Ha Ha... Black Materia.

Holy hell, it's been a long time since I've scratched some words onto this thing. There's a lot... and I mean a lot... that has happened between the last post and this one. But I'll spare boring details. Instead, I want to get back to reviewing stuff and putting it up on here, or writing a stupid story, or whatever comes to mind. And today, I want to write about a video game that's gotten my full and undivided attention: Theatrhythm: Final Fantasy.

At first, the title sounds pretty nuts, akin to the numerous nonsensical words that Square Enix jumbles together to create names for their staple series (take any Kingdom Hearts game in the last five years). Theatrhythm isn't even a word. It's two words, theater and rhythm, that are smashed together. But once the game starts up, it makes sense.

Theatrhythm is the Nintendo 3DS's first rhythm-action game, in similar fashion to games like Elite Beat Agents (or the DS Guitar Heroes, if anyone played those), where the basic object is to tap and swipe the bottom screen to beat of the music. There are colored prompts that come across the top screen that note the type of stylus action to input. The music in question is what makes the game work: it takes signature tracks from the soundtracks of the first thirteen Final Fantasies.

The game starts off with a meager offering of tracks to play in Series mode, where players play though selections separated by each game in the Final Fantasy series. There's the Field Music, where players sway the stylus to the beat of what's generally the Outworld theme from the FF game. There's the Battle Music, which is either the battle or boss theme. Then there's the Event Music that's generally a signature piece of music (think the dance scene from Final Fantasy VIII) accompanied by various video clips from the specific FF game. In Series mode, these three tracks are bookended by the Opening and Ending theme tracks, where players can tap to the beat at their leisure if they choose so, since these sections are purely optional.

It wouldn't be a Final Fantasy game if there weren't Japanese RPG elements to it. Players are initially given a choice of each of the main characters from all 13 FF games to build a 4-person party out of (My team generally consisted of Zidane, Lightning, Cecil and Vaan). As players progress through the game, these characters gain experience, stat upgrades, and stronger abilities like magic spells, stat boosts and powers that affect the gameplay of the music sections. The higher level the party is, the likelier they'll push through to the end of particularly tougher portions of the game. As players complete sections, they're awarded items to add to the party (and collectible cards, which don't really do anything). It's certainly easy to neglect this aspect of gameplay early on, which is probably why Series mode is particularly easy.

When sections of music are completed in Series mode, they're added to the Challenge mode, where players can go back and play certain, trickier tracks to improve their score and heighten the difficulty by playing them on "Expert Mode," and if they're really good on a song, "Ultimate Mode." None of the higher difficulties are required play, but completing them will boost the amount of experience that the character party acquires. It also adds a greater amount of game content since leveling up the character party higher will eventually make the simpler difficulties more mundane to play.

As the game goes players collect "Rhythmia," which is an unlock currency of sorts. Every 500 Rhythmia will unlock various things, like songs to play in a music player, the videos that accompany the Event music section, options for the Streetpass card, and colored "shards" that, when enough are collected, will unlock more characters to add to the party.

After playing a certain amount of the game, the Dark Note portion opens up in the Chaos Shrine part of the game. This is where the real challenge of the game lies. Dark Notes are sections where a random Field music track is followed by a random Battle music track, and the difficulty is ramped up considerably. While most of time the tracks are repeats of the ones found in the normal sections of the game, there are a few tracks that only pop up here. I found myself dying and failing a lot when I attempted this early on, but as the characters level up and get better stats and abilities and acquire better items (Phoenix Downs, 'natch) the Dark Notes become at least beatable. Beat a Dark Note, and another one unlocks. The Battle music section has a designated "boss" that, when defeated, will sometimes cough up a colored shard. Since collecting Rhythmia doesn't give out enough of these shards on its own, playing through the Dark Notes is required to unlock characters, it seems.

