Part 1: You Homos Didn’t Really Want to Play an RPG Anyway, Did You?    


Alright you giggling gaggle of kiddy-diddlers, it’s time for a history lesson Bill-style. The year was 1986 and I was muling obscene amounts of product for a one Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria straight outta C-to-the-olo. Just me, Hobbit and “Caps” Clinton making a fortune, skimming our own nose dust for the honeys at the salsa clubs, mooning the snow birds and gleefully chainsawing Dominicans in Super 8 bathrooms up and down the Florida coastline; man, that was fuckin’ living.



So there we were, planting C-4 charges in an Everglades safe house that had turned hot and then who comes careening onto my jock but that motherlicker Augustine Yip of Bioware through a wormhole (most wormholes dump into the Everglades; Einstein proved it with one of his theorems but the only known copy of it was tattooed under his tongue and the only other person to see it was Timothy Leary when he dropped a blotter of lysergic acid diethylamide under it one wild night in Vienna).

“Hey, fucksniff!” Augie (we’re tight like that) belched between swigs on a comically-shaped jug of moonshine. Really, Augie? Moonshine? He drunkenly waved his hand over me, Hobbit and Caps. ”What has six legs, 18 inches of cock, and no goddamned clue whatsoever?”

“I give up, Augie” I replied, already tired of his shenanigans. The souse could at least help me bury this border guard guy. The motherfucker was a goddamned sperm whale, what the fuck do they feed people down here?

“One and half donkeys in the middle of Grand Central Station!” He laughed and a molar fell out of his mouth, as rotten and black as his mother’s snatch. His face went blank for a second.” What did you think I meant?”

“Never mind, Aug. What the fuck are you doing here this time?” Augie had visited me once before, again through a wormhole but that one connected to a women’s bathroom in a Tejano dance club on Miami Beach. I happened to be the only one in there (I had mistaken it for my hotel room; uncut Colombian flake is a man’s drug, kids) and I was working on my fake South American accent and applying pomade to my moustache when Augie came flying out of the second stall like the world’s ugliest, highest bowel movement. Wild-eyed, he asked me what year it was and before I could even answer he told me he was from the future and something something barn owls and then he passed out. I dusted his fetid nostrils with yay-oh, he bolted upright and we’ve been pals since, you might say.

Off in the distance I heard helicopters. “Come with me now if you want to live!” he implored. Then he guffawed and farted at the same time. “OK, ha ha, come with me if you want to avoid being a Cuban inmate’s girlfriend for the next 10 to 20.” Hey, you don’t have to tell this swingin’ dick twice.



And that‘s why I’m over 100 years old and in like phlegm with the Bioware boys. Now, these motherfuckers have always done right by me when it comes to games. They roll out pimp RPGs like Gabe Newell rolls out sweaty layers of flab at an E3 keynote speech. And you know this. The original MASS EFFECT rocked many a face, mine included, and my dick was so stiff for the sequel I had to wear Zubaz just to go out in public. OK, I’m exaggerating; I always wear Zubaz. So comfy!

I installed MASS EFFECT 2 on release day and got down to business. Oddly enough, I’d had a copy of the game for nearly 20 years, as the first time I met Augie was the second time he went through a wormhole, don’t ask my fuckin’ head hurts just thinking about it and he had a copy with him. He’d left Bioware before the first MASS EFFECT had been made so what the fuck, I don’t know. Anyway, we split an 8-ball on the DVD cover one night in Jacksonville, because what the fuck else do you do in Jacksonville, and he let me keep it. Of course, I had to wait until they invented a computer capable of running it and fuck if I didn’t just buy one the day before street date. My life is a cruel, faggy joke sometimes.

