The Photoshopbattles subreddit is so active that it's sometimes hard to find the really good threads when you only have a couple of minutes to spare. I've found the "Best Of" threads that get compiled at the end of each year to be a great source of quick laughs, but they're not always easy to find. For that reason, I'm linking them all here.
Many years ago, my wife and I used to enjoy the Photoshop threads on FARK. While the spirit of Photoshopbattles is the same, the quality of work in these best-of threads puts the majority of the old FARK stuff to shame.
The Best Way to View the Threads
Clicking through a Photoshop thread can be pretty tedious on vanilla Reddit, but there is a better way. Among other things, the Reddit Enhancement Suite for Chrome, Firefox, Opera, and Safari includes a feature to display all embedded images in the current page, so all you have to do is scroll.
Again, for Firefox, click Add to Firefox. (The procedure might be slightly different for other browsers.)
After the add-on is installed, the next time you visit Reddit you’ll see a “RES Tips and Tricks” pop-up indicating that you now have the add-on. You can uncheck the “Show these tips once every 24 hours” thing to hide the tips.
Now, whenever you go to a thread that contains a bunch of images, you can click the “view images” link at the top of the page.
Note This may also display not-safe-for-work images as well, so beware. Also, some subreddits have themes which don’t include a view images link. :(
There was an informal contest on a message board I visit where we had to write a song no more than two minutes long that was inspired by a particular photo. This photo, in fact:
Even if his name doesn't ring a bell, chances are you've seen or heard stand-up comedian Marc Maron at some point- whether it was during one of his many appearances on Letterman or Conan, one of the episodes of Short Attention Span Theater he hosted on Comedy Central, or when he was a radio personality for Air America. Since 2009 he's produced a podcast, WTF with Marc Maron, where he interviews notable comics, comedic writers and actors in his garage studio, inviting them to speak candidly about their successes and struggles. These are not softball press-junket interviews, nor are they hard-boiled confrontational ambushes. Marc's openness about his own insecurities and flaws seems to evoke genuine introspection from his guests, resulting in interviews that appear to surprise Marc and his subjects as much as anyone listening.
The format of each show is consistent. Marc begins with a "riff" which may or may not be intentionally funny, and sometimes ties in with the subject or theme of that show's interview. The interview follows, and after that Marc usually caps the show with some post-interview observations. It's almost always worth listening all the way through. While Maron has scored some major celebrities in the show's short life (including Louis C.K., Robin Williams, and Ben Stiller), his best shows aren't always the ones with the best-known guests. The interviews that really leave an impression are the ones where people lay themselves bare, admitting their mistakes and imperfections, or where they relate amazing or unusual stories from their lives.
There are occasional "live" episodes where Marc interviews several comedians in front of an audience. These interviews are necessarily shorter and shallower, but are frequently amusing, at least.
All of the show's episodes are available online in some manner, although the options for listening to them vary depending on how old the show is and who the guest was. Older shows with particularly famous guests usually end up as iTunes album downloads called "WTF Premium" shows, which are available for a price. Shows too old to be cached in iTunes' free podcast directory are available for streaming through the WTF mobile app, or by subscribing on the official site. I link to the most convienient/affordable means of obtaining each of the below episodes. You can also refer to the show's episode guide for a complete breakdown.
Note: Aside from the WTF Premium episodes available from the iTunes Store, I've only heard episodes back as far as 124 (Paul Scheer). There are certainly some gems in the first non-premium 123 episodes that I have not yet uncovered.
The first entry in this list is kind of a cheat since it's technically two episodes, but you get the point. Most people who follow Comedy even casually remember the controversy when Joe Rogan and others publicly accused "Carlos MenSTEALia" of lifting material from other comedians. In episode 75 Carlos addresses the problem directly and with a humility that convinced me, while listening, that people were overreacting to the scandal. But Marc closes that show with his own doubts and some telling details that he hadn't revealed during the interview, which shed doubt on Mencia's story. Things become much more interesting in the following show where Maron interviews two comics with specific and alarming details about Mencia's antics, and then gives Mencia a chance to respond to the new criticisms. I almost guarantee you'll come away from this second part with a totally different perspective than after the first one.
Listeners first got a taste of Mike DeStefano in a short and hilarious live interview Marc had tacked onto the end of episode 129 (Janeane Garofalo). In this long-form studio interview, though, we get a much clearer understanding of why so many people in the business love Mike DeStefano. His honesty, strength, and love for life are just as appealing as his sense of humor. Very few people have lived through the horrors and struggle this guy has, and almost none of them managed to cling to their humanity as he did.
This interview was recorded and published in late 2010. After listening to it, fast-forward to episode 156 (Kathleen Madigan) for a heartbreaking epilogue in Marc's opening riff.
You don't have to search very hard for evidence that lowbrow prop-comic Gallagher is an insecure and bitter old man. So it's not surprising that Gallagher comes off as an evasive ass in his WTF interview. You get a very clear sense that Gallagher didn't know what he was getting into when he agreed to appear on the show, and probably didn't even know what a podcast was. This is not to say that Marc was overly confrontational; it's just that Gallagher seemed to expect it to be your average Morning Zoo kind of fluff whereas Marc was ready to discuss some specific criticisms about Gallagher's act. This is, I believe, the shortest WTF interview because Gallagher walked out halfway through. "Aw, c'mon Gallagher" has become an unofficial WTF meme.
One of the most likeable characters from The Kids in the Hall and News Radio, Dave Foley had an enviable life and career for several good years. But after the agents stopped calling and problems at home started escalating, the likeable Canadian's life took a number of dark turns. Foley details his woes in good humor if not good spirit, charting the course of his life from promise to desperation.
The prolific character actor Stephen Tobolowsky has featured in over a couple hundred movies and shows since the Seventies. His career has taken him to interesting places, and in this interview he shares a number of amazing and inspiring stories. After hearing this show it should make sense that Tobolowsky has his own podcast.
While he's never even approached household name status, Carl LaBove is well-known in stand-up circles, and was one of Sam Kinison's closest friends throughout that comic's entire tumultuous career. Marc Maron actually has some history with both Sam and Carl, some dark and traumatic times which still haunt him. He confronts Carl about their shared past and delves deep into Carl's own troubled friendship with Sam. Listen very closely to this one; it gets heavy.
