER ON IT!!!!!!!! - -$129.99

quote:

[TCC]

Question:

No show, no show, no sell? I love baggingn fycjl,,. abou t the kind of shi it h=get though the mail.i 't scrazuy.mwgttgefyc= fycj= wgt g=tg fycj ab u eveb tryub= ti di tgus cibtect> si stupiu really apooprectw that you fo=ytstiij tgetnnnnnue ti rea d tgusm tg==byt t;s ibvuiyskt inci=jeacubg tgue scbe tEYB ad tkka ucare usv]= =gettugb tit tge ternubk=akmbg gettingti te germinak test n my hseatm red ==sd uh gesgarn btubg eeakkt beesreubg akk dayy,sw;eeww;e;eewwee;re gonna agace sex, wid violent such and she wikk be ner eewa snbtwasnft uutf frim ANYTHING bu t me. i righ tthatm huh,,mkuzuz =========liz is my fgifirstirfnd nandi im maaakinfn sure tnhat she won teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeenbE tneee sm e[pokelllmaaas

Jonathan Yeah! posted:

https://twitter.com/Goons_TXT/status/553963101927014401

Jonathan Yeah! posted:

https://twitter.com/Goons_TXT/status/553963101927014401

quote:

pokelllmaaas

Major Failure posted:

There is to my mind only one solution, my friend:

Lock your friend in a room with two hired soldiers and a keyboard. Give him the sheet music for "it's a small world after all". Have him try again and again to play it on the keyboard, with the soldiers jamming a razorwire-covered baseball bat up his rear end every time he hits a wrong note.

When he has perfected the tune, let him sleep, eat, and live a normal life. Then, every night for a year, have the soldiers wake him up at a random point in the night with the assbat treatment, holding out a casio keyboard until he plays the tune. Each time, they will remove the bat when he plays the tune.

After a year, he will be conditioned so that as soon as he gains consciousness after sleep, he will be driven by fear-installed instinct to play "it's a small world after all" as soon as he possibly can for fear of being manraped with a razorbat.

Allow him a few days to think things are fine, and then drug him to the gills by slipping a mickey in his soy milk.

Saw open his skull and remove his mind, keeping it on ice in your well-stocked lab. The brain should then be implanted into the grown body of a pig embryo given fragments of human DNA in order to give it arms and legs workable with human nerve impulses.

Before consciousness is regained, manipulate the porkmate creature into a tuxedo, and glue it to the seat of a colossal hellish organ. This organ's pipes should be lined with the still-living throat and lung tissues of battery-farmed pigs, their sedated but conscious heads still weeping from the top of the pipes, kept alive by the air flowing through the pipes and nutrients from underground vats.

Your friend will awake in the nightmare ghoulform of a remade human pig, and will desperately begin playing the organ. The organ will force air through the twisted, sore, splayed out vocal chords of the sad creatures impaled on its pipes, screaming out an infernal dirge of "it's a small world" in constant agony.

Your friend will soon realise he must keep playing to keep air flowing through the reconfigured lung tissues of his mangled brethren, but to do so keeps them alive in an existence of perpetual torture. He will weep with guilt, tears of blood from sore and ill-wired tear ducts, but he will keep playing.

His audience? seven thousand PETA members, each nailed into a coital position with the rotting carcass of a dolphin, while six-foot tall raven haired valkyries dressed only in thigh high boots and collars made from dog leather whip them with flails made from the intestines of kittens.

You and I shall each sit on titanic floating thrones of ebony, malachite and ossified whaleflesh, being pleasured at random by our own chained valkyries until your friend commits suicide by choking to death on his own bitten-off bacony tongue.

...

Hold on, I have to go and wank now.

VectorSigma posted:

nazi cows

didn't see that one coming

Snowglobe of Doom posted:

They started out as an experiment in the 1920s by some German zoo directors to recreate Aurochs but one of them later got chummy with Goering and talked them up as a metaphor for the Aryan race (Strong! Proud! Aggressive!) and arranged to have them re-introduced to the wild as a sort of non-human lebensraum. Apparently they were used in some Nazi propaganda.

