Here's another short one, published on the futile hope that any game developers will ever chance upon this blog. When people install your game, they like to do their own thing - make some tea, browse Youtube, have a wa... walk. They might like to listen to some music.
So don't make it so your damn faux-orchestra music plays in a fucking loop when the game - all three discs of it - is installing. I'm not mentioning a specific Rome: Total War here, this is just a general gripe.
And another thing that annoys me about some games - the credits button on the main menu. Who cares? I mean, really, who gives a toss? No one's going to watch these things and say "Oh, that annoying bit in level 5 in fourteen guys come out of nowhere and shoot at you, and there's no cover, and you have to try that part a hundred and fifty times - that was written by Chuck Yates." Or whoever. If there is a Chuck Yates out there, and he makes good games, I'm happy. But the A-Team never get credited when they save the day. Neither does Superman. Why should game developers get a credit, even though they help society in a far greater way?
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to play Rome Total War. I dedicate my upcoming gaming to all the unsung heroes of programming, whose credit I never see. Even Chuck Yates... he was the greatest of all.
Friday, 13 April 2007
The Atomic Holocaust Approaches
So, a few days ago Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (Known to his friends as Mazza) announced that Iran was now capable of producing nuclear power and weapons-grade uranium. Apparently, the UN previously believed Iran possessed 350 ish centrifuges for enriching Uranium, but Mazza is claiming Iran possesses 3,000. This is enough for them to have enough Uranium to produce an atomic bomb in 9 months.
Which means the West should panic and immediately mobilise as many men as possible to meet this threat. At that terrifying pace of nuclear weapon production, Iran will have as many nuclear weapons as the USA in just three thousand years.
Duck and cover.
Which means the West should panic and immediately mobilise as many men as possible to meet this threat. At that terrifying pace of nuclear weapon production, Iran will have as many nuclear weapons as the USA in just three thousand years.
Duck and cover.
Sunday, 11 March 2007
An Explanation
I suppose I should explain why I didn't post an update yesterday.
It all began ten years ago in the country of my birth, Fälschungstania. My father, the King of Fälschungstania, had always ruled my birth land benevolently, though he had always missed his wife, my mother, who had been killed by a snake when I was very young.
However, my wicked Uncle, the Count Graf Sauerkraut, who coveted power dearly, despised my father and on that fateful day ten years ago he had him murdered. I would have followed soon after, but the quick-thinking of my ever-faithful nurse meant I was soon on a train to Switzerland. Sadly, poor Nursie was wounded by one of Sauerkraut's men, and she died soon after. I buried her the next day in Bern, and vowed that I would one day return and depose my wicked Uncle.
I made way to the United Kingdom, where many Fälschungstanians had moved to during the Great Depression. Two loyalists from the Asshill Estate adopted me, and six years later, at the age of sixteen, I left them to find work; I was a pauper.
I managed to find employment as the gardener for a certain Lord Pumblechook. He was an old and fat man, known for his excess in all things. His wife, a pretty young thing called Porphyria, was deeply unhappy with her marriage to him. She visited my cheerless gardener's cottage many times, and our relationship began to approach love - or so I thought.
But my Uncle's hand was everywhere! One of my few remaining sources told me that he had met Porphyria at a cheese and wine party, and employed her as one of his agents - promising to have Lord Pumblechook killed if she were to finish me off first. And when I say 'finish off' I mean 'kill'. Nothing sexual - that came before. Many times. Many, many times. Anyway.
I was lucky that my considerable charm had won over Porphyria considerably, not in mind but in body. We made love one last time, and as she reached for the revolver she kept in her left boot, I strangled her with her own hair. She felt no pain, I'm sure she felt no pain. Probably.
I knew that I could not skulk any more. I had loved Porphyria, even though I'd been forced to take her life. I would avenge her, and my father, and poor Nursie. I gathered food and clothes, my sword and my pistol. I was to return to Fälschungstania. Handing Lord Pumblechook my notice with a flourish, I ran for Portsmouth, and took a cruise ship to the continent.