I've got to admit, ever since I was a kid I never liked Jonathan Winters. The first I ever saw of him was when he played that adult baby on Mork and Mindy. Well the fact was that I was just too young to get Winters; he won me over in this interview. Marc traveled to the 85-year-old Winters' home to record the interview, and it's just astounding how easily the old guy drifts into character and riffs between fielding serious questions. It's just as delightful to hear Marc cracking up every few minutes whenever Winters goes into a bit. If I remember right Marc also tells a great little story in the closing comments about a tour of the house Winters took him on which shows what a pure and youthful heart that man still has.
Sally Wade was George Carlin's long-time partner. They never married, but they shared a magical, storybook-romantic relationship for many years. This interview illuminates a side of Carlin that no one else ever saw. It's a heartwarming (and breaking) tribute to the man she loved.
This episode was recorded as two separate interviews a few weeks apart. A longtime writer and editor for The Onion and a longtime friend of Marc Maron's, Todd Hanson tells the story of The Onion's early days and its ultimate effects on the world of Comedy. The first interview is easy-going and light-hearted, even though both Marc and Todd allude to something more ominous without going into detail. Things are made clear in the second interview, where Hanson lifts the curtain on some life-altering events and analyzes their impact on everyone he knows. You might never hear another person who's not an immediate family member speak so honestly about something so painfully private.
I envy the opportunities Marc Maron has to get interesting people to talk openly about interesting things. Rob Riggle is a Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Marine Corps Reserve, and at a broad-chested 6'3" is about the least likely guy you'd expect to find working with some of the best minds in comedy. He's appeared on Upright Citizens Brigade, Chappele's Show, Saturday Night Live, Human Giant and the NBC version of The Office. He talks about his career in the military, including working Search and Rescue detail at Ground Zero after the September 11 attacks. A hard-to-pigeon-hole guy with a fascinating career.
In the late Sixties, my parents moved to Guam, the southernmost of the Mariana Islands, to teach local children in English-speaking schools. They worked under a program that brought educators from the mainland to this tropical United States territory, and remained there for several years- until just a few days after I was born. This summer, my parents kept a long-standing promise to take me back to my birthplace, showing me the island where their young marriage was forged.
The island is remarkably remote, closer to the Philippines and Papua New Guinea than to any part of the United States. Guam’s indigenous people, the Chamorros, thrived on the island for nearly 4,000 years before Magellan discovered the place in the 1500s, at which point their fortunes would change. The Spanish conquered and converted the local population for hundreds of years until losing the island to the United States after the Spanish-American War. The Japanese captured the island mere hours after the raid of Pearl Harbor, committing unspeakable atrocities against the Chamorros. Three years later, the United States bombed the shit out of the island, ultimately winning it back from its Axis foes and making Guam a remote stronghold for both the Air Force and Navy; a military presence deep in the Pacific.
While Guam’s people were exploited and exterminated by other nations, its wildlife was ravaged by invasive species, both plant and animal. The only birds you’re likely to see on the island now are sparrows, stowaways from visiting ships long forgotten. The indigenous birds were almost completely wiped out by the brown tree snake, another invader from foreign lands- so new to the island that the local species had no instinctive fear of the serpent. Almost gone as well is the once prolific fanihi, or Mariana fruit bat- formerly a local delicacy, but now a protected species.
Wondering why Man and Nature should have all the fun, the Elements jump in every now and then, thrashing the island with typhoons that destroy homes and cripple businesses, scaring away foreign investors, leaving the modern landscape an almost post-apocalyptic mess of abandoned hotels, storefronts, and unfinished construction sites.
So basically, God has a grudge against Guam. And yet the island survives. The Chamorro people are gradually rediscovering their historical identity after centuries of cultural and genetic dilution. The United States government is slowly opening up more land for civilian use. And the tourism industry still manages to survive, almost exclusively catering to young Japanese and Korean couples wishing to wed on an erstwhile tropical paradise.
Guam is the home I never knew. Join me now, as I endeavor to explore this humid little pile of coral in the sea.
Day 1
We stayed at the posh, modern Westin Resort on Tumon Bay. Like all other hotels in the area, the Westin has a wedding chapel, and it hosted up to six Japanese weddings a day while we were there. I could see three other wedding chapels from my balcony, although two belonged to a resort which has been abandoned for some time and is now only populated by squatters.
In response to an article in the Pacific Daily News about our arrival (long story), Guam’s Governor, Eddie Calvo (R) invited us to his offices for a quick visit. He treated us to lunch at a “Chamorro fusion” restaurant, and also to a visit (a couple of days later) to the Fish Eye Marine Park nearby, where we saw some aquatic wildlife and enjoyed a dinner show.
After lunch with one of the governor’s cabinet members, we visited the Guam National Wildlife Refuge at Ritidian Point, were we saw a cave that once housed Chamorros thousands of years ago. It was eerie to be in the middle of the jungle and not hear anything but wind, the ocean, and the occasional distant car.
Before retiring for the night, we visited the Guam K-mart for supplies. It was huge, and a surprisingly popular tourist attraction.
Day 2
On the next day we met up with the author of the Daily News article for a tour of Pagat Cave and the site of an ancient Chamorro village in the jungle. Mom almost didn’t make it back. Later that night we dined a Kinney’s in Agana, where the food was all right, but the view was amazing. I really cannot emphasize how hot it felt at times during the trip- the short daily rains were pleasant, but as soon as the rain stopped falling, the sun would steam it all away, leaving the air thick with humidity. Not optimal mountain climbing conditions.
Day 3
We met Filamore Palomo Alcon, a fascinating artist, at his establishment, the Guam Gallery of Art.
In the evening we visited the Fish Eye Marine Park observatory, an underwater structure positioned in a so-called “bomb hole” in the ocean, where you can view the local fish in their natural environment. (Note: The bomb hole wasn’t created by a bomb, although many locals seem to believe that. It’s really an underwater sinkhole.)
After admiring the fish, we went across to the restaurant to eat some of them and enjoy a “Polynesian Dinner Show.” Guam is actually part of Micronesia and there’s no evidence that the ancient Chamorros even knew about fire- much less juggled flaming torches- until the Spaniards arrived. But it was still a good show.
Day 4
We took a drive around the island, spending most of the time on the southern and eastern coasts, where the mountainous landscape has kept these areas of the island mostly untouched and unpopulated and beautiful. Mom got to ride a carabao and we ate at a place called Jeff's Pirates Cove, which is definitely the most happening location on that entire side of the island.