The game has quite an extensive amount of content to keep players occupied for a good while, but Theatrhythm offers up even more tracks, at a price anyway. Theatrhythm is the first 3DS game that has paid downloadable content. For a dollar a song, players can add more music to what's already a pretty badass library of tunes.

Theatrhythm isn't for everyone. It's restricted to a system that very few people own. It's got a really stupid title. At a glance, it's just another Final Fantasy cash-in. But Theatrhythm is charming, and caters to the nostalgia factor that Final Fantasy has in a unique way. Going back and hearing these soundtracks is quite fun (I hate to say it, but I was outwardly giddy when I unlocked the battle theme from Final Fantasy VII), and the gameplay grows rather addictive. There's no ridiculous story or unjustified sense of failure for not completing a track. It's simple, it's fun, and it's surprisingly deep. So if you have a 3DS and love classic Final Fantasy music, it's a disservice to pass on this game. If you just like fun games with just enough challenge that it isn't mind-numbing, Theatrhythm is worth checking out.

-C.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Holy crap, has it been a while. I almost forgot there was a time where I'd produce drivel about video games and other nerd culture this-n-that for all the Internet to read. I guess I felt it bored people so I must've stopped? Or was I just too damn lazy to write a review of Red Dead Redemption? In any case, here's a rundown of the blank spot in 2010.

The most interesting thing to come out of it was bartending school. Now, some people are going to ask why someone with a Bachelor's degree is turning around and going back to school... for bartending. Especially someone who SWORE OFF ever doing anything school-related ever, ever again. Well, the reasons are thus: One, with the economy pretty much sucking balls, jobs are tough to find, particularly jobs in advertising in Podunk County, Oklahoma. Oh, I could move, but everywhere else sucks as bad as Oklahoma as far as I'm concerned. Even you, Dallas/Fort Worth. Two, I kind of got stuck getting my degree in what it pertained to so that when I started hating it there was no point in going back unless I enjoyed giving OSU more money. And three, well, bartending is pretty cool. So I went for it.

Blue Label is situated on Brookside, the west end of Tulsa. Brookside is basically a mile of Peoria Street that someone decided to sweep up, ridding it of the bums, crackheads, gang members and other ne'er-do-wells. Then they offered the buildings to avant-garde business opportunists and now the entire mile is full of hipsters. Anyway, it's a hell of a lot better going to school on Brookside instead of North Peoria, where OSU is. North Peoria is close to Greenwood, where the infamous Tulsa Race Riots occurred. Being white there isn't exactly frowned upon, and I'm not inherently racist, but there's a haunt of anger looming over North Peoria, like a bad moon. And now I'm wondering why I'm giving history lessons. Blue Label being on Brookside offered one unique plus - it was the perfect opportunity to sample the local cuisine. I'll just say it beat the hell out of Subway.

The school itself only lasted a couple weeks. I have to say I learned more technical material in eight days than I did in one year of college. It helped that I have a natural desire to concoct and mix things together, and now I can put it to practical use. What worried me was the final test, which involved making 12 drinks in less than seven minutes. The passing minimum score was a 90, and that allotted for only one or two mistakes. It was a nerve-wracking nightmare, but I passed it. On my tenth try.

The test was seperated into orders of three drinks, where they usually shared one or two ingredients among each other. On the final try I had done the first three sets near flawless, except I screwed up on an ingredient and there went ten points, so it had to end perfectly. My drinks were, to my knowledge, a Kir, a Bahama Mama, and a Greyhound. These drinks don't exactly share much of anything. So I scrambled. I hit into the Bahama Mama since it had the most and launched it to the bar. The Kir had me flustered because it was a wine drink we never really practiced on, so I threw a garnish in it. Then I paused. "No? That's not right. Well, it's now or never." So I took it out. Garrett, my instructor, showed a sign of panic when I put the garnish in, and relaxed when I removed it, so I was on to something. He was also counting down the seconds left - "Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen..." Then... the hell was that third drink he called for? It was a juice drink. It has vodka. Dammit. I threw in grapefruit juice and expected another loss. But Garrett smirked and held his hand out.