So yeah, Nazi cows.

Powered Descent posted:

Nazi cows are what supplies the milk for the Dairy of Anne Frank.

Hitler B. Natural posted:

Here's Bob Lang's measured and reasoned response to the situation

the_steve posted:

Wait a minute...goats can't talk!
No, no, this isn't adding up at all.

Zero One posted:

The OSHA thread discovers the existence of Nazi Cows.

DiHK posted:

Combine a Nazi cryogenics lab and a forced labor carrot farm: Frozen Orange Jews

PixieDreamGirl posted:

Guys...

guys

Guys.

Guys listen.

I have the best ide-

guys listen

I have the best idea ever

guys

I put an LED light

guys

LED light

I put an LED light
guys listen here

I put an LED light... in my big toe. So I can always see where I'm stepping.

Frog Act posted:

Tony Homo posted:

I used to pick my rear end and smell my fingers when I was a teenager and had the same type of mustache. One time an old friend of mine said that he smelled poo poo and after checking out our shoes and the grass around us we couldn't find any dog poo poo around. It was strong enough for him to follow the poo poo stink to my face fur. I was so loving embarrassed. I couldn't smell the poo poo because I was used to it evidently.

the mustache is really tangential to this story isn't it

Pinterest Mom posted:

​The rectangle almost completely filled Central Hall, the largest and historically least depressing room in the Las Vegas Convention Center. Several billions in bitcoin and bullion had been spent, and conservation experts from Facebook Centers across the country had been flown in to help restore the structure to its 20th century splendor; the last living scholar of 1960s Las Vegas carpeting had even been brought out of retirement. No expense was spared, no detail ignored, no LED unpolished—all seventy thousand of them twinkled, spelling out, “CES CENTURY! 1967—2067!”

The second exclamation point looked stupid, but they’d pulled it off: before the rectangle had been lowered in with an array of freight drones, Central Hall looked just as it did in the museum photos. Except now it wasn’t a room; it was an ocean. The rectangle was slender as a finger, deep black, and smooth as glass. Maybe it was glass? There weren’t any signs up, and the booth attendants were all staring at their feet. From its entrance, the LVCC’s North Hall looked like it contained a vast black sea that floated several feet above the historically accurate patterned floor. Beyonce Bermm looked out over it and his skin was hot.

“This is sexy as hell,” he half-whispered, half-moaned, letting out a mouthful of cocaine vapor. He took another puff and strained to see the end of the great black plane.

“Epic, no?”

A man stood behind Beyonce with an outstretched hand, his face painted with the blue and orange stripes of a Consumer Electronics Association executive. He didn’t offer a name. Just a hand. “Is this your first show?”

“No. Well, yes—I proxied in last year.”

Beyonce shook the CEA man’s skeletal hand, triggering several plastic bands tied to his arm. He silenced them with a wink. “My name’s Beyonce Bermm, and I’m here—”

“Beyonce! A pleasure. I see from your badge that you graduated from Bezos University just like me. I always recognize a Bezos man. Go hounds! Say, did you know that when the Consumer Electronics Show was in its infancy, Beyonce was a woman’s name? But you see, history has a way of changing. It’s like a river. Have you ever seen a river? I drove up here from Facebook last night, and I remembered my grandfather telling me about all the rivers you used to be able to see along the way. You see, our industry is like a river; it flows, it’s cold, and it’s filled with fish. Rectangular fish, absolute geometric perfection. Do you follow me, Mr. Bermm?”

He didn’t, but he nodded along and kept looking at the rectangle through the corner of his eye. Beyonce was hungry; he should’ve stopped at the Facebook on the way to the convention center for a snack like his hat suggested. Beyonce took another pull of cocaine vapor from the small silver knob and his stomach stopped nagging.