Day 5
We explored the Latte Stone Park in downtown Hagatna, Guam. The Chamorros used these stones to support their houses long ago. The park is also the site of some caves that Japanese forces commanded Chamorro and Korean slaves to build during World War II. The caves are vast and completely open to the public, surprisingly enough, but we didn’t have flashlights, so only ventured as far in as sunlight would allow.
Mom and Dad got their Masters degrees in Education at the University of Guam before having me. While exploring the campus we encountered a large pack of “boonie dogs.” In Guam, the word “boonie” refers to anything derelict or abandoned. As well as dogs you can find boonie cats and severely rusted boonie cars scattered all over the island. The word derives from the Tagalog (the language of the Philippines) word, “bundok,” meaning mountain, and implying a place that is far from civilization. You’ve probably already realized it’s where we get the word “boondocks.”
We then visited Two Lovers Point, perhaps the most famous legendary landmark on the island. It is the site where the mythical lovers jumped off a steep cliff into the waiting sea, to escape their parents. It is a sort of Romeo and Juliet story that involves the unwelcome union of a Spanish and Chamorro family, and to me represents the sad history between those cultures on the island.
While on the island we also found the first school where Mom and Dad taught, as well as the houses where they lived- including my first home. All the buildings are still standing, although the two apartment buildings would likely be condemned today by Mainland standards. The hospital building is apparently new, but operates at the same site, its once beautiful view now permanently marred by four huge unfinished apartment buildings that were abandoned about halfway through construction.
Outtakes
Here's some stuff I couldn't manage to work in elsewhere. The city of Tumon, where we stayed, is an odd mix of high-end, expensive merchants and seedy Asian massage parlors. The tourism economy is so focused on international visitors that some stores don't even have any English on their signs or windows; only Japanese. There are places with names I wish had been in Japanese (a strip club named The G-spot and a billiards hall called Ball Scratchers), and a number of hilarious looking "gun clubs" that seemed to cater to foreign tourists' warped views of American history.
In the 1980s Roger Moore, the most forgettable of Bonds, optioned the film rights to the source material of the forgettable 60s TV show, The Saint, in which he starred during the pre-prat stage of his largely forgettable career. Would the resulting 1997 film version be equally forgettable? Well, there’s a very concise answer to that, but I’m not letting you off that easily.
After years in development hell, the production team managed to land Robert Evans, the once-great New Hollywood producer and studio chief who is today best known for the audiobook version of his autobiography, where he obnoxiously imitates Jack Nicholson and Charlie Bluhdorn, recites skin-crawlingly-bad poetry about one night stands, and answers his own questions, like “My life today? More volatile than ever. Tough? You bet your ass it is.” The Saint was in the pipeline when Evans was finishing his book, and in the final chapter he mentions the project as one of the upcoming films he hoped would herald his comeback. Something must have changed soon after, though, because he allegedly walked away from the film mid-production, although his name remains on the credits for contractual reasons. This is quite unfortunate for me, because I’d much rather write about Robert Evans than this film that he partially produced.
Anyway, The Saint goes like this: As a youth, Val Kilmer’s character is partly responsible for the death of a female classmate in an oppressive Catholic co-ed boarding school. He adopts a pseudonym, Simon Templar, taken from a comic book about the Knights Templar, and develops a fetishistic attachment to Catholic saints. In later life he is a professional thief who relies more on the inadequate security infrastructure and general incompetence of his targets than any obvious skill or athletic prowess of his own. After stealing a Pentium processor from the vault of a Russian crime lord (who strangely resembles Yanni) while rocking an unintentionally gay moustache, Simon actually takes a job from the Yanni chap, for reasons I'm not sure are ever explained.
Unintentionally gay.
Kilmer’s assignment: To steal the unfinished formulas for Cold Fusion developed at Oxford by Elisabeth Shue, whose irresistible school-marm charm makes her a welcome presence on the screen while at the same time ensuring that she is the last person you’d ever peg as the world’s leading physicist. (And everything was so plausible up to this point!) Kilmer seduces Shue while disguised as what appears to be The Beast from the Walt Disney production and steals the most important scientific discovery of the 20th Century from her undergarments. (And no, I’m not talking about the female orgasm, as that’s still obviously a myth.) Yanni wants the Cold Fusion formulas to convince the Russian people- who are currently freezing due to a purported lack of natural resources for heat production- that only the Russian Mafia is capable of giving them what they need. What happens after that you can probably write yourself- and even if you’re completely wrong, it wouldn’t be any less exciting than what actually transpires onscreen.
Seriously, the (very few) action sequences in this film are both short and uninspired. Roger Moore, of all people, should have known that people come to these films to be wowed by suspenseful chases and whimsical gadgets. Wait- on second thought, perhaps Moore wasn’t the right guy to be shepherding this project after all. Have we forgotten Moonraker?
Anyway, Jason Bourne this ain’t. Speaking of Jason Bourne- have you seen those movies? They’re actually quite good. Especially the last two, directed by Paul Greengrass. I hear Greengrass is working on a film about the last days of Martin Luther King, to be done in the real-time style of his earlier films, Bloody Sunday and United 93. Oh, I’m supposed to be talking about The Saint still, aren’t I? Sigh.
Val Kilmer dons silly costumes and speaks in silly accents throughout the film. Unfortunately it is less Fletch and more Master of Disguise in execution. As miscalculated as Kilmer’s accents are, however, they still can’t touch Leonardo DiCaprio’s bizarre turn in Blood Diamond for sheer WTF:
One remarkable thing about the picture is that the soundtrack is a sort of time capsule for some of the best of mid-90s Electronica. Sadly, the songs appear to be a mere contractual obligation to sell some soundtrack CDs; none of them feature in the film for more than a few seconds, and they’re all mixed deep into the sonic background.
So, The Saint. Was it great? Nah. Was it exceedingly mediocre and inoffensively bland? You bet your ass it was.
“Friggen lightweight,” I sneer silently as the skinny blonde with the loud pants half-assedly plods on the elliptical machine, a hot-pink smartphone pressed to her cheek. Eight minutes later she’s gone, and my geek’s mind involuntarily calculates exactly how few calories she just burned and how infinitesimally little her abbreviated romp on the machine just affected her fitness. My eyes roll, but I’m not surprised. I’m never on the cardio floor for fewer than sixty-five minutes, and everyone who’s there when I first arrive has left by the time I step off the treadmill. Hell, anyone who gets there within half an hour of my starting will have vanished before I’m done. I arrive first and leave last.