"Congrats, man, you did it. You passed." I nearly shit.

With a score of 90 and a time of 6:49, I became the 32nd, 33rd, or 30-something-th graduate of Blue Label. So to my instructors Garrett and Mike and fellow student Anthony, thank you for the opportunity to prove to myself I can do something and put it to use.

Since then I've been generally milling about making drinks for get-togethers. I've yet to get an actual job doing it, but who knows where my career is headed anymore.

And now of course anyone who knows me knows I've got to talk about games. But instead of busting out forty-paragraph reviews, I'll cut to the chase.

The previously mention Red Dead Redemption takes the place of GTA as my sandbox game of choice. It's a westerned-themed game with GTA properties like gunplay, riding horses this way and that, and hunting animals. I have to make a confession - I have a secret boner for westerns. Not that I've ever seen a John Wayne flick, and in fact I thought Shane was the most homosexual nonsense ever recorded, but I do find myself watching a Larry McMurtry series and gelling into a lethargic haze. Red Dead has that style of storytelling mixed with do-whatever gameplay. Also, bears are genuinely frightening. I do have the expansion game, Undead Nightmare, which is Red Dead with zombies (I do, however, have an anti-boner for zombies) that I've yet to sit and play. It has zombie bears, and that's gotta be fucking scary as hell. Zombears.

Just Cause 2 was another post-SSFIV game that I kinda fell in love with. Not because it's really that good; in fact, it's quite mundane and devoid of character. But it was a decent enough "fuck-off" game that I sorely desired to play after GTA IV proved to be too serious to provide nonsensical lack of reprimand for dicking around. And the story is only seven missions long, the rest being random side quests and near-unlimited military bases and towns to take over. After finishing I saw little reason to continue.

One series I'd been questioning was DJ Hero. After getting the game and turntable controller for the black market price of $40 at Toys-R-Us, I knew why I questioned it so... it's fun as hell. Unlike Guitar Hero, which provides teens and substance-abusers a chance to feel hip by playing "My Name Is Jonas" on a Fischer-Price guitar, DJ Hero takes two songs and mashes them together so you can scratch and turn on your Fischer-Price turntable. I sure as hell wasn't going to pay the original retail price of $129.99 (gaw-dayum), so I waited until Activision realized that nobody was going to get a mortgage to buy their damn peripheral-based games anymore and lower the price. So now I've been diddling around on that game and the appropriately-titled sequel, DJ Hero 2.

On the shelf to play are the previously-mentioned Undead Nightmare, as well as Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood. So those should keep me busy... when I'm not trying to get through my Deadwood, Full Metal Panic, Deadliest Catch, Bleach, Fullmetal Alchemist, and Married... With Children DVDs. Oy vey. Plus Marvel vs. Capcom 3 is coming out next month. I originally didn't have such a bent boner for it, but as they've revealed their lineup, I have no choice: Felicia, Deadpool, She-Hulk, X-23... yeah, gonna love it.

There's not much else to say. Hopefully I'll start using this Blogger more frequently, since it's the great outlet for my mind. Salud, friends.

-C.

Fight For Your Right To Pants Party - Super Street Fighter IV.

I ambled along diligently during that morning, waiting patiently like a smoker with his cigarettes nestled deep within the confines of his own anus, dying for a smoke but not wanting to have to explain why he's pulling his pants down while shaking uncontrollably. Those cigarettes were there, but he'd have to wait. Cut to me scampering across the aisles of Target, pushing a cart filled with cat food and cat litter for my cat that requires such necessities, until we met. I locked eyes with it and the hopeful sales sticker underneath it. "Free $5 Gift Card With Purchase!" it blurted. The blood rushed from my head into parts unmentionable. I went further down the aisle and pressed the Associate Assistance button so that I could hold this beloved object in my own arms. Finally a dippy-looking employee plodded over and I requested that he allow me to purchase this beautiful treasure. As he rang up my transaction, he made meager small talk, mentioning that he played Soulcalibur IV and preferred the essence of modern, 3D fighting games. I nearly laughed in his Clearasil-coated face. As I walked away, I opened the bag it was placed in and admired it, but I also checked to make sure everything was intact. Target has had a history of selling games without having the actual game inside the case, which makes for an uneasy return for a proper purchase. I continued to titter about that poor, wayward employee.