Shouting Hats, as a billboard in the Hall of History pointed out, were first introduced at CES—along with blu-ray, 3D television, and the first prototype narcotic vaporization sticks. But that was decades ago, before the rectangles.

Almost every one of the convention center’s 3.2 million square feet was filled with booths dedicated to the sale, maintenance, restoration, financing, protection, consolidation, fragmentation, beautification, or promotion of smooth, black, glossy rectangles. THE SHAPE THAT PUT EARTH BACK TO WORK!

The CEA executive left Beyonce and trotted into the crowd now shuffling in from the North Hall, where rectangles from the big players like Samsung and Nestlé maintained cavernous, shrieking booths, small cities filled with PR drones, hors d'oeuvres, bloodsport, and complimentary narcotic vapes. Beyonce followed the crowd northward. Below a pulsating blue light, Samsung’s Senior Vice President for Occidental Facebook Recalibration was showing off the company’s 2067 lineup:

“The HHHHHHHHHHH-1-HH delivers unparalleled performance, industry-leading durability, and the glossiness that Samsung customers depend on.”

The crowd shrieked, some fanning themselves with their own portable rectangles, rubbing infinitely smooth, thumb-polished sides.

“For the first time in the history of the HHHHHHHHHHH series, we’ve created a rectangle solution that’s heavy, sustainable, brittle, and connected—all in a dimensional envelope like none you’ve ever seen. Allow me to demonstrate, and I think you’ll agree it’s a Goddamn game-changer.”

The crowd went silent. The Samsung presenter removed an obsidian-dark rectangle from a velvety pouch. He flicked it with one finger, and an orange light in the middle blipped on and off. The audience went loving crazy. As if to say But there’s more, the presenter held up his flicking finger, silencing the crowd again.

“Tell me, can your rectangles do this?” He flung the metallic board against the ground, where it shattered and dissolved into a fine powder. A man wearing a bright Wall Street Journal sash began to sob and applaud. Drones dropped confetti.

Beyonce took his own rectangle out of his trouser pocket and saw his muddled reflection in its deep black face. It seemed worthless, putrid. He’d sold his bike for this. For this? For one without an orange glowing dot in the middle, and one that wouldn’t turn into that lovely powder upon impact? The battery life was still good, though—but wasn’t everyone’s? Manufacturers had eliminated screens years ago. Beyonce thought of his accessories: the limited edition dock, the polishing cloths, the ochre stand. He was ashamed.

Buyer’s remorse had been chemically cured and criminalized in the 50s, but there were psychiatrists on hand in the South Hall. It was an option. Beyonce turned his back on the Samsung booth, where another fight to the death between two political prisoners was about to begin; the victor was to receive a Limited Special Edition HHHHHHHHHC-81, eight inches across and tinted dark grey.

It was early afternoon and the halls had started to fill up. Guests squeezed between rectangles in glass cases, rectangles propped up against one another, fully non-functional rectangles hanging from the ceiling like mobiles. In a demonstration pit, two teenage PR reps dressed like nuns cracked eggs on an LG BagBagBagBagBag rectangle, its rounded edges and silver trim dripping with yolk.

“This little motherfucker has no screen, no speakers, no buttons, and the most powerful Bluetooth antenna in the world,” one of them shouted while winking over and over and over. “The bezel is treated with human stem cells, and the 2067 model will come in a delicious light-black color variant.”

Beyonce felt ill. Not even a velvety satchel of the sort he’d seen at Samsung would make him feel better about his rectangle or conceal its mediocrity. All around him was the future: rectangles bigger than his, smaller than his, rectangles with edges sharp enough to kill, rounded so gracefully you could calculate pi. The thinnest and thickest rectangles in the world were on display at CES; his was neither. It was rumored that the smallest rectangular unit produced—something of a coup for SonyKraft—was on display, but it hadn’t yet been spotted.

Beyonce’s heart pounded. He needed fresh air, but the quarantine period wasn’t yet over for the day, and the queue for a mask stretched past Sbarro. He reached in his pocket to make sure it was there; the rectangle was humming along, vibrating at the random intervals he’d been promised when he bought it. He rubbed it idly. It was disgusting. He’d never hated a shape more.