Forty minutes later I’ve made a quick trip to the locker room to stow the iPod, refill the water bottle, and retrieve my log book and stopwatch. I make my way over to the dumbbell corner and am startled to find The Blonde standing there, facing the window. My surprise quickly boils to annoyance when I spy a small pile of equipment at her feet, including the dumbbells- my dumbbells- I always use during my routine: The 10-pound polygonals; the ones that don’t roll away when you’re supporting yourself on them. I shoot her with some hollow-point eye bullets before grumbling and begrudgingly yanking the next-heaviest weights from the rack.
While I’m scribbling down my workout plan in the log book, Blondie pulls a 2-foot-high stool from the wall and begins hopping sideways onto the thing, back and forth- with perfect form- over and over again. It doesn’t sound like much, perhaps, but the average person would be lucky to do five of these things (if any) without beginning to flail like an idiot. I harrumph and begin with a set of goblet squats.
A while later I’m doing some mountain climbers and wondering, as my face burns and the blood pressure in my head throbs to a migrane-level crescendo, if this is what it feels like to be trapped in a microwave oven before your skull explodes. I hear a delicate feminine grunt to my left and glance over to see The Blonde doing pushups with her feet suspended from an overhead bar. She’s pushing her full body weight, her face expressionless and calm. It occurs to me that her few minutes on the elliptical had been a warm-up, whereas half the people who come here would consider that the main event. Hell, she probably sleeps on a treadmill, I’m thinking.
A few minutes on and I’m working through my second set, groaning through some increasingly laborious dumbbell rows when behind me I hear a racket not dissimilar to what Ebeneezer Scrooge must have heard when Jacob Marley first shuffled into that dark bedroom. I peek around to spy That Damned Blonde dragging a hundred and fifty pounds behind her on a chain. “Who ARE you?” I ask telepathically.
I’m soon struggling through my second round of T-pushups and my muscles are inching toward failure. “Please let me just finish out this minute,” I beg my shoulders, and they grant me just enough juice to reach the 59-second mark, at which point I crumple to the floor and fumble for the stopwatch. My water bottle empty, my shirt towel-wet with sweat, I replace my weights and collect my things. And for the first time since I’ve been doing this I am the last to enter and the first to leave.
Forgive me, Aryan she-hulk of the Northwest- for I knew not your prowess.
If you are not entrenched in Internet culture and all the memes and jargon it entails, it is quite possible that nothing after this sentence will make any sense to you at all- and really, you’re probably better off. But if you are the kind of person who understands why Philips CD-i Zelda is the cancer that is killing YouTube and who shudders whenever anyone posts that X Y is X, you may appreciate this tale about how some guys with a grudge, some talent, and a lot of time on their hands colluded to execute one of the most (literally) epic trolls in recent history.
Our story begins on Newgrounds, an online community where aspiring animators, programmers, and voice actors collaborate to create online cartoons and games. One of the most well-known personalities to frequent Newgrounds is Rina-chan, a GOTIS victim, USI-sufferer, and actress who has voiced “literally thousands of characters in online animated shorts, series and games.” She has done a small amount of professional voice work and formed her own association of Internet voice actors, the Voice Acting Club (VAC).
In early 2008, Rina-chan (a.k.a. RunkaChunk) collaborated with an animator called Kirbopher to create a terrible Flash animation called Brawl Taunts. The cartoon puts characters from Nintendo’s Super Smash Bros. Brawl (a sort of Nintendo All-Stars melee fighting game) into wacky situations and, for some reason, takes potshots at Sega- at least 8 years since that company ceased to be a presence on the console gaming scene. The jokes were uniformly unfunny, the animation uninspired, and like all awful things, it quickly developed a large borg-like following.
The first Brawl Taunts went over so well that Rina-chan and Kirbopher shat out two subsequent installments (More Brawl Taunts and One More Brawl Taunts), using a very familiar formula: Consecutive bad jokes with no relation to each other + puns + pop culture references + Internet memes = shitty Flash. Rina-chan’s already inflated ego loomed large over the Newgrounds landscape.
The undeserved praise that the masses heaped on Brawl Taunts raised the ire of Newgrounds user ChainsawDentist (he has since changed his username to Spazkid), so he and a couple of friends responded with Brawl 4, a spoofed fourth entry into the Brawl Taunts canon. It was annoying and pretty bad, but it also used unflattering real-life photographs of both Rina-chan and Kirbopher and directly mocked some of the bits from the original series. It should be noted that by most accounts Rina-chan is not fat in real life, and it’s likely the Brawl 4 guys were aware of this. They probably just made her look huge in the video for laughs... but with this artistic decision they were about to tap into a deep well of lulz.) Even though Brawl 4 wasn’t exactly good, it struck a chord with a quiet minority of Newgrounds users and gained enough user ratings to appear on the Newgrounds front page... which is how Rina-chan first learned of its existence.
ChainsawDentist took note and disappeared into the shadows, while Rina-chan teamed up with an animator by the name of Scoot on a completely new concept: Do a movie exactly like Brawl Taunts, but with characters from Capcom’s Street Fighter games instead!!!
Street Fighter Club soon debuted to great reviews from the unenlightened Newgrounds masses. Obviously Rina-chan hadn’t taken ChainsawDentist’s message to heart. She probably had no way of knowing that she had just awakened the sleeping dragon of lulz.
Over the next seven months, ChainsawDentist and a small team of comrades toiled in dorms and basements assembling a sprawling epic of a response to Street Fighter Club. Whereas all of the aforementioned movies, including Brawl 4, were collections of mini sketches with no narrative connective tissue, the new film was an action-and-dick-packed thriller that followed a pair of Newgrounds moderators who were willing to risk it all to prevent Rina-chan and her cabal of Voice Acting Club associates from uploading another terrible movie to the site. The character design of the moderators was inspired by the militaristic iconography of the newgrounds website logos, while Rina-chan and the Brawl Taunts/Street Fighter Club staff were cast as disgusting supervillains, each with their own traits or powers.
The Newgrounds boys. They are not prepared.
On July 7, 2010, ChainsawDentist’s magnum opus, Street Fighter Chode, debuted on Newgrounds with an adult rating for language, violence, and lots and lots of cocks. Despite the adult content, Street Fighter Chode was an instant hit, quickly appearing on the front page and garnering a 9.5/10 rating with hundreds of votes. So, sit back, relax, and put your goddam headphones on before playing this video, because while it is a thing of perfect beauty, it is definitely not safe for work.