Fuck you and your Soulcalibur, pal.


I have Super Street Fighter IV.

Super Street Fighter IV kicks ass. My review should be summed up in this one picture.

To many people, this looks, feels, and possibly tastes like last year's pants-cummingly (mine, apparently, anyway) radicatubular game, Street Fighter IV. And really, it is to some degree. But the things that Capcom added to this uber-upgrade make it more desireable; calling it a venerable sequel isn't quite justifiable, judging from past installments of SF being basic upgrades of the same old shit. I'll admit it.

The most obvious change is the roster setup, which includes ten more characters, many from previous games. I was sold when Dee Jay and T. Hawk from Super Street Fighter II were added, but throwing in palatable choices like Guy and Cody (from SF Alpha 3, but better known as the stars of Final Fight), goofy Alpha fighter Adon, and three decent choices from the SFIII series (Dudley, Ibuki, and Makoto) seemed better than reasonable. Sadly, my prayers for the addition of the major boobage that is Rainbow Mika were left unanswered, but at least Capcom politely omitted fucked-out characters like Alex and the Yun/Yang twins. If using Dudley as my favorite SFIII punching bag wasn't fun enough, he's even better actually playing AS him. Then of course, there are the two new characters, Juri and Hakan.

Juri's batshit crazy, but a solid contender for Japan's "most desired SF body pillow."

Juri was announced earlier on along with Dee Jay and T. Hawk, and caught my eye if only because she stood out better than SFIV's gang of newbie misfits. Basically, she's a Tae Kwon Do character, which is one of my preferred methods in other fighters and a first for Street Fighter. Also, the shirt thing covering her tits is shaped like a spider, and that's silly. But Capcom threw in all their chips when they showed the other noob earlier this year. Hakan is a Turkish oil wrestler who touts the joy of olive oil while squeezing the living shit out his opponents, sometimes between his legs. His methods are baffling, but surprisingly Hakan is fun and easy to play. Honestly, these two are better characters than the last game's gang, which were okay but not as memorable.

Hakan enjoys the virtues of over-lubrication THIS much.

So the game has a total of 35 fighters, so that means that an ass-load of time must be spent unlocking half of them, right? NO. Capcom dishes us a solid by giving us all of them as soon as the disc hits the tray, opposing last year's seemingly impossible task of getting them all (which I did, but I'm just that fucking awesome). SSFIV also lovingly omits the aneurysm-inducing Survival and Time Attack modes, which needed beaten in order to unlock character colors and taunts. This time around, unlocking those only involves playing as each fighter so many times. Sadly, many of us were led to believe that alternate costumes were also available in the game, but once again gamers have to buy them online (which is a hassle for me, for reasons I won't dive into). And there's not an option to watch cinemas, which is wanky. But whatever.

Most of the enjoyment derived from SSFIV revolves around multiplayer, which is a Drawn Together worthy "AH-DUUHHHHHHH." There are plenty of online modes which I haven't played or have much desire to understand, but dammit all they exist. And next month a free downloadable "Set Up Your Own Tournament" pack might be juicy enough for me to hook up my Xbox up to the Siesta Internet. Yet I think I'm still the only one who relishes on SF games nowadays, so I'll be flying solo yet again.

So Super Street Fighter IV is pretty kickass, but coming from someone who still has his childhood K-Mart tee of the four SF bosses looking menacingly Americanized, this may be glorification at its peak. But anyone who enjoyed older fighters that missed out last year will get a hoot out of it. And for $40, it's not a wallet raper, either. Gamers like Lieutenant Target Retard might not appreciate the subtlety of a 2D plane or the lack of Star Wars guest characters, but I suppose that's their loss.