The future was in this hall, in Las Vegas, in this throng, and he was just barely scraping by with a chunk of obsolescence in his pocket. Beyonce was humiliated, sick with shame. A bell sounded, followed by an androgynous sing-song announcement—Beyonce’s connected hat whispered along:

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN AND REMOTE PROXIES, THE UNVEILING WILL TAKE PLACE AT CENTRAL HALL IN JUST FIVE MINUTES!”

Central Hall: the biggest of all time. A team of heavily armed Facebook personnel cleared a path for visiting dignitaries, digital executives, proxy hosts, models, athletes, and drone stars. Jaden Door, war hero and CEO of Samsung, floated by, veiled from head to toe; he didn’t even stop to wave.

Beyonce let the crowd push him to the red rope that surrounded the Central Hall rectangle’s perimeter. For the first time, he noticed you couldn’t even see the other end. It was a black oil spill in the largest room he’d ever stood inside, a vacuum of reflected neon, the largest non-fingerprint marred surface in the history of human civilization. He sucked the last wisps from the cocaine pen, and squeezed to the front of the crowd. The presentation would begin at any moment. There was no time to mourn the contents of his pocket, no room for dread. History was crashing over everyone around the dark expanse. His hand unclenched; he let go of his brick. Beyonce craned his neck and saw his dead face in the mammoth rectangle, and he’d never loved anything more than he loved the future.

atomicthumbs posted:

consumer electronics

bewilderment posted:

Anyone interested in more like this should check out this goldmined thread http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3459842 and every post in it by Kirk.

Just-In-Timeberlake posted:

you're a mod for god's sake, DO SOMETHING

Kirk posted:

i cant

i need a moment here

i don't even, i can't begin to

like

its

someone help me i dont know where to start

i am at a loss for words

hot liquid poo poo splashing up and speckling my white bottom

a man dips his fingers in fetid rear end sweat and smears a line of it on my forehead.

"RAZOR" he murmurs

a cleansing dive into sparkling yellow piss waters, light at the top yet brown near the bottom. i plunge deep and feel the saltiness enter my pores.

a field of partially congealed cum on grass. before it continues to gel, i leap and splay myself out on the ground, nude. i wave my arms and legs, making the snape of an angel.

i am led down a darkened hallway and through a metal door that screams as it opens and closes. i sit down in an old wooden chair with a light above me and wait. soon he appears. helpers flank him, and then grip my face and hold my mouth open. the man leans forward, plugs one nostril, and blows the contents of his nasal cavity into my eager mouth.

because my face is strapped so tightly to the rear end of this man, the poo poo he pushes out is forced to go over, around, and under my eye sockets after they rapidly become full of feces. i grind my face a little, to enjoy the smooshing sensation.

my penis stings greatly from the regurgitated stomach acids, but my joy overpowers the negative sensation. the scent of heineken and sourness fills the air.

he is strapped down over a table, blindfolded and gagged. a courtesan hands me a cheese grater and motions me towards his waiting rear end. mounds upon mounds of swollen, pus filled acne await me on twin rounded fields of flesh. i drop to my knees and hold my mouth open so as to enjoy any incidental splashing, and then i begin working on him with the grater.

my eyes are irritated as endless flakes of dead skin float down into them, but the visine helps mitigate the worst of it. my erection grows ever harder as i watch the crusty foot directly above my face get worked over with the file. soon all of the callous will be broken up and spread over me.

the side rooms are filled with aged and diseased men of all walks of life. the only unifying factor among them is that they have all contracted the most recent strain of cold virus, and each cough from them produces a hefty amount of phlegm. upon entering, they crowd around me and hold me down onto the ground. my clothes are rapidly stripped away, and the process begins. the air is filled with a cacophony of horks and coughs, and i close my eyes. all across my body i can feel points of warmth as phlegm and bile are projected onto me.