If you've ever wondered what profoundly ignorant people talk about when they're being "deep," just have a look at Insane Clown Posse's staggeringly earnest music video, Miracles. In it, Juggalo kings Violent J and Shaggy marvel at the wonders of the universe from a childlike and embarrassingly under-educated perspective. (And in case you're unsure what a Juggalo is, it's someone who wears clown make-up and listens to Insane Clown Posse, making Juggalism simultaneously one of the most specific and sad social movements currently known.)
But enough from me. Let's hear what ICP has to say. (NOTE: The language is not work-safe.)
There are so many great lines, it's hard to choose a favorite.
I've seen shit that'll shock your eyelids
I fed a fish to a pelican at Frisco Bay. It tried to eat my cell phone, he ran away.
Music is all magic. You can't even hold it.
Fucking magnets, how do they work?
Magic everywhere in this bitch.
Shit's crazy
Shit is indeed crazy, Violent J. It is crazy indeed. Aside from the remarkable fact that the crew was able film this video of grown men rapping in full-on clownface without being incapacitated by fits of astonished laughter, the video does feature some odd artistic choices. Take, for example, this scene, which was apparently filmed in MommyVision:
(Seriously, isn't this the last possible place you'd want or expect to see a clown?)
Saturday Night Live did a parody of the video, and although there are a few good lines, it's nowhere near as funny as the real thing. The real shame of it all, though, is that there really are some wondrous things about life, the universe, and existence that Science is still struggling to explain. The more we learn the more humbling it becomes to live our tiny lives on our tiny planet in our unremarkable part of the cosmos. There reallyis some merit to artistically expressing our awe and fascination with the mysteries of all there is to know, but perhaps a music video isn't the right format. Or at least not one by these guys.
Why does the average MySpace profile look like an electronic facsimile of baby diarrhea? Is it because the large amount of control MySpace users have in terms of layout and design is perverted in the hands of users unversed in the fields of visual design and typography? Is it the sub-literate non sequiturs that constitute most of the "content" of the typical MySpace page? Or is it the bling?
A cottage industry has blossomed around MySpace where websites offer tools and services to help users make their profiles even more unreadable and appalling. One such website is Blingee, where you can upload photographs and pimp them out with decorations, text, and simple animations. You can then post your blinged-out images wherever you like. (Please don't.) Below is a typical example:
While considering the MySpace Question (that question being, "Is MySpace horrible, or just the things people do with it?"), I wondered if the situation was similar with Blingee: Was it possible to use Blingee technology for anything other than evil? What if we could use it to make something boring more interesting- history, for example? Wouldn't that justify Blingee's existence if it stimulated interest in the minds of our young? Let's have a look.
Winston Churchill and Bernard Baruch
English heroism and resolve meet American capitalism and diplomacy in this famous photograph. The average teenager would have fallen asleep two words into that last sentence, since those concepts (and, frankly, any word with more than two syllables) are well outside the modern adolescent's ability to comprehend. With Blingee we can portray historical figures in a context that today's kids understand.
The Hindenburg Disaster
In the post-Bruckheimer era, black & white photography simply doesn't convey the horror of that historic night in New Jersey. With Blingee we can deliver an experience every bit as visceral and evocative as a Michael Bay movie.
The Kiss in Times Square
It was a kiss that captured the nation's collective elation, relief, and joy on V-J Day in a single, iconic image. But in today's tough economic times, where schools are understaffed and overcrowded, teachers are expected to teach kids more with fewer school days and less pay. With Blingee we can make a single historical document a visual aid for other topics as well. Health, Sex Education, Self Defense, and Biology for starters.
I always tend to find any given business trip to be a Barton Fink-esque experience. Whenever I'm away from home, weirdness just seems to envelop me. Here are some notes from my most recent business trip to San Francisco, where I demonstrated some new features I've added to our Intel® My WiFi Technology product.
When the clerk at the car rental place asks if I need directions to the hotel, I proudly respond that I don't, because I've brought my very own GPS. She acts impressed, so prepared and worldly am I. In the car I tell the GPS to guide me to the hotel, whose address I had uploaded into the unit the previous night. (So. Goddam. Prepared.) I confidently follow the calming, feminine electronic voice into the bowels of San Francisco. After about 20 minutes, just as the GPS announces, "You have reached your destination!" a pod of meth addicts shuffles zombie-like across the street in front of my car. I look around and notice that nearly every car parked along either side of the road is occupied by a solitary, menacing driver in a hoodie or a fitted cap, staring silently into nothingness. I also determine that my hotel, the 38-story San Francisco Westin, is nowhere in sight. Perhaps I could have used those directions after all.
I locate the hotel several miles away (apparently it's the other50 Third Street in town). The only on-site parking the hotel offers is $50-a-day valet, so I find an underground parking garage nearby and walk my luggage around the block to the hotel lobby. On the way I am approached by at least three panhandlers who make direct eye contact and demand, simply, "Yo, gimme some money." I am aghast at their poor marketing skills. Not one of them attempts to weave a sympathy-building tale, and there's not a whimsical or heartbreaking hand-scrawled cardboard sign in sight. Well, except for the guy with the big sign that says, "MY WIFE HAS BEEN KIDNAPPED!!!" but I'm not sure what's going on there.
I check into the hotel and find my room to be unbearably hot. The thermostat indicates the current room temperature to be 72 degrees, but the fact that I'm drenched in sweat wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers would contraindicate that assertion. I angrily stab the down-arrow button until it reaches a target temperature of 62 degrees. Doing so makes no difference at all, and I consider my theory that hotel thermostats are really just placebos to be confirmed.
After unpacking I retire to the bathroom for a scalding hot shower. The tub fills with water even though the plug is up. The next day, when I desire a bath, I discover that the Westin has furnished my bathroom with a tub that in fact defies physics. It leaks when it's supposed to fill and fills when it's supposed to drain. I find that removing the plug from the drain completely allows me to finish my bath at my own pace.
Gary and Roald have lunch at a restaurant across the street from the conference center one day. While they are dining, a panhandler comes in off the street and interrupts people at every table in the restaurant, asking for money. Roald, who lives in the city, explains that business owners are virtually helpless to prevent this sort of thing. I'm sure that's really great for business.
The bathrooms at the conference center are disgusting. Every toilet seat is drenched with urine, and not a single toilet I encounter has been flushed before my arrival. Every person attending this conference is either an engineer or a physicist who has mastered the electron but apparently cannot operate either a penis or a commode.
