The XBOX 360’s USB Storage Update arrived today. Fucking yawn. I’m just going to reiterate what I’ve said before about this bullshit:

Via A Previous Rant of Mine

Wait, so you can only use flash drives, or your external hard drives can only be utilized for 16gb of their space? I wonder why.

Hard drives for the 360 are the biggest fucking rip-off going. For $120, you can get a 250gb hard drive. They’re fucking our wallets with thorny cocks. I got a 350gb hard drive for my PS3 for seventy-five dollars. And I’m sure they’re way cheaper now.

How about you douchebags at Microsoft stop raping our wallets and allow us to use the full scope of any external hard drives we may have? ‘Cause I have a 1 TB external hard drive that I paid a hundred bucks for, and that makes a lot more sense to me than getting raped by your proprietary bullshit, okay? I love your system, I already bought the 120gb hard drive like a fucking asshole, I pay for XBOX Live!, c’mon, do me a solid.

Seriously. I love my XBOX. I’m actually an XBOX fanboy. And yet, if you guys want to keep up with the PS3, dudes, you might want to go ahead and change a few things. Since you already don’t offer Blu-Ray, you may want to cut the proprietary bullshit.

Fucks.

[Variant Covers is a column every Tuesday that breaks down the various titles coming out that week in the world where a dude who is a Levi’s model and clearly touched can be a superstar penciler.]

Deadpool Corps #1

Pop-quiz, fuckers! What’s better than one Deadpool being drawn by Rob Liefeld? Uh! How about an entire fucking squad of Deadpools rolling out, being penciled by my favorite idiot savant? Oh hell yes. Deadpool Corps #1 comes out this week, and I’m fucking stoked. It’s like being excited for a train wreck. My love for the unhinged genius that is Rob Liefeld is well-documented. So this week’s title of the week can’t be anything less than a testament to the utter insanity that is Rob Liefeld and Deadpool.

I mean, we’re not just talking about Deadpool here. No, no, no. We’re talking Deadpool and his merry gang of uh, other Pools? I don’t really know who or what the fuck these people are. But I know they’re called Headpool, Lady Deadpool, Dogpool and Kidpool!

WHAT! No seriously, what the fuck is going on here.

And if you take a gander at the picture, you’ll figure out what I already have; apparently they have lightsabers and are hurtling through space. And Headpool is a disembodied skull. Just fucking insane.

I have no idea what the premise of this title is, nor do I really care to. I’m going to buy it on premise alone. It’s such a throwback to the insane 1990’s and absurd post-modern behavior that I have to buy it. Rob Liefeld is a slice of pizza wrapped in bacon. Even while you consume it and know what an asshole you are for enjoying something so filthy and bad for you, you can’t help but smile. I’m on this like fucking woah.

Superman: Secret Origin #5

With all the zombies running around trashing shit and eating brains in the DC Universe, I’ve missed out on following this series. It’s got a recipe for awesome in the creative team. Geoff Johns is the Czar of all things DC, and when he’s not writing awful, awful, heavy-handed, mind-bogglingly shitty dialogue in Blackest Night, I’ve enjoyed him. And then there’s Gary Frank, whose pencils on all thing Superman generally get my loins aflutter. Even though I’m beyond fatigued with every artist interpreting Superman within the funny books as Christopher Reeves, I don’t mind Frank pulling such a stunt.

Why? I don’t know, I guess I find him gorgeous.

Issue #5 of this shit sees Superman finally throwing down with Metallo, which is what every Superman origin story should find him doing. Are you listening, Christopher Nolan? At the end of a Superman origin, the guy needs to punch the crap out of something. He doesn’t need to be shanked by Lester Burnham. Seriously.

I feel bad for having not checked out this series yet in full. Pepsibones bought the first couple of issues, and I skimmed it and said something like “Nice artwork, I have to take a shit” and left it at that.

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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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