But woe! Once again my Uncle had set a trap for me; he dispatched two heavies to dispose of me. But I dispatched them, with my sword; first class, with a windowseat. To hell. After I arrived in France I made my way by train to Fälschungstania. Nearing the border, I leapt from the train car's window and into the forest. As soon as I had landed, the car I had been in exploded. I was getting close.
Luckily, I found a partisan group of desperate men, who opposed the cruel rule of my cruel Uncle. He was very cruel to them, and his cruelty drove them to cruel measures. Cruel. However, there were only seven of them - barely one percent of Fälschungstania's population. They were content to sit in the forest and wait for my Uncle to die.
However, after an exciting knife-fight, and possibly some kicking, I convinced their leader I was the true heir to the throne. We began to make our plans.
We staged a daring attack on the citadel, the leader of the partisan group dying heroically in the attempt, along with the cowardly one and the big slow one with a heart of the gold. The wisecracking one, the grim one, the black one and the young one held the line as I scaled the indomitable walls of the castle. My Uncle was waiting for me in a room that was larger than the castle was wide... but I digress.
A stunning duel began, our blades flashing like salmon migrating up the River Fälschung. He knocked the sword from my hand, and pointed his own at my throat. "Now, you shall die," he said, "Nothing but a pauper." I drew Porphyria's revolver from my codpiece and shot him dead. He didn't see that coming! He fell before me, a thin trickle of blood making its way down his dead jaw. I hacked off his head with a nearby Swiss-Army knife, and held it aloft on the roof of the citadel, as is custom in Fälschungstania whenever a wicked Uncle who deposed the true king is defeated. It happens more often than you'd expect.
I had come into my inheritence! I was crowned king of Fälschungstania, the surviving partisans were reunited with their wives (except the young one, who managed to work out his issues with his father) and I married the faithful peasant woman who had aided the resistance, and had flawless skin and perfectly shampooed hair for some reason. Fälschungstania was free at last, and I had avenged all those who Sauerkraut had killed. Oh, except Nursie turned out to have survived somehow.
So that's why I didn't post an update yesterday. I'm sorry.
It all began ten years ago in the country of my birth, Fälschungstania. My father, the King of Fälschungstania, had always ruled my birth land benevolently, though he had always missed his wife, my mother, who had been killed by a snake when I was very young.
However, my wicked Uncle, the Count Graf Sauerkraut, who coveted power dearly, despised my father and on that fateful day ten years ago he had him murdered. I would have followed soon after, but the quick-thinking of my ever-faithful nurse meant I was soon on a train to Switzerland. Sadly, poor Nursie was wounded by one of Sauerkraut's men, and she died soon after. I buried her the next day in Bern, and vowed that I would one day return and depose my wicked Uncle.
I made way to the United Kingdom, where many Fälschungstanians had moved to during the Great Depression. Two loyalists from the Asshill Estate adopted me, and six years later, at the age of sixteen, I left them to find work; I was a pauper.
I managed to find employment as the gardener for a certain Lord Pumblechook. He was an old and fat man, known for his excess in all things. His wife, a pretty young thing called Porphyria, was deeply unhappy with her marriage to him. She visited my cheerless gardener's cottage many times, and our relationship began to approach love - or so I thought.
But my Uncle's hand was everywhere! One of my few remaining sources told me that he had met Porphyria at a cheese and wine party, and employed her as one of his agents - promising to have Lord Pumblechook killed if she were to finish me off first. And when I say 'finish off' I mean 'kill'. Nothing sexual - that came before. Many times. Many, many times. Anyway.
I was lucky that my considerable charm had won over Porphyria considerably, not in mind but in body. We made love one last time, and as she reached for the revolver she kept in her left boot, I strangled her with her own hair. She felt no pain, I'm sure she felt no pain. Probably.
I knew that I could not skulk any more. I had loved Porphyria, even though I'd been forced to take her life. I would avenge her, and my father, and poor Nursie. I gathered food and clothes, my sword and my pistol. I was to return to Fälschungstania. Handing Lord Pumblechook my notice with a flourish, I ran for Portsmouth, and took a cruise ship to the continent.