As I'm walking back toward the hotel after a day at the conference center, a nicely-dressed man bolts past me at a frenzied pace. At first I think it's because he's trying to catch the bus, but he just runs past the bus and then disappears around a corner. I stop at a 7-Eleven to purchase my dinner of snack chips and sports drink. Just as the cashier hands me the receipt, the nicely-dressed man I'd seen before materializes to my left, screaming, "WATER! WATER!" The vietnamese cashier recoils in terror, squealing, "WHAT YOU WANT? WHAT YOU WANT?" until Nicely-Dressed Man dashes back out of the store and vanishes into the night.
The first couple nights at the hotel, I wonder why so many military jets keep wooshing over the place. The room shakes a little whenever they do it, and it seems to happen every few minutes. It makes me worry that there's some kind of national security issue going on that the public doesn't know about yet. On the third day I discover that the only thing between my room and the elevators is a linen closet, and I realize that it wasn't military jets at all I'd been hearing all this time. Somehow this revelation makes the constant rumbling and wooshing more annoying by a factor of about 10.
One morning, while setting the room service tray out in the hallway, the door to my room accidentally locks behind me. I am embarrassed when I take the 32-story trip down to the lobby to request another key. I am more embarrassed when I take the 32-story ride back up only to discover that my wallet- and thus my key- has been in my pocket the entire time.
One night on my way back to the hotel from the conference, a hooded man bearing more than a passing resemblence to George Clinton glares at me and shouts, "LAPTOP!!!" I am not impressed with his deductive powers- it's pretty much a given that a guy shuffling around San Francisco with an Intel shirt and a backpack is concealing a laptop somewhere on his person. My hooded friend actually has no idea how right he is, however, for at that moment, my backpack is stuffed with not one but three laptops and their respective power supplies and accessories. In fact I am so top-heavy at the moment that if he had just tapped my chest with his pinky I'd have toppled onto my back, unable to right myself, much like a flipped turtle.
The conference is at once exciting and demoralizing. Almost without exception evey person I speak to about our WiFi technology is impressed and excited by what we've done, and wants to know when it will be available to consumers. The thing is, the technology actually debuted on the market nine months ago and is installed on tens of millions of computers. Nobody knows it's there, and nobody understands what it does until I demonstrate it to them. I discuss my observations with our Marketing team, and their experiences corroborate my own. The Marketing guys also believe they know why no one knows this feature exists: "Shitty marketing."
This conference has taught me three things: 1. Our product is cooler than I thought it was, even if no one knows it exists. 2. I'm pretty good with strangers in this kind of setting; 1-on-1, conversation with a purpose. 3. My body was simply not designed to stand for hours at a time. Even after the first day my feet and calves ache from overuse. Over the course of the week I am consoled to find that all of my peers are having the same problems. Each night we limp home like a band of retirees escaping from the assisted living center.
There are no chairs on the showroom floor, nor is there any appropriate seating anywhere else in the city-block-sized conference hall. There are some weird cushiony cubes on the 3rd level, but they are unstable and offer no back support. I am overjoyed when I discover some benches on Level 2, but I quickly learn why no one is sitting on them. They are constructed of brushed aluminum, and built in just such a way that if you attempt to relax in them you slowly slide out of the bench and, ultimately onto the floor. The benches were intentionally designed to keep you from sitting on them. This reminds me of the terrible cookies my grandmother always bought to fill her cookie jar. When my dad and his siblings asked Mama why she always got such wretched cookies, she responded matter-of-factly, "Well, if I got good ones you'd eat them." The Moscone Center in San Francisco has shitty benches because if they had good ones you'd sit on them.
There is a booth at the showcase demonstrating a technology for computer-assisted driving. They have a demo where you can sit in a carseat and drive a simulator with a realistic steering wheel. I spend a lot of time at this booth, and I bring several of my peers along with me for repeated test runs. The folks running the booth believe we're there because we're interested in forming a technical partnership with their company, but really we're only at the booth because the simulator's the closest thing to comfortable seating in the entire convention center.
On my repeated treks between the hotel and the conference hall I observe dozens of people avoiding eye contact with the panhandlers and ignoring their demands for spare change. I believe it's rude to ignore people, so whenever someone accosts me for donations, I look him directly in the eye, shake my head sympathetically, and reply, "No." I do this about three times, and after each encounter I hear the men I've turned down emit low, bestial growls; ticking time-bombs of rage. Apparently it's more acceptable to simply be ignored than being unequivacally, flatly rejected. Like the rest of San Francisco, I decide to pretend that these guys are simply not there.
It's my second-to-last day in the city and I'm walking back to my hotel for a break between showcases. While I'm halfway across 4th street, a gray-haired woman walking beside me in the crosswalk turns toward me and screams, "You want to make fun of me?" and pulls up her green sweater to reveal her naked, deflated bosoms. She only flashes me for about two seconds, but it is long enough for me to notice that her breasts resemble half-full sacks of oatmeal. I don't, in fact, want to make fun of her- truth be told, I hadn't even noticed she was there until she began screaming at me. But since she asks, I reply, "Nice mudflaps, grandma," although I am smart enough not to utter these words aloud. The strangest thing about this unprovoked display of rage and sweater meats is that, unlike the raving street maniacs crowding the streets of San Francisco who LOOK like they'd do this sort of thing, this woman appears completely "normal." She looks like somebody's grandma. I've seen somebody's grandma's breasts.
My final day in the city is uneventful, as is the plane ride home, but things become awkward once we land in Portland. I have lost some weight over the past two months and the pair of boxers I'm wearing at the moment are probably a couple of sizes too large. As I head toward Baggage Claim I can feel the boxers slinking down my cheeks and dipping into my pantlegs, finally draping over the inner crotch of my jeans. While the sensation of my sausage swinging freely in my jeans is not altogether unpleasant, it is novel and I feel naked. I don't have a chance to address the matter until the airport shuttle deposits me back in the Economy lot. I sneak between a couple of SUVs and discover that my boxers have disappeared so deep into my pantlegs that I have to unbuckle and unzip my pants just to retrieve them. I hope there are no security cameras aimed in my direction as I make things right, and then resolve to retire this particular pair when I get back home.
The Fourth of July is unique among USA holidays in that it does not stem from ancient pagan tradition, has limited commercial appeal, and the only requirements for participation are that you be American, drunk, and eager to blow things up. We celebrated the occasion this year by traveling to the far reaches of our driveway and lighting firecrackers in the street with our friends, Cindy and James.
