Lexus Chainsaw Massacre
In this new video game from Hasbro or whoever, you drive
around the great thoroughfares of the world in a beat-up
old SUV with a chainsaw in back. You drive and drive
and drive until you finally spot a Lexus going in the
opposite direction, at which point you immediately
execute a stunning one-eighty controlled-drift U-turn
across median strips and all kinds of other perverse
impediments in heavy traffic in the fog and rain, and
chase it and, despite sideswiping a hearts game where
somebody with too much hubris or the masochism gene is
shooting the moon on queen, nine, three, eventually
catch it and chainsaw the living fuck out of its stylish
elegance or whatever. 5 points.
When you accumulate 100 points in this fashion, you are automatically promoted to president of IBM or Boeing, but the day after your swearing-in ceremony where people are picking their noses and staring at sub-atomic flecks of crystal meth under their fingernails as you take the oath of office, the press is already writing subtly destructive articles about you like:
IBM or Boeing bets store on online surgery being killer appAnyway, you are unphased by the article, whose virulence only makes you stronger, and immediately you launch into supercomputer-scale processing initiatives that combine massive computation and sophisticated software algorithms. But the shitted-out press just says, like, hey, what's up with that?
Stupidly, you still want to include optimization, simulation, and visualization, as well as advanced pattern matching and discovery.
Suddenly the room you are in goes all wacky. It has apparently been a Trojan horse or trapdoor for the game all along and has secretly stored the digitized recording of a deeply human phoneme in your cookie file to jump out unexpectedly, one day, at what its neural nets determine is the most inopportune time.
As a result, you are deceived into swallowing the same 4 triple AAA batteries which you accused of being not really enough anymore, but of course you were misquoted in that article, and misunderstood and no reporter even talked to you, and instead just made it all up out of old journalism articles, old movies, and his ass.
You wake up in a hospital where genetically engineered surgeons are very nonchalantly backing out tenth-story plate glass windows in the rain just as they're preparing to sew you back up.
When they hit the street, it's night and there's nothing but empty warehouses on two sides and the bay on the third, lapping at the dock only a few yards away.
Frogmen appear from the bay side and take the wounded surgeons to their hover craft.
To be continued...
Without them, now, the stock market crashes.
The earth is thrown into a turmoil as all its markets for air evaporate.
Nobody wants to hear air guitar anymore or play air golf or air tennis. Or have an air war or air sex. Or breathe air air.
When you finally leave the hospital it turns out they didn't have the Singer Handy Stitch (TM) mender so they had to use the Singer Button Magic (TM) button stitcher to sew you up instead, so you now have buttons all up and down your former incisions. But don't worry. These will just become a natural part of your flesh. Or vice versa. 7 points.
You sit down at one of the tables outside Manny's or whoever's and glance at the trades. All top 10 box office grossing films of the past week have "ate my balls" in their title. Preceded by the name of their star. And all their blurbs say, "Lives up to its title!!!"
You try to re-orient yourself by glancing at the headlines other people are reading the stories to, at nearby tables, in the rain:
All movies must now have "ate my balls" in title, censorship committee rules.
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Copyright (c) 1999 by HC