I don’t mean to sound crass but I made pornographic fucky-fuck sex with the original MASS EFFECT. I let it put it in my butt and cum on my face. Sorry, don’t mean to be vulgar here, pardon my French. It was a killer game. I even loved sifting through THE LONGEST INVENTORY LIST EVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR and falling off mountainsides in the Mako. Fuck I didn’t give two queefs, the game world was well-realized, the voice-acting Canadalicious, the elevators positively riveting, the action tepidly intense and the story as good as you are going to get in an RPG. And you got to make the Ew Mommy And Daddy What Are You Doiiing with the blue alien. Yes.

Well IMAGINE MY DICK-EXSANGUINATING SHOCK when I fire up MASS EFFECT 2 and it’s been almost completely overhauled to the point I don’t know what the cock. Where’s my persistent HUD? I WAS PROMISED A PERSISTENT HUD. The popup combat HUD is still there (in a weird, clumsy, needlessly-overlapping fashion) but it’s not even default bound to the space bar like in ME1.




Lookit, Paw! Leedle doodad stats bars for a pittance of skills! D’aww, so cute, it thinks it’s people!

Well gawrsh I picked up some new equipment. Wait, HA HA HA, no I didn’t, that’s impossible. In ME1, you wanted a new pistol or rifle or upgrade for same, you goddamned well scavenged it off a dead enemy or found it squirreled away in an alien foot locker. You want a new  type of ammo or warp coil for the Normandy or whatever in ME2, here’s how it goes:

  2. Wait, I lied, you found the uh capacity to research it MAYBE, SOMETHING, FUCK MY FACE WITH A DREMEL, and now you have to pay to research it on your ship. With what, Beel?
  3. With ore you mined from planets in THE MOST GODDAMNED SHITTY EYEBLEEDING PENIS-LIMPING MINIGAME EVER. Are you for fucking real?


Pixel hunt to marginally increase little green bars. OH GOD MY HEART, THE THRILLS.


Jes, Bill, we are for fucking real. Maybe the game means that you find an item but don’t know what it is until you research (and throw a huge pile of ore at) it. Man, whatever. Oh and EAT DICKS Bioware for your terrible DLC/outlet edition-specific suits of armor. None of them are moddable, so you can either look like a big stupid bug, an anachronistic space paladin, or keep your stock digs because you can upgrade those with ballistic nu-steel whatever and a queerific visor that almost certainly probably does something. Yeah there’s like maybe six upgrades total in the whole goddamned game, but you know. RPG. Loot. You connect the dizzles.




HACKING! No one in the future history of computer gaming will ever make a game only about hacking unless they are complete gibbering imbeciles, because every game that has ever had hacking in it has had it be a boring, shitty, tedious annoying exercise in Fuck Gamers 101. BUT IN CASE YOU FIND HACKING BORING, FEAR NOT FOR WE HAVE:



AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH MORE HACKING! Go on, call it Bypass, Greg, you festering syphilitic chancre. You too, Ray! I didn’t forget you, you little bitch! I hope the next time you use the word Bypass it’s on your insurance forms for the triple one you had on your cocaine-weathered cunthearts, you douchebeards.

Also most scrounging of loot is abstracted to instant conversion into credits. It’s goddamned weird. Hey, a laptop with some kind of data. TWO THOUSAND DOLLA! And so on, like you have your own personal mass generators that transmogrify any goddamned thing there is into cold hard cayush.

Oh, and in a stunning display of utterly pointless realism – ha ha, realism in a Bioware RPG; if laughs were farts I could power a small city with my methane emissions – you can only take one of each weapon type on a mission. You have to wait until you find a “weapons locker” or return to the Normandy to swap out. It’s like somebody said “Hey, how about that neat idea those Obsidian dudes had in KotOR2, where you’d stop in the middle of an intense mission and, you know, fiddle around with lightsaber crystals on a work bench? Like that except even more stupid! Let’s roll with that, guys!”


One of the varied and sundry ways ammo is collected in the game.

But only sometimes! Sometimes you have to research a new weapon in the retarded way described above. And some ammo types you pick up (and UGH RESEARCH) and some are…skills? Yes, in ME2 you cast spells on your ammo. Because, you know, it’s the future in spaaaaace.

