The World Ass Jark Meat Plan

Sat, 02/20/2010 — Rev. Ragu

Recently, my attention was drawn to a report that someone had spent $13,100 on an NES with three games. Rather than the asinine observation “DURR, MAYBE I CAN SELL MY NINTENDO ALONG WITH T&C SURF DESIGNS AND NARC AND FINALLY PUT MYSELF THROUGH COLLEGE AND CEASE TO BE AN EMBARASSMENT TO MYSELF AND MY FAMILY,” I was filled with bitterness and venom, for the game that put it over the top was a boxed copy of the apparently ultra-rare Stadium Events.

Stadium Events? What the hell? That is the game that Nintendo pulled off the market and hastily rebranded as World Class Track Meet, after they filed off the name from Bandai's Family Fun Fitness pad and stuck their own Power Pad label on it. So that's it: Someone paid thirteen grand for fucking World Class Track Meet, or that game where God Mode was basically “hit the stupid pad with your hands instead of your feet.” It's the rarest NES game out there, yes, but it's also a huge piece of worthless dogshit that has never brought a moment of joy to anyone in its entire existence, any historical significance it has has already been meticulously documented, it was rereleased in a form in which you can acquire it for fifty cents at a pawn shop, there's a ROM image out there ensuring that the apathy and nagging ennui of playing Stadium Events will persist forevermore, and its only value is in its scarcity. The only happiness and personal fulfillment this $13,100 copy of argh fuck and piss World Class Track Meet will bring its owner will be a momentary glimmer of something resembling emotion as he sees his collection complete, a single sparking of perhaps not joy, but at least something, in this sad fucker's life.

Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori

Thu, 01/28/2010 — Rev. Ragu

My Darling Henrietta,

How I miss you, my sweet; your hazel eyes, the feel of your lips as we kiss, the warmth of your stomach as we lay together, all the love we made on bright and moonlit nights. It is, quite simply, hell to be here, so far away from you. We've been camped out in this city for a week now, this unnamed city in the border regions of Blue Moon, painting buildings red, red, the colour of my allegiance, the colour of my blood. My dearest Henrietta, I remember your tear-streaked face as you held yourself to my chest, begging me to reconsider my decision to enlist, and I now wonder if you might have been right. I joined this fight thinking myself to be doing the right thing, for love of country and love of you, and how I would give anything to protect both you and it. Ah, but I was so young then; perhaps my patriotism was only the young man's need for adventure, excitement, for glory and honour and all that nonsense. Here I am now, my uniform stained with mud and blood; both my own and of others, my face drawn, my body in perpetual readiness despite the sheer exhaustion from the sleep I could not get even if I was allowed. We hear the rumbling of tanks, the exploding of shells, and with each great roar of battle an inevitably agonizing silence follows. In the suffocating stillness our minds fill in the blanks, of all the dead men, the injured writhing in agony, machines lying smouldering and their occupants rent to dust. Maybe we'll be next.

Wasting Away At The 100 Rads Bar: Part 1

Thu, 01/21/2010 — Rev. Ragu

"GET OUT OF HERE, STALKER"

...And there goes another one. Why can't I stop doing this? I'm not even guarding anything here. It's a warehouse full of empty crates and a couple of pipes going nowhere, and here I am, pacing back and forth on this catwalk, trying to look like I'm actually supposed to be here, telling everyone to GET OUT OF HERE. I keep pushing everyone away, and though I want to stop, I don't feel I have any control over it!

I was in the bar one day, stuffing diet sausage in my mouth, downing whole bottles of vodka, miserable, not really having any idea why I'm out here in this irradiated hellhole full of incomprehensible death at every turn, telling everyone who tries to reach out to GET OUT OF HERE, STALKER. So one day, in a fuzz of self-hatred and last night's bender, I told myself that things had to change. I would make an effort to open up and learn to trust people again.

GREAT SEXUAL MOMENTS IN GAMING #3

Thu, 01/14/2010 — Rev. Ragu

You've tasted the sweet, sweet forbidden fruit of serial copyright infringement with the Touch Boy brand Gameboy copier - feels pretty good to be playing Go! Go! Tank, Catrap, Amazing Tater, and Bubble Ghost for free, eh? Didn't hurt as much as you thought. Helicopters didn't hover overhead, men in black balaclavas wielding submachineguns did not rappel through your windows, you were not manhandled and beaten about with the butt-end of a rifle by burly copyright enforcers, stripped, hosed down with freezing water, carried into a windowless gray room, buck naked, forced to answer deeply personal questions about yourself, your family, your love life, where you got the idea that you could play Boomers Adventure and Battle Bull without paying a dime. Feels really good, in fact. Maybe what they've been telling you about right and wrong and crime and punishment is completely false. Maybe... there are other forbidden fruits that are just as delicious.