For your health,

-C.

The Bioshock Deuce, Hedgehog Go-Karts and Other Assorted Treasure.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Story of Chief Aggro: Showdown.

As the sun strolled over the earthen crust and the mountain peaks shone brightly, a strange air permeated the Awesome Valley. The town was bustling with the usual business. The trade post clerk was sweeping the wooden slats that made up the porch. Horses were hitched to fencings around the main strip, swiping the flies away with their tails and the occasional shake of their heads. Women strode along with their baskets carrying goods as children ran past screaming and snapping their pop guns at each other. Men sat at the saloon bar with their glasses of whiskey wetting the countertop with perspiration as the pianist swaggered about his craft with a stirring rendition of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy." The sheriff sat at the end of the bar. His guns were hostlered but loomed outward to warn the patrons that their shift wasn't over for the day. A thud echoed through the room and the sheriff looked to see Bob Stallion slumped against the wall, giggling like a schoolgirl with the saloon's premiere marm, Lusty One-Eyed Pearlie. Stallion noticed the sheriff giving him a wary look.

"Sheriff." he tipped his hat as he stood up.

The sheriff nodded. "You keep your poontanging to a hush, Stallion, it's still daylight."

"Yessir." Stallion took his cyclops prostitute by the arm and hustled upstairs to negotiate some land trade.

The pianist was about to emulate Montell Jordan, breaking into "This is how we doooo ehhhht...!" when the saloon doors swung open. The deputy stumbled through with sweat and dirt sticking to his shocked face. "Sheriff! Sheriff! He's here! He's in town!"

"Gulldammit fuck, Brucie, what's all this mamma jamma?" the sheriff exclaimed.

"It's HIM, sheriff," Deputy Brucie bellowed, "it's CHIEF AGGRO!" A record somewhere in town scratched to a halt.

The noise and banter froze at the mere mention of that name. One patron pulled out his pistol and shot himself in the head out of desperation, yet everyone else stared down the sheriff for an answer. He hopped off the barstool with his glass still in his hand.

"Well, I guess we better get this over with."

As the sheriff, deputy, and other patrons walked outside, they saw that hell itself made a housecall to this small community. The clouds covered up the sun to protect it from shining down on damnation, and most of the townsfolk had sought shelter in their homes or peered through the shop windows like scared rabbits. A lone tumbleweed rustled down the main road, moving along to stop at the feet of what had caused all this ruckus. Chief Aggro looked down at the spherical foliage and with one swift movement crescent moon kicked it into splinters and a fine red mist. Only Chief Aggro could make a tumbleweed bleed to death.

"Blue blazes!" Deputy Brucie choked. "D'joo see...?"

The sheriff held his hand up to silence his partner. He sat his empty glass on the porch railing and walked down onto the dirt path. His eyes met Chief Aggro's, but not wanting to let his cool down, he unlodged a cigarette from its pack and lit it. Only the sound of a muffled Stallion negotiating his terms with his lady friend could be heard as the upstairs curtains shifted about. The sheriff scoffed. "What's your business here, Chief?"

Chief Aggro spat a gob of chewing tobacco onto the street. "I'm in the business of doing business, Sheriff Fuckface." He enunciated his reason by smacking his fist into his cupped palm.

The sheriff took a drag off his cigarette. "Sheriff Fuckface was my father. Now I'll only ask you one more time; what are you doing in this town? These folks have done nothing..."

"I want my rematch!" Chief Aggro stomped on the ground. "I want the rematch against Pancho Enchilada el Bacala! That motherfucker still owes me fifteen dollars!"

"Pacho's dead, Chief." the sheriff replied, "'Fraid your punch upset his colon a little too much. Done shit himself to death."