Charlotte and James had both gotten giant party packs of fireworks, which were probably as good as you could get, considering the lame selection of recreational explosives legally available in Oregon. If you've ever wondered whether states that outlaw the purchase of large fireworks for Independence Day are somehow less patriotic than states who allow it, well the answer is yes- they absolutely are.
The pack that we got included two boxes labeled, "Rising Flag," and featured an image of the American flag waving majestically amid a colorful swirl of smoke. It looked like a damned patriotic way to start off the evening.
"Firew Orks."
Charlotte broke open one of the boxes, positioned a Rising Flag firecracker out on the pavement, and lit the fuse. Once the fuse burned all the way down to the center, two miniature flares on either side of the device ignited and whistled, producing a twisty coil of gray smoke. After a few seconds the flares died down and the thing smoldered quietly for a moment before unceremoniously burping out a miniature American flag which, within less than a minute, was entirely consumed by flames.
As the last ash of the miniature Old Glory blew away, Charlotte wondered aloud whether a firecracker that burned the American Flag was appropriate for the 4th of July. We quickly moved on to less blasphemous fireworks, such as the regrettably named Golden Shower.
As the celebration continued, I pondered whether the Rising Flag that Charlotte lit had worked as designed. Perhaps it was just an unholy fluke? The next day I decided to find out. I retrieved the rest of the (unspent) Rising Flag firecrackers from the trash bin and lit them, one after another. While I was unable to find another that set the flag alight, in nearly every case, the flag ended up badly singed, and sometimes even dropped to the ground. Was this by design?
The Stars 'n' Bars. Extra crispy.
I inspected the things more closely and thought I'd found a clue when I noticed that on each of the firecrackers, the word "Flag" was actually printed on a little sticker that appeared to cover some different text underneath. I peeled off one of the stickers only to discover that the label had been placed to cover a typo.
Unless, of course, "Flrg" is something meaningful in one of this product's target markets.
Like everything else in the USA, the fireworks were manufactured in China, and it was when I was collecting the ashen debris in disappointment that I noticed some Chinese text printed on the bottom of the box in which they'd been packaged. With a sort of muted hopefulness, I entered the text into Google Translate, at which time the true function of the Rising Flag firecrackers was revealed. It said:
"Produces, desecrates American flag; goes peepee in your Coke."
Somewhere, deep in the freshly-empty warehouse of a Chinese fireworks factory, a little man is rubbing his hands together and snickering, "Just as pranned..."
Forgive my profound sadness as I mourn the end of Cake Season 2009 for our family. I won't enjoy the sweet perfection of another cake until my daughter's birthday in December. My figure-conscious mother's August birthday doesn't count, because she only celebrates the occasion with a decadent (for her) treat of two pecans and a spoonful of whole milk. At least today's cake, in honor of my son's sixth year on this Earth, was as delicious as it was beautiful. It is a small miracle that this cake turned out so well, however- we just didn't realize it until the cake was actually sitting on our kitchen counter.
If you've ever browsed a catalog of cakes at a bakery, what you likely saw were ads for various "cake kits," which bakers use to produce themed cakes featuring all manner of licensed properties, from Barbie to Winnie the Pooh. The kits basically consist of a handful of accessories and a photograph of the finished cake. It is up to your bakery to provide all the edible portions of the cake in that photo. Well, this year, our son wanted a Transformers cake, and he knew such a cake existed because he and I had once spotted the below design at the bakery of the grocery store up the street.
Given that there have been two blockbuster films based on Transformers in recent years, and they've released new toys alongside the films, one would assume there would be a variety of Transformers cakes to choose from, but until just recently there was only the one kit. The kit's contents? One toy, one cardboard backdrop. Period. Now, the flames do look pretty badass, but it's otherwise kind of a chintzy design when compared to the unmitigated awesomeness of the Pirate Ship 3D Super Sized Cake. (Guess what I be havin' for my next birthday, maytee...) I could be selling the Transformers kit short, I guess; after all the purple stool that kids experience the next day might be a delighter that proves this cake to be more of a grower than a shower. There's just one problem, though- no one seems to know how to replicate those goddamn flames.
Every once in a while I pop over to the Cake Wrecks blog to facepalm at the complete ineptitude of cake decorators around the world, and there just happened to be a recent article there on Transformers cakes. There was the picture of the kit I had seen before... and then there were the jaw-droppingly bad attempts by various bakeries to replicate the cake in the photo. Below is just one example (see the article for more).
It was late on Friday night, and I knew that my wife would be picking up OUR Transformers cake that Saturday afternoon. I slept uneasily that night, wondering what horrors awaited us the next day. When Charlotte arrived from the bakery the next evening with our son's cake I was not only relieved, but quite impressed by the results:
Notice it looks absolutely nothing like the official kit. When I told Charlotte about the Cake Wrecks post I'd seen, she mentioned that when she was placing the order for the cake earlier in the week, they told her that while they knew a Transformers kit existed, they refused to make that cake because it fell below their standards. They actually went to Fred Meyer and bought some real Transformers toys for Henry's cake and created a desert landscape with icing dunes, plastic palm trees, jellybean boulders, and cookie-crumb debris. It was a chocolate cake with white butter cream frosting, and chocolate butter cream filling between the two layers. They also decorated the front edge of the cake with a number of exotic symbols, including the Autobots logo. It was a post-apoCAKElyptic desert dessert! (Sorry, that last sentence was really out of character. You have my permission to punch me in the balls the next time you see me.)
Whether they refused to make the kit cake because the flames were too hard or the kit was really too crummy we may never know, but these folks have done nothing but stellar work for us before, and Henry absolutely loved what he got. (This was at Bales Thriftway on Cornell and Saltzman, for you Portlanders, by the way.)
Application spam is the cancer that is killing Facebook. The Facebook home page is now just a busy, homogeneous stream of effluvia where a posted article such as this one, which takes several hours and at least two satanic ritualistic sacrifices to compose, merits no more real estate than an application-generated spamlet that was created in a few seconds with a few clicks and little more than a passing thought. I am not bitter, though, and Facebook's Twitter envy is far too transparent for me to have any hope of a concise, uncluttered front page again any time soon.
So it is in a spirit of reluctant acceptance that I decided to give that omnipresent Top Five application a spin. I will leave you with the results. Please note that because I fail at Blogger templates, you must click the large-assed thumbnail below in order to view the actual top five lists in all their mirthful wonder.
