Videots, Technophiles, & Leetspeakers

*Note: This is probably going to be the first in an ongoing series of posts concerning ads, particularly those on the Internet, and today's focus is on video game ones.

First of all, I am a geek.  I love Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and Harry Potter.  I have seen porn themed after these franchises, for Stephen Hawking's sake.  No apologies.  However, I am not a gamer.  Have I played video games?  Yes.  Did I enjoy it?  Yes.  But an original PlayStation is the most advanced console I have ever owned, which I think had roughly the computing power of a really nice GE blender.  Current McDonald's Happy Meal toys are more high-tech than what I played in middle school.  

I believe this is what is known in tech parlance as an "Epic Fail."

Aside from dabbling in Prince of Persia, Assassin's Creed, and, most recently, God of War, I haven't played video games since I failed to hit my growth spurt.  But Facebook, it seems, is determined to assimilate me, Borg-style, because half of the advertisements that appear in my sidebar are gaming-related.  Why? Only Mark "the Messiah" Zuckerberg knows.  So, without further ado, let's get to the nergasm.

This one baffles me.  What are they implying?  That I am not a real man if I don't play?  That only by associating with the other butch ubermensch who play Dragon Raiders of Fantasmagoria can I prove that I have ironclad, grapefruit-sized testicles?  Or are they attempting desperately to reassure me that by playing this game I am not reducing myself to a sissified nerd who lives vicariously through the Internet because I lack social skills and navigating the digital domain is my only discernible talent?  Either way, how stupid do you think I am?  Don't they know geeks are smart?  This is the kind of marketing tactic that targets 8-year-olds and the mentally handicapped.

"You dare insult Ug's manhood?  Ug will crush you in gaming!"

Anyway, let's check out another sidebar ad from my Facebook homepage . . .

What's the binary translation of "schwing!"?

First off, I'm not even into joysticks [*insert obligatory phallic joke here*], and I would repeatedly mash her buttons, hard, so let's just move on from there.  If you look closely (torture, I know), you can see the spaghetti straps to her top, but at a glance, she appears to be naked, save for some high socks and a headset.  Wow.  Why is that so hot?  I don't know, it just is.  Seriously, let's move on.  Look at the text (you know, those funny symbols above and below her).  This is a gaming/dating service.  That's right, America, they have actually created a website/program/support group that combines the best of two worlds, the two things gamers thought they could never have at the same time: (1) a wicked-sweet gaming outlet and (2) a sex life.  Because, you know, those things are usually mutually exclusive.  Or at least that seems to be the perspective of the creators.  eHarmony meets World of Warcraft.  Hallelujah!  Like Neo being absorbed into the Matrix via a blinding flash of divine light, you have reached the Geekdom of Heaven.

But they know you're skeptical.  There's even an asterisk next to the phrase "Real Girls."  Ha!  She's not really a member, she's just a model, like all the other rejection-spewing pretty girls in the real world!  But wait . . . the footnote is assuring you that she is really a member!  It's not a disclaimer, it's a promise, and the Internet never lies.  They know that you know that no real female gamers (all 27 of them) are that attractive.

Another obvious case of Photoshop forgery.

But the chicks of Game Crush are!  Just check out that hot piece of ASCII.  She's just like your friends!  But with boobs!  That you can touch!  And admit to it later!  Rejoice, you blistered-thumbed, raw-palmed mingers!  I'm not sure who this is more offensive to, the male gamers who are implicitly being stereotyped as socially-awkward losers, or the female gamers who are implicitly being labeled as heinous ugos.  Good thing I don't care.

First RPG on Facebook!

Play the newest game on Facebook!

Seriously, do I need to comment?

The really funny part of all this, besides all the other parts, is that I do not know one person who plays any Facebook games.  Or at least all of my friends have the sensible shame not to admit it to me.  And, while I have overheard some pitiable Dungeonmasters (yes, I know that's a card game reference) describing with poetic fervor their Level 9 Chaotic-Neutral Super Orc Shaman online character, not once have I heard the phrase, "Dude, I totally powned this noob on Facebook in Samurai Dynasty today!"  I think that's because true gamers who take this shit seriously are maybe, oh, I don't know, playing real video games.  They aren't into half-assed knockoffs being churned out by MIT's custodial staff.  But what would a non-gaming geek know?

Reminiscence

As the seasons change, I look back on what might be considered my first blog post, which ironically existed before my blog . . .

I'm KP, and these are the things I hate right now. I hate that people can't drive, regardless of the weather conditions. I hate that Christmas music is playing everywhere I go. I hate that the custom of playing Christmas music ignores the fact that most people seem to hate Christmas music. I hate Sarah Palin/Glenn Beck/Bill O'Reilly/whoever-Fox-feels-needs-a-show. I hate that every other ad on the radio or my Facebook homepage is some huckster trying to sell me false promises. I hate that every other station I turn to on the radio is playing ads, not music. And if they are, it's fucking Christmas music. I hate drama. I hate people who think "buying American" means purchasing a mediocre car, all of the parts for which were fabricated overseas, while most "Japanese" automakers produce their superior models right here in the USA. I hate that our culture has become so materialistic that it treats Black Friday as an event to be not only embraced, but hotly anticipated. I hate people who argue that the Constitutional right to free speech means the right to erect religious displays on public property, at the expense of taxpayers, no less. I hate winter. I hate when people act like winter is something I should look forward to. That's not magic tingling in your toes and noses, it's frostbite. I hate that I still feel the need to bitch about the weather, even though I have lived in Michigan for most of my life. I hate that my car's doors and windows freeze solid. I hate that I always have to worry about money, tabulating the cost of my life day after day. I hate "Dancing With the Stars," "Jersey Shore," and most every other TV program the media tells me everyone is in love with, and covers accordingly. I hate that the media covers other television shows as if they are news. I hate TV. I hate Mac almost as much as I hate the cult of Mac. I hate "Elf." Yes, I said it. Screw you too. I hate that every entity under the sun has to have a Facebook page and a Twitter account. Why the hell would I want Tweets from Ace Hardware? For that matter, why would I want Tweets at all? Go Tweet yourself. I hate pretentious assholes who make lists, as if anyone should care what they think. I hate Christmas specials. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" is an allegory for fascism, and if you don't believe me, I'll e-mail you my analysis. I hate that people are too distracted and self-absorbed by all this shit and a thousand other things to actually take the time to pause and observe the world around them and what is going on it. It's not that hard. I'm KP, and these are the things I hate right now. What do you hate?

