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Latest Chris & Trilby comic: no. 0048 - Starr Search

22/11/04: Half-Life 2 Can Suck My Monkey

Hey, I've got a great idea, internet: let's STOP talking about fucking Half-Life 2. I know all you big-name gaming review and humour sites have got your hands on it and are enjoying the fuck out of it, but I, like a lot of people, have no money, no income, and a computer that has difficulty running anything more advanced than the original Zork trilogy, so although Half-life is my favouritest game ever and Half-Life 2 is a game I feel I must play before I die, it might as well be on the fucking moon.

So let's all stop talking about the fantastic physics engine and the incredible gameplay and all the little bells and whistles that hop up and down singing too ra lilly, because frankly if it goes on for much longer I am going to throw myself down a fucking well. Hopefully I can live off moss and converse with spiders who have never even heard of revolutionary graphics engines.

I know I can't be the only person in the world who dearly wants to be a gamer but sadly lives in some kind of alternate universe where computers cost a lot of money and most of their income goes to paying rent and utilities. How the fuck does everyone else manage it? Even when I was working I barely had enough savings left over from necessities to buy myself some sweeties at the end of the week. Maybe that's just because the Australian government are servants of the dark lord who take a quarter of my paycheck in tax. This is because they hate me, and because they need to pay off their sheep whores.

Well, I've come to a decision. I've decided I hate the entire gaming industry and want them all to die and be replaced with people who release freeware games on the internet that don't require a computer forged from the iron of Thor's hammer to run. My hatred of Lucasarts is already well documented, and I hate them even more since I received the restraining order. I'm not even sure why they sent me a restraining order. I telephoned their legal department, and they said something about me standing in the middle of their car park screaming death threats.

Okay, first of all, 'I want to piss on your graves' is not a death threat. There's no mention of death anywhere there. You don't have to be dead to have a grave. It's quite common for terminally ill people to get their plots sorted out while they're still alive. Not that anyone at Lucasarts is terminally ill, of course. Or at least, they weren't until yesterday afternoon.

I did consult a law firm first, and I'm very sure of my ground legally. It's not my fault if the employees of Lucasarts never got around to getting themselves immunised from all known diseases. It was Lucasarts' own shoddy maintenance men who left that crack in the car park surface for someone to trip over. And as I explained to the officer, there were a million good reasons I could have had for walking around holding a test tube full of the Ebola virus. It was just a total freak accident that it happened to fly out of my hands and fall into the building's ventilation system.

Fuck Half-Life 2 and its minimum system requirements so astronomical that they can only be seen with a high-powered telescope. Fuck it and its advanced physics engine. I've got a much better physics engine here at home. Look, I knock a pen off the table, and it falls to the floor and rolls for a little bit! And look, I can throw a beer bottle at someone wearing a Lucasarts uniform and it shatters against their skull and knocks them dead! And I didn't even have to blow two thousand dollars on a new PC. Come to think of it, I could make my very own Half-Life 2. All I need to do is grow a beard, put on a suit of armour, and get hold of two tonnes of high-powered futuristic weaponry.

It'd be too hard to move to a totalitarian Eastern European country, so I'll just move to France. And instead of killing aliens, I'll kill English tourists. Then I will be hailed as the people's hero and be knighted by the King of France.

And as long as I'm dreaming, I'd like a pony.

- Yahtzee

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19/11/04: Funny Papers

In case you haven't noticed the continual changing of title at the top of the page, Chris & Trilby is still updating regularly, and it is becoming increasingly apparent that I am making all this shit up as I go along.

On the same topic, there's a guest strip by me up at one of my favourite webcomics, Dinosaur Comics. Surprisingly, the author, Ryan North, knew who I was already through my games. That really brightened up my day, I tell ye that.

My comic's on the fanart archive, right at the bottom of the list. Here's a direct link if you are a lazy bum.

- Yahtzee

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15/11/04: Everyone Please Kill Yourselves

I'm sure, over all the years I've been writing on this site, I've quite casually said that a lot of people should be killed. I vowed death upon Kevin Warwick and the Honey Monster in the first few weeks alone. But whenever I do this, it's rarely because of a personal hatred of the person and desire to want them suffer. Hell, I think the entire human race should be killed, including myself, so we can just get it over with and put a stop to religious disagreements. Like I said in that barrel of laughs Jeffrey Dahmer article, death is still an inadequate punishment when we still don't know what death is. When I wish someone dead, it's nothing personal, it's generally because I think the world would be a lot better off without them.