a melange of feces and vomit make the floor slick and difficult to traverse but, then again, that's the point. around the room are men sitting on benches, and beside each of them is a small bucket full of nerf footballs. i enter the room and they begin hurling them at me. you are instructed to dodge to the best of your abilities, but are expected to fall into the frothy mixture on the floor in short order. upon falling, i purposefully roll around to slather as much of it onto my skin as possible.

the men on the top floor are chained to prevent their escape, and some are in fact strapped down so as to prevent any movement. all have leprosy and are in various stages of decay, and i am invited to insert my tongue into the gaping wound of a man not far from his final rest. it is hot and fetid, yet drier on the inside than i would have expected. i work some salvia into the gaping hole to enhance the experience.

"you may experience discomfort", the courtesan informs me. the pumping mechanism is now tightly strapped to my body, and the catheter has been violently shoved all the way in. some say it is a life changing experience to have the urine of another man forcibly pumped into your own bladder, and i eagerly look forward to seeing if this is true

i roll the dry balls of poo poo around in my mouth. these have been left to sit for a day, and even right after being produced they were quite dry. there is still some softness to them, some moisture within. i bite down, and the sensation of crumbling poo poo fills my mouth. i spit out the hard flecks of undigested matter and continue to chew.

in the mirror, i see that the veins in my neck are engorged as i try to push out any remaining feces. it is a thrill to know that this feces is not mine, and yet i am still passing it through my system. my throat is still quite irritated from the intubation process, and it is still bizarre feeling the hot lumps pass through said tube into my mouth, down my throat, and into my gut to be re-processed by my own intestines.

in the morning, i do not feel well. the exertions of the previous night and the inability of my body to handle so much foreign material has taken its toll. i try to liven myself up in the piss showers, and my spirits are lifted, but the nausea remains. an attendant brings me a smoothy for breakfast, and i hungrily sip from the straw. a strange flavor, but this trip is about new experiences. i ask the attendant what's in it, and he describes a fetid mixture of pus and cum. i smile as he leaves. "they think of everything", i muse.

today is the main event. my prostate will be forcibly manipulated until every last drop of semen is pumped out of my body and into an incision that the on-site physician has made in my right bicep. there is some swelling around the injection site, but i have been prescribed advil.

i have some time to spare, so i stroll over to the penetration room. from behind a two way mirror, i watch an army of men pump in and out of each other in a room that has long since been sealed shut. the only thing pumped in is oxygen. the men have been told that they must continue to gently caress and thrust or they will be deprived of that last comfort. no fighting is allowed, and the last man left alive will be free to go. a lie, of course. currently fifteen men are left, with perhaps a dozen corpses around them. they do not know or care if the people they continue to thrust in and out of are alive. some of the corpses have been mutilated quite badly, and have perhaps a litre of semen in their decaying stomachs.

blood is perhaps the most common lubricant used, and in fact has become some sort of currency. some men are lured into oral sex, only to be tricked by the performer as they bite down. blood will often burst from their members so forcefully, that the peformer is taken aback and blood gushes from their mouth, only to be wasted. perhaps one third of the blood is successfully saved for use.

one of the other penetration rooms has reached its conclusion, and i rush over to be the first in line. the corpses are removed one by one and laid down onto tables. a courtesan motions me over to the first one removed, and i sit on a small stool facing the bottom of said corpse. soon my head is pushed forward and strapped in place, my mouth encompassing the rear end in a top hat the corpse quite neatly. another courtesan brings a small footstool over to help him stand above the corpse.