But woe! Once again my Uncle had set a trap for me; he dispatched two heavies to dispose of me. But I dispatched them, with my sword; first class, with a windowseat. To hell. After I arrived in France I made my way by train to Fälschungstania. Nearing the border, I leapt from the train car's window and into the forest. As soon as I had landed, the car I had been in exploded. I was getting close.
Luckily, I found a partisan group of desperate men, who opposed the cruel rule of my cruel Uncle. He was very cruel to them, and his cruelty drove them to cruel measures. Cruel. However, there were only seven of them - barely one percent of Fälschungstania's population. They were content to sit in the forest and wait for my Uncle to die.
However, after an exciting knife-fight, and possibly some kicking, I convinced their leader I was the true heir to the throne. We began to make our plans.
We staged a daring attack on the citadel, the leader of the partisan group dying heroically in the attempt, along with the cowardly one and the big slow one with a heart of the gold. The wisecracking one, the grim one, the black one and the young one held the line as I scaled the indomitable walls of the castle. My Uncle was waiting for me in a room that was larger than the castle was wide... but I digress.
A stunning duel began, our blades flashing like salmon migrating up the River Fälschung. He knocked the sword from my hand, and pointed his own at my throat. "Now, you shall die," he said, "Nothing but a pauper." I drew Porphyria's revolver from my codpiece and shot him dead. He didn't see that coming! He fell before me, a thin trickle of blood making its way down his dead jaw. I hacked off his head with a nearby Swiss-Army knife, and held it aloft on the roof of the citadel, as is custom in Fälschungstania whenever a wicked Uncle who deposed the true king is defeated. It happens more often than you'd expect.
I had come into my inheritence! I was crowned king of Fälschungstania, the surviving partisans were reunited with their wives (except the young one, who managed to work out his issues with his father) and I married the faithful peasant woman who had aided the resistance, and had flawless skin and perfectly shampooed hair for some reason. Fälschungstania was free at last, and I had avenged all those who Sauerkraut had killed. Oh, except Nursie turned out to have survived somehow.
So that's why I didn't post an update yesterday. I'm sorry.
Friday, 9 March 2007
It's the Final Countdown, dadadadah dadadadadaaah
Today I had the honour of attending a talk on 'Avian Flu' (H5N1 influenza) It's been worrying the media for sometime that this 'Bird Flu' might wipe out the human race in a horrifying pandemic that would sweep the globe, annhilating civillisation as we know it. 'Worrying' in this case meaning 'Cheering up' as peddling stories of doom and gloom sells newspapers.
However, while these tales of apocalypse are always a giggle over your average Daily Mail reader's tea and racism they have the disadvantage of being utterly untrue. The talk I went to revealed the truth about Bird Flu - there is a chance it could mutate to spread more effectively (167 dead in the last 3 years is not much of a success rate) there is also a chance that it won't do that for yonks, or even at all. Begin stockpiling candles, bottled water and barbed wire, quick!
Even if Bird Flu were to start killing people off in such a situation, the estimates for the dead run
at 400,000 in the UK. Gosh, you might think (if you censor your thoughts, most of us probably heading down the route of "Holy fucking hell, that's a whole lotta stiffs") That's a lot of dead
people. But that's only 0.67 ish percent.
Artist's Impression of Bird Flu Pandemic
Let's think in terms of numbers. 62,000,000 people died in World War 2 over 6 years. Using my mathematics team, I can tell you that's 155 UK Bird Flu pandemics (So, Daily Mail, shut your pie-hole) If the death rate was roughly the same all over the world,
40,000,000 or so people would die worldwide, which is 0.67% of the world again. That's a lot of people, but it's not the entire population. Also, it's not going to happen. So shut up.
Interesting fact - if Bird Flu continues to kill at the current rate it'll take about 78,500,000 years to kill us off. Assuming the population stays the same.
In addition, today's Quote of the Day is:
Shadow> what the fuck
Shadow> my moniter just went black
Shadow> then came back on
&Aphrodite> You're lucky
&Aphrodite> I heard normally they never go back
Heh heh. Another from Bash.org.