"FAAAHHH! HYAAHHH!" Chief Aggro sent a Siamese Diamondback Fisticuff soaring through the air, sending a waft of sand and dirt across the road. "Then send me your second greatest warrior, that man from the Africas, Mbootie Akimbo."

"'Fraid he skipped town, Chief. Right after Pancho took his last poo."

"He is scared of me?" Chief Aggro folded his arms in protest.

"Nope. Jury duty." The sheriff finished his cigarette and flipped it to the ground. "Look, you've made your point time and time again. All of our best, well, you've beaten them in one way or another. There just aren't any more challengers left in this dusty town."

"Did Manuel McKinley's head ever return to his body after I destroyed his chance at the Best of the West Championship?" Chief Aggro asked.

"We could never find it after you done socked it off. I think the buzzards stole it by now." the sheriff replied.

"Then I shall fight that buzzard!" Chief Aggro shot his fist into the air. "I shall fight any and all buzzards who lay claim as the best fighter of this, this tired, ratty village!"

"They flew away."

Chief Aggro's face contorted into disappointment. He shot a glare at the sheriff, still standing calmly with a look of pity across his weathered face. Chief Aggro pointed at him. "Then I will fight you, Officer Asshat Pissypants."

"Well, if that's how it's gotta go." The sheriff unbuttoned his shirt and removed it along with his jeans to reveal a pair of regulation UFC fighting trunks, sponsered by Subway. He walked down the main road toward Chief Aggro as a beautiful blonde woman in a bikini strutted between them holding a "Round 1" sign. Chief Aggro looked smugly at the sheriff with his arms still folded. Stallion could still be heard fucking the whore.

The two squared off in the middle of the street. Horses began to whinny and some of the onlookers circled around them, cheering and whooping. As the fight was about to commence, and Deputy Brucie was about to ring the bell, a look of concern wiped across Chief Aggro's face. He stopped and stood up from his Brazilian Tai-Jitsu Detroit City stance.

"Wait. Hey, wait." He held his hand up. "What the protocol for having the sniffles?" Another record scratched to a halt in the distance.

"What in the name of fucking shit are you babbling about?" Deputy Brucie exclaimed. "The sniffles?"

"I have a temperature now." Chief Aggro wiped his brow. "I refuse to fight with any advantage given to my opponent." The crowd gasped in dumbfounded confusion.

"What's going on?"

"Is he actually serious?"

"He's not going to fight?"

"Fuck your common cold!"

Chief Aggro shot back, "Hey, fuck your own ass." He pulled out an ocarina and played it. Over the horizon, a Tyrannosaurus Megazord lumbered across the desert toward the town. The townsfolk shrieked and ran around as the mecha lurched to a halt right behind Chief Aggro. With one mighty bound, he lept into the fictitious beast and drove off into the sunset.

The sheriff won. Or so it seemed.

"Sheriff, you won!" Deputy Brucie slapped him on the back. "He was about a pussy lip away from digging your grave, too."

The sheriff shrugged and pulled out another cigarette. "He'll be back. He always comes back."

Suddenly, a loud crash came from inside the saloon. Something heavy stumbled down the stairs and rolled out the swinging doors. It was Stallion, dazed and crumpled with a pair of pantaloons on his head. He looked up at the sheriff and his deputy, grinning ear to ear.

"Boy, but if that wasn't the second-best birthday I done ever had!" he cheered as his bowtie spun in circles.

Everybody laughed, and the sheriff and Deputy Brucie high-fived.

The Story of Chief Aggro: Beginnings.

The lands to the west hold many tales yet to be told. Fierce warriors trode upon the grasslands, searching for meaning to life, or perhaps a bit of skirt that needed the taming of a man's battle-weathered hands. Such stories can be heard, if not faintly, as the wind whips across the ancient lands of the Awesome Valley. Of course, now the valley is nothing more than some plain desert fields scattered with rock and the occasional bird of prey soaring overhead. Yet years ago, it was the home of one of the continent's greatest martial arts heroes of all time. As the sun sets to the west, and the jackrabbits burrow into their nests, the wind tells stories of Chief Aggro.

