Updated Every Weekday!
Lately, my horror movie shelf has been feeling very down-hearted. I tried everything. I bought them a nice new cupboard door. I came home with lots of sweets for them. I even tried St. John's Wort. When nothing worked, I took them to a special video doctor (Blockbuster employee) who explained that their depression was down to simple neglect.
Of course, with my recent fascination for dirty films I haven't reviewed any gore in months. So here's another HMST review: Hellraiser 3, the darkest moment in the career of a Star Trek actor. Go read now!
Your assignment for the weekend is to find the Honey Monster's address for me, and tell me where I can buy a gun.
See you Monday!
Everyone, as a child, has been shit scared
of something you really don't have anything to be shit
scared about. For some, it was the Daleks. For others, it
was Shodan from System Shock. I recall I once had a
nightmare about a curious pop-eyed eight-foot-tall
creature eating someone. This has remained in my memory
for years as it was so terrifying. It was only quite
recently while watching TV that I discovered that the
creature had, in fact, been a giant comedy jew costume
that once appeared in an episode of The Two Ronnies that
I must have seen all those years ago.
The Sugar Puffs Mascot, the Honey Monster. His horrible grating smoker's voice. His staring eyes. His body coated in fur the colour of fresh pus. I had recurring dreams about this unholy terror; two that spring to mind are the one where I was in a dark room and just KNEW that the honey monster was behind my door, having eaten everyone else in the house, and the one where my largest teddy started sprouting yellow hair. What was it, then, that sparked off this incredible fear?
It might have something to do with my long-running phobia which I still have of those people in theme parks who dress up in bear and Mickey Mouse costumes, which is either irrational or stems from the time when I was four and a person dressed as Goofy sodomized me with a grapefruit. Ha ha, I jest, of course. Actually it was one of the chipmunks who sodomized me with a grapefruit. Ha ha, I jest again. It was really a pineapple.
But getting back to the Honey Monster, I think that that fear had more to do with a series of adverts for sugar puffs which I was subjected to when I was very young. There were a number of settings, I believe, but the basic formula went thus:
1. Group of children in proximity to Sugar Puffs.
2. Supervising adults in some way preventing access to Sugar Puffs.
3. One child shouts 'I want my honey!', the last word spoken in the Honey Monster voice, dubbed on.
4. Various shots of children's clothes ripping, Incredible Hulk style, to reveal yellow fur underneath.
5. Children have all turned into Honey Monsters.
6. Adults panic.
7. Scene descends rapidly into chaos.
In hindsight, when I write it out like that it doesn't seem that terrible. I suppose there were other elements that made the terror for me, like crazy camera angles or scary music. I remember wondering what would happen afterwards. Would the children eventually turn back into children after their lust for sugar puffs had been sated, or would they remain as Honey Monsters forever, endlessly spurned on by a hunger for honey and the blood of the living. The adverts never referred to the blood of the living, of course, but in my childlike heart I knew that those supervising adults weren't getting out of there alive.
I bet some advertising execs at Nestle or whoever were really patting themselves on the back when they thought up this little number. Congratulations, fellows, you RUINED my FUCKING SLEEP for my ENTIRE CHILDHOOD. I hope you're proud of yourselves.
Nowadays, ol' Honey Monster has changed his tune a little. Now we're seeing him in less mortifying roles, as the secret agent or rock star or football legend. Enjoy your new found fame, HM. Because every time you pose for the cameras, bikini-clad babes in each arm, I want you to know that I'm watching you, and I know what sort of flesh you're consuming behind closed doors. Do those bikini-clad babes know? Do they like to join you as fresh viscera trickles down your hairy chin, or are they tonight's afternoon tea? You sicken me. You evil, evil beast. I'm coming for you. Oh yes. One day you'll be at MY mercy. I'm not giving you any dates, but if I were you I'd start sleeping with my eyes shut facing the wall.
I'm out there, HM.
Just you wait.
I'm out there.
Firstly, I should point out that the brother I referred to yesterday turns 21 today. If this was America I would no doubt make some joke about him now finally being able to exchange his fake IDs for a real one. Since this is not America but a country where 18 is the legal drinking age this joke would fall flat, and promptly has. So just forget I spoke.
I've just gotten back from my first day at a temp assignment, and to my eternal surprise I will actually be going back tomorrow. I'm a temporary data entry clerk for the most TRUSTING COMPANY IN THE WORLD. I'll explain why I dub them that later. First I want to reveal a few other things.
This is my first office temp assignment. I have been trying to get into office work for years but have failed utterly because I don't have the necessary experience, just the typing sk1llz and the suit and tie gathering dust in my wardrobe. Now, finally, I can spice up my CV with some genuine office experience. Oh sure, it's not like I'm personal secretary to the Prime Minister or anything, but it's the first teetering step on the ladder.
Temp agencies have never been able to get me office work before, and probably never would have; I didn't even use an agency to get this job. Instead I brilliantly exploited inside contacts. Namely, my mum, who works in the same building. Admittedly having my mum get me jobs is on a par with letting her buy my casual clothes for me. Admittedly admittedly I didn't even ask or indeed know about the job until they phoned me up and asked for me, after I presume my mum passed my name into conversation. But hey, it's a job, and I'm not complaining.