However, while these tales of apocalypse are always a giggle over your average Daily Mail reader's tea and racism they have the disadvantage of being utterly untrue. The talk I went to revealed the truth about Bird Flu - there is a chance it could mutate to spread more effectively (167 dead in the last 3 years is not much of a success rate) there is also a chance that it won't do that for yonks, or even at all. Begin stockpiling candles, bottled water and barbed wire, quick!
Even if Bird Flu were to start killing people off in such a situation, the estimates for the dead run
at 400,000 in the UK. Gosh, you might think (if you censor your thoughts, most of us probably heading down the route of "Holy fucking hell, that's a whole lotta stiffs") That's a lot of dead
people. But that's only 0.67 ish percent.
Artist's Impression of Bird Flu Pandemic
Let's think in terms of numbers. 62,000,000 people died in World War 2 over 6 years. Using my mathematics team, I can tell you that's 155 UK Bird Flu pandemics (So, Daily Mail, shut your pie-hole) If the death rate was roughly the same all over the world,
40,000,000 or so people would die worldwide, which is 0.67% of the world again. That's a lot of people, but it's not the entire population. Also, it's not going to happen. So shut up.
Interesting fact - if Bird Flu continues to kill at the current rate it'll take about 78,500,000 years to kill us off. Assuming the population stays the same.
In addition, today's Quote of the Day is:
Shadow> what the fuck
Shadow> my moniter just went black
Shadow> then came back on
&Aphrodite> You're lucky
&Aphrodite> I heard normally they never go back
Heh heh. Another from Bash.org.
Thursday, 8 March 2007
Welcome to the Hotel Internets
This is the greatest online game of all. For those of you who don't believe in following links, it's a Garfield comic creator, i.e. a means to create your own Garfield comic. As you may know, Garfield is a series of 'humorous' cartoon strips about an orange cat who desperately wants to be seen as a cynical wit, and his idiotic owner, and his idiot dog. The magic of a wicked mind and the internets, however, means this can be totally subverted.
Typical Garfield Comic
... and with comic creator
Subverting innocent things is fun.
What's in a name? Several verses of the Bible, it seems
Yesterday, after writing the first scintillating post of this, I decided to have a look at the old Youtube. Oh, a word of warning - thanks to a friend of mine using it often, I've also picked up using the phrase "Bit of the old ". The problem being I use it for everything, without realising. So, here's a bit of the old apology for that.
However, to get to the point of this article (if, like anything I write, it even has one) I noticed something interesting on the main page of Youtube.
Yes, that one at the bottom does seem to be very (and irrationally, to be honest) happy to be featured. But look at the one in the middle.
See it yet? If you don't, don't be unhappy. Let me tell you - this person has named their child Isaiah, and the other child has been granted the handle Abdoulaye. Abdoulaye is an Arabic name, I think, and Isaiah is from the Old Testament. That's a funny combination, and while I'd like to believe that it's a symbol of the unity between Jews and Arabs, maybe two who have married against the wills of their parents (there's a musical in that, methinks) There's also a big chance that it's just someone picking some names that sound 'cool'.
Parents, please, don't saddle your kids with silly names. William, Thomas, Texas Ranger - these are all normal, commonly used names that don't have people who hear them double up in paroxysms of sympathetic laughter. Tarquin, Fifi, and yes, Isaiah... not so standard. The upside to all this is that kids on a playground won't be able to rhyme anything withAbdoulaye, I suppose. But that's a small mercy.
And no, the description doesn't say "It is so hard to film Isaiah when he is really pissed." Drunken drumming toddlers is too extreme even for Youtube.
P.S. If the owners of these drum-demon tots do turn out to have named these children for legitimate cultural reasons, I apologise.
In addition, today's Quote of the Day is:
Amanda: WE COULD USE DHCP FOR WINS RESOLUTION IN OUR ROUTING TABLES OR A STANDARD IPX PACKET TRANSMISSION PROTOCOL WHEN CREATING REVERSE PTR TABLES FOR DYNAMIC CLASS A IP ADDRESSES AND MAKE SURE OUR DNS KERNEL HAS THE CORRECT START OF AUTHORITY RECORD FOR OUR SUBNET MASK WHEN PREPARING PTR RECORDS FOR LOOPBACK MULTICASTING.