Chief Aggro's origins prior to his settlement in the Awesome Valley are more myth than fact. The one thing most folk can agree on is that, one blustery autumn eve, Chief Aggro appeared as if almost out of thin air. Some at that time believed the Chief was a living spirit wandering the land to seek revenge on his fallen tribesmen, and others saw him as a being not of this world, perhaps a moon of Jupiter. Chief Aggro himself boasted that he was the embodiment of a unity between Chuck Norris and some crazy fine bitch, perhaps a night elf, but as either did not exist for centuries to come it seemed unlikely, however not impossible. It is not important to note, for Chief Aggro's legacy would be left by himself.

Chief Aggro was adorned with various piercings and tattoos, each telling a tale of their own. His back was blessed with the marking of his immortal battle cry - "Fight Me or Fuck Me" - while his chest remained bare save a patch of woollen lamb's hair shaved into a Star of David, to keep the missionaries away. He also wore a grueling scar on his left nipple, once host to a metal stud piercing, lost in a ten-round championship match against Benicio De La Vega La Muerte at the Palms Casino. Chief Aggro had his balding hair shaped into what was supposed to be a proud, standing mowhawk, shaved by a blind shaman and blessed with oils and a touch of glitter. But the Chief was far too combat-weary to style it, and it lay flat to one side like the fin of a domesticated orca. What clothing Chief Aggro did wear was testament to his impending skill - a pair of blue Russell sportswear gym shorts and hi-tops stained with the blood of his victims and a streak of bison shit. He toted a man-purse - adamantly called a brohan satchel - that housed his trophies, various phone numbers of hot girls that had boned once or twice, and a CD collection of hardcore heavy metal, including a copy of the best of Grim Reaper .

Chief Aggro bore no weapons. No obvious ones, anyway. His right hand held his fist and his left held the fighting spirit, and that was more than enough. However, Chief Aggro did carry guns, at least the guns that were his bulging biceps that twinkled with perspiration after every cage match.

It is not known where Chief Aggro learned his technique, or techniques, as he bore a range of fighting styles that traversed both time and place. One consistent rumor is that at the age of four, Chief Aggro summoned the soul of Bruce Lee to travel to the past and train him in the mountains for seventeen years. But this meant it would involve learning the four thousand styles that Chief Aggro was only witnessed to using, and as Bruce Lee is known only for his kung-fu, it seems likelier that Chief Aggro had instead swam to the bottom of the Indian Ocean and unlocked the scroll that Lee would use much later to learn the techniques bestowed to Chief Aggro first. The mighty Chief was factually connected to the origins of Shaq-Fu, a technique used centuries later by Shaquille O'Neal. However, basketball was not yet introduced to the cultures, so Chief Aggro utilized a boulder carved into a sphere with five uncovered raptor rib bones and a pirate's cutlass. Despite its weight, Chief Aggro would dribble the rock, encompassing all aspects of ancient Shaq-Fu, including the dreaded "Shaq Attack" that left his opponents beaten and generally decapitated.

As the Awesome Valley began to notice Chief Aggro's wanton lust for battle and pussy, rumors sparked of the great chief's skill. Some claimed they witnessed him split an oak tree with the skin of his ballbag, fending off the herd of black bears that lived in it with a hornet's nest that fell and stuck to his ballbag and stung them into submission. A tribe of gypsies camped on the plateaus claimed to have seen him toss Superman into the center of the earth one hallowed evening. Or perhaps it was Ulysses S. Grant. It was dark and kind of far away. But they were certain it was Chief Aggro, as his labret piercing glistened in the moonlight and Anthrax's "Antisocial" echoed throughout the valley.

