 Game Odium
with Doug "Connect 4" Bradbury
"Hating the industry one game at a time."
Am I really the only one who thinks this tedious ball-sucker
of a series is just a homoerotic orgy of bad haircuts and muscle bound
retardation? All we hear is how Street Fighter 2 revolutionised the arcades,
while everyone conveniently overlooks the fact that Ken looks like a failed Nazi
experiment to cure gayness in Arians.
Maybe it’s a great way to distract the ham fingered spastics
who consider smashing their fat, jizz encrusted palms into a joypad as quality
gaming, but why Capcom thinks we now need a fourth moron-fest to berate our
beleaguered brain cells against I’ve no idea.
Built entirely on the ridiculous concept of repeatedly
bouncing two cartoon characters off each for 60 seconds, Street Fighter 4 looks
like a crayon-colored cross between a big-budget hentai film and a Van Damme
leotard malfunction. Prancing about the screen like ballet dancers fighting
over the last pair of testicles in the theatre can only be classed as
worthwhile gaming to the dregs of diseased society that still believes a rancid
hotdog at an Adam Sandler premier represents the height of sophistication.
Just when it looks as though the bowel wrenching tedium
can’t sink any lower, the pyjama party goers – who’re supposed to represent the
apex of the world’s martial artists, yet look like a Village People tribute
band made up of cheap Thai trannys – start spurting out suspiciously white
colored ejaculations at each other, or spreading their legs and performing graphic
feats of pole dancing magic without the poles. If only they’d occasionally
flash a bit of nudity from someone other than the shovel faced munter Chun Li,
there might be some impetus to button-mash my way through to the next tawdry
level.
And performing these stupid button combinations is like
trying to fuck the finger hole of a bowling ball after it’s been thrown at ten
cacti, and considerably less enjoyable. I’ve not played Street Fighter 4 yet,
but when it does come out I think I’ll spend my money on a rusty old lawn mower
and stick my finger in the blades rather than pointlessly punching at a joypad
to watch some gay Nazis perform the nut cracking suite on my vast collection of
PS3 consoles.
Blanka? Wanker.
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