Touch Boy

Yes. Yessss. Your gray market Gameboy copying device knows. It knows that all morality is arbitrary. You've been playing Maru's Mission and Kwirk: He's A-Maze-Ing for years now. Never leaving your house. Afraid that everyone will know. You're marked, you're tainted. So just let go. You have nothing to lose. You're already bound for hell, figuratively speaking, why not throw a few more proverbial coals on the flames?

Come on man. Try it once. Fly. You can't get a habit from Touch Boy. Quit anytime you like~*

Touch Boy

*Please note: The Andore Seven does not wish to condone or promote the sexual abuse of children, nor the illicit copying and download of Gameboy hits such as Bugs Bunny's Crazy Castle and Penguin Wars. Be good, folks

WIZROBE: The Story Behind The Album Part 1

Wed, 12/02/2009 — Rev. Ragu

In 1989, Wizrobe released their most popular album to date, "Pussy Liquors & Fine Spirits." The album, widely known as a drastic departure from their EPIC FANTASY METAL roots, sent Wizrobe hurtling into the mainstream, the album eventually going triple platinum. Rather than the triumphal lyrics praising the deeds of the folkloric heroes of old and spinning fearful tales of the beasts that lurk on the edge of humanity's collective imagination, Wizrobe's new style was of the much more mainstream SEXY REACTION METAL (also must be capitalized). With the raunchy licks and erotically charged lyrics, Wizrobe found much wider appeal than merely blaring from parents' basements during all-night Dungeons & Dragons marathons.

From a Concerned Citizen to the Assaram Chamber of Commerce

Tue, 11/10/2009 — Rev. Ragu

As I'm sure you're well aware, Assaram has long been known as a city of the highest moral character, where good folks can raise their children, far away from the unchecked hedonism of Romaly and the ceaseless mincing of Shampane. A faithful and observant oasis in a desert of heathens, from the shocking man-Gods of Isis to the backwards deviltry of Jipang and even the bloody savagery of the Soo. We, the people of Assaram have been steadfast in our opposition to the seductive sensualism of a world gone rotten to its very core, where heroes feel they can wander into anyone's home and ransack their treasure chests for gold and tiny medals, and you can't walk three steps outside the town walls without running into a random encounter.

TOO SOON?

Sun, 11/01/2009 — Brooke

MOVING ON UP

Sat, 10/31/2009 — Rev. Ragu

Greetings, Andoremaniacs and Poisonphiliacs, Haggarlovers and Guyfriends; but if you like Cody you can straight-up fuck off! Ha, ha! Just kidding, no one likes Cody.

Like the proud people of the planet Darius, we've been driven from our ancestral home; driven by giant mechanical fish of whom, we had been assured, were "approaching fast". For that long week we've been scattered, beaten, and marginalized. Yet, no matter how dark the days became, no matter how many clouds kept us from seeing the sun in the sky and warmth of our creator (Takahiro "T. Himoto" Himoto), we never lost faith - Faith in the cold, refreshing taste of CAMO brand malt liquor, the smooth taste that you won't see coming. With hope in our hearts and Camo on our breath, love set us free, and we stumbled and propellered with the grace of a lager-drunk ballerina face-first into The Motherland.

No longer are we the 2P to another's 1P, the red guy to the other's blue guy, the Pop to someone's Chack'n! We are no longer content to play this cosmic Goldeneye game with the shitty red controller with the broken analogue stick against the dude who owns the Nintendo 64 and has memorized all the fucking levels and insists on playing on License To Kill! Andore Jr. is now its own man, to shine on its own, free from the yoke of an oppressive domain name of which it is perpetually the sub. Like at the end of Double Dragon on the Nintendo where Jimmy Lee was revealed to be behind all the Bull Shit, we've come out from the darkness and revealed ourselves to be the true Shadow Boss. And now, only twelve ethnically diverse martial artists from around the world can stop us, after battling through a brutal, no-holds-barred, free-for-all bloodsport of our design...

Welcome to Andorejr.com!

...Sak's Boner Wave is really fucking cheap, by the way, and he pretty much just spams it for the whole match. Fucking SNK bosses.

DAYDREAMIN' DAVEY DAY DREAMS AGAIN

Sat, 08/22/2009 — Sak

Klax: A Formal Proof

Tue, 07/14/2009 — Doctor Vink

Proof by transposition:

Assumption: If there is time for Klax, it is the nineties.
Assumption: In any non-90s time, there is no time for Klax.
Assumption: There is now time for Klax.

Therefore, it is the nineties.

QED