I'm Going Postal Baby! (Patreon)

Boy oh boy, i had fun with this one... i think. My journey through the ancient halls of ye old PC gaming library continues with the original outrage machine, Postal 2. A game with... Gary Coleman! He's a midget! That was funny in 2003, you'll just have to take my word for it. Also you can pee on people. So in other words the game is fantastic. 

By the way, for your convenience i should point out this shit doesn't really get going until about 6 and a half minutes in. The beginning is just me being an idiot-brain trying to figure out how to make it full screen or something. This is the kind of junk i have to remind myself to edit out whenever i make this public, but it's exactly the kind of inane technical retardation patrons get to savor every extra second of, if you so choose. 

What else is there to say about this one? I don't know, it's fucking Postal 2. It's fucking Nickelodeon Guts on SNES. Who cares? Just enjoy my humorous quips and bemused reactions to the fun i presumably had while playing this. It's a fuckin video game. Whatever. Sorry for the lets play overload. I spent most of this month getting back into live streaming in a big way, so there's a lot of these built up. 

I imagine all these hour plus gaming videos are at least a slight drain on your time, i just hope you find me funny and cool enough to sustain your attention and make you not regret giving it. You'll most likely see a lot more tightly focused and edited content in October, I promise. Geez this post is sounding like a sad fart. 

Ugh. I gotta admit my brain is somewhere else today. I feel like driving around aimlessly and being increasingly bothered by some small, persistent, smoldering, unnamed feeling i can't explain, maybe going to a park so i can pace around outside all aimlessly frustrated and leer at people who look happier than me. Maybe drink a beer and smoke a big fat doobie laced with hallucinogenic reptile venom, before being informed via jackbooted superkick that i'm not allowed to do that in the park. Maybe spend a night in jail for spitting blood at an officer. 

Maybe see visions of Satan in my jail cell, convincing me to wage war on God and destroy his creation. Maybe fake my death with a bottle of ketchup and when the guard opens the cell door to check on me i put him in a Roddy Piper sleeper hold and snap his neck. Maybe go on the run, living in the woods like Rambo on a 2 day manhunt that ends with me violently striking back at a society that never accepted my totally rad and cool ways. 

Maybe assassinate Barney The Dinosaur for propagandizing children into "sharing" because you can't make a purple dinosaur without BLUE and RED. Maybe hijack the airwaves to let people know the real Miley Cyrus is buried in a shallow grave in the Nevada Desert. Maybe get killed by an FBI sniper while attempting to dig up Woodrow Wilson's secret gold on the White House Lawn.

Yeah, they might have taken me out, but it's too late. Killing me does nothing to stop the one-man revolution i've set in motion because i've already mailed my envelope full of dog-shit and swine-flu straight to the Pope! The last thing that bloated, reptillian vampire's forked tongue smells will be the vengeful stink of the proletariat's poopy puppy power. 

The corrupt institutions of the wealthy elite will crumble from inside as one puppet master after enough succumbs to the dreaded and incurable pig disease known as Swinus, and drowns themselves face down in the muck of their own avarice, in the pig pen they've made of this world. Heaven itself will tremble as the reigns of history are firmly placed back in the hands of Man.

And if i have faith in anything it's that whether through rain or snow, the true vanguards of liberty, the patriots at the United States Postal Service will bypass the Vatican gates like shorts-wearing ninjas and flick my stamped and sealed murder-germs straight into their target's personal mailbox like silent shurikans at a corrupt shogun's throat, that's what it really means to go Postal... 2.

I feel like doing all those things, but unfortunately it happens to be "Oh crap i forgot to post anything" Day. So here i am inside, actually doing my stinkin' job for once. It's horrible. How do you regular people do this 5 days a week? Thank god i'm a writer. A career option that's supported the lifestyles of countless extremely lazy men throughout history. 

Hemingway? Definitely lazy. Short sentences are a dead giveaway.

Bukowski? Hunter S. Thompson? Only wrote about themselves, coming up with fiction was too hard. 

Shakespeare? So lazy he didn't even write in regular english. Guy invented a million new words and phrases because it was easier than grammar checking. 

Steinbeck? That dude spent more time writing about working hard than actually working hard, and his most famous work is a novella. That thing's shorter than a damn Goosebumps book.

Now R.L. Stine, on the other hand, he's the exception. Real workhorse, that guy. 

There you go, people. There's my bit for the evening. Writers are lazy and i'm killing the pope with dog shit. Instant classic. Tune in to see me on Fallon next week.