The Ending To Black Ops Is Amazing Dick Rock Stupidity

I finally beat Call of Duty: Black Ops last night. Took a fucking week! Goddamn, I need my elite gaming status revoked. You say I haven’t had in a while? I say your Momma’s tits sag but I’ll suck em anyways! Oh lord! Father forgive me for my brash delivery. I enjoyed the fuck out of the game.

I dug the single player, the story, the presentation, everything. They hooked me in with the gimmicky as fuck numbers bullshit. I mean, yeah dude, I saw LOST. I loved the numbers back then too. Interrogation, floating numbers! Flashing, hypnotic surreal cut scenes? It was all so predictable, but it worked. Listen, Call of Duty isn’t looking to reinvent the wheel. I always think of these games (well, MW, MW2, and this) as six-hour Jack Bauer-esque experiences.   If you’re looking for depth, go jump into an Olympic swimming pool! And drown! Ha, the Pepsi Max, it speaks to me in riddles involving penises, and vaginas, and talking grizzly bears.


But yeah. Fight Club twist? Generic, predictable, still okay. A riff on the typical brainwashing the US agent to do someone else’s bidding? Generic, predictable, but still okay. It was executed well enough to keep me satisfied. I mean, I love Fight Club. I love Ed Brubaker’s Winter Soldier storyline in Captain America. I’m break dancing gleefully to all of these tropes already. Why not keep spinning to the beat you already enjoy?

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