Intra: exactly amanda
From Bash.org, an IRC quote database.
However, to get to the point of this article (if, like anything I write, it even has one) I noticed something interesting on the main page of Youtube.
Yes, that one at the bottom does seem to be very (and irrationally, to be honest) happy to be featured. But look at the one in the middle.
See it yet? If you don't, don't be unhappy. Let me tell you - this person has named their child Isaiah, and the other child has been granted the handle Abdoulaye. Abdoulaye is an Arabic name, I think, and Isaiah is from the Old Testament. That's a funny combination, and while I'd like to believe that it's a symbol of the unity between Jews and Arabs, maybe two who have married against the wills of their parents (there's a musical in that, methinks) There's also a big chance that it's just someone picking some names that sound 'cool'.
Parents, please, don't saddle your kids with silly names. William, Thomas, Texas Ranger - these are all normal, commonly used names that don't have people who hear them double up in paroxysms of sympathetic laughter. Tarquin, Fifi, and yes, Isaiah... not so standard. The upside to all this is that kids on a playground won't be able to rhyme anything with
And no, the description doesn't say "It is so hard to film Isaiah when he is really pissed." Drunken drumming toddlers is too extreme even for Youtube.
P.S. If the owners of these drum-demon tots do turn out to have named these children for legitimate cultural reasons, I apologise.
From Bash.org, an IRC quote database.
Wednesday, 7 March 2007
I swore I'd never do this
I've finally succumbed to the whole "Blogging Craze", several years after everyone else. I'm very disappointed in myself at the moment; both for losing all self-control and giving in to the urge all human beings feel every moment of our lives to let everybody around us know exactly what we think about everything. Of course, I could justify this by saying I'm doing it in a post-modern sense, and know that my friends will be forced to sit through post after post of dull as dishwater bullshit about my day, and what I had for lunch, and stupid things I read on the internet, and so on and so forth until their eyes bleed and they beg to their God for some mercy, some respite from the all-encompassing Blogosphere.
But I'd rather not justify it that way, as that sort of talk can end up with said friends dragging you to the nearest Insane Asylum (or as they are known now, Communal Rest Centres for the Differently Sane) and having you committed. While the straightjacket is an often overlooked mode of dress, (they can look fabulous with a T-shirt worn over them) I'm not quite sure I'm completely ready for a room with padded walls yet.
Were this a normal blog, I would at this moment suggest you click on a little Paypal icon and donate to some sort of fund so I can afford a real psychiatrist, instead of reading the jokes on Penguin Bar wrappers and searching for hidden meaning, but this is not a normal blog; I'm not a sellout, and I'm not going to sprinkle the text with little Paypal links. They go at the bottom of the article.
Which leads me to the main point (if there is one at all) of this article/post/insane rant. The main point being Money. My Integrity -> Lack of Paypal Links -> Paypal -> Money, see?
I like to think I'm quite an enlightened person, and I believe in the equal distribution of wealth, and fairness, and capitalism is bad, and love the Earth, and love not war, and all that. However, my one failing as a quasi-socialist is I love money... possibly because I have none. However, you can help me here by donating to my Payp
Oh, wait, I said I wouldn't do that, didn't I? Damn.
Anyway. Money. Today, I was talking to a friend of mine and the topic swung round to money. I was complaining about my lack of said commodity, and how it took me ages to save up for the bare essentials of life - food, clothing, Core 2 Duo Processors - and, to condense my disjointed ramblings considerably, how I found this annoying.
My friend suggested I get a job.
I cleared my throat and asked him to repeat himself. He did, and it was clear I had heard him right. He suggested I get a job. Apparently, jobs are some form of 'work' which yields monetary reward. I decided to read up on this on the internet, and found out that one of the highest paid jobs out there was to a psychiatrist. Psychiatrists, apparently, make a mint. They're the people you go to before you get thrown into a Communal Rest Centre for the Differently Sane.
I discussed the whole matter with another friend, who asked not to be named. For the purposes of this article, then, I shall refer to him as Jamiel Sanchez. When I proffered the whole psychiatrist idea, he scoffed. You see, Jamiel wants to become a
Doctor - as in, medical Doctor.