For example, the minority I've been coming to despise lately are people who admit their own flaws but believe that the mere act of admission excuses it. I'll use an example to explain this better:

ME: Hey, fat lady, eating that box of cake will do your body no favours.
FAT LADY: Oh, I know, I'm such a fat pig! (eats box of cake)
ME: Now you are even more fat and knocked another decade off your lifespan.
FAT LADY: Oh, I know, I'm so fucking fat! (eats the world)

This is made even more irritating when you are trying to give the person good advice, but they refuse to follow it and continue seeing their admission of guilt as absolution in itself. The first step in getting over a problem is admitting that you have one - but it isn't the ONLY step. On the Underdogs forum, where I hang around sometimes, there's this guy - mentioning no names - who occasionally posts long whining topics about some vaguely negative development in their comparatively luxurious middle-class life, seeking advice, but then fails to heed it with exchanges such as the following:

MAN: Oh, this hot girl is coming on to me but I'm so torn because I still have feelings about this other hot girl who lives far away, and I really want to call her and see how she's doing one of these days, oh, what to do, what to do.

ME: Sex them up! Go on my son! Woof woof!

SOMEONE MORE SENSIBLE: Just give girl B a call!

MAN: Oh, but I can't, I'm too much of a coward.

SOMEONE MORE SENSIBLE: Then why the hell are you asking us for advice?

MAN: Because I'm a big stupid twat, oh, how I stew in my angst.

ME: Hey, you're assuming confession equals absolution! Go eat a bag of hell!

MAN: Yes, I am, aren't I? Oh, I am such a twat.

And it's impossible to insult these people. They'll just agree with everything you say, because doing so evaporates the guilt they feel for being such tossers. So that's why I want all these people to die.

With one exception.

Now, I don't know if Paris Hilton uses the confession technique to justify herself, but I have a pretty good feeling that she does, because she damn well doesn't do anything else and there's a hell of a lot about her that needs justifying. So I don't want her dead. I want her to live until she has suffered and absolved her sins.

DISCLAIMER: For the sake of your hand and monitor, please print out the following image before attempting to punch it.

It's rare that I devote space to a long diatribe against an individual for wholly unspecific reasons, but with Paris Hilton's continued domination of the media while moguls and fashion magazines are spending delightful weekend breaks up her matchstick-thin rectum, I could remain silent no longer. I am absolutely staggered by her character. I'm always one to concentrate on a person's good qualities - I've spoken up for Jeffrey Dahmer, for fuck's sake - but here I am at a loss. I cannot perceive a single redeeming feature in Paris Hilton, and I do not understand how anyone can possibly feel any degree of affection for her at all, least of all enough to sing her praises in newspaper columns and give her and her teaspoon-shallow mates their own fucking TV shows.

She's not even particularly good looking. She looks like a bald eagle attempting to swallow a breeze block. She is already the most overprivileged person on Earth. She is due to inherit a sum roughly similar to the gross national product of New Zealand. And she struts around in tart's clothing that could pay my rent until I'm thirty-seven.

It was that Simple Life TV show that confirmed everything to me, in particular those sequences where she and that blonde push-broom she uses as a friend were given regular jobs for a day and they deliberately ballsed them up spectacularly, rolling their eyes at each other when they were expected to do something other than prat around like giggling ninnies. They probably intended the scenes to showcase their kooky, happy-go-lucky attitudes. But I saw it all then. I saw a pair of idiotic cunts with more money than God pissing all over the people who have to struggle to make it in life. I saw two guffawing socialites skipping idly through their bleak existences, taking up space in the universe that could have contained someone more worthwhile, such as a man who spends his entire life sealed in a wooden box.

I just... I just don't understand how this sort of person can be tolerated to exist. Everything she does seems calculated to flaunt her wealth and tits. I've never seen a photo of her where she wasn't wearing an expression of utter unforgivable disdain and smugness. The amount she spends on a week's clothes shopping could lift fifty people from desperate poverty. The only possibility that seems to fit is that she is an evil extra-terrestrial from some alien culture where this kind of behaviour is acceptable, who, upon landing on Earth, made the same kind of mistake as Ford Prefect and named herself after a French hotel.

So I don't want her dead. I just want her destroyed. I want to look into her eyes and see her spirit crushed. I want to take away all she has and then take even more. I want to attach her naked to a winch and lower her into a crowd of drunken burly sailors who have just come back from a two year tour. I want to stick a foot pump up her arse and inflate her stomach until it bursts, showering the room with gristle and duck paté. I want her to understand that there is no escape, and that no-one is coming to save her. I want to give her life meaning by showing her the agony of the average human life.

There are a lot of things on my 'things to do when I get a time machine' list, and now I have another one. I'm going to kidnap baby Paris and leave her on the doorstep of an orphanage in Sarajevo. And I'm not going to tell anyone the truth until she's thirty. Then perhaps she'd become someone who uses their money for great humanitarian deeds, rather than just blowing it all on shoes that cost about fifty cents to make, five of which go to the half-dead Malaysian woman who stitched them together.