Except it’s not really ammo! Or something! Fuck if I know! Peel my face off and wear it as a loincloth!  

To the left on the starway landing you can see one of those stupid little heat/ammo casings.

You see, in the interim between the events depicted at the end of the original  MASS EFFECT – which was big bouncy tits awesome and if you wheezed out of the game before seeing it to the end, you suck and should be put in a special camp – and the start of the sequel, a very powerful arms/munitions supercorporate junta took over production of all weapons manufacturing IN THE ENTIRE GALAXY, NAY OMNIVERSE and converted those cool weapons that had unlimited ammunition because of, whatever, effected mass doowhangers and only overheating was the concern, and turned them into faggy rinky-dink jobbies that ejected heat clips. OR WHATEVER, SMELLS LIKE THE SOUTHERN END OF A NORTHBOUND STEVEDORE TO ME. Heat clips that sure look like ammo to me since I’m like using ammo here. Except one of those, uh, fucking soda can lightsaber handle things re-up all your weaponry’s ammunition levels, I AM LOST I NEED AN ADULT. Y’see, there’s no rhyme or reason when it comes to these things. They don’t drop in any direct correlation to shots fired. Sometimes they don’t drop at all. Not even when a goddamned heat clip ejection animation plays, haw haw.



So instead of fighting a heated combat where you exercise trigger discipline and controlled bursts and other military jargon that hopefully means what I think it means, followed up by phizzat lizzewts, in ME2 you pop off a few shots from your gay little non-swappable arsenal and then scrabble around for these heat rods and scavenge almost nothing besides some credits. Look mang, if I minded the grind I wouldn’t be in the strip club with a dollar bill wedged between my teeth, y’feel me? This blows. NOW YOU MIGHT THINK BIOWARE DID THIS TO MAKE THE GAME A LITTLE MORE DIFFICULT TO PLAY AND ADD MORE OF A CHALLENGE, SINCE AMMUNITION CAN (ARBITRARILY) BE A PROBLEM IN SOME AREAS BUT COME ON NOW, SILLY TALK FOR SILLY MINDS. Either way it’s a buncha BOOL CHIT and I not nor will ever be sold on the decision to change weapons and ammunition so radically.



There ain’t no Mako, neither. MOON PATROL HIJINX: DENIED. Random planets are for mining ore, Sonny Jim. Oh, there’s the occasional Anomaly sprinkled here and there for some added laffs, but it’s just not the same. I ain’t runnin’ down twee little moonbunnies on my way to plod through the exact same mining tunnel I done plodded through 20 times afore. IN MY DAY, AND WE LIKED IT, etc. No, you shoot probes on a planet when the scanner peaks. Oh, and you only get 30 probes at a time, and you can only buy them in retarded little stations sprinkled sparingly about the galaxy. Oh and HAHAHA you have to use fuel to travel between nearby systems. And buy more fuel at those same stations.  Not that money is a concern because if you obsessively scan every planet AND I KNOW YOU WILL, YOU’RE JUST LIKE ME, PAL, you’ll have money up to the space rafters. FUCK A DONKEY, GUT IT AND EAT ITS OFFAL, BIOWARE. STOP BORING ME WITH THIS NONSENSE.



Oh and from what I understand, you don’t get to have sweet blue alien monkey sex. YOU HAVE SEX WITH A HUMAN WHITE CHICK. YAWN. The only thing interesting about this is that I am fairly certain that it is the first white human female NPC that Bioware has let you sleep with. It was all Elves and shit in the BALDUR’S GATE games if I recall, and nobody has sex in the Star Wars universe except in purely abstract manners so you didn’t get so much as a piece of hand in KotOR. Anyway, I’m in no hurry to get to the naughty bits as I was when I played the original, because I know Bioware is gonna make me waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaait for it like the cockteases they are. RAY, IN YOUR LITTLE BOOTY SHORTS, THINKING YOU’RE TOO GOOD FOR ME.