"I'll come to your practice every day," he said, "And say "Oh, hello, Doctor. I've got a subdermal haematoma, Doctor. Can you operate on it for me, Doctor? Oh, no, you can't. You've got the medical degree, but you're not a real Doctor."" He then performed an ancient Phillipino 'Victory Dance' that left both of us mildly concussed.
When I regained consciousness, I decided that Jamiel was right. I decided that I shouldn't be a sellout, and do a job merely because it pays well. I decided that maybe I should do something that helps others, something selfless and noble, something that would better myself and the community in which I live.
Then I decided to make a blog instead, wait a couple of years, and publish a book that everybody talks about like that sex crazed woman or that guy who was Wesley Crusher. That way, I would earn millions and never have to consider this
'work' thing again.
Incidentally, perhaps this is an appropriate juncture to mention that the Paypal 'donate' button is... wait, damn. I said I wouldn't do that.
-Alex Harvey is unemployed.
But I'd rather not justify it that way, as that sort of talk can end up with said friends dragging you to the nearest Insane Asylum (or as they are known now, Communal Rest Centres for the Differently Sane) and having you committed. While the straightjacket is an often overlooked mode of dress, (they can look fabulous with a T-shirt worn over them) I'm not quite sure I'm completely ready for a room with padded walls yet.
Were this a normal blog, I would at this moment suggest you click on a little Paypal icon and donate to some sort of fund so I can afford a real psychiatrist, instead of reading the jokes on Penguin Bar wrappers and searching for hidden meaning, but this is not a normal blog; I'm not a sellout, and I'm not going to sprinkle the text with little Paypal links. They go at the bottom of the article.
Which leads me to the main point (if there is one at all) of this article/post/insane rant. The main point being Money. My Integrity -> Lack of Paypal Links -> Paypal -> Money, see?
I like to think I'm quite an enlightened person, and I believe in the equal distribution of wealth, and fairness, and capitalism is bad, and love the Earth, and love not war, and all that. However, my one failing as a quasi-socialist is I love money... possibly because I have none. However, you can help me here by donating to my Payp
Oh, wait, I said I wouldn't do that, didn't I? Damn.
Anyway. Money. Today, I was talking to a friend of mine and the topic swung round to money. I was complaining about my lack of said commodity, and how it took me ages to save up for the bare essentials of life - food, clothing, Core 2 Duo Processors - and, to condense my disjointed ramblings considerably, how I found this annoying.
My friend suggested I get a job.
I cleared my throat and asked him to repeat himself. He did, and it was clear I had heard him right. He suggested I get a job. Apparently, jobs are some form of 'work' which yields monetary reward. I decided to read up on this on the internet, and found out that one of the highest paid jobs out there was to a psychiatrist. Psychiatrists, apparently, make a mint. They're the people you go to before you get thrown into a Communal Rest Centre for the Differently Sane.
I discussed the whole matter with another friend, who asked not to be named. For the purposes of this article, then, I shall refer to him as Jamiel Sanchez. When I proffered the whole psychiatrist idea, he scoffed. You see, Jamiel wants to become a
Doctor - as in, medical Doctor.
"I'll come to your practice every day," he said, "And say "Oh, hello, Doctor. I've got a subdermal haematoma, Doctor. Can you operate on it for me, Doctor? Oh, no, you can't. You've got the medical degree, but you're not a real Doctor."" He then performed an ancient Phillipino 'Victory Dance' that left both of us mildly concussed.
When I regained consciousness, I decided that Jamiel was right. I decided that I shouldn't be a sellout, and do a job merely because it pays well. I decided that maybe I should do something that helps others, something selfless and noble, something that would better myself and the community in which I live.
Then I decided to make a blog instead, wait a couple of years, and publish a book that everybody talks about like that sex crazed woman or that guy who was Wesley Crusher. That way, I would earn millions and never have to consider this
'work' thing again.
Incidentally, perhaps this is an appropriate juncture to mention that the Paypal 'donate' button is... wait, damn. I said I wouldn't do that.
-Alex Harvey is unemployed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