- Yahtzee

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09/11/04: Search For The Hero Inside Yourself

Time once again to dredge up another long-forgotten feature of this and about fourteen thousand other humour sites on the internet! Yes, we're going to once again be looking at what sorts of things people have been searching for that have led them to this little island of taste and decency! Search strings, ho!

"7 days a stranger"

No... no, you almost got it, it's 5 Days a Stranger and 7 Days a SKEPTIC. Well tried, though. For future reference, here's a little method to help you remember. 5 Days a Stranger starred Trilby, right? And 'Stranger' contains the letters 'TR', which also occur in Trilby. 7 Days A Skeptic, meanwhile, was set in space, the second letter of which is 'P', which occurs in 'Skeptic'. Alternatively, just use this little rhyme:

5 Days A Stranger,
7 Days A Skeptic,
I'm a stupid twat.

"jackson is to be president and you will be hanged cartoon"

Well, if that doesn't sound like some kind of Orwellian nightmare society, I don't know what does. I know exactly how Michael Jackson would hang people, too. He'd dress them up in romper suits and bibs, then dangle them off his balcony rail. And then he would FUCK THEM UP THE ARSE.

"oh noes"

No use crying, little boy! RIGHT UP THE ARSE!

"aloe vera life cycle picture view labelled"

I'm not making fun of this person for searching for this, because he or she is clearly just some kind of botanical researcher looking for something that would make his or her day. What I am mocking them for, however, is coming to this website thinking I'd have just the thing they wanted, based on a few oblique references to aloe vera scattered here and there. Unless, of course, they became bored with the whole research thing and decided to waste an afternoon on me. I laugh now, but some day a rosy-cheeked little blonde girl will die as a consequence of insufficient aloe vera research, and it'll be all my fault.

"orgasm face"

The lesser-known Dick Tracy villain. So called because he can't open his eyes and he keeps drooling this curious white foam.

"cries her eyes out spanking"

It's disturbing to me how some people still find women in torment arousing. This reminds me of a spam mail I received a while back. The subject line was something like "SHE WILL LEAVE YOU IF YOU DON'T GET A PENIS EXTENSION". I remember wondering how they had that kind of insider knowledge, but then I opened it and the text of the mail read "DON'T YOU WISH YOU COULD MAKE HER BEG YOU TO STOP?" Er, no. No, I don't. Because then I would be a rapist. And I would go to prison. And prison is where karma catches up with rapists. Rape is WRONG.

"being invisible for a day what would you do"

Well, I suppose I would find Paris Hilton and rape - hey! Mind your own business!

- Yahtzee

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05/11/04: Interlude

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02/11/04: The Silence of the Yams

Okay, here's how it works. Me write. You read. You laugh. Ho ho ho. You send me money. I spend money on sweets. Ho ho ho. There've been a few more donators added to the list, but I confess I can't be arsed to go double-check the names right now. Yes, I know, I'm going to hell.

With the rules of the website declared, allow me to present another edition of:

Unappreciated Computer Console Game Character Of The Week!

Recently, I had the dubious joy of playing the original Resident Evil on the PS1 for the first time ever. Maybe it's just because it's old and wrinkly now and technology has advanced since then, but I am flabberghasted that they squeezed fourteen sequels and two movies out of what is without a doubt the most boring, frustrating and unintuitive survival horror game I have ever played. Ammunition is scarce. Puzzles make little to no sense. There is no indication of where you have to go and when. Long animations of doors opening and going up stairs are completely pointless. And as for the FMV sections, if they had simply dropped the script into a big toilet with three big smelly floaters, it would have been a much more competent and better-acted production.

No doubt you're asking yourself how I was able to find a single character in Resident Evil worthy of the Fully Ramblomatic UCGCOTW award. Well, quite simply, I didn't. Today's UCGCOTW is Harry Mason from Silent Hill.

Harry Mason from Silent Hill!

No matter what I think of it, Resident Evil evidently left its legacy on all future survival horror games. It is almost unheard of to play survival horror that doesn't have one of those extremely unhelpful traffic light health systems. The puzzles are always stupid, usually involving decoding some cryptic verse to deduce that a sword must be placed in the hand of a statue in order to acquire the Angry Lion key, when a much more sensible and considerate householder would have just stuck all the keys in a glass cabinet in the lobby. And, of course, none of the living humans you encounter will want to team up with you for some reason, when all past evidence has shown that NPCs who go off on their own get murdered with absolutely breathtaking violence.

