Welcome to Press Start! It’s a column about my intense self-loathing, eating and masturbatory habits, cleverly disguised as a week in the events of video game culture. Come on in.
We can’t go a year without a new Call of Duty dropping some over-the-top wallet fucking edition, can we? Hell no. It’s about as American as it gets. November is football, turkey, and expensive killing packages.
Imma buy and play Black Ops 2, because it has joined Thanksgiving and gaining twenty pounds as perennial November habits of mine. Now I know I’ll be partying to a uh, wait what?, theme song by Trent Rezzy when I boot the fucker up.
It’s about that time, where the newest Call of Duty is trotted out for the public to see. Its details will be revealed, though they’re irrelevant. Its name will be dropped, though its irrelevant.
Dare it be hersey when I state that out of all of the Call of Duty titles I’ve rubbed up against, Black Ops has been my favorite? It jazzed a certain shade of my tits, and I spent a good amount of time enjoying this jazz. I always assumed that it was going to spawn a sequel, and deets on that second game may have leaked.