"are you ready?" he asks.

i nod as best i can. he brings his foot down onto the stomach of the corpse, applies pressure, and the decayed insides begin to splay out of the rear end in a top hat and into me.

bits of bone from broken ribs migrated into this mixture of rotting matter, so i choke slightly as they cut the inside of my throat. this is considered a faux pas, and my exposed buttocks are viciously slashed with a razor wielded by the overseer. i cannot defend myself, as my head is still strapped to the rear end in a top hat of the corpse i was previously enjoying

blood trickles from the deep gashes on my buttocks, and several attendants and other guests rush over to suck as much of the precious liquid from me as they can. eventually a courtesan frees me from the corpse, and i stand. i stride out of the room quickly, as embarrassment has left me beet red. and it is almost time for my prostate-to-bicep procedure anyway. as i march to the appropriate location, my penis grows engorged with anticipation. i am propositioned for oral sex several times on my journey, but i know better - i don't need a burst cock this late in the game.

i lay down upon the cold steel table, and am strapped into position by an attendant. another attendant rigs up the prostate pump, and the seals around my bicep injection site are checked and rechecked. a switch is flipped, and the process begins. it is quite pleasurable amidst the pain, as my prostate is pounded by a mechanical device of which the workings i am not privy to. soon the pump begins to function, and i watch out of the corner of my eye as a goopy, milky white substance gushes towards my bicep. the feeling of the hot liquid cum pumping into my arm is incredible. i can feel the warmth spreading all over my muscle.

but something goes wrong - the pressure is too high, and the injection needle snaps off inside of my arm, the cum being pumped out spraying wildly in every direction. screams and shouts are heard. this is a disaster!

the pumping machine and the prostate mechanism have gone out of control, i writhe with white hot pain as my prostate is pounded violently beyond tolerable limits, and it somehow grows even worse as the organ is literally ripped apart inside of me, causing massive internal bleeding. the milky white goodness that was previously being pumped out of me grows red, deeply red, as it is replaced almost entirely by blood - that most precious of resources here at CES. instead of helping me in some way, shutting down the mechanism that is ripping my innards apart, the attendants rush over and fight one another for access to the tube that is spraying my blood all over.

cum oozes out of the injection site on by bicep. i lay in a pool of blood, and i suddenly realize poo poo as well. my bowels have released from all the internal turmoil in my body. my bladder is most likely draining, but i cannot tell now. everything is becoming a haze. my stomach is upset. i belch. the taste of pus.

perhaps i am going to die, but more importantly - my trip is ruined.

i wake up. it is dark. i am not dead, but perhaps i should be. i am back in my hotel room. my arm is bandaged, and i feel many more bandages down below. i do not know the full extent of the damage, but i am in great pain all over and it is hard to focus on anything. i turn my head slightly towards the bedside table. several bottles of antibiotics obscure the clock, but i know it is sometime during the night.

after several minutes of rest, i manage to reach over towards the pill bottles. i notice a note. i grasp it, and shakily bring it to my face. there is barely enough ambient light to see, but i focus as best i can as i fumble it open. a contact name, an email address, and a phone number. some scribbled text.

"Thank you for attending the RAZOR CES afterparty."

i close my eyes.

Xander77 posted:

Xander77 posted:

Magnetic North posted:

Oh my god, please tell me I've been reading the Tumblr thread too long and I can no longer tell the difference between a troll post and a real one. But, on the off chance this isn't a troll and I'm talking to some sort of sentient lichen permeating the pages of a cheeto-stained comic book draped over an unplugged keyboard, let me try and work with this metaphor:

You see, the prominent people in board game reviewing aren't actually the smartest and most worthy of that position: that would be the equivalent of Batman, the hero we deserve. He watched his parents get cut down in The Game Of Life and now has a Monopoly on pain. Only thematically rich and mechanically sound board games dare show their faces in Gotham. Unfortunately, just like in 52, Batman is absent.

Instead, those heroes are more like your friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Peter Parker got his powers entirely by chance when bitten by a radioactive spider. Well, our board game reviewing heroes also got where they are in part by good fortune, or at least partly by means other than just their game design knowledge. In this case, they got it because of their ability to make the content that works within YouTube's system. For Rahdo, it's his gift of gab so he makes entertaining videos and gets subscribers. For Rodney Smith, it's his commitment to excellence and neutrality and that garners subscribers. For Tom Vasel, it's just a pure numbers game: enough content and eyeballs will accrue subscribers. For SUSD, it's probably a little of everything. (Yes, a Fantastic Four metaphor might be more apt here, but let's go with this one.)