Silent Hill goes along with all that. Why on earth does a silver medallion fall off a shelf when you press piano keys in a certain order? Couldn't I have just knocked it off with a broom? And why does that nurse chick cry mournfully about being left on her own in a scary place and then, in the same sentence, refuse to tag along with you for inadequately explained reasons?

Harry Mason, Silent Hill's protagonist, just couldn't give a shit. He doesn't seem to find it at all unusual that skinless pteradactyls keep flying down and trying to bite his earlobes off. When the whole world transforms into a bloodstained nightmare version of itself full of crucified corpses, he passes the scenery by with nary a disdainful glance. And why is every meaningful object and text covered in blood splats? Is there someone forever fifty yards in front of him with an extremely bad nosebleed? Whatever, Harry doesn't care. He stomps right over corpses and blood pools with the same confident, measured walk that he uses to go over zebra crossings.

Harry was, apparently, a writer before he came to Silent Hill. Obviously he wrote for the special militant version of the Fortean Times or something, because when he calmly draws his gun and blows two holes in a zombie dog mid-pounce, it's with the same effortless nonchalance that you or I would use when swiping flies away from our Coco Pops.

And then, when he has seriously wounded the creature and it's lying on the ground attempting to whimper while its lungs slowly fill with foaming zombie blood, Harry isn't the kind of loser protagonist who would run for his life, or attempt to examine the creature while it still lived to learn something about the zombie condition. No, he just walks straight over to see if the zombie has any plans to depart this vale of tears any time soon.

And if it doesn't






He brings his sensible heel down upon its twitching skull with a nauseating wet squeaking, cracking noise, then marches on with a little strand of pink brain meat trailing from the back of his shoe, leaving the corpse to lie motionless, a greyish tongue lolling from what looks like the result of dropping a moist, freshly-baked meat pie fourteen storeys. I don't care if your job involves subduing grizzly bears with your teeth - you are nowhere near as hardcore as Harry Mason. Who crashed this jeep? HARRY CARES NOT!

When I first saw this phenomenon, I instantly knew who Harry Mason was. He was Clint Eastwood. He was Clint Eastwood in a film where Clint Eastwood's entire family have been killed by zombie dogs and he's on his steel-jawed, no-shit-taking quest for revenge. He's Indiana Jones when some villain is trying to impress him with swordplay, giving his opinion on the performance with a review from Mr. Colt. He's Ash Williams, who, having had quite enough of the deadites' shit, unfearingly transforms a flying demon's head into an expanding cloud of buckshot and gluey brain sauce.

Harry Mason is the kind of person they make survival horror games about in Hell. After a hard day of torturing the damned, all the demons retire home in the evening to their little bungalows, boot up their Playstations, and attempt once again to get past level 3 of Invasion of the Harry Mason, their mandibles quivering with shame and fear whenever their demonic avatar turns a corner and finds an emergency fire axe coming down with astonishing force on their misshapen skull. Unless it's a cutscene.

If my only impression of Harry Mason was what I saw of him in cutscenes, I'd think of him as the usual personality deficient slack-jawed wanker survival horror seems to depend on. It's during the action sequences that Harry really comes into his own. I'm tempted to believe that the people who wrote the in-game script and the people who wrote the cutscenes were given two entirely different profiles of the main character. I certainly hope so, because otherwise we have to believe that a man who has just defeated a giant lizard vagina monster by introducing Mister Shotgun Shell to Mistress Roof of Mouth could be completely thrown by seeing some woman appearing, then disappearing again.

For some bizarre reason, about half the lines of dialogue in Silent Hill are accompanied by voice acting, and the other half are accompanied by silence, the words shown only in subtitle. I have a theory that Harry has two personalities, Twat Harry and Dirty Harry, and whichever one is in control is indicated by whether Harry's voice is audible or not. Twat Harry, the audible one, voiced by some justly underpaid voice actor, is one of the most clueless fuckers to grace this earth, whose only contributions to conversations are variations on 'What?' and 'I don't understand!' and 'Where's my daughter?'. But as soon as his voice falls mute, he's Dirty Harry once more, the stone-faced harbinger of shooty death, dignifying his prey with nothing more than a cold sneer as they slump down at his feet with hamburger instead of face.

So, Harry Mason, the sultan of soggy stomp, the fearless fighter with a flat-top, you are Unappreciated Computer Game Character Of The Week!

- Yahtzee

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Hey, kids! Sick of me not updating often enough for your refined tastes? Read news posts by me, Chefelf and Heccubus pretty much every day on the Lockergnome.com Game Invasion Channel!


All material not otherwise credited by Ben 'Yahtzee' Croshaw
Copyright 2002-2004 All Rights Reserved so HANDS OFF, PIKEY