Almost as notorious as his combative skills were his lover skills. Many maidens were swept from their beds in the midst of the night to be fiddled with for the Chief's desire. Some were stricken with child, and even though Chief Aggro doubled-bagged his shit, his lustful rage forced his seed to explode through two, even three latex coatings, and once through a plate glass window. Despite the fact that Chief Aggro was not just any wayward cassanova, anyone standing in a five-foot radius from him for longer than twenty minutes was telekinetically raped.

The tribes of the Awesome Valley were both fearful and at awe with Chief Aggro. As time wore on, more legends of his deeds were whispered of to warn children and fan the flames of time onward. But for now, this was only the beginning of his story.

Super Boob Fun Time Japan Yes: Bayonetta.

Yeah, yeah, games, games. And yet lately I've been pretty jaded with the latest stock of stuff I've been whittling away at. Prototype lunged at being a great game and fell flat on its monster tentacle face with mediocre elements and too many bullshit freezeups that forced reloads. Brutal Legend was good in its own right but tried to do too many things and failed to be great at any of them. And I can't even muster the reasoning to turn on the PSP, even though I have a decent reason to play it with another Jak & Daxter game on my shelf. Fuck the DS.

Then Bayonetta showed up, as if to say, "play me." In a dirty way.

Bayonetta's origins derive from the Devil May Cry series from Capcom, a set of games featuring an Asian ladyboy badass with guns and a sword and no need for prisoners. It's a basic 3D hack-n-slash that you either like or loathe. Bayonetta's ties to this series are solid, as they share the same creators. But the group of developers fled to Sega, changed their name, and left little to the imagination with this one.

There's a great deal of injustice being dealt to say that Bayonetta isn't screwed up. While the game mechanics are practically copied straight from DMC, they then hike the absurdity and sexism to near-catastrophic levels. The titular character is the best example, as she struts around in skintights attached to her oddly comely beehive hairdo. This is because her wardrobe is her hair, which metamorphs into various combative formations like a stiletto boot, a demon dog, or a bizarre devil parrot thing. This is combined with gun combat, and consider that she carries four guns - one for each hand, and one strapped to each boot. She uses all four rhythmically and with wanton precision, wildly shooting in every conceivable direction as the combos build up. She also has a vaguely sexual affinity for lollipops, which act as her healing items. Top this off with her sexy, yet weird British accent, which will either entice gamers or add to the crazy sense of humor of the game.

Bayonetta has a story far too insane to try and decipher in any review, not that it ultimately matters. The game's two focal points are deep, yet interesting, combat and ridiculous cutscenes (which add up to nearly half the game's overall time spent playing). Most objectives involve Bayonetta running through linear pathways, defeating alien-looking angels and cherub-faced dragons, and collecting halos that look strikingly like rings another certain Sega character cherishes. Scattered throughout the game are bosses that blather on about world domination... until Bayonetta shoots them or finds some offensive way to shut them up. There are also a couple of driving missions inspired by old arcade racers that break up the monotony of hack-n-slash and weird cutscenes.

Perhaps Bayonetta's biggest blessing-or-curse is the oft-mentioned absurdity. Obviously, Bayonetta's acute femininity teeters between hilarious and slight offensiveness. She tends to move about like a professional pole dancer, writhing and sliding around the stage as she fights like a Las Vegas-inspired Annie Oakley. Camera shifts and crafty pauses to accentuate her... ahem... curvature further the cause. The other point to bring up is the strange, Japanese sense of humor. How characters react to Bayonetta's antics are imaginable yet still funny to watch. Dialogue doesn't ever stray away from the joke that this game is supposed to be silly, and even the fighting music (a jazzy riff of Fly Me To The Moon) jumps on the insane bandwagon.

As you can see, Bayonetta has the major bewbage going on. Nice glasses, too.

I can't in all seriousness find many faults in Bayonetta's presentation as it never really takes itself seriously. The graphics are splendid, the combat is approachable, and the wackiness spills out like D-cups out of a tube top. Some may find it too childish or stupid, but Bayonetta charms in a way that few games I've played lately do.

For your health,

-C.