So, these board game reviewers are our street level heroes: they might not be the best or most righteous, but they'll do what they can to keep your wallets safe. Still, Spidey has ways of doing things, which the public doesn't always agree with. J. Jonah Jameson is one of them, a newspaper editor of The Daily Bugle. In this metaphor, JJJ is represented by SA board game grognards: old, crotchety, self absorbed, constantly seeking to destroy the 'menace' of Spiderman.

So, who does Spiderman fight? Doctor Octopus, The Green Goblin, et cetera. These are guys that pose a threat to the public good, but just aren't big enough to threaten anything more than that. These villains represent games are the bad, cheap drek that publishers churn out that an unsuspecting citizen might find has robbed them of their money. Harm can be avoided so long as Spiderman's there to help.

But what happens when Carnage shows up? In this case, Carnage represents Munckin: a bad game that continues to spawn other even worse games. Well, Spidey just can't fight him on his own: Carnage is far too strong and awful. He has to call in help from more powerful people. He could call up Iron Man. Tony Stark has no super powers, but instead of training his mind and body to perfection as Batman did, he drinks a lot of alcohol and uses his engineering prowess to build power suits that lets him fight crime. In this metaphor, this is Wil Wheaton of TableTop: still lacking the raw qualifications to be the true hero, but made more powerful with resources. Unfortunately for Spiderman, that's not always an option: Tony Stark is likes to do his own thing, and his own thing usually involves keeping Stark Industries afloat more than it does protecting the public from small-time crime.

If Iron Man's not answering Peter's calls, there are others. Maybe Doctor Strange or even Doctor Doom. The thing is that heroes of this power who can change reality at will aren't really on the same scale as Batman or Spiderman. These reality shapers don't represent game reviewers but rather well respected game designers. (Let's say Richard Garfield is Doctor Strange (duh) and Vlaada Chvátil is Doctor Doom. That'd be especially appropriate for this thread since everyone loves him so much he apparently never fails, and if he does it was really a Doombot.) The hope would be to get them to talk trash about bad games like Munchkin to hopefully exterminate the problem. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

But what if something even worse happened? What if Spiderman had to fight Galactus? Spiderman simply cannot fight the power cosmic. Galactus is as old as time and can never die. Those forces that survived the chaotic beginnings cannot be defeated. In this metaphor, Galactus is Cosmic Encounter: It's simply too old and too powerful to be defeated at this point. It's evergreen, even if it's awful. Also, let's say it turns out that Spiderman thinks Galactus is a cool guy with a sweet purple hat and he becomes the Herald of Galactus. So, Spiderman shows up but instead of saying, "All that you know, is at an end" he says, "Forty dollars will be teleported away from your pockets. In exchange, Galactus offers you endless replayability of this shallow gameplay and the ability to generate mirth between your friends." Would that really be so irresponsible of Spiderman?

Anyway, for those of you who don't need elaborate superhero metaphors, I think this thread is waaay too hard on reviewers for their likes and dislikes. These people are not prominent because they have PhDs in Mathematics: they're prominent because they fit into the systems of popularity on Youtube and to a lesser extent BGG. Just listen to what they have to say and their reasons why, then consider if those reasons would hold water to you. If the rationale does not meet your satisfaction, then hold off on any purchases. If it does, then give them all your bitcoins.

tbp posted:

whoever said brevity is the soul of wit was a retard, eh pals.

Gabriel Pope posted:

actually true

Josef K. Sourdust posted:

I'm warning you, if people don't start quoting me, I'm going to stop visiting this thread. And my visits add 100 views per day. Just saying.

Josef K. Sourdust posted:

Look, we can all agree the Holocaust happened. I am just saying there is a difference between a million and a thousand.

katlington posted:

Tom bombadill is what happens when you put frosty the snowmans hat on a ganja plant