Childhood Sucks: Mouthy-Ass Games that Won’t Shut Their Pieholes

I hate it when my stupid friends talk to me.

Seriously, hearing my friends talk is like listening to pencil-sharpened dicks being dragged across a flattened row of celebate nun-ass in Sunday morning mass.  That means it’s annoying and not even remotely fun or arousing.  Unfortunately, after having beaten SpaceFunkyB.O.B. and Keith Courage multiple times with massive cocks rocks for interrupting the sanctity of my No-Talky-Talk Space, I realized that nothing in this world comes with complete fucking silence.  No, not even growing up was I able to escape the fact that even in video games, speech was a way of life, especially when it was badly digitized, vocoded, recorded, or generally just mutilated in any regard that made it almost nauseating to experience.

No.  You can.

Yes, Henrik.  You can’t.

When B.O.B. wasn’t chewing my ear about some console he violated with his wiener and Keith Courage wasn’t calling me up during my terrible experience with the first Xenosaga at 1 A.M. to cry about some idiot girlfriend who broke up with him (would you believe that crazy assbag had sheets stuffed into a wet hole in her wall?  Fucking sheets, like they were some snazzy completely unbarbaric decoration meant to plug up masonry), video games were ruining my life with all the terrible dialogue they tried to incorporate before games like Dragon Age and Fallout 3 made talking it cooler than a Teen Wolf weekend at Benji’s drive-in.

Let’s take a look at some games that screamed at me well before I was old enough to have anything other than  clear fluids shooting out of my wittle wee-wee.

Here are some Mouthy-Ass Games that Won’t Shut Their Pieholes.

Bomb Squad for the Intellivision was one of those games that made you wish you weren’t actually playing a game.  Fiddlefucking with the IN!TELL-I-VI-SHIN! controller was like trying to masturbate a washing machine for the fun of it.  Fortunately for some of the world’s gaming population, actually playing Bomb Squad was an excuse to meet an early demise.  Hanging yourself with your Intellivision’s power-cable-box Dumpster-thing would save you from the years upon years following, during which software companies decided that fitting human emotion into subpar chipsets was as possible as trying to fuck real friendship into a girl you hate without her permission.

Bomb Squad?  I don’t know how the hell you even played this game.  After it buzzed at you, I guess you were supposed to secretly disarm the bomb, but you were probably too busy having epileptic seizures to actually succeed.  This game was such a pile of crap.  I played it every day.

Enter B-17 Bomber.  Mattel Electronics just couldn’t stop getting their nuts wet over the whole idea that video games could talk.  After (or before) the fantastic financial victory that was RapeLay Bomb Squad, they decided that shoving a whole Southern man into copies of B-17 Bomber would make the voice that greeted its players that much more realistic.  But how do you get that mellifluous realism to come farting out of your television’s speakers?  First, you grind Ron White, Larry the Cable Guy, Jeff Foxworthy, the whole Confederate army, Bubba Ray Dudley, and Randy Quaid into a blender.  Before their chunks have time to settle, you just press the Fuck It, We’ll Do It Live! button.  Finally, you pour the boiling contents across thousands of B-17 Bomber cartridges on the assembly line.  There you go, that’s it, that’s how it’s done — that’s how you get a computer-game to shriek BEESEHVUNTAYN BAWMYR! at unsuspecting children.  No amount of therapy could drag you back from the precipice of insanity that resulted from popping this hunk of shit into your Intellivision every afternoon.

Spike for the Vectrex was a great game.  When I was a little kid and my brain was scarcely the size of a cigar-ash, I wanted real friends, so I’d try to hammer my skull against the monitor of this lifelike arcade-analogue console to either hope the vector lasers would shoot into my skull, or crush myself as close as possibly to the surprisingly likable characters of Spike and Molly as their star-headed romance played on and on and on at the behest of my chip-greasy penis-fingers.  The Vectrex did a surprisingly good job with its voice synthesis, or so I think, because I only attempted to overdose on hospital candy twice while playing Spike.  “EEK HELP SPIKE” “OH NO, MOLLY” became galvanized in my head and in my darkest nightmares.  So did the multi-octave nuclear buzz that burst out of the speakers of the Vectrex whenever you played it, which the above-linked video does a great job of showcasing.

To my knowledge, the same company that made Vectrex also made the El-Henro radiation-powered guitar amplifiers used by Brazilcore metal band Krisiun whenever they tour the world.

What am I even talking about.

Fuck this Parrot.  When my Dad installed the SoundBlaster for my old 386 by slingshotting it out of his asscrack, I couldn’t get enough of this stupid program.  I’d plug in my microphone and listen to this feathery fuckwit repeat my words day in and day out.  Like whores and heroin, it never got old.  I was fascinated that my computer could listen to what I was saying and then somehow mutate it in the trademark ParrotTech vaccuum tubes installed on the card by any number of young Chinese sweatshop workers.  There’s nothing more magical than talking to yourself through a digital parrot for hours on end.  Hours and fucking hours.

Dr. Sbaitso was the stupidest idea that’s ever been pulled off so brilliantly.  Before it, only Tetris managed to digitally embody all the wonders of Russian culture on a single piece of equipment.  I don’t know how many potatoes I ate, how many bottles of vodka I drank, or how many unbelievably inappropriate stereotypes I adopted to describe this, but Dr. Sbaitso made me feel like I had a real Russian friend in my life.  You can’t get closer to the Kremlin unless you spritz-bottled a million helpings of krokodil into your butt-ass.  Who cares?  Typing is boring.  I usually just told Dr. Sbaitso to “fuck my willy” and went back to playing Gorilla.exe, because I couldn’t speak his mumbo-jumbo talky-language.

Trying to actually describe how realistic the voices in Joe Montana’s 1993 Superfuck Spindick Muscleturd Vagina-Talk Extravaganza ’93 1994 Edition is an impossible feat.  Truth be told, I don’t think I ever played this game.  Sports games were dumb as hell.  I think I probably just discovered this game tonight while practicing for my our website.  Hearing the announcers shout real football language like “A PHEUTY!” and “EXIT ADDLED PEN TUNNY TWO!” never gets old.  Not at all.  You can’t ever hear a television proclaim “AYE KEN PALEAVE-EP” just before you “SPOOTS ADUP WYE TOWNASAI” enough times.  I admit, as a white man, I can never even begin to understand the pain and heartache of slavery.  But playing this game, I imagine, is pretty much the closest thing to the physical pain of cracking whips and the emotional agony of having my family torn away from me in the interest of domestic human trafficking.

If for whatever reason you didn’t just close out of your Internet browser and shun this website for life, you are a terrible person.  But if that comment seriously wasn’t enough to make you do it…

…then just fucking try to listen to all sixteen minutes of this audio torture without cramming your face into an angle-grinder.

You will not succeed.

(Did he just say “I love drugs“?)

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