Maybe it's because I'm related to someone on the inside, but they really are putting a lot of trust in me. Firstly, they give me a time sheet to fill in myself. BY MYSELF. I could say I worked from six to six and took no breaks if I wasn't so honest. In fact, all I did today was knock off at 4:40 and write that I worked until 5, and I had even done all the work they had given me, but it still feels kind of rebellious.
They've also given me MY OWN FUPPING KEY to the office, and left me on my ownsome for most of the afternoon until I locked up myself and departed. I'll also be letting myself in tomorrow morning at 9 and working alone for most of the day. They've also given me the combination to the safe containing all their savings and valuables, and the manager is letting me look after his home, car and pretty teenage daughter for a week. Okay, I made up some of the above, but they might as well have. I can't believe they didn't even consider the possibility that I might run off with a couple of keyboards stuffed down my shirt. Okay, they know my mum, but they don't know ME, that's the point. Maybe their trust is well-placed FOR NOW - I'm too much of a cissy to be as naughty as some temps - but I bet David Berkowitz's mothers' friends would never have given him a key to their office.
When I said I was on my ownsome for most of the afternoon I was, of course, exaggerating. The office and workload were split between myself and another temp, the mother of one of the regular staff, and her husband she brought along who spent the day sitting in the corner reading the paper. She was doing exactly the same work as me - entering data from surveys into a database. Now, employing me here makes sense. I have a 75 wpm typing speed and a long history of computer usage. This lady, as pleasant as she was, didn't know her toolbar from her toothbrush. I had done three surveys by the time she'd finished her first. I figured either her son felt really, really sorry for her for some reason or she had incriminating photographs.
By the way, I'm getting paid five pound fifty an hour for this.
FIVE POUNDS FIFTY AN HOUR.
I probably made more money today than I have in the last two years.
So, to summarise, I've got a key to the office, I can do the work much quicker than they expect me to, I'm making five-fifty an hour, and tomorrow I'm working alone and unsupervised with a computer that has a couple of arcade games on the start menu.
Oh, and I get to wear casual gear.
I'm in a good mood today.
As promised, not one but TWO new Cowboy Comics for your viewing pleasure. It's a little game I'm playing called 'let's pad out the Cowboy Comics archive to further justify its own page'. This week using five delightful dodgy Western novels I first constructed a tale of disaster and retribution called 'Floods and Gophers', and then the following day I used them again to bring to the public eye a psychological problem that no-one ever talks about called 'The Problem with Pink'. Enjoy today's showing!
Apart from that, have you ever noticed how people who have taken German lessons always insist on pronouncing 'Volkswagen' properly? It's mad, isn't it.
See you tomorrow!
After the release of Odysseus Kent I was directed to a thread on the AGS (Adventure Game Studio, natch) messageboard discussing it, which I had a look at. The basic theme was that the game was good, but I was a git.
Some exposition is probably required here. Many moons ago when I pledged allegiance to the AGS community I released a few games and they were well received, but then I became rather egotistical and ever since I gave up adventure game design (supposedly) my former friends have been slagging me off for being such a git.
Well, I suppose, now I have my own blog which snatches around 6000 hits a day, I should really get something off my chest.
YAHTZEE: A SOB STORY
I was born the youngest of two brothers, as long-term readers of this site should know. For many years he was better than me in several ways, and he made sure I knew it. He got better exam results. He was stronger, and heavier, and for a while (though not anymore) taller. He played the drums, and would sometimes try and get me to attempt to play them so he could gloat over how much better than me he was.
My point is, all my life I've been overshadowed by the overbearing figure of my brother. I have never come first. Even when the family shared out boxes of chocolates I had to choose last, usually at my brother's insistence. Whenever we ate out someone else would order first. It happened for so long I started to make myself come second; I would automatically let people go in doors before me, and walking in front of them made me uneasy.
Whenever I surpassed my brother in something, it was so elating that it couldn't help but affect me. When I became taller than him I found I began judging people on their height. When I became a better writer than him I found myself a natural editor; endlessly pointing out petty errors and mistakes in other people's work.
When I came to the AGS community I was new to the 'net and was looking for something to make adventure games with, out of a personal whim. I quickly wrote Rob Blanc I and released it to almost universal praise. I was rather surprised to discover that RB1 was the first 'proper' game to be written with the new AGS, and it quite accidentally seemed to set an example for others to follow. I wrote two more RB games and more praise came in.
This, I found, was alien to me. To actually be better at something than my brother, to find something I was good at and (as I thought) second to none, it was all new. The praise I was given by the rest of the community gave me new-found confidence. But with confidence came cockiness, and with cockiness came big-headedness, and soon I was declaring myself an authority on amateur adventure games. That part of my life all seems so unreal now. I was a foolish, self-delusional, arrogant prick and there's not a day goes by that I don't regret all the silly things I did and said that alienated me from the AGS community.
So if any amateur adventure gamers are reading this, and I know there are as they seemed to find Odysseus Kent pretty easily, then this is my apology. I'm sorry. Thank you for liking my games, and I'm sorry you had to put up with my weirdness. The AGS community is really one of the nicest online and AGS itself is the best adventure game-makey tool in the whole wide world.
To everyone else, I'm also sorry for forcing you to sit through this shameless brown-nosing. By way of a reward, I'll have not one but TWO Cowboy Comics done for tomorrow. Thanks for your patience.
material not otherwise credited by Ben 'Yahtzee' Croshaw