Ah, my more innocent, carefree days . . .

Dancing with the 'Tards, Part 2

Women, you are no exception. While I will grant that a lot of females can get away with a hell of a lot more than most men in a club, some of your behavior is equally ridiculous and more than worthy of my scorn. 

I have already referred to one of the more common subtypes: the Weekend Whorrior. This is the girl who, during the workaday hours of sunlight, is respectable and perniciously judgmental, like most women. She'll criticize any other random girl's fashion sense and morality at the drop of a Prada, and by "random" I mean any and every other being with a vagina, including her best friends. But when the sun sets, like a B-movie trope, she transforms into that which she supposedly loathes: a slut. Donning the shortest shorts or skirt she can legally wear and a top that would be best described as "a paper towel with strings, and not a very big one at that," she will jump on the dance-floor, proceeding to shake whatever her momma (and McDonald's) gave her in a way that makes Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan appear reticently saintlike. 

Right up there with Mother Theresa. 

Even the questionable, sweaty foreign guy will not be exempt from the Weekend Whorrior's indiscriminate grinding. She's out for bodily fluids. In the process, she'll likely flash her thong, kiss another girl, and probably pantomime assorted sex-acts with varying degrees of accuracy. Whether or not she can actually dance, the message is clear: I am an object. A horny, wasted object that wants attention. Treat me as such. But, hey, they're chicks, so it's all good. Much like the guy whose mouth is writing checks that his ass can't cash, her mouth is writing . . . admission vouchers that her cootch won't honor? Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, I know, but you get the point: her gyrations are no guarantee of gratification (alliteration is fun, whee!). Or, alternately, if she does assent to doing inappropriate things to you, just consider how many guys she does this with every weekend. Sure, you were both drunk, but that doesn't make her any less pregnant in the morning or your urethra burn any less, does it?

And let us not forget MTV Girl. Again, I have already referred to her in Part 1, but let's take a closer look. MTV Girl takes her cues from, not surprisingly, music videos (perhaps I should call her MTV9 Girl, since that's where you may actually find videos). The problem? She lacks a number of things that people like Beyonce, Katy Perry, Rihanna, and Shakira have going for them, such as (1) a professional choreographer, (2) a team of GQ-ish backup dancers, (3) natural talent, (4) a body sculpted by the gods, presumably to masturbate to, (5) flattering cinematography and lighting, (6) Michael Bay directing, and (7) being famous, and thus able to get away with shit that just doesn't fly in the real world. Yes, somehow when those girls bend over and shake, it's not only sexy, but in some mind-numbingly back-asswards way cool.

What you think you look like. 

The reality. Yeah, sweet. 

I can't explain it, yet I know it when I see it. More to the point, I know when I don't see it. That's where you come in, MTV Girl. I have seen otherwise implausibly hot women vaporize their sex appeal faster than Superman staring down a doughnut with his heat vision simply by attempting some move they picked up from Britney Spears (you know, before she got prego, blown-out, and went certifiably nuckin-futs). Of course, this is because, deep down in the depths of their ovaries, most clubbing women suffer from Aryan Bro syndrome.

While we're on the subject of Caucasians, I cannot overlook the phenomenon of Super-White Groupthink. This is a curious occurrence that I'm sure you have all witnessed, yet I believe myself to be the first to diagnose it as a genetic disorder. 

It's not lupus. 

Simply put, Super-White Groupthink is a special (read: extra retarded) kind of mob mentality that arises only in white people, triggered by very specific stimuli. The most obvious ones are what I like to call, appropriately, "White People Songs." These are songs composed and performed by actual Negroes for the benefit of the Man, presumably as some sort of cross-cultural outreach program or act of pity. "The Cupid Shuffle" and "The Cha-Cha Slide" are two excellent examples, in that they explicitly tell you how to dance to them, because you, as a rhythmically-disadvantaged cracker, would be utterly lost otherwise. Seriously, Google "song that tells you" and see what pops up. For Christ's sake, Google even preempts you and takes you to the most-searched-for answer. Super-White Groupthink dictates that, the second the first note of these songs plays, every white person in the house will be overcome by the inexorable urge to leap to their clumsy feet and flock to the floor. There, they can prove to the world once and for all that they can dance, so long as a black person is giving them step-by-step instructions.

Don't believe Super-White Groupthink is real? Just try playing Journey's “Don't Stop Believing” and see if this doesn't happen.

That's what I thought.