Upon visiting this page, you will likely ask, "Is this web site for a church or the Space Army?" Well I do not know the answer to that question, but whatever it is SIGN ME THE FUCK UP.
Apparent statement: Calling all Deathbots (and Christians)!
Twin brothers Keith and Karl Edmonds, "silently interpret contemporary Gospel music with dramatic gestures and animated facial expressions, portraying man's resistance of life's evil temptations and His transformation from doubter to believer." Because the best way to spread the Good Word is to, you know, not use any words at all.
Apparent statement: The only thing we hate more than Satan is epileptics!
INTERNATIONAL CONGRESS OF CHURCHES & MINISTERS (ICCM)
This was the website that led me to the discovery of this whole universe of krazy kristians on the web, and it may well be the most impressive. ICCM isn't really a church at all, but rather a corporation that provides tax-exempt status to small churches who wouldn't otherwise qualify. What's that? You'd like to run a tax-exempt church but you don't even have any ministerial credentials? NO PROBLEM- they will make you a minister! (I shit you not.) Wait, why are you scoffing- you think this shit's not legit? They send you a motherfucking lapel pin, what more do you need?
Apparent statement: We evade the SHIT out of taxes!
All of the above sites (and many more) are the work of self-described "Visual Historian," Marcus Shepard. He holds a Masters degree in Computer Arts and an unquenchable desire to decorate the SINternet with spasm-inducing Flash animations. Curious what led mister Shepard into a career of creating what is probably best described as "digital meth on crack," I phoned him for a brief interview:
OUTSIDER: So, Marcus, how did you get into the web design business?
SHEPARD: I-I-I first [metallic clang in background] dev-v-v-eloped [screeching cat followed by stampede of footsteps] an interest in w-w-w-w [glass breaking] w-w-w-w-w [industrial machinery] w-web design in c-c-col-col-c-c-c-college [clown whistle and circus music] w-w-when...
OUTSIDER: Thanks so much for your time, Marcus, and God bless!
I congratulate you on the amazing and continued success of the Wii and DS. You've really changed the way that people think about video games and introduced some true innovations in an industry increasingly notorious for risk avoidance. I also want to apologize for writing the DS off as a "gimmick" and for making fun of the Wii's name. (Although I think you missed an opportunity when you chose to name the Wii's built-in Nintendo Entertainment System emulator "Virtual Console" instead of "WiiNES.")
I was curious, though, Nintendo- do you ever sort of get the feeling that you're successful despite yourself? Allow me to clarify:
Why don't your first-party games have voice?
Even though you adopted DVD-ROM as the storage medium for Wii games, all in-game dialogue in Nintendo-produced titles is printed on-screen, rather than spoken. Now, I like to read as much as the next person, but since your games are designed for standard definition television sets, you can only fit about three words per line on the screen. Also, you apparently think players like to watch every single character individually rendered on-screen as we're trying to read... as if a little Mario is packed inside each Wii, dilligently typing out every word. A typical gameplay session with a first-party Wii game usually goes something like this:
[Press Start]
[Watch cutscene]
[Wait for page 1 of text to render and press A to continue]
[Wait for page 2 of text to render and press A to continue]
[Wait for page 3 of text to render and press A to continue]
[Wait for page 4 of text to render and press A to continue]
[Wait for page 5 of text to render and press A to continue]
[Wait for page 6 of text to render and press A to continue]
[Wait for page 7 of text to render and press A to continue] Three seconds of gameplay! Wewt! [Wait for page 1 of text to render and press A to continue]
[Wait for page 2 of text to render and press A to continue]
[Wait for page 3 of text to render and press A to continue]
[repeat.]
Did you know that this actually isn't fun? Well, that's not completely accurate. It is fun, but perhaps less so than undergoing unanaesthetised dental work. Don't you guys do focus groups or anything? Do people who playtest your games understand that they're intended for entertainment, or do they think you're designing thumb-torture simulators?
Why do all your first-party games have General MIDI soundtracks?
I remember being really blown away the first time I ever saw a home video game that used the power of MIDI to generate its soundtrack, but the novelty wore off sometime in 1988. Is this just a case of "if it ain't broke, don't fix it?"
Did you know that it is now possible to actually record music digitally and then play it back inside a video game? Take a look at, say, every video game produced by anyone other than Nintendo in the past 17 years for an example. I thought that maybe you were just cramming too many standard-def, low-poly graphics onto your game discs to accomodate digital music, but I looked at a bunch of your titles under good lighting and it's obvious you're nowhere near filling your discs to capacity, so what gives?
Why does the Wii Shop Channel suck so bad?
The first time I ever bought a Virtual Console title through the Wii Shop Channel, I thought, "Gee, entering all my credit card and address information with the Wiimote really sucks ass. At least I'll only have to do this once. Right? RIGHT???" But no- every single time you purchase anything from the Wii Shop, every Wii user must fumble through the process of providing complete credentials and payment info with probably the least appropriate text-entry device ever. Dude, Steven Hawking has an easier time entering text than the average Wii user.
And yes, I know that there are now keyboards you can plug in to the Wii- wait... I bet you call them "Wiiboards," don't you? But even websites remember customer information, and websites can work from any computer. You only access Wii Shop from your own Wii- there's no excuse for you to not remember who your users are, is there?
Why isn't the new Animal Crossing game any different from the first one?
Ususally the idea behind a game sequel is, "Ditch the things that didn't work, keep the things that did, but make them better." Oddly, the idea behind Animal Crossing: City Folk appears to be, "Put the original Animal Crossing disc in a new box." Seriously, after seven years of development you can't evolve the gameplay or graphics at all, other than make the player character look like less of a serial-killing clown?
This franchise is in dire need of a reboot. Let's just pretend City Folk never happened and release a true "Animal Crossing 2." As you're obviously starved for ideas, let me recommend how to bring this game up-to-date: The new game will be an open-ended stealth action FPS sandbox thriller with occasional first-person parkour segments. You're an undercover vice detective and the guitar-playing dog K.K. Slider is your in-game companion (controlled by AI in single-player or your friend in co-op mode). Together you go into deep cover in Tom Nook's megastore chain, investigating his textile sweatshops and alleged prostitution and drug trafficking operations. This should serve as a good jumping point; contact me if you need more detail.
Click for fail.
Click for more fail.
Click for win.
