For months I’ve been trying to get into Yeoman Chamber’s pants. Like, I really wanted to. I’ve spent all of my effort and suave nature trying to convince her to make the mistake of a lifetime.

And today I found out why. BioWare is a bunch of pussies, and don’t allow same-sex romances.

I stumbled across a ballin’ article today over at Kotaku in which the writer asked why same-sex bangings couldn’t happen to the Czar of Douchery or whatever over at BioWare. The response was something like “Blah blah blah, non-answer, blah blah, we’re pussies.”

First:
I can understand where they’re coming from. Sort of.

It makes complete sense that BioWare wants to market Mass Effect 2 to the greatest and most totally largest market imaginable. And having tons of dongs rubbing dongs and vaginas grinding vaginas would probably scare people away.

I mean, for me? It would have sold a second copy for me. Dongs rubbing dongs? I’m fucking in, man. But for all the homophobes, bible-fuckers, and toothless goobers out there that yesterday jerked off to their crucifix, it would have been an instant non-sale.

I think?

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Spring has sprung! Or something. It’s always weird when the days are nice, but life hasn’t returned to the barren shitland of New England. There’s something odd about walking around and loving the blue skies and warm weather and seeing no leaf or greenery within my purview. Whatever, I’ll take the sunlight, man. Nothing perks up my spirits (and all of humanity’s) like a nice beautiful day outside. It’s almost enough to make me forget the ashen butthole that is winter time.

Can you notice I’m falling less and less in love with snow and frost? It never used to bother me when I was young. Now I hate it with a ferocity usually reserved for dying on boss fights, or the prequels.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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Jay: You’re fucking kidding me! The Easter bunny did this?
Brodie: All I said was that the Easter bunny at the Menlo Park mall was more convincing and he just jumped the railing and knocked me down.
Jay: He’s fucking dead!
Brodie: Oh let it go, he’s under a lot of pressure.
[T.S. and Gwen approach them]
T.S. Quint: What the hell happened?
Jay: The guy in the Easter bunny suit kicked his ass.
Brodie: I had it coming.
Jay: [to Silent Bob] Fuck all that shit. Come on, Silent Bob.

The sun rose again this morning. Bastard’s persistent, I’ll give him that much.

I got rocked last night. After detailing the wonder that is Bourbon County, I decided to keep drankin’ it. Ended up watching Metallica and Megadeth DVDs with my good chums Riff and Savadave. The combination of ethanol and shreddery launched me into a different mental dimension. I actually convinced Riff to drive me back to my house so that I could retrieve the leftover pizza. In my mind, I was an Italian Robin Hood. And no, I’m not Italian.

In any case, I crashed into my bed like Abin Sur, worried that I’d wake up to find myself reeling. Miraculously, I’m feeling like Hal Jordan! Will power!

I’m kicking back, making my way through some of the work I’ve determined to finish today. My eardrums are taking a bath in Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew. And you’d better believe there’s some coffee in the mix.

How are you waking up?

[Search Engine Terms come from an app in the Word Press dashboard. It tells you the terms that people are using in google to lead to your site. Most of ours are ultra depraved and horrible. And amusing to sick people like me.]

There’s a million ridiculous terms in this entry.

• final Fantasy 13 tentacle rape
• alienpenetration
• lost jacob is a douchebag (editor’s note: fuck you, he’s rad)

But none of them can beat “Bukkake Statue of Liberty.”

Well done, inter-pervert. You will be forever granted asylum in the Cult of Omega.

I like going on a limb. I don’t do it often enough, but I really enjoy those moments when I dive in headfirst, not really thinking about what I’m about to get into. Sometimes, this goes terribly wrong and I fall on my face. But other times, it’s simply magic.

Tonight, it’s pure magic.

When I went to the beer store, I was instantly attracted to a certain naughty four-pack. He gave me a cat call and I couldn’t resist. Bourbon County seemed too good to be true — a commemorative stout aged in bourbon barrels. Oh, and not for nothing, but it’s produced by Goose Island, a brewery that has its shit together. Seriously.

I brought the four beers up to the counter. Handed them to the friendly booze dealer. And he, in turn, told me that I would be paying $21.37 for the small collection. Over twenty dollars for four beers?! Where the fuck are we, back in the USSR?!?! I muttered under my breath. This is an astronomical sum of money to pay for less than fifty ounces of beverage. But I wasn’t going to back down. Call it a sixth sense or just plain stupidity, but the newly revealed expense was appealing in a way. As though the maxim you get what you pay for might be true.

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After the events of Marvel’s Civil War, Steve Rogers aka Captain America was going to be tried for treason. Dude didn’t want to cop to making it mandatory that every superhero register their identity with the government. Before the guy could be tried though, he was totally killed, and sent into the time stream.

Having come back though, he was pardoned by Barack Obama in the pages of the funny book. And then someone got the actual Barack Obama to sign the page where it occurs. Amazing. I came across this today via Ed Brubaker’s Twitter feed. If you don’t know who Ed Brubaker is, he’s the dude who knocks it out of the galactic ballpark every month with his work on Captain America, amongst other things.

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